Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [140]
Where are you, Claude? and she looked at the window, although she couldn’t see anything for the bedsheet she’d made Claude thumb-tack over it, could only tell how soon it would be dark. You fuckin’ promised, man, and Christ, she hadn’t even wanted the fucking coffee.
“But you are going to drink it, and you are going to sober up,” he’d said. “He’s dead, not you. What happened to Keith, that wasn’t about you, Dar. That was just about him, and nobody but him and all the shit he couldn’t deal with anymore.” And it hadn’t mattered that she’d screamed at him for saying that, had hurled an ashtray across the room at him, dumping butts and ash and putting another dent in the walls.
He’d gone anyway, thirty-five minutes now.
She looked away from the window, tried not to think about time or the setting sun, bad dreams or the distant storm sounds; He’ll be back soon, and she looked into each of the room’s three remaining corners, one after the other, corners Claude had cleaned so meticulously for her, swept away every trace of cobweb and sprayed them with Hot Shot; indulging her.
The thunder again, but no lightning, not yet, and the windowpane rattled a little. Daria lit another cigarette and waited for Claude, the can of bug spray gripped tightly in one hand, and she watched the empty corners.
2.
She’d been at the Bean, one hour into her Monday night shift, when Mort had come in, stoop-shouldered Mort and Theo in his shadow, her eyes red, puffy, and that had been the first thing, the realization that Theo had been crying, and Daria had just never thought about Theo Babyock crying. The coffeehouse was crowded, noisy, afterwork crowd, and she’d been too busy, still furious and pouring it all into the job, the endless procession of lattés and cappuccinos, double espressos and dirty glasses.
“We need to talk, Dar,” he’d said, leaning across the bar so she could hear him over the Rev. Horton Heat and the beehive drone of customer voices.
“I’m busy right now, Mort. Real busy, so if it can wait…” but he’d shaken his head and reached across the bar, held her arm so she had to be still and listen. Theo had turned away, wiping at her nose with a wilted Kleenex.
And she’d seen the red around his eyes, too, and felt sudden cold down in her stomach, belly cold, had set down a plastic jug of milk, and, “Yeah,” she’d said, “Okay. Just give me a minute.” Had asked a new girl to cover for her, and then she’d taken off her damp apron, followed Mort and Theo, not to a booth or table (none were empty, anyway), but out the door to stand shivering on the sidewalk.
“What’s going on?” and Mort had brushed his hair back, rubbed his hands together; Theo blew her nose loud, like a cartoon character.
“Keith,” Mort said. “He’s dead, Dar,” just like that, no words minced; at least he hadn’t fucked around the point, hadn’t tried to break it to her gently. And then he’d said it again, “Keith’s dead.”
She’d opened her mouth, but nothing, no words, nothing but the ice from her stomach rising up to meet the cold air spilling over her tongue. And Theo made a strangled little sound, then, like someone had squeezed a puppy too hard, and she walked away from them, fast, chartreuse leather moccasins and the cuffs of her chintzy aqaumarine bell-bottoms showing out from under her long coat.
Daria said something: “Oh,” or “Oh god,” “Oh fuck,” something she couldn’t exactly remember, only that she’d made some sound, a word or two pushed out, and Mort had looked down at his feet.
“We just found out about half an hour ago,” he said.