by Meg Gardiner
Marc drove Brian and me back to my house. We rode in the truck, listening to the radio, digesting the mayhem from the club. The paramedics and fire department were there when we left. Jesse wasn’t. He had gone home without saying good-bye.
While Brian went to get Luke from Carl and Nikki’s, Marc walked me to my door. Amber light flowed from the Vincents’ windows. The live oaks leaned above us and ivy poured over the fence, gleaming in the moonlight.
I sought for something innocuous to say. ‘‘Luke’s going to be a rag doll when Brian carries him out.’’
Marc’s breath shone in the dim air. ‘‘You’re good with Luke.’’
‘‘It’s easy to be good with such a great kid.’’
‘‘Brian’s thrilled for you to spend time with him. It’s hard, Luke not having his mom.’’
This wasn’t as innocuous as I’d planned. ‘‘You miss your girls, don’t you?’’
‘‘Like I’ve had my lungs yanked out.’’
His rich voice tapered off. It was as much as he was going to say. But I knew the basics: that his wife had come home one day and told him their marriage was dead. She took the kids and headed home to Greenville, South Carolina.
He pulled out his wallet. ‘‘Here. Take a look.’’
He handed me a dozen photos to look at under my porch light. His daughters looked very much like him, with serious eyes, enigmatic smiles. They had pigtails done up with plentiful hair doodads.
He pointed. ‘‘Here’s Lauren, and this is Hope.’’
‘‘They’re perfect.’’
He slid the photos back into his wallet. We stood under the porch light.
‘‘So,’’ he said.
He drew out the word, almost begging for permission to speak.
‘‘Marc, you’re practically family. Just act like the rest of my relatives and ask nosy questions. Let’s have it.’’
‘‘You and Jesse.’’
The cold prickled on my face. My fingers were growing numb.
‘‘Tonight dredged up some bad memories. Don’t judge him by tonight.’’
He gazed at the vast winter sky. Above the black silhouette of the mountains, the polar star watched us spin.
‘‘You two seem to chuck a lot of rocks at each other,’’ he said.
God, another big brother. I stepped out from under the light. ‘‘Let me explain something. Jesse and I are both lawyers. We argue for a living. We’re good at it.’’
‘‘So you actually enjoy battle?’’
‘‘Says the man who gets paid to dogfight other airplanes.’’
‘‘Touché. Still, that can make life tense, day to day.’’
‘‘Did you and Brian plan ahead to double-team me? Look. Jesse got upset tonight because—’’
‘‘Double-team you? You think Brian wants to ride you over this stuff?’’
I snorted. ‘‘Tonight was an exceptional performance on Brian’s part. Usually Jesse gets under his skin like a bad rash.’’
‘‘He has nothing but praise for Jesse.’’
I stopped. ‘‘Really?’’
‘‘If it wasn’t for Jesse, he’d be dead. Surely you know how thankful he is.’’
I nodded, feeling an unexpected sense of warmth.
‘‘But,’’ he said, ‘‘I see that Jesse’s hard on you. People with high expectations of themselves often are. Take my word, I know from sad experience.’’
I took that not merely as a reference to his failed marriage, but as an opening. In the cold night air I felt a homey bond of kid talk and school photos between us. So I jumped—into a well of deep, irreparable stupidity.
‘‘Between us? I don’t want Brian worrying about this.’’
He nodded.
‘‘Jesse’s everything to me. But sometimes . . .’’ I hesitated. ‘‘You nailed it—he’s hard on himself. He judges himself ruthlessly. That’s one reason why he got so upset at the club.’’ I stared into the night. ‘‘Which makes me worry. What if I can’t live up to his standards?’’
He seemed like a solid wall beside me. ‘‘If that’s so, he’s a fool. Because you’re flawless just the way you are.’’
Straight out of the Buck Up the Kid Sister handbook. ‘‘Do you always know the right thing to say?’’
‘‘Hardly. But I’m working on it.’’
Inside my house, the puppy barked.
‘‘You know . . .’’ I smiled. ‘‘You can never say anything wrong to a dog.’’
‘‘Good try. But that would be too easy.’’ He smiled back. ‘‘And I like a challenge.’’
Ricky needed a few drinks to unscrew his head. The paramedics took Tiger away on the stretcher, his hands bandaged. The club still smelled like fried hair.
The firefighters said water on the floor and a bad connection between the guitar and the amp was what caused the explosion. But Ricky stared vacantly at the stage.
‘‘It’s close,’’ he said. ‘‘Death. I can smell it.’’
‘‘That’s Tiger’s guitar. Or else his boots,’’ P.J. said. ‘‘They both melted.’’
After a couple more whiskeys, P.J. led Ricky out of the club. When they got to the parking garage Ricky gave him the keys to the four-by-four. P.J.’d had only a few beers. And hadn’t felt the Reaper reach down onto the stage and miss him by inches.
P.J. turned the key in the ignition, but the engine wouldn’t start. That wasn’t right. Not with a Beemer. He tried again, pumping the gas pedal, but still nothing. The lights on the dash were flipping out. And he smelled a smell. Coming from the vents.
Ricky opened his door. ‘‘Shit. It’s smoke. The Reaper’s in here, fucking chasing me, man.’’ He jumped out. ‘‘He wanted me back there. He got Tiger by mistake.’’
P.J. didn’t bother to point out that Tiger wasn’t dead, just slightly scorched. But he did smell the smoke. He got out and put up the hood.
He stumbled back. ‘‘Fuck.’’
‘‘What is it? Is it . . . what is it?’’ Ricky said.
‘‘Ravens.’’
‘‘What?’’
P.J. put the back of his hand against his nose to block the stench. ‘‘Dead ravens. Jammed down on the engine block.’’
They smelled like decay and gasoline. Dried blood coated their feathers.
‘‘What are they doing there? Get rid of ’em, Peej.’’
P.J. wasn’t about to touch them. ‘‘Ricky, they can’t hurt you.’’
They burst into flames.
Lying awake in bed at five a.m., watching the trees outside dipping in the wind, I finally admitted that Jesse wasn’t going to call. I’d left him six messages after leaving Chaco’s. I got dressed and drove out to his house.
The freeway was empty. My tires droned on the road. When I reached San Ysidro I headed for the beach, across the train tracks and down the road through the Monterey pines. His Mustang was in the driveway. The morning star hung above the ocean. Beyond the mountains the sky was hinting blue.
Unlocking the door, I crossed the entryway. In the living room a single lamp was on, low. The morning twilight was pushing shadows across the house. The tide was out, and the ocean lay deep blue. Waves shimmered up the sand.
I saw the wheelchair, near the windows, disassembled. One wheel was off the frame, the tire was off the rim, and a repair kit lay on the table.
‘‘Jesse?’’
I heard a rustling sound, the noise of hands sorting through small, hard objects. I walked around the end of the kitchen counter.
He was sitting on the kitchen floor. As cold as it was, he was barefoot, in nothing but jeans. He had his kitchen junk drawer on his lap. He was rifling through it, pawing pencils and rubber bands and nuts and bolts.
‘‘Get a flat?’’ I said.
‘‘You don’t miss a trick.’’
His shoulders were tight. His mahogany hair was falling over his face. He picked up a package, saw it was batteries, tossed it aside.
‘‘What are you doin
g?’’ I said.
‘‘Choosing a new shade of nail polish.’’
I saw a tumbler broken on the floor, and a jar of pills spilled amid the shards of glass, looked like diazepam.
‘‘Jess.’’
He sifted junk through his fingers. ‘‘I’m trying to find a tire patch. Which I need because I ran over the broken glass and got a flat. Which I need to fix, because the tire goes on the wheelchair. Which I need to be in working condition, because . . .’’ He looked in the drawer. ‘‘Which . . .’’
He heaved the drawer across the room. Junk flew. The drawer crashed against the plate-glass window and clattered to the floor.
Junk freckled the wood. A coin rolled across the floor and tipped over, ringing. Jesse’s hands fell to his lap.
‘‘Don’t say anything,’’ he said.
I took a step toward the kitchen.
‘‘Leave it,’’ he said.
I stood, hands limp at my sides. ‘‘Jess, Marc didn’t know.’’
‘‘Leave it.’’
I knelt down. ‘‘Babe, there’s nothing you could have done for Adam. CPR wasn’t successful, but you didn’t fail. Nobody could have saved him.’’
‘‘There it is.’’ Leaning sideways, he reached for an object near the refrigerator. He grabbed the pack of patches he’d been looking for.
‘‘Jesse.’’ I stretched my hand out but he wouldn’t even look at me. ‘‘You can’t go on like this.’’
He put the patches between his teeth and started pulling backward toward the wheelchair. He kept his eyes trained on his feet.
I stood up, blood rushing in my ears. He reached the kitchen table, pulled up onto a chair, and tore open the pack of patches. I picked my way through junk and broken glass to the broom closet.
‘‘I’ll get it,’’ he said. He picked up the tire. ‘‘I’m going to fix this, and head in to work. I’ll talk to you later.’’
Behind him, outside the plate-glass windows, the sky was cobalt. A crescent moon skimmed the horizon, so thin it seemed illusory. But I knew it was real. All of this. And it wasn’t going away.
Ravens feast on the dead.
They eat carrion. He’d looked it up.
People used to think ravens could smell death on a person who was going to croak. That was why the birds were omens: Time’s up, sucker. And that’s why Ricky Jimson had been afraid tonight. You could see that from the photos.
The pix were lousy quality, because of the tiny camera in the cell phone. Still, when he downloaded them from the phone to disk he got that rush again. The one he’d felt when he shot the ravens. The one he’d felt when the birds caught fire on the engine block while P.J. tried to work the fire extinguisher and Ricky tripped and fell running away. They never saw him in the corner of the parking garage, behind his car. Losers.
He edited the photos and added them to his collection. It was good stuff.
So why did he feel that gnawing sensation in his stomach?
Because there were three problems with tonight’s pictures. One, they were still footage. Two, they had no audio. And three, he wasn’t in them.
Shit.
No, calm down. Tonight was a head fuck. Toying with them. Don’t sweat it.
To cool off, he watched the greatest-hits video. That always put him in a good place. Sure, the video was incomplete—the early stuff was missing, the home burglaries, but back in school it hadn’t occurred to him to film them. Doing robberies was what gave him the idea. He always scoped a job out ahead of time, photographing the place he planned to hit. Then a flash of genius told him to take the camera with him on the boost. People’s faces, man, they were priceless. And when he got a girlfriend to tape him in action, the highlights video was born.
He fast-forwarded. Yeah, this one was good, the old Lebanese guy cowering behind the counter at the minimart. And this one, the fat chick at Jolly Time Liquors, crying as he whipped an electrical cord across that lard ass of hers.
He felt so frustrated. Pix without him in them—that just didn’t cut it.
He fast-forwarded to his favorite performance: hitting the 7-Eleven. That was the jackpot, because the CCTV footage made national television. America’s Most Wanted ran it. He watched himself pistol-whipping the store clerk. The blood, the screams, the perfect arc as he swung the butt of the gun down on the guy’s forehead. He looked great. Confident. Powerful. Too bad about the ski mask; you couldn’t see his face.
Fuck.
Screw this. He stood up and went to wash his face with cold water. Looked in the mirror. Took cleansing breaths, watching his chest rise and fall. He needed to plan his next performance. That would fix things. Solve his problems. Fuck all these losers who were interfering with his life. Like Ricky. And P.J. And that nutcracker Evan Delaney. He gazed in the mirror. His eyes grew serene.
16
When I got home I worked for six hours straight, staring absently at the draft of an appellate brief. Then I ran for an hour through bracing sunshine. I showered, and told myself that things would even out. Eventually. They had to, because I couldn’t stand to think of any other outcome. I sat on my bed running a comb through my hair, and looked at the clock.
Holy moly. I was due for the fitting of my bridesmaid’s dress.
I threw on some clothes, took Ollie outside to relieve himself, poured him fresh water, and shut him in the kitchen behind the baby gate Nikki had lent me. I ran out. Wait—fancy shoes. I ran back in. I found one under the coffee table and the other in Ollie’s box. Drooly. Blech. I dashed to the car and peeled out for the dress shop.
The boutique was in Montecito, between an art gallery and an Italian restaurant in an elegant arcade. It was presided over by a crone named Madame Kornelia, who would have fit in at the kaiser’s table with the other monocles, cracking a riding crop against her hip. She was the size of a porcupine, smoked like an exhaust pipe, and had a reputation for poking contentious brides with straight pins. But she had a knack. She made women beautiful. She could turn brides made of sauerbraten into wisps of confectionery— sugarplum fairies, ready to float to the altar.
And she charged for it.
This wasn’t, I add, where I purchased my own wedding dress. The one that hung in the back of the closet, looking perplexed, wondering when I planned to put it on. But that was an unfinished story between me and Mr. Blackburn.
A bell tinkled when I opened the door.
‘‘Ah, Miss Delaney. Five minutes ago your appointment was.’’
Madame Kornelia shuffled across the shop toward me. She had mastered the art of walking without lifting her feet off the floor. She wore a tape measure around her neck and a pincushion on her wrist. She had my bridesmaid’s dress on a hanger.
Shoving it into my hands, she shooed me around the corner into a dressing room by the back door. I pulled off my cords and blouse. Seeing myself in the mirror, I knew I should have worn better underwear. The safety pin in the bra strap didn’t cut it, much less the Star Trek panties.
The dress. Yes.
On the hanger it looked spooky. For starters, the color gave me qualms. Madame Kornelia called it crème de menthe, but any tomboy knows pus when she sees it. Then there was the hemline. It frothed, putting me in mind of mint juleps exploding from a blender. I held it up, trying to figure out which side was the front.
‘‘Knock, knock.’’ Madame Kornelia pulled open the door. ‘‘Let me see how you look.’’
Too late. I stood there while her gaze lingered on the Trek panties. They said, Resistance is futile.
Her expression didn’t change. It remained exactly as arch as before. She bustled in, took the dress, and unzipped it. ‘‘Deep breath.’’ She flipped the dress over my head. It rustled and she grunted and I squirmed, and when my head popped out again she said, ‘‘Suck in,’’ and wrestled the zipper up my back. I squeaked.
She stepped back, stared, and pressed teeny fists to her hips. ‘‘Will do.’’
‘‘Does it come with an oxygen ta
nk?’’
She made a spinning gesture with her index finger. Turning, I saw myself in the mirror.
‘‘Oh, my.’’
She fluffed the hem and straightened the seams, her knuckles digging into my ribs. I felt dizzy.
‘‘Is okay, I think.’’
‘‘Okay isn’t the word.’’
Grammar deserted me. This was a double negative turning into a positive. My sprinter’s legs and meager chest were juxtaposed against the strict bodice and green lather of the hem—and, inexplicably, it worked. I looked timeless.
‘‘It’s exquisite,’’ I said.
‘‘Come over to the light; we let out that seam.’’
I slipped into my dress shoes. I rustled when I walked, which made me forget the dog drool. Out in the shop she pinned up the bodice while I savored the view in the mirror. My every move seemed elegant, every gesture polished. I felt like Grace Kelly. Until Madame Kornelia handed me the bill.
My eyes had gone bad. I prayed they had.
‘‘Your credit card will cover?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ If I sold a kidney.
It was impossible. And it was the day before the wedding, and I’d promised Jesse. He and his cousin and the jittery bride and his fretful mother were all counting on me to do this. And I was almost out of work, and should be saving up for my criminal appeal.
‘‘I just need to call the credit card company. Can you put the dress on hold?’’ I said.
She gave me a look like a piece of broken glass. ‘‘Very so.’’
I went to the dressing room to change, but ended up twirling helplessly, trying to reach the zipper. I went back out. And saw, cruising past in the parking lot, the red van that Merlin and Murphy Ming drove.
I ducked behind a clothing rack. The van rattled away, spewing blue fumes.
Madame Kornelia huffed. ‘‘For some reason you think people should not see you in my dress?’’
I scuttled to the counter. ‘‘Unzip me.’’
Clucking her tongue, she gave the zipper a tiny tug, three inches at best. I hurried back toward the dressing room, around the corner, and stopped. The back door of the shop was open. Had the wind blown it open?
