Sample

An Incomplete Death

Laura Moses

1

Enter the Mystic

Dax

Dax Burton nodded once and the quick snap sent his helmet falling into position. He ignited the torch. White-hot sparks erupted. Hissing and sizzling, bursts of incandescent particles glanced off his mask. Metal melted.

Dax lifted his hood with a cowhide glove, rotated the raw steel form on his welding table, and began to whistle a casual tune of his own design. The melody carried cool-headed confidence out the door and into the canyon, its notes curling throughout the branches of the sycamore trees. Unlimited potential buzzed beneath his skin. Years ago, he’d eyed his reflection and seen evil staring back. But bad memories had blurred. Now, in a dark dead end of his brain, the lunatic slept so quietly, Dax questioned whether that part of him ever existed.

* * *

Southern California, inland, just a few miles from the shore, where the terrain keeps the ocean a secret, whisking moisture from the air, and burning spring’s wild mustard-flower fields to a crisp before Cinco de Mayo, tires rolled to a stop. Clay-colored dust clouds settled, and Dax stepped from his car into the August heat, boots crunching parking lot gravel. Stretching his long legs, he locked his attention on the steel-monster transmission towers marching single file over the parched hills like soldiers going off to battle. Conceptualizing a sculpture, he rounded the rear of the car and lifted the hatchback. The dog jumped. Dax caught the big retriever in his strong arms. Barely. He snapped on the Lab’s leash, and it took off like a plow horse, straining at its harness, pulling Dax’s relaxed gait to pieces as it charged toward the playground filled with romping canines.

The dog skidded to a stop. It squatted, holding up a car pulling into the lot. Dax waved an apology to the driver then dug for the little black plastic bag stuffed in his back pocket. As he cleaned up the deposit, the dog kicked its rear paws to spread its scent, blasting faded, fresh-from-the-dryer jeans with dirt and rubble. Rising, Dax observed a wispy young woman laughing. At him. Her long hair took flight, a persimmon flag waving in the breeze, flowing alongside a blouse of air-ruffled silk painted with Starry Night swirls. Her pale skin reminded him of the antique milk glass in his grandmother’s hutch. He took in the beauty of her face until he could no longer ignore the presence beneath it. He lowered his gaze to behold a massive pit bull lying at her feet, regal as the Great Sphinx of Giza, off leash, outside the fenced dog park, and perfectly under her control.

A horn tapped, rousing Dax from a suspended moment of timelessness to the realization he still blocked the car entering the lot. The girl’s green eyes latched onto his and sparkled with amusement. Colored the shade of soft moss they drew Dax into a deep, cool forest, and when the Lab caught scent of the pit bull and lunged to greet it, Dax allowed the leash to close the gap between them.

The dog slammed into the girl’s five-foot-three-inch frame, pouncing an invitation to play, nearly knocking her over, and Dax yanked the bonehead back, stricken with embarrassment, but before he could offer an apology, she gripped her arms and whirled around, shutting him out, her contempt obvious. She stood firm. Within seconds, the retriever sat down and looked up at the back of her head. Tipping a glance over her shoulder, she cooed, “Good boy,” and reached down to scratch the fur under his chin. Chocolate lab melted. She addressed Dax. “Seems you’ve got more pup than you can handle.”

“Sorry. Are you okay?”

“Of course, I’m fine.” She dusted paw prints off her thighs.

“He’s not mine. I’m pet-sitting for a friend. This is my first day with him. He seemed so bored locked up in my studio, I thought we’d go out for some … some bonding time. Have a little fun. Start off on a good note.” Dax lowered his chin and kicked at the gravel while shaking his head. “I guess it wasn’t the best idea.”

“Sure, it was. It’s nice you brought him out for some exercise. This is my boy, Johnny.” She tickled the big, blocky head next to her waist. “Say hello, Johnny.” The pit bull sat up on its haunches and pawed the air. The girl danced forward. “Let’s take ’em in the park!”

* * *

Palm trees breezed by, long elephant legs, emerald fronds in the sky. Dax rolled along the ribbon of seaside asphalt in Nocuma Beach, a small coastal town surrounded by canyons separating it from other municipalities. By virtue of being an enclave, it had developed its own unique flavor, a blend of artist colony, tourist haven, and residents craving proximity to nature rather than designer shopping. On his right, water glistened aqua near the shore, then stretched sapphire to the horizon, the two colors divided by strands of white surf dotted with seal-like surfers in slick black. On his left, a coffee house, ice cream parlor, and several boutique hotels and restaurants lined the street. Locals and tourists ambled about under a blue sky, enjoying an infinite view of the sea, impeded only by the craggy silhouette of Santa Catalina Island.

After their encounter at the dog park, Dax couldn’t believe he’d walked away with Piper’s number. He spotted her address among the little shops, almost directly across from the pier. The sign read Mystic Mermaids, psychedelic typeface waving above the description of services offered: Readings & Regressions. He pulled over and grabbed some quarters for the parking meter. Crap, he thought. What is this?

Tall, blacked-out windows flanked the front door, the left pane having been etched with little holes, which on closer inspection took the shape of stars. Wind chimes tinkled as Dax opened the door and stepped from sunshine into dusk, and pupils dilating, nostrils filling with incense, he scanned the space, each iris a thin gray corona. Light streaks carrying swirling dust motes crossed the room, colliding with the back wall of the shop, forming a blazing pentagram. The stars carved in the blacked-out window, Dax thought, jabbed by letdown. His last girlfriend wasted a big chunk of his life. After serving as her best friend’s maid of honor, she’d dropped out of college to become a wedding planner and spent all her energy on looking like a million bucks at the endless series of network meetings and mixers she attended, never wearing the same dress twice, and loving the partying and signature drinks far too much—a soaring lifestyle that left her deeper in debt than her brides. Dax felt ready for a meaningful relationship and wasn’t about to squander time on some spooky mermaid chick. He set about constructing an exit strategy.

“Hello there.” A woman rose from behind an ancient desk and floated toward him, wearing a tight, low-cut camisole and long skirt of ombré fabric, amethyst ebbing to pearl, which flowed down her legs into transparency. Dax attempted to calculate her age and estimated late thirties to early forties. She reached him, hair cascading over her shoulders in waves the color of clean sand, and asked, “Is there something I can help you with?” A shaft of sunlight entering the front door poured through her skirt, revealing the vague outline of her thighs and as the fabric dissolved every detail of her calves, whose contours failed to trap his vision. Instead, two seahorses—bookended ink—arising from her breasts, heads peering above the cami, tugged at his attention. She caught him looking. “Is it seahorses you’re into or something else?” Her eyes flickered with laughter and spider-leg lashes scurried from her cheekbones to brows.

Dax looked to the floor, hair pitched over his forehead, and he raked it back into place with his fingers; a mannerism that showed itself frequently, sometimes while collecting thoughts to share an interesting idea, sometimes as the precursor to a laugh when a woman said something amusing. Currently, it served as a default behavior. Few things fazed him, and she’d caught him off guard. He felt himself blushing, vexed.

“Aww, I’m just teasing you. Welcome to Mystic Mermaids. I’m Priscilla Nolan. I can take you on a journey of exploration through your past lives, and my daughter, Piper, an accomplished reader of the tarot, can provide insight into your future.”

“Are you saying she has the ability to predict my future?” Dax asked raising an eyebrow.

“Not exactly. She can help you understand things. Things that will empower you. Guide you in making the right decisions for your life ahead. And speaking of my daughter …”

Suspended above the pentagram, Piper descended an open staircase, Johnny trotting at her heel. Almost an afterthought, a teacup-sized Chihuahua, dressed in a pink tutu, followed. This is getting weirder by the moment, Dax grumbled to himself as Johnny sauntered over and head-rubbed his denim-covered knee.

“Mama, this is my friend, Dax, not a customer,” Piper said.

Priscilla’s smile waned, along with the lilt in her voice, and she cinched her arms across her chest, making the seahorses in the ocean of her cleavage rise. “Friends, customers—customers, friends—it’s all the same. Dax, I see you’ve met Johnny. This is Gypsy.” She scooped up the tiny dog, cradled it close, and rocked the thing in her arms, displaying what she apparently considered an infant. “She is an excellent judge of character.”

“Is it friendly?” Dax inquired, noting the dog’s painted pink toenails matched the garish shade of its tutu.

“Wow, you really don’t know anything about dogs,” Piper remarked. “She’s super sweet, you can tell by her eyes. See their soft expression? She looks like a docile little fawn in the forest. We’ve never even heard her growl, have we Mama?”

“Never. She has the spirit of a lamb.”

“Aren’t all Chihuahuas ankle biters?”

“Yeah, and all pit bulls are inherently vicious jaw-locking killers.” Piper laughed. “I’ve got a lot to teach you!”

Unable to tactfully extricate himself from the situation, Dax accompanied Piper across the street to the mouth of the pier where they picked up the shoreline trail and made the twenty-minute trek to Croissants and Coffee, Johnny loping ahead, leading the way. A quick shot of caffeine and he’d shove off, back to his studio, no harm, no foul.

At the seaside café, locals filled the patio tables clad in shorts or activewear, and babies napped in jogger strollers. Dax and Piper took a seat, and each ordered a latte and almond croissant. Johnny lazed in the shade of the courtyard tree, while sparrows pecked pastry crumbs inches from his brindle coat, only to hop aside when his tail flopped up and down.

Dax asked Piper about Mystic Mermaids and listened politely. More so, he watched. Above her green irises, chestnut-colored lashes bloomed tips of white, giving her the appearance of having just rushed in from a walk in the snow, eyes dusted with powder. It allured him inexplicably. Erotically. She’d stopped speaking. His turn. He voiced his disbelief in the supernatural. She smiled and dabbed his wrist with a delicate forefinger. “Reality exceeds our scope of vision,” she explained, tone hushed and patient. “Many people must see to believe. That’s equivalent to doubting the existence of Earth’s natural wonders because you haven’t ventured beyond your doorstep.” She slid her finger along the top of his hand and the feather-soft tickle spurred an unexpected reaction, pulling his thoughts from her words. “If something can be imagined,” she continued, “I assure you, in the metaphysical realm, it is real.” Dax found it all ridiculous. He also realized, the more she spoke the less he cared about it being nonsense. His hand took hold of his mind, reverberating with the electric sensation of her finger brushing against his skin. Piper was anything but ridiculous.

2

Denial

Piper

Sitting at her massive wormwood desk in Mystic Mermaids, Priscilla reigned supreme, self-appointed goddess of the realm. Piper sat across from her like a client seeking guidance, only Piper had no interest in her mama’s advice. Morning fog shrouded the coast, blocking the women’s view of the pier and extinguishing the fire of the pentagram. Under the timeworn table, Piper kicked off her slippers and slid her feet beneath Johnny’s warmer fur, while Priscilla curled a dipper stick above a mug and dosed seven drops of honey into hot organic chai tea. “Seven is always a lucky number,” she said, whirling a narrow silver spoon in the dark beverage. Like Piper hadn’t heard that a thousand times. Priscilla pulled the stirrer from the tea and peered into the lingering whirlpool for a faraway moment. The exposed gears of the skeleton wall clock ticked away the seconds, pendulum swinging. It chimed eight times. Bone China levitated to Priscilla’s lips, wrapped in long midnight-blue fingernails. She took a sip of tea and—keeping hold of the mug to warm her hands—asked, “So … what do you think of Dax?”

Priscilla had cast out a reel, fishing for information, knowing perfectly well Piper’s heart was beating a path into his arms. Piper considered retreating upstairs to her apartment. Why bother? Priscilla would tag behind, interrogating her all the way, impossible to escape when she wanted to talk. There wasn’t much Piper could do about it either, having only so much claim to the loft: her mama owned the building and used the fact to her advantage.

“Well?” Priscilla prodded.

Piper abandoned the desk and whisked through a beaded curtain threaded with luminous little moons into the kitchenette. “He’s alright.”

“That’s it?” Priscilla called after her. “That’s all you’ve got to say about the man?”

Piper lit the fire under an indigo kettle stationed atop a small white stove. “He’s a nice guy,” she said, digging into a bamboo canister for a teabag.

Tapping sounded, Priscilla’s fourth fingernail, the one she kept painted with a phantasmagorical celestial design, clicking against her mug, an indication words flitted about her mind, itching to jump from her mouth. Piper waited for the kettle to whistle, ice-blue flames nuzzling its base. The tapping stopped. Priscilla asked, “Did you sense anything unusual about him?”

Piper peeked through the falling-moon strands. “No. Not at all. Why?”

Priscilla’s fingernail started up again, illustrated nebula pulsating in the flickering light of the candle on her desk. “He’s troubled, Piper. I felt it the minute he walked through that door.”

* * *

A weathered arm reaching to another continent, the pier stretched over the sea, wisps of white fog sweeping across its length. Piper drifted along the planks, accompanied by the rhythmic song of surf crashing below, a marine metronome keeping time for nature. Most people stopped listening after a while. Not Piper. The pulse assured the world pressed on, alive and well. It helped her meditate and sort things out. She had sensed something amiss with Dax but didn’t want to admit it, not to herself and certainly not to her mama, and regarded it baffling, because he gave the impression of being a nice, well-adjusted guy. She’d liked him from the moment that goofy Lab dragged him into her life.

Then, at Croissants and Coffee, something shifted. She began to feel something more. When Dax described his studio in Laguna Beach, she could envision the old building with its resplendent light, his enthusiasm igniting her with excitement. He spoke of it reverently, this place tucked into the canyon away from tourists where he created metal sculptures, from tabletop pieces to massive forms, some of which adorned the grounds of a few Southland museums. He told her about his latest creation, a pair of nine-foot-tall cranes designed for a private Japanese garden. His hands conveyed strength, without being blocky, and moved with passion to outline the silhouette of a sculpture in the air or draw its shape with a finger on the table, only occasionally stopping to unconsciously reach down and scratch the top of Johnny’s head.

Apart, Piper craved the sparkle of his cool grey eyes, and hair, rich as Turkish coffee, that spilled over his brow when he dipped his chin to gaze at her. She envisioned his stride, tall and easy, animating acid-washed jeans and tobacco-brown bomber jacket covered with faded trails like those traversing an ancient map. She imagined—strolling through the cold beach-morning air—sinking into the warmth of his arms, pressing her cheek against his chest, and inhaling the scent of leather mingled with the woody musk of his cologne.

Piper reached the end of the pier and looked out to sea. Catalina had disappeared, absorbed into the marine layer. The silver-gray water spoke to her of Dax’s eyes. At times, she’d observed a flicker in their fire—a momentary lapse resembling the black millisecond between the switching of pictures on a slide projector. What hovered between the photographs? Nothing? Or dark moments linking together “say-cheese” smiles?

Wiping sea mist off her hair, Piper decided the power of suggestion had compromised her intuition. That morning, Priscilla had set out to plant a seed of doubt in her mind about Dax, dead set against her becoming serious with anyone yet, under the illusion a twenty-four-year-old college graduate should be treated no different from a schoolgirl, which would be laughable if it weren’t so annoying.

Piper smiled to herself. The goddess of good fortune had spoken, writing in the coffee. When the server brought their lattes that day at Croissants and Coffee, a heart floated in each cup. Piper sipped there on the regular and knew the lattes should have a leaf design in the froth. The server recognized Piper’s surprise and apologized, saying their new barista didn’t have the drinks down yet. Most anyone would consider it a coincidence. Piper knew there was no such thing.

3

The Wall

Tess

“Another!” The command struck Tess endless as the repeated thumping of a pile driver. Back aching, she lifted the cinder block and handed it over. Sweaty brown sashes of honey-blonde hair pasted her cheeks and wiping it off a torn fingernail dragged a scratch to her ear. He slammed the brick into place and scraped away the oozing mortar.

Finally, the heat of the day gave way to a cool breeze. It brushed over Tess’s shoulders, turning her hot skin sticky. Crickets began to sing. In Southern California, the air changes almost imperceptibly in October. The shadows are longer. The light shines brighter, bringing the landscape in to a crisp focus, as though viewing the world through an updated pair of prescription glasses. But Tess saw only dirt. Once more, she passed her dad a block and wiped the grit off her hands onto her jeans, wondering when he’d wear out, desperate to study for two exams. As a junior at Nocuma Beach High School taking three AP classes, Tess lived buried under a perpetual load of assignments. Her father didn’t care. He was building a wall.

Leo MacKinley, aka Mack, was building a wall because nobody had the right to fuck with his property line. He owned the goddamned land, he’d inform anyone who’d listen, never mentioning the tract wasn’t exactly his, and he’d only come to the place by way of his mother-in-law’s death, when his wife inherited the small ranch-style house.

Behind the backyard of the home ran a greenbelt of natural vegetation, and behind that, in all its roaring glory, the 5 freeway. No one knew the greenbelt had been zoned for tracks, until community residents received notice the state planned to shave six feet off their lots to accommodate a new passenger train slated to thunder through town.

Mack didn’t do much in his backyard, barring the occasional afternoon spent chilling on a lawn chair, drinking malt liquor among the weeds, sometimes taking potshots at the local Scrub-Jays, which sent Tess into days of depression if he hit one. But that wasn’t the point, and it didn’t matter crap the state had given him a brand-new sound wall. “No siree,” he’d rant to Tess. “They think they can fuck me and buy me off with a few bricks. It’s another example of the government stomping all over my constitutional rights. Stomping with shit on the bottom of their shoes.” Then one afternoon, after drinking a six-pack, he’d taken a sledgehammer to the new wall.

“Well then, cupcake, we ought to be finished with this tomorrow,” Mack said, squatting by the wheelbarrow, rinsing dirt off his hands with the garden hose, eyes twinkling with buzzed satisfaction at having regained his land, the wall soaring right next to the tracks. Pathetic consolation though, he hated that train and griped it slashed his property value like a knife. It ran ten times in the morning and another ten at night. He called it the Hood Wrecker, not that he cared how it affected anyone else in the neighborhood.

Mack stood up, towering over Tess at six feet two inches tall, and slapped the barrier. “This thing is solid! You saw the rifts in that shoddy piece of government shit. The Hood Wrecker won’t be putting any cracks in this baby.” He stretched a long grin, flashing perfectly aligned, paper-white teeth—headlights in the night against his dark hair, eyes, and stubble. Without fail, Mack’s smile caught Tess off guard, providing a glimpse of how handsome he’d be if it weren’t for the meanness oozing out of his every pore. He stepped over a dead azalea, grin receding, charcoal eyes turning black with the dimming sky. “Clean up,” he ordered. “Then you can go in. Tell the Sloth I’m going to the Lair tonight.”

Tess’s recent schedule had been brutal. Every morning at five-thirty, she’d jump from bed to make her dad toast and pan-scrambled eggs, just the way he’d taught her. Place a pat of butter into a non-stick skillet. Heat on medium. When the butter foams, crack open four large eggs. Wait five seconds: one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, four one-thousand, five. Stir, folding gently. She’d also learned to cut the flame before they overcooked. Any brown among the yellow and white folds would mean going to school with a stinging red cheek. Thankfully, it didn’t take her long to get ready. Above her cornflower blue irises, a feathering of walnut-colored brows provided enough decoration for a typical school day. She’d be good to go with a few sweeps of powder and dab of lip gloss. After school, she’d rush home to jump start her homework, knowing within minutes Mack would barrel in from work, hit the fridge for a beer or the cupboard where he kept a bottle of whiskey, and head out back, voice booming down the hall for her to get her bitch ass out here now! She’d spent Homecoming pushing a loaded wheelbarrow across the mangled mess of their backyard.

Now, released from servitude, Tess faced another evening of studying through the night. But tomorrow they’d finish the wall, and hopefully Mack wouldn’t think up another project for a while.

Tess kicked off her shoes and entered the house. Cigarette smoke tangled with the day’s residual heat smacked her face and the vapor stuck to her damp skin like plastic wrap. Her mother huddled on the sofa, wrapped in black leggings and gray sweatshirt, ponytail bound with a leopard-print scrunchie, hair crazed at the crown as if the cat had taken to clawing her head instead of its scratching post. Brianne reached for her glass of wine. It sat sweating on the coffee table, next to a bottle of Chardonnay, among bleached Olympic rings marring the wood from other bottles and other glasses. “Everyone’s on their own for dinner tonight,” she said, eyes fixed on the television, which meant one of two things: she wasn’t up to cooking or there wasn’t any food in the house.

“That’s okay, I’ll figure something out. Dad said to tell you he’s going to the Lair tonight.”

Two or three nights a week, Mack would head out to Neptune’s Lair, the town’s local dive bar, rather than drink at home. Whenever he left, Tess experienced peace, a rare and precious commodity. For years she’d unsuccessfully begged her mom to divorce him.

Tess turned on the shower to warm up the water, then stepped into her haven. The hot spray relaxed her muscles. It ran through her hair, poured over her shoulders and down her legs, rinsing away the dirt and dried cement, cleansing her body and soul. Cool air swished through the cracked bathroom window. She turned the water still hotter and glorious burning sent the blood rushing to the surface of the skin on her back, making her shiver. Too scalding for the delicate skin on her face, she held her hands under the stream, then pressed palms against cheeks, palms against eyes, absorbing the warmth. She sighed. Every shower delivered a new beginning.

In her bedroom, Tess assembled her outfit for school the next day, rummaging through the few pairs of jeans and tops she owned. To divert attention from her limited wardrobe, she’d confiscate any gently used clothing she could find and sew the articles into scarves and mufflers—often mixing fabrics to create a vibrant mosaic—to tie in her hair, around her neck, or lace through her beltloops. She could wrap a scarf a hundred different ways to express her mood on any given day, from tightly braided and sleek to free and flowing. She hadn’t known her jewelry had a name, objet trouvé, until her art teacher told her so. She simply made the jewelry she couldn’t afford from things she found: polished stones, seashells, her grandmother’s broken English teacup.

Tess picked up the scissors. She needed to start her homework but couldn’t stop herself. I’ll cut out one. Just one. She opened a dresser drawer dedicated to an abundance of clothing in myriad styles and sizes, each item flowing with beautiful fabric and a unique history: a life before landing with Tess. Many had come from her best friend’s mother, who had worn the garments to parties and church with silver or pearls. Tess reached for her favorite, a tangerine silk blouse graced with snowy white cranes which had belonged to her grandmother. She split the seam, laid it out on her desk, and measured a perfect square—a patch, centering a crane in flight, then carefully cut it out, anticipating its placement among the patchwork of fabrics she’d sewn onto a denim skirt crafted from a pair of jeans. She craved something new to wear to school. Something exquisite and on-trend. The skirt would be short and fun and boho, and she couldn’t wait to slide it over her hips and head for Nocuma High. The project shouldn’t have taken more than a few days, but forced to sneak stitches here and there, it had dragged on for months. She tucked it back into the drawer, with no time to finish it now.

* * *

Tess slipped on a jacket and made her way into the night. The fog lurked out there. Somewhere. Awaiting release from the fourth dimension where it hid. Even during the clear, warm month of October, a veil of white could shroud a blue sea in seconds. After sunset, it crept with long fingers onto land, turning black to gray. The drawn-out howl of a coyote skimmed along a ridge and a yipping reply sprang back from across the ravine. Nocturnal killers, the carnivores prowled the canyons hunting in packs.

Tess treaded beneath the towering yellow sign in the Denny’s parking lot. The red, boulder-sized D quivered, struggling to stay lit. She’d found the kitchen bare after her shower except for four eggs she dared not touch. Savage hunger pangs had annihilated her ability to study, so she’d called a couple of friends hoping to hang out long enough to take advantage of their snack food or, better yet, receive an invitation to dinner. They weren’t available.

The red D continued to flicker, and the illuminated egg-yolk background joined in, convulsing as the monolithic sign began its death throes, golden glow popping and snapping, summoning hungry travelers speeding south along the 5, going to San Diego, going to Mexico, constantly going. The light flickered across Tess’s face, flashing a Morse code message in the night. The sign might die, Denny’s wouldn’t. It was open. Always open. She longed for the cash to go in and buy a grilled cheese and fries.

For a while, Tess earned a bit of money working at the local juice bar by the high school. The small paycheck really helped, plus she could drink free smoothies and juice blends on the job. But once Mack started building the wall, he wouldn’t allow her to report to work. Her job, he said, “first and foremost,” was to assist him, period. If she didn’t like it, tough titties. They let her go.

Mack referred to himself as a jack of all trades, telling Tess, “Fucking people think that saying’s an insult. ‘A jack of all trades is a master of none, but oftentimes better than a master of one,’ is a goddamn compliment. You can’t pigeonhole me. People who specialize in one thing, it’s because they can’t do a damn thing else. That’s not what I call smart!”

Truth: Mack could do just about anything. Especially with his hands. He could build a house or restore a classic car. What he couldn’t do was keep a job, not taking kindly to being bossed, convinced his intelligence ran rings around the dumb fucks who considered themselves his superiors … even while drunk.

When Mack pocketed a paycheck, the house usually contained some food. Nothing compared to her best friend’s kitchen where stainless-steel doors opened to a gastronomical Disneyland, showcasing rows of pastel yogurts, assorted ice-cold sodas, orange juice, sticks of real butter, thick slices of Canadian bacon, blocks of cheese with exotic-sounding names, and crispers filled with apples and peaches. The MacKinley fridge lodged a ghost town complete with its own church steeple of wine, abandoned houses of empty discolored storage containers, and out-of-date condiment jars. And, of course, beer. Haphazard six-packs with tweaked plastic rings. A few slices of bologna and cheese would hold Tess over fine. It got bad when Mack hacked around between jobs or like now when her parents prioritized drinking to the exclusion of grocery shopping.

The fog blew in and misty ghosts swirled in the light-spray beneath the streetlamps. Tess abandoned the dancing spirits to make her way into the blackness behind the adjacent supermarket, scouring the parking lot for classmates who might be loitering about. Emptiness welcomed her padding sneakers. She stopped, the atmosphere dead quiet except for the snap of an elastic band she rolled off her wrist and twisted around her hair, binding it into a tight ponytail. After one last glance around, she lifted the heavy lid off a rusted dumpster. With a long creak, it sliced the silence. A barrage of smells attacked her, but she knew the store would toss out a lot of good food along with the rotten, a fact she’d learned in grade school during a stint of Mack’s unemployment when dinner out with the MacKinley family meant a visit to the dumpster.

Hoping to find a loaf of day-old bread to turn into a margarine sandwich back home, her eyes landed on the most delectable thing—a cake, still in its box, pretty as a picture through the cellophane top. Covered with silky white icing and bordered with bright yellow piping, the top boasted golf-ball-sized red frosting roses and coral script spelling the words Happy Birthday. Tess reached into the bin, stretching up and over to avoid contact with the filthy metal, and gingerly pulled out the box.

“Hey!” A gravel voice attacked her from behind. “Get outta my dumpster.” Before Tess could react, a roaring, throaty chortle ensued that cranked into a smoker’s hack. A big, older woman looked Tess up and down, her large girth swallowed by even larger clothing. A murky coat hung down to her calves, revealing cankles, swollen and chafed with cracked red skin that mirrored her cheeks, which in their roundness gave her an almost jolly appearance.

“Well, don’t let me stop you,” she barked. “Hey”—she leaned forward eyeing the box—“lemme see.” She peered through the cellophane. “Aww, you found yourself a birthday cake. We’ll have to pretend it’s your birthday!”­­­

Tess’s stare fell from the figure to the ground, and she almost didn’t say it. “It is my birthday,” she whispered.

The woman’s faded blue eyes sprang from igloos of fat. “Really? Well, I’ll be jiggered.” She pushed errant strands of white, wiry hair off her face. “Then we must celebrate. What’s your name?” she asked waddling to the dumpster and with a grunt heaving her weight onto a low retaining wall. She bent deep into the bin and rummaged through its contents. Tess answered, joining her on the bricks. “That’s a real pretty name,” the woman said, voice ricocheting within the dark composting depths, snakeskin hands shoving aside slimy lettuce and pillow-soft apples. “Ah, this’ll do.” She came up for fresh air gripping a package that vanished into a coat pocket. “Let’s sit down and have ourselves a real party. Give it here,” she demanded, reaching out, bloated fingers beckoning. Tess hesitated, then handed over the cake. “How old are you?”

Tess ran a fingernail under her peeling metallic nail polish and a chip popped onto her lap. “Sixteen.”

Panting, the woman dug into the chambers of her cloak, retrieved the bag, slit it open with a pocketknife, and one by one placed black-eyed peas on the cake, forming a T, then E, then SS, followed by 16, right under the frilly Happy Birthday. Tess exhaled a puff of unconscious tension.

“Dag nabbit, we ain’t got no candles.” Fingers dived back into the pouch and fished about. “Don’t you worry.” A grin spread across her face, stretching the jagged little blood vessels on her cheeks into red streamers. Up came her hand with a pack of cigarettes. “Ta-da!” She pulled one from the box and jabbed it at Tess. “Ya know, it’s an omen you found this here cake … on your very birthday, no less.” She flicked a slim blue lighter and took a drag, so mighty the cigarette’s blazing tip turned the white hair at her temples orange, pulled it from her lips, and submerged the filter into the center of the cake. “You know what to do. Make a wish and blow.”

What should she wish for? Tess wondered, gazing at the growing ash on the cigarette. Another family? That she were old enough to live on her own? That she had another dad? That her dad was dead? Then guilt. Maybe she should wish for peace on Earth. She turned to the woman. “You know my name; I don’t know yours.”

“Charlene. But everyone calls me Charlie.”

The ash on the nicotine candle continued to sprout. Tess closed her eyes, made a wish, and blew. The cherry burned brighter, and silver cinders dusted the frosting. So much for that wish, she thought.

Tess broke off a corner of the cake, far from the cigarette and beans the woman had touched. The frosting melted in her mouth and surged through her veins. Dopamine danced in her frontal cortex. She considered Charlie’s condition. “Is it terrible living on the streets?”

Charlie stretched her legs and rubbed her knees. “Sometimes.”

“You don’t seem sad.”

Charlie wheezed and white smoke from charred lungs ascended into the shadows. She pulled the cigarette from her lips. “There’s only so many tears a person’s got for each bad thing that smacks ’em. Once that well is empty, there’s no more sobbing, there’s just getting on. Don’t mean you’re happy. Means there ain’t nothing left to cry.”

Tess nodded. She understood.

Charlie went on, “Funny thing is, sometimes I am happy. I’m happy right now, here with you. I’m happy hearing the birds sing at dawn and seeing the trees change. People think trees only change with the seasons, truth is, they change a little bit every day. You just gotta look close.” She plucked a frosting rose off the cake and popped it into her mouth. “I used to be a nurse. Yes, I did. At a hospital in Waco, Texas. That’s where I’m from. One day I started feeling the walls closing in on me, the fluorescent lights beating down on me, and the canned air clinging to me. My insides felt crushed. I couldn’t take it. I haven’t worked or lived in a building since. It’s about choices. What you can live with and what you can’t. I’m happy I don’t feel oppressed anymore. Downright grateful.”

The fog departed as quickly as it came. Tess and Charlie finished off the birthday cake, two smudges sitting on oil-stained asphalt, under the light of the moon, stars, and flickering Denny’s sign.

4

Red Alert

Dax

High noon, Dax’s sixteenth birthday. He inched forward, eyes covered with his mom’s black-out sleeping mask, driven by large hands capping his shoulders. “Keep moving,” instructed the deep voice. “Step over, we’re going through the front door.” The heat of the sun hit his face, all but his eyes, hidden gray bats in a cave. “A few more paces.” Dax felt his father turn him to the left. “Take it off!”

Dax lifted the mask. Black turned to red. A brand-new truck shined in the driveway bright as a fire engine. Jim Burton delivered a hearty slap to his back and announced, “Happy birthday, son!” loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear, while his mom waved from the front passenger seat, squirming with so much excitement she looked like she had to pee. “It’s all yours,” Jim bellowed, swinging open the door. “Look! Leather seats.” Janie Burton ran her hand along the upholstery, Vanna-style. “But wait, there’s more!” Jim boomed. “That’s an eight-foot bed, tailgate assist included.” Janie gestured with a flourish toward the rear window and the cargo bed beyond. “Three forty-five horsepower and three seventy-five torque. So, what do you think?” his dad asked, beaming.

Receiving the vehicle didn’t surprise Dax—Jim Burton loved cars and had been anxiously awaiting the purchase of his son’s first set of wheels since Dax ditched his diapers—however, the size and color of the thing stunned him. A born artist, Dax possessed a quiet, attentive nature, his preference to observe rather than be observed. The world opened up to him when he wasn’t calling attention to himself, spurring his creativity. He’d come to understand this proclivity later, but even during his teens he navigated space barely making a ripple.

Jim mistook Dax’s reflective nature for introversion. A character flaw, if ever there was one, in the book of Jim Burton. A few days before his birthday, Dax overheard Jim grumbling to Janie their son needed to put on front-runner pants and get himself noticed, frustration scorching his voice. She’d explained that Dax captivated attention like a single palm on a vacant beach. He didn’t demand it like thunder or lightning. Or like Jim Burton, Dax thought. The big-time salesman who’d put the company he worked for on the map, bought them out, then cornered the market, swallowing the regional competition. The man who constantly reminded Dax he hadn’t accomplished it being a wallflower. The man who launched a mission to push his one-and-only child into the limelight on the boy’s first day of kindergarten, an occasion Dax clearly remembered.

* * *

On the back wall of the classroom printed in big colorful letter cutouts, Dax read: “Mrs. Shoop’s Library—BOOKS BRING THE WORLD TO LIFE!” It wasn’t much of a library, nothing like the big public library he’d visit with his mom, just a table with some books. Still, he hoped to find the information he sought, desperate for an answer.

After kissing his mother goodbye and saying hello to Mrs. Shoop, a squat woman appearing to store a hula hoop under her dress, Dax rushed to the table. He could feel his dad’s eyes following him, zeroing in as he picked up a book, little fingers tracing the great green arch on the cover of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. Though captivated, he looked further. His father’s voice sailed above the sea of children’s chatter. “Why isn’t he playing with the other kids?” he asked Janie. “I should take him to that group of kids over there and introduce him.”

“Don’t you dare,” Janie spat. “He’s fine. He hasn’t even looked back at us.”

Dax rummaged through the assortment of titles, head down, hair over brows. Everyone Poops. He wrinkled his nose and tossed the paperback aside.

“What the hell is he doing?”

“You know he enjoys reading, Jim.”

“He’s not reading. Do you see an open book? He’s hiding in a corner. He’s hiding from the world!”

Dax continued sifting: Goldilocks, a green ham, fairy tales, puppies, and kittens—all baby stuff. Books explained things, and Dax needed to know about the red balloon. During random hours of darkness, it would take shape, a hovering blood moon beneath the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his bedroom ceiling. No matter how deep he burrowed under the covers to escape the intruder, its blaze would burn through the blankets and force him to watch as it stretched, pulling pot marks into craters, screeching, bursting, rinsing the room red. Then the boy would appear. Laughing. Loud. Dark eyes shining.

When Dax probed his mom for an explanation, she told him he had an imaginary friend. Dax insisted he wasn’t imaginary, and he wasn’t a friend. He didn’t have the courage to ask his father.

Dax looked over his shoulder. Jim Burton’s hands jumped from his front pockets and his weight shifted from one foot to the other, reminding Dax of a man he’d seen in a movie being held back from a fight. His dad’s words began rushing. “Let’s ask the teacher where she plans to seat him, Janie. He should sit in the front row. Don’t you think he should sit in the front row? He’ll be another faceless kid if he’s in the back. I don’t want him in the back.”

“Leave him alone, Jim.”

Janie regarded Dax perfect in every way, even after he’d told her about the boy. Reality shattered that illusion when Dax went missing on his eighth birthday—right before blowing out the bright green candles on his dinosaur cake. The entire family, plus the whole lot of neighborhood kids, had gathered around the long patio table decorated with T. rex plates, cups, napkins, and matching tablecloth. Green and orange balloons floated above their heads, joined by streamers, twirled and pinned to the patio cover. Dax sat at the head of the table, grey eyes glowing with anticipation. Janie led the group in a count to eight. Dax could hardly keep still in his chair, hands slapping a calypso beat on his thighs. After the cake he could open his presents! At the count of six, his eyelids fluttered. At seven, his hands fell limp from his lap. When the chorus screamed, “Eight!” Dax sucked in a breath to blow, and it jammed in his lungs. His face went slack, and body stiffened. Stunned guests stared, rooted in place. Dax tried to focus on his cake but felt his gaze yanked past the burning candles, past the giant jaws of T. rexes on plates, past the table full of friends. For an instant he caught his mom’s eyes and saw fear. He didn’t want to let them go and struggled to hold on.

The pool. Janie had promised to dye the fountain’s dancing water green. Dinosaur green. The water shooting into the air sprayed red. Midnight-bedroom-balloon red. It rained down into the pool in droplets that spread like a hot virus. Dax felt a strange prickle rippling under his skin, then the pull of the water. Far away, he heard his dad yelling at his mom to do something!

“Dax? Dax!” Janie cried, brushing hair from his brow, rubbing his cheeks with the back of her fingers. Droplets of green wax dripped on the cake. The group broke from their shock en masse and rushed to Dax, water globules sucked to a drain.

Jim cut through the crowd suffocating his boy with their concern. He pushed aside children with gaping mouths and bent over his son. “Blow out your candles, Dax.”

The pool overflowed. A red tide raced under the table and splashed over Dax’s feet. Sticky warm. He wanted to blow out his candles more than anything and as he tried with all his might their glow faded into eight faint stars in a distant galaxy.

“Snap out of it!” Jim barked. He shook Dax by the shoulders, sending his head bobbing back and forth.

“Stop it!” Janie screamed, her voice echoing from the top of a well as Dax sank to the bottom, sucked into darkness.

Copyright © Laura Moses 2024 All Rights Reserved