Page 81 of Feast of Sparks (Thornchapel 2)
Focus.
Do not listen to the footsteps above you.
Do not think about the handsome man making them.
And with a vigorous shake of my head, I really do try.
My mother’s room had been neat, if dusty, and fairly easy to divide into sections and tasks, but her office is not neat. Nor is it easy.
She’d been working on two different long-form pieces when she died—one about the evolution of folk customs and the other a more personal one about the last time she’d gone home to Dallas and realized she felt as much British as she did American—or indeed Mexican—after more than twenty years here. Research for both pieces are stacked together. And by research I mean the occasional photocopy or dog-eared book, and then a handful of receipts and envelopes she’d used in place of a notebook. And then that research is piled together with old pictures and typewritten oral histories from the Thorncombe Historical Society, and of course this is just the stack on her desk. I look around at the floor—all loose paper and folders and old books of regional history—and want to give up before I even start.
You want to live in a shrine to loneliness and grief? I hear Poe ask.
No, I should have told her. At least not like this.
With a sigh, I start making piles—money things, research things, Thorncombe Historical Society things. The bills, I can mostly throw away—I caught all the accounts on the next month’s round after the hospital and got the utilities transferred to my name. Same with the bank statements. There’d been so little in her accounts when she died that even I’d been surprised—I didn’t even have to pay a probate fee when it came time.
I’m almost done with the pile on her desk when my name in her round, pretty handwriting catches my eye.
St. Sebastian
—Death —S. Muerte —Giorgetti —Perth
She must have been planning to write about my name and what it means, although whether that was in connection to the folk customs article or going back to Dallas, I don’t know. And I probably never will.
Creak, creak, creak.
My heart flips over inside my chest, as if it’s trying to float up to where Auden is.
I resolutely push it back down in my chest, and look back down at the receipt, trying to focus on the dead and the strange little mysteries the dead leave behind when they go.
Perth. She never told me what that name meant, not really. She’d told me that it was for my father and his family, although I haven’t encountered another Perth on the Davey side. Not that I’ve asked. My place in my father’s family is too shaky for me to feel comfortable to do any kind of digging; I don’t want to ask questions and then have them remember how different I am, how outside of their nest I am even still.
Creak.
I drop the receipt in the research pile, and then there’s a folder full of old pictures of young men holding strange headdresses and giving big sepia smiles to the camera and—
Creak.
I stand up without bothering to close the folder and concede defeat. I can’t stand it a moment longer. Having Auden here, so close, is like having helicopter rotors spinning in my chest, and with each whump-whump of my pulse, I can feel my resolve breaking.
I make to walk out of the office and accidentally kick something clangy and big under a pile of papers and send paper everywhere as I do. I hop awkwardly over the pile without looking to see what it is and then creep up the stairs as quietly (but as quickly) as I can.
I’m really not sure what I expect he’s found, although I do expect to be humiliated by it. Why would I not, when I’m still the same poor kid gaping at his designer pants and he’s—well, he’s him? But when I turn into my doorway, I don’t see my entire room upturned on my bed in an exhibit of a shabby life, I don’t see him thumbing through my journals with amusement or poking at my sex toys with disgust. Instead, I find him sitting on the floor, his back against the bed, my old iPod in one hand and earbuds in his ears. He’s got one strong leg drawn up with an arm resting atop it, and he’s got his head leaned back against the bed as he listens. His eyes are closed, and there’s a slight tilt to one side of his mouth, like he’s on the verge of a smile.
He’s listening to my music.
He opens his eyes to see me standing frozen in the doorway, but he doesn’t lift his head. Instead, he gives me a lazy, hooded smile.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi,” I say back. “Please tell me you didn’t find what I think you did.”
“You mean,” Auden says, a little mischievously, “the playlist called Auden + Proserpina?”
I slump against the doorway, hanging my head, almost wishing he’d found the sex toys instead. But of course, he doesn’t let me feel my shame in peace. He gets up and walks over to me, and while I’m still slumped and staring down at his pretty shoes wondering why I’m destined to live without a single shred of dignity, Auden’s warm fingertips brush my ear. They secure an earbud in with the utmost gentleness and care, and then I hear the soft strains of a Death Cab for Cutie song.
“I like this one,” Auden says softly. His fingers linger around my ear and jaw while the music plays for us both. “It’s very sad and sweet at the same time. Like you.”
