Wildcat Fireflies (33 page)

“It didn’t work,” I said.

“I’ll take one of Nicole and you.” Bodie held out his hand for the camera. “Please?” He was having fun. This was simply an experiment in new hobbies.

I didn’t know what it meant that I was blank. If it meant anything.
Maybe it means nothing
. We had such little fun here that I had to lighten up, or I’d be just like Mistress and suck the life out of the little kids. “Sure.”

Nicole hugged me; we smashed our cheeks together, smiling, and clowned for the camera.

Sema giggled, watching us, and quickly slapped her hand over her mouth when the sound came out. I didn’t think it was possible for my heart to break more, but it did.

“Come on, you guys too.” We took turns in different groups and different poses. I tried to be in all of them, or at least a part of me, to see if it made a difference where I stood or what showed.

Bodie’s figure was always blurry, but he was there. He couldn’t stand still long enough for me to know whether it was because he jittered, the taker moved, or something else.

But I showed up in none of them. Not even my elbow was more than a bright spot. Nicole seemed haloed by a spotlight from behind, but she appeared in the photographs. Soon, there was no film left. That’s it. I frowned. I knew this was important but I couldn’t untangle the why of it.

“It’s so weird.”

“We can find another camera.” Nicole put her arm around me, trying to comfort me when she saw how upset I was.

I nodded. I wanted to find Meridian and ask her. If she could explain this, then maybe she could explain everything.

Two ambulances pulled up outside. I gathered up the pictures and handed them to Bodie. “Hide these upstairs?”

He nodded, and Sema followed him like a shadow.

Nicole waited until they were out of earshot. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”

A
fter cleaning two rooms and vacuuming Helios before anyone arrived, my muscles were tired, but my mind was still going full-speed with questions. I was sipping juice and nibbling on a muffin when Tens came back in. “Hey,” I said carefully. Was there any word more asinine, more ridiculous to try and start a conversation with? I felt like I was introducing myself to a stranger.

In the bright light of day, I saw a wall between us and I had no idea how to scale it.

He nodded and drank juice out of the container, just
like he’d done in Revelation. He sat down, sweaty and stinky, at the table and grabbed a blueberry muffin. He wouldn’t make eye contact.

“So?” I drew it out like an entire conversation. “Where’d you go?”

“Running,” he answered.

Really
. “In the truck?”

“Drove the truck, then ran.” His tone was arrogant and closed off. He shoved more muffin in his mouth, shutting down the conversation.

Custos barked at the door, presumably for one of us to let her in. Tens got up to open it. She strolled in, carrying a sheet of paper in her mouth. She walked over to me and dropped it at my feet.

“What’s this?” I picked it up, scanning the page. “This is about Juliet.”

“Oh.” Tens concentrated on his shoes. He looked as if he’d been caught sneaking cookies.

“What gives?” My tone was sharp.

He glanced up at me. “I went to see her.”

“What?”

“I went to check on her.” His shoulders lifted as if he were squaring up for a fight.

Jealousy pierced me. He’d left me, left a bed with a half-naked me to go see another girl. I put down the muffin next to the paper, my appetite gone. I shook my head, not even knowing what to say. Tears flooded my eyes.

“It’s not like that.” He moved toward me.

I stood up, taking my dishes to the sink. I dumped out
the rest of my juice and tossed the muffin to Custos to finish. “Okay.” What else could I say?

“I needed to— I had this feeling— She’s a Fenestra— God, Merry, I don’t know what to say.”

Was this how it was? Was I going to have to share him? Would he be drawn to
any
Fenestra?

“She was at the creek, and she was reading a piece of paper and she dropped it in the creek.” He moved the page off the table. “I guess Custos went in after it.”

“It’s not wet,” I pointed out. “Neither is she.”

He shrugged, as if that were beside the point. “She’s scared.”

“Custos?”

“Juliet.” He snarled like I’d deliberately misunderstood him.

“Uh-huh.”
Me too
.

He picked up the page, read it. “Do you recognize any of this? I feel like I’ve heard of St. Jerome Emiliani’s. Have you?”

I shook my head. Anger and insecurity blurred my vision. I really didn’t give a crap what was on that piece of paper. I walked into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. My face felt hot and the rest of me cold.

“Merry, come on. Don’t hide in there,” Tens said through the door.

I flipped on the shower. “I’m showering. I’ll be out in a minute.” Okay, so I’d already showered once this morning when I couldn’t sleep, but another wouldn’t hurt. I let the water wash over me. I let the tears of frustration
mingle with the warm water until my head ached and my eyes felt sandy. I took my time drying off.

I put my clothes back on; I hadn’t brought a change in with me. They were only a few hours’ worn anyway.

I took a deep breath and exhaled. I came out of the bathroom ready to confront and conquer. “Are you
her
Protector, too?”

“Am I?” Tens sat on the couch holding a chunk of wood but doing nothing with it.

“Do you feel her?” I asked, losing my fighting edge.

He seemed surprised by my question. “I don’t know. I haven’t stopped to think about it.”

“Well, think about it.”

“Why are you being so cranky?”

I don’t want to share you. I’m jealous. You left me alone right before we might have made love for the first time
. “Sorry, I guess, but answer the question.” I didn’t feel like apologizing.

“Give me a second.”

“It’s not an essay question.”

“Yeah, maybe it is.” Tens closed his eyes.

I waited.

“I can’t think about this while you’re staring at me. That’s why I left.”

I shrugged. Like I cared. “We promised Rumi we’d help set up his booth for the Feast this morning.”

Tens opened his eyes and stared hard at me. “Fine. Let’s go.”

“Unless you’d rather stay here. I can go without you.”

“Meridian—I’m coming.”

“Fine.”

In the truck, I turned the radio up loud but didn’t hear any of the lyrics. We didn’t speak for the entire drive over to the remains of Fort Ouiatenon along the banks of the Wabash River.

The fort sat up on a hill overlooking acres of dormant grass, ringed with pine and deciduous sentries. The fields were dotted with canvas tents, with areas roped off with flags and twine for parking. The fort looked like two log cabins had been stacked and then sat on by a giant. The logs were chinked with mud and weathered gray. A light, misty fog blurred the edges and softened the riotous activity around us. The temp hovered just above freezing, but with sun it seemed as if spring was truly on its way.

A hatmaker passed us, seemingly without cares, wearing three feet of stacked wool caps balanced precariously on his head. A woman and her border collie herded leashed ewes and lambs between natty uniformed men practicing on their drums.

Saplings and branches were turned into canopy supports and rigging for tarps of sailcloth. Tables were covered with colorful wool blankets and items for sale: dolls, clothing, wooden toys and muskets, musical instruments, baskets, and lace. Scarves and mittens were crocheted and knitted on the spot for spectators to pick a pair.

I saw a candle-making station, still in the set-up phase, for kids who wanted to dip their own tapers, as well as
places to watch sheep shearing, carding, and spinning fiber demonstrations. Naturally dyed yarns in golds, browns, pinks, and grays were draped across rope tied between two trees. Wooden-furniture makers hawked rocking chairs, bowls, spindles, and cradles. A blacksmith stoked his coals and hammered iron into hooks, horseshoes, and tools.

Canoes, painted and polished, were lined up along the bank of the river. I saw a group of Native Americans in what I assumed to be ceremonial outfits with long fringes and intricate embroidery. The feathers on their headdresses and tucked into beadwork caught the morning light; the breeze gave them an otherworldly movement. I wondered if Tens might have come to this feast with his family in clothing like this if he had lived in a different time. Did he identify himself as Native American? As Cuban? Or a wonderful wonky mixture of both? I had no idea. I saw him watching several men about his age with a hooded expression full of longing and an unknowable sadness. I knew so little about his history, his life before we met. There were moments when the curiosity was almost too much for me to tamp down. We were early; if he wanted to say hello, I wanted him to feel like he could. “Do you want to go over there and—”

“No. Not right now.” His tone biting, he turned in the opposite direction and ducked down yet another row of encampment.

I hurried to keep up, unsure whether he’d notice if he lost me among the crowds.

It took us several tries to find Rumi along the rows of vendors. The ground was frozen, but tire tracks and deep muddy grooves made me wonder what this common might be like if the temperatures rose.

Rumi’s booth was near a massive stage in the process of being assembled. It looked like an odd combination of outdoor rock festival and Lincoln Logs. Evidently they were supposed to keep it as authentic-looking as possible. Even the speakers were covered in leaves and vines, to hide them. I bet all those people knew poison ivy on sight.

A couple of flannel-clad lumberjacks hefted huge sheets of plywood near us, and swore at the weight. “Hey, kid,” they called to Tens. “Help?”

Tens shrugged at me, pointed toward Rumi towering over another group, and grabbed a side of the board to carry.

“Great. Thanks for the protection,” I mumbled, trudging over to Rumi, who was quite thrilled to see me. At least somebody was happy to have me around.

Rumi tucked me against him in a one-armed embrace.

“ ’Ello, angel. What do you think?” He swept his arms around the booth.

“Fantastic.” I glanced around. “You’re almost done?” I asked incredulously. “Are we late?”

“A troop of soon-to-be French soldiers, also known as Carmel’s off-duty policemen, helped me carry it all over from the truck. Saved my back. But there’s plenty left to do. Come.”

I held corners and poles while Rumi fixed fastenings and hooks. I felt like the sorcerer’s apprentice, not knowing
what to do except for the parts right in front of me. I kept sneaking glances around to spot Tens.

Rumi noticed. “Your coals look dampened today, love. Having a bit of a lovers’ spat, are you?”

“What?” I jerked, trying to stand straighter and clear my expression.

“You keep searching for him. He keeps staring at you. Mind you, not when the other is doing the gaping. It’s all over your faces and your shoulders. Even the way you stamp your feet about. You expecting to be foudroyant? Tell me true?”

“Well, I don’t know that I can—”

“Talking is dolorifugic, it’ll make you feel better.” He handed me a box of Spirit Stones to unpack from Bubble Wrap. Already glowing, they heated at my touch.

I sighed, wishing not for the first time for a best girlfriend. Which made me think of Juliet, and then made me mad all over again. “I guess. Yes. Okay, yes, we are having a fight.” I felt better, more emphatic, more
right
with each word.

“You want to tell me about it, don’t you?” He winked.

“Yes! No. He’s a jerk.”

“Hmm … I know him to be deeply in love with you. I’ll take convincing to see him as a jerk.” Rumi chuckled and handed me black draping to cover the tables with. Around us the grounds along the Wabash swelled with activity.

“He snuck out to see Juliet and he lied to me about it.”

“Ah, I see.” Rumi raised an eyebrow at me, as if that simply couldn’t be everything I was upset over.

“And he won’t—” I clamped my lips shut, mortified that I’d almost divulged the most personal details of our relationship. I had stopped myself right before telling Rumi that Tens didn’t want to have sex with me.
Mortifying much?
Three semis pulled up nearby. Their engine noise and the chaos of off-loading made conversing impossible for a few minutes. Horse trailers were backed in and massive draft horses were unloaded by the time I gathered my composure.

Rumi’s booth was rustic wrought iron, the size of a large bedroom. White gauzy layers of curtain swept over and around the frame, giving the space fanciful definition and whimsical grace. Real candles and ones with LED flames graced blown candlesticks. Stunning clear glass candelabra stood taller than my head and made me think of weddings and vampires. Vampire weddings.

To our left the camp for the French soldiers and settlers was taking shape. A man wearing a Davy Crockett ensemble—tanned hides, fringed moccasins, and a coonskin cap—ambled past. The earbuds and wires from his iPod were the only clue that the year was not 1800-something and we weren’t living on the frontier.

Tens nodded at me when I looked in his direction, but he didn’t make a move to leave the main stage. He’d shed his coat, and sweat on his skin glistened in the sun and dampened the hair along his temples. I didn’t know if he was keeping his distance because the other men seemed old and heart-attack prone, or because he wanted to do anything he could to stay far away from me. I stoked my hurt and took it personally.

Bless Rumi for his silences. He let me be and didn’t push conversation back to Tens and me. But as we worked, I began to notice that it wasn’t because he was trying to be respectful of my melancholy.

I finally looked at him, studied his face. He was ashen and stooped. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Let’s get this clear plastic roof up, it’s the final set-up.” He cleared his throat.