Eternity (17 page)

“Oh, yeah,” Ned said. “Impossible to ignore that stuff. Like how people thought he was gay because he had that flower in his mouth or whatever? Come on. People in this town are so freaking homophobic. They see a dude and a red flower and all they think is . . . ”

But JD didn’t hear the rest.
Red flower.
His pulse quickened. All the mystery-girl stuff, and Ty’s red flower, and the detail about Chase’s body, and everything. His suspicion that Ty was somehow connected to Chase’s death was getting stronger by the minute.

Beep-beep-beep.
His text alert sounded, and JD went to grab his phone from the pocket of his blazer. As he did, something fell to the Astroturf with a thud. He looked down to see a silver Zippo, engraved with pine trees on one side and
To WF, with love
on the other. It belonged to Drea’s dad, and it looked nice,
expensive. He must have accidentally pocketed it after lighting Mr. Feiffer’s cigarette at Drea’s funeral.

What are you up to today?

Ty. Of course.

He should have been psyched that she was into him—she was definitely the hottest girl who’d ever even looked at him—but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about her was off.

She wasn’t Em. How similar they looked only made it more obvious how different they really were.

JD pocketed his phone without responding, then turned the lighter over in his hand, flicking it open and lighting the flame once, twice. He recalled Mr. Feiffer and how distraught he’d been at the memorial service. How alone he must feel. He shoved it back into his pocket.

To return the lighter would mean going to Drea’s house—potentially walking into an emotional minefield. Not to mention standing face-to-face with an unhinged, grieving man. But it would also mean doing something kind for the father of his dead friend.

He decided he’d pay a visit to Walt Feiffer after Ned dropped him off.

“You giving up?” Ned jabbed JD with the bat, looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, got distracted for a sec,” JD said, grabbing the bat and moving toward the fake home plate.

“Does your distraction have a name?” Ned asked.

JD raised his eyebrows. “I, ah, I . . . yeah,” he said, lifting the bat into the air.

“You and Em talking again?”

“Ha, not quite,” JD said. “It’s a different distraction.”

“Oh, yeah?” Ned said, perking up. “Do I know her?”

“Nothing to get all worked up about,” JD laughed. “
I
barely know her myself. In fact, I’m not sure I want to be distracted by her anymore.” Did he like Ty? Part of him knew he only liked her because in certain lights, when she tilted her head a certain way, he could pretend she was Em.

But another part of him suspected he was just trying to find excuses to keep hanging on to hope: that someday Em, the real Em, would realize they belonged together.

“Well, then cut her loose, Fount,” Ned said with mock-seriousness. “You’re the one who’s always talking about honesty being the best policy.”

Ned was right. Honesty was a point of pride for JD, and he didn’t want to be one of those douche bags—stringing a nice girl along while he waited for something better. He’d just have to tell Ty he wasn’t sure they should be hanging out. Besides, a beautiful girl like that couldn’t be too disappointed. She’d bounce back in a few hours. Right?

This time at bat, JD didn’t wait for the perfect pitch. He went for the first ball that came toward him, swinging hard, letting the
weight of the bat propel his whole body forward. For the first time that afternoon, JD struck out swinging.

• • •

Once JD got home he texted Ty back.

Let’s meet up,
he wrote.
Coffee?

Nah,
she responded.
How about the hidden courtyard behind Town Hall? That’s one of my fave spots.

Random—but he should have known not to expect anything else from Ty.

Driving downtown, he rehearsed what he was going to say.

“You’re great, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be hanging out right now.” His words echoed emptily in the Volvo. “You are obviously very pretty, but I don’t think you’re right for me.” Ten times worse than the first one. He sighed deeply. How did you break up with someone you weren’t even going out with?

She was waiting for him on a metal bench, wearing shorts, a tank top, and some sort of see-through flowy top that made her look like she was wafting in the breeze, not fixed to any one spot. He tried to smile as he approached, but his mouth wouldn’t obey his brain.

“This isn’t a good talk, is it?” she said easily as he sat down next to her. “I’ve seen that look before.”

JD coughed. “Well, um, I . . . I guess not,” he admitted. “It’s just that . . . I know that we haven’t really
labeled
this”—he
motioned to the space between them—“but it feels like we might be, ah, headed in a certain direction . . . and I don’t—I don’t think it’s a good idea. Right now. For me.” God. He’d really mangled that one.

Ty sighed and turned away from him for a minute, squinting. There was that flash of vulnerability again, the part that drew him to her, just a little. “Is this about something else?” she said finally. “Because, it’s just . . . We have a great time together.”

Stay strong.
This was what he had to do. “You’re right. We do. We totally do. But things are crazy for me right now. With Drea, and Em, and school . . . it’s just not a good time for me to be getting to know someone new. Someone like you.”

“Someone like me?”  Ty raised her eyebrows.

“I mean, of course I can see why you’re . . . I mean, you’re beaut—”

She cut him off, laughing, and stood up. “It’s okay, JD. It’s cool. Don’t worry about it. . . . ”

Relief washed over him. If he kept talking he’d just trip over his own tongue. “Thanks. Thank you for getting it.”

He stood there for a minute, feeling a thousand times awkward, then decided to lean in for a hug. As his sternum touched Ty’s, she pulled back with a strangled gasp.

“Ow!”

She reeled backward, and JD saw that her chest was marred
by a swollen red mark. A burn. For a second, her eyes flashed practically black with anger.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” What the hell had happened? He leaned in to get a closer look but she sidestepped him, her hand flying up to cover the burn.

“I’m fine, silly,” she said with a flat grin. “We must have shocked each other. I knew we had chemistry.” When she took her hand away, the mark was gone. Nothing. Her skin was back to its usual milky pureness. She gave a final, flirty wave. “I’ll see you soon.”

He stood there stunned, watching her walk away. She’d recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. For a single moment, Ty had totally lost it. Confused, he ran his hands down his sweater. What could have possibly hurt her so badly? His left hand caught over his chest.

And there, in his breast pocket, was the snake charm, the one he’d found in the marsh. It had been there since yesterday.

It didn’t make any sense. That bad feeling—the one JD had been trying so hard to dismiss—came rushing back. But with it came a tremendous feeling of relief: He was glad that he had gotten rid of Ty for good.

• • •

Drea’s house was dark when JD pulled up, except for a bluish television glow coming from the living room window.  The place looked sort of wilted, as though the air had been let out from
the inside. Weeds in window boxes seemed suctioned to the glass behind them; the roof was missing some shingles. Newspapers were accumulating in front of the doorway, a garish display of bright plastic against the dirty siding.

Squeezing the Zippo to remind himself why he’d come, JD walked up the steps and knocked tentatively on the front door. No answer. He knocked again, more forcefully the second time. He thought he heard rustling on the other side of the door, but he couldn’t be sure. He debated whether to bang on it a third time. As he did, a loud crash came from inside, followed by a wordless cry.

Shit.
JD inhaled deeply. He regretted coming already, but he knew there was no turning back now.

He tried the knob and when the door swung open he went in—through the dim entryway, where Mr. Feiffer’s work overalls hung on a hook, into the dark hallway, where he fumbled for a light switch.

“Mr. Feiffer?” he said. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this, but . . . ”

“Who is it?” a voice yelled.

“Mr. Feiffer? It’s JD. JD Fount. Do you need any help?” He continued to advance toward the source of a flickering light.

It was only the second or third time he’d set foot there; the handful of times he’d been over, Drea had shepherded him directly down to the basement. Rounding the corner into the
Feiffers’ living room, the first thing he saw were the photographs: hundreds of pictures, some of them ripped, on the table, the rug, the couch. There was a slowly creeping puddle of moldy water around an overturned vase of flowers on the floor. On the television was a twenty-four-hour news station, but the volume was turned way down and all JD could hear was a low drone of words. That and the sound of Mr. Feiffer coughing up a lung.

This sad squalor . . . It made JD want to turn and run. He was intruding. He shouldn’t be seeing this.

“Mr. Feiffer, I’m so sorry,” he said, wondering how long it had been since Mr. Feiffer had been here, in this house, in this room. How long it had been since he’d gone to work at the docks. The ashtray was overflowing, and there was a pile of pizza boxes underneath the TV stand. The stench of stale cigarette butts and old food drifted into JD’s nose.

Mr. Feiffer looked up with empty eyes. JD could see Drea in his features—his wide forehead, his striking nose.

“I just came by . . . to drop this off,” JD said feebly, holding up the lighter. “But is—is there anything I can do for you?” His eyes went to the empty beer bottles on the coffee table and then to the door to the kitchen, where JD could only imagine the state of disarray.

Drea had often mused about how lost her father would be without her around to cook and clean. It wasn’t that he
was lazy, she’d said, or even selfish. Just that he wasn’t used to having to do things for himself. He needed someone to look after him.

“It was my fault,” Mr. Feiffer said, his voice breaking. “My fault she went after them, my fault she died. It was my fault they
both
died.”

“It’s not your fault,” JD said automatically. That was what you were supposed to say. Mr. Feiffer was shaking his head. JD took a tentative step toward him. “It’s going to be okay,” he said.

With unexpected force, Drea’s dad reached out his hand and swiped his arm across the side table, knocking over a couple of bottles. JD watched as stale beer seeped onto a pile of photos. He took a step back, wondering if he should call his parents, or someone else. He wasn’t equipped to deal with this.

“No it’s not. Nothing is
okay
,” Mr. Feiffer countered. “If I’d just gotten to them sooner . . . they wouldn’t have gotten their claws in our baby. And now, no one will listen to me. No one will listen. Because I’m a drunk. Did you know that, boy?”

JD shivered, as though the temperature in the room had dropped. He tried to focus on the paisley pattern of the Feiffers’ couch. “No, sir. I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

Mr. Feiffer squinted his eyes. “The Furies,” he whispered.

“Sir?”

“The Furies!” he yelled. “I’ve been whispering their name
for twelve damn years. I don’t care if I scream it. I don’t care if they hear me. They’ve taken everything anyway.  There’s nothing left for them to steal. Nothing left for them to kill.”

JD couldn’t believe it. There was that word again: “Furies.” He felt like he had swallowed metal. There was a knife of fear lodged in his gut.

“I knew . . . I knew the moment I laid eyes on Edie,” Mr. Feiffer said. “I had to protect her. It was my duty. I
saw
it.” He convulsed into another coughing fit and the blotches on his face went white, then red.

“Let me get you some water, Mr. Feiffer,” JD said, stepping toward the kitchen. He needed any excuse to get away. What did it mean?
The Furies.
Who were they?

“Crazy—they said I was crazy,” Drea’s dad said as JD began backing into the hall. “They said I’d get what was coming to me.”

It reminded JD of what Ali had said about the man in the pizza place. . . .
He’ll get what’s coming to him.

“I’ll be right back, sir,” JD said, but Mr. Feiffer kept talking even as JD went into the other room and filled up a water glass from the tap over the overflowing sink.

“The things I see . . . the things I’ve dreamed. It’s enough to drive
anyone
crazy. That’s why . . . ” He trailed off as JD came back into the room.

“Drink this,” JD said, handing him the water and clearing some photos off a spot on the recliner so that he could sit down
and face the couch. As Mr. Feiffer took a few thirsty sips, JD took a moment to glance at the photos strewn about the room. Upon closer inspection, he noticed that while many of them were personal snapshots of Drea and her mother, others were images ripped from magazines—creepy pictures of flowers, fire, snakes. Like his snake pin . . . the one that had burned Ty. JD felt like he was swimming through murk. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying, Mr. Feiffer.”

Mr. Feiffer laughed. A laugh without humor or hope, it seemed to say:
What could you possibly understand about my misery?

“She thought she could keep secrets from me,” Mr. Feiffer said, and for a moment JD didn’t know if he was talking about his dead daughter or his dead wife. “She didn’t know how much I knew. That she’d conjured them. That we were all in danger. She didn’t know I was trying to protect her, and protect Drea. I loved her. I loved them both.” A cry gurgled from his throat, and JD looked away, uncomfortable.

“I’m sure you did,” JD said softly, helplessly. “Drea loved you, too.”
Conjured them.
Em’s book was called
Conjuring the Furies
. Was that why she’d been so weird lately? Had she been messing around with this all this crazy stuff?