Douse (Book One: At the Edge of a Hurricane)

by June Hydra

  “I want to sleep with him.”

  “Whatever you want, then. Just stop with the crazy downer talk. Else we’re going to send you to a shrink and unravel that noise in your head.”

  “I’m not depressed. Just shocked. Everything’s hitting me. It’s all coming together.”

  “Let her sleep, Caddy. Here, I’ll go make more soup.”

  “She hasn’t even eaten the first batch.”

  “She will!”

  On the table, steam rises out of a cup. Caddy rambles. Piranha cooks. The world churns at hurricane speeds, gale forces pinning me, completely nullifying all senses.

  “Sleep here on the couch if you want.”

  “I don’t…okay. I’ll rest.”

  Caddy helps press me against the couch. He disappears into the bedroom hall, then reappears with a blanket flapping behind like a cape.

  “My superhero. The original guy.”

  “Don’t compliment me. You’re the important one.”

  “I don’t get why you praise me so much.”

  “You’re the reason why we can stay together. Why we’re afloat. Rent, Violet, rent. You’re brains, beauty, and common sense wrapped in one.” Caddy flattens the blankets at my sides, ensuring no spaces for cold air to rush and assault my skin. He spoons in Piranha’s soup, and then she returns, another boiling broth in a cup, ready to be served.

  “Give this to her. It’s medicine.”

  “Medicine? Did you put anything weird in it?”

  “Don’t question. Now’s not the time.”

  “She’s not sick.”

  “Practically yes. Look, she’s drinking it.”

  I lick my lips, an apparent show of appreciation. Piranha goads Caddy to ladle in more, and I gulp the soup as if it were manna.

  “You really didn’t have to,” I say.

  “We have to help you. I can’t not. Tonight,” she says, “I promise to play the most soothing music I know of. If you want.”

  I could use another laugh. “Sure, play whatever you think will help. But don’t play it too loud. My guy is nearby.”

  Caddy sighs. And Piranha stows herself in her room.

  All throughout the night, the low humming of a child singing the National Anthem chimes through the house.

  Not even casual sex could rival friends supporting you in your time of need.

  CHAPTER 31

  Caddy’s black eye bags rival my own. His though are rounder and plumper, like grapes tied to runny eggs.

  As if to make up for last night, or all nights, Piranha slaves over the stove. Warm steam rises off a pot and suffuses the air with garlic and rosemary. Multiple pots whistle. She darts between the oven, which has a pie baking, and the refrigerator, where she plates four dashes of rice, cumin, red onions, and tomatoes. No idea what she’s making, but I savor the thought.

  “Is she up?”

  “Yeah,” Caddy says. “She’s waking up. She’s here with us.”

  “Where’s her boyfriend?”

  “I think he’s still sleeping. I hope he didn’t wake up.”

  “I kept the volume low. You barely could hear it.”

  Caddy crosses his arms and legs. He cranes his neck towards my chest, eyes swinging wildly to check out my chin and neck. “You’re okay?”

  “Rough night. But I slept totally decently.”

  Caddy whips out his vanity mirror again. He shows me the bruises around my collarbone. One welt raises the skin around my ankle. I shimmy out of my jeans just enough to see my waistline and abdomen. Slight redness, could turn purple or yellow, but no real damage. Caddy angles the mirror behind my head, but I pull his arm down.

  “If I was hurt, really hurt, I would’ve gone to the hospital. Sought care. That stuff.”

  “I know you wouldn’t. You’d suck it up and wait till things got really bad.”

  Caddy continues with his makeshift medical assessment. He gasps whenever he fines a patch of skin not my natural tone.

  “Those are acne scars from puberty.”

  “Oh.” He ceases poking my neck.

  “Breakfast is almost ready. Tell me you’re ready?”

  “I am,” I say, “but where is Bishop?”

  Caddy glances at me, and I nudge my chin towards the bedrooms. “I’ll go check on him,” he says.

  “I appreciate it,” I say, as he trudges away.

  Bishop’s in better condition than last night. No longer emotional or wrecked by events prior, he manages to hug me and settle into the general chaos that is our collective lifestyle. Piranha at the stove, rushing between the kitchen and her laptop, switching on tracks and cooking. Caddy lording over me like a real Dad would. Bishop adding in his two cents where relevant, commenting on the décor and occasionally whispering comments about my friends.

  “They’re eccentric.”

  “I’ve managed five years out of both. After the third, I figured I’d keep them out of comfort.”

  “I’m jealous. You’re like—” he hesitates “—family. Is that a good word to use? I don’t mean it offensively.”

  “We are family.”

  Never have I exactly described the house triad as a family dynamic. But now, after the robbery, it’s clear we act as one unit. Able to care for one another when one is down and there to provide financial, emotional, and mental support.

  “They’re my anchors. Not having them will be the next major transition in my life, I guess.”

  “You’re thinking about moving out too?”

  “I’ve shot it around in my head but never gone through. Everything’s always in a flux. A beautiful, crazy flux.”

  Piranha calls us for breakfast, though it’s past noon so she corrects herself and calls it American brunch.

  “I don’t think they have this in other countries,” she says. Caddy sighs, though I opt out of poking fun. She has the right to be zany as hell if she’s plugging along like a robot for us.

  Piranha even serves the plates and accepts no help to arrange the table. We eat, somewhat silently, avoiding the trauma topics, simply assessing each other’s status. I’m tired. Caddy’s tired. Piranha’s tired. Bishop’s tired. But we sneak in smiles over our toast and stuff our sorrows elsewhere.

  A stereotypical all-American brunch means sunny, sanguine behavior. So I smile the rest of the time at the table, just appreciating my health and life.

  Storms clear but are ever looming. The next approaches. What do we do?

  “I really want to just say that you can’t go back.”

  “It would be safe if we hired some folks to go in and get out.”

  “They could’ve tracked us here.” I raise my legs onto the bed, making space for Bishop. He hangs around the door entrance, bobbing his head into the corridor, then shuts the door. “Your friends are dead,” he says.

  “They did a lot for us. Come sit. Get closer.”

  Bishop hooks his thumbs into his jean pockets. His feet cwah-cwah as he drags them along the carpet.

  “We need to plan,” I say.

  “Bet you scared them off. They were two armed guys taken out by you.”

  “Women can fight.”

  “But it’s not the norm.” Bishop drops onto the bed and spreads apart his arms, as if making a snow angel. “They were tough guys. I knew them. Thought I did—I should say I knew their personas. Tough guy types.”

  I do know Spade’s persona though. And Bishop’s right. He would be one to take deep offense at a girl nullifying his plot. But he’s wrong too: Spade’s personality was always weak.

  “They’ll want revenge.”

  “Maybe,” Bishop says. “You don’t the police will help?”

  “I’m skeptical. But nobody predicted a robbery.” I scuttle closer to Bishop’s face. “Or did you?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t have started anything with you. I thought they were clean, good guys. The one who had me would go to services with me. He sings. Doesn’t look like that guy though.”

  “I bet they both look
like that guy. Creepy. Outrageous attitudes. Underneath the ski masks, they’re monsters.”

  “Inside too. Ugly in, ugly out.”

  “Cowards. I hate that. They ran and were all big and mighty coming in.”

  “It’s because the real big and mighty was already there.” Bishop jabs my shoulder, and I grin. If everyone believes in me, then I should allow a modicum of belief in myself.

  “You should stay with us for now. We can recover what we can after waiting them out a little. Then we can plot the next point in our map.”

  “Anywhere but here.”

  “Literally.”

  Bishop closes his eyes. He shuts mine too, and I rest against him. We’re two logs floating on a blanket river, casting wishes to the drywall ceiling above.

  Plaster, white plaster. Replace them with black, night blackness, and then add in stars, an endless carpet of stars. I can wish to these imaginary stars. Pray, even.

  “The country would be beautiful this time of year.”

  “Is it?”

  “Now would be great for a road trip.”

  “Alone together?”

  “Yes,” Bishop whispers. His voice is a tether to the real world I wish to escape. I’ve casted many wishes. As a child. As a teenager. Now as an adult. It’s never wishes that changed reality though. It’s action.

  “When do you want to go?”

  “What are you planning there?”

  “To go. Let’s go. Countryside. Anywhere. Lead me. I’ll go with you.”

  “A weekend.”

  A weekend—though I wish for more. Every weekend. All days.

  “A weekend,” I say. “We could clear our heads camping together or something. Don’t even need a fancy hotel, just you.”

  “You don’t need me. I need you.”

  “I need you.”

  “I love you.”

  The stars vanish and the plaster ceiling takes its rightful, real place. Bishop’s turned to me, his mouth crooked open, as if he wants to take back what he’s said, stuffing those stilly overwrought emotions back into his Pandora’s box.

  “I love you,” he says. “I don’t know what else you could do for me. But if there’s anything I need to do, it’s to tell you, plainly. I love you.”

  I fight the churning in my stomach. The terrific jolt of his speech writhes throughout my intestines and strangles my vocal cords.

  “You too,” I say. “Bishop. I love you too.”

  “I will never know why.”

  I swing my hips over and tuck my legs at his sides. I pin his shoulders with my hands and delicately nuzzle his chin with my forehead, upturning myself to land three kisses on his nose. Then I plant one his mouth.

  “Do I have to show you?”

  “You can show and tell.”

  “Okay. But in kindergarten, I was a greedy girl. Always kept rambling. Everyone wanted me to shut up.”

  “Don’t. Keep talking. Keep showing. Everything. We can explore everything together.”

  Everything.

  Bishop has everything I could ask for in a man.

  “I love you,” he says when the sex is over. “I’ve wanted to say it but never found the right moment.”

  “Don’t hide your feelings. I’ve hid mine too, and it only hurts.”

  Bishop wraps his legs around mine. I tuck my arms underneath him. We’re one log now, travelling along a stream, imaginary and real, under a canopy of drywall and stars.

  CHAPTER 32

  “Are you both all right?” Caddy says. His knocking at the door wakes us. I scramble out of bed and pop open the door to a worried man on the other end.

  “We’re just resting.”

  “Don’t you have work?”

  “God. Yes. Work.” I pat myself for my phone. The kitchen. I run past Caddy and search the tables, then dial the office.

  Preston doesn’t rag on me for not showing today after explaining the assault. He’s cool on understanding his staff’s needs, even offering a week off without penalty.

  “When you get back, you’ll be shocked.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We have a surprise for you.”

  “I’ll be ready,” I say. “Thank you for understanding.”

  I thank Caddy too. “I owe you over and over. Saving my ass at work, taking me in and tending to us. Thank you, thank you.” My arms fit neatly around his waist. “Thank you for caring. Where’s Piranha? I don’t hear roll call this morning.”

  “She’s out.”

  “I have to thank her too. Amazing, guys. When she wakes, I’ll find her.”

  “You were robbed. It’s what friends do to help.”

  “Thank you,” I say one last time. Back in the bedroom, Bishop lolls around, spotting me upon entry. I turn off and on my phone to relieve my jitters. “My boss isn’t angry.”

  “That’s great.” Bishop cages my hands in his own. “You’re so tense.”

  “I’m just grateful.”

  “You’re surrounded by good people. Flanked by angels, my love.”

  “Love. I like that pet name.” I lift a leg onto the bed and tap the edge with my foot, thinking. “So, love, that trip we discussed. How should we go about starting that one up?”

  “I’ll drive. It can be this weekend. Can camp out or stay in a motel. I don’t care. Spending time with you is the goal, not money.”

  “We can camp. We can stay in the car. You’re right. I don’t care either. The farther the better. Away with you.”

  “We should do something special for your friends too. They deserve kindness.”

  “The day before, we can take them out. How about…the place you showed up late to?”

  A blush crawls across Bishop’s cheeks. “You still remember that?”

  “I remember everything about you.”

  “We’ll take them there then.”

  Piranha wakes. She doesn’t play her usual music. She searches the apartment for us, and that’s before brushing her teeth or combing out her greasy tangles.

  “They’re here,” Caddy says.

  She stands at the threshold in a nightgown, barefoot, humming softly.

  “I bought a new rendition. Want to hear?”

  “What’re we celebrating?” Piranha only buys new renditions for special occasions.

  “You, Amazing Grace.” She hums louder, rocking on her heels. “I’ll make breakfast?”

  As weird as she is, I appreciate her immensely.

  “Thank you, Piranha. I’ll come and help. Stay here,” I say to Bishop.

  “You’re tired looking,” Piranha says. We walk the hallway, though she’s more ambling than walking. I keep her upright and reroute her to the couch.

  “You’re tired looking. You’re not doing anything today.”

  “But you’re going to get caught.”

  “You’ve done so much already.” Caddy comes up from behind, and I usher him onto the couch too. “You’ve both done so much. We’ll make breakfast for you two.”

  “But, I can stay up,” Piranha says as Caddy clocks out. “I can stay up.”

  “Stay down. Stay down.” I soothe Piranha into the couch cushions, easing her head against the fluffiness. “If you open your eyes, I’m going to play the anthem of China.”

  “All right, I’m here then. You know how to work the stove, right?”

  “I can try.”

  “That’s the American way.” Piranha’s eyelids slid across her pale irises. They bounce upwards in effort to retain the vision of her domain: the kitchen, the living room, the apartment itself. She’s always awake, doing things for us, living like a maid. Seeing her on the couch though, pacified by fatigue, fosters an unerring devotion, a sisterly love I’ve never recognized enough. I’ve used men as vehicles of validation and painted women as treacherous competitors, ones to avoid. As I reflect on Piranha, watching her fall asleep, slowly, I see that she is my sister. She is a woman to truly admire, far better than my own mother. Far better than me.

  Final
ly, she sleeps. Curled up against Caddy, Piranha makes soft huffing exhales, and the two cuddle close enough to feel each other’s breath on their skin.

  I once had an abusive father, abusive mother, and multiple men rotating in and out of me as if passing through a revolving door.

  Now I have a sister, brother, and boyfriend.

  CHAPTER 33

  The next week heralds an oncoming long haul. Days of work. Days of nine-to-five.

  But I haven’t forgotten my surprise.

  Preston comes around the front desk frequently, more than usual. It's like he knows a change has occurred within me but doesn't want to speak of its existence. The confidence must be brimming on my skin, making me beam.

  "I like the updates you made,” he says. “Also, just wanted to comment on how seriously you're committed. It's..."

  Fantastic. Predicting his flattery is like shooting darts at the Sun. You’ll always miss, but you glimpsed the great light.

  “I’m just really glad to be working here.”

  “I’m super enthused. You’ve got skills that I didn’t think you initially possessed, but after looking over everything, seeing you work here—my point. You’re a fit for the web admin position. You’d also be great for keeping tabs on design aspects, and if you don’t mind, you can still keep the front desk.”

  “You want me to take calls?”

  “Yes. But don’t consider it a hindrance to your ascension.”

  “From desk jockey to desk jockey?”

  “From receptionist to company woman.” He extends his hand, and I shake. “We’ll still have you bookkeeping though, if you don’t mind. Nobody’s ever gotten everything ordered like you. One thing after another—you’re an organizing superhero. You’ll do even better since much of the work can be done telecommuting. I’m sure you can organize yourself even at home and get everything done and more.”

  “I’ll be telecommuting?”

  Preston drops to a whisper. “Recovering after your entire ordeal must be tough. We were going to convert the position to a mostly online anyway. But with your thing happening, it’s fine.”