A Keeper's Truth

by Dee Willson

  In the dining room, Bryce hands me a plate and I make my way around the table, collecting goodies. I dole out compliments—the spread is amazing. It’s just the two of us in the dining room, and the chatter filtering through is quiet. While I munch, we talk. Bryce adores art and seems truly interested in my work. Of course, when I talk about painting, I have the tendency to ramble. At one point I scrutinize his eyes, curious to note if I’m boring him, but he stares right back, a corny grin on his face until I look away.

  “I’m a starving artist lately,” I joke. I’m lucky Meyer was well insured and the house is paid off. “It’s been a while since I completed a painting and even longer since I’ve sold one.”

  “You have gorgeous curves for someone starving,” he says.

  And the tiger returns, a man on the prowl.

  I lower my plate to the table, no longer hungry. “Yes,” I say, suddenly the hairless body-pierced Goth teen I once was, “but you’re chasing the wrong tail.”

  An uncomfortable silence fills the room. I turn to leave, and Bryce appears before me like a ghost.

  “Please don’t,” he says, mock punching the wall. “I can be a gentleman.”

  I open my mouth to comment and he places a finger on my lips. My mother, when I was twelve, broke a guy’s finger for silencing her. It was the first time I considered her illness, her lack of control, dangerous.

  “Promise,” he says, his expression extinguishing my fire.

  I remove his finger, gently, and collect my plate.

  A few minutes pass before either of us speak, but soon enough the charismatic Bryce makes an appearance. For twenty minutes he revels in stories about his family and how they’ve thrown Halloween parties for generations, “As a way of keeping friends in check,” he says. “It’s my favorite holiday, and like Lemuria, predates all known religion. The Romans first recorded Lemuria as the name of their oldest ceremony, conducted every year on the ninth, eleventh, and thirteenth of May. Like modern-day Halloween celebrations, Lemuria was staged to win the favor of restless souls or spirits.”

  I take another look at his costume, my imagination running wild.

  We talk about Carlisle, the people in it, where I live, and how long I’ve lived here. We laugh.

  Not once does Bryce mention Meyer. He offers no condolences. There is no awkward shuffling of his feet, no pouty lips, no sad eyes. I chew on this while duty calls him to help with a red wine disaster. Bryce makes me feel free of my widow status, as if time has rewound and I am a single, independent, well-educated woman. It’s been ages since I’ve felt this way.

  For some reason this frame of thought leads me to contemplate Thomas. He is handsome and kind and we’ve become friends. So why don’t I feel this way around him? Is it because our relationship revolves around the loss of my husband and our daughters being close? Maybe. It’s obvious that Thomas cares for Abby, and I’m grateful for all he’s done for me, but . . . he makes me think of Meyer. Sometimes I appreciate that about him. Sometimes I hate him for it.

  With Bryce gone, the dining room feels drained of life, so I decide to wander, to see what Karen is up to. Only I can’t remember which door leads to the living room, so I end up in the kitchen. It’s a beautiful kitchen. One wall runs the entire length of the room, spotted with gorgeous creamy-white cabinetry built flush with the soaring ceiling. The cabinets are faced with leaded glass doors and the walls are covered in elaborately detailed wainscoting. The center of the kitchen features a long island topped with a thick slab of granite that glitters in the light of a wrought iron chandelier.

  I amble over to the floor-to-ceiling window in the middle of the far right wall, between what looks like two walk-in pantries. The window is draped with a sheer curtain that puddles elegantly on the floor. I’m about to pull back the curtain, with the intention of peeking into the yard, when it swings open, revealing a set of French doors. Two men stumble toward me from the night and before I have the chance to move they’re standing at my toes.

  “Fucking A it is,” one says.

  “Just the thing I needed,” says the other.

  I glance from one to the other, aware of two things: they are brothers and both are drunk. They are physically boisterous, elbowing each other in the ribs. Deep, mischievous laughs rise from their chests. They are not dressed in costumes but in suits finely cut to showcase buff bodies. One brother closes the doors behind him and the stench hits me—cannabis. The other one stops short and stares at me.

  “Well, now, what do we have here?” he says.

  They both sway, raking me with their eyes, alcohol and pot seeping from every pore. An array of suggestive expressions cross their faces, most racy and sexual, all promising mayhem.

  I hold my breath and my body tenses, knowing something is off.

  They look at each other then back to me. “I think we have ourselves an Irish fae out of her realm,” one says. He laughs. “What do you think, Brother?”

  I wonder how all these people know my costume when Grams struggled until I put the wings on. Even then she came to the same conclusion as Karen. I’d taken the wings off in the dining room and they hang from my hand. Both brothers follow my line of vision.

  “The Tuatha Dé don’t have wings, never have. Fuckers could’ve used them at one point though.” He elbows his brother in the side. “Suppose you know the stories, so you can flutter over here and sit with me a while.” He flutters his fingers, suggesting I follow to the antique bench in the corner. “I bet I’ve enough experience to keep a sex fae pleased.”

  The other brother practically falls over laughing, and I stand frozen in silence. I’m not scared but I’m shocked. I can’t believe these men are being so blunt, so obnoxious. And there is something strange about their movements.

  Bryce walks in, head down, carrying a cloth soaked with red wine. He looks up and drops the rag, leaping to my side, wrapping his arm around my waist, our bodies touching from shoulder to thigh. My body is slightly tipped into his, one foot hovering, the other rooted to the marble floor. I can feel his muscles through our clothes, solid and strong. It’s a possessive stance and I should be mad, or at least embarrassed, but I’m so relieved I just gaze like a fool.

  “I see you two have met the lovely Tess,” Bryce says.

  The brother on the right is suddenly anxious. “We’ve met. Tess is it?”

  Bryce looks down at me, grinning. “You might want to stay away from these two. They are notorious seducers. They may prove to be a bit more than you can handle tonight.”

  The more serious of the brothers, the anxious one, waves at Bryce. “You know she can see,” he says.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I say. I look to Bryce for an explanation, but his attention is on the brother to the right, his expression amused.

  “I do,” Bryce replies. He flashes the brothers an ominous smirk followed by a subtle nod.

  The three men glare at one another, ignoring me completely.

  Suddenly two sets of hands fly up in surrender. “Okay, okay,” the brothers mumble. They saunter off, falling over each other laughing.

  I push away from Bryce.

  “What was that all about?”

  “You have a knack for attracting the life of the party,” he teases.

  “And you keep strange company.” I’m absolutely baffled.

  His face reads, you have no idea, but he says, “Those two fancy themselves the Taungbyone brothers from Myanmar mythology. They are reasonably harmless, if not troublemakers, and their history fascinating,” he pauses, smiling, “of legendary proportion. I hope to tell you all about them sometime but for now just avoid them. I’ve known them for many years, and I’ve seen what they can do when they pick a lady to admire.”

  I shake my fists out. I’m pretty sure I can protect myself, but this sounds like a better plan.

  “I was trying to find my way back to the main room,” I say, aiming to justify how I came to be in this situation for the second time this eveni
ng. I smile, blushing. I know it’s a weak explanation, but a valid one isn’t coming to mind. These types of things just happen to me.

  More so lately.

  Taking my hand, Bryce walks through a maze of hallways until we come to stand at the entrance to the great hall. It is loud, voices competing with the music. It’s even more packed than it was before, and I wonder how I’m going to find Karen in this never-ending crowd of costumes.

  Bryce raises my hand, pulling it to his shoulder, forcing my body to follow until it collides with his, and before I even recognize what’s happening, we’re dancing.

  The man can dance.

  The crowd disperses like a ripple of water, gathering around the perimeter of the room. Bryce holds me tight, leading gallantly, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m part of something special, like I’m one of two, adored. Our bodies move in time with the beat of Sting. When we dance, angels will run and hide their wings . . .

  My feet follow, led in graceful circles. I hear only music and my blood pumping fast and heavy within my skull. I look into the awed faces flying by, some clear, some blurry, and at one point catch a glimpse of Karen, jaw agape. I float—the princess swept away by her Beast.

  Until I catch the word widow as I flow past the throng.

  One word is all it takes. My legs abandon me and Bryce floats away without a partner. My stare wanders the room, listless, until steady hands direct my hips toward Karen.

  “For now,” Bryce whispers into my ear in parting.

  I watch him fade into the chaos that has resumed its place on the dance floor then turn to Karen with disappointment, relief, and a myriad of emotions clouding my judgment.

  Karen, on the other hand, is annoyingly giddy.

  An hour of mingling passes without incident, allowing me to nurse another glass of wine, enjoying the sensation of it dissolving the slight edge I have to my demeanor. Bryce has taken his self-appointed role as my protector seriously. As he socializes around the room, he keeps an eye on me. I’m not sure how I feel about this. I am conflicted. I’m loitering beside the bar with Karen, half listening to her drone on about something someone said about something someone did.

  “. . . what do you think?” Karen says, hands on her hips, awaiting an answer to the question I only caught the tail end of.

  I don’t bother lying. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”

  Her eyes follow mine to Bryce. “Someone is awfully enamored with you.”

  “Who? What do you mean, ‘enamored’?”

  My view of Karen about to speak is blurred as a burly lady who has clearly had too much to drink falls into me spilling her entire cocktail down my arm.

  Great. Another drunk.

  It takes all my strength to help the woman up, but when I try to peel her hat from the floor, I can’t. Her entire overweight frame is located on the rim of her witch hat. I surrender the hat while the bartender tosses me a stack of napkins to soak up the sticky liquid running down the left side of my body.

  “Thank you,” I say to bar boy.

  I clean myself, pacing backwards. The woman reeks of alcohol in massive doses. She stumbles forward, taking in my outfit, matching my steps until my back is pressed against the bar with no escape.

  “Seriously,” I say, “this is too much.”

  “O’boy. Sorry, luv, sorry. I’ve had some too many, I’m thinkin’,” she says, loud and slurred. She dabs at my arm, managing only to spill the last of her drink before dropping her glass. Shards tumble across my feet. “O’boy. I’ll make it up. I’ll fix it, I will. I’ll tell your future—everyone loves a fortune!”

  The people surrounding us sacrifice their conversations to stare.

  “No. Thanks, but no thanks,” I mumble, hoping she’ll take my lead and lower her voice. I’m embarrassed and slightly nauseated. I’ve no energy for this.

  Karen bounces on her toes, excited at the prospect of hearing my future. “Do it!”

  “I’m wet, tired, and I don’t want to know my future.” Especially from some obnoxious half-baked witch.

  “Oh, come on, how bad can it be?”

  I look at Karen, deadpan. “I’m going home.”

  I try to push past the witch but she grabs my arm, digs her nails into me, and screams, “Your life is filled with death! Lots and lots of death!”

  Everything within my vision freezes. My mind flashes images of my mother’s suicide, Meyer’s funeral, haunting nightmares. This can’t be happening. I search for the door and spot Bryce, a drink in each hand. Beside him a lady is yanking stockings gathered around her ankles. His eyes lock with mine, frantic.

  “Love finds—death chases! Past is future. Grave danger follows. A son, a Keeper’s heir!”

  The crowd releases a collective gasp, and stunned, I stare at the witch still clutching my arm. Her eyes are wide and bloodshot. Glass shatters on the floor from Bryce’s direction. Tears threaten to spill, my neck and face hot.

  I need to get out. Now.

  I pull free and run for the exit, a clear line to the front door. Hands try to stop me but I shake loose, tears blurring my vision, needing only to escape.

  It was that bad.

  Cheshire Grin

  November 1st

  Deep core samples prove our planet has experienced several cataclysms of epic proportion. One of these close encounters with “the end” wiped the dinosaur from the map. We know this now. We have proof. But had you told the story of dinosaurs prior to 1907 you’d have been dubbed imaginative or mad.

  Forgotten History Magazine: Archeological Finds Baffle Scientists

  Since Meyer’s death, Sunday has become family day, a day to bring what’s left of our pint-sized brood together. Death will do that, make the living closer. Abby and I putter around the house in our pajamas all morning. Just after lunch, Grams saunters in pushing Gramps’s wheelchair, sliding him into his spot by the back window where he claims he can see everything, from the raindrops gathering on leaves to his lovely ladies bustling round the house. Like me, Gramps has a special place in his heart for the woods around us. Grams and Gramps live in a quaint bungalow the next town over. They settled there long before Meyer was born, when Meyer’s father Marty was just a boy, his sister Sarah a beating heart in the womb, and only planned a temporary stay. But this place has a way of sinking its teeth into your bones, in a good way, a comfortable way, and the woods took the Morgan’s as their own, embracing them like family.

  Today marks the last of our family days for a while. Tomorrow Grams and Gramps leave for Florida.

  “I don’t know what I’ll do without you,” I say to Grams, looking away so she doesn’t see the tears welling in my eyes.

  “You’ll do exactly what you’ve been doing,” she says, “exactly what you must. For you and Abby.”

  I know if I asked her to stay, told her I couldn’t do it alone, they wouldn’t go to Florida. Selfish as it is, the thought has crossed my mind, but I can’t bring myself to say the words, to make them stay when I know its best they take care of themselves. They were in their late sixties when Meyer moved to Toronto for university. When most are facing retirement and slowing down, they were busy raising a little man. My man.

  “I’m not the best mother. I panic when Abby is hurt and suffocate her when she wants independence. Meyer always knew what to do. He always had the right answer. What if I raise her wrong? What if I screw up and she ends up like . . . like . . .?”

  Like me, I want to say but don’t.

  We’re digging through my closet, looking for clothing with resurrection potential. The people of Saint Ann’s Cathedral embraced me, designating me chief costume designer of their Christmas performance. Apparently being an artist qualifies me to make costumes. Abby begged me to be involved, to do the pageant with her, and after such a commendation from the committee, as well as Karen’s praise, how could I refuse? I didn’t mention I’d never touched a sewing machine.

  “You know,” Grams says, sitting on my bed, �
�I’ve never told you this, but you scared the daylights out of me when Meyer first brought you around.”

  “I can believe it. And I had the bulk of my shit together by then.” I can only imagine what Grams would have thought of me a few years before I met Meyer, before art school and my hair grew back. “I actually thought it was Gramps who hated me.”

  Grams guffaws. “Ted was over the moon. His grandson had snagged a looker and it was all he could do to keep his mouth shut in your presence. He teased that boy something awful when you weren’t around, slapping Meyer on the back and hoot’an and hollerin’ like some silly frat boy. All that fuss over a girl, over you.” She smiles at the memory.

  “It was me who worried you were all wrong for my grandson. It was my job to worry, and you were this firecracker who had my baby boy in a trance. You were too beautiful to stay loyal. You had no family to speak of and lived in a bar. Sure, you were well spoken and polite, but under the tight jeans and belly shirts you were this wounded bird determined to fly, and I was convinced Meyer would get hurt wanting to fix you.”

  I recall the fight Meyer and I had the second time he dropped to one knee and I said no. We’d only been dating a few months, and I thought he was nuts to want to marry me. I was five years younger than him, in school, working nights, and didn’t have a clue how to be a family. Hell, I didn’t even have an address. He had a good job in Toronto and shared a townhouse with some buddies. Why on earth would he want to marry me?

  “Meyer never wanted to fix me, or change me, or make me into something I wasn’t, something I’m not. He didn’t want to—”

  “Exactly,” she says, shifting closer to where I’ve joined her on the bed. “Meyer had no doubt you were the one, that you’d be a loving wife and good mother. He saw a spark in you, different than the one I saw, and refused to listen to a single point I made. That boy had faith in you from minute one.” She rests a hand on mine. “Now you need to believe the same.”