Chapter Twelve
Twelve
Marin Haggerty was back. Technically, Marin hadn’t gone anywhere; she was just hiding behind Gwen Tanner. The problem wasn’t Marin. The problem was someone else, and if it wasn’t my father and/or Dominic, I had a pretty good idea who it was.
The next morning, I went straight to Somerville and parked outside the massive big-box home improvement store.
I walked through the automatic sliding doors and was confronted by a seemingly endless supply of building materials I had no use for.
I rejected three employees who asked me if I needed help before I made it into the garden center.
It was a different vibe in there—natural light, bright colors, a wetness in the air.
I saw her emerge from behind a tall rack of hanging plants with names I could never hope to pronounce correctly.
She pushed a cart loaded with—I took a guess—geraniums?
Elyse’s strawberry blonde hair was contained in a loose bun, but her eyeliner remained thick and off-putting.
I turned my back to her and stared at a shelf of cacti.
I counted the first row over and over until I heard the wheels on her cart getting close.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Um…” I rotated to look at her. “Oh, hey…Elyse, right?” What are the odds?!
“Hi…” Her eyes widened, then she beamed, then she shifted her balance and subdued her aggressive smile. I noticed everything.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said, even though it was obvious from her Instagram if anyone cared to figure it out.
“I do. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
Yeah, proof it’s you. “I was looking for something to brighten up my apartment a bit.”
“Okay.” She lifted her hand and scratched the back of her neck. I remembered her tattoo. “And you’re thinking a cactus will do that?”
“Seems low maintenance.”
“Low risk, low reward.” She smiled.
“I’m not out to kill anything,” I said like I was so clever.
“Jesus.”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
“Please. My skin is a little thicker than that.” This time her eyes thinned when she smiled. “Follow me. I have something for you.”
I nodded and she turned, leaving her cart.
I stared at the diamond peeking out above her uniform shirt, the knot of her mandated apron covering half of it.
She led me toward the front, past rows of pleasant smells, pinks and purples, even a couple of butterflies.
The path was a walking cure for seasonal affective disorder and almost made me forget that I was there to try to rattle her—to read her—to look for signs of her derangement.
“Here,” she said, stopping. “Orchids. They’re colorful but subtle. Pretty easy to take care of. You just have to water them once in a while, but even if you kill them, I have it on good authority that they don’t feel pain.”
“Yeah? Okay,” I said. I hadn’t realized when I was originally crafting this plan that I would end up having to actually buy a plant.
She took one down from the shelf. “This one?”
“Sure.”
She carried it to the register, where an older man greeted us, eager to make small talk, but Elyse stayed by my side, blocking his opportunity to strike up a conversation past “Hello.”
I handed the man a crisp twenty-dollar bill that I’d taken out of the ATM for the fruit vendor near my office. I wasn’t sure why it would matter, but in these cloak-and-dagger times, I didn’t want to use a credit card.
“Did you make that yourself?” she joked.
“I wish.”
The man handed me my change and opened his mouth to speak before Elyse cut him off. “Will I see you at Jake’s tonight?”
“I wasn’t invited,” I said.
“I’m inviting you. Anytime after nine.”
“Okay, then,” I said. “Maybe.”
- - - - -
I took the train to Jake’s, a ten-minute walk from the Sutherland Road stop.
I wore something more appropriate this time—a loose black sweater that hung off one of my shoulders.
It was thin and I usually wore a tank top underneath, but these were edgy people and showing my bra in certain lights seemed a little edgy.
I was attending a party on my own like some sort of extrovert. Dominic was working—apparently the Abel Haggerty Tour didn’t pay the bills. He taught GED night classes, which, I have to say, was much more charming than his entrepreneurial endeavors.
“Gwen,” said Jake as he opened the door. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“Elyse invited me. Is that okay?”
“Of course. Don’t be silly. Come in. Come in.” He closed the door and then ditched me, but I found a familiar face right away. “Porter?”
My little friend’s eyes bulged and he open-mouth grinned at me. “Holy shit. Gwen, you animal!” He abandoned the drink he was making and ran over and wrapped his bony arms around me, lifting me off the ground and jostling me around.
“Okay, cowboy,” I said, and he put me down. He looked different. I think he was wearing black eyeliner. And his clothes were black. We’d both opted for a little dress-up this time.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. I didn’t like him here. This was Marin business. He was Gwen business.
“These are my people now.”
“You just met them.”
“So did you!” he argued. “What are you doing here?”
“I ran into Elyse and she told me to come by.”
“Okay. Okay,” he said, mulling it over.
“Is she here?” I asked.
“Yes, come.” He snatched my hand and guided me into the living room.
A lot of semirecognizable faces and one very recognizable face occupied the couches. Everyone was immersed in some sort of group activity led by Jake, who had scurried back to his seat while Porter was assaulting me.
Elyse glanced up and I waved. She lifted her fingers off her knee and I started to step in her direction before Porter yanked me toward a vacant seat barely big enough for the both of us.
“Don’t embarrass me,” Porter whispered in my ear with love.
A coffee table anchored the group of people. On it was an array of drinks, ashtrays, shot glasses, a mug full of capsules, strips of cloth, and a knife—totally normal.
Jake grabbed the knife. “Who’s next?”
Porter’s hand shot into the air, almost hitting me in the face on its way up.
Jake used the knife to motion him over and Porter dropped from the couch onto his knees.
He crawled toward Jake, and as he came to a rest in front of him, Porter reached for the edge of his shirt, lifting it up and revealing his stomach.
I scanned the group, looking closer this time, and noticed several of the guys were touching their own stomachs, some brushing subtly past like a memory, others with their hands purposefully up their shirts.
One guy, who I think I remembered from the last party, held a bloody piece of gauze in his hand.
What the hell was this? An initiation? Or a cult ritual?
A branding? I instinctively reached up and touched my side.
I could feel the small raised marks from my father under my bra.
Jake braced one hand on Porter’s shoulder so that he could steady himself. He took the knife to Porter’s stomach and pressed down into his skin. “Five,” he started, and the rest of the group joined in. “Four…” Jake moved the knife slowly across his stomach. “Three—”
“Okay!” Porter screamed, pushing Jake’s arm away. The shirt dropped over the incision, but Jake was quick to yank it back up before any blood could get on it.
The group erupted in a mix of noises that sounded both congratulatory and unsatisfied. Jake put the knife down and grabbed a strip of cloth. He pressed it along the wound to stop the bleeding. “That’s three,” he said, taping down the gauze.
Porter reached for the bottle of rum on the coffee table as Jake cleaned the knife off with a Lysol wipe. It was kind of a vibe crusher seeing the same cleaning supplies they used at Painting Pots. He should have hidden the wipes in a skull or something.
Porter lifted the bottle to his mouth. Then everyone was counting again while he chugged. “One, twoooo…” Their rhythm slowed in sync for the last number, really drawing it out. “Three!”
Porter slammed down the bottle before crawling away—a couple of guys patted him on the back as he went by. He climbed up and plopped down next to me.
“This is a drinking game?” I whispered, as if it were beer pong or kings, where the better you were at the game, the less you were forced to chug—not the more you were sliced with a knife.
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Don’t be judgy.”
“Whatever would I be judging? Everything here seems on the up-and-up.”
He threw me a side-eye before scooting forward in his seat to see who was next.
“Elyse?” Jake asked, lifting the knife again.
She nodded, then looked at me, almost for approval.
I met her eyes, but tried my best not to say anything with my face.
She stood and walked to him, dropping to her knees once she got there.
She lifted her shirt, revealing several previous cuts in varying stages of healing.
I could tell I was in her periphery and I gently tucked my hair behind my ear to let her know I wasn’t bothered by what I was seeing.
“Shall we make this a little more interesting?” Jake asked her, and she adjusted, getting me out of her sight and giving him her full attention.
“Why not?” she said playfully—their way of flirting, I supposed.
He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead, his lips still on her as the knife touched her skin.
“Ten…” he began, backing his face away so he could see what he was doing.
“Nine, eight, seven…” they all chanted. Elyse didn’t even flinch.
“Six, five, four…” This game was combining my favorite things: counting and watching someone cause bodily harm.
“Three, two, one!” Jake pulled back the knife and the group applauded her appropriately.
Elyse took a bandage off the table for herself and held it over her stomach as she returned to her seat.
“You’re a cheap date, Elyse,” Jake joked, again reaching for the Lysol wipes. “Next?”