by Mia Kerick
“There he is, Renzy. Can you see him?”
Are my eyes open?
I don’t even know.
I feel her hand behind my back, propping me up like I’m a rag doll. I blink hard. Once. Twice. Suddenly I’m not falling, the earth hasn’t melted, I’m in the back seat of Seven’s BMW, and I have a line of vision straight to the front door. The man standing there is tall, but slender—like his bones have grown overly long. Just like mine.
“Do you recognize him?” Morning asks.
Oh, Ren-Ren, welcome home! Oh, you naughty boy, you soiled your pants… and my trunk. We’ll have to get you all cleaned up. Do you recognize your daddy?
Fuck! That voice. That voice isn’t in my ear, and it isn’t in my head.
I slam my hand against the door, grappling, fumbling, desperate to reach the handle. Morning is trying to calm me, but….
But…
Jesus. Christ. Fuck.
She’s in the front seat.
Big hair. Large, hot pink triangle earrings. Pale skin. And a black void where her face should be.
I’m seeing this. Christ.
Oh Christ.
I’m actually seeing this.
Don’t worry about the trunk of my car, Ren-Ren. I know how to get the pee-pee smell out. All that matters is that you stopped screaming so I didn’t have to do the bad thing.
No, no, no, no.
I want to fall again—I’m straight-up ready to melt in the center of the earth. I’m cool with that. This faceless thing talking about that time I…
About the time I pissed my pants…
No, I can’t.
What’s the matter, Ren-Ren? Didn’t you miss me?
The world goes black.
MGMT IS playing. I can hear “Weekend Wars.” Reminds me of something from the Beatles’ White Album. Did you know it’s not really called the White Album? Dad used to tell me that all the time when I’d ask to hear it. What song am I thinking of, though? Oh, yeah. “Bungalow Bill.” There’s something about the cadence and the tune of “Weekend Wars” that reminds me of “Bungalow Bill.” Oddly inspired.
Dad and I loved the Beatles and we’d sing together, him and I, all the time.
Can you believe that?
Do I believe that? I’m pretty sure I remember that. I couldn’t have been very old because I was singing out loud, not just in my head. Dad was smiling.
I can’t remember seeing Dad smile in… forever.
But when we put on The White Album—sorry, The Beatles—he’d smile.
I mouth along with the words to “Weekend Wars” and something cold drops across my face, startling me. I try to shake off the weight, but then I hear Seven. His words are firm but kind.
“Shh, hold still, Renzy. You passed out.”
The song fades away, replaced by the upbeat buzz of a DJ chattering about their noon contest. It’s not a record and we’re not in my room. We’re listening to the radio. I try to sit up, but Seven puts a warm hand on my shoulder and pushes me back down.
“You’re really bad at following instructions.”
Seven pulls the wetness off my face, and I watch as his blurred face sharpens. He folds the washcloth he’s holding and then runs it across my forehead, next my cheek. His eyes are intent on what he’s doing and mine are intent on him. We’re not in the car and we’re not in the cottage.
I motion questioningly at the room.
“We’re in Mr. Alexander’s house. The living room specifically.”
He does not sound pleased by this, and I’ve got to say, I’m not pleased either because suddenly the feel of the rag is too cold. I don’t even care how embarrassing it is, I sit up and throw my arms around his waist, hugging him tightly. The rag drops off my forehead between us.
Whatever the hell it was I saw in the car scared the shit out of me. I don’t want to see that thing ever again.
“He up?” The tall man Seven was speaking with earlier walks over to the radio on a nearby table and clicks it off. The silence that replaces the chatter is not the kind I enjoy. I shift, slowly releasing my hold on Seven, and trying not to look at Mr. Alexander because every time I do, I think of that voice talking to me about peeing in its trunk and asking if I recognize… my daddy? Instead I watch Seven. He looks incredibly distrustful of the other man.
“He… is,” Seven says slowly. “Obviously.”
“Give us a few minutes, kid,” he demands with a dismissive tone.
Seven sets his jaw, and I know he doesn’t like that one bit—being called kid or being asked to leave.
“I think given the situation, I should stay.”
I can feel the weight of the man’s stare on me, and I finally relent, allowing myself to look up at him.
Mistake.
It’s there behind him, flickering in and out of my vision, that blank space where her face should be, gaping like a wound. She appears to his right and then his left, flashing so quickly, I think I’m going to be sick.
I grab Seven’s palm and spell out words in frantic fingertip squiggles.
“Slow down, Renzy.”
I’ve got a knife in the glovebox, Ren-Ren. Say something nice to your daddy now or I’ll… I’ll have to do a bad thing. Please don’t make me do the bad thing to your tongue.
My finger starts to cramp up, and I stop writing on Seven’s hand.
She’s not real. I know this. I know she’s a hallucination because no one else in the room can see this creeping horror. No one else can hear her taunting me. I’m hallucinating and that means she can’t take her knife and do anything to me with it. But….
I swallow, giving in to my fear.
I want nothing more in the whole damn world than for Seven to stay here. It would be easy to let him be my shield, especially since he can’t see it. But I’ve got to confront this alone.
I shake my head quickly and point to him and then to the front door.
For a moment a look of shock crosses Seven’s ridiculously handsome face. Shock, then hurt, then it all melts into anger. He turns on Mr. Alexander.
“If you do anything to Renzy—”
“Wanna try saving your threats, kid? You forget you’re in my house, and I didn’t ask for either of you guys to show up on my doorstep. Least of all him. Again.”
Again?
With antagonizing slowness Seven stands up. His look is cold and combative as he glares down Mr. Alexander.
“I’ll be on the porch. I’m not shutting the front door. Bang on something if you need me, Renzy, and I’ll come running,” he promises, his eyes locked on mine. I know he means it.
When me and Mr. Alexander are alone—as alone as two people can be with a ghost between them—I start looking around for something to write with. I guess I didn’t think this part through. I motion in the air with pinched fingers as if I’m holding a pen.
“That kid, Seven, said you’re mute or something.” He doesn’t move to get me anything to write with.
I nod.
“Well, that should make this fun.” He grimaces. “Listen, I’m not interested in answering a bunch of questions anyway. Cassandra and I had a brief thing… a long time ago. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but it’s the truth. We had an arrangement after what happened with you. But you being here now? This is bad business.”
With what happened to me? What does he mean? Being born the bastard son of this guy?
Oh Ren-Ren…. Talk to him. Tell him what’s on your mind. You never would talk to me. Even after all the love I gave you.
The thing is flickering its (her? gah) way toward me as Mr. Alexander continues to awkwardly ramble about his affair with my mother. Obviously one of these two things is more distressing than the other. I jerk away from the specter, but she pops up on the other side of me on the couch.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks as I jerk away from what he sees as invisible terrors. “Uh… you don’t look okay, kid.”
I quickly shake my head no. N
o, I am definitely not okay.
I begged and begged you to speak for me. I wanted to hear that cute little stutter. Remember that c-c-cute little st-st-stutter you used to have, Ren-Ren?
“Listen, I didn’t plan any of this, and I figure you’ll understand it at some point.” Mr. Alexander glances at the floor, as if he’s trying to remember his point. “I’m not saying I’m a perfect man, but I didn’t set out to knock your mom up. So maybe I should have been better about wearing a condom, but she could have kept a better eye on her monthly. How the hell was I supposed to know she was gonna get pregnant? Listen, I’m sorry about what happened to you when you were a little boy, all right? There, I said it. Wasn’t my fault, but I should have kept the other one on a tighter leash, and I didn’t. I assume that’s what you’re here about, right? That time? It’s either that or money, and if you think I’ve got a dime—”
The thing twists its faceless head at me and stares. If you wondered if a thing without eyes can stare? It can.
Isn’t your daddy funny, Renzy? Keeping me on a leash. Woof! Woof! I’m a puppy! Don’t cry, Ren-Ren. You sobbed and sobbed and sobbed on our adventure. But you wouldn’t talk to me.
Her voice fades in and out. Sometimes it’s… well, it’s like a memory. Sometimes it’s like she’s speaking to me right now, wanting me to answer. I mean, like earlier. Obviously, I haven’t pissed in anyone’s trunk, y’know, in the last twenty-four hours, so that feels like an echo of the past.
But the Keeping me on a leash? And the goofy barking noises? That’s a response to what Mr. Alexander is saying right now.
My stroke theory might be right.
The image reaches out to touch me and I jerk back.
Please stop. Please stop talking, please stop touching.
Stop.
Just stop.
Stop!
I jump off the couch, banging my knee hard into the coffee table. A stack of magazines and bills tumble to the ground as I limp over to the door. I fling open the screen door at the same moment Seven appears, and I run into him hard. Warm, strong, very protective, arms wrap around me, catching me before I can fall backward.
“What did you do?” Seven snarls at Mr. Alexander.
“Nothing,” Mr. Alexander says heavily. “Just told him the truth.”
I take Seven’s hand. I want to get the hell out of this town and I never, ever want to come back.
Chapter Twenty: Seven
WITH RENZY and me in the back seat, Morning drives us to our honeymoon cottage suite.
She’d been waiting for us with the engine running and as soon as our asses were planted in the back seat, she pulled away from the house on Cherry Street. After about two minutes of driving, she pulled over to reprogram the GPS, and then very calmly took us back to our three-person love nest at the Sterling Hills Inn, Spa, and Wedding Chapel.
Morning has been competent today—and shockingly so.
She completely took charge of the trip home as I’d followed Renzy’s lead and rocked back and forth, my arms filled with the distraught young man.
As she parks my Bimmer in front of the cottage suite and helps us out of the car, I assure him repeatedly that he’ll never again have to return to that awful house with the two front doors. Together, we go inside, and I think I speak for all of us when I say it’s good to be back in these barely adequate accommodations.
Morning now sits with her back pressed against the headboard of our mansion bed. Renzy’s head rests in her lap, and she’s still unruffled as she runs her fingers through his soft brown spikes.
My mind is split onto two tracks—partly entrenched in comforting-Renzy mode, but the rest has wandered off on a mental tangent. I must decide how and when I’m going to slip back to 1415 Cherry Street, so I can retrieve the information I need. So I can continue on my path—the path to fix Renzy.
“Morning.” I want her to lift her eyes from where they’re focused on Renzy’s face. I need to read her mood. “Morning.”
Her gaze meets mine, just as I’d hoped, and in it I see a certain energy—a strength—that takes me by surprise. How long has this strength existed in my “fragile” little sister? And how many times have I looked at her and refused to see it? I so badly want to dwell on these questions, but my thoughts are interrupted.
“You know what you have to do, Seven. So go do it.” Her eyes look like sapphires—clear and tranquil in the midday light—and I wonder how she sees my blue eyes. Does she observe the same strength I see in her? Or is the intimidation and hopelessness, which are always right beneath the surface of my confident exterior, most obvious? After a few analytical seconds, Morning’s attention refocuses on the head in her lap.
My first impulse is to ask her if she can handle Renzy in his current distraught condition, but I somehow know that the answer is yes. This causes a tiny part of me to sting—the part that has appointed myself Morning’s savior in an otherwise pointless life.
“I’ll be back in a few hours,” I tell her, aware that my words are lost on Renzy.
“Seven… bonne chance.” Our gazes meet again, colliding this time, and I admit that Morning isn’t the delicate person I thought she was for these many long months. From the way she smiles, I think she’s aware of the subtle shift in the balance of power between us.
FOR THE third time today, I approach the dilapidated white house on Cherry Street. Idly, I wonder if there are any cherry trees at all on this dismal block. I find it difficult to create a mental picture of soft pink spring blossoms invading the gray suburban bleakness. But this random consideration is neither here nor there with regard to what I need to accomplish this evening if I plan to put Renzy back together in a way that allows him freedom from his perpetual silence.
Again I rap firmly on the door to the right, and I wait. But no older Renzy—no Mr. Laurence Alexander—opens the door and regards me with a look of “what now?” in his eyes. I step back several feet and case the house, in an attempt to envision my best option for breaking in, because I don’t intend to leave without the information I seek.
“Larry’s grilling burgers in the backyard,” an elderly woman in black leggings and a baggy Hilary sweatshirt says as she emerges from behind the house. “I was just dropping off a new nightgown and robe set for Dorothy. Anything to brighten her day.” She’s clearly thinking aloud. “I hope my neighbors would do the same for me, were I in her shoes.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I suppose I’ll go see him,” I reply. I do my best to smile, but my mind is already back on business, so I’d bet my ass I fail.
“Have a pleasant evening, young man.” I watch as the woman strolls along the sidewalk and up a cracked pavement walkway to the front door of an identical, and equally worn, two-doored housed on the right.
As soon as she’s safely inside, I head through the sparse, yellowish grass of early spring toward the back side of the house, and follow the scent of burned meat to a small patio off the back deck. Once there, I clear my throat.
“You again?” He doesn’t look up but nonetheless seems aware of my presence, as well as my identity.
“Yes, Mr. Alexander. I’m back.”
“Might as well call me Larry,” he says with a forced smile.
Larry—this was the way all the love letters were signed.
“Thank you, Larry.” Even using his familiar name, I refuse to allow any warmth to seep into my voice.
“So what is it that you’re after now? I’m pretty sure a class act like yourself isn’t here for a burnt burger.”
“I’m after the truth, which is what you say you gave Renzy.”
“Let’s get one thing straight: it’s not like I owe him anything. Me and his mother had an arrangement.” Larry presses with a fork down hard on a burger and clear juices run down its sides. “See, Renzy’s mom went and got herself preggers thanks to a bit too much heat between us, not to mention a tad too much booze. And seeing as we’re both married to other people, and I’ve never had a penny to my name asid
e from what Dot’s trust fund gives me, I couldn’t afford a kid. Cassi had to pass the baby off as Jeff’s. But shit, everybody knows that the truth never can stay hidden.”
“Tell me what happened when Renzy was eight years old.” Larry looks at me sideways and I admit, “Yeah, I was listening outside the door when you were talking to Renzy alone today. So sue me.”
“You want to know what went down when my son was just a boy?” Larry flips the burgers, and they each spatter grease on his wrist. He barely flinches.
“Yes, I would like to know. That’s why I’m here.”
“Don’t even know why I’m fucking talking to you.”
“Because you know I’m not leaving until I get what I came for?”
He makes a soft tsk noise. “Let’s just say the shit hit the fan when Renzy turned eight, and big time. Things finally boiled over, you know?”
I shake my head, growing frustrated. “No, I don’t know. So why don’t you fill me in on the messy details?”
“I don’t owe you, or Renzy for that matter, a goddamned thing. He might be my kid by blood, but he’s another man’s kid in the eyes of the law.” Larry stabs the burgers, one by one, with a fork and drops them onto a paper plate waiting on a nearby lawn chair. “If I owed anyone it would be my wife, Dot. Everything happened ’cause I’m the asshole who can’t keep it in his pants when it comes to Cassandra Callen.”
Dot. Dorothy? Wasn’t that the name the old woman gave? Something about a new nightgown. Larry turns toward the deck as if to leave, but I have more questions. “Where’s your wife? I want to speak to her.”
Larry doesn’t turn back to me, but I can hear him chuckle. “You can’t talk to her.”
“She’s… dead?”
“Jesus, you have balls. All right, kid, this is the last thing I’m going to say before I ‘kindly’ call the cops to escort you out. Dot’s where she deserves to be. And ’cause of what I drove her to do, poor gal, she won’t be back.”
