Last Things

by Jacqueline West

  A spear of terror juts through me.

  I look away. Fast.

  No, I tell myself. No way. This is Flynn. He didn’t mean anything more by it. He couldn’t know his words would stick like a knife in my unzipped chest.

  We sit still for another minute, chair to chair.

  I finally get my breathing under control.

  “Well,” I mumble at last, getting up, “I should go. I don’t mean to screw up your lesson schedule.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” Flynn stands up, too. He smiles, squeezing my shoulder with one calloused hand. “Sometimes you’ve just got to go to confession. I get it.”

  He follows me toward the door.

  His next student, a middle schooler with angry-looking acne blistered across his forehead, is waiting right outside, guitar case in his hands.

  “Any time you need to talk, I’m here,” Flynn says.

  But then he ushers the kid inside and shuts the insulated metal door. And I’m alone in the empty waiting room, with that knife still sticking in my chest.

  Thea

  I follow the little white car away from the music studio and back to Anders’s house. I’m behind the big pine before he pulls into the driveway. After watching him step safely through his front door, I steer the bike back into the trees. I keep away from the road, deep in the shade, where no one will see how fast I can ride. I don’t know my own speed, but I’m faster than Anders’s car. Faster than any car I’ve ever chased.

  The air whips past me.

  It’s getting cold. Afternoon is turning to evening, the blue sky folding into violet. There’s a trace of smoke coming somewhere not far away. Burning pine.

  There’s a spot where the ground folds, and a creek bed, just a muddy slash now, winds through a knot of giant oaks. I’m riding down the slope when I feel them.

  They’re right behind me.

  I slow the bike.

  A hiss in the underbrush. Crackling leaves.

  I place one shoe on the ground and whip around.

  Something slides behind a trunk.

  Something huge and dark and hunched.

  Something that’s shaped almost like a human, but that gleams with thick black hair.

  There’s still light in the sky. So they’re coming out earlier now. They’re getting bold.

  “I see you,” I say. But I only say it inside of myself. They’ll hear me anyway. “I see you.”

  The dark thing doesn’t reappear.

  I climb off the bicycle.

  Holding the handlebars, I walk toward the tree where the thing disappeared. I leave a few feet between myself and the trunk. Sticks snap under my shoes.

  The air shifts as I get closer. Warmer. Hot.

  I smell the smoke.

  With a last step, I slip around the tree.

  Nothing.

  No hunched, thick-haired, bent-legged shape.

  But on the trunk are claw marks. Fresh ones.

  And lying on the ground, on a bed of fallen leaves, is a gift it left for me.

  It’s a bird. A mourning dove. Pale gray against pale brown. Its head faces backward, its neck snapped. Its wings are spread but limp, the feathers ragged. There’s blood on the leaves around it. Just a few drops. All the blood that a small bird has.

  They’re trying to scare me. Trying. All I feel is pity for the stupid little bird.

  I am not their prey.

  They can’t get rid of me, and they know it. And I can’t get rid of them. Not all of them. Not when they stay well hidden, slipping in and out of the gaps.

  We can only touch the things that live between us. The smaller, more breakable things.

  I take off the flannel I’m wearing over my black thermal shirt. Gently, with the soft fabric spread between my hands, I gather up the dead bird.

  Then I climb back onto my bike.

  There’s an old firepit behind Aunt Mae’s farmhouse that hasn’t been used in years. I rip up handfuls of grass, toss out clumps of moss. When the dirt is bare, I collect sticks and pinecones, old newspapers from the rain-bleached pile on the front porch. I get the big box of matches from the kitchen, the ones we use to light Aunt Mae’s ancient stove.

  I place the bird on top of the heap of kindling in the center of the firepit.

  The paper lights fast. The flames are so high and bright I don’t have to see the mourning dove dissolving inside. Only searing gold.

  When everything is burned away, I head indoors.

  “I’m going to do a load of laundry,” I tell Aunt Mae. She’s sitting upright on the couch, her hands shuffling a deck of cards. Half a game of solitaire is spread on the coffee table in front of her. “Would you like me to wash your blankets?”

  “Well, that would be lovely. Thank you.” Aunt Mae rocks to her feet. She helps me wad up the crocheted blanket and the old yellow quilt. “While you do that, I’ll start on dinner.”

  “I can make dinner, Aunt Mae.”

  She waves me off with one hand. “I got a special treat at the grocery store.”

  Aunt Mae hasn’t left the house in nearly two weeks. Too many long nights, too many bad dreams. Too many stares when she does go out.

  But there are good days, too. Once in a while.

  “You went shopping?” I ask her.

  “Yes, I did.” Aunt Mae smiles at me. “I got us a frozen potpie. And some nice apples and French bread. And a red velvet cake. Just for us.”

  So many things at once—so many treats—means money. My father must have finally come through. “You got a letter?”

  Aunt Mae smiles wider. “It came this morning.”

  She passes a slit envelope to me.

  Dad is in Missouri now, I see by the postmark. Hannibal. Making his way down the river.

  My father repairs boats. Unusual boats. Old boats. Wooden boats. Paddle wheelers and replica pirate ships. Between jobs he drinks too much bourbon and stands in the water, preaching and shouting about damnation and offering to baptize passersby. Once in a blue moon, someone takes him up on it.

  In the letter, one ragged-edged sheet of notebook paper, he describes his latest job, working on a Mark Twain-themed tour boat. He writes about his truck, his trailer full of tools and parts, says he’s getting decent gas mileage but might need new tires soon. He talks about the water and the weather. He mentions the hundred dollars he’s sending inside.

  Then there’s part of the letter that’s just for me.

  Thea, I hope you’re doing good at school. Remember who’s watching out for you even when I’m not. Though you walk through the valley of the shadow, you will fear no evil, and surely goodness and mercy will follow you all the days of your life.

  My father has no idea.

  He may be Aunt Mae’s brother. But he’s not like us.

  I slide the paper back into its envelope.

  “Sounds like Josiah is doing well.” Aunt Mae watches my face. “He’s been working steadily for weeks this time.”

  “Hmm,” is all I say.

  “Be patient with him.” Aunt Mae puts one soft hand on top of mine. “Those who don’t have the gifts think that they want them. They don’t know the weight.”

  I set the letter down.

  I’ve been told all of this before. The lore of our family. The ways we aren’t just chosen, but made.

  I don’t need to be told. I’ve always known what I am. Maybe that’s another part of the plan.

  “Your father never had your strength,” Aunt Mae goes on. “I’ve never had your strength. I don’t know of anyone, not for generations, who was made quite like you.” She steps closer to me and takes both my hands. Her foot bumps the week’s empty whiskey bottles, setting off a tinkly music. She squeezes my hands once, tight, before letting go. “‘Thanks be unto God for his unspeakable gifts.’”

  I take Aunt Mae’s blankets and my flannel shirt and my second pair of jeans down to the clunky old washing machine at the bottom of the basement steps. We don’t have a dryer. Even if I hang everythi
ng up tonight, it won’t be dry by morning.

  But we’ll make do.

  When I climb back up the stairs, Aunt Mae is in the kitchen. The potpie is already baking in the oven. I can see the cake in its little plastic dome on the counter. As Aunt Mae brushes past me, getting plates, I smell nothing but talcum powder and shampoo.

  By morning the sweet smells will probably be burned away in whiskey and sweat.

  Aunt Mae knows the weight.

  I help set out the dishes and fill empty jam jars with cool water. Aunt Mae hums something I don’t recognize. I’m not even sure it’s a song.

  The egg timer by the stove has just pinged when there’s a tap at the front door. It’s so timid and small that I wonder if we were supposed to hear it. Aunt Mae is busy digging pot holders out of a drawer. I duck away.

  By the time I swing the front door open, the man is halfway down the walk to his car.

  He hears the hinges creak. Pauses to glance back.

  It’s Martin from the Wheelhouse.

  “Just hadn’t seen you in a few days.” He sounds almost sheepish. “Thought she might need that.” He points at the floor of the porch, near my feet. A brown paper parcel, the bag twisted tight around the glass neck of a whiskey bottle.

  I pick it up. “Thank you.”

  He nods. Glances past me at the pale blue house. Golden lights stream from the kitchen windows, reaching out into the twilight. “How’s she doing?”

  “Really good,” I say. “It was a good day.”

  “Good.” He’s still waiting. His hands are in his pockets. “That’s good.”

  I take a step toward him, off the porch. “Do you want to come in? Have some dinner with us?” I gesture with the bottle. “Or just a drink?”

  “Nah.” He shakes his head. “I don’t touch that stuff anymore. Not since Mae saved me.”

  He says it matter-of-factly. Like it’s something I already know. But then he notices the blank look on my face.

  “She didn’t tell you about that?”

  “No,” I say.

  He nods, looking just past me. “Almost two years ago now. Late at night, roads still icy. I’d just gotten off a long shift at the ’House, and I’d had too much to drink. Along County N my car skidded off into the woods. Made it almost a hundred feet, I guess. Down a slope. Out of sight of the road. Hit a tree. Smashed me almost through the windshield.” He taps the side of his face, where the eye drags downward. “Cut my head. My neck. I probably would have bled out right there. But your aunt came along just in time.”

  I smile at him. “She’s good at that.”

  “So.” Martin halts again, looking beyond me, into the woods. The last tints of sunset have dwindled away. Fireflies are circling the edges of our yard. Little green-gold sparks flash against the darkness.

  “Can we pay you for it?” I ask, lifting the bottle again.

  Martin grins. He waves a hand. “Nah. Next time.”

  I watch as he climbs into his car and drives carefully away.

  I bring the whiskey inside.

  Aunt Mae smiles when I tell her about Martin. She sets the bottle on the coffee table. In case she needs it later.

  Just in case.

  Then we sit down to our hot chicken potpie, with red velvet cake for dessert.

  Anders

  Thursday night, after the blowup with Jezz and Patrick, and after crashing Flynn’s lesson at the studio, I drive around town for a while. I keep trying to think straight, but I just keep reliving the fight instead, like an ugly track played on a loop. I’m finally heading for home when the song attacks.

  I have to pull over to the side of the road. The lyrics and melody, the bass line and thumping drums fill my head. By the time I get the car into park, I can barely see.

  I have a pen, but no paper. So I write the whole thing on my arm.

  Hear the whispers

  turning into roars

  Volume rising

  beating down the doors

  Each note a scream

  The drone is deafening

  Beat beat beat

  until the truth is beaten

  Amplify

  the things we hide

  Tear it down

  and turn up the silence

  It goes on and on, three more verses, another chorus, all complete.

  I have to just sit there for a while afterward. My mouth is sour, and my insides are spinning. I’m afraid some cop is going to pull up beside me and decide I must be drunk. But the road behind me stays empty.

  I read the words on my arm. Even though it’s my handwriting, I feel like I’m seeing them for the first time. This isn’t right, says something in the back of my head. This isn’t right. But I’ve got the song.

  Finally, when my hands stop shaking, I put the car back in gear and drive home.

  Dad’s fixing something in the garage. He gives me a nod as I walk past. Mom flutters around me while I get some leftovers from the fridge. I manage to push the food into my mouth. Then I head down the hallway, shut myself in my room, and start the usual nighttime drill.

  Scratch Goblin for a while. Let him out when he starts mrrk-ing at the door. Fifty push-ups. Thirty crunches. Jump rope until some of the energy boiling inside seeps out. Then I sit down on the floor at the end of the bed, take Yvonne out of her case, and start playing the chords that go with the new lyrics. I play them again and again and again, until they’re enameled in my brain along with the words, and my fingers are starting to cramp. Then I stop, even though I can hardly stand to. Stretch. More push-ups. My back aches. My eyes burn. I’m on fire, and it feels glorious. The song is awesome. The crowd at the Crow’s Nest will love it. And it’s mine, as far as anyone else needs to know.

  I’m still nowhere near being able to sleep. I pull Yvonne back into my lap. Scales now. Then fingerwork, my hands flashing in the moonlight. Precise. Perfect. Then the song again, polishing the intro, and then—

  Then someone knocks. But not at the door. At the window.

  Yvonne jerks in my hands, the melody breaking off.

  I look up.

  Frankie’s face smiles through the glass at me.

  It’s dark outside. Getting colder. When I open the window, the gust of air chills my sweaty shirt. Maybe sweaty and gross is better than damp and shirtless, like last time Frankie showed up. Either way, I feel exposed, unarmored, without a guitar between us.

  “Hey,” she says.

  “Hey. What are you doing here?” This comes out even more unwelcoming than I mean it.

  “Visiting you,” says Frankie. Like I don’t already know this.

  I glance past her, into the woods. “Who else is out there?”

  “With me?” Frankie shrugs. “Nobody.”

  “Nobody?” Frankie Lynde, alone. The words don’t even sound right together. “Are you sure?” I ask, even though this is a really stupid thing to say.

  “I’m sure.” She leans her arms on the windowsill. She’s wearing a soft, wide-necked sweater. Her fingernails are painted dark purple, or at least they look that way in the moonlight. “So. How’s it going?”

  “Not great.” I rub the side of my head. “There was a stupid fight with Jezz and Patrick today.”

  Frankie nods. “I heard.”

  Of course she heard. This freaking town.

  Frankie tips her head to the side. Her eyes are black ink, sharp and soft at the same time. “Do you think it will blow over?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  Frankie’s eyes move over me, outlining my face, traveling down. “What’s that?” she asks.

  “What? Oh.” She’s pointing at my forearm. “Song lyrics.”

  Frankie reaches through the open window and grasps my arm. Her touch makes my whole body ignite.

  “‘Amplify . . . the hugs we hair?’”

  “‘The things we hide,’” I say. She still hasn’t let go of my arm.

  Frankie laughs. It makes the air sing. “Your handwriting is terrible.”


  “In my defense, you are reading it upside down.”

  “Maybe I should come in and read it the right way around.”

  “Um . . .” Something starts to fizz in the pit of my stomach. Alone. With Frankie Lynde. In my bedroom. I turn an ear toward the door. The occasional distant laugh track from the TV seeps through the wood. “I guess you could.”

  Frankie slides through my window, head first. She reaches out so I can grab her before she hits the floor. “Thanks.” She clings to my hands, laughing at herself. “Please don’t remember how gracefully I did that.”

  She’s wearing tight pants and high-heeled boots. Her hair is glossy. I can smell it—her—even a few feet away. I take a step backward. Our hands unclasp.

  Frankie takes a long, slow look around my room. “Wow,” she says. “It’s a metal museum.”

  She trails along one wall, checking out the posters, the stickers, the torn-out articles. I follow her with my eyes. She leans into the mirror, studying the ticket stubs wedged around the frame. “You’ve seen a lot of great bands. And a lot of bad movies.”

  My heart is pounding. It doesn’t feel safe having Frankie in my room. It’s too much like having her in my head.

  “So, why are you really here?” I say. Way too bluntly.

  Frankie straightens and turns to look at me. “To see you.”

  She moves toward me. I back up.

  Frankie stops between my bed and the row of guitars. Yvonne is still on the carpet, where I left her. She glints like an oil slick. Frankie reaches out and gently touches the neck of the acoustic, propped on its stand. “It seems like there’s always someone else around, you know? Like somebody’s always watching. Like we’re never really alone.”

  My heart pounds harder. Jesus. Is she actually reading my mind? “Yeah,” I say.

  Frankie faces me. She steps closer. I try to step backward again and bump straight into the closed closet door.

  Frankie’s a lot shorter than I am. We’ve stood face-to-face so seldom—because I’ve avoided it, in part—that I’m surprised by it all over again. But when she looks up at me, with those dark eyes, I know that I’m the smaller one.

  “What are you afraid of?” she says.