Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

by Tucholke, April Genevieve

  “Neely is right, though,” River said. His face had become dark and raw, with the beginning of the storm, and I wondered if I could trust it. “Neely’s right, and I should keep my glowing hands off of you. He’s always right, the bastard. Violet, can I tell you something?”

  “Yes.”

  Thunder crashed.

  River flinched. “I hate thunderstorms. I ditched my uptight private school and ran off to New Mexico a few months ago. It didn’t rain. Not once. I didn’t dream about burning up Neely. I didn’t dream about anything. I haven’t slept that well until . . . until I got here. And met you.

  “My mother wasn’t an archeologist, or a chef,” he continued, after a few seconds of silence. “She was a big-hearted socialite who died five years ago. She drowned at sea, like a character in a poem. Fell off a yacht in the middle of a storm. I was there. I watched her go over the side, watched as she hit the black water and disappeared.”

  Freddie died five years ago too. I knew about missing and I knew about death. “I’m sorry,” I said. And I meant it.

  “She used to tell me that I didn’t have to be like him. Like my dad. She said I should be compassionate, even to people who didn’t deserve it. But Neely takes after her, in that way. Not me. He . . . he took her death hard. That’s when he starting fighting—really fighting. It was every day, for a while.” River ran his hands through his hair and leaned back into the couch again. “But he didn’t get punished for it. I did.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t touch him. And I didn’t let him touch me.

  “A year after my mom died, I got the glow,” River said. His eyes were closed. “I got the glow, and then I did something stupid. I had the best intentions, but you know what they say about those.”

  River opened his eyes, sighed, and closed them again. “It was my father’s birthday. My father, well, he’d loved my mother. Really loved her, despite all his affairs. Despite all the times he got distracted by the young pretty things that threw themselves in his path, because of his money. My parents had been best friends since they were children. High school sweethearts. Her death about killed him. So I came up with what I thought was a brilliant idea for a birthday present, stupid kid that I was. I found him in his office, sitting in the sunshine and staring at the wall. I went up to William Redding II and put my hand on his. I let him see my mother. I let him see her for . . . for a long time. Until he was crying. And then I pulled my hand away.”

  Thunder boomed, and River flinched again. He leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees. “He beat me for it, once he figured out what happened,” he continued. “My father took a paperweight from his desk and hit me with it until he broke two of my ribs.”

  River said this without a trace of self-pity, as if he were reading a recipe or giving directions.

  I could hear the raindrops on the roof above, pounding, pounding, as if they were trying to get inside.

  “And for all that my father kicked the hell out of me, he made me do it again,” River said. “He made me do it over and over until he went half mad with it, seeing my mother in front of him, ripe with life like the day before she died. And he didn’t stop there. From then on, if anyone disagreed with him, he called me in to fix things. I did what I could. Like I said, I was better at controlling the glow when I was younger. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. I killed my first man because my father demanded it. Or made him kill himself, at least. Just because he had the nerve to refuse an offer from a Redding. Dad likes himself a good pinot, and wanted to buy this man’s vineyard. The guy was Italian, and brought the vines all the way from the home country when he was a boy. He refused to sell. Well, guess who won, in the end? The kind, stubborn old vintner went down, and my father, William Redding II, now has his own wine label. And damn me to hell, I helped him get it.”

  I wrapped my arms around River. I didn’t think about it. I didn’t think about the glow. I just did it. We stayed like that for a long, long time, all tangled up in each other, until the storm died away, and the wind quieted down.

  Then River wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt, and blinked fast. “Dad wants me back because he’s grown addicted to it, to what I can do. He needs to keep seeing my mother, even though it’s driving him mad. He can’t let her go. I swear, it’s worse than a drug. I know Neely thinks I have a problem, but my father is much worse. ‘A Rose for Emily’—was that the name of the story you told us?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve been thinking about that a lot. About Emily, and how she couldn’t let the man she loved go, and she went crazy from it. I don’t think my father is completely . . . sane.” River put his face to my neck. His hands were on my back, his fingers aligning with my spine. “Neely is the peacemaker. Which is hilarious considering how many fights he gets in. He thinks he can convince our dad to change. To stop. Or let me stop, at least. But he’s wrong—my brother has no idea what he’s up against. Besides, he never quits fighting long enough to help out anyway.” River shook his head. “Neely seems open and sweet, and he is. Mostly. But he’s got a temper. Just like our dad.”

  “And you,” I said.

  “And me,” River answered.

  We sat for a bit longer, in each other’s arms, both done talking. Eventually River began to run his thumb up the inside of my arm, bare skin on bare skin. Neely’s voice was in my head, telling me to make River stop, but I ignored it. I wanted to see what would happen.

  River had his hands on my cheeks now. My skin tingled, and I felt that River-thing starting. The good feeling, flowing through me, calming me down.

  I wondered, in the far back of my mind, if River was using the glow on me a lot more that he’d admitted. I wondered if he was, in fact, using it every time he touched me.

  He had touched me a lot.

  I might even be getting addicted to it. Like him. And his father.

  Maybe he couldn’t help himself. Maybe he genuinely wanted to touch me, and didn’t know he was using the glow. But that didn’t change anything. Maybe it made it worse.

  I put two hands on River’s chest and shoved. River opened his eyes and looked at me. His face was flushed, and I supposed mine was too. I got to my feet, and then River got to his feet, and we were both standing there, looking at each other with our flushed faces.

  “Daniel Leap was my uncle,” I said, because now seemed like as good a time as any. “My half uncle. And you killed him. Before I got to know who he really was. That cross you took down off the wall in your bedroom had letters hidden in it, written from my grandfather, who was not Lucas White, but John Leap. Painter.”

  River shook his head. He looked a little taken aback.

  “Let me read them,” he said. He was serious. As serious as when he talked about his dad and the paperweight. “Now.”

  I pulled the letters out of my skirt pocket and gave them to River. He read them, twice, and handed them back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “I didn’t know. He was a drunk that insulted you and neglected his kid. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Yeah. I know, River. But at some point you’re going to have to learn how to deal with injustice, like the rest of us non-glowers. It’s part of life. You can’t punish everyone.”

  “I can try.”

  “Well, maybe you could think of a way that doesn’t involve people shooting each other. Or cutting their throats in the town square. Life isn’t a gritty Western novel, River. We’re trying to be civilized here, and you’re acting like it’s Deadwood.”

  River laughed. “That’s because I wish it was.”

  I didn’t laugh with him. But, damn it, I knew what he meant. I’d read enough Zane Grey and McMurtry, seen enough Sergio Leone, that the words lonely gunslinger and vigilante justice sent a sweet burst of excitement through me.

  “Are there more letters?” River asked, after I didn’t respond. “Are th
ese the only letters of Freddie’s that you’ve found? I . . .” He hesitated and got that strange look on his face, the one I’d seen before. “Because I’d really like to read anything else you find,” he finished, soft and quiet.

  “No, I haven’t found any others,” I said, looking at him closely. “Why? Why do you want to know?”

  And then River’s strange look went away and he just kind of laughed, soft and gentle like a summer breeze. And that laugh was so different from the one in the attic, so one hundred percent in every way different. It couldn’t have been River up there.

  But then . . . who?

  And a thought occurred to me, a thought so big, it pushed all my other thoughts—like the letters and Daniel Leap and River’s Deadwooding—off to the side.

  Why hadn’t River been curious about who was actually in the attic, glowing Gianni, and laughing? He hadn’t asked any questions. Hadn’t speculated on any answers. Why?

  A terrible, cruel little voice inside me said there was a good reason River wasn’t curious. River said the glow made people forget things sometimes. If it could make me forget, it could make River forget too.

  River already suspected himself. And that’s why he didn’t want to talk about it.

  I felt tired, suddenly. Old and worn out and used up and fit for the fire like a cheap pulp novel that was missing pages and bad to begin with anyway. Here I was, dealing with River and the glow, and devils, and a tied-up Jack in an attic, when my life a few days ago had been nothing but iced tea on Sunshine’s porch and trying to find some money for groceries.

  That Violet seemed far, far away.

  “I’m sleeping in my own room tonight,” I said, in a flimsy, frail little voice that I hated. “And damn it, River, I’m letting you off easy. So don’t touch anyone. Don’t touch Luke or Sunshine or Jack. Just go back to the guesthouse and go to sleep. I mean it.”

  “Don’t, Violet,” he said. “Please don’t leave. The storm . . .”

  But I did leave. I turned my back and walked out.

  CHAPTER 24

  I TRIED TO read, though it was well after midnight. I grabbed seven books from the Citizen’s substantial library and spread them on the bed around me. But I didn’t open them. Not even the thousand-page book with the footnotes and the two magicians, which I was always in the mood for.

  I just sat and looked out my window into the dark, running my hand through the fringe on the lampshade near the bed.

  The skin on the back of my neck prickled.

  I got out of bed, threw a yellow Freddie shawl over my shoulders, and left.

  I walked by Luke’s bedroom door. I could still hear Sunshine’s voice inside, and other shuffling, rustling noises as well. When had Luke and Sunshine progressed from kissing to piss me off to kissing for the sake of kissing?

  I felt creepy, suddenly, standing outside my brother’s door, hearing something between them that, for once, I wasn’t supposed to be hearing. I felt my face go hot. Just like that, I knew. I knew that all their groping and kissing in front of me, to make me mad . . . it was bullshit. I was just the excuse. Because Luke and Sunshine liked each other. Really liked each other.

  I turned away, a little bit stunned.

  But I didn’t move. I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want to go back to my room, back to staring at the books and feeling like I was being watched.

  And then, before I could even comprehend what they were doing, my feet started moving. Down the hall. Up to the attic.

  River was gone, and I wasn’t sure if I was pleased about that or not.

  I stared into the attic’s shadows, again getting that watched feeling, like I had in my bedroom, and the kitchen, and at the Glenship.

  At least no one was laughing this time.

  My eyes fell on the black trunk. It’s why I’d come back—I just didn’t know it until I got upstairs. I went over, knelt down, and opened it. I took out the empty gin bottle, the dried rose, the red card, and the dresses. There it was.

  I pulled the dark wooden cross out, pressed the back, and slid the panel open. When I turned it over, creased pages of paper drifted to the floor. There were five in all. Five pages. Five letters.

  My eyes scanned down to the bottom of the first. I expected to find John’s name again. But the first letter was signed by someone else. I flipped through all five pages, reading fast, and then faster—

  January 11, 1928

  Dear Freddie,

  How can you say you’re going to marry him?

  You don’t mean it. Lucas is kind, and steady, but he’s not for you. And yes, I know he’s building you a très grand house by the sea, but you will never live there. It can’t happen. It won’t happen.

  You are so young, still. We all are. We’re children.

  Don’t grow up, Freddie.

  A plea from a friend,

  —Will

  February 18, 1928

  Freddie.

  Marry me.

  You know me better than anyone. You were there, when it first happened. The first burn.

  We gave each other our innocence, in that Manhattan cellar, while the party raged above. To this day, whenever I hear footsteps on ceilings, I think of you.

  We tell each other everything. We’ve given each other everything.

  I know what you will say. What you always say.

  So fine, don’t marry me. But, if not me, marry Chase. He, at least, has passion. Nerve. Heart. He’s traveled. He can hold his own in a conversation, and he’s tried to read Joyce. His parents adore you. They’ve never been the same since Alexandra fell out of that tree house and died.

  His family could use some of your easy charm. Your laughter. Your zest for life. Please don’t marry Lucas. He will bore you and you will be unfaithful. Spare him. Spare yourself.

  Love,

  —Will

  June 10, 1929

  Dear Freddie,

  It’s not what you think.

  I was getting better. I had it under control. You made me promise never to use it, after the church burned. And I tried. I did. It was only supposed to be the once.

  Rose. And Chase. I’m sure you knew. Our families have been visiting each other for years, and Rose had been enamored with him since she was in braids. It was bound to happen, I suppose. I should have guessed. And then to find them, the way I did, in his bedroom . . . it was a shock. She’s only sixteen. They . . . they weren’t right for each other. Rose is too sensitive, too innocent, for a playboy like Chase. I couldn’t believe he seduced her. I was angry, so angry. I only meant to scare him off a little, make him think her unfaithful, so he would leave her alone, and let her go free . . .

  It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

  I thought it would just make him stop loving her . . .

  I gave him that jackknife, on his fourteenth birthday. It was for our fishing trips. For cutting nets and lures and fish and things.

  Instead he used it on my sister’s throat.

  I’m quitting. I’m done. Forever.

  You remember that time we smoked opium, up in the Glenship attic? Chase said you wouldn’t and you had to prove him wrong. Well, this thing I have, it’s worse than opium, Freddie. So much worse. I may need to go away for a while. But I will overcome this.

  I love you, Freddie. Forever and ever and ever and ever,

  —William

  December 15, 1942

  Dear Freddie,

  You are the only person who understands me. You are the only person who knows besides my family. Your silence these last years has been . . . unbearable.

  Someday I might have sons of my own, sons who share my hair color. And may selfishness. And my burn. I worry, Freddie. Remember how scared we were, when I first grabbed your hand and made you see your older brother in his lieutenant’s uniform? You slapped me so hard, my nose bled
for an hour.

  And afterward you took me in your skinny arms and told me everything would be all right, over and over again.

  I went to Echo, five years ago. Just to see it once more. I didn’t tell anyone I was going. I just drove there one day. I went to Glenship Manor. It’s boarded up, on its way to becoming a ruin.

  It nearly broke my heart.

  We made love once, in the library, late one night, behind the green velvet curtains. Do you remember?

  I went to see Rose too. You had her buried in your family’s mausoleum, so she could rest forever in the town she loved. I never thanked you for that.

  I saw the film Citizen Kane the other day.

  It made me think of you.

  You are my Rosebud, Freddie.

  —Will

  March 13, 1958

  Freddie,

  John tells me True drowned. Yes, I have one of your old lovers keeping an eye on you. Don’t blame him. He’s still in love.

  John said you stopped wearing makeup and drinking and sponsoring artists and throwing parties and all the things you used to adore so much. All the things that gave you life. He said you’ve holed up in your mansion, and spend your days staring at the ocean, or the sky.

  People die, Freddie. Even children, sometimes. It’s not your fault. God’s not punishing you for being wild. Just like he’s not punishing me for . . . things I’ve done. It’s just life.

  You always said I had the Devil in me, when we were young. But people can change. I’ve changed. I’m not the Devil, Freddie.

  Write to me. Please.

  —Will

  I got dressed and went to the guesthouse. I picked my way over the dark, wet grass, shuddering with each cold gust from the sea. River was still awake, sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t show it. I told him to go wake up Neely, because I had something to show them. He didn’t say a word, just went down the hall and did as I’d asked.