19. In Which Aiden Ponders the Human Inclination for Warmth #2
She smiles. “It’s fine.” Then she crouches down so that she’s eye level with Nora’s headstone, and that smile fades. It falls away from her eyes first, then her lips, until what’s left in its place is something like concern. “Did you lie to me?” she says.
I blink. “What?”
“Not you,” she says. She jerks her chin at the headstone. “Her.” She swivels her head up to look at me. “That’s what Tonya said, wasn’t it? That parents lie to their children if they think it’s for their own good?”
I nod slowly. “Yes,” I say. Then I shove my hands in my jacket pockets to protect them from the biting wind. “Something like that.”
“That’s what I thought.” She turns back to her mother now. “When she said that, I got the strangest feeling. The hair stood up on my body. And it made me wonder…” She doesn’t finish her sentence, but she doesn’t need to. It’s clear what she’s wondering.
Did her mother lie to Juniper in order to protect her? And if so, what would she have lied about? Juniper’s dad?
After a few more seconds of staring at the headstone, Juniper sighs.
Then, in an awkward manipulation of arms and legs and shifting weight, she seats herself on the ground, leaning back against Nora.
She looks unbearably tired all of a sudden, like she could close her eyes right there and be asleep in moments.
I’m entirely unsurprised when her lids drift shut, her lashes fanning over her pale skin.
I guess we’re staying for a while.
So I approach the Bean women once more, lowering myself to the ground next to Juniper and sitting with my arms wrapped around my knees.
Earlier I wanted to fill the silence, but now it seems inappropriate to do so; I wait quietly, taking my cues from the woman next to me.
I watch the leaves scattering in the wind; I note the headstones around us that seem well cared for and the ones that don’t.
I remember what Juniper said about feeling sad for people who are forgotten after they die, and I promise myself that when I someday lose the people I love, I’ll bring flowers to their graves.
“Want to listen?” Juniper says some time later, startling me. When I look at her, she’s holding out an earbud; the other is already tucked into her ear. I take what she offers without question, putting the single headphone in and listening to the music that floods through my mind.
“It’s called Danse Macabre. It tells the story of Death on Halloween night,” she explains, letting her head drop back to rest against Nora’s headstone once more.
“He appears at midnight and begins playing his fiddle, calling the dead forth from their graves. They dance until dawn, and then they return to the ground until the same time next year.”
I nod, imagining the scene. “What about Nora?” I say. I wrap my arms more tightly around my knees. “Does she dance with them?”
“Not sure. She loved to dance, but if someone told her to, she’d be less likely to do it.”
“Defiant.”
“Very.”
“What kind of dance are we talking?” I cast my eyes around until they fall on an empty plot. “There’s room over there,” I say, pointing.
“Mmm, no,” Juniper says, shaking her head. “You know that scene in the animated Anastasia , during ‘Once Upon a December’? When she imagines all the people dancing, but they’re kind of waltzing around in the air?”
“Incredibly, yes,” I say dryly. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“That’s sort of how I’ve always pictured it. A bunch of skeletons, bowing and curtseying and spinning and twirling above me.”
“Just skeletons?” I say. “Not zombie-looking people?”
She shakes her head at this. “That’s too scary.
In fact, if you think about it…” She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she thinks, the wind playing with her pink hair.
“The scary part about a corpse is that it resembles life. It’s that juxtaposition between what it looks like versus what it actually is .
I think your average adult would not say that a skeleton is scary, right? ” she says, looking at me.
I ponder for a second. “I think I agree.”
She nods. “Because once a body has reached skeleton stage, all humanity has vanished. There’s no question, conscious or subconscious, of whether that body is dead.
It’s obviously dead. What freaks our brains out is seeing something dead that still has hints of aliveness about it.
It’s the same as the concept of the uncanny, right? Not Freud’s uncanny—Uncanny Valley.”
I swallow at the sound of her warm, husky voice talking about Freud and the Uncanny Valley and dancing skeletons.
“Yes. Exactly.” My body is coming alive with electricity, sparks dancing in my veins, and I could honestly kick myself.
But the way her mind works is fascinating.
I want to take out a monthly subscription to her world view.
Yes. The way she sees things is intriguing. She’s smart, she’s irreverent. She’s beautiful, and I still retain the very visceral memory of her pressed up against me. It’s normal that I’m feeling these things. But what exactly do they mean ?
Ugh. I almost groan out loud as I realize I might need to ask Caroline for advice.
“So no zombies,” Juniper says, happily oblivious to my inner dilemma. “Only skeletons.”
“All right.” I nod, then direct my gaze to the sky. “Only skeletons.”
We listen to the piece on repeat for long enough that I lose track of time.
And when Juniper’s head nods onto my shoulder some time later, I remove the headphone from her ear.
Then I pick her up and stand as gently as possible, carrying her in my arms all the way back to the car.
I carry her from the car to her bed once we arrive back at the house, and she doesn’t wake up once—not even when I remove her shoes and place the covers over her.
I can only assume she’s dreaming of dancing skeletons.
Once I’m done tucking her into her bed, I go back downstairs and make a phone call.
And here’s something you should know about me: I hate talking to people on the phone.
Hate it. I find it stressful to have to respond in real time without being able to sit and think of a reply.
I am not my best self on the fly. I am at my best when I can mull things over, look at all sides, maybe do some research.
It’s a trait I keep thinking I should grow out of at some point, but so far that hasn’t happened. If anything, my aversion to talking on the phone has only grown the older I’ve gotten.
But it’s Rodriguez I need to talk to right now, and unfortunately, Rodriguez is the opposite of me. He hates texting, and he rarely checks his text messages.
So call me stupid, but I make a list of things I want to ask about before I call him.
I do the same thing before I go through the drive-thru.
Preparing ahead of time helps me feel less frazzled when the time for action comes.
Because when I get put on the spot, I end up either looking like an idiot or letting my true personality shine through—impatient and slightly abrasive.
I don’t mean to come off that way; I just get flustered and those things come out.
So yeah. Preparation is best. I make my list, dial his number—just kidding, I have exactly one phone number memorized, and it’s my mom’s; I pull up Rodriguez’s contact info—and wait as it rings.
And when he answers, I jump right in with my question: “Hey. What do you know about hunger banquets?”
When Juniper comes downstairs a few hours later, messy haired and bleary eyed, I’m several texts deep into a very one-sided conversation with Rocco.
It started when I messaged him after I got off the phone with Rodriguez—who was surprisingly helpful, by the way. All I meant to do was tell Rocco I met his brother, and that he was right about him. He’s a creep.
I didn’t expect our conversation to spiral, but it did, his texts coming in one after the other, questions and warnings and general wishes of ill will on his brother. And maybe I should have expected it; Rocco has some strong feelings about Lionel.
But it sends a prickle of fear through me, a chill on the back of my neck that has me shifting in my kitchen chair to look around the kitchen.
No one is here, of course. I’m being stupid. It’s just…what does Rocco know about his brother that we don’t, for him to be warning us so thoroughly?
It’s not something I can really focus on at the moment; not if I want to get any sleep. So I reassure Rocco I’ll be careful. Then I set my phone aside.
I watch Juniper shuffle sleepily over to the refrigerator, where she pulls out a carton of orange juice with her name scrawled across the front.
My nose wrinkles as she unscrews the top, puts it to her lips, and drinks straight from the container.
Then she sits down at the table across from me, eyeing my half-eaten orange with interest; I stand up and grab her one from the basket on the counter.
“Hungry?” I say, returning to the table and plunking the orange down in front of her.
“Mmm,” she mumbles as she begins to peel it. “I’m so tired, but I can’t sleep.”
“A lot on your mind?” I say vaguely as I watch her. With the way she’s peeling, I think she’s going to demolish that entire piece of fruit in less than one minute.
“Yeah, but also insomnia.”
“Oof,” I say sympathetically.
I watch every single bite she takes. She barely seems to notice me after we’re done talking. And when she trails back up the stairs, looking like she’s headed to bed again, she doesn’t see me smile.
But the next morning takes any pleasant feelings from the day before and stomps all over them. Because when I open the door to go to work, the first thing my eyes land on is something small and fluffy and wrong.
There, lying on the welcome mat, is a chicken—head at a horribly crooked angle, blood matting its brown feathers.
From somewhere behind me, Juniper screams.