Perennial (4 page)

Then he turns and walks away.

Dad walks in twenty minutes after Lewis leaves. I’m sitting
at the kitchen table in a confused daze as I leaf through course information my
teachers flooded me with today. I stored my tablet and phone upstairs in my
bedroom, but bed is the last place I want to be right now. Truth is I’m afraid
of falling asleep because of what I might dream about.

I smell the evidence of beer and cigarettes the moment Dad
enters the kitchen. I’ve never been the partying type. I’ve tried different
types of alcohol, but I hate the taste. More importantly, I hate the way
alcohol makes me feel, and the smell of any kind of tobacco gags me. Call me
boring, but I enjoy being the viceless geek I am. Dad knows all of this,
meaning he’s had a horrible day if he’s blatantly exposing me to his occasional
vices.

“You stink,” I say, not looking up from my math syllabus.

“I know,” he says, slightly slurring his words. Not totally
drunk, but definitely buzzed. “Sorry, Alix. You’re usually in bed by now on a
school night. Anyway, I had a bad day. Really bad. The kind of day that makes
me wonder if I can do this for five more years.”

He crosses the kitchen and pours a tall glass of water from
the refrigerator dispenser, leaving behind an invisible cloud of bar stench. I
scrunch my nose and wave a hand in front of my face as he leans against the
sink and stares at me through bloodshot eyes. He usually doesn’t say much when
he’s in one of his dark moods, but tonight is different. I can tell he wants to
share some things.

“The school is devastated about Mr. Watkins,” I say. “The administration
is doing everything it’s supposed to do in a situation like this, I suppose,
but it was surreal being there today. Nobody really knew what to say to
anybody. Teachers included. My first day at Beaconsfield High was memorable for
all the wrong reasons.” I think back to the custodial closet experience. “Trust
me.”

“Marc Watkins is the reason for my bad day too,” he says,
rubbing his eyelids with his fingertips. “I’m guessing you know the details by
now.”

I nod. “Execution style. Multiple shots. Found in a building
in some place called Oval City.”

“How do you know the Oval City part?” he says. “That wasn’t
in the news.”

“Oh,” I say. “Um … I heard kids at school talking about
it.”

He buys it and says, “They tied his hands and feet together
like he was nothing more than a hog.”

“Thanks,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “you could have kept
that one to yourself.”

“Sorry.” He downs the water in one extended gulp.

Dad places the empty glass on the granite countertop and
puts his face in his hands. At first I think he’s about to cry, something he’s
never done around me, and which he didn’t even do after Mom passed, but instead
he lets out a frustrated grunt before tugging on his unsightly beard and
emitting a loud exhale—Dad trying to calm himself.

“There’s stuff you can’t talk about but wish you could,” I
say. “I get it, Dad.”

“I saw Watkins’s wife and two little boys today,” he says,
shaking his head. “All three of them are beautiful. The boys are six and eight.
It doesn’t make sense why a solid guy like Marc Watkins, a guy who seemed to
have it all, would go and …” He cuts himself short.

“Go and what?”

“Nothing,” he says. “I can’t say anything for certain yet.”

“What is Oval City anyway?”

“You’ve never heard of it?” Dad sounding surprised.

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Not until today.”

“That’s probably a good thing,” he says, managing a smile.
“Remember when your mother and I used to take you down to Eastern Market on
Saturdays?”

“Eastern Market,” I say, smiling at the memories. “Oh my
God, I love that place. All the vendors yelling out their prices. All those
food smells. It’s been so long. We need to go down one Saturday morning. It
can’t be more than twenty-five minutes from here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he says, “but what I’m getting at
is that Eastern Market is a perfect example of what a lot of cops call Mythical
Detroit. Most people who shop there are suburbanites. People like you and me.
We feel safe as long as we stay along the Russell Street corridor and shop the
market sheds or surrounding stores. Plenty of beat cops patrol there to keep
everybody feeling safe too, especially the tourists. It’s one of the last
places in the city where you can see a cop on horseback.”

“What does Eastern Market have to do with Oval City?”

“I’m getting there,” he says. “The past ten years or so
everybody’s been talking about the rebirth of Detroit. I mean, Alix, I’ve lost
count of how many stories the
New York Times
has done about young
hipsters moving to Detroit to start their little artsy projects, urban gardens,
and foodie restaurants for cheap. Hey, great. More power to them. I wish them
the best of luck. But here’s the thing,” he says, Dad getting worked up now.
“At the end of the day, Detroit, Michigan, is still one of the most violent
cities in the country. Anybody who has ever lived here knows that, which is why
people who live in Detroit—and I’m talking black, white, Hispanic, Arabic, you
name it—they get the hell out and move to the suburbs as soon as they can,
because the suburban garbage gets collected every week and the suburban police
show up when people call them.

“Anyway, it’s a warzone at night, Alix. Detroit is a
dangerous, decaying, poison-filled city at night. Oval City popped up a few
years ago. It’s the bottom of the cesspool. It’s right next door to Eastern
Market too, on the other side of the I-75 Service Drive. There’s an abandoned
housing project there. It’s a huge, oval-shaped space. The mayor promised to
demolish the buildings when they closed the complex three years ago, but
they’re still there, a collection of gutted, graffiti-tagged, redbrick eyesores
across the street from one of the city’s biggest points of pride.” He shakes
his head. “Oval City’s nothing but bottom feeders—addicts, dealers,
prostitutes, violent offenders, you name it. If it’s illegal, Oval City
probably has it. At the moment it’s the most dangerous part of Detroit.”

“How come I’ve never heard about it?”

“Because it’s a public embarrassment,” he says. “Everybody
talks about Eastern Market, Midtown, the Stadium District, the Riverfront—places
like that. That’s what we mean by Mythical Detroit. There’s a myth of safety in
Detroit now, but it’s not a safe place, which is why I don’t ever want you to
set foot in that city unless I’m with you. Understand?”

“Yes,” I say, nodding.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” I say. “Why was Mr. Watkins in Oval City?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “But what we do know is that two
different worlds are colliding in Detroit. We’re seeing a lot of cases
involving younger people new to the city who think they can ride their
customized bicycles anywhere they want, even at night.” He pauses. “More than a
few have paid dearly for their little joyrides to go see abandoned buildings.
We had a young guy and his girlfriend beaten nearly to death in Oval City in the
middle of the day last week. They were on bikes, scouting locations for some
film project. You feel bad for what happened to them, but on the other hand … Well, have some common sense and don’t ride bikes through Oval City, you
know?”

“Why don’t you guys just raid the place and clean it up?” I
say. “Use a SWAT team or something.”

“We’ve raided it more times than you know,” he says. “But
the monsters always come back. The problem won’t disappear until the buildings
come down.” He rubs his eyelids again. “You get this sort of problem whenever
individual neighborhoods are in transition. Usually, when legit money moves in,
crime moves out. The problem with Detroit is that it’s a huge city, and there’s
nowhere near enough legit money moving in, just random little pockets of
progress here and there. The monsters don’t feel threatened enough to leave, so
they fight back to keep their criminal lifestyle, and they fight back
violently, like it’s one giant prison riot. It’s not just Oval City either.
It’s the whole city.” He leans his forearms on the counter, exhausted. “The bad
guys are winning in Detroit, Alix. There’s evil there. I see it every day.” He
studies me through glossy eyes, but I can’t tell if the glossiness is from
alcohol, fear, or sadness. Maybe all three. “When I think about you and your
future,” he says. “College. Career. Marriage. Kids.”

“Ugh,” I say, unable to bear the thought of childbirth.
“Please stop.”

“I’m serious,” he says. “Your life’s just beginning. I’d
like to be part of it for as long as possible. I’ve never felt more at risk on
the job than I do these days. Part of me wants to quit tomorrow. Another part
of me can’t stand the thought of the bad guys winning.”

“What about just quitting the undercover stuff?” I say. “I
know that’s what you’re doing whenever you grow a beard like that.”

“That’s the problem,” he says. “In my line of work, when
you’re deep into something you can’t just walk away.”

“I understand,” I say. “But what about when this … assignment
or whatever you call it is over?”

He straightens and smiles. “You’re reading my mind, kid. I’m
thinking this might be the last one for me.” He takes a few steps toward me but
pulls up short. “I was about to give you a hug but I stink, remember?”

I laugh and shake my head. “Good night, Dad. Tomorrow will
be better.”

I’m leaving the kitchen when he says, “Alix?” I stop and
turn. Dad says, “Is there anything else you want to tell me about today? As in
your first day as a senior and all that?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “It was just one strange day.”

“If something was bothering you, you’d tell me, right?”

“Of course,” I say. “Always.”

He stares at me with his Dad-the-Cop eyes for a few moments,
giving me a look that always means he’s suspicious of something and trying to
determine if I’m being totally honest. He’s so good at this. It’s his job to be
good at reading people of course, which is why I hate lying to him. I’m always
convinced he knows when I’m untruthful or hiding the complete story.

“Okay,” he finally says. “Go get some sleep.” He turns to
refill his water glass.

I’m assuming Dad knows about William Weed dying upstairs two
years ago. Part of me wants to ask him why he didn’t tell me about it, but I
know the answer. Death is often a sensitive topic, especially when your own
mother passed unexpectedly one year ago. Dad is protecting me as usual. He sees
no need to tell me about a troubled boy who allegedly took his own life in what
is now my bedroom. Why stir up unneeded emotions about something that has no
connection to our family?

Part of me also wants to tell him about the closet attack,
the
Vagabond’s Warrior
blog, and the scary text message, but as I
listened to my father this evening, I realized Clint Keener is fighting battles
far more troubling and dangerous than whatever it is I’m going through.

Me, I’m just a girl who had one weird dream and one very
weird first day of school.

He returns for the second straight night. As much as I
feared falling asleep, I find myself thrilled as I float toward his presence
through the now-familiar ocean of cloudy white light. There’s a yearning inside
of me, a yearning to feel his touch and see his physical form. I sense so many
things coming from him—among the strongest, strength, weakness, kindness,
anger, courage, and fear.

A flash of white light. I see the clearing and stop. He’s
here. Right in front of me. Inches away. His presence sends tingles through my
body. Looking down, I’m surprised to see my own fully clothed body as opposed
to last night’s orb of white light. This excites me. Maybe he’ll appear in his
physical form as well.

Unfortunately, that doesn’t happen, but communication is
easier tonight. He knows how to message me without the initial inaudible sounds
of our first session. I know he has to initiate the conversation, and as I wait
I squint hard through my glasses in a failed attempt to catch a glimpse of what
he looks like. Nothing, just that perfectly beautiful, warm white light as far
as my eyes can see. I notice the smells too, a mixture of spring rain and
delicate but fragrant flowers. If this is heaven, all the good people in the
world have something wonderful to look forward to.

He’s taking his time. I feel him watching me, looking me up
and down. Conflicting thoughts rage inside me. Despite my clothing, I feel
exposed, like he can see anything and everything he wants beneath the layers.
But he likes me. I can tell. I have no experience in the romance department,
but it feels good knowing that he’s attracted to me.

Thank you, Alix Keener.

His voice. In my head. He’s waiting for a response. Tonight
his voice sounds like layers of different voices at different pitches, but
every word is crisp and clear. It sounds as if a beautiful choir is speaking to
me.

“Thank you for what?” I say, realizing my mouth is moving
and I don’t have to mentally message my responses.

For breaking ground. For starting to dig.

I take a few calming breaths to collect my thoughts. There
are so many things I need to ask him.

“The
Vagabond’s Warrior
blog. That was you?”

Yes. Don’t worry about your tablet. It’s safe to use.

“What about the text message? And the person who attacked me
at school?”

I don’t know about those things, but you’ll always be in
danger if you continue to dig for Perennial.

“There’s the word again. What is Perennial?”

As I said last night, Perennial is all around you.

“Please stop being so cryptic,” I say. “I never asked for
any of this. Who are you? What do you want with me?”

Come on, Alix. You know who I am.

A long silence passes. I swallow hard. My heart pounds
rapidly against my ribs.

“William?” I finally say, fear rippling through me at the
thought of communicating with a dead person. “William Weed?”

The chorus of sounds comes to an end. I now hear a single,
seductive, strong-sounding male voice:
Ah. Well done, Alix. Well done
indeed.