by Nina Malkin
I right the soda can, grab a bar towel to sop up the mess.
“Who’s thirsty?” I somehow creak.
As Bruise Blue gathers around, glad to have something to do, Antonia dips her nose into the effervescence. “Oh!” she softly squeals.
Coca-Cola: just another marvel of the modern age.
“Sinclair . . . ?” she begins deferentially. “Shall we toast?”
Sin looks like he might projectile vomit, yet he must agree. “If you wish.”
“Indeed, but before we do”—Antonia sends her gray gaze around—“I’m sure you are all concerned about your dear Crane.”
“Yes!” It spasms out of Duck as Marsh snags his elbow.
Manning up, he says, “We are quite concerned.”
“Then permit me to assure you that he’s perfectly all right.
And while I gather you are anxious for reunion, there are still some arrangements to be made. However, you have my word”—an adoring glance at Sin—“our word, that Crane, like all of you, will most certainly dance at the wedding.”
XL
Uh-huh, that’s right, wedding. With her small smile and reserved tones, Antonia tells us that while she’s after no elaborate social affair, certain practical priorities must be dealt with, chief among them the purchase of a home. The trunk she had Sin tote from her era contains her dowry. In solid gold. Which she’s ever so pleased to learn retained its value. The house they acquire needn’t be grand—truly, the most modest quarters would suffice—but until it’s found, the bride-to-be will require accommodations. Naturally, she wouldn’t dream of imposing on the family currently residing at Forsythe Manor and, furthermore, has had her fill of the place, centuries’ worth. Sighing, Antonia finishes her refreshment and wonders if she might enjoy another—like many a mortal, she’s found the sugar-caffeine combo an instantaneous addiction.
Can I blame the same substances for what comes out of my mouth next? “It might be best if you stayed with Marsh and me.” Few invitations are extended more reluctantly, but it does seem best. My girl and I can bunk up—she’s not fussy—and that way we can track Antonia while figuring out how exactly to destroy her.
“Dice, how kind of you,” she says. “And where is it that you reside?”
“Where? Oh, we’re on Daisy.”
“Daisy Lane!” The titter. “How could I—”
“Daisy Lane is quite fashionable now,” Sin interrupts before she can trash my hood. Sternly he adds, “And I’m sure you’ll be made comfortable.”
“Yes, I too am sure,” Antonia defers. “Thank you, Dice. I’d be most happy to accept.”
Next morning I stew while coffee brews. We’d trooped in just before 3:00 a.m. Tosh had insisted Bruise Blue get some practice in—hello? Chest-ah-Fest?—but everyone was too distracted to accomplish much. Despite the fact that the cause of our distraction was off on a stroll with her beau—how terribly she’d missed her garden and oh! wouldn’t it be lovely to be wed beneath the bower!
In a word, blech . . .
Now, gazing out at my own backyard, I take in the low, overcast sky, the densely humid air, the way the grass seems burdened by the dew, and perceive a change has come. Yeah, and whoever said “Change is good” didn’t know what he was talking about. A pall has fallen over the town, and once again I feel the call to set things right in Swoon; only difference is, I haven’t got an inkling what I’m up against.
Except that it’s embodied in the fragile girl now mincing into the kitchen. The cami and capris Marsh generously left out for her hang on her frame. With limp, undone hair reaching below her shoulders, her chin and nose look longer, her mousy mouth more grim. Only Antonia’s alloy eyes—flat, unfeeling—hint at her power, and I quell the shiver they give me.
In fact, I aim to psyche her out as I lean against the counter in the tank top and boy shorts I slept in. Bitch is on my turf now. Comfortable in my ample body and loose, leonine curls, I watch her levelly, then pull up from my slouch into a strong mountain pose. “Coffee?”
She murmurs a demurral, much preferring tea.
“You sure?” I pour myself a mug. “I’d get used to it if I were you. Sin loves his coffee, especially when he gets out of bed in the morning.” The insinuation being that I’ve been with Sin when he gets out of bed in the morning, the insinuation being a lie. Antonia gets the insinuation—balefully, she blinks—but bottom line this tough-chick act is so not me. Does the spider try to bully the fly? No—the spider’s just the spider. I sigh.
“How about some Cocoa Puffs then?”
“Cocoa Puffs?”
“Like mush, only not mushy—at least not right away.”
We take it to the table. One bite and Antonia’s in heaven.
Unfortunately, that’s a metaphor. In fact, she goes at her bowl with such gusto, I can’t help but wonder if crossing the threshold into this time, this life, may have been her plan all along—why settle for yonder bridal bed in a world that’s dead when she could have Sin amid the vibrant energy and tasty, convenient breakfast foods of the here and now?
“Where is Miss Marsh this morning?” she inquires, spoon and eyebrow aloft. “Is she the sort to while away the day abed?”
“Are you kidding? Marsh is the most industrious person I know. She’s up at dawn and over to the stables—she cleans stalls in exchange for keeping her horses—”
“Horses?” Antonia had her first motorized vehicular experience last night.
“People have them for fun, for sport—not for transportation,” I explain. “Anyway, now that school’s over, Marsh is likely to pull a double shift at the Kustard Kup after her ride.”
“Yes, Sinclair mentioned that today’s woman often engages in labor. Have you a . . . shift?”
Do I need to go into how my parents work their butts off so I can enjoy my teenage years, especially since the nasty death of my best friend, which almost took me with her? I don’t. I shake my head. “I don’t have a job. I volunteer at the library, though.”
“Ah, charity. How admirable.” She clasps her hands and beams. “Of course, it cannot compare to the work Sinclair intends to take up with those unfortunate creatures at Walden Haven.”
Guess he told her about that. A flicker of jealousy that Sin would share any detail of his life, even an impersonal tidbit about administering care to ailing squirrels. “Well, Marsh has to work,” I say with a shrug. “She needs to earn money. She’s had a hard life, hasn’t had the advantages you and I have had.” Antonia pats her mouth with a napkin. “Advantages do not necessarily translate to an easy life.”
Which is true, but I gloss over it. “The sucky part is, Marsh is such an awesome person. She didn’t deserve any of the crap she’s had to deal with. That’s why, when she and Crane fell in love, everyone was like, yes, yay, finally.” Am I getting through to her at all? “And they really are in love,” I go on. “It’s not a crush or a game or . . .” What’s the word? “A dalliance. It’s real. It’s true. They’re committed.”
She deigns to look at me. “Yes,” she says. “Like Sinclair and I.” What makes you think he loves you? What makes you think he can even stand the sight of you?! The need to know careens around my brain like reverb. Tact, however, is key. I muster some semblance of sisterly interest to say, “So you and Sin had quite a romance, huh?”
Chick chat being both foreign and enticing, Antonia takes the bait. “It is true,” she reveals, blushing slightly. “Our courtship did not unfold along conventional lines, but that’s one of the aspects that made it so very special.” Nodding, I urge her gently. “But somehow it got messed with, right? Your parents, I’ll bet. Or some other girl—some hussy. Must have been awful.” I wait a beat, watch her. “What happened?”
Like a cell door slamming, she shuts down. “What happened?” Antonia repeats icily. “I died. That is what happened.” Robotically, she resumes crunching Cocoa Puffs. I pour a bowl for myself, add milk, and then circle back to where this conversation started. “Anyway, Antoni
a, I was telling you about Marsh because she’s such a good friend to me. And she could be your friend too.”
“Indeed, I expect to have many friends. Educated, talented friends that we might have to supper and—”
“Right,” I cut her off. “But friendship is a two-way street.” Whee, that soars over her head, for obvious reasons. “It’s about mutual respect and empathy and understanding. Being there for her, helping her get what she wants, what she needs. Even if that means putting your friend before yourself.” I catch her gaze drifting to the fascinating reading on the side panel of the cereal box. “Antonia, do you follow me at all?”
“Yes, Dice.” She blinks in my direction. “I believe so.”
“Good.” I eke out a smile. “So if you want to be Marsh’s friend and have her be your friend, why not let Crane come home . . .” I cannot manage to form the words “before the wedding” so I go with “Sooner rather than later? Like today?
Marsh would be so happy. We all would.”
Antonia considers this. She really, truly seems to. Unless she’s just screwing with me. Ultimately, she says, “If I comprehend correctly, friends do things for each other. At times subjugating their own desires for the benefit of a friend.” Could it be? “That’s right, Antonia. You got it.”
“Well then,” she says. “If Marsh wishes to be my friend, she wouldn’t want me to do anything that might interfere with my wedding.” She smoothes the napkin, the motion implying she’d much prefer linen to paper. “So no, I’m afraid I won’t be able release Crane till Sinclair and I have taken our vows.”
XLI
How long are we to continue this charade? At least till I get back from the library. Story time is on my slate this morning, and I can’t imagine anything more depressing than fairy tales.
Valiant knights, beautiful princesses, happily ever afters—
I’d rather read aloud the stock listings from The Wall Street Journal. Still, I manage to pull my head out of my butt for two separate sessions, and then shelve a rack of books. By the time I’m back on my bike, the oppressive weather has lifted and the boosted mood I get from the kids sticks with me.
So much so, the thought of Antonia Forsythe’s stimulating company has me pedaling in the opposite direction. Where am I going? Not a clue. I’m just going, and it feels good as hill segues into dale and the byways bend and blend. Fifteen minutes later, I find myself on a familiar stretch, Stag Flank Road, where Marsh used to live. Sort of the outskirts of Swoon. Kind of the wrong side of the tracks. As ghetto as it gets in northwestern C-T, ramshackle ranch houses giving way to double-wides giving way to nothing but scrappy posted land on either side and bumpy gravel under my wheels. I speed by the former Marshall place with a passing wince for the nastiness that went down there, and keep on whizzing, so the small sign, half-obscured by sumac, nearly escapes my peripheral vision. I slow down, pull a U-ie, and hop off in front. Walden Haven.
Pine needles and other forest detritus crunch louder than I like—I definitely get the sense that sneaking in is my best move. An old truck parked in front, and by old I mean crappy, not the fancily refurbished vintage rides popular among certain Swoonies. Ah, like this one. The sleek, cared-for Cutlass is practically a museum piece next to the rusty, dented Ford.
I leave my bike and, avoiding the trailer I assume serves as Walden Haven’s office, make my way into the refuge.
There’s a series of wooden pens, like small barns, I guess, or big sheds. From inside, some intermittent screeching and snuffling, nature on the mend and no doubt getting restless.
Beyond these, a large enclosure fenced by chain link and—
oh! oh! ohhhhh! I spy Sin from the side, sitting on his heels, attending to the most amazing creature on the planet. All ears and eyes and legs like those on a spinning wheel. Soft brown coat sprinkled with dollops of cream. The fawn’s entire body, from flap of tail to wet black snout, wiggles with the efforts of his hunger as he nurses from the bottle my boy holds aloft. I am spellbound.
Yet I have to go nearer; I have to! Quiet, quiet . . . closer, closer. Afraid I’ll unsettle or upset, but the busy little beast is oblivious, intensely occupied. So—softly, softly, so, so softly—I whisper, “Ohhhh, Sin!”
He tilts his head toward me, smile in full, like he knew I was there all along. “Incredible, is he not?”
“Yes! He is!” I mirror Sin’s pose, shins against the ground.
“He’s a boy?”
“Indeed.” Making short work of his lunch, too—good thing Sin’s got a second course at the ready. “A buck.” He says it like a proud papa.
“Wow, really? So he’ll have antlers and everything?” City kid raised in a pet-free condo, sidewalk pigeons and subway rats represent the bulk of my exposure to wildlife. This past year in Swoon was a crash course in critters—one of the pangs to my solar plexus whenever I think about leaving.
Stoically, Sin says, “If he lives.” The thought of him not living makes me want to die. “His mother was hit by a car; some local road-crew fellow found the carcass, and this little one nearby.” The fawn chugalugs, his trusting eyes on Sin’s face.
“I suppose he got lucky.”
An orphan himself, he must relate. There’s even an element of abandonment to him, here on the litter of leaves, framed all around by pine and beech. Thing is, it looks good on him. Black hair unruly, rough hint of stubble along his jaw, the brooding knit of his brow. He’s lost some weight—his musculature lean beneath the thin white tee, the planes of his face more prominent. The state of him stirs me in a whole new way. Last fall, gleefully in charge of his own havoc, Sin was every ounce the reckless knave. Now, grappling to do what’s right, he confronts an enemy he feels impossibly responsible—somehow! but how?!—for arming against us.
Seeing him this way, my resolve against Antonia turns molten and then casts hard as armor. “Oh, Sin . . .” It seeps out of me.
The fawn, whom I thought would never stop sucking, abruptly does. Sin chucks him gently on the chest. “All right, Luther—had enough, have you?” He proffers the nipple a few more times, just in case. Baby buck totters away, stands perfectly still, and then all four legs fold simultaneously— boom! We look at him with idiotic exultation, then at each other. Eventually, our smiles wane.
Sin says, “So here we are.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Any ideas?”
“I wish I had, Dice, but we don’t even know what the blasted bitch is.” Frustration in his mien, mixed with a bit of begrudged respect for the mystery of it all.
“Then let’s tackle why she is,” I say. “To me, the root of her power is some subversion on love—her love for you, and her conviction that it’s returned. Your vow.”
“My vow.” The word is a fetid sore.
Which reminds me. “Let me see your hand,” I say, getting vertical with urgency. “The left one.”
Eyeing me curiously, Sin stands to place his palm against the fence. There it is, spitefully bright as when I first noticed it, the tiny, terrible rose tattoo. My spirit takes a plunge; my eyes follow suit.
“Dice, what troubles you?”
“There, that.” I poke the spot. “Antonia’s logo.”
“What the . . . ?” He rubs it with a confounded finger.
“Sin, it’s not lipstick; it’s not coming off.” I never spoke to him of my blue bruise, but he must sense the certainty in my voice. “It indicates her hold on you, her influence,” I say. “It ensures that you won’t walk away from this, that you’ll do her bidding and . . .” We both know Antonia’s ultimate goal—there’s no need for me to finish.
“Damn and defy her!” he seethes. “I won’t walk away from this because it would be reprehensible to do so. I’m putting up with it for Crane’s sake—for Marsh and Duck. Not for Antonia or any sully on my skin.”
I believe Sin’s nobility; I believe his valor. Too bad I also believe Antonia’s capacity for the opposite. Plus, right now I detect distinct bemusement in his face. “What?”
/>
“Nothing, nothing at all,” he dismisses. Then, “Blast it—I am compelled to fetch her for a promenade along the village green.”
I say, “Great.”
We get quiet, and once again Sin smushes the spot.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He shakes his head. I consider that a plus—pain would suggest potency—and all at once my spirit surfaces. “Look, Antonia’s all about tricks and traps and sneaky maneuvers. She has to be, because her love is impure. Crazy, yes. Powerful, yes.
But tainted. Deep inside her love there is a seed of doubt.” Sin studies me, and then he gets me. While the chain link between us is too much metaphor for our imprisoned situation, his fingers twine mine, flouting the steel. “Perhaps her doubt will do her in.”
My smile isn’t wide, but it’s steady. “If we can figure it out, cultivate it—exploit it.” Yet how to manage that?
He feels my thoughts. “It appears the time is ripe for another turn at the tarot.”
It’s an idea. The only one we’ve got. “All right, I’ll do it.
Only it’d be great to have your vibe, your energy. You’ll have to come over when she’s not around, except she’s always around—or maybe I can meet you some—?”
“What do you think this is, Powers? A petting zoo?” I spin to the nasal bark behind me. It belongs to bleached blonde in too-tight jeans, Walden Haven T-shirt knotted at her midriff. A haggard face, etched by a perpetual scowl. A face that’s been laughed in and lied to and left standing, waiting, alone. It’s pretty clear, without the slightest precog sweep, that whoever this woman is, she prefers animals to people, and has her reasons.
“Alice,” Sin says, which is all I’ll get as an intro, and all I really want. “Dice is a friend of mine. She just happened by.”
“You do amazing things here,” I say, not to make amends for kinda-sorta trespassing, but because it’s true. This place is populated by so much roadkill as far as the world is concerned, and if some burned-out, hard-luck shrew steps up to save them, she deserves a lot more than my lame-o praise.