by Kara Storti
“And no one knows but you?”
She nods, biting her lip. “He’s staying in the farmhouse, even though it has no heat or electricity or running water. But it’s the only place where he wants to be. The only place he feels safe because no one knows about it. God, you must think we’re a family of freaks.”
“Trust me,” I say, covering the top of her hand with mine, “you’re not.”
I wait for her to pull back, retreat. Wait for it, wait for it . . . but there is just the type of inhale you make before a statement—that’s happening. Clearing of the throat—that’s happening too. Yet everything is so still. Until she snags the lavender sprig behind my ear that I had forgotten about. I reach out to take it back, hey, I say, get your own, her laughter could inspire a rose to bloom . . . I don’t deserve this, a moment of such beauty and purity and preciousness. The sparrows have settled, as if they know better than to disrupt. And then, miraculously, it gets better. She grasps my forearm, I bring my hand up to her cheek, her eyes lift to meet mine. Good God, my heart. Ablaze. Our lips brush against each other softly, the quietest sound in the world, the swaying grass knows of it, the wildflowers do too.
Sunday, June 2
Chapter Forty-one
Everyone in Dammertown is at church except for my parents, who are working, my sister, who’s probably at Peter’s, and me and my buzz. Sometimes I like to think of my high as a person or an animal. A little kid endlessly jumping on a trampoline. A cat lazing in the sun. It’s never too early for cocaine.
I decide it’s a fantastic idea to clean out my drawers and then rearrange the organizational system under my bed. I can do spring cleaning at the beginning of June, right? My shirts in Tupperware boxes are folded all wrong. Mismatched socks are the worst. My boxers are not in the order they should be in. Prints on top, solids on the bottom. It should be the other way around, obviously. I spend the next thirty minutes folding.
I’m starting to smell exhaust from an engine. It’s ruining the purity of my organizational overhaul, ruining the soaring high that’s giving me these housewife need-to-clean urges. I pull the curtain aside, peek outside. The windows of a Lincoln Town Car are tinted too dark to see anything. Another line is waiting for me on the nightstand, so I do it, and it goes through me hard. A zap, a boom to the middle of my chest, electricity whizzing through the folds of my brain. I walk out of the trailer with my fists balled at my side. This car doesn’t belong here; it’s the kind of car you see important white dudes slink out of in front of big shiny buildings. And then it dawns on me, my charged-up brain is just registering the situation and what it means.
The driver’s side window slides down.
“Get in,” a middle-age man says. He’s got a bulbous nose and forearms as thick as my legs.
“Who are you?” I ask. Stupid question. My voice is one big prepubescent squeak.
He cocks his head to the side. “Who the fuck do you think I am?”
I am not prepared for this. I’m so not prepared for this. No knife, no cell phone, no right mind, no defense but surrender, and all I can say is that my socks and boxers are folded correctly.
He’s aiming a gun at my stomach. Holy shit of all shit. The black paint of the car, the shiny tint of the windows. Sun beating down on both, showing my dumbass, weak-ass reflection. Sloppy clothes, sloppy hair, unshowered and greasy. I feel out of control. My head isn’t on straight. I’ve got to get my head on straight.
“Okay,” I say, putting my hands up. Immediately I feel even more idiotic because he’s laughing, almost giggling, because I’m such a fake. A fraud. I should have never asked Jason about Early. Should never have thought I could tango with people like this.
“Put your hands down, kid. I’m not the police,” he says, chuckling through his words.
I reach for the backseat door.
“Front seat,” he says, flicking his gun.
-----
We drive to the outskirts of Dammertown and then even farther. The interior of the car is all beige leather, the seats are soft and would be a great reward to my ass, if I didn’t think I was going to be murdered at any second. The new car smell is so prominent, it’s a separate feature of the car altogether, like the dashboard GPS or the tinted glass that hides the backseat or the Bose stereo system.
I can’t help but see out of the corner of my eye that his forearms are so big. Popeye-massive, no joke. I take notice of my own. I should have lifted more weights. Joined the track team. Of course his nose looks like it’s been broken seventy-five times. Of course he holds the silence so long, so well, that I don’t dare to interrupt it.
We drive over potholes on a country road, see cows lying down; Orah says that means rain is coming in. Despite that, the sun is high and almighty and I think, no way, this can’t be happening on such a picture-perfect day. Yet stress and panic don’t even describe what I feel, nope, it feels more like the strongest fist in the world, the damn fist of a god, is squeezing my insides.
I hear the tinted window between the front and backseat open. When I crane my head around, I see only the flash of an old man, he’s got to be at least eighty years old, Orah-age, before the driver hits me in the face with the butt of the gun. I’m surprised I’m not down for the count. I hold my nose to catch the blood, which has already dribbled down my shirt. The cocaine has left my body, got shocked right out, the high ran away kicking and screaming.
“Don’t turn around, kid. You’ll speak when you’re spoken to,” the driver says.
“Okay, okay,” I say, pulling up my shirt to wipe my nose. My eyes are stinging, my joints are rattled.
A voice from the backseat says, “I hear you want to speak with me.” It’s a surprisingly normal voice—no grit, no rasp, not the slightest bit sinister. Sounds like a regular dude with kids and a two-car garage. Friendly. Neighborly. I don’t know what I was expecting.
“Yeah,” I say, through the material of my shirt. I try to get my act together, but that’s kind of difficult when you’re gushing blood and on the edge of blacking out. Don’t pass out, please consciousness stay with me . . .
“I’m getting old,” Early says plainly. I don’t know where this is going, but I’m feeling a senior citizen diatribe coming on, that weighty kind of air strung with pearls of wisdom. The familiarity of it is Orah’s fault.
“But we all share the same fate, and that’s the beauty of it, you know. All of us so different but ultimately headed in the same direction. We should revel in that. We should count our blessings that there is a beginning and an end, and we should cherish our time on earth more because of it. If our time on earth went on forever, life would be watered down and there would be no drive or motivation to build. To create. Doesn’t that sound terrifying?”
Now I hear his barely there Italian accent, mixed with a New York City tinge, and a gentleness that you would think contradicts both. But it doesn’t. What do I say to his commentary? He’s dropping philosophy left and right, but the point is completely lost upon me. And usually I get the point before it’s halfway explained. Usually I’m the one making the point.
“I asked you a question,” Early says. The threat in his voice is feather-light, but I hear it as loud as a train whistle. “Isn’t that thought terrifying?”
“Yes,” I say carefully.
“I think about that when I contemplate death. It’s like that ‘would you rather’ game my grandchildren play. I’d take death over forever in an instant.”
I really don’t want to answer another question. The relief sinks so deep inside me when he doesn’t ask one and goes on with his monologue fit for Shakespeare.
“What is the character of a man who thinks too much about the future? It took me a long time to let go of things I can’t control. Fate is fate. Destiny is a living, breathing thing like you and me. There is nothing we can do about this creature. All we can do is take the present, the now, by the balls and hope that it doesn’t turn on us.” He sighs; I smell him. Piney cologne with an old
furniture stink underneath. I hear him shift. How his clothes scratch against the leather. He taps something against the floor, and I can’t tell if it’s his foot or something else. “But I find myself dwelling upon the past. Are you a man who looks back?”
I don’t risk any hesitation this time. “No.”
“A one-word-answer man. I can respect that. Brevity can say so much.” I listen to a swishing, perhaps it’s his hands rubbing against the seat. “I reminisce on my roots. The fine nostalgia of it, the time when I was a young man—your age—just starting out fresh with that solid gait and a confidence surer than sure, but behind it all was a fierce anticipation of the world and the yearning to sink my teeth into it. That drive I was talking about.” He makes a sound with his mouth, wet, repulsive, he’s tasting the flavor of his words. “You can’t move ahead without knowing your roots. Understanding the foundation of your life and how you can stack your wins up, one by one. Sometimes it all falls apart, sometimes the mortar doesn’t hold. Then death mocks you, and you have two choices: give up or start all over again.”
“Listen,” I say, mustering up the courage to speak. “I was hoping we could—” All it takes is the menacing glare of the driver to get me to shut up. Doesn’t even have to say anything.
“Yes, the foundation of things. The beginning. Roots,” Early continues, as if unaware I’d said anything. “I asked Dan Braggs about the history of indigo—as you call it—when we had our talk just a few days ago. He didn’t know a lot about it—didn’t want to know a lot about it. He had no desire for the knowledge of its roots. I let it go for the time being. But Orah . . .”
The sound of her name out of his mouth is blasphemy, as if someone took a giant dump on the altar of a church. I want to scream out don’t you dare say her name, and the effort to hold back is reddening my face. My nails are dug into my palms hard.
“I wasn’t aware of Orah until Mike Frye told me he saw an elderly woman and a teenager with indigo. It was a comment made—with minimal coercion I assure you—while investigating who was selling a more powerful strain than mine. Do you want to know how I found out about indigo in the first place? My granddaughter. Just recently I was over at her parents’ house and saw a bag of it in her room—it had that same look as my product, but even more beautifully colored. After questioning her and then trying it myself, I knew it was going to be a problem for my business. She didn’t know who had sold it; she had gotten it from a friend. After that, everything came together so quickly—I talked with Dan, then chatted with Mike after he reached out to me, and then you and me? We found each other. I’m glad to know that indigo is so new to the streets that it’s made no impact on my sales—yet. I’m nipping this in the bud.” He pauses, taking a thin breath. “In terms of Orah Klaski, however, I thought, she’s an old dog like me. A seasoned woman involved in a business that depends on growth would know the foundation from which success burgeons.”
“Leave her out—”
“Please,” he interrupts quietly, darkly. “Just a few hours ago, I paid her a visit at home while everyone was at church. Dammertown must be a spiritual place. As a spiritual man, I can appreciate that.”
My reaction is faster than my wits. I punch the glove compartment, not caring that the driver sledge-hammers me back against the seat with his meaty forearm and then presses against my throat to restrain me. “What did you do to her?” I croak out.
“I had a discussion with her, just as I’m having with you.” He waits to continue so his message sinks in. “I asked her a simple question: where did indigo begin? I want to know everything about it, how it all started, and why your indigo is so much better than the flowers that grow in my fields. After only a little bit of persuasion, she started to mention the Adirondacks. She mentioned telling stories about it to her grandchildren. I don’t think she was quite in her right mind at that point, but it sparked my interest. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. Unfortunately, before she could say any more, she vomited, slurred her speech, and then passed out. I believe it was a stroke. Poor, poor woman. That is a harsh ending for her,” he says somberly.
I’m rambling on about something, I’m not sure what I’m spouting, I swat at whatever is near me, I’m trying to climb past the partition so I can get my hands on Early, who is looking at me like a disappointed father with a disappointing son. Cold metal is against my head again. It’s amazing how hard the barrel feels pushing into my skull, and how soft I am against it.
I slump back into my seat, tears streaming down my face, combining with blood from my nose to make trails of pink.
“Give him a break, Leo. Let him mourn the loss of his friend. You’d consider her a friend, wouldn’t you?” Early asks.
“I consider her family,” I say simply.
“I am sorry for your loss. I can promise you that I didn’t touch her, didn’t hurt her. Just very bad timing.” He leans in close to my ear. “Now you wouldn’t happen to know where the origin of indigo is, would you?”
“No,” I say. “That’s the God’s honest truth.”
I could tell him where the crypt is, couldn’t I? Then they’d leave the farm alone. And Billy. If they were to find him at the original indigo site then he’s in trouble—we all are. If only he hadn’t been caught snorting indigo by one of Early’s guys. Stupid. Freaking. Addict. How can I keep Early away from at least one member of Stacey’s family?
I’m unable to take the thinking any further because Leo suddenly plummets his elbow into my throat. I pitch forward, holding onto my neck, while I raggedly inhale for breath that’s playing hard to get.
“I don’t believe you,” I hear Early say, somewhere in the midst of the ringing in my ears. I’m suffocating, my windpipe has probably collapsed. I bend myself forward even more, toward the floor mat. Finally the oxygen decides to make an arrival. The ringing subsides. I think it’s okay to sit up.
“I have no reason to lie to you,” I rasp. “If I knew, you bet your ass I’d be there myself.”
I feel something sharp graze the side of my neck. When the knife pierces skin I let out a loud groan. He’s slit my neck. I slap a hand around my throat in case my head falls off, I wait for darkness, the sweet relief, the gushing blood. It never comes.
Dread. Panic. Worse than a timonous bird. I’m calling out to the powers of improvisation to get me out of this bind. “I’ll offer you all the indigo I have. Pounds and pounds of it. Let me bring it to you,” I say, grasping for straws. “Then I’ll find you the origin of it. My shit should tide you over till then. And I already told Dan I’d stop dealing. Everything.”
Early’s laughter is grating and unnerving. It goes on and on, prickling me like fields and fields of dried grass against my bare ankles. But now I’m jacked up something fierce just thinking about Orah and how he must have treated her. He probably didn’t even flinch when she fell to the floor.
“Look at me,” Early says.
I answer the demand. I can’t believe my eyes when I fully view this squinty old man with a straw hat, blue band around it, khaki pants and a white, short-sleeved, button-down shirt. He holds a cane with a smudged brass handle that looks sturdier than him.
“You’re in way over your head, kid.”
I ignore this. “Do we have a deal?” I ask.
Early scratches his tanned cheek, cranks his mouth off to the side. It’s not grotesque, it’s the look of a pensive man, a man who wins and wins and wins. I didn’t think it was possible to sweat this hard. I try to look confident without saying a thing, but it’s too late for that. Early and I eyeball each other, yet he’s been staring people down since the beginning of time, and I’ve barely earned my staring stripes. Don’t even need to say I look away first. All the while I’m shrieking in my head, Orah, Orah, you can’t be gone, you were, you were, no, you are—
“Tonight,” Early says. Then stops. “I want you and the rest of the indigo in this same spot at two in the morning. And I want more information on the origin. I’m not
letting this go.” I make note of where I am. There are a few dilapidated shacks along the treeline used as hunting cabins a long time ago. There is a moose crossing sign up ahead. This is where it’s all going to happen.
Leo yanks the door open and pushes me out of the car. He squeals away, dirt and pebbles kicking up in my face, it’s all I’m tasting, and even so, I feel like I got off easy. I watch the red taillights disappear around a corner that leads into the woods and eventually toward western New York. And here I go, sprinting then running then limping back into Dammertown, which is ten miles away, ten long miles to get real cozy with questions all the walking in the world won’t answer.
Chapter Forty-two
Do I book it to Stacey’s house or to the trailer or straight to the hospital to see Orah? By the time I’m nearing D-Town, I decide to use my final strength to make a run for home, grab my cell phone, and jump into my car with the salt-sting of sweat in my eyes. I know there is blood on my face and neck, but there’s no time to clean up. I’m dialing numbers, Stacey, Dan, their house, the hospital, no one’s picking up, I’m thinking I’ll choose the hospital, Dan and Stacey would have already left church and discovered her. I don’t want to think any further than that. I’m so out of breath my whole face is numb, my legs are achy as all get-out, my thoughts are stumbling over themselves to catch up and register what is now beyond a dilemma.
Ellis Hospital isn’t the easiest place for me to visit. When I pull up in the parking lot, the memory of my sister’s accident crashes down on me: me and Pop in the ambulance holding each of her hands, me reciting bird facts in alphabetical order, Mom rushing through the wide automatic hospital doors still wearing her waitress’s apron. We sat in the waiting area after they took her in, a room that Dante should add as a tenth circle of hell. Screaming child, quiet crying, antiseptic smell that doesn’t “anti” anything, television stuck on the same channel.
Busting through the door, I storm right up to the main desk where a nurse sits wearing pink hospital scrubs, hair slicked back in a tight ponytail. I tell her I’m looking for Orah, Orah Klaski. Is she here? What did they do with her? A man being pushed in a wheelchair glides past me, and there’s a slight breeze from the brisk roll. The smell of its metal reminds me of swing sets. I say I’m her grandson, and it doesn’t feel like a lie. When she tells me Orah’s in intensive care, I demand her to repeat it, until I believe Orah is, and not was. I sigh with relief, she’s still alive, thank God, a new burst of verve surges through me because she’s going to pull out of this, champion her way into the light and through her nineties, wouldn’t be surprised if the tough broad would live to see one hundred.