“So, are you like, into him or something?” Billie probed.
“Into who?” I played dumb.
“Mr. Hemming, you dunce!” she poked me in the rib with a tube of iridescent pink lip-gloss.
“He goes by Hemming. No, ‘Mr.’,” I corrected, “And no. He’s my boss—not to mention, he’s older and I know nothing about him. Plus, he hardly ever speaks, and when he does, he’s standoffish. The guy is gone most of the time. I mean, I think there’s definitely something about him that’s, well, enticing,” I started out pretty convincing but didn’t finish strong; instead, I sounded like I was swooning.
“You TOTALLY want to bang Mr. Hem—” I opened my mouth to protest, but Billie cupped her hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, “If Mr. Hemming—excuse me—Hemming wanted to lick sticky toffee pudding off your body, would you let him? You have three seconds to answer.”
I rolled my eyes. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”
“ONE.”
“Stop it, Billie! He’s my boss.”
“TWO.”
I sighed, completely defeated. “Yes. Okay, hypothetically, if he were into me, then I’d welcome him to lick edibles off of my flesh. But he’s not into me. He simply tolerates me and pays me for scooping ice cream.” Billie chuckled and shot me a sly glance that read I knew it, and we set off for a night of tricks—and for the sake of my stomach, hopefully some treats. I grabbed a protein bar before our departure, and we floated out the door after promising Aunt June that we would avoid trouble, not lose sight of our drinks, and be home before dawn.
I smelled the party before actually reaching the beach, lured in by the odor of what Billie referred to as “skunk weed” and the sound of several boys shot-gunning cans of Budweiser. I stuck close to Billie, because, well, I didn’t know anyone, and my dear cousin lived for introductions. Billie introduced me to a group of twenty-something-year-old guys, all passing around a clear libation in a mason jar, taking long swigs and wincing thereafter. The guys were rather chatty and wearing a glazed expression, especially Caper, the muscled, black guy with an interesting face of freckles and wide-rimmed glasses. Billie explained that she and the group all attended Franklin County High, just on the outskirts of Apalachicola. Cue painfully long “remember when…?” stories that the entire group reminisced about, with the exception of myself.
“What’s in the jar?” I interrupted, after a lengthy tale surrounding all of Caper’s previous shindigs, leading up from 8th grade until now. Apparently, Caper’s parents were extraordinarily unconcerned with the antics of their son, which prompted an easy climb to popularity.
“Moonshine! My old man brews the stuff at home, in the basement bathtub. It’s the shit. Have you ever had moonshine before?” Caper answered, and I shook my head to indicate I hadn’t. Caper was one of those guys who had never met a stranger, and before I could ask if something considered “the shit” was a good thing, he had the lid to the mason jar unscrewed and his sturdy arm around my shoulders. I took a generous gulp, feeling the alcohol flow down my esophagus like lava. Caper’s dad’s moonshine tasted like year-old peaches and nail polish remover, and to be honest, I didn’t completely hate it. I decided to guzzle down another mouthful after hearing all the hoops and hollers, then handed the jar back to Caper, who, instead of looking at my face was unabashedly making eye contact with Billie’s chest. Another party-goer behind me caught his attention, because Caper quickly snapped out of his trace: “Hey, my man! How ya been?” he shouted, shaking hands with the recent arrival.
“Hmmph. I’ve been better,” a familiar gruff voice answered. I whipped around, face-to-face with the five o’clock shadow. “Hello, Miss Fox,” Hemming whispered, glancing at the sand.
“Man, I’ve invited you to how many parties before?” Caper piped up, “This is the first one you’ve shown up to. Let’s drink to that!” He held up the same mason jar and drank, then passed the jar to Hemming, who appeared stoic and rather out of place, dressed in his usual pristine manner amongst the monster masks, fake blood, and sequins. Even though we were on the beach, he was still wearing his brogue wingtip shoes, perfectly tailored wool slacks, and a slim fit shirt. I found myself entranced by the way the bonfire illuminated his imperfect face, until Billie gave me a quick slap on the rump to knock me out of my daze. Hemming gripped the glass with his long fingers and downed his share. When his lips finally left the jar, the group cheered.
“How do you two know each other?” I asked, pointing between Hemming and Caper.
Both of the guys were quiet for a moment, until Caper finally spoke, “Hemming’s a friend of the family’s.” I assumed this topic must’ve been a potential mood-killer, as the party dispersed, some slinked away to crowd around the fire to sing along with a scruffy guy playing Oasis’ “Wonderwall” on his guitar, who was surrounded by drooling girls, scantily clad in nurse and maid costumes. Other party-goers filled their red cups to the brim at the keg. I was standing in a very now-awkward semi-circle, complete with my boss and half-lit cousin. I stared down at my toes in the sand, feeling a little unsteady on my feet after the recent jolt to my blood-alcohol level.
“How old are you, boss man?” Billie shouted, even though she was two feet away from Hemming.
“Too old,” Hemming replied quietly, fixated on the waves.
“Doesn’t Kate look hot?” Billie nudged him with her elbow.
Hemming gave me a once-over from head to toe, his expression unreadable, then shoved his hands into his pockets: “I assume Miss Fox will be quite chilly in an hour. The temperature will drop into the fifties around midnight. Neither of your costumes are practical for October weather.”
I drank deeply from my cup, which was filled with foamy brew that tasted more of dank water than alcohol. Billie stormed off in a huff, frustrated by Hemming’s answer. I decided the night would pass a whole lot faster if I was inebriated, so I threw back the rest of my drink and a dribble of beer ran down my chin, trickling between my shell-laden breasts. A barely audible, throaty growl met my ears as I wiped the remains from my chest. Hemming had turned, making a beeline for the keg. He returned with two filled cups and sat down on the nearest piece of large driftwood beside the sand dunes, extending a cup in my direction.
“Parties are weird,” I hiccupped, watching Billie in front of the fire, shoving what appeared to be a brownie in her mouth.
“Indeed.”
“Back in Kentucky, we had bonfires and would sneak into the woods to party, but the tone wasn’t the same. Everyone’s having fun here. No one really cares about anything else. To them—“ I motioned at the crowd, who was now dancing and grinding up on each other. “There’s only tonight. Just this moment. These people will think about tomorrow, well— tomorrow. They act like there’s no consequences. In Kentucky, we’d try to have fun, but couldn’t really—everyone was too worried about what God, their parents, and the church would think if they found out we were doing other activities besides reading Revelations and hating ourselves,” I laughed without humor. “So instead, we sat around talking about all of the stuff we wanted to do rather than actually going for it, but we’d judge our friends who reached for more. We punished them, even.” I had Hemming’s full attention now and took a sip from my cup before continuing.
“Essie, my best friend back in Kentucky, used to be the most daring person I knew. You see, in Brushy Fork, girls aren’t supposed to be adventurous, exciting, funny, intelligent, or ambitious—but she was all those things and more. In Brushy Fork, women only exist to please men, to serve them. Even though her dad was the pastor, Essie was different. She wanted more. She wanted to be somebody; somebody more than a wife, daughter, sister, or mother. So, after graduating, Essie vanished in the middle of the night with twenty bucks in her pocket and a full tank of gas in her old Civic. A year later, she came back,” I sighed.
“Why would your friend return?” Hemming asked, taking a sip from his drink and poking the fire with a piece of driftwood.
�
��She was six months pregnant and had no money. Essie told me that she had made it all the way to New Mexico, gotten a job in Taos working front desk at a ski resort. No one judged her in Taos when she had a one-night stand with a snowboard instructor and became pregnant, but she couldn’t ever shake the shame that her past provided, because she had sinned, lost her virtue— the most valuable commodity in Brushy Fork. She thought she was worse than nothing. Essie didn’t believe could live with getting an abortion, so she showed up on her parent’s doorstep. They quickly whisked her away for a few months so she could have the baby. Apparently, her folks never even let her hold her child, but instead, handed the baby off as soon as it was born. Essie didn’t know if she had a boy or a girl.” I remembered how Essie wouldn’t leave her house for months after, and when I visited her, she laid in her bed, hugging her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth endlessly. Whenever I visited, she’d tolerate me for five minutes before warning me not to linger. Her parents were around, and she didn’t want them getting the wrong idea—that we were real friends. The Sprites never spoke of her pregnancy or whereabouts of the baby. They were cold to Essie for a while, ignoring her very existence as a form of punishment, as though taking away her baby wasn’t enough.
“Your friend is a fool,” Hemming interrupted my thoughts.
“What?” Now I was angry. “No, it’s not like they taught us sex ed. in school, aside from abstinence. ‘Don’t touch each other. Don’t touch yourselves. Leave room for Jesus’ kind of malarkey. No,” I shook my head. “Essie was dealt an unfortunate hand and is unlucky to have Satan incarnate for parents.“
“We make our own luck, Miss Fox,” Hemming’s face darkened as he spoke, “Your friend was weak. Understand—we are all victims of circumstance, but some of us rise above our own personal hell, whilst others drown in dark pools of reality. I would assume that you, more than anyone, know the toll of the climb. You leave pieces of yourself behind,” he said, absentmindedly touching the right side of his face. “And you evolve into something else entirely…to survive. Not because you want to, but because you must. If your friend was serious about making a life for herself, she shouldn’t have ran home to her mother and father at the first storm. She will hate herself for the rest of her miserable life.”
“You think the baby is better off without Essie? Don’t you?” I hissed, fuming.
“I do.”
“I need another drink,” I stood up and stormed off toward the keg, feeling famished and disgruntled. Billie was cheerfully chatting away with her friends around the fire, nestled into Caper’s lap. She waved at me to join her, but I shook my head.
“OH, COME ‘ERE! DON’T BE A WET BLANKET, DAUGHTER OF TRITON!” I waited for Billie’s heckling continue, until I realized she was watching Hemming as he pumped the keg and took my cup from my hand for a refill. He ignored our audience. A breeze caught my hair, and I shivered. Hemming was right, a corset and skirt constructed out of a thin sheet didn’t provide enough defense from the chill in the October air. I staggered to the bonfire, sitting across from Caper and Billie, with my back against a humongous piece of driftwood. My lips pursed when Hemming settled next to me, so close I could feel the heat emitting from his body. I wanted to scoot closer to his warmth, but I also had an overwhelming impulse to smack him.
“What are you even doing here?” I asked, quiet enough that only Hemming could hear me. “I thought you didn’t like Halloween. You said it was for poor people.”
“I said no such thing.” His face was serious for a moment then cracked into a smile. It was the first time I had seen him really smile, teeth and all. He was beautiful in such a ruined way, like fine China, once broken but the pieces fused together with streaks of gold.
I felt brave and didn’t want the moment to slip away, so I let my fingers touch his when I went to fold my arms across my chest for warmth. The gesture was apparently not bold enough, as Hemming didn’t respond at all. Billie had obviously caught my attempt. She stared in my direction, laughing so hard she fell off of Caper’s lap and into the sand.
“I’m leaving with Caper. If mom asks about me, give her as few details as possible. The less she knows, the better. Clear?” Billie relayed an hour later, pulling me in closer so that she could whisper in my ear. “Listen, if you need a condom, go up to my room, bedside table, top drawer, under my copy of Wuthering Heights. Promise me you won’t have sex without one, and promise me you won’t do anything you don’t want to if you’re not ready.” She sounded strangely sober despite her current condition. I nodded, thinking there was no chance in heck that any hanky-panky was happening tonight, but Billie was serious. “No. Say it. Say you promise.”
I held up my pinky finger, and Billie interlocked hers with mine. “I promise.”
She beamed back at me and skipped off with Caper, hand in hand. A tinge of jealousy coursed through me, envious of her carefree spirit and the freedom that steered her entire life’s course.
“Hmmph…I’ll walk you home, then,” Hemming announced behind me, shoveling sand into piles with his shoes.
“I will be fine alone. I’m more than capable of walking a couple of blocks by myself,” I replied, still bitter over my failed flirtation attempt.
“I’m sure,” he studied me, my arms crossed in defiance. “Let’s go.”
“Whatever tickles your pickle,” I consented with a sourness that made my insides cringe.
We stalked off into the night in silence, not even attempting to make conversation with one another. As we passed the old cemetery, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Hemming hastened his pace, and I struggled to keep up with him while looking around to see from where my creepy feeling originated. Then I heard it — the sound of a child’s laughter echoing off the darkness, at first too far away to identify then suddenly too close to escape. I felt a hand run through my hair, across my ribbon. The bow tugged loose, and I watched the shimmery stream of blue fall to the dark asphalt. I peered at Hemming but his hands were nowhere near my head, instead he grabbed me by the hand and tugged me forward toward Aunt June’s house.
“Get your keys out. When I say so, run to the pool house, go inside, and lock the door. And whatever you do, no matter what you hear, you will not unlock the door. Do you understand me, Miss Fox?” he growled. I nodded in understanding. When home was finally in view, Hemming told me to bolt. I expected to hear him running beside me, but when I peeked back he was gone. The laughter had halted, but dread hung in the air like the humidity of a Kentucky summer.
I reached the pool house, slipped inside and quickly locked the deadbolt. The sliding doors didn’t offer much shield from prying eyes, and without turning on the lights, I hid behind the island counter to get a good view of anyone who approached the front doors. I didn’t have to wait long for them to show up. A trio of kids, anywhere from ten to thirteen-years-old, softly scratched on the glass door after about ten minutes. I couldn’t get a good look at their faces but decided almost midnight was pretty late for trick-or-treating. When I didn’t answer, their polite knocks turned into banging, hard enough that I thought they might shatter the glass. Hemming was overreacting. I wasn’t going to let a group of kids scare me, so I got up to see what they wanted.
“A bit late for Halloween, isn’t it, tots?” I called out, and at the sound of my voice, all of them whipped their heads toward the source in unison. I almost peed myself when I saw their faces. The trio was a perfectly ordinary gang of pre-pubescent kids, two lanky young boys and a girl that was at least half a foot shorter than her male counterparts. They were all dressed in black hoodies and old, tattered jeans, but their clothes weren’t what disturbed me. Where bright eyes should have been, coal sockets resided.
“Can we use your phone ma’am? Please? I need to call momma and let her know we’re headed home,” the petite blonde girl requested, trying the door knob.
“You can’t come in,” I asserted, glancing around for a knife or blunt object in case they tried to force their way
through the door.
“Momma won’t be happy we didn’t bring home her favorite candy,” warned the brother to her left, as he pushed past his sister. “And momma loves candy. She’s been waitin’ all year for us to go trick-or-treatin’.” He licked his lips in a way no thirteen-year-old should ever know how to do and jiggled the door knob with unusual strength.
Out of the darkness, Hemming emerged, yielding a trowel from Aunt June’s garden. “I suppose your mother will be sorely disappointed at your lack of procuring,” he rumbled, diving the trowel into the throat of the nearest boy, who struggled at first then went slack, falling to the earth. I gasped as the final brother charged Hemming at an unnatural speed, knocking his large frame off kilter and rolling them both onto the ground. Unfazed by the commotion, the tiny girl on the other side of the door continued to struggle with the lock, and I watched in horror as the dead bolt slowly slid unlocked. I armed myself with the only blunt object within reach: the cast iron skillet in which I learned to make cornbread.
Before she burst through the threshold, I spotted Hemming struggling with the black-eyed boy; he was too preoccupied to notice the girl making her way inside. I knew I had to fend for myself. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, but it didn’t mute my fear. I clutched the skillet handle like a baseball bat, ready to strike as the munchkin lurched toward me with a hiss. My adrenaline propelled me forward at the black-eyed sister, and several things happened at once: my hands were tingling, like all the blood in my body had rushed there. Second, the tiny monster attempted to pounce like a hungry lion on an injured zebra, but I wasn’t injured or helpless. I dodged her attack, which caused her to fall on the floor, and the last thing I saw before my skillet collided with her face was two beady, black eyes full of unbridled hatred, staring back at mine. I smelled rotten, burning flesh coming from under the skillet, and as I went to pick it up, but I drew my hand away because it was scalding. Her short legs stopped wiggling after several seconds, and I knew she was dead.
Kate Fox & The Three Kings Page 12
