Circle Nine (3 page)

But I’ve seen it out there. The blue sky and glittery lake. They’re beautiful.

Those are the lies,
he says.
Those things ring false. Temptations that will betray you.
His voice is adamant, almost angry.

Like the ninth circle.
I gesture toward the book, a catalog of hell. The ninth circle is the worst one, the part of the story I’m most afraid of.

Yes, just like that.
His voice is softer now. I can see that he is pleased with me for making the connection. Then he leans closer to me, his face serious, and takes my hands gently in his.
That’s where you were before, Abby. But you’re safe now.

Did someone hurt me in the ninth circle?

Sam pauses to think for a moment.
Everyone,
he finally says.
Everyone hurts everyone in Circle Nine, and they especially hurt you.

Betrayal?

Betrayal everywhere. By people you thought you loved. It is hell out there. In here, we’re safe. I saved you from it, remember? From the fire that night and from everything else out there, the horror of it.

And then I feel it. The splitting pain below my heart, a pain strong enough to match the one in my head, the thing I didn’t feel the other day but I feel now in a panic. I am afraid of
something
I am concealing from myself. It will gut me if I dwell on it.

I can’t go back there,
I say to him. I shudder and push the darkness out, and I focus on the room around me, on our world and its comforts.

You won’t go back,
Sam promises me.

Grease is everywhere, all over our beautiful stone floor. Sam spilled it there. He’d been making bacon and tipped the pan, and now the place is flooded. The glorious smell of bacon fills my nostrils but soon I realize I want to smell anything but bacon. Too much of something delicious becomes something poisonous. Sam’s laughing at me; it’s loud and full, and it carries over the sound of the pouring rain outside. I’m pretending to ignore him so he’ll clean up the mess on his own.

Too good to help me, princess? Come on, baby.
He hands me a rag.
Give me a hand.

It’s your problem,
I say, wrinkling my nose.
You’re the one who made the mess.

Everything’s us now, baby. We help each other out.

Sure, when it’s convenient for you.

Don’t be like that.
He comes over and gently wraps his arms around me. Then he starts to draw me backward toward the soapy bucket he’s prepared with the water that drips outside and sometimes inside, too, but I feel him falter and the bucket spills and his feet slide around on the floor and out from under him and he’s clutching my shirt and then we’re both on the floor, grease and sudsy water all over us.

Sammy!
I yell. I turn my face to his. I try to keep it a mask of fury, but I can feel a giggle leaking out. Then he’s laughing and I’m laughing, too, because everything about this boy is contagious.

Come on,
he says.
I’ll help you up.
I give him my hand and he pulls me up, but instead of letting me go, he’s pulling me over the floor in a mad dash. I scream at him to stop, but his laughter kicks out my screams and replaces them with laughter of my own again. We run and we slide, first holding hands then separating when he gains more momentum than I, then we’re on the floor again, rolling around in the stuff.

It’s so much fun, my happiness is leaking out of me everywhere, pouring out of me and mixing with the water and bacon grease on the floor, which is mixing with my hair and my sweat. I see Sammy in a low crouch on the floor, the beginnings of getting up, but I jump up faster and tackle him back down. Sammy’s skin is a special eau de toilette of Sam and pig. It should be disgusting, but it is delicious. I want to lick it. So I do. I lick his arm. He licks me back. I bite his lip. He bites mine. Then I taste his tongue, just to see. Then I’m enjoying the slippery-slide of his arms and his chest against mine.

Take a bath,
Sam says after we’re all tired out from being playful.
You stink.
I swat his arm.

What about you?

I have an errand.

An errand? It’s not even night,
I protest. Sam never lets me leave here except at night, even though he leaves often in the day. I pout.
Why should you get to leave all the time but you keep me here like a princess in a tower?
It is becoming a familiar argument.

Because I’m stronger than you are,
he says.
I’m used to it.

Please let me come with you,
I say.

No way, princess.
He pushes me aside.

That’s fine, and he is strong, very strong, but I don’t like it when he’s not around. And sometimes I want to see more of the day. I go around in the woods just outside our cave-palace, but sometimes I wonder what else there is. I reach back into the recesses of my brain and feel such a pang of fear when I do that I stop wondering and promise myself not to wonder anymore. Sam loves me and keeps me safe. Curiosity kills the cat.

Well, where are you going?

My business,
mija.

No way, Sam.
I shake my head sternly.
Everything’s us now.

You’re right,
he agrees, looking at me teasingly.
Who said that? Must’ve been somebody pretty smart.
Then he zips his jacket tighter.

Sam!
I say.
Out with it.

I’m just . . . sick, baby. Nothing to worry about,
he says hastily because I must look as worried as I feel.
But I need to get something to help me out.

Medicine?

Yes, I guess that’s what medicine is, right? Something to make your body feel better.

So you’re going to the doctor?

I’m going to my friend’s,
mija.
He gets it for me.

OK,
I say, but I am a little wounded. I don’t know why I can’t meet his friend.

Good-bye, little girl.
He kisses me on the cheek, tells me not to look so sad.

I wait for hours until Sam comes back. I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I sketch. Sketching makes me feel somehow calmer, and I can tell by how good I am that I’ve been doing it for a long time, maybe years. By the time Sam comes back, I’ve nearly finished my sketch of a tiny cityscape, antlike people hurrying down the streets. I’m so happy to see him. I hug him right away, and he hugs me back, but he’s much quieter than usual.

Something wrong, Sammy?

No.
He smiles a big goofy grin and shakes his head. His eyes are shining, as if something wonderful lit them up from inside his head.

Did you bring us dinner?
I ask. My stomach has been rumbling.

No.
He shakes his head slowly and lies down on the sofa. I’m a little disappointed until I remember that we have leftovers of a huge ham, the kind you eat at an elaborate feast, tucked away somewhere. I make us both a heaping plate of it with mashed potatoes, too, and we tuck up under the covers and eat in bed together. I ask Sam about his friend, whose name is Sid, and he tells me I didn’t miss much.

I’ve got to keep you away from him,
he teases.
He might like you a little too much, and then I’d be jealous.
I laugh, but his eyes look as if part of him is serious.

That’s silly, Sam,
I say.
I’m all yours.
We fall asleep together hand in hand under the covers with our plates littering the floor just until tomorrow.

There are voices outside. Sam and I hear them at once. The feminine, lilting one and the other one, smokier and not as girlish. Our cave in the woods is the perfect little home. The only thing it lacks is neighbors. We are not used to hearing voices all the way out here. I sit upright in my chair, and quickly Sam is behind me, covering my mouth with his hand. I am perfectly still. I am not afraid, just curious. Sammy seems afraid, though. His hand grips my face so tight, and his fingers stretch in front of my nose, too, so it’s hard to breathe. I snuffle a little until he relaxes his grip.

Shhhh,
he whispers.
Not a sound.

The voices grow louder. The girls are heading closer. Sam grabs my hand and we inch quietly toward the skylight, a rough-cut hole in the stone of the cave. It’s as far as we can get from the sound of the voices. I can make out the words now. Sam pushes at the glass pane covering the hole, but it’s stuck. I don’t remember us ever opening it before.

What
is
this place?
The girl with the pretty voice asks the question.

Just an old dump,
the other one says.
Looks like an old mine shaft or something. Let’s go.

We pause. Maybe we don’t need to go out through the skylight after all. Sam doesn’t want these girls to see us. I feel like I don’t want them seeing us, either. They’re invading our little home. They’re intruding.

Then we hear,
Let’s just have a quick look around. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find buried treasure,
and they’re giggling and coming closer and Sam’s tugging extra hard at the skylight and suddenly it grinds up and he’s pushing my body through it. I’m struggling and I’m nearly halfway through and now there’s silence.

Did you hear that?

What the hell was that?

Nothing. It was nothing. Come on, let’s look.

Now I’ve pulled myself up to the grass, and Sam’s after me, and he pushes the pane back over the gap almost all the way. We hear noises below us in our home.

Ewwww,
the raspy girl says.
I told you it was just a dump. I’m probably getting some nasty disease just by standing here.
Her words slap me hard in the face. I am so proud of our lovely underground kingdom. Sam is clutching me hard again. I see him looking at me as the girl talks, like he knows I’m upset with her. My knees are pressing into the damp soil beneath me, and a tiny iridescent fly lands on my arm, but I don’t swat it away. I must pretend as if I am carved from stone.

Jess,
says the softer one,
someone’s been here recently.

Of course we have, I angrily retort in my head. Can’t you see last night’s meal in the fridge and our candlesticks on the dining table all covered in wax? Can’t you see our rumpled sheets?

No way,
the other one says, and I hear a note of fear in her voice.
This is totally freaky.

Look at all this stuff on the walls,
says the soft one. Her voice has wonder and fear in it, now.

Seriously,
the other girl agrees.
If you want to stay, feel free. But I’m outta here.

The other girl must want to join her because we hear their shuffling moving away again and the crunch of grass and twigs growing distant, then more distant, then gone altogether. Even so, Sammy makes me sit outside with him for a very long time. Finally he says we can go inside. I wonder what invisible messenger told him it was not OK for those other interminable minutes and OK at just this particular minute.

When we get inside, I sit at our long oak dining table, and Sam pours us coffee with milk. He sets my coffee in front of me along with a plate of toffee-butter cookies, my favorite, and a tray of caramels, his favorite, even though he says he buys them for me. My porcelain teacup has yellow elephants on it. I selected it myself. I know I did. But I can’t remember when. I love my teacup and use it for everything, including coffee and juice. I fill it with water at night and leave it by my bed. I admire the way it looks smooth against the rough grain of our chop-block table. I gaze into its murky depths.

Abby!
Sam’s voice is harsh. He snaps his fingers in front of my face.
Focus,
he says.
We need to talk.

What about?
I ask, munching my cookie.

About what just happened.

I don’t know what happened,
I say.

OK,
Sam says slowly.