Nevermore n-1

by Келли Криг

  There was a tiny gas fireplace in this room too, like the one in the living room downstairs, only this one was simpler, studded with plain white ceramic tiles. Isobel doubted if the fireplace was operational, though, because in the space where any fire might have gone, there were instead several small glass vials, each a different color and shape. They stood gathered together like bowling pins at the end of a lane or like potion bottles in a sorcerer’s forgotten cabinet. Instead of magical elixirs, though, each little vial held an assortment of dried flowers.

  Isobel looked away from the fireplace, casting her gaze around at the walls, which were barren except for one black-and-white poster of Vincent Price. The floor beneath her was dull wood and creaky; a simple white throw rug had been laid out beside the bed. A TV-VCR-DVD unit sat on the floor in one corner, connected to what looked to her like two older-looking gaming consoles. The shelves behind the TV, she could see, were stocked with a handful of video games, some of which she thought she recognized from Danny’s endless collection.

  There were also, she noticed, several DVDs tucked between the games, titles like Edward Scissorhands, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, The Tomb of Ligeia, The Nightmare Before Christmas, and Donnie Darko. There were other shelves in the room too, all of which seemed to be inhabited by—big surprise—books.

  As Isobel drew farther into the room, she passed a folding-door closet and let her fingers brush against the painted white slats. She watched as Varen deposited the food on a simple writing desk tucked beneath a window, one with three vertical panels crosshatched by white X s. Isobel immediately recognized the window as the one she’d seen from outside. The other window was smaller, lower to the floor, and on the side wall near the bed, allowing for yet another stellar view of the neighbor’s roof.

  She stopped when she became aware of a pair of cool blue eyes following her. She turned her head to stare at the cat curled on top of his bed, a plump Siamese nestled on the gray comforter where she could have sworn it hadn’t been a moment before. The creature blinked at her slowly, squeezing its eyes shut, then opening them to piercing slivers.

  “That’s Slipper,” she heard him say.

  “Oh my gosh, he’s gorgeous,” Isobel murmured.

  “She,” Varen corrected.

  Isobel drew closer to the bed, then perched on the edge, setting the Cokes and forks aside. She offered a hand to be sniffed, per proper cat etiquette, which Slipper snubbed with a turn of her head.

  “Don’t let the elegance act fool you,” Varen said, drawing out his notepad. “She farts.”

  28

  Ulalume

  They’d spread out on the floor to work, sitting on the white throw rug beside the bed. The small red and white Chinese food containers had been opened and passed back and forth between them indiscriminately—neither of them, Isobel had noted, keeping track of which fork was whose.

  At first Slipper had watched them from the bed, blinking cool, disinterested eyes. She had waited, it seemed, until they’d become fully engrossed in their work before slinking off the bed and, after making a big show of stretching and yawning, unfolding herself across their papers. From there, she purred loudly and flopped her tail against the floor.

  They had decided to divide the presentation into three major categories: Poe’s most famous works, his influence on modern literature, and, last but not least, the strange circumstances surrounding his death. Tackling each category one at a time, they thumbed through their combined stack of library books, picking out key facts. Isobel insisted on being the one to copy them down onto numbered index cards, wanting something from the project to be in her own handwriting, just in case Swanson suspected she’d done less than her part. Varen hadn’t protested, and even seemed to enjoy this method of locating long stretches of information and condensing them out loud, speaking slowly so that she could finish writing each word.

  Working like this, it took them a little more than an hour to get to the last category, and Varen, who had flipped to the back of one colossal door stopper of a biography, grew suddenly quiet as he read.

  Isobel glanced up from her own perusing and wiggled her pen, waiting for him to prompt her to jot down the next fact. When he didn’t, she pursed her lips and tapped her pen against her chin in thought. She glanced to the spread of papers, index cards, and poster board around her, wondering if she should interrupt him with her newest concern. Deciding it couldn’t hurt, she lowered her pen and spoke up. “Um,” she began, “do you think our presentation is going to be too, I don’t know . . . I mean, it’s kind of boring, don’t you think?”

  Without looking up from his book he said, “Seeing as how down to the wire we are, what other choice do we have?”

  She nodded, knowing that the same thought must have already occurred to him. She also knew that he was right. Even though this was how things were going to have to go, she still couldn’t help but wonder what their project might have been like if they’d actually been able to concentrate from the very beginning. Then at the same time, Isobel reminded herself that she wasn’t exactly a Poe enthusiast, and it would be a huge relief to have the whole thing over and done with. Well, the project at least. If nothing else, she hoped that whatever they managed to pull together tonight would be enough to keep her on the squad so that she could go back to being a cheerleader for a change.

  Isobel sighed. Slipping her note cards between the pages and shutting her book, she diverted her attention to a pile of printouts of pictures from the Internet and a neighboring stack of poster board. There were several pictures left to glue onto poster board, pictures that Varen would hold up at certain moments during their presentation, and then place along the chalkboard tray. Nothing fancy. Very run-of-the-mill high-school project-esque.

  She slid one of the printouts toward her, one of Poe himself. After rubbing the back of it down with a glue stick, she smoothed the gloomy-looking portrait onto its poster board and set it aside to dry. Yet she couldn’t seem to help but stare at it. And she knew it was because of those eyes, those deep, hooded black holes. They seemed to tunnel through her with their sorrow, something about their expression making it seem as though Poe were silently beseeching the onlooker for something. “Forlorn” was the word that kept forming in her head, repeating itself over and over.

  Isobel looked away, fighting back a shudder. She watched Varen as he, with head down, remained engrossed in whatever obscure Poe info he’d stumbled across. Shamelessly, she took the opportunity to study his long frame and how he sat with his back against his bed, his legs stretched out across the floor, boots crossed at the ankles, book open across his lap. With his head down like that, his hair curtaining his face, the only part of his features that remained visible was his mouth.

  Her focus narrowed on the curve of the silver ring that embraced one corner of his bottom lip, and she couldn’t help but wonder how the metal would feel pressed against her own lips.

  A boy shouldn’t have lips like that, she thought, and nearly started when he glanced up, catching her stare. She could feel her cheeks flare and knew they must be turning pink. She dropped her gaze immediately and reached out to wrestle yet another black-and-white printout from beneath Slipper, who batted at it greedily. Isobel turned over a portrait of Poe’s mother, a young doll-like figure wearing a ribbon-laced bonnet. She rubbed her glue stick over the back.

  That’s when she started to wonder about what would happen after the project. She knew that now they’d at least be friends, she and Varen. After everything that had happened, how could they not? But would he ever ask her out again? What if he thought she really didn’t want to go to the Grim Facade when she’d told him she couldn’t? What if he thought she was just using her dad as an excuse?

  Her movements slowed as a new concern swam into focus. What had she thought before now? That after the project was over, she’d be lucky enough for him to ask her out again? And then another realization dawned on her. What if this was the first and last time they were ever complet
ely alone together? Sure, they would see each other at school, but if she didn’t speak up, if she didn’t say something now, would that be the end? She could almost see the run of their relationship from that point, dwindling and dissolving into the occasional and ever-awkward “Hey, how’s it going?” before disintegrating to feeble waves between classes. Without the project, she couldn’t be sure of when they’d ever meet outside of Mr. Swanson’s class or the cafeteria again.

  She knew she would have to say something tonight.

  Isobel ran a few phrases through her head, trying them all out, then letting them mellow in her mind. Each one clanged lamely against her internal ear and sounded vaguely insulting.

  What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she just come out and say she liked him?

  Maybe it was because she more than liked him.

  Isobel let that thought swirl through her. She set her glue stick down and let her feelings frighten her because the only other option was to push them away. Only she was tired of pushing them away.

  Determined, she looked up at him. A jolt of panic ran through her when she found him already staring at her. Had he been watching her this whole time?

  “Uh, can we take a break?” she asked.

  He closed the book and set it aside.

  Wow, she thought, that had been easier than she’d expected. Now what?

  In a moment of daring, Isobel lifted herself from where she sat across from him, scooting around Slipper, whose tail tapped and twitched in agitation. She repositioned herself to lean her back against the bed, sitting now less than a foot away from him, The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe the only thing between them.

  She stretched her legs out in front of her just like him, crossing them at the ankles, then picked up the book, flipping it open across her lap.

  “Why do you like Poe so much?” she found herself asking.

  He shrugged. “Why do you like screaming and jumping around so much?”

  She sighed, then tried again, “Well, I mean, do you at least have a favorite or something?”

  He sat quietly for a moment, then, reaching across her, fingers finding the corner of the book in her lap, he began flipping through the pages, painstakingly, one by one.

  Finally he stopped. “This one,” he said.

  Isobel looked down into the book, at the single column of centered text. She read them to herself in silence:

  “From childhood’s hour I have not been

  As others were—I have not seen

  As others saw—I could not bring

  My passions from a common spring.

  From the same source I have not taken

  My sorrow; I could not awaken

  My heart to joy at the same tone;

  And all I lov’d, I loved alone.

  Then—in my childhood—in the dawn

  Of a most stormy life—was drawn

  From ev’ry depth of good and ill

  The mystery which binds me still:

  From the torrent, or the fountain,

  From the red cliff of the mountain,

  From the sun that ’round me roll’d

  In its autumn tint of gold—

  From the lightning in the sky

  As it pass’d me flying by—

  From the thunder and the storm,

  And the cloud that took the form

  (When the rest of Heaven was blue)

  Of a demon in my view.”

  “It’s so sad,” she said, looking up.

  “Most of them are.”

  She frowned, turning pages. “But not all of them, right?”

  To this he offered no answer.

  From somewhere downstairs, she became aware of the distant ticking of a clock.

  “Read me something?” She heard herself say, as though someone else was speaking through her.

  He hesitated. Then, after a moment, she felt him slide nearer, causing every one of her senses to become amplified. His shoulder brushed against hers, igniting a tremble that ran through the length of her, and she tried to hide her shaking hands by gripping the sides of the book. He began turning pages once more. She could feel the movement of each sheet with her entire frame, first as it lifted, then as it settled on the other side.

  At last he stopped, and she stared down at the printed column of words, unable to comprehend a single one. His hand, warm and steady, wound its way around hers, wrapping it like a spider would its prey. She surrendered it to him, unable to watch even as his thumb traced the place, just above her knuckles, where he had once written his number in deep violet. Isobel ceased to breathe. Her heart pounded in her chest, her thoughts shattering into senseless fragments. All the while, her eyes remained trained and unblinking on the open page. Lines without meaning stared up at her, little more than black sticks in an otherwise white world.

  “Ulalume,” he began, and the word itself, which he’d pronounced “You-la-loom,” flowed from him like a string of soft notes.

  “The skies they were ashen and sober;

  The leaves they were crisped and sere—

  The leaves they were withering and sere;”

  He enfolded her hand between both of his, and she felt the silver bands of his rings press into her skin. She turned her head slowly in his direction, though she dared not meet those eyes.

  She breathed in, rewarded with that mixed scent that she’d found impossible to pinpoint before. Now that he was so close, she thought she could almost decipher it. Crushed leaves.

  Incense that had had time to soak into cloth. Worn leather. There was a spice essence there too, sharp and crisp, like dried orange peels.

  “It was night in the lonesome October

  Of my most immemorial year:”

  His voice flowed low and smooth, and she concentrated on its tone more than on the words themselves as it buzzed through her like music. With her hand pressed between both of his, her whole body seemed to hum, and she began to feel fuzzy from the inside out, like a radio stuck between channels. Her eyes fluttered shut.

  “It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

  In the misty mid region of Weir—”

  Isobel’s brow creased, her momentary paradise interrupted. Her hand, as though by reflex, tightened around his. Something in that phrase stirred her from deep within, breaking up the settled debris of her subconscious. Had she heard him right? She opened her eyes, listening hard for the first time.

  “It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

  In the ghoul-haunted woodland of We—”

  A loud crack, like a gunshot, resounded through the house. Isobel started violently, dropping Varen’s hand and jumping so that the book toppled out of her lap. It thudded against the floor and snapped shut, just missing Slipper as she launched herself beneath the bed.

  Isobel looked up to find Varen already on his feet, though she hadn’t felt him rise.

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  “No,” he muttered under his breath.

  Her heart quickened. “What?”

  She rose to her knees and then stood, pulling the book after her—heavy as an anchor. She gripped it to her chest. “What? Who’s that?”

  “They’re back early,” he said. “Get in the closet.”

  Fear shot through her. “Varen—?”

  Heavy footsteps on wood. Lead feet pounding steps.

  He grabbed her by the arm just above the elbow and pulled her across the room. Isobel went, not knowing what else to do, startled by his suddenly iron grip. The pounding grew nearer.

  She heard a woman’s voice now. “Joe,” she was saying over and over, like someone trying to calm an angry dog.

  Isobel was plunged into darkness, wrapped into a tiny space by the embrace of countless black sleeves. The closet door slid shut, casting a jailbird pattern of light across her trembling form.

  She could see Varen’s boots through the slats as he backed away.

  The door to his bedroom flew open with another bang, causing Isobel to jump and squea
k. She pressed a hand over her mouth.

  “Did you hear me calling you?” the man yelled. “I said, did you hear me?”

  Isobel’s shaking hand left her mouth, springing up to shield one ear, her other arm still tightly clutching the Poe book. She only lowered it again when she became aware of a guttural, feline growl coming from beneath Varen’s bed. Slipper’s wide eyes glowed silver from within the dark space.

  She could see another pair of legs now, a man’s, clad in black dress pants, his shoes polished to a glossy shine.

  “Why do you just stand there and never say anything?” the man said, quietly now, his tone oozing danger. “What’s this? What’s that mess on the floor? You know you’re not supposed to have food up here. Did you have someone over while I was gone?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “Joe,” the woman’s voice pleaded from the stairway. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

  “I want this cleaned up now.” A pause. Isobel saw Varen hesitate. “Now!” He snapped his fingers. “Stop standing there and get down on the floor and clean it up!” He snapped his fingers again, then again, and again. He pointed toward the cartons of food.

  Varen stooped, gathering the boxes. His face came into view, though it was unreadable beneath his hair. He did not look in her direction.

  “What did you do to your car?”

  Silence.

  “I said, what did you do to your car? Answer me.”

  “I didn’t do—”

  “You think it’s cute? You think it’s funny?”

  “Dad, I didn’t—”

  “Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear a goddamn word of it. In fact, that’s what you’re going to do next. After you finish cleaning up this mess, you’re going to come downstairs and clean that up too. I’m tired of this act of yours. I’m tired of this black parade you throw yourself—”