by S. D. Perry
Greg snorted, a big, dumb grin on his face. “You like rainy days and walking on the beach.”
“You believe in it, right?” Liz asked, looking at Amanda.
“What?” Amanda stared at her, her brain taking a second to catch up. “Do I believe in astrology?”
“Yeah. You had a premonition, right? So you know there’s more to this universe than the things we can see and touch. The stars have things to tell us, if we—”
“No, I don’t fucking believe in fucking astrology,” Amanda said, too loud, and just about everyone laughed, and she glanced over at Greg because he laughed really funny, kind of loony—and she read things in his face, in the blurry dark that shadowed his face. She didn’t see—she just knew, watching him laugh, knew things about him that she hadn’t known before. She knew he ate frozen waffles almost every morning, drenched and sopping with imitation maple syrup. She knew he and Cam were fucking, and he liked to do it doggie-style the most, because he loved the way she flipped her hair over her shoulder when he pounded into her, and she knew that Cam was the third girl he’d ever been with, and the only one he thought had a good body. She knew he was going to enlist in the marines in the next month or so, shortly after a knockdown fight with his old man about…about…
“You saw something, didn’t you? You said you did, at Pam’s, everyone said you did,” Liz said, a whining, pleading sound in her voice, and Amanda looked at her and saw that beneath that tousled blonde face, Liz thought about killing herself often, regularly, and she had a cat named Duchess, and she wanted to cry now because everyone was laughing, but she would push it down, push it down, she wouldn’t cry in front of them, she wouldn’t.
Amanda didn’t panic, because she was high, and because the awareness seemed natural and wasn’t accompanied by visuals, and because knowing that Liz wanted to kill herself made her feel fucking awful, and it seemed important that she not say the wrong thing. Everyone was watching; she knew she should be funny and mean, but she didn’t want Liz to have to…to hurt like she did.
“What everyone says doesn’t matter,” she said, and smiled, made it as sincere as she could manage, aware that she was tripping but it was all good, she could deal, she would deal. “We all believe in something. Whatever floats your boat, right?”
Liz smiled uncertainly, and Amanda also knew that the wannabe hippie girl was going to lose her virginity and get pregnant on the same night, sometime in the summer because there was the smell of cut grass, outside, she’s outside and she doesn’t love him but she hopes he’ll like her now and it hurts, stings, kind of, but she doesn’t say so, she doesn’t want to ruin anything—
“I gotta get out of here,” Amanda said, and dropped her coffee and stood up. She couldn’t deal, after all, and she didn’t want to make a scene like at Pam’s, but she couldn’t stay, didn’t want to sit and know all these things, and why the fuck did she get high, what was she thinking? A half dozen faces turned to her, all looking up and some of them smiling, some of them not, and Cam and Greg laughed but she didn’t look at them. She forced a grin and said, “Need some fresh air, bitches,” not looking at any of them, making their faces just ovals in the dark. She didn’t want to know any more. She grabbed her bag and turned and stumbled back toward the sunlight, up the mud-caked steps and into the ruined field where she’d once gone to school. It had gotten hot out, and the sun had washed the colors from the world. She walked quickly back to the nearest street, the little dead-end Eleanor. There were only a handful of houses across from the wrecked demolition site, and she found herself staring at the one near the corner, the small blue Cape Cod, the one with the perfect lawn and the roses. Dick Calvin lived there, but he’d probably be dead soon. Within a week or two, because lately he couldn’t stop thinking about…about…
Almost got it like with Greg; if I concentrate, I could I bet I could—
“Shit shit shit,” she whispered, and there were footsteps behind her. Devon, of course. She turned, not sure how to explain what had happened, not sure what to do—should she go to the hospital or something, should she lie down, drink water, go back to bed? She was freaking, big-time—and she saw Devon’s anxious face and knew that he felt a little put out with her theatrics, and he was worried…and she also knew that some men were going to beat him up and throw him into the bay and he was going to drown. She could see his pale, bloated face in the morning light as he floated out from under the old ferry pier, his pretty eyes fixed and staring and terrible, his hair shifting gently in the lap of the cold water.
He grabbed her, which was good because she’d started not to be able to breathe, and even as she felt his fingers wrap around her arms, she was falling, her legs going weak. Devon dropped with her, supporting her weight to the ground, and she took a few deep, whooping breaths and started to cry.
“The fuck, Devon,” she wailed, and held on tight, seriously afraid for her sanity.
Karen got six separate calls the night of the killings at Le Poisson, five of them from friends and neighbors looking to pass along details. Sarah drank wine and listened to her sister exclaim over the unfolding story, relieved that Tommy was home and safe. She briefly considered going upstairs to tell him—she thought it might be a good idea if he heard about it from her first—but decided morning would be soon enough. Particularly after the sixth call, which was a cancellation for the following week. A semicelebrity couple, some radio DJ and his new bride, had been planning to take their honeymoon in Port Isley and had booked a week at Karen’s house. The man called to say that the killings would be big news for a while, and he and his wife were looking for something a little quieter. Karen had bitched for two hours straight, and Sarah had gotten more than a little tipsy, providing encouragement and support, agreeing that the world was going to hell. Despite the grim circumstances, it had been nice to connect with her sister. And nice not to be the one in need, for a change.
The next morning after breakfast there was another cancellation—and calls from two different news channels asking if Karen would comment about the killings. Sarah sat in the kitchen nursing her hangover—too much red wine gave her a bitch of a headache the day after—and listened to Karen start up again, a rehash of her rant the night before as she put away pastries and stored quiche from the morning brunch. She needed the income, was counting on it, she wasn’t in the red, by any means, but most of what Byron had left her had been put back into Big Blue, and she didn’t want to dip into the savings account…
“I mean, what kind of people, you know?”
Sarah blinked and played back the last bit of conversation. Something about the gall of the media, to drive away her business and then call to get her opinion on the matter.
“I totally agree,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m all out of focus.”
Karen gave her a half smile. “You do look like shit,” she said, keeping her voice low. Both of the couples currently staying at Big Blue had gone out after brunch, but Karen had apparently gotten used to keeping her voice down since opening the house.
“Thanks so much,” Sarah said, and took another sip of coffee. There was a clatter on the back stairs; Tommy bounded into the kitchen a minute later. She just had time to register that he was fully dressed—his hair still askew from sleep, but his shoes tied and he was wearing a clean shirt—before he scooped up a cheese Danish and plopped down next to her. Usually, he slopped around in his pajamas until noon.
“Did you hear about the murders?” he asked. Casually.
Sarah raised her eyebrows. “You heard about them?”
Tommy poured a half glass of orange juice. “Yeah, last night. Some people were talking about it on the trade channel. This morning, too. There are already a bunch of news vans in town.”
He took a sip of juice and looked at Sarah. “Jeff and some other kids are going to go down to where the reporters are, to see if they can get interviewed. Can I go?”
Some people were talking about it. Jeff Halliway, thank you again. Sarah glanced
at Karen and saw that her sister was staying out of it; Karen picked up a bottle of wood polish and a roll of paper towels and headed back into the dining room.
“You want to get interviewed?” she asked, stalling.
“Nah. I just thought it’d be something to do,” he said, and hooked his finger into the center of the Danish, pulling out the cheese part. “It sounds like half the town is already down there.”
Sarah hesitated. He was old enough to ride his bike to and from the park at home and regularly hung out with his friends after school. He was only twelve, but tall for his age, and smart about being safe. On the other hand, Port Isley wasn’t really familiar territory, and twelve was so very young…
And people were murdered, don’t forget. It wasn’t a field trip to the library. Port Isley was having a run of bad luck, no question, and while the events of the past two weeks didn’t seem connected, she wasn’t feeling encouraged about the sanity of the vacation town’s residents.
“I’ll be back before lunch,” he added.
He’s not a baby anymore, she thought, and sighed. She supposed she should be happy he was getting some outside time.
“Take the cell,” she said. “Call me when you get where you’re going. And sunblock before you leave. Especially your nose and the back of your neck.”
“OK.” Tommy drank off his juice and stood up, smiling at her. The smile was sweet and full of good humor, and she wondered at how unpredictable kids could be. A week ago, he was all wide-eyed wonder at the prospect of a murder scene. Now it was business as usual…and his sudden nonchalance struck her with a clear glimpse of the young man he was becoming. As always, the recognition was a mixed bag—pride, mostly, but there was some nostalgic sadness in it, too, and vague anxiety for the upcoming teens.
He was gone a moment later, back up the stairs, and Sarah strongly considered going back to bed for a little while. She could see if Karen needed anything and then crawl back under the covers, flip through one of the courtroom thrillers she’d picked up at the bookstore the other day and just drift…
The kitchen phone rang, the noise startlingly loud. Sarah waited for the second ring, hoping Karen would bustle back in, but no luck. She actually groaned as she pushed herself out of her chair, vaguely remembering how she could drink like a fish when she was in college and still go jogging the next day. Getting older wasn’t much fun.
She cleared her throat, picked up on the third ring. “Good morning, Big Blue,” she said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Karen?” The voice was doubtful. The voice was that of her ex-husband, Tommy’s father. Sarah closed her eyes.
“No, it’s me,” she said. “What’s up?”
Jack breathed into the phone, a sound she recognized instantly and found intensely annoying. It was his hesitant, I’m-not-sure-how-to-say-this breathing.
“Your sister’s little town is all over the news this morning,” he said, and did his little breath thing again, a pause, a measured exhale through the nose. “I wanted to see how you were. How Tommy is.”
Sarah waited for the ache to settle in, or the anger. It was always one or the other when they spoke.
“We’re fine,” Sarah said, sitting back in her chair. “Karen’s had a couple of cancellations, and there’s a lot of morbid gossip going around, but I suppose that’s to be expected. Small town and all. Tommy’s curious, but he doesn’t seem anxious. To me, anyway. He’s actually out with some friends, but he’ll be back for lunch. If you want to call back.”
“Ah…OK,” he said, and did he sound a bit disappointed, perhaps, that she wasn’t reacting the way he’d come to expect? She expected to feel happy, realizing that she’d thwarted him somehow, denying him his ego stroke…and again, nothing. She felt like he was Tommy’s father and deserved her civility for that, but she owed him nothing else. Not her friendship, certainly, after how he’d behaved. And not her…her engagement.
I don’t have to care about him anymore, she thought, and realized that it was already a done deal. Karen walked back into the kitchen, raised her eyebrows at her. Sarah shook her head, smiling a little.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Jack asked. “You sound…different. Distant.”
“I’m great,” she said. “Should I tell Tommy you’re going to call? I know he wants to talk about his visit next week. He’s excited about watching fireworks from the boat.”
“Sure, fine. You’re still bringing him on the thirtieth, right?”
“Right.”
“We’re really looking forward to having him,” Jack said.
She felt a slight sourness at his casual use of we, but only because she thought he was probably lying. From Tommy’s reports and her own brief observations, Sarah suspected that Vanessa had no idea how to interact with her new husband’s son—and, in fact, resented having to share Jack with anyone else.
“I’ll tell him you’ll call,” Sarah said. “Listen, I should run. Karen needs help with the dishes.”
“Oh, sure,” Jack said. “OK. I just wanted to tell you, if you need anything, or you think the environment up there is getting too…well, stressful, and you want to bring Tommy sooner…”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Really, we’re good.”
“OK.” His disappointment was obvious now, and she wondered how she hadn’t ever noticed before, that he liked knowing she was still a mess because of him, or at least expected as much. “I guess I’ll let you go…”
“Thanks, Jack. Bye.”
She hit the hang up and looked over at Karen, feeling shockingly OK with her relationship to her ex…and more than a little confused by how suddenly this OK-ness had come. It was where she wanted to be, where she’d hoped that time would eventually take her, but she hadn’t even come close to this kind of acceptance in the months following the dissolution of her marriage. She’d faked it pretty well, even convincing herself, at times, but this was different. This was…this was permanent.
“You feel all right?” Karen asked.
“I think I should drink more often,” Sarah said, shaking her head, which still throbbed ever so slightly. All things considered, she felt amazing.
Devon and Amanda walked to Devon’s house, where, at Devon’s insistence, Amanda took one of his uncle’s muscle relaxants, drank a glass of water, and curled up on the couch in the den. On the way to his home, she continued to “see” things—get feelings about houses and the people inside—but she was so upset it all blurred together. Which she welcomed. It was the closest she could come to blocking the knowledge that kept coming at her.
After Devon had buzzed around her for a few minutes, getting her a blanket, offering food, she started to calm down. By the time he perched himself on the arm of the couch by her feet, she felt like it—the episode, the whatever-it-was—was over. She felt exhausted, like she hadn’t slept for a week. Devon folded his arms tightly and studied her, and all she felt looking back at him was what she could see on his face—confusion and worry.
Thank fucking God. She didn’t see him beaten and dead and floating by the pier…but she had seen it, and she had to decide what to tell him. All she’d been able to get out on their dizzying journey to his house was that she was losing her mind.
“Can you talk about it yet?” Devon asked.
Amanda sat up a little, crossing her own arms. “I started having all these psychic flashes,” she said. “I started…knowing things, in the basement. I knew about Greg’s life, and Liz’s, all this stuff I didn’t know.”
“Like what?”
“Like…I knew all these details.”
Devon nodded slowly. “Like…”
“Greg eats waffles for breakfast. And he likes fucking Cam doggie style. And Liz has a cat named, uh, Duchess. And she thinks about killing herself, like, a lot.”
Devon smiled. “Doggie style, huh? I would’ve pegged them for missionary.”
“The Lawn King on Eleanor, the old guy? He’s going to kill himself.”
Devon nod
ded again, his smile fading. “You got high, right?” “Yeah,” she said. “I think that set it off, or something.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “I thought I was losing my mind. Everywhere I looked, I saw—I knew all these things about people. And I—”
She faltered, thinking about the one thing she actually had seen. She took another deep breath; she’d just tell him, say the words…and then she saw the look on his face. The very wary look.
“You don’t believe me?”
“No, I do,” he said. “You definitely…you were flipped out, no question. I just—I thought after we talked with that reporter, you were saying how he was totally right, how you must have just had a bad dream about Brian Glover and the Dicks and your subconscious made it seem like the same kind of thing…”
“I know,” Amanda said. “But today, just now, I’m telling you, I knew stuff.”
“But you were high…right?”
Amanda sat up straighter, hugging herself tighter. “I was high at Pam’s party, too.”
“Right, you were…” He trailed off, still looking at her with that expression, a careful arrangement of his features. “I’m just trying to figure this out, is all.”
The pain was a dull knife, turning in her gut. “You think I’m imagining all this?”
“Seriously, you had a psychic flash at the party,” he said. “But the stuff since then, you were asleep or you were stoned. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, I’m saying that maybe…maybe, like, your neurotransmitters got fucked up a little, after what happened, and now when you’re stressed or whatever…”
He left the obvious unstated, and maybe what he was saying had some validity, but she had to defend herself.
“Maybe I was wrong about the rape, but the feelings I was having—” she started.
“Feelings,” he interrupted. “You feel that Greg and Cam do it doggie-style, you feel that the Lawn King wants to off himself. You didn’t see anything.”
“Devon, when you came out after me, I saw that you were getting frustrated with me—with my theatrics.” She used the word that she’d seen in his face and watched him react now, his eyebrows going up. “You were excited because something had fucking happened, and you were worried, and you were thinking that I needed to get over myself.
