P. Parrish - Heart of Ice

In a poem called “Lost in the Mist” the narrator was a color-blind girl who lamented that she was “not black, not white, but just shades of gray.”

And then there were the poems about Ross. None of them mentioned him by name and none used the word incest . Still they were almost unbearable to read. One called “Tick Tock” was about a clock that ran backward “to the time when I was new, back to the time before there was you.” Another called “Night Creature” was about a sharp-clawed beast slipping into her bed and tearing her open with “claws like razors, a tongue like a blade.” The hardest one to read was “Twelve.” Louis had memorized the last lines.

Your fingers are ice on my body

Your heart is ice on my soul

I let you take

What should have been mine to give

Louis had almost stopped reading after that. But then he got to the poems that dated to Julie’s final month on the island. They seemed as if they were written by a different girl.

The tone was brighter, almost hopeful. One poem called “Phoenix” was a long tale about a girl whose home burned down, but she hatched out of a golden egg and flew away to make a new life on a tropical island. But there was nothing in any of the summer poems that spoke about being in love and nothing about a special boy.

Except for maybe one poem. It was called “Centaur” and it was about a creature, half man and half horse, that was “wise and gentle” and carried the girl away from earthly tormenters.

Was “Centaur” Julie’s island love?

It was a long shot, but the poem was why Louis was now on his way to see Danny Dancer. His plan was to show Dancer the poem and hope it triggered him to remember an image from his own sketchbooks.

At the county building, a sign on the front door directed Louis to the jail around the side. The desk sergeant behind the Plexiglas spoke without looking up from his paperwork.

“Visiting days are Saturdays and Wednesdays.”

“I have an appointment with Danny Dancer. Special visit, granted by your sheriff as a favor to state investigator Norm Rafsky.”

The sergeant flipped through some papers on a clipboard. “You Louis Kincaid?”

“Yeah.”

“ID and sign the book.”

Louis slid his license and state police ID through and signed in. The cop pushed Louis’s license back through but fingered the state ID as if it were a counterfeit twenty before he finally gave it back.

“Dancer’s lawyer here yet?” Louis asked.

“Nope.”

When Louis called Lee Troyer this morning it had taken all his charm to convince her that all he needed was information on kids Dancer knew when he was young. She had finally agreed and told him she’d meet him at eleven. It was eleven fifteen.

“The roads are bad north of here,” the sergeant said. “It might be hours before anyone gets through. You better go in. You wait too long the inmates will be at lunch.”

“If Troyer shows up, tell her I’m here.”

The sergeant hit a buzzer, and a steel door to Louis’s left slid open, leading to a second waiting area. The guard in a wire cage handed Louis a plastic tray through a slot.

“Empty your pockets and leave the bag here.”

“I have books in here I need to take in,” Louis said, hoisting up the bag.

The cop used his pencil to point to a sign that said no contraband was allowed inside.

“I have permission from your sheriff to take the books in,” Louis said.

The cop eyed him, then picked up the phone and asked for a Captain someone. Louis waited, listening to the sounds of the jail-buzzers, shouting, clanging. This place was a stark contrast to the island station with its coffee-scented office, boxes of doughnuts, and framed pictures of the island.

Louis looked back at the cop on the phone. The officers here were different, too, a tough bunch with weathered skin and military tattoos. Louis knew he was in a place where cops were us and inmates were them and there was nothing in between.

The guard hung up the phone. “Captain says you can take the books in but you’ll have a guard with you the whole time.”

“Not a problem.”

With another buzz the second door slid open. Louis followed a guard to the end of the hall. Inside an eight-by-eight-foot cell Dancer sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the drain. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit, had a small yellow-black bruise on his cheek, and his dirty hair hung uncombed in his eyes.

“I’m not wasting time down here babysitting your cop-shooting retard, so make this quick,” the guard said, unlocking the cell.

Louis went inside. The clang of the door closing reverberated off the walls, but Dancer didn’t look up.

“Hello, Danny,” Louis said.

Dancer didn’t answer, his attention still focused on the floor. Louis realized he was counting the red speckles in the tile.

“How many are there?” Louis asked.

“I’m not done yet.”

Louis pulled some books from the bag. “I have something to show you. Can you take a break?”

Dancer looked up at him, his eyes lighting up when he saw the sketchbooks. He held out his hand.

“I’ll give them to you in a minute,” Louis said. “Can we sit on the bunk?”

When Dancer came to the bunk and sat down a week’s worth of sweat wafted off him. Louis made a mental note to tell Lee Troyer to demand her client get special hygiene attention. And protection.

“Are my beetles okay?” Dancer asked.

“Your beetles?”

“My beetles,” Dancer said. “Is someone feeding my beetles?”

Louis hadn’t been to the cabin since that day with Rafsky months ago, but he could only assume the bins were now full of dead bugs.

“I don’t know about your beetles, Danny,” Louis said.

“I need to go home.”

“They’re not going to let you go home,” Louis said. “You shot Chief Flowers, remember? That’s why you’re here.”

Dancer looked down.

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?” Louis asked.

Dancer said nothing. Was he counting speckles in the floor again?

“Danny, do you understand what you did?” Louis asked.

Dancer’s eyes shot up. “I understand! I’m not stupid. I understand. I understand everything!”

To Louis’s surprise, there were tears in Dancer’s eyes. He had thought that autistics were devoid of deep emotion, but that stereotype was now gone.

“When you get out-” God, he hated lying like this. “When you get out, you can get some new beetles.”

“What about Callisto, Penelope, Lycus and-”

The damn animal skulls.

“I’m sure they’re still there in your cabin. No one would take them.”

“My skulls aren’t safe there,” Dancer whispered.

“I’ll go your cabin. And I’ll pack up Callista-”

“Callisto. Cal-lis- toe .”

“I’m sorry. I’ll pack them and store them. Okay?”

Dancer looked away again. His fingers were wrapped tightly around the edge of the bunk as if he were afraid he would fall off.

“Did you hear me? I said I’d get them,” Louis said.

“You repeat yourself a lot,” Dancer said.

“I’m sorry. But I’ll get them.”

“You got to get them all.”

“I will.”

“All of them.”

“Yes, all of them.”

Dancer was quiet again, his attention back on the floor. Louis set the sketchbooks on the bunk, keeping Julie’s journal in his hand.

“Do you know what poetry is, Danny?”

No answer.

“Do I have to repeat myself again?” Louis asked.

Dancer shook his head. “ ‘The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep. And miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.’ Robert Frost.”