by Bree Despain
“Not so long, Danny Boy.” She leaned her breasts up against him. “But you were more fun then.” She traced a long, red, talonlike fingernail down his cheek. “You must come with me now.” She pulled Daniel away from my side. “You have kept me waiting, and Mishka is not a patient woman.”
“Come on, Grace.” Daniel held his hand out to me. I was about to slip my fingers into his when Mishka scowled.
“No!” she said. “I do not perform for an audience. This one stays here.”
“I won’t leave her behind.”
Mishka leaned in even closer to Daniel, her gleaming teeth brushed his ear as she spoke. “You and I are the only real players here. Your girl will be fine without you for a few minutes. Mishka will not wait for you any longer, Danny Boy.”
She pulled on his arm, but he didn’t budge.
“Do you need a reminder of how I get when you disappoint me?” She narrowed her eyes and licked her lips.
“No … but Grace …,” he protested halfheartedly.
Mishka turned her glare on me. The irises of her eyes looked jet-black in the apartment’s murky light. She brushed my arm with her talons, and her teeth seemed awfully sharp as she smiled. “You do not mind if I borrow my Danny Boy for a few moments,” she said, but I could have sworn that her lips never moved—like I’d heard her voice inside my head.
“Um … no,” I said, suddenly not minding much of anything. Maybe it was just the sick sweet smoke engulfing the room, but as Mishka stared into my eyes, I couldn’t think, let alone care, about anything.
“That’s a good girl,” Mishka said. She looped her arm through Daniel’s and led him away from me.
Daniel glanced back and said, “Stay put. And don’t talk to anyone.”
At least that’s what I think he said. My brain felt too fuzzy and my tongue felt too heavy to say anything back. I stood there in bewilderment until I was almost knocked flat by someone. I blinked at her through my fog. All I could make out was a girl with green hair and more piercings than face. She stopped “dancing” and leaned in close, squinting her seemingly too-large eyes. She said something I didn’t understand, and I tried to ask her if we knew each other from somewhere. But what came out of my mouth didn’t even sound like words. She stumbled away, laughing hysterically to herself.
I retreated to the dark hallway that led to the bedrooms and took in a few breaths of slightly fresher air. I was about to knock on Daniel’s door when I heard Mishka laughing from behind it. My stomach churned, and as Zed’s noxious song drifted into another melody (this one eerie and pulsing, with Zed breathing heavily into the microphone), my hazy thoughts cleared and I realized that I had been abandoned. Any moment, or connection, or energy that Daniel and I had shared was gone.
“Well, ‘ello there, darling,” a guy said as he approached me from the crowd. “Didn’t expect to see you ‘ere again.” He smirked, and I realized he was one of the foulmouthed guys I’d met here before.
“Neither did I.” I pulled my wool coat closer around my chest. Any sexiness I had felt in my Sunday clothes suddenly felt overly naïve.
“You look like you could use some fun.” His voice was as slippery as a serpent’s. He offered me a plastic cup filled with dark amber-colored booze—something fizzled ominously at the bottom. “I can show you a good time if you’re feeling neglected.”
I waved the cup away. “No, thanks, I was just leaving.”
“That’s what you think.” He slammed his arm out in front of me, blocking my escape. “This party’s just starting.” He tried to brush his cup-filled hand where it didn’t belong.
I dove under his arm and through the crowd to the door. The green-haired girl teetered in the open doorway. She slurred a nasty name at me as I pushed past her. I went down the stairs and out of the building. I listened carefully at the exit, and when I heard footsteps on the metal stairs, I bolted down Markham Street.
My luck must have turned because as I came to the end of the block, a bus headed in the direction of home pulled up to the curb. I bounded up the steps when the doors swung open and prayed I had enough money for the fare. The driver grumbled as I counted out my change, but I had enough, with thirty-five cents left to spare.
The bus was almost empty, except for a couple of grizzly men shouting at each other in a language that reminded me of Mishka’s accent, and a forty-something-year-old guy with bottle-thick glasses who cradled a baby doll in his arms and crooned to it in deep, fatherly tones. I took a seat in the back and hugged my knees to my chest. The bus lurched and jolted and smelled faintly of urine, but I felt safer there than I had in that apartment’s hallway.
I couldn’t believe that Daniel had abandoned me to those people. Couldn’t believe that I went with him into his apartment in the first place. What might have happened if it hadn’t been for that party? But mostly, I was ashamed that part of me had wanted something to happen.
Temptation bites.
HOME AGAIN
I rode the bus until it pulled into the stop by the school. I used the last of my spare change to call April from a pay phone, but she didn’t answer. It wasn’t too hard to guess who might have been distracting her at the time.
I pulled my coat tight around my body and walked home as quickly as I could in my heels—feeling the whole time like that nasty guy from the party was following me. I slipped into the house and hoped to sneak up to my room without being noticed. Like I could pretend I’d been in bed all along. But Mom must have heard the soft click of the door closing because she called me into the kitchen before I had a chance to disappear up the stairs.
“Where have you been?” she asked, sounding more than a little annoyed. I watched her rip thick slices of bread into chunks to dry overnight for Thanksgiving stuffing. “You were supposed to help serve dinner after the funeral.” Apparently, it wasn’t late enough in the evening for her to be worried about my safety—but plenty late enough for her to be ticked off about my absence.
“I know,” I mumbled. “I’m sorry.”
“First you disappear, and then Jude.” She grabbed another slice of bread and tore into it with her fingers. “Do you know how it looked to have half of our family missing from the dinner? And your father nearly threw out his back putting away chairs while you two were out gallivanting with your friends.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you.” I turned to leave the kitchen.
“You’re darn right you will. We’ve got at least twenty people coming for Thanksgiving tomorrow. You’re doing the pies, and then you’ll scrub the floors. Your brother will get his own list of chores.”
For a moment I contemplated bringing up the chem test I needed signed since I was already in trouble—but decided not to push it. Mom can get pretty elaborate with chore assignments when she’s aggravated. “Okay,” I said. “That’s fair.”
“Set your alarm for five forty-five!” Mom called as I headed toward the stairs.
Seriously, like I needed another reason to curse my impulsive decisions at that moment.
CHAPTER NINE
Thanks Giving
ALMOST THREE AND A HALF YEARS AGO
“I could never paint like that,” I said as I looked over the project Daniel had set out to dry on the kitchen counter.
It was a painting of my father’s hands slicing a green apple for Daniel’s birthday cobbler. The hands looked lifelike—gentle, kind, and steady. The self-portrait I’d been working on seemed so flat in comparison.
“Yeah, you can,” Daniel said. “I’ll teach you.”
I crinkled my nose at him. “Like you could teach me anything.”
But I knew he could. This was my first reattempt at oils in almost two years, and I was about ready to give it up all over again.
“Only because you’re so darn stubborn,” Daniel said. “Do you want to learn how to paint better or not?”
“I guess so.”
Daniel pulled a Masonite board from his supply bucket under the kitchen table. The boar
d looked like a mess, smeared with a dozen different colors of oil paint. “Try this,” he said. “The colors come through as you paint. It gives more depth to your work.”
He coached me as I started my self-portrait over again. I couldn’t believe the difference. I loved the way my eyes looked with flecks of green and orange coming through behind the violet irises. They looked more real than anything I had ever painted before.
“Thank you,” I said.
Daniel smiled. “When I get some more, I’ll show you this really great trick with linseed oil and varnish. It gives the most amazing quality to skin tones, and you won’t believe what it does for your brushstrokes.”
“Really?”
Daniel nodded and went back to work on his own portrait. Only, instead of painting himself like Mrs. Miller had assigned, he was painting a tan-and-gray dog, with eyes shaped like a person’s. They were a deep, earthy brown like his.
“Daniel.” Mom stood in the kitchen entryway. Her face was pale. “Someone is here to see you.”
Daniel cocked his head in surprise. I followed him into the foyer, and there she was. Daniel’s mother stood in the doorway. Her hair had gotten a lot longer and blonder in the year and two months since she’d sold their house and left Daniel with us.
“Hi, baby,” she said to him.
“What are you doing here?” His voice crackled like ice. His mother hadn’t called in months—not even for his birthday.
“I’m taking you home,” she said. “I got us a little place in Oak Park. It’s not like the house, but it’s nice and clean, and you can start high school there in the fall.”
“I’m not going with you,” Daniel said, his voice climbing in anger, “and I’m not going to a new school.”
“Daniel, I am your mother. You belong home with me. You need me.”
“No, he doesn’t,” I practically shouted at her. “Daniel doesn’t need you. He needs us.”
“No, I don’t,” Daniel said. “I don’t need you.” He pushed past me, almost knocking me over. “I don’t need anybody!” He ran past his mother and out into the yard.
Mrs. Kalbi shrugged. “I think Daniel just needs some time to get adjusted. I hope you will understand if he doesn’t see your family for a while.” Her eyes flicked in my direction. “I’ll send for his things later.” She closed the door behind her.
THANKSGIVING MORNING
I woke up early to the sound of wind battering my window. I shivered and shook in my bed. Daniel was right. He didn’t need anybody. I’d been fooling myself in that garden. Daniel didn’t need my lifeline. He didn’t need me at all.
I pulled my comforter over my shoulders and hunched into a ball, but no matter what I did, I couldn’t find warmth in my bed.
The clinking of flatware in the distance was evidence that my mother was already setting the table in anticipation of today’s Thanksgiving dinner to end all dinners.
I decided to get an early start on making amends for yesterday’s absence and lurched out of bed. The sleepiness in my brain vanished the second my feet hit the frigid hardwood floor. I scurried over to the closet and pulled on my slippers and robe and then made my way downstairs.
Mom had two of the tables from the parish’s social hall pushed together so they stuck out into the foyer from the dining room. They were draped with pressed linen tablecloths the shade of maple leaves, and she was setting places for at least twenty-five with her best china and crystal goblets. Festive floral arrangements and candles adorned the table instead of the usual papiermâché pilgrims I’d helped her make when I was nine.
“Looks nice,” I said from the last step.
Mom almost dropped a plate. She steadied herself and placed it on the table. “Hmm,” she said. “I don’t need you up until a quarter to six to get the pies started.”
Obviously, all had not been forgiven yet.
I sighed. “I was awake anyway.” I rubbed my hands together. “You could stand to turn up the heat, though.”
“It will get plenty warm in here when the ovens get going and this place starts filling up with people. We’ve got a crowd this year. I’m doing two turkeys.” She placed silverware around the table as she spoke. “But that means the pies need to be done by eight at the latest. I bought fixings for two of your caramel apple pies and a couple of spiced pumpkin. Your dad is making his famous crescent rolls, so we need to time those just right.”
“Thank goodness for two ovens.”
“Like I said, it will get plenty warm in here.”
“But can’t we turn up the heat for a few minutes?” I peeked through the window curtains and was actually surprised that the lawn was still bare and dead and not blanketed with snow. “Aren’t you afraid Baby James will freeze to death or something?”
Mom almost laughed. “It’s not that cold.” She came up and swatted me on the butt. “Go get an early start on those pies. Or if you’re so cold you can go work up a sweat helping Jude clean out the storage room.”
“The storage room?”
“Somebody might want a tour of the house.” I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t have to show them the storage room.”
Mom shrugged. “Jude was up looking to get his penance over with an hour ago, and we both know that your father is the only male in this family who can cook.”
“Oh.” I didn’t bother to point out that she could have had Jude set the table because she was repositioning the floral centerpieces to be exactly the same distance apart. “Is April still coming?”
“Yes. Didn’t she tell you?” Mom gave me an inquisitive glance.
“Seems like she talks more to Jude these days than she does me.” I knew it was petty to be bothered by April and Jude hanging out—but I couldn’t help it.
Mom wrinkled her nose. “I guess that explains why he seems so anxious lately.” She clucked her tongue.
“I guess so.” I fingered the tie of my robe. “April is a good person.”
“I’m sure she is.” Mom adjusted the fold on one of the linen napkins. “I’m sure she is.”
“Um, I guess I’ll get dressed and then start in the kitchen.”
“That would be nice,” she mumbled, and started straightening all the goblets.
PIES
Mom was right. Things got pretty heated around the house later that morning. It all started when Dad revealed that he had no idea Mom wanted him to make his famous crescent rolls for the festivities.
“You never asked me,” Dad said after she made a snippy remark about how he should have gotten started on the dough a half hour before.
“You make them every year.” She banged a tray of dried bread chunks onto the counter. “I shouldn’t have to ask.”
“Yes, you should. I’m not in the mood for baking right now. And I’m not in the mood for this big dinner, either.”
“What do you mean?” Mom swatted the bread crumbs into her mixing bowl and jabbed at them with her wooden spoon. “I put this big dinner together for you.”
“You should have asked me, Meredith,” he said from the other side of the counter. “I don’t want all these people coming over. I don’t want a big fancy dinner. I don’t even know if I feel like giving thanks today.”
“Don’t say things like that!” Mom brandished her wooden spoon. A brownish glob landed at my feet. Neither of my parents seemed to notice that I was still in the kitchen making filling for my caramel apple pies.
“If it’s such a problem for you,” Mom said, “then I’ll do the rolls, and the turkeys, and the stuffing, and the cranberries, and the mashed potatoes, and the green bean casseroles, and the spinach salads. All you’ll have to do is say the blessing and put on a happy face for the crowd.” Mom stabbed the spoon back in her bowl.
“You are these people’s pastor. They don’t want to hear you talking like that.”
Dad slammed his fist onto the counter. “Like what, Meredith? Like what?” He stormed out of the room and into his study before Mom could respond.
�
�Insufferable man,” she mumbled, “thinks he isn’t worth anything if he can’t save the whole world.” She marched over to the fridge and flung open the door. She riffled through the shelves and swore under her breath.
I cleared my throat and made loud noises as I scraped apples into my piecrusts.
Mom stiffened, no doubt realizing I had been there through that whole exchange. “Finish those pies,” she snapped. “And then run over to Apple Valley and get some cranberries. The berries. Not that canned garbage.”
Mom slammed the fridge door. Her shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry. I forgot,” she said. “They were out at Day’s Market yesterday and I forgot to check elsewhere. I think Super Target opens at seven for a few hours.” She opened the fridge again. “Would you mind running to get a couple of things?”
“Not at all.” Normally, I would have grumbled and whined on principle at being asked to run errands on such a frigid morning, but that was one heated kitchen I was anxious to get out of.
LATER THAT MORNING
I drifted without direction up and down the grocery aisles, unable to remember what I’d come to the store to get in the first place. I’d left the house as soon as I stuck my pies in the ovens—and, in my haste, left the dozen-item shopping list Mom had dictated to me on the counter.
That was the second time in a week that I’d heard my parents shout at each other. Had things been strained at my house for longer than I realized? I thought of Dad holed up in his study for the last month. And Mom flipping into perfection overdrive wasn’t a new thing. The first time I’d noticed it was a few days after Charity and I had come home from our unplanned trip to Grandma Kramer’s three years ago. I’d found Mom frantically trying to brush, measure, and cut all the fringe on the area rugs to be the exact same length. Dad hid the scissors for weeks after that. I guess I’d been too young to fully clue in to the weirdness between them then. And, of course, no one ever talked about it.
