“Return to... You don’t want me back at the bridge?”
“I can’t see why we would. Thank you, Deputy.”
Before he can think up any other services he might provide, Mrs. Rutherford disconnects.
He frowns. Starts the patrol car. Maybe they have something on Judge Hubert he doesn’t know about. Must be it. There’s always more at work than they let him in on. One day, they’ll make him an Old Man. Then he’ll know as much as anyone. More than most. But until that day?
He shuts down the car. Surely there’s something more he can accomplish before leaving. To show the Old Men his worth. Maybe he’ll do a walk-by. Take a quick look-see. Just in case something presents itself. No harm in that.
He checks his reflection. Climbs out of the car.
“Hey, Doug.” Schilling knows the voice. Turns towards it.
Still in civvies: A simple black dress. Strangely, she seems shorter in heels than in her standard boots. Smaller in general without the uniform. Without the badge.
His boss: The Sheriff.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
First I heard o’ the plague was from me own dear mother. Come each Saturday, she’d load up the truck. Dolly ‘em rhubarb pies o’ hers out to Adderpool, where they always used to hold a farmer’s market in the town square. Had a stand we made her and all. Took a right pretty penny. Nare brought a single pie back with her, an’ that’s God’s truth.
Then comes the day, she stops goin’. Gives it up all at once, all the way. Says she won’t consort with them Adderpool folks no more. They’ve got a sickness in ‘em and no mistake. It settled over ‘em slow. She first saw it long afore she stopped goin’. Months, maybe. Sniffles to start with. Then, they’d be wracked with terrible wet coughing fits, like to tear a man in half. Time wore on without any returnin’ to health, an’ more sick with every visit.
Soon enough a true change had come over ‘em. They’d lost their coloration, she said. Got so pale as could see the blood running blue through their veins. With eyes saucer-wide. Hardly ever blinkin’. An’ all in a sweat, whether or not there was heat to cause it. When they’d buy from her, their paper bills came away damp. From their pockets or their clammy hands, she never knew, but it got so she didn’t want to touch their money, let ‘lone take it home with her.
Worst of all, she said, was their garglethroat manner of speech. Like they was talkin’ through a mouthful of water they’d forgot they ought to swallow.
Hearin’ that sent me thinkin’ back even farther. Back to something me Gramps had told me as a bairn: Why he weren’t a fisher no more, after makin’ a trade of it for so long. Said it all came back to him catchin’ sight of a mermaid that once.
A real ‘un, an’ not from stories, neither. A gaffer, sure. Ugly as the devil’s mother-in-law. Fish-belly pale, with starin’ saucer eyes. Halfway twixt from fish to people. Not an even split, like the pictures, but a mixing-together. Caught sight of it off the stern, an’ it looked him in the eye, he said, an’ it laughed at him with a strangulated wet gurgle, afore it dove ‘neath the surf an’ swam down under the boat.
A sight as that he couldn’t hold, so he told his mates, an’ they said if he seen it true, he was cursed an’ so was they, least s’long as he sailed with them. Told him, for all the days as he was on the water, it nare would leave him be. It’d chase him from hither to thither an’ back, an’ scare ‘way any fish come near, an’ tear up any nets thrown in, an’ tangle any lines they’d drop, where’er he went that was wet on God’s earth until the day he passed from it, an’ after that, who could rightly say?
They slewed straight back ashore reckly, an’ couldn’t rid themselves of me Gramps fast enough. From that day thereafter, he couldn’t get crewed to save his soul, as the word ran ‘round of his mermaid curse. Nare again did he lift his feet from dry land from that day ford to this.
Well, it was that what came to me straightaway when me mother told us about the Adderpool plague, an’ the sorry state of those poor souls what succumbed to it. The way she told it, they sounded like me Gramps’s mermaid, only land-bound. Little did I know at the time how square I’d hit the nail on its noggin. The more I heard tell of it from others, the more--
~
The yellow water balloon hits Max square in the chest. Soaks him. Head to crotch. Splashes the tablet he’s reading.
He scrambles backwards. Leaps to sock feet on the wet shingles. Drenched. Bracing himself on the slanted peak of the roof of his garage. Holding the tablet at arm’s length. Away from his sopping self. Though any damage is already done.
Below. In his driveway: Laughter. Mandi and Allison. Trying to contain themselves. Failing.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Max! It was all Allison.”
“Shut up, you cunt!” Still laughing, Allison hip-checks Mandi. She holds her ground.
“Bitch, you know it was you!” Mandi thrusts forward a sloshing orange water balloon for Max to see. “I didn’t even throw mine. We were just supposed to threaten you with them.”
“That’s not even-- It was Mandi’s idea in the first--” Allison grabs for the balloon. The two tousle a moment before it bursts above them. Soaking both girls. Igniting another fit of giggles.
Max checks his tablet. It won’t turn on. Naturally. He’d barely started to read Aaron’s bizarre attachment, when... He closes his eyes. Lets the interchangeable girls’ indistinguishable voices blend together.
“No fair! Ma-ax! Tell her that wasn’t cool!”
“Use it or lose it, bitch.”
“I am Dee-wrenched! Like, completely.”
“Don’t be a suck or anything. It got me, too.”
Today, Max has zero patience for their bullshit. These girls used to be smart. Honor roll smart, but more than that: They had interests. Passions beyond the surface hair-makeup-fashion-fad chasing they pour all of their energy into these days. They were awesome, once. But at some point, they seemed to decide in unison to shift life-strategies. Dropped IQ points as if they’d grown out of them. Assumed ditzy, helpless personas. Began to obsess over lip-gloss and labels.
“You. Slut. That shirt is totally see-through.”
“Yours isn’t?”
“The water balloons were your idea. And at least I’m wearing a bra.”
“Um, you kinda have to. If you don’t, they’ll be bruising your knees by the time you graduate.”
“Bitch!”
It’s his own fault they’ve come. This is what comes of showing vulnerability online. They’re here to console him. To take his mind off his loss. And - now that Aaron is no longer an issue - to stake their claim in him before anyone else does.
They’d tried to pull him along. When they became the new them. Just him. Without Aaron. He’s holding you back. He’ll never be cool. If you keep hanging out with him, you won’t either. Max had politely declined. Said he had to stick by Aaron because he’d never be cool. The girls admired him for his self-sacrifice. He’s still not sure why he didn’t tell them off properly.
“Ma-ax! You have to save us!”
“Yeah! Let us in before somebody sees us. We’re practically topless out here!”
He glances down at the girls. Appreciating the view, but put off by their act as they oh-so-melodramatically cover themselves. Faux-Embarrassed. He wants to run them off his property. Call them out for the vultures they are. Tell them to go straight to hell. But without Aaron, he’s alone. He can’t afford to start alienating people now. Not even these people.
So - without a word - Max limps over to his window. Ducks inside. Shuts it behind himself.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Trevor shakes George’s hand. Double-clasps it with his other. For added gratitude.
“Thanks for coming, George. It really means... Just the world to us.”
Trevor looks to Sylvie. Including her in the ‘us.’ She half-shrugs in acknowledgement. Adding nothing. At the very least, she doesn’t openly disagree.
For his part, George just no
ds. Uncomfortable. Ready to go. Backing off. Making room for his wife to step forward in his place. She does.
Trevor spins through a mental rolodex. George Harris. His wife, Anita. Sold them their house. Six years back. On Derryview Lane. A starter. No kids, then. Two kids, now. Must be thinking of moving on soon. They’d need his services. George and Anita Harris.
“Anita.” Trevor takes her hand. Pulls her into a hug. Throws in the slightest cheek-kiss. “Thanks again. And thank you...” Lasagna. They brought the vegetarian lasagna. “...for the lasagna. It was a life-saver.”
She’s so glad it was helpful.
He promises to return the dish to them soon. They wave it off. No rush. But it gives Trevor the chance to visit them in their increasingly-cramped home. To compliment how much they’ve done with so little. To plant the seeds of discontent. Remind them how much more they deserve. How much more their kids deserve. Generating opportunities.
Trevor feels a twinge. He’d never had the chance to teach any of that to Aaron. Never took the chance. Now, never would. Always thought the time would come. Once this ridiculous Circle nonsense was out of the way. Once Aaron realized he needed a realistic fallback. But he won’t, now. Won’t realize. Won’t need it.
Cursing himself, he tears up. Sniffles. The Harrises shrink back. Horrified. He smiles. Shrugs. They understand. It’s an emotional time.
Duty done, they rush off. Out of the lighthouse. He pictures them: Loosening up on the way to the car. Laughing some on the way home - allowed to, again. Sombre task completed. Back to routine.
He envies them that. Doesn’t see it in his own future at all.
He sits back. Surveys the room. Picnic tables mostly emptied out. It’s nearly over now. Soon the rite will be completed. A full day spent doting on Aaron’s memory. Permission for everyone else to move on without another thought for him. Not so for he and Sylvie. For whom moving on at all may prove impossible.
A woman approaches. Trevor straightens. Game face on.
A lighthouse keeper. One of Sylvie’s people: Monique. Even so, he can’t expect his wife to deal with her. A sour misanthrope at the best of times, Sylvie has been reveling in her misery. Leaving every responsibility firmly on his shoulders. Excusable, given the circumstances. But still...
Trevor rises. Extends a hand. “Sylvie, it’s Monique.”
Sylvie looks up. Nods. It sure is.
Monique Delacroix. Lives in her lighthouse. Has for years. Not about to change. In Trevor’s experience, members of the Watch don’t tend to have much interest in the housing market. “Monique. Thanks so much for coming.”
“Of course. Aaron was... A really good kid. You guys did something right there.” She tears up. Sucks it back. “You should be proud.”
“We are. So proud.” His breath catches. He looks to Sylvie. She’s someplace else. “Thanks for saying--”
“Okay, boss. We’re gonna get going.” Roscoe appears. Somehow stealthy despite his size. Practically shoving Monique to one side, so as to address Sylvie.
“Hey! Back off, ya big ox!” Monique elbows him. Hard. Reclaims her ground. “You can wait your goddamn turn!”
Roscoe’s face twists. About to reply. Not with an apology.
“Sorry about that Monique...” Trevor steps in. Tries to cool things down. Even with so few guests remaining, the last thing he wants is a scene. Another scene. “He must not have--”
“Oh, I’m used to it, believe me.” She glares at the big man. Forcing him out of the way with her eyes. He backs up into Burl. Trailing, as always. “Anyway... Sorry for your loss.”
Burl whispers something to Roscoe as she storms off. Once she’s out the door, they laugh together. Sharing some unguessable in-joke at Monique’s expense.
Trevor’s never quite figured them out. When he started seeing Sylvie, their near-constant presence worried him. Made him jealous in a way he’d never felt before. But soon, it became clear they posed no threat. No more than any pair of protective older brothers. Even eventually acting as best men - representing the bride - at their wedding.
For a while, he’d convinced himself they were a couple. Living together. Never - with the exception of Sylvie - seen in the company of women. But, no public displays of affection. No playful bum-pats or innuendo. No nothing that would indicate any particular level of intimacy beyond the bonds of tight friendship.
Simply a unit. None of Trevor’s business, regardless.
Having now done their duty - out of respect for their boss, Sylvie, if not their co-worker, Aaron - the time has come for them to go. “It’s time. We gotta get to patrol.”
“All right.” Sylvie rises. Surprising Trevor. She’s not really the hugging type. Maybe the occasion and the long-term relationship with Roscoe and Burl warrant it. Or maybe... “Let’s go, then.”
She starts around the table. Heading towards the exit with the men.
Trevor’s stuck a moment. Locked in a bubble of disbelief. Then: “You’re... Sylvie? You’re going?”
Sylvie stops. Looks back at her husband like he’s stupid. “It’s patrol.”
“Tonight?” Trevor wants to be strong. But the day’s worn him down. Being on. Putting up a good front. It’s eaten away at him. Soon, the restaurant will be empty. They’ll all be gone. He’ll be alone. More alone than he’s prepared for. More alone than perhaps he’s ever been.
“Yes, tonight. Yes, every night. That’s the job, Trevor.” Sylvie crosses her arms. “After what’s happened, you think we need to patrol less?”
“I’m not talking about patrol. I’m talking about you. Who could possibly blame you for taking the night off?”
Sylvie’s jaw grinds as she walks back to Trevor. Speaks in a hushed growl. “You think they’re taking the night off? Out there in the deep-dark? Or are they more likely waiting for the one night I’m not paying attention?”
Trevor doesn’t want to show Sylvie his weakness. His need. His teeth clench. “You do not talk to me about Circle business.”
Angry. Almost nose-to-nose. The bereaved parents square off against one another.
Burl and Roscoe do their best to look anyplace else. The few remaining guests exit, lest they be caught in the coming blast.
Then, Sylvie backs down. Shrugs. Whatever-you-say-dear. She turns on her heel. Walks out between her boys.
Leaving Trevor utterly alone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Tell me what you’re feeling.”
Wanda can’t see Dr. Ramsey. Laying on her back on the examination table. View blocked by a short curtain - tented at her neck - while he appraises her stump.
She looks up at the ceiling tiles. At the nurse standing next to her. She can’t remember his name. Just his unibrow. He nods down. Prompting her to answer the doctor.
“To be honest? It feels like you’re opening and closing the hand I no longer have.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s a good sign. Have you been experiencing many phantom pains?”
“Mostly just the itching.”
“What about the pills? Have you been taking them?”
Wanda doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “Pills?”
“Did they not give you your prescription when you were discharged?”
“Discharged?”
The nurse leans towards the doctor. “I think it’s in there, Doctor. She wasn’t properly discharged this morning. She just... Left.”
“Wanda...”
“I know.”
“You can’t just walk out of a hospital without a word to anyone. It does no one any favors. Least of all: You.”
“I’m sorry. Must’ve been distracted. On account of my nephew’s funeral I had to get to.”
That shuts him up. Temporarily.
“All right... Looks like a bit of an infection, but we should be able to deal with that pretty easily, right now.” He mutters something to the nurse, who rushes over to the cabinets on a mission. “But you need to take your pills. They’ll stop the itching
and help stave off infection as well.”
He peeks around the edge of the curtain. “And no leaving without being officially discharged, either.”
“Right.” She nods. Serious. “I’d salute, but... You know.”
The nurse finishes preparing a tray. Carries it behind the curtain. Out of sight. The doctor joins him.
“We’ll just be applying this anti-septic salve. Then we’ll redress the whole thing. And you’ll be good to go.”
“I wanted to ask about one other thing...”
“Shoot.”
“Um, I have a bit of an... Addiction problem? But ever since this all happened, it really hasn’t been an issue...”
“I see. Now, Wanda, this is going to feel a bit cold at first, but not to worry: It should warm up pretty quickly. You might even get a bit of a burning sensation. But that just means it’s working.”
“Sure. But my--”
Oooh. It is cold, at first. Wanda hears a sizzle. Smells a familiar smell. Then the euphoria hits, and that’s all she needs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The woman is stern. Deadly serious. Her thin lips turn distinctly down in the corners. Black hair pulls back tightly beneath an incongruously jaunty hat decorated with a large white flower. Her spectacles are rimless. Hanging by thin and insubstantial wire. Her long swan’s neck the only feature Dawn can say with any certainty she might have inherited.
A black and white photo. Taken a hundred years ago. Now, posing again.
Dawn lines up her lens. Frames the picture-frame. Presses as lightly as she can, to avoid blurring. Recaptures the long-dead relative. Frees her from photo paper. Traps her in ones and zeroes.
Satisfied, Dawn moves up a step. Centers her lens over the next photo. The curving wall is covered in them. Framed portraits hung along the circling staircase as it winds upwards towards the lighthouse’s crow’s nest.
Man and wife. In Sunday-best. On a small settee. A rippled brocade curtain as backdrop. He’s thin. She, fat. He is stonefaced. She fights a smile. Only moments earlier - Dawn imagines - he pinched her bottom. Now, he’s pretending to have had nothing to do with it.
FROM AWAY ~ BOOK TWO Page 9
