by Nina Malkin
Alice affords me nothing but a sniff. “Well, tell her to happen bye-bye. You’ve got shit to shovel.”
Clearly I don’t snap to her orders as quickly as she’d like, since she starts lumbering toward me. I give my boy an optimistic parting glance. While we haven’t set a time or place, we do kinda-sorta have a plan. So I say, “Okay, see you . . .” He says, “Yes.” And, “Soon.”
On my way out I shove a hand in my jeans pocket to pull out everything—the folded ten, the crumpled ones, the coins, the lint. I open the door to the trailer and toss the lot inside.
Call it a donation.
“Soon,” Sin said. I believe him. Faith, hope, trust—intangibles I use like spider silk. One way or the other, he’ll find me, as he always does, as I always find him. And together we’ll find a way out of this.
XLII
Seeing Tosh’s car in my driveway, I beeline for the backyard. Our unresolved issues have been hovering patiently; maybe now we can settle a few—a concept that for all its emotional potential seems appealing compared to everything else we’re dealing with.
But are we to get some alone time? Apparently not, judging by the female laughter that wafts my way. Pen, of course—though I scarcely recognize my cousin minus the enormous milkshake that masquerades as coffee. And is that a splash of the breezy citrus cologne that had long been her hallmark?
“Hey,” I say, wheeling my bike. Then I stop short. My lowly veggie garden has been . . . not merely transplanted but completely transformed. The tomatoes have been moved to a sunnier spot and staked with sticks and twine—which they need, since they’ve grown a foot in my absence and sprouted dozens of tiny yellow flowers. Meanwhile, a piece of broken lattice that was collecting dust in the shed has been arched for the cucumbers, whose vines now recline along it with curlicue tendrils, large, healthy leaves, and citrine blossoms of their own.
Here, basil plants are now basil bushes, with white and purple flowers streaming from their tops. There, parsley and oregano are, well, parsley and oregano—a miraculous improvement on a mound of dirt. Finally, the catnip I’d put in is now up to my shins and bound to make R.C. the most popular kitty in the neighborhood. The whole patch is a free-for-all Disneyland for butterflies, ladybugs, and bees. “What the hell happened . . . ?” Pen laughs. “Antonia happened. She was knee deep when I got here.”
“Yeah,” says Tosh. “We were just saying how you’d freak.”
“And, uh, where is Antonia now?”
“Bathing.” Pen purses her lips and pipes down her tone in mimicry. “She was perspiring most profusely.” I traipse my fingers through the rampant greenery. Was Antonia being . . . nice? Or just flaunting her mojo? Could anyone capable of bringing forth so much life be 100 percent bad?
Pen shifts gears. “Uh, anyway, don’t be mad, but I’m taking her to Torrington. There’s this place on Old Hickory Road . . .” Sounds quaint but Old Hickory Road is practically a superhighway, lined with strip malls and shopping plazas—J.
Crew and Talbots as far as the eye can see. And something else.
“That place, uh, Bentley’s or Bucky’s?”
I bug my eyes. “Buckley’s Bridal, Connecticut’s wedding warehouse.” Anyone who ever wrestled with insomnia has seen the ads on late-night cable. “You’re taking Antonia to buy a wedding dress.” I say it flatly, since it’s not a question.
My cousin nips a guilty cuticle. “It looks that way.” Refreshed from her bath, Antonia glides into the backyard, dressed in another loaner from Marsh, who must be in the shower herself now, cleaning up from stable duty. “I’m ready, Pen,” she declares. “Oh, Dice, good afternoon.” I stare at her. “Antonia,” I begin. “My . . .” Can I even employ a possessive pronoun anymore? “The garden. It’s amazing.” And then I cough up, “Thank you.”
Dismissively she says, “Pish-posh, is it not what friends are for? Although I would recommend some flower beds—there.” She aims a knobby knuckle. “There, as well. Perhaps Pen and I can find some on our return from the bridal shop. Oh, Dice, do you wish to come, help me choose my gown? Pen says this shop has so very, very many, I don’t know how I’ll possibly decide.”
“Uh, no, thanks.” I creak out the syllables. Then I suggest they sprint through Torrington Commons for a few sartorial staples, too, so Antonia needn’t keep ransacking Marsh’s wardrobe. When they’re off, I look at Tosh, who’s no doubt gone brain-dead from the girl talk. “I’m going to make lunch,” I say. “You want a sandwich?”
“No, thanks—got to get to work,” he says. “I just came by to find out what everyone was doing on the Fourth.” The Fourth? Oh, of July. Fireworks, watermelon, right, whoo-hoo.
“I guess your mind’s been on other things. But the way we’ve been whipping ourselves over this gig, I figured we deserve a reprieve, maybe go up to Meriden Falls.” Meriden Falls? “Never even heard of it.”
“Me neither, but Pen says they’re spectacular. It’s in a state park. We could pack a picnic, hike to the falls, hang out. Really make a day of it.” He’s giving me the hard sell. “Plus, Pen says there’ll be a ton of people, so we should print up flyers for our Chest-ah-Fest appearance and just paper the whole field, hype Bruise Blue like bandits.”
Now it makes sense. “Sounds great. It’s just . . . it’s hard to make plans right now.”
He nods. “I’ll bet. You must be . . . I can’t even imagine.” But he’d try to imagine. For all his hubris and ambition, he can get over himself when it matters. “Oh, Tosh,” I say helplessly, “you don’t know the half of what went down here last year, with Sin and everything.”
“Actually,” he says, “Pen and I were talking last night, and she filled me in. Not that I understand any of it. But I do know that you and Sin, well, Pen says you guys belong together and. . .” He trails off.
Belong together. Whatever that means. We’re certainly not together now. Even if it weren’t for the Antonia drama, would we have reconciled? Maybe me and Tosh? “I need to give this back.” My fingers reach abruptly for the clasp at my neck.
“No.” He’s here, very close, and he means it. “Dice, my grandmother gave me that medal when I was a little kid.
She’s from Guadalupe, one of the small islands; all kinds of superstitions down there—but I never messed with any of it.
Saint Michael lived in my underwear drawer for years till I moved here and thought . . . well, I don’t know what I thought, but I don’t think it was about ghosts and golems and whatnot.
Funny how things work out.”
Funny. Right.
“But at this point, they’re not worked out. So if Saint Michael is worth a damn, I want him right here.” He touches the chain where it lies against my skin. “When everything settles down, if you want to give him back, okay—maybe. Till then, Dice, please. Wear it. Close to your heart. For me, all right?” His eyes are golden, his aim true. “All right.”
“Promise? Swear?”
I smile for him. “Promise,” I say. “Swear.” As if the words make a lick of sense to me.
XLIII
The veggie patch is a wonder. I’m still marveling at it when Marsh finds me.
“Hey . . .” She stands at the perimeter.
“Crazy, huh?” She can only nod, ambivalent in her awe, and all at once I flash on Charlotte. Her admission up in the tower room that Antonia had pinched her. Hard. But for no reason?
Not if the kid now bears a bright pink blemish. Just one more way for our demon in residence to hedge her bet. If Antonia’s imprint can induce Sin to escort her bony butt around town, there’s no telling what it might persuade a little girl to do. Crap, I can’t let Marsh know what I’m thinking—one more worry and she’ll implode. “Turkey sandwich?”
“Totally,” she says, eager to step away from the garden. “I’m starved.”
Avocado, provolone, I slap lunch together fast, and Marsh and I carry our plates to the wicker table on the porch.
“You know where Pen took Antonia?” I ask her.
“To miles of styles for bridal aisles, and prices you’ll say ‘I do!’ to,” she quotes the corny commercial. “Unbelievable.” Really, I think, and get angry. We ought to be counseling Marsh at Buckley’s Bridal and planning her shower and whatever else it is you do for your be-ringed bestie. Changing the subject, I tell her about the fawn.
“You went to Walden Haven—and lived?” Her brows get lost in her bangs. “That Alice Boyle is a piece of work. She and my dad had a few run-ins over the years.”
“Well, she did throw me out,” I say. “But Sin seems to know how to handle her.”
Marsh pokes a slice of escaping avocado. “How is Sin?”
“Hanging in there. It’s just . . . he’s so different now. You remember him last year, so cocky, so confident. He thought he knew everything. Now, with all this, he admits he knows nothing. And with his hands tied . . .” More like his testicles in a straitjacket.
“Oh, Dice, it’s awful,” she agrees, beset by guilt. “If it weren’t for Crane, and me and Duck, he’d tell Antonia to go screw herself.”
How true. We’d shove that undead automaton into her steamer trunk with all her doubloons to weight it and toss the sucker off the Davender Bridge. I treat myself to a half smile, then shake off the fantasy. “The thing is, I’m into him more now than ever,” I say. “Sin used to be a bad boy. Now he’s a good man, or he’s trying to be. Except it’s not easy . . .” In other words, he’s still Sinclair Youngblood Powers. He of the battleship libido. The cutthroat charisma. That instinctive comprehension of mortal carnality. “He’s . . . he’s . . .” He’s here is what he is. The Cutlass cruises up the drive, and he gets out. Hastily cleaning, Marsh says, “Hey, Sin . . . uh, Dice, I’ve got to . . . uh . . .” She flits inside and I don’t stop her.
“Perfect timing,” I tell him. “Antonia Forsythe has left the building.”
“It’s no accident; I saw Pen’s car. They stopped, told me of their devil’s errand.”
He looks hungry. And I so want to feed him. “Sandwich?”
“I’d love a bite . . . perhaps after.”
Well, he’s got his priorities straight. Only I need a cool, calm dim to read by. The glaring sun of a summer afternoon won’t cut it for tarot cards. He’ll have to come inside, for the first time since the last time. Can he handle that? Can I? I gaze beyond the porch rail, through the light of the lovely day, then turn to Sin. He’s already at the screen door, holding it open for me.
It would’ve been called the parlor back in the day. Simple stone hearth. Pine plank floor. The furnishings—a cozy rag rug, a bentwood rocker—cast-offs from our NYC apartment, Nana Lena, and the Leonards, plus a few flea-market finds. It was here that Sin and I began and ended our one and only night (though in between hit every room, not to mention backyard antics on the tire swing). I’m seeing us, slo-mo, across my cranial widescreen; closing my eyes only fine-tunes the focus.
“I’ll get my deck,” I say.
Once upstairs I tell Marsh what’s what and ask her to add her energy.
Oddly, she refuses. “I’ll add it from up here.”
“Marsh, you’re dusting. This is no time to multitask.”
“I’ll stop.” She puts down her rag. “I’ll sit very still and concentrate.”
Finally, I get it—she truly is the best. She knows I long to be close to Sin, alone with him, here, where we belong. “Marsh,” I say, “first things first, okay. We need you; Crane needs you.” I go to my dresser, the cards no longer entombed beneath the bed.
Convinced or coerced, Marsh comes down with me, and the three of us sit cross-legged on the rug. “There are many different ways to read,” I preamble. “After a while, you just figure out your own spreads.” For this, six cards, three under three. I untie the scarf; encase the deck between my palms; inhale and exhale to cleanse the vibe. “Think with me now, feel with me . . .” As I shuffle, shuffle, shuffle.
“This is our aspect: what we’re dealing with.” I lay down the Moon. Madness, hysteria, deception, delusion. Antonia in a nutshell—emphasis on “nuts.”
“This is our effect: why things are the way they are.” I produce the Five of Cups. Absolute emptiness, sudden disappointment, heartache born of treachery from those you trust. So Antonia was robbed, violated, betrayed. By Sin . . . or someone else?
“This is our secret: the essential factor that eludes us.” I uncover the Five of Swords. Spite, malice, interference. It’ll bleed you out, rather than kill you quick. Ouch.
Not a pretty patchwork so far. “Well, this is where we’re at,” I say. “Now what can we do about it?”
I start a second line of cards. “Here’s one possibility.” A naked woman astride a lion, spine arched in fearless abandon, her tangle of hair streaming. The proverbial wild card? Yes and no. The one called Lust goes beyond blind desire; it means having the strength to let yourself go and believe that you’ll prevail.
“Here’s another way to go.” The Two of Wands. A force of nature. Energy in action. Making things happen. Getting things done.
“And finally, our outcome, our answer, a peek at our fate.”
I flip it. The Universe. “Well, duh.” I actually say that aloud.
“What does is it mean, Dice?” Marsh asks.
“The last card is the last card, the final card in the major arcana,” I try to explain. “The Universe basically stands for completion. Good or bad, deliverance or disaster, whatever happens, happens. It’s over. Over and done. Over and out. The end.”
XLIV
Sin unfolds his legs and lies on the rug. Marsh returns to her unfinished dusting. I simply stare down the spread. Glaringly obvious. An utter mystery. If I could view it objectively, I’d be intrigued, but since I can’t, I wend my eyes onto something far easier on them—Sinclair Youngblood Powers in full supine splendor, hands clasped to cradle his skull, the ankle-over-ankle length of him so innocently inviting. That’s right, innocent.
While Sin can be fully in charge of his charms, in moments like this he defines ingenuous. A natural man. I can almost forget the six vital, vexing images arranged on the floor between us and believe that right now he’s planning our evening—eat out, order in, or cook.
I indulge the reverie till Sin turns onto his side. Regards the cards, then me, then the spread again. “So the Moon is our lunatic mistress, yes?” he muses at the top line, and then wags a finger at the follow-up. “Someone hurt her, someone she thought she could trust . . .” He lifts his gaze again. “Someone I presume you presume to be me.” The thought did occur, but I don’t reply. “Yet there’s still a missing piece to our puzzle . . .”
“Not bad for a newbie.” I point to the last card. “So how do you suggest we get here?”
“Apparently, whatever we do will get us there—win, lose, or draw, the end is the end. But you and I are both too willful to be carried by the wind.” He studies our alternatives. “Employ these magic wands? That’s your bailiwick, my clever witch.” A teasing endearment, but I bristle at the term, shifting my weight from hip to hip. “Fairies use wands,” I remind him tartly. “Not witches.”
“Point taken,” he murmurs, moving on to run a pensive finger alongside Lust. “Yet I’m more inclined to a fundamental approach.”
At that, he rolls over to contemplate the ceiling again. Gears engage behind his eyes. Where they take him, he’s not telling.
Sin’s more the type to show than tell. And that concerns me.
Since the last time Sin carried out one of his schemes, he loosed Antonia into our world.
Not to mention under my roof. As the days go on, I feel like I’m running a B&B in the fifth circle of hell. My unholy guest fusses about the smallest details, like the proper spoon for one’s Cocoa Puffs and the optimum temperature for its milk.
And, granted, there’s a reason she’s technologically impaired, but the girl has barely got the swing of the light switch. She won’t lift a single knobby finger around here (Forsythe Manor must’ve had serva
nts up the wazoo), yet whenever there’s housework afoot—Marsh maneuvering the vacuum, me throwing together a meal—she watches intently, like we’re some fascinating reality show.
Of course, I do get to keep tabs on her and monitor her interactions with Sin. Fortunately, her demands on him are few.
Governed by her bitten rosebud, he’ll drop by for a compulsory visit or escort her to the Kustard Kup. Maybe that’s how woo got pitched in the 1700s, but to me, Antonia’s wrapped up in this childish concept of courting without an inkling as to what makes a real relationship. The notion of them kissing or otherwise getting busy on “yonder bridal bed” doesn’t creep me out in the least—I simply can’t imagine it.
As to how Sin spends the rest of his time, that I can imagine.
I imagine there’s been a trip to Hartford to convert portions of Antonia’s fourteen-carat dowry into cash and investments (he wouldn’t let piddling Swoon Savings and Loan handle his finances). I imagine he and Kurt Libo are nurturing some hydroponic product somewhere (though for that he really ought to involve his betrothed—I’m getting tomatoes as big as grapefruits out here). One thing I don’t have to imagine is what he does for creative fulfillment—that I know for fact.
Sin has officially joined Bruise Blue—and our rigorous Chest-ah-Fest rehearsal schedule means I get to see him nightly.
I’m really digging how we work together: I’ll sing a line, and he’ll echo on harp, tweaking the melody slightly. There’s an intimacy to it, like we’re speaking our own language, and it’s as close to a private exchange as we get. Since of course Antonia attends every session. She can’t enjoy our music much—the Bruise Blue sound is a far cry from classical waltz—but she’s always there. I count my blessings that she doesn’t try to get in on the act, or offer any opinions. Simply sinks into one of the plush suede chairs, cold Coke in her cold hand, to fixate on Sin’s every lick and line, more like his slaver than his lover. If she could fit him with a collar and leash, she would, and that does creep me out. Really, like I don’t have enough reasons to sing the blues.