What Happened to Lani Garver (30 page)

"I had done something else the night we left for Philly. I had removed the inside spreads of that magazine. The thing is old and tattered enough—I figured he knew it by heart. I thought maybe if that magazine somehow managed to circle back to Tony, he would realize some part of it was still out there. And he might think of his fingerprints, or anything else, being on it. He might get scared. If he was stupid, he might just decide I liked pornography. But if he was really, really sharp, it might occur to him why I had it, that it could be used against him somehow ... taken to the cops ... something, anything."

"God, you're too smart, Lani. You're too streetwise." I breathed, in shock.

"Maybe
too
is the key word. Maybe I'm too smart."

"That's what he wanted? When he called?"

"The way he put it was, 'What are you holding on to that I should have? What're you hiding in your bedroom?'"

"Jesus," I breathed. I flopped over on my back, my mouth dangling open as I stared at the ceiling. "Oh the webs we weave when..."

The rest of the line got lost in the huge, confusing plot in my head.

"Oh the webs we weave when we deal in the deceit," he finished.

"Shakespeare," I said.

"Yeah.
Julius Caesar.
"

We lay there staring, me trying to get up nerve to hear more information. "You, of course, were way too blunt when he called you, and now wish you'd kept your mouth closed," I guessed.

"I don't know what I wish. I know the truth sure feels good on the way out. I told him I had it. I told him to lay off me or I would give it to the cops—to my uncle's squad in New York, the squad I threatened Vince with. That's when Tony threatened me back. Lots of guys are blowhards. This guy I believe."

I thought of how easily Tony put Phil's lungs in jeopardy the other night over a stupid round of chicken, how he loved danger, how many drugs he had done, how his brain might have been damaged by child abuse. Still, there was this feeling of safety. All my experiences told me that people don't come barging into a house. I used that feeling to take the time to make sense out of all the bullshit.

"Lani, this has nothing to do with you and sex, or you and ... a sexual preference," I stammered. "It has half to do with somebody who tried to molest
you. Tony.
And then there's Macy, who I'm fighting with. She probably decided you stole her best friend. And beyond the stupid smoke rings, she keeps imagining stuff about you to justify how that could be possible."

"Erdman calls that 'monsterizing.' It's when you erroneously make someone out to be a monster to justify your own behavior toward that person. He said spouses do that a lot to their mates, when they're trying to justify leaving or having an affair."

I listened to the sound of my breath blending with the echo of surf through the open window. I realized the wind had changed. The windows were still open, but the Indian summer warmth had turned, during my sleep, into the usual November chill.

The air was coming in cold, giving me goose bumps, filling my head with strange thoughts. "It's funny. Tony knows exactly what's going on. He knows what he is. But Macy's seeing and hearing shit. She's clueless, yet her mouth is so big."

He didn't say anything.

"Hey, Lani?"

"Hm."

"Who's scarier? Tony or Macy?"

After a moment he said, "She'll eventually screw up a lot of people, and neither they nor she will ever know. Right now we should think short-term. Tony wants that magazine spread back. We ought to prepare ourselves for whatever he might do."

"Do you think he's watching the house?" I felt the skin on my arms tighten even more, and my ears grew, like, ten sizes.

"Yeah, probably."

My eyes drifted around, and I wondered if the lit candles would show as light in this room from the outside of the house. I noticed how silent everything was. I realized I had not heard his mother all night.

I froze. "Lani? Where's your mom? Don't tell me we're alone here."

"The VFW? You let your mom waltz out of here to go to bingo night?" My basic fear instinct squashed my frustration down into a whisper.

"She was already gone when he called."

"Can you page her? She would at least drive you off the island to somewhere safe if you told her you were in trouble. You could stay with Ellen for a while—"

"My mom's sick of all this, Claire. That's why I ran away before, and you saw her reaction the other day. She thinks I bring this on myself. She'll give me another few choruses of how I should join a gym and take steroids, something."

He flopped back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. He brought his hands in front of his eyes and turned them over and over, studying them. I sensed that any effort to make him feel better would go over as badly as it had the other night. In the silence the floor creaked downstairs. I couldn't help tiptoeing to the door and peering down.

His mother had left one light on in the living room that threw a small orange spotlight at the foot of the stairs. The dark gray air around it emptied into black. I listened, but only the constant whirring of a ceiling fan broke the silence. His mother had obviously forgotten to turn the fan off, despite the heat wave having suddenly turned to typical November frost. It forced a little wave of icy air that danced around my neck.

"Just the wind kicking up," I murmured, turning. He had folded his hands across his chest, and I could see his knuckles turning white. I just let him alone, hoping his mind was hatching some scheme. No question, he could hatch something when he needed to. I felt disappointed when his sigh came out quaking.

I could feel my eyes filling up. "This is all my fault."

Despite him sniffing, too, a laugh came out first. "How do you figure?"

"I should have been friends with more ... dweebs." I flopped down on the mattress and tried to smile, though it wasn't working. "My friends, they're just too cool. They wouldn't know how to
help
in this case."

"Life is so ironic, isn't it?" he asked.

It's a word I hadn't used before, except maybe in a school paper to butt smooch some teacher, but I decided I would never forget it. I started repeating it.

"Ironic ... ironic ... irony ... Life is one big
irony
... I'm turning into a dweeb. Isn't it
ironic?
Only a dweeb uses a word like
irony
... "

Someone needed to get control of this situation and be rational. Unfortunately, Lani seemed to be feeding off my mood. He stood up and peeled off his shirt, leaving his bony arms and shoulders to glow in the candlelight. He didn't seem to notice the cold as he picked up the nightgowns, dropping the first two over his head.

"Lani..." I started to tell him to not go off the deep end with me and to focus on an escape plan. But something inside me wanted to see this infamous costume. Something hollered that I might never get the chance again.

He pulled his arms into the piece that had the sleeves cut out and walked over, standing in front of his dresser mirror.
He was dangerously close to the window, and I stole over behind him, staring out at the silent street before closing it and pulling the curtains shut. I backed away toward the bed as he just stood blinking until he pointed a long, straight finger at his own reflection. His chin jutted straight out, and his posture was perfect, like the face of a clock striking a quarter to six.

My stomach twisted like I had swallowed live bugs. I got the feeling he had practiced that pose lots of times before. The walls threw off kaleidoscopes from the little rhinestones sewn into the top, paisley piece. The effect of him, the reflection, and the dancing walls took up the whole room. I could not call the overall effect girly. There was a wild strength to it, like combat in the heavens from a sci-fi story or myth.

To call this sight feminine would be like calling a girl a cat. It went bigger than humanness, bigger and stronger.

Out of my mouth spilled a whisper. "Holy shit..."

His own voice jolted me. Compared to sight, the sound was too pathetic. "What ... is
that?
" he asked, staring into the reflection of his straight finger. "What
is
that? Is that a ... guy? Is that a ... girl? Is that a ... it?"

"You pick great times to question yourself!" I moved up behind him slowly, staring over his shoulder at the reflection of his eyes in the mirror. They were so black, so wide, I could not read them. Suddenly I wasn't so sure he had been questioning himself. I could not see where he was looking. I thought maybe he was only quizzing me.

I answered, "You look like Michael."

"Michael?" His voice trembled, louder than my whispers.

"Michael. The archangel."

I had never even seen a painting of Michael the archangel. But I knew that is what a powerful and yet innocent angel would look like. Lani dropped his finger, and the two of us stood there, watching. He edged closer to the mirror, his eyes black, wide like a shark's, unreadable.

He got louder. "Is that the truth? Is that what I look like? Or is that just what you want to believe about me?"

I felt like he had been my friend since the foundation of the universe. Yet I realized the truth—I had only been with him a few times. And I could just be seeing a new, weaker side of him.
A side that didn't show so much confidence. A side that would allow him to crumble and not outsmart tough guys.
I didn't want to believe that. And I didn't want to risk hearing him say it.

"You look so strong right now. You look ... beyond human, bigger than human."

I wouldn't say his response was great news. But it didn't completely shatter my hope about what he was. "What if I told you that floating angels can improve lives but they can't fight? They can't protect people from tough guys? Would I stop looking like an angel to you? If it weren't a convenient thought right now?"

The little rhinestones danced across the walls, and I sensed a strength in his rising anger that pumped up my hope, though I had no clue what layer of him I was seeing. My head shook slowly.

"Is the mirror smoking?" he quaked out.

"No," I whispered immediately. "I believe it. I really feel you are ... supernaturally smart and good. So, therefore, it's true."

I could feel a new wave of energy wafting off him and hoped I was adding to his strength. So I jumped half a foot when his voice came out louder, more angry than before.

"Don't you give me that postmodern bullshit. There
is
truth. There is
a
truth. And what you want, or you feel, or you need, isn't going to change
the
truth. Any more than it's going to topple a skyscraper. There's truth, and there's belief. Don't call a mule a stallion."

"What are you saying?" I shook my head, trying to remove any "smoke" from my vision. He babbled on about fanatics totally believing they were martyrs, and martyrdom being convenient if you hate life, and convenience being irrelevant to truth. I could barely follow.

And I couldn't resist thinking on what he'd said once—floating angels do not admit to being what they are. I just couldn't jam this sight into the concept of "just a kid," not while his posture was consuming the room, eating my air. It had nothing to do with being able to magically fight off Tony. And since Lani was being so blunt, I responded to him the same way.

"I don't think my saying you're an angel is very convenient. I think it would be most convenient if you were a normal-looking guy who didn't bring this sort of shit down on us..."

He passed in front of the window, backed into the corner, and shrunk there, folding his forehead into his knees. "Touché."

"Lani ... what are you doing?" I was scared he was crying.

"I'm thinking."

I couldn't tell whether he was crying or not. The wind whipped up, rattling the window.
Storm out at sea ... cold, ice storm coming.
I stepped back, reaching for my jacket on the bed, then pulling it over my bazillion goose bumps.

He still had not moved. The shimmering on the walls had sucked down into him when he backed out of the candle glow, and he looked like a small child, cowering in a corner, retreating from the world.

Claire, forget about magic. This isn't the time or the place.
"Would you mind, uhm, not thinking of any more philosophy right now, Lani? We need a plan to get out of here without either of us getting our heads taken off by Tony Clementi."

He didn't move, didn't answer. I jumped as a rumbling echoed up from the floor downstairs. Something cracked and broke, maybe a china figure left on a windowsill, and I commanded my imagination not to run wild.
Stupid decorating mistake made by all newcomers to this windy island
... Yet I moved to the bedroom door and stared down again. Stronger gusts of cold air blew up the stairs, yet all was silent.

I put my hand on the doorknob. Across the little hall, in the blackness of his mother's room, the silhouette of curtains danced. She'd left that window open, too, and in front of it sat some little table thing, and I could see the outline of picture frames. They would fall and the glass would break if I didn't close the window. But the air was breathing, whirling, and my willies backed up on me. I slammed the bedroom door. It was a cheap summerhouse door, no lock. Not that a lock would have kept Tony Clementi out if he wanted to come in. Just if there had been one, I would have locked it.

I picked up the phone.
Sydney.
We could trust her. I punched in the café number, praying she was working on the books or something. Lani's little clock glowed 9:11, and the café closed at six on Sunday.

Answering machine. I whispered a curse. I hit end twice and punched in 4-1-1. "Lani, snap out of it. Get dressed while you're scheming."

I asked for the home number of Sydney Shea.

"... at the customer's request this number is not listed."

I hit end again, cursing more. Lani still had not moved. "Lani! I hope your brain is in on mode! We need a respectable grown-up who would be willing to drive us off the island—"

"Claire? If those guys catch us, and this time Tony is with them ... what is the most likely thing they would do to me?"