Cauchemar Read online

  “There was arteriosclerosis, and her heart was weakened. It could’ve easily been that. There were some small clots in her leg, too.” James’s voice changed. “But that mass wasn’t a tumor. She might’ve choked, but she would’ve choked on feathers.”

  Hannah thought of the cat catching the canary. James’s words sounded like the punch line to a joke. “I don’t understand.”

  “Black feathers, looked to be hens’, and quite a few of them. Dr. Kinney looked rightly spooked, and said it was like she’d swallowed them. They were far enough in her stomach that she would’ve either done it on purpose, or had it done to her.”

  Hannah shook so hard she almost dropped the receiver. “Jesus. What are you saying? That someone might’ve hurt her?”

  “No, it’s absurd. I mean …” He hesitated. “I don’t know what it means, but did Mae rub anyone the wrong way? Some people in town think black hens’ eggs are pretty powerful. You run them over your body to cleanse it of evil, or you can crack them open at one end and sprinkle in sulfur to—”

  “James, that’s ridiculous.”

  “Just covering my bases, that’s all. There’s no one you can think of? Or maybe Mae was working out a remedy? Some kind of tincture?”

  Hannah traced the row of Xs carved deep along the lip of the urn. They looked as forbidding as barbed-wire fencing, and Hannah wondered who had ordered the design. She wanted to ask if the feathers had been removed, or if they were mingling with Mae’s ashes. She stayed silent.

  James’s voice sounded wooden. “Right. I thought you should know. And while I have you on the line, I was wondering if you’d want to get out of the house for a bit? There’s a band playing in town tonight, and, well, given Mae’s death, I don’t think it’s the best idea for you to be by yourself right now.”

  Hannah braced herself before she looked out the window, but the shed door was closed. The long grass around it billowed harmlessly, and she held a shaking hand to her head. “I haven’t even showered,” she said, trailing off.

  “Great. It’ll take me a half hour at least to make it over.”

  “How …” Hannah sighed, running a hand through her hair. “How should I dress?”

  “However you’d like. I’m sure you’ll look good.” James’s voice was soft as cotton in her ear.

  Hannah took a step back at the door of the bar.

  “What’s wrong?” James asked, leaning closer. He smelled like cedar wood, and she wasn’t used to the scents of men.

  “Are there always so many people? It’s so loud.” She laughed suddenly. “God, I sound ancient. I don’t really get out much, in case you couldn’t tell.”

  “We can always leave if you don’t like it, but I think it might help for you to get out a bit. Be with other people.”

  “Other people,” Hannah echoed. “Right. Because that’s always gone over so well.”

  James rubbed the nape of his neck. “Look, I remember how it was for you, and how maybe I … contributed. But I was just a kid then, we both were. I’d like to make up for that. Truce?”

  Hannah studied the serious set of his face and how he shifted his weight from foot to foot. She took his outstretched hand.

  Hannah found a seat on a barstool along the back and tried to make herself small. The walls were dark wood and peppered with mounted fish. A middle-aged woman, her auburn hair cut in a choppy bob, raised a glass to her from a nearby table. Hannah smiled tentatively, and looked down at herself. She’d found an old red dress of Mae’s, slightly too big for her, and donned it like some exotic skin.

  She’d tried on her own dresses, turning from side to side until she was dizzy, but they seemed childish, designed for a body she’d outgrown without noticing. Sweet Peter Pan collars and flower-printed cotton didn’t go with whiskey and cigar smoke.

  “What’re you drinking?” James asked.

  “Water. Last I checked I only just turned twenty.”

  James shook his head. “No, ma’am. With the week you’ve had, you’ve earned something harder. I insist.”

  “Are you always so footloose with the letter of the law?” James only smiled, so Hannah thought about it. “How about rye and ginger beer?”

  “Coming right up.”

  Hannah pasted herself to the wall, studying the crowd. She was on the outskirts, as always, and watchful for the hate-filled glances she’d grown accustomed to in childhood. But there were none, and she felt herself relax a bit.

  The dance floor was a living organism, animated hands like antennae. The women were sipping from short glasses, glancing around at whoever might be watching. Hannah could recognize the married men, their paunches and mugs of foamy beer, gathered together in huddles. She found herself wondering what they’d go home to later that night. Soft wives that smelled of lavender detergent, maybe, or avoiding their woes with some young girl like her.

  Hannah coughed to clear her throat of the bar’s perfumes just as the house lights went down, and four tall shapes took the stage. “This first one’s called ‘Been Tearing Me Open,’” the singer breathed into the microphone. He smiled and Hannah’s heart somersaulted when she realized it was Callum. “It’s for all the sad men out there tonight.” Scattered claps rang out.

  He closed his eyes and Hannah studied him as she moved up toward the stage. Some new feeling squeezed her. He was tall and bearded, with cracked sneakers on his feet. Skinny in his checkered shirt, but strong and sure-footed before the microphone. His face was expressionless, and there was only a slight wrinkle in his brow to betray that anything was stirring underneath. Then his guitar let loose an aching twang. His fingers alighted across frets as a vein began to pulse in his neck. As he played, his chin drew figure eights, outlining melodies.

  The blues he played was dirty as week-old rainwater, streaming from his fingers, pooling in the whorls of her ears. In the small of her back. Sluggish bodies came alive around her, nodding at every chord he struck.

  Behind Callum, the drummer’s grin was ecstatic. When the drummer’s eyes met Hannah, he lowered them humbly toward the silver of his set, consumed by the joy of rhythm.

  Hannah felt herself moving forward through the crowd, taken by some new confidence. She wanted to be closer to Callum. She felt like someone new, someone unburdened by her mother’s reputation.

  “He’s good, isn’t he?” James handed her a glass.

  Callum was backlit, but even so, when he opened his eyes, Hannah felt that they were resting on her. She was sure she’d never been studied quite so intently before. He had her pinioned.

  The songs melted into each other, and Hannah drank quickly, grateful for the pleasant haziness that was taking over. James took each empty glass from her and replaced it with a fresh one. Soon, her head was spinning, and what she’d seen that afternoon was blurred.

  She let herself entertain possibilities in the safety of a sweaty crowd. It was natural, she thought, to feel fragile after a death. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the creature in the grass had somehow been more present than it ever had before. More real.

  But there were ways to explain it. An albino gator, maybe. She’d read somewhere that they existed, and it didn’t seem such a stretch that years of crossbreeding had carried the mutation into the Louisianan swamp.

  “God’s garden is wide and varied,” Mae used to say during Hannah’s teenaged years, usually in response to the reports of violence and prostitution that trickled in from town. While she fished deep-fried oysters from her browned, bubbling pot of oil, Mae would tell Hannah about young doe-eyed boys whose hearts burst in the throes of ecstasy tablets. “And that’s why I want you here, where you’re safe.”

  Hannah was just beginning to bite at the bit, to yearn for the nightlife that frightened Mae. “So I’m not allowed in God’s garden?”

  Something had flitted across Mae’s face and she’d turned away. “M
aking your own decisions might seem wonderful now, but when you’re in the thick of it, you might feel differently. There’ll be time enough for you to go wherever you want after I’m gone.”

  Callum’s last note faded smoothly into silence, overtaken quickly by claps and cries for an encore, but he raised a slick hand toward the audience and hopped offstage. “Band needs a beer, folks,” the drummer whispered into the microphone. “Y’all stick around, though.”

  Hannah shrank back as Callum headed straight for her.

  “You came. I asked James to bring you,” he added, nodding at James. Callum accepted a beer and a chaste kiss from a lipsticked waitress. She ran her thumb across his cheek to wipe off the red mark.

  “That was great, man,” a heavily bearded man said, elbowing his way between them.

  A delicate-featured woman with thick black curls clasped her arms around Callum’s neck. “Totally great,” she echoed.

  “Hannah, these two are Tom and Leah. They’re my whole fan club.” A passing group of twenty-somethings raised their glasses toward him and Callum lowered his eyes.

  “He’s too humble, don’t you think?” Tom said, bowing to Hannah with a flourish. “Nice to meet you.”

  Callum shared a private glance with Leah, so intimate that Hannah looked away. He undid Leah’s hands and brushed his lips across her knuckles as she smiled.

  “Nobody likes a show-off,” Callum said, as the crowd lost interest in him and began to talk amongst themselves.

  Tom rolled his eyes and tapped his beer bottle against Callum’s. “Oh, fuck off.” He thrust his chin toward James. “Fill me in on the goings-on, man. Let Callum and Hannah get a bit better acquainted.” He winked at Hannah.

  Hannah rolled her shoulders back. Leah still stood near Callum, mouthing the edge of her glass.

  “How long have you lived by the water?” Callum asked Hannah. He leaned in close to her but gazed out at the crowd as they spoke.

  “My whole life.” His skin smelled like moss and cool night air, and his breath was sweet with rum. “Born and raised.”

  “So, are the stories true? Are y’all soothsayers, alligator hunters, and shut-ins?” Hannah smirked to hear the intonation of an old Cajun man. He was older than her. She could tell from the slightly tired look of his skin.

  “Only if you’re all chip-on-your-shoulder alcoholics.”

  Callum laughed. “Judging by my grandpa, sure. Me, I’m Irish in name only.”

  “Fancy that,” Hannah muttered. She noticed his hands, large-knuckled around the bottle’s neck.

  Someone bumped her from behind, and Callum pulled her toward him, shooting a stern glance at the underage boy who retreated with arms raised. “Some of these people aren’t my ideal audience,” he murmured. “But you take what you can get, right?”

  “I’ll admit that I don’t know much about music, but I thought you were amazing.” She said it quietly, evenly, although inside her the sentiment boomed.

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  Leah was looking at them with a strange, rhapsodic intensity, pulling on her ropy strands.

  “Why is she staring at us?” Hannah asked in a low voice. Immediately, she scanned the room for its exits. She felt like an intruder whose disguise was wearing off.

  “Who?” Callum followed her eyes, and immediately took a step away from Hannah. “Oh, Leah. She’s on E, habitually. It hasn’t kicked in yet, or not enough for her. She’s always a huge grump when she’s sober.”

  “You want some?” Tom appeared behind them.

  James snapped his fingers. “I’m off duty, but I’m not deaf.”

  “Brother, as I remember it, you might be a cop but you’ve never been a saint.”

  James took a step forward, but Leah, her pupils dilated to a drowning black, grabbed his hand. “Come dance with me,” she said, sweetly. James hesitated, glancing at Hannah.

  “Go on,” Hannah said. “I’m fine.” She felt Callum’s hand rest gently on her shoulder, felt the heat pulse through her chest. Hannah’s skin was beginning to crawl. Every female set of eyes seemed to be on them, and every girl that walked by cast her a chilly, considering look. Callum was unconcerned, but Hannah had learned long ago that anonymity was safest.

  “You and Leah,” she began, and he shook his head, anticipating her question.

  “Friends. Good friends, maybe, but if there’s longing, it’s not on my side.”

  Hannah chanced a glance at his steady eyes. She wondered if she knew enough to recognize sincerity.

  “You should drink it neat.” Callum gestured to her glass. “It’s a waste of good rye, mixing it with that sweet shit.”

  “I like the spice of it.” The music flooding through the speakers had a fast, thudding beat, and she felt her feet moving of their own accord.

  “Drink it down quick,” Callum urged, his breath warm on her neck. Leah had begun to dance with James, her hips moving like a gyroscope. Her body, outlined in colored fluorescent lights, was mesmerizing in motion. Hannah wondered where the girl had learned to sway like that.

  She emptied her glass.

  “Your hair is beautiful,” Callum said. One finger traced her hairline so slowly she could feel each root flex at his touch. “Like the sky at dusk.” His eyes lingered thoughtfully on her lips.

  “Lines like that work, I guess,” she whispered. She realized that they were working, and that she wanted them to. His fingers slid like drops of water down her sides, grazing her hips.

  “It’s not a line.” He drew his head away. “That’s not what I’m bringing to the table.”

  She tasted acid in the back of her throat. “Excuse me,” she croaked. She sensed him try to grab her arm as she fled toward the bathroom.

  Hannah threw up until she was hoarse and spent, until the stench of it made burning tears pool in her eyes. A terrible pressure welled up in her cheeks and behind her eyes, and she felt close to bursting. She thought suddenly of hens’ feathers packed into her throat, and could almost feel their tickle.

  “Not a big drinker, then?” Callum’s voice behind her, tinged in amusement, made a fresh wave of vomit crest in her.

  “Hey, do you know that this is the women’s restroom?” She dabbed at her face with toilet paper. Then she gave up and rested her forehead against the wall of the stall.

  “At this time of night, people don’t pay much attention to which restroom is which. There, now.” He rubbed circles between her shoulder blades. “Poor pet.”

  “Is it over?”

  He chuckled. “There’s no way of knowing. You should enjoy this moment, though.”

  To her mortification, she began to sob. “Oh God, why did I even come here? I can’t face a boat right now.” The tiles beneath her knees were already rocking.

  “I live five minutes away. You can clean yourself up there.”

  Hannah let herself be hoisted up against his shoulder. “I have to get home to Mae,” she murmured, then stood up straight. Remembrance speared her.

  “No. You don’t.” He kissed her forehead and his lips were full and cool. “Come on.”

  His apartment was the third floor of a walk-up. Hannah glimpsed a wooden balcony through glass doors in the back, its banister faintly lit by Christmas lights.

  “Sit down. Put your legs up.” Callum cleared a gray sofa of clothes.

  There were framed black-and-white photographs on the walls and upright wine crates brimming with books. It wasn’t quite what she’d expected.

  Hannah glared at a chipped Tiffany lamp on the glazed coffee table and groaned. “Even the light hurts.”

  He threw a red silk scarf over the lamp and the living room became anatomical. “Better?” he asked.

  Hannah nodded and lay down warily, aware that she barely knew this man and trying not to wonder if the scarf had once been wrapped around Leah’s neck
or her thin wrists. Trying not to wonder how often he found souvenirs between the cushions of his couch. Hannah let her eyes close for a moment, and she was instantly visited by the phantom sensation of Mae’s palm on her forehead.

  When she was startled out of sleep, her nausea had subsided and the sky was lightening outside. Through the lingering headache, she didn’t recognize the room at first. The smell of aftershave and unwashed laundry was foreign.

  Callum was sitting in a nearby armchair with his ankles crossed, sipping slowly from a glass. She noticed that he’d taken his shirt off. He turned his head toward her sleepily. “Feeling a bit better?”

  Hannah’s foot bumped the coffee table covered with sheets of music and brandy snifters as she sat up. She nodded. “Thanks for letting me stay here.” A black knit blanket, flecked with crumbled chips, was spread over her legs. “I think I’m almost ready for the boat.”

  “It’s five in the morning,” he said, sounding amused. “All the boats are tied and docked.”

  “Still,” she said, then trailed off. “I hate to ask, but you’ve got a boat, don’t you?” Ribs showed through tanned muscles. “I’m missing my bed right now.”

  “I’ve had a few too many drinks.” He shook his head. “Besides, certain animals prefer to ache on their own, but I’m a big believer in grieving in the company of others.”

  “It’s not how I was raised. I don’t think there’s enough comfort in the world for what I’m feeling right now.”

  “This won’t heal overnight, and you can’t expect it to. It’s going to take time, and you’ll always miss her. But I promise that the sting of it, the feeling that you can’t bear it, will fade. You just have to take it one step at a time, and the first of those is a bit more rest. Come on, I’ll take the couch.”

  Hannah smoothed the red dress over her thighs. Looking around the apartment, at the photographs, the greeting cards, and the water-stained magazines, she realized she felt comfortable. At ease. She took a deep breath.

  Callum sat down on the couch. “What is it?”