by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 32, Wednesday 28 September
Lights shone from the back windows as I came up the street alongside our house. I hadn’t left those lights on. Dad must have come home. Spiderweb patches of light slanted across Mom’s freshly churned gardens; it seemed to me that the ground should have glittered with the blood she had spilled. The stillness that had followed me since my bike had died was heavier here, my thoughts were quieter. Mike was out of the picture for good. I needed to worry about Olivia. I kept repeating that mantra as I made my way to the corner of the street and then up to the front door.
The foyer was lit up as well. I heard someone moving back in the kitchen, so I walked down the hall, stepped into the greatroom, and peeked around the corner.
When Dad saw me, he jumped. Milk sloshed out of his cereal bowl, splattering the counter. “God, you scared me, Alex,” Dad said. “Where have you been?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I went over to a friend’s house to drop something off. Is Mom ok?”
Dad took another bite of cereal, chewing slowly, and grabbed a napkin. With slow, meticulous wipes he herded the spilled milk toward the sink. “Not yet,” he said. “But she will be. I hope.”
“She seemed fine today,” I said.
He nodded. “She did. Everything’s going to be ok, Alex.”
“I saw Olivia’s parents at the hospital. She’s in a coma. They don’t know what’s wrong with her.”
“That’s awful,” Dad said, looking at me with those green eyes that Isaac had inherited. “Are you ok?”
Before I realized it, I had taken a seat on a stool opposite him. “I don’t know. Yeah, I mean, of course I’m alright. She’s the one who’s sick, after all.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I nodded.
“Look, Alex,” Dad said. “Remember what we talked about? No more secrets. What’s going on?”
I wanted to tell him; I’d never wanted to tell him more than right then. But what could I say? How could I explain a lifetime of lies, of things that would make him think I’d gone crazy? Magical powers, undying sorcerers, people in the town being drained of life, without any evidence to back up what I was saying.
More than that, though, I wanted to talk to him about Olivia, and how my stomach had tied itself into a string of knots, because she was a lifeline to normalcy for me. The way I felt about her, though, that was just as hard to say, because what did it consist of? Her smile, the way her lips curved, the way shadow and light had fallen across her face when I kissed her that first day. The lines of her legs, under my eyes, under my hands, when we sat next to each other on her bed, and there was a place that I could talk and be heard. Her unfailing hope and trust and love, even when I didn’t deserve it. The stunningly beautiful intelligence that manifested itself in her art, in her ability to capture the essence of something and give it a new life. And I wanted to talk to him about Mike, and about how I felt so stupid right then, and about what had happened that night. But those words led down a dangerous path, to something different than what Isaac was, what I had to be. And so the vaulted ceiling above us captured my uneasy breathing.
Dad just chewed, green eyes thoughtful as he watched me.
“It’s nothing, Dad,” I said. “I’m just worried about her. It’s not—” I suddenly felt the word sticking in my throat, my eyes hot. “It’s not easy to find people I want to spend that much time with, you know, and Olivia’s, well, she’s special.”
“You sure that’s all?” Dad said. “You seemed like you were upset about something else when you came in. More angry than anything else.”
The whole story was on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed it. They deserved a son like Isaac; I could give them that at least. “No, it’s just not fair. What happened to Olivia.”
“Life rarely is,” Dad said. “I’m really sorry. If there’s anything we can do for her, you know your mom and I will do it.”
“Thanks,” I said. I got up, pushed in the stool, and started back toward the stairs.
“Alex,” Dad said. I glanced back at him. He lifted his spoon, full of soggy cereal flakes, and met my eyes seriously.
“S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.”
“Not Prufrock,” I said. “Please, Dad. I’m too tired for Eliot.”
“What does it mean?” Dad said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know Italian.” Suddenly it was like it had been when Isaac was alive, when we’d sat together at dinner, and Dad had drilled us on poetry.
“You know the poem,” Dad said. “What does it mean?”
“If I believed my reply were to someone who would return to the world,” I said, scrunching my eyes up as I tried to remember. “Something like that. I gotta go to sleep, Dad.”
“That’s the beginning of a translation,” Dad said. “But what does it mean?”
“I don’t care what it means,” I said. “I’m tired, and I don’t want to play these kinds of games. Isaac was always better at it than me.” I started down the hall.
“Alex,” Dad said, his voice even. I stopped, but I didn’t look back. If he was going to punish me, I just wanted to get it over with. I was tired of dealing with other people, trying to make things work.
“He’s quoting Dante,” Dad said. “Someone speaking in Hell.” There was a long pause, and when Dad spoke again, his voice was strangely tenuous, like glass webbed with cracks. “The things we keep inside us, Alex, those things can make life a hell. The dead can’t hear us, can’t respond, so don’t expect them to share your burdens. I don’t want to force you to talk, but I just want you to know that when you’re ready, I’ll be here. Waiting. Ready to listen. And I’m always going to love you.”
I just nodded, not trusting myself to talk. The walk upstairs passed in a frenzy of blinking, trying to clear my eyes. Dad was right, of course. He was almost always right. But the things I kept inside myself—I hid them as much for my parents’ safety as for anything else. If other quickeners found out, all our lives would be forfeit, and I wouldn’t be able to do anything to protect them. And the other things I hid—the secrets that were mine, and mine alone—well, I was going to leave them behind, become someone else. There was no reason to trouble them with any of that.
In my room, everything was as it should have been. I could feel the book staring at me, even hidden under my bed, locked away in the chest. The book, with the poetry that Christopher had written me, with other things, secret things. A whole life, neatly compressed between two covers, carefully set within a chest, and locked away to gather dust in an unmarked grave. I collapsed on the bed, never more aware of that unbeating heart hidden below me.
It was strange, that he could still hold a place in my heart, even after death. I still didn’t know why I had let him carry his plans so far. I had killed two people before Christopher just for trying to raise the dead. It was forbidden, dangerous. But Christopher’s plan—it had been so brilliant, so different. I had convinced myself that it wasn’t the same thing. I had never met his mother, but the way he talked about her, and the things I saw pass between Christopher and his dad—well, I thought I knew why he wanted her back so much. Enough to pour all his intelligence, all his skill at quickening, into bringing her back.
He had known as well as I had that raising the dead is forbidden. And so he had tried something else. Not raising the dead. Rewriting history. That’s my abbreviated version of it, of course. A focus that had measured in yards, not inches, in that abandoned subway station, the steel tracks torn up and carefully aligned, creating something new. A focus that, both in scope and design, was beyond anything I could have imagined. Something that would not raise the dead, but would change the world. Create a new reality. It wa
s like something biblical—a vast unfolding of new existence, like the unrolling of a scroll. But I think I had known, all along, that what he was doing was wrong. Dangerous. And I hadn’t had the courage to stop him. At least, not until my cowardice had let him kill Isaac. And then, it had been too late. It seemed that was my curse—not too act until it was too late, until life had spiraled everything out of control, and I was left at the center of a gyre of devastation.
Someone was watching me. I could feel the weight of eyes on my back. Dad must have come up to talk, although I hadn’t heard him open the door. I rolled onto my back, sat up. “Dad, I’m really tired—”
Mike sat there, office chair turned backward, with a smile that on anyone else I would have called nervous. “Not your daddy, Asa,” he said.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I said, embarrassment fanning the spark of anger back to life. “You know, I have a front door. Maybe you could knock sometime. Or maybe you don’t want to be seen at my house. God knows what Chad would say.”
Mike leaned back in the chair. He was wearing the same clothes I had seen at the party—a button-up shirt with short sleeves, light green with a simple insignia on the breast, and a pair of dark jeans with worn moccasins. The short sleeves left his big arms bare, and I saw the traveling focus pressed tight against his bicep. He flushed at my words, the color noticeable even under his tan, and I saw his fingers tighten.
“Is that all?”
“What does that mean? Go home, Mike. You made everything pretty clear tonight.”
“Dude, you’re acting like a girl.”
That was the last straw. I stood up, grabbed him by the shirt, and hauled him to his feet. For a moment, I hesitated, my other hand clenched in a fist, trembling. He just stood there, not trying to defend himself, the silver focus I had made for him shining on his palm. I let him go and said, “Get out of here. Go home.”
He smoothed out his shirt, deep blue eyes studying me. I turned away, hoping he would just leave me alone. I was going to get up early in the morning, head over to cemetery, and hope that the sprawls left when the sun came up. That would give me the best window—after the sprawls left, but before many other people were awake. If I were quick, maybe I could get the fire started without anyone noticing. Burning a tree that large would take a big fire, so I didn’t have much of a chance of getting away with it, but I wanted every advantage I could get. If the sprawls were still there, though—well, I’d just have to wait.
“What’s this?” Mike said. He had taken his seat again, one arm folded over the back of the chair, and in his other hand he held the cardboard tube with Olivia’s painting. Before I could answer, he tugged off the lid and pulled out the canvas.
“Leave that alone,” I said.
He was already unrolling it, and I heard him draw in his breath when he saw the painting. He would recognize the tree and the cemetery, of course.
“Did you do this?” he asked. There was a new tightness to his voice.
“No,” I said. “Olivia did.”
“Olivia Weir?”
I nodded.
“Are you . . . dating?”
Another nod.
A flicker of something passed across his face. If I hadn’t been watching him, if I hadn’t known him as well as I did, I wouldn’t have noticed it. I wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but it branded itself in my mind. He carefully rolled the canvas and put it back in the tube and set it in its place.
“It’s very good,” he said, his voice painfully neutral. “You should frame it.”
“Look, Mike, I’ll keep training you, or whatever you want,” I said. “But can you just leave me alone right now? I’m having a pretty crappy day. Olivia’s in the hospital, in a coma, and I think—”
“You think what?”
“I think it’s because of the grower.”
“And what?” Mike said. “You just weren’t going to tell me?” Suddenly he leaned in toward me, angry lines pulling at his eyes and mouth. “Let me guess. You’re planning on going to deal with it alone. God, Asa, sometimes I don’t know whether you’re the bravest or the stupidest person I’ve ever met.”
“Well, I was going to tell you,” I said, “until you threw me out of your house.”
“Chad was going to beat the crap out of you,” Mike said, his voice hot now. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said. “Look, I’m a big boy, I don’t need protecting. I shouldn’t have gone over there anyway; if you’d wanted me at your birthday party, you would have invited me.”
“Is that what this is about?” Mike said. I didn’t respond. “Come on, Asa. You saw what happened. What was I supposed to do? If I invited you, I couldn’t invite Chad or any of his friends, and that’s most of the football team.”
“I didn’t say you should have invited me,” I snapped. “God, I don’t even care. Just leave me alone.” Even as I said it, though, I knew that he knew I was lying. It surprised me, a little, how much I did care. But I wasn’t going to admit it.
Mike just stared at me for a minute. Then he shook his head.
“Fine,” he said. He stood up and vanished. The chair spun slightly, caught in the momentum of his movement before quickening.
I fell onto the bed, too tired and emotionally drained to feel anything but a hazy anger. I just let myself drift for a few moments, hoping I’d fall asleep.
“Alright,” Mike’s voice made me open my eyes. “Let’s go.” He wore all the foci now, strapped up and down his tan, muscled arms.
“What?” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“Come on,” he said. “We’re going to go destroy that damn tree.”
“I’ll do it myself,” I said. “I don’t need you.”
Mike let out a frustrated sigh and ran one hand through that sandy-blond hair. “Look, Asa, I’m sorry I did whatever I did that made you mad. Whatever it was, it wasn’t intentional. You’re my friend. But I’m trying to make it up to you, and you’re being a real dick about it.”
I think my jaw fell open a little. “I’m being a dick about it?”
Mike nodded, face serious. “I didn’t want to have to be the one to tell you, but yes. You are.”
“Wow,” I said.
“So quit being a dick and let’s go,” Mike said.
I just shook my head, fighting a mixture of anger and bewilderment. After a moment, I stood up. I needed him; trying to claim anything else would be a lie. And the sooner we destroyed that tree, the better chance Olivia would have of recovering. So I swallowed my pride, tamped down my resentment, and said, “Alright. I need to grab some stuff, though.” I stepped past Mike toward the door. “Meet me in the garage.”
On my way downstairs, I managed to avoid the traitorous steps, but it turned out it wasn’t necessary. Dad sat at the counter, head resting on one arm, completely asleep. The bowl of cereal rested next to a book, both completely forgotten. I made my way back to the foyer, and I heard Dad let out a sleepy, contented breath. Poor guy; in my frustration, I had forgotten how hard the last few days had been for him, how much effort he must be putting forth to take care not only of my mom, but me too. It softened the edges of my anger, made me grateful for him, again. And it made me wish that I’d done a better job of showing that gratitude, especially tonight, when I might be going to my death. I tried not to think about that last part.
I could smell Mike in the garage, knew he was there even in the darkness. No sharp-edged cologne; just that warm, almost dusty smell that was him. Even through the chemical burn of fertilizer and the scent of oil, I could smell him. What did that say about me? What did that say, that when I was so angry with him, when I had written him off, there was still a familiarity between us—even if it was only on my end? I didn’t know. I thought back to the way I had felt around Christopher, and this time the smell of clean leather and air conditioning hit me. The smells of Isaac’s car. The two sat at opposite poles of my soul—Christopher balanced against my br
other. And both dead. It didn’t matter anymore where Mike fell, really. He had made it clear what he thought of my friendship. I wrinkled my nose, grateful for the other pungent smells of the garage that separated us.
My foot scuffed the floor of the garage, and light flickered to life. White, bright, glittering across the silver focus on Mike’s palm. “Sweet car,” he said, glancing at the Mustang and then at me.
I shrugged, found the baseball bat that was becoming my standard weapon, and grabbed the spare can of gas that Dad kept in case of emergencies. I’d fill it up later.
“Why are you riding that motorcycle around if you’ve got a car like this just sitting here? Your parents won’t let you drive it?”
“I’m ready,” I said. “Let’s just go and get this over with.”
Mike looked at me, then back at the car. “It was your brother’s, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “Since you won’t leave it alone, yes, it was my brother’s. And no, I don’t drive it. Can we go now?”
“I could tell it wasn’t yours,” Mike said. “It doesn’t really fit you.”
“Right. Great observation, Mike. My shrink will be really interested. There’s another half hour of material right there. Can we go?”
“Sure.” A pause. “So you see a shrink, huh?”
I think I growled; I don’t know if the noise actually left my throat, but it was there in spirit. Who did Mike think he was? What right did he have to poke and prod at what remained of my life? The way he talked, the way he asked questions, it was as though he had a right to answers. Sorry, but quickening wasn’t enough of an excuse for that. It wasn’t enough to build a real friendship on, as I’d found out that night.
Whether or not I actually made a noise, Mike seemed to sense my frustration. He held up both hands, that easy, relaxed laugh bubbling out. The light shifted and ran across the exposed timbers of the garage ceiling as he moved his hand. It ran in long pink streams across the Mustang, as though it were being featured at an auto show. I gritted my teeth and looked away from the car. The key, which I always kept in one pocket, was hot as any blast of energy that quickening could produce.
“Alright,” Mike said, lowering the light. “We’re going, calm down. Man, Asa, I’m going to teach you how to relax one day. You’re strung pretty tight, you know?”
“We’re about to risk our lives, Mike. Facing a too-smart army of the risen dead and, possibly, a powerful grower as well. If one of us doesn’t die—most likely me—it will be a miracle. So I think I have a reason to be a little anxious. Your acting cool, pretending you don’t have a worry in the world, it’s not helping, so you can drop it.”
Mike’s face grew serious. He stepped over to me, the light washing around us in waves. He reached down and took my hand, the focus—cool to the touch—between us. Darkness fell over the garage, everywhere except for the translucent pink glow of our joined hands.
“I’ve saved your ass too many times to count now, Asa,” Mike said. In the darkness, everything was closer, tighter. Like a whispered secret grown taut with age. “You should know by now—I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
And at that moment, the world flickered around me.
