The Contradiction of Solitude Read online

  But Elian conformed to the space around him. Fitting in unobtrusively.

  His question, however, irritated me.

  “With your friends?” I asked, handing him a spoon to stir his drink. The sun was finally starting to go down. I felt as though it had been in the sky for far too long. I felt more relaxed once the light dimmed.

  Elian laughed a little, sounding strained. “Yeah, my friends. Tate’s having a few people over to watch the UFC match on pay-per-view. I just thought it might be nice. You know, because we’re…uh…well, you’re my…”

  I let him flounder. I didn’t define the role he was trying to place on me.

  I refused.

  “Anyway, I just thought you could get to know them. They’re decent enough guys.” He stirred his coffee, the spoon clanging against the side of the mug.

  “Are they?” I asked.

  He stopped stirring and put the spoon on the table, sticky, brown liquid pooling on the surface.

  I gritted my teeth.

  “Yes, they are,” he said firmly. He seemed flustered. Thinking about my question. Letting it ruminate.

  “Okay,” I agreed.

  He looked happy. Relieved.

  I wasn’t either of those things.

  Not now.

  Maybe later.

  Tate still lived with his parents, who happened to be out of town. The first thing I noticed as we walked into the small bungalow was the smell of stale cigarettes and nachos.

  The sounds of yelling from somewhere within had me slowing my steps and taking my time.

  No need to rush forward.

  I wasn’t there by choice.

  Elian had gone home to shower and change, leaving me alone for only forty-five minutes. I barely had time to register he was gone by the time he had come back.

  He was happy. So happy. He wanted to show off his pretty new girl to his ill begotten friends.

  His pretty new girl wanted nothing to do with ill begotten friends.

  She wanted Dancing Green Eyes, joyful and full, all to herself.

  The house was small and unloved. Falling apart and to the brim with neglect.

  More shouting.

  Laughter.

  Noise.

  I wanted to leave.

  Elian’s grip on my hand was so tight it hurt. I gripped his just as painfully. He didn’t mind. He was holding my hand. He was ready to present me to the only people in his life.

  The people that he had chosen to let into his make believe world.

  I was curious about this Elian he had given them.

  Because I knew it wasn’t the real one.

  The one from Diamond Creek, Pennsylvania.

  So while I would rather take him away from all of this, to keep him with me always, I’d bide my time. So I could see the show he chose to perform.

  “Elian! My man! You made it! The match has already started!” The person I knew as Tate, waved from a threadbare couch in the center of a cluttered living room. Tacky curtains and nicotine-stained walls did little mask the smell of decay that hung in the air.

  The 50-inch television blared at an ear splitting volume. The room felt packed with heaving, sweaty male bodies, hollering at men bleeding on the screen.

  “Hey guys!” Elian yelled over the din. A simultaneous lifting of hands was the only indication that he was heard.

  “They get really into their UFC,” he yelled into my ear. I heard him. I always heard him. He didn’t need to yell.

  “Elian!” A squeal. A flurry of hands and lips. Two girls wrapped uncovered arms around his neck and pressed him close. Away from me. Pulling. Pulling. Away.

  I narrowed my eyes as I watched Margie and a girl I didn’t recognize hug and kiss the man who I had come there with.

  Mine.

  Elian moved back to my side instantly. Like a good boy, he took my hand once again. I rewarded him with a smile. I knew how much he loved them.

  “Girls, this is Layna. My girlfriend,” Elian announced, proud of himself. So sure. So confident. Easy grins and charming words.

  This was their Elian Beyer.

  Both women looked at me. Margie’s expression one of contempt. The other woman wore a look of interest.

  “A new girl huh? That was quick,” the unrecognizable woman laughed, poking Margie in the side and giving her a pointed look. I didn’t like her.

  I thought of my fingers in her eyes, gouging, pulling. Blood on the floor. Skin in tattered clumps in my hands. She wouldn’t laugh then. The only noise would be her screams.

  “Gail, shut up, all right? Don’t make this awkward for Layna.” Elian’s threat was all words and no guts. He was smiles and teasing. He was easygoing and not hard enough.

  Gail had the decency to look ashamed of her behavior. She held out her hand. “I’m Gail. I’ve known Elian since he moved here. I’m Tate’s…whatever…nice to meet you.”

  I didn’t take her hand. I let her hold it out in front of her, hovering, empty. Her mouth pursed, her expression souring.

  “Okay then. There’s nachos and beer in the kitchen. You guys are the last ones to arrive, so I’m not sure how much stuff is left.” Margie whispered something in Gail’s ear and they both looked at me. I stared back.

  Elian fidgeted beside me. “Uh, okay. Thanks. I think we’ll see what beer is left.” He pulled me away, out of the room. Into a semblance of quiet.

  “She doesn’t mean to be a bitch, Layna. But she’s Margie’s friend,” he said by way of explanation. Embarrassed. Mortified. Wanting me to pretend just like he does.

  “I’m thirsty. Let’s get something to drink,” I said, ignoring his efforts to talk about what had just happened with the insignificant Gail, Tate’s whatever.

  “Do you want a beer?” Elian asked, opening the refrigerator. Cheese and tortilla chips were strewn across the counter tops. The floor was sticky underneath my shoes.

  “Water, please,” I said, looking around.

  “It’s not normally this bad. But Tate’s parents’ are out of town, so he won’t bother to clean until right before they come home,” Elian explained. Always explaining.

  I took the glass he offered and sipped. Elian popped the top off a bottle and took a long, nervous gulp. He was beginning to think that bringing me here wasn’t such a good idea. He knew I could see what he was.

  Who he was.

  He hadn’t thought this through.

  “Do you want to go watch the match? I can introduce you to the rest of the guys. They’re not as bad as Margie and Gail.”

  I took another drink. Considering.

  “Okay,” I agreed. I wanted to see more.

  Elian took my free hand and led me back to the living room. No one looked up as we entered.

  “Can you make some room for us, Tate?” Elian asked. His voice tight. Tense.

  Tate patted the cushion beside him. “Your hot Denny’s chick can sit right here next to me. You can go fuck yourself.” His laugh was grating. Too loud.

  I didn’t take the offered seat.

  Tate’s smile dropped and he moved over. “I didn’t mean anything by it. Sure, have a seat guys.” More polite this time. Elian gave my hand a tug and pulled me down next to him on the disgusting couch. Elian next to Tate.

  “Is this the chick that’s had you MIA for the last couple of weeks?” a guy wearing a faded blue baseball cap and missing front teeth asked. I recognized him from the concert in the park. Stan. I drank more of my water, watching Elian as he put on a mask for these people he called friends.

  “Her name is Layna Whitaker. Use it fuck face.” Again the smiles. No real venom. Who was this man?

  Elian slung his arm around my shoulder and I pulled away. He looked hurt. Confused.

  But then he was smiling again. Easy and comfortable. “This ugly fuck is Stan Biggers. I’m pretty sure you met him at the concert.” I nodded. “He and Nathan right there, work at George’s studio with Tate, Margie, and me.”

  “Oh,” I responded, turning to the
television. A man’s lip split open, blood on the mat.

  Blood everywhere…

  “Are you okay being here?” Elian whispered in my ear.

  I turned to look at him, our noses an inch a part. Our eyes met and clung. Holding on. And there he was.

  Elian.

  The man I knew.

  “Are you?” I asked.

  He blinked in surprise at my question.

  “None of that shit during the match,” the man named Nathan yelled, throwing a pillow at Elian.

  “Damn, E, I can see why you’ve been hiding her away, she’s fucking hot,” Stan sneered, scratching his crotch. Hate. Hate. Despise.

  Tate’s guffaws were too much. He smacked Elian on the back of the head.

  Then I saw it.

  Their Elian went hiding. Gone.

  He picked up the pillow and threw it back at Stan, hard. Violent. It hit Stan in the face, knocking his glasses onto the floor, his beer slipping out of his hand. Stan hadn’t expected that sort of response from the Elian he knew.

  I smiled.

  I grinned.

  I anticipated.

  “Back the fuck off, Stan.” Elian’s shouting had everyone’s attention. Open mouthed shock mirrored on all the faces.

  Not on mine.

  Never on mine.

  “What the hell? I was just joking around,” Stan growled, picking up his glasses and putting them back on.

  Elian got to his feet and leaned down into Stan’s intimidated face. “Don’t you ever talk about her like that. I’ll knock the rest of your teeth down your fucking throat!”

  “Whoa! Hang on a second—” Tate began, trying to pull Elian back.

  Elian turned on his friend and shoved him. Hard.

  I put a hand over my mouth in feigned fright. But I wasn’t frightened.

  I was delighted.

  “What’s wrong, Elian?” Margie exclaimed, appearing beside him and putting her hand on his arm.

  I stopped watching Elian. I turned my attention to the TV screen. The flying fists and the mangled flesh.

  I bit on my lip, not listening as Elian stomped all over the man his friends knew him to be.

  “Come on, Layna.” Elian pulled on my arm, and I went with him without hesitation.

  We left Tate’s house and went back to my apartment.

  We closed ourselves up inside. Just the two of us.

  Alone.

  Where we belonged.

  “You want to go for a drive, sweetheart?”

  He smelled like spearmint. And tobacco. My favorite smells in the whole, wide world.

  “Yes, Daddy!” I squealed and jumped into his open arms. He hadn’t been away on a fishing trip in over six months. It had been nice having him home. I loved his attention. I knew he liked being with me more than Matty.

  Matty cried a lot. He was a whiner. Mommy was always telling my brother that superheroes don’t cry. That would just make him cry harder.

  Sometimes when she wasn’t looking, I’d pinch him on the arm. Then he’d scream. I liked that better than the crying.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Daddy didn’t answer me. That was okay. Sometimes he was quiet, and I knew he was thinking. I didn’t bother him when he was thinking. Mommy would get upset when he didn’t talk to her. Matty would throw things to get his attention.

  But not me. I knew that the things in his head were more important.

  “You’re the only one that will ever understand, Lay,” Daddy would always tell me. He was right. I understood. I thought about things too. Lots of things.

  Awful things.

  Things that made Mommy mad when I told her.

  “Don’t you dare say those horrible things in this house ever again! Your brother might hear you! And don’t you go to school and say them either. They stay inside your head. Where they belong.”

  She didn’t like my stories. I would whisper them to myself when I was alone. I liked to say them at night. In the dark. When the monsters were under the bed ready to eat me.

  Daddy loaded me up in the car. I buckled the seat belt. I hated sitting in the booster seat but Mommy said I was still too young to get rid of it.

  I was eight years old and in the third grade. I was way past needing a booster seat.

  Daddy took it out of his car. He agreed with me.

  “Where are we going, Daddy? Will we be gone long?” I asked. Mommy and Matty were at the store. I didn’t know if Daddy left them a note.

  “I’m not sure, Lay. Let’s make a new star story. What do you say?”

  I kicked my legs up and down in excitement.

  A new story!

  “Please, Daddy! I want to find a new star!”

  Daddy looked at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes, the only thing I could ever remember about him looking back at me. Coal black. A monster’s eyes.

  My monster.

  “I’ll get a star just for you, Layna.”

  Just for you.

  I noticed things about Elian.

  He was focused. Driven. Fixated and obsessed.

  He spent countless hours toiling over his craft. His guitars. Cutting and sanding wood. Carefully putting the pieces together. Lining them up and making sure they were perfect.

  He handled them lovingly. They were important to him. His great passion.

  He made guitars but would never play them.

  I knew he was a musician. I could tell by the way his fingers drummed along to the beat of a song as we drove in his car. I heard the melodies he hummed when he thought I wasn’t listening.

  But when I suggested he play the guitar I had purchased, the one he had made, he refused.

  Then he became angry. Livid. He slammed the lid of the case shut and shoved the instrument back to where I kept it behind the couch. Out of sight. Far, far away.

  “Don’t ask me that, Layna! Just leave it alone!”

  I wondered about Elian and his rage that quietly simmered. The haunted expression that he wore at the best of times and the anguished scowl at the worst.

  I picked him apart, looking for what he wouldn’t tell me.

  But I knew parts of it already.

  The day would come when he would too.

  He’d put it together. Like our two stars. The same. Connected.

  He was running. So far and so long away from the things he was scared of. He had no idea that what he thought he had left behind was right here. In front of him.

  Kissing him with practiced dishonesty.

  Loving him with open armed treachery.

  He sucked the lies from my tongue like candy. Their seduction tasted sweet but shredded like razor blades when swallowed.

  Guilt.

  It was there.

  It could change me.

  Alter what was meant to happen.

  Could it?

  I hoped so. I fought so hard against the very nature of who I was. But Elian…my choice—he was making it easy to fight.

  Matt, my brother, my link to a girl I had once been…he had been my call to Jesus. He had always been my grip on a slowly disappearing morality.

  But Elian…

  He could help me hold onto that thing that I had been so ready to lose.

  Myself.

  The nature of who we are, as people, as individuals, was determined in the womb. Our personalities were formed in those months before breath. It was unchanging. Who we became. It was so much more than nurture. It was in the blood and guts—at the root of who we were meant to be.

  Loving and knowing my father had shown me the inescapable hold of family. Of their dominion over who we were to become.

  I knew I had inherited the monster. I was so sure of it.

  But with Elian…there was now a maybe.

  If only the shadows unremembered didn’t lay in wait ready to strike. Ready to destroy. Ready to maim.

  Ready to eat me whole.

  “Hi Lieutenant Orwell, my name is Kaitlyn Sandburg and I work at the Dentonville Chron
icle. I’m looking to start a new piece on cold case files. I was told by a colleague about the unsolved murder of Janette Winters. I was wondering if you had a moment to answer a few of my questions.”

  I chewed on the end of my pen and hoped I was talking to a gossiper. Someone not interested in protocols but wanting to dish about the stain on their small town.

  Sometimes reading the newspaper articles weren’t enough. I needed more. It wasn’t enough for me to be sure. To know…

  “What questions do you have, sugar?”

  I didn’t even bristle at the condescending endearment from a complete stranger. He was open to giving me answers.

  “I heard she was seventeen. Was she from Dentonville?”

  I heard the squeak of a chair as though Lieutenant Orwell was leaning back and getting comfortable. “No. She was from Jackson, which as you know, is about an hour away. I’m going off the top of my head here, just from what I remember. I wasn’t on the force the time. Hell, I was still in high school.” Obnoxious laughter. “How old are you Miss Sandburg? It is Miss, right?”

  “Yes it is. There’s no Mr. At least not yet.” I oozed charm. When necessary I was capable of it. “When was the murder?”

  “Uh, ‘96, I think.”

  “Oh, well I was just wearing a training bra then,” I chuckled. Lieutenant Orwell laughed too. He liked that.

  “Huh…well I’m guessing you’re all filled out now.”

  Time to get the information I had called for. “So about the murder. My colleague told me that her throat was slit? Anything else you remember about the body that was unusual?”

  I started tapping my pen on the table. My head felt thick. The closer I came to him the harder it was to hold onto me.

  But I had to know…

  “Hmm. Hang on a sec.” I heard muffled voices and knew that he had covered the phone with his hand.

  “Yeah, I just asked another officer, and he said her hands were cut off. It was really grisly stuff. And that where she was found was not where she was killed. She had been dumped.”

  Buzz…

  “Okay, thank you so much,” I said weakly. I hung up the phone without saying goodbye.

  Janette Winters. I pulled up her picture on my laptop. Shoulder length hair, dark. Curly. Far away eyes. I couldn’t tell their color. That didn’t really matter anyway. It was the way she looked through them that I cared about.