Alexandra Sokoloff - The Harrowing

From the couch behind her, Robin heard the slim young man say under his breath, “ Go? ”

But she felt a stab of sympathy for the girl, herself.

Another crack of thunder made them all jump, then the room was plunged into blackness as the lights and television went dead.

Lisa screamed shrilly. There was a heart-stopping beat—and then everyone broke up laughing. Even the young man on the couch and Martin were chuckling.

Robin looked around at the faces, shadowed by firelight. There was a new, warm intimacy in the room, a palpable relaxing of guard. The tight knot that had been in Robin’s chest for as long as she could remember miraculously loosened.

The laughter died down, and the five of them looked around at one another. The young man on the couch spoke. “See if the generator kicks in.”

Firelight played on their faces as they waited. The room remained dark, the TV silent. Patrick groaned suddenly. “Oh man —Alabama third and goal…”

“Out of luck, dude,” the slim young man informed him.

Lisa turned, smiled wickedly. “Here we all are, ladies and gentlemen. What shall we do in the dark?”

Patrick reached into a back pocket and pulled out a Baggie stuffed with pot. “Endure.” He removed a packet of Zig-Zag papers from the Baggie and got to work rolling.

The fire blazed in the old stone fireplace.

Lisa, Patrick, and Robin lounged on the floor in front of the hearth, backs propped against the couch and armchair. They passed Robin’s bottle of Jack Daniel’s and a fat joint, all now quite comfortably stoned.

Robin sat in a dreamy haze, melted against the back of an armchair. Flames from the fire burned warm on her face; her body was loose and pleasantly numb. It seemed almost impossible to believe that barely an hour ago she had been in the blackest despair—a step, a swallow away from darkness and oblivion.

She looked around at her companions and felt a powerful affection for all of them. Lisa, with her amazing hair, oceans of curls, the archness now gone from her face. Patrick, sprawled on the floor beside a line of empty beer bottles, his muscular body as relaxed as a big cat’s. Robin felt warm all over from the heat that seemed to roll off him in waves.

Her eyes drifted to the faux-leather couch. The slim young man, who had the interesting and vaguely titillating name of Cain, had not moved since the beginning of the evening, except to reach for the joint.

Aesthetic , she thought. Such a fine face, regal, almost . And sensual, too, the way he was playing with the nap of the carpet with those hands, those hands…

He looked up and met her eyes for a moment. She looked quickly away.

In the back of the room, Martin continued to study, resolutely alone. Somewhere along the line, he’d left the room to find candles, and they flickered now on the table in front of him, washing his face in soft light. Robin was reminded again of a monk in his solitary cell. If he’d just loosen up…just come over and sit down with us ….

And then there was…

She turned her head to look, then sat up slightly, frowning around the room. No, of course there were only five of them. Why had she thought there was a sixth?

Across from her, Patrick casually leaned over and picked up Lisa’s wrist, held it provocatively as he examined the knotted red yarn. His husky voice sounded far away, barely awake.

“What’s the string for, Marlowe? One knot for every guy you fucked last night?”

Lisa snatched her hand away. “Kabbalah,” she said loftily. She caressed the string on her wrist.

To Robin’s surprise, Martin snorted from the back table. “The Kabbalah of Madonna,” she heard him mutter.

Lisa didn’t hear, or ignored him. “It’s protection from the evil eye,” she informed Patrick. “And horndog jocks.”

“Damage’s been done, babe.” Patrick leaned back, grinned at her lazily. “Might as well take it off.”

His tone was so suggestive, Robin was almost sick with jealousy.

Lisa stretched languidly. Her raveled sweater rose to just below her breasts. “Keep dreaming, cowboy.”

Patrick took a deep toke of the roach he held, then suddenly turned and put his hand on the back of Robin’s neck and drew her head to his. He put his lips over hers and slowly blew smoke into her mouth. The rush was unbelievably sexy. Robin dissolved, rode waves of dizziness and desire as the smoky kiss went on and on.

Patrick turned her loose and stretched back down on the floor. Robin sat back against the armchair, sinking into the rose carpet again, floating into a daze. The floor beneath her seemed to rock like a boat. Lisa’s eyes gleamed in the dark.

The six of them were silent again.

Robin sat up in confusion, as if jolting awake.

Six .

There were only five of them. Why did she keep thinking six?

She looked around the room, just to be sure.

Five of them, and it seemed almost inevitable that they were here.

As if reading her mind, Patrick suddenly spoke to the ceiling.

“You know why we all are here? ‘Cause we all’ve figured it out. What’s Thanksgiving anyway? You kill a big bird and you stuff it and you eat it and you fight with the fam, and when the blood’s cleaned up and no one’s talkin’ to anyone anymore, you sit around and get wasted and watch the game. So I say, fuck the turkey, stuff the family, and cut to the game.”

Robin gazed at him, riveted, and thought she had never felt so close to anyone in her life.

Cain laughed from the couch. “You are so full of shit.” He took a toke of the joint Lisa had just passed him, gazed around at the rest of them. “We’re all here because it sucks at home.”

A silence fell, thick and hot. All of them dropped their eyes, avoiding one another’s gaze. The fire seemed to roar behind them, flames crackling. Robin felt flushed all over with heat—and shame.

And then Patrick laughed shortly, extended his bottle, and clinked with Cain’s. As their eyes held this time, there was no testing between them, only acknowledgment.

Robin surprised herself by reaching in and touching her own bottle against theirs.

And behind them, Lisa spoke softly. “Hear! Hear!”

Hunched over the table in the back, Martin was still.

Robin felt a sudden wild elation—at the knowing that for the first time in her life she was not alone. Patrick locked eyes with her, a raw, hungry look, almost purely sexual.

Lisa reached across the carpet and grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, lifted it. “Pop quiz. ‘Why It Sucks At Home’—in twenty-five words or less.” She extended the bottle to Patrick with a dangerous smile.

He handed it back to her, mockingly gallant. “ Ladies first.”

Lisa sat back on her heels, counted her words off on her fingers. “Bad girl from bad family does bad things with bad people…feels really…bad. Will try anything to feel good.”

There was bright sarcasm in her voice, facetious and facile. But Robin understood she’d spoken the exact truth, and admired her for it.

Lisa drank deeply from the bottle, wiped her mouth suggestively, and thrust the bottle toward Robin, bright manic eyes daring her.

Robin slowly reached and took the bottle, felt the smooth square glass under her hand. Lisa watched her, waiting. Robin half-shrugged, tried to match Lisa’s light tone. “Mom is crazy… Home is crazy…” She stopped, looked down at the stained rose on the carpet. Then she spoke softly, hating the quaver in her voice. “So Dad threw us away and started over.”

She forced her eyes up, looked at the others. “I feel like I’m broken. And I hate everyone who’s whole.”