The Silver Kiss

by Annette Curtis Klause

  Gone to the hospital. Don’t worry.

  Make your dinner. Be back when I can.

  Love, Dad.

  P.S. Don’t wait up.

  She crumpled the note and flung it at the trash can. It missed. She snorted in disgust. It seemed that lately all her conversations with her father had been carried on with a banana refrigerator magnet as intermediary. The banana speaks, she thought. It defended the refrigerator, stopped her from opening the door. She couldn’t eat.

  Zoë the Bird they called her at school. She had always been thin, but now her bones seemed hollow. Her wrists and joints were bruised with shadows. She was almost as thin as her mother, wasting away with cancer in the hospital. A sympathy death perhaps, she wondered half seriously. She had always been compared to her mother. She had the same gray eyes, long black hair with a slight curl, and deceptively pale skin that tanned quickly at the slightest encouragement. Wouldn’t it be ironic if she died, too, fading out suddenly when her look-alike went?

  Zoë drifted from the kitchen, not sure what to do. How could she wash dishes or wipe counters when God knows what was happening with her mother at the hospital? She shrugged off her coat, leaving it on a chair. Dad kept on saying everything would be all right, but what if something happened and she wasn’t even there, all because he couldn’t admit to her that Mom might be dying?

  She tugged at her sweater, twisted a lock of hair; her hands couldn’t keep still. I should be used to this by now, she thought. It had been going on for over a year: the long stays in the hospital, short stays home, weeks of hope, then sudden relapses, and the cures that made her mother sicker than the pain. But it would be a sin to be used to something like that, she thought. Unnatural. You can’t let yourself get used to it, because that’s like giving in.

  She paused in the dining room. It was sparsely furnished with a long antique trestle table and chairs that almost all matched, but the walls were a fanfare to her mother’s life. They gave a home to the large, bright, splashy oils that Anne Sutcliff painted; pictures charged with bold emotions, full of laughing people who leapt and swirled and sang. Like Mom, Zoë thought—like Mom used to. And that’s where they differed, for Zoë wrote quiet poetry suffused with twilight and questions. It’s not even good poetry, she thought. I don’t have talent, it’s her. I should be the one ill; she has so much to offer, so much life. “You’re a dark one,” her mother said sometimes with amused wonder. “You’re a mystery.”

  I want to be like them, she thought almost pleadingly as she stroked the crimson paint to feel the brush strokes, hoping maybe to absorb its warmth.

  The living room was cool and shadowed. The glints of sunlight on the roof she could see through the window resembled light playing on the surface of water, and the room’s aqua colors hinted at undersea worlds. Perhaps she’d find peace here. She sank into the couch.

  Just enjoy the room, she told herself; the room that has always been here, and always will; the room that hasn’t changed. I am five, she pretended. Mom is in the kitchen making an early dinner. They are going out tonight to a party, and Sarah is coming over to baby-sit. I’ll go and play with my dollhouse soon.

  But it wouldn’t last, so she opened her eyes and stretched. Her fingers touched the sleek cheapness of newsprint. The morning paper was still spread on the couch. She glanced at it with little interest, but the headline glared: MOTHER OF Two FOUND DEAD. Her stomach lurched. Everyone’s mother found dead, she thought bitterly. Why not everyone’s? But she couldn’t help reading the next few lines. Throat slashed, the article said, drained dry of blood.

  “That’s absurd,” she said aloud. Her fingers tightened in disgust, crumpling the page. “What is this—the National Enquirer?” She tossed the paper away, wrenched herself to her feet, and headed for her room.

  But the phone rang before she reached the stairs. She flinched but darted for the hall extension and picked it up. It was a familiar voice, but not her father’s.

  “Zoë, it’s horrible.” Lorraine, her best friend, wailed across the phone lines with typical drama. It should have been comforting.

  “What’s horrible?” Zoë gasped with pounding heart. Had the hospital phoned Lorraine’s house because she wasn’t home?

  “We’re moving.”

  “What?” A moment’s confusion.

  “Dad got that job in Oregon.”

  “Oregon? My God, Lorraine. Venus.”

  “Almost.”

  Zoë sat down in the straight-backed chair beside the phone table. It wasn’t her father. It wasn’t death calling, but … “When?” she asked.

  “Two weeks.”

  “So soon?” Zoë wrapped and unwrapped the phone cord around her fist. This isn’t happening, she thought.

  “They want him right away. He’s flying out tonight. Can you believe it? He’s going to look for a house when he gets there. I got home and Diane was calling up moving companies.”

  “But you said he wasn’t serious.”

  “Shows how much he tells me, doesn’t it? Diane knew.”

  Zoë grasped for something to say. Couldn’t something stop this? “Isn’t she freaked at the rush?”

  “Oh, she thinks it’s great. It’s a place nuclear fallout will miss, and she can grow lots of zucchini.”

  “What about your mom?”

  “She wouldn’t care if he moved to Australia. But she’s pretty pissed that he’s taking me.”

  “Can’t you stay with her?” Please, please, Zoë begged silently.

  “Oh, you know. That’s a lost battle. Cramp her style.”

  “Lorraine! She’s not that bad.”

  “She moved out, didn’t she?”

  No use fighting that argument again, Zoë thought. “Oregon.” She sighed.

  Lorraine groaned. “Yeah! This is hideous. It’s the wilderness or something. I’m not ready for the great trek. I could stay with you,” she added hopefully.

  “I’ll ask,” Zoë said, although there wasn’t a chance. They both knew that was impossible right now.

  “Nah!”

  What will I do? Zoë thought. “You can visit.” It seemed a pathetic suggestion.

  “Big deal!”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you come over?” Lorraine asked.

  “No. I better stay here for now.”

  “Uh-oh! Something wrong?”

  “She’s in the hospital again.”

  “Oh, hell.”

  This is where Lorraine shuts down, Zoë thought. Why can’t she talk to me about it? Why does she have to back off every time? She’s my best friend, damn it, not like those nerds at school who are too embarrassed even to look at me anymore. She searched for what she wanted to say. Something to keep Lorraine on the line.

  There was silence.

  “Listen,” said Lorraine, “you don’t really feel like talking now. Call me later when you’ve heard. Okay?”

  No, it’s you who doesn’t want to talk, Zoë thought, but she found herself saying, “Uh-huh.”

  “Okay. We’ll talk then.” But she didn’t hang up. “Hey, listen, Zoë, I love you and all that mush. Like sisters, you know.” It tumbled out fast to cover the unaccustomed shyness. “Call me.”

  “Sure.” Zoë smiled wryly. They wouldn’t talk about it.

  “Bye.”

  “Bye, Zo. Hold tight,” Lorraine whispered before she hung up.

  She does care, Zoë reassured herself. She just doesn’t know how to deal with it. Who does? But Zoë was angry anyway. They could always talk before. Usually Lorraine’s choice of topic, but they could talk. And now, Lorraine leaving. Was the world coming to an end? They’d been friends forever. What’s wrong with the way things were? Why did you have to go and change every damn thing? she felt like yelling at a God she wasn’t even sure existed. Am I being punished? What did I do?

  It all made her so very tired. I’m ready to take a nap, she decided. She went upstairs. Sleeping had taken the place of eating lately. She lay down on top of the sp
read and escaped for a while.

  She awoke with a jolt. She grappled with the fleeting blur of dreams and recognized sounds that might have been the front door slamming, or the thud of her own room’s door. She got up stiff and unrested and made her way downstairs. Rattling and crackling came from the kitchen. She entered to find her father making himself a bowl of cereal. White-faced, he looked at her, dark circles etched beneath his eyes.

  “Dammit, Zoë, the front door was open.”

  “Sorry, Dad. I must have forgotten. No one was here. It scared me. I went to find a note.” Her fingers picked nervously at the seam of her jeans. How could she have forgotten the door?

  “You can’t just leave doors open, Zoë. For crying out loud, look at the newspapers.”

  Newspapers? she thought. Was he talking about that article? Why bring that up? Why was he picking on her? He didn’t care. “I was here.”

  “I know. I saw your bag. I checked your room.” His voice softened. “Sleeping again, Zo? Don’t you sleep at night?”

  She didn’t answer. If he was home any amount of time, he would know.

  The sight of his cereal made her hungry at last. She looked in the refrigerator. A tuna casserole her mother’s friend Carol had brought over three days ago sat there, browning around the edges. Carol was a warm, generous person, but she was not a cook. Zoë shut the casserole safely away and sat down with her father. She served herself some cereal too. She thought she could handle cereal.

  Her father was staring at her. She suddenly felt sorry for being a bitch. He looked sad. It wasn’t his fault he had to spend so much time at the hospital, so much time making up work, so he could pay for a private room. Maybe if all his side of the family weren’t off in California it would be easier on him. He should let me help more, she thought. But she could hear exactly what he would say. You can help by not worrying your mother.

  “How’s Mom?” She hardly dared ask.

  “Not too good this time, love. She’s still trying to be a good soldier, but it’s wearing thin.”

  “Is she staying?” Please say no, Zoë thought.

  “Yes, a few weeks. Maybe more.”

  Zoë saw the pinched look on his face, and the tears behind his eyes. Maybe forever, she thought. Yes, it’s forever this time, but he can’t tell me.

  They both ate silently and mechanically. There was no enjoyment, just the surrender to physical need. Her dad had turned back into Harry Sutcliff, the man whose wife was dying, the man who had forgotten he had a daughter.

  Several times she took a breath to speak, but the words died in her throat. “Dad?” she finally said hesitantly.

  “Hmm?” His gaze was distant.

  “Dad. About Lorraine.”

  “What? Had a fight?” he answered vaguely.

  This isn’t grade school, she wanted to yell, but she said quietly, carefully, “She’s moving.” Suddenly she was almost crying. All it would take would be his arms around her, and she wanted that badly.

  “Hey, that’s exciting,” he said, missing the point. He slurped his milk absently.

  The tears stayed backed up tight. A lump hurt her throat, and she wanted to scream it out. Where was the old Dad who might have said, “Well, tell her to stand still.” He would have laughed at his own joke, then turned serious to hear her out and comfort her. He didn’t always understand like her mother did, but he tried. I guess he’s in there somewhere, she thought. She didn’t try to tell him again. His world was too shattered for her to add her own cracked pieces to the pile.

  Mom would know what to say, Zoë thought. Even now, she would. If only they wouldn’t cut my visits so short. It seemed like she’d no sooner remembered what she wanted to say than they were hustling her out the door again. No one listened to her.

  “I’m going out for a walk,” she said abruptly. She had to walk or she’d scream for sure. She got her denim jacket from the hall closet. “Bye!”

  “Don’t be too long,” her father called.

  Doesn’t he realize what time it is? she asked herself as she walked up the street. Almost ten. What happened to worrying about “the newspapers”?

  The night was crisp and sweet like apples. A gibbous moon hung plump and bright. She headed for the small local park. It was a plot of land on a street corner, scattered with trees and holding a thick maze of bushes near the center. There were a few swings, a slide, a seesaw, and three battered animals on springs that bobbed you back and forth drunkenly, until your backside grew too sore to sit on them.

  Zoë loved to come late and wander alone after even the wild children had been dragged home. She dreaded the advent of the bright lights the safety-conscious community wanted to install. She liked it as it was now, with the few lights making golden pools in the mysterious darkness.

  She settled on her favorite of the three heavily etched benches. It faced the gazebo not far away, at the very center of the park. The pretty little domed building had always fascinated her. It had sets of steps all around like a carousel, and its open gingerbread sides were barely walls. It was always kept freshly painted summer-white and reminded her of a tiny palace from an Indian fairy tale. She had heard that bands used to play there once, on Sunday afternoons; now children sheltered there when it rained. Take me into your story, she thought.

  Moonlight lit the gazebo, tracing it with silver, but a shadow crept inside, independent of natural shades. She tensed. Her hands gripped the edge of the bench. She leaned forward to decipher its meaning, peering into the mottled dark. She saw someone within.

  A figure detached from the shadows. Her mouth dried. Mother of two found dead, she thought. It moved toward her, stepped into the moonlight on the side closest to her, and briefly she thought to run. Then she saw his face.

  He was young, more boy than man, slight and pale, made elfin by the moon. He noticed her and froze like a deer before the gun. They were trapped in each other’s gaze. His eyes were dark, full of wilderness and stars. But his face was ashen. Almost as pale as his silver hair.

  With a sudden ache she realized he was beautiful. The tears that prickled her eyes broke his bonds, and he fled, while she sat and cried for all things lost.

  2

  Simon

  Simon wiped the rat’s blood from around his mouth. It was not as satisfying as human blood, but it would do. There had been no food at the park, except the girl, of course. She had surprised him. He didn’t like surprises. But now he remembered the way she had held him with her eyes, and the slight taste of fear on the night air. He regretted having left so fast.

  He had crouched in this alley behind a row of shops for twenty minutes now, catching and drinking, catching and drinking. They were hiding now, the rats. They knew something was up. Big cat, he thought, and smiled a thin, glittering smile.

  Time to move on. He stood and stretched, lean-muscled arms reaching skyward. He wore only a T-shirt despite the cool fall night. It was black like his jeans, like the high-top Chucks trimmed with white. He was fond of black. Shadows, he thought. Night. It satisfied him to wear black, yet his laces were red. “Blood,” he had whispered that evening at the thrift store, when his fingers would not leave them alone in the bin. They tangled around his nervous hand until he had to fling them from him or buy them. He handed a dime from the gutter over to the woman with the suspicious frown and fled to this same alley to put them on.

  Where would he go from here? The park? Maybe that girl had left by now. But maybe not. I should go anyway, he thought, and smiled again, the same glittering smile. She was beautiful, dark like the night, but thin, as if one of his brethren had already claimed her. A frown changed his features suddenly, then disappeared as quickly. No. She did not have the smell of that upon her. There was something voluptuous about her, though, that reminded him of death. Big breasts, too, he thought, and chuckled at his peculiarly human preference.

  But she had startled him. He had found that park two weeks ago, and no one came at that time of night. He had let his guard
slip. That was dangerous, foolish. No, he would not go to the park, he decided. It would keep. She had sat there with a familiarity that suggested habit. He would see her again. He would go to that house instead. He had only a few blocks to walk from here. He would see what that boy was up to.

  Simon left the alley cautiously. It was not good to be seen at the same place often. It was an excellent hunting place; he did not want to lose it. He walked the pavement with shoulders hunched, hands in jeans pockets, as if against the cold. Who knew who was watching? He would have to get a coat. The street he traveled intersected the alley that ran behind the houses on Chestnut Street. He made a right. Five houses along he stopped at the end of a long backyard.

  There were no lights on at the back of the house. The yard was mottled with moonlight. Simon flowed from shadow to shadow, between trees and bushes, as if a shadow himself. He might have been a cloud in front of the moon. He reached the rough brick of the house and crept to the oak tree at the corner. With the ease of a cat he scaled the tree and flowed up to a perch on a sturdy limb. He barely rattled the brittle autumn leaves that still clung tenaciously to their twigs.

  He could see into a bedroom. It was an anonymous room. The walls were bare, nothing there to suggest the personality of the occupant. But there was an occupant, a small huddle on the bed. A boy of about six or seven curled with a book, reading by moonlight with a teddy bear close beside him. You’ll ruin your eyesight, boy, Simon thought, and grinned wickedly. It was a thicker book than you would expect a six-year-old to be reading, and Simon itched to see the title. Occasionally, the boy would suppress a laugh and shake his head, whisking his delicate white hair through the moonlight.

  Then the door opened. Gold stole silver as the hall light shone into the room. A young woman stood in the doorway, smiling as she caught the last flurry of the book being concealed under the covers.