Motherless Child Page 12

  “I think…” she finally said, after a spell of silence that seemed sweeter than usual, if no less sad, “I think I didn’t know how much I wanted to do that.”

  Benny had nodded. Almost afraid to answer. Eventually, he tried. “I didn’t know how much I wanted to, either.”

  And Jess had given him one quick saw-edged grin. “Really? I knew that.”

  And now—for longer than he’d hoped, long enough to scare him—he’d held off making another advance, to see if she would. To see if she was starting to find him anything more than useful.

  He’d been so sure, for a minute there, that she did. Was still sure she would. Someday. He’d bet his life on it, after all. Given up his restaurant and his Charlotte world, which was far and away the best he’d ever had until now.

  “Benny?” her voice called through the screen window.

  Out past the breakers, a whole seagull flock swarmed down on two pelicans bobbing in the slate-gray swells. Benny watched, listened to them all squawking and screaming, until one of the pelicans rose on its legs, as though preparing to run, and then got knocked sideways by the seagull that stole whatever it was trying to gulp from its mouth. Jess didn’t need him yet, he knew. That was her preliminary call. He had a little longer to stand and watch the world’s last free things scrounge for scraps.

  It amazed him, really. What he’d done, what his life had suddenly become. It also scared him. The whole relationship made so little sense. He was the one who’d been to college. At Penn, for God’s sake. He’d lived in a hostel on a Greek isle and scuba-dived with big-eyed emperors and unicorn fish on Palau. He’d had several long-term partners and a long, sweet affair with a woman from Nova Scotia whom he didn’t love but loved being with and who’d only stopped coming to the States for her museum work a few years ago. He’d owned two Waffle Houses, and kept both thriving, and made lifelong friends in each. Jess, on the other hand, had nursed a husband she’d known only a few years into his grave, lived in a trailer, worked for more than two nearly friendless decades at a Walgreens, raised one wild daughter, and never left the Eastern Seaboard.

  And yet. Being with her, traveling with her—loving her—turned out to be like living by the ocean: endlessly fascinating. Life affirming, even. And guaranteed to make him feel small. And alone.

  And now he’d missed his opportunity to make his phone call, damn it. The condo door had opened. He could feel her back there. The rush of her, force of her. Engulfing him.

  “Benny? Can you come do your thing?”

  He turned, and there she was. Skirt whipping around her knees, shapeless blouse flapping like a luffing sail. Eyes remote as a marlin’s, but locked on him. Just maybe loving him, after all. Down the block, the harmonica kid let loose a single, long note. A hungry seagull cry. Abruptly, helplessly, Benny broke into a grin. That guy didn’t know it, but he’d be getting a pancake supper, cooked up special on the hot plate in the condo.

  And Jess. Well. She’d be getting him.

  He’d call Charlotte later. Tomorrow, maybe. Just to check on everyone. When Jess finally fell asleep or took a shower and wouldn’t notice. Though for the life of him, he couldn’t think why she’d actually mind.

  14

  Natalie hadn’t expected to sleep at all and woke to the whirl of red and blue lights through the drawn curtains and the sound of water running. For a moment, the lights mesmerized her, set her nestling deeper into the sheets. They’d been a regular occurrence at her mother’s trailer park, after all, her childhood equivalent of a hearth fire. Natalie started to sigh, and the present crashed down on her. She froze, resisting the urge to leap up, throw Sophie over her shoulder, and dive out the bathroom window. She also had to resist a simultaneous compulsion to go straight out the door of this room, cross the street, drop down on her knees next to the husk Sophie had left of the guy in the green corduroy cap—who’d played a mean air guitar, from what Natalie had seen—and beg his forgiveness.

  She could do that right now. Kneel in his blood—not that Sophie had left much—and face what they’d done. And let herself weep.

  And then eat a cop or three?

  She started to shudder and froze again, watching the lights whip over the walls. Processing the sound. The sound of water. Running.

  In an instant she was up and across the room, throwing open the door to the bathroom, ripping back the shower curtain.

  “Jesus Christ,” Sophie snapped, in Sophie-singsong. “You’re stealing my warm.”

  At first, Natalie just stared, while Sophie went on blithely soaping herself. And humming. All over her torso and legs, she had ugly black and red scrapes and bruises, some of them still studded with road grit. On her left breast, just above the aureole, a massive blue welt had formed and seemed to hover like a thundercloud. And straight across her neck, the jagged rips Natalie’s teeth had left had almost closed, creating a second, leering mouth. Jack-o’-lantern mouth.

  “If you don’t close that curtain, I’m going all Archie all night on your ass.”

  Without even shedding her nightshirt, Natalie leapt into the shower, threw her arms around Sophie, and let loose the sobs that had been building for weeks.

  The force of them staggered Sophie, almost set them both slipping into the tub. And that made Sophie laugh. It was the same full-belly laugh that had served as sound track to most of Natalie’s life. She clung tight to her best friend’s neck.

  “There, now,” Sophie said, in a voice she’d almost never let Natalie hear. The voice she must have used with her Roo, when they were alone. When it was late at night and neither of them could sleep.

  “You’re here,” Natalie gurgled.

  “Of course I’m here.”

  “You’re you.”

  “Who else would I be?”

  Sophie just kept laughing while Natalie raised a shaky finger and laid it against the scabby, bumpy welts along Sophie’s neck. Right where she’d bitten through it, less than twenty-four hours ago. Still sobbing, but more gently, she lifted her finger away and laid her cheek there instead.

  Sophie’s hands patted her back. The fingers strong, all of them seemingly working just fine. Sophie started to sing, at lullaby volume. Some godawful Carpenters song, now? No—Carly Simon? Through her tears and the rivers of shower water sliding down and between them, Natalie felt a smile spread over her face. Sophie’s hands flowed up and down her back. So gentle. That awful song, about it being too late, sounded almost soothing in Sophie’s voice. Her breasts bumped against Natalie’s through the sopping nightshirt. Natalie felt her smile widen, and she nuzzled deeper into the hollow of Sophie’s neck as those fingers glided down her spine again. And kept going. Past her waist, pulling up the nightshirt. Sophie’s lips against her forehead. Lingering. Then her hands grabbing, the force of the grip stunning. The butt-slap that followed afterward featherlight, as Sophie pushed harder against her.

  Jerking away, almost crashing over the rim of the tub, Natalie wrenched free and banged backward into the sink and stood in the center of the bathroom floor, dripping, shivering hard as the air hit her, tingling in ways she didn’t want to think about. Also, she was furious. “What the fuck are you doing?” She grabbed a towel off the rack, ran it savagely through her hair. If she rubbed hard enough, maybe the friction would spark, light her on fire. Then maybe she’d be warm.

  Smiling, humming, Sophie shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. She was dripping everywhere. Bruised, pale, perfect. Radiant. She looked radiant. “I don’t know,” she said. “Um. Whatever I want?” Then she started singing again.

  “Seriously?” Natalie said as Sophie toweled off, starting to shiver, too. Eating made you glow, apparently, and maybe made you horny. But not warm. Which meant they would never again be warm. “You’re going to hum that song? ‘Something inside…’”

  “Died,” Sophie chirped. “And I absolutely can take it. Oh, hon.”

  Natalie had sagged to the toilet seat. The more she tried not to think—about Ed
die, her mom in her trailer, the fact that she’d killed Sophie, the fact that Sophie had killed—the more thoughts roared through her.

  Wrapped in two towels, Sophie knelt. Her touch on Natalie’s cheek was gentle, now. Helplessly, Natalie leaned into it, let her eyes close. So familiar, that touch. So Sophie. Except for the smell. Sophie didn’t smell like RC and MoonPies anymore.

  “Oh, Nat,” Sophie said. “You are just not even going to believe how good this feels.”

  Natalie opened her eyes, stared into Sophie’s. “Killing someone, you mean? Taking someone’s life?”

  “Eating. Being fed.” Jumping up, Sophie did a ridiculous pirouette and a little cross-toed leap.

  “I remember eating,” Natalie hissed.

  Sophie shook her head. “It’s not like that. It’s … like you always wanted chicken-and-waffle to taste, only it never does? Like … like eating a whole plateful of you.”

  “Well, that just sounds fantastic. I wish I could take my arm off and devour it right now.”

  “No…” Sophie sighed, rolling her eyes. Twirling again, as if she were a five-year-old. As if she just couldn’t help it. “It’s … I don’t know. Like a super-cold water fountain on the hottest, hottest day. Like tasting everything again. Yeah. That’s it. Like tasting again. Like…”

  “Living,” Natalie whispered, and Sophie stopped. Turned. The smile still all over her face. That was the worst part.

  “That’s exactly it,” Sophie said. “It tastes like living.” Only then did she seem to notice the red and blue lights still playing over the carpet and walls out there. “Wait a second.” She had stopped prancing about, at least, and was staring into the other room. Her eyes tracked the lights like a cat’s. “Are you telling me…” She skipped out of the bathroom, shedding her towel as she reached for a T-shirt, moved to the curtains, and peered out. For a long moment, she stayed still by the window.

  Reality-time, Natalie thought. Time to remember what eating really means, now, no matter how it feels.

  Then Sophie turned around. Her smile, if anything, had gone wider. And even in the shadowy dark, her eyes twinkled. “Are those our lights?” She gestured over her shoulder out the window. Toward the dead man she’d left there.

  “If you’re asking, is that the exact spot where you killed a man and drank his blood twelve hours or so ago, yes.”

  Sophie threw her head back and laughed. Bobbed up on her heels and came down again. “That was your escape plan? Sprint for the hotel across the street and hope no one sees?”

  “Well, making a mad dash to nowhere in particular with the rag doll from hell in the passenger seat didn’t seem much better.” Natalie heard the snarl in her own voice. Didn’t care. “Also, I was tired.”

  “I understand.” Easing around the bed, Sophie glided back across the carpet, smile still glinting. Openly provocative. “You had just done some killing of your own, after all. Ms. Holier-than-Thou NatQueenCold.” And she ran a hand over the bumps on her neck.

  The electric tingle in Natalie’s skin, which had never quieted from the second she’d awoken, intensified again. And changed. Again. It was warning her, now. “True,” she said, and stood. Crouching, just in case. Her nightshirt glued itself to her skin, sealing the cold against her. She peeled it off, stood naked in front of Sophie, who stopped in the shadows five feet away.

  She couldn’t read her friend’s expression and had no idea what her own was. She felt dizzy, barely able to keep up with it all. Since when, she wondered, had the whole world become a bucking bull? Then she wondered when it had ever been anything else.

  “It must have been so hard,” Sophie said, stunning Natalie to absolute stillness. This voice barely even sounded like Sophie’s at all. It was too gentle.

  “Stay there,” Natalie managed.

  “Last night, I mean. When you thought you’d killed me. When you saw what I’d done. God, Nat. You must have been so lonely.”

  “I think I still am.”

  “How did you even get me up here? I don’t remember any of it. Did I walk?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Thank you,” Sophie whispered, her eyes pinning Natalie in place. She was positioned perfectly. There was no way out of this room except through her.

  And then, just like that, Sophie laughed and sat down on the bed, leaning back to let the red and blue lights play over her arms, slide down her shirt. “Look.” She giggled. “It’s like all the little globules I missed last night. And they want to join their friends. Poor little guys. Do you want to come in?” Tilting her head, still cooing, Sophie gave her upper arm a long, soft lick.

  Moving fast to get out of the bathroom, Natalie went to her duffel bag and threw on jeans and a shirt. She kept her back to Sophie and tried to get a grip on her thoughts. Little globules. Poor little guys. That was Sophie-thinking, all right. And the licking wasn’t so different from a thousand other Sophie-actions over the course of the last twenty years. Maybe not different at all. And yet …

  She turned and found Sophie staring at her again.

  “Natalie,” she said. “Stop judging me.”

  “I’m not judging you, Sophie. I don’t have any right. I don’t even—”

  “You knew we had to do it. Sooner or later. You knew there wasn’t going to be a choice about that.”

  “I know. I do know. I just…”

  “You’re wondering where the remorse is. Right?”

  More than anything, Natalie wanted to move to the bed, take Sophie’s hand, sit beside her. Lay her head against Sophie’s shoulder. But she didn’t dare. Or maybe just couldn’t. Fear. Friendship. Desire. Regret. Remorse. Loneliness. Longing. Hunger. Terror. It was getting so hard to tell the difference between any of those things. If she’d ever been able to. If anyone really could.

  “You do have to remember, hon.” Sophie’s voice had that teasing edge again, like a tickle. A ruthless one. “I was dead at the time.”

  Once more, Natalie felt a sob rise, and it burst from her mouth like a cough. No tears attached, an emotional dry heave.

  “Well, I’m alive now,” said Sophie, and rose, arms out. The pull of her—whatever its source—was absolutely irresistible. “And I’m so, so glad you’re here with me. There is no one on this earth—except my son—I’d rather be here with. Does that help? At all?”

  Inside Natalie, something lifted. Or melted away. Or gave up. She stood, too, tried to smile. “I don’t know. And you know what? Right now, I don’t care.” She stepped into Sophie’s embrace—to hug her, to get hugged back—and stiffened again.

  Because Sophie had stiffened. Which meant she’d heard it, too.

  “Was that a knock?”

  For a few seconds—just long enough for Natalie to believe she hadn’t heard it, after all—there was nothing. Then it came again. More scratch than knock. But too rhythmic to be anything else.

  Sophie grabbed her pants and backed toward the bathroom, eyes flashing everywhere. “Is there a window in there? Shit, it’s too small. Where’s the gun? Natalie, did you bring up that guy’s damn gun? The one that shot you?” She kept edging away. Making her new mewling sounds.

  Natalie shook her head, trying to clear it. To her surprise, that seemed to work. She watched her friend. “Let me get this straight. You let me all but rip your head off. You ate a guy. But you’re scared of the cops?”

  Blinking, as though Natalie had thrown water on her, Sophie stopped mewling. But she still just stood there, clutching her jeans to her chest. “You know what, Natalie? I don’t know what I am.”

  “You really are like a Lick Em Stick,” Natalie snapped. “Different depending on whatever you’re being dipped in.”

  “That’s…” She trembled in place, holding the doorframe with both hands. “That’s the most me thing you’ve ever said.”

  “That’s why I said it,” said Natalie. “Put your pants on. Get ready to run.”

  The scratching came again. More insistent.

  Natalie moved sile
ntly to the door, She pursed her lips, blew air through them. An old habit. A good one, though. She put her arms to either side of the frame, steeled herself. Then she leaned forward and peered through the fish eye.

  “Oh, shit,” she said.

  “Natalie. Are we running?”

  “Too late,” she muttered. She opened the door and let the Whistler in.

  15

  The tapping at her door came just at dusk and rattled Wanda out of a dream. In the dream, she’d finally realized what it was she’d always forgotten in her mint juleps—powdered sugar, for God’s sake—and she woke up giggling like a schoolgirl. Wanda had never made a mint julep in her life. She hadn’t even seen one since her mother had passed, and that was what, forty years ago, now? Forty-two?

  The second set of taps got her eyes open. She’d been lying on top of the sheets on her bed, with her shoulder wedged against the aluminum siding of her trailer wall, and through that she could still feel the remnants of the day’s heat. Funny things, her dreams. Especially these days. Full of mint juleps and railroad tracks and Ferris wheels and crocheted handbags, but almost no people whatsoever. Which shouldn’t have surprised her. Now that her hips hurt her too much to allow her to continue volunteering at the elementary down Sardis, and her daughter’s calls had dwindled to one a month, and her friend Emmy’s family had moved her north so she could die among them, and Jess had gone, who was there to dream about?

  The third barrage bowed the door out of its frame, almost drove it off its hinges, and shadows slid in around the corners. Wanda blinked and pulled herself up.

  “Sorry,” she called. Her voice rasped, so she took a swallow of the lemon-water she kept by her bed. It tasted lukewarm, too thick, like vegetable oil. She tried calling again. “I thought I’d dreamed you.”