The Darkest Joy (11 page)

Silence.

Then, “Okay.” Clearwater sighs. I can just see him nervously tightening the band that holds that black hair of his, discreetly combed away from his face and neatly tied at his nape. The raw scar at his throat is a healing pink slash. It makes me feel like a trout gasping for air.
Or a salmon
, I think grabbing on to the thought with shaky humor.

“I thought you went to Alaska to move forward?” Clearwater says as a flat statement.

“I did, I
am
.” I say it like smooth candy, tastes great as you suck on it, but when it’s crushed crystals in your mouth you regret that brief taste.
Moving forward won’t be without challenge
, I think.

“I’ll keep in contact. I just wanted to touch base and let you know that you’re not alone. And I will reach out if we feel the need to place protection.” He pauses, then continues, each word spoken deliberately, “You should contact Marianne VanZyle and Kenneth Thomas. You can help one another.”

Kenneth Thomas. This monster is killing all the Juilliard finalists
, I think and blurt before thinking, “It’s someone that wants in.”

More silence. Then, “We’ve thought of that. In fact, it’s such a glaring coincidence it seems almost too pat.”

I rummage around in my addled brain to figure it out. Oh yeah,
too obvious
, I translate.

“If the killer wants to take out the competition, what better way to do it than by emotionally incapacitating us . . .” I whisper, angry that I’m afraid . . . and frightened by my anger that’s beginning to boil to the surface.

My heart rate begins to speed. Suddenly, the noise of my environment rushes inside the bus, like a reverse vacuum of noise. I can hear the seagulls, the people, and the white noise of their murmurings. The sun pierces my windshield and splashes its heat against my skin. A layer of numbness peels away and I feel a dim purpose begin to ring like a bell. The Band-Aid I’ve put on myself is torn away in that moment in a painful, swift pull.

I feel that stage of grief slip away, my sadness replaced by anger. Just like that, I embrace it like an old friend. That small part of me that wants to live swims up to the surface of my consciousness.

The anger is like a call to arms. I’m present and alive, swimming freely in my own skin for the first time in five months.

“. . . Reaching out to these survivors . . .” Clearwater says and I realize he’s been speaking while I’ve been Having a Moment.

“Yeah . . . give me their names and numbers and I’ll . . . talk to them,” I promise.

Clearwater sounds relieved, reciting the numbers, and I write them on my hand, scooping a pen off the floorboard of the bus where it has rolled underneath the pedals.

“I’m glad we could talk, Miss Starr.”

I smile; it feels rusty. “Brooke.”

“Okay . . . Brooke. We’ll keep you posted as updates are needed. And the possibility of protection . . .”

I don’t need that up here
, I think, but don’t say. I look around at the wilderness as far as the eye can see, encroaching my surroundings with its frozen presence.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

I begin to say good-bye and he interrupts me. “And Brooke?”

“Yes?” I ask, my mind already running to all the things I want to accomplish.

“You take care . . . and thanks,” he says, and I can hear a smile in his voice.

“For what?”

“Your trust.”

I sit there for a second and hold a phone that’s now dead. I look at the cell battery.
Dead as a doornail
. I shake it. Like that’ll help. Dumb thing.

I know it’s my fault. I’ve overcharged it one too many times and now the battery life is a couple of hours at a go.

Well, that’s okay. We got to say what we needed to.

I turn the engine on and the bus comes alive like Old Faithful, the classic VW rumble signaling my presence at about half a mile. I back up, pulling away from the Dawg . . . feeling like I have a new lease on life. A little warm light of hope sparks inside me and I allow it.

Maybe I deserve . . . to live.

I drive the length of the spit, noticing every detail like it’s in HD. I feel like I’m Dorothy in
The Wizard of Oz
. She leaves a black-and-white Kansas and arrives in Oz and suddenly everything’s in color.

It’s more true than I could ever know, because that tornado is coming. And it will consume me.

I use the long-handled scrub brush, because my flake of a cleaner texted claiming sick
.

Translation: hungover.

Homer is so small I’ll know in the next ten hours if it’s a bullshit excuse or he’s tossing cookies. Doesn’t matter, I’m still out here washing my own boat like the truly self-employed. It’s a two-hour job done right, as salt water’s like slow-working microscopic acid on a boat’s hull. It’s a
gotta do it
, not elective in the least.

I hear someone approach on the dock, the floats softly hitting the side of the boat as it rocks with the waves in the protected harbor. I stand, my entire purpose getting the boat hosed off, making myself busy so I don’t think about Brooke.

My hand clenches on the hose attachment as I ruthlessly spring it to the left on full throttle and the water shoots out in a fire-hose stream of straight pressure, blasting the debris and shit off in a steady spray.

“Beatin’ the hell out of her?” Evan asks like he doesn’t expect an answer.

I turn. “Yeah, dickhead Matt didn’t show.”

“He’s a girl about booze.”

Knew it
. “So what? He’s hung?”

Evan nods. “Like half dead.”

Shit
. “Now I have to find another cleaner last minute,” I say, shaking my head in disgust.

“I thought Brooke from Seattle’s doing it.”

I stiffen without meaning to and Evan gives me a look. “Sore spot?”

“Nah . . . just thinking it might be to much for her.” I look at Evan, my friend since middle school, and ask, “You guys friends?” I turn and spray the boat more, turning down the jet attack.

“Yeah . . . but she’s hot, if you feel me . . . I want it to be more.”

I’m instantly angry. Evan and I are like brothers. But suddenly he’s my enemy.

I turn and he looks in my face. I can’t hide it.

“Whoa . . .” Evan says giving a low whistle. “You’re hot to do her?”

I drop the hose and walk to Evan and he stays where he is, humor gone from his face. “Yeah.” And so much more. “What of it?”

Evan gives a low chuckle. “Hello . . . she’s your employee?” He taps his head like I’ve got rocks in it.
Not too far off
, I think. “She’s like . . . here for two months . . .” Then his face gets a lightbulb look and he snaps his fingers. “You just want a little . . .” He gyrates his hips and does a few thrusts and it makes me even more pissed. But I say what he wants to hear.

“Yeah, I want to sample the wares. I don’t want any commitment.”

Evan grins. “That’s what I figured. Chance Taylor doesn’t take chances,” he says, pointing a finger at me, and I frown at his bad pun.

“I take plenty of goddamned risks.”

“True,” Evan says and I hear a
but
.

I cock an eyebrow, twisting up my hose neatly, wrapping it around my elbow and inside my palm in a large loop. I hang it on the huge stainless C hook off the pier stub at the end.

“I don’t know how you close your legs with the balls you got,” Evan says, miming basketballs between his legs, and I bark out a laugh. He’s always good for one. “But . . .” he says, wagging his finger at me, “not with chicks. Never with them.”

I shrug a shoulder. I can have a relationship that’s just sex. I’m a guy; it’s like a biological directive.

“If she’s game, then we’ll just sex it out,” I say.

“What if I want in?” Evan asks.

I turn, my body squaring off with his. “It’s a deal breaker, Ev.”

We stare at each other, my eyes hard. His are cautious. The tenor of our years together is shifting.

“Over a girl, Chance?” His eyes search mine in disbelief. “Seriously?”

“Yeah . . . over this one.”

“Our friendship is worth more than eight weeks of tail . . .”

I can’t respond. I don’t want to say things I can’t take back. And I will.

“Fine . . . fuck it, have her,” Evan says in disgust, his angry eyes looking me up and down. “But, you know the mantra.” His
eyes meet mine like a challenge. “I’ll say it again for clarity’s sake: bros before hos, man . . . bros before hos.”

Evan walks off and I fold my arms across my chest. I’ve just risked a ten-year friendship for a girl I promise myself is just a fling. A girl who I promised to stay away from, considering I’m her boss . . .

I’m going to toss everything to the wind anyway, the promises to myself broken.

I can feel it like a slow-moving river in a single direction: toward Brooke.

I
hit
end
on my cell and shut my eyes. Somehow, the spontaneous calls in the middle of a Homer parking lot makes talking to them less big, less real. But it’s oh so real.

I feel like a wrung-out washrag, speaking to the other survivors. Their pain and anger—the same as mine. Their guilt: crushing. But speaking with them ushers in new feelings.

Mainly of liberty. I, Brooke Starr, might finally be free to live. I realize I’m not alone in this. Helping them helps me.

I swipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and take a deep cleansing breath. There are others who’ve survived besides me. That commonality helps breach the chasm of my grief.

I set the brake and swing the driver’s door open on the bus, closing it solidly with my palm. I sweep my hand above my brow, shielding my eyes from a sun that should not be hot or bright.

It’s Alaska, right?
Wrong
. The sun’s at its zenith, the summer solstice arriving in less than a month. Its cold brilliance bathes
the knee-high wheat-colored pasture grass as it whispers in the breeze from the cliff. The waves drive the wind up, bringing it through the pockets of forest stranded like islands around the homesteader’s cabin that I stare at.

That
, I think,
is a wreck
.

I let my hand fall with a sigh. Time to do a whirlwind cleanup. I’ve crawled from under the rock of my contemplative demise with determination. I can almost hear the small cabin’s grunt of relief as I climb the wide half-log steps, split almost a half century ago by my great-uncle. I wrap an arm around the stout porch log that braces the roof as I reach the top of the short run, my eyes taking in the general disarray with a dash of grime.

With a determination that’s been lacking for the better part of a year, I swing open the door, leaving it standing open to the breeze.

The stale guts of the place smack my face. I scan the interior, my eyes hitting the dirty glass windows like an insult and I walk over to where I’d hidden the cleaning supplies I’d purchased like a zombie. I had been one . . . now I’m not the walking dead; I’ve rejoined the living. Finally.

It’s time I begin acting like it.

I bring out Simple Green, a butt load of paper towels, and start in on the glass.

Two hours later, I look up from what I’m doing and bold sunlight streams through the windows, highlighting the bare spruce floors, polished to a mirrorlike shine in the tiny space. I move through the straightened area, not bothering with lights; the late May sunlight infiltrates everywhere there’s a gap.

For the first time, I notice a slim narrow door: its five recessed panels, exposing the flat-grain pattern of the wood’s wavy pattern on each frame, the small glass knob against it, thick with a film of dust.

I bet that thing hasn’t been turned in fifty years
.

I use my spray bottle like a weapon, blasting the glass, the brass housing loose around the seat of the crystal. I dry the knob carefully.

Then I turn it.

The small door opens, leading down ten steps into . . . another room.

Have I been so out of it I missed this?

Yup
, I answer decisively.

There’s a polelike rail of the same wood at the bottom of the steep staircase. I hit it with my hand for balance, the stairwell dim, since sunlight doesn’t enter here as brightly as the main floor.

It’s so dark when I stand at the bottom, I don’t feel like I can go farther. Like the blind, I throw my hands out in front of me and search like a staggering drunk for a light.

A slim cord smacks me in the face and I give a little yelp, jumping back. When I can unglue my hand from my chest, I pull down on the thin string, the end capped with a metal bell, and light bursts in the space as I give a gentle pull.

Oh my God
 . . . I really am in the Land of Oz

My eyes can’t stop moving, roving over everything that’s down here.

Aunt Milli never told me
, I think in wonder, taking in the framed articles, awards, and photos of glamorous events that
cover the stone walls. Of all the stories she told me, none were of this.