CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Ana dreamed she was a doll, and on Christmas morning, the Puppet came and unwrapped her from her blankets. Mammon's town tree was there in her bedroom, the star in the angel's bent arms blindingly bright in her eyes, too bright to look right at it. She lowered her eyes and saw the table in the middle of the Party Room was full of people, watching as the Puppet posed and played with her. They were wearing paper party hats and wearing paper masks—bears and bunnies and chickens and foxes—but she knew who they were. There was Shelly, unmistakable with that long, long neck. And that must be Big Paulie in that lumpy, leaking bag with the balloons tied to it, identified more by the woman sitting next to him, the wife Ana had never met. There was Eustace Green, with his chest sunken in; she guessed she'd broken his ribs with the CPR after all. There was her mother, dark water dripping off her hair, smoking a wet cigarette. And there was David, eleven years old, in his torn Freddy mask.
"Don't wake up," he told her, because he knew she was trying. "It can just be a dream if you stay asleep."
"That's right," her mother agreed in her gurgling, grinning voice. She dropped two pills into the cup in front of her, stirred it with her skeletal finger, and held it out. "Drink your juice and take a nap."
The cup was in her hand without Ana reaching for it. The light was bright and the Puppet's claws were cold on her body. She looked at David, but he was gone. Sitting in his chair was another Freddy, an older Freddy, covered in yellow satin that had once been a cheerful sunny color and was now rotted and burnt and torn. His eyes were black holes were wires protruded. His jaw hung slack and slightly askew, letting a few blunt teeth show. There was a smudge on one side of his muzzle, like a small handprint, stamped over the bearish features in reddish brown ink.
"It can just be a dream," the bear's corroded speaker crackled, "if you just…stay asleep…"
Ana drank her orange juice. It was bitter and thick. Quarry water. She closed her eyes and kept them shut until she dreamed again, a better dream where she and David were sitting on the fallen log at the top of the overlook, watching fireworks. The explosions were strangely silent and looked like flowers bursting open and then withering away, dropping shriveled up petals over the ground. The town below didn't look right either. Nothing was familiar. There were no houses, only grey blocks. Gravestones. She looked at David and couldn't tell… Was he the boy or the bear?
She leaned into his side. He leaned into hers. Their hands met and intertwined. He stank of smoke and oil and blood, but it was David, so it was a good dream.
When she opened her eyes for real, some indeterminable time later, they were wet. She wiped her face, then felt at her blankets, which were, of course, tucked in around her. She found her phone under her pillow, turned it on and aimed its light around. The curtains were closed. The camera was off. The table in the middle of the Party Room floor was undecorated, its layer of dust undisturbed except for the spot where she'd fallen into the habit of tossing her jacket or her daypack instead of bringing them all the way up here and putting them away. She didn't know what she'd expected to see, but of course, everything was all right.
Ana got out of bed under the cupcake's watchful eyes and pulled on yesterday's jeans. She kind of wished she had an ugly sweater or something to show she was feeling the spirit of the season, but the best she could do was her sugar skull shirt, which at least had a bright red background. She left her room (grunting a hello at Freddy, who grunted one back at her as he checked the emergency exit door at the end of the hall) and went into Lala's restroom to flush away the residue of the dream with the rest of the night's toxins. At the sink, she washed up, brushed her hair and managed a clumsy side-braid that sort of covered what she still thought of as stubble, even though it had grown out too much to call it that anymore. In another month, it would be at that awkward length that was too long to hide but too short to do anything with. Another month after that and she'd probably be working it into her braid. In the meantime, she was stuck with it looking like a rat's nest.
The thought scratched up some shred of a memory: herself, small, wrapped in a huge towel after a bath, watching herself in a mirror while someone brushed her damp hair. It was short then, not quite long enough to touch her shoulders…but it would be the next time he saw her, he said. His voice (golden in her memory, before she knew how purple it really was) was low and comforting, full of smiles even when she couldn't see his face. She told him the kids at school teased her over her hair, said it looked like a rat's nest. And he chuckled and said it was more like a hydra's nest. Did she know what a hydra was? A hydra was a dragon, a special dragon that was impossible to kill, because it could heal itself faster than anyone could hurt it. If you cut off its leg, it would only grow it back, and if you cut off its head, it grew two heads back. No matter what you did to it, it could only grow stronger and fiercer and deadlier. And he smiled at her in the mirror. And when she smiled back, he tipped his head playfully to one side and asked, "Which kids?"
The memory flickered like bad tape and lost itself again in the shadowed places of her mind, leaving her with nothing but the story of a hydra, the ghost of a shared smile, and the unsettling feeling that she'd answered him. With a shrug, the way she'd learned to answer so many questions if she thought the answer would get her into trouble? Or had she felt so safe with this smiling monster that she'd actually given him a name, and if she could remember what it was, would she find it again in Mike Schmidt's black binder?
Okay, enough of that. It was Christmas. She was allowed to take one day off from wallowing in the horror story of her life.
Ana practiced a few smiles in the mirror, fidgeted with her hair some more, than went out to the dining room to get the party started.
Bonnie was onstage in his usual spot, picking out some slow, smooth tune on his guitar in quiet counterbalance to Chica in the kitchen, who was running around like a chicken making breakfast.
"Morning," Bonnie said.
"Don't come in here!" Chica cried, punctuating herself with a clatter of old pizza trays falling onto the floor.
Ana obediently halted halfway across the dining room floor. "Why not?"
"Because Bonnie's a selfish jerk, that's why not!"
Ana looked at Bonnie, who shrugged and nodded. "I blew all the power playing video games last night," he explained. "Which I have done plenty of times without blowing all the power before, but I guess having the tree plugged in too was a little too much for the system."
Ana made a sympathetic sound. The limitations of Faust's miraculous Tesla-inspired solar energy condenser were well-known to her. During the day, no matter how cloudy, it could easily provide enough electricity to power this pizzeria and no doubt a dozen others like it, but its storage capacity was laughably small, designed to keep the security system and the kitchen's coolers running all night, and not much else. And the most frustrating thing was, she could almost see how to fix it, if only she knew where and how to manufacture the parts…
"You all right?" Bonnie asked, breaking her out of that mental Other-space, where Ana had been breaking down and reconfiguring Faust's condenser.
"Yeah." She shook her head to clear it of useless thoughts and tried on a smile instead. "Still a little early for me, I guess. Can I at least get some coffee?" she asked the kitchen.
"No! I mean, yes, but don't come in here! I'll make some. I'm almost done with…with this. And I can do the rest after we open presents. I just…" The sound of water filling up a carafe and a carafe filling up the coffee maker interrupted Chica's fluster, but as soon as it was brewing, she picked her frayed threads up again immediately. "I just thought I'd be done by now. You were supposed to walk in and it was all going to be laid out and perfect and you'd be all 'Wow!' and that was supposed to be my present."
"The best-laid plans of chickens and women gang aft agley and all that," Ana said sympathetically. "Something always goes wrong when it really matters."
"The power shut down right as I turned on the oven," Chica said mournfully. "I had to wait for the sun to come up to even start and then wait for things to cool so I could decorate, and of course you never sleep that long, so here you are and nothing's ready! This is the worst Christmas ever!"
Bonnie vented his cooling system and shook his head, concentrating on his guitar.
"I don't want to trivialize what you're feeling right now," said Ana, "but I kind of hope you're right. If this is the worst Christmas…well, hell, we're still all together and we got a roof over our heads. How bad is it, really?"
"I suppose so," Chica sighed.
"And next year, I'll remember to stay off the games," Bonnie promised. "It won't happen again."
"Oh, you didn't know how much power you were using until it all shut down." Chica came to the tray return window long enough to give him a sheepish, forgiving wave. "It wasn't your fault and you're not a selfish jerk."
"We're good," said Bonnie, waving one ear back at her.
The oven dinged and off Chica went, leaving Bonnie and Ana to exchange smiling glances.
"So that's how a functional family handles the traditional Christmas meltdown," Ana murmured. "I always wondered."
"Please let this not turn into a tradition," he murmured back. "You have no idea. I haven't been able to say two words all morning without her biting my ears off. It's easy to forget because she's the quiet one, but let me tell you, nothing is scarier than an angry chicken."
"She's a canary now," Ana reminded him.
"Even scarier." He nodded at the tree, saying, "So when do we do this thing?"
"I don't know. I guess whenever." But now he'd drawn her attention to it, so Ana climbed onto the stage and knelt down by the tree, pulling the present from Freddy out where she could give it a questing shake. She was about 90% sure it was a coat at this point, although it felt just a bit too heavy, but what did she know? She'd lived in southern California most of her life. Her experience with winter coats was sparse to say the least.
Only as she put the present down again did she notice there was something new under the tree. It had been tucked around the back, where it wasn't as obvious, but it still stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. It wasn't boxed, whatever it was, and it had been wrapped with old pizzeria posters held together by copious amounts of tape. The shape beneath this dubious packaging was bulky and tall, thicker and rounder at the base. When she picked it up, it was heavy, twenty pounds at least, and the weight was unevenly balanced. When she squeezed, the contents shifted, but not much. Many items, solidly packed.
A gift basket.
"What's the matter?" Bonnie asked.
"Nothing," said Ana automatically, but that wasn't going to fool him and she knew it, so she held it up where he could see it. "Where'd this come from?"
His ears went up, broadcasting genuine surprise, and then one slipped off to one side in dry humor. "You know any toddlers? Because it looks like it was wrapped by one."
"I only has the one hand, ye bilge-sucker," Foxy said good-naturedly, strolling out of the East Hall with Freddy at his side. "I'd like to see ye do better."
"I could do better using just one foot." Bonnie put his guitar aside and plucked the thing out of Ana's hands to give it a closer inspection. "Hang on, is this for me?"
"Aye, and it's all wicked lingerie and carrot-flavored lube." Foxy hopped up on the stage to lean against the wall in his usual spot under the camera. "No, o'course it ain't. Why would ye ask?"
"Because you only used posters of me to wrap it," said Bonnie, moving it into the camera's light so they could all see. "What's that about?"
"Get over yerself. All mine got given away, on account of how the kiddies wanted 'em." Foxy brushed his hook through the fur on his chest with a modest expression. "Never could keep me posters in stock. But yers? Coo, we had stacks and stacks and stacks o' yers left over!"
"Yeah, yeah. And hey, even if the thing inside turns out to be a dud, at least you can be sure you wrapped it in something she wants."
"That's enough," said Freddy. "Chica?"
"Don't start without me! Just…give me… There!"
Chica appeared triumphantly in the kitchen doorway with a cup of coffee and a cute little three-layer cake in the shape of a snowman, complete with pretzel-stick arms and a teeny tiny top hat.
"That's adorable," said Ana, running her finger across the snowman's red frosting scarf for a lick. "How much cake am I going to be eating today?"
"Just that one," Chica promised. "The rest is all cookies. And brownies. And some eggnog tarts. And peppermint brick. And I might make fudge later."
"So I take it you decided to give me diabetes for Christmas. How thoughtful."
"You missed a golden opportunity to say 'How sweet,'" Bonnie remarked and put his guitar aside to rub his hands together. "All right! How do we do this? Do we just all dive in and grab what's ours or what?"
Freddy grunted censoriously and ascended the stage. "We are not animals," said the bear, and parceled out the presents, one by one, with an appropriate air of dignified ceremony.
It didn't take long and when it was all dealt out, the moment Ana had been dreading even as she actively contributed to its inevitability finally landed. Foxy had nothing. No one commented on it, and Foxy certainly gave no sign that his feelings were hurt, but Ana felt bad. Not bad enough to have done a single thing to prevent it, obviously, but bad.
Freddy gave the sign to start opening by unwrapping his binoculars, and the others tore into their gifts with enthusiasm. Under the cover of shredding paper and Chica's squeals of delight, Ana offered Foxy a small shrug.
His head cocked, questioning.
Of course he was going to make her say it.
"Sorry," she said and meant to say something along the lines she'd planned, about backorders or shipping delays, but instead heard herself say, "I ran out of time," which was not the truth either, but felt uncomfortably close to it.
He chuckled, his tail sweeping once side to side in an easy, almost playful manner. "I left it to the last minute meself, didn't I? And it were harder than I thought it would be." His gaze shifted, watching Bonnie shrug into his leather jacket, and his tail moved again, not much, just a flick at the tip. "Ye wouldn't think it would be that hard, as well as I know ye, yet nothing I saw seemed to say enough about ye."
"Small town," said Ana. "I'm surprised you found anything at all."
He glanced at her, then put his ears up to a cheerful angle and pushed himself off the wall, stepping boldly into the spotlight as he joined her, center-stage. He didn't acknowledge the camera, but played up to it anyway, catching her hand in his and folding over it in a deep bow, not stealing a kiss as much as the opportunity to stab his hook through his present so he could hand it to her when he straightened up. "Why don't ye open it, luv, and tell me how I did. And just so's I ain't left twiddling me only thumb—" Foxy backed up and raised his hand, the same hand he'd just been holding hers with, and yet between that moment and this one, he'd somehow managed to swipe the wrapped case with the throwing axes in it. "—I'll open this one for ye."
"You must have been a hell of a pickpocket in your day," she said with real admiration.
"Ye say that like them days are over. I've always been good with me hand and I'm only getting better, as many a blushing lass has learned," he replied archly, hooking away the pretty paper with a flourish to reveal the wooden case. "Now what have we here?"
Ana peeled off some posters and exposed more or less exactly what she thought she'd find: a decorative basket with a tall arching handle, so tall she couldn't imagine actually carrying anything around in it. The bowl of the basket was wide, but shallow, making it just as useful as the handle. It had been packed full of the kind of odds and ends you fill a basket with—several small sleeves of cookies and pouches of candy, a pair of fleece gloves and matching scarf, a pocket knife with a fake ivory handle fake-scrimshawed with a kraken attacking a ship, and a ceramic sugar skull with ceramic flowers in the eye sockets. Crowning the whole mess were two chunky scented candles. One was called Himalayan Adventure and the other just said Bold, so damned if she could guess what they smelled like. It had all been wrapped every possible way with so many layers of cellophane that nothing moved, even when she turned it upside down and shook it. "Wow, you really didn't want me to get into this shit, did you?"
"Didn't want it all wobbly. Long run home, ye ken. Here." He handed her an axe, attracting Freddy's eye immediately.
Ana used the sharp edge to carefully cut her way into her goody basket and then, fully conscious of Freddy's narrow stare even as she ignored it, she threw the axe at the target on the far wall. In a perfect world, she'd have hit the bullseye, but the thunk as it struck the inner ring was good enough.
"It's a wreath," muttered Freddy, shaking his head, and pulled off his old bowtie to exchange it for a new one.
"Uh, awesome?" Bonnie dropped his handful of games and came over to help himself to an axe. "Can I play?"
"It's not a toy," Freddy said sternly. "Put that down, and Ana, put it away. I cannot believe I actually have to say this, but no loose weapons in the dining room."
"I need it for physical therapy," said Ana with her most innocent eyes. "To strengthen my shoulder muscles and help restore range of motion. Repeated throwing will put me through my extension, flexion and abduction exercises, plus improve and retrain my hand-eye coordination, and the axes act as light weights."
Freddy gave her a Look, then grunted his I-wash-my-paws-of-this grunt and went back to tying his tie.
Bonnie threw the axe, missing the target entirely and sending the axe right through two layers of sheetrock and, by the sound of it, halfway across the gym.
"Nice shot," said Ana. "A+ for power, C- for aim, a solid B, my man. We'll work on that. Chica? You want a try?
Chica looked up from her jars of rustic dessert mixes, glanced around at the target, then came over with a jar in her hand to toss the last axe over her shoulder while still reading the label. "Do you like walnuts?" she asked earnestly as the axe thunked dead-center of the bullseye. "I assume you like everything you picked out, because who else is going to eat it, but do you?"
"I mean, what were we expecting, really?" Bonnie asked the universe as he hopped down from the stage and jogged over to retrieve the axes.
"Walnuts are great," Ana began tactfully.
"But I have a mountain of sweets in the kitchen already," Chica agreed with a grudging nod. "I hate being sensible sometimes. But thank you. And thank you for all the new decorating things! I can't wait to get back into baking."
"Ye say that like ye were ever 'out' o' baking."
"I do the best I can with what I've got," Chica said humbly. "But I can do even better if I've got more."
"Just remember I'm only one person and I can't live on cookies alone." Ana picked one of the sleeves of cookies out of her gift basket. Good Favor Farms, not a brand she recognized, but the story of the founder's pioneering life had been printed out on the back if she cared to read it. "Where did you get this stuff?"
Foxy shrugged. "Here and there."
"You didn't break any windows, did you?" she joked. Sort of joked.
He shook his head. "Picked a few locks, though."
"Burglar alarms are a thing, you know."
"Not in this town," he said wryly and he was right. Security systems were expensive to install and monitoring required a monthly subscription, if monitoring was even available out here. The gas station, Gallifreys and the donut place were probably the only shops that did anything like steady business. For the others, the cost of a security system was more than the profits could carry. And after all, what crime was there in Mammon? Oh, there were murders, abductions and various other abuses, but no one in Mammon would ever stoop to the level of shoplifting!
"Never took more than one thing from any one place," Foxy was saying. "And all from the back. I figure once it's out on the shelves, they might know to miss it, but if it's still boxed up in back, it's fair for the plucking."
He said it so casually, all she could think to say was, "Have you done this before?"
Foxy glanced at Freddy, then dropped his eyepatch in a wink. "Never," he said and his tail lashed like that of a satisfied cat.
Freddy grumbled loudly and then he stomped over and took the basket out of her hands, setting it on the stage with a thump far heavier than its contents. He picked up the last present, the one with his name and hers on the tag, and handed it to her. "I shouldn't have waited this long," he said before releasing it.
If that was a clue, she couldn't puzzle it out and didn't wait to think it over. She tore the pretty paper to find a plain packing box; no help there. She opened it, fully expecting to find that heavy winter coat, so much that at first, her eyes tried to make her see it—a ghastly crazy-quilt thing, the proverbial coat-of-many-colors, and only her long years of keeping her emotions buried while her mother was looking for a reason to beat on her kept the horror off her face as she thought of having to wear this gaudy nightmare out in public.
But then she blinked, and it was actually many different items, packed together so that all their separate colors appeared to be sewn together. She chose one at random, shook it out of its folds, and found herself staring at an eerily familiar, long-lost sight.
Stop Staring at my Tits the t-shirt said in big bold letters across the chest, and underneath, in smaller, flirty cursive, (and touch them).
Freddy coughed a little static out of his speaker, avoiding direct eye contact with the t-shirt. "I couldn't remember all of them, so I just tried to get some with the same…spirit. I apologize if I've forgotten any special favorites." He was quiet while Ana pulled out a few more—I Don't Mean To Be Rude but shut the fuck up; Bitch I will bury you; You Cannot Imagine the Immensity of the Fuck I Do Not Give—then said, "I apologize, Ana."
Much as she wanted to see each and every sarcastic, offensive sentiment, Ana stopped pawing through the shirts and gave him a crooked smile. "You already apologized for that."
"I said some words. I didn't try to make it right, and I should have." His ears shifted, hinting at feelings his face didn't show. "I should have done a lot of things differently."
"Yeah, maybe. Me, too. But we got there in the end, didn't we?"
"I like to think so."
"Then we're good. So this is awesome," she said, holding up one of the shirts, "but it's not an apology. If you need to hear me say it, then of course I forgive you. I did that a long time ago."
He nodded, too quiet, and finally said, "That's good to hear," in Mr. Faust's hoarse, distracted voice.
She gave his unhonkable nose a friendly boop to seal the sentiment and change the subject. "So thanks. I'll try not to wear the really raunchy ones around you."
"This is your home as much as it is mine," Freddy told her sternly. "You can wear what you like…provided you adhere to Rule Number 36 and—"
"—keep my beaver dam clothes on," Ana finished for him. "And here I was hoping to implement a Strip-Cribbage Saturday."
"I should let you. That would teach you a lesson."
"Well, I wouldn't let you deal the cards, obviously."
"You're suggesting I would cheat."
"I'm suggesting you'd cheat before you'd let yourself lose at Strip-Cribbage."
He considered that and let it go without further comment, instead turning to survey the crumpled drifts of wrapping paper and empty packaging strewn over the stage. "So is that it? Is that Christmas?"
"More or less. Some people do a big church thing, if you're into that, or a big dinner, but I'm the only one who eats, so…yeah, I guess that's it. Why? Did you want to do something?"
His gaze wandered toward his new cribbage board. "Nothing in particular."
"Well, let's clean up and if you think of something, let me know. My day's wide open." Ana gathered her gifts together into one precarious pile and headed for her room.
The shirts should be washed before she wore them, so she left them in the box, and she didn't really know what to do with the stuff in the basket. The cookies and candy went into her daypack—it never hurt to have a few snacks on hand for emergencies—but she wasn't sure what to do with the rest of it. After a moment's thought, she slid the knife into her back pocket, making a mental note to make that a habit, so it would be there on some undefined future day when Foxy was around to watch her open a box or something. The gloves were no match for Mammon's wet winters, but she guessed she could wear them until they completely broke down. And the scarf, although she'd never been a scarf-wearer and this one was a weird size, so wide and short that she couldn't imagine how she was going to tie it on without it looking like a bizarrely oversized bow-tie, and if she didn't tie it on, the wind would only snatch it away and throw it out into the desert, never to be seen again. The candles might be useful someday, but the scents were a little strong. Bold wasn't bad, woody and smoky, but Himalayan Adventure stung her nose with some heavy astringent smell. They were probably going for 'clean mountain air' but to Ana, it smelled like a hospital.
Well, it was the thought that counted, and she had to admit he'd done pretty well with what was available around here. Better than she'd done for him.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Ana pulled it out and had a look. No name, but she'd seen the number recently enough that she recognized it. She let it ring again, but in the end, was too curious to let it go to voice mail. She thumbed the answer icon. "What can I do for you, Mrs. Pickett?"
"Good morning. Merry Christmas," came the somewhat flustered greeting. "I hope it's not too early for you. I would have waited, but I'm just leaving to see my children and I wanted to do this before I left."
"It's fine," said Ana. "Do what?"
"Well, I…" A pause, dotted through with breathy little sounds as she started to speak, stopped, started, stopped, and finally said, "I have something for you, dear. I'd like to come by, if that's all right."
"What, to the house?"
"If that's all right," Mrs. Pickett said again, almost timidly, as if she expected Ana to put her hand right through the phone and slap her for asking.
"Yeah, I'm not objecting, but I'm way up at the top of Coldslip and the plow doesn't come out this far. Those mountain curves are a nightmare."
"I'm sure I can manage," Mrs. Pickett chuckled. "I've lived here all my life, dear."
"Yeah, and how many times have you been up to my house?" Ana countered and immediately wished she hadn't. It wasn't really her house, it was Erik Metzger's. There were only so many reasons why anyone would visit him, and none a good, God-fearing wife and mother would admit to. "It's hard to know where the edges of the road are, that's all I'm saying. If you put a tire out too far, you're going to have a bad time. How about I meet you somewhere?"
"I'm sure you're busy and I don't want to be a bother."
"Oh no, I'm not doing anything."
"I thought you were planning to spend the day with friends?"
Ana smothered a sigh, thinking of Lucy Gallifrey, who would never gossip, but who would not have found fault in mentioning—just in passing, just to a few close friends—her disappointment that Ana would not be joining them for Christmas dinner. "Not until later," she said. "We're having a potluck dinner, so I've got hours to go. Let me grab my keys and I'll meet you, say…at the bank?"
Mrs. Pickett allowed herself to be talked into that, so Ana pulled on her jacket (and her new gloves and scarf) and went out to the dining room.
"Quick change of plans," she announced. "I need to run to town real quick."
"Is everything all right?" Freddy asked through a frown.
"As far as I know. Something came in for me and I guess it can't wait. I should be back in half an hour. And then what are we doing?"
Four blank stares (five, if she counted the camera) answered her until Chica hesitantly raised her hand. "I'm going to decorate cookies?"
"Sounds fun," said Ana. "I'll help. And if it turns out to be a nice day, I might go up on the roof and make some X-rated snowmen, if anyone wants in on that."
In perfect unison, Bonnie raised a hand and Foxy raised a hook.
"When I get cold, we can watch a movie or play some games, but at some point tonight, big bear, you are teaching me how to play Cribbage. I promise to leave my clothes on." She headed for the door, paused, and looked back with a wink. "I don't believe Rule 36 applies to you, however."
"Mind your manners," he said, but there was a hint of a smile in his ears when he said it. He glanced at the camera, then turned around and left through the West Hall door, taking advantage of her absence by sneaking in a quick security check.
"See you in a bit," said Ana and soon, she was in the bank's small parking lot, studying the nativity scene painted on the front window while keeping half an eye on the empty road. Waiting had a way of making time stretch out, so it couldn't have been as long as it felt before Mrs. Pickett's sensible sedan came tootling along and slid into the space beside her. Ana started to roll down her window, but Mrs. Pickett actually turned off her engine, which meant this wasn't likely to be a quick exchange. She heaved another sigh, to get it out of her system, shut off the truck, and went out into the choking cold wind to meet her with a smile on her face, a smile that froze for reasons other than the weather when the old lady came around the side of the car with a folded quilt in her arms.
She couldn't have let too much of what she was feeling show—she didn't even know what she was feeling, in that first moment—but Mrs. Pickett saw something on her face that made her hesitate. Still, she plucked herself up and pressed onward with a smile of determined cheer.
"It's not as nice as Mrs. Olsen's," Mrs. Pickett began, waving away the obvious detail that the quilt's colors and pattern were different from the one that had hung on the wall during the holiday fair, "but on the other hand, in all kindness and with all appreciation for her talents, hers are meant to be admired. Mine are meant to be used."
"You made this?" She wasn't sure how she felt about that, either, but it didn't feel very good. "Mrs. Pickett, I can't accept this. This should be, like…a family heirloom or—"
The other woman laughed. "Oh, I don't believe in heirlooms! That's something you learn raising five children in a three-bedroom bungalow, dear, that everything in it must serve a purpose. Nothing is for show, it all has a destiny, and nothing fulfills its destiny sitting in a hope chest until the mice chew it apart. And besides," she went on lightly, "I made quilts for all my children, and all their children, all my cousins' children, and for the daycare's children and the food bank in St. George and the maternity ward at Mercy General and anyone else I could think of for fifty years, and I still have some to give away. Please," she said, her broad smile fading. "Let me give this one to you. It…It wasn't right."
No, it wasn't, and some churlish part of Ana's heart whispered that making up for a public snub in front of hundreds of people with a private apology (in which the words 'I'm sorry' had yet to appear) didn't make it a whole lot better, but she didn't say so. It was Christmas, right? And a person didn't have to subscribe to all the other crap that went with it to see the value of setting aside grudges for one day and showing a little goodwill.
"Thanks," she said and offered up her open hands.
Mrs. Pickett started to extend her own, only to pause again. "Forgive me for asking, I know it's none of my business, but is the friend you're going to see later… Would that be Mr. Faust?" Before Ana could answer, before she could even form the first confused puff of a what or a why, Mrs. Pickett rushed on, her words tumbling over each other like snow rolling down a mountain. "Not that I would object, not that anyone should! And certainly not that you should concern yourself with what others might think of your particular friendships. I only ask because… I hope I'm not overstepping, but…I was wondering if you could please talk to him? I'm not insinuating anything," she hurriedly added. "It's only that he seems quite fond of you. He might listen if it was you who told him how…how much his support means to us! Please, you have to tell him!"
Ana sighed out a cloud of steam and let her arms drop. "Ma'am, I have been talking to him. And you're right, he has listened…to a point. Maybe I even got him to walk back the timeline a few times, but, and no offense, but what good does that really do in the long run? Let's pretend I talk to him and he changes his mind and decides to take care of the town for the rest of his life. How long is that? You're not fixing the problem, you're just delaying it. Mammon has to be able to survive without him, because he's not going to be around forever."
Mrs. Pickett's shoulders fell, then her gaze, and then her entire body seemed to sag on invisible strings. She looked at the quilt in her hands, her eyes tracing and retracing the endless points and circles and lines.
"So now let's pretend Chad will step up. I don't think he ever would, personally, but we're just pretending. Maybe it's not even that farfetched. He'd love to be the king of Mammon and see the peasants grovel for his amusement, but don't kid yourself, that is the only reason he would stick around and he would make you crawl for every penny. However, that won't be a problem because he's not getting the money."
Mrs. Pickett's strings sagged a little more. She took a shaky breath, let it out slow, said nothing.
"Obviously, I don't know everything," said Ana, thinking of the other night, when Faust had asked her if she wanted to see the will, the one in which she was pretty sure he intended to leave her his house, for the sole purpose of knocking it down and burying it, along with all its secrets. Maybe he meant to include the pizzerias in the package and no doubt there would also be a ridiculous amount of money as payment for services rendered, to give her a fresh start anywhere else in the world she wanted to go after she'd swept away the ugliness that hid in Fazbear Entertainment, Inc. She didn't know what she was going to do about that, but she guessed she'd deal with it when the time came. In the meantime…
"I don't know everything," she said again. "And I probably shouldn't be telling you any of what I do know, but you need to understand that there won't be a sole inheritor to a bottomless fortune. The old man said he's only leaving one hundred thousand dollars to be split between all his blood relatives. I don't know where the rest of it is going, but it's not going to Chad. As of a few months ago, the kid wasn't in the will at all. He's nothing but a trust fund baby with what I assume is a generous monthly allowance, but that's all he's got."
Mrs. Pickett made a soft sound, like some unseen hand had just given her a swift punch to the stomach.
"Yeah," said Ana. "I don't know a lot about how trust funds work, so maybe they would be willing to let Chad spend it all to fund public service in Mammon, but I know how Chad works and I promise you, he won't. But hey, I will talk to the old man, for what that's worth. Just please understand that even the best case scenario is not going to save you." Ana's grip on her emotions briefly slipped and out came, "And apart from all that… I mean, come on, do you really think this is fair? Is it really his job to fund the entire town for all eternity? He's paid for how many tuitions, found how many jobs? And how many of those jobs come with free houses and cars and a full benefits package? You've lived here all your life, so maybe you don't realize, but that's not normal."
"No, I…I realize that."
"But?" Ana prompted, but it didn't feel good to see the other woman flinch. She adjusted her tone, reined in her frustration, and quietly said, "He doesn't deserve this. He can't save Mammon, not because he doesn't want to, but because Mammon can't be saved. He's been patching up your cracks with dollar bills for fifty years and he doesn't deserve to be treated like some comic book supervillain just because he wants to stop."
Mrs. Pickett nodded, her eyes fixed on the quilt, blinking too fast. The color in her cheeks was due to more than the chill wind. And if there was any feeling worse than knowing you'd made a little kid cry, it was making someone's grandmother cry.
"Sorry," she said through tight jaws. "I guess that's been simmering for a while, but I shouldn't take it all out on you."
"Please don't apologize," Mrs. Pickett said. "I know you're right. He's done so much. For years, all anyone has had to is ask and he provides, in spite of the fact that we…we were never kind to him. We say thank you and make a show of our appreciation, but…we still aren't kind to him. He'd be perfectly justified in turning us all out into the street at the drop of his silly top hat, but…I don't believe he's doing this out of any vindictiveness. As you say, Mammon—" She steadied herself with a shaky breath. "Mammon can't be saved. I know that, but it breaks my heart to think of leaving. And it…it scares me. I have a few thousand dollars in savings and that's all I have. All! I can't even sell him my house because he already owns it!"
Ana didn't ask, but Mrs. Pickett nodded like she had and answered anyway. "When my husband died, things were…difficult. I had five young children still at home and no prospects. So I went to him. Everyone does, sooner or later. He offered to buy my house and keep me in it, rent-free, as a caretaker." She managed a desperate, pale smile. "It seemed like a good idea at the time. I had all the benefits of a landlord and none of the troubles. He paid all the utilities, managed all the maintenance, so all I had to do was keep food on the table and raise my babies. I thought it was such a blessing then, but what do I have now? With my earnings at the daycare, I get by rather comfortably, but only because I'm here! What does that any of that mean, out there? I have no equity, no credit rating, no meaningful job history—"
"Well, that's not true," Ana interrupted. "You've got plenty of experience in child services."
"Child services," Mrs. Pickett echoed with a shrill laugh. "There's a fancy way to refer to babysitting."
"You've operated a successful daycare for at least thirty years."
"Have I? Have I really? I work there, I know nothing about how to operate it! I'm like…like one of the children playing with the grocery playset, selling plastic fruit for pretend money. No," she insisted as Ana fished for a protest. "He owns the daycare. He shoulders all expenses, from the lightbulbs to the sidewalk chalk. I'm only there to feed them and change diapers and stop them from eating whatever gets stuck to the bottom of their shoes. And successful? It can't possibly be successful. He only allows me to charge two dollars an hour! Lord, won't that be a shock to anyone who needs a real daycare when all this is over," she breathed, shaking her head. "No, I'd be afraid to admit I operated the Duckling, considering it's almost certainly run in the red from the moment the doors opened and yet still stayed open. Any halfway intelligent person would deduce I was smuggling drugs out in the diapers. What am I going to do? Where am I going to go?"
Ana had no answers.
"I'll have to move in with one of the children," said Mrs. Pickett. "None of them have room, but they'll have to…to make a space or…or what? How can I possibly find my own place? How can I pay for it on nothing but my social security payment? I'm seventy-four. How can I… How can anyone start over…at seventy-four?"
The last word ended in the first sob. She leaned toward Ana, her eyes shut tight against the tears that got out anyway, blindly seeking human comfort the same way sunflowers follow the light, and Ana hugged her and listened to the echoes of her own ugly true self chanting Have fun being a Walmart greeter in the real world, bitch over and over and over.
"I'll talk to him," Ana said once the worst of the storm seemed to pass. "He might do something, but…I'm sorry, I just don't see him changing his mind."
Mrs. Pickett nodded, wiping her eyes.
Ana did some mental calculations—if X equaled a variable percentage of the contents of a certain leather bag, and her own future security minus X equaled Mrs. Pickett's future security plus X, solve for X—and slowly said, "Listen, if I found you a house that you could own free and clear, do you think your social security could cover, like, taxes and utilities and still leave you enough to live on?"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know," Ana said vaguely. "I have some contacts in housing. I could maybe call in some favors. And you don't need much, right? Like, you'd be happy with a little one-bedroom if I couldn't scratch up two? And obviously, I'd make sure it was in decent condition."
"You don't mean it?"
"Of course I do. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."
Mrs. Pickett folded over in a fresh storm of tears while Ana awkwardly rubbed her back and read the financing posters taped to the bank's windows.
"Let me talk to my children first," Mrs. Pickett finally sniffled. "They might be able to do something for me. I can call you if…if I have to. You do mean it?"
"I swear." Without thinking, Ana hopped her hand across her heart in the Bunny Scout's Promise. "It might be a downgrade from what you're used to, but it'll be paid for and solely in your name."
More tears. At the end of it, Mrs. Pickett drew herself up to her full diminutive height and nodded. "I hope I don't need your help, but I'm glad that I have it. I'm so sorry that…" She visibly groped for a way to finish that statement and then just let it blow away in the wind. "I should go. The children are waiting for me and I'm sure you have things to do. Oh!" she said, looking down at the quilt in surprise before holding it out again. "This really is for you."
As soon as Ana took it, the older woman turned away and hurried back to the driver's side of her car, shoulders tucked and head down, as if she were afraid of being recognized. Ana watched her go, lifting a hand for goodbye as the car sped back toward town, but got no answering wave. Mrs. Pickett was hunched over the steering wheel, hand at her eyes. She probably hadn't even seen her, and if she had… Well, Ana knew how it felt to dig a hole through your pride and ask for help. She could forgive someone for not wanting to look back at that and have to smile.
After Mrs. Pickett was gone, Ana got back in the truck and headed for the pizzeria (leaving at different times and in different directions, just like the old days when she was Rider's delivery-girl). Once there, she sat in the truck with the engine idling, listening to the radio and hammering away at her mood until it was the right shape to go back inside and rejoin her friends. And hey, silver lining: She had a new blanket for those cold winter nights, especially when she stayed at Freddy's, where the heat shut off when the restaurant 'closed'.
She dumped out her daypack and managed to fit the quilt inside, although it wouldn't quite zip up. She fought with it awhile, then took her jacket off and sort of draped it over the part that couldn't close so that nothing of the quilt could be seen. It was obvious she was smuggling something in and someone was bound to ask what, and she already knew she'd lie up an answer. She didn't know why, really. She wasn't doing anything wrong. As far as anyone knew, she'd just gone out and picked up an extra blanket, which wasn't a crime. It was just the same thing—the only thing—Foxy had asked for, and she didn't want him to see it and think it was for him, or worse, see it and understand immediately that it wasn't for him, because she was exactly the kind of self-centered bitch who'd ignore his request and then prance in later with the exact thing he'd asked for, you know, just to make it extra clear that what he wanted didn't matter.
Something itched at her cheek, just under her eye. She brushed it away without looking and told herself it was a loose hair. It was Christmas, after all. It was her friends' first Christmas and they were waiting for her. She checked her smile in the rearview mirror and went inside.
It was a good day. She had to fake it for a while, but somewhere along the way, she started having fun for real and she couldn't even be sure, looking back, just where she'd crossed the line. They did all the things she said they'd do—cookies and axes and snowmen and Cribbage and then some. She and Bonnie raced motorcycles on a plastic track around the tree and raced digital ones on the TV in the security office. She and Chica made black forest walnut brownies despite countertops already overflowing with confectionaries and Ana ate way too many of them. She walked with Freddy around the building as she installed security sensors and showed him how to monitor them on his phone, filling up the spaces between each window and door with the kind of chit-chat where you can never remember the words, but never forget the conversation. She sat with Foxy in the amphitheater of Pirate Cove, listening to the Christmas show go on without him; he said wildly inappropriate things in place of his scripted lines and she laughed until she nearly pissed herself and it was a good time. Later, alone in the bathroom, where she knew no one could even accidentally listen in, not even the unseeing camera, she called Mr. Faust, and after a token exchange of holiday greetings, she told him about her meeting with Mrs. Pickett.
"I have the money to buy her a house," she said at the end of it. "Thanks to you. But I don't honestly know if it's even possible to buy a house with cash, not the kind of house anyone would actually want to live in. So if I give you back the money, can you—"
"No."
It shouldn't have shocked her, knowing how determined he was in his plan to destroy Mammon and sweep it all away, but it did. And this was fair, she thought distantly. This was exactly what she deserved for allowing herself to fall into the trap of believing he would never tell her no. Mrs. Pickett probably believed that once, too.
"Mr. Faust, please," she stammered. "I know what you want and I'm not trying to talk you into anything different, but this is a good woman and I'm begging you, let me do this for her! I don't think I can without your help."
"You misunderstand me. I gave you a gift and I will not accept its return. I will, however, see Mrs. Pickett settled elsewhere. I confess I'm surprised she felt she needed an intermediary in this. I thought we had an amiable enough relationship that she could have asked me directly."
"She probably did, too," Ana said tactfully, "until she found out you built a daycare for her to run that you were probably already planning to tear down."
"It was necessary in the interim," he said and then said, "Ah. I see now where that might seem counterproductive to one with a narrower view of the full picture. I do hope she isn't too upset. She has always ranked high among the least objectionable of Mammon's denizens."
"She didn't let it show if she was, but she's scared and that can come out in unpredictable ways. You should probably be prepared for that."
"Oh, I think I can do that," he said in a dry tone. "I find most humans express themselves in unpredictable ways, but I suppose that's a fault in my code. And Mrs. Pickett is unlikely to make herself difficult. I'll have McCall contact her. I shall be patient and I shall try to be kind."
"Thanks," she said, turning over some of those words to study them from other angles. "Is someone else being difficult?"
"I've had some…unpleasant interactions. No more than I should have anticipated. You did warn me."
"I did?"
"Some months ago, when the subject of my decision to support Mammon's struggling businesses came up in the course of our conversation, you told me it had been a mistake. That they were only grateful for my help at first, then felt entitled to it and would ultimately blame me for forcing them to experience the consequences of their own failure to thrive."
"I think I vaguely recall that now. We were at Gallifrey's, right?" Ana surprised herself with a short laugh. "That was when you told me that if you pulled all your support, the whole town would collapse."
"And you told me I should just leave, if I disliked it here so much."
"And you asked if I'd come with you."
"And you said no." They shared a comfortable silence and then he softly said, "When this is finally over, assuming I live to see the end, I hope I can convince you to reconsider."
"I'm keeping my options open. But wherever we end up, I hope we'll still be friends."
"I shall be content with that, for now. Yes?" he said in a subtly different tone that she instinctively knew wasn't directed at her. From his end of the phone, she heard a murmured answer—Chad's voice. "Yes, of course," said Mr. Faust. "As long as you like. We shall have to fend for ourselves in the kitchen until Cook's return on Monday, but you know your own way around. Yes, thank you. Goodnight."
"Sorry," said Ana. "I shouldn't have bothered you with this. I knew you had company."
He gave her one of Freddy's grunts, one she'd heard enough times to easily translate as dismissive in a good-humored way. "You are never a bother, Miss Stark. I am happy to receive your call any day, at any hour. And you aren't interrupting anything. It's only the boy, who has just informed me he intends to stay another night and perhaps longer."
"You need me to come over and bounce him out?"
"I appreciate the offer, but no. I do sincerely want a congenial relationship, if possible, and he's been civil enough. It isn't his fault I find persistent attentiveness suffocating."
"Well, lock up the mineral oil anyway."
"Already done," he assured her. "I do learn from my mistakes, all prior evidence to the contrary. But enough of me. Are you enjoying your holiday, Miss Stark?"
"Yeah, actually. I think everyone did. It helps that none of them have every really done one before and it's been a while for me, so no one had any expectations to live up to. But things are winding down," she added in her goodbye-voice, conscious of his age and the lengthening hours. "I'm heading to bed."
"I shan't keep you then. Thank you for calling. It was good to hear your voice."
"Same. See you soon, I hope. What day's good for axe-throwing?"
"I've rather a busy docket between now and the new year, but after that, I can easily arrange time. The boy stays over on weekends and Mondays and Fridays are usually occupied by my business interests, so shall we say…Wednesday? We can go snowmobiling afterwards. I'm quite looking forward to that."
"I'll be there," promised Ana, but that turned out to be a lie.
"Goodnight, Miss Stark."
"Goodnight, Mr. Faust."
Ana ended the call, set the morning's alarm for eight (not that there was anywhere she needed to be, she just didn't want to sleep all day), and returned the phone to her pocket. She took a long look in the mirror, her eyes moving from point to point along her reflection's features, but even she couldn't find much to be critical over. Her hair would grow out, her scars would fade. Her ear would always have a notch in it, but that was all right. Maybe it made her look dangerous. She washed up and left.
She headed for her room, idle thoughts of Chad dancing like sour pickled plums through her head, when the sound of someone saying her name brought her fully back to the moment. It was Chica, out in the dining room, her tone low and conversational. If the West Hall door could actually shut, she wouldn't have heard her at all, but years of water damage had warped it so badly, it was always at least a couple inches ajar.
And since it was obvious that Chica wasn't talking to her, Ana supposed she ought to do the upstanding thing and go on with her night, but it was hard to resist a little eavesdropping when you knew you were the subject under discussion. She moved closer to the door, listening.
"…haven't seen her since," Bonnie was saying, faintly underscored by the sound of animatronic hands moving over unplugged guitar strings. "I think she went to bed."
"Really? It seems a little early for her." A pause, during which Bonnie presumably shrugged, and then Chica went on, "I don't suppose you want to play? I'll let you pick the game."
"Maybe later."
It was quiet for so long that Ana thought she simply hadn't heard Chica's new padded feet walking away, but then Chica said, "Can I ask you something? It's none of my business and you'll probably tell me so and if you do, I won't ask again, but…Did you give it to her?"
"Who?"
"Oh, Bonnie," Chica sighed. "Who? I'm one of only two 'hers' in this building, who else?"
"Yeah, I didn't really think that through, did I? Is it too late? Let me try again. Ahem. Give her what?"
"The song."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Bonnie and in the hall, Ana rolled her eyes.
So did Chica, if her tone was anything to go by. "Please. The song you've been working on forever, the one you play like a hundred times every night. Her song. It would have been the perfect gift. I understand why you wouldn't have been comfortable playing it for her in front of everyone, but…did you?"
"No, of course not," said Bonnie. "Come on, it…it's not her song. It's our song. And there is no us."
Ugly heat burned her face and settled like lead in the pit of her stomach. She didn't want to hear anymore, but she didn't retreat either.
"I was afraid you'd say something like that," said Chica.
"And now you'll tell me all about how I'm internalizing my emotions and something about malignant fantasizing and maybe throw in a little cathartic displacement theory, but seriously? I'm okay."
"Really."
"Yeah."
"Well, I'm glad," said Chica. "Because if I wanted to bake a cake on what I wanted my happiest day to be and I spent months planning it, and baked it up all in secret and then shut it up inside myself where no one could see it and definitely no one could eat it, and I just went around all day thinking what a perfect cake it was and how perfectly it commemorated that happiest day I never actually got around to having while the real cake rotted inside me, I don't think I'd be okay. In fact, I think every time I tried to bake another cake, I'd find myself thinking of my special cake and how wonderful it should have been, but I wouldn't want to pull it out and face how bad it had gotten, so I'd just leave it there and probably stop baking other cakes entirely, and I'd never have another cake and I'd never have a happiest day either, I'd just have to carry around the rotting remains of what I'd dreamed of and I'd feel awful. But I'm glad you're okay."
Ana realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it.
"Damn, Chica," said Bonnie.
"And for your information, you are internalizing your emotions and it is malignant fantasizing and I've never even heard of cathartic displacement! I don't think it's a real thing, but I know what you're doing and all it's doing is hurting you. Let it go," Chica pleaded, "and if you can't do that yet, then at least let it out. The longer you keep it locked up, the more power you give it. Let it out…and it's just another song."
Another silence, hard to hear over the sound of her own hoarse breathing in the empty hall.
"I'll be in the arcade," said Chica.
Ana heard the first of her footsteps receding and took the rest of them on faith. It was time for her to go, too. Long past time. From the moment she'd heard Chica say her name, it was time to go. Why was eavesdropping so irresistible? You never heard anything good.
She slipped into her room and into the eye of the camera, which had been waiting patiently for her to come back from the bathroom all this time. It followed her to the table where she'd stashed her daypack and watched her sit down and pull it onto her lap, feeling its weight and realness, like a child hugging a favorite toy for comfort on a dark and stormy night.
The urge to put her boots on and slip out the emergency exit and go home was strong, pounding behind her eyes like a hangover, but she knew she couldn't do that and after those first few seconds of almost-panic, the compulsion faded. Her first thought, when she got around to having real thoughts, was a perfectly reprehensible surge of anger: Why wasn't he over her yet? She'd broken it off ages ago. She'd hooked up with someone else (his brother, if you looked at it a certain way) behind his back. She wasn't anyone worth pining for, she was a bullet he ought to be glad he'd dodged. He should hate her. Why was he still holding on?
Why couldn't she tell him to let go?
But the anger faded as fast as her flight instincts and once again, she was left empty. Regret tried to surface, but she slapped it down fast. Regrets were pointless and anyway, it never would have worked. He was who he was and she was…this…and sooner or later, those rose-colored glasses would break and he'd realize she really was no better than she always knew she was, and he'd thrown all his time and energy and emotion into a total human dumpster fire and had nothing left to show for it but ashes.
"That's enough," she said out loud, rubbing at her dry eyes. "You going to sit here and feel bad about it all night or are you going to do something?"
Like what? Easy for sensible-Ana to say sensible things, but what was she actually supposed to do about this?
'Well, you can't just keep doing nothing,' she told herself. Sensibly.
"Sure I can," she muttered. "Everything I do just makes it worse anyway."
True, but that inner voice was hard to ignore, and whether at its prodding or due to her own unerring aptitude for self-destruction, an idea came to her. Her gaze, which had been resting on her daypack as she moodily picked at some frayed threads, suddenly pulled it into focus and forced her to remember what was in it. Reluctantly, she unzipped the top flap and looked at the quilt.
She had successfully snuck it in earlier, since Freddy had been on patrol, Bonnie and Chica were hooking up the new gaming systems, and Foxy had already been back in the Cove, so no one knew about it but her. And that was perfect, wasn't it? She didn't want Foxy to get the wrong idea, but…what if it was his all along? She hadn't bought him one. She'd gone out of her way not to give him one, and yet, here it was, despite all odds. On Christmas, no less. It was fate, with a lower-case f, maybe, but fate all the same.
So…why not? She'd give it to him and that was a choice, right? That was a choice and there would maybe be consequences, but she'd roll with them. If he took it and said thank you and good night, that was fine. If he took it and asked her to help him break it in…that was fate. And since it was fate, maybe she could finally close the door on Bonnie and open a window for Foxy. And maybe that wasn't very fair, but Foxy was the kind of guy who didn't mind climbing in through the window or carrying a girl out again. And then she'd move on, because she had to, because it was out of her hands. Because it was fate.
Ana pulled the quilt out and carefully folded it, trying to make it look neat, like she'd put some thought into it and it wasn't just some secondhand thing that came along at the right time. Like it was a decision she'd made, because damn it, she was making one.
The only thing you're making is a mistake.
"Fuck you," she said, but her brain had a point. "Are you really going to do this?" she asked herself.
The camera hummed softly, adjusting its focus.
She looked at it. "I might as well, right?" she asked it. "I can't keep putting it off. It's really no different from practicing a song you're never going to play. Let it out, like the lady said. Nothing's ever as big on the outside as it feels like it is on the inside."
The camera did not answer (although the dead man down in the basement said, "The hell is she talking about?" and the Puppet on his lap shook her head).
"And who knows," Ana said, gathering the quilt into her arms and sliding down off the table onto her own two feet. "It might work out. Just because nothing ever has for me before doesn't mean it never will. Think positive, right, Blue? Right, sweet pea. Fuck."
And with a last deep breath for luck, she shouldered the door open and went back out into the hall, and why she did that instead of going through the fake wardroom into the backstage area and from there straight into Foxy's cabin, she would never know. It was like she just had to fuck herself over, just had to put herself in the wrong place at the right time, but at first she didn't know it. At first, all she knew was that the camera was following her, switching off as she left the Party Room and snapping on in the West Hall to keep her in its sights. And it didn't matter, but Ana was already on edge and self-conscious and the last thing she needed right now was a fucking spotlight solo as she walked to Pirate Cove, so she did the mature, sensible thing and carefully put the quilt down, then brought out her new pocket knife and clicked the blade open.
The camera hummed, as if alarmed.
There was no way she could sneak clear across the building and back with the step-ladder, so she was reduced to jumping and slashing, but she got lucky on her third attempt and caught the cable. She didn't cut through it as planned, but she did catch it with the blade just right to yank it out of the wall, which was just as good. Unplugged, the camera shut off. Down in the basement, the dead man slammed a fist on the desk and in the West Hall, Ana picked up her quilt, and out on a dark stage in an empty room, Bonnie started playing their song.
She would have known it at once, even if she hadn't been eavesdropping and never knew the context. It was new to her, new and strange and not easy to hear, overfull of sound, fuller than any one guitar should have been able to produce. It seemed arrhythmic, chaotic, but there was something purposeful to it that even her uneducated ears could pick up on, something deliberate and sure, and she knew it not because she'd ever heard it before, but because he'd played it once, not for her, but on her. Her body remembered those chords pressed into her wrist; he'd tickled those notes out of her belly while she sat on his lap, wondering and a little scared, letting him play her. Play this song.
And now he was singing, his voice clear and strong, but not loud. He wasn't singing for her or for anyone else. He wasn't performing, just…letting it out.
"Baby girl, when you talk, I hear such complicated melodies
But it's a song and I could sing it if you let me.
All I need's a little time to hear the tune and make it mine.
If I played it for you, maybe then you'd see
How beautiful your music is to me
Won't you listen?
For a just little while…one night is all I need."
A key shift. There was more to it than that, subtle changes to the tempo and underlying tune that Ana didn't know how to describe. She glanced once at the end of the hall, at Pirate Cove, where Foxy didn't know he was waiting for her, then moved slowly back toward the dining room, listening as Bonnie smoothed out the jarring qualities of the song so she could hear the music hiding it, slowly, slowly, coming into sync with the easy rolling cadence of his words.
"I been shut up on this empty stage, strumming broken strings
'Til I forgot there's any other way to be.
Now the curtain's up, the spotlight's on,
My broken strings have been restrung
And I realize there's still some harmony
And just maybe
It's not too late…For me."
Another key shift, and another surge of that jarring noise from the introduction—a wounded animal that knew it was under attack and fighting back. He had to raise his voice to be heard over it, but his voice was as calm and steady as ever.
"Girl, I would need an orchestra to play the story of your life.
This old guitar and me alone can't do it right.
But if I could play the drums, then maybe I could set the time—"
And he did, laying in a strong beat with just his guitar, somehow making that pluck louder than the notes themselves, and from there, it was all over. The music thrashed, but it was caught, and he pulled it out just so he could break it down, peeling his own music like an onion and stripping all the chaos away layer by layer.
"—That brings the shattered rhythm of your heart into beat with mine.
And I'd get horns to be your courage and violins to be your tears
And one by one, I would find instruments to take all your hopes and fears
Until there's nothing left but you and me and one simple melody—"
And there it was. There she was, the she that only he could see, flickering like a candle about to go out, before he caught it in his hand and played it out strong, his voice coming in like a victorious punch.
"—That's been there, baby girl, all along!
And I'll teach it to you…and it can be our song."
And that was the one he played now, that simple tune with all the other noise pulled into rhythm around it. He played it like music, but she saw it as some monstrous mechanical thing coming to life, where frozen gears shed rust and began to turn, bent rods straightened, worn gears cut new teeth and everything came together as one machine. The introduction played again, a pure restored version of itself that blew through the room like one of Mammon's storms, its initial violence gradually lightening, slowing, until it ended almost on a whisper, and Bonnie picked it up again with the next verse.
"Girl, when you talk, I hear such complicated melodies
And it's a song I know that I can't make you hear.
Because I'm not the man you want tonight but before you go, I've got to try
To make you understand that if you can't
Hear the song
Or sing the words…still, we can dance."
He stopped playing there. The last note hung in the air like an echo as he sang one more line by himself, "So let me put this old guitar aside…and we can dance," and then it was over, only not really. There was an anticipation in the silence, a blank space Ana knew she was supposed to fill, and just for a moment, she could clearly see how this was supposed to be. She could see the stage and the two of them on it, just him and her and maybe the camera so they could be together in its spotlight while the rest of the world was black and insignificant. She could see him singing that line as he put the guitar down and offered up his hands, and she was supposed to step up onto his feet and let him spin her away. She'd let him dip her, and she'd kiss him and it would be perfect. His happiest day. Hers. It was all right there.
He was quiet, sitting on his stage while Ana bled out her goddamn soul in the hall only a few steps away, so quiet that she could actually hear it when he pushed his hand through that thick tuft of fur on the top of his head.
"Damn it," he said. The next thing she heard was the ziiip-whup as he unplugged himself from the guitar and the cable retracted into his wrist. She heard him jump down from the stage and she stepped back, ready for him to come through the door and find her, but he didn't. He left, but he went the other way. To find Chica in the arcade, maybe, or just to be alone in a different room, but wherever he went, he clearly wasn't going to Ana's room. The song was sung and it wasn't the beginning of some storybook ending for the two of them. It was just another song. And now he could move on. And she should be glad.
Ana pressed her face into the unfeeling muffle of the quilt and bawled her broken heart out.
When she was done, she found a dry corner to wipe her eyes on, tucked it back in neatly, and turned around.
There were eyes glowing in the hallway.
She had a heart-freezing second when she thought it was Freddy and that would have been bad enough, but of course it wasn't. The animatronics' eyes didn't illuminate much of their own faces, but there was enough to see their muzzles. This one was long and thin, with a gold tooth winking on one side because his mouth was made to always show his sharp fangs. An unsettling detail for a kids' mascot, but pirates are supposed to be scary.
She wanted to ask him how long he'd been there, but there weren't any good answers, so instead she said, "I was coming to see you."
"Great minds." The eyes moved, coming closer.
She went to meet him, putting distance between her and the door, like the whole thing could be erased if she just left it far enough behind her. "I wanted to give you this," she said, holding the quilt out with more force than necessary.
He lifted a hand and she thought it might be all right, but he didn't take it. He didn't push her away or slap it out of her arms or anything else that she knew what to do with. He put his hand on top of the quilt and made her keep holding it. After a while, his eyelight shifted from her face to the quilt. His fingers shifted, brushing at the damp spot, dark with tears.
"You don't want it anymore," said Ana, thinking okay, that was fair, and she deserved it. She wished he'd hit her—not as hard as he could, obviously, but hard enough to let her know that this was real—or yell at her and confirm that this was indeed all her fault and no good had ever come to anyone anywhere for knowing her.
"I want it," said Foxy. "But I don't want to take it if the only way ye can give it is with tears in yer eyes."
She wiped at them guiltily.
"Ah, luv…" He vented a sigh and waved his hook at the door behind her. "Go after him, if ye want."
Something very much like panic surged at the thought. "I don't."
"Now how can ye mean it?" he asked reasonably. "If ye had a feeling heart in yer chest—"
"I don't," she said again and he ought to know better than anyone. He'd seen her naked, seen there was nothing but an inked-on empty place where a heart should be.
He stared at her while she stared at the quilt. At length, started to say something, but whatever it was, he caught it and put it back where it came from. Trying on a smile he clearly wasn't feeling, he said, "Been a day, ain't it?"
Ana released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding and nodded, wiping her eyes again.
"Say we call this one closed, then. Something every good pirate knows, there's always another day over the horizon. No sense rushing into something if the timing ain't right."
Ana hugged her heavy quilt, useless as a promise, and looked at the wall. "I'm sorry," she said hoarsely.
"I ain't." He touched the cool curve of his hook to her cheek. "And ye don't have to be. No matter how it shakes out, ye never has to be sorry, so long as yer honest. Now go to bed, luv. I'll see ye in the morning…won't I?"
She nodded, still staring at the wall. He didn't seem to want to leave it like that, and maybe if she'd given him any kind of opening, he wouldn't have, but she didn't, so he did. And once he was gone, there was no more reason for her to stay out here, so she went back to her room.
The camera whined a hello from the wall.
She put the quilt down and picked up her daypack. Once again, she considered leaving and once again, she waited it out. She couldn't run from the real problem; the real problem was her. And she'd made her bed here, so…she might as well sleep in it.