It’s the song playing on the radio that makes me ask the question. “How did people slow dance back in the day?”
Zachary looks up from his hands. “Slow dance?”
“Yeah, like, dance to slow music,” I explain lazily.
Zachary smiles a little. “I know what slow dancing is, kid.”
“Great, then show me how it was done back then,” I say, standing up from the chair by the window. Zachary laughs.
“You want me to teach you how to dance,” he asks.
“Do you see anything else to do,” I reply. “And besides, you’re only teaching me how to dance like they did when you were young.” I smile.
“I’m still young,” Zachary says, standing up from the floor.
“That’s what they all say,” I laugh.
He steps up to me, holding out his left hand. I make a point of it to grab his right. The metal isn’t as cold as I thought, but I still feel Zachary stiffen a little. I make eye contact, and his eyes shift to the floor.
“I can’t learn if you’re too nervous to dance with a girl,” I joke.
He bounces back quickly. “Too nervous?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll show you ‘too nervous,’” he says. He rings his left arm around my waist, and leads me into a slow sway. A simple back and forth to the beat of the Oldie on the radio. We spin around in one spot in the musty motel room, and for a while, I forget about the last couple of days and the Specter and its voice and the death defying reasons we’re here. For a while, it’s just me and Zachary and the bright purple shag carpeting. After a couple of spins, Zachary laughs.
“You asked me to teach you something you already knew how to do!”
I grin. “I was bored, sue me.”
“I just might, kid,” Zachary says. “Get ready for my ultimate move,” he says next. And before I can say anything back, he dips me gently. I bust into a fit of giggles, echoed by his soft laugh. When I’m up right again, I take a steady breath.
“A dip is your ultimate move,” I ask.
“It always worked,” he says.
“Oh did it?”
“You tell me.”
The room goes quiet, and the oldie ends. My body tenses. Three stupid words stun me into a daze. Zachary looks at me, waiting for an answer.
Finally, I clear my throat.
“Maybe,” is all I can manage.
He smirks, and we stop swaying.
“You’re a good dancer, kid, you know that,” Zachary says, as he lets go of me.
I wipe my hands on my thighs, hoping to wipe the nervousness away. “Well, I guess I had a good teacher,” I say, and then I smile. “Even though he had this really lame dip move that he liked to call his ‘ultimate move.’”
Zachary laughs. “Oh really?”
“Yeah, really. It was kind of sad, to be honest. He went on and on about how it always worked on the girls he danced with.”
“Then why did it make you go all red in the face,” Zachary says, pointing at me.
I blink. I gape. “Well, I−.”
“That’s what I thought.” Zachary goes to sit back down in his space on the floor.
I walk close to him.
Grab both his shoulders.
Kiss him.
Our lips aren’t pressed together long before I part from him. I take a step back. Zachary stands tense. I grin awkwardly to break the mood.
“Maybe it wasn’t so lame,” I say.
Zachary’s on me now, arms wrapped around my waist, lips pressed hard. We kiss like lovers long parted. All passions and fears lay bare in our moment. We only part from each other when something knocks at the door.
“No,” Zachary whispers into my cheek.
“But,” I start to protest.
“Mary, no,” Zachary pleads, breath tickling my neck.
I wrangle myself from his arms and mutter a sorry. At the door is a small, pale woman with orange hair. Her customer service smile fades at the sight of me.
“Housekeeping,” she announces through her teeth.
“Um,” I say, looking back into the room. I catch Zachary’s eye. “Babe, do you think we need it,” I play.
Zachary lifts an eyebrow. I turn back to the little maid in the doorway.
“No, I guess not,” I say.
She doesn’t say anything else, just turning on her heel, and walking to the room next to ours. I close the door. Zachary walks to me, gets close, before reaching over my head to put the chain lock on the door in place. He stands there for a moment, eyes flicking between my eyes and lips, before strolling away. I lean against the door, and fiddle with my index finger.
“Did…did that just happen,” I ask him.
He looks back at me, his only reply is him raising his eyebrow.
I breathe in. “Did we just…or not?”
Zachary blinks a few times, before sighing. “Good night, kid.” And just like that, he slides against the purple and fuschia wall back down to his place on the floor, closing his eyes.
I look down at my feet, just leaning there against the door. My stomach flips. My thoughts race back and forth between regretting opening the door and regretting asking him anything. The radio plays some sappy, post break-up song, and it’s the first time I actually understand the feeling behind its words. I pry myself from the door, rush over to it, and unplug the radio all together.
I lie in bed all night, just sitting there. I don’t sleep. I don’t even get drowsy. I just sit there, listening to the monsoon and Zachary’s light snore. When it gets lighter outside, I hear him stir. I hold my breath. His footsteps fall softly, leading over to the bathroom. I wait until I can hear the shower running before I move. I get out of bed, grab my key, and walk straight out of the room, holding the door handle so it doesn’t click when it closes. I sit right under our window, just watching the heavens pour. There’s a thought in me to run straight out into the rain, and keep going. Past the dead willow trees, past the pale yellow open fields, right back to Virginia. Right back home. It’s the steady sound of the rain that keeps me grounded.
After a while of me just sitting there, just thinking of running, the voice comes back.
Your world needs you, young one.
Oh? I think. You don’t think I fully grasped that yet? How many fucking times do you have to say it? I know, okay? I know.
Then what is this talk of running home?
Sometimes kids get a little homesick. Sometimes a kid just wants a friend that isn’t an ass.
There’s a pause.
It’s him, is all the voice says.
I think nothing back. From inside, I can hear the shower turn off.
I’m sorry, but I don’t know how-
“Yeah, well, neither do I,” I whisper-scream. I inhale, looking around me to see if anyone heard my sudden outburst. Not even a mouse did.
The inside of my head goes quiet.
“Kid,” I hear Zachary say.
I close my eyes.
“Kid,” Zachary calls, a little panicked.
I hold my breath, and hug my knees.
“Mary!” Zachary swings the door open. It doesn’t take him long to find me, sitting like a child on the covered sidewalk.
“Mary,” he whispers my name. “Jesus.”
I open my eyes, looking up at him. He holds the towel tightly around him, exposed chest still wet from the shower. I look at where the metal of his arm meets his skin. It’s scarred and darkened, a constant reminder of his accident. He shifts his arm unconsciously.
“Sorry,” I say, voice lost in the monsoon. He still hears somehow.
“You scared me, kid,” Zachary says, making to walk back into the room.
“It’s nice to know you’ll at least call me by my name when you’re scared,” I say.
“I-” Zachary stammers. “Look, okay,” He stutters.
I laugh a dry laugh. “Gotcha.”
“Just…just come inside before you catch pneumonia or some shit, huh?” He says, walking back inside.
I sit still for a moment.
Can I actually catch pneumonia? I ask.
No, is all I get back.
I wait for a minute or two, before going back inside. Zachary has on pants and is wrangling on a dark shirt when I come in. I sit on the bed, and it’s silent for a long time. Nothing but the sound of rain and wind and occasional breathing. I spend the time studying the lacework on the dingy white pillowcase. Finally, when the day is at its brightest, I fire off with questions.
“Does your arm hurt?”
Zachary shifts in his spot on the floor. “Not anymore,” he says, curtly.
“But it used to?”
He clears his throat. “Yes, back, um, back when−”
“It happened,” I say.
He nods. The room goes quiet again.
“How old are you, kid,” Zachary asks.
“Twenty. This coming fall will be my senior year in college,” I say.
“College kid. You like it there?”
“Yeah, I mean, class is class, but I think I have a good group of friends.”
Another bout of silence.
“Why do you call me kid,” I ask.
“Are we playing a questions game?” Zachary asks.
“Do you want to?”
He lifts his chin. “Whoever backs out of a question loses.”
I pause. “Deal.”
“Are you really 20?” He asks.
“Yes. Why don’t you go by Zack?”
“Meh, just never did. What are you going to college for?”
“A degree in English. Were you really born in 1918?”
Zachary laughs. “Yeah. Do I really not exist in this world?”
“If being a fictional character is existing,” I say. “What was the last thing that happened before you got here?”
“I was trying to tackle our bad guy.” Pause. “What was happening to you?”
“A cookout. Just a normal weekend with my dad,” I look down at my hands. I twiddle with my index finger again.
“Do you always do that when you’re nervous,” Zachary asks.
I look back at him. “Hey, my turn.” I laugh.
“Well, you weren’t asking any questions,” Zachary says.
“I was thinking!”
Zachary raises his hands in surrender. I look at him, trying to find some place of mystery, trying to find a source for my next question. My eyes fall on his clothed shoulder.
“Can I touch your arm?” I ask in a rush.
Zachary gives me this confused face. “You’ve already touched my arm. Like, a hundred times.”
“I-I meant the part where it meets,” I whisper.
The room goes quiet again. We stare at each other.
“If you can’t answer, you lose,” I say.
“This is complicated.”
“It’s a yes or no question.”
Another bout of silence. Finally, Zachary nods, lifting his shirt over his head. The scarred skin is left exposed once again, shining weakly in the incandescent light. I cross the room, walking on my tiptoes, and sit in front of him. I clear my throat. Lift my hand and press my fingers ever so gently against the worst part of it. Zachary takes a deep breath as I place the rest of my hand to it. What I thought would be coarse and cold is warm and as smooth as the rest of his skin. My lips turn up at the sides, and let my hand drop to my lap.
Zachary doesn’t even bother putting his shirt back on. “You ever go steady with someone,” he asks.
“You trying to shame me out of the game,” I play.
“My turn,” he says. “Now answer.”
“If this is the game you wanna play, fine then. No, I’ve never dated anyone.”
Zachary eyebrows mash together. “How? You’re-”
“I’m asking the questions here,” I interject. “Have you?” I ask.
“You’ve seen this face,” Zachary laughs softly. “Of course.”
The room goes soft, and I start to think that maybe the game is over. I go back to squeezing my index finger. After I while, I contemplate going back outside to watch the rain fall. I go to move, and realize that Zachary is staring at me. His eyes stare deep, and his eyebrows are mashed again. I laugh in my nervousness.
“What?”
“Are you a virgin?” Zachary blurts out.
I blush. I look away from him, squeezing my index finger harder than I ever had before. “I. I already answered that question.”
“No weaseling out.”
“Yes,” I squawk out.
Zachary only looks more confused, but lets me ask my question.
“Was there a girl? Before The War? Like, a girl you knew, or at least thought, was the one?”
Zachary shakes his head. “There was dozens of dames. All there one night, gone the next” he rushes. “How in the hell have you managed that,” he asks.
“Managed what?”
“The virgin thing!”
I shrug my shoulders. “No one really showed any interest.”
Zachary scoffs. “There’s no way in hell ‘no one showed any interest.’ Back in my day, you would have turned the head of any guy, even if he was prejudice as all hell. You’re a dime.”
I look at my purpling finger. “I didn’t always look like this.”
The room goes cold. Dead cold. Cold enough that I start to think that maybe the roof blew away and now it was storming in our room. I can feel Zachary staring at me, and I can feel the years and years and years of shit self-esteem bubbling in my tear ducts. When I’m teetering at the edge of crying, I look up and ask my question. “Why do you call me ‘kid?’”
Zachary leans away from me. His face flushes and his shoulders square. His eyes dart to the wall on the other side of the room. He sighs. Stands up.
“If you can’t answer, than I win,” I joke.
“Then you win,” Zachary says.
“Not fair,” I cry. “I answered the virgin question! Why do you call me kid?”
He shakes his head.
“Why?” I plead.
“You won’t like the answer,” Zachary whispers.
“Oh just tell me!”
“You wanna know why?” He seethes. “You really want to?”
I jump at his new tone, eyes wide. He just goes on.
“It’s because that’s what you should be. You’re a kid. A kid that should be worrying about boys and grades and if Daddy’s gonna get you a car. And because I’m not real. Because I’m just a comic book sidekick. And because, even where I am real, I’m ninety-fucking-five. I call you kid because I’d be lying if I said that you aren’t attractive. I’d be lying if I said I don’t think about you like you’re just another dame in a bar. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t dip you just to woo you. And I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t want last night to happen. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want it to go on. But you’re young. And I’m from a whole different universe. So, you’re ‘kid,’ okay?” Zachary unloads, leaning against the vanity counter.
I blink at him. Before I can even register what I’m doing, I stand up, and walk to the door.
“Where are you going,” Zachary asks.
“Out,” I bark.
“In the rain?”
“I’ll deal,” I say, opening the door and slamming it behind me. He doesn’t call after me. The rain takes over all of my senses. I walk down the covered sidewalk. Walking by the orange haired housekeeper. Walking by the honeymoon suite. All the way to the end, which ends just before a dirt path. It’s when I’m standing there that I hear Zachary from behind me.
“Mary?” He calls for me.
My stomach flips, and I run out into the rain. I’m drenched in an instant, mud covering my bare feet, clothes sticking to my body. I run straight to the trees in front of me. When I feel like I’m far enough into the random cluster of trees, I pick one and start climbing. I climb all the way up until I’m hidden in the mess of dead branches. I still hear Zachary from the covered sidewalk.
“Mary, Jesus, where are you?”
I curl up into the smallest of balls, leaning against the trunk of the tree. I close my eyes. I can hear the voice saying something, but it’s foggy. Zachary’s voice gets foggy, and before I know it, I’m out.
The clouds have gone black by the time I wake up, but the rain beats on. I shimmy down the tree. The voice is loud, but unclear and it makes my head hurt. The way my jeans stick to my thighs make me waddle, so I waddle back down the covered sidewalk. The voice is louder, getting steadily clearer. I pass the room the housekeeper stays in on my way out, now locked closed for the night. The voice is blaring now, but it sounds like a parent from a Peanuts cartoon. I waddle down back to my room, looking for my key. I’m looking down and patting my pockets when the voice is finally clear.
Stolen!
I look up to see my door wide open.
Stolen
I walk in. The radio is smashed on the floor. The baby puke green towels are thrown around. The mattress has been turned over, white sheets and pillows everywhere.
STOLEN! The voice is a choir in my head.
I back out of the room, and close my eyes hard. The beige concrete underneath me seems to wobble and spin, and even with my eyes closed, the rest of the world seems to move with it. I hear Zachary’s running footsteps behind me.
“Mary, there you. Look, I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t−”
“It’s gone!” I yell over him and open my eyes.
“What?” Zachary breaths, looking to our open door.
“They took the Specter! It’s gone!”
Zachary goes on a swearing rampage, walking into our room. The voice is a flock of voices, all whispering.
Where are you? I think.
The whispers become frantic.
I hush Zachary. Where are you.
“What−”
“Sssssh,” I say. Where are you.
Find me. Follow me. The voice says.
I look out in front of me. Out to footprints in the mud. Out to a baby blue trail of light into the evergreen woods with heat coming from that direction.
Find me!
“This way!” I call out to Zachary.
I book it into the rain, mud trying to suck my bare feet into the ground. Zachary’s thudding boots follow me. We’re in the woods before soon, dodging trees and the fallen branches. There’s a part of my head that realizes that I’ve never run like this. That I’ve never been this agile. Never been this quick. Never been this fearless of the dark forest. But before it can start to interfere with my major train of thought, I’m sliding down a slope, skidding to a stop right behind a bush. Zachary slides up beside me, crouching low. On the other side of this bush, is a clearing. A clearing full of dead leaves and old cars and wet, brown grass. A clearing with a old shack standing on its own will in the middle of it. The light and heat and voice is loudest there. Zachary whispers something that I don’t catch. I close my eyes to concentrate. Zachary whispers again, more urgent. I shake my head. There’s a plan unfolding in my head. Scenes of different scenarios playing and rewinding and changing. The world’s nothing but a choir of different whispers in different languages in different voices by the time Zachary puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Mary,” he snaps me out of it.
“I, it, has a plan,” I whisper. “But we have to act now.”
“Just wait a minute,” he says. “We need to talk about earlier and−”
“There’s no time for that,” I whisper-scream, giving him a stern look.
Zachary sighs in a huff, nods. “I’m on your heels.”
We move in unison out of the woods. Sloshing with the weakest of sound in the mud, we reach the shack. Zachary moves to one side of the beaded door. I hide myself of the other. There’s a laugh from inside, and a sharp hush follows.
“Man, I can’t believe that worked!” A scratched voice says. “Can you believe it?”
“Of course, numbnuts,” a country twanged voice says. “I wouldn’t believe it if we didn’t have this beauty.”
There’s a sharp and intense rise of heat in my stomach at that. I wince a little.
“What I can’t believe,” the twanged voice says, “is that a girl is supposedly carrying this thing around. It makes no sense, a weak little thing doing something like this.”
Zachary inhales, jaw locking.
“Maybe the guy brought her along because he felt bad,” the scratched voice reasons.
I can hear the metal of Zachary’s fingers clank together, finding themselves in a tight fist.
“Or maybe he brought her along for another reason,” the other says. There’s a roar of laughter from both.
Zachary starts to move to stand in front of the door. I hold up a hand to stop him. He goes back to his place by the door, jaw locking and unlocking dangerously.
“Come on, man, let’s go get a beer,” the twanged voice says. There’s a click when the back door closes, and an uneasy purr of an aging Cadillac, and the dim headlights lights light up the side of the house. It drives by us, and into the woods. When I can’t see the brake lights, I move into the house, Zachary on my heels. The shack is lit by a single candle on a single table. Right next to our staff. I make a beeline to it, walking on my toes, head swimming in an ocean of urgent whispers and yells. There’s a distance clank. A murmur. I grab the staff.
The world explodes.
Zachary’s screaming, voice overlapping with the sounds of a twanged bark and scratched roar. There’s a bang that echoes throughout the shack. The staff is fire hot in my hand.
Move, child!
The men storm into their home. Zachary takes a defensive stance in front of me. There’s a slight pain in my arm.
“I told you something was wrong, George,” the man with the scratched voice says. His face is barely lit by the single candle, shinny with rain and hollow with malnutrition.
“I guess you were right,” the man with the twang says. He has scar on his fat cheek and his bald head shines in the candlelight. A gun gleams in his hand.
“We’re going to take this staff,” Zachary says cooly. “And we’re going to leave. And you’re not going to follow us.”
George seethes. “I’ve got the gun! I get to say what’s gonna happen!”
“Hey now, we don’t want any trouble,” Zachary says, raising his hands in the air. There’s a shot, and a piece of floorboard break off.
“Stop talking!” George says. “Patty, grab the rope from the drawer,” he orders the skinny one.
The skinny one nods, rushing over to the drawer on the opposite wall. Zachary speaks up again.
“We just want the-”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” George screams. I jump.
Patty walks back over to his partner in crime with a handful of large rope. Zachary shifts to stand more in front of me.
George calms himself. “Now what’s gonna happen,” he says, “is that my buddy Patty here is gonna tie both of you up, and we’re gonna take that there stick, and we’re gonna leave. Then we’ll be big damn heroes, won’t we Patty?”
Patty nods eagerly, head bobbing like a dog for a treat.
“Big damn heroes,” he says. His hands run over the rope, creeping close to us. One step, two step, lightly until he’s an inch from Zachary’s face. He laughs. “Don’t you worry, I’ll tie her up, nice and tight.”
Zachary thrusts forward, head knocking into Patty’s. He’s a storm of punches after that, even swing connecting with a harsh smack. Patty screams, flailing his arms around in weak defense. He calls for help from George, who stands there taken aback. I go to move, to run out of the beaded door, but am stopped by another shot. The hardwood floor in of me sparks where the bullets hits. My arm starts to sting. Zachary stops swinging on a bloodied Patty, who takes the opportunity to shove Zachary back in my direction.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, sweetpea,” George says, taking control of the situation. I creep back to my spot.
The voice starts planning again, scene after scene constructing and destroying and reconstructing themselves in my head. When it fades out, it speaks to me.
Do you trust me?
Yes, I think without hesitation. In that instant, I can feel another force in my head, thinking at top speed.
If I can distract them long enough I can get the gun and get us out of here−two against two−easy odds seeing how they’re fucking stupid and Mary can sort of fight−but her arm−shit I should have been−
What’s wrong with my arm? I think. The force stops. Zachary’s body tenses.
Patty goes back to readying the rope. George barks to tie me up first.
Mary? Was that…
I start to think something to Zachary, but the voice intervenes. Zachary, stop focusing on the gun. Grab the staff. Run.
I can feel Zachary’s full range of emotions as he reacts. Surprise, to anger, to a compromising mood, all the way back to anger. His brain is racing, every thought louder than what’s going on around us. You’re fucking insane! There’s no way−
Trust in us, Zachary.
His thoughts are gone before he can think of a reply.
What happens next will be frightening. For this, I am sorry, the voice says.
I start to feel dizzy, and my arm hurts more. Patty is close on me now, the edges of his skinny body fading out. What he and George are saying isn’t clear. My vision blurs until I can’t even see. I feel the rope around my arms, but it’s gone soon. There’s a loud yell from Patty. George’s voice strains. Something pulls the staff from my grasp. Zachary’s voice yells something, before there’s a close scream back. My hands wrap around something hot. The last thing I hear is the ringing of gunshots.
My feet slosh in mud, the steady rain finding its way to ground. My vision clears to the sight of the forest around me. The clouds have lighten with the rising sun behind them. My hands are empty, and my head and arm hurts. A heat comes from behind me, mixing with the smell of burning wood. I start to look back.
Don’t look back, the voice whispers, softer than it has ever been.
What happened? I ask.
There isn’t an answer. Just an uneasy quiet in my head. I keep walking, but stop when I go over what I remember. I gasp, frantically looking around.
“Zachary?” I call.
He ran before you, the voice soothes.
Where did he go? I ask. “Zachary!” I call for him.
If he is as smart as I hope he is, he ran back to where you had been before.
I bolt in that direction. I run straight through small branches and twigs. It takes no time to break through the forest, and back into the front of the motel. I run straight up to my door. It’s closed now, and the lights are off. I stand there, breathing rapidly, before looking for my key with quick pats to my person. I dig it out of my pocket and shove it into the lock. The door clicks and opens with a groan, swinging on one hinge. I storm in, walking to where I know the lamp is, and flick it on. In the light is a clean room. Mattress returned to the frame. Radio back on the nightstand. Towels on some sort of folded stack on the vanity counter. In the light, is a dry Zachary Scotch, standing now in his place on the floor, wearing the sweatpants we stole earlier, hair out freely over his shoulders. His eyes are wide, and his chest is still from not breathing. I let out a huff of air. We stare at each other for one moment. Two moments. We stare at each other until finally we’re both moving, fitting together in a bear hug.
“Jesus Christ,” we both say.
Zachary leans away from me, holding my shoulders. “Are you okay, Mary?”
“I’m fine, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but you are not fine,” he says, looking at my arm.
I finally look at it. My sleeve is red, soaked through with blood.
“Was I shot?” I ask to myself.
“Here, let me wash it,” Zachary says.
We spend the next hour crowded together in the bathroom, me sitting on the toilet and him kneeling on the tiles. He rips my sleeve up enough to see the wound, and gently pats it clean with a wet towel.
“Luckily,” he says when most of the blood is gone, “it’s just a graze. Nothing too deep and nothing keeping it clean and putting pressure on it won’t fix.”
I watch him wrap another clean towel around it, and then ties it all together with a ripped shirt of his. When he’s satisfied with how it looks, he leans back on the balls of his feet.
“There, all done.” He gives a small smile, something a pediatrician would give a child.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’m sorry for being so rude earlier, and I’m sorry for making you worry at all in the first place. I was just…I don’t know what I was. I think I honestly like you a lot, but it’s all so damn confusing, and trying to save the world on top of it all doesn’t help and I’ve been fucking shot at and actually hit and I just,” I start to cry.
Zachary wraps his arms around me and lets me sob into his chest. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “I should be apologizing. I shouldn’t have snapped at you the way I did. You’re an incredible girl, honest. How I acted−how I’ve been acting−was out of line. It was patronizing and selfish and I’m sorry.”
We stay there until my sobs calm into sniffles, and when I’m done, he helps me off the toilet. I climb directly into bed and whisper a soft goodnight. The last thing I hear before I fall asleep is a quiet “Good night, Mary.”