Emily Kimelman - Sydney Rye 04 - Strings of Glass (2 page)

L
unch
was waiting when we returned from the vet. Blue leaped out of the car and
Monica came running from the house. “Oh, what a poor dear!” she
yelled. Her dog, a small street mutt the color of caramel
named Lulu, came racing around her. Lulu, her ears pinned to her fox-shaped
head, ran right up to Blue and licked at his face. He took the greeting with
grace.

Lulu
then sat and quickly flipped onto her back. Blue leaned over and nuzzled her.
She laid still, her head tilted to the side. Monica reached us then, her lips
quivering. “Is he OK?”

“Yes,”
I said. “We need to get some antibiotics though.” Dan pulled the list
out of his pocket.

“Oh,
Dilip can do that. Dilip!”

“Yes,
Madame,” he said, standing right beside her.

“Oh,
good. Dilip, you must go and get these antibiotics.” She motioned at Dan
to hand over the list, she then passed it to Dilip who just smiled and nodded.
Dan gave him some money and Dilip headed back to the car. “Lunch is ready,
come inside,” Monica said. “Lulu!”  At her name, the small dog
jumped back to her feet and raced toward the house.

“You
two head to the veranda, I’ll just let them know you are ready. Everyone else
has eaten.”

“I’d
like to change first actually, and shower,” I said.

“Oh,
of course, of course. A half hour?” I nodded. “Good, I’ll tell them a
half hour.”

Dan,
Blue and I walked past the house and followed a stone path through sparsely
planted palm trees toward our cabana. There were only five on the property and
on this Tuesday in December they were all full.

Ours was
the most secluded, furthest from the pool and the main house. Blue jogged ahead
of me reaching the door before we did.

Our
cabin had a vaulted ceiling with a fan hanging from it that thumped when it was
turned up too high. A King-sized bed with white
sheets that were changed every week by the maid, Bahula, was centered in the
room. She also cleaned our bathroom, which was maybe my favorite part of the
hut. It had an open roof and a Jasmine plant that hung over the wall filling
the space the with its floral scent.

Blue
went straight to his corner next to the dresser. From that vantage point he
could see the front door, but anyone walking in couldn’t
necessarily see him. Blue circled twice, nosing at the towel he kept there and
then lowered onto it with a sigh. “Poor guy is tired,” Dan said.

“Yeah,”
I said. I watched Blue close his eyes and breathe
steadily and felt a pang in my chest. I never worried about Blue, he was my
rock, the one constant in my life; the
only thing I couldn’t live without, so I
didn’t think it was possible for him to go anywhere. But as I stood there in my
dirty jogging clothes looking down at his patchy coat and
his restful repose, I realized that he wouldn’t always be by my side. Blue
would die, just like everything else in this impermanent world.

Dan came
and wrapped an arm around me. He kissed my forehead. “You OK, hon?”

I leaned
against him appreciating his hard chest and strong arms. “Yeah,” I
said.

“Go
on then, hop in the shower,” he said, giving
my butt a playful slap.

I closed
the bathroom door behind me and then turned on the shower,
peeling off my clothing and dropping it on the wood slat floor. The scent of
jasmine hung in the humid air, enveloping me into its sweet embrace. Leaning my
head back under the spray, my ears filled with the thundering of the hot water
on my skull. It was a brief and satisfying moment alone.

My hand
trembled slightly as I reached for the shampoo bottle. Exhaling,
I stilled my extremities.

Not
fear, not rage, excitement. I was excited.

“Dan,”
I called.

He poked
his head in. “Yeah?”

“Join
me?”

Dan was
not the kind of man you had to ask twice to get in the shower with you. He was
kind of always waiting to get in the shower with you. Basically, it was his
favorite way to spend time.

It felt
good to feel his skin against mine. To press against him, to know that he and I
were both real, living, breathing, sentient beings. Not everything is for
survival.

#

D
an left
me to get dressed and I used the edge of my towel to clear the mirror. The
steam curled around me clinging back to the cool surface, fogging my
reflection. But I knew what was there.

The
scars that mar my face pucker a darker pink than the
line of damage that slices the outside of my left thigh. My grey eyes shined
almost lavender in the light that filtered through the jasmine vine. I pushed
my wet hair, dyed with henna to a rich copper,
away from my face, raking my fingers through it.

Dan says
I have a magnetism about me, but most of the time I’m
not really seen. Hugh Gilbert, my brother’s boyfriend at the time of his
murder, taught me how to hide. Hugh explained that people only see what they
want to see. So I’ve made myself into something most people don’t want to
acknowledge exists. Something dark, different and wild. I guess that’s magnetic
to a few.

My
former self, Joy Humbolt, was weak. She got her brother killed and failed to
avenge him. Joy ended up a fugitive for a crime she didn’t commit. I sighed and
turned away from the mirror, not wanting to think
about any of it. Not who I was, who I’d been, or who
I’d become. Just let me be in this moment, I thought, as I stepped into my cut-off
jean shorts and slipped on a T-shirt.

Clean,
my hair still damp, Dan and I walked back toward the main house for lunch. Blue
stayed on his towel, a bowl of fresh water by his side.

The
large, shaded veranda faced the pool, which glittered in the midday sun. A
Swedish couple who had arrived two days prior lay on towels next to it, their
white-blonde hair contrasting with the bright red of their skin. “Why they
do that to themselves, I’ll never understand,” Monica said,
looking at the pair. “So many carrots…” she clucked her tongue and
went inside to grab us two beers.

Past the
pool a river meandered by the property. Occasionally kayakers would pass and
local fisherman would row by in their wooden canoes. Monica said it was safe to
swim, but Dan heard rumors of crocodiles lurking in the waterways and asked me
to stick to the pool, which I did.

Monica
returned with our beers and then left us to get the food. The first sip of beer
tingled on my tongue, refreshing and bitter, I sighed with pleasure. Dan
laughed. “That good, huh?”

I
laughed,
too. “I guess I’m just thirsty.”

Monica
returned with a tray of chicken curry, rice, chapati, pickled beets, a salad,
and a bottle of water. While I’d had the chicken curry many times, today it
seemed richer, spicier, just plain better. I licked it off my fingers and,
pulling another chapati from the steaming platter, dug in
for seconds. Looking around the glints of sunlight reflecting off the water,
the deep blue of the sky, the way the palm trees swayed in the breeze, it all
seemed more beautiful, more alive.

It was
the fight I realized, the rush of adrenaline. There is nothing like facing
mortal danger to make you remember how fucking awesome it is to be alive.

#

A
fter
lunch we went back to the room and I laid down on the bed holding my belly.
“Too
full,” I said.

Dan
smiled at me. “You did eat a lot today.”

Rolling
onto my side I looked over at the small desk in the corner where Dan was
fiddling with his computer. He was a computer expert, an absolute genius.
That’s how we met, I was looking for a programmer who could hack into some
email accounts. And he was looking to have an adventure.

“Can
I check my email?” I asked.

“Sure,”
Dan brought me the computer and deposited it on the bed next to me. “I’m
going to take a swim.”

“Ok,
I’ll join you in a bit.”

I
watched as he changed into his suit, enjoying the view of his tight butt and
strong back. Blue raised his head when Dan went to leave but quickly fell back
to sleep. I climbed off the bed and went over to Blue, peering down at his new
stitches. They didn’t seem any redder or angrier then when I’d left him.

Returning
to the computer I saw that Dan had opened my email for me. I scanned it,
hoping to see something from Mulberry. It’d been over a week since he’d
contacted me. We’d last seen each other at an airport in Mexico City four
months earlier. He’d written almost every day. In the last two months they’d
been mostly pleas for me to come back and work with him again. I stopped
responding to those emails after the first one when I told him I’d rather die than
work for Bobby Maxim, the man who owned Fortress Global Investigations, where
Mulberry was a partner. FGI was a powerful and shady private investigation firm
that I wanted to stay as far away from as possible. But Mulberry kept writing
emails, trying to tempt me with interesting cases. And
I kept reading them.

After
the fight with those dogs I felt something inside me quivering, waking up,
hoping to get out. I closed my email,
disappointed that Mulberry hadn’t written and disappointed in myself that I
wanted him to.

I almost
shut the laptop but one of the tabs on Dan’s internet browser grabbed my
attention. I clicked on it and my suspicion was confirmed. Dan was on the
website about Joy Humbolt, my birth name, the
identity I had to give up when I fled the United States after trying to avenge
my brother’s murder. I escaped New York with stolen treasure, Mulberry,
and Blue. In my wake, a legend was born; one
that stood for justice and right.

A
website was set up where people gathered to talk about their frustrations in
facing injustices, pining for the strength of Joy Humbolt. And while I’d met
Dan through the site, he knew that I hated it. I despised that glorified,
simplified version of my past. Joy Humbolt was not a goddamn
hero. And neither is Sydney Rye. While we’d never discussed his leaving the
site,
I’d always assumed he had. Joy Humbolt was dead, according to me,
and thanks to some help from Bobby Maxim (he owed me so it’s not like he was
doing me any favors, the prick), the authorities agreed. So why was Dan still
on this site? I felt anger in my chest, indignation flushed my cheeks. But
before I started snooping, I took a deep breath.

The fact
was that Dan asked nothing of me. He expected nothing more than what each day
brought. Who was I to ask more of him, to tell him how to spend his time? If I
started pressuring him then he could do the same to me. I liked  how we had it.
Neither of us owed the other anything. I closed the laptop determined to mind
my own business.

––––––––

T
hat
night I woke up to the sound of dogs howling. It started at one end of the
block and traveled down, coming closer and closer until
Lulu joined in, adding her own high-pitched
call to the chorus. I looked over at Blue, his eyes glowing in the darkness. It
lasted for a half hour; the wailing, passing from one
canine to the next until the final desperate call of one dog silenced them all.

I
didn’t
wake up until late in the morning. Sun came in through one of the open windows,
baking me in the sheets. Wrapping myself in a light cotton robe, I stepped out
into the day. A thermos filled with piping hot Chai waited on my veranda for
me. I poured myself a cup, and then picking up one of my worn paperbacks I
started for Dan’s garden.

I didn’t
know if Monica and Dan ever discussed his cultivating a nook of the property,
but she loved to visit, bringing him fresh lime sodas and settling down in the
dirt, pulling weeds, and chatting until some other duty called her away to a
different part of her sprawling landscape.

I found
Dan there, hunched over his rows of neatly planted vegetable, a hash joint
hanging from his lip. Blue lay nearby in the shade of a tree napping lightly. His
head rose as I approached and he stood, heading toward me. Dan looked up and
smiled at me. “Hey, sleepyhead.”

“Hey,
green-thumb.”

Dan
laughed and then sat back on his haunches holding a handful of bright orange
cherry tomatoes. “Want one?” he asked, squinting
up at me, his hand extended. I picked my way through the plants and plucked one
from his palm. It exploded in my mouth, warm and sweet, fresh from the vine. I
wiggled my toes in the dirt, closing my eyes and enjoying the flavor.

I
crouched down next to Dan amidst his garden and he passed me the joint.
“Tomatoes are really coming in strong now. I think I’ll talk to Monica
about making a chutney out of a bunch of them or they’ll go bad.”

Nodding,
I smiled, and inhaled the spicy hash. Dan returned to his work and I watched
him for a moment. He was bent over, the ridges of his strong back visible
through the soft cotton T-shirt he
wore. His shoulders bunched and relaxed as he weeded. Looking around at the
vegetables that curled and twisted in the garden I let the hash quiet my mind
and dull my senses.

Handing
back the joint, I crossed through the garden and settled under a tree in the
shade. Blue joined me, curling up into a ball with his back pushed against my
thigh. I opened my book and proceeded to join
Sookie Stackhouse in her world of vampires and
Tiger-men as the sun rose higher in the sky.

Occasionally,
I would glance up at Dan and wonder at our relationship.  He did not feel like
a tether. Everyone else in my life pulled me in one direction or another. He
was not like the roots that held his plants in place.

Then how
could it be that we wanted all the same things and yet I couldn’t see a future
with him? Was it because I thought it might be too happy?
Was I denying myself something out of guilt or was it something else? A quiver
in my belly told me to stay away, not to trust this ease between us. It could
be torn away, ripped apart, bludgeoned by resentment, death, any number of
enemies hunted for this kind of easy. Fear then, is fear what
kept me at bay? And I always thought of myself as brave.

#

B
efore
lunch I applied the antibacterial cream that Dilip had brought to Blue’s
wounds. I used a Q-tip and lathered the thick,
pearl-colored
salve onto all of his gashes, punctures, and stitches. Blue looked at me
sorrowfully, whimpering occasionally and even letting out a low yowl of protest
when I lingered on one puncture too long.

Getting
Blue to take his antibiotics took two pieces of sausage. He ate the first piece
but flung the pill across the veranda and under another guest’s table. Dan went
and grabbed it for me, managing to make the British couple occupying the table
laugh, despite their concerned glances. The woman’s eyes, green and large in
her pale, small-
featured face, seemed to wonder
if Dan did any of
that
to us. But, I think, she knew somehow that
couldn’t be true. A single man could not cause so much trauma.

Blue and
I couldn’t go jogging and our second day
without a run was harder than the first. Blue’s wounds
began to itch and only my vigilance and a cone, which
made him look even more ridiculous, could keep him from injuring himself
further. But I knew how he felt. I wanted to kick at my old wounds,
too. It’d been almost four years since my brother James’s murder but the wound
still felt fresh and raw, like a puncture wound that never drained. And without
the distraction of running, I felt its itch.

I
doubled my Tai Chi time trying to bring peace to my restless mind but it failed
to soothe me. Since coming to India, I’d
kept up my jogging and some strength training but there was no sparring.
And I began to feel a deep need for a fight.

The
fourth night after the dogs attacked us I woke up from a dream clutching the
sheets with the sensation that I was falling. I could still hear the echo of
rattling breaths that seemed to fill my head, but I didn’t remember what the
dream was about.

Blue was
awake, sitting in his spot, his eyes glowing green in the darkness. I threw
away the covers and slipped out of bed. Dan rolled away without waking. I
pulled on a T-shirt and sweat pants then opened the
door, breathing in the night’s cool air. It hit the sweat on my skin,
sending a shiver through me. I rubbed my arms and Blue leaned his weight
against me. 

The
property was quiet. The paths were lit by yellow lights doing their best to
penetrate the thick blackness that descends in the jungle on a moonless night.
The struggling breaths reverberated through my mind and I recognized them as my
brother’s,
some of his last. The scene came back to me in vivid, saturated colors. The
blood pumping out of him, his pale face, the rattle of each exhalation. I
needed to do something and it needed to happen right then.

I jogged
down the few steps to the lawn, Blue stayed with me. I wished that my trainer,
Merl, was there. He could ease my mind, help me understand what to do with all
this need inside of me. Or Mulberry, if only to have someone worth punching, or
trying to punch in any case. I dropped to the ground and breathed steadily
through twenty
pushups before leaping back to my feet. That wasn’t going to do it.

I hadn’t
seen Merl in years but the few months we’d spent together on the shore of the
Sea of Cortez changed my life. They gave me insight into how powerful calmness
can be. I performed a Sun Style Tai Chi through three times but I still itched.

Blue
settled on the grass watching me, hoping that he would get to do something.
Casting my eyes around I spotted my bamboo walking stick leaning against the
porch. It was splintered at one end where the street dog bit it. Glancing over
at our motorcycle parked in the grass I saw a pile of tools. Dan had been
working on the old Bullet. Next to the tools, a lead
pipe lay discarded in the dirt. I picked it up and spun it in my fingers the
way Merl taught me, feeling its weight. One side was heavier than the other. I
swung it through the air and it whistled in a way that made my heart beat
faster.

I swung
it again, dropping a knee to avoid an imaginary attack. Spinning,
I lashed out at my fictional opponent. And then I was lost—sucked into the
center of my mind where nothing mattered but staying alive. Swift, knowing,
calm movements. Nothing wasted. Everything for one purpose. Total concentration
and freedom from that nagging, nasty itch.

The half-remembered
dream of struggling breaths and the terrifying sensation of plummeting through
open space woke me every night for the next seven. And so I rose, and I fought
imaginary foes.

Blue’s
punctures drained and his body began to close the wounds. The skin around his
stitches changed from a bright and urgent red to a simple pink. Within two
weeks we were back on the road, running, practicing commands, training hard for
something or possibly nothing.

In that
time the Christmas holiday passed and a new year
was born. My body became tighter, the tension building with each nighttime
training session. My shape lost all the softness that the months of lazing
about had allowed. When I look back on this now, I wonder if my instincts
were just so tuned that somehow I knew a fight was coming. Or did all my
preparations draw me there? Was it my will or my fate? I still wonder if there
is a difference.