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  Your friend, Tyee

  I picked up the next letter. They were spaced about three months apart. I riffled through the other piles. None were more recent than this batch, from seven years ago. I scanned them all—the prophet Tyee wrote about had to be Tens.

  Friend,

  I have seen beings—not in a vision, but trailing steps behind me for the past week. I fear they’ve come for Tens—his destiny is tangled in that of your great-niece, this I feel, I have asked a policeman friend to watch him this weekend. I must try to lead them away from him. I pray he’ll find you—the fabric of my life is unraveling. Tyee

  It was as if Tyee had stopped midstride before finishing the story. His penmanship was sloppy and hurried, as if he had been writing under great duress. What does Tens know? How are we tied together?

  I found letters from my mother chronicling events in my life and asking Auntie questions about what to tell me. I questioned whether she’d followed any of Auntie’s advice, since I’d known nothing of Fenestras before coming here. There were postcards from all over the world, signed by people I’d never heard of.

  I opened the bottom drawer and found shears that were perfect for cutting cardboard. They’d do for hair. I grabbed the pile of letters from Tyee and my mom, and the scissors. I didn’t lock the door behind me, certain no one would notice.

  Back in my room, I spread old newspapers on the floor and positioned the mirrors so I could see the back of my head. I inhaled an ample breath and began hacking.

  Chapter 16

  My head felt lighter instantly. With each chunk of hair that fell to the floor, I stood straighter and felt older. My new haircut curled and cupped my chin and made my eyes look bigger. I evened it up as best I could and decided that while I certainly didn’t have any talent for haircutting, it worked.

  I smiled at myself.

  “I’m pretty.” The realization made my eyes light up. I’d never stopped carrying death around long enough to consider my own attractiveness. But the circles under my eyes were now mauve rather than their usual dark plum, and a light pink tinged my cheeks where before there had only been gray or green. Even to my most critical self, I didn’t appear as haunted.

  I wanted to show Tens. I wanted to show Auntie. I raced out of my room and down the stairs, speeding along until I stopped, worried they wouldn’t appreciate the change. I decided to play it cool and wait for one of them to mention it.

  I pursued the scent of garlic and onions into the kitchen. Glenn Miller played on an old tape deck, and Tens, his back to me. Tapped his foot as he stirred.

  I stopped, hesitating, feeling like I was intruding. All my newfound confidence and joy dispersed like smoke. This was the real world. I was an outsider.

  “Can I help?” I asked Tens’s back.

  He didn’t glance up. “We’re having lazy lasagna. You like Italian food?”

  I nodded. “I like trying new things.”

  “Why don’t you butter the bread?” Without looking up. Tens pushed a thick round loaf across the counter to me.

  “‘Kay.” I gave up and slumped into a chair. He wasn’t going to notice anytime soon.

  Silence fell like a foot of fresh snow. I watched the muscles play under Tens’s thin wool sweater. His shoulders were broad, and straight as a razorblade. I liked the way he flipped his hair out of his eyes with a shrug and a tilt. He needed a haircut, because it kept getting in his way. I remembered tangling my fingers in his hair when he carried me upstairs. It felt as shiny and silky as it looked.

  I struggled with the quiet, words clawing at the back of my throat.

  “So?” I finished buttering the loaf and wrapped it in foil. I stood and walked over to Tens, who had finished filling a bowl with ricotta, basil, and mozzarella. “What now?”’ I sidled closer to him. He smelled of woodsmoke and pine sap and soap.

  He stepped away, but I couldn’t tell if the rejection was intentional. “Layer the sauce, noodles, and cheese. Ladle sauce into the pan to start.” All said without a glance at me. Nothing.

  I picked up the ladle and dipped it into the pot as I was instructed. “Where are you from?”

  “Around.” Tens spread the sauce with the end of a noodle, then layered more noodles on top. He’d yet to look at me.

  I decided to shock him into at least acknowledging my presence. “Are you Auntie’s love child?”

  If he’d been drinking, liquid would have come out his nose. As it was, he blinked and shot me a hard glance. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t know. You’re here. She’s here. It’s like you’ve been here forever and you belong.” I didn’t say that he seemed to fit much better than me. “Are you sure you aren’t a Fenestra too?”

  “What the hell did you do to your hair?” he blurted.

  Hurt slapped me, but I lifted my chin. “I like it.” I slopped the cheese mixture in globs on top of the noodles and sauce.

  Tens all but shoved me out of the way. “Uh-uh. So why?”

  “What?”

  “Why did you cut your hair?”

  “I wanted to. Are you a Fenestra?”

  “I don’t like it.” He turned away.

  “I didn’t do it for you.” But God, I had wished him to like it. I growled, wanting to bare my teeth and bite. “So who are you?” “No one.”

  “Yeah, and I’m Oprah.”

  “Who?” Tens put the lasagna in the oven and turned on the timer.

  “Are you going to answer my question?”

  “No.” He began to walk away.

  “That’s it? Around’ and ‘no’?” I wanted to stamp my feet like a toddler. He made me regress. And feel like a full-grown woman, both at the same time. How was that possible?

  “That’s it.”

  “You have to tell. You have to give me more than that.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “You’re in a crappy mood.”

  He shrugged, not disagreeing but not apologizing, either.

  “Who wants pizza for dinner?” Auntie glided into the kitchen as if completely unaware of the tension. She looked at the two of us and stopped. “Oh dear me. What’s going on?”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  Tens sighed and wiped his hands on a dish towel, but didn’t speak.

  Auntie crossed her arms and held her ground. She tried to stare both of us down. “What is it? Tens, I can see the stick up your arse from here. I’m dying, remember? Dying people don’t have time for silly moods.”’

  I blanched. How can she be so nonchalant about it?

  “Little one. What happened to your hair?” She fluffed it with her hands. “I like it.”

  Tens snorted.

  I raised my eyebrows at him.

  “Oh. I see. That’s it.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners. “Tens, cough it up—what’s going on? Sit. Sit.” She shooed us to the table.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Tens reached out as if to touch my hand but caught himself. “Sorry.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for his comments or for almost touching me. “Thanks.”

  “And?” Auntie prompted.

  “How am I supposed to do this? By myself?” Tens asked her.

  “Be a Protector, you mean?” She seemed to know exactly what he was talking about. She turned to me. “Has he told you that part yet?”

  Tens shook his head.

  “I guess not.” I watched him rub the tabletop.

  “Shall I?” Auntie asked him.

  He nodded.

  “The Creators watch over Fenestras with angels—warriors—the Sangre, whom we’ve already talked about a little. The Creators have humans who are urged to help by their faith or an inner moral compass. Sometimes people don’t even know they’re acting on behalf of the Creators. And the Creators give most Fenestras a Protector. Sometimes these are angels, but mostly they’re human, granted extra gifts of bravery, intelligence, courage, compassion. They can sense the presence of their Fenestra, can empathically
know their emotions.”

  “Okay?” I asked, wanting her to continue. I noticed a red flush creep up Tens’s neck.

  “In terms of the window metaphor we’ve been using, they are the walls that hold the window, the structure that helps the window do her job.”

  “Oh my God, you’re Auntie’s Protector, aren’t you?” I gasped. Jealousy, irrational though it was, sang in my blood.

  “Hers?” Tens’s gaze snapped to mine.

  “No, child, he’s yours.” Auntie patted my hand

  “Mine?” I swallowed, dumbfounded.

  Tens nodded.

  “You can read my mind, can’t you?”

  Auntie chuckled. “No, he can’t. He can sense your mood, your feelings, but he doesn’t always understand what he’s sensing. That entails practice. And time.”

  “Who is yours, then?” I couldn’t wrap my mind around this.

  Her face changed. “Charles was as close to a Protector as I got. I never had one destined for me. They are even rarer than Fenestras these days. Rarer still are those with the power to fight darkness by themselves.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m hungry for pepperoni. Tens, child, can the lasagna be frozen?”

  “Sure,” he muttered.

  “I’m going to get my coat. Give me a minute.”’ Auntie whisked her fingers through my hair again. “So pretty.” She smiled and left the room.

  “You probably wanted someone better, right? Someone more worthy?” I asked Tens. I was sure he was upset because he’d expected a real superhero to show up instead of me.

  “No. No!” He grabbed my hand. “You were so sad. And lonely. And scared. And I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t help. I thought when you got here, it would be better. And now you’re here and you’re still—“

  “Sad and lonely and scared?” I asked with a frown.

  “I don’t really know how to do this—you’re changing and I can’t keep up.”

  “I can’t either, I guess we figure it out together.”

  “I’m ready!” Auntie called from the front door.

  He smiled. “I’m sorry—for everything. Your hair is nice.”

  “Don’t apologize. We’re fine.” I squeezed his fingers, then dropped them. “Let’s start over.” I held out my hand. “It’s very nice to meet you Tenskatawa Valdes. I’m Meridian Sozu.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Know what?”

  “My full name.”

  I tilted my chin up and tried to act like I had every right to snoop. “I found a bunch of old letters.”

  “Letters?”

  “From your grandfather to Auntie.”

  “Where? Were you snooping?”

  “In a room upstairs. I was looking for scissors. I’ll give the letters to you when we get home, okay?”

  But it was too late. The clouds were back in his eyes, and this time I’d put them there.

  Chapter 17

  It is what we are taught. It is what we know. It is our deepest secret, for to know the truth quite literally requires a death. The seeker’s death, not ours. Never ours, until the end. So we never tell. When our loved ones begin to fade out of their bodies, & they are able to see us for the first time, well, by then it is too late to explain. So we burn brightly & become the doorway, the path between this life & the beyond.

  —Jocelyn Wynn, b. 1770-d. 1876

  I hadn’t paid any attention to the town when I’d arrived. But now, as ranch lands and wilderness gave way to shuttered factories and abandoned fringes, I saw the skeletons of a once-vibrant place.

  “What happened around here?” I asked.

  Auntie sighed. “It pains me to see it. It’s awful. Simply awful.”’

  Tens spoke up. “Jobs moved, factories shut down, the mine closed. Industry declined for a few years and people left.”

  Old-style clapboard architecture of the Wild West rubbed shoulders with the brick favored by the early boomers. The newest building looked like its ribbon cutting had happened in the seventies. Paint peeled in strips and signs hung at drunken angles. Potholes spotted the road with a frequency that made them the norm.

  As we got closer to town, billboards with Reverend Perimo’s smiling face popped up on both sides of the small highway. After the sixth appearance of his Hollywood A-list face inviting us to meet the Almighty on Sunday I wondered out loud, “Is he for real?”

  “There’s something about him.” Auntie answered me.

  “He creeped me out.”

  “How?” Auntie turned in her seat and gazed at me.

  “He recited Bible verses at me when we found Celia. Then he got all friendly when Tens walked up.”

  “I don’t like him.” Tens growled.

  “He knew my name before I’d even told him.”

  “That could be small-town America at work.” Auntie didn’t sound convinced even as she said it.

  “But who knew I was here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He is doing good things for this town, though.”’ Auntie added this as if admitting it pained her.

  Gradually, freshly painted houses lit up with Christmas lights started to outnumber the empty shells. Every lawn had a nativity scene or a lit cross. I didn’t see any symbols of Hanukkah or Kwanzaa. There weren’t any Santa Claus decorations either. “Where’s Santa?”

  “The town council voted to put Christ back in Christmas.”

  “No Santa?”

  “Nope. Reverend Perimo dabbles in politics, too.” Tens spit the words out like they were sour.

  All around us new construction and remodeling were evident. Paint so fresh it appeared wet. A general store, a Christian bookstore, a salon. All sparkled. Fake poinsettias and garlands decorated the storefronts along with the three wise men and the Eastern star.

  A mammoth cathedral complex shone under huge spotlights like a professional sports stadium. A cross reflected the light as if it had millions of diamonds embedded in it.

  “Wow.” I wasn’t sure if it was a church or a Vegas casino.

  “Not much else to say, huh?” Tens smiled over his shoulder at me.

  “At least he employed townspeople to rebuild it.” Auntie said this as if she was trying to find something positive to say.

  Tens parked in front of a small ma-and-pa pizza place.

  “This is cute,” I said.

  “Best pizza in town.”

  Tens eyed me and mouthed, Only. The smells of garlic and yeast bread were comforting. At home, we had pizza once a week.

  As we entered the parlor, tinkling bells announced us. A compact man with a full beard walked toward us with an enormous smile. “Ah. Mrs. Fulbright. So good to see you. Perfect timing.” He set a menu down and moved away to the counter.

  “Why?” I asked as we were seated near the back of the empty restaurant. Tens grabbed the chair next to me.

  “There’s a big rush when Bible study lets out in about an hour.” Tens replied,

  “Oh.”

  “Every night.”

  “There’s Bible study every night?”

  “Different groups, different activities, but the church has become the town center.”

  “The usual?” the man asked, returning with three glasses of water.

  “You know me so well. Mr. Lombardo,” Auntie said laughing. “Let me introduce you to my niece. Meridian. She’s visiting from Portland.”

  “For the holidays? Such a lovely girl. We will miss seeing you, Mrs. Fulbright.”

  “Why?” I asked, wondering if he. Too. Knew she was dying.

  Mr. Lombardo dropped his eyes, as if ashamed. “We are moving. At the first of the year.”

  “Don’t say that. Please.”’ Auntie gripped his hands.

  He dipped his head. “It’s past uncomfortable. We’re too old to fight this. Best to leave.”

  “Like the Mitchells, the Vanderbilts, the Johnsons, and the Smiths?” Auntie asked sadly.

  “We’ve been bought out, so there will
still be pizza.”

  Mr. Lombardo tried to smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

  “It won’t be the same. Not at all.” Auntie wiped away a tear.

  As Mr. Lombardo walked off. I dug through Auntie’s purse and handed her a Kleenex.

  After a minute or two, Tens leaned into me. “They’ve all been bought out, or they’ve left.”

  “Who?”

  “Anyone who doesn’t agree with Perimo and his believers. No one is exempt. They’ve even elected the town council and the sheriff, all of whom swore to uphold God’s love above man’s. Men can ‘discipline’ their wives and children; the local schools all teach creationism and prayer: taxes go to the church rather than to the government.”

  “That’s not legal. Is it?” I couldn’t imagine.

  “Legal or not, they’ve done it. People are moving here because of the church, and Perimo is so charismatic he can make persecution sound logical and rational. The old-timers are dying or leaving.”

  “But why don’t they fight?”

  “Little one, human beings always take the path of least resistance. It’s the few, the very few, who are willing to stand up to anything,” Auntie said grimly.

  Mr. Lombardo set down our pizza, but I found that my appetite had deserted me. “Mrs. Fulbright, before they come in here, I have to warn you that there are many rumors, many whispers. About you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The deaths, Mrs. Fulbright, the babies. They say it’s because of you. They’re angry. The Reverend says Epiphany is the time of new beginnings and that drastic changes have to be made in order to welcome God into the New Year. Sacrifices.”

  “I’ll be okay Mr. Lombardo.”

  “These are very serious threats. Very scary. I fear for you. I do not hear everything, but enough. Enough to worry.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be all right”