Vein River

by Kellie Honaker

  Her hair hangs in dripping tendrils, the water landing on my face like tears. She was beautiful once, I can tell that much, beneath her clammy complexion. Her left ear lies against her shoulder as she looks down at me from across her cheekbones. It’s a posture I’ve seen on five-year-olds whenever they pretend to be bashful. But there’s no shyness here. Only contempt. It’s the anger of a dog that’s been kicked too many times and expects to be kicked again. At one time, her eyes might have been baby powder blue, tucked behind a wall of feathery lashes, but it’s the evil in her being, the blackness of her rage, that sucks the color from the world around her.

  Her shoulders rise and the whistling begins again in a mock display of breathing. She doesn’t need to breathe any more than I need to grow wings, but yet here she is, wheezing away.

  I take her feet into my hands, these same feet that swayed in the breeze and nudged me in the back.

  I kiss her toes and ask her a question. “Do you remember Silas Ramsey?”

  She stares at me blankly, pauses a moment, and then asks me a question of her own.

  Have you ever destroyed an ant hill?

  Startled, I take a step away from her. It’s the sensation of having her in my head that rattles me to the core. It’s uncomfortable—a violation. I shake myself, trying to clear my head.

  “Yes,” I answer.

  And when you destroyed that anthill, did a certain ant stand out to you in particular?

  Catching the drift of her question, I simply grit my teeth and refuse to answer.

  I have destroyed an ant hill’s worth of lives. One ant is no more special than the other and is unworthy of my recollection.

  I feel the heat creeping up the back of my neck, but I keep my anger in check. I’m here to make a deal.

  “You can make people sick at your own discretion, so I believe you can also make people well. You caused my uncle, Silas Ramsey, to be sick several decades ago. I’m asking to stand in his stead. Take the sickness from him and give it to me.”

  She snarls.

  What makes you think I play fair?

  “It’s a gamble I’m willing to take.”

  Her noose snaps and coils violently around her, writhing about her shoulders like a snake. She lands soundlessly on her feet like a demonic angel, reaching for my face with her hands. I want to scream, to run from this place, but I force myself to be brave. My skin tightens, recoiling from her touch, as she places her lips on mine.

  The stench is suffocating, her kiss bloody and violent, I feel that not only is she bestowing something upon me, but taking something away.

  My chest collapses and I fall into her arms like a child. I think vaguely to myself as I slip from consciousness, that The Grim Reaper is definitely a woman.

  “Son?” A very rude yet gentle hand grips my left shoulder. “Son, do you need an ambulance?”

  I open my eyes to a brutally bright sun. “No, I think…I think I’m fine.”

  I sit up and every joint in my body aches. I look around in bewilderment. I’m still on the bridge. I must’ve passed out and slept all night. It’s early morning and I’m sprawled out in the middle of the road in front of the shrine, and judging from the muddy entrance, I slept through a hell of a storm.

  “What have you done, Copper?”

  I squint into the haggard face of Charles Oates.

  “I haven’t done anything,” I reply, struggling to get on my feet. My body no longer feels like my own. Charles grabs me by my elbow to keep me from doing a nosedive.

  “I’m fine, Charles,” I say, and we both know that this is a lie.

  I feel as if I’ve aged decades overnight. I pull my arm from the old man’s grasp and stagger to the truck. The taste in my mouth is both salty and sour; the flavor of a hangover I didn’t earn.

  I slam the door and catch my reflection in the rear-view mirror. I don’t recognize himself. My once pale blonde hair has a silver sheen and there’s crow’s feet at the edges of my eyes. My skin is hideously wrinkled and my lips are thinner than they should be. I possesses the taut muscles of youth, yet I hunch a bit at the shoulders. I am an unsettling mixture of both seventeen and seventy. I stare in shock for a few moments, feeling the need to cry. Instead, I scratch at the crust of dried blood on my lips and turn the key in the ignition. As I pull away from Angelina’s bridge, I hear Charles call out to me again.

  “Oh Copper, what did you do?”

  22

  Charles Oates

  I live within walking distance of Creaky’s Quick Stop. I go in every day for a pack of menthols. I know I’m laying out the welcome mat for cancer, but at this point, I just don’t care. Once Angelina has sunk her teeth into you, life-threatening diseases aren’t much of a threat.

  Creaky’s gas station is even older than I am. Cracks travel along the concrete wall like the spider veins in my legs. It amazes me how thoroughly time can bring out the ugly. I pull the door open just wide enough to slip through. Ten years ago, that door wouldn’t have felt so heavy.

  “Morning, Charles.” The boy doesn’t bother looking at me, he’s too absorbed in the girly magazine lying open on the counter. I’ve become rather fond of the greasy haired boy that runs the register in the summer. He reeks of pot and slouches too much, but there’s a heart of gold in that skinny chest.

  “Morning, Moof.”

  “You know it’d be cheaper to buy a carton?” he asks, turning the page.

  “And miss your smiling face? Never.”

  He smirks and turns to the back wall and retrieves a pack of Winstons. His hair shifts just enough to reveal a purple bruise.

  “Boy?”

  He turns to look at me. Only one eye can actually see, the other is black with shades of blue and purple, swollen to deformity. Reflexively, I wince.

  “Who put the hurting on you?” I ask, my voice coming out in a whisper.

  He shrugs one shoulder.

  “$4.84, old man.” He tosses the cigarette pack in front of me.

  I grit my teeth as I get a better look at him.

  “Your father’s a hateful sonofabitch. Has been since the day he was born. I beat the socks off of him when he was a teenager for picking on my dog. I guess I didn’t beat him hard enough.”

  The eye that isn’t swollen shut gets moist around the lashes.

  I close my eyes and shake my head. I dig a five from my pocket and glance at the naked beauty on the counter. I slap the cash down and say, “The girl on page 23 is a real looker.”

  A flash of humor crosses his face, but I turn and walk out the door. I can feel him watching me as I stroll across the parking lot, no doubt trying to determine if I was actually serious.

  I worry for these kids, I really do. I have Copper on one hand, killing himself with bravado and then I have Moof, not much bigger than a teenage girl, getting the stuffing beaten out of him. I wasn’t born yesterday; I know what Copper was up to. Stupid, noble boy. I regret that I wasn’t there to stop him, but a man has to sleep at some point. I’m the fly on the wall in this town. I know things and I see things, and I feel just as helpless when it comes to doing anything about it.

  23

  Annie

  I’ve called Copper three times today and he won’t answer the phone. It’s two hours before I’m supposed to meet him at the Ferris Wheel, and I’m wondering if he’s blowing me off. This is completely out of character for Copper and it’s starting to scare me. I ring his number one last time.

  “Hello?”

  “Is Copper there?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Copper? You sound terrible, are you alright?”

  “I’m…I don’t feel good. I can’t go out with you tonight.”

  “Well, let me bring you some soup. I always feel better when somebody pampers me.”

  “That’s not going to help. Nothing you do will help.”

  Okay, ouch.

  “What’s going on? Is someone hurting you? Are you in trouble?”

  “No, it’s noth
ing like that, I just…need some time.”

  My heart sinks.

  “You need time away from me?” I’m scared to ask this question, but I have to ask it anyway.

  “No…no honey, it’s just…” I hear him suck air through his teeth. I can imagine him piled up in bed, squeezing the bridge of his nose.

  “You’re kinda scaring the crap out of me, Copper—just spit it out!”

  He goes silent for a long time, long enough for me to think we’ve been disconnected.

  “Copper?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to come over there and force it out of you?”

  “No! Don’t come over…” He growls something unintelligible under his breath then says, “I saw Angelina last night.”

  “You what?”

  “I went to the bridge and I saw her.”

  “Why in the hell would you do that!? She’s dangerous, Copper! Everyone that loves you has told you how horrible she is!”

  “I know, I understand that. But my uncle is getting sicker and I thought that I could reason with her. And now…now I look like Charles.”

  “What do you mean?” An image of the creepy old man flashes across my mind. His watery sad eyes, his face loaded with too many wrinkles. Charles’s warning echoes inside my head—do you want a face like mine, little girl?

  My heart drops. He doesn’t have to answer me because I already know.

  “I’m coming over,” I say, tugging on my shoes.

  “Please, don’t.”

  “Tough shit, Copper. I care about you. Nobody, not even Angelina in all of her bullshit, is going to keep me from you.”

  He sighs heavily on the other line. He knows I’m not moving on this.

  “Be careful,” he says, clearly giving up.

  I’ve never been to Copper’s house, considering there’s very few driveways going up Cricket Mountain, it shouldn’t be hard to find. He’s my “next door neighbor” separated by several acres, so I merely take the next driveway after turning left at the bottom of my road.

  Copper’s driveway is a bit precarious, so I throw Sticky Bun into four-wheel drive, just to be on the safe side. No wonder he rides the horse or the four-wheeler when he comes to visit.

  I manage to get to Copper’s cabin without falling off the mountainside. I climb onto the porch and notice that it moans in very much the same manner as mine. I knock once and hear shuffling inside. A very bedraggled yet charming man opens the door. The whiskers on his face are bushy and wild, his eyebrows sticking out in nearly the same rabid manner as his moustache. He reminds me of Charles Oates, but with less wrinkles, and more hair. They share the same washed out complexion, the same watery eyes, and the same exhausted droop of the shoulders. I’ve known all along that they both have The Cough, but seeing how it manifests in the same fashion is unsettling.

  He smiles kindly and says, “so you’re the little girl that Copper is so fond of.”

  I smile politely and nod. I take no offense at being called a “little girl.” The man has to be in his seventies, so everyone under the age of fifty is probably a little girl to him.

  “Is Copper home?”

  He juts a thumb towards the back of the house. “He’s in the back room. Help yourself.”

  I cross the living room in three small strides and enter a narrow hallway. I pause briefly at the mouth of a small room, only to find dirty laundry and a Kenmore. There’s two more rooms, one of which has a closed door and the other is slightly ajar, emitting a pale blue glow. I peek into the glowing room and find Copper bundled up on the mattress. I stand in the threshold and tap politely on the door.

  The pale light is coming from a fish tank in the corner. Fancy tailed guppies, it looks like. Copper’s back is to me, but he turns over on his elbow and looks up at me from the mattress. Even in this dim light, I can see the transformation. His pale blonde locks are even paler than normal. One could lie and say that the sun bleached his hair, but that would be a falsehood. There’s nothing blonde about it anymore, it’s as white as baby’s breath. I can see through the shadows the sagging of his jaw, and the deeper set of his eyes. I want to see him, to be sure he’s okay, but I’m also scared to turn on the light. I don’t want to see the ruin of my beautiful boy. I don’t want to see what Angelina has done to him.

  “Copper,” I whisper. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I’m not. But I’m glad to see you.”

  I reach for the light so I can look into his eyes.

  “No!” He jolts into a sitting position. “Please don’t, not yet.”

  “Okay…” I say, lowering my hand. “Is it okay for me to sit by you?”

  His jaw clenches, but he nods his head.

  I tip toe through the darkness and sit on the edge of the bed. I let out a little shriek when I sink down into it.

  “A water bed! You didn’t tell me you had a water bed!” I laugh and bounce up and down.

  He chuckles at my nonsense. It’s nice to see him smile.

  I fall back and let the bed sway me back and forth. “I’ve always wanted a water bed.”

  “You should get one. No time like the present.” He takes my hand into his and kisses my knuckles.

  He has perked up since my arrival, but there’s a melancholy surrounding him that breaks my heart. Being this close to him, I can see the wrinkles that shouldn’t be there, the slight sagging along his jawline. The transformation is real, but unnatural. He has the frame and build of a healthy, strong boy but his skin looks as if it’s been in water for too long, like your fingers when you get out of the pool.

  “You’ll always be beautiful to me, you know that, right?” I say. He stares at the floor and nods his head.

  “It will never matter to me what you look like.”

  “But it matters to me,” he says, voice breaking. “I want you to have someone that you’re proud to have by your side. I look like a monster, Annie.”

  I hold him against me. “You’re not a monster. You’ll never be a monster.”

  I feel him tremble ever so slightly. I let him cry against my shoulder but I don’t acknowledge his tears. Copper has his pride and I won’t take that away from him. I merely hold him until he’s finished.

  24

  Charles Oates

  It woke me from a dead sleep, this knowing of what to do. It wasn’t a gradual rise out of slumber; it was an eyes wide open realization in the pure black stillness of the night. I smiled at the ceiling as if it would smile back. If I play my cards right, maybe, just maybe, the bitch on the bridge could be useful. I throw the covers from my creaky bones and sit on the edge of the bed. It takes a while for my joints to wake up. I flex a little and stretch a little, and work up the courage to stand. Only those with arthritis can comprehend that you sometimes need a rest from resting.

  I glance at the clock on my nightstand.

  11:58

  Perfect timing. It’s as if Angelina whispered the idea into my brain herself.

  I only live ten minutes from the bridge. It’ll take Ed at least twenty, depending on how drunk he is, or how long it takes him to get unwrapped from the legs of a soiled dove.

  I’m of the dying breed that has a landline instead of a cellphone. I have no use for those plastic contraptions that does everything but make a phone call. When did the world get so complicated? If I want this to work, I’ll have to call from home first, and then boogie it to the bridge.

  I pick up the phone and dial.

  I let it ring ten times. Just as I’m lowering the phone to the receiver, I hear Ed pick up.

  “Ed’s towing,” he answers gruffly. Most would sound sleepy at this hour, but Ed just sounds annoyed.

  “Ed, this is Charles Oates. Sorry to bother you, but my car stalled on the bridge. Can you help me out?”

  He takes a deep breath as if he’s pondering it over, as if he has the money and the luxury to decide if he actually wants to do his job or not.

>   I chew my lip impatiently.

  “I’m seventy years old, Ed. You keep me waiting much longer, I’ll have better luck calling the undertaker.”

  “Alright, alright, I’ll be there in a bit.”

  Ed Meeker hangs up the phone without the social etiquette of telling me goodbye. I don’t think about what I’m doing, I just focus on the image of Moof’s shiny, purple eye. Innocents are born to devils, that’s for sure, just as demons hang from the rafters. If I have my say tonight, I’ll introduce evil to evil.

  The bridge is primarily used by farmers on the rare occasion they need to go to town, there’s a few hillbillies back in those woods, but for the most part, the bridge shouldn’t be used anymore until dawn.

  I’m gambling on it.

  I park my truck in the dead center of the bridge, where Angelina dangles her pretty feet. I hop out of the cab and whistle “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” It sounds rather ominous echoing off the planks in the dead of this midnight hour, but I know it’ll get her attention. It always gets her attention. I think she likes it. I stroll the length of the bridge, back and forth, back and forth, whistling my eerie tune.

  “Come on, baby,” I whisper beneath my breath.

  I’m beginning to think she isn’t coming, that she’s harassing someone else, in some other unfortunate place—but then I hear it. The strangle of a rope being tightened by the sway of a hanging body.

  “There you are,” I say, not bothering to turn around.

  I feel her moving closer to me.

  “No use slinking around behind me. If you’re trying to make me feel like prey, my fear of you died in the sixties.”

  I turn on my heel and stare at her.

  Her appearance is always shocking to say the least, but my heart never skips a beat. You can only play peek-a-boo so many times before the game gets boring.