by Greg Dragon
“I can’t believe you’re balking.”
“Bill’s not a saint, you know. He steals.”
“Your lunch?” His eyes mocked her.
“My iPod, my school books, and my varsity jacket.”
Scot’s laugh sounded strained. “School kid pranks. He’s scared, EJ. Do I have to beg?”
His words stung because she wanted to help. Healers never passed infections to sick people on purpose. She could be infected by the same bug as her mother. “I can’t. My granddad sold my horse after I healed a camper’s snake bite. I’m scared he’ll do even worse.”
“Like ground you?” he asked with a sneer. His phone vibrated but he didn’t answer. “You’ve known Bill your whole life. Are you saying no because his family are atheists?”
“What?” She dropped her backpack to the sticky linoleum floor. “Don’t drag my faith in the mud. It’s not that simple.”
“Is to me.”
Heat flushed her face. She couldn’t heal without her faith. People without God switched paths the moment adversity struck. They bartered with God. Those lost souls didn’t understand true faith and never would. If she couldn’t heal Bill then her faith was phony, and if she did—well, they called it a scientific fluke or said the meds worked.
“And you call yourself a Christian,” Scot pointed out.
Exasperated, she blew long bangs out of her eyes with one loud puff. “Stop.”
He turned and punched a hole in the wall.
Eddie Jean flinched. “You hate Christians?”
He stared at his fist. “No, you blamed Bill for what I did. He didn’t steal from you, I did. Sorry for treating you like a crap bucket, but your mom makes mine cry.”
Shocked, Eddie Jean kicked the wall. “My mother bit me and strange sounds come from her body. I’m scared she’s infected me.”
Scot shook his head. “You’re so emo. XOs don’t get sick, so you can’t infect him.”
“Even with rabies?”
He cleared his throat. “Jenna couldn’t have rabies and recover overnight. Let’s go.”
She twirled a lock of dark brown hair into a knot. “I might get Bill’s hopes up and then crush them if I fail. I’ve never healed anyone outside of Cloudland.”
“At least we tried.”
She searched for more excuses. “Hospitals stink and they’re creepy.”
“So? People don’t go there to rest.”
She licked her lips. “Just saying.”
“I thought you liked showing off your skills?”
“Thought you liked hiding yours? What’s changed?”
He reached for his phone and fumbled it. “Bill’s a good guy. You heal your mom?”
Tears floated in her eyes as she looked away from him. “No. She has an infestation. Said they’re telling her to do things. There’s something inside her, other people too, but I don’t affect them. When I told her I couldn’t help, she bit me, thinking my blood would heal her.”
“God has limits.”
“No, I have limits.”
He looked surprised. “Bummer. You have doubts. Your faith might not be strong enough, your healing might not work outside Cloudland, and your mother might be infected with something too big for you to fix.”
“Yeah.” Eddie Jean hated when her chin quivered. She brushed a hand under it but the trembling worsened. “My granddad said he’d punish me if I ever healed another person. He thinks abilities can get burned up if used too soon. What if he finds out?”
Scot dropped both hands on her shoulders. “I promise nothing will happen. Trust me.”
She stared into his eyes as the twitch rate doubled. People came before soccer. Right? Spring without soccer was like Christmas without gifts. Ever since Scot pulled her out of the river before she drowned, she looked up to him, even when he acted like a jerk. She told her mother about Scot’s heroics. Together they baked him a chocolate thank-you cake. Scot’s mother wasn’t home and the rest became history—Jenna Franklin and Michael Thomas became an item. Scot’s family suffered from the affair as much as hers.
“I do trust you, Scot.”
He hugged her. Scot smelled like sunshine and breath mints. The twitching stopped.
Someone knocked on the door and they jumped.
“EJ, you’re the first one, the first XO to rebel against the rules. Wish it had been me.” He picked up her backpack and checked his watch.
The tardy bell rang. The dull buzz mingled with the noisy overhead light bulb.
He cleared his throat. “It’s time to bounce.”
“Weren’t you in town when my little sister died?” Why did I ask?
Scot coughed and then said, “Yeah.”
“We were told she died from an allergic reaction. Swelling closed her airway. True?”
Seconds ticked past before he answered. “Yeah. We might live in one of the ten healthiest towns in the country, but people still die.”
Tangled emotions blinded her. She had grown used to the earth rumbles and land ripples. Her granddad, a bio-chemist, told her the swarms vibrated at a specific pitch and changed her DNA, but not Kimmy’s genes.
“She’s the first vaccine death in town,” Scot added.
Vaccine? “No, Kimmy had an allergic reaction to something she ate.”
Scot’s eyes widened. “Jenna told my dad she had a vaccine reaction.”
“Momma lied?”
“That’s news?” Scot’s expression mocked her. He shook his head. “Your family is famous for its lies.”
She didn’t reply.
He reddened. “I didn’t mean you were a liar.”
“You’ll say anything to get me to heal Bill.”
“True.”
Her face stung like he’d slapped her. “Even the part about me rejoining the XOs?”
“No, we need you, but you’re so difficult.” He frowned and shook his head. “Look, we don’t share your religious beliefs. Understand?”
She nodded. “After I heal Bill, I have to check my granddad’s cave. I can’t get what mother said out of my head. Will you go with me?”
He shook his head. “No, Kim didn’t have rabies. That story about Quitman keeping rabid people in a cave on his property is an urban legend. Can we go now?”
You don’t know Granddad as I do.
Eddie Jean followed Scot out the side exit door, around the band room, and into the student parking lot. They waited for the security guard in his golf cart to leave and cruise the teachers’ parking area on the other side of campus.
A swarm vibrated beneath their feet and for a second the land moved like in 3D movies. She had to look at her feet to stay steady. For the first time, a swarm gave her a spinal throb. The rush felt like she stood over a powerful engine. The throbbing vibrations sharpened her senses. She could tell Scot felt it too.
Slippery wax oozed from both ears and pooled in her outer concha. Ear pain eased as the goop seeped out. She checked inside her sweater pocket for a pack of tissues to clean up the ear discharge. The Hum used to sound soft as wind chimes catching a breeze. Now, the Hum clanged as loud church bells. “The Hum’s pitch went higher.”
“No kidding?” He grabbed a tissue from her and cleaned his ears. “Let’s roll, soccer girl.”
She followed him from around the building and across open ground. They ducked behind vehicles to dodge being seen from classroom windows. Scot unlocked the Jeep doors and then, as if using his key lock killed them, starlings dropped dead mid-flight over the school. Birds pelted the parking lot like litter from heaven.
Splat-splat-splat.
Eddie Jean searched the sky for an answer.
One bird collided into her backpack on Scot’s shoulder. A larger one landed on the hood of his Jeep. The bird fluttered its wings a few seconds and then stilled.
Eddie Jean stared at the dying birds in horror. “What’s happening?”
Wilbur
Grandmother Pearl said his need to help others came as a gift from God. Wilb
ur Jenkins wasn’t convinced. He stared at the Bible in the center of his bed. Its pages were zippered inside protective covers. Wilbur remembered it now. Mary had held the straight razor in one hand and the Bible in the other. She dropped it in their scuffle. No way had Mary tossed it on the dumbwaiter. That left the other live-in staff or Evaney Harwood. Even as Wilbur thought her name he shied away from thinking bad of her.
Worse, he didn’t mention Mary’s Bible to the detective. Another piece of evidence he had forgotten or lied about while questioned. He wasn’t sure which. Wilbur felt bad for not returning the Bible to Mary’s family. He couldn’t help wondering, even though he didn’t want to mull it over like he did when choosing words for poems, if answers to her odd behavior were inside. He swiveled his desk chair and pondered his choices.
“I’m a poet, not a detective,” he said into the empty room. Maybe he circled on the verge of insanity. He had never felt so isolated.
The Hum kept him awake at night along with other strange sounds—noises he never noticed before Mary’s death. Sleep deprivation caused him to lose the ability to separate facts from fiction, but he could still process truth with his eyes. Evaney’s waxy, pale skin had pinked up, her fingers fluttered on empty air as if she were playing an invisible piano, and her extremities straightened, popped, and flexed.
Wilbur couldn’t put his finger on his own outward symptoms, but he lacked concentration and his memory was failing. Worse, he couldn’t focus to compose verse. Losing his words nearly killed him. No way had Mary’s tragic death affected him like a disease. Something else had intervened. When he couldn’t recall Grandmother Pearl’s face, he was forced to take action. He’d lost his way the moment he lied.
As Grandmother Pearl always said, Truth matters.
A gleaming silver cross hung from the tip of the Bible’s zipper. Mary had been a Bible thumper and read scriptures daily. Sunshine reflected off the cross, casting sunspots on the bedspread as he ripped the detective’s card into shreds. His fingers itched to unzip the Good Book and look for clues. But liars shouldn’t read Bibles unless they meant to reform. Wilbur needed to get some answers first.
A brief knock and then Lee Gaines, the live-in nursing assistant, slipped inside. She wore pink scrubs with matching lipstick. Lee shut the door with a suggestive grin on her lips. Wilbur’s heartbeat skidded to a dead stop. She pushed her right hip out at a sharp angle and curled her hand into a fist at her hourglass waist. Heat flowed through his body and rendered him mute.
Wilbur didn’t care if staff caught visiting between bedrooms were fired. Lee was hypnotic, sexy, and cranky. Her face portrayed a beguiling mixture of tough and naïve—like a cross between Whoopi and Beyonce. He never knew which side would show up for work.
“Suck your tongue back inside your flytrap.”
Whoopi. Wilbur obeyed.
“Burr, what is going on? First Mary dies from blood loss, you’ve got her Bible that never left her hands, and now Miss Harwood’s eyes track me like a gator stalks small animals.”
He cleared his throat. “Wish I knew. Cookie thought I threw Mary’s blood-stained Bible on the dumbwaiter, but I didn’t. Did you?”
Lee shifted position, and her hips swayed as she curled both hands into fists on her hips. “Say again?”
“I need to find out who put her Bible on the dumbwaiter.”
“Why? You’re not Five-0.”
“Who?” he asked.
She rolled her eyes. “What’s in the Good Book?”
He shrugged. If Lee heard the Hum, she would understand why he hesitated to investigate. “Listen, you ever hear nonstop music, noise, or humming sounds?”
“It’s church-like quiet here. On my off days I party to stay sane.”
“Heard that.”
Lee walked over to the Bible and unzipped it. She flipped through the pages as if hunting for dollars. One square of folded paper dropped out. Lee picked it up, cutting her big doe eyes at him. She unfolded it and then squeezed it into a ball. “Blank.”
She tossed it into a trashcan. Wilbur exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. “Thanks.”
“Never guessed you’d be superstitious. It’s no book of spells.”
“Have a seat on the bed.”
“In your dreams,” she fired back. She sat and crossed her legs.
He couldn’t help thinking how his hands would fit perfectly around her tiny waist. To stop his growing arousal, Wilbur said, “I need your help. Mary’s death is…is...”
“Freaky-deaky?”
“Word.” He nodded in agreement. “I can’t let go of what happened. Things don’t jive in hindsight. I’d like to check the inconsistencies, but I’d need a lifeline—you know, someone to watch my back while I investigate.”
She frowned. “Guard you?”
“No, steer me clear of trouble and reel me back if I get in over my head. The truth is always hard to find.”
She batted her eyelashes and a devilish smile erupted across her lips. It was the smile in his dreams right before she reached for…
“Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers, “you high?”
“Are you busy Saturday night?”
“I’ve got a date but Veena’s free.”
Veena worked as a housemaid and “shy” didn’t begin to describe her. He shook his head. “Forget I asked.” Wilbur walked over to the trashcan and removed the paper.
“Put it back!” Lee squinted at him. “Trust is a two-way street.”
He read Mary’s note.
Wilbur—Whatever you do, don’t stay here. Leave now!
Lee snatched the paper and threw it back in the trashcan. “Mary was end-times crazy. I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”
He stared back and said, “Why did you lie about the note?”
“You need a lifeline,” she said, pointing her finger at him. “Don’t confuse me by asking for a date right after asking me to do something important. Now get this, we won’t be rolling in the deep together, understand me?”
Disappointment cooled him off. “Yeah, but you’ll be my lifeline?”
“Let me think on it,” Lee said, sounding bored. “By the way, you’re fifteen minutes late for your shift.”
Startled, Wilbur pushed his chair into the desk. He had to change.
Lee got the message and slipped out, leaving a faint trace of spicy perfume in her wake.
Wilbur changed into scrubs. Mary’s warning came too late, but he appreciated it all the same.
He went down the gleaming marble hallway and into Evaney Harwood’s sick wing. Before Mary died the sick room never smelled gross. After Mary’s death, the room smelled like an unplugged refrigerator in a heat wave. Open windows, burning scents, and bringing in fresh flowers didn’t cut the foul odor.
The room smelled dank, like the decaying scent inhaled after digging up a dead animal. To mask the putrid scent of decomposition, he’d smeared scented deodorant across his upper lip. Tomorrow he’d buy Vicks VapoRub.
***
Wilbur sat with Evaney Harwood on the portico porch waiting for Doc’s visit. She had never reacted to outside noises before Mary died. Now, Evaney followed birdsong by tilting her head and moving her eyes. He used the MP3 player to drown out the annoying Hum buzz and watched her come back to life.
Doc Hatcher tapped his shoulder. “How is Miss Harwood, Burr?”
Wilbur pulled the earbuds from his ears, letting his book fall to the floor. He knew what Doc Hatcher had asked, even if he didn’t hear him. Hatcher’s first name was Dockman, so everyone called the doctor Doc. Doc’s visit questions were the same and in exact order every Thursday—his official house-call day.
“She’s good, sir, daydreaming about ol’ times.” Wilbur hated the quiz routine Doc followed, but he played the game. Wilbur pretended Evaney didn’t wake up to drink blood, and her health wasn’t improving. If Doc didn’t want to acknowledge her recovery, Wilbur wouldn’t say a word.
“Ol’ times?” Doc
grumbled. “She’s twenty-seven.”
Chastised, Wilbur leaned over to pick up his book. Everyone knew her age—why point it out? The elderly doctor had never learned smooth beside manners. Why rich folk tolerated his rude ass, Wilbur couldn’t understand. Who cared if he once played football for Dartmouth?
“Whatcha reading? True crime?”
“Shakespeare.”
“Thought the Bard was dead to young people,” Doc said. “Which book?”
“The Tempest.”
Doc gave his trademark tight-lipped smile and opened the top buttons on Miss Evaney’s blouse. The older man pressed the bell of his black stethoscope against her chest to listen to her heart. “Sounds good,” Doc said, removing the earplugs.
He wrapped the stethoscope around his neck and buttoned the pink blouse. He pointed up to the squeaky Hunter fan spinning overhead and said, “Spray some WD40 after you put her to bed. Don’t hurry though, let her enjoy the beautiful afternoon. Look at those gorgeous mums. Pretty, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir.”
Doc rubbed his hands like they itched and then added, “I know the frequent police interviews intruded on your classes and study time. Thank you for your patience.”
“My profs understood.” Wilbur admired the way Doc skirted the real issue—Mary’s missing blood volume. Mary had blood drawn a week before she died for her annual physical. Normal test results were reported. Pushed by Mary’s family, the detective kept trying to account for her sudden blood loss and found no answers. According to crime scene photos, she should have had plenty of blood left to stay alive.
More than once, Wilbur picked up his phone to confess his cleaning spree but never did. He was afraid the detective would name him a person of interest. His life would be upended. Still, he couldn’t shake the guilt. Telling the truth, writing the truth, and living the truth were his creed. Now, he was a liar and it didn’t sit right with him—his poetic heart had vanished, just like Mary’s blood.
Doc cracked his malformed knuckles. “As a reward for saving Miss Evaney’s life, the estate has decided to pay your college expenses, including accumulated student loans, plus give you a raise. I’m letting the rest of the help go tomorrow.”
