by Andrew Post
“Not sure how he screwed them over, but he did, and they’re sore about it. And I know because Mosaic Face knows it.” He glanced toward the gray-screened TV. “Knew it. Which means from now on, any intel we get, we’ll have to gather it ourselves. Regardless, if that hipster piece of shit’s sniffin’ around you, he probably thinks he’s onto somethin’, a way in. You see him around again, you tell me. I’ll take care of it. Now go.”
Track 19
EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH
And so I became an employee at the Siren House.
Each morning I’d row in. Some nights I’d row back out. Squishy came once in a while, but most of the time he preferred to stay back at the rig. When he wasn’t with me, sometimes I’d stay overnight at Beth’s or Thadius’s place. Most mornings when I arrived at the boardwalk, Thadius would be there waiting in his LeBaron. We’d go to the market occasionally, drop a few greens for a coffee and a pastry, but if there was a lot of work to do, we’d go straight to the Siren House and start in.
I worked with the other writers and reluctantly offered my two cents on how Namaste & Jeff should go. They preferred to steal from Dharma & Greg, but I felt like we should take the story out of the safe sitcom territory and shake things up. I thought the other writers would fight me on it, seeing as how I was the newbie and all, but surprisingly they agreed. We started in on a plot for the titular characters where the bedrock of their relationship would be tested when Namaste’s mental health would come into question. The actress playing Namaste liked this idea especially, claiming she was getting kind of tired of how predictably plucky her character was.
Between brainstorming sessions with the other writers, Thadius suggested I get to know how other sections of the Siren House operated. Every employee was to know how to do other jobs, just in case someone called in sick or had family obligations, farm duty, or what have you.
Some days, with Beth’s help, I worked behind the bar in the lobby, mixing drinks and placing orders at the kitchen. Sometimes, I was the one receiving the orders, getting a slapdash education in the culinary arts from Ricky. I cut myself one day, but it wasn’t bad.
Another day, I made French toast and the waitress came back to say the guy absolutely loved it, claiming it was the best he’d ever had. Ricky started a round of applause for me. All the cooks set aside what they were doing and joined him.
The shows went on. The episodes written before I came on were still being performed, so I wouldn’t see anything I wrote for a while. The musical performances covering the trendoid stuff were consistent hits. I screamed myself hoarse the night I saw Doogie Howitzer perform for the first time. Thadius had me sit in on a few band auditions and took my suggestion of picking one bad over another, but I always tried to get Beth and her a cappella group as many gigs as possible.
A filler skit was needed. Since some of the stagehands had to focus on their crops and the regular writers filled their places, I wrote the skit. It got a good laugh. It was short, and I was glad because I think I held my breath the entire time it was being performed. Thadius, especially, enjoyed it. He even complimented my dialogue, said I showed potential, and said whenever he needed another filler skit, I’d be the first he’d ask.
I learned how to make a mint julep, how to do perfect grill marks on a steak.
After half a day, with the help of the Siren House’s band leader, I memorized the bass line of “Sherry Fraser.”
Gherkin and the Orangutan taught me how to throw a knife at a balloon. It took three tries, but I got it. What a thrill!
Beth gave me my first cigarette, and I nearly puked.
One particularly awesome night, I was brought onstage for the show send-off, when everyone comes out and waves good-bye to the cameras. I felt weird being up there in front of the audience, knowing the holocapturers were measuring every inch of me—but at the same time, it was amazing. I was scared, but as soon as it was over, I wanted to be under the bright lights again. Beth said she knew I had the bug with just one look at me after I came backstage.
My first paycheck: six reds and five greens. I went to the waterfront vendors and bought a poncho and one of those apples I’d dreamed several times about since first seeing them. Amazing!
When they ran the first episode of Namaste & Jeff I’d cowritten, the audience really responded. Gasped and laughed when appropriate. When the show ended and we all went out to wave and bow, I got pulled to the front and Thadius shouted, “I’d like to introduce my new writer, Cassetera Robuck.”
I waved, and people clapped.
Ricky, in the eaves, gave me a thumbs-up.
Beth pumped her fist and whistled.
I was both embarrassed and really happy.
Scanning the crowd, I saw so many people applauding. For me. So weird. So great. All the way at the back, though, was Clifford. Smiling that weirdo smile of his, clapping. So far back he was nearly completely doused in shadow, but I could see him and the white flare of light bouncing off the rim of his glasses.
When Beth screamed for me to take a bow, my attention went back to the moment—me, being applauded.
I nudged Thadius. “Back row,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.
He looked, squinted past the lights. He must’ve spotted Clifford, because he sank a little.
A second unexpected salvo of applause came, including a standing ovation.
“Forget about it,” he said. “Just enjoy the moment.”
Beth made a megaphone with her hands. “Cass. Bow.”
I smiled. I asked Thadius, “A little help?”
He took my hand so I could bow and not fall on my face. When I came back up, I got a little head rush, and the applause fell away for a second and came back in a flood.
My eyes sought the Betrayer, but his seat was now empty. Honestly, I was a little bit thankful.
When I returned to the rig that night, I told Squishy about how it went. “Seems there might be a bit of the Bard in you,” he said, smiling.
One morning after spending the night at Thadius’s place—no, not like that; I slept on the couch—I woke up with a bad cough and a fever. My hands felt like rubber gloves full of butter.
I figured I’d picked up a sniffle somewhere. It wasn’t uncommon for people to come to work when a little under the weather; Thadius paid well.
That’s all I thought it was until I got up off the couch and tried to get my jeans on.
I couldn’t pull the pant leg up beyond my right knee. It was that swollen.
After removing the bandages, the skin surrounding the crusty bullet hole was yellow. It stung to the touch, and I cringed at the thought of how it would’ve felt if I weren’t so numb.
“Shit.” I’d been good about changing the bandages, but apparently it didn’t matter. It was probably from all the times in and out of my boat; I’d splashed myself with lake water dozens of times. I poured some hydrogen peroxide over it, but a day later, it didn’t look any better.
I limped over to scour Thadius’s medicine cabinet. He hoarded over-the-counter medicine. Finding nothing of the antibiotic sort—yes, thinking about my mother during this entire hunt—I went into Thadius’s study, this small room right off the living room. I kept quiet. Thadius was upstairs still asleep after a hell of an after-party.
In the corner of the study was a large oak desk. I approached, began pulling open drawers. I guess part of me was looking for medicine and another part of me was in here because, while Thadius kept most doors in the house open, this one was always closed. He never said not to go in there, nor was the door locked. Still, I assumed this wasn’t a place for prying eyes and my curiosity had gotten the better of me. I mean, why would he keep any meds in here?
The pencil drawer of the desk rolled open with some difficulty. I snaked my fingers under the lip of the drawer and wiggled them around, trying to dislodge whatever was jamming it. The drawer came barreling open. A now-scratched frame held a picture of two men standing side by side in front of a large river
boat. It was dark in the study, so I quietly raised the venetian blinds and turned the picture toward the morning light.
Some guy, midtwenties, in a beer company T-shirt, dark curly hair, and a neatly manicured beard, and . . . Clifford? Before I could fully process what I was seeing, I heard footsteps, Thadius grunting. I dropped the picture into the desk and scrambled out of the room as fast as my crutches would allow.
Looking back before closing the door, I saw the drawer was only halfway closed. I rushed back in, closed the drawer all the way, and swung about—lifting my crutches off the floor and spin-pivoting myself around—and barreled back out into the hall.
Thadius came downstairs and found me in his bathroom going through his medicine cabinet, nonchalantly looking at the pill bottles as if I were seeing them for the first time. That was close.
“Morning,” I said casually.
“Morning . . .”
With one look, I could tell he knew I was sick. His eyes stopped at my knee, and his face flattened. I’d gotten my jeans on, but my leg was so swollen it looked vacuum-sealed in the denim.
“Let me see it.”
“No.” I put the pill bottles down and angled my crutches to turn myself away, putting the puffy leg on the far side of him. The pink-and-green tiled bathroom was small, and there weren’t a whole lot of places to go with him blocking the door. It was turn away or fall backward into the bathtub, really.
He rolled his eyes. “Just let me see it. I know a few people around town who bring in meds from time to time. If I know what’s going on with it, I can ask more specifically about what we need here.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I just need time. It’ll work itself out.” My face was hot, and my hands still felt full of butter. Keeping my balance had become difficult, and I’m not sure if I was really hiding it from anyone. Through all of that, though, I kept thinking, Why do you have a picture of Clifford with some dude?
“You’re not fine,” Thadius said, taking a step closer. “I can see from here that thing’s swollen as day-old July roadkill. If we don’t find you some pills, you’ll likely need to have it cut off or we’ll just have to go find a quiet spot to put you in the ground.” He began noisily rummaging through the shoebox of pills.
“Pfff. I’m not going to die.” But there was a taste now in my mouth that never went away, like bad milk. I felt hot a lot, too, and would break out into a sweat randomly throughout the day. Sometimes my hearing would go on the left side and return accompanied with a whine a minute later. “I checked all those already.”
He set the box of pills aside. “Just let me see it. This kind of thing don’t get better on its own. You got the bullet out, sure, but it doesn’t mean it’s okay.”
I relented. “All right, fine.”
I sat on the edge of the tub, let my crutches fall onto the bath mat, and began undoing the straps at my thigh, at the knee, then at the shin. I dropped the belts aside and didn’t give myself time to think twice about it. I pulled my pants down, making sure my shirt was hanging low enough to give me a bit of modesty, and removed the bandage. Carefully. It made a sticky sound as I peeled the gauze away. There was a lot of pus.
Squatting before me, Thadius twisted up his face.
It looked and smelled bad. The puckered flesh around the bullet hole was a fierce red. The crusty patch inside that was trying to bridge the sides of the hollow together but wasn’t making a scab. It was just this muck, this stuff the consistency and color of mayo gone bad.
“I think you should stay here today. I’m going downtown, see if I can find somebody to come take a look at this.”
“Does it really look that bad?”
“You blind?” Thadius said, “It sure as hell doesn’t look good. But this guy I know, he’s always got some pills from these trips he makes north. Maybe that’ll do it, and we won’t need to try to track down a doctor.”
“There aren’t any in Duluth. Doctors.” I would know. Dad spent weeks looking for one.
“That was then, Cass. Duluth’s come a long way since then. But we’ll get this cleaned up, and you’ll be fine.” You won’t end up like your mom, he said without saying. He stood, having to brace himself on the counter, favoring one knee.
“Can I?” I asked, gesturing at my pants suspended between my shins.
Flummoxed, Thadius nodded, turned away. “First-aid kit’s under the sink there.”
With his back to me as I applied fresh bandages, he said, “I’m heading out right now, matter of fact. You should go lie down again. I shouldn’t be long.” His footsteps went out the door and up the hall.
Pants done up again, I fought to get my crutches straight, left my pile of belts and braces on the tiled floor, and went after him. Without the braces, my legs were about as reliable under me as overcooked spaghetti. Now, though, my right leg was a lot more rigid, the knee locked, nearly negating a need for belts and braces altogether.
“Wait,” I said. “I don’t want to be here with nothing to do.”
Thadius was in the living room getting his keys stuffed into his pocket when I caught up to him. He pointed at a laptop computer nestled between the side of the couch and the end table. “Write me something.” He unlocked one dead bolt, then the next.
“Like what? The Namaste & Jeff return from midseason break is done, and I already got the next two finished.”
He closed the door. “Suppose you should probably start in on it now,” he said inwardly, mumbling. “Be about right, given the . . .” He stopped, sighed, running a hand down his face. “It’s getting old tiptoeing around this.”
The question had been there for weeks, unasked, unanswered. The Scary Thing in the room. “How did you know so much about me?”
Thadius redid the dead bolt, then the chain. “I guess this teaches me a lesson; I can’t hold all the cards forever. I said I’d tell you.” He took a seat, motioned for me to do the same. “I just figured you’d find out on your own, and I wouldn’t need to explain it. Let me apologize for that now.”
“Apologize for what?”
“You need to start writing all of this down, all of what you’re learnin’. I wish I could say this was an assignment from me, but I don’t think that’s how you start it. Seems like you start it on your own, by the sound of it, but . . . I think somethin’ must happen to set you on that track.” He was talking into the middle distance, fixed on one of the coffee table’s legs.
“You’re not making any sense.”
His eyes deglazed. “I should just show you.”
He got up and went into the dining room. He slid aside the table, the chairs, got on hands and knees, and tossed up a corner of the rug. A floorboard popped up like a teeter-totter when he pushed on one end of it. He reached inside the floor and produced something wide and flat wrapped in a cloth. He came back into the living room, snapping off rubber bands and pulling the square of red fabric from a standard, scuffed-up tablet. Matte gray plastic, static-cling screen protector dinged and gouged to hell.
Thadius turned the one in his hands around and held it out to me. The start-up screen came to life, and the app that’d apparently been running when it was last used popped up. An e-book reader. The title page:
The Siren House
by Cassetera Robuck
I felt like I was being pranked. Like at any moment, Ricky and Beth and everybody else would jump out from the kitchen, screaming Surprise and laughing. They didn’t.
“What the hell is this, Thadius?”
“Just read it.”
I wiped off the layer of dust with a shirt cuff and read, muttering aloud, “Once upon a time, the world ended. Or maybe not.”
I looked up. “I didn’t write this. This isn’t me. I never wrote this.”
The engineer inside my head lugging the pieces around was finding their slots. I felt them slam into place, everything I held as firm beliefs, truths, dependable and unchanging. Everything felt loose all of a sudden. Unsure. Atlas’s spine snapped, and the fist o
f understanding laid me out with a haymaker. Total KO.
“No way,” I said.
He nodded. “Two years ago, Mosaic Face sent me this. Since, we’ve been waiting for the day you’d show up.”
“But I never wrote this. That’s my name,” I said, scrolling back to the first page to double-check I’d seen it right, “but—”
“Another you did, apparently. Mosaic Face said he’d been cookin’ up a theory the time he found this, saw my name in there, saw yours—”
“You’re in here?” I scrolled down. After the first chapter, the text went all screwy, breaking down into symbols and insane strings of code intermingled with blacked-out sections, only a few words appearing clearly. I read the section about Thadius being put on a pyre and set on fire.
I set the tablet down on the coffee table, and my hands jumped away from it as if the fire in the story had heated the tablet to melting.
“I don’t like this. How does that exist?”
“He said he got the idea from himself,” Thadius said, scoffing. “Mosaic Face figured out how to breach vershes. He never really told me how, since he said it might mess things up, but I guess he either talked to himself or someone who knew him or an alternate me or something, and he learned that this had been attempted.” He gestured at the tablet. “Learned it helped some other vershes out, and we should try to do our own to hit the ones that hadn’t gotten the message yet. Another you wrote this in another versh, Cass.”
“Another me? What? I don’t . . .” My thoughts aligned. “You knew about this when we met, didn’t you?”
“I did. I’ll own up to that right away. All we had to go on was that first chapter where I’m being . . .” He swallowed. “We thought we’d messed something up when you didn’t show. You were late by eight months, going by the old non-WTF calendar, and we were sure you were dead and we’d done something to screw it all up.”
I sat back, head spinning. “You knew I was coming, knew my name. Knew I’d be on crutches, knew I’d . . . knew me before you even knew me.”
