Tales of the Scarlet Knight Collection: The Wrath of Isis

by P. T. Dilloway

  “I think you’re plenty cultured already.”

  “I think so too, but he won’t listen to me.” Renee stared sadly at the fire. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Where you’re from, do we know each other? I mean, have you ever met the me over there? Is there even a me over there?”

  “I met her once, on a bus.”

  “A bus? Was she an old lady or poor or something?”

  “No, she wasn’t old. She was about my age.”

  “That is old when you’re eleven.”

  “Well, OK, she wasn’t a senior citizen.”

  “Was she pretty?”

  Tim closed his eyes and thought of Renee Kim on the bus, her lips pressed against his. “She was very pretty. Except her hair wasn’t as pretty as yours.”

  “Did you talk to her? Was she nice?”

  “We talked a little bit. She was a little high-strung. Not like you at all.”

  “Funny.” Renee pulled her browned marshmallow from the fire. She tried to give some of it to Mr. Snuggles, but he only sniffed at the gooey confection. “What did she do? Was she a lawyer or doctor or something?”

  “No.”

  “What was she? Not a housewife I hope.”

  “I don’t think I’d better say. I wouldn’t want to influence you.”

  “Oh, come on. You can’t tease me like that and leave me hanging. She wasn’t a stripper, was she? Or a hooker or something?”

  “No, nothing like that.” He thought of what this littler version of Renee had said to Miss Earl on the bus about when she’d seen the jazz band and wanted to be a musician. Maybe he wouldn’t be influencing her that much after all. “She played a cello.”

  “So she’s in an orchestra or something?”

  “A jazz trio. Or at least she was. They were breaking up when I met her.”

  “A jazz trio? Wow. So she was really cool then, huh?”

  “She was nice.”

  Renee snorted at this. “Nice. Who wants nice?” She impaled another marshmallow on the spit. “A cello, huh? I guess I better start practicing.”

  “Now, see, that’s why I didn’t want to say anything. You don’t have to play a cello if you don’t want to.”

  “I don’t think I could play a cello if I wanted to. It’d be bigger than me.”

  “Well, you could start with a violin and work up as you grow.”

  “You’re such a funny guy.”

  “I’m serious. If that’s what you really want to do.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She plucked the marshmallow from her spit and tossed it into her mouth. With a yawn she said, “I’m going to sleep now. Come on Mr. Snuggles.”

  Tim watched her take the cat into the tent; both of them easily fit into the sleeping bag. He fluffed up a pillow taken from the tent and rested his head on it. He stretched out in front of the fire and let out a tired sigh. He should enjoy moments like this, because before long he’d be on his way home again—if he still had a home to head back to.

  Chapter 9

  The rest of the day went by without incident. Ever since lunch, Jim had actually started to pitch in and help Emma clean up the messes left behind by the tour groups. They didn’t get a chance to say much to each other, but she thought she could see him smile at her through his tangled hair. She smiled back; now that he was being nice to her things were actually tolerable.

  Leslie returned just before close so she could instruct Emma in how to lock up for the night. Mostly this meant she had to pull down a metal grate. She refused to let Emma actually lock it; the key stayed with her. Before that she counted out Emma’s drawer and shook her head. Emma braced for the old woman to say she was fired. “This hasn’t happened before. You’re exactly right. What’d you do, count it up beforehand and chip in a few pennies?”

  “No.”

  “Well, try not to make a habit of it. You’ll make the rest of us look bad.”

  Emma stared at Leslie for a moment; she tried to understand why she was being reprimanded for not making a mistake. “I’m sorry.”

  “Other than that, you did all right. For a beginner.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Just be back here same time tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And don’t forget to cover your arms.”

  “I won’t.”

  Jim waited for her outside. “You did good,” he said.

  “Thanks.” As they neared the stairs, Emma saw the curly-haired man who’d yelled at her earlier get into the elevator. “Who’s that?” she asked Jim.

  “That’s Dr. Dreyfus. He’s the assistant director. Major asshole.”

  “Oh.” This fit with how he’d acted to her earlier, but something told Emma this wasn’t right either, that Dr. Dreyfus—Dan—was a nice man.

  “So you going to come back tomorrow?”

  “I don’t have much choice. It’s this or nothing.”

  “You could always be a bag lady.”

  Emma thought of the young blond girl who’d accosted her earlier. She shivered at this thought. “I’d rather not.”

  “You’re pretty serious, aren’t you?”

  “Not always.”

  “You just need to get a few drinks in you. Loosen up.”

  “I can’t drink. I’m not old enough.”

  Jim snickered at this. “Yeah, me neither.”

  He held the door open for her and she nearly tripped on her big feet when she saw Becky on the steps. “Becky, what are you doing here?”

  “Just making sure you didn’t run off.” Becky was still dressed in her uniform, though she’d let her hair down to flow freely to her shoulders. Her eyes narrowed when she saw Jim. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Jim. He works with me in the gift shop.”

  “Hi,” Jim said.

  “Hi,” Becky said back. “You ready to go to dinner?”

  “Well, I’m not sure—”

  “Go on. I’ll meet you later,” Jim said.

  “OK. I’ll see you there.”

  Emma watched Jim hurry down the steps; he soon disappeared into the crowds on the sidewalk. Becky took her arm and yanked her down the steps. Emma almost cried out in pain, but managed to keep her mouth shut.

  They went around the corner to a rundown Chinese restaurant. Despite that she’d only eaten a chunk of bagel and bite of tuna sandwich all day, Emma didn’t feel hungry at all. She ordered a glass of water and fried rice, the cheapest thing on the menu. They took their plates over to a dark corner booth, where Becky dug into her plate of sesame chicken with a gusto that made Emma nauseous.

  “So how did it go?” Becky asked.

  “Fine. My drawer came out exactly right. My boss said I shouldn’t do that or else it will make everyone look bad.”

  “Probably just beginner’s luck.”

  “Probably.” Emma tried a spoonful of rice, but her throat began to tighten again. She picked up a couple of grains with the chopsticks to slide down her throat like a pill. This seemed to work well enough, though her stomach still rumbled its disapproval.

  Becky stared at her for a moment and then shook her head. “You’re too old to play with your food,” she said.

  “Sorry. I’m not that hungry, I guess.”

  “So you and this Jim guy hit it off pretty well?”

  “He seems nice. He asked me to go to a party later.”

  “What kind of party?”

  “I don’t know. It’s at an old train station, he said.”

  Becky threw down her fork; it rang against the glass plate like a bell. “Are you fucking retarded? You get out of rehab and the next day you’re going to a fucking rave?”

  “A what?”

  “A wild party with drinking, drugs, and sex. The three things you’re not supposed to be doing anymore unless you want to end up in jail.”

  “Oh. I didn’t know that.”

  “What’d you think, you were going to be playing charades?”


  “Well, no, it’s just that he seemed so nice. Why would he invite me to something like that?”

  “Gee, because he wants to get into your pants maybe? Course all he needs for that is a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and a Camaro.”

  Emma threw down the chopsticks. “I thought you were supposed to be my friend. Why are you being so mean?”

  “Oh please, don’t give me this wounded little innocent routine. You don’t think I know about what you and Hector Gomez did? He was bragging about it all over school. Then there were the Worth brothers under the bleachers. Plus Andy Beck in that gas station bathroom. Not to mention they were practically lining up at that party you threw when your mom was gone.”

  Emma looked down at her plate. This definitely didn’t seem right to her. She didn’t have sex with random guy after random guy. She was a good girl. Wasn’t she? “Maybe I made some mistakes,” she said, “but this time is different. Jim’s really nice.”

  “They’re all nice until they get what they want.”

  “Why don’t you come to the party with me? You could see it’s not that bad.”

  “I’ve got work in the morning. So do you, remember?”

  “I guess.”

  “Jesus Christ, Emma. Are you ever going to act responsible?”

  “I am being responsible. I went to work.”

  “Today. Tomorrow you’ll probably want to call in sick.”

  “I will not. I’m going to make this work.”

  “You want this to work then start using your fucking brain. You can’t be staying out all night partying. Start acting like a grown-up.”

  “All right.” Emma trudged home with Becky. She stared down at her feet most of the way and wished this day was over already. Maybe tomorrow everything would start to make sense and she wouldn’t have these weird feelings that she lived someone else’s life. Or maybe tomorrow things would be worse.

  Once she got home, she went straight to her bedroom to change. She searched her drawers and closets for a nightgown, but most of her clothes seemed to be on the floor. Amongst these, the best she could find was another oversized T-shirt. Was this a memento from one of the many men she’d been with? She thought better than to ask.

  Becky stood in the doorway, clad in a bulky flannel nightgown. “I’m sorry to be so hard on you earlier,” she said. “I’m just trying to help you get better.”

  “I understand. Thanks.”

  “Are you going to be all right? You want a glass of water or anything?”

  “I’ll be fine. Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, kid.”

  Emma lay on her side and stared at the wall for a while, long after Becky had gone to bed. She wondered if Jim would be mad at her for standing him up. Would he give her the cold shoulder at work again? She grimaced at this thought; she didn’t think she could stand it if he hated her.

  The first time she heard the tap at her window she assumed it must be a bird or a bug. The second time she put her glasses back on and looked towards the window. She didn’t see anything there. The third time she saw him crouched on the fire escape.

  She padded over to the window and opened it for him. “How’d you know where I live?” she asked him.

  “I saw it in the office. You going to bed?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t go to the party. I have work and it’s really important I keep this job.”

  “You can get another job.”

  “If I lose this, Becky will hate me.”

  “Becky’s that fat girl you were with?”

  “Yes. She’s my friend.”

  “She acts like your mom.”

  Emma giggled at this. “I guess she does. But it’s because she cares about me. She’s trying to help me through this.”

  “She doesn’t have to know. We can swing by for a few minutes and be back here by midnight if you want.”

  “Well—”

  “Come on, don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

  Emma looked back towards the door and then at Jim. His red-brown eyes pleaded with her to go. He had gone to a lot of trouble to come all the way here and climb up to her window. “Are you just trying to get into my pants?”

  “What? No. I think you’re cool. I just want to get to know you. Outside work, you know? Without any little kids running around.”

  She giggled again at this. When she looked into Jim’s eyes, she could tell he was sincere—or maybe she just wanted to believe it. Either way, her instincts told her he wouldn’t try to hurt her. “Well, just a couple hours couldn’t hurt.”

  ***

  As they rode the bus, the problem that had dogged Emma all day raised its head again when Jim asked, “So why are you working at a dump like the Pain Musuem?”

  She rubbed the back of her neck as she considered this. She didn’t want to lie to Jim, but at the same time she didn’t really know why she had to work at the museum. She didn’t seem to really know anything. If she admitted this, she would sound like an idiot—a space cadet as Becky had said earlier. She decided to speculate based on the available facts; it was a guess, not a lie. “Well, I just got out of rehab and this is all I can find.”

  “Rehab? For what?”

  “You know, the usual: drinking, drugs, and stuff.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Tell me about it,” she muttered. “So why are you working there?”

  “Home for the summer. Beats working at McDonald’s.”

  “Oh, are you in college?”

  “Art school. It’s like college, but more pointless.”

  Emma laughed at this. “So you’re an artist?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What do you do? Drawing? Painting? Sculpting?”

  “A little of all three, but mostly sculpting.” He put a finger to her chin and tilted it up to study her face. “You have good bone structure.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You ever think of modeling?”

  “Modeling? Me? I don’t think so.”

  “You should. I share a studio with a couple other guys from school. You should come over some time.”

  He took his finger off her chin, which allowed her to look back down at her feet while her face turned red. She had seen herself in the mirror and while she was uncertain about most everything, she was certain she didn’t have the looks to be a model. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. Becky would probably freak out if I went to some boy’s studio.”

  “You could keep your clothes on if you want.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a wrinkled card for the Rat’s Nest Studio. The card had a picture of a snarling rat that she wondered if Jim had drawn. “Hold on to that if you change your mind.” Before she could take the card, he jerked it back and reached into his pocket again for a pen. “Here’s my cell number too.”

  “Thanks.”

  Jim stood up then and yanked the handle to indicate he wanted to stop. The bus pulled over to the curb and he reached out to take her hand. “Come on, the station is just a couple blocks from here.”

  She was glad to have Jim with her as they walked past dilapidated buildings with graffiti sprayed all over the boarded-up windows and doors. Most of the streetlamps had gone out and those that remained provided only a flickering orange glow similar to the fiery trash barrels the homeless people used to keep warm. Emma thought of the girl from this morning and wondered if she was crouched over such a barrel in her ratty sweater. That was probably a best-case scenario for her.

  The train station was just as dilapidated as the other buildings, its windows boarded up and covered by various gang symbols. Emma wondered if this was some kind of trap. Maybe she shouldn’t have come out here; maybe she should have just stayed home like Becky wanted.

  At the front doors she saw a few young people dressed similarly to her; they lounged around and smoked cigarettes—or she hoped they were just cigarettes. Jim approached one of these and held out a fist for a young man to bump. “Hey D, what’s going on?”

&n
bsp; “Not much,” D said. “Who’s that fine piece of ass?”

  “This is Emma. She works at the museum.”

  “Hello,” Emma said.

  Jim reached into his pocket again to produce a ten-dollar bill. D stuffed it into his jacket. “You kids have fun,” he said.

  As Jim led her inside, she said, “I didn’t realize there was a cover. I’ll pay you back—”

  “It’s no big deal. Come on.”

  Inside, she found the old train station packed with hundreds of people. The old benches of the terminal had been moved to the sides to make room. Jim took Emma’s hand to steer her through the crowd of gyrating people; the loud, thumping music made it impossible for them to talk. She felt her stomach churn in the presence of so many people; she felt as vulnerable and exposed as on the crowded sidewalk earlier. Maybe she was agoraphobic.

  They made it across the crowd without incident to the old ticket booth, which had been transformed into a bar. Jim leaned against the window and shouted for a beer for himself. “What do you want?” he asked her. He had to yell so she could hear him.

  “Just a Coke is fine,” she shouted back.

  Despite the noise, she could hear the bartender mutter, “Coke? Is she a narc?”

  “Just fill the cup,” Jim said. A moment later he handed a plastic cup to Emma. They shuffled off to the side to watch the people dance. “You want to dance?”

  “I’m not really much of a dancer.”

  “It’s not hard. I’ll show you. Come on.”

  She was again going to protest that she didn’t really know how to dance, but when she looked at the other people, she didn’t think they knew much about it either. Mostly it looked like they just thrashed around while they tried not to spill their drinks. “Sure,” she said and followed him.

  Despite that no one seemed to have much rhythm, she had less than most. No matter which way she turned, she caught someone with an elbow or knee or her hair. Throughout the song she apologized to other people on the dance floor.

  As the song wound down, Jim shook his head. “You really can’t dance,” he said this with a smile to indicate he was more amused than angry.

  “I warned you.”

  When the next song came on, people seemed to have caught on to her lack of skill and moved aside to give her room; they created a bubble for her and Jim amongst the chaos. The beat got faster and so she flailed around even faster, to the point where her body felt like a blur of motion. Jim kept up with her as best he could and shouted encouragement to her. At the apex of the beat, Emma let out a scream of joy; she felt good for the first time that day.