Path of Smoke

by Bailey Cunningham

  “Whoa, whoa. Rein it in, Susan Lucci. You’re spiraling.”

  Shelby put her head in her hands. “I feel like I don’t know how to be a person.”

  She felt a pressure on her wrist. She thought it was Carl, but when she looked up, it was Ingrid, touching her lightly. She could feel the cool metal of her ring.

  “Let’s just agree that we’re all works in progress,” Ingrid said. “I nearly burned down my house last week because I forgot to put water in the electric kettle. I was trying to get Neil to use the toilet, and he just kept screaming, ‘I’m a herbivore!’ But he wouldn’t let me take his pants off. I didn’t even smell the smoke until it was drifting down the hallway. There were no batteries in the smoke alarm. We all could have died in our sleep—because I’d swapped out the batteries and stuck them in the karaoke machine.”

  Carl’s eyes brightened. “You’ve had a karaoke machine this whole time?”

  “It’s Paul’s.”

  “This changes everything.”

  Ingrid turned back to Shelby. “The point is that we’re all just hanging on. You have to let yourself off the hook. Just a little bit.”

  Shelby sighed. “This does feel like an epic spiral.”

  “We need an epic distraction, then,” Carl said. “I say we go to the club.”

  “Right,” Sam replied. “The silenoi can’t get us if we’re clubbing.”

  “I’m serious. We’ve got another day until this meeting goes down. Let’s be human.”

  Ingrid looked uncertain. “Paul’s got hockey practice. I could try to find a sitter.”

  “I’m sure the Sovereign Court would watch Neil,” Carl said.

  Ingrid pulled out her phone. “I’d prefer that he not learn the lyrics to ‘Edge of Seventeen’ just yet. I’m going outside to make a call.”

  She stood up and left the café. Shelby watched her go. If Ingrid was willing to do this, then maybe Carl was right. Maybe dancing was the appropriate response to fear.

  “Sam?” Carl asked. “You’re in, right?”

  “Will there be straight men at this club?”

  “Maybe a few bi guys. But they’ve got half-price drink specials.”

  “Then I’m in.”

  They went back to Ingrid’s place to strategize, but the session dissolved when it was discovered that Paul had vodka in the fridge.

  “He hides it behind the soy milk,” Ingrid said. “But he keeps forgetting that it’s there, so he probably won’t notice if you have some. All we’ve got to mix it with is . . . ginger ale.”

  “Not a problem,” Carl replied.

  By the time Paul got home from work, they were all debating which was the better show: Breaking Bad or Orange Is the New Black. Sam said that she couldn’t watch Bryan Cranston in his underwear, but Carl argued that it was high art. They could all agree that Laura Prepon was the person they’d most like to go dancing with. Paul instantly forgave them for stealing his vodka. Sam convinced him to skip practice and join them at the club. It took very little effort. Ingrid remained sober and played dinosaur games with Neil until the sitter arrived.

  Andrew met them at the club. He looked slightly dazed to see them all, like a nature photographer whose subjects had climbed out of the wild. Shelby kissed him on the cheek.

  “I miss you something fierce,” she whispered in his ear.

  “Likewise,” he said, smiling oddly.

  She took his right hand, while Carl took his left. Then they walked into the club. A string of lights guided them upstairs, where the music was already whumping. Carl ordered them shots. Ingrid abstained. She had a slightly faraway look, and Shelby could tell that she was thinking about Neil. But then Paul whispered something in her ear.

  “Challenge accepted,” she said, and reached for a shot.

  “What did you say?” Sam asked.

  “It’s a sibling thing,” Paul replied. “Involving blackmail.”

  “You got your wish,” Ingrid said, clinking the shot against the bar. “Don’t push it.”

  The dance floor was glowing like a hot-pink forge. Several ladies had put down their purses and were dancing around them, almost ritualistically. The DJ had wings. Paul and Sam danced together. She was taller than him, but his boots helped to make up the difference. Carl danced with Andrew. There was barely a breath between them. Every time Shelby turned around, Carl was ordering something blue or green. He was in his element. She danced with Ingrid. At first, they kept a respectable distance from each other. Then the distance grew friendly. The song changed tempo, and her arms were twined around Ingrid’s neck. She was weightless.

  The music stopped, and a beautiful drag queen in a Balenciaga gown ascended the stage. She was the Empress of Regina, and the entire Sovereign Court was gathered at the edges of the dance floor. They couldn’t bend a knee, but they did lower their fans in a sign of reverence. The DJ handed her the microphone.

  “And now, as they say, for something completely different,” she purred. “One of you would like to read a little something. Come up here, baby.”

  A small shadow climbed onto the stage. At first, Shelby didn’t register who it was. Then she realized that Carl was standing next to the empress. She handed him the microphone and glided back down to the parquet floor. Carl looked out at the crowd. For a second, she thought he might fall off the stage. Then his expression changed, and she saw that he was in teaching mode. This was just another classroom. He cleared his throat.

  “These words,” he said, “belong to that fabulous reprobate, John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester. And to us.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  Then he closed his eyes, and spoke:

  So, when my days of impotence approach,

  And I’m by pox and wine’s unlucky chance

  Forced from the pleasing billows of debauch

  On the dull shore of lazy temperance,

  My pains at least some respite shall afford

  While I behold the battles you maintain

  When fleets of glasses sail about the board,

  From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.

  Shelby couldn’t quite look at him. Light blossomed on all sides, twinkling, like spectral Christmas trees. His eyes were still closed. Both Paul and Ingrid were smiling in disbelief. Sam’s expression was a mixture of mild horror and sympathy. Shelby looked at Andrew. His face, as usual, was impossible to read. A few people continued to stir, but most of them had stopped completely and were listening. They were children caught in the middle of a story, unable to turn away. Carl shifted from one foot to the other, but his voice remained steady. The poem was somewhere deep in his memory, rising up in bright waves.

  I’ll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home;

  Bawds’ quarters beaten up, and fortress won;

  Windows demolished, watches overcome;

  And handsome ills by my contrivance done.

  Nor shall our love-fits, Chloris, be forgot,

  When each the well-looked linkboy strove t’ enjoy,

  And the best kiss was the deciding lot

  Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy.

  He leaned forward, until she thought he might fall. But something held him. The soft glow of the lights, the hiss of the speakers, the spell of indrawn breath. It held him as he drew the words to a close. And she could see him, careworn, looking back at this moment, at its fading fire. Looking far back, and realizing that he’d done his very best to ruin them as they deserved.

  Thus, statesmanlike, I’ll saucily impose,

  And safe from action, valiantly advise;

  Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,

  And being good for nothing else, be wise.

  Everyone applauded. He handed back the microphone to the DJ, and the music resumed. Carl rejoined them, looking as if he’d
just climbed out of another dimension.

  “Where did that come from?” Shelby asked.

  He shrugged. “I guess I was just feeling metrical.”

  Andrew took his hand. “Let’s dance.”

  Paul and Sam were heading toward the patio. For a moment, Ingrid and Shelby found themselves staring at each other, smiling awkwardly.

  “I think . . . I have to pee.” It wasn’t what she’d been planning to say.

  “Okay,” Ingrid replied. “I’m going to get a soda. I’ll wait for you at the bar.”

  Shelby headed downstairs. She was thinking about all of the other things that she could have said. They were all better than I have to pee. She turned a corner and walked through the open doorway. But it wasn’t the bathroom. It was a small office, with a desk covered in folders and computer equipment. A man with red hair looked up as she entered.

  “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, though he was smiling slightly.

  Ingrid appeared behind her. “I saw you turn right and instead of left, and wanted to make sure you didn’t—” She looked at the man behind the desk and trailed off.

  “This clearly isn’t the bathroom,” Shelby said.

  “No.” The man folded his hands. “It isn’t.”

  “I feel like I know you.”

  “Shelby,” Ingrid said, “we have to go.”

  “No.” He rose. “Stay. We have some things to discuss.”

  “What are you doing here?” Ingrid whispered.

  Shelby stared at her. “You know him too?”

  “Look closely,” she said.

  Shelby squinted. He had a wispy orange beard and eyes that were dark but strangely kind. He was wearing a light green shirt, and his hands were pale and slightly freckled. There was something about his voice. It had a kind of trill to it.

  “Narses?” She felt herself grow cold.

  “I see the others are with you—including the artifex. There’s one that I don’t recognize.”

  “Leave him out of this,” Ingrid said sharply. “Forget that you saw him.”

  “You know that’s not possible.”

  “Please. Just let him go home.”

  “I can’t do that, miles.”

  “I’m not a miles here. I’m a mother.”

  “You’ve always been both. Now, you’d best bring the others. We have some things to discuss, and it’s already getting late. There’s a meeting room downstairs. We’ll be afforded some measure of privacy there.”

  “No.” There was panic in her voice—Shelby could hear it. “You have to let him go. He’s got nothing to do with this.”

  “Perhaps that was once the case, but not anymore.” His voice softened. “He was going to find out sooner or later.”

  “Not tonight. Do you hear me? It’s not going to happen.”

  Narses looked at her for a moment. Then he sighed. “Fine. He and the other one—Andrew—they can go. But the rest of you are staying.”

  “Can we wait one second here?” Shelby demanded. “I thought you were dead.”

  “A lot of people thought that.”

  “What are you doing at our club?”

  “I should think that’s obvious.” He smiled. “I own it.”

  4

  SHELBY STARED AT HERSELF in the bathroom mirror.

  The fluorescent lights made her look as if she’d been caught in a camera’s flash. Milky pale and washed out, with bruised shadows at the edges of her life. Mirrors were supposed to capture your soul, but this one seemed disinterested, offering up her reflection only to be polite. Someone had scrawled a phone number in black marker across the glass. It struck her as being strangely out of time. Did people really phone random numbers? With the exception of talking to Andrew on speakerphone, most of her conversations occurred in a stichomythia of text messaging. It was hard enough to dial up SaskTel, knowing that she’d have to talk to a stranger about her fiscal irresponsibility. She couldn’t imagine dialing a completely random number. It was like opening a treasure chest that you’d found in a dungeon. You might get a handful of coins, a priceless artifact, or a poison dart.

  Next to her, a member of the Sovereign Court was applying a touch-up. Shelby was impressed by her diaphanous eyelashes. Her hair was streaked blue at the tips, and she wore a strapless black gown that exposed the tattoo on her back.

  Still looking in the mirror, she observed: “Judging from your expression, your cat just died, or you lost a bet.”

  Shelby reddened slightly. “I’m just having a very strange night.”

  “I’ve been having one of those for the last twenty years.”

  “Really? You seem very well adjusted.”

  “You don’t know me, pumpkin.”

  “Sorry.”

  She put away her compact and looked at Shelby. “Obviously, you’ve watched too many movies—you know the kind, where the drag queen has mystical powers and gives you advice about your love life, renews your faith in humanity—” She rummaged around her purse. “That kind of shit. Am I right?”

  Shelby felt her expectations falling. “Possibly.”

  “You know how you’ve got that undo button on your keyboard? Control-Z, or whatever? You just press it, and the mistake’s gone, like magic.”

  It wasn’t quite a question. “I’m familiar with control-Z,” she said finally.

  “Well, they should make one of those fucking buttons for life. Bad decision? Just undo it. The real shit-kicker is that the bad decisions are the good ones.”

  “Is that your advice?”

  She smiled. “I’m not your therapist. You seem sweet, though. Have a good night, and remember what John Waters says. If you go home with someone, and they don’t have any books—don’t fuck them.”

  She walked out of the bathroom.

  Shelby listened to the song of her heels as she climbed the stairs. Then there was only the buzz of the overhead lights and the sound of her own breath, which seemed to belong to someone else. If she stayed in this little bathroom, this white-chocolate space egg, then nothing would change. She could just control-Z the last fifteen minutes. Turn in the right direction. Maybe drag Ingrid into the bathroom with her. Or they could run straight out of the club, hand in hand down Broad Street, ignoring the horns and curious stares of people on their way to Shoppers Drug Mart. They would blaze through the summer dark, a trans-Neptunian object made of irony and fire. Nothing could touch them. It would be like Bridge to Terabithia, if you stopped on page 130 and refused to read any further.

  In a small, overheated office, full of humming computer equipment and the sweet trace of smoke, Carl and Ingrid were being interviewed by a eunuch. Or maybe he wasn’t a eunuch on this side of the park. Maybe he never had been. Maybe he’d always lived in two worlds, trading his sword for a smartphone. Stepping over the park’s line of beauty to take control of their club on Broad Street. The lubricated end to so many crooked pilgrimages. How many times had she crouched in a graffitied stall, trying to work up the courage to be real, and there he’d been, wreathed by smoke in that little room? The park had begun to annihilate her personal geography. She could no longer perceive its borders. Like any true game, it was taking over her life from the inside. Perhaps her bones would be added to the pile, sooner than she realized. The thought was almost comforting. She could pay her debt to the clay and the vigilant grasshoppers. All she had to do was leave the bathroom.

  She used to have a thing for sinks. In grade school, she would hide in the brown-tiled bathroom and turn on all of the faucets. This was before they’d introduced the ones that shut off after a few minutes. Water arced into the blood-flecked porcelain, stained by some child’s nosebleed. She watched it with great fascination, while the sounds of the school rumbled beyond the big door. Once, she’d peed herself because a substitute teacher wouldn’t let her leave the classroom un
til she finished her math test. She remembered the feeling of her damp underwear, the biting odor, the silence of the empty stall, which offered no solutions. If only it could have transported her somewhere.

  Shelby glanced at the mirror again. The phone number was written across her face. Should she call? It seemed as safe as anything else in her life, at the moment. It was the nakedness of the number that drew her in. No preliminaries. No promises of a good time, or misspelled accusations. Did it simply mean I was here? Or was it an invitation? Finally, she turned away, exiting the bathroom. Music pulsed along the floor. A man sat on the stairs, nodding off, one hand curled protectively around his drink. She carefully stepped around him.

  She walked past the ATM, where someone was staring blankly at the screen. Their balance flickered at them.

  “That can’t be right,” she heard. “It can’t be.”

  Shelby passed a long bench where people reclined and collapsed into each other, like strange particles. Their conversations blended into a chain of riddles:

  so done PowerPoint couldn’t

  pay going to ex construction everywhere

  all over me what the hell ladybugs

  once torrents jumper cables not without

  socks in trees lost the form

  where’s my where’s oh

  hold

  just for one

  winter

  A boy looked at her, with hair the color of a prairie sunset, wine-bright and borderless. He was lit by the glow of his phone. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if he was really there. He didn’t smile. Just glanced at her with mild curiosity. How did she look to him, standing in the corridor with people buzzing around her? Was she like a piece of furniture? Did he have any idea that she spent half of her life in another world, framed by rival queens and offerings to chance? Perhaps he knew that the dice were loaded. He was old enough to be here, after all, surrounded by this glorious accident of dance and rumor.

  They all should have known better, yet still, they threw. Rattling around like fireworks in a cup, they waited for their grand entrance, the chance to roll across the green felt table. The kiss good night, or the turned cheek. Kneading in the dark, or walking home, one step ahead of the dawn. You threw because it felt like a choice, and last call was a distant storm. You could see it, but you had a while yet—there was still the possibility of shelter.