Dagger Key and Other Stories

One night, coming home late from lab, you round the corner onto your block and spot Abi standing in the doorway, dressed in her green silk robe, talking to two figures on the porch—they’re partially silhouetted by the light issuing from inside the house and are wearing purple sweatshirts with the hoods up. You can’t tell much about them, but you assume them to be men since they’re considerably taller than Abi. Startled, because this is the first time you’ve seen her speak to anyone except busboys and waiters and the like, you slip behind a fir trunk across the street and spy on them. You can’t hear what’s being said, but every so often, over the ambient noise, you catch a fragment of a gruff voice. Abi stands with her arms folded; the men’s hands are at their sides. Solicitors, you think. You get lots of Greenpeace people in the neighborhood, Secretaries For A Better Tomorrow, that sort of thing, most of whom Abi rebuffs, pissing them off by saying it’s too late to save the planet their way. But that notion takes a hit when one of the men puts his hand on Abi’s shoulder, a gesture you interpret as affirming, as if he’s saying, Be strong or something similar. With that, the men trot down the steps and walk briskly away. As they pass beneath the streetlight, you notice their sweatshirts are identical, each bearing letters that spell out Washington Huskies Athletic Department. Their jeans and running shoes, also identical, look to be brand new, but the light shows nothing of their cowled faces. Abi gazes after them and, with a sharp glance in your direction, goes inside and shuts the door.

“I saw you lurking,” she says as you enter and toss your pack on the sofa.

“I wasn’t lurking.”

“Do you always hide behind a tree before you come in?”

“I was surprised you had company.”

“Well, if you’d acted normally, I could have introduced you.”

“You should have called me over.”

“I didn’t want to interfere with your lurking.”

She passes into the kitchen and you follow, watching her ass roll under the green silk.

“Who were they?” you ask.

“Just some friends. Mike and Rem Gregory. You’d like them.” She peers inside the refrigerator.

“Rem? Like rapid eye movement? Like the band?”

She moves a Tupperware container aside. “I think it’s short for something.”

“So are they twins?”

She frowns at you over her shoulder. “No. Why would you say that?”

“Because they dress alike. You don’t see a whole lot of that these days…adults dressing alike.”

She takes out a bottle of water. “They’re eccentric, but they’re angels, really. I’ll have them over to dinner some night.”

“That’s cool. Maybe next week sometime.”

“They stopped by on their way out of town. I’m not sure when they’re getting back.”

“Yeah, well, let’s do it for real. I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

“For God’s sake, stop it!” Abi gives an inarticulate yell and throws the bottle at you. Thankfully, it’s plastic and her aim is off. “You’re always picking at me! You’re always prying and sneaking around!”

“What do you mean? I’m not sneaking around!”

“What do call hiding behind a tree? Then you stroll in asking all these questions about Mike and Rem.”

“Are you insane? I was making conversation. I don’t give a fuck about your fucking friends!”

Abi stares coldly at you; she takes off her pearl spider ring and sets it on the edge of the sink.

You laugh. “What…you gonna take a swing at me?”

“I’m insane, I’m liable to do anything.”

“Calm down, all right?”

Without further warning, she hurls herself at you, scratching, clawing at your face, and slams you back into the stove. You cover up, but a fingernail clips you near the eye; you feel wetness on your cheek and push her away. She reels off-balance and goes staggering through a door that leads into a hallway. Her robe fallen open; breasts swaying; panting; hair in disarray; she looks like the poster girl for a bad acid trip. She rushes you again. This time you control her wrists, spin her around and the two of you go dancing across the kitchen. Momentum carries you out into the hallway, where you manage to pin her against the wall. She tries a knee that you block by flattening her with your body.

“Calm the fuck down!” you shout.

She snaps at you, snagging your lower lip. She struggles to break free, but gives it up after a few seconds. She slumps, her face empties.

“You okay?” You relax your grip slightly, and she tries to head butt you. “Goddamn it!” With your right hand, you clamp both her wrists above her head, and put your left hand at her throat to restrain her.

“Want to rough me up?” She lets out a peal of laughter that would not sound out of place echoing down the corridor of an asylum. “Come on! Rough me up!!”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Can’t you handle it?” She grinds her pelvis against you. “Come on, bitch!”

“Take it easy!”