Silk

by Kiernan, Caitlin R.

  The car fishtails, spins to a stop in the dust, and her father’s crying, slumped over the wheel and crying the way her mother had cried when he’d taken her away. And the broken windshield beneath the rain, rain with tiny furred bodies and a billion busy legs.

  And another night, Thursday night, Daria sat with her back against the wall, bug spray in one hand and a cigarette in the other, hours since she’d awakened in the early afternoon pale sun coming through her window, head throbbing from the bull-bitch of all hangovers and the nightmare memories that still hadn’t faded; waiting alone for Claude to come back from the Bean, Claude who’d listened to everything she said, who’d fed her aspirin and coffee and cold glasses of tap water. Who’d helped her to the toilet when she had to puke again but hadn’t thought she could walk that far, and who should have been back half an hour ago. Before it got dark.

  She took a deep drag off the Marlboro, exhaled, and jumped when she thought she saw something move, half glimpse from the corner of her left eye. Something big leaning over the foot of the bed, but of course there was nothing there now, nothing but tangled sheets and her blanket, gray powder smears from where she’d hurled the ashtray at Claude.

  “Fuck,” she said, tried to laugh and take another drag, but the cigarette had burned down to the filter so she stubbed it out on the bottom of the Hot Shot can, flicked the butt away. “Fuck me.”

  Can’t even tell the difference between a goddamn bad dream and what’s real. Crazy as Spyder fuckin’ Baxter, now.

  She’d told Claude about her mother and father, talked for hours, through the pain and dread, about that day with the spiders and the train and everything that had led up to it. Her father’s secrets, not other women but other men, and her mother taking it out on her. So her dad had put her in his Pontiac and they’d driven, heading nowhere, just driving, and her not even eight years old. How she’d wound up in a Bolivar County, Mississippi hospital with twelve brown recluse bites, and she’d shown him the ugly scars on her legs to prove it, the worst of the scars that she never showed anyone. Puckered-flesh proof that it had all happened, touch and go for a while, and afterwards, the divorce and the years before she ever saw her father again.

  Claude had listened, kind and so good at listening, but he can’t walk a block down the street and back in forty-five goddamn minutes. And she hadn’t told him about the other dreams, the dreams since that day on Cullom Street, not just the familiar race with the train, the threadbare echoes of her father and that one awful day, but the new dreams of fire and things from the sky, entrail rain and the silent, writhing angels, greased stakes up their asses while the streets filled with blood and the long-legged shadows that might be crabs or tarantulas big as fucking Volkswagens, under a sun the color of a nosebleed.

  She reached for another cigarette but the pack was empty, and she wasn’t about to get up and look for more. Thunder, right overhead, and the windowpane shuddered.

  And the lights flickered.

  “Christ, Claude…”

  She hadn’t told him that she knew that Keith had been having the dreams too, or about her talk with dowdy, frightened Walter the goddamned shrike on her way home. Hadn’t brought up the marks on Niki’s hands or the weeping marks on Keith’s face and ankles. Connect the dots, Dar, draw your fucking paranoid’s connections.

  A tickle on her cheek, then, and Daria brushed at her face, brushed back hair and stared at the thing that had fallen into her lap, eight legs drawn up tight like a closed umbrella, spider fetal, and she almost screamed, thumped it away from her. Touched her face again, and there were others waiting there, running from her, and she did scream, then, screamed louder when she saw how the walls were moving, crappy old wallpaper seeping their thumbnail bodies, the floor alive and clumps swelling from the ceiling, hanging there until their own weight and gravity’s pull had its way and they began to fall around her. The spider clumps made almost no sound when they hit the floor.

  Daria beat at her face, her chest, the scream continuous now, waiting for their jaws, the hypo sting, waiting to drown beneath them. She remembered the can of Hot Shot and sprayed herself, the bed, stinking pesticide mist everywhere, wet mist falling with the recluse shower.

  “I’m not done with you….” whispered next to her ear. “I’m not done with you, bitch,” and she screamed for Claude, for Mort, screamed for Keith. They were inside her clothes, touching her everywhere, at every orifice, and soon they would be inside her. So many legs moving together they made a sound like burning leaves. Daria bashed herself against the wall, spidervelvet-papered wall, head thump against the Sheetrock, and through the pain she saw her silver Zippo lying where she’d left it on the table by the bed.

  Just like Pablo had taught her years ago, cans of hair spray or whatever and a lighter, just for fuckin’ kicks, just to see the noisy rush of fire, Daria aimed the can of Hot Shot at the foot of the bed, thumb on the striker wheel and fwoomp, bright splash of flame, gout of flame and spiders crisping, curling to charred specks, charred lumps of specks. The blanket caught, the sheets, and she aimed the flamethrower at the wall.

  The can spat up a last dribble of fire and was empty, but it didn’t matter, because the flames were crawling away on their own, devouring a thousand fleeing bodies every second as they spread.

  And then Mort, reaching through the smoke, strong boy arms, his hands, dragging her off the burning bed, bump, bump, bump across the floor like Pooh, and she let him, let him drag her all the way across the apartment and out into the hall, too busy beating at the spiders still clinging to her to stop him, the spiders carpeting the floor. He left her lying on the landing, grabbed the fire extinguisher off the wall and rushed back inside. Muffled sound like a giant espresso machine steaming milk, steaming a whole goddamn cow, and he was right back, coughing, his eyes watering and black smoke all around them.

  “Get them off me,” she sobbed, begged. “Please, Mort, get them off me,” and he squatted down next to her, into the cleaner air beneath the smoke.

  “Get what off of you, Daria? Tell me what the hell you’re talking about,” but she was raking at her face, now, raking at the spiders trying to burrow their way into her skin to escape the fire. And he slapped her, slapped her so hard her ears rang like Sunday morning bells, and she fell over; Mort picked her up again, held her hands in his fists and talked slowly.

  “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.

  Three 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, and 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 s
ure 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 Iwant. 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.”