Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,44
to get rid of it.” I touched the bag at my feet. “I found a book that might tell us more, but, um, I need help. I’m not a very good reader. It looks like you are.”
“If it’s about whales,” Dag said, licking almond filling from the side of his hand, “I’m aces.”
“Aces? Oh God, what kind of nerd am I teaming up with?”
Dag just had another of those shy smiles as an answer.
“Maybe we could work on it together?” I said.
“Yeah. And the faster, the better.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not going to force myself on you again.”
He must have inhaled some pastry because he coughed and turned bright red. When he’d cleared his throat, he said, “No, I mean, because it’s looking for us. It’s going to eliminate us.”
My phone began to buzz. I pulled it out and saw Kenny’s name on the screen.
“Hold on,” I said. “I need to take this.”
“I wonder what it’s feeding cycle is like,” Dag said, breaking the croissant into smaller pieces. “Does it need to feed every day? Every week? Every full moon?”
“Kenny? Hey, what’s up?”
“If Ray and Mason were meals,” Dag said, still talking to himself, “how soon will it need to feed again?”
“It’s Tamika,” Kenny said, his voice ragged. “She killed herself.”
DAG (10)
We drove across town in the Escort, and the whole drive, Elien was pale and restless.
“I’m so sorry,” I said for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Tamika wouldn’t kill herself.”
I nodded.
“This is that . . . that thing again. The hashok.”
Ahead of us, Fogmile transitioned into Moulinbas; Creole townhouses replaced the shotgun-style clapboard homes. The October day was mellow, and with the windows down, I could smell beignets frying and, now that I was paying attention, Elien: anise and something peppery, a licoricey kind of heat that curled up in my lungs. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed it in my bedroom. Or the night before, when he’d sat on my lap. I was definitely noticing now.
“Well, say something,” Elien snapped.
“You smell nice.”
His hand came up to his blowout hair, and he said, “I’m trying to pick a fight, Jesus Christ.”
“Why do you want to pick a fight?”
“You think I’m wrong. You think Tamika killed herself.”
“I don’t think anything. I don’t even know her.”
“You are no fucking help.”
“I don’t know what you want me to do.”
“I don’t know, Dag. Any fucking thing would be great right about now.”
Pumping the brakes, I pulled the Escort to the curb. We were parked in front of Madeleine’s Kiddie Kurls and Kuts; on the other side of the plate glass, a woman, probably Madeleine, was settling a cape over a little boy in a salon chair.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
I flexed my fingers, palms balanced on the wheel. “I don’t like people talking to me like that.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake. Will you drive the fucking car?”
“Elien, stop.”
“Jesus Christ. Are you being serious right now? A woman just died, and you’re going to stop the car because your feelings are hurt? This is fucking bullshit. Drive the car.”
“Don’t—”
“Drive the fucking car.”
This time, I blew out a breath. Then I turned off the car, took the keys, and got out. Down the block, a Texaco had a spinning sign, and I started walking.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Elien screamed.
When a truck blew past me, the air from its passing threw up a flattened foam cup, and it smacked my shoe and fluttered away.
Inside the Texaco’s convenience store, I bought two Cokes and a bag of Sun Chips. The girl behind the counter smiled as she gave me my change, and I smiled back. Then I went back outside and sat on the curb. The sun was warm. The breeze, when it picked up, was nice. I’d never told anyone, but I’d always liked the smell of gasoline, although it didn’t go with the Sun Chips very well.
Behind me, the convenience store door opened, and the girl poked her head out.
“You need to use the phone?”
“No, thanks.”
“You need a ride?”
“No.”
“Are you sure, sweetie?”
“Yes, thanks.”
Back at the Escort, Elien was getting out of the car. He slammed the door. He had a really prissy angry walk, but he moved a mile a minute.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said when he reached me.
“I don’t like conflict.” I fished another chip out of the bag. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”
He ran his hands through his hair again. He paced back and forth. Finally, he came to a stop in front of me.
“I shouldn’t