Not Flesh Nor Feathers

“It won’t be me, either,” he grumbled, tweaking his lips around the Camel. “Even if they get me, it won’t be my mangled corpse that raises the alarm. Nobody cares if I go. It’ll have to be someone else.”

“Okay, I think that’s just about all the cryptic I’ve got patience for today, and I’m already full-up on crazy.” I stood and dusted off the seat of my jeans.

He reached out to grab my arm. I thought I ducked fast enough, but he caught my wrist. “Don’t move in there. People are dying, Eden. Not people you’d know, but one of these days a body’s going to float up that no one can zip into a bag and forget.”

“Let go of me, Christ, for real. I don’t know what you’re trying to do here—”

He did as I told him, and put his hands on his head as if it hurt him. “I don’t either. I just wanted to tell you, and see if you got it. I wanted to see if you understood, but I guess you don’t, or you don’t care.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Fuck you,” he said, but I didn’t hear any real malice in it. He only sounded tired. “Maybe it’ll be you they pull out of the water. Maybe you’ll be the one who makes it an issue. Everybody knows who you are.”

I picked up my bag and the to-go cup of coffee I’d brought from Greyfriar’s. “Don’t remind me.”

“You’re famous. You’re famous,” he chanted in an annoying sing-song. “You’re famous, you bitch. You can wear all the thrift store shirts you can buy, but you’re not like us. Go find somewhere else to hang out if you’re not going to notice.”

I turned away.

It was just Christ. He pulled tantrums like that all the time, like a giant overgrown kid. If he couldn’t get the attention he wanted, then any attention would do. “Switch to decaf, Christ. Come back when you want to talk like a civilized grown-up.”

“Is that all you’ve got? Hey—” He stopped short, like he’d thought of something important. He scrambled up to me and held out his hands. “Hey, okay—try this, then. You know that homeless guy, everyone called him Catfood Dude because he smelled like cat food?”

I thought about it for a second, then nodded. “Hangs around at the food court at the mall, and at the bus stop by the Choo-Choo. Always wears that jumpsuit, even in the dead of summer.”

“You won’t be seeing him anymore. He’s gone now, and I don’t mean he hopped a Greyhound for Atlanta. He’s dead. Taken, like the rest of them.”

“I saw him just the other day, in front of the pizza place by Greyfriar’s—on that bench where he always is. I don’t believe for a second that he’s really gone anywhere. Tell me something useful, or let me go. I’ve got things to do today other than hang around and listen to you spinning yarn.”

“He went down by the river, walking last night. One of my boys saw him there, and heard some commotion. Heard some splashing. And this morning? Freddie found that cap that he wears, washed up by the fountains at the bridge. There was blood on it.”

“Oh good grief, there’s no way for you to know that any of that’s true. It washed up? With blood still on it? I don’t buy that for a second.”

“There was hair stuck in it too—and gray shit that looked like fish meat, but was probably brains!”

“And . . . I think we’re done here.” Next he’d tell me about a still-beating heart found at the bottom of the wading pool at the aquarium fountain next door. I didn’t believe him because I had no reason to. He’d say anything at all if it’d lift your eyebrows.

“Benny’s wrong about you,” he shouted behind me. “You’re not cool. You’re just another self-centered, trust-fund hippietart from the mountain!”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Write that one into your next slam poem. It’s not bad.”

He dropped his outdoor voice immediately. “Hey thanks, I will. And if you see Jamie, tell him I’m looking for him.”

“I’ll do that,” I promised.

I climbed up the grassy hill past the stairs and stepped into the street. You can’t get mad at Christ, because that means he wins. You can only beat him by absorbing it all and telling him he’s doing a good job. That’s how deep his insecurity goes—all the way to the bottom. The worst thing you can do to throw him off is to pay him a compliment.

That afternoon was the second time he’d tried to sit me down and tell me something, but there’s only so much rope you can give him before he tries to hang you with it.

I’d learned—partly from experience, and partly from our mutual pal Benny Scott—that it was best to treat him like a kid who refuses to eat. Leave him alone. When he gets hungry enough, he’ll eat. If Christ wasn’t full of it and he really had something to tell me, he’d get around to it eventually, and if I waited him out long enough he’d strip away all the crazy stuff first.

This was just build-up. Foreplay. Or, as I was coming to think of it—time wasting.

True, I hadn’t seen Pat skating around lately and I hadn’t seen Catfood Dude since the day before last, but that wasn’t so unusual. The skater crowd is nomadic and fluid at best, transient at worst. Every now and again someone will vanish for a year or two, and no one will notice until he shows back up again with stories about having moved to New Jersey. Or Boston. Or Atlanta. Or wherever.

In the wake of those who leave, an elaborate mythos might rise up. Stories leak out like fairy tales, as if every place else is some weird, faraway fantasy land. Some of them are kidnapped, some begin flash-in-the-pan music careers, some turn to crime. Some of them go on to have great adventures, a few of which might even be true.

But the point is, they always come back. They all do, whether they want to or not.

3

The White Lady

I walked towards the coffeehouse but changed my mind halfway there and went back to my car instead. The Death Nugget was parked on the street in front of a fast-food Mexican chain. I climbed inside and checked my cell phone, which I’d left in the glove box.

No surprises there. Harry, my old friend and partner in crime, had called, but I knew what that was about, so I didn’t check the voicemail right away. He’d be in town next week, and if all went according to plan, he’d have my half-brother Malachi with him. This was possibly one of my dumber plans, but now that I had put it into motion I was a little anxious about how it was all going to go down—which was the real reason I didn’t check the voicemail. I didn’t want to deal with it.

It’s been almost three years since I first met Harry, and a bit less than that since I came to know Malachi as someone other than “that guy who tries to kill me every ten years or so.” It would take ages to explain how I’ve come to terms with such bizarreness, but it’s worked itself out to a balance.

The question was, would my beloved aunt and uncle see it that way? Could they get past the fact that he had tried to kill me and get used to the idea that we were trying to be friends?

I doubted it, but in the interest of growing up, moving out, and becoming a proper adult before my twenties were completely behind me, it was time for me to let them know what was going on. I was still working out the finer details of how I was going to break it to them, but that was half the fun of procrastinating and denial.

Unfortunately, this would be an especially tough sell when they were already pissed at me about the apartment. What I really didn’t understand—and couldn’t figure out—was what everyone thought was so wrong with the North Shore Apartments. I’d been inside them, and I could say firsthand that they were fabulous.

They weren’t very big, but that meant they were surprisingly affordable for such prime real estate. And they were gorgeous, with high ceilings, bright white walls, lots of windows and a neat little bar area off the kitchen. Best of all, they were just over the river and down the hill from UTC, where I’d freshly reenrolled. Come summer, I would begin my quest to finish at least one of my incomplete college degrees.

The apartments were down the street from Coolidge Park, with its lion fountains and its big carousel. They weren’t far from the mountain, and they weren’t in the ghetto. And on a nice day, I could walk to class if I wanted to. What’s not to like?

Of course, none of these selling points had made a dent in Lu’s displeasure. She wouldn’t say why, other than that she thought the location was horrible and that I should move up farther away from the river. Even Dave was surprised by her reaction, so I didn’t feel quite so crazy. He agreed that they seemed ideal, and when he sided with me, it only made Lu more flustered.

I’d ended up leaving the house and heading downtown just to get away from the whole situation. Maybe Dave could talk some sense into her, or at least drag some sense out of her. I couldn’t imagine what had made her so crazy when I mentioned the north shore. You would’ve thought I’d told her I was bringing Malachi over for dinner.

The thought made my head hurt, but it was hard to get away from. The big meeting was only a few days away. I still hadn’t decided whether or not to surprise them outright or warn them beforehand. I was leaning towards an advance warning, for Malachi’s personal safety.

But it didn’t have to be a lot of advance notice, I didn’t think. It could be put for off a little while yet.

My phone began to ring again, and upon checking the display I answered it.

“You coming?” Nick Alders asked, without offering any introductory pleasantries.

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“You’re late already.”

“I got sidetracked,” I said, starting my car and pulling into traffic. “I’m on my way now, so don’t get fussy. This probably won’t work anyway, so I hope you aren’t hanging your entire journalistic career on it.”

The reporter didn’t sound too concerned. “It’s just a filler piece, but it might make a good one.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">