Caitlin Kiernan - Silk

Outside, the sun was going down, already, going down again, and that meant that she’d lived through one, two, three, four, and this had been the fifth day since Saturday night: Thursday, Thursday night creeping up on her like a fucking vampire that would take away nothing anyone could ever see, would leave her a little less alive, but still hurting. Hurting like she’d never imagined she could hurt, and empty, and sick, and she thought she heard thunder.

She knew she looked like cold fucking shit, smelled just as bad or worse, maybe, same grody clothes, same underwear and no shower, so she smelled like sweat and puke and dried tears, old booze and stale smoke; mostly drunk since Tuesday afternoon, solid drunk since the funeral, drunk since the hours before his wake; hidden away in the apartment, sucking down the cheapest wine, the bottles of Wild Irish Rose and Boone’s Farm and MD 20/20 that had been left behind after she’d chased everyone away from the wake, the precious numbing bottles she’d lugged back from Keith’s old place in a huge, bulging paper bag.

Where are you, Claude? and she looked at the window, although she couldn’t see anything for the bedsheet she’d made Claude thumb-tack over it, could only tell how soon it would be dark. You fuckin’ promised, man, and Christ, she hadn’t even wanted the fucking coffee.

“But you are going to drink it, and you are going to sober up,” he’d said. “He’s dead, not you. What happened to Keith, that wasn’t about you, Dar. That was just about him, and nobody but him and all the shit he couldn’t deal with anymore.” And it hadn’t mattered that she’d screamed at him for saying that, had hurled an ashtray across the room at him, dumping butts and ash and putting another dent in the walls.

He’d gone anyway, thirty-five minutes now.

She looked away from the window, tried not to think about time or the setting sun, bad dreams or the distant storm sounds; He’ll be back soon, and she looked into each of the room’s three remaining corners, one after the other, corners Claude had cleaned so meticulously for her, swept away every trace of cobweb and sprayed them with Hot Shot; indulging her.

The thunder again, but no lightning, not yet, and the windowpane rattled a little. Daria lit another cigarette and waited for Claude, the can of bug spray gripped tightly in one hand, and she watched the empty corners.

She’d been at the Bean, one hour into her Monday night shift, when Mort had come in, stoop-shouldered Mort and Theo in his shadow, her eyes red, puffy, and that had been the first thing, the realization that Theo had been crying, and Daria had just never thought about Theo Babyock crying. The coffeehouse was crowded, noisy, afterwork crowd, and she’d been too busy, still furious and pouring it all into the job, the endless procession of lattés and cappuccinos, double espressos and dirty glasses.

“We need to talk, Dar,” he’d said, leaning across the bar so she could hear him over the Rev. Horton Heat and the beehive drone of customer voices.

“I’m busy right now, Mort. Real busy, so if it can wait…” but he’d shaken his head and reached across the bar, held her arm so she had to be still and listen. Theo had turned away, wiping at her nose with a wilted Kleenex.

And she’d seen the red around his eyes, too, and felt sudden cold down in her stomach, belly cold, had set down a plastic jug of milk, and, “Yeah,” she’d said, “Okay. Just give me a minute.” Had asked a new girl to cover for her, and then she’d taken off her damp apron, followed Mort and Theo, not to a booth or table (none were empty, anyway), but out the door to stand shivering on the sidewalk.

“What’s going on?” and Mort had brushed his hair back, rubbed his hands together; Theo blew her nose loud, like a cartoon character.

“Keith,” Mort said. “He’s dead, Dar,” just like that, no words minced; at least he hadn’t fucked around the point, hadn’t tried to break it to her gently. And then he’d said it again, “Keith’s dead.”

She’d opened her mouth, but nothing, no words, nothing but the ice from her stomach rising up to meet the cold air spilling over her tongue. And Theo made a strangled little sound, then, like someone had squeezed a puppy too hard, and she walked away from them, fast, chartreuse leather moccasins and the cuffs of her chintzy aqaumarine bell-bottoms showing out from under her long coat.

Daria said something: “Oh,” or “Oh god,” “Oh fuck,” something she couldn’t exactly remember, only that she’d made some sound, a word or two pushed out, and Mort had looked down at his feet.

“We just found out about half an hour ago,” he said. “His aunt called me at the garage, and we came straight here.”

She sat down on the concrete, weighted and sunk down slow to cold that hadn’t mattered anymore. No colder than she felt inside, and she said, “How?” and he coughed.

“The police found him in an alley, I don’t know, somewhere in Atlanta,” pause, and “He slashed his wrists with his goddamned pocketknife,” and then Mort sat down next to her, put his hard drummer arms around her, embroidered cursive name tag on his gas-station-blue shirt and warmth and the safe smells of worksweat and motor oil mixing with the coffeefunk that never washed out of her clothes.

And she’d leaned against him, waiting for it to be real enough that she could start to cry.

The next night, they’d gone together to the funeral parlor: Daria, Mort and Theo, outsiders at the ritual, extrinsic onlookers lingering among the chrysanthemums and roses. Surrounded by relatives that Daria had never known existed; she’d only ever formed the vaguest sense that Keith even had a family, much less all those tearful faces, and the feel and magnolia smell of Old South money, fallen aristocracy and names that were supposed to mean something. Eyes that looked back at her through sorrow or obligatory sorrow or bored indifference, but all of those eyes saying the same thing in slightly different voices: you don’t belong here.

At least the casket had been closed, so she was spared some mortician fuck’s rouge and powder imitation of life. Only had to face the expensive-looking casket, almost buried beneath a mound of ferns and flowers and a Bible on top like a leather-bound cherry, the Bible and a pewter-framed photograph, cheesy yearbook pose at least ten years out of date. Keith before the dope, long, long time before her and anything that she knew about him.

His mother, old-young woman in heavy makeup, hugged her just a moment and left a mascara smear on her cheek, shook Mort’s hand and said how good it was that he’d had friends that cared enough, enough to come. And the three ministers, Baptist fat and hovering like overfed crows, disapproving glances for Daria’s crimson hair, Theo’s clothes, Mort’s simplicity. After that she almost hadn’t gone to the funeral.

“They don’t want us there,” she’d said, and Mort said, “But who gives a rat’s ass what they want, Dar. What do you think he would have wanted?”

“He’s dead, Mort. He doesn’t want anything anymore.”

But that was beside the point, and so she had gone. Borrowed black dress from Theo, something polyester and a patent black purse empty except for her cigarettes and Zippo, had refused to trade her boots or take off her watch. And Theo in a dress and black opera gloves, Mort in a gray suit with sleeves too short.

They’d come in to the memorial service late and taken seats in the back, Daria watching her hands until it was over, all that shit would have either made Keith laugh or pissed him off, the hymns and then back out into the parking lot and the procession to the cemetery, boneyard parade and the shitmobile stuck in the middle like an ulcer.