“Here’s your change, miss. And a little somethin’ else, too.” He slid a few singles and a packet of ear plugs toward her. She looked at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. “Go on,” he said, “take ‘em. On the house. You ain’t from around these parts, so it’s best you wear ‘em.”
“I don’t—”
That faint music rose up in the station, bursting out of the speakers with a hiss of static. She could hear the music more clearly this time, its steady beat more pronounced with the old-time swagger of a piano tune, and the achingly sweet voice of a woman singing in a language she’d never heard before.
The leathery attendant nodded. “As I was sayin’, darlin’, you best put those in yer ears. Some people go a little funny if they listen fer too long.” He twirled his index finger beside his ear. “That purdy lady’ll lead you places where you don’t belong. There ain’t no light down in that murk.”
But Ashley wasn’t listening. She was too caught up in the sound, trying to decipher the beautiful language enunciated by its singer’s silky voice. Outside she could only hear a ghost of that melody, but in here the sound was given flesh, its tune agonizingly vivid.
“Miss?”
She blinked, realizing for the first time that she was crying. The attendant only smiled at her and pointed to his ear plugs.
“As I’s sayin’, you’d do best to put ‘em in.”
“But . . . why? It’s beautiful. It’s—”
The attendant shrugged, suddenly dejected by her inquiry. He snatched the ear plugs off the counter. “Suit yerself. Take yer change, lady. And don’t say I didn’t warn ya. I hear the water’s quite fine this time of year anyways.”
Ashley scooped up her change and shoved it into her pocket. She left the station in a daze, carrying that haunting melody in her head while trying to work out the singer’s puzzling language. Conrad set down the GPS when she climbed back into the car.
“Damn thing’s busted,” he said. “Fuckin’ Garmin. I tried every—hey, are you all right?”
She looked at him, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“You’re pale and—” He leaned over, frowning. “Honey, you’re crying. What happened in there? Did someone say something to you?”
Ashley shook her head. “No, Connie.” She put her hand on his cheek and smiled. “I just heard a beautiful song, that’s all. I’ll try to find it on the radio. I want you to hear it.”
Conrad gave her a hard stare while chewing his bottom lip. “You’re sure nothing’s wrong?”
“I’m sure. Let’s go find us a place to stop for the night.”
They followed the road back through the forest and found the highway once more. Conrad kept toying with the GPS, too focused on the device’s stubbornness to notice Ashley’s preoccupation with the radio. She twisted the dial, searching the stations, looking for that wonderful song. Thirty miles after leaving the gas station, she set the radio to scan and left it there, humming what she could recall of the tune while the evening sun extinguished itself behind the mountains.
***
They were on the road for more than an hour without seeing a sign for a hotel, and aside from the occasional tractor trailer, their car was the only one on the highway. Conrad stirred in his seat, snoring. Ashley leaned back and yawned.
The GPS startled her with its chime, directing her to take the next exit ramp on the right. Ashley glanced down at the device, frowning at the purple line veering off into the cartographic wilderness. She was about to reach down and tap the screen when the radio locked onto a station awash with interference. Static swarmed the car.
“Turn that down,” Conrad mumbled. Shaking, Ashley reached out to turn down the volume when—
Yes. The song. There it was again, clearer than it had been inside the gas station, rich with sound, and full of even more instrumental accompaniment. And there, bellowing over that music, was that blessed singer’s soulful voice, silky-smooth and crooning unknown words that filled Ashley’s heart to its brim. Tears clouded her vision, and she blinked them away just as the GPS chimed the turn-off.
Ashley wiped the tears from her cheeks and flipped on her turn signal. She guided the car down the exit ramp, wondering only for a moment why the device was leading them off the highway before the song reached its crescendo, the singer belting out a cry that bordered on orgasmic. Ashley brought the car to a stop at the bottom of the ramp, sobbing into her hands as her heart continued to ache.
The song slowed, fading off into white noise before beginning again, its lulling notes building up to that mysterious singer’s first few bars. Ashley thought about waking Conrad so he could hear the song’s beauty, but he was resting so peacefully in his seat. And why bother waking him? She knew he wouldn’t appreciate that beautiful voice or the subtle nuances of the backing band. No, she would let him sleep and keep the secret of the siren’s song to herself.
The car’s headlights pierced the shadows ahead, illuminating an empty two-lane road that curled its way around a mountain. Ashley drove with the radio off and the window down. The static was distracting, and besides, she was so close to the source now she could hear the music in the wind. The song was louder, gaining volume as they snaked their way along the road’s curves. Her heart thudded to the rhythm and her chest swelled with each chorus, those strange words punctuating the cool night with a bittersweet warmth. Even the crickets were silent, allowing the siren to grace their stage.
Ashley wondered what she was singing about. The GPS chimed once more for her to take a left at an upcoming junction, and a glance at the small screen revealed she would find out soon enough. Their destination was just a few more miles away.
She slowed the car and turned left down a gravel road, forging a path into the dark, filled to the brim with a dangerous sort of wonder. Every muscle ached and her head pounded, but oh God, did she need to get to the source of that beautiful voice. Nothing else mattered.
The lake stretched out before them, its shores lined with the cars and trucks of other lucky listeners. The moon shimmered on those gentle waters, looking back at her like a single, pale eye. Come, it said, cleanse yourself, child. Baptize yourself with the siren’s voice.
Ashley parked the car and got out. She didn’t bother closing the door, fearing the noise might wake Conrad. She glanced back at him, yearning for his touch, some part of her resisting the song that played overhead like the voice of God. She heard herself cry out, telling herself to wake up, but the song kept playing and that singer’s voice was so beautiful and serene.
She turned toward the lake, slipped off her shoes, and waded into those murky waters.
***
Conrad woke in the low light of dawn. He sat up, cringing at his stiff neck, and took a moment to get his bearings. Their car was parked between two old, rusty trucks. Beyond was the shore of a lake, its body obscured by a hazy fog, and the sky was overcast.
The driver door was open.
“Ash?” He sat up and unbuckled his seat belt. “Ashley? Where the hell are we?”
He became aware of a low, subtle drone permeating the air. The noise made his head hurt. He turned, surveying the shore of the lake. Hundreds of cars were parked along the water, some old, some new. All were abandoned.
“Ashley?” His voice echoed across the water, accompanied by the slow lapping of the waves. “This isn’t funny. What are we doing in this place?”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
He turned toward her voice, and when he saw her, his stomach tumbled to the ground. Ashley emerged from the lake. She was naked except for strands of a black sludge that wrapped around her arms, between her breasts, and curled down between her legs. Open sores dotted her forehead, and when she smiled at him, one of her incisors dropped to the dirt.
Conrad’s gut lurched again, and he was torn between running to her and running away from her.
“What—what happened? What did you do?”
“The siren told me you wouldn’t hear it,” she s
aid, lurching forward with one bloated hand stretched out to him. “You always had bad taste in music, Connie. But that’s okay. We forgive you.”
Dark hands emerged from the water, groping the air, clenching, eager for something to grip. Conrad reached out and took her hand.
“We have to get you to a hospital.” He was crying now, unable to process what had happened. He was so lost in his sorrow that he didn’t feel Ashley’s hold on his arm. Not at first. He turned to her, recoiling as one of her eyes slipped from its socket.
“I’d rather stay. Come take a dip with me,” she said, tightening her grip. An army of bloated, darkened hands rose from the water, beckoning to them, and Conrad began to scream. Ashley smiled. “The water’s fine this time of year.”
THE OTHERLAND EXPRESS
Gregory Simmons was nearly asleep when his iPod battery died. He looked away from the window and frowned. Without music, there was nothing to keep the Greyhound’s ambience at bay. He could already hear the other passengers murmuring to themselves over the engine’s white noise.
He’d left his charger back at his old man’s place. The AC adapter was still plugged into the wall socket next to his bed, one of the few belongings he’d left behind in haste, and he didn’t have enough cash left to buy a new one.
So much for that. He coiled his earbuds, stuffed the iPod into his backpack, and leaned his head against the window, watching as the world rolled past in a darkened blur. Miles away, lightning arced across a cloudbank, turning the hills into silhouettes and his thoughts into fears.
What if his old man came after him? Unlikely, but plausible. Then again, Gregory doubted his old man had even noticed he was gone. These days, the only time Eddie Simmons paid his son any attention was when he wanted a beer or when he wanted something to beat on.
Light from a passing car filled the cabin, and for an instant, Gregory saw his reflection in the glass. The bruises were still fresh, but the swelling had gone down. That was good. People wouldn’t be so keen to notice or stare. The last thing he needed was for some Good Samaritan to ask if he was okay, where was he going, where were his parents, and so on.
In Gregory’s rush to escape from his father’s apartment, he’d not given much thought to a cover story should a stranger inquire about his travels. “Traveling to visit my mom” seemed too cliché; “Traveling to my mom’s funeral” was far more accurate even if it was just a few years too late. Both stories made his heart hurt for the same reason.
No one bothered to ask though. It was a fact that might have irritated him under different circumstances, but today he was grateful for the anonymity. Today, he was a seventeen-year-old nobody, just another kid with fresh bruises on the run from the bad cards life had dealt him. A couple hundred miles back, his father was probably arriving home with a fresh buzz from the bar, the old bastard’s knuckles still raw, ignorant of Gregory’s absence or the money missing from beneath his mattress.
His father’s drunken slurs echoed in his head: Should’a kicked yer ass out years ago, ya worthless punk! Yer a parasite, that’s what you are. A worthless faggot parasite.
The old man’s words always did more harm than his fists, but years of suffering through both had tempered Gregory’s wits, and he wouldn’t let himself be frightened into returning home. Eddie Simmons crossed a line this time, and Gregory had had enough.
A bolt of lightning lit up the night, fracturing the skyline into a thousand jagged pieces. Gregory’s bruised reflection stared back from the window, and he was about to turn away when something else caught his eye: the reflection of a man sitting in the seat across the aisle. He was staring at Gregory.
Or was he? Gregory couldn’t tell, and the lightning had ceased by the time he looked over his shoulder. There was only a bus filled with shadows, its occupants marked as silhouettes against the glare of headlights from passing cars. The man across the aisle turned his head slightly and offered a short nod.
Gregory returned the nod instinctively, more as a reaction than out of good manners, and turned back toward the window. Heat flooded Gregory’s cheeks and he tried holding his breath to slow his thudding heart. What if the stranger knew he was a runaway? What if Gregory had given something away in his appearance or maybe even through his mannerisms?
Stop it, he told himself. The guy’s just being nice. You’re the one who turned around and stared, remember?
He glanced back across the aisle. The stranger had turned away, staring out the window at the passing storm. Gregory leaned his head against the glass and closed his eyes. Just my imagination. The real monster’s a few hundred miles back. Keep it cool until the next stop. Call Tommy when you get there. He’ll be worried. Just don’t draw attention to yourself.
The thought of his boyfriend—was he a boyfriend? Could he call Tommy that now?—set his heart at ease, but the lingering fear that this stranger somehow knew what he was doing kept Gregory awake for the next fifty miles.
***
The phone rang three times before a voice said, “Hello?”
“Hey Tommy, it’s me.”
“Greg? Are you okay?”
The surprise in Tommy Keegan’s voice made him smile. “Yeah. A little bruised, but the old man’s done worse. I missed you.”
His cheeks flushed. Speaking those words aloud filled him with a giddiness he’d not felt since he was a child, and the smile on his face felt so alien that he didn’t recognize the sensation at first. His stomach tumbled and rolled, held adrift by the butterflies inside, finally free of the stone he’d carried. He had missed him.
Gregory was so caught up in his elation that he didn’t notice the long pause on the other end of the line.
“Tommy? You still there?”
“Yeah, Greg. I’m here. Listen, I’m not supposed to talk to you anymore. My mom . . . well, your dad called my mom after . . . you know. She knows all about us. About what we were doing.”
That familiar heat clung to Gregory’s cheeks but for different reasons. No matter how far he ran, he couldn’t escape his father’s shadow.
“You don’t . . . regret what we did, do you?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know, Greg. I’m just confused, y’know? I mean, I don’t even know you, and you’re on the other side of the country. It was fun chatting with you online, but now things are so serious, y’know? I think I just need some time to get my head straight.”
Gregory didn’t know how to respond. The elation he’d felt only moments before had completely drained from him, and the butterflies in his gut had all but flown away. He felt as though he’d taken one of his dad’s sucker punches, his lungs deflated, his head lost in a daze. The bruise on his cheek throbbed. He squeezed the payphone against his ear and leaned against the wall.
“You don’t mean that, Tommy.”
“I think I do, Greg. We’re just names in a chat room, man. It’s not like we’ll ever meet face to face. We just met the wrong people is all.”
He squeezed the receiver until his knuckles popped. The wrong people. Those were his father’s words. A voice boomed overhead from a loudspeaker, announcing the next bus was boarding.
“What was that? Greg, where are you?”
Gregory clenched his teeth as his vision went cloudy with tears. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I bothered you, Tommy. I’m sorry—”
—I ever met you, but he didn’t say it. The words hung there on his tongue, weighted down by the pointless anger of heartbreak. He closed his eyes, trying to hold back the flood building up behind them. His face burned.
“Don’t be like this,” Tommy said, but Gregory was already hanging up the phone. Just before he set the receiver back in its cradle, he thought he heard Tommy say they could still be friends. That was a lie, though, just like everything else.
Gregory slung his backpack over his shoulder, took a breath, and found a quiet corner at the far end of the terminal. He sat down, drew his knees to his chest, and allowed the levy to break behind his eyes. The floodwaters rose. H
e hoped he would drown in them.
***
Tommy had only ever asked once about Gregory’s family. After a few months of chatting online, they’d swapped phone numbers so they’d have a voice to match their text. Gregory’s father was still working third shift at the factory, so he had free reign of the phone in the late hours—which was great because Tommy lived on the west coast where everything was three hours behind. Gregory missed those early days. He slept better.
“There’s not much to say. My mom died of cancer a few years ago. And my dad . . . ”
As far as Gregory was concerned, his real father had died in an accident after he was born. That’s what he told himself to deal with the monster wearing his father’s face. When he was younger, he made up stories about how his real father died while committing a heroic act, like saving a group of children from a burning orphanage. Sometimes, he told people his real father died in a car accident. And sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cynical, he told people the truth: The man he lived with really was his father. Sometimes, when the old bastard had had enough to drink, Eddie Simmons beat up his only son to make himself feel better.
That first night they spoke, Gregory chose to be honest with his friend.
“Your old man sounds like a real asshole.”
“He is,” Gregory said. “One day, I’m going to pack up and leave.”
“You could always come out here,” Tommy said. “We’ve got a spare bedroom. It would be nice to meet you face to face.”
Gregory smiled. “I’d like that.”
After a long pause, Tommy let out an exasperated sigh. “I think I would too.”
Their calls were infrequent at first, only once or twice a week, but as their relationship grew, so did their desire to speak to one another. Tommy asked his mom for a webcam for his birthday, and Gregory managed to scrape together enough spare cash to buy a cheap camera for himself. The resolution was shitty, but he could finally see Tommy’s face, and that gave him something to look forward to every day.
Looking back, Gregory knew that was the beginning of something he wished he’d never started. The low ache in his cheek—and the pain he felt in his heart whenever he thought of Tommy—simply wasn’t worth it. Now, he was stranded in a bus terminal hundreds of miles from home, caught between two dead ends.
Ugly Little Things Page 4
