by Sarah Porter
He baited his oldest son for me some sixty-eight years ago, the toady. The delicious young Martin Rhodes, not that his father here has the slightest recollection of the name. The boy didn’t live to be particularly old after that. “You can’t remember. That’s the price you’ve paid for your past indiscretions. What shall I take from you now, I wonder, for soliciting a young lady whose favors I’d reserved for myself?” No reply beyond a pitiable writhing. “I’d planned to keep Miss Bohnacker blissfully ignorant, in the hope that she’d come gamboling up to me for some small incentive; to rescue one of her brothers, perhaps. Friendly as a kitten. Now, thanks to you and Mabel, I’m afraid she’s cottoned on.”
“She doesn’t know! She doesn’t know anything! Aloysius, I was able to find that out for you. The little bitch is a blank slate. Just waiting to be inscribed.” One thing I can say with assurance about death: it’s never made anyone cleverer. A vulgar fool will remain one no matter how deep you dig his grave.
“As she hurried to remove herself from the pleasure of your company, she happened to meet her twin brother. Or, to be clearer, his butchered corpse. Are you still sure that she knows nothing?”
One of the peculiarities of our climate is that such shadow-bodies don’t decay. Everett Bohnacker’s sliced meat will stay as fresh as a daisy; his blood remains fragrant and moist. Miss Bohnacker would be similarly well-preserved, should we succeed in fishing her from the river before her older brother manages it. My informants have spotted him swimming here despite the risk, clearly in the hope of retrieving her corpse. In order to hide it from me, naturally, lest I find some delightful use for it. Having secured safe haven in that pretty pair of mortal frames, he’s green enough to think that he can prance back here and elude capture. And he has so far, I’ll admit, but it’s only a matter of time before he slips.
“She doesn’t know! Aloysius, take it from me, she’s nothing but a senseless chit. Easy pickings.” If there were such a thing as easy pickings, not one of us would be here. He knows that, naturally. Even the most witless of the beating hearts will tend to spook badly at our advances. Ah, that’s why I had such high hopes, when he first came, that Dashiell Bohnacker would see his way to helping us befriend his dainty younger siblings, rather than snatching all the biscuits for himself. We’ll see who ends up eating them, though.
“That chit of Dashiell’s is now alert to the possibilities, and it’s only fair that I credit you with enlightening her. Tell me, what do you have left? Your name? Or—let me see—I removed that last time you annoyed us. But you do still remember that you once directed motion pictures, don’t you?” He twitches, as might be expected. Ah, the coup de grâce. His fine boy was a pittance compared to his bloated and boorish vanity. “It’s a paltry enough memory as payment for your gaffe. But I’ll make do.”
“Aloysius, wait! I’ll make it up to you! Let me down and I’ll find a way to bring her straight to you. I swear it!”
“She’s a silly chit, as you say. And now she’ll be too skittish to be worth pursuing. I’ve reconsidered my interest in her. Perhaps I’d prefer someone else.”
I step close. If the others resent the fact that certain unpleasant entities have chosen me to be their delegate in this place, well, they might try to learn from my example. Powers have been vested in me sufficient to pop the cork on any ghost here and drain the contents. Why him, my compatriots in loss and decay are always grumbling. Why Aloysius? He’s only a ghost like us. Formerly a living man, tapped for promotion by a dozen bullets fired one foggy night in 1929. What did he do to enjoy such privileges?
Dear friends, I have these powers, and you do not, for a very sound reason. It’s because I can be trusted to make good use of them.
NEVER-EVER
When I come to again I’m lying on the living room sofa. The windows are pitch dark, so it must be at least six o’clock. And I can hear Ruby banging around in the kitchen. Getting rid of Dashiell seems like it’s not so much of an option, but neither is disappearing forever into the darkness and letting him run my damn body if he wants it so bad. Right, Dash only wants it for the fun parts. He’ll leave all the hassle of consciousness to me whenever everything sucks.
For a while I sprawl there, wishing the nothingness would take me over again so I could just forget everything that’s happened. No dice, though. I have to get up and go through the motions, and pretend I’m Everett and not some mutant blend of myself and the dead guy, and worry all the time about what messed-up thing he’ll try next. He could kill somebody and I’m the one who’d go to prison for it. He can talk out of my mouth and persuade my twin sister to turn on me until I can’t trust anything she says anymore. He freaked Elena out and he made Paige think that I’m a complete asshole. I wish he was dead—a whole lot deader than this, I mean.
I kind of feel like I never want to see Ruby again, but realistically that’s another not-option. I’m starving and she’s got the kitchen covered, like she’s some occupying army keeping me away from the food. The house reeks of baking chocolate. So fine, whatever, just because I’m in the same room with her doesn’t mean I have to speak. It doesn’t mean I have to look at her. If she wants to have a conversation with my freaking face, she can wait until somebody else is running its mouth.
So I get up and go down the hall and she’s wearing her shiny red boots again, like I should have known she would be. It’s not like it’s a secret anymore where her allegiance is. There are mixing bowls heaped in the sink and two round pans of chocolate cake cooling on the counter; there’s also a fat bruise where Dashiell bashed her head this morning. I wasn’t going to say anything, but there’s something about the combination of Ruby sitting there mixing up lavender frosting, and that lump on her forehead, and her expression as she glances up at me—shamefaced? but still stubborn?—that gets under my skin like a pile of seething worms.
“You’re making him a cake.”
“It’s his birthday. You know that.” Ruby sounds pissy, like she has any right to be—like she isn’t the one who owes me the biggest apology of her life. She isn’t even looking at me.
“So who do you think is going to eat it? The bastard doesn’t have a mouth of his own anymore. Are you going to take that to the graveyard and dig him up so he can stuff his dead face?” I guess I’m trying to make her mad—and not just her, honestly. I can feel Dash sort of tense up inside me and I wish to God he’d just whack me out of the way. I could use some serious, long-term oblivion. Ruby just kind of flicks this irritable half-second stare at me and goes back to swirling her frosting. Around and around.
“You like cake, Never. It’s chocolate.”
It takes me a moment to process that—what she just called me. “I’m not eating that, Miss Slippers. He’s been using me for too much crap already, without me feeding him cake. Did Dash tell you about how he went and had sex with Paige in my body, and she didn’t even know it was him? And now he’s after Elena?”
That gets to her, I can see it, and I have this sudden, queasy realization: Ruby loves him, all right, but maybe not in the way anyone should love their own brother. Her mouth is sort of scrunched up and her cheeks are flaming red, because she knows that both Paige and Elena are a million times prettier than she’ll ever be—and that’s the only part that really bothers her. She doesn’t care that Dash used me and Paige both for his cheap thrills without asking our permission. I’d laugh at her if it wasn’t so horrible. “He drowned you, Ruby. He slit my freaking throat. What would he have to do to make you finally tell him to drop dead?”
“Dash did what he had to do. He didn’t hurt us in real life. Anyway, you told me you didn’t care about that.” Maybe she’s decided that her frosting is mixed enough because she gets up fast, her chair squealing across the floor, and stomps over to the counter.
Then it sinks in. “I told you what? When did I say that?”
“Today. When you called me. To get me out of that dream.” She bites her lip, and—about time—there’s something in her e
xpression like she actually gives a damn about me. “Ever, I mean, I know you agreed—but seeing you that way, and all the blood, and your eyes that empty. I’ve never seen anything that awful, is all. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
I guess this means she found my dead body, in that place Dash calls the borderlands. “Not awful enough to stop you from baking the bastard a birthday cake. I mean, apparently, Ruby? And I didn’t call you.”
“Yeah, you did! You said I had to wake up right away, because Dash wouldn’t reach me in time. You said—”
“That wasn’t me. Don’t you get it? He’s in my body, he can imitate my voice when he wants to. Paige can’t tell the difference, either. He’s fooling both of you.” Okay, so I brought up Paige again to bug her. It works really well. “This could be Dashiell talking to you right now. Telling you what a sucker you are for keeping up your stupid devotion to him.” I can feel Dash sort of fidgeting inside me, like he’s almost mad enough to come slamming back to the surface. Then I get a better idea. “You’re the one who wants him, not me. So why doesn’t he just go camp out in you and jerk your body around and leave me the hell alone? I guess it might be harder for him to screw random girls that way. But maybe he could still pull it off. Do you think he’s that good?”
Now Ruby’s face is working like crazy. She might be about to cry and I don’t even care. “Since when are you this mean, Never?”
Since you lied to me just because he told you to. Since I had to watch you making a cake for someone who murdered me, dream or no dream.
“Since you started calling me that. You’re just like him. Dash? I know you can hear me. Go possess Ruby, okay? I don’t want you. I’m done.”
“He’s been trying to help you. Like, to be more confident? It’s not like you weren’t basically in love with Paige as soon as you saw her, just because of what she looks like. So why do you hate him so much?”
I don’t hate him, actually. Or at least, if I didn’t still love him, then I wouldn’t have to hate him this much. That’s kind of the problem. “Because it makes me sick. The way he’s using everyone. Dash, get out!” I guess I’m cracking up, a little bit. Because I’ve always been the one who thinks drama is for idiots, but that doesn’t stop me from dropping down on my knees and slamming my head into the floor, over and over. “Get out, get out, get out!”
Ruby stares in total shock, because this is not the me she’s used to, then runs over and starts trying to haul me up by my shoulders. Her bowl of frosting clangs down and rolls across the floorboards.
“Dashiell, please?” Oh great. She’s talking in my direction, but through me. “You have to leave Ne—Everett. He’s not okay.”
And then it’s over. The drama drains out of me so suddenly that I slump. Ruby’s crying; I’m wheezing and halfway laughing at the same time, just from relief at knowing he’s gone and I can talk and think again without having him smeared all over me. I fumble around in my pockets and find my inhaler, suck in.
“Better. Okay. I’m better now.” I get to my feet while Ruby kind of flops, her hair sticking to her tear-streaked face and one hand reaching vaguely toward me. “I’m going out. You have an awesome time with Dashiell. Eat some cake.”
“You’re supposed to be grounded. Remember?”
“Whatever. If Dad actually cared what we do maybe he’d be home more.” I know Dashiell is out of me now—I’m sure I felt him go—but God, do I sound like him. “Tell Dad whatever you want. You don’t have to lie for me.” I turn away from her and it’s satisfying as hell.
“Never-Ever.” I guess I knew this was coming. I’m not even through the kitchen door and Ruby’s already been displaced by her favorite ghoul. It takes a lot more than rotting to shut some people up. A thousand years could go by, New York could be under the ocean and wasted by nuclear bombs and cratered by a meteor, and Dashiell would still be jabbering on from some splintered TV in the ruins. “Never, listen to me. It could be dangerous for you out there, especially on your own. You and Miss Slippers have attracted a bit too much interest. Why do you think I took steps to keep her home from school today?”
I haven’t looked back but I can feel him right behind me. I can smell who he is. “So you admit it. That you bashed her head on purpose.”
“I haven’t claimed anything else, Never-Ever. Miss Slippers mentioned an unexpected meeting with someone I know. It was cause for concern, simply. So I made sure she wouldn’t be leaving the house before I could investigate.”
I’ve stopped dead, because something is fluttering at the edge of my brain. A memory: my mouth with his voice talking out of it. Ruby’s eyes so close to me that they blur a little, greenish smudges on her plaintive face. You’re the one who did it for me, sweetest Ru. When did that happen? I won’t forget that. And then …
Jesus. “You kissed her. Ruby. On the lips.”
I still have my back to him. I don’t have to see the bastard to know the way he’s shrugging. “Why wouldn’t I kiss her? She’s my precious girl.”
I’ve started trembling so hard I’m afraid my legs might collapse. “If I remember that, Dash,” I say—and now I’m finally turning, half-leaning against the doorframe—“what don’t I remember?”
There he is in front of me: Ruby’s face, but wrenched out of shape by that sulky, arrogant look Dash always got when somebody had the balls to confront him. There’s a pause, like maybe he thinks it’s beneath him to even respond, but then he does.
“I didn’t molest my baby sister, Never. If that’s what you’re implying.”
Blood pounds in my head until I can barely see. “You’ve lied about everything else. And what you’re doing right now is basically molesting her, anyway. You know how she feels about you!”
Another pause. “Ruby Slippers isn’t much of one for concealing her emotions, is she? Of course I know. I know how you feel about me, too, Never-Ever.”
That does it. I turn and head for the front door. In the hallway mirror I see my face working through these horrible contortions.
“Never. It isn’t safe for you out there. Not without me.”
“That’s awesome,” I snap. “Maybe somebody will stab me for real this time.”
“Stay with me and Miss Slippers. I’m truly sorry our situation is so painful for you, Never. I’m working to find a resolution.”
I don’t bother answering that, I just flip back the lock. Talking to Dash means letting him shove your brain in circles until he’s got you exactly where he wants you.
“If you come weaseling around in me again, I’ll throw myself off a bridge, Dash. Okay?”
“I’m doing my best to look after you, Never. Try to understand that.” The door is hanging open in front of me. A filthy, rust-colored sky above rows of shining windows across the street; the stink of pulped leaves.
“The name is Everett, actually,” I tell him. “You try to understand, for once.” And I storm off into the Brooklyn night.
RUBY SLIPPERS
A second skin of darkness sucks in, tight but elastic, stretching as I struggle against it. It squeezes me again; even my eyelids are bandaged by slick black. Dash, I try to call, Dash, please let me out! Can’t he hear me? Stomping shakes up from below—is he running up the stairs? Is he crashing through the hallways, slamming open a door? Has he forgotten I’m here?
“Yes, Dashiell, you’re correct. There are indeed conditions on my love for you. I don’t see those conditions as particularly onerous, however. Or unreasonable. Basic human decency, that would be more than enough. I would be only too glad to love you again, if you would give me the opportunity.” It’s Dad’s voice, but where is he? Why can I hear him so clearly in the swerving dark, almost as if he was murmuring in my ear? His voice drowns out the noise of something smashing in the distance. Then the same smash comes back like an echo, gradually breaking into static. “Don’t think you can take advantage of Ruby again to come in this house. I’ve impressed on her how serious this is. Really, Dashiell, duping your fo
urteen-year-old sister into acting as an accessory to your thefts? Coaching her to lie to me? And even after you’ve gone that far, you can talk to me as if you were somehow the victim in all this?”
Why is Dad going on about something that happened more than two years ago, though? He must be talking about the time when Dash told me he had to pick up some things he’d left in his room, and copied our dad’s credit card information down instead while I cooked dinner. Dad’s voice rumbles in my head until I want to scream. But how can he look at me and know that Dashiell is the mind inside me?
Unless this isn’t happening, or not now. It must be a memory like an earthquake, quivering every joint of the dark. I can barely hear what I think might be footsteps charging down the steps, banging sounds, footsteps again. No matter how quickly Dash races through the house, our dad’s voice keeps on chasing him: “No one has injured you except yourself. This is not an injustice. Acknowledge that much, and it will at least allow me to regain some respect for you. Can you do that? Dashiell?”
Waves of pain beat through my thoughts, but I know, I can feel, that the pain isn’t mine. Dash? Are you okay? It’s me, Ruby-Ru. Please just say something. If he can hear me, he isn’t answering; how long will he leave me adrift in this rocking void?
I am the night’s unborn child, and that means I should not be alone at all. But somehow I’ve lost my twin.
“Did you take pleasure in involving her? Tell me, was corrupting Ruby incidental to your purpose? Or is that actually your goal? I’d forbid her to see you if I weren’t concerned that she would go behind my back. I’ve decided it’s better if I know. This is what we’ve come to, though: that I’m genuinely afraid to let my daughter spend time with the brother she adores. Think about that.”
How could Dad say that to him? I remember how bad the fights got that summer, but I know I never heard Dad tell him anything quite this awful. If I’d been there I would have run out and screamed in Dashiell’s defense, said anything I could to prove how crazy Dad’s ideas were, so this must have happened when I wasn’t around to stop it. Maybe when Ever and I went to Paris for two weeks that August, to see our mom? She dragged us to every tourist attraction and department store she could think of, like if we all stayed busy enough she wouldn’t have to really look in our faces. She thinks, if she goes through the motions every few years, then Ever and I won’t have any excuse to resent her.
