Silk (38 page)

“Stop playing like you know what’s happening, Niki. You
don’t
know what’s happening. If I let you stay, they’ll just take you, too.”

“It’s my decision,” and she grabbed Spyder by the shoulders, pushed her back against the cabinet doors. “Look at me, Spyder. Look at me.”

Spyder opened her eyes, stared out through her dreads, through tears and the roil behind the tears.

“It’s
my
call. If I want to be here. If I want to help.”

“It doesn’t work that way,”
Spyder growled. “There’s nothing in the whole fucking world you can do, even if I let you try.” She closed her eyes again and began to pound her head against the cabinets, once, twice, the back of her skull against the wood, hitting hard enough that the cabinet door split the third time, and then Niki shook her.

“Stop it, Spyder! Stop it right
now,
goddamnit! You’re gonna hurt yourself…”

Crack like lightning reaching for the ground and touching, splitting sound that wasn’t the cabinet door or Spyder’s skull; hungry light before Niki could shut her eyes, light that had mass and substance, cold as zero, broiling. And she couldn’t let go, couldn’t crawl away and hide in shadows that didn’t exist in the blinding-flash moment before it was over and the kitchen seemed so completely black there might never have been even the glow of a single candle in all the world. Her hands came away from Spyder’s shoulders with a sick and tearing noise, and Niki crawled to the sink, felt for the cold water knob in the dark and held her scalded hands under the tap, tasting ozone and something like dust, tasting her own blood where she’d bitten her tongue.

And there was no sound but the soothing, icy splash of water from the faucet and Spyder sobbing behind her.

“It’s still my call,” Niki said, blinking, wondering if her eyes had burned away to steam, if there was nothing now but empty red sockets in her face.

5.

Niki found Bactine in the medicine cabinet and sprayed some on her hands, the burns crisscrossing the backs of both, striping her wrists and forearms. Made bandages from an old bedsheet and then she sat alone in the living room, nothing for the pain but four extra-strength Tylenol, watched sitcoms with the sound turned too far down to hear. Her eyes itched and watered and there were still bright purplewhite splotches that danced about the room when she blinked. But the thwumping on the walls had stopped, the brushy rustling from the basement, and she could sit on the couch and watch mindless crap and almost not think about the familiar pattern the burns had etched into her skin or about what Spyder was doing in the kitchen or the racket when she wrestled the body off the kitchen table. The sounds the dead boy’s swaddled heels made as she dragged him to the trapdoor and down. Not think about what had happened or what to do next, about the things that had happened in this house, had never stopped happening because Spyder had been scarred and so the house had scars, too. There would be time to think later, when her hands stopped hurting, when the splotches in front of her eyes faded.

The phone began to ring and Spyder let it, seventh ring before Niki got up and went to the kitchen (no boy mummy body on the table, no salt on the floor, no sign of Spyder, either) to answer it.

“Hello?” and there was sweet, faint music from the other end, the Smiths, maybe, and then Mort said, “Hey, Niki. You guys doin’ okay?”

“Yeah,” and inside,
No. No, we’re not. Not even a little bit okay.
“We’re fine.”

“Well, look, I’ve got some bad news,” and she thought she heard Theo in the background; Mort paused, and the music went away.

“It’s about Keith, you know, our guitar player,” and “Yeah,” she said, “Is he all right?” just as the basement door slammed closed. And then Spyder, standing between crooked paperback stacks in the next room, watching her: dirty hands, red dirt like rust or blood, dirty bare feet. A smear of dirt across her face.

“No,” Mort said, “He’s not,” and Niki listened to the details, stared helpless into Spyder’s expectant, nervous eyes and listened. When it was over, she hung up and sat at the table, just a plain table again, not a mortuary slab, and all the salt and pepper shakers and bottles of hot sauce back in place. The plastic honey bear and the sugar bowl.

“What’s wrong, Niki?” Spyder asked, cautious, sounding frightened again; Niki shook her head, no words left in her. She looked down at her ridiculous, bandaged hands, already beginning to ravel, and when she began to cry, Spyder came and held her, wrapped her in consoling smells of mold and earth and sweat and stayed with her until she could talk again.

1.

T
he real funeral and the one in her head; Daria, sitting on her bed, sitting with her back to the wall and squeezed into the corner like a gunfighter so no more of this shit could come sneaking up on her, the real shit and the shit in her head; the shit since Saturday night and her laying down the law, the sentence, for the late and never-to-be-great Mr. Keith Barry, and the other shit like a 1950s Cold War big-bug movie. That last kept for herself, her pearl, more secret than the guilt over Keith. Because she knew it was crazy, because she was too afraid to say it out loud, too scared to say words to set the nightmares loose.

Claude had gone out for more coffee thirty minutes before, only had to walk down to the Bean and back,
So where the hell is he?
and she watched the clock-radio and wished him home, wished herself back to Saturday night and Heaven and the time when there was still opportunity, a million other ways things might have gone down, if she’d let them, and none of the wishes came true.

Outside, the sun was going down, already, going down again, and that meant that she’d lived through one, two, three, four, and this had been the fifth day since Saturday night: Thursday, Thursday night creeping up on her like a fucking vampire that would take away nothing anyone could ever see, would leave her a little less alive, but still hurting. Hurting like she’d never imagined she could hurt, and empty, and sick, and she thought she heard thunder.

She knew she looked like cold fucking shit, smelled just as bad or worse, maybe, same grody clothes, same underwear and no shower, so she smelled like sweat and puke and dried tears, old booze and stale smoke; mostly drunk since Tuesday afternoon, solid drunk since the funeral, drunk since the hours before his wake; hidden away in the apartment, sucking down the cheapest wine, the bottles of Wild Irish Rose and Boone’s Farm and MD 20/20 that had been left behind after she’d chased everyone away from the wake, the precious numbing bottles she’d lugged back from Keith’s old place in a huge, bulging paper bag.

Where are you, Claude?
and she looked at the window, although she couldn’t see anything for the bedsheet she’d made Claude thumb-tack over it, could only tell how soon it would be dark.
You fuckin’ promised, man,
and Christ, she hadn’t even wanted the fucking coffee.

“But you
are
going to drink it, and you
are
going to sober up,” he’d said. “He’s dead, not you. What happened to Keith, that wasn’t about
you,
Dar. That was just about him, and nobody but him and all the shit he couldn’t deal with anymore.” And it hadn’t mattered that she’d screamed at him for saying that, had hurled an ashtray across the room at him, dumping butts and ash and putting another dent in the walls.

He’d gone anyway, thirty-five minutes now.

She looked away from the window, tried not to think about time or the setting sun, bad dreams or the distant storm sounds;
He’ll be back soon,
and she looked into each of the room’s three remaining corners, one after the other, corners Claude had cleaned so meticulously for her, swept away every trace of cobweb and sprayed them with Hot Shot; indulging her.

The thunder again, but no lightning, not yet, and the windowpane rattled a little. Daria lit another cigarette and waited for Claude, the can of bug spray gripped tightly in one hand, and she watched the empty corners.

2.

She’d been at the Bean, one hour into her Monday night shift, when Mort had come in, stoop-shouldered Mort and Theo in his shadow, her eyes red, puffy, and that had been the first thing, the realization that Theo had been crying, and Daria had just never thought about Theo Babyock crying. The coffeehouse was crowded, noisy, afterwork crowd, and she’d been too busy, still furious and pouring it all into the job, the endless procession of lattés and cappuccinos, double espressos and dirty glasses.

“We need to talk, Dar,” he’d said, leaning across the bar so she could hear him over the Rev. Horton Heat and the beehive drone of customer voices.

“I’m busy right now, Mort.
Real
busy, so if it can wait…” but he’d shaken his head and reached across the bar, held her arm so she had to be still and listen. Theo had turned away, wiping at her nose with a wilted Kleenex.

And she’d seen the red around his eyes, too, and felt sudden cold down in her stomach, belly cold, had set down a plastic jug of milk, and, “Yeah,” she’d said, “Okay. Just give me a minute.” Had asked a new girl to cover for her, and then she’d taken off her damp apron, followed Mort and Theo, not to a booth or table (none were empty, anyway), but out the door to stand shivering on the sidewalk.

“What’s going on?” and Mort had brushed his hair back, rubbed his hands together; Theo blew her nose loud, like a cartoon character.

“Keith,” Mort said. “He’s dead, Dar,” just like that, no words minced; at least he hadn’t fucked around the point, hadn’t tried to break it to her gently. And then he’d said it again, “Keith’s dead.”

She’d opened her mouth, but nothing, no words, nothing but the ice from her stomach rising up to meet the cold air spilling over her tongue. And Theo made a strangled little sound, then, like someone had squeezed a puppy too hard, and she walked away from them, fast, chartreuse leather moccasins and the cuffs of her chintzy aqaumarine bell-bottoms showing out from under her long coat.

Daria said something: “Oh,” or “Oh god,” “Oh fuck,” something she couldn’t exactly remember, only that she’d made some sound, a word or two pushed out, and Mort had looked down at his feet.

“We just found out about half an hour ago,” he said. “His aunt called me at the garage, and we came straight here.”

She sat down on the concrete, weighted and sunk down slow to cold that hadn’t mattered anymore. No colder than she felt inside, and she said, “How?” and he coughed.

“The police found him in an alley, I don’t know, somewhere in Atlanta,” pause, and “He slashed his wrists with his goddamned pocketknife,” and then Mort sat down next to her, put his hard drummer arms around her, embroidered cursive name tag on his gas-station-blue shirt and warmth and the safe smells of worksweat and motor oil mixing with the coffeefunk that never washed out of her clothes.

And she’d leaned against him, waiting for it to be real enough that she could start to cry.

The next night, they’d gone together to the funeral parlor: Daria, Mort and Theo, outsiders at the ritual, extrinsic onlookers lingering among the chrysanthemums and roses. Surrounded by relatives that Daria had never known existed; she’d only ever formed the vaguest sense that Keith even had a family, much less all those tearful faces, and the feel and magnolia smell of Old South money, fallen aristocracy and names that were supposed to mean something. Eyes that looked back at her through sorrow or obligatory sorrow or bored indifference, but all of those eyes saying the same thing in slightly different voices: you don’t belong here.

At least the casket had been closed, so she was spared some mortician fuck’s rouge and powder imitation of life. Only had to face the expensive-looking casket, almost buried beneath a mound of ferns and flowers and a Bible on top like a leather-bound cherry, the Bible and a pewter-framed photograph, cheesy yearbook pose at least ten years out of date. Keith before the dope, long, long time before her and anything that she knew about him.

His mother, old-young woman in heavy makeup, hugged her just a moment and left a mascara smear on her cheek, shook Mort’s hand and said how good it was that he’d had friends that cared enough, enough to come. And the three ministers, Baptist fat and hovering like overfed crows, disapproving glances for Daria’s crimson hair, Theo’s clothes, Mort’s simplicity. After that she almost hadn’t gone to the funeral.

“They don’t want us there,” she’d said, and Mort said, “But who gives a rat’s ass
what
they want, Dar. What do you think
he
would have wanted?”

“He’s dead, Mort. He doesn’t want anything anymore.”

But that was beside the point, and so she had gone. Borrowed black dress from Theo, something polyester and a patent black purse empty except for her cigarettes and Zippo, had refused to trade her boots or take off her watch. And Theo in a dress and black opera gloves, Mort in a gray suit with sleeves too short.

They’d come in to the memorial service late and taken seats in the back, Daria watching her hands until it was over, all that shit would have either made Keith laugh or pissed him off, the hymns and then back out into the parking lot and the procession to the cemetery, boneyard parade and the shitmobile stuck in the middle like an ulcer.

“You think he would have wanted any of this bullshit?” she’d asked Mort, and no, he said, small, far away no, no he wouldn’t have.

And there had been no rain, no clouds even, just that sucking vacant blue of an Alabama late autumn sky, and when it was over and they’d filed past the grave with the others, the hands dropping flowers, faces staring down that hole, Mort had taken something out of his coat pocket. Something rolled tight that caught and flashed back the weak afternoon sun, and she’d realized it was just guitar strings, the strings off the busted-up Gibson. He dropped them in, funny metal noise before they slid off the lid into red dirt, and a man behind them frowned.

“That was one thing that was
wrong
with the boy,” the man said, and Daria stopped and glared up at him. Didn’t tell him to fuck off or shove it up his tight white ass, just stared, and Mort’s big hand on her shoulder, stared until the man blushed like a girl and looked away. And then she’d followed Mort and Theo back down the hill to the van.

Wednesday night, after the funeral, they’d finally gone back to her apartment, after driving around all afternoon, drinking beer and listening to bootlegged tapes Keith had made on Daria and Claude’s stereo: bestiary of guitars through the shitmobile’s tinny speakers: Hendrix and Page, Clapton and all those old blues guys she could never keep straight, Chuck Berry and the Eagles’ “Hotel California.”

“I tell you what he
would
have wanted,” Mort had said, finishing another Bud and crumpling the can, tossing it in the direction of the kitchen sink. “What he said he wanted,” and he told them about one night the summer before, July and he and Keith walking the rails alone, smoking pot and talking music shit. And they’d found a cat dead on the tracks, swollen and stinking on the oily ties and granite ballast, and for a while they’d just walked. And then Keith had said that when he kicked he wanted music around him, music and booze and people laughing, like they did down in New Orleans, you know. “Think of the most fucked up you’ve ever been, man, and then get ten times that drunk, and that’s what I want.”

“We’re working on it,” Theo had said and belched, still wearing her funeral clothes, the gloves bunched down around her wrists.

“No, we’re not. We’re just sitting around drinking. He meant he wanted a
party
.”

And they’d both looked at her, like it was her decision, her call, whether or not Keith got his fête, his wake, and she was already at least twice as drunk as she’d ever been and her head still hurt from all the crying, and she just wanted to go to bed.

But “Sure,” she’d said, instead, “Whatever you think,” and she’d opened another beer, had lain down on the floor and stared at a big water stain on the ceiling while Mort started making phone calls.

And an hour later, just before they’d left for Keith’s apartment (she still had her key to the door downstairs), the phone had rung and Theo and Mort were already on their way out the door, Claude and his latest boyfriend, too, so she answered it, third ring and she’d held the receiver close to her face, so drunk she had to brace herself against a wall, and said “Hello,” had waited, listening to the nothing from the other end. Then, “Ah, yeah…I’m looking for Keith.” A guy’s voice, and she’d almost laughed, had
wanted
to laugh, but she wasn’t quite that drunk yet.

“Keith Barry?” he’d said, nervous boy voice, and she rubbed her face. “You probably don’t know me, but I’m a friend of Spyder Baxter’s.”

“Oh, yeah, uh, just a minute…” and Mort was watching her from the doorway, his tired face that said he was right there if she needed help, needed anything at all, and she tried to smile, easy nothing’s-wrong smile for him, failed and said “Keith doesn’t live here,” to the telephone; before the shaky voice inside could reply, she added, “Keith Barry never lived here,” and then she hung up.

3.

Hours later and Keith’s apartment was still empty, as empty as if all his stuff had already been carted away, as if most of the people Mort called hadn’t shown: skatepunks and slackers, a few people from other bands, and almost everyone with a bottle or two, a six-pack or a case of shitty beer. Daria sat on the old mattress, wedged into the corner and the sleeping bag across her lap, five times as drunk now as she’d ever been, and she’d already puked once and started drinking again, looking for a place inside that was absolutely fucking numb.

The sleeping bag smelled like Keith, the whole apartment that same smell, that feel, and the pain faded and then welled back up, time after time, ocean tide, and she’d be crying again, and Mort or Theo or someone else sitting with her, comforting words and touches that could never really comfort, couldn’t possibly touch the shattered place inside.