Niki stomped around on the concrete in her raggedy black high-tops, stirring circulation, driving back the phantoms in her head, the threat of homesickness. On her way out of the Texaco’s lot, she stopped and checked the Vega’s doors one more time, then set off down the street in the direction Milo had pointed.
4.
Whenever Niki thought about the days immediately after she’d run from New Orleans, run from Danny and the things he’d confessed, the day she’d called home from a motel room, his apartment but his sister picking up the phone, it felt like a dream. As insubstantial, as outside the normal flow of time and waking consciousness. Better not to think about it at all, any more than necessary.
She’d known Danny Boudreaux since her freshman year of high school, hadn’t started sleeping with him until a couple of years ago, though; one summer night after a rave, sweaty warehouse district chaos and both of them fucked-up on ecstasy, but it hadn’t been an embarrassment the next morning. Had seemed natural, something that should have happened, even though Danny had always gone mainly for boys. He worked drag at a couple of bars in the Quarter, was good enough that sometimes he talked about going to Las Vegas and making real money. Tall boy, trace of a Cajun accent and wispy frail. A lot of foam rubber padding for his shows so no one would see the way his hip bones jutted beneath the sequins.
And then, late July and she’d met Danny for a beer at Coop’s after work, early Saturday morning and after work for both of them, the bar crammed full of punks and tourists. They’d gone back to his place on Ursu-lines because it was closer, had raced sunrise across the cobblestones, raced the stifling heat of morning, running sleepydrunk and laughing like a couple of tardy vampires, and before bed, cold cereal and cartoons. And then Danny had started talking, had dropped the bomb he’d carried all his life, waiting for the right moment or the right ear, or simply the day he couldn’t carry it any longer. More than drag, a lot more than that, and she listened, stared silently down at the Trix going soggy in her bowl while Scooby Doo blared from Danny’s television.
“I’ve been seeing a doctor,” he said. “I started taking hormones a couple of months ago, Niki.”
And when he was done, there’d still been nothing for her to say, nothing to make it real enough to answer, and finally he’d broken the silence for her, asked, “Niki? Are you all right? I’m sorry….”
Not looking at him, speaking to the safe TV instead, black-and-white security, and she shrugged like it was no big shit, like he’d asked if she wanted to go to a movie tonight or if she wanted another cup of coffee. “I’m fucking wasted, Danny,” she said. “We’ll talk about it after I get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah,” and another apology she hadn’t asked for before she’d lain awake beside him, staring at the summer day blazing away behind the curtains, one bright slice getting into the apartment. Concentrating on the clunking wet noises from his old air conditioner, the uneven rhythm of his breath until she was sure he was asleep, and Danny Boudreaux always slept like the dead. And she’d gotten dressed, scrawled a note to leave beside the bed: Danny, I have to figure this out. I just don’t know. Love, Niki. Then she’d walked back to her apartment, sweatdrenched and sundazed by the time she reached the other end of Decatur Street.
She’d packed one bag and left the city on I-10, just driving, driving east and the radio and her tapes and towns that all ran together until she’d finally reached North Carolina sometime the next day. A room at a Motel 6 in Raleigh, and she’d slept for twelve hours straight. Sleep that left her groggy and disoriented, guilt eating her like an ulcer, a coward to have run out on Danny like that, crazy driving all this way, and she’d called and his sister had answered the phone.
And after Niki hung up, easier just hanging up than trying to answer the questions, she’d sat on the stiff motel bed watching herself in the mirror across the room until the images of Danny were more than she could stand: stepping off the chair, whatever he’d used for a rope cutting into his skinny neck, his feet dangling like a pendulum above the floor. More than her head could hold, and she’d left Raleigh, driving northeast toward the ocean, following something inside her, a primal inner compass, instinctual drive toward a mother older and entirely more comforting than the nervous woman who’d given her birth.
The Carolina countryside had slipped past like pages in a pop-up picture book, the last fields and tobacco barns giving way to pines and cypress stands, the first hints of the vast swamplands that spread themselves out a little farther along. No more real than cardboard cutouts, and the sun setting in her rearview mirror too brilliant for anything but gaudy acrylic. Nothing real inside her head except the casual absurdity of his death, her part in it, and for the first time in her life the tears that had always seemed to flow so easily, had always been there, eager to soothe any ache or loss, had refused to come, and somehow that had been the most frightening thing of all.
Used ’em all up on trifling shit, and now there’s nothing left to cry. Like something her mother or maybe a schoolteacher had said a long time ago. Stop bawling or someday you won’t be able to cry, someone you love will die: and you won’t ever be able to stop hurting. Stop it, Niki, or your face will stick that way.
She’d fumbled through the scatter of cassettes and empty plastic cases on the dashboard and front seat. They were almost all ambient goth, darkwave driving music, nothing she’d wanted to hear now, nothing hard and sharp enough to drive away the storm, the whir like locust wings behind her eyes. Finally, she’d lucked onto a Jimi Hendrix compilation she’d dubbed as a Christmas present two years before and never given away; the tape had kicked in halfway through “All Along the Watchtower,” and she’d turned up the volume until the speakers had begun to whine and distort.
An hour after nightfall, dry-eyed and empty, Niki had crossed the dark and brackish waters of the Alligator River, secret black flowing beneath the causeway’s three-mile span. Beyond that, the road signs had history-book names—Kitty Hawk, Nag’s Head, Kill Devil Hills—and the air roaring in through the open window had begun to smell salty.
For a while, then, there had only been more featureless night, far-off lights and occasional glimpses of the vast marshes stretching away on either side of the asphalt ribbon. Once, a fat raccoon had darted across the road and she’d almost run it down, had stomped the brakes and would have been dead if there’d been anyone behind her.
She’d reached another long bridge just as Hendrix had begun “The Wind Cries Mary”; a reflective green and silver sign had announced that she would be crossing Croatan Sound and that Roanoke Island waited for her on the other side. Niki wasn’t a history buff, but she knew the legend of the Lost Colony, the English settlement that had completely vanished, nothing left behind except the word “CROATOAN” carved into the trunk of a tree. And there was a Harlan Ellison story with the same name, about alligators and mutant fetuses living in the sewers underneath New York City.
As the raven-black Vega left the mainland behind and rushed toward the line of barrier islands and the cold Atlantic, she’d thought about what might hide itself at the blurry edges of her sight and rolled up her window.
Niki had stopped for gas and a fifth of Jim Beam in the waterfront town of Manteo. Any maritime charm the town might still have had twenty, twenty-five years ago, had been long since smothered beneath a gaudy flood of vacationers and housing developments, white-washed seafood joints and video rental stores. She’d avoided the eyes of the old man who’d come out to pump for her, the disdainful stares from the old woman behind the cash register she’d guessed was his wife. She had paid with a twenty, and the old woman had snorted when Niki had told her that she could keep the change, had snorted but hadn’t refused.
The highway crossed one more bridge, the last, and the sodium-arc halo of Manteo had faded behind her as the dunes of the Outer Banks had risen up around the car, and she’d followed the single blinking eye of Bodie Lighthouse down to the sea. This time the darkness had felt less threaten
ing, less like a hiding place for monsters and more like a shelter against the grinding weight inside. Maybe it was the moon, butter yellow and three-quarters full, just beginning to show above the sea oats, or maybe it was the ocean, so close she’d caught shimmering glimpses of it between the dunes.
Past the old lighthouse, there’d been a narrow, unpaved road leading away from the highway, packed sand and shells crushed under tires, and Niki drove slowly until the road blended seamlessly into the beach. The tide had been in, and even over the blaring stereo, she heard the velvet crash of the breakers. She rolled the car to a stop a few feet from the waterline, shifted down from first into park and cut the motor, but left the stereo on, the headlights burning.
Well, how now, brown cow? Dumbass Danny Boudreaux thought, her mind speaking in his voice, something he said that had always made her cringe a little, and of course she’d had no idea what came next. The waves were pretty in the moonlight, and the sand silver below the stars, but there were no answers here, and no more comfort than could be found in loneliness anywhere. Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say, and she’d turned Jimi Hendrix down so that the surf had seemed to grow louder. Then Niki had opened the door, unlaced her tennis shoes and pulled them off her sockless feet, had set them out of sight in the passenger-side floorboard, and stepped onto the damp, nightcool sand. She’d eased the door shut, like whispering in a library, like someone might hear.
But there was no sign of anyone else, nothing but the lighthouse a mile or so to the south. No one to see or hear, no one to give a shit, and she’d tugged the smelly Speed Racer T-shirt off over her head and tossed it onto the hood of the Vega. The moon had flashed along the steel rings piercing both her nipples, and Niki had stood, looking down at her small, firm breasts in the pale light. She’d had the piercings done almost two years ago on a dare, her birthday and she and Danny wasted on rot-gut champagne, and he’d said I dare you, that’s all, I dare you.
She’d never been able to remember whether or not it had hurt much, if it had even hurt at all, could remember laughter and the piercer’s latex hands, the commingled aromas of disinfectant and sandalwood incense, but not so much as a sting as the needle had passed through one areola and then the other.
I dare you.
Oh hell, Niki, I double dare you.
Niki seized the left ring, worked both index fingers through and forced it open, tearing skin and flesh, until the tiny hematite ball that locked it closed popped free and fell to the sand. And that pain she had felt, pain so fine and honest that it had taken her breath, had left her gasping the salt air in great, helpless mouthfuls. She held the ring up against the sky, caught the moon inside and clenched it tight in her bloodslicked hand.
“I fuckin’ dare you, motherfucker!” each syllable punched into the blurring indigo sky, perfect blows driven by the blind red momentum of all the days and weeks and goddamned years and the emptiness waiting at the end.
The first wave had broken apart around her ankles, foam and unexpected warmth, and she’d realized dimly that she was moving forward, the headlights throwing her long shadow ahead. Her hands moved to her right breast, lingered there, and the water had rushed hard against her knees, enough force to push her back a step. The next wave had lifted her clear of the sand shifting beneath her feet, and she’d heard her mother shouting from the beach, Far enough, Niki, that’s far enough.
The spray splashed across her chest, spiced the fire spreading from her nipple. Her eyes were still dry.
“Goddamn you,” but the fury had been lost, and her voice had sounded papery thin and hollow. “You’re gone, and it’s going to hurt forever.”
Far enough now, Niki. Come back some.
A wave high enough to break over her head had driven her down, knees scraping bottom, and she’d come up coughing, spitting the ocean back into itself. She had opened her eyes and seen she was facing back toward shore, blinking through borrowed tears into the glare of the Vega’s headlights. Someone was standing in the black space between, someone small, watching her.
Come back some.
The next wave knocked her off her feet, and she had to dig her fingers into the sand to keep from being dragged further out by the undertow. Brief clarity, the illusion of clarity, fading with the pain, eclipsed by confusion and something that might have been fear if she’d cared enough to be afraid. And the silhouette in the headlights was still there, although she’d expected it not to be.
Niki had tried to stand, but another wave had slammed her forward, taken her another foot or two closer to the car and the shape in the light. And then a hand closed tightly around her own, a hand that felt firm and cold and terribly thin, and thin arms about her shoulders, hauling her gently back to the beach.
Niki tried to speak, had tried to say that she was all right, would be all right now, but had only been able to gag and cough up more water, sea water and bile and the half-digested hamburger she’d barely remembered eating for lunch. Slowly, the arms released her and she’d sunk to her knees in the dry sand. The water burned coming up, seared her throat and nostrils.
“You were going to drown yourself,” the girl said, and Niki had slumped back against the car.
The girl had been so small, smaller even than Niki, so pale she seemed to glow softly, concentration-camp skinny and dirty blond hair ratted beyond anything a comb or brush would ever be able to undo. She’d worn a black dress, filthy plain cloth, torn and ragged, and would have stood out even among the Jackson Square goth crowd.
“You were going to drown yourself,” the girl repeated, and it had almost sounded like an apology.
“No,” Niki croaked, before she started coughing again.
“It’s all right,” the girl had said, had reached out and brushed Niki’s straggling bangs from her eyes. “The sea doesn’t mind. I think it flatters her, mostly.”
Niki closed her eyes, trying to untangle her racing pulse from what the girl was saying. Her nipple hurt like hell, and her throat felt raw; her mouth tasted like puke and brine.
I wasn’t trying to drown.
“My name is Jenny,” the girl had said, “Jenny Dare.”
“I was not—Christ—I wasn’t trying to drown,” and she hadn’t known which sounded more ridiculous, her rasping voice or what she was saying out loud.
For a moment, Jenny Dare had said nothing else, just sat there in the sand, knees pulled close and her bare feet sticking out from under the tattered hem of her skirt, watching Niki with eyes the color of Wedgwood china.
“Jesus,” Niki said. “I’m not—not a fucking suicide.” There was blood in her mouth, and she’d realized that she must have bitten her tongue or lip.
The corners of Jenny Dare’s mouth turned down, faintest frown, her full lips the same color as her eyes.
“No,” she’d said, finally. “No, I don’t guess that you are. It isn’t hard to drown, not if that’s what you’re after, so I guess you’re not.”
Then Niki had begun to shiver, sudden chills and fresh nausea, thought that maybe she was going to pass out, and those arms encircled her again, had pulled her close and held her. She tried to push away; there was something vaguely sexual about her bare breasts against this strange girl, and it frightened her. But she was too weak, too sick to do anything but give up and rest her head against Jenny Dare’s bony shoulder, bury her face in the musty folds of the old dress, in the yellow-brown hair that had smelled like autumn, like woodsmoke and frost.
Niki had wrapped her arms around Jenny Dare, returned the embrace and held on with what little strength she had left.
“Shhhh…” the girl whispered, soothing dead-leaf sound, and she had stroked Niki’s sand-flecked temples and cheeks, the stubbly back of her neck. Her fingertips slid across Niki’s skin like an ointment, gelid cold that bled heat. Warmth that soaked inside her.
In the car, the Hendrix tape had still been playing, cycled back around to where it had begun, and Niki let the living warmth and the singer’s voice take
her down.
Niki had dreamed of ships, wooden ships with tall pirate sails, and fishing boats, too, and gunmetal ships of war. And Jenny Dare, watching silently, expectantly, as they had passed in the night. And when she’d awakened, when she’d been pulled slowly into purple-gray dawn by the squawk and screech of gulls, she’d been alone again.
Through the white scorch of July and into August, Niki had worked her way south, never more than a few miles at a time, sleeping in air-conditioned motels during the day, wandering the dunes and beaches and getting drunk on bourbon after sundown. When she couldn’t sleep, when the alcohol had left her restless instead of unconscious, she’d watched cable television or read paperback horror novels until dark.
She’d gone as far as Savannah before she felt the homesick tug of New Orleans and had turned back. But the second time around, the roads and the marshy Carolina coastline had lost their comfort, and she only made it as far as Myrtle Beach. Niki had rented a room by the week there and found a job stripping in a boardwalk dive called the Palmetto Club; she slacked off the booze, replacing the sweet amber numbness with the ache of tired muscles and the adrenaline rush of performance.
And early in October, shortly after the first guarded hints of cooler weather, the dreams of Danny Boudreaux, like something in a butcher’s window, had become infrequent and finally stopped altogether, a long and difficult fever breaking, leaving her free to face her ghosts awake.
5.
“So why the hell did you stop in Birmingham,” the girl said, the girl with hair like cherries who had surprised her, not only by knowing what a Cubano was, but by actually knowing how to make one. Niki held the demitasse to her nostrils, breathed in the rich steam rising off the black, sweet coffee.
Silk Page 5
