The Token (#10): Shepard

by Marata Eros

  The door is stout and solid pine, the fasteners hand-forged and still in good repair.

  “Wow,” Marissa says in an awed voice behind him.

  “It is nothing.” My voice is slightly hoarse.

  “It is not nothing, Shepard—Léo.” She shakes her head, scattering her kinky hair. “I can't get used to the new name.”

  “I told you who I really am, because I am no longer he. Shepard.”

  A dragonfly floats between us, sunlight causing its wings to sparkle with luminescence. I turn, looking at Marissa over the roof of the car.

  “I will look inside, then when I ascertain it is safe for you, I will come fetch you.”

  “Fetch me? God—like what, a dog?”

  My lips curl. “No, ma chérie. Dogs obey.”

  I wink, wishing to kiss the pout from her lips. But first, I must see if this last oasis has been compromised.

  I stride to the door, not waiting for Marissa’s answer. Or rebuttal.

  I unsling my small satchel, where all important things are kept on my person. I extract a long, heavy key and insert it, twisting to the left as I slightly open the handle. Just the right maneuvering is needed to unlock the stubborn old door.

  The tumblers click, and I sweep the nine-foot door inward.

  Dust motes float past in the light stream through the filthy window, and breath slides out of me that I was unaware I held. My shoulders ease down, and I call out behind me, “Come.”

  Marissa's footfalls sound louder as she draws nearer, and I feel her presence before she touches me. Almost as though the air we share is somehow knowledgeable of us, and we of each other.

  Her arms slip around my waist, and I rest my hands on hers.

  “This is so perfect.”

  “Why are you whispering?” I ask, checking every surface for evidence of anyone having been here since I last visited a year before.

  “I feel like I'll break the dream if I talk normally.”

  I chuckle. “Non. We are safe for now. No one has been here in a year, save myself.”

  “Looks like it.” Marissa moves around me, her hand trailing slowly. When her fingers leave me, I hold nothing but my stomach, and I let my hands fall.

  “Where's the cleaning supplies?”

  I hike an eyebrow, slowly moving to where she stands.

  “Are you going to be a guy about this?”

  I frown. Be a guy? I grin, leaping toward her, and scoop Marissa against me and she squeals. The sound is music inside the dark corners of my ancestorsʼ house.

  “I am a man,” I say in mock insult.

  She's still laughing and squeezes her delicate fingers around my throat. “You are so a man—but you're not a cleaner.”

  I shake my head, noting the sullied surfaces. “Guilty.” I shrug.

  “Let me do something with this place.”

  My grin is sly this time.

  “What?” she leans back.

  “Could you make the bedroom a priority?”

  She smirks. “Can you hunt and gather in this place?” Marissa counters.

  What? Ah. Food. Her mentioning it causes instant hunger, of course. “Yes, but I'll need to go back into town.”

  Marissa lays her hand over my crotch, and I harden beneath her fingers.

  I feel my eyes hood. “Or maybe eating can wait?”

  “Can't wait, hero. Get me food or I'm going to die.”

  “Really? You will actually perish?” I spin her in a dance step and pull her in close. “Right here,” I whisper and kiss the soft area between her earlobe and collarbone.

  She moans, tilting her head to make my kissing her easier.

  I oblige.

  “Go,” she says breathlessly. “I'll have the bedroom spruced up when you get back with at least a hundred bucks’ worth of groceries.”

  I snort. “So demanding.”

  Her eyes glitter into mine. “You have no idea, Léo.”

  I like the sound of my name on her tongue. I move to the door before I change my mind and ravish her in a dirty bed while she's hungry.

  Still, I pause with my hand on the doorknob.

  Sunlight skates across the rough wood floor and travels halfway up her body, then shade takes over. A stray beam of light bisects her face, catching just one gray eye. It is like a gray pearl. Rare. Like her.

  “What?” she asks softly, seeing my expression.

  “You are beautiful, Marissa Augustine.”

  She does not cry, but her eyes shine.

  “You are beautiful too, Léo Dubois.”

  Not looking back, I leave the little log cabin on the hill with a bounce in my step. I hop into the Audi and make my way to town.

  However, I cannot sustain my buoyant mood. Unease fills me with dread.

  I don't want this dream to end. The hope that we could be something together. La famille will keep coming.

  Until I stop them.

  The two men I killed will “speak” to the lawmen, with their advanced DNA and long noses.

  The memories I safeguard will continue to butcher my psyche.

  Despondent melancholy fills me, circling my small spot of happiness like a vulture after carrion.

  *

  Late afternoon sunlight slants off dirty and smeared mid-century architecture. The lackluster, slightly cantilevered windows glare back at me, and my exhale sounds defeated, even to my own ears.

  I have never enjoyed anything ugly. And this building is no exception. But in a town the size of Spearfish Canyon, I do not possess the luxury of choice. This is their solitary market.

  Marissa is hungry, and for the first time as an adult, I feel a sense of pride. I will feed this female I've come to care so much for in so little time.

  Making my way toward the miserable view, I take a deep inhale of the pine, like a swimmer before they sink beneath the surface of the water. I cross the pockmarked asphalt parking lot, lifting my fob for the Audi and hitting the icon for lock.

  The muted sounds of the woods—and the few customers who loiter at the facade of the building—are heavy in the otherwise silent space.

  My hard-soled Italian shoes click as I walk to the front of the store, and I belatedly realize how out of place my wardrobe choice is.

  Two old men lounge on folding chairs, staring as I make my way past them.

  “Hello,” one of them greets me just as I place my hand on the metal bar of the store entrance. He gazes up at me from underneath a hat that reads Mt. Rushmore's Pride. Disembodied American presidential heads float on top of the hazard-orange brim that is fingered with grime from a thousand mounts atop a head not often washed.

  “Hello,” I return easily. Courtesy was the cornerstone of la famille and not easily shed. Ill-tempered people are easily remembered.

  His eyes sharpen on me, quickly running down my body.

  “Not from around here?” he asks.

  I know when I cannot win. The man is without intellectual acumen. And I have been tasked to survive the encounter.

  At that exact moment, my stomach growls as he spits tobacco in a practiced stream about five feet from where we stand. My eyes tag the disgusting move and note the stain from many times of the same treatment in the parking area.

  “No, I'm not from the area.” I smile politely, the expression stretching in a tight slash across my face.

  All pretense of courtesy leaves him. “We don't like foreigners here.” His upper lip turns up.

  Really. “I am only buying groceries.” I shrug casually.

  “Looks pretty determined, Ralph,” his companion says.

  Imbeciles.

  “What are ya?” the man who is not Ralph asks.

  “A man.” I raise my eyebrows, a clear signal that the conversation is over.

  Ralph jabs another giant wad of tobacco inside his lip, and it bulges obscenely where he stuffed it.

  “A smart-ass one.”

  I turn away from them and open the door to the store. Chilly air-conditioning blasts m
e, and I shed the distaste of the pair of disasters at the door. They are not worthy of my wasting time. Bigoted without knowing the reason. All I needed to be was different. That is enough.

  I grab a cart before scanning the aisles and making slow progress through each one.

  When I've stocked the shopping cart full enough for at least a week, I see something at the register.

  I must stand a full minute staring at it because the cashier barks, “Ready?”

  Gum snaps, and I turn my head to look at her.

  She's about the age of the cherries I used to pick for la famille. But not exotic at all. Or bright. It's as though the newness has been rubbed off her until only a dull shell remains. She is Caucasian. Lackluster blond hair that is obviously bleached to maintain the falsely platinum color is stuffed into an unattractive “infant band” that circles her head at the temples. Her dull hazel eyes stare at me with carefully cultivated indifference, and I take the item that had captured my attention and place it on the conveyer belt that takes the groceries away.

  She grunts when I begin putting the groceries on the belt. “Paper or plastic?”

  Why is that important? Ah yes. Environment. Americans are gripped by it. Of course, in France, we shop almost daily and use cloth bags for our fresh food. Here in America with their Costcos, they must buy a hundred years’ worth of food.

  “It is not important,” I answer quietly.

  The hot pink bubble obscures her face. She sucks it inside of her black lipsticked mouth with a startling crack.

  I think of a gun being fired and smile.

  Her nonchalance falters with whatever she sees in my expression. “ʼKay, paper.”

  I lift a shoulder, placing the last item on the belt, and take the plastic bar alongside the belt and put it behind my purchases.

  The girl tells me the total, and I hand her two one-hundred-dollar bills. She inspects them, gifting my face with a lesser scan, and gives me the change.

  Emily, according to what it says on her nametag, loads my bags badly. When her eyes rise to give me the expected goodbye, she stalls.

  I know that hesitation.

  Something has surprised her. Badly.

  I subtly pivot on my heels. Two burly men stand behind me in line, nothing but a pack of chewing gum between them.

  Trouble, my gut says. My instincts are rarely wrong.

  I turn back to the cashier, as though the two appearing from thin air behind me only to buy chewing gum is of little consequence.

  Of course, I know better.

  I hike the bags into my hands, noticing she gave me two-handled plastic bags instead, and grab three in each hand. Jiggling the bags, I subtly shift the heavier items to the bottom and walk back through the doors into the waning daylight.

  The door flaps closed behind me, and Ralph and his friend are low in their seats, caps slung over their eyes to shield them from the red heat of the setting sun.

  Shadows spread behind the parked cars like seeping black blood.

  If Ralph had not given me a sideways glance of satisfaction, they might have been able to take me.

  But he did.

  I swing like a human tornado, loosening my shoulders and using the bags like huge, loaded plastic flails.

  My arms rise, and the first man who'd been behind me in the que feels the weight of gourmet pickles as they plow through what had been his nose.

  He falls hard on his ample ass, and I never slow, swinging the second bag down low then twisting it hard as I use the momentum and place it exactly between the other man's legs. He drops to his knees, a silent scream perched on the edge of his lips, his eyes bulging and his hands covering his pathetic prick.

  I lower the bags.

  Ralph and company are standing, their hats literally in their hands. “We're sorry, mister, we—”

  “Don't you be including me in the ʻwe,ʼ Ralph!” his companion shouts.

  Low groans come from the ground.

  “I suggest a hospital,” I say quietly and with more civility than I ought to.

  Their nods are quick, and I move the bag with the pickles, pleased that the jar miraculously didn't break. “I also suggest a better sense of hospitality is in order.”

  Ralph's friend beats him over his balding head with the hat. “You damn fool”—he whacks him again—“I told you not to call the Stanley brothers!”

  I begin to walk away, and the old man calls after me, “You hurt these fellas, mister!”

  My body turns only halfway, my stare imprisoning him for a handful of seconds. “And what were they planning to do to me, Ralph?” My voice is quiet, but I make sure every word carries.

  Ralph twists his hat.

  I do not wait for a reply. I catch a glimpse of Emily the cashier running out. She screams over the two brothers who thought they would teach a non-local a lesson about breathing the same air as they.

  The adrenaline fades as I carefully place the groceries in the trunk.

  I casually walk around to the driver's side. My ears perk when I hear far-off sirens.

  Time to go. I turn over the engine and roar out of the parking lot of Good Food.

  Future stops at that particular store are probably no longer an option.

  I hum a little tune all the way back to the cabin, and Marissa.

  SEVENTEEN

  Marissa

  I wipe a filthy hand over my brow. The place was gross.

  Now the surfaces gleam. I got after the bedroom first. I tell myself it was the most important. When actually, deep down in places I can't admit to myself, I want to have sex with Shepard again. I sigh.

  He'll be back with food soon. And I'll beg to contact my boss. I know Green River College won't be phoning me. Lots of students miss out on that transitional week after finals but before the new term begins. I'm flooded with guilt over potentially screwing my chance for France because I want to get romantically involved with a French mobster.

  Whom I don't really know.

  Heat rises in a hot flush, causing my face to feel as though it's catching fire. I pinch my cheeks, trying to stop the reaction, but it's no use. I just feel more titillated by my erotic memories of Shepard and me—ashamed. I've let all this get out of hand. He was part of something evil. Something that's after us both now. I can't seem to reconcile the Shepard I know with the image he's conveyed of what and who he was to la famille.

  So I cleaned obsessively. Running away from the what ifs. Plowing through the cabin as soon as Shepard took off. It's not big—maybe six rooms counting the bathroom. But the space was dirty enough and big enough to distract me from my negative thoughts.

  And it's obvious that a renovation hasn't touched this place since before World War II. But it's got a certain charm. It's funny how awful it looked with the layer of grime, and now, after a thorough dusting and with every window in the tiny place flung open—it's livable.

  Smells of pine and the scent of late summer grass wafts through the cracked windows. I breathe deeply, reveling in a fresh scent. A new place. My eyes travel the confines of the conjoined rooms. The thick, squat entrance door opens to a sparsely furnished living area with a threadbare rug. I kneel, flipping over the corner. Karastan, a faded label reads.

  I sit on the back of my heels and gaze around the room from the new vantage point. A plump couch anchors the center of a room. At least it was covered with a sheet. Rich, deep violet sets off dark-walnut ornately featured trim at the back, sides, and feet of the oversized loveseat. A more modern, mid-century La-Z-Boy recliner is a few feet away. It’s flanked by a sturdy, solid wood end table with drawers and a slotted side pocket meant for magazines.

  I stand, move to the end table, and pull the brass chain on an old, stained glass lamp that rests on top. The type of lamp that has the scary, non-polarized plugs and a cloth cord. A fire begging to happen. Soft light snaps the place into warmth immediately.

  A cuckoo clock ticks loudly inside the space. I have to know what time it is. The obnoxious bird ha
s blasted out of the door several times now. Every hour, on the hour. Not sure how badly I have to know the time, I think with a smirk.

  I walk through the open pass into the small kitchen, and an original window looks out over fields of pasture grass, barely hanging on to a semblance of green from the harsh end of summer.

  The cabin itself is placed on the top of a slight knoll, taking advantage of all that pastoral view speckled with large evergreen trees. I can just make out the small blue ribbon of a river or creek in the distance as it cuts a swath through the thinning green. I instantly want to hike around and see this new place.

  On turning away from the view, I walk to the fridge for the millionth time. Thank God there was dish soap here and the old kitchen sink faucet worked. I'd washed a few glasses, and the water tasted fresh.

  Shepard said it was an old well feeding the house. A cistern cover marked the spot just under the porch. The old well had been giving the house water since just before the turn of the last century. I guess that's good enough for me. I'm not thirsty, at least.

  The fridge is an ugly titty pink. I grip the handle, and its surface is metal topped by clear Lucite with silver stars embedded in the layers. My exhale is tired as I open the fridge, see nary a crumb, and close it again.

  My stomach howls. I'm so hungry.

  I open the fridge again. Close it. Willing food to appear.

  It doesn't happen.

  Spying a cookie jar in the corner, I move toward it, knowing full well there isn't going to be one edible thing in there, but since I haven't eaten in eight hours, looking is better than thinking about food.

  And wondering what in the hell is taking Shepard so long.

  Did he get lost? Hurt? Worse... did la famille catch up with him? My stomach tightens. Is he even now leading them straight to me?

  He wouldn't do that.

  I twist my hands. Maybe, for all I know, this has been an elaborate ruse to get me somewhere secluded for who knows what.