Entangled Moon

by E. C. Frey

  “What other guy?” I’m confused. “Eve?”

  Eve shrugs. “I haven’t seen him or any sign of him.”

  “I know it was him, or that one of them was him,” Mariah says.

  Eve shakes her head at me so Mariah can’t see. “Mariah. You hit your head really hard. If you’re confused about who pushed you then maybe you’re confused about whether it was even anyone you recognize.”

  “Listen, I’m sure if Mariah saw him he’s here,” Esperanza says.

  Tiny pins of heat rise across my cheeks. Please don’t let me get the hives again. Not here. “But how would he know to come here?” It’s a puzzle. An enigma in our youth, there was something dangerous and mysterious about the man. His disappearance that night and his reappearance now makes him that much more perplexing.

  There has to be an answer. “Mariah, are you sure it was him? What have you found out? I mean, from the investigation you were doing before you got here.”

  Mariah shrugs. “Nothing. He disappeared that night and his existence left with him. It doesn’t make any sense. He disappeared from the face of the earth.”

  “Is there anything else to do to find him?”

  “No. We can’t go to the police. They would want to know why we think we’re being stalked. Then they’d have to call Sunny Hollow, and no one knows we were even at that fire. And then there’s the problem of the unsolved murder of the dead man. There’s no statute of limitations on murder and, quite frankly, we don’t have the answers to any questions they might have for us, which will make us look very suspicious.”

  Our options are slim. Wait or move. I’m not good at sitting. “We have to go out and hit the streets and hope that he finds us, if that’s what he’s after. We can’t stay here, cooped up in this hotel room. It’s pretty, but I’m feeling a little claustrophobic.”

  Eve looks around the room. “Yeah. I can’t think of any other way.”

  “Well, that sounds like a plan to me.” Esperanza slaps the heels of her hands on her legs.

  Eve considers. “Should we break up into groups or stay together?”

  I don’t like the idea of breaking up. It reminds me of a night long ago that didn’t end well. This is supposed to be our girls’ vacation.

  Heather clears her throat. “Um. I’m not sure this is such a good idea. I don’t think I want to be found. Besides, Shannon has been through a lot and she’s still sleeping. I can’t leave her here alone. Besides, we’re safe here with the doors locked.”

  Eve smiles. “You should stay here anyway. I think we have to break into two groups. That way we have a better chance of one of us finding him and making contact.”

  I shake my head. “But this was supposed to be our vacation together, Eve. I don’t like the idea. Breaking up doesn’t usually end well for us.”

  “I know, but I don’t see any other way. And besides, breaking up was originally your idea. Remember? Plus, we have a better chance of him approaching us if there are only two of us.”

  “Yes. Must you remind me?”

  Mariah grimaces. “We’ve been lucky we’ve had so many wonderful vacations together through the years. But now that night has caught up with us. Together, we have to try to set things right. We can’t call the police and we can’t pull our families into this. If we don’t take care of this now, he’ll continue to show up. And we’ll never stop running. He’ll pick us off, one by one.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “Nothing bad has happened yet. Let’s take care of this before it becomes something beyond our control.” My own resolve empowers and emboldens me.

  Eve moves toward the door. “We don’t have a lot of options. I say we hit the streets and see the sites. Maybe he’ll think we’re playing tourist—unaware of things around us. He won’t suspect that we’re actually trying to find him.”

  I feel lighter. Maybe all I need is a mission with a little dash of spice mixed in. When I’m done, I’ll deal with whatever is going on in my marriage. I need to show my children that they don’t have to float.

  “I need to get dressed,” I say. “Heather, you and Shannon can stay here in my room until we get back. And make sure you keep the door locked and you don’t open it for anyone. The rest of you, let’s meet in the lobby in thirty minutes. ”

  “Thirty minutes,” Mariah echoes.

  Our window of opportunity is small, but that’s all we need—a window. And we need him to come through it.

  26 Eve

  The lobby is strangely quiet. Everyone arrives slowly at our meeting place: the ridiculously grand staircase. It’s out of place in my life. For years I have run from my losses by living in the desperate lack of refugee camps—living amongst the displaced. Now my life is turned upside down, and it makes me question every past, present, and future decision. Jerome may or may not wait for me. Heather is in trouble. Someone who may or may not exist, who played a decisive role in our lost childhood, stalks us physically—or, at minimum, in our imaginations—in Charleston, and he seems to have a better sense of our whereabouts than we have of his. I don’t want to ponder the meaning of Heather’s mental health if he only exists in her mind, or Mariah’s. Mariah’s dreams seem to be driving her waking hours more than the reverse. And now she has two stalkers. My relief job in Darfur is a far-off world that somehow no longer matters to me. Its immediacy has vanished. Maybe that part of my life was never anything more than a mirage, a dream of a better world.

  But then the dream of a better world is never any more real than the people who live in it. My life really ended that summer long ago when my brother disappeared and shattered my family’s world— shards of broken glass ripping at our equilibrium. Grief is an abyss; sometimes you crawl out and sometimes you don’t. I’ve spent years trying, and now that I’ve reentered the land of the living, reality is more elusive than ever.

  “Where shall we start?” Espy says.

  Fiona pulls out a map she picked up at the travel agency in Los Angeles. “The Market and historic district. He’s probably anticipating it. He might already know where he expects to intercept us. Why not play right into it? He’s expecting us, but we’re expecting him, too.”

  Mariah shifts uneasily and shrugs. “I can’t think of a better idea. Esperanza, why don’t you go with Fiona and Eve can come with me.”

  Fiona cringes. “That reminds me too much of old times.” She pauses. “Maybe we can get it better this time, right? What if he doesn’t reveal himself today? Where should we meet?”

  “I say we meet back here at six o’clock to freshen up and have dinner,” Mariah says. “Hopefully, one of us or all of us will see him today, but if not, we’ll have to try again tomorrow.”

  I need resolution. We need to find him. “There is no tomorrow.”

  “Well, then, let’s go!” Fiona says.

  The afternoon is sweltering and the damp air clings to my skin. The hotel is a short block from Market Street and we move sluggishly towards it. Southern time is elegant and relaxed, but I have no doubt that has as much to do with the climate as the culture—they reinforce each other.

  Arm in arm, Mariah and I navigate the tight streets. If I hang on to her, can I keep her feet in this world?

  Gullah, the English-based Creole language, drifts from a shed in the Market in which a beautiful old woman weaves baskets of low country sweet grass.

  I stop to admire a bowl. I smile at the old Creole woman. “That’s beautiful.”

  The woman’s smile is radiant. Mariah often speaks of the wisdom of the elders. Grandmothers. I would love to have such a woman as my grandmother. She pats my hand and I feel only loneliness in the middle of the packed market.

  Mariah steers me away from the table. I don’t want to think about loss right now. It just clouds our mission.

  But I’m enchanted with the sense of this place. It’s the first time somewhere has the feel of home—a home for me. There’s something kindred in the history—an oppositional history, a history that survived despite the odds
. White plantation owners imported slaves from the “Windward Coast” of Africa, Sierra Leone, and Senegal to cultivate rice, their traditional crop and food staple, a commodity upon which South Carolina ultimately prospered. Of course, it was cotton that sealed the deal and it was the Northern colonies that got rich from the slave trade. Rice and cotton made South Carolina, and Charleston, its port, became one of the most urbane and fashionable cities in the South. The dominance of West African slaves created the rich and cohesive culture that now floats from the shop. But Charleston is more than Southern and more than Gullah, it’s now a city of transients. What did Mariah call them? Transplants. Those who have planted themselves over what came before.

  I marvel at the ease with which I recognize something kindred, a connection I haven’t experienced in a long time.

  Mariah nudges me. “What’re you thinking about?”

  “I was thinking what a beautiful place this is. I was thinking about how easy it would be to call this home.”

  “Solo or with Jerome?”

  “Well, I guess with Jerome, but then maybe alone too. Maybe it’s time to stop wandering.”

  “You’ve been doing that for a long time.”

  “Yes, I have. Being with Jerome has brought all of that into question. And then this situation has just magnified it. I think it’s time.”

  “Yeah. It’s time for a lot of things. Time to come to terms with that night. Time to bury Terrell?”

  “I’m not sure I can do that. Your uncle was MIA. How did your family deal with it? You were close to him.”

  Mariah shields her eyes from the sun as it filters through the palm trees. Palmettos. Even the name enchants me.

  “Yes, I was close to him. I loved him. My love can’t be changed by his loss. His spirit is where it always was. It’s at home. It imbues the places he loved. Long before the white man, we left no remains of our loved ones. They followed us wherever we went.”

  I nod. Terrell is where he has always been: in my heart. There are vast changes on the horizon—my world heaves with it. It’s not so overwhelming, knowing my friends will be there. They always have been. We backtrack toward Meeting Street and head south.

  I can’t help wonder if the apparition of Heather’s stalker, our stalker, is just that: a ghost of a thought, a spirit of guilt. In front of us looms the awe-inspiring edifice of one of Charleston’s many beautiful churches.

  I clasp Mariah’s hand. “Mariah?”

  Mariah is silent.

  “What’s going on with you? I know your head hurts and you’re worried about the two men who were at the airport and your visions, but you seemed to be happier. I mean, you were so happy, last night. Now, you’re . . . gloomy. Are you afraid of a relationship? Is that it?”

  “No. Who says there’s even a relationship? I just met him. I don’t even know him.” She sighs. “No. That’s not it.”

  “Then what is it? You’re not the same person I had drinks with last night. And you’ve definitely changed from the woman who sparkled every time she looked at Dennis.” I pinch her side and she giggles, but then she turns serious.

  “No. A note was shoved under my door this morning.”

  “A note?”

  “Yeah. It was threatening. Like the one I got several days ago.”

  “What do you mean?”

  We wander through the building and exit into the ancient graveyard behind the imposing structure. It’s a tourist attraction, but it’s oddly vacant and silent. Spanish moss hangs from trees and shrouds the ancient gravestones. Quiet, unearthly and sacred, prevails, cool and calming compared to the heat and noise of the street on the other side of the church. My own thoughts scream into the space between us.

  “Remember those water rights articles I’ve been working on?”

  “Yes. I know you think you were followed from Mexico because of them.”

  “Not because of them, because of one. The one I was doing on virtual water.”

  “Why would virtual water land you a stalker?”

  “It’s complicated. I know I was followed here. In fact, it was a weird coincidence that Dennis sat down next to me. Like it was fated. It made me forget the earlier threat. Like everything would be okay because he showed up in my life. But I know better. My coworker and I uncovered some . . . unethical deals made by AAC.”

  “Yeah. You and I talked about that and I told you to stay away.”

  “I know, but I didn’t think things would get this bad. I’ve never seen a deal like this. The water entitlement or rights portion was tied to the utility and management portion. It was a complete package.”

  “In Mexico?”

  “Not totally. It’s complicated. It’s happening around the world.”

  Images of missing children in the Congo flash into my consciousness.

  “It could be happening anywhere, to anyone who is powerless to men like those at AAC. I spoke to Dennis about it. He was very aware of who they are. He warned me that I might be in danger.” Mariah looks around. We’re alone amongst the headstones. She continues. “The deal was with the IMF. As a condition for a loan, the country in question had to guarantee AAC a 50 percent profit margin. The company moved in and raised prices fourfold. Those who couldn’t afford it—those who could least afford any loss—had their water turned off. On the sanitation side of the agreement, the multinational made some . . . changes. There is a cholera epidemic they are trying to hide. Hundreds have died and are still dying. The government couldn’t keep the thing under wraps so it said the outbreak is a result of the unusually heavy rains contaminating the water supply and the unsanitary practices of those who were not hooked up to the sanitation system. Yesterday I picked up a flash drive from a colleague in which he lays out the other side of AAC. He was investigating the conflict minerals in the Congo and the computer cycle. I got a call this morning. He was just found dead in his hotel room in Kuala Lumpur. Suicide, supposedly. But I was on the phone with him when he was . . . silenced. ”

  “Mariah, why didn’t you say something earlier? God. I told you AAC was bad news. What did this note say?”

  “It said I needn’t worry about them finding me—that they know exactly where I am, which I already knew. But I don’t know why they alerted me, except that maybe they just want me to feel terror before . . .”

  “Do they know you’ve contacted the water tribunal?”

  “LAWT? No. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, that ought to really piss them off.”

  “I guess so.”

  “And we’re out here by ourselves, chasing someone who, for all we know, is on the payroll with a multinational with far-reaching arms, loads of cash, and a hard-on to see you silenced. I thought we were just chasing a ghost from our past. This is different. It’s nuts.”

  “I told you someone else was following me.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t really sure. Between you and Heather . . .” I hit my forehead with the palm of my hand. “Mariah? How do you know Dennis isn’t in on it? He’s a water guy. The fact that he’s Indian could be clouding your normally good judgment.”

  “I’m not totally sure of anything anymore. The Sunny Hollow guy might even be the one who helped me. It’s all so foggy. I can’t even see either one in my head anymore. It’s like my memory is gone. But I am sure of Dennis. He would have nothing to do with this. Trust me.”

  “How do you know? Your instincts are on the fritz right now.”

  “Hush. There are no Indians in this. I’m sure of it.”

  I look around us. It’s so quiet, but nothing seems right. “Have you seen anything else to make you suspicious?”

  “No.”

  I stare at the headstones, many of which have been rendered illegible by time. Gravity and the forces of weather have pitched the markers into chaotic formations. They are more representative of life than the neat little rows in modern-day graveyards. They remind me of teeth. This is a bad place to be at this moment.

  I think of all the grief in m
y life. Terrell would have been able to cut through this craziness. He had a knack for breaking mysteries down into their simplest components. He would have protected us both.

  A headstone. I would prefer the chaos of this ancient cemetery because, in truth, my brother’s status has meant nothing but unremitting grief. The day I was informed of his status change from MIA to PFOD, presumptive finding of death, was the day my heart rotted from the inside out, a desecrated core. There should be something to mark the death of hope. A headstone. But there are no true head-stones for nothing but the dirt down below. It’s just a fucking piece of rock.

  I stop. Mariah stops with me. I look her in the eye. “What are you going to do about the flash drive and everything else you’ve found out?”

  Mariah stares at the ground. “It’s complicated.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s a simple question with a simple answer. Terrell would’ve said the same thing to both of us.”

  “You really have started to come to terms with his being gone.”

  “There’s no other choice. Whatever you do, keep it simple, Mariah. I don’t want to bury you too. I don’t want to deal with another MIA. You got me?”

  “Yeah. I got you.”

  I stoop to read one of the newer markers. People, related and unrelated, through the ages, come to rest here, a tribe in slumber.

  “Is that your answer?”

  “I’ve written the summary, but I haven’t submitted it yet. I can use it to expose AAC or to plant the seed for a more in-depth article. There’s a lot at stake. I think it’s the blueprint for the future. I don’t think I can be quiet on this issue.” She smiles. “Besides, Terrell would’ve told me to stand up for what’s right.”

  “Yeah. I know. It would be unlike you to stop.”

  “There’s more. Dennis thinks I need to be careful, too. It’s how I know he’s not involved. He’s from The Three Affiliated Tribes in North Dakota. They’ve had some of these same types of people sniffing around. There’s oil in the ground. Someday, they’ll figure out how to extract it.”