by Eric Wilson
“I cannot fail,” he whispered into the darkness.
If he did, he would lose his last vestige of hope. He’d be banished—for a third time. An exile, wandering the isolated deserts of his own mind.
He checked the wall clock, cracked and askew. “Where are you, Monde?”
In reply the door flung open, and Asgoth darted behind a curtain. Mr. Monde marched in, an angular creature with a long nose and a knife slash of a mouth. Beneath feathered black hair and onyx eyes, he wore a corduroy jacket that softened his angles. Despite the failed project which had separated them years ago, Monde still exuded arrogance like imported cologne.
“Are you here, A.G.? Are you prepared to join forces again?”
“You’re late.” Asgoth slid into view. “I guess old habits die hard.”
“Aren’t you the ever-impertinent one? You summon me, then spit out ridicule.” Monde wagged a finger. “Last time we worked together, it was your insubordination that cost us. Your indulgences attracted unnecessary attention.”
Asgoth breathed into the man’s face. “Here, the past has no bearing.”
“You still have the Consortium’s six other members to convince of that.”
“I’m moving forward. Soon they’ll have no choice but to accept me.”
“A town this size holds little interest to them.”
“I know, they’re still capitalizing on Eugene’s moral ambiguities and anarchist sympathies. Since my relocation here, I’ve watched them build fortunes on the sex and drug industries. They’ve infiltrated the campuses and, even more impressively, the fringe religious groups.”
“While remaining faceless and anonymous, I might add.”
“We cannot be apprehended, if we seem not to exist.” Asgoth verbalized the axiom which long ago had been pounded into his thinking. He despised it. He was tired of being ignored. He wanted to be seen, to be feared. “Junction City has potential, Monde. I have a secret or two that’ll change the Consortium’s thinking.”
“They want tangible results.”
“They will have them … and sooner than they suspect. The Consortium’s strategy is to erode the establishment’s base, but mine’s more straightforward—bring the structure down with one well-placed explosive.”
“And Junction City’s the place for it?”
“It’s perfect. It’s so mundane.”
“So … rural.”
“Exactly. No one would expect it here.”
“Are we speaking of a literal bomb?”
“If one comes in handy,” Asgoth responded. “Though I meant it figuratively. Fear is a weapon unto itself. It could shatter the idyllic pretenses of this town.”
“Fear.” Mr. Monde widened his eyes, stepped closer, then threw out both arms like a great bird swooping down on its prey.
Asgoth stumbled back, chafed by Monde’s laughter. “You think it’s funny?”
“I think you’re fortunate to have me at your side. I’m not too modest to remind you of my own recent success. You read the newspapers, so you know the things I accomplished in Corvallis and in the coastal region. With a bit of help I manipulated one particular family and helped locate a lost inheritance.”
“But it’s now out of your reach, isn’t it?” Asgoth watched his partner blink. “That’s why you answered my summons, that’s why we’re stuck together again as partners. We must pool our energies to show our value.”
Monde squared his shoulders. “Admittedly, my stint at the coast was tinged with … regrets. Let it be noted, though, I won’t allow you to belittle me before the others. At the end of the day, what do I have if not my pride?”
“My sentiments exactly. Which is why we’ll have to trust each other.”
“I suppose. Tell me, does Mr. Clay Ryker have a part to play in this?”
“That’s a strange thing to ask.”
“Is it? You’re certain you’ve no personal ax to grind?”
“And what if I do? What business is it of yours?”
“Does he even know of your presence here?”
Asgoth scoffed, “He has no idea.”
3
Dirty Little Secrets
Clay’s mother met him at the curbside, wearing low heels, a tailored cream dress, and a purse over her arm. Clay had always admired her classic looks; for the first time, however, he noticed wrinkles around her eyes and lips, and he was reminded she would not be around forever.
Della pulled back her shoulders, studying him from beneath waxed brows. “You made it in one piece, dollface. How was the trip?”
“I should’ve flown. You meet a whole different element on the bus.”
“We did offer to cover the airfare. You know that you could’ve—”
“Mom, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in your debt. You and Dad’ve done enough already … you know, with everything that’s going on right now.”
A reference to his insolvent business and escalating debt. At three hundred bucks an hour, his lawyer fees alone were enough to do him in.
Clay’s mother led him to a sparkling white Dodge truck, which he was certain she’d pressured his old man into buying. She climbed behind the wheel. Clay dropped his suitcase and sack on the truck’s bed, then joined her in the cab.
“Nice.”
“A gift from your father.”
Bingo.
“Here.” Della dangled a set of keys. “He and I agreed you can use the Duster while you’re reestablishing yourself.”
“That thing still runs?”
“It’s at the house, but you’ll have to fill the tank.”
“Mom, I don’t need to be spoon-fed. I’ll be okay.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, doll. Take what’s offered you.” Della’s lips formed an obstinate line, and she pushed the keys his way. As she lifted her chin and tossed styled black hair, Clay recalled how his mother had often used such gestures to solicit sympathy and compliance.
“Okay,” he heard himself give in. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it.”
He reached for the keys, his hand brushing hers. A jolt shot across his skin, and miniature chisels of heat carved through his nerve endings. Numbers. Six of them. Etched like tattoos into his palm.
1.2.2.5.2.1 …
He yanked away. Staring down, his eyes denied the sensation.
“Clay? What is it?”
“Did you feel that?”
“Feel what?”
“Your skin.”
“Why, thanks for noticing.” She patted his leg the way she had when he was a child. “Your father hasn’t even said a word. It’s a new moisturizing lotion I bought at our Avon meeting last week. I’m sure you remember Mrs. Dixon? She’s my consultant, and she says the medicated formula does wonders.”
Numerals. Still throbbing on Clay’s palm. Each number, like hot wax poured into a mold, sloshed and burned and hardened into irrefutable shape.
1.2.2.5.2.1 …
Were they products of his imagination? Or something more?
He rubbed his hand against his leg, and the apparition began to fade. On his sweatshirt he noticed a strand of Henna’s hair. He wound the bleached fiber around his ring finger while the lady’s voice penetrated his thoughts once more.
It will come … You’ll begin to know things. You’ll feel them.
Feel what? This was crazy.
God works in many different ways …
Beneath the barrage of recent events, Clay felt his faith in such notions crumbling. If, indeed, God was involved in daily existence, did he work through palm-reading, herb-scented women named after plants?
At this point Clay would believe just about anything.
The red Honda Prelude zipped through the narrow streets. At the wheel, Summer paid no attention to her friend’s tightened knuckles on the door handle.
“You really think Clay’ll call you?”
“I have no clue,” Mylisha said. “Before he ran off to college and got married, he never gave much reason for breaking thing
s off. He turned real quiet, like he was guarding something. A hard one to read, that boy. Who knows what he’ll do?”
“But you do have a glimmer of hope.”
“Maybe. Just a little. I say, let the boy be a man about this.”
“Got that right.” Summer flashed a ravenous smile. “And I bet every inch of him is just starving for attention. Men. They’re so predictable.”
“Shush.” Mylisha slapped at Summer’s forearm. “Clay and I are just friends. That’s all we can be, all we should be.”
“You don’t mean the racial thing, do you? People need to grow up.”
“No, I’m talking about right and wrong. He’s still legally married, Summer.”
“Oh yeah, you’re stuck on that.” Although Summer Svenson poked fun at Mylisha’s resolve, she wished she had some of her friend’s moral fortitude. The girl passed up a lot of opportunities for the sake of her beliefs. Hard to understand, but harder to begrudge. Summer, on the other hand, took what came her way. “Listen, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.”
Mylisha’s bright mahogany eyes turned her way. “What?”
“I respect your views on religion, I hope you know that, but it seems like you let God rob you of your happiness. I mean, look at you. You never get out, you have no serious relationships, and we both know you work way too many hours.”
“It’s called responsibility. Can’t just up and leave when I feel like it.”
“Isn’t there anything you do just for yourself these days?”
“Of course there is.”
“Like what?”
“My classes at LCC.”
“Oh, you’re the real party animal, racking up credits at Last Chance College—”
“Lane Community.”
“Whatever. You deserve to have a little fun, that’s all I’m saying. Half the time, you’re watching after your sister’s kids. Time to stop living like a prisoner.”
“A prisoner?” Mylisha’s voice grew husky. “That is so unfair. What about you? Your world spins around whoever happens to be the hottie of the week.”
“Wait. Don’t even put on your self-righteous attitude with me.”
“We’ve all got our problems, Summer. I’m the first to admit it.”
“Well, that’s mighty white of you.”
“Very funny. Girl, why are we even discussing this?”
“Because friends take care of each other, and somebody’s gotta tell you …”
“Tell me what?”
“You’ve changed, Mylisha. You’re getting—I don’t know how else to put it—boring. Time to break loose.”
“And set aside my beliefs? My heritage?”
“Sure. Break a rule here and there. There’s freedom outside the box.” Summer slowed the car at an intersection. “Just think about it, that’s all. Are we cool?”
“Tell me my ears didn’t lie. Did you say I was boring?”
“Maybe that’s too strong a word.”
“Even worse than the other b word.”
“Just trying to do you a favor.” Summer looked both ways, then accelerated. “Promise me you’ll think about it?”
In her peripheral vision, she saw Mylisha fold her arms and stare off.
Fine. The girl could go on living in a religious bubble, but Summer wasn’t about to pass up a chance to contact Clay Ryker. Officially, this was the first day of summer—her day. Would Clay remember her? The odds were in her favor. They’d been in high school together, during the early nineties. Like, where had the time gone?
Plus, now that he was back in town, he needed to know a few things. Time to spill one of her closely guarded secrets.
Beaming, Summer felt heat touch her cheeks. “You’re sure it’s no bother?”
“Not at all,” Clay’s voice assured through her neon-colored cell phone.
“Good. I’d love to talk with you.”
“Why not? It’ll be nice to see you all grown up. Last time I remember, you were one of those pesky high school sophomores. Thanks for catching me up on the latest. Almost forgot how gossip makes this town go round.”
“Better to create some commotion than admit we don’t have any, right?”
“I guess so. You know where my parents live, out on Cox Butte Road?”
“Like I’d forget.”
“In a little while, then,” Clay said.
By obtaining his permission, Summer felt acquitted of any wrongdoing. What further excuse did she need? She’d always been attracted to Clay’s lean, mean physique. He was a missed opportunity.
Sorry, Mylisha, but you took your stance. Now I get a turn.
Summer drove slowly to maintain a facade of nonchalance. The way to the Rykers’ led across croplands before rising to the crest of a wooded knoll. Her headlights played through dust and pollen kicked up by the day’s farm equipment. As she pulled into the driveway, stars winked with hints of romance. The night was on her side.
She made adjustments in the mirror. With a finger still touched to her lips, she noticed a figure watching from the porch. She’d been caught in the act of primping.
Oh, well. Let him stare.
She stepped from the car, tossed her hair.
“Summer.” Clay’s voice sounded deeper than on the phone. Warmer too. Leaning against the rail, he looked bulkier than she remembered. A grown man.
She twirled once for inspection. “It’s me, the same little girl from JC.”
“It’s you, all right.” He took a long, miscalculated stride that bypassed the steps and dropped him on the path before her. He caught himself. “Been waiting for you out here, waiting for an excuse to get out of this place. Parents.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “They never let go, do they?”
“Well, you are back in their house. How’s it feel, being in town?”
“Claustrophobic. Hardly anything’s changed.”
She noticed Clay’s words were slurred. “What about you? You found work yet?”
“I’ll do some job hunting tomorrow, but no more tree trimming or pipe laying. Did enough of that as a teenager.”
“You’ll find something. I know you will.”
“Starting over.” He turned to stare at his childhood home. “What a concept. Never thought I’d be here again, closing in on the big three-o.”
“Life can get pretty crazy.”
“Don’t know if I can handle it. Being in someone else’s house, eating someone else’s food. You should see the fridge. My mom’s got V8 juice and yogurt stuffed between Dad’s six-packs of Miller Lite.”
“Free drinks? Bonus.”
“Rock on,” Clay agreed with false cheer. “Really, I didn’t expect to end up like this. Things just came apart piece by piece.”
“You and Jennifer?”
“Jenni.” His voice caressed the name.
“And you were such a sweet couple.” She waved away his questioning look. “Remember a couple years back? You were in town on summer vacation, I think, and I ran into you guys at the Scandinavian Festival.”
“Okay. Yeah. In the beer garden, right?”
“What a night. All huddled under the tent while it poured down rain.”
Clay gripped a porch post. “I’m taking my son to the festival this year. According to our temporary visitation agreement, he’ll be with me most of August.”
“He’ll love it. Just wait till he eats his first Finnish funnel cake. Or an aebelskiver with powdered sugar. Those’re the best.”
Clay’s eyes turned glassy with nostalgia.
“Listen,” she said, “you can’t let one person’s opinion define who you are. Sometimes things just don’t work out.”
“It’s not that,” he said a little too quickly. “It just doesn’t make sense. I mean, up till last October, Jenni was still writing me little love notes.”
“How sweet.”
“She even carved our names into a pumpkin.”
“Sounds adorable.”
“With a capital A.”
He swayed, then hugged the post. “A as in ‘All the Way Out in Wyoming.’ ”
“Is she still there?”
“It’s where Jason was born. He’s nine now. Good little ballplayer.” Clay rubbed his forehead. “The sheriff served me papers on December 18. ‘Merry Christmas, Mr. Ryker. Ho-ho-ho.’ Here’s the thing, Summer. I’m a guy, so I admit I don’t have relationships all figured out.” He plopped down on the wooden steps. “But it doesn’t make sense. Even my therapist can’t pinpoint where things went wrong.”
“Have you told the therapist everything?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Have you held anything back?”
He tried to level his chin, to look her in the eyes. “Why’re you asking?”
“We all have histories, don’t we? Our dirty little secrets.”
With his fist, Clay covered a burp, then lowered his head.
Summer had to ask. “Clay? How many beers have you had?”
“A.”
“Eight?”
“A,” he repeated. “As in ‘All of Them.’ ”
She tried to join in with his raspy laughter, but she could think only of Mylisha and Jenni. To take advantage of this good and lonely man before her would be to encroach on others’ territory. An empty victory at best.
See, Mylisha, my world doesn’t revolve around every guy I meet.
As for the other thing Summer wanted to tell him? Maybe she should pass it on and let Mylisha become the bearer of secrets, since Mylisha also had been scarred by the injustice. She owed that much to her friend.
“Pathetic, isn’t it?” Clay commented. “I don’t even like Miller Lite. Can’t even have a pity party the right way.”
“Pity party? Whoever put that idea in your head?” Summer turned so that the moonlight could play along her lip gloss. She’d let Clay enjoy the view at least. “You have every right to think about yourself a little. Work it, baby, work it.”
“That’s right.” He slapped his hand onto the rail and pulled himself back up. “So you wanna go into town? Maybe shoot some pool?”
