The Singing Bone (34 page)

“I don't know. I'm not a girl.” He passed her a line, sniffing.

She took it and looked up at him, touching her nose. She studied Lee. “All that stuff from the closets—”

“That's none of your business.”

“Are those things that belonged to the girls he got sick of?”

Lee laughed. “You could say that.” He snorted another line and got up. “Don't ask me shit about that again,” he said.

Mr. Wyck always talked about how he'd found Allegra rolled in a pile of her old clothes. Maybe those were the clothes.

When Mr. Wyck and Lee drove everyone into town for supplies, Molly and Trina sang songs that Alice didn't know. They did lines. Alice's heart was above her body. Her hands were light. The roots of her hair tingled. “What song is that?” Alice asked.

“Mr. Wyck taught it to us,” Molly said. She clapped as she sang.

“Where was I?”

Neither of them answered her. She didn't care. She let her hands rise in the air. She clapped gently, between Molly's claps.

“Stop, Alice,” Molly said. “You're ruining it.”

Stover didn't know the song, either. He was looking at Trina, watching her as she sang. Alice looked at Trina, too. “Switch places with me,” Alice said to Molly. Alice sat on Molly's lap until she moved. Then Alice sat next to Stover, watching Trina. “She looks so happy,” Alice whispered. Stover didn't say anything. A tear ran down his cheek. Alice reached up with her black finger and touched it. Mr. Wyck turned in his seat to see what she was doing. “Creeper,” he said, “how did you switch seats with Miss Molly?” Alice looked down at her hands.

That was around the time Mr. Wyck hit her. Hit her really hard. On the nose.
Bonk!
And it wasn't like in the cartoons. It hurt like fuck. She had been telling him about the play. “Stop the fucking play bullshit!” he yelled.
Bonk!
You couldn't see all the blood because her dress was black. The next day, Mr. Wyck put her in a bath to clean her up. She had two black eyes and he laughed. “Oh, darling,” he said. “Look what you made me do.” He washed her hair. “You've got to stop being a black angel,” he said. “You've got to walk back into the light.”

He took her to bed with him again. Said he couldn't stand to think of her sleeping alone.

In the morning, Trina brought them breakfast. When she put the tray down, Mr. Wyck invited her to join them. “Alice needs love,” he said, “and you know how to give it to her and so do I.” Alice never complained that with each bump, jostle, or groan her face throbbed. She balanced on the other edge of ecstasy, holding her breath on a thin blade of pain. She stared at her black dresses in the closet—those interchangeable and limp scraps—and wondered who had put them there. Mr. Wyck and Trina were busy over her body, tending to it, coaxing it. Alice closed her eyes and imagined herself in the forest in the springtime, above the trees with the birds, where the pain became a song and Mr. Wyck's bed the green leaves below.

  •  •  •  

On Christmas Eve, Alice finished the sweater she'd been knitting for Mr. Wyck. She folded it and wrapped it in brown paper, and then moved on to Mr. Wyck's red sweater, which she'd washed and blocked, and combed the pills out of, using the leftover green yarn to edge the neck, sleeves, and hem. She sat by the window in Mr. Wyck's room, listening to the rattle and hum of the radiator, mending the sweater, and looking up now and then to see the progress of the snow.

Alice wore a dress that had faded to a slate gray, and the black dye had not taken to a few of Allegra's wraps, so Alice twined those about her for warmth and color. Mr. Wyck had complained about the black clothes, so Alice said, “Then I'll need new clothes, I guess.” They agreed on a dateless plan—new clothes for Alice—as long as she didn't buy anything black. The white snow dusted the ground. The house was quiet. Her friends slept. Mr. Wyck and Lee had gone out to find a Christmas tree.

When Alice finished mending the sweater, she folded it and wrapped it. She took her boots and crept downstairs. The little gold key she'd pulled from the Halloween bonfire had slipped into the sole's lining, and even though Alice could no longer feel the pinch, she knew the necklace was there.

Alice paused at the door of the room she'd shared with Molly. She didn't like to go into the room even though Molly had cleaned it. It was like visiting a town she'd been a prisoner in. She thought she might ask Mr. Wyck if Molly could come sleep with them again, but then she supposed he would ask for her if he wanted her, and Molly slept with Lee now, anyway, and Trina with Stover.

She put her boots on by the door and took a jacket from a hook in the hallway. Outside, she lit a cigarette and stood on the porch and watched the snow fall. She thought it made a good backdrop for the Christmas scene. It made her nervous, not being able to talk about the scene they were doing, but Molly said, “I think something beautiful happened the night Alice's nose broke because Alice stopped thinking she was in a play,” and Trina said, “I was really worried about you there for a while.” Alice touched the bump at the top of her nose and heard Mr. Wyck say, “I guess you had to break your nose to get off that play shit.”

When she finished her cigarette, she went inside and popped popcorn to string on the tree. She peeled parsnips and chopped carrots and began a pot of stew. She wondered which act of the play they were in. There were so many to keep track of, she hardly knew. She guessed they were somewhere near the end, though she didn't know how she knew that since she couldn't ask anyone else. When Molly came downstairs, Alice made her coffee and scrambled two eggs. “Aren't you hungry?” Molly asked, but Alice shook her head. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been hungry—really hungry.

That night, Schizz, Tuna, Big John, and Fat Mary came over to help decorate the tree, and Mr. Wyck made them all sit around the fire and he told them the story of Baba Yaga. They were tripping and when Mr. Wyck got to the part about Baba Yaga's house, Molly began rocking back and forth. “Her house is on chicken legs? Wait. Stop. Go back. Chicken legs?” She got up from beneath the blanket she shared with Lee and turned around in circles in front of the fire. “Her house walks?” she interrupted, because Mr. Wyck had gotten to the part where the princess fell asleep in the woods and no longer knew in which direction she had to go to get home. Molly put her hands on the sides of her head. “I don't get this. There are four chicken legs or two? A house should have four chicken legs.”

“Moll,” Trina said. “It's a story.”

“Do I have chicken legs?” Molly said, looking down at her feet.

Fat Mary couldn't stop laughing. “Four chicken legs for a house,” she kept repeating, and Schizz got up and yelled, “Chicken legs, baby!” until Molly started to cry and Lee took her upstairs.

The next day they exchanged gifts. Lee gave Molly a pretty silk slip with lace—vintage, with a matching dressing gown. “Ooh la la,” Mr. Wyck said when she opened it, and Molly, who was sitting on the floor next to the Christmas tree, crawled over to Lee and kissed him on the mouth.

Mr. Wyck passed out presents for Molly, Trina, and Alice. Each got an identical necklace. “Oh my gosh,” Trina said. “Is this real?” She lifted the necklace out of its pillowed bed. The chain was light and finely made. She held the clasp with two fingers and down dropped a little silver cage that held a shining black pearl inside. The pearl moved freely inside the cage.

Alice lifted her necklace out of the box and gazed at the charm. She shook the cage. The bars were just narrow enough so the pearl could not slip out. “So pretty,” Alice said. She helped Molly and Trina put their necklaces on, and Mr. Wyck fastened Alice's.

Alice watched excitedly as Mr. Wyck opened his gifts. Trina gave him
The Prophet
by Kahil Gibran, which he said he already owned—though his copy was not as nice as this. Molly gave him a newly engraved Zippo cigarette lighter with his initials. She made a card they'd all signed, and Alice thought Molly was more excited about that than the lighter. The card read:

M
is for Mister, a man in all respects.

R is for Rebel, always thinking for yourself.

W is for Well-versed, master of skills.

Y is for Yes, because you are always believing in a true path.

C
is for Colorful, a bright and interesting person.

K
is for Kindred, because you are our family.

While Mr. Wyck read the card aloud, Trina gazed at her discarded copy of
The Prophet
. Alice passed Mr. Wyck her presents. He opened the red sweater first and stared down at it. “It's like new,” he said, and slipped it on. Then he opened the second gift and stared down at that. Alice had sewn a label in it that read
Handmade with love by Alice
. She'd found the tags at the sewing store and stitched one carefully in. “Genie,” Mr. Wyck said. “Did you make this?” She nodded.

“Put it on!” everyone cried. “Let's see!” And Mr. Wyck put it on. It fit perfectly. He picked Alice up and carried her upstairs in his arms. They stayed there for most of the afternoon. When they came back down, tired and happy, Trina suggested they open a bottle of ouzo. They made a fire and toasted Christmas, and Molly and Lee worked on dinner in the kitchen.

“Hey, Lee,” Mr. Wyck called. “We should get going soon.”

Molly and Lee came out of the kitchen. “Where are you going?” Molly said. She held a dish of nuts in one hand and another bottle of wine in the other.

“The Smiths,” Lee said. “We've got gifts for the kids.” He stretched and yawned. “Santa Claus.”

“The best gift is good news,” Mr. Wyck added.

“What's that?” Alice wanted to know. She had her head on his lap, and she preferred that he not move—not go anywhere, ever.

“The rebellion has begun. We've finally got all the guards involved.”

Alice sat up and stared at him. “Robert will be home soon, then,” she said, her eyes round. The play came to her then, the end would be happy. Robert home, Alice alone with Mr. Wyck. At last.

“We wanted Robert home for Christmas, but it looks more like spring.” Mr. Wyck rubbed his chin and gazed at the fire.

“They're getting impatient, though,” Lee said. He took a poker and shifted a log on the fire. The flame leapt. Lee straightened and looked at Molly, and as if he was only speaking to her, he went on. “They want their son,” he said, “and we can't produce him.”

“You will,” Molly said, and Lee shrugged.

“We can't produce him
yet
.” Mr. Wyck looked at Lee and Molly. Alice reached over and put her finger on the deepening crease between his brows.

“Yet,” she echoed.

That night Alice dreamed of Robert Smith. He climbed into a bright red sack. Alice could tell that even though he moved, he was dead. Mr. Wyck hoisted the sack over his shoulder and said Robert was light—light as a feather. He threw his head back and laughed so you could see all his teeth. Alice followed him into the forest, hiding behind trees and trying to stay quiet. Sometimes he stopped and looked around and smelled the air, but then he moved on. He carried the red sack deeper into the forest and when Alice looked down at Mr. Wyck's legs, she saw they were as thin as sticks, the skin rough and sagging; his feet were no longer human feet but talons.

Alice keeps seeing Molly. She's behind the door to Alice's room. She walks by trailing an IV, her feet clad in those hospital-issued terry socks. Molly makes a shushing sound as she passes. When Alice takes a walk down the hospital corridor, she makes the same sound, but now Molly's perched on a chair in the waiting room, absorbed in a magazine. “Get the fuck out of here,” Alice mutters as she passes.

Evelyn the nurse stops Alice in the hallway. “Are you all right, sweetheart?” Alice doesn't look at her. She might be Molly. “Do you want some water?” Alice looks and, in fact, it's Evelyn. Water. Clear and cold. “You have a fever,” Evelyn says. Alice nods and smiles, and allows Evelyn to take her arm and lead her back to her room, where a man and a woman are waiting.

“Alice Wood née Pearson?” The woman says.

“Nay,” Alice says, smiling.

“Alice Wood?”

“Yea.”

“We're here for a sample of your DNA. It's been court-ordered by the State of New York.”

Alice stares at them. The man is dressed in a rumpled gray overcoat and brown trousers. He's holding a battered briefcase. The woman is wearing a dark blue parka, her brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She clasps her hands in front of her, her weight towards her heels. “You two are straight out of central casting,” Alice says. She sits on the edge of her bed. The corners of the woman's mouth turn up, but Alice wouldn't call it a smile.

The man passes Alice a warrant. She takes it and gazes at the legal language. She understands it, even with a fever. It's all there. “I'm Jack Wyck's attorney.” He holds out a hand to her, but she continues to read the document. When his coat moves, she catches a whiff of stale cigarette smoke. He pulls his hand back. “And this is Detective Torres. She's going to swab your cheek. It only takes a moment.”

“Ma'am?” Detective Torres says. “As soon as we get this over with we'll be out of your way.”

“Do I have to?”

“It's court-ordered.” Detective Torres is ready. She is putting latex gloves on.

“That's not a yes.”

“Yes, you have to.” Detective Torres takes a swab out of a plastic case and holds it aloft.

Alice closes her eyes and opens her mouth.

The queen watches as the court musician brings the harp he's crafted of her sister's breastbone into the room. The queen gazes at it. It is strung with golden hairs. She sips her wine. “What will you play for us?” she asks, but he only looks at her. He sets the harp on the table and walks some distance away. “What is this?” she asks. “Play,” she commands. She's ready to be entertained.