“You got the fuckin’ DTs or something, Dar. That’s all. There’s nothing here to hurt you. Whatever you think you’re seeing, it ain’t real, okay? I absolutely fuckin’ swear it ain’t real.”
“No, let me go,” fighting him, coughing and trying to pull her hands free before the spiders were in too deep to pull out again, like they’d gotten inside Keith. “Can’t you see them?”
“Don’t make me hit you again, Dar. Please god don’t make me have to hit you again.” And he pushed her hands, her straining arms, down to her sides and held them there until she stopped struggling. Until she was only crying, sobbing, and she could hear thunder and the wail of sirens, end of the world wail.
“We gotta get outta here, Dar. You need a doctor, and I couldn’t get the fire out in there.”
Mort picked her up, carried her down the stairs and out into the freezing clean night air, the water rain that peppered her skin like liquid ice, bringing her back. Back to herself and Morris Avenue, the buildings washed in scarlet waves of fire-engine light, blue and white cop-car light.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Orpheus
1.
T hree hours sitting in the emergency room, and if Daria had actually been hurt, she’d have died a long time before Mort finally lost his patience and demanded that a doctor look at her, yelled at a couple of nurses and stomped about. Nothing but scratches on her arms and face, though, welts irritated from the Hot Shot, eyes red from the smoke. A sleepy-looking intern had given her antibiotic salve for the scratches and a halfhearted speech about drinking so goddamn much, although he’d assured her that it was very unlikely that she’d actually had DTs; questions about acid and shit and she’d shaken her head, no and no, not lately or not ever, just booze, and he’d stuck a couple of Band-Aids on her face and hands and sent her on her way.
Out sliding glass doors into the cold again, past ambulances and other injuries to the van, waiting for them where Theo had parked it: vast and mostly empty parking deck, feeble yellow light and concrete, blocky red numbers almost black under the lights, to tell them the level and row, like they could miss the shitmobile. Mort helped Daria inside, into the passenger seat, and Theo climbed in the back.
“We’ll go to my place, Dar,” Theo said. “In the morning, we can have a look at whatever’s left of your apartment.”
Daria shrugged, yeah, whatever, took a slightly bent cigarette from a pack on the dash and let it dangle unlit from the corner of her mouth. Mort opened the driver’s-side door. “You sure you’re feelin’ okay?” he asked. “What a useless bunch of sons-of-bitches in there…”
“I’m fine, Mort. Can I get a light?” she said, and he reached in his shirt pocket, passed her his lighter; orange flicker of butane flame and then the reassuring smell of the Marlboro and she closed her eyes and slumped back in the seat.
“What time is it?” but she looked at her wristwatch before anyone could answer. Nine forty-five in oilgray, but it felt so much later, forever since Mort had carried her down from the smoke and fire. The fire and the spiders going dreamy in her head, unreal and far away.
Mort tried to start the van and the engine hacked and sputtered like an old man with double pneumonia, was silent. “Fuck, fuck, and fuck,” and he hit the steering wheel.
“That’s gonna help a whole lot,” Theo said. “It’s just cold.”
“It’s just a worthless piece of crap,” and he tried again, turned the key and the old man wheezed and coughed deep in his watery steel chest.
Daria squinted out at the parking deck through cigarette smoke and the van’s dirty, bugsplotched windshield. Two or three other cars and the fluorescents left little space for shadows, for secrets or hiding places.
“Can we just sit here a minute?” and Mort sighed, big, exhausted puff of white breath. “We might not have a choice,” he replied.
“I don’t suppose you happened to grab my bass on your way out?”
“There wasn’t time, Dar,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’ll be okay.”
“Maybe,” and she pulled another drag off the Marlboro.
“Are you sure you’re feelin’ all right?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Sure. Just a little freaked out, that’s all.” And quick, before she could talk herself out of asking, “If you can get the van started, will you drive me to Spyder’s house?”
An astonished, disgusted sound from Theo, and “Christ, why in hell would you want to see Spyder Baxter?”
“I don’t want to see Spyder. I need to know if Niki’s okay.”
Mort made a doubtful face, doubt and worry, and he looked as bad as she felt, almost. “Wouldn’t it be a better idea to call?”
“No, Mort. I need to see her. With my eyes. Just a simple yes or no, okay? I think maybe it’s important.”
“I think maybe Mort hit you a lot harder than he intended,” Theo said, and Mort glanced back at her, annoyed you’re-not-making-this-any-easier frown.
“‘Important’ how, Dar?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Look, it’s probably nothing, okay,” and she thought about Walter, again, had been thinking about him a lot the last couple of hours: rumpled and bleary-eyed, shivering in the alley behind Keith’s, fear like fresh scars on his pale, thin face. The things he’d said, the things she hadn’t let him say. “But I need to get some rest, and I don’t think I can sleep until I know Niki’s all right.”
“After that scene between you and Spyder last night, it just doesn’t seem like such a bright-”
“Please, Mort. I swear I’m not gonna hit her.”
Mort rubbed at his forehead above his eyebrows, like he was getting a headache. “It’s not you I’m worried about, Dar,” and he gave the ignition another try. This time the shitmobile belched and grumbled, carburetor hack and piston hem, and the engine growled to life.
“Yeah, sure.” He sighed. “Why the hell not,” and Mort released the parking brake and wrestled the stick into reverse.
“Thanks, Mortie.” And she leaned over, hugged him, little kiss against his stubbly cheek.
“Yippee,” Theo groaned behind them, “Yippee-fucking-ki-yay.” The van lurched backwards, tried to stall, but Mort pushed the clutch down to the floor. And Daria watched the beam of the headlights and the numbers painted on the wall, the banks of phony jaundiced daytime overhead, until they were out of the parking deck and under the city night again.
2.
Spyder sat on a wobbly stool by the bedroom window, no light but a candle on the floor, and she listened to the gentle, restless sounds of Niki sleeping, asleep for hours now, and Spyder had noticed that she’d been taking pills from her Klonopin script for days. Traffic sounds from outside, another place too far off to be of consequence anymore, and the noises from the basement, and the noises from the yard. Her face hurt, swollen lips, black eye, and another pain, inside, pain that meant more than broken skin and bruises.
“I don’t think I can stay much longer,” Niki had said that afternoon, after they’d fucked. “I can’t take much more of this.”
“What do you want?” Spyder had said, knowing the answer, playing the game as if she didn’t.
“I want you to get help. I want you to tell your doctor what you told me. I want you to tell her about the body you hid in the fucking basement.”
“Or you’ll leave.”
“I love you, Spyder. It’s not what I want.”
And then she’d rolled over, and Spyder had gotten up and gone to piss. When she’d come back, Niki was already asleep, so Spyder had sat down on the stool, thinking about the hospital and its sterile, numbing tortures, idiot questions from people who got paid to listen. And then she’d thought about being left alone in the house, alone with the house, and herself, everyone dead or gone away somewhere else. Nothing left but long days and nights and memories.
Bitch, I’m not done with you, bitch, her father said, mocking, laughing behind the closet door. What you’ve told her, what she knows, a
nd she’s still going anyway.
“I figured you out, too,” she said and then didn’t say anything else, nothing to be gained from talking with ghosts or voices that weren’t there, remembrances like broken toys she couldn’t put away, talking to herself and answering herself. Spyder dug down into her jeans pocket for the last ball bearing, the one there hadn’t been time for before the bedspread ripped open and spilled her life onto the floor. The one she’d written Niki’s name on, and she held it in her fist. Held it tightly, and Niki stirred, eyelid flutter and she pushed back the covers, rolled over so Spyder could see her breasts, perfect, small, firm, the silver ring through one nipple and the scar across the other.
If you died now, it wouldn’t matter. And her father was trying hard to sound like he had before he’d started seeing angels. If you’d died when you were supposed to, we’d have both gone up to Heaven a long time ago. But if you die now, at least no one else will get hurt.
She won’t get hurt.
Spyder opened her hand and held the ball bearing up so he could see it through the closet door. Faint steel glimmer in the candlelight and a sound like autumn crumbling or the smell of tears, and he hissed, They won’t let me come without you, Lila; when she answered, Spyder spoke low, trying not to wake Niki, just as careful to find the threat.
“Does it scare you, Daddy?” and she grinned at the cringing shadows on the walls. “It should. It should scare the fuck out of you.”
And when she was sure he had gone, had slipped like cold air back between the cracks, sifted down through termite rot and dust and rusting nails, Spyder laid the ball bearing on the windowsill, making sure it wouldn’t roll off.
Like a totem animal, Niki had said, like something Robin would have said, something Robin had understood. And it didn’t matter if it was factual, because it was true, whether she’d chosen them or they’d chosen her. Somewhere all those fine distinctions had been lost, her and them, enemy and friend and lover, past and present, no difference anymore and no one holding on to the leash.
I love you, Spyder, she’d said, and It’s not what I want. The last straw in that contradiction, the last silver ball before the bedspread had torn, and the rage was coming, rage that had imprisoned Robin and Byron and Walter in her hell under the floor, the rage that swirled around her, storm rage, virus rage, and she knew it had touched Keith Barry, too. And now there was no distinction, the rage and the world, and soon it would touch the girl sleeping on her bed, the girl who hadn’t run yet, never mind what she might do someday. Spyder’s rage like the vengeance of her dead father’s god, as bottomless, as all-consuming, as blind, and it would take Niki apart, body and mind and soul.
Spyder got up from the stool, went to the bed, and she kissed Niki lightly on one cheek, careful not to wake her. And then she began to unbutton her jeans.
3.
Mort drove slowly to the dead end of Cullom Street, pulled the shitmobile into Spyder’s dirt driveway, and then they sat in the van, watching the dark house, motor still running, headlights shining off the rusty ass of the old Celica. Unsteady glow from a front window, and Daria couldn’t help that it made her think of one dull eye open, sentinel eye of something with many eyes but no need to open more than one on their account.
“They’re already in bed,” Theo said, and Mort looked at Daria, tired what-next resignation on his face, too tired to argue. “I’ll be right back,” she said. “You guys wait here. There’s no need for us all three to go tromping up there.”
“Are you sure, Dar? You messed her up pretty good. I expect she’s still pissed off.”
“I’ll be right back. I’m just gonna talk to Niki and apologize.”
Mort switched off the headlights, left the engine idling in neutral, and Theo grunted, disbelief and indignation. “Daria, if you go apologizing to that bitch, I ought to kick your ass, on general fucking principle.” But Daria’s door was already open, the cold getting into the van and she said, “I’d like to see you try sometime, girl’o,” and the door banged closed again.
So much different than the last time she’d stood in Spyder’s yard, that day in the snow and everything so vanilla-icing white, that day with Keith; a sprawling shadow garden now, bare-tree shadows and unkempt shrub shadows, a million weedy shadows crowded around her feet. Standing at the edge of the porch, she looked back but couldn’t see Mort, nothing but more dark behind the windshield. And at the farthest corner of her vision, sudden movement, and she faced the porch again, stared into the junk shadows waiting for her and nothing else.
Christ, I’m still wasted, and that was almost reassuring, almost sufficient, and Daria took the steps one at a time.
Back in the parking deck, she’d thought about trying to find Walter, finding him and letting him talk out whatever he’d wanted to tell her. I’ll wait a day or two, he’d said, and then I’ve gotta leave. If you want to talk, so maybe they could’ve found him, if they’d tried. And she’d decided it was a lot sillier than just having a look for herself. Seeing that Niki was all right and getting some sleep, and later they could talk about Spyder and the marks on Niki’s arms. The marks that had looked like someone had tried to copy Spyder’s tattoos onto Niki’s skin with a soldering iron.
Loud and woodsy porchboard complaints, and Daria stepped over the spot where she’d sat with Keith, between the broken machinery and cardboard rags to the door. Raised her hand, cold knuckles, and then the movement again, subtle disruption somewhere past the corner of the porch, something big, there and gone again before she could turn to see. A rustle in the bushes, and she knocked hard, so hard it hurt.
But no one answered. No sound of footsteps coming to open the door, nothing but the van grumbling unevenly in the driveway, and so she knocked again, harder. “Come on, guys. I’m freezing my butt off out here,” and that was true, the cold and her teeth beginning to chatter, but she knew it was also a surrogate, a shoddy excuse, not the real reason for the way her heart was beating or the dryness in her mouth, the dizzysick surge of adrenaline.
“Get a grip, chick,” and she hammered at the door until her hand ached and little flakes of paint had peeled away and fallen at her feet. “Fuck this,” reaching for the doorknob and the movement, again, closer this time, as she turned cold metal in her hand and the door opened.
The house was full of light, silver-white light strung in shimmering garland strands or floating lazy on the air, lying in tangled drifts on the floor. And Daria opened her mouth, to call for Niki or just in amazement, and she heard the scrambling, the hurried noises at her back, coming up the steps, crash as something tumbled over, and she didn’t look this time, stepped across the threshold and slammed the door shut behind her.
Mort watched Daria cross the short space to Spyder’s porch, waved when she paused once and looked back, but Daria made no sign that she’d seen him. And then she went up the steps and was lost in the deeper night shrouding the porch. Theo had climbed into the front, sat beside him now, holding his hand across the empty space between the bucket seats.
“This is so stupid,” she said, and he nodded in agreement. No doubt about that. He strained to catch a glimpse of Daria, a hint of her reflected in the faint yellow-orange light from the window.
“I can’t see her anymore,” he said. And Theo said, “It’s too goddamn dark to see anything out there. You’d think they’d put a streetlight up here.”
“Theo, I’m gonna go see if she-” and a flash of light from the porch, painful bright, Daria silhouetted there, paper doll cutout in the brilliance. And then it was dark again, twice as dark as before. Theo whispered, “Jesus, Mort.”
He shook his head, reached for his door handle, and then she screamed, screamed and was thrown into his lap as something slammed against the passenger side of the van, hit them so hard the van rocked a few inches up onto two wheels before it bounced back down again and the motor sputtered and died. A scraping, shearing sound, metal raked over metal; Theo scrambled back into her seat, reached behind Mort
and pulled out Keith’s old aluminum baseball bat.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Mort, you didn’t see it,” and he’d never heard her scared before, wasn’t sure if he’d ever heard anyone that scared. “You didn’t see that fucking thing!” and it hit them again, Mort’s side this time, and he was thrown, smacked his jaw on the nub end of the bat. Steel ping and pop, and the wall of the van bowed inward. Mort tasted blood, bitten tongue or broken tooth, and he wrestled the bat from Theo’s hands.
“Lock the doors behind me and don’t move,” and of course she said no, no and fuck you; Mort opened his door, slid out and almost lost his balance on the loose gravel under his boots, almost fell. He brought the bat around, everything he had going into the swing, but there was nothing there. Nothing at all, but the dark and the scraggly bushes and the side of the van gouged in like they’d been sideswiped by a bus.
“Come on,” he said, spitting out blood and library whispering like maybe he was afraid someone would hear, unable to look away from the dent, paint and rust scraped away to the raw metal underneath. “We’re gonna get Dar, and then we’re gonna get the hell out of here.”
“I’m right behind you,” Theo replied, shaken, but almost sounding like herself again, and together they crossed the yard to Spyder’s house.
4.
Another bus station, this bus station again, and Walter sat by himself in the Burger King kiosk, sipping a large Pepsi that had been watery and flat and warm for thirty minutes, but he couldn’t afford another, watching the clock. Waiting for his boarding call and the bus that would carry him north, nowhere in particular, but as far away from Birmingham and Spyder as the hundred and fifty bills in his wallet, everything he had left, would carry him. Crazy, coming back here to begin with, he thought again, like anyone was gonna listen, like Spyder was gonna talk, but at least it was something. All he could do, and he’d done it, and whatever else, he wouldn’t have to feel like a goddamn coward.
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