Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,13
footsteps carried through the house; the stairs creaked under his weight; a door upstairs clicked shut.
Inside the cabinet, the can of La Croix sputtered and fizzed, the carbonated water forcing its way out of a hole in the aluminum. I leaned on the counter for a minute, my face in my hands, breathing. Then I grabbed a towel. Glass crunched under my tennis shoes as I made my way to the ruined cabinet. I picked out the biggest shards from the door and dumped them in the trash. Then I used the towel to retrieve the can from the mess of splintered wineglasses. I let it finish emptying into the sink. I wiped out the cabinet as best I could, transferring towelfuls of glass into the trash and mopping up the La Croix. Two wineglasses had survived, and I washed them in the sink. When I’d done the best I could with the cabinet, I got online, found a similar style of wineglasses, and ordered replacements. The money wasn’t a problem—when Mom and Dad and Gard had died, I’d been the only one left. It wasn’t much, but it was enough that I didn’t have to get a job right away, especially with Richard footing the big bills. No, money wasn’t a problem at all. It’s just everything else that was a problem.
I took the kitchen trash, now full of glass, to the outside bin. When I emptied it, it made a tinging, crystalline shimmer. The day had died completely; above me, the sky was a pool of stars that went only to the edge of the property. Then the wall of trees closed off the rest of the world. Mayflies darted around the porch lights; mosquitos hummed in my ears. Behind the house, something big splashed into the Okhlili. A gator, maybe. But it could have been something else.
No fireflies, a part of my brain noted. Not a single one. Not any color. Nothing.
Something deep in the trees startled, its sudden burst of speed snapping branches, and I dropped the lid on the trash bin and hurried back inside. I leaned against the door. I could feel Ray’s cold, stiff hand clutching my arm. I could smell rot. Eyes closed, I fumbled for the deadbolt and threw it home, and then I wiped my face and stumbled through the house, drawing the curtains closed. We lived far enough out that we never bothered with the curtains, but tonight was different. I did all the locks too, doors and windows. Better than most people, I knew that safety was illusion. Locks were all well and good, but they couldn’t stop real danger. If someone wanted to get into the house, they could pick a lock or break a window or set the house on fire. Even that wasn’t what really scared me, though. What scared me was the reality that sometimes, you locked the danger inside with you. In my case, I’d been getting my brains fucked out in my safely locked house while Gard and Mom and Dad died in the next room.
When I went upstairs, the door to Richard’s study was open, and the room was dark and empty. I continued down the hall to our bedroom. This door was open too, and the lights were off, the bedcovers pulled back as though Richard had tried to sleep and then given up. Under his bathroom door—we each had our own bathroom, just another nice touch—a line of light showed. I knocked.
“Richard?”
I pressed my ear to the wood.
“Richard, I’m really sorry.”
We’d been here before, of course. Even saints like Richard finally ran out of Quiet Understanding and reached Just About Fucking Enough.
“I’ll call tomorrow and have someone come out and fix the glass on the cabinet,” I said, but my voice was getting smaller and smaller. “I’m ready to talk about what happened today, whenever you are.”
A series of soft splashes came from the other side of the door; Richard easing himself into the tub, I guessed. The house settled around us, and crickets called from the lawn, and I set my hand gently on the door and tapped a few times. Finally, stripping out of my clothes, I showered and got ready for bed. When I’d finished, Richard still hadn’t emerged from his bathroom. I crawled into bed naked and pushed the sheet below my waist; maybe Richard would ravish me. Maybe I’d sleep through it. I drifted off, wishing I weren’t so fucked up.
The dreams were like