Caitlin Kiernan - Silk

“Don’t make me hit you again, Dar. Please god don’t make me have to hit you again.” And he pushed her hands, her straining arms, down to her sides and held them there until she stopped struggling. Until she was only crying, sobbing, and she could hear thunder and the wail of sirens, end of the world wail.

“We gotta get outta here, Dar. You need a doctor, and I couldn’t get the fire out in there.”

Mort picked her up, carried her down the stairs and out into the freezing clean night air, the water rain that peppered her skin like liquid ice, bringing her back. Back to herself and Morris Avenue, the buildings washed in scarlet waves of fire-engine light, blue and white cop-car light.

T hree hours sitting in the emergency room, and if Daria had actually been hurt, she’d have died a long time before Mort finally lost his patience and demanded that a doctor look at her, yelled at a couple of nurses and stomped about. Nothing but scratches on her arms and face, though, welts irritated from the Hot Shot, eyes red from the smoke. A sleepy-looking intern had given her antibiotic salve for the scratches and a halfhearted speech about drinking so goddamn much, although he’d assured her that it was very unlikely that she’d actually had DTs; questions about acid and shit and she’d shaken her head, no and no, not lately or not ever, just booze, and he’d stuck a couple of Band-Aids on her face and hands and sent her on her way.

Out sliding glass doors into the cold again, past ambulances and other injuries to the van, waiting for them where Theo had parked it: vast and mostly empty parking deck, feeble yellow light and concrete, blocky red numbers almost black under the lights, to tell them the level and row, like they could miss the shitmobile. Mort helped Daria inside, into the passenger seat, and Theo climbed in the back.

“We’ll go to my place, Dar,” Theo said. “In the morning, we can have a look at whatever’s left of your apartment.”

Daria shrugged, yeah, whatever, took a slightly bent cigarette from a pack on the dash and let it dangle unlit from the corner of her mouth. Mort opened the driver’s-side door. “You sure you’re feelin’ okay?” he asked. “What a useless bunch of sons-of-bitches in there…”

“I’m fine, Mort. Can I get a light?” she said, and he reached in his shirt pocket, passed her his lighter; orange flicker of butane flame and then the reassuring smell of the Marlboro and she closed her eyes and slumped back in the seat.

“What time is it?” but she looked at her wristwatch before anyone could answer. Nine forty-five in oilgray, but it felt so much later, forever since Mort had carried her down from the smoke and fire. The fire and the spiders going dreamy in her head, unreal and far away.

Mort tried to start the van and the engine hacked and sputtered like an old man with double pneumonia, was silent. “Fuck, fuck, and fuck,” and he hit the steering wheel.

“That’s gonna help a whole lot,” Theo said. “It’s just cold.”

“It’s just a worthless piece of crap,” and he tried again, turned the key and the old man wheezed and coughed deep in his watery steel chest.

Daria squinted out at the parking deck through cigarette smoke and the van’s dirty, bugsplotched windshield. Two or three other cars and the fluorescents left little space for shadows, for secrets or hiding places.

“Can we just sit here a minute?” and Mort sighed, big, exhausted puff of white breath. “We might not have a choice,” he replied.

“I don’t suppose you happened to grab my bass on your way out?”

“There wasn’t time, Dar,” he said. “I’m sorry. Maybe it’ll be okay.”

“Maybe,” and she pulled another drag off the Marlboro.

“Are you sure you’re feelin’ all right?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Sure. Just a little freaked out, that’s all.” And quick, before she could talk herself out of asking, “If you can get the van started, will you drive me to Spyder’s house?”

An astonished, disgusted sound from Theo, and “Christ, why in hell would you want to see Spyder Baxter?”

“I don’t want to see Spyder. I need to know if Niki’s okay.”

Mort made a doubtful face, doubt and worry, and he looked as bad as she felt, almost. “Wouldn’t it be a better idea to call?”

“No, Mort. I need to see her. With my eyes. Just a simple yes or no, okay? I think maybe it’s important.”

“I think maybe Mort hit you a lot harder than he intended,” Theo said, and Mort glanced back at her, annoyed you’re-not-making-this-any-easier frown.

“‘Important’ how, Dar?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

“Look, it’s probably nothing, okay,” and she thought about Walter, again, had been thinking about him a lot the last couple of hours: rumpled and bleary-eyed, shivering in the alley behind Keith’s, fear like fresh scars on his pale, thin face. The things he’d said, the things she hadn’t let him say. “But I need to get some rest, and I don’t think I can sleep until I know Niki’s all right.”

“After that scene between you and Spyder last night, it just doesn’t seem like such a bright-”

“Please, Mort. I swear I’m not gonna hit her.”

Mort rubbed at his forehead above his eyebrows, like he was getting a headache. “It’s not you I’m worried about, Dar,” and he gave the ignition another try. This time the shitmobile belched and grumbled, carburetor hack and piston hem, and the engine growled to life.

“Yeah, sure.” He sighed. “Why the hell not,” and Mort released the parking brake and wrestled the stick into reverse.

“Thanks, Mortie.” And she leaned over, hugged him, little kiss against his stubbly cheek.

“Yippee,” Theo groaned behind them, “Yippee-fucking-ki-yay.” The van lurched backwards, tried to stall, but Mort pushed the clutch down to the floor. And Daria watched the beam of the headlights and the numbers painted on the wall, the banks of phony jaundiced daytime overhead, until they were out of the parking deck and under the city night again.

Spyder sat on a wobbly stool by the bedroom window, no light but a candle on the floor, and she listened to the gentle, restless sounds of Niki sleeping, asleep for hours now, and Spyder had noticed that she’d been taking pills from her Klonopin script for days. Traffic sounds from outside, another place too far off to be of consequence anymore, and the noises from the basement, and the noises from the yard. Her face hurt, swollen lips, black eye, and another pain, inside, pain that meant more than broken skin and bruises.

“I don’t think I can stay much longer,” Niki had said that afternoon, after they’d fucked. “I can’t take much more of this.”

“What do you want?” Spyder had said, knowing the answer, playing the game as if she didn’t.

“I want you to get help. I want you to tell your doctor what you told me. I want you to tell her about the body you hid in the fucking basement.”

“Or you’ll leave.”

“I love you, Spyder. It’s not what I want.”

And then she’d rolled over, and Spyder had gotten up and gone to piss. When she’d come back, Niki was already asleep, so Spyder had sat down on the stool, thinking about the hospital and its sterile, numbing tortures, idiot questions from people who got paid to listen. And then she’d thought about being left alone in the house, alone with the house, and herself, everyone dead or gone away somewhere else. Nothing left but long days and nights and memories.

Bitch, I’m not done with you, bitch, her father said, mocking, laughing behind the closet door. What you’ve told her, what she knows, and she’s still going anyway.