The Bone Bride

by Tamrie Foxtail

  Daira was in the kitchen when she heard the front door open. She’d locked it after Rory’s departure and there was only one other person who had a key. “In here, Mist.”

  Her sister didn’t answer, making her way to the kitchen without sound so that her sudden appearance still managed to startle Daira.

  “Where’s the doll?” Misti asked as she pulled a Coke from the fridge.

  “What?”

  “The doll. I came by earlier to borrow your Dust Buster and found the doll in the closet. It’s a shame to just stick it away, so I put it on the couch.”

  “You put it there?”

  “What? You thought it walked over there by itself?”

  Daira sighed in relief, motioning to the bell pepper with a knife. “I’m fixing a western omelet. You want one?”

  Misti held out both hands, palms up, as if weighing two things. “Let’s see. Frozen pizza. Again. Or an omelet.” Her right hand dropped as if holding a heavy weight. “Omelet.”

  Daira laughed. With the mystery of the doll solved, she relaxed.

  Misti swiped a slice of bell pepper. “So why’d you do it?”

  Daira frowned. “Did I miss part of the conversation?”

  “The doll. Why did you stick it in the closet like an old umbrella?”

  Daira grabbed an onion, holding it under a thin stream of water while she cut off the ends and peeled it. “It gives me the creeps. It’s made out of an animal’s bones.”

  “News flash. The whale was already dead.” Misti began grating the cheese. “If it creeps you out, why did you take it to begin with?”

  Daira shrugged. Her throat had grown tight, making it uncomfortable to swallow. She missed her mother. She hadn’t been any luckier at love than Daira, but she’d been a wonderful mother.

  “Well?”

  “It was the last thing Mom saw.” God knew the real reason was far more complicated. How could she explain to Misti her feeling that the doll had watched their mother die?

  “If the doll gives you the creeps, give it to me. I’ll give you some of Mom’s other pieces. You always liked the little carvings of the walrus and the seal.”

  Daira diced the onion, blinking back tears. “When I was little, Mom used to recite ‘The Walrus and the Carpenter.’ That little walrus always made me think of that.”

  Misti laughed, a delicate sound that reminded Daira of music. “She was the only person I ever knew who memorized something that long.”

  Daira gently steered the conversation away from the doll. She couldn’t risk giving a cursed doll to her baby sister.

  They reminisced about their mother’s love of poetry while the omelets cooked.

  Misti slid them onto plates. “One good thing about being single: we don’t have some man around the house demanding steak and potatoes for dinner.”

  Would that be a bad thing?

  “Speaking of men...?”

  Misti wrinkled her nose. “Lucky’s still pushing me to let him move in. I don’t think I’m ready for that. I want something real, ya know? The whole let’s-grow-old-together thing.”

  “If you don’t see that happening with Lucky, why do you stay with him?”

  Misti looked apologetic. “I don’t want to be alone. Think that’s why Mom kept picking losers?”

  “Better someone than no one?”

  Misti gave a little nod.

  Daira reached across the table to place a hand on her arm. “No one wants to be alone. I want something real, too.”

  Misti tilted her head to the side and smiled. “I saw the way your ex looked at you.”

  “My ex?”

  “The Marine. The one with the tattoo. He’s still interested.”

  Daira gave an unladylike snort. “I’m not.”

  “Ah, c’mon. He’s single, has his own business, and he’s kinda cute for an old guy.”

  She pointed her fork at Misti. “I’m not setting myself up for another fall.”

  ****

  Janet pursed her lips. When was she going to hear from the doll woman? It had been two days.

  She posted another note for Daira G.

  Janet drummed her fingers on the edge of the desk as her eyes moved from one picture of the doll to another. The oldest one, a poor quality scan, was dated 1910.

  How many women had the doll brought happiness to?

  She looked at the digital picture frame sitting on her desk. The picture of her oldest niece graduating from high school dissolved, replaced by a picture of her sister Jean with her arms around her husband. She’d married her high school sweetheart and had three children.

  Her sisters kept telling her she didn’t need a man to be happy. Easy for them to say as they curled up next to their husbands.

  She loved her sisters, really she did, but sometimes she hated them. Life came so easily for them, with their happy marriages and their beautiful kids and their pleasant little houses.

  The doll smiled at her from her computer screen. Janet smiled back. The doll would fix everything.

  Chapter Six

  Rory. Just what she needed after a bad day at work. Daira stepped back from the peephole and opened the door. “I did not call you.” She’d thought about it often enough.

  He held up Misti’s laptop. “Fixed.”

  “You could have called my sister. It’s her laptop.”

  “But then I wouldn’t get to see your smiling face.”

  She sighed and motioned him in. “Let me get my purse.”

  “No charge.”

  She narrowed her eyes.

  “Try ‘thank you’ instead of a glare. It works better.” He set the laptop on her coffee table.

  She let out a sigh. Did the man have to be right? “Thank you. Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’ll take a soft drink.”

  She brought him a Coke. He rubbed it across his forehead before popping the top and taking a long drink.

  “About Misti’s laptop…”

  He held up a hand to stop her. “Students don’t have a lot of money. I understand that. The power supply was bad. I had a used one.”

  “Thank you.”

  He trailed a fingertip along her jawline. “I remember when you and I were dating. Misti was a baby. On our first date you fell asleep during the movie, told me later that she’d kept you up all night.”

  “Colic.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “I’m surprised you remember that.”

  He smiled, and she fought the desire to smile back. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. All these years…you’re still the only one to fall asleep during the date.”

  How many had fallen asleep afterward, curled up next to him, exhausted from lovemaking?

  “You’re blushing.”

  She tossed her head back defiantly, and he laughed.

  “You lived out on Caddo Road back then,” he said. “After the movie, when I was driving you home, we made a little detour, stopped off at Jeremiah’s Bridge.”

  “I remember. We stood on the bridge and called Jeremiah’s name three times. He didn’t answer.”

  Rory nodded. “We were laughing, and that’s when I kissed you for the first time.”

  She gave a shrug, trying for an indifferent air even though she remembered every detail of that night and that kiss.

  “High school romances seldom last,” she said.

  He moved closer. Had he always been so tall?

  He smelled of men’s cologne and the late August heat. Stubble darkened his jaw.

  “I thought about staying here, marrying you.”

  “Why didn’t you? Not that it really matters,” she said quickly. “That was a long time ago. We were just kids.”

  “I was right to leave. I was eighteen and immature, dwelling on what I was missing instead of what I had. You’re right. We were kids. We could try it again as adults.”

  “Not interested.”

  His hand cupped her chin as his mouth covered hers. Rory had been a good kisser twenty y
ears ago. He’d learned a few things in the interim. The kiss was leisurely. He explored her mouth as if he had every right. One hand slid down her back, settled on her hips, and pulled her close.

  He stepped back and her hands fell from him. When had she wrapped her arms around his neck?

  His smile was one of masculine satisfaction. He leaned forward and placed a sedate kiss on her forehead.

  “Liar,” he whispered as he turned and walked out the door.

  ****

  Daira pulled the last blouse from the dryer and shook it. Something white flew through the air, landing on the laundry room floor with a click. Lemon pounced on it.

  She wrestled the cat for the button, gaining a small scratch on her thumb as a reward.

  Lemon fell into step behind her with a mew of protest. Silly cat, he’d probably eat the button if she let him.

  She pulled open the closet door, jumping back with a shriek and nearly tripping over Lemon as a grinning white face rushed at her. She lashed out with both arms in an attempt to protect herself, losing what was left of her balance and landing hard on her bottom, the back of her head knocking against the wall.

  She breathed through her mouth in short, shallow pants, her heart slamming against her ribs, her head throbbing.

  That damn doll! It lay on the carpet a foot away.

  “You’re evil,” she shouted as she staggered to her feet.

  Lemon grabbed the doll’s lacy skirt in his teeth and began pulling it backward.

  Daira grabbed the doll by one leg, carrying it outside without looking at it. No matter how valuable it might be, she didn’t want the damn thing in her house another second.

  It landed in the trash with a rustling sound. She smashed the mutilated lid down. It popped back up a few inches. Wiping tears of frustration from her eyes, she turned and walked into her house without a backward glance, trying to ignore the feeling of eyes upon her.

  ****

  Daira pulled the chain, turning off the overhead light but leaving the ceiling fan on high. The comforting whir normally helped relax her. It didn’t seem to be working tonight.

  She crawled under the sheet, Lemon curled against her back, the spare pillow clutched against her chest.

  Pretty sorry state of affairs, thirty-seven, and her sleeping companion was a cat.

  You could have a good-looking man in your bed, a little voice whispered.

  “Not even going to go there,” she muttered, staring at the red numbers of her clock until sleep finally came.

  She dreamed of pirates and gypsies, the gypsy woman turning into her mother, dangling from a ceiling fan while the doll clapped its bone hands and laughed.

  She awoke with her heart thudding, the sheet tangled around her legs. She kicked free of it, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and sat there for a few minutes until her heartbeat returned to normal and the vision of her mother faded.

  Sleep wasn’t likely to return anytime soon. She headed to the kitchen to make a cup of herbal tea, turning the computer on as she passed by.

  A few minutes later, she sat at her desk, sipping a cup of hot tea and staring at pictures of the doll. Her eyes traveled over stories of the scrimshaw doll. For the first time, she noticed an upbeat thread running through several of the stories. Some of the women wrote about learning, just in time, of unfaithful lovers. They had since found men who were all they could have wanted.

  Other stories were darker. One person warned that the doll couldn’t be thrown away.

  Daira took a long, soothing swallow of tea and began to type.

  I don’t see why you can’t throw the doll away. I just did.

  Feeling almost relaxed, she shut down the computer and returned to bed.

  ****

  Janet Mabel alternated her attention between the movie on TV and her laptop. It was barely five on a Saturday morning, but she’d always been an early riser.

  Weekends were for watching old movies, reading, and catching up on her favorite blogs. She wasn’t about to waste time sleeping in. And anyway, it wasn’t like she had a lover to share the bed with.

  She clicked on to the doll’s site. Good. Daira G. had posted just two hours ago. Must be a night owl to her early bird.

  “No!” Janet jumped to her feet, laptop landing on the carpet. She grabbed the cup of coffee from the end table and threw it against the wall.

  “You stupid bitch! How could you do this to me?”

  She bent, grabbed her laptop by the screen, and threw it. It smashed against the wall, leaving a dent in the drywall.

  Her hands clenched at her sides as she stared at the pale brown splotch on her white wall. Beneath it, the laptop rested, the screen hanging by a single hinge.

  Think.

  She hadn’t waited all this time for the doll to resurface only to have it wrenched from her grasp by the careless action of some thoughtless bitch.

  The doll was hers.

  She had waited for it, searched for it all these years, ever since her grandmother told her how it brought true love. She deserved it and no one would keep her from it.

  Chapter Seven

  That was not someone knocking on the door. Daira rolled over carefully, giving Lemon time to get out of the way. She waited. The knock came again. With a groan, she got out of bed, pulled her jeans on under the nightshirt, and walked barefoot to check the front door peephole.

  She pulled the door open, eyes narrowed against the morning glare. “What time is it?”

  Rory shot her a look of amusement before checking his watch. “Seven thirty-five.”

  “You better have a good reason for waking me up.”

  He held up a white box, but she barely glanced at it, her attention on the doll dangling beneath it.

  “What is that?” The breath was tight in her chest. She knew what it was. She just didn’t want to admit it.

  “Donuts,”—he held up the other hand—“and coffee. I thought you wouldn’t mind me showing up early if I brought breakfast.”

  “You thought wrong. Why do you have the doll?”

  Rory sighed. “Donuts and coffee usually work like a key. They get you in the door.”

  She longed to throw something at him. Too bad her hands were empty. She stepped back and pulled the door farther open. He brushed by her with a smile, the amusement back.

  “I need to get dressed.”

  “What do you take in your coffee?”

  “Something you don’t remember?”

  He set the bag with the coffee on the dining room table, leaned down, and placed a kiss on her forehead. “I wasn’t with you when you woke up, sweetheart. I wouldn’t have minded, but our parents…”

  She glared at him, and he laughed. It was hard to be taken seriously in bare feet and a nightshirt with a smiley face.

  “Milk. I like it pale.” She stomped off down the hall, something else that didn’t work in bare feet.

  She returned a few minutes later, armed with a casino t-shirt, a fifties-style ponytail, and two layers of mascara.

  Rory had made himself comfortable, donuts sitting on paper napkins, coffee in hand, and the doll, sprawled like a broken child, in the middle of the table. He motioned toward it with his chin. “I found it on the ground outside.”

  She grabbed the doll by one arm, opened the hall closet and tossed it in. She turned to Rory, arms crossed, silently daring him to say anything.

  He sipped his coffee, eyes laughing over the rim of the cup. “Why do you have the doll in the first place if that’s how you feel about it?”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  She walked to the table, surprised when he hooked a foot around a chair leg to pull it out for her.

  “You used to do that when we were kids.”

  He chuckled. “I do it when I’m somewhere with Amy. Our mother always scolds me for not standing up like up a gentleman to pull it out, but it’s always been a joke of sorts with Amy and me.”

  She sa
t down and took a careful sip of the coffee. Milky, just the way she liked.

  “I thought you might have dropped the doll outside without realizing it. Given the way you tossed it in the closet…” He raised one eyebrow.

  She stared past him into the kitchen, words struggling past the knot in her throat. “That damn doll was the last thing my mother saw.”

  Rory reached over, pulling her from her chair and onto his lap. His arms enfolded her. She wouldn’t cry, she wouldn’t. She leaned her head against his shoulder. He stroked her hair, soothing her and making her feel stronger.

  “The doll is evil,” she said. “When I found my mother, it was like the doll was watching her, like it sat there in my mother’s china cabinet and watched her die.”

  “You found your mother?” His voice rumbled beneath her cheek.

  She nodded.

  “Sweetheart, how did your mother die?”

  Daira swallowed hard. She hated saying the words out loud. Rory continued to stroke her hair.

  “When I moved home, I asked Amy about you. She told me she ran into you from time to time. I asked her if you’d married, and she said she didn’t think so. She said your mother had passed away last year and the obituary gave your name as Gleeson and didn’t mention your mother having grandchildren.” He kissed the top of her head. “Amy said she didn’t know how your mother died, just assumed she’d been sick.”

  “No.” She took a deep breath. “She was engaged to be married. It would have been her fourth.”

  “Fourth?”

  “There was a husband in between my father and Misti’s father. Mom found out Hagan, her fiancé, was cheating on her when he called to inform her he and his ex-wife were getting back together. She left a note saying that she was afraid of spending the rest of her life alone.”

  “She took her own life?”

  “She hung herself from the ceiling fan in her dining room.” The sound of her voice was flat and distant.

  “And you were the one who found her.” His arms were steady around her, one large hand cupping the back of her head. “Aw, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  For a time, she remained in his arms, soaking in his strength and comfort until she felt strong enough to stand on her own. She placed a kiss against his temple, gave him a shaky smile and stood up. “I didn’t mean to cry on your shoulder.”