He might not see the murder in me but Enola does. She puts her arm around his shoulders and the pale underside of her wrist attaches itself to his tattoo’s suction cups. I ask what he does.
“I’m the Electric Boy.” The lightbulbs in the back of her car begin to make sense.
“What exactly is the Electric Boy?” I lean back in my chair, almost tipping it. I know what’s coming.
Enola cuts him off before he can answer. “You know, the Human Lightbulb?”
I nod. It’s a static electricity act, pedestrian really, the sort of thing that’s popped up since the discovery of electric current. Sometimes it’s a deferral of current trick with a hidden metal plate; that’s how they work electric chair acts. Nothing special.
“Doyle can light a hundred-watt bulb with his mouth and three in each hand,” she says.
That is different. “Impressive.”
“He does contact juggling with the bulbs while they’re lit. It’s crazy beautiful.”
“Uh-huh.” A tentacle-covered man juggling lightbulbs sounds gorgeous.
“I’ll show you. Little Bird, where do you keep the bulbs?” He starts to get up but Enola shakes her head.
“Don’t bother,” she says. Doyle looks at her. “You can show him later, okay? You didn’t bring beer by any chance, did you? Simon’s got fuck all and I could kill for a beer.”
“Sure thing,” he says. He oozes from the room.
Enola leans forward, hands on her knees, and I spot the tattoo on her wrist again. A little bird. Jesus. “Quit being a bastard and pretend you like him. For me, okay?”
“I’m not being a bastard, I’m being your brother.”
“Well, that’s new,” she snaps. It’s true. I’ve been a parent, not a brother.
“I’m just concerned, okay? I know nothing about him.” Or her, for that matter.
“For once, can you just be a little nice?”
“I’ll try.”
Doyle lopes back in, six-pack in hand. “Want one?”
“Sure, thanks.” His tattooed finger pops open a can, and all I can think about is having needles so close to the nail bed. He catches me staring, so I ask, “That hurt?”
“Like a sonofabitch.” He smiles and clicks his teeth together.
“Good beer,” I say. It tastes like warm piss.
We drink in relative silence, which is me being nice. After another drink they begin chattering to each other. Names are tossed around — friends, cities, towns. She giggles, a different person from the one I saw last night. I glance over at the book. I’m missing something.
Neither minds when I flip through a few pages. Later, Enola drags him out to the bluffs to watch the sun brush the water. I am left alone with my books.
At some point music drifts in and I look out the window to see the moon and the dome light from her car. The driveway is bathed in blue and they’re dancing. She is frenzied motion, elbows flinging, hips shimmying, dancing and detonating. Sweat covers her, eating moonlight as she sidles against him. Doyle flows over her as if held together by a thin layer of ink. The car shakes with bass vibration. A slower song comes on and they mesh their skin, fingers entwined. They’ve ceased to know I’m here. Like they never knew.
Alice answers the phone, sleepy, soft-sounding. “Hey. What’s up?”
“Do you want to go out? Are you up for a drink? I need a drink.”
She yawns and I hear the pop of her jaw on the receiver. “I’ve got work tomorrow.” There’s a small silence between us before she says a quick, “Sorry. That came out wrong. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just a little stir-crazy, I guess. Enola’s boyfriend showed up. Too many people in a small house.” Never mind that four of us once rattled around here.
“And here I was hoping you’d say you miss me.”
I do. I miss her walking up the library steps. I miss her writing the program schedule on a white board and the curl of her lowercase g. I miss the Alice I don’t see anymore. “Sorry. I’m just off. It’s weird seeing my sister’s mating dance.”
“I’ve never felt so lucky to be an only child.” She yawns again and I know I should let her go. “Tomorrow, okay?” she says. “I promise.”
“Sure, sure.” Then she’s gone. I could have told her about the money, how much I need, but I’m not there yet. Close, but not yet. I turn my computer on and dash off an email to Liz Reed, asking if the situation at North Isle’s changed at all, that part time would be fine if that’s all there is. My inbox is empty but for a lone response to an application. The interlibrary coordinator position at Commack has been filled internally. I scroll through the listserv again, looking for changes, new positions. I think of things to call myself — Information Specialist, Information Technician, Information Resource Manager — I can be anything a job wants me to be. Eventually words blur and there’s sand behind my eyelids.
I wake not with the sun but with a light in the window that pulses like a heartbeat. Doyle is in the driveway, a moving shadow except for his hands, which are lit by two forty-watt lightbulbs. He spins the bulbs, balancing them, passing them over the backs of his hands in smooth waves. The rolling incandescence illuminates small portions of the tattoo, a diver shining a lamp into darkness. Tentacles curl and ripple. A flash of light, movement, then gone. The lights roll across his chest, his face briefly visible in their glow. White teeth. Then black. The light moves, Doyle extends, dances. The undulating light passes across my sister, leaning against the car. Watching.
He’s performing. For her.
I watch until it feels like spying, then close the window shade. Light leaks through. I go back to the book, to my notebook and the names. It’s time to do a little math. Verona Bonn was born in 1935, making her twenty-seven when she drowned. Her mother, Celine Duvel, died in 1937, when Verona was two — the same age as Enola when Mom died. Celine’s obituary doesn’t list a date of birth. A short amount of digging on the computer turns up a marriage license between a Celine Trammel and Jack Duvel. Her date of birth is February 13th, 1912; that’s twenty-five years old when she died. Young, but not the same age as my mother or grandmother. No, there’s something different.
The telephone rings. It’s Churchwarry.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” he says. We both know he hasn’t, but I make polite assurances.
“No, it’s fine. What’s the matter?”
“Nights and an old dog. Sheila can’t make it through a night without a walk anymore and Marie has declared that my duty. These days once I’m up, I’m up.”
I understand the feeling.
“I found a book that I think you might find useful. I was wondering what might be the best way to get it to you? It’s rather heavy.”
“Overnight it.”
10
The mermaid’s shifting woke Amos from dreamless sleep. Frayed thumping filled his chest as he recalled her frightened eyes, how he’d held her, and the deep satisfaction of touching another skin to skin. Evangeline blinked, eyes dim with sleep and morning. He brushed her hair from her shoulder and smiled, an expression that felt stretched and unfamiliar. He pressed his fingers to the curve of her collarbone then to his own.
Evangeline shrieked and scrambled from the tub, knocking Amos back and jarring his bones against the slats. She fled, skirts trailing behind.
He waited. She would come back, if only because there was nowhere to go. Though Peabody and Ryzhkova’s schooling had imparted a loosely civilized veneer, his patience remained weak. A quarter hour’s time had him searching. Finding her wasn’t difficult; humidity made the ground soft so that each step left a perfect impression, the curve of her instep, a divot from the ball of her foot. He followed her steps as he had so many deer paths.