Huh!”
My breath caught in my throat, and I risked a second opening of my eyes.
The walls — they still stared at me.
Last night, I had fallen quickly to sleep. Without toothbrush or change of clothes, I’d opened the door to the guest room and collapsed onto the bed in the dark. Now, with light streaming in, I glanced about me.
“That will wake you up,” I muttered.
Each of the four walls was covered by a photograph — no, a drawing — of an eight-foot-tall, six-foot-wide face. The same face. A huge, gawking, forty-year-old man captured from the neck up. His four gazes held me however I moved about the room. Depending on which direction I glanced, the man laughed, smiled gently, or gazed proudly. All pleasant enough. Except for face four, the one on the room’s east side. His dark, clouded eyes stared, plotting and sinister. That face unnerved even me, and I searched for a bathroom door.
No bathroom. No mirror. Charming.
“All of you blokes; close your eyes.”
I removed my outershirt, undershirt, and bra, balled up the middle layer, and put the rest back on.
Until a proper change at Kira’s, it will have to do.
It was time to leave. Time . . . my last months taught me to live without concern for it. I rose when my body was jolly well ready. I peeked again at face four. Ready I was. I grabbed my mobile off the bedside table.
Now would be a good time for Kira to collect me.
I texted.
And waited.
Nothing. Kira would wait long enough to let me know I had committed a sizable injustice. Yes, she would wait, but just as assuredly she would soon text back. She was like fireworks; she burned hot and colourful, but the display never lasted long.
Kira’s little drama would give me time to collect my things.
I opened the door and listened. The distant sound of voices, punctuated with the clink of dishes and silver, and the tinkle of glass. Warm smells of cinnamon filled the hall, and I toyed with my hair and moved toward the source.
I reached the foyer, moved through it, and stopped in the double doors.
The dining room was alive. Ten tables dotted the room, and this morning all but two were filled. It was a joyful scene, definitely not an inn scene.
A family scene. I stepped back from view and entered a memory.
The third of March. It had been my dad’s idea. Before Mum lost her smile. Before Dad disappeared.
Before the Great Undoing.
There was the third of March, the Blythe Family Holiday. Nothing of note had ever happened on the third, or on any adjacent day, which is why Dad chose it for our annual celebration. For me, it trumped Christmas and New Year’s all rolled together, and I longed for it like no other day.
We ate and we laughed and laughed and ate, and always our flat filled with the warm smell of cinnamon.
I rubbed my face hard. Elias, and everything about him, was a memory cancer, spreading and aching and reminding of all that was. I straightened and marched into the dining room.
Slowly, heads turned toward me and voices trailed off. I succeeded in sucking all joy from the family table.
Typical.
“Clara. You’re up. I didn’t know when to wake you.” Guinevere rose from her table, and the room once again filled with conversation. Apparently, I had been accepted into the tribe. She walked toward me and hugged me deeply. She stepped back. “Oh, you are beautiful. Come join us.”
I shook my head.
“Ah, your things. Yes. I’ve, uh, partially taken care of that.” She winced and glanced toward the fireplace.
Eight feet up, a ridiculous moose head poked its antlers into the room, and hanging from the right antler was my bag.
“We’ll fix the situation, but at least allow me to feed you.” She leaned over and whispered into my ear. “This is good practice for Elias.”
I stared at that moose and hated it.
She grabbed my hand and led me to the table by the fireplace. Elias sketched on a napkin, and did not look up to greet me.
“Elias? Elias. We have a visitor. I believe you know her.”
“I know her,” he said. “Why is she here?”
“Pencil, Elias.” Guinevere pointed at a chair and we both sat down. “Remember the pencil — guest rule.”
Elias lifted the tip off the napkin. It quavered within his hands, not unlike it had on the plane. He finally set it down and peeked up toward me. “Welcome.” He clenched his teeth. “I’m glad you’re here.”
There was no softening. No now-it’s-your-turn in his gaze. His face remained fixed and intense, as if he was reciting, not speaking.
“I said,” he repeated, “welcome! I’m glad you’re here!”
I peeked at the moose, cleared my throat, and stood. I rounded the table, grabbed Elias’s chair with both hands, and yanked. Elias tumbled, and I carried the chair to the fireplace wall.
I climbed on top of the chair and reached for my bag. Three inches. Three inches too short. I tugged at my bag and finally gave a mighty pull. The entire moose head broke free, falling, narrowly missing my noggin and crashing to the floor.
Nobody moved or spoke as I calmly extracted the strap from the antlers and unzipped the bag.
And thought of many curses.
I carried my empty bag to the table, bent to the ground, and jammed it onto his still-prone belly, and then retook my seat.
The room remained silent.
Elias rose, walked to the chair, and with visible effort hoisted the moose head back over the bracket. It hung cocked and dented, and he stroked the creature’s face.
“Elias, please, come down and sit.” Guinevere exhaled.
He returned, walked behind me, and next I knew I was bum to the floor. He took a seat on my chair as Guinevere retrieved his for me.
I glared at Elias, and he at me. I wanted to hate him, as I did that grotty moose. But I couldn’t. Don’t know why, but I couldn’t.
I hinted a smile, which made him frown all the more, which forced me into a bigger smile.
“Well then, I hear you organised my items last night.”
He stiffened.
“Catalogued was, I believe, your mum’s word.”
“I did.”
“And what did you find?”
He glanced toward his mum and back to me. “I didn’t find anything. It was already there.”
“Yes . . . technically yes, I know.” I thought a moment. “What did you find to be the heaviest item?”
“The jeans.”
I nodded, and placed my napkin on my lap. Elias watched me and did the same.
“I thought it would be the jeans. And what was the lightest?”
Elias squinted. “I’m not sure what they are.” He dug in his pocket, and soon a pair of black underwear lay on the butter dish. I tongued the inside of my cheek. Guinevere burst into laughter.
I slowly reached for the gift received, unbidden, many months ago from another POE twelve. There was good reason to exercise caution around young men with such elevated scores.
“You really don’t know what these are?” I asked.
“I thought I did, but I think I’m wrong. There’s not enough to them.”
“Very good.” I cleared my throat and reclaimed my garment, stuffing it in a pocket. “So, is there a menu about?”
“I’ll get it.” Elias pushed back and quickly disappeared into the kitchen.
His mum stared at me. “Where are you from, Clara?”
“Would you believe Mississippi?” I waited, and sighed. “England. London, to be precise.”
“I’ve always wanted to visit England. Buckingham Palace, the Changing of the Guard, Westminster Abbey, Piccadilly —”
“Right. I understand.”
Guinevere took a long sip from her water glass. “But clearly those places aren’t that impressive to you.”
I quieted. “They are impressive, just familiar.”
“Do you live here now?”
I looked off and shook my head. “Nowhere, actually.”
“Because you’re very good with Elias. He doesn’t . . . he doesn’t get menus for anyone.”
“No, but that proves my point.”
Elias returned, and set the menu upside down before me. “I can take your order too.”
“As you are being a gentleman thief, I would have coffee, black, and one of the cinnamon rolls I’m smelling.” I handed him back the menu.
He closed his eyes, and I could see his lips moving. “Okay, I think I can do that.”
Again, Elias disappeared into the kitchen, and I glanced up at the moose. “He seems to have rediscovered his manners.”
Another young man approached our table. He, too, was handsome, his skin a lovely shade — perhaps Hispanic — with teeth so white I licked my own. I prepared to deal with the bloke.
He likely saw the underwear on the butter dish.
It was best to deal with these hounds proactively.
I shifted in my seat. “If you are looking for anything beyond the salt and pepper, I suggest returning to wherever you came from.”
He ignored me completely and bent down toward Guinevere. “Señor Tilson texted. He wants me to do his lawn perfect for tonight’s dinner party. Today, I can’t take Elias. I’m sorry.”
Guinevere slowly nodded. “I really need him back in after-school remedial. And Lord knows, he needs some normalcy after a week with his grandfather. But I understand. Go, Juan.”
“Thank you, Ms. Phinn. Thank you. Count on me for tomorrow.”
I watched Juan leave without so much as glancing my way. I must truly look hideous.
“What to do . . . what to do,” Guinevere muttered. “How to get Elias to remedials. I can’t leave the guests. I can’t leave . . .” She stared at me. “The guests.”
“No.” I raised both hands. “You’re not . . . no. I stayed for my bag. You have already experienced more generosity in a day than I thought I owned. I am not a cabby.”
“I’m in a bind. I’ll pay you.” She scooted her chair closer. “He knows you from the plane, and despite what you say, only a girl with good character stays overnight to keep the peace.” Guinevere placed her hand on my forearm. “You’re so good with him. It’s a ten-mile drive. Take my car and head out right when he gets home from school. It won’t take long, and I’ll ask nothing more.”
“You don’t know me. Really, you don’t. If you did, maybe you wouldn’t trust me with him. I don’t . . . I haven’t always been trustworthy when it comes to people who are . . . special.”
“Nonsense. Special or not, we’re all God’s children, and I can’t imagine you treating anyone otherwise.”
I thought of Little T and winced. If you only knew . . .
Elias returned with my coffee and one of the largest rolls I’d ever seen. He set them down before me, and straightened.
“I did well, didn’t I, Clara?” His eyes were eager.
I looked from him to Guinevere, sitting with raised brows, and back again.
“Breakfast is impressive.” And to his mum, “Fifty dollars. One day.”
Guinevere mouthed “thank you,” and I quickly finished and exited the dining room. This would give me one more chance to ask Elias about the sketchings; was it paranormal knowledge or an elaborate parlour trick? I felt a vibration while in the foyer and dug for my mobile.
As planned your bank acct set up. Need 2 w8 3 days for your website $ 2 flow in. B redy in 15. OMW. K
I rolled my eyes and returned a sticky-finger text:
Thanks for setting up current account. Need to stay a bit longer. Apologies.
What was I doing? Elias was a black hole, sucking me deeper into responsibility, the one thing I’d been slogging away from. For Guinevere, I was now back on a clock, back on a job, meeting another’s obligations, and losing a mate in the process.
I could have done all this in London.
“Lottery! Lottery!”
I peeked out of my room and down the hall. The call, punctuated by the clang of a large bell, rang out through the first floor, up the stairs, and throughout the rooms above. “Lottery!”
I crept back into the foyer and listened as a stampede of footsteps stilled above my head. I ascended quietly and walked toward the gathering of voices.
They sat in front of a fireplace in a cozy meeting room, about fifteen people in all. Old and young, all chatted happily. I recognized many of them from the dining hall. Once again, I had stumbled upon a family gathering.
I stood inside the doorframe. “There was a bell . . . Is this something I should know about?”
The looks I received from the other boarders spanned from embarrassment to frustration, and I raised my hands. “I guess not. I’ll leave you to your . . . lottery.”
“The young lady can watch if she likes,” said an older gentleman. “Take a seat — your name will probably be added soon, so you might as well see how this works.”
“Non! We have too many names as it is! Too few moments each with him. Last year there were ten, now fifteen people? Sixteen is too much.”
“It’s all right, Doucette.” The gentleman turned back toward me. “Please, have a seat.”
Kira had yet to text back or make any sort of appearance. As a result, waiting at the B & B for Elias to return from school had slowed the day to a crawl, and I had no desire to return to the four-face room. “If you’re sure.” I slowly approached and joined their large circle, and for the next ten minutes I listened to stories of health and the weather, the little things that mean everything. This family was already complete. It needed no one else, and I decided to leave.
“We may as well get started.” A young lady beat me to my feet, and walked toward the closet, returning with an oversized bingo tumbler filled with table tennis balls, each marked with a number.
“Before we draw,” she said, placing the contraption on the table, “I must say that Doucette and I had little time with him last week. As you know, Elias was out of town and we were not able to get the five hours we had coming to us.”
The gentleman spoke softly. “Last week was unusual, Roseau —”
“Yes, Jakob is telling the truth. He and I had less than one hour with Elias in Salem.” The woman seated next to Jakob placed her hand on his forearm. He patted her wrist and pulled away.
“Let’s begin.” Jakob turned the handle on the tumbler. “Juan had to leave early, and he asked me to pull a number for him. Does anyone object?”
No one spoke.
“Very well. This first pull will be for Juan. Bette, will you keep track?”
The woman at his side nodded and picked up a pen. She poised it over a sheet, and the entire group leaned in as Jakob opened the tumbler door, closed his eyes, and extracted a ball. He held it up for the group to see.
“Five. Juan has five hours this week with Elias.”
“That is not fair on two counts!” Doucette jumped up, her arms flailing. “One, he is not here. His turn should be forfeited. Two, he drives Elias to school every day. He already gets more time than the rest of us!”
“Not every day,” I said quietly. “Not today.”
I had no idea what was going on in the room — no idea what the lottery meant — but it seemed important, and Juan was not here to defend himself.
“You are driving him?” Doucette quieted, and nodded at me. “Then you will soon be joining us in the lottery. We may as well be friends.” She bent down and kissed me on the cheek, before returning to her seat.
The lottery continued until everyone except me had selected.
Juan – 5
Doucette – 3
Roseau – 1
Jakob – 2
Bette – 6, but she said she would trade four of her hours to anyone but Jakob.
The tumbler was stowed away in the closet, and slowly the room emptied.
“Doucette,” I called, and she stopped near the door. “What just happened?”
“You are new here, but you’ll see. Elias has only so much time in Salem. We meet here each week to decide how many hours each of us will get with him while he is there.”
“Salem . . . Where is Salem?” I asked.
“You don’t know?” She pointed to her head. “It is in his mind.”
“So, it’s imaginary . . .”
“Imaginary? I would not say that. Believe me, when you’re there, no place could be more real. What makes any country real? Memories and history and people . . . Salem has all of them.”
I gave an exaggerated nod. “Right.” This inn was populated with the mad and deranged. I’d just witnessed a lottery where the winner’s purse was time in an imaginary world found in Elias’s mind. Who was this boy I’d agreed to chauffeur?