Bones & All

by Camille DeAngelis

  “Where is your mother?” Travis asked quietly.

  “Gone,” I said.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  I looked at my father. Slowly, very slowly, my sadness turned into anger. “Why won’t you answer my question?”

  “Please, Maren. I asked you not to upset him.” Travis sighed. “Listen to me now. This is important. Dr. Worth is making calls about you.”

  “Calls? What do you mean?”

  Travis’s eyes reminded me of a dog’s, wet and brown and anxious to please. “Child protective services.”

  “Why?”

  “She said you brought a big rucksack—”

  “I left it in her office. Was that wrong?”

  “Not wrong, no. But it was pretty clear to her that you were carrying your life on your back.”

  I sighed. “Is someone coming for me, then?”

  “I don’t know yet. Listen, Maren, if you don’t have anywhere to go…”

  “I’ll be all right,” I said quickly.

  “My shift is over at six,” he went on. “I understand why you feel you ought to say no, and I wouldn’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I just know Frank would like me to at least extend you the offer.”

  My father’s eyes were still squeezed shut.

  “Thanks. I really can’t, but … I appreciate that.”

  “Are you sure? I can help you figure out what to do next. If you don’t want to go into foster care, I mean.”

  “You think there’s another option?”

  “I don’t know. But I’ll make you dinner, and maybe we can figure it out together?”

  “All right.” I turned back to the man in the chair. “I have to go now, Dad.” He groped for my hand and tried to squeeze it. I felt like I should tell him I’d be back soon, but I didn’t.

  Travis stayed behind a moment to offer my father a few last words of comfort.

  “Wait.” I froze in the doorway and put my fist against the jamb. “I’m not leaving until you tell me what he did to his hand.”

  Travis gently nudged me aside before he closed the door and turned the key in the first lock. “I think you already know the answer.”

  * * *

  At ten minutes past six Travis drove down the Bridewell road in an old black sedan. I got in, and he smiled and said, “I hope the day didn’t pass too slowly for you.”

  “It was all right.” It had passed slowly—a walk into Tarbridge had yielded very little, not even a public library or a secondhand bookshop. But Travis had stowed my rucksack in his backseat, so at least I hadn’t had to lug it around town all day.

  He cast me a sidelong look. “How long have you been on your own?”

  “Not that long,” I said. “Only a couple of weeks.”

  “A lot can happen in a couple of weeks.”

  It only really hit me then, how strange it was that a person who wasn’t an eater knew there was any such thing. Travis was one of the calmest, pleasantest people I’d ever met. He hadn’t shown the slightest flicker of horror or disgust, not even when he told me in not so many words what my father had done to his hand. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to Travis that I could be like Frank.

  “Did you find safe places to sleep?” he asked. “Were people kind to you?”

  I didn’t lie—at least not outright. I let him imagine that Mrs. Harmon had seen me off with a wave and a smile, that Sully thrived on farm-stand vegetables and fresh venison, and that Lee had shown up at the Walmart that night in his own black pickup truck. We did not talk about my father.

  Travis lived in a little blue bungalow a half-hour drive from the hospital, back in the direction of Sully’s cabin. Another cozy, empty house. I didn’t like how familiar this was starting to feel.

  A small table opposite the stove was already set with a plate, utensils, and a drinking glass on a quilted place mat that reminded me again of Mrs. Harmon. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said as he opened a drawer and drew out a second set of cutlery. “I wasn’t expecting to have a guest tonight.”

  “You live alone?”

  He nodded. “Since my mother passed.”

  “Oh,” I said. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Travis opened the fridge and bent to retrieve a covered pot with both hands. “I made some stew on my last day off. My mother’s recipe. Will that be okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “I hope you like it,” he said as he placed the pot on the stove and lit the burner.

  “I’m sure it’s delicious.”

  He smiled as he lifted the lid and gave the stew a stir. “I never had to cook for myself before, but I’ve found I enjoy it. I like making my mother’s old recipes because it lets me forget for a little while that she’s not here anymore.”

  “Have you always lived here?”

  Travis nodded. “It’s a nice little house, don’t you think? I never wanted to live anywhere else.”

  To please him, I cast an appreciative glance around the kitchen and into the living room. There was a brown and yellow afghan on the sofa and a rocking chair in the corner, looking as fragile as if it were made of matchsticks. As Travis went around the room opening the windows he saw me eyeing the chair and said, “That rocking chair has been in my family for over a hundred and fifty years. My mother nursed me in it. My grandmother nursed my father in it. And all the way back to the pioneers.” As he spoke he gazed through the patterned rug on the floor, smiling absently. “I guess it was my great-great-great-grandfather who made it.”

  “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I asked.

  Travis smiled ruefully. “Nope. Just me. I guess you’re an only child too.”

  I nodded.

  “My mother was very sick after she gave birth to me. The doctor told her she couldn’t have any more.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  The house filled with savory smells as the stew bubbled on the stove. My stomach growled loudly, and we both laughed. Travis ladled us each a bowl, and I watched him clasp his hands and bow his head before he picked up his spoon.

  The stew was delicious, but I started to feel a little uneasy when Travis kept pausing to watch me eat. “Something wrong?” I asked.

  He shook his head and flashed me half a smile as he dipped his spoon. We had seconds and thirds. A cool evening breeze blew through the living room windows, and from a tree in the front yard a night bird sang a song I’d never heard before.

  Travis wouldn’t let me wash the dishes. “Make yourself at home,” he said as he turned to the sink. “I’ll bring you some sugar cookies and lemonade for dessert.”

  I sat down on the couch. “You really don’t have to go to so much trouble.”

  “It’s no trouble.” He paused, soapy sponge in hand. “I guess it’s just nice to have someone to take care of.” He shook his head, as if he were arguing with himself. “No, not just anyone—you—Frank’s daughter. I’ll never be able to cook dinner for your dad, but at least I can do it for you.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as Travis finished the dishes. When he was done he took out a carton of lemonade and a supermarket-bakery box of sugar cookies, poured two glasses, and arranged the cookies on a plate. He put our dessert on the coffee table and sat down beside me. Travis took a deep breath, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what he was about to say. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said slowly. “Something I have to confess.”

  Suddenly he didn’t seem so teddy-bearish. “Confess?”

  “It’s not that I didn’t mean it, about helping you to figure things out without going into foster care. I meant it. I really do want to help you.”

  Weariness trickled over me. “Just tell me, Travis. What is it?”

  He drew another long breath before he said, “It’s my fault, what your father did to himself.”

  I stared at him. “What? How…?”

  “I thought it would help him if I could show him some proof that he wasn’t alone, th
at he wasn’t the only one. I spent months searching out the right people, figuring out how to ask the right questions. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn’t care.”

  “What people?” I asked. “What questions?”

  Travis looked at me, sad and grave. “You’re a smart girl, Maren. I know why you keep asking questions you already know the answers to.”

  I stared at the plate of sugar cookies. Suddenly the stew wasn’t sitting so well in my stomach. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I knew you would come here,” Travis said. “I knew you would be like him.”

  That feeling settled over me again, the same as when I’d found Mrs. Harmon dead on the couch—like I was hovering someplace miles above my feet.

  “Do you see?” he said softly. “It was my fault for telling him what I’d learned. I thought it would comfort him, but I hadn’t considered what it meant about you. It was a very dark time,” he murmured. “In his life, and in mine.” Travis looked up, his eyes pale and fearful. “Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”

  I shook my head.

  “It had never occurred to him that you might be like him. He was devastated, Maren. That’s why he … he…” Travis gulped hard and glanced at me, then back at the floor. “That’s why he mutilated himself. Because of me. I was trying to help, and I made things worse.” He pressed his palms to his eyes. “But then, that’s the way my life has always been. I try to help, but I never do. I ruin everything.”

  I felt sick. I didn’t blame him—I just wished he hadn’t told me. “It wasn’t your fault, Travis.”

  He wiped his eyes and made a poor attempt at a smile. “I don’t believe that, but it makes me feel better to hear you say it.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said after a pause. “You actually went looking for people like us?”

  He shrugged. “I was fascinated. Anybody would be. I wanted to know how it was possible for some perfectly normal-looking person, a person like you, to gobble someone up just like you were an ogre in a fairy story. I still haven’t seen it, but I know it’s possible. I know it’s real.”

  “But weren’t you afraid you’d be…” I left the question dangling, and Travis sighed.

  “There was no need to be afraid.” For the first time, there was an unpleasant look on his face. “Nobody wanted me.” He seemed almost angry as he said it.

  “Where did you go? How did you find them?”

  “Years ago I had a friend in law enforcement, and one night I had the chance to ask him about it. I told him what I knew—I didn’t mention Frank by name, I want you to know that—and he said it was something only a few people in the police force were willing to talk about. People go missing all the time, and when they can’t find the body they assume that’s what it is. Sometimes the cops know who did it, but they’ll never be able to prove it. Eaters can be regular people, fine upstanding citizens and all that. My friend even gave me names. That’s how I met them. Men just having a drink after work before going home to their wives and kids, you know? I didn’t meet any women or girls, but they told me about them. That women did it too.” He rested his elbows on his knees, closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose, just like Mama used to do. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there are cops who do it. My friend had his suspicions.”

  Again I thought of the needlepoint above the door at the police station, of how wrong it was. I said, “You can’t live this life without always running away from it.” Or getting yourself locked up. Those daydreams I’d had about my father, of living in a house and doing all the things normal families do—they seemed so ludicrous now.

  Travis raised his head and looked at me. “Every time you did it, your mother packed your things and you left right away?”

  I nodded.

  “Ever wonder what would’ve happened if you’d stayed?”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe nothing,” he said. “But you thought you had to run, so you ran.”

  I got up and paced. I couldn’t stand to be that close to him, after all he’d said. “Something else I don’t get,” I said. “Why aren’t you afraid of us?” He was still staring at the floor, so I went on. “I mean, the only reason I can think of is if you are one of us … but I don’t think you are. Are you?”

  He shook his head. “No,” he said softly, and his voice was suddenly hoarse. “No, I’m not one of you.”

  “Then why? Why are you so … so fixated on us?”

  When he began to cry a new feeling settled over me, a mixture of pity and embarrassment. “I’m so lonely, Maren. It’s been like this all my life. I’ve tried, believe me I’ve tried. I’ve tried so hard to make friends. But when my mother died I knew there wasn’t anybody left in the world who loved me.”

  “You just said you had a friend who was a cop!”

  Travis shook his head, his eyes on the rug. “He wasn’t a friend. Not really.” When he lifted his chin and met my eye, I didn’t see a man in front of me. I saw an inconsolable little boy. “I know you know how I feel,” he said. “Your parents are still alive, but you’re just as alone as I am.”

  “You’re not like me, Travis. You’re a good person. You can go out into the world and make real friends. I know you can.”

  “I’ve already tried. I can’t try anymore when it’s only going to turn out the same as it always has. I can’t put myself through that anymore, I just can’t.” He drew a Kleenex out of a crocheted tissue-box holder and wiped his eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

  I nodded warily.

  “What leads you to eat the people you eat? What is it that draws you to them? I know it’s different for each of you.…”

  I shook my head. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Travis sighed and patted the sofa cushion beside him. “I wish you’d sit down. It makes me nervous to think of you running out the door. More nervous than I already am.”

  I took a seat at the far end of the sofa. “Why are you nervous?”

  “Because there’s something I need to ask you.”

  He reached for my hand. “No.” I stood up again and inched away. “No, no, no.”

  “Please don’t—please don’t take me the wrong way. I’m not trying to take advantage of you, honest.” He drew a slow, deliberate breath. “I don’t even care for women in that way.”

  “I can’t, Travis.” I felt myself shuddering, wave after wave after wave. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I can’t.”

  “I know it’s wrong, and I hate myself even more for asking,” he whispered. “But ever since I met your father and found out who he was, I knew.”

  “What do you mean, you ‘knew’?”

  “Please,” he said again. “It would mean so much to me.”

  I was inching my way to the door. “I think I should go now.”

  “Where are you going to go?” He gazed at me, eerily calm.

  I slung my rucksack over my shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out.”

  “Please, Maren. We won’t talk about it anymore. I won’t say another word, I promise.”

  I shook my head. “Do you really think we can just eat some cookies and watch a movie and talk like none of this happened? I really need to go.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands over his face. “All right,” he sighed. “But I’d feel a whole lot better about it if you’d let me drive you.”

  * * *

  It was a long drive to Sully’s cabin, but Travis didn’t complain. I nodded off in the car, and when I woke up I felt relieved I hadn’t had to pretend. How could we have a normal conversation after what he’d asked of me?

  Thankfully, he didn’t try. Once I’d roused myself he switched on the radio and we listened to a ballgame. “Are you a Brewers fan?” I asked. It felt weird to say something so ordinary. Travis just shrugged.

  Sully’s truck wasn’t there when we pulled up, though the lights were on and the door was open. “Hello? Sully?” I called, though I
knew he couldn’t be there. A fire still smoldered in the woodstove. “Maybe he just went out for milk,” I said.

  “Is he expecting you?” I nodded. Travis sat on the couch and cast an eye over the hunting trophies. “I’d better wait with you until he gets back.”

  “That’s okay,” I replied. “You really don’t have to.” What I meant was Please go now, but he either didn’t get it or didn’t want to.

  “You said this guy is a friend of the lady you met at the supermarket?”

  “Sort of.”

  “‘Sort of’?” Travis raised his eyebrows.

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but I don’t feel like I owe you any explanations either.”

  “I’m kind of responsible for you now, Maren. What would I tell your father if something were to happen to you?”

  “Listen, Travis. I know you would never hurt me, but that doesn’t mean I feel safe with you.”

  “That’s not fair,” he said softly. “You know you’re safe with me, Maren. I know everything about you, and I’m not afraid. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

  “Of course it does.” I felt a stab of irritation, but I tried not to show it. “And I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me today.”

  We fell into silence. Travis took long breaths between the night sounds coming through the screen door. I felt his hand, cool and moist on my arm. “I can be anything you want. I can say anything you want me to say, if you’ll only…” He ran his fingers down to my wrist and tried to grab my hand.

  Before I even knew what I was doing, I yanked my hand away and slapped him hard across the face. I’d never done that to anyone before, and for a second we just stared at each other in shock. “You promised you wouldn’t ask me again,” I said at last.

  “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. I’d never, ever hurt you.”

  “This isn’t how it works.” Every time I looked at him now I wanted to gag. “You said you understood that.”

  He reached for me again, and I stood up to get away from him. I felt his desperation clinging to me, sticking to every corner of my body, cold and slimy.