Something Of A Kind (23 page)

 

Frowning, Noah peered into the dark, eyes focused on the clock
across the diner. “Just after four, I think.”

At all hours of the night, she could wade barefoot into the little
kitchen of her mother’s condo and find the woman pouring over
papers – bills, textbooks, some too-sexy pocket paperback – and
chugging the brew.

She smiled, surprised the memory didn’t pang. Realizing he was
waiting for a response, waving an empty mug that matched his, she
said, “Thank you, but not yet.”

He
nodded to himself,
chewing
his cheek. Finally, he
set
everything down, looking up. Voice low and intent, he explained,
“My dad, my brothers… they’ll all be getting up for the docks
soon.”

“We should leave, then, right?”

 

He halfsmiled, raising an eyebrow. “Is the jerky-jerk at work?”

 

Rolling her shoulders, Aly said, “He is.”

 

“Are you ready, then?”

 

She grinned. “I am.”

 

CHAPTER 16 | NOAH

Aly’s house was a culture shock. Where his parent’s place was
claustrophobic, stuffed with thrift-store junk and old carpeting, the
Glass home had cathedral ceilings and hardwood. Alongside
massive windows, the furniture was few and far between. It smelled
unlived in and childless, like
the walls didn't know laughter,
crayons, or the smell of lasagna. Everything was stifled, covered in
solid white oppression. In spite of its simplicity, the place was
overwhelming. In the short walk through the downstairs, he hadn’t
been able to take much in. Their footsteps echoed as she lead him to
the stairs by the hand.

After a short agreement, Aly disappeared to take a shower,
leaving him to wander her bedroom. He'd never thought to wonder
where she slept, but this wasn't something he'd picture. It would
make sense, since he never thought she fit well with a soulless ice
man like Greg. Everything she owned seemed to peel away from the
walls, as though Aly herself repelled from the house. A bed and a
dresser, summed up the majority of her room. Pardoning an overpacked bookshelf, the space seemed devoid of her personality. As
though she was still resisting the order to move in, Aly condemned
her possessions to wallflowers. It was the walls themselves that he
found fascinating. It was like visiting the tunnels.

The paintings were amazing
– as individuals, as a collection. He
wouldn't even know what to call them if everything wasn't labeled.
Amongst vintage
portraits, still-life
pastry displays, apocalyptic
landscapes, and wide-eyed deer frozen in confrontation, there were
the cities – Paris, London, New York, Dublin, Moscow. Aly ran
across the world with a brush.

It was a gallery if he'd ever seen one, the shades arranged to
leave an ombre across her walls. Floral cards stapled to the corner
of each canvas listed dates and mediums, a hint that they had been
organized chronologically and group clustered by colors. From what
he could tell, only one had been completed in the past year. It held
his attention, evoking something he couldn't seem to name.

The woman was obviously sick, emaciated and naked, tangled
head-to-toe in dark hair. Curled in fetal position, she barely fit
within the vintage bird cage. Hung by chains attached to a dipping
branch of a bleeding birch, she was suspended above a clone of Aly.
The replica was covered in cuts and vines, muscles taut in an
attempt to pull herself from a bubbling tar pit.

At a glance, it was disturbing. In hues of jaundice, the feeling
reminded Noah of having a depressing song stuck in his head.
Trying to somehow grasp whatever metaphor she was going for, he
backed away, dropping into an over-fluffed chair. Leaning back, his
elbow nudged her bedside table. With a clatter, a framed photograph
fell to the ground. As he lifted it, he noticed the crack – a small line,
cutting a corner. Face flushed with embarrassment, he found himself
staring behind the glass.

Their smiles matched, both eyes excited
– though the contrast of
green and blue irises, one sunken and bloodshot, was significant.
They both seemed cheerful, dressed for frigid weather, but it was
obvious her mother's health had gotten worse since the picture from
her phone was taken. It wasn’t difficult to recognize the caged
woman from the painting.

Noah hadn’t realized a blow
-drier was going until it grew quiet.
A heartbeat later, a door clicked and slammed as Aly exited the
bathroom. Showered and dressed, he was sure she’d broken a
record. It was ten times faster than his sister could even dream of.

His gaze returned to the wall, glancing between Aly and the
painting. It was almost difficult to imagine her having created
something so dark. He wasn't sure she had any in her. As she leaned
into his side, Noah blurted, “Feel like translating?”

Aly shrugged. “It belongs to the viewer.”

 

Chewing his cheek, he inquired, “Is that so?”

“I must have taken it down and put it back up a hundred times,”
she admitted. When he raised a brow expectantly, she continued, “I
was… unsure. It felt artistically vulgar. Something weird happened
with my stuff the first day I got here, and I wasn’t really clear on
who was coming in and out. I didn’t know if it should be placed for
anyone to see.”

“It’s… intense.” Palms up, his hands were open, seeking the
words he didn’t have.

 

She smiled to herself, fingertips trailing the edge of the canvas.
“Thanks… I guess.”

 

“This is the only thing you've painted all year?”

“I haven’t really built up the courage since my mom got sick
again. It sounds stupid, but that was our thing. The way she talked
about them… like she was proud and horrified at the same time. It
was the strangest situation.” She spoke with absence, quietly
laughing at memories she didn’t offer to share. Balancing without
struggle to slide on a pair of boots, she retrieved a coat from the
closet, adding, “I sketched the lake back home a lot, since I knew I
was moving. A few things that struck me about Ashland ended up in
a notebook somewhere.”

"That's a start, right?"

 

“Sure. What have you got there?” she asked, nodding towards
his fists with a smile. Noah grimaced with guilt.

He apologized, placing it in her hands. “I am so sorry. I promise
I’ll replace it. I know it cracked, but I don’t think the picture was
scratched.”

Aly bit her lip, accepting the frame
– porcelain, etched with
butterflies – with reluctance. Shaking her head, she waved off
another apology. “You know what? It’s not a problem.”

He frowned. “Aly-”

“Noah. I said it was fine.” She put a hands on his shoulder,
looking up into his eyes. “This was broken long before it cracked.
Don’t even worry about it.”

She listened for a response. Noah nodded. Tucking it in a
drawer, Aly stretched her arms above her head. Walking to the
window, she stood against a surreal background. The black curtains
against the largest wall were parted, revealing the haze of an
Alaskan sunrise.

She draped a bag across her torso and lifted a camera from its
depths, the strap wound around her wrist. Moving to her side, Noah
stared at the equipment before meeting her eyes.

For the last time, Alyson asked, “Are you sure you are willing to
do this?”

He knew his father would have him murdered. It was possible
he'd be hung, drawn, and quartered with sold out backwoods-townie
spectator tickets – or at least, beaten into seventy shades of purple
and grounded for life.

His fingertips brushed her lips, rousing a smile. He exhaled as
she pressed against him, burrowing into his embrace. Waiting for her
to meet his gaze, Noah grinned as she rested a palm against his
cheek. Aly murmured, “Can I take that as a yes?”

Lee is going to kill me. He's going to wax the floors with blood
and have my head mounted over table five.

 

He said, “Always.”

 

CHAPTER 17 | ALYSON

An alternative rock band flowed from the quiet speakers, the
silence
in
their
conversation
comfortable. Aly
watched
the
mountains for most of the ride, the visor twisted to cover a toobright sun, peaking over the horizon and darting around bends in the
road. It couldn’t rise fast enough. An unseasonable chill crept
through the heaters, full-blast as they labored to clear the flog
beleaguering the windshield.

With heavy moisture in the air, Aly felt alert the moment she
walked outside. Between a
scalding
shower,
spicy
cinnamon
toothpaste, and the post-rain atmosphere, energy flooded her veins,
premature adrenaline egging on her nerves.

She held the camcorder with a death grip, the closed fist resting
on her knee while her leg tapped beneath. In her free hand, she held
Noah’s. Going after the creature made her anxious, doubts weaseling
into every other thought. A streamlined subconscious threatened that
they wouldn’t find it, or they wouldn’t get a decent shot, or no one
would believe her even if she did.

Her leg throbbed as though the wound intended to remind her
where it came from. Aly hadn’t considered Rowley’s halfhearted
warning about the hazard until they were halfway to the campsite.

She shushed blaring uncertainties as Noah blew past the entrance
of the public hiking trails. With a wooden sign disappearing behind
them, it was only a moment before he pulled into a turn-off and over
the curb. Easing into a sliver of camouflaging brush, the engine
hummed to a stop.

“It’s completely invisible from the road,” he informed, reaching
across her to pull fingerless gloves from the dashboard. “Usually, it’s
not safe for hikers to hide their vehicles, in case they go missing. It’s
the first thing the state troopers look for in an investigation. We
haven’t packed for a day-trip though, so we should be okay, since
we’re being sneaky.”

“Sneaky as in hiding? We’re already jumping ahead to Bonnie
and Clyde,”
she
laughed.
Grabbing
his
hand,
she
added
emphatically, “Thelma and Louise.”

“Or Romeo and Juliet,” he teased, climbing out of the vehicle.

She paused, recalling Greg’s words and wondering if Noah
understood the significance
of
feuding
families. Amused,
she
followed him, teasing, “Well, we should hope it wouldn’t end the
same, then.”

Where Noah stood, the trees were parted, dawn bright in his
face. Squinting against the glare, he joked, “What? Star-crossed
lovers committing double suicides not as exciting as flying off a cliff
hand in hand?”

“It’s sexier than Thelma and Louise, I hereby confess,” Aly
smirked. “How psychologically fascinating –
addicted
love,
romanticized death, and all that.”

“Cynical, but justified,” he observed, offering a hand as he led
her up a path that connected with a familiar trail.

With both hands wrapped around the camera, mastering the
inclines that once came easy was a clumsy endeavor. Every once in
a while, Aly would straighten herself, realizing she had hunched
over in an attempt to keep up without taking her eyes from the trees.
As they made their way towards the site of the first incident, she
fought to match his stride. He often slowed for her, always prepared
to grab her arm or catch her when she tripped, distracted. After the
third or fourth near-fall, he wrapped an arm around her waist and
guided any calculated maneuvering.

Upon reaching the campfire, with some debate as to which spot
was theirs, she realized how unlikely it was that anything would
show up. The tree line that seemed dark and impenetrable the first
night was airy, vegetation loosely dispersed. Noah sifted through the
pit’s ashes. Finding nothing, he kicked a stone before moving to
look for footprints in the grass.

In just moments, his mood went from tangible frustration to
silent scrutiny. His expression vague, he gathered the loose threads,
everything abruptly internalized.

Unsure how to diffuse his agitation, she probed, “Find
anything?”

 

Noah sighed. “Nah. It’s unimpressive, so far. It looks like the
grass bounced back, like it filled in with mud from the rain.”

“Rowl
-” Aly paused, noting that he would have no idea what she
was talking about. Revising, she continued, “Some guy at Greg’s
office said that happens a lot… Which reminds me – I really wish I
brought something for casting… apparently there’s a special way to
do it.”

He nodded, beckoning her to follow him through the trees. After
scaling a steep boulder, he helped her over it, repeating the process
when they reached a muddy embankment. Weaving through the
thickets, Noah said, “Step where I step. There’s some nasty stuff up
here. I’m trying to avoid anything poisonous.”

As she nodded, he snaked an arm around her abdomen, jerking
her backwards. Slapping her hand across her mouth to muffle a
scream, she turned her head back and forth, trying to figure out the
cause of his caution. Heart pounding in her chest, she realized there
was nothing there– a clearing, grasses knee-high and swaying with
the wind.

“Unless this is
The Happening,” she whispered, still unsure if
they were about to encounter the creature– or even moose or bears.
“I’m really not concerned with the attack of the grass.”

With his arms still wrapped around her torso, he pulled her along
as he stepped backwards. He rested his chin on her shoulder,
explaining, “I didn’t mean to be rough. This field is filled with cow
parsnips, and you nearly dove in head first.”

His voice was normal, a queue that she could resume standard
volume.