Dark Things I Adore

by Katie Lattari

  “What made you come work at Lupine Valley anyway? No offense, but you seem to find the whole thing kind of hokey,” I say, sitting against the base of a pine tree.

  “I dunno,” he sighs. “How does anyone come to be here? If you ask me, it kind of has a way of collecting lost souls.”

  “You think so?” I ask, considering this. “I’ve always seen it as a place of—of, I dunno—transcendence.” He gives me a look that seems to say, Honey, please. It makes me hesitate. I think of his story of Autumn Francis—how she lost herself here, literally, then lost her life. According to Mantis anyway. I’ve asked around with some of the old-timer staff, and they admit that have heard similar versions, but no one dares ask Old Gus what is or is not true.

  “Maybe for the ones who use it for what it’s meant for.” One heavy eyebrow cocks. “For a term or two. The ones who move on.” He takes a big gulp of his beer, standing out in front of me. “Transcendent for the ones who make it out of here, maybe. But it collects the lost souls. Like me. Like you.” My face indicates protest, and he just laughs.

  “You’ve told me yourself: you’ve never felt comfortable, not like your true self, until you got here. Here. King City. Lupine Valley. A place where there is no real life and people don’t even use their real names.” He crunches the empty can in his fist and tosses it lazily toward my backpack. “You can pretend to be someone else for a while. Except some people need to pretend for more than just a little while. Exhibit A.” He points to me. “Exhibit B.” He points to himself.

  “I don’t think that’s fair.” I shake my head.

  “No?”

  “No.” I laugh a little. He looks at me like he’s deciding on something.

  “Moss stays because he loves that everyone licks his ass here,” he says. “He can’t stand not being beloved out there in the so-called art world immediately. And he’s what? Like, twenty? Twenty and an egomaniac. He wants to be a fully formed wunderkind.” My mouth falls open. Mantis’s words are swift, succinct. Cutting. “He thinks if he stays here long enough, he’ll somehow magically earn respect. Like he’s some sort of monk sacrificing something. He’s not sacrificing shit. This is playtime. Summer camp. He has a total cocoon/butterfly fantasy situation going on. He can’t do the real world.” Mantis, a man of few words these last many weeks, is suddenly psychoanalyzing.

  I think about fragile, cocky Moss.

  Mantis is not necessarily wrong.

  “Zephyr’s been very clear about her situation,” he barrels on, whatever has been stuck in his craw about Lupine Valley suddenly coming loose. “Hasn’t lived in any one place longer than a few months since she left Senegal six years ago. She’s a nomad. A wanderer without a home. And now suddenly she’s here and says she plans on staying for at least another term or two? In fact, I heard her talking to Old Gus about what it would take for her to become an instructor. Like you.” He gestures at me. I’m surprised. She wants to stay on as faculty?

  “God, and then there’s Cindy.” He laughs. “She’s crazy, of course. Batshit, that girl. Has been as long as I’ve known her.” He shakes his head, pacing a little. I frown, hurt by this. Coral is not crazy. I’m surprised to hear him—her close friend—frame her that way. “But has always been obsessed with drawing. And she’s good, too. You’ve seen her stuff.” He points at me, as if I am evidence. “All she’s ever wanted to do is get out of this Podunk town and become something. Someone. But her brain was born on the fritz.” He says this last part sadly, stabbing his finger into his temple. “Jumping into the goddamned lake—that’s who she is, June. Cutting her wrists. She purposefully burns herself on stovetops. Two years ago, her dad tweaked his back on the job, and she overdosed on his muscle relaxers.”

  I gaze into the brown, verdant earth, unable to look at him. “Coral has her stuff, yes. But she is not a constant wreck. And she was doing well for a long time, there—”

  “But not anymore,” he challenges, and I can’t tell if it’s a question or a statement. I finally look at him. I swallow.

  “Not anymore,” I concede. The uptick in good health and spirit we saw in her in the several weeks after the baby announcement—her tea with Zephyr, meditation with Trillium, walks and cooking with Brady—it has all turned the other way. It’s true. She’s retreated into herself. She looks unkempt. Exhausted. She’s missed a lot of work shifts, tucked away with Moss, refusing to come out. Gus has had to reprimand her many times. But I’ve held out hope, and I’ve waited for the upswing. But it hasn’t come.

  “Lupine Valley is as far as she will ever get into the ‘art world.’” Mantis kicks a pine cone away from him. “You know that, and I know that. She had these dreams of going off to college, but now there’s this baby coming along, and Brady—Brady!” Mantis laughs loud, his head thrown back so his face looks into the canopy above. “Brady wants to settle her down. Was getting her to do it there, even, for a little while. So that’s over. That dream—school? art?—that’s dead, my friend. She’ll raise that goddamned baby, and she’ll heat up Dinty Moore for Brady after his long days of logging, and she’ll clean cabins at Lupine Valley for the rest of her miserable life. Having to make do with being in proximity to real artists.” He says this like there’s a bad taste in his mouth. “Cleaning up after talent who will eventually—if they have any sense at all”—his gaze is blistering, and I feel cracked open, burnt up—“get the fuck out of here like they’re supposed to.” I can feel his eyes on me, on my flushed cheeks. “Lupine Valley is a stopover, Junie. Not a life.”

  I think of all the students who have passed through and left. I think of how Barley and Trillium, both having obligations that coincide with the academic calendar, will be leaving in a week’s time. Barley to go teach at Colby, Trillium to go learn at Brooklyn College. And Ash has secured himself an internship at a gallery in Miami. He’ll be leaving us, too. So it’ll be me, Moss, and Zephyr staying on, and we’ll see who joins us new in the fall term. Plus Coral.

  “Well, and what about you, then? Why are you at Lupine? You never answered my question,” I say, upset. “Who are you on our little island of misfit toys?” He takes a breath and takes a turn around our beautiful little clubhouse clearing. He climbs up on top of an enormous boulder. A large birch tree is nestled against its side, almost romantic. He leans against the tree, standing high above me.

  “I’ve been in some trouble before,” he says.

  “You’re going to have to do better than that, M. I feel eviscerated.” He smiles down on me, and I feel so small. I look up at him as if he’s on a pulpit.

  “When I was eighteen, I had some troubles. Let’s leave it at that,” he says firmly, and I don’t press him. “An accident, but even so.”

  His eyes rapidly dart around my face, looking for some tell. Some undesirable expression. I don’t move. It feels like the oxygen content of the air has depleted. Like I might not be able to move, even if I tried.

  “This place is like some sort of confessional.” I laugh, but it’s papery.

  “Ha.” He looks around and considers this, smiling. “It kinda is,” he agrees. He looks above and around us. “And isn’t it gorgeous? Me and C really love it here.” I think of tiny little Coral and big, overwhelming Mantis here in this place. Alone.

  Moss comes here with her, too. He’s told me about their little treks. He’s told me about how Coral becomes a more fragile, gentle person when she’s here. More vulnerable, more wide-open. More clear is what he always says. The static goes away, Junie. I’ve seen the drawings he’s done of her here. Dozens of them. Dozens and dozens. Some show her as a beacon of perfect creation. Radiance if not joy. Peace if not giddy abandon. Other drawings show deep, gulch-like tear streaks on her face. Ghastly, spreading marks of violence on her body. Her thin frame collapsing in on itself as if the weight of her own skull is too much to bear. The drawings have caused me jealousy—they are excellent. The best stuff I’ve ever see
n out of Moss—but they have also caused me pain. Anxiety. Caution. Worry. For Coral. For what Coral is doing to herself now. For what she is giving to Moss. And why.

  She must come here with them both.

  “Anyway,” Mantis sighs, sliding down off the boulder, “suffice it to say that it’s good that Gus is a forgiving man.” I come back to myself. “A man who will let you remake yourself. Isn’t that right?” I nod at him, and he smiles at me like we understand each other completely. Like we are the same. He walks across the clearing to me until he is standing over me. He is very big. Like the trunk of a tree. He could fall on me, and I’d be crushed.

  “Thought you might be here.” A low, subtle voice punctures the space. Mantis and I both turn to see Coral standing at the edge of the clearing, slight and fragile. I haven’t been near her in so long. She’s wearing her bright-yellow, spaghetti-strap summer dress—her hallmark. It drapes down to the ground. Her bare toes peek out the bottom. No shoes. The dress makes her look soft. Like a black-eyed Susan. Like the feather of a goldfinch.

  “Guilty.” Mantis smiles toothily at her then me. He reaches his hand down to me, and I flinch. He’s offering to help me up. I take his hand and stand up. “We were just finishing up, C. Weren’t we, June?” I nod blankly.

  “Can I take a shot or two?” Coral says, her voice quiet, low. Her body barely moving. Just a stalk of wheat, swaying infinitesimally. The breeze presses her dress against her body for a moment, and I can see the faintest shape of her three-months-pregnant belly—a teeny, tiny pooch against her thin frame that was never there before. I can feel Mantis’s hesitation.

  “Sure you can,” he finally tells her. I want to protest, but what would I say? I know you’ve been shooting guns since you were twelve but it makes me uncomfortable? You’re too sad to hold a gun? So I say nothing. He sets her up with the gun and then guides her toward one of the targets. I watch her squeeze off a few shots into the heart of the target. She’s a good shot. A really good shot. Mantis stands just behind her, over her shoulder like a spirit. A father. Saying quiet things to her I can’t quite hear.

  But soon it’s like static growing in the air, a signal going haywire.

  Their voices volley back and forth, the sound escalating. I look at the two of them, their bodies seeming to be bent and angled around each other, talking their secret, inflamed talk to each other. Bursting with strained secrecy. Passion. Energy that borders on a kind of violence.

  Suddenly her arm is pointing straight up into the sky, and she pulls the trigger and screams. I shudder and bring my hands to my ears.

  Mantis reaches up to grab her hand, more pissed than scared, like a parent looking to take away a toy from a bad child, but she wrenches her arm down and lurches back a step. She points the gun at him, her arm bent and half-hearted. I gasp.

  “Ohhh.” She laughs, a smile brightening her face as she looks at Mantis, who is frozen. “So you’re the only one allowed to point guns at people, huh?” she taunts. I look between them, terrified, confused.

  “I have never pointed a gun at you,” Mantis barks. “I have never pointed a gun at her, June—” He turns to me, and his voice is softer, more pleading.

  “Me? Me! I never said you pointed it at me!” Coral chuckles. “But gosh—if I’d been at the wrong place, wrong time, who knows what might have happened! Just a white glove in the trees, who knows!” Mantis’s face is ashen. Hard.

  “What—what does that mean?” I choke out, my voice strangled.

  “Who in god’s name knows!” Mantis roars, regaining himself.

  “I heard it with my own ears—” Coral shouts.

  “I bet you hear a lot of things!” Mantis snaps, poisonous, circling his finger around his ear in the universal loco gesture. “You’re a nutjob and a liar! What a great combo, Cindy! Lucky kid you’re about to have!” His voice is bearlike and consuming. It frightens us both. Coral shrinks and shivers, tears coming to her eyes. The clearing plunges into silence. “You’re not even taking your meds—are you?” His tone is soft now, gentle. I feel whiplashed. He sounds concerned. “And be honest, now.” He starts to edge toward her. The gun is still pointed directly at his chest. Coral’s face has lost its wild giddiness.

  “I—” she says then she shuts her eyes tight, shakes her head hard. “They make me fuzzy,” she says, forlorn.

  “I know it, Cindy. I do. But you and I know you’ve got to take them. Otherwise this happens.” He gestures at the current predicament: a gun in her hand aimed at his chest. He’s so close to her. He inches forward a little more, the gun almost touching his sternum.

  “Jesus—Coral, please—” I whisper, feeling like I’m about to have a panic attack, knowing I’m going to see my friend get shot.

  “Come on now, C. We had a deal,” Mantis says, coaxing. Coral swallows. They seem to look at each other for a very long time. “Don’t you want to be good? You don’t want to hurt me. You won’t hurt me.”

  She releases a whistled breath. A thin, parchment smile breaks on her face.

  “Oh, Junie!” She laughs, and the high, bursting sound jumps me. “Oh, Junie!” As if I am on the outside of a terrific joke. Like she can’t believe how scared I look. But I look to Mantis, and his face is anything but amused. He looks scared. His jaw is set. His stance coiled like a spring. There is no joke here. No prank.

  Her arm swings up and to the sky with the quickness of a rattler, and she squeezes off three shots. I hear screaming and realize it’s coming from me. When I force my eyes open, hands over my ears, she’s still laughing. Mantis and I are cowering.

  Coral lowers her arms and wipes her eyes of tears from laughing, sighing and catching her breath. I feel like I might have a heart attack. I can’t take this. I can’t. Mantis starts to straighten up, tentative, and a hard look overtakes his face.

  “You dizzy bitch,” he growls, fear lashing. I startle, but Coral is solid as stone. “Give me that. Now,” he says, each word spoken deliberately. Coral looks right at him, positions the gun in her palms so that the grip is facing Mantis, the barrel squeezed hard between her hands like a prayer, facing her. She holds it out to him in this way. Panic rips through me, seeing that if the gun were to go off, she’d be hit right in the chest. Her eyes are steady on the opening of the gun, as if daring it to go off.

  “Christ, Cindy!” Mantis darts his hand forward in a fleet, unthinking movement and grabs it from her—then slows while he moves it away from her and angles the barrel away from our bodies. “What the fuck is the matter with you?” He flicks the safety on and then takes the magazine out of it. Coral looks down at her hands and then looks up at Mantis. Her eyes are lucid. Her face calm.

  “Just old Coral. Being crazy,” she says. Her face is hard. “Crazy Coral.” She says it pointedly, right at him. She’s as steely and clear as I’ve ever seen her. “That could have been a real bad accident.” She nods, a taunt. They stand there for a long moment in a standoff.

  Then Mantis tears his gaze from her, grabs the other gun from across the clearing, puts the safety on, and relieves it of its magazine. He puts both guns and all the ammo in his pack.

  “Are your h-hands okay?” I manage to ask Coral as I take a step or two toward her. I feel shaky. Like I need to sit. She holds them out and shows the burn marks. Mantis stomps over and grabs her wrists hard, trying to get a good look at her hands. “Be gentle, Mantis—” I say, but my voice is weak.

  “Don’t call me that stupid fucking name!” he hollers at me. I jump, his voice echoing around us. He twists her hands and wrists this way and that so fast and so hard, I’m afraid he might break her.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? Give you the gun?” Coral asks him, her face hard. He studies her palm, hisses at the burn, frazzled. “Isn’t that what you wanted me to do?” She is demanding he answer, not asking. “Didn’t I do what you wanted me to do?” Her voice grows louder, more out-of-control
. I want to bury my head in the earth. I don’t want to look upon these two anymore. It’s too painful. They are too frantic together, too rabid and reactive. “Don’t I always do what you want?” She’s screaming now. She keeps asking these questions of him over and over again, her voice having transformed from a cool, languid mist—disconnected and challenging—to a torrential, furious rain. Mantis releases her, barks at her to calm down. To stop this right now. That they need to clean and ice and wrap her hands. I watch him talk her down—first he’s yelling, then eventually he’s speaking softly to her like she’s a wounded animal. Easily frightened.

  Mantis finally looks over at me. It’s like they’ve forgotten all about me.

  “Jesus—why are you crying?” He groans, his patience thin. I shake my head, not understanding. Then I touch my face and realize that I am.

  ***

  The walk back to the access road is tense and distressing. Mantis and Coral walk ahead of me, in a pair. They lead by about ten yards. I see the underside of one of Coral’s bare, dirty feet with each stride. Mantis’s large hand grips her shoulder almost the entire time, as if afraid she might collapse into dust. Or like she might run. They look like the birch and the boulder from my vantage; his body hangs over her inexplicable immovability. His voice is an indecipherable baritone, a soothing hypnosis as we pad through the forest. I can’t make out what he’s saying, but I can hear that he’s saying a lot. Coral is silent. She just lets his voice pour into her ear. I feel sick to my stomach.

  As we break the tree line, the field looks as still as ever, but on the access road next to Mantis’s pickup is Coral’s little Chevette. Mantis turns to me as we make it to the road.

  “Why don’t you take Cindy’s car back to the village,” he tells me, his mood seeming to have completely regulated again. He appears more tired than anything. I watch Coral keep on moving, never breaking stride even as Mantis pauses with me. He holds her keys out to me. “Me and C are gonna hang back for a bit. Gotta deal with her hands.” He sighs. “I have a first aid kit in my truck and ice in the cooler. I’ll drive her back after.”