Backcast

by Ann McMan

  Darien was tired of running. She understood that. But, goddamn it to hell. Why did he have to show up here? And why now?

  Asking questions like that was pointless. It didn’t get her anyplace and it wasn’t like there were any answers to be had. There weren’t. There was only the great unending cycle of sameness. Questions, asked and unanswered, ebbed and flowed just like these waves. They would come and go in their uninterrupted patterns forever. Sometimes softly, sometimes violently, but always pulling away before you could reach out and catch them.

  Fifteen minutes passed, but she never saw him leave. That wasn’t really surprising. She never saw him coming either. Today was proof of that. She eventually saw V. Jay-Jay, though—standing in the parking lot outside the store, looking around like she’d lost her best friend.

  Shit.

  She stood up and whistled, then waved when V. Jay-Jay looked toward the sound. Darien waited for her to cross the road and join her at the table.

  “What the hell happened to you?” V. Jay-Jay set her bag down on the table and looked around. “Where are the drinks?”

  “I didn’t get them. Something came up.”

  “Something came up?” V. Jay-Jay looked confused. “What?”

  “Just something, okay?”

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.” The word came out sounding sharper than she intended. “Sorry. Just—something. Okay?” She held up a palm. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  V. Jay-Jay was giving her one of those looks. The kind that said there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell she was going to let this drop. She sat down and pulled her sandwich out of the bag.

  “You want to eat here?” Darien thought they’d agreed to take their lunches back to the inn.

  “Why not? It’s a nice view.”

  “It’s the same view we have at the hotel.”

  “No it isn’t”

  Darien looked out across the water. Same small islands. Same hazy view of St. Albans on the distant shoreline. Same Green Mountains looming behind that. Same everything.

  “Vee? We’re less than a mile north.”

  “Precisely. That’s why it’s not the same view.”

  “I’m missing something here.”

  “I think you’re missing a whole lot of somethings here.”

  Darien sighed and got out her own sandwich. “Are you gonna tell me what that means?”

  “Not if you don’t want to talk about it.” V. Jay-Jay took a bite of her sandwich.

  This was going no place. Just like all those unanswered questions. Darien gave up.

  “Okay. You win.”

  V. Jay-Jay didn’t reply. She sat chewing her bite of vegetable somethings.

  “I nearly ran into someone inside the store,” Darien explained. “Someone from my past. A not-so-good someone. He didn’t see me, so I bolted and came out here. End of story.”

  “Apparently it’s not.”

  Darien was confused. “Not what?”

  “The end of the story.”

  “It is as far as I’m concerned.”

  “What if you run into him again?”

  “I won’t.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “Because I’ll be looking for him now.”

  V. Jay-Jay slowly shook her head. “For someone who writes about demons, you certainly seem to be challenged when it comes to facing them.”

  Darien bit back her initial response—which was to tell V. Jay-Jay to fuck off. “Some demons are harder to face than others,” she said instead.

  “You think I don’t know that? You think you have the market cornered on things you’d like to forget?”

  Darien didn’t reply, so V. Jay-Jay kept talking. “Move over, sister. Isn’t this exercise precisely why we’re up here? To lay out our tormented pasts so Barb Davis can recreate them all in twisted little pieces of metal?”

  “Nobody forced you to participate in this project, Vee. If you hate it so much, why are you here?”

  “Why are you here?”

  Darien shrugged. “I thought it would be interesting to collaborate with other authors whose work was so unlike my own.”

  “And yet, not so unlike, as it turns out.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, come on. We’re all damaged—and in some pretty dramatic ways. You don’t see that? You don’t get that this is why Barb hand-picked us for her project?”

  In fact, that possibility had never occurred to Darien. Not until right now.

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Because it’s ‘art.’ And probably because she has reasons of her own.”

  “What reasons?”

  “You’d have to ask her that question.”

  “Why are you so goddamn mysterious all the time?”

  “It sells copy.”

  “That isn’t what I meant, and you know it.”

  V. Jay-Jay didn’t offer any further explanation. Darien gave up on trying to drag it out of her and began to unwrap her own sandwich. At least their exchange had managed to shift her focus away from what happened inside the store. She stole a glance back at the parking lot. Still no sign of him. Maybe he went out the other door? Or maybe he was eating his lunch inside?

  A car horn blew out front near the gas pumps. Somebody was taking too long tanking up, and a man in a red Dodge was growing impatient.

  Asshole. Why’s he in such a damn hurry?

  The man behind the wheel glanced her way and she felt her blood run cold.

  Oh, god.

  Darien turned away from the store and dropped her head into her hands.

  “What is it?” V. Jay-Jay touched her on the arm. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Darien didn’t reply.

  “Is that the man? The one in that red car?”

  Darien nodded.

  “Who is he?”

  “Nobody. Just someone I used to know a long time ago.”

  After another few moments, V. Jay-Jay touched her arm again. “Well, try to relax. He just drove off.”

  Darien raised her head and looked at V. Jay-Jay. “He did?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he see me?”

  “I honestly have no idea.” She paused. “Would it matter?”

  Darien gave a bitter-sounding laugh. “Probably not.”

  V. Jay-Jay didn’t say anything else. After a couple of minutes, she began wrapping up their sandwiches.

  “What are you doing?” Darien asked.

  “Packing these up.”

  “Why? Aren’t you hungry anymore?”

  “No. I’m starving. I thought maybe we could take them down there and find a different place to sit.” She pointed toward the boat ramp that led to the water.

  “You don’t like it up here?”

  “I like it fine. But I think if we try, we can find you a spot with a different view.”

  Darien smiled at her. “Different isn’t better, Vee.”

  “No. It isn’t. Different is just different. Better takes more than a change of scenery.” She stashed their sandwiches back in the bags and stood up. “And we don’t have that much time right now. So, are you coming?”

  What did she have to lose? In time, this experience would just be a dull memory—another rock on the grave of her lost innocence.

  That pile was growing pretty damn impressive.

  She looked up at her companion. Vee was obviously cutting her some slack.

  Probably so that I’ll quit asking her the same damn questions.

  “Why not?” She got to her feet. “Different sounds good.”

  “It’s not going to fit there.”

  Quinn was looking for places to apply the Astroglide decal to the boat. The logo was pretty big and it was hard to find a flat surface that was large enough to accommodate it.

  Montana was right. It would never work here. Quinn lowered the decal.

  “Where the hell are we gonna p
ut it?”

  “Beats me. Why did they send one this big?”

  Quinn shrugged. “I guess they wanted to be sure people could read it from a distance.”

  “Well, they got that part right.” Montana smiled. “Maybe we should stick it on Junior? He’s the only thing on the boat big enough to hold it.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Well, I have no other ideas about where it could go.” Montana looked the boat over one more time. “Do we really have to display it?”

  “Yeah. It’s part of the corporate sponsor agreement that gets the entrance fee paid.”

  “I still don’t see why they had to make this thing so damn huge.”

  “Probably so you can see it from there.” Quinn pointed at the shore.

  They’d been out on the water for about half an hour. The wind was really starting to pick up. Quinn knew that was a bad sign. It probably meant rain. Again.

  Montana laughed. “And probably because the size suggests something about the efficacy of their product.”

  “Efficacy?”

  “Usefulness.”

  “Oh.” Quinn smiled, too. “I guess.” She looked at Montana. “Why do you use such big words?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know. Big words.” Quinn shrugged. “Like that one. You don’t write that way.”

  “You’ve read my books?” Montana seemed surprised.

  “Yeah. Well. One of them.”

  “Which one?”

  “That Ho one.”

  “Ho one? You mean Westward Ho?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Not my best work.”

  “What do you mean? I liked it. It was a good story and it was easy to read.”

  “Thanks. But it was my first book and I didn’t know what the hell I was doing.” She smiled. “I see a lot of parallels between that and this fishing tournament.”

  “You don’t think we know what we’re doing?”

  “Quinn. Take a look at this boat. Does it look like we know what we’re doing?”

  “What’s wrong with the boat?”

  “For starters, it has a La-Z-Boy recliner, a gas grill, and a full-sized refrigerator.”

  “So?”

  “So? It looks more like a floating rummage sale than a bass boat.”

  “I like it.”

  “No kidding.” Montana shook her head. “Do you want to tell me where that came from?” She pointed a finger at the battered Kelvinator, which was daisy-chained to half a dozen twelve-volt batteries. It was a snappy, two-toned 1950s model—teal and white. It looked like a refugee from The Donna Reed Show.

  “I found it at Junior’s. It still works great. It even has the original metal ice cube trays with the ejector levers.”

  “And you need it on the boat because?”

  “I can’t get enough beer and grape Fanta in the cooler.”

  “Those first-world fishing problems are a real drag, aren’t they?” Quinn gave her a blank look. “Never mind. Why don’t you just wrap the logo around the fridge?”

  Quinn looked at the fridge. “You think it’ll fit?”

  “Sure.”

  “How will I open the door?”

  Montana reached into her front pocket and pulled out her shiny, red Swiss Army knife. “We’ll just cut it along the seams over the door.”

  “I guess that could work.”

  Five minutes later, they had the purple and white decal affixed to the Kelvinator. Montana made two neat slices along either side of the door, and the thing worked like a charm.

  “Voila,” she declared. “Let there be lubricant.”

  Quinn was looking it over. “I wonder if Phoebe will like it?”

  “The fish?”

  Quinn nodded.

  “Why? You think she has issues with vaginal dryness?”

  “Maybe. She is two hundred years old.”

  “You know what I think?” Montana never got the chance to say because a phone started ringing. The sound startled both of them. They stared at each other in surprise before patting down their pockets to locate their respective phones.

  “It’s not mine.” Montana held hers up.

  Quinn found hers. The ring tone got louder when she hauled it out of her pocket. The shrill noise rolled out across the water like a sound beacon. She stared at the display.

  “It’s Big Boy.” She pushed the talk button. “Hello?”

  That was really all she said except for the occasional “uh huh” and “okay” and “are you sure?”

  Montana watched and waited until Quinn said goodbye and hung up.

  “Well?”

  Quinn stared at her. “Junior’s in the hospital.”

  “What?” Montana was stunned. “What happened?”

  “Big Boy says it was a gall bladder attack. They had to take it out.”

  “Oh, no. Is he okay?”

  “I guess so. Now. But he’s going to be laid up for a while.”

  “Well, shit.” Montana slapped the side of the Kelvinator with her palm. “Guess you won’t be needing all this extra space for grape Fanta.”

  “It’s worse than that.”

  “Hey. I know this is a tough break. But you’ve done great learning all of this. You’ll do fine without him. Mostly.”

  Quinn gave her a morose look. “It’s not that simple.”

  “I know. It never is. But I’ll help you out. We’ll do okay.”

  “No. I mean we can’t compete without him.”

  “Of course we can. He showed us most of what we need to know.”

  “Not that part.” Quinn was shaking her head. “I mean the contest rules. We can’t compete without a man.”

  “Say what?”

  “The rules say that every team has to have a man.”

  Montana stared at her without speaking.

  Waves continued to rock the boat. They were more determined now.

  Quinn walked over to the bridge.

  “Let’s get off the water.”

  Essay 6

  I’m not like you, so sad and solemn,

  In this place—this place that’s light and dark.

  Where time creeps by on stout, amber wings,

  And black phones ring, but go unanswered.

  Sharp, hot words fall down on ears grown deaf,

  Like all vague promises made before.

  They burn inside a place that’s barren,

  Where no one waits or cries. And best hopes

  Fade in the company of strangers.

  I never thought I’d end up here. This was one of those charming appointments with destiny that I thought I’d be lucky enough to avoid. In fact, I would’ve put money on it.

  But here I was just the same. Sitting on a straight chair in a Sunday school classroom. The bulletin board beside me was covered with little construction paper cutouts. Wise men with brown beards, all decked out in robes of purple and red. They were carrying things. Boxes. Bottles. Gold coins.

  Gifts. Offerings. Things they’d leave behind.

  That’s what I was here to do, too. Leave something behind.

  I just wished they’d hurry up with all the announcements and get to the rat killin’. That’s what my father always called anything he didn’t really want to do—a rat killin’.

  I looked around the basement room that smelled like old books and bad coffee.

  Yep. Rat killin’ just about covered it.

  A tube in the overhead fluorescent light was humming. The more I tried to ignore it, the louder it seemed to get. Just like all the other things my life I couldn’t manage to ignore anymore. The noise it all made was deafening. And there was no place to hide from it. Not anymore. I needed to find a way to silence the noise before my head exploded. Coming here was a start. Coming here was supposed to work.

  At least it was quieter.

  Except for that damn light. And all these damn announcements.

  I didn’t realize that I’d been bouncing my leg until I noticed a guy acros
s the room watching me. I dropped a hand to my knee to try and still it. The jitters were a tell—one of many. I was full of those now. I couldn’t outrun them anymore. They always caught up with me, and they always telegraphed everything I’d spent most of my adult life trying to conceal. It was another reason why I was here on a damn Wednesday night, sitting on a folding chair in this cinder-block room of last resort.

  The guy smiled at me.

  It looked like the announcements were finished. Now people in the room were taking turns at the tabletop podium, reading from a couple of small books. I didn’t really hear the words they read with their various, stammering tones. It didn’t matter, though. The sounds they made were more like chants or anthems. It seemed to me that any value the words had came from the rote exercise of speaking them aloud. That part worried me. It worried me precisely because I didn’t have to understand the words to feel their power. Already they were wrapping around my chest like a vice grip. Like a tether.

  I knew I needed to be careful. Tethers weren’t always good. Tethers could hold you hostage as easily as they could keep you safe. Tethers could tie you up in a dark place, or lead you out into the light.

  Tethers could go either way.

  The only thing I was sure of was that I didn’t want to join a cult. I didn’t want to swap one addiction for another.

  I just needed to stop the noise.

  I watched other people watch the readers. They didn’t look like freaks or zealots. They mostly looked like me. Another thing that could go either way.

  When the talking started, I began to panic. People were taking turns speaking. It was very orderly. Everything in here was orderly. Everything happened like it was part of some unseen pattern. At least, I couldn’t see it. But these people walked on through an invisible maze like they all understood that making wrong turns didn’t matter. It didn’t matter because there weren’t any wrong turns to make—not as long as they kept going forward. Some of them had been going forward for a long time. Years. Decades. Some were just getting started. Some were more like me—hanging back by the entrance and straining to see around the first corner.

  The baton kept getting passed. Some shared. Some didn’t. It was getting closer to me, now. My heart was pounding. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to feel this. I didn’t want to be pinned into a cheap folding chair by so much benign scrutiny—by this mother lode of acceptance that felt like the worst kind of judgment. I just wanted to stop the noise.