Servants of the Storm Page 9

  “My mama’s expecting me back,” I say, taking a step toward home.

  “The hell she is,” he says with a chuckle. “She ain’t home. Now come on over here.”

  I reluctantly take a few steps toward the fence, leaving my porch light’s glow from the other side of the alley and entering his circle of darkness. His trees are so old, they curl over toward the ground, and vines twine all over the place, like they’re trying to drag him and all his broken crap down into the earth where it belongs. I shiver a little in the shadow. His fence is like ice under my hands.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I can’t quite put my finger on it,” he says, almost to himself. “You always were a mighty pretty thing. Best of both worlds, I’d say, although I don’t generally approve of mixing the races. Blossoming up quite nice. But there’s something changed. How old are you again?”

  “Seventeen,” I say through gritted teeth, and he laughs.

  The slobbering sound stops, and Grendel rises painfully onto his fat feet and bowed legs. He drags himself over to the fence, his belly heavy in the thick grass. Sticking his nose through the fence, he whuffs in the air and grumbles to himself. When his long tongue pokes through the chain link toward me, I take a step back. I’m not about to let that nasty thing touch me. After a final sniff the old basset throws his head up and bays, a long and mournful wail that makes all the hair rise up on my arms.

  “Grendel smells it too, Lovey Dovey,” Mr. Hathaway says. “You can’t hide from us.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the same as ever.”

  He chuckles, a low and dangerous sound that sets me on edge. Mr. Hathaway has changed too, and he’s no longer a harmless old man. I squint into the indigo shadows of his backyard, but all I can see is his profile silhouetted in firelight. I see the curly hair, round shoulders, and gnarled bare feet of the man I’ve known since I was born, a man who used to give me unwrapped butterscotch candies covered in lint from his pockets, candies that weren’t worth eating. He turns his head, and his eyes gleam like a cat’s, acid green, and I take another step back, and another.

  “What’s the matter, girl? You see something you don’t like?”

  Grendel slams into the fence, and I jump back. His teeth dig into the wire and yank while he’s growling and barking and scrabbling at me. I back across the alley until I feel the wood fence catch in my sweater, but it’s not far enough. Again and again the old dog throws himself against the wire, shaking the entire fence, and I’m frozen in place, amazed that he can support himself on his back legs, much less attack. His teeth shine in the bare light, and they’re longer and sharper than they should be. Slobber flies onto my face, and wire squeals as Grendel’s teeth rip a hole in the metal. I push off the wood and start jogging, then running toward my house.

  “Come back and get some candy, Lovey Dovey!”

  Behind me in the dark, over Grendel’s vicious barking, I hear Mr. Hathaway laughing.

  I run into the house and slam the door shut and lock it, grateful to be out of the night and away from that crazy old man. My heart is slamming in my chest, and I feel like I just woke up from a nightmare, the kind where monsters chased me all night long. But Mr. Hathaway isn’t a monster. He’s awful and crazy, but he’s just an old man. I’ve passed him a thousand times in that alley. He’s almost always sitting out there with that dog, or the dog he had before it. He never does anything—just sits, like he’s waiting for something that never comes. And he’s said rude things and told racist jokes and insulted me before, but never like this.

  I’ve never been scared of him before, and I can’t even put my finger on why I’m so scared of him and his stupid dog now.

  And that scares me too. Is this what life is like without the meds? Fear and confusion making every shadow seem like a monster? Even a harmless old man and a dog on death’s door can seem like ghouls in the dark. Maybe Baker’s right. Maybe I didn’t see Carly. Maybe there was no fox-eared girl. Maybe I’m seeing things that aren’t there.

  Maybe the numb fuzz is better than this.

  I reach into my pocket for Isaac’s business card.

  Somehow, I’m not surprised to find that it’s gone. But the pink plastic bead is still there.

  I go to bed early, just as exhausted as I was the night before. Grendel barks all night, and in my dreams I’m chased by creatures with green eyes and sharp teeth, monsters that claw at the door but never, ever leave the darkness.

  11

  THE NEXT MORNING I WAKE up as tired as if I had actually run all night. My room feels dark and stuffy, like it did when I was little and had the flu, and I push the curtains open for what seems like the first time in years. There are muddy paw prints on my window, and I jerk the curtains back into place and jump out of bed. Surely it wasn’t Grendel. He’s not that tall, even standing on his hind legs. I can’t remember the last time I looked out my window, thanks to the numb fuzz, which utterly killed my curiosity. Those paw prints are probably months old.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. But I think about rearranging my room later so my bed’s not right up against the glass. And I wish, not for the first time, that we had a two-story house, or at least bars on the windows. The neighborhood’s not what it used to be, and glass seems more fragile than ever.

  I search yesterday’s jeans again for Isaac’s card, but it’s still not there. So I find a pen and scribble Catbird Inn—Isaac in the dream journal I used to keep. The most recent entry is last November, right before Hurricane Josephine. After that my dreams became too horrible to remember, and then they flat-out disappeared. I tuck the book back into my bedside table drawer. But it’s not like I’m going to forget about last night. How could anyone forget a guy like Isaac? So unusual and so gorgeous and so strange, how he managed to look both current and from another time. But I can’t quite remember the color of his eyes. Sometimes they seemed ice blue, and sometimes they seemed as dark as ink. Something about that worries me, because it doesn’t make sense. I’m determined to find out why.

  Today’s the first day of a five-day memorial weekend in honor of the people who died in Hurricane Josephine. There are remembrance services planned, and a candlelight vigil, and the opening night of The Tempest is supposed to be a pretty big deal. With school out I have a day of mostly freedom, which means I can find the Catbird Inn and maybe see Isaac and ask him some questions. I remember that he told me to stop looking for Carly. And to keep taking my meds. But he also said to find him if I wanted to know the truth, and that means I’m going to find him. I wish Baker had been acting normal at the time, and I wish I wasn’t furious with him, because my memories aren’t adding up. If only there were someone I could talk to who wouldn’t just tell me to go back on my pills and write me off as crazy.

  But before I can head out for answers, I need breakfast, because I’m starving. Holiday and weekend mornings have always been my favorite, because they’re one of the few times I can count on seeing my dad. I tiptoe past my parents’ bedroom, where my mom is still sleeping, and find my dad waiting for me in the kitchen, perched on the edge of his chair. He has deep purple rings under his bloodshot eyes, but his gentle, dreamy smile dominates the exhaustion.

  “Morning, Billie Dove,” he says.

  “Morning, old man,” I say, leaning over to hug him around the shoulders.

  I pour my cereal and sit across from him, relaxing into the ritual. Home always feels most like home when it’s just me and my dad. He’s the opposite of my practical, argumentative drill sergeant mom. When they met in college, she was in pre-law, and he wanted to write and direct plays. He had to give that up and go to work in the factory once she got accidentally pregnant, but he’s never begrudged me that. He always said that when mom’s firm started making the big bucks, he would quit and write all day, but that never happened, and neither of my parents has tried to find a better job. It’s like they’re stuck in the same rut and don’t even notice. He sti
ll has a drawer full of unfinished plays in his study that he works on sometimes, when he’s not putting together model airplanes.

  “Dress rehearsal started this week, right?” He leans close, eyes bright. “I always loved the first dress rehearsal. It was like Christmas, seeing everybody in their stage finery.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Tamika almost set her toga on fire, and Jasmine got all up in my business, and Baker looks like he got in a fight with a bush. It was pretty crazy. I can’t believe we open Friday.”

  He laughs, his eyes far away, imagining the scene. “Well, I’ve got that night off. I never miss my girl’s opening night. It seems like a strange time to put on The Tempest, considering . . . last year.”

  I swallow and look down. “Mrs. Rosewater did it on purpose. She said it was like a memorial, that she had a dream about it. She’s got a speech planned, and they’re going to honor the . . . missing students, I guess.”

  We both eat quietly for a minute as I try not to cry and he tries to give me the space to feel like it’s okay to cry. After I choke down a few mouthfuls, he tries again.

  “You’ve got some lines in this one, don’t you?”

  “Barely,” I grumble.

  “Oh, honey. I know it’s hard to go from prima donna to fairy number three. You’ll get back there one day. You were born to be a leading lady.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I say, and I mean it, because I know he understands completely. “So how was work?”

  He sighs and takes off his wire-rimmed glasses to rub his eyes.

  “Long and dull,” he says. “But I came up with a new story idea.”

  “That’s great. I can’t wait to see it onstage.”

  “See it? Honey, you’ll be the star.”

  He smiles his dreamy smile again, and I smile back. I’ve always felt kind of guilty about how he never got to live out his dreams because I came along. My parents love each other and all, but his life is definitely not what he imagined when he was younger. Then again, he’s never finished a play, that I know of. I actually have no idea what he does in his study all day while I’m at school.

  He squints at me and leans closer.

  “Are you okay, sweetheart? You seem different. Did you get a haircut?”

  I almost roll my eyes. It’s getting pretty old, being asked the same question by everyone I know, even if it’s completely justified. I can’t actually remember the last time I was okay. But I slipped up. I was so glad to see my dad that I forgot to act like I was still on the meds.

  “Oh,” I say, slumping down. “I guess I forgot to take my pill today.”

  I get the bottle out of the cabinet, shake out an aspirin, and gulp it down with milk. My dad makes the strangest face as he watches, like he’s satisfied and disappointed at the same time.

  “Guess I need to take mine, too,” he says sheepishly, and I’m surprised to see him fetch a similar bottle out of the vitamin cabinet.

  “Since when are you on pills, old man?”

  “It’s not a big deal,” he says, tossing back a white tablet. “My blood pressure was a little high at the last screening, so we’re trying to keep it in check. It happens when you get older.”

  We both sit back at the table. His eyes go unfocused, but I’m not done talking to him, so I try to draw him back into conversation.

  “So what’s your new play about?”

  “Huh? Oh. You know. Life.” He waves his hands around and stares at the wall.

  “How far did you get?”

  “I don’t know. A little.”

  But he won’t look me in the eye, and a ripple of unease goes up my neck. My dad’s not acting like my dad, not at all.

  “What was your blood pressure?” I ask him, my voice sharp.

  “I don’t remember,” he says, staring off into space. “It’s fine.”

  It doesn’t make sense. He takes his blood pressure medicine and goes into a numb fuzz, just like the one I was in on my meds. The bottles are the same. The pills look the same. Why would we both be on the same dopey meds for completely different reasons? Where are these pills coming from? And has my mom noticed the similarity? Or, heaven help me, is she somehow involved?

  Or maybe I just need to add paranoia to the list of withdrawal symptoms from quitting antipsychotics. When everything is this weird, maybe I just need to look in a mirror for the answers. But I can’t let it go.

  “Old man,” I say. “Dad.” He looks at me and crumples over on the table.

  “You look pretty today, honey,” he says.

  I sigh. I know I’m pretty, but that’s three times I’ve been told so in less than a day. Something’s definitely wrong.

  “I think you need to go to bed before you fall asleep at the table,” I say.

  He nods his head and wanders out of the kitchen without a word.

  “Love you, old man,” I say to the empty room.

  Is he drugged, like I was? Or is he just exhausted from a long shift? I get his bottle out of the cabinet and compare it to mine. Identical. Unmarked. No sticker with pharmacy information. Plain, snowy-white pills. There’s no way it’s blood pressure medicine. But there’s no way my dad would ever lie to me either.

  This is so messed up, and he’s the person I would usually talk to when I’m this confused. If I go to my mom, she’ll just tell me I’m crazy and take me to see my therapist. I miss my dad, and I think I know how Baker felt while I was out of it, in the numb fuzz—very, very alone.

  I try to finish my breakfast, but the cereal sticks in my throat. My mind is an unfamiliar and unwelcome snarl of emotions. Confusion about what’s become of my life. Anger at Baker. Worry for my dad. Curiosity about Isaac, and an eerie fascination with Charnel House. And an overall, constant sense of disquiet, of fear looming like storm clouds. The pieces of the puzzle are ugly, and they don’t fit together. Mr. Hathaway and Grendel, Old Murph and the fox-eared girl and the whispering catwalks. And, now that I think about it, Tamika. I haven’t seen her since I ran offstage. She’s not the kind of girl who misses school or rehearsal, and I’m surprised that she didn’t call to gossip about what happened with Mrs. Rosewater, now that she knows I’m off my meds and back to mostly normal.

  Back down the hall, I stand in the doorway staring at the dark pit of my room, which hasn’t changed in a year. Lights low, curtains closed, musty. It looks like a cell, and I hate it. I especially want to get my bed away from the paw prints on the window, so I start throwing things around and tugging furniture. My twin bed goes from under the window to against the solid wall shared with my dad’s study. Under where the bed used to be I find all sorts of crap I’d forgotten about, including most of my socks and a book I never finished and half of the Best Friends necklace Carly and I wore all through middle school.

  My half is a broken gold heart that says Friends, and Carly was buried with the other half of the heart that reads Best. There’s some crud on mine, and I feel horrible for letting it sit in the dark all this time. I take it to the bathroom and rinse it under the water until it shines again, then leave it on a washrag to dry beside the sink.

  Back in my room I get the bed where I want it and toss the socks into the hamper and dump the trash into an empty bag. It’s invigorating, having a little power again.

  “Dovey? What on earth is that racket?” My mom appears in my doorway, bleary-eyed and frizzy-haired.

  “Wanted to move my room,” I say dully, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Had a nightmare.”

  Her mouth twitches back and forth, and I can see the thoughts ticking by behind her eyes.

  “They said nightmares can be a side effect of your pills,” she finally decides. “Maybe ask me first next time, ’kay? And wait until I’m awake?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sorry,” I mumble.

  Her face softens, the crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes deepening as she looks at me.

  “Don’t worry about it, honey,” she says. “You do what you need to do.”

  She cups my face, her h
and warm and dry. I lean into her. Comfort is comfort.

  “Besides,” she adds, “that damn dog was howling all night long. That would give anybody nightmares. And your window backs right up to the alley, poor thing.”

  I just nod against her.

  “What are you doing today, Dovey?”

  I sigh into her hand.

  “I need a new leotard for the play. I was going to go to the dance store downtown.”

  She chuckles. “Grew a bit since gymnastics, didn’t you? Need some money?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll leave a twenty on the counter. I’ve got to go do some business at your grandma’s house. Mrs. Finnegan says she saw shadows inside, thought maybe we had some squatters.”

  “Yuck,” I say.

  But inside, my guts are seething. The thought of people using my grandmother’s flood-ruined house, moving around in the places where she lived, is infuriating. I know it’s the poisoned thorn in my mom’s side that we don’t have enough money to fix it back up, and we didn’t have flood insurance, and it’s just sitting there down the street, rotting and unsellable.

  “A daughter’s work is never done,” my mom says with a sigh.

  She gives me a final pat and walks out into the hall. I shower and get dressed in pretty but nondescript clothes, including a cute jacket that used to be baggy but now fits like a glove. I wear my hair down loose for the first time in months and am amazed at how long it’s gotten. It’s not until I find myself searching for glittery lip gloss that I realize I want Isaac to notice me.

  I boot up my laptop and do a search for “Charnel House” first, adding in “Savannah, GA” and “Broughton Street” and “Bull Street,” but still—nothing. Annoyed, I start over with “Catbird Inn” and am gratified to find that it exists—and has decent reviews. And it’s pretty close to the dance store.

  I grab the twenty my mom left on the counter, but next to it is a note. Don’t forget the trash can, it says. With a groan I head out the back door and hurry down the alley, hoping that Mr. Hathaway and his nasty dog are back inside the house where they belong.