by N. D. Wilson
He shoved his knuckles into his ears. Opening and closing his jaw almost helped. False yawns.
Behind him, the front door opened. Footsteps, and a moment later, Cyrus was staring at a pair of very creased, very greased cowboy boots dotted with beads of water. One of them tapped his shoulder with its blunt toe.
“You dead or alive? I need the key to my room.”
Cyrus tried to stand up but only managed to roll onto his back. He couldn’t even bring himself to brush the clinging hair and gravel and poly fibers off his wet chest.
“Dead,” he said. His voice was distant, slurring. “Pretty sure.”
William Skelton grinned down at him. From the floor, the man’s nostrils looked large enough to house bats. “I need my room.” His voice was all breath, and his breath was all glass and grit.
Cyrus closed his eyes. He might throw up.
A bag dropped onto Cyrus’s stomach. “Room one-eleven. Fetch the key, or I’ll open the door myself.”
Coughing, Cyrus shoved the bag onto the floor and elbowed himself up.
“What—” He swallowed. “What just happened? The bug … thing …” Cyrus stopped, blinking. He didn’t even know what to ask.
The man slowly lowered himself into a crouch. Water beaded off his leather jacket and gloves. Cyrus cocked his head and squinted at him out of one eye, trying to focus. The man’s skin had moved beyond the wrinkles of age, beyond scruff and widened pores and spider veins. His face was smooth and polished with use, like the seat of an old wooden stool. He smiled, and somehow his cheeks didn’t crack.
“Kid,” he said, and he reached out and squeezed Cyrus’s shoulder. “You’ll see stranger than that soon enough. Now, I didn’t come this far and watch you burn a lightning bug to ask twice. Do you want this little roadside dive to come on down around your ears? Room one-eleven.”
Cyrus knocked the man’s hand off his shoulder, rolled onto his knees, and managed to stand. The room was spinning, but he squared his feet, crossed his arms, and tried to look stable.
“Taken,” he said. “One-eleven is taken. I’d tell you to come back later, but it will be taken then, too. We have lots of rooms. Pick another one. My brother will make you a waffle in the morning.”
“Your brother,” the man said. “Daniel. The most like your father? The one I should have been talking to on the phone?”
Aluminum scraped and the front door let in the sound of slapping rain.
“Cy?” Antigone squeezed in. “You okay? What’s going on?”
Dan slipped in behind her.
Cyrus looked at his sister. “You should have waited for me. I wasn’t that late.” He looked at Dan’s dripping brown hair. “At least you’re wet, too.”
“Not as wet as you,” Dan said. “Get a shirt on.” He turned toward the old man and stuck out his hand. “Sorry about my brother,” he said. “He gets primitive when we’re not around. I’m Daniel. You need a room?”
The old man grinned as they shook hands. “Daniel Smith. We’ve met before.”
Dan stood perfectly still, his eyes careening around the old man’s face. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember …” His voice cracked and trailed away.
The man shrugged. “You were young. Your father called me Bones; your mother called me Billy.”
Cyrus watched his brother’s Adam’s apple bounce and his eyebrows crash together.
“What are you doing here?” Dan’s voice had tightened. “What do you want?”
Billy or Bones or Billy Bones laughed. “Just a room. All I need is a room. One room in particular. Passing through and thought I’d say hello to the old place.”
“It’s my room, Dan.” Cyrus pointed at his brother. “He wants my room. Don’t give it to him.”
While Dan moved awkwardly behind the desk, the old man turned to Cyrus. Digging a key ring from his pocket, he held up a long gold key between his fingers.
“I’ll more than pay for the night. Park my truck. There’s something for you on the seat.”
The old man’s face was pained but smiling. Once more, Cyrus stretched out his hand to take something from him. This time, Skelton seemed less willing. His eyes were hard and nervous. His breathing had stopped.
He dropped the keys onto Cyrus’s palm, winked awkwardly, and turned away. The old man’s back was suddenly more bowed. His skin had grown pale.
Dan nodded, and Cyrus moved slowly toward the door.
“I’ll park the Baron,” Antigone said. “The keys in it?”
Dan nodded again, all the while keeping nervous eyes on the old man.
Cyrus forced the door open and stepped to the side to let his sister through. He pointed at Dan. “Don’t even think about giving him my room.”
Turning away before his brother could answer, he shivered out into the rain.
“Where’s your shirt, Tarzan?” Antigone asked. She wrapped the hem of her own shirt around her camera cases while they walked. The rain was fading.
Cyrus grunted.
“That lightning was crazy.” Antigone pointed at a new pothole. “It melted a hole in the parking lot.”
Cyrus didn’t answer. He was staring at the Golden Lady. She looked better than he would have thought possible — glowing, buzzing, hunting the sky.
Antigone followed his eyes. “When did that happen?” she asked. “Was it the lightning?”
“No.” Cyrus shook his head. “She came on when he leaned against her pole. Tigs, that lightning wasn’t normal.”
“Lightning never is. If it weren’t still raining, I’d film the Lady.” Antigone moved forward. “She looks amazing.”
Cyrus wiped the rain off his nose. Antigone shifted into a jog. “Hurry up. I want to look in his truck.”
Cyrus followed his sister, scanning the parking lot as he went. Lightning flickered silently behind distant clouds, and he felt his body tense. Everything had been moving so quickly, too quickly to understand. Mrs. Eldridge wasn’t just a half-cracked guest; she was all the way cracked. William Skelton had known his parents.
And he’d had a beetle that could call down lightning.
Antigone reached the truck.
“I wouldn’t open that!” Cyrus yelled.
She pulled open the door. “Why not?”
Cyrus caught up to his sister and stared into the cab. The seat was covered with old sheepskin, now worn down to flat wool. The passenger’s side was crowded with grease-dotted paper bags, ripped and folded atlases, paper cups, and a large metallic box that was probably a cooler. In the center of the driver’s seat, there was a small square of thick, rippled glass. Embedded inside, on its back with six legs folded in against its belly, there lay a single beetle.
“That’s a fat beetle,” Antigone said. “Is that what he meant? That’s your tip?” She reached for it.
“Don’t touch it!” Cyrus knocked away her arm.
Antigone faced him, raised her eyebrows, then reached up to flick her brother’s ear.
“Seriously, Tigs,” Cyrus said. “Don’t.” Antigone flicked, and Cyrus yelped, grabbing her wrist. “You don’t know what happened. Just listen for a second and don’t ask any questions. I have to get my head straight.”
Antigone pulled back her arm. “Your head?”
“My ears are still ringing, and I’m not sure how to say … nothing seems true right now. You’re not going to believe me.”
“Mr. Mouth can’t find his words,” Antigone said. “Should I take a picture?”
“Promise you’ll believe me,” Cyrus said.
“Maybe I will,” said Antigone. “There’s a first for everything.”
“Oh, shut up. You saw the lightning, right?”
“I did. Did you skip school today? And why were you late? I made Dan wait for half an hour.”
“Come on!” Cyrus slapped both hands onto his head, dragging them down his face. “Why now? I’m trying to tell you something.”
“No,” Antigone said. She pushed her short, wet hair straight back and the
n crossed her arms. “You’re trying to get me to believe something. That’s different. You want me to believe you? Hit me with the truth about school. And Mom. You never miss a Mom day.”
“Fine,” Cyrus said. “I skipped out of school today. Why wouldn’t I? And then I lost my watch in a stream and got back late. You should have waited for me anyway. Now will you please listen?”
Antigone refolded her shirt over her camera. “Why would anyone skip the last day of school? That’s what Dan wanted to know, and I think it’s a good question. All we did was mess around in class and clean out our lockers.”
“Exactly,” said Cyrus. “I glued my locker shut three months ago, and I actually skipped out early this entire week. Mrs. Testy Teal called to talk to Dan about it a couple days ago, but she got me instead. Is that enough truth for you?”
Antigone blew rainwater off her lips. Cyrus knew how this went. A lecture was coming. He watched his older, smaller sister try to look angry. They only ever fought, really fought, when she tried to be his mother, which she seemed to think meant never believing a word he said and hugging him in public.
A pair of headlights approached, slowed, and looped out around the station wagon.
“Cyrus Lawrence Smith,” Antigone began. Cyrus braced himself, but his sister’s eyes had changed. Her wide smile took over. “I can’t believe you glued your locker shut. Will they ever be able to get it open? They’ll probably have to buy a new one. What kind of glue?”
“Not important,” Cyrus said. It was hard not to smile, too. “I didn’t use a lot. It’ll pop open. Now listen to me, Tigs.” He pointed at the glass on the seat. “That’s a lightning bug. I swear it is. Not like a firefly. If you break the glass, it wakes up and then the lightning comes.”
Antigone’s hair fell forward. She brushed it back and scrunched her face. “You were right,” she said. “I don’t believe you. You’re worrying me, Rus. Did you get struck? Seriously. And if you hadn’t skipped school—”
“Seriously yourself,” Cyrus said. “Don’t start in on school again. And don’t call me Rus.” He watched his sister’s face. “You have to believe me.”
“No,” Antigone said. “I don’t. I don’t even believe that you believe you. You’re delusional. And shirtless. Probably concussed.”
“Fine,” Cyrus said. Leaning into the truck, he poked at the glass. No current. At least at first touch. Folding up a rag on the dashboard, he used it like a pot holder to pick up the glass. “Watch.”
“Not yours, Cy. Put the poor dead thing back.”
“It is mine. He said it was. It’ll come alive when I break it open.”
Antigone raised her eyebrows. “Like a cursed pharaoh?”
“Ha,” Cyrus said. “Keep talking.”
“Cy! Tigs!” Dan’s yell came from the courtyard. “What are you doing? C’mon! The Baron should be out of the road!”
William Skelton stepped beside him. Cyrus whipped the rag behind his back.
“Careful there,” the old man said. “Don’t waste another perfectly good bug. It took your father weeks to catch it.” He walked out into the parking lot and then down along the front of the motel, stopping at Cyrus’s battered white door.
“When you’ve finished, bring that key ring back to one-eleven.”
“No!” Cyrus yelled. “Dan! What? You gave him my room?”
Skelton opened the door. Saluting Cyrus with two fingers, he stepped inside and shut the door behind him.
three. THE LITTLE LAWYER
“I’M NOT GIVING the keys back,” Cyrus said. “Not unless he gets out of my room.” He was trying to pace, but there wasn’t enough open floor. Instead, tossing the key ring from hand to hand, he turned in place between Antigone’s two twin beds. The keys had a strange feel to them — almost a current, though vastly more subtle than the lightning bug. His skin cooled and itched wherever they touched.
Cyrus stuck his finger through the key ring and spun the bundle around his knuckle. His head felt extremely clear.
He was wearing his filthy shirt again, but inside out, with the grime against his skin. The glass-mummy lightning bug was propped up on the bedside table behind him, leaning against a lamp.
“Not a great idea,” Antigone said. She lifted a black projector off a shelf and set it on a wobbly TV tray. “Someone like that, you don’t steal their keys. You don’t steal anything.”
“Did Dan tell you more about him?”
Antigone shook her head. “Just what you heard. He thinks he remembers the guy at Christmas once, but he’s not sure. And he thinks Dad chased him off when we were little.”
“I should look through his camper.”
“Worse idea.” Antigone glanced up from her work. “Go give the man his keys and get some clean clothes. You’re not staying in here until you’ve showered and changed.”
“Whatever,” Cyrus said. The key ring felt strangely light in his hands, and he couldn’t stop himself from fiddling with it. There were only two keys hanging from their own smaller rings — the long gold one with a square head that he’d used to start the truck, and a shorter, round-headed silver key with a green tarnished head and a gleaming, polished shaft. More interesting than the keys were three large charms. Cyrus fingered each of them. A pearl, or something like one, moon white and gripped by a tiny silver claw. Beside it, a piece of reddish wood, worn smooth and polished with handling. And then the largest and heaviest of the three, the one that had looked at first glance like a silver animal tooth. On second glance and third handling, it had become more interesting. The silver tooth was actually a small sheath on a tiny hinge, hiding a real tooth within.
Cyrus popped it open one more time and ran his thumb along the edge of what he assumed was a large, petrified shark tooth — black, smooth, and cold. It could have been stone.
His thumb tingled. It wasn’t the keys, it was the tooth that chilled his skin.
Cyrus snapped the sheath shut, dropped onto a bed, and lobbed the keys up against the ceiling. A cloud of white paint powder and dust ghosted down, and the key ring bounced on the bed beside him. William Skelton. What did the old man with the yellow truck really want with his room? What was he doing in there? Room 111 was his, and it had been from the very beginning, ever since the world had ripped the three young Smiths up by their roots.
When Dan had finally pulled the Red Baron into the Archer’s parking lot for the first time, Antigone had cried. It wasn’t the California house. There were no cliffs. No sea. No father. And a mother in the hospital.
Ten years old, Cyrus had looked out his car window and seen three 1s together on a door—111—a picture of what was left of his family. It had seemed like a safe number. It had been a safe number. A number not easily divided. And it held two years’ worth of new roots — at least what he hadn’t buried in the pastures and drowned in the streams. Antigone had insisted on taking the room beside him. When he was honest with himself — which didn’t happen often — he was grateful that she had.
Cyrus looked over at his sister. Two years ago, she’d had long hair. Black glistening braids. It was all pixie cuts now, even though her short hair wouldn’t stay tucked behind her ears and was always falling into her face. Antigone never seemed to do the easy thing. That was his job.
Cyrus yawned. “I’m starving.”
“A pocket-size grilled cheese isn’t enough for you?” Antigone had collected a blue collapsible tripod and movie screen from the corner. “Dan offered you waffles. Waffles are unlimited.”
Cyrus groaned. “I think I’m made of waffles.”
Room 110 was all Antigone. Like Cyrus, she had lined every bit of the open walls with shelves. Unlike Cyrus, she had actually painted the paneled walls first (pale blue), she actually dusted her shelves, and she actually vacuumed the golden-brown carpet. Cockroaches, ants, and spiders actually died in 110–111 was more like a wildlife preserve — and Antigone had found sheets for herself that were softer than the Archer’s standard polyester surprise.
<
br /> And her shelves were organized.
Most of the shelves held books — books that had belonged to their mother, their father, their grandparents, and a few that had belonged to people with “great” and “once removed” attached to the relationship. Three shelves sagged beneath photo albums entirely full of her own Polaroids. One sagged with old family albums, two sagged with circular tins full of film reels, and one held her cameras. She only had two — the eight-millimeter silent-movie camera that had belonged to their father’s father, and an early bellows-style Polaroid that had been their mother’s.
The only patch of wall that wasn’t carrying shelves was just above her bed. There, nine picture frames hung in three rows of three. The top six were rotated out weekly, but the bottom three never changed. On the left, a young man with hair even blonder than Dan’s had been in California was hanging upside down in a tree. On the right, a laughing woman with hair spun from midnight was reaching toward the camera, trying to block the shot. In the middle, a serious blond boy held hands with a very small dark-haired girl, and between them, seated and shirtless, a fat infant was eating dirt.
While Antigone adjusted the legs on her movie screen, Cyrus rolled up on his side and stared at the pictures.
“You’d’ve killed Dan if he put that guy in this room. You know you would.”
“Yes,” Antigone said. “I would. But I wouldn’t steal the man’s keys. And you can’t blame Dan. I’m sure he’s getting paid well, and we need it. You know he has it worse than we do.”
Cyrus sat up. “Wait. You’d kill him, but you wouldn’t blame him?”
“Right.” Antigone stepped back to the projector and flipped it on. Empty wheels spun, and a misshapen square of light appeared on the screen.
“And he has it worse than us?”
“Right again,” Antigone said. “I’m proud of you, Cyrus. You’ve learned to listen.” She glanced up. “You and I don’t have to deal with us. We are us. Dan does have to deal with us — you in particular. Now, here’s the deal, Cy. You go give the man his keys, or you don’t see today’s reel.” She shrugged. “I shot a lot of Mom, and I don’t mind keeping it to myself.”