Shya Scanlon - The Guild of Saint Cooper

I woke at dusk, having fallen asleep at my desk, to find my mother standing in the doorway at the top of the stairs, bathed in the orange light of evening and wearing her suit pulled down over her shoulders as though she’d come inside, come upstairs, and then simply lost track of time. It was the first I’d seen of her since my abduction, and for the same reasons I’d been avoiding her the last twenty-four hours I kept my head close to the desk, hoping my awkward position would prevent her from reading me. But she wasn’t reading anything. Her body looked bent in, her face slack and expressionless. I asked if she was okay.

“Just another rough day.”

I turned back to the window to take in her view. A seagull, disoriented maybe, was flying westward a few blocks away, and a few smaller birds flew up to harass it.

“It’s a beautiful night,” I said.

“Sure. Join me for a glass of wine?”

I followed her downstairs and through the darkening living room to the kitchen, where she decanted a magnum of bad wine into a green glass flower vase. I remembered she’d bought that vase before all this at a nearby boutique glass art shop, and something about the complete frivolity of such a purchase made me happy.

After pouring two glasses, she told me of some discouraging signs that Weyerhaeuser and the Lights were growing more unwilling to compromise, growing more erratic and unpredictable. Apparently they’d disappeared from two jointly managed clinics without warning, then refused to make an official comment about their actions. She refilled her glass.

“It was almost like a denial of their presence there to begin with,” she concluded.

Animated by the wine, she went on to talk about some of her coworkers, and as she described the refusal of Ginny Wang to wear gloves when passing out first-aid kits, and how Joe Vargas had shown up to work two weeks ago with a mouse lemur, the source of which he refused to divulge, and as she laughed at her assistant, Joy Lightfoot, whose unflappable attitude was both a subject of ridicule and absolutely, life-savingly necessary, I realized how long it had been since I’d had a normal conversation. My mother paused for a moment, looking for a way to capture the true significance of her assistant, and without her voice the radio’s drone began to fill the room with news.

“It’s like,” she said, “it’s almost like…”

The story was about a certain species of ice worm that, through Arctic thaw, had been reintroduced into northern oceanic ecosystems, making its way into the stomachs of gunnels and pricklebacks and then eating them alive from the inside. “This may well alter the entire food chain,” a soft-spoken ichthyologist said gravely.

My mother marched over and, for the first time I could remember, yanked the radio’s cord from the wall.

“It’s like we can’t continue unless we’re lying to ourselves.”

I tried not to seem surprised. “What’s a prickleback?”

“Blake,” my mother said, “I’m not going to ask where you were the other night, but I want you to know that I’m sorry for what I said.”

“What did you say?”

“I’m just happy to see you inspired, sweetie. If Dale Cooper inspires you, I’m one hundred percent supportive.”

I wasn’t sure I would have used that word, but I supposed it was a fair description in a very general sense. Inspiration as the spark of will, of action.

My mother looked at me, expecting more. I didn’t blame her. I expected more of me, too. I stalled by taking a long sip of wine, refilling my glass. The sunlight had slanted, and looking out the eastern windows was treacherous. I squinted at a chip of light charging through the room.

BACK AT ALICE’S HOUSE, I stood at the door with my back to the wind. Whereas the last time I’d come to see her had been a conscionable act of self-preservation, today’s mission was harder to define and could easily come across as unnecessary, a favor easily refused if she wasn’t in the mood. Still, I raised my hand, balled my fist, knocked. Though I hadn’t wanted it to, my mother’s affirmation had had its desired effect; I was determined to follow my instincts. Or rather, I was determined to escape them — depending, I supposed, on whether my self was something to be overcome or instead something to reveal, release.

Hearing nothing inside, I tried the door and was surprised to find it locked. It had not been locked since her parents moved out. I didn’t even know she had a key. I leaned out over the railing of the small porch to peer in the living-room window, looked about at the smooth, bare floor and, beyond it, the kitchen bar counter half hidden in shade. The hall was darker still, save for the small blaze of backdoor window through which I could see a swatch of green. A flicker caught my eye, something quick and dark darting through the small bright square. I crept along the side of the house. The grass was tall and dry and crackled as I passed, but with the breeze as cover I got to the fence without making much noise. The fence around the back yard was just over six feet, and the door, though unlockable, was home to rusty hinges and a loud, difficult latch. I knew I wouldn’t be able to enter surreptitiously, so I waited, listening. If Alice was hiding from me, would she really be in a mood to help? And if it was someone else, a lurking stranger, I was in no position to defend the property, let alone myself. But it was a kind of abandon that had brought me this far, and as I still felt myself in its grip, I began to plot my next move when I heard whispers.

There were two voices, and the exchange was rapid, heated. One was male, the other female, and though the wind obscured most of the words, those I made out—“still” and “he” and “out” and “go”—began to form a picture of what was going on.

“Alice,” I called. “I know you’re back there. Is Zane with you?”

The whispers stopped then started again, only lower and more violent, a vicious hissing. I eyed the latch. Where could they go, after all? I listened for changes in the tenor of their spat and fingered the mechanism. It was looser than I’d expected; in fact, it slipped up willfully.

“Zane?” I called. “I just want to talk.”

“Just a second,” said Alice, a tremor in her voice.

Just a second? That seemed odd. If they’d been fucking, fine. I had a hard time believing Zane was shy about his body, and Alice’s was no mystery. I gently tugged the door and it opened a few inches — not enough to slip through, but enough to embolden me.

I gave them a count of three and then announced my entry.

Immediately there was a scrambling sound, and I pulled hard. The door moved another two inches but got stuck on the grass, so I grabbed higher and pried it open like a wedge to push myself through.

I entered the yard just in time to see Zane dropping over the fence on the far side of the lot. Alice looked terrified — an emotion I’d never seen on her face — and I held up my hands in some kind of protest before turning around and throwing myself against the fence door. It gave way, the upper hinge ripping out of the post, and I spilled out into the driveway and ran to the front. Zane was speeding around the corner, heading south.

“I just want to talk!” I yelled, and ran after him.

Running in a protective suit is not advised. The breathing vents, while quite sufficient for normal air intake, become overtaxed. The wicking property of the liner fails. Visibility is poor. Still I ran. I ran around the corner and down the block. He was younger than me, and lithe, but I was gaining on him nonetheless, heaving and wheezing as I went. We ran two blocks, three, four, and though the gap between us was closing, I knew I didn’t have much left in me. Finally he zagged right down 58th Street. By now I was only ten yards back, and when he stopped to pick up a bicycle from the yard I closed the distance and grabbed his seat, spilling him to the ground. I collapsed on top of him.