The People We Keep

by Allison Larkin

  “Me too. Wolves take care of their own.”

  I place the crown on her head. Her howl is a low, mournful song.

  Eventually, we’re dry enough for tights, then shirts, then the rest of it. Then the fire fades enough that we need our jackets. Carly kicks dirt at the embers with the side of her boot. I copy her. Soon the glow is completely gone. And then it’s us in the moonlight, cold wind against our faces, and the sound of our boots on the road as we walk to the car. Instead of singing, I tell Carly about the motorhome and the spread of land and the house that never happened, and how my dad left me for Irene.

  “Do you think,” she asks, “you were better off alone in the woods than with the wrong people?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, and then we’re quiet. Our footsteps don’t sound like Cecilia this time.

  “I guess,” Carly says, “what matters most is that they were the wrong people and we should have had the right ones.” She puts her arm around my waist. It makes us both walk slower, but I don’t mind.

  * * *

  Carly parks in front of Adam’s house. We have the heat cranked. My hair is still damp, and the back of my neck feels like a muggy afternoon in August. I don’t want to leave our warm bubble. I don’t want our night to end.

  “You want to stay?” I ask. I know Adam wouldn’t mind.

  She shakes her head. “I’m going to crash so hard in my own bed. I’m going to take up the whole damn thing. And then when I wake up, I’m going to eat cereal in my underwear and watch cartoons and laugh with my mouth full.”

  I picture Carly and her octopus sleeping large and happy.

  “The question is,” Carly says as I collect my bag from under the seat, “are we tough enough to do this in January?”

  I laugh. “I will if you will.” My cheeks are dry and hot, my eyelids heavy.

  “If there isn’t ice,” Carly says, “I think we’ll have to.”

  She hugs me before I get out of the car, and waits for me to unlock the front door, flashing her lights before she drives away.

  I climb the stairs, avoiding the squeaky spots, and open the door to Adam’s apartment, pulling the handle up as I push in to keep it from creaking. I shed my clothes in the bathroom and wrap my hair in a towel so I won’t get Adam’s pillows wet.

  He wakes up when I climb into bed. “You smell like a campfire,” he says.

  “We had a campfire,” I say.

  He wraps his arms around me, and he is so warm, and my eyes are so tired, and when I close them I can still picture the water lapping at the shore, and the way we were wild. Nothing about me feels wrong.

  — Chapter 28 —

  I have the day off, so I go to Wegmans to get food for Christmas. My ears are still waterlogged from the lake and ringing from the concert. It makes everything a little surreal.

  There’s a list to follow. Adam and I planned meals for the whole weekend over breakfast.

  “Sweet potatoes!” I shouted.

  “Marshmallows or no marshmallows?” Adam asked.

  “Duh,” I said, laughing.

  Adam wrote marshmallows on the list. “How do you feel about cranberry sauce?”

  “I could take it or leave it.”

  “I like the kind that comes out shaped like the can.”

  “Write it down!”

  I grab all of it—every last thing we want. Adam never lets me pay for anything, but I’ve been saving for our feast. Adam promised Billy he’d help with the Christmas Eve rush at the tree farm, and his plan was to pick up groceries on the way home. I swiped the list from his messenger bag when he was in the shower and when I get home I’ll call him at Billy’s to say it’s already done.

  When the groceries are bagged and ready to go and the cashier tells me it will be ninety-seven dollars, I reach into my purse to grab my wallet and it isn’t anywhere. I’m calm for like five seconds because my stupid bag is huge and things get lost in there, but then I remember how everything ended up all over the bathroom floor at The Haunt and I start sweating. Like crazy sweating. Like I can’t get out of my coat fast enough and everyone is staring at me because instead of paying, I’m tearing my coat off in the middle of the store. And then I think about why everything ended up on the bathroom floor to begin with and I start crying. Big fat tears and my lip is shaking and it’s all so embarrassing I can’t even handle it.

  “I’ll be back for it,” I say between sobs, looking at my hands, avoiding eye contact with the checker. “I’m so sorry. I’ll be back.” And I just walk out of the store.

  I get in my car, shaking all over like I’m made of rubber bands. My wallet could have been lost in the bathroom. It might have skidded across the floor under one of the stalls, or to the far corner by the sink, under the radiator, or behind the garbage can. But I know that’s not what happened. I know where I have to go to get it back.

  — Chapter 29 —

  I pound on the door to Rosemary’s apartment hard with my fist and don’t stop even though my hands are freezing and every hit hurts. There’s a grey Saab in the driveway, and I’m sure it’s hers. I’m sure she’s home. I punch at the door like maybe I’ll just break it down. She still doesn’t answer. I start kicking.

  When Rosemary finally answers the door, she sighs hard like this is boring for her, but I see the tremble in her cheek.

  “Give back my wallet,” I say.

  “Wait here.” She’s wearing a huge grey sweater and goldenrod-colored tights that make her knees look like doorknobs.

  I follow her into the kitchen. There are dead roses in a coffee mug on the counter. Dishes piled high in the sink. Carly must have been the one who cleaned.

  “I didn’t invite you in,” Rosemary says.

  “I didn’t give you my wallet as a present.”

  Her hands shake as she grabs the wallet off the counter. I snatch it from her and count my money.

  “Oh, it’s all there,” she says. “I don’t need your tip jar change.”

  I turn to leave and I’m almost to the door when she says, “There is one thing. I mean, I’m curious. What’s a child doing running around with a college student? There are laws about that.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say, trying to keep the shock from my face even though my pulse is pounding so hard she can probably feel it.

  “I washed your license. Chalk came right off.”

  “It was a mistake,” I say. “They messed up at the DMV.”

  “Bullshit.” Rosemary isn’t shaking anymore. “You’re just some random trashy kid and you need to go back to whatever hellhole Little River is and leave us alone.” Her eyes meet mine and even though she’s trying to be furious I can see her heartbreak. “We would have worked everything out,” she says. “Carly wouldn’t have left if you didn’t push your way in.”

  “She lost a lot for you,” I say. “She needed support.” I know I shouldn’t speak for Carly, but I feel like if I try maybe Rosemary could change her mind.

  “You can’t know what she needs. You’re a baby.” Rosemary gets close and wrinkles her mouth to mock me. It’s so ugly. Her breath is hot on my face. “Go home and cry to mommy.”

  “You don’t know anything about me!” I shout, but my words sound so useless.

  “I know enough about you,” she says, “I’ll go into Decadence. I’ll tell everyone Carly is fucking a child.”

  I can feel my world breaking apart like an old barn in a hurricane. “I’m not sleeping with Carly.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Rosemary says.

  I almost blurt out that I have a boyfriend but stop myself just in time. Carly isn’t that much older than me and we’re friends and that’s truth. If any of this leads back to Adam, it means real trouble for sure.

  “I only acted like that so Carly could save face,” I tell her.

  “I saw you two holding hands in The Commons last week. You didn’t even see me. In the bathroom at The Haunt. That wasn’t for my benefit.”

  “We’re friends.”
My throat tightens.

  “Yeah. I bet you are.”

  “It’s not like that!” I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from crying. “Carly is the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Carly is twenty years old. Why would she want to be your friend? You’re a child. You don’t know anything.”

  I feel this weird twist in my mind. Like everything is slow motion and I can see it clearly—how fragile and sheltered and stupid Rosemary is. I wonder what it would feel like to crack her in half like a dried-out twig. “If she doesn’t love you,” I say, “it’s because of you, not me.”

  Rosemary’s face flushes. She’s shaking again. “Get the fuck out of my house!”

  When my feet hit the front step, she says, “I made a copy of your license. I can call the police any time. What do you think other people will think of your friendship?”

  She slams the door behind me so hard it sounds like it probably cracked in two.

  I don’t look back to see if it did. I just leave.

  — Chapter 30 —

  I can’t even remember driving back to Adam’s place. I’m just here, in my car outside, shaking. When I get into the apartment, I run to the bathroom and heave up everything I ate for breakfast, retching until there’s nothing left. There isn’t time to cry. There just isn’t.

  I throw my clothes into the plastic grocery bags Adam keeps in an empty paper towel roll under the kitchen sink and think about ways to fix things. I could bribe Rosemary. I could tell Carly and she could convince Rosemary. But eventually, it would all lead back to Adam. Eventually, someone would find out and he’d get hurt. And if I tried to stay, I’d always be waiting for it. I’d be sitting around waiting for Adam’s life to be completely ruined over something he’d never have done if he’d known. Not in a million years.

  I empty my dresser drawers, the ones he cleared out to make room for me, and grab the slippers I bought at House of Shalimar from under the bed. I leave the record player and the records I bought for him by the Christmas tree. I wish I had time to wrap them, wish I was going to be with him on Christmas morning to watch him open them. I sit at the card table in the kitchen and write a note on the back of an envelope. I write that it’s because there’s something wrong with me and I just need to go and it’s killing me and I’ll never stop missing him. I sign it: I love you always, April.

  I want his corduroy barn jacket. The black one with the worn cuffs that he lets me wear all the time. It smells like him and wearing it feels like a hug. When I look in the coat closet, I see a big red bow. It’s tied to the neck of a guitar.

  I take the guitar. I can’t stand to leave it. I can’t stand to leave. I go back to the kitchen and place the black velvet box with my mother’s ring on top of the note. At the bottom of the page, I write, I hope this is enough.

  — Chapter 31 —

  I try to sneak in the cafe through the alley. Yesterday was payday and I forgot to grab my envelope. I won’t be able to cash the check. I always signed them over to Adam and had him do it for me. But I can at least get my share of the tip jar for the week. It’s something.

  Bodie is in the alley, wearing a Santa hat, smoking.

  “Pilgrim,” he says in his slow, dazed voice, “you’re like a work addict or something. I thought it was your day off.” He closes his eyes and smiles like he has a pretty picture in his head.

  “Came for my paycheck,” I say.

  When he hears my voice, he looks at me. “Dude,” he says, and I know he can tell I’ve been crying. I know I’m probably a wreck and a half.

  “Can you sneak in and get it?” I ask, and start tearing up again.

  “Sure,” he says. “Anything for you, Pilgrim.” He taps my shoulder with his palm before he walks back inside. I wait, studying the alley. I want to be able to remember everything about it: the smell of wet leaves and soggy cigarette butts, the echo of the water dripping off the fire escape. I wish I could keep it. All of it. I wish I could stay. I pull a wrinkled napkin from my purse and press it to my knee, carving into it with a dying ballpoint pen: I, April, will miss you.

  “Got it,” Bodie says in a loud whisper when he comes back outside. “Figured you didn’t want anyone to know, so I snagged it while Carly was helping a customer.”

  “Thank you.” I hand him the napkin, folded in four. “Can you leave this for Carly? On the bulletin board. Maybe like in an hour or so?”

  “April,” Bodie says, and I think it might be the first time he’s called me anything other than Pilgrim. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “You’re a really good guy,” I say, and hug him before I even know what I’m doing.

  “Can I help?”

  “I wish you could.” I squeeze him hard. When I look up, he wipes the tears off my cheeks. I kiss him. I just reach up and touch his face and kiss him. At first, I pretend he’s Adam. I pretend I’m saying goodbye the right way. Then I kiss him harder and I know he’s Bodie. I hope that it will turn into some kind of amazing kiss where my knees buckle and my heart falls into my stomach. I am hoping for a roller coaster, so maybe it will mean what I had with Adam wasn’t something special. But it’s just a kiss. After all the times Bodie made me blush and all the times I found excuses to talk to him, it’s just a kiss. It’s not even a good one.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, and pull away from him. “I have to go.” I run down the alley. I hear him yell, “Hey, Pilgrim!” but I don’t look back.

  * * *

  I’m almost to the edge of The Commons when I hear Carly call out to me. I stop. I want to keep going, but it’s Carly and I can’t.

  “April,” she says again, out of breath, catching up, and I can tell from the way she’s looking at me that she knows I’m leaving. She knows it’s time for me to go.

  “I can’t say why.”

  “You can tell me,” she says, hugging me. “I won’t say anything to anyone. Sometimes, you just need someone to know your secret, right? To take the air out of it, you know?”

  “If I tell you, you have to live with it,” I whisper. “If I leave, I’m the only one who has to.”

  “I could help you. We could fix whatever it is. Anything.”

  “If I leave, it won’t hurt him as much as if I stay.” I start to fall apart. Our hug turns into her holding me up. “Tell him it’s all my fault and not his,” I say when I get my voice back. “And everything he did, everything he is, is just the best thing I could even picture. Tell him it’s not about the person being left. No matter what I do or try or say or pretend, I can’t fix what’s wrong with me. Tell him that, okay?”

  Carly nods. She’s crying too. We’re a mess, the two of us. And I wish I didn’t have to say goodbye to her, because it’s so much harder than I thought it would be.

  “And you’ll be there?” I ask. “When he’s sad?”

  Carly wipes her cheeks. “I’ll make him pancake-shaped pancakes.”

  “You,” I say, and I’m going to tell her that she’s my first real honest to goodness friend, she’s like my sister. I’m going to tell her how much she’s done for me, how much I love her. But I can’t say any of it. I can’t say it and then walk away, so all I say is “You,” and slip Adam’s key in her pocket and kiss her cheek and walk away as fast as I can and then faster, until I’m running to my car. The soles of my boots smack the pavement and splash melting ice and salt on my legs. It stings through my tights, and when I get in the car and close the door, everything outside is muffled and I’m stuck with just me and the sobs and my stinging red legs and how it feels like someone just ripped all my skin off.

  I start the car and follow the roads out of the city. I just drive. I don’t care where. The only place I want to be is Ithaca.

  — Part Two —

  — Chapter 32 —

  March 1997

  Brewster, NY

  The crowd at Perks is standing room only, but the pickings are slim. I’ve played here be
fore, perched on this rickety wooden stool, on the platform they cover with worn out rugs, under lights that are way too close to the stage. There are faces I recognize. People who were here last time, who came to see me again.

  I make sure I’ve figured out the balance of the stool and then I test my tunings, clip my capo to the head of my guitar, and tape three extra picks to the mic stand. One of them is my dad’s old thick black Gibson pick. It’s cracked and I use thins, but I put it there anyway. Because I always have. It used to be one of my rituals—to remind me where I came from, what the first few songs I wrote are supposed to mean—but it’s just procedure now.

  The stage me is procedure too. Pretend I’m shocked by the crowd. Wide-eyed and aw shucks like all my wildest dreams are coming true. Eyes closed, three deep breaths, strum, open eyes. And then I make work of the music, my voice sighing over the audience, fingers strong on the strings.

  I don’t get the jitters anymore. I miss them. It sucked, in some ways, those moments of shaking and staring at my fingers, wondering if they’d ever be able to connect to my brain again, feeling like I’d lost not just the lyrics to my songs but every word I ever knew. But by the end of those shows, I felt like I could fly. I felt like the whole world was mine and all I had to do was reach for it. Of course, after, when everyone left and the bartender shuttered things up, I’d be in my car, hyped up and alone. Driving until my hands felt heavy on the steering wheel.

  Now, that flying feeling is rare, and most of the time I don’t bother to chase it. I don’t let myself care enough about the audience to get nervous. It’s too much work for too little payoff. I get up on stage because my fingers feel right pressing metal to wood, and singing is the only way I hear my own voice because I don’t have anyone to talk to. I play and I work the audience like an old habit and they have no idea that I’m pretending they aren’t even there. It’s private. It’s mourning. It’s a love song. A map of where I came from and it’s just mine, not anyone else’s.