Sons of Dust

by P. Dalton Updyke

  She got out of the office before Monique had a chance to say the final words and when Darcy stood on the sidewalk, shivering despite the summer heat, she knew she was lost.

  She bought her first bottle on the way home.

  The bank took the house less than a year later and Lionel…what happened to Lionel?

  Darcy worked the problem over in her mind, but couldn’t come up with a memory that would stick.

  The bottle was cool next to her skin. Darcy touched it reverently, bringing it close to her breast as if it were an infant to feed. She closed her eyes, aware that the sun was rising, she could feel the first tentative rays lick her skin and she turned her face toward the warmth, glad for the sun, glad that her bottle was half full, glad the priest hadn’t seen her to start his meddling ways, glad the Salvation Army had given her a blanket to hide her sorry ass under—

  The light changed. She could sense it behind her closed lids. It wasn’t so bright now, the orange spots were gone, blocked by a cloud or maybe a bird. The ground trembled; someone was walking her way, someone with a heavy step, almost a stomp. She could measure the approach by the vibrations in the hard ground and then the sound/ vibrations stopped and she could feel someone looking down at her.

  Damn priest, she thought and her eyes flew open. At first, she thought she was looking at a blanket, a black blanket, but whoever heard of a black blanket? The wind shifted and then the blanket moved just enough so that Darcy could see the sun high and above to the left and she looked back at the shape in front of her and this time she thought trick-or-treat, kids dressed up – but it wasn’t October yet, was it? Her vision sharpened even more, the alcohol clearing her brain just enough so that she could see it wasn’t a blanket or a child in front of her.

  It was a man.

  A man with long black hair. He was dressed in old fashioned clothes, a torn white shirt, black pants that buttoned funny in the front. He was wearing a black cape, made of something odd. Feathers maybe, hundreds and hundreds of black feathers. The word angel flitted across her mind, but that was ridiculous. She was thinking angel because she was in St. Stand’s cemetery, she was thinking angel because of the man’s cape, because of the feathers.

  She couldn’t make out his face, because the light was wrong. The light was too dark, too black, like she’d somehow fallen into a tunnel or a hole—

  Her flesh broke out in goose bumps, she was freezing now, freezing and burning and she thought DTs and the word would normally have sent her into panic, but she knew it wasn’t the DTs. It was worse.

  She clutched the bottle tighter, her broken fingernails gripping the glass. “What do you want?” her voice was hoarse, her throat burned. Drink, she thought, I need a drink,

  “A drink,” the man said and his voice was odd. Thick. “You need a drink.”

  His laugher didn’t sound real, didn’t sound human – and then he moved so fast she wasn’t aware of movement so much as wind. She could feel a cold breeze on her face, her hair blew back and she blinked, sure now that she was in the midst of some terrible dream, a dream bought with the price of a bottle and sweet Lord, I promise I won’t drink anymore, I promise I’ll clean myself up and I’ll let the Priest take my bottle and I’ll –

  The cold, cold wind again, a sound like buzzing and she realized that the buzzing noise was made by the cape flapping so fast it was a hum and then a face was in hers, only it wasn’t the man’s face anymore, it was a mask, it had to be a mask.

  It was the color of ash, with a protruding forehead thick with red, pulsing veins. Plastic, she told herself, her hysteria rising, plastic mask. Its eyes were yellow, surrounded by skin turned black, its flesh was pulled so tight that it was torn in places and she could see the blue-white ridges of bone. Jagged teeth grinned at her and there was something in its teeth, something red and wet. As Darcy stared, it grinned at her and she cried out. She flung backward, away from it, away, and she was rolling on hard ground, twigs snapping under her, the scent of pine needles and damp earth in her nostrils, but she could still smell it because its skin was rotting away, sloshing off the bones like spoiled meat and sweet Mother of God she could see its bones and when she finally stopped rolling, her heart was thudding so hard in her chest she could hear it but when she looked around, she was alone.

  The green blanket was twisted around her body so tight she felt like a mummy. She stayed perfectly still, listening, every nerve tense, like she used to lie when she lived in the pretty house with Lionel. She waited like she used to wait, tensing for the first blow, the first red-white flash of pain.

  She held her breath.

  Nothing happened.

  It was gone.

  She closed her eyes, mumbled a quick prayer, the bottle still tight in her hands. In a few hours, she’d forget about this, of course she would, it would be nothing but a hazy memory, dim, something that happened because she’d let the booze level get a little too low. A few hours—

  Something touched her neck and she opened her mouth to scream but nothing would come because her voice had locked, locked in her chest.

  She was being turned around and she vowed not to open her eyes not to open her eyes no matter what it did it couldn’t make her look at it, it couldn’t make her—

  But she was wrong.

  It could.

  Chapter 11

  Gina

  Gina couldn’t sleep. Finally, just as the sky was beginning to lighten, she climbed out of bed and padded barefoot to the kitchen. The refrigerator light was almost blinding. She winced in the glare, took out a quart of milk and shut the door. There was no light in the freezer, thank you Lord. She reached in and grasped the half-gallon of chocolate ice cream. She could tell by the weight of it that it was almost empty. She opened the cardboard lid and peered in.

  Enough for one more milkshake. For a second, she could almost hear her father’s voice. A milkshake? This time a night?

  “It helps me sleep, Daddy,” she would have answered him, if he was here, and he would grumble a bit and then head back to bed, the seat of his boxer shorts sagging as he walked.

  He’s been dead ten months and I can still hear him, Gina thought as she got down a tall glass and opened the drawer to get a spoon. How much power did that man have over me that I can still hear him, ten months later? Enough. That was the answer. He always had enough.

  It was her father’s idea that she go to nursing school. He wanted a teacher, a fireman, a nurse and an engineer. He’d lived to see three of his four children graduate from college and go into the careers he had selected – thought not in the order he’d anticipated.

  Gina’s brother Bill had become the teacher, her sister Angela the fireman and she herself had become a nurse. Her brother David had been the only disappointment although Daddy hadn’t been real pleased when Bill said he was going to be a teacher –

  “You can’t support a fambly on a teacher’s salary!” her father had bellowed.

  “That’s okay, Dad,” Bill had replied, his voice just-as-easy-as-you-please, “I don’t plan on having a family.”

  David had dropped out of school at sixteen and disappeared. Last Gina knew, he was living in Texas and working in a gas station.

  Shake made, glass cold in her hand, Gina wandered into the living room, leaving the lights off as she went. She hadn’t thought about her father in days. Bo’s funeral brought Walter to the front of her mind. Sitting in St. Stand’s brought it all back; she’d lost the three people who meant the most to her in less than a year. Bad things come in threes, she thought, but who expects it to be this bad this quick? Husband, father, best friend…

  A lump formed in Gina’s throat and she swallowed hard, taking a long sip from the milkshake. Her father had been there for her when Richard died. Bo had been there for her when her father died. But who would be there now that Bo was gone?

  What happened, Bo? Gina knew what the police were saying. Marcus had told her, but the police had to be wrong. No one would want to kill Bo.
/>
  How do you know? a tiny voice asked. How much did you see Bo, really, in the last few months. Admit it. She drew away from you, from everyone. She stayed away and didn’t answer your calls. When you went to her apartment, she was never there.

  Gina put the glass on the table. It was too early to think about Bo. She wasn’t ready.

  Richard…

  But thinking about the man she loved was too hard, too. It was easier to think about her father, and so Gina leaned back, resting her head on the back of the couch and pictured him in her mind. Tall and lanky, olive green work pants and a button down plaid shirt. Lord, she missed him.

  She’d taken him in after his stroke. It seemed only right that she be the one to care for him. After all, she was a nurse. Living alone, widowhood so recent it still felt temporary. Her sister was married, she had a child, a career…and no time or energy for an old man who had to talk out of the right side of his mouth, a man who drooled now and swore when it was time to take a shower. It was fitting he live with Gina. They were two lonely adults who passed caretaker roles to each other as easily as they passed salt. After a few weeks, his presence in her apartment was so natural she felt lonely without him.

  It was the little things she missed.

  The way he’d sit on the edge of the hope chest in the hallway when he heard her footsteps on the landing The way he’d touch her hair when she sat next to him. She missed the scent of him, the cologne he wore, the smell of tobacco that clung to his clothes.

  Tears stung her eyes. She took a deep breath and lifted the shake to her lips, drank slowly from the glass, letting the sweet, cold smoothness of ice cream and milk slide down her throat. She thought about her father, she thought about Bo and she thought about her father again, because that was less painful.

  It was odd. Now that he was gone, she remembered more of their past.

  He had been a hard father. Stricter than most. The kind who wouldn’t let his daughter date. Or rather, Gina amended, wouldn’t let his daughter date older men. She smiled a little and closed her eyes.

  “I don’ like the idea of my girl dating a senior!” her father’s voice rose with each word. “She’s a freshman. Fourteen, Joan! Fourteen! And fourteen don’ date eighteen.”

  “It’s not a date, Daddy. It’s the prom!”

  “I don’ care if it’s a frigging wake! Fourteen don’ go anywhere with eighteen!”

  Gina looked at her mother for help, but Joan was looking down at her glass, twirling the base between her hands like she was rubbing dice.

  “Mom! Talk to him!”

  “It’s just a dance, Walter. What harm could it do?” Her mother’s voice was a soft stroke of music, her words were husky, smooth. After her mother died, Gina watched her graduation video over and over again, not because she wanted to see her mother’s face, but because she need to hear her voice.

  “I’ll tell you what harm it could do! Think about it, Joan! Eighteen!” He leaned over the table, eyebrows comically high, his forehead wrinkled. “What does this boy want with Genie, eh? Answer me that. Why would eighteen want to date fourteen?” and before either of them could answer, he put his fork crossways on his plate and went on, “I’ll tell you why. Because there is something wrong with him.”

  “Daddy!”

  “Walter!”

  “I know what I’m talking about. Why doesn’t he date girls his own age? Because no girls his age want to be seen with him, that’s why. They grew up with him and they know he’s off in the head somewhere.”

  “Mom!”

  Her mother, thankfully, was staring at her father, her eyes blazing. “How can you say such a thing, Walter Fateki? Mark is a very sweet boy. He’s handsome and kind.”

  “If he’s so handsome and kind, why won’t girls his own age date him? Why does he have to go down to little girls?

  “Daddy!”

  Walter looked at her then, and his expression softened. “Honey, you’re a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful fourteen-year old girl. But sweetheart, there are beautiful, intelligent, eighteen-year-old girls in Chelsea, too. And if he doesn’t go with one of them to his prom, then that says to me there is a reason. Something these girls have seen, growing up with him. Something you don’t see because you don’t know him.”

  “How can you say that? You’ve never even met him!”

  “I can say it!” her father’s face was red, but he kept his voice gentle. “He’s off somewhere. Maybe he’s a picker and an eater.”

  “A what??”

  Walter put his index finger to his nose like he was picking it then slipped his finger into his mouth. Before Gina could react, her mother threw her napkin on the table and stood up. “That is the most vile thing I’ve seen you do, Walter. You owe Gina an apology.”

  Walter spread his arms wide, bewildered. “What? What’d I do? I make a comment, this boy could be a picker and eater--”

  “Walter!”

  “Okay, okay, sorry.”

  “And furthermore, you don’t know a thing about this boy.”

  “I don’t need to know a thing about him. I know enough. And I know something else, too. My daughter is NOT going anywhere with an eighteen year old boy.”

  And Gina hadn’t.

  Her father had been a wise man, in many ways. Mark, the boy who wanted to take her to his senior prom, was found guilty two years later of rape and sentenced to eight years in the house of correction. Her father never mentioned Mark again and Gina would have believed he hadn’t heard of the conviction, except for one thing.

  The Chelsea Record, the newspaper her father read cover to cover every day of his life, was open to page seven where article about Mark Nessome took up roughly two paragraphs. The newspaper was on the table, open to that page, her father’s glasses just above the headline LOCAL MAN SENTNCED IN RAPE CASE,

  Astute, Gina thought drowsily, he was a great judge of character, except—

  Except for Bo.

  Oh, he’d loved Bo. She was like another daughter. Until a year ago. Gina never knew what set her father against her best friend. He wouldn’t go into details, except to say that Bo had stopped by for a visit while Gina was at work and he didn’t want Gina to see her anymore.

  “What?” Gina had asked, her coat halfway off. “What are you talking about, you don’t want me to see Bo?”

  He sat on the hope chest, his cane between his knees, his face drooping on the left side. “I don think you should go with her anymore, is what I said.”

  She noticed the shake in his voice and felt the first stirrings of anger.

  “That is ridiculous. Bo is my best friend and you love her.”

  “Yes, I do.” There were tears in his eyes and the tears alarmed her more than the shaky voice. “I love her and that’s why I want you to stay away from her.”

  “Daddy, I am not a little girl anymore. You can’t pick my friends, you can’t tell me who I can speak to!”

  “I know that,” he said quietly. “You can do whatever you want to do. But as your father, I still have a duty. It’s my duty to tell you that Bo is in trouble.”

  “Trouble? What do you mean, she’s in trouble?”

  Her father shook his head. “Bad trouble. Trouble like she don know. And Gina, she’ll drag you into this. I know it. I can feel it.”

  “Into what?”

  But her father wouldn’t answer her and over the next few weeks, Gina began to suspect that he was screening her calls, telling Bo she wasn’t home when she was, keeping Bo at bay. When her father died, Bo came to the funeral and for a few days, it was like old times. But then, when Gina was over the worst of the grief, Bo stopped calling. She stopped coming by and Gina thought it was probably because she was starting to see.

  Bo was different.

  She was thinner, paler, distracted. Her hand shook and her laugh was too loud and she wouldn’t meet Gina’s eyes. At first, Gina thought it might have been drugs. Not unusual, in Chelsea. The last time she’d seen Bo, she had come right out and a
sked.

  Bo had taken her hands and held them tight. “No sweetie. No drugs.”

  “Then what’s wrong?” Gina asked. “What is it?”

  Bo looked away. “I’m in trouble,” she said finally. “I started something and I don’t know how to end it.”

  Gina, relieved her friend wasn’t on drugs, hugged Bo and said, “Just end it. That’s all. End it.”

  Sure. End it. Three weeks later, Bo was dead.

  Gina drained the last of the milkshake. A car went by, slow, the engine clanking as it passed. Gina rested her head against the cushion. She should get dressed, maybe do a load of laundry. From her chair, she could see a man walking up Essex Street slowly, his gait unsteady.

  The man who lived across the street. The one her father said had cancer or “something worse.”

  She hadn’t believe her father at first, because the man he was talking about looked in full health. Or at least he had, but she hadn’t seen him recently and watching him shuffle up the street, Gina felt her chest grow heavy. Her father, once again, had been proven right.

  The man, Gina thought his name was Paul, had slowed down and she thought he was looking toward her window, but it was hard to tell in the dark. She stayed perfectly still, waiting to see if he’d wave. After a minute, he started walking again, reaching his stoop and pausing again, this time his head down as if he were collecting himself for the climb. He grasped the railing and heaved himself up and Gina suddenly felt as if she were spying, watching something private she had no right to witness.

  She snapped the light off and went to get dressed, not looking out the window anymore.

  Chapter 12

  Lucien

  There was a light on at 115 Essex. Paul could see it from the corner, a little beacon in the dawn light. The light meant that the dark-haired woman who looked a little like a young Audrey Hepburn was probably awake. She wasn’t the kind to forget to turn the lights off, or to fall into bed with them burning. For that matter, she didn’t seem the kind to fall into bed, period. Pity. Not that he was in any shape to do anything about that anyway.