Dance For The Devil (36 page)

Like dressing up a spider in doll’s clothing.

“Where are you guys?” Gillian called, wandering through the icy, empty rooms. Her breath rose in telling wisps, the swirling tendrils adding to the surrealism. The wood-burner lay cold and untended – the ancient furnace obviously hadn’t kicked in. She gave the thermostat a rap, then reset the dial, and Old Harry groaned to life with such reluctance that Gillian knew she’d be calling the repairman again.

The century old farmhouse was decorated in shabby-chic, more by necessity than design. It suited the architecture and Gillian’s early attempts at sophistication had given way to practicality when Michael was born. Anything breakable was either packed away or stored too high for clumsy, inquiring fingers. In its place were buckets of toys. “Like living on Sesame Street,” Robert liked to grumble, and Gillian would sweetly explain that it was a hell of a lot nicer to look at Lego than his grandmother’s ugly glass vase. Despite Robert’s complaints, he’d never come up with a suitable refrain.

Darkness gloomed, cloaking the room, obscuring the corners. She shivered slightly, then began snapping on lights, every one she could find. The light helped, a little, but the unease was still pervasive. Gillian surveyed the room, frowning. Pretty gingham pillows lay haphazardly on the sofa, offset nicely by slate green walls. Mikey’s first attempt at finger painting hung like puddles of color amongst more sophisticated artwork. On the surface, everything was normal. She frowned, her fingers drumming absently on the white-washed wainscoting.
What was wrong? And, where was everyone?

They should be waiting, expectantly, as excited as she. Gillian had been rehearsing the heart-warming scene throughout the entire wretched journey home to Cedar Island. A joyous homecoming, bounding into each others’ arms with passionate hugs and sloppy kisses.
Shit,
she thought sarcastically,
that kind of cheesy sentimentality apparently happens only on coffee commercials.

Tears threatened and she held them in check. Robert would say she was being too emotional, too needy, too stupid for words, and she would tell him to fuck off, while secretly agreeing. She swallowed hard. Robert and Mikey were probably at Jeannie’s house, or perhaps one of their other friends. But... Jesus... was it such a crime to miss your family?

I’m just tired. That’s all.
And it was true. Obviously more fatigued than she thought. Twenty-two hours without sleep was bound to make anyone jittery. But it was worth it, to be home with her family, holding her baby again, safe in her husband’s arms.... that was worth twenty-two hours and any number of snow-covered mountain passes combined.

Cedar Island was smack dab in the middle of British Columbia, or as Robert sometimes joked, the middle of nowhere. It was an island by the narrowest of definitions, land-locked in all directions by dense surrounding forests and largely uninhabited countryside, but an island all the same. The mighty Fraser River, almost fourteen hundred kilometres in length, grudgingly split apart to allow the hamlet of Cedar Island to spring up in the center of its muddy waters. The only connection to the mainland was via an old metal orange-colored bridge which the residents lovingly called ‘Orange Ollie’.

Her dog, Casper, bound in from nowhere, going nuts at her feet, whining and falling all over himself. “What’s up, you crazy mutt? Don’t tell me you’re glad to see me. I’m honoured.” Gillian’s auburn hair spilled crazily over her shoulders as she bent to soothe the black lab and she pushed it back in frustration. Even when she attempted to get it under control, like today, the copper masses managed to escape in maniacal fashion until she resembled – as Robert liked to say – a giant, red Brillo pad.

The dog licked her hand furiously, whimpering. Gillian wrinkled her nose, freckles almost invisible in the dim light. “Yuck, Casper, you’re drooling all over me.” This was not normal behaviour for the mutt, on any level. He was Robert’s pet, brought into their relationship as an adult dog, loyal to one master. The Labrador tolerated Gillian with resignation, ignoring her for the most part, allowing half-hearted tail wags when food was involved. Now he was practically doing cartwheels.

She removed her hand and returned to the kitchen sink, washing it. “Nice reception, old boy. Maybe I should leave more often, hmm? So, where is everyone, Casper? Where’s my welcoming committee?” As she turned away, the dog barked agitatedly, grabbing the edge of Gillian’s sleeve, tugging with his teeth bared. “Hey, cut that out, you fiend, you’re slobbering on my suede coat.” But the dog wouldn’t desist. She noticed the animal’s fur, then – matted and standing on end, as if he’d been chewing at himself. She bent to smooth it, felt the frantic beat of his heart. He began to bark furiously.
What the bloody hell was the matter with the dog?

Casper’s bark changed abruptly to a low growl and Gillian turned, the hair on her neck prickling. Robert was standing in the doorway, watching her. “Holy Christ, Robert, you scared the shit out of me. Your dog is going psycho... Robert?”

Her husband’s mouth was twitching with disdain. “Why must you use profanities, Gillian?” He crossed through the kitchen and opened the door, and the dog flew out, skittering across the dusk-darkened yard with his tail tucked between hind legs. He cleared the low fence easily and disappeared down the lane. The autumn colors and early Halloween decorations, strung through trees and windows, leered evilly at her.

Gillian frowned and the feeling of
wrongness
washed over her anew, extending to Robert. He looked the same as always, tall and dark; his handsomeness marred only by the prominent hawk nose which Gillian found particularly endearing. Same old jeans and ratty t-shirt he’d worn every Sunday since she’d met him. Bare feet because Robert never wore shoes unless he had to. He looked the same but
seemed
different. Cold... aloof. Rather pissed off. Looking down his long nose with an expression reminiscent of his haughty British ancestors. Gillian narrowed her amber eyes and squared her shoulders. “That’s it?” she questioned, peevishly. “I’ve been gone for three days and you want me to watch my language? No
‘Welcome home, sweetheart?’
No
‘How was the reunion, darling?’
Jesus, Robert, you really can be quite an asshole at times.”

Robert quirked his head to one side. “Using profanities is vulgar and irrational.”

“That never seemed to hold you back.”

His eyes flattened and he looked directly at her. “Where have you been?”

It was his expression. No sweet smile, no warm glances.
Gillian found herself growing defensive. “I know I’m late, but it wasn’t my fault. The Coquihalla was closed due to snow – can you believe it? This early in the season? I guess it’s the elevation, but still – it’s only mid-October. I ended up travelling the old highway, what a nightmare. Took forever – everyone else apparently had the same idea and of course half the idiots didn’t have snow tires. There were more cars in the ditch than a demolition derby.” She shivered, running her hands over her torso to warm herself up. “Why is it so bloody cold in here? Another few minutes and icicles will be hanging from the ceiling.”

“You’re exaggerating. As always.”

His tone prickled and her temper flared.
No, I will not do this,
she told herself, but her mouth was already in gear, the words flying out before she could check them. “Listen,
Robert,
I’ve been to Hell and back trying to get home, and I’m tired and cranky. I didn’t even want to go to this stupid reunion, remember? You made me go, said the dedication to my brother was an important event and I shouldn’t miss it.” Her voice had risen and Gillian knew she wasn’t rational, knew her exhaustion was clouding reason. She slapped her hand on the kitchen table and the sound reverberated like a shot. It scared the bejesus out of her but Robert didn’t even blink. “Well you’re wrong. I missed you guys so much I had a thoroughly crappy time, so don’t you dare give me your typical holier-than-thou garbage. I want to see my baby, have a hot bath, and then I want to go to sleep.” What she really wanted was for Robert to take her in his arms and tell her he loved her, but if he couldn’t figure that out on his own... “Where is Mikey, anyway? Not down for the night already?”

That odd head quirk again. Robert was studying her and Gillian felt the fun-house flip again, like someone was playing snow globe with her kitchen. Shake things up, make them surreal: Mattel’s new carnival game, fun for the whole family.
Man, she must be more tired than she thought.
She put her hand to her forehead. “Look, I’m sorry, I think my hormones are going crazy. Robert? Honey? Is something wrong?” You seem... kind of... funny.”

His head snapped back, he blinked, and then everything was normal.
Almost.
“Of course nothing is wrong. We missed you, Gillian.” His voice was flat.

The bad feeling returned in spades and suddenly she felt he was hiding something, covering something up. “Where is my baby, Robert? Where is Michael?”

“In his crib. Where else would he be?” He came over and took her in his arms, and for a moment Gillian thought to resist, although that was silly. Wasn’t this what she wanted? This was Robert, her husband. She loved him immensely. Sure they’d had their problems lately, but who didn’t? That was part of marriage – the good, the bad and the ugly. “You smell different,” Robert said, blandly, his nose only centimetres away. She could feel his shallow, cold breath.

She turned away, panic clawing at her throat until her words came out in shallow gulps. “Hotel shampoo.”

“You feel different.”

“Bigger boobs. And they are gonna burst if I don’t feed Michael. Expressing milk is a killer, even with that new pump.”
Now that’s romantic, Gillian. Away for three days and you’re talking about leaky boobs and breast pumps. Very sexy. No wonder your relationship is in the crapper lately.

“You taste different, too.”

His tongue was licking patterns on her neck, but the shivers she felt were entirely the wrong kind. Creepy. Reptilian. Gillian squirmed in his embrace.
Man, I really am smoked. Can barely think straight.
“Later, babe, okay? I really want to see Mikey.”

Robert held her tighter.

“Honey, please?”

The squeezing increased until she had to fight for breath. “For Christ’s sake, Robert, you’re choking the life out of me. Let go!”

He released her abruptly and she felt his eyes boring into her back as she ran from the room.
So much for a great homecoming.

**

Michael was sitting in the center of his crib, piling plastic blocks. Eleven months old, as adorable as they get, fat-cherub cheeks and wispy hair. She picked him up and breathed in the delicious scent of him, closing her eyes to block out the nasty sensations that washed over her.

Michael looked at her calmly and pushed her away.

“Mikey, baby? It’s Mommy. I’m home.”

The baby pushed at her harder, with a ferocity that surprised her. She looked up and saw Robert watching from the door.

“He’s angry”, said Gillian. “Or maybe scared. He must have heard us arguing, you know how that upsets him. I’ll try nursing him.”

But Michael wouldn’t nurse. Every time Gillian directed her breast towards the baby’s mouth, he clamped shut. Robert continued to watch like a sentinel. Until every one of Gillian’s senses screamed.

“He’s not hungry,” Robert stated.

Gillian nodded, feeling the tears slip from her eyes. This homecoming was all wrong. Nothing felt right. The baby should have nursed from instinct, for comfort. And Robert shouldn’t have made her so mad. No, that wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have flown off the handle. Too emotional, as usual. Her high-strung artistic temperament, which Robert so frequently commented upon.

And later, after she soaked in the tub, her limbs heavy with fatigue, she realized more. Michael seemed different, too. Not just his dejection of her, but his entire being. His expression, his scent. Sitting there, playing with blocks. Building them high into a tower, color blocked, so precisely balanced that they didn’t tip on the soft crib mattress. Eleven-month-old babies can’t do that, can they? They don’t have the dexterity. He certainly wasn’t doing it three days ago. It was though he was Michael, without being Michael. Just like Robert was off.

Now that is incredibly ridiculous,
she told herself, slowly washing her limbs. She stretched one leg high, feeling the tension ease from her cramped muscles.
Too many hours spent behind the wheel,
she told herself, pretending that was the cause, convincing herself that her husband pacing beyond the locked bathroom door had nothing to do with it.
If I could just stay here forever... soaking.... in this oversized old tub with the funny claw feet.
A tub built for giants, in an era where bathing was an event, not something to be hurried through like a shower. A place to retreat when the world became too much.

Robert knocked on the door abruptly and Gillian slipped under the water, pretending not to hear. Now who was being stupid?
I’m the one who’s off,
she decided. Overtired, hormonal, emotional. Nothing a good night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

When she finally emerged, Robert was nowhere to be seen. She paused at Michael’s door, listening, but the room was silent. She hesitated at the landing, wondering if she should seek Robert, wondering if she was up for further battle. That’s all they seemed to do lately, anyway. This trip hadn’t changed anything. It’d only worsened their problems. Fatigued washed over like a heavy blanket. “Oh, the hell with it,” she muttered. “Like Scarlet said, ‘Tomorrow is another day.’”