Fountain Dead

by Theresa Braun

  Mark woke the next morning to the jostling of his bed and his sister shoving at his arms. Salem licked his face and he pushed her off.

  “Wake up. You’ve been sleeping forever.”

  Perusing her face, he was relieved there was no trace of that lovesick expression. He shielded himself with the sheet anyway. “Get outta here, little booger.”

  “Come on, I’m so bored.” Tausha climbed onto the mattress and treated it like a trampoline.

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  She hopped close to him, his body bouncing. “I bet there’s something to play with up in the garage.”

  His alarm clock flashed half-past noon.

  He yawned.

  Tausha pulled down the corners of her mouth with her fingers.

  “Oh, all right.”

  His sister skipped out of the room. Salem skittered away at her heels.

  After pulling on a khaki pair of shorts and a Def Leppard T-shirt, he stepped into his flip-flops before picking up his sister from across the hall. “Let’s go, fearless leader.”

  Already in a dress and sandals, she smiled up at him before tugging his hand all the way out the back door.

  They made Salem stay in the kitchen, whining, nose smashed to the screen.

  “You aren’t spooked?” Mark asked as they marched along.

  “I’m not chicken.” Her eyes shifted. “Are you?”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Stop it, Mark.” She spun around. “Just stop it.”

  He wasn’t sure what she wanted him to stop. The questions? Curiosity about what was really going on in the house? Or just being a brother with a moving mouth.

  They entered the whitewashed garage that used to be a carriage house. The scent of horses and hay lingered inside.

  Tausha veered left to a narrow stairwell, which she’d apparently been familiar with. Much like passing a hidden closet, he would’ve missed it altogether. She patted the stairs on all fours as she climbed.

  Mark treaded carefully, as some of the steps wobbled. A handful of them bore crimson splotches. A spilled drink? Paint? Not everything that shade was blood.

  When they got to the top, it resembled an attic. Motes floated in the sun’s rays shining through the open window. The walls were dark, partly because no other light entered except through the singular portal. At second glance, a fire may have singed them black.

  “You happy now?” Spitting some cobwebs from his lips, Mark brushed away the rest that clung to his face and neck.

  Tausha uncovered a small wooden chest from under some boxes of junk. She moved a few paint cans and what looked like dismembered bicycle parts to the floor.

  When she pushed open the lid, dust clouded around her. She coughed, fanning the air.

  “Check it out.” Biting her lip, she pulled free an old-fashioned dress. She stretched the arms out and stepped backward to untangle the long skirt from the trunk. After piling the garment into her brother’s arms, Tausha rummaged around amid the rest of the clothing.

  “What do you want me to do with this?” Mark held the frock up to himself.

  She shrugged and gave him a wry smile.

  On the shelves across from him, a tiny reflection of Mark shone at the back of a mirrored lantern. Despite the fact that his boyish dimensions appeared to be about the right fit for the dress, he wasn’t inclined to step into it. His sister, of all people, wouldn’t bat an eye if he tried it on. She’d probably even get a kick out of seeing him in drag. But Mark only mentally critiqued his mother’s wardrobe each day because it was something to do. Usually he passed her closet with indifference.

  Yet the fabric across his chest was akin to wearing a security blanket, or embracing a beloved stuffed animal. As silly as it was, Mark didn’t want to put the garment down.

  Tausha stuck an arm into a man’s cotton shirt, but struggled to find the other armhole. After setting the dress on the edge of the chest, Mark helped his sister finish putting the shirt on. She fastened the buttons, her hands swallowed by the long sleeves, her knees lost under the hem. Frowning, she wiggled into the pants that puddled at her feet. With a snarky grin, Mark threw the vest on her and fastened the black tie around her neck.

  “How do I look?” She grimaced.

  “Like a Martian just blasted you with a shrink ray.” Mark laughed.

  “Funny,” she whined, disrobing.

  “Lemme show you how it’s done.” As an item came off Tausha, Mark put it on. Only a touch roomy in the shoulders, the ensemble suited him, so much so his sister was inspired to fish the shoes from the trunk. Kicking off his flip-flops and slipping his feet into the boots, completed his transition.

  His sister spied something up on one of the shelves. As she busied herself grabbing a paint can to use as a stepstool, Mark’s attention drifted elsewhere.

  In the reflection of the lantern, someone stood next to him in similar clothes. His heart skipped a few beats, not due the attire, but due to the allure of the pale face—the features soft, the eyes fraught with captivating depth. Golden brown hair peaked from under the ten-gallon hat, a matching golden mustache perched on the boy’s upper lip. Mark felt sucked in by the energetic vortex, even though neither of them had moved one muscle.

  A subtle floral scent drifted to Mark, similar to what had been in his room. Must’ve been carried on the breeze through the window.

  The boy’s mournful eyes glistened in the mirror.

  Mark bobbed his head around, but no one stood beside him.

  His only focus was to take away the apparition’s pain, to somehow trade places. Somewhere inside Mark, in a place he couldn’t access, he swore he possessed the key to what had happened to this person. How that was even possible boggled his mind.

  Someone took his hands, squeezing them.

  In the mirror, Mark watched himself pull the boy to him. Their gazes linked in the reflection, glimmering with promise. The youth turned and inched his face to Mark’s, lips there for the tasting.

  Mark hesitated. He’d never been in a situation like this.

  In kindergarten, he’d chased girls on the playground in hopes of kissing them. He’d held hands with Sarah and disappeared with her in the coatroom. But that was different. He’d been only a kid then. And that had been a girl. He liked girls, yet he also liked the boy right here. Should this feel wrong? It didn’t.

  The spirit pressed his warm mouth to Mark’s, his silky hands to Mark’s cheeks. The facial hair prickled, a momentary distraction. While fingers explored Mark’s hair, the kiss ignited an endorphin overload. Their bodies pressed together. A brief shyness hit Mark, before he decided he didn’t care if the boy felt the evidence of desire. Neither of them backed away.

  Still yet to reconcile his physical reaction in the moment, Mark let go of his momentary self-judgement. But it came back as loathing, stabbing him in the gut.

  “I love you,” the boy murmured.

  Confused by this declaration, but wanting to grasp onto it for keeps, Mark glanced to the lantern to snag a better look.

  When Tausha ran right through where the apparition had been, it vanished.

  Had Mark been afraid, he might’ve praised his sister for saving him from the paranormal, but the interruption irritated him. He was on the verge of realizing that personal connection transcended anatomy. Their souls compelled by the other’s gravitational force.

  Tausha hopped up on the trunk and placed a hat on Mark’s head. As she adjusted it, he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the shelf. Instead of looking the part of a teenager playing dress up, he appeared ordinary. Like he either landed a bit role in a movie, or had plans to go line dancing later.

  Mark took off the hat and put it on his sister, who smirked.

  All the extra layers induced a film of sweat, so he stripped the clothes off to put them away.

  His sister canvassed the area for anything else interesting.

  Mark lowered the lid of the chest and wandered to the
shelf. Staring into the lantern, he spotted a hand on his shoulder. Goosebumps journeyed across his skin. When he blinked, the hand had evaporated.

  “I’m hot. You ready?” his sister asked. Using what looked like a type of hook, she dug something out of a crack in the floor. “Neato mosquito.”

  He snickered at her phrase. “What is that?”

  Tausha shrugged, holding up a scrap of cloth with beaded fringes. After she tossed the hook, it pinged against the wooden planks upon landing.

  “Nice souvenir.”

  Heading toward the stairs, he paused in front of the barn door-like window, a clear vantage point of the back of the house. His room, the servants’ apartments, and the kitchen, were all right there for the spying. How many people had staked out up here? These walls had probably witnessed a goldmine of secrets.

  Tausha was on her way downstairs.

  While hearing the tick-tick of claws on the floor, Mark sensed something standing right next to him. Hot breath prickled his neck. An animal odor reached his nose.

  His imagination switched to overdrive. Now wasn’t the time to dally, daring events to escalate, if any of it was real, that is. Erring on the side of caution, he practically leapt for the stairs.

  A thumping followed behind him.

  Flying down the steep descent, his heart pounded. A draft of an unseen arm swiped past his shoulder. Sweat saturated his T-shirt.

  His feet pin-wheeled along the pavement outside.

  Mark clenched a fistful of his shirt. Stepping into the sunlight, he gasped for air.

  Whatever almost nabbed him had evaporated.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Ah, nuthin’,” Mark said while they entered the house.

  Images of the boy still blazed through his brain, the brief moment with him so much more powerful than the close encounter with the invisible beast. That unseen hand swiping for him, left his mind as he touched his mouth, recalling the warmth of those velvet lips, the stirring of sexual yearning. His heart raced. The boy’s tears had stopped once the two of them made contact, Mark’s presence somehow an antidote to the sadness. And for Mark, being close to the boy had been so comfortable. So natural.

  Shutting his eyes, his emotions jumbled.

  He’d never felt this strongly about anyone.

  December 1862

  At dinner, Jonathan took a special interest in Riley’s scar, like ogling a third hand or lizard skin. Maybe he was waiting for it to open and an army of spiders to scuttle out.

  “Thought you were fighting for abolition,” Emma said, stabbing her piece of cake with her fork. She’d grown accustomed to being the only female at the dinner table, but she usually knew where each of the men stood in their minds and hearts. Papa and Riley were the same, but Jonathan had been distant over the last months. Aside from earning his place next to Papa by agreeing to every errand without question, Jonathan stayed a stranger.

  “Mostly, that’s been fact. But, General Pope’s recruited us here and there to back him.” Riley’s eyes shone with pride as he glanced to Papa for validation. “Those red-devils needed to be put down, and put down we did. We couldn’t say no.”

  Jonathan’s glare could’ve scorched a hole through the wall. His jawline tensed, and he pushed his dessert plate away, untouched.

  “Good. Perhaps we’ll see the end of the Indian removal one day soon.” Papa smiled, licking a crumb from his lips. “The savages should’ve known their place. Now look at them.”

  The sugary taste in Emma’s mouth soured. She wondered what the young woman still recovering upstairs had gone through before coming to this house. And what destiny had in store for an outcast hiding in the enemy’s midst. Emma missed her younger brother more than she’d allow herself to feel. “Where’s Hugh?” A forkful of cake kept her from prattling on about her opinions of war.

  “He’s on duty watching the prisoners. The ones on trial’ll be sentenced in the next couple of days. That’s one of the reasons I came home. To give Papa the good news.” He pushed his tongue against his cheek. “You want some of them bodies to study?”

  Papa’s eyes expanded into saucers. “Depending on how many, I might have to turn your sister’s room into a lab for my experiments.”

  “My room?” Her face contorted with confusion. Although an illogical proposition, her father had already commandeered Hugh’s room to consult with patients, so there was a precedent. But why not Riley’s room since he was still away? Or sticking to the basement?

  “Ah, it’s so fun to make you wiggle like a worm,” Papa said.

  With her father’s history of lacking forthrightness, Emma felt like an off-balanced scale. Suddenly she necessitated a place to relocate the Dakota girl in the off chance Papa was serious. The wheels in her brain spun rapidly.

  Her father and brother chuckled, side-glancing each other. Emma wondered how else they might be conspiring against her, or if that was all in her head.

  “What’re your thoughts on the state of this country, the war?” Riley asked Jonathan.

  The questioned focused on his untouched plate.

  “You a deaf mute or something?” Riley asked.

  Jonathan slipped a finger under his collar and tugged. “I seen my share of bloodshed, sir. That’s ‘bout all I be inclined to speak on.”

  “Are you lacking in principles?” Riley asked. “Or, just not care about your country? I’m right curious.”

  “Oh, I care plenty. Some might say too much.” Jonathan locked gazes with Riley and leaned his arms on the table, appearing to want to light his target on fire with his mind. “There ain’t no shame in bein’ rooted in town.” He eyed Emma. “Someone’s gotta take care of folks around here. Ain’t that right?”

  “In fact,” Papa said, “I trust you’ll do just that while we’re away.”

  “Now that’s some trust, leavin’ him with her—alone,” Riley said.

  “I can take care of myself,” Emma said. “Besides, with Sasha and the infirmed, I’m far from alone.”

  “You take care of yourself, all right. But if I catch you obliging this one, I’ll have both your skins, you hear me?” her brother said, glowering arrow points at Jonathan, who didn’t seem at all flustered by the threat.

  That flicker of admiration she’d once caught in Jonathan’s eyes was long gone.

  Riley’s suspicion that Emma was currently sharing a bed with the hired help quickly faded. The body language and expressions of secret lovers hadn’t materialized, and Riley kept vigilant for a few extra seconds, anticipating he’d trap a trace of it. However, the corners of his mouth soon drooped in disappointment.

  A solution to her predicament struck Emma like a fairy godmother’s wand. She turned to her father. “Oh, I almost forgot. Jonathan’s wife will be joining us. Seems she’ll likely arrive while you’re gone.”

  Jonathan appeared incapable of blinking.

  “Splendid,” Papa said. “Perhaps that’ll improve your disposition, Jon.”

  Emma recalled what his face had looked like when he’d been mid-smile the day they’d met. What did his teeth even look like? And what made him happy? A more immediate matter: she wondered if he’d go along with her plan.

  —

  Emma flipped past a few of the portraits in her sketchpad, including one of the infirmed girl recuperating on the bed here in her room. Studying her rendition of Hugh, she pined for him to come home. He understood her without words. The whole galaxy could implode, but she wouldn’t notice while puddling into his arms. She contemplated what it might be like to feel that way about someone who wasn’t her brother. Even Ollie, who faded to a distant memory, despite his image penciled on a couple of these pages, never shielded her from the outside world like Hugh. Ollie had been too busy pulling society’s curtain away, making her look at all the things she didn’t see. Thanks to him, she watched the wars with open eyes.

  In spite of crossing paths with Jonathan every day in the house, he may as well have lived in the next count
y. He’d somehow mastered the art of not looking up when she entered the same space. She’d have preferred a scowl to being treated like she didn’t exist, but she’d learned a long while ago you can’t make anyone do what you want. That exact dilemma was about to face her now. What would Jonathan do?

  Emma set the notepad down and stormed over to his door, her feet steadfast. After considering putting off speaking to him until later—like the following day, or never—she knocked.

  It was so quiet on the other side that he’d probably gotten an early start to his chores.

  She rapped again, this time a touch louder.

  The door opened and Jonathan squinted at her. “Oh, it be you.” His unbuttoned shirt flopped opened. “I figured it’d be my wife.”

  Keeping her vision level, she said, “Yeah, about that. I need your help.” She thumbed in the direction of her bedroom just a few steps away.

  “Not sure I’m obliged to lend that kind of help,” he said, with a nasal quality she guessed was supposed to echo Riley’s voice, while closing the door in her face.

  “Nothing like that, I assure you.” Emma nudged the door back open and exhaled. “This is quite serious.”

  With an expression of annoyance, he buttoned his shirt and pursued her into the adjoining room. When they overlooked the bed, he’d failed to close his mouth.

  “Meet your fictional wife,” Emma said.

  “Is she?”

  “She’s Dakota. And she’s been chronically ill. She sleeps most of the time.”

  “Your pa?” Jonathan tongued his cheek. “What ‘bout her—?”

  “Thus far he hasn’t suspected. Half the time he falls asleep in his office. But now that she’s improving and might wander, I figured it best to have an explanation. With a change of hair and one of my dresses, she’ll be fine from a distance.”

  “That’ll have to be some distance.” He crossed his arms. “What made you think to let me in on this scheme of yours?”

  “For one, you already helped me once.” She wanted to profess how that proved he was a good man, but reconsidered over-praising him. “For another, I know you loathe what the men in my family stand for. That left a chance I might be able to count on you.”