Tripping Back Blue

by Kara Storti

  Then before I can touch my face to confirm if the heat is really there—if I’m reburned, phoenix’d, born again—Leo tackles me to the ground, grappling to gain control of my legs, hands, and arms, and Charles’s gun is pointed at my head. No superhuman strength, it’s just me, Phineas, nothing to write home about. But adrenaline enables me to wiggle my hands from his grasp and desperately pat the ground around me, dig into my pockets, hoping to find a weapon from my memory. What about the lighter? The glass shard? Nothing. This whole scheme was pointless, like all the rest. I should have known that this world wasn’t meant for magic. I’m groping for everything, anything, but it’s just grass, dirt, and more grass. And the heat on my cheek. Leo’s got me pinned now, panting with effort. I’m reeling. Fuck. Fuck.

  Then everything happens fast and at once. Early barks an order, points with his cane, Leo jerks up off of me, and Charles is sprinting to the house. Stacey is nowhere to be found—my spontaneous indigo hit was distraction enough to give her a window of opportunity to escape, good, that’s my girl, but soon I realize that she’s not escaping, instead she’s staying, and through the window I see her setting the curtains on fire with a cheap yellow lighter, probably Billy’s. The flimsy material flares up right quick, done and done. She stands in the middle of the room, and the fire rages on all sides of her, murky black smoke, pumpkin orange, she isn’t meant to be the phoenix . . .

  I imagine her taking one beat to say her farewell to Billy before the couch goes up in flames.

  Charles bursts into the house after her, but she’s already out the back door, calling my name, saying, Finn, do it, Finn, running toward the woods. Stacey’s escape is enough of a distraction to snatch up an open bag of indigo I’ve just harvested and throw it toward the fire-breathing window with the blaze of curtain lashing out like a tongue. The bag hits the ledge and indigo puffs everywhere, covering Leo, who is just registering what happened. His shock is a trophy. I bound toward the woods after Stacey, nothing is happening, why is nothing happening, dear God, I’ll do anything, I’ll stop all bad behavior, I’ll give you my soul for you to clean up, spic-and-span, just please, oh please . . .

  I hear Stacey’s feet slapping against the ground just ahead—

  An earth-shattering crack.

  A gust of wind against my back. An explosion that knocks me off my feet, sending me tumbling, tumbling, sharp branches, layer of pine needles, back against bark. Stacey immediately halts. Don’t stop, but I only think it, because my tongue is a boulder and the words aren’t coming, don’t stop, Stacey, run until you can’t anymore, I don’t know the status of the others, but I’ll be your last line of defense if it kills me.

  The smoke engulfs the forest and the crackling is so loud I expect to hear timber! and the deafening break of falling trees. There is a rumbling sound too, I’m not sure where it’s coming from, and I’m too confused and paralyzed to run away. I roll over, groaning, I don’t think I’ve broken anything, but the tinnitus in my ears isn’t letting up. I’ve never been so disoriented. I can only see the outline of tree trunks in the dense fog of smoke. Another smaller burst of explosion, then the smoke clears, but only temporarily.

  During that brief opening I see a figure limping toward me.

  -----

  “Where are you, Finn?” Stacey shouts, she wants to locate my voice, me. Smoke is all I’m seeing, coughing is all I’m doing. Instinctively, I know to stay silent. There are several noises happening simultaneously: the gushing breath of fire, a distant whir of a motor, and the nearby crunch of twigs against footfall. The gray cloud slowly dissipates, revealing more trees and the outline of a man who struggles to stay upright. Early appears out of the backdrop of blankness, clutching his cane-turned-crutch. He somehow survived the blowback of the explosion—maybe he had seen it coming. He points a gun at me from ten feet away.

  “Get on your knees,” he says. I’m so delirious that I’m already there without argument, and I don’t want to run because at least I can keep Early occupied and away from Stacey. I have enough dignity to not break eye contact with him, my golden-brown irises to his watery, non-colored ones. His hat must have blown off in the explosion, and it’s the first time that I’ve seen his whole face, and I’m taken aback by a full head of gray hair. He calls out, “Stacey, you better come here and witness this. Or should I spare his life for your own?”

  “Stacey, get away from here,” I holler.

  “I knew this was going to be a messy ending,” Early says, coughing, though his gun remains steady. “I recognize so much of myself in you. Smooth talking, egotistical. Machismo. A leader of your pack. Yet you understand the elderly, our compulsion to reminisce and share whatever measly wisdom we may have. You learn from our stories, Finn, don’t you?”

  My eyes sting from the smoke and I’m overwhelmed with tears. I want to scream in his face, Don’t talk to me about your stories! Yours are useless, empty things. Orah’s stories are bursting with color, they are peacock feathers, a kaleidoscope of high-octane blues and greens and purples. They are life. Yours are death. And now she’s dying because of you.

  I don’t answer Early. I’m no longer afraid of his questions.

  “You should pause in this moment.” He waves his hand in the air. “Take time to enjoy the clarity before death, take inventory of what you have accomplished, what you have begun. Finn, what have you accomplished?”

  I hear footsteps. “Get out of here, Stacey!” I yell. I ready myself for my last move. I can take this guy out, go for the hit, steal the gun, end this once and for all. My determination is powerful and relentless, and in all my life I’ve never felt a decision so resolute.

  He snickers. “I admire your bravery, son,” he says, reading my taut stance, my tightening fists. “But you must end with indigo. You’ve destroyed it, where it all began—and—and—it was so divine, so pure . . .”

  When Stacey appears next to me, I flash her a look of outrage; she answers with a frown. She should be at a safe distance by now. But no, always the stubborn one. This wordless exchange pleases Early—he smiles with delight, he’d probably clap his hands if they weren’t otherwise occupied.

  He tightens his finger on the trigger, I scream for Stacey to get down as I throw myself at him. I wait for the point of impact, I squeeze my eyes shut, and there is forever in the moment between now and then. Snapshots of the past flash over the back of my eyelids: Faith and me in a fort with a kitten, the yard sale, the female cardinal at the window. Me defending her honor when the first—and last—kid made fun of her eye patch. Amazing facts books, binoculars, bird-watching, blitzed out of my mind. The time I got drunk and ran up and down the trailer park butt-ass naked. Dropping acid in the park. Waking up not knowing who I am. Stacey walking into the sub shop, my heart stopping. Rising from the dead, next to the dead, knowing full well I was lucky. And Orah. Drinking tea together in the morning room, utterly myself.

  The three seconds of forever have passed. There’s a vicious-sounding pop. I don’t even make contact with Early, because he’s already on the ground, and I’m about to stumble over him, baffled, befuddled. Smoke lifting, almost clear. And I’m seeing that Early is dead, blood blooms from his skull, someone killed him, and that someone wasn’t me. I kick the gun away from him and jerk around, scanning the area.

  Stacey is covering her head, lying on her stomach behind me, trembling.

  “Are you okay?” I ask, scrambling to her, pulling her up into my arms. She looks around, sees Early’s body and nods. Face splotchy and dirty, but otherwise okay. Thank God, I think, looking up at the sky.

  The smoke has traveled beyond us and someone appears from behind a tree. I’m up on my feet going after the gun without hesitation. It’s not Leo or Charles, however.

  It’s Mike Frye. Mike with a still-smoking gun, a couple of his guys flanking him. He barely acknowledges me when he approaches Early’s body and stands over him for a painful but necessary length of time. Stacey leans against a tree trunk, and I step backw
ard, giving Mike space. He clears his throat and hacks, tightens his mouth in a pucker and pummels a gob of spit in Early’s face.

  “You killed my Victoria,” he says quietly, voice cracking. He crumples to his knees and brings his head to the ground. I get the sense that he’s praying and mourning, but not exactly falling apart—that will come later. His hand and Early’s hand are inches apart and that seems to be what he wants: to feel with all his senses a life diminishing and a black heart silenced. The cane has been thrown off to the side in the chaos, and it’s one of Mike’s guys who picks it up, considering it. My sights are then set on Stacey, whose posture changes, who leaps up and starts running back toward the house. I almost call out in panic, until I see Dan limping to meet her, arms stretched wide, tears of relief and gratitude smeared down his cheeks. That tough motherfucker.

  Mike stands up and brushes himself off, signaling to his guys to take care of Early’s body. I understand that the cane will be a souvenir.

  “How did you find us?”

  Mike scratches the side of his nose, such a casual gesture for the given situation. “Dan went to the hospital to ask your old lady Orah for directions to this place. He knew about what Early did to my . . . my Victoria.”

  “Orah woke up?” I ask, my voice cracking. Dan nods as he squeezes Stacey into a hug. Yes, I think; there was some justice done today. Orah is alive. She woke up from the blank nightmare of a coma, and the relief of that is unmatched.

  “Seems like everyone was at the hospital,” Mike says. “Dan saw me, Jason, and a few of my guys and told us what was going down. He thought he might need backup.” He tilts his head up to Dan, the biggest thank-you he’s going to get out of him. Early’s body is being dragged away, probably to be thrown into the long-burning fire of the house, along with the bodies of Leo and Charles. So appropriate—Early’s end where indigo began.

  There is an awkward pause between me and Mike as we stand facing each other. It’s not every day that an enemy saves your life. There’s also a perfect opportunity to take the blame out on me to complete the blood bath. They have the guns, and we’re weakened and maxed out. Maybe he considers it; I am part of the series of events, you might even say I was its origin, but that’s where it gets fuzzy, so I’m not going to linger on that too much. But—but . . . there’s tension between us spiked with anguish spiked with deep-set loathing spiked with what else? A tacit understanding? An unspoken commonality? A blood bond? With that said, I’m spent, he’s spent, I just want to go home and make peace with everything leading up to this moment. Indigo and I? Not exactly soul mates. Oil and water. Black and blue. Heaven and earth. Now thinking of it, we were only meant to be a match made in hell. I want to tell Orah that I’m sorry it took so long for me to realize that.

  “I don’t expect that we’ll get in each other’s way anytime soon,” Mike says. It’s the perfect statement. It is exactly right. I nod, open my mouth to speak, but decide against it.

  Monday, June 17

  Chapter Forty-nine

  The funeral is held at the D-Town Cemetery next to Jimmy’s grave, among the birds I’ve been spying on for years, not too far away from the crypt where this all began. A few weeks have passed since the incident in the Adirondacks, and though there have been some aftereffects to deal with, I have no desire to look back and consider how I could have done things differently. Fuck you, indigo, but thank you too.

  It’s a simple gravestone of dark gray granite, with Billy’s full name, William Edward Braggs, and the dates of his birth and death. Too short of a range, barely a wingspan.

  As we form a circle around the gravesite, I take stock of the cast of characters that have made up my life in the past few months. Some physically here, others not, doesn’t matter because there are spirits wherever we go. Stacey’s hand squeezes mine. The bottom of her dress brushes against my pants, a sound that reminds me of our wildflower field in the wind.

  I found out from Jason that Mike has moved, nobody knows where, which is probably a good thing. Though he does have friends in the police force, he didn’t want to take any chances, even with no evidence found to connect him with Early’s death. If he wants to get into supplying again, he’ll have to build up from the ashes.

  Dan stands closest to the grave. He has taken a leave of absence from the D-Town PD, which is just what he needed in order to spend more time with his family and to help mend what’s left of it. I know part of his sabbatical is a result of his less-than-ethical approach to drug enforcement, but with his clout and connections with respected people (including the clueless Dammertown mayor) who can vouch for him, I know his career is nowhere near to being over. I’m sure there are a shit ton of enforcement who are silently applauding him for playing a role in Early’s takedown.

  Stacey is a quiet version of herself now. This may be a temporary version, or it may be a new version to stay; whatever the case, she’s with me a lot. We go on walks, eat lunch together in the cafeteria, I drive her home from school. She’s still attending Stanford in the fall. In those times when she thinks I’m not looking at her (though I am looking, always looking), I recognize the aching strain of guilt in her eyes—I could have visited him, I could have loved him more, I could have been a better sister—I see all this, I feel all this, but it’s something that she’s going to have to work through herself. You can duke it out with regret, sadness, even emptiness, and you should fight in true gladiator fashion, but don’t go expecting life to take it easy on you because you’ve won a few. It will never be easy. That’s the point.

  When others look at my face, do they see the underneath of my underneath? It’s ego on top of ego on top of distrust of the world and myself; it’s sadness and anger and boo-hoo everything is so hard. Yet embedded in it all, I feel a tiny seed beginning to take root. I’m going to let it grow. I’m going to wait and see how much light it’ll find. Our graduation is just around the bend and yes, I’ll be walking across the stage, thank you very much. Maybe there will be another stage to walk across in the future. I’m not ruling out the possibility. Faith’s still going to D-Town Community College and I’m coming to terms with that. By making money (not enough) and trying to control her life (as mine spiraled out)—I wanted nothing more than for her to forgive me. The truth of the matter is, she had already done so years before, when a female cardinal perched on the hospital window and showed us hope.

  And Orah. Oh, Orah . . . there are still so many stories for her to tell me. I want to hear about her greatest memory, and I don’t want to know if that’s what she experienced during her first indigo trip. I want to hear more about her husband and her time as a nurse. Have I earned these stories? It’s too early to tell, but I’ve got time. She stands next to me now, holding my other hand, with her good ear toward me—the stroke took away her hearing in her right ear, the doctors said it was a miracle it didn’t take anything else. That is no consolation for her now that her grandson is dead with no final words spoken between them. Closure is not something that should be taken for granted. I used to think of it as a word for separated couples who needed “closure” to move on and love another. Closure for Orah, I would imagine, is twenty thousand leagues deeper than that, more than I’m sorry and it’s okay, more than her destroying all the indigo in the crypt—which led to the destruction of the rest—though that might be coming close.

  Stacey walks up to the gravestone. Her tears sparkle in the light, though it’s an overcast day with low, cushion-like clouds. She takes something out of her pocket and holds it up for everyone to view.

  I can’t tell what it is at first, but I know it’s important because there is a sharp intake of breath from Orah; there is a Herculean grip of her fingers. Then I see. It’s the circular crystal Orah gave Billy, the touchstone of positive energy, the representation of the rainbow spectrum of life. When it hits the light just right, it dazzles with a riot of colors despite the cloudy, washed-out day. Red to indigo and back again.

  She places the crystal on top of
Billy’s grave and walks back. I inhale—hadn’t even known I’d stopped breathing—and the inhale tastes blessed, it’s there, it’s goddamn holy water, and aren’t I lucky that there’s more to drink? Stacey’s back to holding my hand, and I feel honored that she graces me with it, I feel honored that Orah is still holding on to me too. Faith is tearing up, but her eye is bright (Think bright, Phineas) and on me, like she’s kind of proud that I’m her brother, her eternal fraternal twin. So it’s like, these women, man, I don’t know, for a second they have the ability to fly, they could at a moment’s notice jump up and soar and say, see you, fuckers, I’ve got places to be—and you’d think—or maybe the old me would think—I’m the anchor that holds them to the ground, the weight, the burden, but that’s not really it. I’m just not ready, I hold onto them because I’m scared, I’m so fucking scared, and they know it and accept it and will wait for me to let go. They are the subtle red to my fire-engine hue. They will be the ones to teach me to fly.

  Acknowledgments

  Enormous amounts of thanks to the following people who helped make this story fly:

  Rubin Pfeffer, an amazing agent who was the best navigator and cheerleader in finding a home for this book. Not many people have his wisdom of the industry, steadiness, and overall loveliness.

  Alix Reid, a kick-ass editor who knows how to whip a story into shape and make characters come alive on the page. She beams with passion, encouragement, and positivity. What an editorial superhero!

  The team at Carolrhoda Lab—I’m so honored to be on your list.

  Lesléa Newman, mentor, pal, and inspiration. I am grateful to know you, your generosity, and warm spirit. I still have your marked-up manuscripts and use your brilliant writing exercises!