Nevermore

“They’re back early,” he said. “Get in the closet.”

Fear shot through her. “Varen—?”

Heavy footsteps on wood. Lead feet pounding steps.

He grabbed her by the arm just above the elbow and pulled her across the room. Isobel went, not knowing what else to do, startled by his suddenly iron grip. The pounding grew nearer.

She heard a woman’s voice now. “Joe,” she was saying over and over, like someone trying to calm an angry dog.

Isobel was plunged into darkness, wrapped into a tiny space by the embrace of countless black sleeves. The closet door slid shut, casting a jailbird pattern of light across her trembling form.

She could see Varen’s boots through the slats as he backed away.

The door to his bedroom flew open with another bang, causing Isobel to jump and squeak. She pressed a hand over her mouth.

“Did you hear me calling you?” the man yelled. “I said, did you hear me?”

Isobel’s shaking hand left her mouth, springing up to shield one ear, her other arm still tightly clutching the Poe book. She only lowered it again when she became aware of a guttural, feline growl coming from beneath Varen’s bed. Slipper’s wide eyes glowed silver from within the dark space.

She could see another pair of legs now, a man’s, clad in black dress pants, his shoes polished to a glossy shine.

“Why do you just stand there and never say anything?” the man said, quietly now, his tone oozing danger. “What’s this? What’s that mess on the floor? You know you’re not supposed to have food up here. Did you have someone over while I was gone?”

“No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“Joe,” the woman’s voice pleaded from the stairway. “Let’s talk about this tomorrow.”

“I want this cleaned up now.” A pause. Isobel saw Varen hesitate. “Now!” He snapped his fingers. “Stop standing there and get down on the floor and clean it up!” He snapped his fingers again, then again, and again. He pointed toward the cartons of food.

Varen stooped, gathering the boxes. His face came into view, though it was unreadable beneath his hair. He did not look in her direction.

“What did you do to your car?”

Silence.

“I said, what did you do to your car? Answer me.”

“I didn’t do—”

“You think it’s cute? You think it’s funny?”

“Dad, I didn’t—”

“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear a goddamn word of it. In fact, that’s what you’re going to do next. After you finish cleaning up this mess, you’re going to come downstairs and clean that up too. I’m tired of this act of yours. I’m tired of this black parade you throw yourself—”

“It won’t come off, Dad.”

“I didn’t tell you to talk yet. And you better damn well hope it comes off, because I’m not paying for it to be fixed, and you’re not driving that piece of crap around like that. I told you he couldn’t keep a car, Darcy. I told you he—”

Varen stood, leaving the cartons. “It’s my car. I bought it myself. Bruce cosigned, not you. Or have you been too drunk to remember?”

“Varen.” The woman’s voice. “Just stop it, both of you.”

“That’s it. You know what? You’re not keeping that pile of junk. You can just ride the damn bus to school, since you can’t seem to get a clue. It’s not sitting in front of my house like that. And since it’s your car and you paid for it, you can pay to have it towed, too. Better yet, call up Bruce and have him tow it off! I’ll call him up myself—and that’s another thing, I don’t want you back at that bookshop anymore, do you hear me? I’m tired of that invalid undermining me. I can find plenty of work for you to do here. No more. Is that clear?”

“Whatever.”

The man’s arm shot out, viper fast, snatching Varen’s sleeve in a tight grip.

Isobel pressed one hand flat against the inside of the closet door, ready to push through, but she willed herself to remain, her fingers curling to grip the slats, knowing that it would only get worse if his dad found out she was there.

“When are you going to wake up?” the man shouted, shaking Varen, his voice booming again, something about his son’s apathy infuriating him more than his defiance. He let go, flinging Varen back. He stumbled but caught himself against the wall, his head down.

“Look’t you, you screwup,” he muttered, his words streaming together, bleeding into one another. The hard heels of his dress shoes snapped on the floorboards as he walked past the closet door. Isobel swiveled her head as he passed. She heard a drawer from Varen’s desk scrape open and saw it hit the floor with a crack, papers spilling. Another drawer joined the first, followed by the overturned contents of a third. Bound portfolios and poems scattered, pens fleeing across the floor. Varen’s dad kicked one polished shoe through the rubble. “Look’t this waste of time. God, you’re just like your mother. Gonna be a screwup scooping ice cream for the rest of your goddamned life if you don’t clean up your act.”