Always

by Nicola Griffith

  I had been in the gym for an hour and twenty minutes. When I got back to my room, I had five messages. I put them on speakerphone and stripped my sweats as I listened.

  The first was Bette. “I talked to the newspaper people yesterday. They agreed: no mention of you or your mother, no mention of Brian Finkel, Jr.” Then Rusen, “Boy, this is great! The energy sure is back. You wouldn’t think it would make such a difference. Finkel is beaming and rubbing his hands. Oh, and if you should see Kick, if she isn’t wearing shades and being famous, could you tell her, please, that we need to hear from her about that job?” Gary: “. . . reminder of our lunch appointment at twelve-fifteen.” Edward Thomas Hardy: “I see you smoked the snake out of the weeds. Do I want to know how you got her to talk? Thanks for keeping my name low profile. I owe you. I’ll see if I can’t help out with your future real estate and zoning needs, as far as the law allows, of course.” My mother: “I hope your friend is feeling better. I hope she’s pleased with the article.”

  Leptke had promised me a heads-up.

  I called down to the front desk and asked them to put a copy of today’s Seattle Times outside the door. The shower was hot and hard.

  Don’t meddle. Don’t push me. I mean it. Maybe they didn’t get the Times in Anacortes. Maybe she wouldn’t see it as pushing.

  I toweled off, dressed, and took the still-folded paper down to the terrace restaurant, where I ordered breakfast. Tea, pan-fried trout, grapefruit.

  It was the front page of the B section: a long, crisp publicity still of Kick, from Drop, in a fire-opal formfitting suit, falling through nothing, arms wide and eyes closed, smile beatific, hair streaming behind her like a war banner, skin peach with dawn.

  The server who brought me tea looked at the picture as she poured more ice water.

  “Oh,” she said. “Excuse me.” Then, unable to help herself, “It’s just such a beautiful picture. She looks like she’s worshipping. Your food will be right out.”

  I read the opening paragraph, a breathless repeat of “the terrible night of May 14, when the unsuspecting crew on Seattle’s latest hope for indie glory, Feral (see page 4), found their worst nightmares coming true, and brave Victoria ‘Kick’ Kuiper, already pluckily reimagining her life after personal tragedy—cont’d p. 3 . . .”

  Worship. Yes.

  I turned to page three.

  Despite the first paragraph and heavy reliance on journalistic cliché, it did the job. It cataloged clearly Corning’s “ill-fated scheme” to bankrupt the production by finger-pointing to regulatory agencies, detailing how “pranks” had escalated to poisoning and the admission of seventeen people to Harborview with “life-threatening symptoms.” The consequences for the innocent caterer, trying so hard to drag herself back onto the film map, this time with food instead of falling. Then the real meat of the matter, as far as Leptke was concerned: the ease with which the zoning process could be manipulated if you had enough money. There were brief definitions of OSHA and EPA, and sidebars on the Seattle independent film industry, the committee structure of the City Council, and a B-article on the human face of ruthless business manipulation—complete with a black-and -white head shot of Steve Jursen, the carpenter. I was mentioned only in passing as “the concerned out-of-town landlord” and Corning and Bri Jr. not at all. Mackie was there, though, under his legal name, Jim Eddard, labeled a “person of interest.” Which meant the police did not yet have him. Johnson Bingley was named, too (“though unavailable for comment, due to being out of the country”), and there were quotes from Edward Thomas Hardy (“respected Seattle council member running for reelection”) and the local prosecutor who promised, as they always do, “a swift and thorough investigation.”

  Bri’s family had money. Hardy had clout. Corning had struck a deal. Mackie, aka Jim Eddard, had been left holding the bag. Money isn’t justice.

  I traced Kick’s smile. It was the exact size of my little fingertip.

  THE DRIVE to the set was as smooth as caramel; the sky was hidden by polished, nacreous cloud, and as I took the curve on the viaduct alongside Elliott Bay, I felt as though I were moving into the heart of a chambered nautilus.

  The set hummed the way it had on Sîan Branwell’s last day of filming. Carpenters and painters swarmed around the scaffolding. The air rang with hammering and stank of paint. I heard the hiss and froth of the espresso machine as soon as I walked in, and my heart beat with dread and joy, but it was Dornan behind the counter. He saw me, and nodded, and focused his entire concentration on a quad grande latte and then a mocha spin for John and Andrea, the props people I had overheard that first day. They gave me sidelong glances (“the concerned, out-of-town landlord”) but said nothing until Dornan handed them their coffee with a flourish and they beetled off.

  “Busy,” I said. I wonder what their—my—burn rate was now.

  “Extra money means extra crew. And not only can we afford decent food, people know it’s safe to eat. Kick’s rehired her assistant, but she can’t make it in until the afternoon, she said. So for now it’s coffee and premade sandwiches, and I’m it.”

  “Where’s Anacortes?”

  “Ah,” he said. “That’s where she’s hiding?”

  “She’s not hiding.”

  “No? Well, if you say so. Now, I know you’re not drinking milk, but have you tried soy?”

  “No.”

  “Let’s try it now, then. A nice soy latte.”

  I watched him fuss with spigots. “Why do you think she’s hiding?”

  “I imagine many things frighten her at the moment. No doubt she’ll get over it. And in answer to your question, I believe Anacortes is somewhere north, on the sound. Lovely views. Her parents, by all accounts, are not poor.”

  “They’re not?”

  “Not even remotely.”

  “She said her father was ‘in trucking.’ ”

  “And so he is. He’s the COO of a giant truck-making corporation. Here you go.” He handed me a paper cup. “Sorry it’s paper. There’s been a run on coffee this morning, and no time to wash cups.”

  Drawn in the foam on top was a lopsided flower. Imperfect. Vulnerable. Ephemeral. “What’s she hiding from?”

  He poured himself coffee from the urn and added two shots of espresso. “How long have you known her?”

  “You know exactly how long.”

  “That’s right. You barely know her, and she barely knows you. And she’s just been diagnosed with an incurable disease. If I were her, I’d be thinking you might cut and run. Most people would.”

  Over by the scaffolding, one of the carpenters dropped a hammer and began to swear. Someone else was laughing.

  “You never met my wife,” he said.

  Deirdre, who had died at twenty-two of leukemia. He never liked to use the names of the dead.

  “Illness isn’t like the movies. It’s not like Love Story. It’s not all off-screen treatments, or pale faces filmed through a Vaselined lens. It’s not crisp white sheets and brave smiles and poignant, self-sacrificing farewells. It’s messy and hard. Physically and emotionally.” He paused. “We’d known each other eighteen months, been married for six. I don’t know if, I don’t know if I would have, if she’d found out when I first met her, if—It might have been too hard.”

  His eyes were hazed with memory, the way I imagined the blue glass of a doll’s eyes might look if had been left too long on the floor of an abandoned nursery, light streaming pitilessly through bare windows until the cheap glass clouded and cracked. Had he seen Kick’s illness right from the beginning and decided it was too hard?

  “Are you going to drink that?” he said at last.

  I put the coffee down. “I have to go.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “I have an investment to protect. There are lot of things to sort out. That article, for example, will make things worse, if anything, with OSHA and EPA.” With the violations a matter of very public record, the case-workers’ superiors would start asking p
ublic questions. I should have been able to give them a heads-up before it appeared. I should have been able to give Kick a heads-up. Don’t push me. I’m a cook.

  "Invite them.”

  I looked at him.

  “The regulatory bigwigs. Everyone loves the movies. They’ll be putty in your hands.”

  “That’s . . .”

  “An excellent idea. I do have them sometimes. Yes. Now go.”

  Outside, I was surprised to find it was raining.

  ED THOMAS HARDY’S office looked just the same, though this time the window was sheathed in fine silver droplets.

  His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his tie loose, a pen in his hand. The epitome of a man of the people.

  “As of half an hour ago, I have contracts for both of the private land parcels adjacent to mine,” I said. “The third, the federal land, might take a little longer.”

  He nodded. “What do you know about federal, regional, and local tax incentives?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Well, I know a lot. And as well as owing you for your, ah, discretion, I know of several ways you could make a lot of people rich.”

  “Profit isn’t my motive.”

  “You’ve said that before. What do you want the land for, then?”

  I imagined my land along the Duwamish, the river dimpled with rain. I saw a woman, sitting on a bench.

  “What does the city need?”

  “The city?” He gestured at the window. “Which city? The business city, the working people’s city, the city of coyotes and eagles and sword ferns?”

  The woman had a fading black eye.

  “Profit might not be your motive, but let’s pretend it is. Otherwise the people who can help or hinder you in this won’t trust you. So, what do you want to do with this land?”

  The woman with the black eyes sat on the bench, watching a heron, and seeing the bird pluck its shining dinner from the river and take off into the grey sky hardened the amorphous hope under her breastbone to a burning point.

  In Atlanta, I had taught ten women. Only one had been Sandra. I could do better next time.

  “A foundation,” I said. “Classes. A park, a library.”

  “Maybe some low-cost housing?”

  “Explain.”

  “Form a corporation—”

  “I am a corporation.”

  “Make a new one. Call it something attractive and well meaning, something stolid and impressive, that sounds semiofficial, like CharterMae Trust or Foundry House or—”

  “You’ve thought about this before.”

  He nodded. “I’ve thought about this a lot. There’s an ocean of money out there, washing from pocket to pocket. I’d like to see some of it get used. But to get it, you have to give something. Tax credits.” He looked pleased with himself.

  “I’m none the wiser.”

  “Private developers build affordable rental housing if they get tax breaks. The federal government alone hands out more than five billion dollars a year in credits to anyone who will keep rents low for fifteen to forty years, and rent to tenants who earn no more than sixty percent of the city’s median income. The state administers those credits. I know all the people down in Olympia.”

  I waited.

  “So what you do is build the housing, then sell the tax credits to syndicators, who bundle them and sell them to investors looking to offset their own taxes. Then you take that money from the sale, and use it to maintain your building. You mix luxury and affordable on an eighty-twenty ratio and you can sell tax-exempt bonds. You’ll make lots of money.”

  “I don’t need to make lots of money.”

  “The more you make, the more you’ll have to spread around to other people. And the ones you’ll be making the money off of are the rich people.”

  “It sounds too good to be true. Why haven’t you already done this?”

  “You need a lot of money to start with.”

  “And you’d be willing to help shepherd this through the local regulatory process?”

  “For a say in some of the community benefit.”

  “It sounds . . . tangled.”

  “That’s the price, sometimes.”

  It would be Bette and Laurence who would work out the details. ETH would handle the work. I thought of those herons.

  I need to do this myself, Kick had said. Not all women could. “My lawyer will call you.” I would also have to donate to his campaign. He couldn’t help me if he was no longer in office.

  KICK CALLED just as I stepped into the rain.

  “I’m back,” she said. “What’s left of my tree fell down.”

  “Ah.” I stood very still while pedestrians parted grumpily around me and rain ran down the back of my neck.

  “I’m wet, I hate my mother, and the tree . . . The goddamn tree. Probably the rain. It’s tipped right over and lying all over my yard. And El Jefe . . . Stupid cat.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right. I wasn’t here.”

  “Is the cat all right?”

  “He’s hurt.”

  “Is it bad?”

  “He can’t sit down. And he’s complaining. But he’s eating and he lets me stroke him. It’s probably not even broken.”

  “So it’s . . . his leg?” I didn’t know why we were talking about a cat that wasn’t even hers. I started walking along the sidewalk.

  “His tail. It’s sort of bent. Hold on.” A strange ripping sound rasped in my ear. “That was him purring into the phone.”

  “Oh.”

  “So, anyway, I thought that I’d take him to the vet, and while I was gone you could finish what you started with the tree.”

  “You want me to . . . Kick, have you seen the paper?”

  “Yeah. So are you coming, or what?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Gotta get to the vet.” Click.

  I folded my phone and waited in bemusement for a light. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see the traffic pole flash magenta and turquoise, or burst into a chorus of “Louie, Louie.” The rain began to ease. By the time I’d crossed the road, it had stopped.

  SHE OPENED the cardboard carrier and the old black cat stalked off, looking rumpled and annoyed, but fit. She straightened, closed the door of her van.

  “Subluxation of the tail,” she said. “Good as new in two days. Whose is the truck?”

  “A rental. Like the chainsaw. I bought the gloves.” I shut up before I said anything else foolish.

  She looked at the sawn chunks of trunk stacked by the gate and then at the growing patch of blue sky above the dining room extension. “If it had come down a week ago it would have crushed half the house.” She stepped closer. Damp earth, sawn wood, the rich, sharp scent of Kick. I took off the gloves, dropped them on a stump, and held out my arms.

  Later, in her bed, she eased herself into the curve of my arm. I stroked her hair and her back, and wondered under which knob of vertebra, exactly, the lesion lay. The skin and muscle felt the same.

  “How did it go with your parents?”

  “I hate my mother.” Perhaps she was aiming for a light tone, but the attempt was ruined by a deep undertow of hurt and puzzlement. “I told them. My mother . . . my mother’s a drama queen who thinks she’s Lady Pragmatism. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Well, the family will have to organize twenty-four-hour care.’ I said, ‘What are you talking about?’ She looked at me kindly, like I was a three-year-old, and said, very slowly, ‘For when you’re paralyzed, honey. Who else is going to help you?’ ”

  I thought of my mother’s reaction, and she’d never even met Kick.

  “It was like she wanted me to be helpless so she could feel important. It was all about her. I know it was probably a shock but, Christ, paralyzed. So I looked at Pop, hoping for a bit of reason, and you know what he said?”

  I shook my head.

  “He said that, hell, he was sure it was all some big mistake. His little girl couldn’t have a disease like
that. I should just see. I should just wait. Everything would be A-okay. I didn’t know whether to puke, scream, or bury an axe in his head.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I laughed, and said I wanted a glass of water, and Mom jumped up and said she’d get it, and I had to practically arm-wrestle her to the sofa. I’m not a fucking cripple yet, I said. Except I didn’t say ‘fucking.’ And then I went into the kitchen and cried. And then I came back and told them I was just fine, and that for their information I’d just accepted a job as stunt coordinator on a series pilot, and thanks very much for their pity and denial, but I didn’t need an ounce of help from them. And now I have to find a way to tell Maureen and my brothers.”

  My brain jumped to three different places at once. She’d accepted the job.

  “I don’t think I can face telling them right now. Ted’s in the Seychelles, anyhow.”

  “The stunt rigger?”

  “No. That’s John. He’s in Arizona. Ted’s an accountant. But Maureen’s right here.”

  “Yes.” Maureen, who would look blank, then say something kind and caring, such as, “I really need to get my nails done soon.” I took Kick’s hand—the nail beds were pink, the nail white—and kissed her fingers, one by one.

  “So, like I said, I hate my family.” Rain pattered on the skylight. “This weather,” she said.

  She had taken the job. I thought of her jumping, face peach with dawn. “So. You saw the paper.”

  "Yep.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Always hated that picture.”

  “Seriously, what—”

  “Shush. I’m trying to tell you. Seriously. The way my parents treated me, more Crip than Kick, I saw I’ve been doing that to myself. Cutting myself down to size before anyone else could do it.”

  “Protecting yourself.”

  “Making myself small.”

  “So you told Rusen you’d accept his offer.”

  “Yep. I knocked on his door and went in and announced importantly that, ‘Hey, I’ll coordinate your stunt,’ and he nodded and said, ‘Boy howdy, that’s great, can you deal with the fire department permit situation today?’ I felt crushed—drums should have rolled or lightning cracked or something equally portentous: Kick steps up to herself.” She sighed, and the long, soughing breath had a crack in it, and the crack widened and wobbled and grew and became, to my surprise, soft laughter, which, in its turn, grew sturdy and bright.