~4~
Now
Kristoff and Renee took the radios before they left to go work outdoors; Haley hadn't phoned yet regarding her flight home. At Elsa's insistence, they also wore bright orange vests over their clothes. Hunting season for quail and pheasant had already begun, and there was a family down the road who poached off-season deer as often as they could. Elsa promised to radio them the minute she heard from Haley and then they left with a bevy of pruning tools. In a sheltered dell down towards the water Renee was coaxing topiary to animated life, in the form of a dolphin leaping over a fountain. She had begun the labour-intensive work the summer they arrived here, six years ago.
The guests were also expelled from the inn in a long and content sigh; the couple from Regina to go on a lobstering tour, and the lone older gentleman named Tim to a chair near the doused fire in the common room where he could see through the open door into the kitchen. He had generously applauded breakfast when it was served in the common room, and looked into the private kitchen as often as he could. He was a reader, though he fancied himself a writer, carrying a spiral notebook everywhere and jotting notes in a spidery hand. He had shown Elsa some long-hand of his work when she expressed polite yet distant interest; she instantly found it pedantic and overflowing with honey and resultant bile.
Elsa was glad to know he would be checking out today, though he seemed to be the type to wait until the last moment before the check out time of eleven am as possible, pilfering apples from the fruit bowl that lived on the table nearest the kitchen and staring at her when he thought she wasn't looking.
It was almost as if he knew who she really was, though that was impossible. She protected her identity with every device imaginable.
Elsa didn't look even remotely at him as she and Anna gathered all the breakfast dishes and then shut the kitchen door. Anna set down her stack of plates and yawned. "Honey, you should get some sleep," Elsa said. "It will take all day for Haley to get home."
Anna was putting the butter and preserves back into the fridge; there were no leftovers. "I know," Anna said, her voice cracking even in the short reply. "I just miss her. I don't know why she goes to visit her parents at all, it's not like they can notice her."
"It's as good a pretence as any to get some research done. Besides, her parents can't notice her, but her sister certainly does." Anna blew a rather rude raspberry and Elsa nearly swatted her with the towel. "Behave, you minx," Elsa teased.
"C'mon, it's not like Patricia's the assistant to the governor of Alabama or anything," Anna replied. Elsa lifted an eyebrow and Anna laughed. "Okay, so she is the assistant to the governor. It's still no reason to treat Haley like dirt."
"Preaching to the choir, honey," Elsa answered, turning on the taps. The inn had a dishwasher, but Elsa actually liked doing the dishes by hand. It was a quiet, serene time of the morning where she could immerse herself in her thoughts as her hands were immersed in water. The cathartic release was not entirely spiritual; the warm water always felt so heavenly on her damaged hand.
Light filtered through the yellowing leaves and the kitchen window; Elsa could see her thin and wavering reflection in the glass. Though she stood just behind her, Anna remained invisible.
Anna reached for the coffee machine.
This time Elsa did swat her with the towel. "Not a chance, Anna."
"C'mon, Elsa, I need a little pick-me-up. I don't want to miss Haley's phone call."
"Pancakes with salt, Anna? Ring a bell? The synchronized walking while talking and walking into the wall?" Elsa dipped her hands into the hot water and then lightly flicked her fingers at Anna's face. "Scoot. Have a nap. You'll be able to see Haley tonight."
Anna seemed about to protest until the canyon of another yawn appeared on her face. A night spent dead was still exhausting, there in the blue.
Red was far worse.
Anna finally fled, leaving Elsa to the pile of dishes, to the small snoring of Renee's ancient dog in the corner, and to the whirlpool of her thoughts. There, in the blessed monotony of simple tasks, Elsa could lift her mind from the cares of her everyday world and delve into the world of her stories, ready to meet and greet her characters, to sit with them on comfortable couches and ask them to continue telling their stories.
From the time she was a small child, Elsa knew she wanted to be a writer. It took a very long time for her to accomplish her dream, after much hardship and sorrow. The only saving grace of seemingly endless night was the time spent contemplating her characters and working on her novels. During the day she would think of them, of the latest plotline, of the last conversation, and during the night she would write. Her editor, Beth, was always surprised at how prolific Elsa could be when her mind was focused. She was also consistently surprised at the inventiveness of Elsa's plots.
The corny adage was actually true. Truth was stranger than fiction. If she ever penned her and Anna's story, it would be marketed as paranormal fiction, not memoir or autobiography.
She had rarely had writer's block as bad as she did now.
Elsa did the dishes, trying to coax out a shy secondary character named Tara, who worked as a nurse at a hospice. Yet Tara stayed away, because Elsa could only remember the scent of Anna's hair on the beach last night, the feeling of sand between her toes, and that piercing brilliant light when Anna died.
Worry struck her then. They were no closer to finding the fortune teller now than they had been years ago. Even if they found her, could she possibly be convinced to remove the curse?
Guilt often followed her worry. She could still see the moon at night. She had no right to complain of her lot in life.
And then anger followed her guilt. She hadn't chosen this life - it had been chosen for her.
Guilt always came back again, her emotions playing bumper cars in her mind until she could remember the shriekings of the teenagers at the fair, the smell of hot oil and cigarettes, and the layers of makeup on the face of the fortune teller.
Haley was coming home. They could start searching for the fortune teller again, as soon as Anna had a red night.
More worry. How long would all of this last?
And if it should last forever, how old would she look when she died? Would that young and fresh and tantalizing Anna still be around to mourn her passing, even though she would be a crinkled and wrinkled and old-person smelling thing?
Elsa paused, looking at her wan reflection in the glass. It took a lot of effort to keep her body lithe and slender, to keep the advancing hordes of aging skin at bay. She flicked water from her fingers and lightly touched her breast, still firm, still high. Anna had suckled on it just this morning, sending her body into a rolling explosion of delight.
Cub, Renee's ailing Borzoi dog, lifted her head and growled low in her throat.
Elsa turned around in time to notice Tim's face retreating from the window in the kitchen door. She tracked his movement, her heart frozen, watching as he took another apple from the fruit bowl on the common room table. He buffed it carefully on his sleeve before retreating back to his chair.
Had he seen her touching herself? Had he been watching her this entire time?
The thought filled her with revulsion and a tiny taste of fear. Thank goodness he was checking out in a few hours, off to peddle his slapdash prose where it would be appreciated, among honky tonk bar patrons or prison inmates.
Elsa resumed washing the dishes, and she could feel his gaze like a ray right through the kitchen door, through her clothes, frying her skin beneath. Skittish and nervous now, Elsa could no longer concentrate at all on character development, and Tara retreated back to whatever corner she hid in while she waited for Elsa to discover her life.
Elsa wished she could just write. Life had been relatively uncomplicated, once. She used to be able to own a mirror. She used to sleep in on the weekends. She used to fantasize about the paranormal world, use it as a vehicle for her writing, never believing it was real, never believing it would swallow her whole and spit her up on a bleak landscape of terrifying unwritten rules and shadowy adversaries.
She never believed in fortune tellers, in hauntings, in hoodoo or poltergeists.
Now her published work was the best it had ever been.
The price for such imagination and brilliance had been too much to pay. Night was coming, and Anna would die, and there was nothing Elsa could do except wait and pray.
She really hated God sometimes.
Deep in reflection, her ear always tuned to Cub's breathing or to any noise from the near-stalker, she nearly shrieked in surprise when the phone rang. In the sudden jangle of nerves, a plate fell from her wet hands and shattered on the floor, sending Cub up in surprise.
"Sorry, sweetie," Elsa said as she stepped over the crockery to answer the phone. Please let it be Haley. "Breakwater Bed and Breakfast," she said automatically, hoping, hoping.
"Elsa?" came the boisterous reply.
Thank God for some things.
"Haley, it's great to hear your voice. Are you coming home yet?"
"Stupid airplanes. We were left sitting on the plane for an hour last night while they fiddled with something or other, and then they decide to up and cancel the flight."
"Better safe than sorry, isn't it?"
"I had my rabbits foot. We would have been fine."
"Honey, I don't doubt your faith in the appendage of an ancient rabbit, but you can't expect others to believe like you do. Most people don't believe in Santa Claus, either."
"Hey, I should have called him for a ride. I'm sure he would have gotten me home on time."
"I doubt you would have reached him. He must be in the Bahamas this time of year," Elsa laughed. "And the reindeer have probably overindulged all year and are in training now for the big day."
"Santa wouldn't be so cruel as to put his reindeer in training. Not with the belly he has. He'd be a hypocrite, and everyone knows he isn't a hypocrite."
Elsa's smile got bigger and bigger. "So are you coming home or what?"
"Yeah, I'm waiting in a very uncomfortable plastic chair in the Montgomery airport and everyone around me is uptight. Freaking business travelers. Like the world is going to end if they don't get to their meeting on time. Maybe Trish, excuse me, Patricia, taught them about all that. She'd rather cut off a finger than be late for a meeting with her boss."
"Sounds like you had a real bonding experience while you were home."
"I feel bad for even thinking it, but I sometimes wish someone would give her a frontal lobotomy."
"You could just ask Santa to give her a new personality for Christmas."
"I'd ask for a new ass first, Els. Somehow I don't think Santa keeps either of those things in stock."
"Have you tried eBay?" Elsa asked innocently, returning to the now lukewarm water and the diminishing pile of dishes, careful not to step on the broken plate. Haley laughed out loud, and in the background Elsa could hear some incomprehensible instructions from the loudspeakers.
"They're calling my flight, honey," Haley said quickly. "I've got a connection in Charlotte, and another in Philadelphia. If all goes to plan, I should hit Bangor at 6 pm. Is Kristoff coming to pick me up?"
"Anna and I will try to make it. Barring that, it will be Kristoff and Renee."
"You don't need to risk it, Elsa. I'll be seeing you both tonight. Besides, Kristoff might let me drive, and then we'll get home twice as fast, as long as I can evade police detection."
"Safe flight, alanna," Elsa said, her heart warm and aching for her best friend. The Irish term of endearment was something her father had often called her when she was a child. Alanna was a term of depth and beauty, and Elsa could practically see Haley's wistful smile on the other end of the phone.
"See you soon," Haley replied, and then she hung up.
Her head buzzing, Elsa finally turned her attention to the broken dish on the floor. The edges gleamed, wicked and torn and sharp, and in them she could see her reflection, fractured.
Only later would she look back on this broken plate and see the omen hidden within.
Then
Air fresheners were waging war against the latent smell of her apartment, and they were steadily gaining ground. It helped that Anna's cooking was a ready ally; the smell of old hamburger grease got fainter as she cooked with garlic and butter and more vastly exotic things. It had taken her a single day to unpack all her belongings and to buy a small assortment of groceries. After her foray to the library, Anna returned to her new home with a heady buzz of anticipation and fear in her chest. She had no computer at home; thank goodness she had thought ahead and produced her resume before leaving Hans.
That night Anna lay alone in her donated bed, with the haunted moaning of the despondent heating register, the curses in Spanish from the people upstairs, and knew she was better off. Moving up in the world, one step at a time.
She was nearly surprised in the morning when her phone rang. It was the first time anyone had called her since she left Ashland. She knew that even if it was a telemarketer on the other end of the phone she would try to cultivate a conversation. It felt strange to live alone, to have so little contact with other humans. She missed Dave and Gary already.
She almost felt guilty about not missing Hans at all. Almost.
"Hello?" she asked.
"Anna, it's Dave. How are things?"
Anna settled into her chair, tucking her legs beneath her and smiling. "Going good, boss. I'm all unpacked and I'm starting a job hunt today. Found some interesting positions here in town. How are things at the garage?"
"S'all good. Sergeant Carter asked about you yesterday. I told her you had moved out of the city. She wanted to give you a call, but I didn't feel right about just giving out your number without talking to you first."
Anna's heart gave a little quiver at the words, remembering the soft touch of the officer's hand, and the stricken and haunted words between two female Star Trek characters before they kissed. The depth of this feeling in her chest surprised her, as did her response. "Next time she asks, you can give it to her. She helped me, you know."
"Sure thing. Hey, I actually have an ulterior motive for calling."
"Oh, and here I thought you missed me," Anna teased.
"Not only me, Anna. Billy Carmichael brought in his muscle car and told us that he wanted you to fix it. Some hokum about the delicate touch of a lady's hand. When we told him you'd moved away, he asked where you were so he could bring his car to you for repairs."
"Lady's hand indeed. All oil-spotted and rough. I'm not so sure I'm going to go back into the auto mechanic industry, Dave," Anna said.
"So I figured," he said. "You are very talented under the hood; I swear no one could ease some of those cars from their tantrums but you, but there is so much more than this that you are capable of. I'm glad you're finally figuring that out."
Anna felt scorched again, deliriously happy and hurt at the same time. So much wasted time and buried dreams.
"Thanks, Dave," she said. "I needed that."
"Keep in touch, kiddo. We're all rooting for you. Though the next time you're in town, could you bring by some of those fabulous squares you do so well? The missus has tried your recipe at least a dozen times, but she can't ever make them quite like you. You must have some secret ingredient that she doesn't know about."
"I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Anna replied. "And that probably wouldn't sit too well with Maggie."
"She'd disagree with that some days," Dave said. "I sometimes have to buy back good graces with roses and a bottle of Chianti."
"Try a robust California red, like a Cabernet Sauvignon, and see if that won't forever change her mind."
"You're the expert, kid. Talk to you soon."
Anna hung up the phone, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and terrified at the same time. She dressed in her other set of nice clothing before she left the house, locking it as she had before.
Feign bravery, intent of steel. Too confident, thus brittle and overdone. The resume was in her sweaty palms, and Anna slowed as she approached the library doors. She could easily find hours of amusement in the lawn that led sloped upwards to the building; the wooden bridge over the pond, the newly laid sod and the gleaming gazebo.
The brave may not live forever, but the timid do not live at all.
Anna kept walking, almost wooden in her fear. She could not wholly imagine her salvation within these doors; to want this job so badly and not get it could break her already fragile nerves. The key was to be confident, but nonchalant. In actual fact the resume was disastrous - how to make gas jockey and grease monkey sound like prerequisites to Library Assistant, Circulation? How to play up being well read without sounding like a geeky homebody who was separated from her husband for no good reason?
Is that what they would think when they looked at her, that she was a silly little girl who should just run home to her man and try to get the oilstains from her fingers?
The wind was bitter, unseasonal, cracking the new grass. Anna forced herself to think of the frozen maggots on the body of the dead dog; she took a deep and fortifying breath, and walked through the doors.
Confident. Sure.
She nearly turned aside the moment she walked through the doors; at the front desk today was a girl with spiky black hair decorated with a thick purple stripe, and she wore black lipstick and black fingernail polish. Various piercings crawled up her left ear. Once upon a time Anna would have run away at the sight of someone like her; she remembered high school and the disdain heaped upon her by the popular kids as well as nearly everyone else. Those Goth girls, who liked to practice vampirism and experiment with dyes and tattoos, they had looked upon Anna with distant distaste, as if condemning her for even trying to fit in with the popular crowd.
Yet this girl's black tinged mouth with shocking pearly teeth cracked open in a genuine smile. "How can I help you?" she asked in a soft lilt of the genteel South. Anna instantly wondered what circumstances had arisen to bring her here, to conservative Bath, of all places, where vampirism was relegated to horror films and black lipstick only used on Halloween.
"My name is Anna," Anna began, and then she abruptly sneezed.
"Gesundheit," the girl immediately responded, whipping out a tissue-box for Anna's nasal salvation.
"Danke shoen," Anna replied, taking a tissue and applying it to her wind-abraded nose, inwardly triumphant at being able to respond in kind. She knew no German but this and a few other key phrases, but there was no need for this girl to know that, was there?
The girl did seem to look at her a little deeper, a smile so big it seemed to dissolve in the bright paint of her eyelids. Then a pause, because there was the slightest hint of friendship and camaraderie there, a sensation so unexpected and warm that Anna had to blush.
Holding forth her resume like a battering ram, confident and fragile, Anna continued, "I'd like to apply for the position of Library Assistant, Circulation."
"You're not from around here, are you?" the girl asked as she took the paper from Anna's trembling hands.
"No, I just moved here from Ashland," Anna replied, wondering if she had the strength or the courage to delve deeper into her story.
"Not exactly a step up, I'd imagine," the girl said, displaying another winning smile before quickly perusing the document. Anna wasn't about to protest, though she watched the girl carefully for any hint of depreciation in her eyes, as if her narrowly gained stock in German phraseology had suddenly plummeted with the words "gas jockey". No such action took place, and the girl quickly stuck it in a folder with several other, more detailed and certainly qualified pieces of paper. She could almost imagine those papers, all muscle bound with experience and age, beating on her resume until it leaked from the folder in defeat.
"I'll make sure Gerda gets it," the girl promised.
Knowing she could ask no more of her, though she wished she could say more words to her everlasting benefit, to convince this painted girl that she was far better than anyone else in that pile, all Anna could do was walk away, her throat thick with apprehension.
Anna had no desire to return so quickly to her greasy quarters, so she decided to stay a while longer, take some time to get to know the books in their stacks and the general layout of the library. She could caress a book or two and place herself within sight of the front desk so when the mysterious Gerda appeared, the Goth girl could point her out and reveal that the gas-jockey knew a little German and was the most obvious choice for the position at hand.
A.E. Cannon's book had long since been devoured, so Anna used the near-obsolete card catalogue to see if there were any other titles by the same author.
It was there, standing by the rows of little boxes, her jacket on a nearby chair, her face flushed and alive, her fingers rippling quickly and decisively through the soldiers of cardstock, that Anna became aware that someone was looking at her.
She lifted her head and noticed a young woman sitting at a lone carrel at the back of the room, near the windows, her form barely noticeable through the stacks. Her platinum blonde hair was enjoying a heated love affair with the autumn sun, every strand caressed until the edges shone like spun gold. The woman had barricaded herself behind a veritable castle of books, the titles of the tomes as intimidating as the small frown on her face. Kierkegaard, Milton, Bronte, and Dante - Anna had to stifle a giggle when she noticed Stephen King among them.
The woman had a pale, elfin face, a silken scarf around her neck, the rest of her body hidden by the stacks and the obstacle of piled books. Her eyes were a brilliant blue, standing out like sapphires in the alabaster of her skin.
It was only a moment they shared that glance, a moment when their eyes met for the first time. Flushing, the woman quickly returned to her papers and her pile of books, and Anna looked back down at the card catalogue, seeing words but not reading them.
Anna was aware of her now, and grew incompetent under the imagined gaze. Unable to find anything to pique her interest, she finally shut the little soldiers away and retreated into the stacks, still looking at words without reading them, wondering if it could be her hand filing these books away, her nose smelling their delectable scents as if stories of land and sea could emote such fragrance, her feet zigzagging endlessly through the rows upon rows of books.
Finally choosing Stephen King, thinking it best to celebrate local talent and to discover whatever enchanted the blonde woman in her tower of books, Anna sat down in a cozy chair and began to read. She was soon as lost in the story as poor Trish McFarlane was in the wilds of the woods. She did not notice the purple-striped girl at the front desk talking animatedly with her director and finally pointing at her, nor did she realize that the castle-book-woman with shining white gold hair frequently glanced in her direction.
Fate was coalescing around her as lightning rods drew the storms.