Jackson Pearce - Cold Spell

The camp is quiet, and I’m grateful for the snow that’s still thick between trailers—it mutes the slap of my feet. I’m exhausted, my vision watery, but I keep moving. There, ahead—Callum’s trailer. It’s dark and still, like everything else, but I grip the knife even tighter in my hand as I approach. Something in the woods rustles, and my breath catches in my throat; I hold the knife ahead of me, keeping my eyes trained on the branches. I exhale. It’s nothing, just snow falling from the trees. I turn back to the flower-painted door. Now or never. I hold my breath, turn the handle, and then push the door open.

I jump back. Flannery and Callum are awake, sitting at the head of the bed with a foot or so between them. They’re wearing the same clothes I saw them in last—Callum in a suit and Flannery in her wedding dress. There’s a candle lit on the nightstand, making their bodies soft and shadowy.

“Ginny?” Flannery asks, making a face.

“Hi,” I answer, because I don’t know what else to say.

“What are you doing here?” Flannery says slowly. I step through the door frame, and her gaze falls to my right hand. “And what are you doing with my knife?”

“I’m… I’m kidnapping you,” I say, brandishing it a little.

She raises her eyebrows and looks over at Callum. For a moment he’s still, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s surprised, or because he’s working out how best to fight me off. But then he laughs, a quiet sound, under his breath and guarded.

“What’s so funny?” Flannery asks.

“I was just thinking about what I’ll tell everyone tomorrow,” he says. “My wife ran away with a buffer. While wearing her wedding dress.”

Flannery laughs this time, and I can hear the relief in the sound. In lasts only a moment, though, and then they’re still, staring at one another, as if I’m not in the doorway wielding a knife. Callum moves first, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

“Go on. I’ll buy you some time,” he says swiftly, calmly.

Flannery looks at Callum incredulously. “I can’t just… I can’t just leave.”

“You can,” he says firmly. “Unless you want to stay. Do you?”

“Yes,” Flannery says automatically. “This place is mine.” I’m not sure what she means by mine —her kingdom? Her home? I’m not sure she knows, either.

Callum pauses and asks a different question in a softer voice. “Do you want to stay if it means you’re forced to marry me?”

And Flannery hesitates.

“Go,” Callum says.

“I was that bad in bed?” Flannery says, trying to joke. The tears in her eyes betray her.

“Look, our first fight as a married couple,” Callum says drily, and this finally gets a laugh from Flannery’s throat. He smiles at her. “Also, you’ll need to punch me.”

“Why?” I ask.

“It needs to look like I fought back,” Callum says. “If they think I let her leave, they’ll shun me.”

“How about instead of getting punched in the face, you come with us?” I suggest. Callum falters, looking away.

“You still don’t get it,” Flannery says, shaking her head at me. “This is our home. These people are family. And the world out there… well. It’s not a world that makes it easy for a lone Traveller. But…” She looks down, balls her hand into a fist. “I… I just… I can’t stay.” Flannery then swings her fist forward, punches Callum hard in the face. The impact makes a loud crunch sound, and Callum goes down, crashing onto the floor of his trailer. Flannery lifts her chin and studies him as he wobbles to his feet.

“Is that gonna bruise?” she asks hurriedly. “I can do it again.”

“It’ll bruise.” Callum winces. “Goddamn, Flannery. You never do anything halfway.”

“All right,” Flannery says, spinning around to me. “Let’s go.” I nod and dart for the door. I can already see the idea of the morning on the horizon. I jump from the edge of the trailer’s door to the ground, icy and crunchy under my feet. I look over my shoulder to say something to Flannery—

They’re kissing, Flannery’s arms slung around Callum’s neck, his hand resting on the small of her back, and I find I can’t possibly speak and ruin it. Flannery looks small beside him, a body at odds with her personality, and when they break away they look at each other for a moment that lasts for years. Flannery inhales and shakes the sentiments away.

“Put some ice on that,” she says, rubbing his eye with her thumb so hard he winces again. Then she springs out of the trailer after me, and we dash away together.

We weave away from the camp, around pockets of stragglers finishing off the last of conversations and beers. Flannery moves quickly, less sneaking, more prowling. It isn’t until she hears the snuffling sounds, however, that she figures out where I’m headed—the menagerie. As we get closer to the animals—and therefore farther away from human ears—Flannery speaks again in a low voice.

“Well done, buffer.”

“I try,” I say, fishing the keys from my pocket and waving them at her.

Flannery inhales, then walks into Wallace. I hear a rustling, a clanging, and then there’s a flurry of movement. I jump back just in time—the possums and raccoons stream out together; a few moments later, the rabbits cautiously hop down the steps and into the trees. She reappears at the door, eyes locked on me, as if she can’t bear to see the animals going.

“So are you driving, or am I?” she asks.

“You have to drive,” I say. “I can’t work a stick shift.”

“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said.”

“Stick shift?”

“No, ‘you have to drive.’ ”

I would laugh if my heart weren’t finding its way into my throat. I drop into the passenger seat as Flannery hitches up her dress and kicks the red heels off in order to work the pedals. It takes a moment for the engine to turn over; Flannery encourages it in Shelta. When it finally gives, she pats the dashboard and whoops. I almost fall out of my seat when Wallace jolts forward.

There’s a screeching, ripping sound; I look out my window and see the deer leaping into the woods, then the fox, then the badger as we wreck the pens leaning against Wallace’s side. Flannery slams on the brakes, twisting around to look through the back window. I see her watch the animals vanish into the forest, something akin to pain streaking across her face. The deer is the last to vanish, its white tail flicking up, a spark of bright in the black.

“Good luck,” she murmurs. “Hope you’re strong enough now that you’re free.”

She stares a moment more, as if she expects the animals to reappear, then turns and grips the steering wheel tightly. “I hope we both are.”

Flannery slams her foot down on the accelerator. Wallace flies forward, smoking, rattling, running . We curve to the outside of the camp; everything in the bus slides to the right as we tilt a little, one set of wheels riding along the incline leading to the trees.

“They’re up,” Flannery says sharply, her voice focused and clear. I look in my side mirror, grimace. People are stepping out of their camps, curious as to who has an engine running. As we progress I can tell people recognize the bus. They point, and then—

“What are they doing?” I ask in disbelief.

“Same thing I do if one of my animals gets loose,” she says, then stomps the gas. “I chase after it.”

We lurch forward, fishtailing a few times when we hit slick spots. A car appears behind us, a rattly El Camino. It takes me a moment to recognize who’s behind the wheel—Brigit herself. Behind it, I see other cars lighting up, people shouting and jumping into them through open windows. They’re angry, swerving behind us, plowing through the edges of tent porches and sending tarps flying. Flannery takes a hard right turn, nearly toppling us to one side.