MORTAL COILS (4 page)

2.
One artifact found intact at the Oakwood Apartments site was a Complete Works
of William Shakespeare, published in the eighteenth century (ref catalog:
49931-D). It is intriguing as every mythological reference had been stricken
with an indelible marker. For example, passages mentioning Hecate, and the
entire scene with the three witches, had been redacted from Macbeth. Gods of
the First and Twenty-first Century, Volume 11: The Post Family Mythology, 8th
ed. (Zypheron Press Ltd.).

Francisco
and the heart of California’s wine country; its location was perfect to siphon
money from tourists.

Eliot
walked straight into Fiona as if she weren’t there.

She
turned and saw why. His eyes had been glued to Linda, who waited tables today.
Linda had that effect on guys.

Fiona
grabbed Eliot by the shoulders and pointed him toward the swinging kitchen
door. “Better get busy before Mike comes looking,” she murmured.

He
blinked. “Right.”

“Keep
your head above water.” This was a not-so-veiled reference to his height, his
poor swimming ability, and the gigantic sink where he’d be spending the next
four hours.

Eliot
glowered, then brightened as he thought of his own insult: “Keep it clean.”

This
was a reference to the messy reality of Fiona’s job: busing tables at Ringo’s
meant getting up close and personal with spattered marinara sauce, spilled
olive oil, cornmeal crumbs . . . all of which got in her dress and her hair no
matter how careful she was. And although she showered every night, the scents
lingered.

Eliot
pushed through the kitchen door, and Fiona grabbed the busing cart by the wall,
maneuvering it back toward the party room.

She
observed Linda as she chatted with the customers about the road and the
weather. Customers always laughed at Linda’s jokes, and when she suggested the
pasta special, they usually ordered it. Maybe it was her looks. She could have
been a model with her perfect makeup, spiky blond hair, and the way her skirt,
pink shirt, and long, curved nails seemed to color coordinate.

Linda
even deflected Mike’s come-ons, somehow smiling all the time as he stood too
close and stared at her. She always had an excuse not to go out with him, yet
he never got angry with her.

She
spotted Fiona, gave her a nod and a smile, which instantly faded.

Just
like Mike, Linda managed to appear friendly to Fiona without ever really being
friendly.

Fiona
waved awkwardly and looked away. She straightened her dress, although no matter
what she did, it still looked wrinkled. She wished she had the nerve to tell
Cee she hated the clothes she made them, but that would have broken the old
woman’s heart.

She
snuck another glance at Linda, laughing with her customers. They left her great
tips. It wasn’t just her looks. Linda knew how to talk to people. Fiona would
have given anything to be as confident. Every time she had to talk to
strangers, her heart pounded so hard she could barely hear her own mouse voice
as it tried to squeak out something clever. She couldn’t look someone in the
eyes to save her life, and she spent most of the day staring at her feet.

If
shyness were a disease, Fiona would have been rushed to intensive care and put
on a social respirator.

She
sighed and halted at the party room doors.

Something
was wrong; they were shut.

The
party room was always left open during the day so customers could see the large
table that sat two dozen, the wet bar and the television, and be tempted to
book it for sports events or birthday parties. Forty dollars and it was yours
for the evening.

Then
the smell hit her: vanilla and pesto and an acrid scent that wasn’t food . . .
anymore.

She
stiffened and pulled the sliding doors apart.

It
was instantly apparent what had happened last night: twenty sugar-crazed spider
monkeys had been locked in this room under the pretense of a six-year-old’s
birthday party. Scattered on the walls, floor, and only by the sheerest of
coincidences the table, were pasta, pizza crusts, globs of congealed cheese,
baby-blue frosting, and pools of melted ice cream. And over everything was a
sprinkling of confetti.

In
the corner was a chunky orange spatter, and Fiona then understood that when
Mike had told her someone on the night shift had gotten sick, he didn’t mean
one of the staff.

Fiona
pushed the cart in and closed the doors behind her. No need to expose the
paying customers to this.

She
pulled a hairnet over her head, then tied a bandanna over this. Next came a
chin-to-knee, white linen apron, and finally she snapped on thick rubber
gloves. This was her armor.

She
swept up the confetti, food, and bits of wrapping paper (which had tiny robots
on it). She then used the dustpan to scrape off slimier things.

Fiona
wondered what it would be like to have a real birthday party. She and Eliot had
a brief ceremony on the morning of their birthdays. Cee tried to make something
special for breakfast, and they pretended to enjoy it. There were presents:
books usually, pen sets, or blank journals. But never wrapped in colored paper.
And certainly not paper with robots printed on it.

Of
course to have a real birthday party you needed friends and balloons and games.
Fiona could never see that happening in Grandmother’s apartment.

She
halted in the middle of sponging up a puddle of olive oil, suddenly angry at
Grandmother and her 106 rules.

Could
Fiona be like Linda without those rules? Able to speak to people? Smile? Keep
her eyes off her shoes? She wouldn’t have a job. She’d have spent her summers
at her friends’ houses, slumber parties, and midnight movies . . . mythological
occurrences that seemed far less real to her than the dusty histories on the
shelves of her room.

Fiona
felt drained. She would just lie down and they could find her here at the end
of the shift.

A
flash caught her eye. A fleck of red foil, partially hidden under a paper
plate, glimmered. She moved the plate and spied a piece of unwrapped candy.
Printed on it were the words ULTRA DARK SPECIAL.

Her
heart quickened and she stepped closer.

It
was chocolate.

While
not specifically forbidden by Grandmother’s rules, it was as rare in her life
as a day without homework. Cee had it in the kitchen, semi-sweet chips, cocoa
powder, or sometimes a brick of bitter baking chocolate . . . which she then
transformed into cookies, mole, and Christmas fudge—that were only by a loosest
definition “eatable.” Fiona had snuck a taste once, a few chips before Cee had
rapped her knuckles with a wooden spoon. It had been worth it.

She
gingerly removed one glove and picked up the morsel. It was heart-shaped and
was at first cold, but then quickly warmed to her touch.

Should
she save it for after work? No. A million things could happen between now and
then to the tiny sweet—dunked in water, smashed, stolen—best to eat it now.

What
about Eliot? She should share it with him, shouldn’t she?

It was
so small, though. Maybe two bites.

She
removed her other glove and carefully peeled back the red foil. Inside was a
dark lozenge of black with swirls of midnight and eddies of the deepest brown.
She inhaled a rich scent of something inexplicable: it was secrets and love and
whispers.

She
took the tiniest bite.

The
chocolate was smooth and yielded to her teeth. She closed her eyes and let it
dissolve on her tongue, spreading like velvet. Warmth coursed through her blood
into her chest and stomach and thighs. The melting confection was sweet and
bitter, smoky and electrically wonderful, and it slid over her palate.

She
swallowed and her pulse thundered. She inhaled and held her breath a long
moment, then let it all out with a sigh.

It
was so good.

And
then it was gone.

Was
that what it would be like to kiss a boy? Like falling? Prickly heat and chills
at the same time?

She
looked at the half morsel still in her hand, one side scalloped from her bite.
Her mouth watered.

As
much as she wanted it, she steeled herself, then with great and deliberate care
wrapped it back within the red foil.

That
was for Eliot. He deserved a little goodness on his birthday, too.

She
folded the chocolate in a clean paper towel and slid the precious package into
her dress pocket.

Fiona
pulled her gloves back on.

She
felt better now. Full of energy.

Fiona
finished cleaning the room faster than she ever imagined she could. The wooden
floor and the Formica table gleamed. The only scent left in the place was a
faint whiff of pine cleaner . . . although if she tried, Fiona could still
remember the way the chocolate smelled.

She
touched her pocket to make sure it was still there.

Fiona
then opened the doors and pushed the now laden cart back to the kitchen.

As
she wheeled through the swinging door, a blast of steamy air washed over her,
along with the smells of strong soap and bleach. The day-shift cook gave her a
quick wave. Each of Johnny’s massive hands could toss a whirling cake of dough
into the air at the same time. He returned his attention to the ovens. He had
five pizzas in there, all bubbling with molten cheese.

Eliot
was in the back of the kitchen, by the deep fryer. He stood hunched over the
sink, which was as large as a bathtub. On either side towered stacks of
sauce-spattered dishes, pans, and pots, all apparently left from last night.

Mike
was always doing this to her and her brother: coming in the night before and
telling the late shift to leave their mess for them.

Did
he pick on Eliot because of his homemade clothes? Because he was smaller? Or
did Fiona’s refusing his offers have something to do with it?

She
would never understand Mike Poole, and she didn’t particularly want to, either.

“Need
help?” she asked.

Eliot
continued to scrub under the dingy water. “I’m fine.” He tried to wipe the suds
off his forehead, but his hand was just as soapy and left a new trail of scum
there.

Fiona
took the edge of her apron and wiped his face.

“Thanks,”
he whispered.

Fiona
then removed the paper towel containing the chocolate from her pocket. She set
it on a high shelf far away from the sink.

“No
one’s going to notice if I’m gone for a few minutes,” she told him. “I’m
helping.”

Eliot
nodded, unable to say “thank you” twice to his sister in the same day. She
understood; it was apparently against the brother-sister code of never being
too nice to one another.

Fiona
stepped up to a stack of dishes. Cheese, sauces, and pasta had hardened to
iron-hard consistency overnight.

Eliot
scraped off the worst of the gunk with a steel spatula, then did a pre-rinse in
scalding water before he handed the offending plate to her for final wash and
rinse.

In
ten minutes working together they moved half of one stack to the drying racks.

Fiona’s
hair was plastered to her forehead, and her apron was soaked through.