Flannery (12 page)

Locking the car might have been the wrong thing to do, she realized, because the guy became furious. Like he hadn't just tried to see if there was anything to steal in her mom's car. He was smashed. He didn't know what he was doing. But he recognized Amber and he started yelling.

Your mother thinks she's something special. She thinks she's better than the rest of us. Let me tell you something, kid, there's nothing special about Cindy Mackey. She's as common as dirt.

That's a simile Amber is not likely to forget.

And that's when Amber's mom came out of the bar. She started swinging her purse. She walloped him on the back and again on the shoulders and on top of his head and there was eight-year-old Amber in the back of the car watching it all, convinced that her mother and this stranger were about to kill each other.

We were parked next to that concrete planter, she says now. She points at a planter containing a single skinny tree trunk no bigger than my wrist, and with just one amazing withered black leaf covered by the freshly fallen snow. A leaf hanging on like a frightened kid.

Like a kid who will, after her mother's drinking incident, have a social worker take her out of class and interview her about her mom. How much does your mom drink, you can tell me, what about your dad, are you wetting the bed, do you have nightmares, I'm here to help, are you afraid, has anyone ever hit you or hurt you, do your mom and dad fight a lot, and let me see your fingernails, and have you ever been left alone, and what do you have for breakfast, and the teacher says you are very tired in class. Do you sleep at night? What time do you go to bed?

The cops pulled Amber's mom over a block from their driveway that night. Amber had to watch her mother get out of the car and get into the cop car and she honestly thought she'd never see her mom again.

When Amber got home it turned out Sean had made his special meatloaf with oranges and brown sugar which I have had several times and I can tell you, it is disgusting, but he got the recipe from
Canadian Living
and he's so proud of it he makes it all the time and no one has ever told him how awful it is.

The look on Dad's face when we came in with the officers, Amber says now. He kept saying, There's some nice meatloaf, Amber. Go sit at the table. And he's running back and forth with that stupid apron on, spooning out my meatloaf and rushing back out to the front porch to see if the cops are going to take Mom off to jail and rushing back into the kitchen to get me the ketchup.

I toy with providing a few metaphors for that meatloaf but then think I'd better keep my mouth shut.

Have you ever seen your mother collapse, Flannery? Amber asks. When you're eight, you think she has died. I mean, she just sort of collapsed in the hallway. Just the whites of her eyes showing. And she stank of that very bar over there. She stank of letting everybody down.

Your mom's been sober for ages, I say quietly.

Six months, she says. Six months and two days tomorrow.

Maybe this fortune-telling Wiccan lawyer will predict a happy future for us, Am, I say. I take her hand and drag her away from the Wild Irish Rose.

Look, the snowflakes are getting lighter now, I tell her. Now each snowflake is like a single square of biodegradable toilet paper, crumpled in its own unique way.

Or they are like snowflakes, Amber says. They are just exactly like snowflakes that speed up and spin out of control in the backdraft of each passing car, like snowflakes in a backdraft, and not like anything else.

14

Once people see how talented Gary is, Amber is saying. I sort of wish he'd hang out with me a bit more, but he has to spend all his time practicing with the band. He's writing another song for me. It's about when we first got together. It's really romantic.

She sings a little bit. Apparently Gary is trying to rhyme
Amber
and
ember
, and the ember turns to a
flame
and he stakes his
claim
.

His claim?

Yeah, like he claims me as his true love. His heart would break, so he makes a stake.

What are you, a gold mine?

Stop being so literal, Flan. It's sounds really good with the band behind him, she says. But I do miss the way it was before, when he asked me over every other day.

She stops for a moment to consult the Google map on her phone, and when she looks up, for a second we are looking into each other's eyes.

Maybe I'll buy some of your love potion after all, she says. She smirks ironically as soon as she says it, but I don't think she has a drop of real irony in her whole body.

The smirk is lopsided. Don't try to pull one over on me, Amber's smirk says. I know a few things. I've been around.

That's the smirk.

It's like she can't let anybody see how sincere she is, because none of Gary's friends particularly like
sincere
. They like suave and simpering gossip, they're all lipgloss and platform sneakers, and lately there have been rumors of MDMA and coke.

And then here comes hopelessly healthy Amber, all shoulders and puffy-eyed from her swimming goggles, her always-wet pale blonde hair turning green at the tips from chlorine, the lopsided smirk ready whenever her true self starts to show through.

Maybe you should get this witch or Wiccan or whatever you call her to put a spell on it, she says. On your potion. She's still smirking but her eyes are bright. Imagine if it actually worked?

It's just a joke, Am, I say. That's the whole point of our project. All about the packaging.

I know, you already told me, she says. Like canned fog.

Or pet rocks.

Or mood rings, she says.

What are you talking about? I say. Mood rings actually work. I jab her in the ribs with my elbow.

This is the Wiccan's house, she says. We are standing in front of a long gravel driveway curving up toward a giant four-story house with turrets and a widow's walk.

Amber opens the wrought-iron gate and it screeches on its hinges. Squares of yellow light from the giant windows lie flat on the white lawn.

The brick walkway leading to the front door has been shoveled so clean it looks like someone might have taken a toothbrush to the grooves between each brick. It is sprinkled with little crystals of salt that glitter under the streetlight.

We press the bell and hear a deep rippling
bong
ring inside. The door flies open and there is Ms. Rideout.

Shhh, she whispers. I just got the baby to sleep.

We step inside and I whisper our names and we shake hands and remove our boots. I step in a puddle of icy water melting from Amber's boot and my sock gets sopping wet.

Ms. Rideout is wearing a blazing white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt. Black jacket, high-heeled shoes. There's a gold chain on her neck with a tiny gold pentangle, a five-point star in a circle of gold, studded with diamonds. Her hair has been straightened and sprayed stiff so it moves all in one piece. Her nylons whisper as she kicks a cat toy, a little stuffed sparrow, out of our path.

Is it still convenient for you to see us, Ms. Rideout? I ask.

Very convenient, my goodness, says Ms. Rideout. I don't mind a little company, she says. Not at all. A school project. I'd love to help if I can.

We enter the wide hallway and she leads us through the living room where a fire blazes, spitting and crackling, throwing leaping shadows all over the walls. There's a near-empty glass of white wine on the coffee table that Ms. Rideout picks up as she sashays through. An oil painting of a nude woman sprawled out on a red velvet chaise longue hangs over the fireplace. I am very much afraid it is a painting of Ms. Rideout. The woman is holding a human skull in one hand and looks as though she's speaking to it. The sockets of the skull stare emptily out at the room.

This way, girls, Ms. Rideout says. We duck past the painting and walk into the dark dining room. There's the flash of two glowing green embers floating in the velvet darkness. Amber grips my arm.

There's something there, she squeaks.

Where, says Ms. Rideout.

There, says Amber, a creature. I saw it.

Ms. Rideout flicks the light. It's a black cat. A big fat cat lying on the back of an armchair.

Oh, that's Merlin, says Ms. Rideout.

What a charming kitty, says Amber.

Don't look Merlin in the eye, Ms. Rideout says, or he'll fly through the air and land on your back. If you make eye contact, he thinks it's an invitation to play. I am fostering him from Heavenly Creatures. He was on the streets for most of his young life, can you imagine? Of course, he has attachment issues.

Amber and I edge past the sideboard with our backs to the wall and our eyes on the floor.

Have a seat, girls, says Ms. Rideout. Neither of you has had an accident recently, have you? Slipped on some ice coming out of a store? Anything like that?

Amber and I both say no.

Okay, Ms. Rideout says. Just checking.

I have taken the voice recorder out of my knapsack and placed it on the table.

Can I get you girls anything? Tea? Pop?

We're good, thank you, I say. Ms. Rideout sits down at the head of the table and pours herself more wine. There's a chair in the corner upholstered in cream satin. The cat has leapt onto the chair and is plucking at the fabric with his claws. First one paw, then the other. Pulling out little loops of thread with each pluck.

Ms. Rideout picks up her glass and swivels the wine around and gulps it back and then tops up her glass.

I turn on the voice recorder.

First, we'd like to thank you so much for your time, Ms. Rideout. Our school project requires that we interview a prominent businessperson about promotion and sales.

Ms. Rideout hiccups.

What about your parents? she says.

Pardon? says Amber.

Have they had any accidents lately? Hit a moose on the highway? Food poisoning? I can even work with a sprained ankle if I have to. Any cosmetic surgery gone wrong? Stress in the workplace?

Nothing like that, Amber says.

Ssshh, Ms. Rideout whispers. She points at the ceiling. Remember the baby.

Then she pulls a little Fisher-Price speaker out of a wooden centerpiece full of warty-looking gourds and miniature pumpkins. Ms. Rideout flicks on the speaker and turns the volume on bust.

Out crackles the noise of something breathing deeply. It sounds like Darth Vader — if Darth Vader were at the back of a dark, wet cave and suffering from a sinus infection.

Is that your baby? asks Amber.

I guess so, says Ms. Rideout, seeming truly puzzled. She props the little speaker up against a dark green gourd. She puts her elbows on the table and rests her cheeks on the heels of her hands, staring at the little speaker.

Amber flicks a glance at the nearly empty wine bottle and raises one eyebrow at me.

That baby is three months old now and I've never really heard her sleep before, says Ms. Rideout. Normally she's screaming her head off. But listen to that. Isn't that beautiful? she asks.

Isn't what beautiful? says Amber.

The sound of a baby sleeping.

As soon as she says it the baby starts screaming. It is a weltering wail that seems to fill the whole room.

She's awake, says Amber. Ms. Rideout snatches up the speaker and turns it off. The room is dead quiet again.

Ms. Rideout puts the speaker back in the bowl and piles the gourds on top of it. One of them falls off the pile and she balances it very carefully on top of the others. It rocks a little and then settles into place. The speaker is buried in a pyramid of gourds. Ms. Rideout drinks all the wine in her glass in three gulps and pours again, emptying the bottle.

You have to let them cry a little bit, she says. Otherwise you spoil them. Now, you're here for a reading?

We're not actually here for a reading, I say. We're here about promotion and sales.

But Ms. Rideout is removing her jewelry. Her gold rings, her pearl earrings, the gold necklace with the little pentangle. She lays it all in a pile beside her on the dark mahogany table.

I've been able to see things since I was a kid, she says. She closes her eyes and rubs her temples.

Amber and I look at each other. I'll admit that I'm pretty tempted. If there was ever a person in need of a little occult help figuring out her future love life, especially re a certain brown-eyed boy. But I know there's less than an hour until Gary's game is over.

We were just hoping for a little professional mentoring, I say. An interview, that's all.

I feel the cat press hard against my leg, and it slithers through the rungs of the chair I'm sitting on. It nudges its forehead against my shin and I lift it gently on my foot and sort of kick it away. It meows. It slinks off and soundlessly leaps up onto the sideboard, daintily stepping through the objects on the silver tea service and leaps down the other side, disappearing into the shadows.

We're here about advertising, I say, for a love potion.

A love potion, says Ms. Rideout. That's very dangerous territory.

It's just a gag, Amber and I say in unison. Ms. Rideout sits up straight and suddenly appears very sober.

It may start out that way, she says. But the power of suggestion is a funny thing. People begin to hear about your potion and they want it to work. How lonely people are, sometimes for their whole lives. They just want someone to notice their worth.

Ms. Rideout reaches back into the gourd bowl and finds the speaker and turns it on and the baby is still screeching and she flicks it off.

Pretty much everybody believes in some kind of magic, she says. They toss a little salt over their shoulder. They don't walk under ladders. Tell them your potion contains a drop of nectar from deep inside an exotic flower or some other nonsense like that, and they start to believe it works. And because they believe, it really does work. But what if a couple gets together because of your potion and they're all wrong for each other? That's playing with fate.

I think I'd like a reading, says Amber.

But Amber, we're in a hurry, remember? I say. I don't know why, but I want to get out of here.

Amber ignores me.

I'd really like a reading, Ms. Rideout, if you don't mind, she says. Amber reaches into her knapsack and pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. Ms. Rideout finds a box of matches and lights a thick white candle, which she brings to the table.

We'll hold hands, please, says Ms. Rideout.

And here we are, the three of us, holding hands.

I have to stretch a little to take Amber's hand because she's on the other side of the table. Several minutes pass. Somewhere a clock is ticking. I try to catch Amber's eye, but her eyes are closed. Ms. Rideout's eyes are closed too. We're waiting so long I wonder if Ms. Rideout has fallen asleep. I give Amber's hand a little squeeze but she doesn't respond.

Okay, says Ms. Rideout. She lets go of our hands. She blows out the candle.

What, says Amber. You didn't see anything?

Not much, says Ms. Rideout. Keep your twenty dollars. Sometimes I see things, sometimes I don't.

But you saw something?

Good luck with your schoolwork, girls. I'd stay away from love potions. You might be in over your heads.

What did you see? Amber says.

Does your friend want to hear this? Ms. Rideout asks me.

No, I say. Amber, you have a game to get back to. I'm already putting away the voice recorder.

Tell me, says Amber. What did you see?

I saw a man, Ms. Rideout says. A young man.

It's Gary, Amber says. And there's the Amber thousand-watt smile.

He was cloaked in a shroud of darkness, Ms. Rideout says.

Amber turns white, then red. She's picking up her knapsack. The smile is gone.

That's it? says Amber. A “shroud of darkness”? What's that supposed to mean? Her tone is incredibly rude. I've never heard her speak to an adult like this.

I'm thanking Ms. Rideout for her help, but I'm thinking of the beating heart of the basketball pounding toward the door of the gym while I waited out there, locked out in the cold, because Gary doesn't want me hanging around Amber, and how distant Amber has been over the past month, how I can never get her to answer my texts, and how last week I saw Gary joking with Mercy Hanrahan, being flirty by the lockers.

He had his arm out straight, resting his hand against the lockers, and Mercy had just got her books and he was leaning over her and she was looking up at him, and she put her hand on his chest as if to push him away but not really pushing. I shot him a look of disgust, and he just looked back, daring me to do something.

I haven't told Amber. In fact, it's the first time I have kept something from Amber and it makes me feel sick whenever I think of it, but I also know I can't tell her. I'm afraid she'll call me a liar.

And there's been an older guy with tattoos on his neck hanging around the school parking lot in a beat-up Sunbird and everybody says he's a coke dealer, and I've seen Gary leaning into his car, talking to the guy. And Mercy Hanrahan is often in the guy's car with her sneakers on the dash, blowing smoke at the windshield.

I feel the hairs stand up on my arms and I have goosebumps. I stand up suddenly and my chair tips over.

It's then that a snarling ball of hiss and claws leaps from the bookshelf behind me onto the back of my neck. I reach up and fling him off. He lands on all fours and stalks away, stiff with the indignity of having to attack a lowly creature like myself. I just thank God I'd already put on my coat.