Servants of the Storm Read online

  It lands in front of me, and I look down. It’s a Shirley Temple, hot-pink and fizzing in a fancy glass. I can already smell the cherry sweetness, and I have never in my life been so thirsty.

  His smile is dazzling. “Drink.”

  “Thanks.” I smile back and bend the straw to sip. The rush of sugary syrup and bubbles is calming.

  As I drink, I search the dark corners of the room, desperate to find the girl from Paper Moon. The guy steps in front of me, and I have to stare at him instead. His smile is hypnotizing, and it reminds me of this video I saw once of a cobra dancing in front of a mongoose.

  “What brings you to Charnel House?” he asks.

  “I’m looking for someone.”

  I can’t look away from his eyes. They’re so dark, I expect them to pour onto the table and leave little burn marks, like chocolate lava. I blink, and they’re suddenly clear blue. There’s something strange about that, but I don’t know what it is.

  “I haven’t seen a single person all day,” he says. “But if you’re hungry, I recommend the special. Best pulled pork you’ll ever have.”

  “I don’t have any money. I left my bag in my trunk.”

  The words fall out of my mouth before I’ve even thought them. There’s a humming in my ears, and for just a second I wonder what in God’s name the meds were doing to me that I feel this way without them. Then I wonder what’s so wrong with me that I needed such seriously heavy medication to start out with. At least I’ve caught my breath again after that run, although my heart is still stuttering like crazy.

  “That girl. I swear I saw her come in here—”

  “Dinner’s on me,” he says with a wink. “I’m Isaac, by the way. What’s your name?”

  “They call me Dovey.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dovey.”

  He holds out a hand over the bar, and I take it, and it’s cold and smooth and hard. I can’t make myself let go, but he just chuckles and manages to untangle my fingers.

  “You look like you’re having a rough night,” he says. “Let me get you a plate. Keep sipping, okay?”

  I remember my Shirley Temple and take a long drink. There’s a plastic sword perched on the side, and I slide the maraschino cherry off with my teeth. I’m swinging the sword and making chopping noises when he turns around, even better-looking than I remember, carrying a platter heaping with barbecue and macaroni and cheese and green beans. I’m salivating before the smell hits me, and by the time he sets it on the bar in front of me, I’m already reaching to grab a handful with my fingers.

  “Whoa, girl. Wait for a fork. Let’s not be savages,” he says playfully, and I grin along with him.

  “I haven’t eaten in years,” I say, unrolling the napkin of silverware he handed me and digging in to stuff my face.

  “It’s food for what ails you,” he says, but the corner of his mouth tips down, and for just a second his eyes look sad. Or is it guilty? But once the food hits my lips, it doesn’t matter anymore. This food is the best thing I’ve ever eaten, better even than Carly’s mama’s dinner or my grandmother’s Sunday lunch. What have I been eating for the last year? Charcoal and sawdust. I eat forkful after forkful, gulping it down with sips of the Shirley Temple, which always seems full even though I never see him refill it. Isaac watches me, shines glasses, hands me paper napkins, and gives me another tiny sword with three cherries on it this time.

  I eat those, too.

  When I finally hear the sound of metal scrape on porcelain, my stomach twists with the sharp sting of regret.

  “Seconds?” I say hopefully.

  “Sorry.” Isaac gives me another dimpled grin. “It’s all you may eat, not all you can eat.”

  He whisks the platter away, and I console myself with a slurp of Shirley Temple. Then that, too, comes up empty. I take one last, loud suck with my straw and concede defeat.

  “We’re about to close, you know,” he says. “Do you need me to walk you back to your car?”

  “I don’t know where I am.” And even though I’ve lived in this city my entire life, I realize that I have no idea how I came here or how to get back where I belong. “I followed . . .”

  “You followed your nose, Dovey,” he says, leaning over to look deeply into my eyes. I gasp. I can’t look away. His eyes are so bright and blue and pulling that I grab the bar, trying not to get sucked in. This must be what it feels like to jump out of an airplane and fall into a cloudless sky.

  “It just smelled so good,” I say, practically pleading.

  “Yes, it did. And you know how to get home.”

  “I know how to get home.”

  “Good.”

  “Can I come back?”

  “I hope you won’t. Good-bye, Billie Dove.”

  “Good-bye.”

  He hands me another plastic sword with three cherries dripping shiny red juice onto the bar. I pop them into my mouth and hand him the sword. Against my will I push off from the bar and stand. My feet feel like they’re twenty feet away, like I’m on stilts. I wobble toward the door like I’ve been shoved. Pressing my hands against the wood, I turn to thank Isaac, but he’s already gone. The bar is empty. The lamps all go out at once, and I hurry out the door to escape the palpable menace of the empty room.

  Back on the street nothing is familiar, but I’m already moving. I walk, step after step, down sidewalks haunted by shadows, past skeletal trees and lumps that could be bums or monsters or worse. The wind rips past me, ruffling my hair, and I hunch against it. I can’t quite remember what I was doing. Looking for someone? It’s like trying to remember a dream. But my feet know where to go, so I let them take me there.

  I turn a corner into a pitch-black alley, and someone knocks into me so hard that I almost fall over. Heavy hands fall on my shoulders. I flail around, screeching and clawing at the air and wishing I had my pepper spray, or my keys at the ready, or something in my hands. I should know better.

  “Jesus, Dovey, where were you?” Baker says, his fingers gently squeezing my shoulders like he’s not sure I’m real. “I was freaking out!”

  I wrench out of his grasp feeling shaken and irritated.

  “I told you I had to go somewhere.” It comes out overly prissy, but I can only hope he won’t press for further details that I can’t provide because I don’t know them myself. I’m sure of only one thing: there was something I needed to do, some reason I left rehearsal. But I can’t remember where I’ve been or why, nothing since I walked out the door of the Liberty.

  “Oh, yeah. Your secret quest.” He grins and slings an arm around my shoulder. “Getting me a present, I hope.”

  “Your birthday’s not until May,” I grouch, and he laughs.

  “My unbirthday, then.”

  “I’ll put that on my uncalendar.”

  He’s closer than he should be, and his arm feels strange on my shoulders. He should have let go by now. With his Caliban makeup still on and his hair full of twigs, he looks otherworldly, and the too bright way he’s looking at me makes the world spin slightly off balance. I shrug away, and he mutters “Cool” and slouches around to his side of the car. We both get in, and his fingers flicker restlessly against the dash.

  “So what happened in rehearsal?” he asks. His voice is deeper than I remember.

  I have to think for a minute before it comes back to me.

  “Oh. Mrs. Rosewater got all bajiggity, asking me if I was on my meds. So I got mad and stormed out. End of story.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  Rattled at my fuzzy memories, I exhale through my nose. “Went for a walk to cool off.”

  He nods but doesn’t say anything else. As I drive the quiet streets, he watches me thoughtfully in the dark spaces between streetlights. Soon I’m pulling up to his house, just a few streets over from my own. I’m on autopilot again. Just a little numb. But deeply bothered by something I can’t quite recall.

  “Hey, Dovey? Can I tell you something?”

  I turn to face him, an
d he’s just as intent, just as wild as he was in the little hall at the Liberty. The details are coming back to me: his blueberry-bright eyes, the magic in the air, Tamika’s kindness, Jasmine’s dig, my too small leotard, the fox-hat girl, Mrs. Rosewater’s hand on my shoulder, something about Old Murph. But I’m still a little dazed.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Whatever you’re doing differently, keep doing it. Okay?”

  I snort. “Yeah, I’ll keep tripping on togas and storming offstage during dress rehearsal. That’ll be great for the play.” I’m glad he can’t see me blushing in the dark.

  “I’m just saying . . . I mean . . .”

  Baker turns away, and I stare at his profile. The bones of his face are more defined, the baby fat almost gone. His half-monster Caliban makeup highlights the sharpness of his cheeks and chin, the furrow in his brow. I’ve never seen him look so serious, so adult. In my mind he’s a perpetual little boy, always pudgy, always laughing, filled with sass but so earnest. What I see there, in my memory—it’s not real. He’s someone else now.

  He turns back to me with a fierce light in his eyes and says, “Look, it was hard as hell losing Carly. And then I lost you, too. It’s just good to have you back, to see you being yourself again. And if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”

  “Thanks.” I know he wants me to say more, but I can’t.

  He waits, watching me. But that’s all I’ve got. I shrug. He nods in good-natured defeat and slides out of the car. Before he shuts the door, he leans in and says, “Thanks for the ride.”

  I need to say something, but I don’t know what.

  “Baker, wait.”

  “Yeah?”

  He’s hopeful and tense, and he leans in farther than he should, and I blurt out, “I’m not Carly.”

  With a little snort of laughter, he swings back out of the car, and as the door squeals shut, I hear him say, “I know.”

  I watch him unlock his front door and disappear into the warm glow of his too small house, where his mom will have some horrible casserole on the table that his dad will complain about while his three younger sisters toss dolls and stuffed animals all over the place. I miss feeling at home there, sitting on the squashy couch next to Carly, with Baker on my other side as we watched movies. It’s another haven I’ve lost and then forgotten, and now it’s like losing it all over again, because everything has changed and I can’t go back.

  It only takes two minutes to drive home, and I spend it all wondering what he’s been through in the last year, dealing with his pain alone while I was lost in the fog. I’m not the only one who suffered.

  I park in the street, as close to the curb as I can so my mom won’t make me come back out and move the car. After double-checking that I left nothing of value inside, I leave the car unlocked and get my backpack out of the trunk. There are so many desperate people after Hurricane Josephine that leaving anything, even a grocery bag, in a car parked on the street is a great way to get your windows smashed. Sometimes they don’t even check to see if the car is unlocked first.

  I walk up the front steps, and even though I feel awake and confused and freaked out, I know I have to pretend that I’m still on my meds. Too bad I didn’t ask Baker what I was like before. I hunch my shoulders, make my face blank and dull, and open the door.

  “It’s past seven,” my mom says before I’m even inside.

  “Sorry. Rehearsal ran late.” I try to hide my irritation at her instant attack.

  “That Rosewater lady needs to respect family time,” she says, and I hang my backpack on the hook and just nod dumbly. I look at her, curled up on the old plaid couch with a folder full of papers, and I can’t help giving her a halfhearted smile. Her face softens in response.

  “I’m sorry, honey. I know it’s not your fault. I’m just feeling grouchy. Too many people out of work, too many people in trouble. How are you feeling today?”

  “Fine.”

  She nods and smiles. Apparently, I’m playing along well.

  “Dinner’s in the microwave. Just leave some for your father.”

  I nod and go into the kitchen, even though I’m not at all hungry. I can’t remember when I ate last, but I feel oddly full, like my stomach is stretched out. Maybe it’s a side effect of going off the meds? I guess my dad can have as much of Mom’s enchiladas as he wants.

  On the way to my room, I walk past his study and inhale. Wood glue, pipe smoke, and dust. My dad has worked the second shift at the factory for so long that I can’t remember the last time we had a meal together at night. I’m guessing it was sometime after Josephine, when the mill flooded and they sent everyone home without pay. My mom is dark and serious with a permanent V on her forehead, but my dad has a gentle smile and crinkles at the corners of his blue eyes and is always rubbing what’s left of his light blond hair. They couldn’t look or act more different, but it works. When I was little, he was always with me in the mornings while my mom was at the office, but we fell out of step when I started high school and didn’t need help to get on the bus. He’s another thing I’ve missed.

  As soon as I see my bed, I’m overcome with exhaustion. My feet shuffle like a zombie’s, and everything is fuzzy and thick, and I can’t keep my eyes open. I don’t brush my teeth or wash my face or do homework. I don’t even stop to take off my bra and put on pajamas. I just fall into bed in my clothes, and I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.

  7

  I’M DREAMING. I DON’T KNOW how I know, but I Know.

  And I’m in Bonaventure Cemetery. I know this exact spot. Carly and I used to come here with her grandmother Gigi before Josephine came and overturned the trees and set all the gravestones crooked and sent the decomposing bodies floating out into the streets of Savannah.

  I’m walking among the old oaks, their bare, black branches pointing at the starless sky above like accusing fingers. I part the Spanish moss like a veil and pass beyond, farther into the misty darkness. The air is a strange mixture of warm and cold, like the ocean tides tugging at my feet, threatening to pull me under.

  Water sloshes against my hips, the metaphor made real, and I realize that the world has shifted. I’m still in Bonaventure, but now I’m wading through Hurricane Josephine’s wrath. I pull up my arms, cross them over my chest to keep them away from the thick, silty water. Something slips under my foot, and I shy away. Could have been a branch. Or it could have been a bone. Or a snake.

  There’s a certain scent on the air, besides the dead reek of the water. It’s salty. And earthy, too. So solid I can taste it on my tongue. So familiar.

  “You remember my mama’s black-eyed peas? She always served ’em with collards. Lord, I hated her collards. Like eating slugs that fought you the whole way down.”

  I startle to hear her voice, the tang of her complaint as familiar as the scent hanging heavily on the air. I get it now. I’m in Carly’s house, and that’s the welcoming smell of dinner on the stove. Black-eyed peas, creamed corn the color of butter, and collards boiled until they’ve given up. It’s Miz Ray’s kitchen, and my feet are dry on the cracked linoleum floors. Somehow I’ve gone from the crooked, flood-swollen oaks of the old cemetery right into Carly’s kitchen.

  Only problem is, it’s not her kitchen anymore.

  Besides the fact that she’s dead, her mama moved away after Hurricane Josephine claimed her kitchen and her only daughter. The new owners tore out everything and replaced it with granite countertops and fancy tile floors, or so my mom heard from the busybody old ladies down the street. The room I’m in now—it doesn’t exist anymore.

  I slip into my usual seat, and my chair doesn’t squeak like it should. But I don’t mention it, because I can’t stop looking at Carly. Her nose is scrunched up like it always was when faced with collards. And her hair is braided like it was when she died, the roots just a little grown out, each braid tipped with a pink plastic bead.

  But her skin is the color of mushrooms, a grayish purple that reeks of poison. A
nd there’s a gash on her head, the flaps of skin curled back over shining bone. And her eyes are dull and black as death.

  “She made the best lemon chiffon pie in Savannah,” I say.

  It’s the truth, but it comes out flat and careful, like I’m reading a line from a play.

  “But she won’t give you any unless you finish your damn collards first,” she says.

  But I can tell it’s not just a line for Carly. She’s angry.

  I look down. Instead of finding Miz Ray’s good supper, I see a rough box of black wood with a strange symbol carved into it. Evil just rolls off that box, and I draw back like I found a baby gator on my plate. The black wood rattles at me like it would bite me if it could. Like its gator teeth haven’t grown in yet.

  “What is it?” I say.

  Carly shakes her head, and a few of the braids fall off and slither onto her mama’s second-best tablecloth.

  “I told you, Dovey. You have to eat your collards if you want your pie. Nothing’s easy anymore, not after Josephine settled in to stay.”

  “Settled in? But it was just a hurricane,” I say. “It’s gone.”

  She snorts. “Josephine’s more than a storm. She came here and she dug herself a hole, and now she’s happy as a pig in shit, just festering away. Time’s almost up. For you, and for me.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Learn your lines, Dovey. It’s almost opening night.”

  I look back down, and the black box is gone. In its place is one of Carly’s mama’s Goodwill plates, the one with the little chip on the edge. It’s heaped with collards, just collards, and they’re writhing around like cottonmouth snakes.

  “I hear Café 616 has the best collards,” Carly says conversationally, but I see something stir in her ink-black eyes. “If you have to eat ’em, that’s the place to find ’em.”