Amity (9 page)

The buzzing was loud as ever by now, and I felt the flicker of tiny beats, tiny bristles against my face.

“Gwen
,
”
Ro repeated. She seemed to be almost
shrieking
, her face stretched into a death mask, rubbery with fear. “Come back out of the room.
Now
.”

I squinted. “What’s wrong?” She looked sick, but it still wasn’t enough to move me—to
remove
me—from the room.

And were those … 
wings
I felt fluttering at my cheeks? The humming, the buzz, was deafening now, Ro’s eyes wide and wild.

I teetered, blinking. The sound, the sensation … everything seemed to be multiplying, threatening to fill my nose, my mouth, my ears … but I welcomed it.

Then Aunt Ro’s hand clamped around my wrist, viselike, tugging at me. I could almost feel the vacuum-sealed air pop open like a black hole that had suddenly been uncorked.

I opened my mouth wide, to protest, and felt the swarm of insects—
hornets? bees? horseflies?
—rush inside, choking me off, stifling my cries.

Aunt Ro’s grip tightened, and I was

(falling falling falling)

humming from the inside now, from within and from beneath, from my secret, hidden core.

And then the buzzing silenced, and darkness came down.

“IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE.”

I opened my eyes to the sight of thick, rough-hewn beams overhead—the living room ceiling, if not original to Amity’s construction, then at least several centuries old. At the
very
least.

I was on the sofa, stretched on my back, what felt like a pillow propped beneath my head and smelling vaguely of mildew. I swallowed and felt a tightness in my throat, raw and scratchy, and recalled the buzzing of the sewing room, that silent scream, the patter of wings and the creeping cloud of darkness that swarmed around me before blackness came in full.

My mother’s voice, slightly muffled. That was what I was hearing. It was coming from the kitchen.

“I’m sorry about the … were they
flies
?”

Flies
. Yes, in the sewing room. They could have been flies.

I pawed at my neck, pressed my fingers against my throat, searching, trying to ascertain any bites or stings, any telltale swelling. But I could feel nothing but the prickle of goose bumps on my skin.

Ro’s voice: a mumble, a low stream of minor chords. Sounds wove in and out from the kitchen, like a radio intermittently losing frequency.

“The window’s been open. Who knows how long the realtor
left it that way. Could’ve been all spring, all damn summer. Maybe there was a nest in there, in a closet or a corner or something.” My father now, gruff and unyielding.

Ro’s voice rose. “Did you
find
a nest, Hal? When you were up there?
Was
the window open?”

There was a banging sound like a knock, or a fist against the surface of a table, and then my father rumbled again, angry and indistinct, that imaginary radio dial shuffling wildly for a moment. Amity’s angles were playing tricks on me again. On all of us.

“… could have opened it and closed it a hundred times just yesterday!” I heard the sound of a chair scraping against the floor, imagined my mother rising to pace the kitchen the way she did when she was anxious. “But I don’t see why you should have to
leave
over this.
Flies?
It’s ridiculous.”

“Insane,” my father thundered.

(crazy)

My throat lurched. The blood pounded in my ears.

A mumble from Ro. “—didn’t see … the stings.”

“She’s
fine
!” my mother shrieked, making my shoulders clench. “There are no marks on her! Or, she
was
fine, until something
you
said got her so upset.”

“Let her leave.” My father, again.

A door slammed distantly, tinny and thin. It was the screen door off the kitchen. Footsteps grew stronger, drew closer, until Luke’s profile passed swiftly by the living room doorway. His hands were curled around something I couldn’t make out, and he didn’t glance my way. Murray ambled eagerly after him, a whiff of mossy earth, sulfuric and sour, carrying past me in his wake.

There was a ruffle, a scrabbling sound now, slightly frantic, from the kitchen. Aunt Ro: “… leave something for Gwen—”

“—you’ve done enough.” An emphatic cough from my father. Another bang, a clap, more like a palm slapped flat against a surface.

Another scraping sound, another chair pushing back from the table. Aunt Ro this time, I thought. “Never mind, I—I guess I didn’t bring it with me, after all.”

“Ro—” I could picture my mother reaching out, her slim, white arm stretching toward her sister, her forehead creased in concern. “This is all getting bl—”

“—I’ll come back soon,” Ro said shortly. There was a small hitch in her voice. “But I can’t stay tonight. I’m just going to say good-bye to the kids. Then I’m off.”

My throat tightened again, swelling hot, tender beneath my fingertips. Faintly, I heard a buzz—just one, simple and razor sharp. I gagged, tried to whisper. Tried to call out, vainly.

I couldn’t. The air in Amity was heavy, weighing me down and closing me off, cell by cell.

The darkness came, again.

BUT DOWN IN THE WELL-DEEP BLACK
, tucked in some imaginary middle space, Ro’s voice came to me. It was warm and slow, like honey. As she spoke, her hair swung against me, brushing my cheek, cocooning me in a silky curtain, reaching me, somehow, even through Amity’s murky fog.

“I’m going, Gwen, but I’m here for you.”
Her words cut channels through the inky distance, tugged at me in my haze.

“You’ll let me know if you need anything. Just call for me, and I’ll come.”

She squeezed my hand.

Through the darkness, I tried to squeeze back.

Moments later, I heard her engine turn over in the driveway, then growl and fade away. My breath came more easily now, improving in slight but steady half measures. The darkness began to lift, to recede.

Of course, it was too late—my breath, the light. I’d lost the chance to say good-bye to Ro.

She was shot in the head
, I thought.

She was
.

TEN YEARS EARLIER

DAY 3

I LIED ABOUT GOING STRAIGHT HOME EMPTY-HANDED
from that shop, our second day at Amity, I mean.

I didn’t end up buying anything that would keep the boathouse door closed, that part was the truth, yeah. But another truth was how I hated—always hate—to disappoint Jules. So I didn’t come home completely flat-out, bottoms-up empty-handed. Not completely.

I did bring her something back. Just a little dumb nothing piece of junk from a run-down convenience store, no big deal. But that afternoon when I went to give it to her, thinking it would make her smile, or whatever, she and Mom were all caught up putting contact paper on the cabinet shelves. That took about thirty years or so, and then it was more crappy pizza with the slimy canned mushrooms on top that no one likes except Dad, and another night of reading, stuffed up and wrapped like a mummy in my sleeping bag, listening to the firecracker banging from outside, from down by the river.

So that night, I just kept to myself, and waited.

DAY 4

THE FIRST REAL CHANCE I HAD FOR JULES’S LITTLE SURPRISE
came the next night. Dad mumbled something about a poker game and tore out after dinner, peeling off down the drive like if he moved fast enough, he could outrun his own shitty soul. Mom tossed the takeout containers—tonight was crappy Chinese instead of crappy pizza for a fun change—and went to give Abel his bath, and then it was just Jules and me, her with some girlie romance book, the kind with loopy silver writing on the cover, as she sprawled out in the sewing room, buried under piles of fuzzy, pilling blankets.

I was pretending to read, flipping the pages of my beat-up paperback back and forth, but the truth was that the brunette had met a real nasty fate a few chapters back, in that elevator scene, and honestly, now it was all getting a little boring.

The story needed more blood, is what I’m saying. I hate being bored.

I was stretched out on the floor, my legs buried under a puddle of blankets so only the holey toes of my socks peeked out. Jules’s gift-thing was shoved under the couch I was leaning against, and she was curled up on the saggy cushions above me. The sofa was pushed up opposite a fireplace, and with the way the air was so clammy and cool, I thought a fire would have been nice, like I could even picture the orange glow of
the burning wood shining out on us. A fire would go nice at Amity, I thought. But I was too lazy to make one, you know. That night, or any time later. That was kind of too bad.

I wrapped a hand around her leg and she gasped, startled. “Connor!” Her book hit the floor with a dull thud, missing me by an inch or two.

“I got you something.” I reached under the sofa and groped for the fuzzy thing, grabbed it, and pushed off my covers, standing. I thrust it at her, all hot and awkward all of a sudden. “It’s stupid.”

Her face twisted in that confused, surprised look she had, the one that was still happy, even with all of the
what’s going on?
underneath. It was a Jules face, one she mostly used with me. Seeing it gave me a small, warm flicker that didn’t come too often.

“What is that?” She reached for it, squealing.

I shrugged. “Stuffed dog. From the gas station. The quick mart, you know. Pretty stupid.”

Jules loved, I mean, just went totally bonkers-like for dogs. She never really got over it, you know, after Butch died. I always felt kind of bad about that, even though it couldn’t be helped.

Even though I never can help myself.

The dog, this little stuffed one, it
was
really stupid. It was small, like the size of an apple, or a little bit bigger, and its fur was white with longer black fuzz at the ears. It wasn’t squishy or nice, I mean—it looked and felt like something you’d buy at the convenience store even without counting the nuthouse-green T-shirt it wore, all printed in peeling silkscreen with the logo of a brand of wiper fluid across the front.

“I love him,” she said, mouth stretching wide like she meant it, truly. She kissed it on its fake-leather nose.

“Careful. It probably has fleas.”

She reached out the hand that was holding it and shoved the toy at my shoulder. “Grouchy Connor. You’re such a faker. Everyone knows down deep you’re just a big softie.”

Well, that wasn’t true. But I did have a soft spot for Jules.

“It was nice of you to think of me, bro,” she said.

I grunted. “You know.”

It didn’t happen often—and it especially didn’t happen with everyone. But every once in a while, you know, I could be normal. I could be the way other people are all the time. I could be nice.

Once in a while.

DAY 5

I WAS TIRED, LIKE IN THAT WAY THAT YOU FEEL ALL DEEP DOWN IN YOUR BONES, IN YOUR
CUTS
, like they say:
dead
tired, you know? And I for sure wasn’t ready to get out of bed. But it looked like I didn’t have much say in the matter.

“Connor.”

Poke
.

Crap
.

“Connor.”

“Okay!
Jesus
. Okay.”

Goddamn Abel. I clenched my fists, tight, the urge to strike making my teeth rattle.

He’s only six
, I reminded myself.

The thought didn’t do too much to kill the twitch in my hands, but I pushed the impulse down as best I could. Tried to bring up that confused-happy face of Jules’s from last night again.
Six
.

I thought back to when I was six years old. That’s what Jules would have told me to do, what the counselors downstate would’ve suggested.
Empathize
was their word for it. And even if it didn’t exactly come natural to me, I could go through the motions well enough. When I felt like it.

Draw on a memory
, they’d say.
Find something real
.

Six
. There are things I remember about being six years old,
sure. Some specific things, real things. Stuff I’d rather not talk about, mostly.

But, you couldn’t compare—I was never anything like Abel. Not even back then.

Probably a good thing for Abel.

I flipped to my side, away from the stark bedroom wall, and sat up, folding back the corner of my sleeping bag and squinting. What time
was
it anyway? That sunlight was blinding.