Chapter 16 #3
Leaning back in his chair, as if settling into a debate, he replies.
“Ain’t about definin’ nothin’. Folks put too much stock in names.
Say your momma had christened you Hester or Gertrude.
Wouldn’t make you any less of a fine temptation sittin’ here before me.
And my own ma, she might’ve called me Pope Gregory or Saint Moses for all I care.
I’d be the same mean son of a bitch, my likeness nailed on walls in every town from here to California, reward stamped bold ’cross the top. ”
His words settle between us like the smoke drifting in the restaurant. I know it’s true. He’d squeezed the last breath from Joseph’s throat and then emptied his pockets without a second thought.
But he’s also the man who helped me escape. Who’s given me more pleasure than I’ve ever known, then wrapped me in a blanket and brushed the leaves and grass from my wet legs before holding me in his arms under the stars.
“And yet you’ve spared me your cruelty,” I say, fussing with an imagined wrinkle in my lap before folding my hands neatly there, teasing. “Perhaps your reputation has been exaggerated.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Reckon I like you sweeter than I like most. Don’t mean I ain’t mean, just means I ain’t turned it your way.”
The waiter reappears, setting down a silver tray of oysters, their shells piled on ice, and another green drink waits at my elbow.
I recoil at the oysters. “They’re alive.”
Kodiak chuckles. “Near enough.” He pushes the tray toward me. “Go on. Ain’t gonna kill you.”
I shake my head, queasy. “I knew of a man once who died after eating one.”
He snorts. “Oysters don’t travel well by wagon. These, though? Harvested ’em this mornin’, most like. Don’t get no fresher.”
As he inches it closer, every instinct tells me no, but my curiosity gets the better of me and I lift the shell. I tip it back against my lip, the sharp tang of brine flooding my mouth.
His eyes darken. “Good girl. Swallowed it down just fine. Now, finish your drink.”
Heat blooms through me, shame and want testing together as my fingers close around the cold glass. Fragrant anise slides cool over my tongue and burns me through until the crystal overhead blurs like stars.
By the time the cafe stirs and patrons drift toward the opera house, I’m unsteady, Kodiak’s hand guiding me through. Inside, the house shines in marble and gold. Painted posters boast their colors in gilded frames, then drip like crushed berries staining linen.
A ticket taker floats in the archway. The crowd moves around him in a glittering stream of scales. “First box,” the man says, and when his lips move, a string of bubbles escapes, rising slow as minnows through water.
We’re all underneath the surface—the gaslights wavering like sunbeams through waves, gowns drifting like seaweed. The carpet breathes soft and red under my feet, velvet as a womb.
He rips our ticket.
“My darling, Gertie,” Kodiak says, in that gentleman’s voice he wears like a costume, pressing the other half into my hand.
Gertie. I nearly laugh, remembering the names he teased about. Had I found a name and forgotten the one I asked for? Perhaps I am no one. Or perhaps someone new.
We take our seats, so high the whole theater spreads beneath us like a pancake. The orchestra prepares below, the brass gleaming under the lights, bows rising and falling like silverware. The air squeezes my chest. I gasp. Had I been holding my breath?
“What’s the matter?” Kodiak asks in a distant voice, fuzzy under the singing strings.
I hadn’t noticed it before, not really—the ticket pressed in my hand that trembles when I tilt it toward the light.
Krewe of Proteus.
Some sort of parade society it seems. Thoughts spill through the words, slick as fish. I freeze at the image. A bear, drawn in black ink against the paper stub.
Below it, a single word: Callisto.
My Callisto. The one I whispered to through the telescope.
The ticket burns in my palm. I asked for signs, begged for them, and here it is: a bear made into flesh, into the man sitting beside me. Despite falling stars, learning the coincidence of his name, and his sharing the Shawnee’s tales of the stars, I’ve resisted every fleeting clue.
But this is tangible proof. The truest evidence.
“You all right?” he asks, wrinkle in his brow.
“You’re mine.” I rest my gloved hand against his face, his clean shaven cheek warm through the satin fabric. “My bear. I prayed, and the stars sent you.” My voice breaks as I draw back and press the ticket hard in my fist.
His lips part, eyes flutter with flabbergast, before a smile quirks up the corner of his mouth. “My drunk little lamb. Ought to strap you to your seat ’fore you try to fly.”
The lights dim, and the voices fold into a hush.
Curtains part, and the orchestra rises like a tide.
Costumed figures surge onto the stage, painted faces beneath the flame.
I try to follow, but the story swims out of reach, foreign words drowned by absinthe.
The Devil’s shadow looms over the stage like an anvil.
Then, warmth. Breath at my neck. The bass of his voice prickles up across my arms. “Stay put. Don’t go losin’ yourself while I’m gone.”
I nod. At least I think I do. Or perhaps I stared.
But I blink, and he’s disappeared through the velvet curtain.
Turning back to the stage, nuns rise from their graves, veils flapping like the market awnings in the wind.
They dance in holy robes turned to sin, and my pulse quickens.
The green opal spirit whistles in my veins like a harmonica.
Or is that a violin, the sound distorted underwater?
Minutes pass, perhaps hours, then he’s back in his chair, arm laid easy. When did he return? Had he even gone? I tug at the long satin at my forearms. My skin is too warm, the fabric too tight.
“I think my hands are growing too big for my gloves,” I mutter, turning to him. “Bear, could it be that my hands are hot but my bones are cold?”
Kodiak shrugs slightly, reaches over and takes my hand in his, fingers lacing with mine. “Reckon I ought to hold ’em, then.”