Parlor Tricks

Chapter 18

There was a bubbling in Hank that was near to boil. He flexed his hands absently, but it didn't dissuade the pressure that was mounting. He excused himself as politely as possible, even though he knew such pleasantries weren't necessary for Josie, but she deserved them. With little thought, he stumbled down the walk despite the evenly paved path. The stagger came from within him. The stars were flickering curiously, like a failing light bulb. Hank was reluctant to bring his eyes to the sky to search for the hiding moon and disappearing stars for fear he may evaporate as well.

He took solace in Willie's, but the comfort of the crowd did little for Hank's erratic thoughts. Still, he sat through a drink, willing focus, but his mind swirled from his father to Peter, Josie to Bella, Clara to Elise. A swirling pool of grief, anger, and frustration that resulted in apathy. His last sip came too full, resulting in a sputter that caused him to slam the glass down with too much force. A few of the phantoms glanced up from their troubles but didn't linger long. Hank tossed a bill down on the bar and continued his stumble.

He found himself in front of the Dillard's house, darkened at the late hour, with only a few shadows creasing the view from the streetlamp. Hank reached for his hat, but his head was bare, so he clung to the wrought-iron fence that encased the lawn. It all felt real, the house, the crisp air, the brick beneath his feet. He was a presence and a ghost all at once, living in the shadows. He was the collateral damage of a protected life that has long since fenced him out.

Wendy was in her window when he arrived, tucking her silk gown around her thin frame. Hank was sure she saw him gazing up at her, but she drew the curtains. She may have even nailed them shut. The light of her window went dim, as did any lingering affection they shared. Still, Hank felt no loss. Confusion consumed him too much to feel anything.

The neighborhood felt like a prison as he continued his wounded parade. He could shuffle endlessly in any direction, but he would still end at the Carroll mansion. The only escape required dressing in pine. Hank's fingers twitched at his sides; his father knew the escape path, but what was he running from, and why would he take someone with him? Hank tried to muster a kinship so strong that he would sacrifice himself and his family for a friend.

The ballad of the crickets was boring into his ears as he shuffled up the drive. Josie seemed to call the night insects to her, he thought absently. She was no longer on the swing; the cold, damp air suddenly absorbed Hank into its clutches; but going indoors wouldn't chase this chill away. Still, Hank needed to go inside to escape the crickets echoing in his head.

He thought of stopping at the box of photos, but it seemed senseless now. He just let his legs continue to carry him to his bed. When he entered the room, he felt Josie's presence, hushing his breathing to protect her sleep. He slumped silently in his chair facing the bed, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Her form came dimly into focus, curled up like a kitten. He had been so compliant to be lost in isolation, but now it cracked in his chest, allowing a painful sear to course through him. His head drooped to his hands that steadied only when his elbows hit his knees. She had plucked him like a petal from a bud. It would be easy to pretend there was saving involved, but Hank knew otherwise. His was a life long forsaken, an ugly life of façade. He sat back in his chair and let the discomfort lull him to sleep.

When Josie stirred in the sun's light, his name slipped from her lips in a whisper. It floated to him and clung to his lips like he had said his own name. As enticing as the sweet taste was, Hank kept still, letting her slip from his room. Long after she left, he kept his eyes shut. His thoughts lingered on his father and how he had never really wept for him. He felt the gravity of the death in his chest, beating down on him. For a moment, he thought a tear might come, but if it was mounting, the smell of burning toast dashed it away.

"Sorry," a disheveled Josie murmured.

Hank studied her as though he were watching a play he had no part of as she dashed two blackened pieces of toast into the sink and shook her hand out from the scorch. She caught him looking at her, making her face flush pink.

"Sorry about last night too," awkwardness did not suit Josie King.

"Josie, I..." Hank had nothing to say, so he let his voice drop.

She was cracking his apathy, sending ghosts coursing out the gap. He wanted to pick whom he invited, but when the door opened, they all come out; the anger, the grief, the loneliness, with love tripping out anemically at the end. Still, as she dropped her face, he missed her. Even though he didn't know her, he missed her.

"Clara is up," her voice was even and familiar now. It should have been comforting to Hank.

"Morning, mom," he flopped to his chair.

Clara's cooing greeting didn't come. Her voice came low like a slither. "What are you going to do about Josie?" Hank looked up at her, puzzled. "You can't just let her leave." Her eyes were clearer than he had seen in years.

"It's confusing," Hank dropped his gaze to his hands and longed for his hat to twirl.

"It's not confusing; it's clear as day. You're too much like your grandfather, stifling emotion as if that makes life logical. Logic without emotion is insanity." Her words were familiar, the terms of his father.