by Mia Kerick
“I intend to find out the rest.”
“Good luck, kid.” Hmmm, the very same wish Morning sent me off with. “Now scram.”
He heads inside with his plate of burgers, so I walk around the muddy yard to the front of the house. I search the edges of the street for his mailbox, fully intending to break federal law by opening it and rifling through the Alexander family mail for clues of some sort, but there are no mailboxes on this street. As I walk down the sidewalk toward my Bimmer, I study each of the cars I pass, aware that one of them is very likely Larry Alexander’s. Despite the fact that I keep my Bimmer in pristine condition—not a piece of trash on the floorboard nor a sticker on the bumper—I realize you can tell a lot about a driver by studying the interior and exterior of their car.
I pass one beater rig after another.
Lingerlost must be the place where old cars go to die.
Bags of trash fill an ancient Chevy Malibu’s back seat, and shit, I didn’t know there were any Ford Pintos still on the road. There ought to be a law…. But then a neat white 1990s Chrysler sedan, a New Yorker, catches my eye. Well, the license plate is actually what draws me in—LARDOT2. I think we have a winner!
In the likely event that Larry is watching me out the front window, I don’t press my nose up against the passenger window to study the car’s interior. Instead, I take in what I can as I pass by. Beneath the “You Can’t Fix Stupid” sticker on the rear window is a small round parking sticker with an image of what looks like a saw and a hammer on top of a sprig of white lilies and the initials SJPH.
For just a moment, I stop and stare, effectively burning the image into my memory so I can do research later.
Chapter Twenty-One: Renzy
I’VE BEEN drawing for the last hour. I don’t like what I’m drawing because I don’t want that fucking thing here in our safe space, but I need to show it to Morning and Seven. Nothing like sharing pants-wetting terror with your friends.
Morning’s in the kitchen dishing up one of the chef-prepared meals that was in our freezer. Smells like lasagna and my stomach likes that. When did I eat last?
I look back down at my picture. The picture’s in black ballpoint pen, scratchy, and shaded. In my head, though? I see colors. The woman is wearing a bulky neon yellow sweater and stretch pants. She has large earrings and even larger crimped hair. Very 1980s, maybe early ’90s.
I blink. I was born in 1997—who the heck would I have ever met that looked really ’80s?
No one.
I don’t know anyone that looks like this, because that thing was a hallucination brought on by too much stress or not enough Vitamin D or some serious Seven lust. Who am I kidding? I startle as Morning sets a plate down on the tiled counter in front of me.
“Look what I made.” She beams at me and I smile weakly back. “There are fixings for a salad too. I figure, how hard can it be to throw lettuce into a bowl?”
I like how she doesn’t push me. I like the quiet way she’s humming, the space she gives me. I like that she looks at me without knitting her pale brows in worry. She’s near, but not smothering. It’s comforting, and if I’m honest, I draw from it.
It’s strength I use to sketch the thing.
Except… I think I’ve sketched as much as I can.
With a deep breath to steel my confidence, I turn the pad of paper toward her.
Morning cringes. “What is it?”
I shrug and then tap the side of my head. Laying the paper back down, I write:
Morning watches my hand as it moves along the paper.
“Ren-Ren?”
I tap the faceless creature, then my head again.
“You’re hearing that voice again, aren’t you?”
I nod and point to my eyes. A full-body shiver overtakes Morning, and she looks over her shoulder.
“And seeing it? Like right now?”
I’m quick to assuage her fears. No, not right now. I’d be running from the house if it were here right now.
I thumb over my shoulder.
“Back at Mr. A’s house?”
I nod and then hold up one finger—“a hold on a sec” gesture. Flipping the paper over I scribble:
“Who is she?”
I shrug because honestly, I don’t know. Sometimes I think I recognize the voice, but then it doesn’t fit the hair, and then I wonder about the hair, but it doesn’t fit the voice.
“Well, I didn’t think she was a ghost,” Morning says, but I’ve already caught her glancing over her other shoulder to check the room for specters. I don’t blame her. The thing is scary as shit, even on paper. “But… does she remind you of anyone?”
“Weird how?” Morning takes a fork from the drawer and cuts a piece off my lasagna, feeding it to me as I write my reply. I absently munch on the flat noodles, enjoying the warmth of them.
I put the pen down for a second and dig my thumb into my palm. All that drawing cramped my hand up. I must have been holding the pen too tight without realizing it. I flex my fingers and accept another bite of lasagna from Morning. When I feel I can write again without permanently gnarling my hand, I finish.
I look up at Morning who seems to be considering something. After a long moment, she asks, “It’s a woman’s voice, right? Is it your mother’s voice?”
No.
Not even close.
It’s a grating, saccharine voice—too sweet to be normal. There’s something unwell about the voice. Even when she threatens to “do a bad thing” or mocks my stutter, which is also something from preschool, her voice is singsong and sweet.
Definitely not Mom.
A memory of Mom, furious, comes to mind. I think she was frustrated about the Ren-Ren thing. I guess that’s why Dad worked with me instead.
Still isn’t her voice.
I shake my head firmly.
“What?”
“Maybe,” Morning agrees uncertainly. “Listen, I’m not one to second-guess Seven’s logic on many occasions but… when you say it’s something dark from that time, what if it wasn’t just the kids laughing, Renzy? I mean, you’re drawing a faceless woman in hideous retro clothing. That’s some deep psychological trauma there.”
I nod. Yep, it sure as hell is.
“Telling you to dig deeper isn’t going to make it all come back. So I won’t. I will tell you to take this fork and eat while I make that salad.”
I take a deep breath and accept the fork that’s offered to me.
Morning seems so calm and in control. I wonder if it’s because she told me what happened with Tomas? Did that lighten the load? If only I knew what my “load” was, I’d definitely lighten it. Then maybe these hallucinations would stop.
Quickly I scribble one last thing on the paper.
Her pink mouth forms a perfect O, and then she smiles and says, “Well, my brother and I are fairly amazing.” She adds, “I’m glad I met you too, Renzy. And I’m especially glad Seven met you.”
IT’S CHILLY, sitting out here on the deck, but I don’t really mind. With the blanket from the couch, it’s only my nose that’s cold, and if it gets unbearable, I can dip my face down in the blanket cocoon until I warm up again. I wonder where Seven is and if he’s okay.
He’s been gone for a while and idiotically,
I wonder, did it get him?
Except it’s not real. Or it’s only real in my head.
This isn’t a horror movie where I can manifest soul-eating demons—nom nom nom—that devour my companions one by one as I search for a solution.
…Right?
I sigh and my breath barely fogs the night air.
Soon we’ll be in the thick of spring—cool mornings turning to pleasant afternoons, then sudden heat waves hitting stagnant cold fronts and creating a slew of tornadoes. I hate tornadoes.
You don’t live in Missouri and not learn to duck and cover, but I remember when I was a kid….
I smirk.
Jesus. Is everything going to come back to preschool? There’s no big-haired, big-earringed woman lurking back there.
Just a stutter.
A bunch of mean kids.
A nickname.
And a tornado.
The stutter went away because I stopped speaking.
The mean kids went away because the stutter went away.
The nickname is just a remnant of a bad time.
And the tornado is just something I remembered that has nothing to do with—I stand up so quickly that the deck chair falls over backward.
I do know that voice. I can hear it singing a song about ducking and covering in a sweet voice. I focus as hard as I can, trying to remember everything and coming back with nothing except… I’m young, the tornado sirens are going off, and I’ve got my hands over my head in the hallway.
That memory gives way to the day I pissed my pants. Was that the same day? It was so dark….
Where was I? The hall? No, this is dark. Pitch-black like I’m blind. And there’s that woman’s voice.
There’s the other part of it, the part I haven’t let myself think about until now.
At Mr. Alexander’s the thing said I’d “pee-peed” in her trunk.
I rub my hands hard over my face.
Part of me is glad the siblings aren’t out here with me, the other part of me wishes they were. Why couldn’t we have skipped school to go on a normal road trip? Fake IDs and a B-line to Vegas.
It’s like….
It’s like I was fine until I met Seven.
I grab the chair and right it, suddenly frustrated. Really fucking frustrated.
Why is this the price I have to pay to have friends? Why do I have to hear voices and see creepy things for the possibility to be more than friends, with Seven?
Hey, that Renzy kid doesn’t deserve instant happiness, let’s make him sweat for it. Flashbacks to pissing myself and threats if I talk? I was fine before. Lonely, but fine.
Is this my body’s way of saying “you should be talking”? Like if I force myself to speak I wouldn’t have to go through all this shit? I know Seven feels that way. I know Seven feels like I’m broken. But does my brain think I’m broken too?
Am… I broken?
I look up at the moon. It isn’t as bright as it was last night, but it’s bright enough.
Fuck, I’m crying.
I wet my lips, open and close my mouth several times, and then on a whisper that makes me sick when I hear it, I say, “If I fucking give in… will that… make you all happy?”
Aw, Ren-Ren. Such language. Duck and cover… Duck and cover… You can do it, just duck and cover….
Tears stream down my cheeks, hot and hard. Even betraying myself won’t make the voice stop. I hear the sound of the BMW on the other side of the cottage, and there’s nothing I need more than to see Seven.
Chapter Twenty-Two: Seven
EVER JUST need a goddamn break? This is how I feel as I drive back to the cottage suite. Stop the world, monsieur, I want to get off.
It’s dark and raw and damp when I get out of the Bimmer, but still I don’t rush inside the suite. It feels too good to be outside, under the wide black sky, where I’m free from the constant worry of saying and doing the correct things. I like to think of myself as being an asshole of the highest caliber—curt and callous, sometimes even rude—because it stops me from being the guy who can get his feelings stomped on. And let me tell you, it’s a tough balance to strike when I’m with Morning and Renzy. How can I possibly be as hard as stone and soft of heart at the very same time I’m fixing the world for them? Not an easy task. I’m not sure I can do it.
I step over to the waist-high railing that separates the parking lot from a deep precipice. Placing my hands on the cold wood, I lean down and look out into the darkness, knowing that if it was daytime, I could see for miles and miles. Now I can see only a few feet in front of me, but I can feel the cold air on my face, and I can hear wind rushing up from the steep drop-off, and I can smell the slow approach of spring’s thaw. My heightened senses bring to mind Renzy, who doesn’t speak, but who hears and sees and smells and feels with more adeptness than anyone I know.
The sensation of warm hands pressing firmly on my shoulders, and then awkwardly squeezing the tight muscles there, ought to shock me, but doesn’t. “Renzy,” I say just loudly enough for him to hear.
The inexpert massage continues, and so I close my eyes—not to block out the blinding darkness, which would be an exercise in futility—but to more fully stop the earth’s rotation. Yes, I still want to get off. But the best-laid plans rarely come to pass, and instead of stepping off the world, I turn around and face Renzy. His arms fall to his sides, but I lift them back up and place them on my chest. “I’m going to kiss you.” It is a strange announcement, and I have no idea why I felt the need to make it, but I did, and it can’t be withdrawn.
I lean down to kiss him, opening my eyes as I do so because I badly need to see his vulnerability.
Oh, please, let Renzy appear as exposed and defenseless as me….
In anticipation of the kiss, his eyes are closed, and his skin looks smooth, flawless even, but strangely expressionless. So I stop my downward motion, and I again speak his name. “Renzy.”
When he opens his eyes, I can’t see the lovely green, but I’m instead rewarded with his tortured expression—and I’m tempted to gloat! Renzy is helpless in his desire to be close to me, which is exactly what I need.
Again, I close my eyes and then press my lips to his. They’re soft and sweet and bring to mind the lush pink cherry blossoms that I so highly doubt will ever bloom on Cherry Street in Lingerlost. For this moment, his lips are mine… this man is mine. I’ve stepped off the world in the best way possible.
The weight of his body falls against me as I kiss him with an open mouth, and I wonder if my deep kisses sap his energy or if they invigorate him. I don’t have to wonder long, for I soon feel the pressure on my thigh of Renzy’s eager dick, pushing against his jeans without restraint. I break the kiss to smile, realizing he’s still in his “commando” state, as am I. And despite the pause, he continues to thrust against my leg, seeking a type of relief that I could much better provide him if we were alone in the big bed in the honeymoon suite. Strangely, although I quite wish to know Renzy intimately, I can wait, if that’s what he wants. With my previous partners there was always urgency, the need to get off. I can only assume I feared that if I didn’t go to bed with them very hastily, I’d realize how little I truly desired them, and I would remain the virgin boy forever. However, I’m certain that no matter what happens, I’ll wake up tomorrow morning, still fascinated by my perfect, silent treasure… and so I pull him into my arms.
The chill in the air finally seems to reach Renzy’s bones and he allows a shiver, so I take him by the hand and lead him up the slope and into the Duval cottage suite. With the exception of the bathroom light, it’s dark inside, but not too dark for me to see that Morning is fast asleep on the couch in the next room.
I dearly appreciate my sister’s mindfulness, have I mentioned that as of late?
“Come on, my little commando. It’s time for bed,” I tell him and fight the urge to leer.
Renzy jerks away from me with surprise, but just as quickly is reattached to my arm. All is well.
/> “No worries, your virtue is safe with me… well, at least it is tonight.” I look down at the same time Renzy looks up and then he shrugs and smiles, as if he really wasn’t worried about his virtue to begin with. I find myself laughing aloud. “Your virtue is safe, but I’m still not willing to get into that bed wearing our dirty jeans. So it’s time to strip down, my friend.”
This time, when he looks at me I see hesitancy.
“I’ll be in the bathroom for a moment. When I return I fully expect you will be hiding under the covers.”
He nods and I literally run to the bathroom, my arms tingling with a need to hold him.
~ Renzy ~
OH GOD, I need this.
Need him.
Want him.
I don’t want to think anymore about anything. No more creature, no more Mr. Alexander, no more Lingerlost. I want to be outside of my head for three seconds. I want… Seven. I just want him. My dick thinks that means sex, my head… well, my head thinks so too. My heart is thudding so hard it doesn’t even voice an opinion.
When Seven appears in the doorway wearing one of the robes, I’m almost disappointed. What did I expect? That he would sweep into the room naked?
What have you done to me, Seven?
I didn’t need anyone before you.
No one.
Ever.
That was so lonely, but it was also really comfortable and really safe. Now I feel a warmth in my chest when I see him. Not to mention a very, er, obvious response down south.
For a moment Seven waits, just watching me, and I pull back the covers for him to climb in.
I think about what Morning said, about all of Seven’s older lovers. I wonder if he feels nervous, even just a little, being in this room with me. But why would he? C’mon, he’s worldly and dead sexy and….
The mattress gives a little as Seven slips in next to me, the robe’s belt still knotted.
“Do you want to roll over?” he asks with a lazy smile. “I’ll hold you.”
I shake my head.
No.
That’s not what I want at all.
