Doctors of Darkness Boxed Set

by Ellery A Kane

  “Hey, listen. I’m probably not the best person to be giving advice. But my first night in the halfway house, I totally lost it. Just thinking about all the what-ifs and to-dos and might-have-beens. Mr. Richert told me something that stuck. He said, ‘Butch, if it’s not happening now, it’s not happening.’”

  She nods, but her attention is somewhere else. And I hear the soft opening of a car door, the Buick. Even before I see him, there’s a shift in the air. A feeling in my gut, like guilt, only darker. Like he’s opened a portal to 1994 and let all the ghosts through. I stare at him, wishing he wasn’t real.

  “Uh, Calder. I think it’s happening. Now.”

  Evie

  May 8, 1994

  Five days until my birthday

  Disgusted, I stared at myself in the mirror and watched my face frown at Cherice. “I thought you said the eye shadow would make my eyes look less green. But this? Ugh. They’re still the exact shade of the Incredible Hulk.”

  She rubbed my shoulder and shook her head. “Trust me, girl. One day those eyes will be some boy’s favorite thing about you. Here, put this on.”

  I applied the lipstick—Paint the Town Pink—the way I’d seen my mother do it. Bottom, then top. Smack the lips together. And blot with a tissue. “Look at you. You’re already a pro,” Cherice said, giggling.

  My own laugh sunk like a stone, heavy with guilt. Guilty that I was here, primping, and my mom’s lips were fish food. That Cassie was holed up with the devil. That I hadn’t seen it coming. That there was nothing I could do.

  “C’mon, don’t be so serious.” Cherice tickled my side until my laugh felt light again. “So, do you wanna tell me why you’re wearing my makeup to the music hour?”

  “There’s this boy I like…but he’s older, and I think he likes somebody else.”

  “Does he live here?”

  I tilted my chin, raised my eyebrows—the are-you-kidding-me look—because no boy at Port in a Storm would come near Evil Evie. And that was just fine with me.

  “But he’ll be here today?”

  “I hope so. Maybe.”

  “Alright, since you’re not making this easy, I’ll play detective. He doesn’t live here. He’s older. And…Oh! I know.” She smiles, soft and secret, the way I do when I’m thinking about something really good. Like the time when Mom had stayed clean for three whole months, and we’d watched General Hospital together after I got home from school. “Butch Calder.”

  My neck bloomed red, and I turned away from the mirror. “It’s stupid, right? I mean, like I could ever complete with Gwen. She’s perfect.”

  “Nobody’s perfect, Evie. Especially not Gwen.”

  “I thought you liked her.” Cherice wrinkled up her nose at me like she smelled something sour. “But, she’s beautiful. Drop-dead gorgeous. And I’m…” I didn’t know what I was, only what I wasn’t. “Not.”

  “First of all, that is a downright lie. You know what I see?” She put her hands on my head and gently redirected my gaze to the mirror.

  “Long, straight black hair.” That I pull out sometimes.

  “Porcelain skin.” Pale and ordinary as bread.

  “And eyes the color of emeralds.” Creepy, creepy, CREEPY. “A real beauty. Come to think of it, you remind me of Snow White. And second, it’s not all about that anyway. The right kind of boy will like you for the inside too.”

  “Is Butch the right kind?”

  “Absolutely. And he’s damn fine. That’s for sure.” Her grin reminds me of springtime, warm and free and blossoming with life. I can’t help but smile back, until she adds, “But he is way too old for you.”

  ****

  When we heard the rumble of Calder’s ’Cuda through the open window, Cherice winked at me. I pretended not to notice as I settled into my spot, alone, cross-legged in front of the piano. I didn’t look back at the rest of the kids, huddled with their groups, giggling to each other. Hands cupped to ears, whispering. I knew better. Looking only made it worse. I wore lonely like a tattered coat, proud as I could.

  Gwen came first, sparkling in the drab room, a pearl in a crowd of oysters. But I barely noticed her. Because, Calder. I can still remember him—KISS T-shirt, brand-name jeans, and black boots, the kind you’d wear if your name was James Dean or you were riding a motorcycle—as clearly as if I’d taken a photograph and kept in my pocket for the last twenty years.

  I waited for him to notice me. The moment he glanced in my direction, I flipped my hair and launched Cosmo tip number three. The perfect smile: Make eye contact for three seconds—one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three—smile. Look down shyly. Turn away. But by that time, he was leaning against the wall, holding Gwen’s viola case in one hand, his arm casually draped across her shoulders, as lovely as a mink shawl. And I felt like a colossal idiot.

  But the longer I looked, the more I saw. The tension in his jaw. The hunched set of his broad shoulders. The way Gwen kept gazing up at him like a little girl. And his eyes that flitted around the room, unsettled, and landed on Cherice every single time. Gwen seemed to see it too, because she leaned into him, put her mouth right up against his ear, until his eyes snapped back to attention, a dog choked by its leash. He was rapt, riveted by her, and I felt certain I’d imagined the whole thing.

  I was so busying staring, I didn’t see Officer Maroni arrive in his squad car, didn’t see him saunter up the sidewalk and ring the bell. And then, he stood there in the doorway, waving at me while Cherice beckoned me over.

  “Ooooh. Evil Evie’s in trouble. Popo’s here to get her.” Bobby Pierce started his singsong mocking, my personal anthem of shame. My head got all fuzzy with panic. Legs so heavy I could barely stand. “She probably looked at somebody again. Turned ’em to stone. Killed ’em, dead.”

  “Bobby, zip it.” Cherice pointed at him, and he went silent. Underground. Simpering at me and widening his eyes with his grubby little fingers. I hated him so much, I wished he spoke the truth. That I could squash his tiny, pea heart with one well-timed glance. Freeze his empty brain and crack it like a block of ice.

  I narrowed my eyes at him, conjuring myself as a black cat—back arched, tail puffed—and hissed.

  Everybody got quiet. Everybody but Calder. His laugh soothed me like medicine. And then, serious as a heart attack, he turned to Bobby. “Oh my God, dude. There’s something wrong with your face. I think it’s turning to…no, wait. That’s as messed up as it always looks. My bad.”

  ****

  “Remember me, Evie?” Macaroni pulled up a child-size chair in the Port in a Storm art room and sat. I nodded, still trying to swallow my tears, a sob stuck in my throat like a hunk of steak. “Sorry I embarrassed you like that. That kid, Bobby, he’s a little shit.”

  That got a half smile from me. “He’s the worst.”

  “Do you want me to arrest him? That would teach him a lesson.” The other half of my smile caught up, and I started feeling better. Calder had stood up for me, after all. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. It’s been what…a couple months since your mom?”

  “I’m okay.” One. I started counting my lies.

  “Is school good? You have friends?”

  “Yeah.” Two.

  “You ever see Trey Waters?”

  I hesitated. “Sometimes.”

  “Well, if he bothers you, you let me know.”

  “I will.” Three.

  Macaroni didn’t say anything for a while, and I wondered if he was counting too. Trey had told me I had to keep my story straight, that the police would try to catch me fibbing. That they’d try to pin it all on him. “They’re just looking for an escape goat, Evelyn. I didn’t do nothin’ wrong.” And when I’d opened my big mouth to correct him, a part of me snickering with glee—“Scapegoat, Trey. Not escape goat.”—he’d shut it with a hard slap.

&nbs
p; “I’ll be honest with you. Evie. I still think that guy is hiding something. Did he threaten you? Tell you to keep quiet?”

  “No.” Four.

  “Alright. You can tell me, you know. Whatever you tell me is between us. He’ll never find out.”

  There’s no keeping secrets from the devil. That much I knew. But the heat from that slap still radiated in my chest. Just another log on the fire Trey stoked. He’d taken everything from me already. And now, Cassie too. I wanted him to feel it, to burn his fingers, singe the animal hair off his arms. It wouldn’t ever be enough—not for my mom—but it was something. I couldn’t speak Trey’s secrets, but maybe I could outsmart him. For Cassie.

  “There is one thing,” I said, surprised at the boldness in my voice. And I’m not sure I would take it back even knowing what came after, all the dominoes it set in motion. “He’s living at the Blue Bird. You should go check it out. I think he’s dealing drugs there.” Five.

  ****

  After Macaroni left, I didn’t go back to the music hour. I lingered in the art room, coloring on a sketchpad and picking out the best crayons. Cerulean, my mother’s favorite color. Silver, my Dad’s ring, the one Trey wanted the same way he wanted everything else. Dandelion, Cassie’s dress. Chestnut, Calder’s eyes. And the worst too. So many shades of green. Olive and jungle. Pine and asparagus. I slipped them into my pocket for destruction.

  When Calder walked in, I flipped my drawing face down as fast as I could. What a baby I was, sitting there coloring. He just smiled.

  “You missed my solo.” He did a quick tap dance, his boots clunking on the tile floor. “Come fly with me. Come fly away.”

  “Yeah right, Sinatra. I’m sure I would’ve heard that from here.”

  “The singing or the booing?”

  I tried to laugh like Gwen, cute and delicate. Mine was more of a snort. “Both.”

  “Are you alright? I’m sorry about that kid. What a loser.”

  I shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m used to it.”

  He sat where Macaroni had, just across the table, and peeked at my drawing. I let him. Mainly because I’d stopped breathing and lost all feeling in my body. Except for a slow buzz that crept up from my toes to the heart of me. This liking a boy thing was worse than I’d expected. And better. I thought again of Gwen, how practiced she’d seemed, how composed. Even with her lips so close to Calder’s neck. How did she do that?

  “Is this for me?” He turned it over. The letters K-I-S-S spelled out in all the best colors.

  “Do you want it?”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Well, they’re only the best hard rock band of all time.”

  I pushed it toward him, and he ran his hand zigzag along the chestnut S. “Hey, what does your friend Cassie look like?”

  My whole body started up again with a sputter and a jolt. “Cassie? Uh, she’s got long brown hair and she’s a little taller than me. Why?”

  “I think I saw her at a party last night with Trey. Is she…okay?”

  Naive as I was, I imagined Macaroni speeding to the Blue Bird right that minute, busting down the door and carting Trey off to a jail far, far from here. Bringing Cassie to the safety of the Port, where Trey couldn’t touch us. “She will be,” I said. “Thanks to me.”

  Calder frowned, but he didn’t push. He took out a crayon—blue violet, a classic—and sketched his name in the corner of the paper. His whole name. Butch Cassidy Calder.

  I snorted again. “Is that really your middle name?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Mom. I guess she had a thing for outlaws.” I have a thing for outlaws too. That’s what Gwen would’ve said, all flirty and kittenish.

  “And your brother?” I asked.

  “Jesse James Calder.” When we both laughed, I liked the sound of it. It thrummed in my chest like Cherice’s singing. Resonated like a perfect harmony. “But, you’re sworn to secrecy, okay?”

  I nodded fast, seizing the chance for Cosmo tip five. Create an opportunity to touch him. “Shake on it.” I reached my arm toward him, ready, but it happened so fast. Too fast. His hand was there—warm and solid and electric—and then it was gone.

  “Alright then.” If I was more like Gwen I could’ve kept him there, transfixed. If I was more like Gwen, he would’ve noticed my eye shadow, my pink lips. But, I was me. Evil Evie. Only twelve, almost thirteen. And he stood up. Oblivious. “I’ll see you soon, Evie.”

  Not soon enough.

  He left, and the ’Cuda growled—louder, louder, then quiet, fading to nothing—before I realized my drawing was still on the table.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Evie

  January 18, 2017

  Wednesday

  I’d always told my patients to confront the past head on. No matter how ugly. But I realize now what I’d been asking. The impossibility of it. Because when Trey Waters appears in the parking lot, I only want to run away. As far and as fast as I can. From the wicked smile that spreads like a stain. From his legs clad in black denim, long and spindly as a spider. From the vile sound he makes when he hocks up phlegm from the back of his throat and spits, proud of himself and the thick, stringy glob he’s left on the concrete.

  The closer he gets, I can see half his teeth are capped in silver, ringed with black at the gums. Like the drain of the grimy Blue Bird bathtub. The TV screen hadn’t done him justice. Time had given Trey exactly the face he’d deserved. And if it weren’t for Butch next to me, I’d be long gone.

  “What do you want, Trey?”

  “Damn, Evelyn. Is that the way you greet an old friend?” He stretches out his arms toward me, all scarred and needle-tracked. It’s still there. Of course it is. The small tattoo in cursive on his wrist. RIP Arlene. “Come here, girl. Give Trey a hug.” And I feel like I might be sick.

  Butch walls himself between us, and I stare at his back. The rise and fall of his shoulders. He’s breathing hard. “I don’t think you should be here.”

  “Oh really. Should you?” Trey cocks his head and squints at Butch. Like he can’t quite see him clearly even in the light of day. “You think I don’t remember you, Nobody? It’s like a goddamn reunion. Let’s see. We got the little orphan girl. And the punk-ass bitch who was too big for his own britches. Landed himself in Folsom. Guess the prison’s got so crowded, they’re letting anybody out these days.”

  “There’s always room for one more.” Butch steps forward, calmer than I expect. But when I grab his arm to tug him back, his skin is feverish, simmering to a boil.

  Trey stalks in a semicircle, toying with me the way a cat plays with a mouse. Half-bored, half-aroused. “Frankly, I’m surprised to see you consortin’ with the likes of him. You bein’ a fancy doctor and all. And a Maddox. Damn. Your mama would be real proud.”

  “Don’t talk about her. Ever.”

  “Oh, c’mon.” And there’s a hard edge in his voice. Claws unsheathed. “Don’t be like that.”

  “Seriously, why are you here?” I ask.

  “Fair question. I just wanna make sure we’re cool. Are we cool, Evelyn?” The way he says my name, like he knows something about me, makes me want to slap him. Because he does. He’s seen what a coward I am.

  “I don’t know, Trey, are we?”

  “Well, now that you mention it. Seems to me you been stickin’ your highfalutin nose where it don’t belong.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Don’t play all innocent with me. Ruby told me you came by askin’ questions, bein’ real curious. Hey, what’s that old saying about the cat?”

  “Are you threatening her?” Butch asks. “That’s probably not such a good idea for someone in your position.”

  “And what position is that?”

  “Murder suspect.”

  Trey cackles, but his eyes don’t change. They’re windows
too, like Butch’s. Only Trey’s lead nowhere. To nothing. “Don’t go believin’ everything you hear. You should know that, Nobody. Like I heard you killed that rich girl because she wouldn’t give it up to you. And then, you waited till she was dead and you—”

  Butch flinches, and Trey jumps back, fists up, huffing air through his nostrils, wild as a mustang.

  “Relax, man. I’m not gonna hit you. You mean nothing to me. Less than nothing. But, you should leave ’cause I’m calling the police.” Butch holds up his phone, his finger on the nine, ready to pull the trigger. And it hits me then how solid he seems. How he’s grown into a man, rooted to the earth. How Trey shrinks, small as a mouse compared to him.

  “You got the message, right? Stay the fuck out of my business.” He turns tail and scampers back to his car. Under the bruised black paint on the fender, I recognize that hideous shade of purple. No offense, but your car is a hooptie—I hear Butch’s voice in my head. And it bolsters me, knowing Trey is still driving that Buick. That he’s just as chained to the past as I am. Maybe more.

  “How’d you get my Dad’s ring?” It winks at me from his finger—a sterling silver skull with two rubies for eyes. “Real goddamned rubies,” my mom had always said.

  He grins at it, proud, like he earned it. “Shit, Evelyn. You gave it to me.”

  “Like hell I did.” But I doubt myself.

  “This little beauty and the money you owed me. I always knew you’d come around.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You really don’t remember? It was the last night I saw you. You and that friend of yours. What the hell was her name? Purdy little thing. Anyway, I put you on a bus to LA just like you asked. You were drunk or high on somethin’ that night. Hell if I know. But you had a little baggie of powder on ya. I flushed it down the toilet.”

  One hand on the Buick’s roof, he lowers himself to the driver’s seat. His arm is inked to the shoulder, as gaunt as a chicken wing. All sinew and gristle. The parts you’d spit out.