Des rolled her eyes. “Okay. What’s her name, then?”
“Her name?” I repeated dumbly. It took me a moment to even puzzle through what Des was asking me. At first it seemed like a trick, but as soon as I understood I could have smacked myself. Of course her name wasn’t Clara Voyant.
Des didn’t need to say anything else. She smiled and cut the deck of cards, turned the top one over for me to see. “The Devil.”
“That doesn’t sound good.” I looked at the card. The ugly blue-lipped creature had the tiny wings of a bat and the curved horns of a ram.
“Depends. Right side up, he means bondage, fear, addiction, materialism. Upside down, it means breaking free. What do you want to break free from, Lily? What’s holding you back?”
“I thought you said you were too hungover for a reading.”
She shrugged and, of course, that, too, reminded me of Clara. “The cards are just a tool. You don’t need to be a psychic to ask the right questions.”
“I’ve got to go. Will you tell Clara I stopped by? Tell her I’ll be at work tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Des said; the implied second half of her sentence seemed to be If I feel like it.
Atlantic City was a small place, but it was large enough that if someone was hiding, or missing, they could make themselves difficult to find. The honeycomb of hotel rooms. The dark nooks of the casinos. The shadowy piers. I wondered if I could call the police and leave an anonymous tip about Luis. My phone was still in my hand. I dialed a 9, deleted it. Dialed it again, then a 1. Surely they would trace my call—what if Clara was wrong? I would seem deranged. I could even get in trouble, couldn’t I? But the way she had looked at me the day before. Like I was failing her. By the time I got home, it seemed like the only thing I could do was wait and hope she would text back or call.
I stopped in the driveway to pick up the newspaper, shook it from its plastic sleeve, and sat on the porch to read it. More cops and firefighters were losing their jobs. More abandoned houses had been set aflame. The governor had signed off on a new tax on fantasy sports. Hurricane season would be stirring up soon, and the paper offered tips for protecting your house. I flipped to the obituaries. A former linebacker who’d sat behind me in history class in eleventh grade had died, the obituary worded the way Steffanie’s was. Taken from us suddenly, in lieu of flowers please send donations to Drug Free NJ. I remembered that his cheeks used to get ruddy in gym class and it seemed like it took the entire afternoon for him to lose his flush. I didn’t know how his death connected to Clara’s vision of the bodies in the marsh, but something brutal was still happening here—and maybe Clara knew more about it than anyone else.
* * *
I HAD a short shift that afternoon, two to eight. I was surprised to see Carrie at the desk when I arrived. She was sucking down one of her blended coffee drinks, a sludgy mess of whipped cream and chocolate syrup.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” she said. “Emily pulled a no-show. I have a mind to fire her ass.”
“Wait, what? And we have that meeting today? That Whitney thing.”
“I know! Can you stay up front? I’ve gotta go prep. If you see her, send her straight back to me. Fuck, my heart is racing.” I heard her swearing under her breath as she walked away from the desk.
I texted Emily. Where are you? Carrie is flipping out! Everything okay? I waited for her to write back, hoping for good news on her behalf. That she’d gotten a better offer somewhere else and just split without a second thought. What was going on?
Luis was back, though, and he came around the desk to polish the coffee table. I watched him while he worked. His hands, the long fingers. I tried to imagine them doing damage, tensing with rage, and couldn’t. There was love, attention, in the way he touched things—it made me feel guilty. I had spent the summer thinking everything here was beneath me, that to do this job well would be some sort of a compromise of my talents, and yet there were so many people, like Luis, or even Emily, doing well at the quiet work that never won you coveted seats at restaurants, that never landed your photo in the pages of glossy magazines. I thought of the painter, too, who must have pressed on through anonymity, indifference, to create something beautiful. There was so much to admire in that.
It was stupid, maybe, to think of that as proof of Luis’s innocence, an essential kindness at his core. But I believed it anyway. But what did that mean about what Clara had seen? What made her think Luis was connected? And where the hell was she? I felt hollowed out, jilted. I had thought she would at least say goodbye. No new texts. No missed calls. No Clara. No Emily either. I was bereft and lonely, and there was nothing to do but wait.
I stared at the clock on the computer screen, then googled Emily, then Clara. I don’t know what I expected to find, but I couldn’t stand feeling so helpless, and at least it was something to do. I googled Matthew next—at least that would offer me some small distraction. I had a feeling that something with his offer had been off. Still, the result made me gasp: “Hotshot Artist Dropped by Representation after Public Row at Downtown Opening.” A fallout with Philip Louis. I could picture it perfectly, the two of them boiling up at each other with rage. Matthew flinging some reckless, horrible insult—something with too much of the truth in it, maybe. Philip Louis dropping him to save face. It explained everything. The visit, the offer. I texted Matthew a single word: no.
* * *
I OVERHEARD snippets of Carrie’s conversations with Whitney and the passel of pastel-suited women who walked through the spa, their smiles too wide, their eyes focused and judgmental. Emily would have been such a help to her, could have charmed them and dazzled them and maybe convinced them that we actually knew what we were doing. After my shift ended I did what I had done so many other times that summer—retreated to a dingy dive bar and willed myself to go numb. By the time I ordered my first drink, I still hadn’t heard anything from Clara or Emily. I was convinced my phone wasn’t working and turned it off, thinking that when I turned it on again, my screen would flood with information: apologies, explanations.
Someone pushed the door open, and for a moment the light from the streetlight leaked in through the crack, and the smell of the ocean cut through the molding smell of the bar. It was the kind of night when there was so much brine in the air you felt like you could lick it from your lips. I ordered another drink, then another after that. No Emily, no Clara, and now, no gallery. I’d thought I’d feel triumphant after rejecting Matthew’s money, but my mood was bleak. Also, a little voice piped up in my mind: What if I had just made the biggest mistake of my life? I ordered a fourth drink, a shot that slid down my throat, hot and tasteless. I didn’t want to think about anything except that beautiful burn in my gut.
“Hey!” A hand on my elbow. A voice I recognized but couldn’t place. I turned to see the man from the library.
He smelled like cigarette smoke and salt air. When I’d first arrived at the bar, the night had a cool edge to it—a hint of fall. I remembered the way it used to make me so melancholy, how hard I used to try to ignore that chill. August had only just started, but I could sense summer shutting down, autumn turning everything gray and brown. I’d noticed that already the grass at the edges of the marsh was going pale, that soon it would be the color of heather. Seeing it, I had to confront that I, who had called this a break, a stopover, a pause, was still here. And by choice, of all things. I’d chosen this. I was drunk by then, but I was also thinking that maybe, maybe I was okay. I had survived the summer. I had resisted Matthew and his offer—well, his trick.
“Can I buy you a drink?” the man from the library asked. He leaned on the stool next to mine. I focused on his hands, the tiny cuts around his knuckles.
I knew I shouldn’t drink anymore—one more might make the room slide, make my thoughts slippery and words too large on my tongue. But I heard myself ask for a Maker’s on the rocks.
“I talked to my grandma about those paintings,” he said.
“Huh.” T
here was something familiar about him that I couldn’t place. I had the feeling I had seen him before, not at the library, but that he had been at the edge of my life in some way. He had a brawny, short body, an athletic stance, a sports watch perched on his wrist. A substitute teacher I had in high school? Someone from the beach patrol? I was too drunk to figure it out.
“She said you can come see them whenever we want.”
“How ’bout now?” I asked. For the first time that day I felt a jolt of hope.
“Sure. She’s a night owl. And she’s excited to show them, I think.” Something perked up in my chest. I was slurry, my makeup smeared, my hair a tangled mess. But the thought that the day could be redeemed, the promise of seeing more of the painter’s work, was irresistible. I kept forgetting to ask the man his name. That thought and others rose and slipped, the way the strap of my purse slid from my shoulder. He had a heavy, square jaw, eyes that were both attractive and disconcerting, so pale and clear, giving his stare an incisive, pointed effect. I felt a jolt between my legs—that old confusion Matthew liked, between art and sex—and wondered if sleeping with someone else might, like seeing more paintings, be another kind of cleansing.
“Where are you parked?” I asked.
He smiled, his blue eyes gray in the dull light. “Just around the corner.” I couldn’t decide if I liked the way he looked or not. “I can pull around and meet you.”
I paid my tab and met him out front, trying to ignore the way I wobbled from the stool. As soon as I got in the car I regretted it. I was going to be sick soon; I wanted nothing more than to get it over with, my knees braced on cold hard tile, my face on the rim of our toilet at home, drink a tall glass of ice water, and crawl in my bed with its cool, clean sheets.
As we made our way down Pacific Avenue, I asked him to tell me again what the paintings looked like.
“I told you earlier. A guy in a hat.”
“What about the colors?”
“What about them?”
“The colors are what make them stand out. At least the ones I’ve seen.”
“I can’t describe them. I’m no expert. Besides, you’ll see for yourself in a minute.” I could tell I was annoying him, but I didn’t care. He had been the one to offer to take me anyway. He rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. I wanted to ask him to stop, but I was so, so tired. My thoughts dripped.
At a stoplight, I glanced out the window. “I thought you said she lived. In. Longport.” I was alert enough to know we were driving in the opposite direction, toward the city. We were on the Dorset Bridge, the water black below us. The streetlights looked hazy and huge, globes of smeared light. I thought I remembered something Clara had said. One of her visions: blurry streetlights.
“I want to go. Home,” I said. “Please turn around?” He was silent. There was a strange drag on my words. I tried again, but my speech was worse. I felt ashamed, then afraid.
“I can’t wait till that stuff really kicks in. You’re getting on my nerves. You know, I was going to leave you alone. You weren’t like the others.”
“What? What stuff?” I tried to inventory the last hour in my mind—had I left my drink alone? But my thoughts were too slippery, my memory of the bar already full of black patches.
“You made an honest living, at least. You might drink a little bit, but you’re not out there selling yourself, dipping into drugs. Running this place into the ground. But you seem to like sniffing around in things you don’t understand. Making phone calls you shouldn’t make.”
I closed my eyes. Phone calls? Did he know about me calling Julie Zale’s aunt? Had Emily heard more than she let on when she came back from lunch that day? Had she told someone? And then I remembered, the man in the windbreaker. Baseball cap, sunglasses.That wide-legged stance. How had I not realized he was the same person? It must have been so easy for him—I was so eager to blow him off at the library, I never even looked back. It would have been nothing for him to follow me to work, to watch and wait. And what about that night, when Clara and I swam on the beach. Clara—where was she? Why couldn’t I find her? Had he gotten to her first?
“Pull over,” I said. “Let me out.” There are no paintings, I realized. The words unwieldy and slow. My vision blurred at the edges. My eyes shifted to the floor, my purse on the ground. I hadn’t turned my phone on again. I kicked it closer to the seat, ignoring the way he laughed. I kicked it again, and the floor mat shifted. Something bright, almost wet-looking, caught my eye. A silver cross necklace. Just like the one Emily wore. Emily, who had pulled that no-show at work. Who hadn’t answered any of my texts or phone calls. My skin burned. “Em … Em …” I tried, but couldn’t force out her name. I tried to picture her, but her face was blurring with Clara’s. Emily’s eyes, Clara’s red hair.
I reached for the door handle, weak, my fingers missing it by inches. I tried to grab it again. I had the sense that I’d just seen something important, but had already forgotten what it was. Slippery, slippery mind. I reached for the door handle once more and felt a burst of pain against the side of my head. Dampness on my face. I looked up at the hazy streetlight, the moths wobbling in the glow. I tried to open my mouth to say Emily’s name one more time but instead I sank. To a place very quiet. And very dark.
CLARA
THE HOTEL SUITE WAS SO quiet that I could hear birds outside. Speedboat motors. The slam of lids on the metal garbage cans, even the occasional laugh. I don’t know if that made it easier or more difficult. People were still laughing, somewhere. He had tapped a single pill onto the dresser. Looking at the perfect white pearl of it, I wondered if there were more. If I could take a whole bottle for my grand escape from this place. Not to California, but slipping out of the world, easy as a piece of silk sliding through someone’s hands.
I was standing in the middle of the room. Had it been three hours? Four? I hadn’t had anything to drink but had to go to the bathroom anyway. What had started as a general throb from holding it now ribboned through my torso, a sharp twinge of heat. I would ask him if I could go, but I wasn’t supposed to speak. I wasn’t even supposed to think. He told me that I was a terrible person, a bitch, a slut. That I was lucky all he did before was burn me, that I deserved so much worse. If I wanted to avoid being punished again, the only thing I could do was ask for forgiveness. Repent. That word was like a hammer, pounding the inside of my brain. Repent repent repent. I was sorry that I had been such a fool about my mother. I was sorry that I believed those visions, that I dragged Lily into it, when maybe the problem was me all along. I was sorry for all the times I stole from people who didn’t deserve it for a goal that had always been impossible.
He sat in front of me reading a book. I couldn’t tell what it was—something from a library, a bar code along its spine. Had he stolen a book from the library? What about your sins? I thought. He looked up at me as though he could sense my doubt beamed his way. He unpeeled a chocolate poker chip so slowly that I heard every crinkle of the wrapper. I listened as he ate it, the chocolate gumming his mouth, moving down his throat.
This was part of the deal I had made. Two days of total control. He told me it would start out simple, easy. Then we would work our way up to other experiments, other kinds of pain. No more burns, I told him. Well, I’m paying to be the one who makes all the rules. Deal or no deal, he said. I pictured the Ten of Swords in my mind. One more difficult thing, and then I would be free.
First I practiced mouthing the words. May I please use the restroom? No, Sir, may I please use the restroom? He looked up at the sound of my lips moving, closed his book, stood from the chair.
“Didn’t I tell you,” he said. “Now is the time for repenting what you’ve done wrong.” As he pulled his arm back, in the moment before he brought it forward, his sleeve slipped again. I saw the burn scars snaking up his wrist, and then the force of his hand knocked me backward. I staggered, fell, but stood again as quickly as I could.
He went back to his chair. He flicked his cigare
tte lighter, and as soon as I saw the flame I jumped. He smiled and closed the lighter, slid it back into his pocket. This was a game to him, all of the ways he could scare me, make me hurt. He didn’t look up when he heard the stream of urine hit the carpet. He only looked up after, when my clothes were wet and relief had flashed through me and the only sensation left was shame. I thought that must mean it’d be over soon, that it would be like before—the metallic clunk of his belt buckle and the groan as he took himself in his hand. I stood, my eyes on the carpet, and waited. But there was only silence. I had been so used to seeing into people, to thinking I understood more than most. My gift couldn’t help me now. Gift, if I even dared to call it that anymore. I couldn’t see clearly what had happened already or what would happen next—maybe I never could. I’d been so convinced that these women needed me, that they were asking for my help. But maybe none of it was real. Maybe my brain was wired badly, and now it shot off only the wrong kinds of sparks.
I was still standing, feeling woozy, waiting for whatever was going to happen to end, when I had another vision. Or, I didn’t know what to call it now. The tingle surged through my body, and I saw a hand, reaching for a door handle inside of a car.
I blinked, rubbed my temples. I figured it must have been something in my brain, churned up by feeling stuck in that hotel room. Perhaps the visions were just my own wishes, my own bad dreams. My knees felt like they could buckle. My legs shook. I didn’t understand the appeal of this—it hardly seemed like he was paying any attention, even—but I didn’t see the appeal in a lot of things men were supposed to like. I guessed that I should have been grateful for avoiding more cigarette burns, though part of me wondered if this meant that the worst was yet to come.
Another tingle seized me, like shocks in my fingers and toes. Something silver, a necklace, with a charm in the shape of a cross against a dark background. When I came back into the room, I felt as though an hour had passed. Darkness seeped in around the edges of the blinds. I tried to track how many pages he had made it through in the book, but I was thirsty, dizzy. I couldn’t trust my eyes to see things for what they were.
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