Page 3 of Magpie
Rounding the corner of the counter, I plop down on one of the stools, the red plastic cushion squeaking underneath me as Mr. Mortimer sets the slice of pie in front of me.
“Lavern outdid herself this time,” I say around a mouthful of pie. Lavern is Mr. Mortimer’s wife, who makes all the pies for the diner. She’s just as sweet as her confections and is the perfect pair to Mr. Mortimer.
He has been nothing but kind to me since the first moment I set foot in his sleepy diner. I was soaked head-to-toe from a surprising summer thunderstorm and had only meant to step inside to escape the deluge. But Mr. Mortimer sees what others don’t, having encountered his fair share of wandering souls wafting in and out of his diner. He saw that I needed so much more than just a place to wait out the storm. He offered me a slice of pie and a cup of coffee, and when I told him I had no money to pay, he offered me a job.
In the months after I fled the House, I wandered the streets aimlessly. Begging where I could and stealing when I needed to. I was numb and empty, a husk left to wither in the sun without the House, and I had been very close to turning back. I had no form of identification, and no ability to procure one, no way to get any sort of job. But when I quietly asked Mr. Mortimer if I could be paid in cash, he didn’t bat an eye. He just smiled and handed me the apron and told me to keep the coffee cups full.
The job doesn’t pay much, but it’s been enough to keep me in the small apartment that Mr. Mortimer found for me. His friend owns the space and didn’t ask any questions when Mr. Mortimer vouched for me. It even left me with enough to buy the laptop I spied in the window of a pawn shop. When Mr. Mortimer hiredme, I was firm with him that I would be leaving in October, told his friend the same thing when I moved into the apartment. It still didn’t stop him from trying to convince me to stay. He must suspect I am in some kind of trouble, and he can’t help but try to solve the problem for me. He is always trying to fix anything broken around the old diner, and I’m arguably the most broken thing here.
He sets down a steaming cup of coffee and pushes it toward me as he takes in a deep breath. “Now, Maggie, if the issue is the rent, you know Lavern and I have a spare bedroom—”
“You know I can’t,” I interrupt before shoving another bite of pie in my mouth. I barely taste the sugary, lemony perfection. Swallowing, I take a large drink of coffee, and only when I’m sure my voice won’t break do I look at Mr. Mortimer and say, “But you know I wish I could.”
Mr. Mortimer offered me the first kindness I’d experienced in a very, very long time. I’m finding it harder and harder to remind myself that come October 1st, I need to be on the run. Because I so desperately want to stay, to remain behind like the stains on the apron, adding my story alongside so many others.
“The tips only get better around the holidays,” he says, another one of his tactics to get me to stay. I let out a hollow laugh as I continue to eat.
It will be hard to find another job, even harder to find another Mr. Mortimer. If money were my only worry, I wouldn’t be leaving. I’ve prepared for this departure, because I knew it was inevitable. Stowed away in a hidden spot in my apartment is more than enough cash to keep me afloat for all of October. I saved every extra penny these last few months to ensure that. The money isn’t what I’m worried about. It’s the thought of staying in one spot that fills me with dread. Staying put, where he can easily find me.
“Is he trying to convince you to stay again?” Peggy asks, the bell above the door chiming to announce her entrance. Peggy has worked at the diner almost as long as it’s been open, and I often wonder if it would crumble to pieces in her absence. Her raspy voice speaks of years of smoking and hard liquor, and her quick, short sentences let newcomers know she doesn’t put up with nonsense. I liked her the instant I met her.
Smiling at her, I hop off the bar stool. I pull my jacket out of my bag and tug it on, knowing the temperature will drop with the setting sun.
“You have to let the young ones run free, Bob,” Peggy says, slinging an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into a tight hug. I try to fake a laugh, but can’t make the levity reach my eyes. Why is this goodbye proving to be so hard?
A glance out the window shows me the sun beginning its slow descent, casting fiery orange across the cloudy sky. I pull away from Peggy and toss my backpack over my shoulders. “I better be going,” I say, forcing a false cheeriness into my voice as I wave goodbye to the two. Before Mr. Mortimer can launch into another well-rehearsed plea to get me to stay, I hurry outside. A sharp, cold breeze hits me in the face as soon as I step out, and I tug the hood of my jacket up against the onslaught.
The walk to my apartment from the diner is a brief one, but as September draws to a close, each trip seems to take longer and longer, giving the sun ample time to set before I get there. Or maybe I’m just ready to be home, to be locked behind doors and away from the moonlight. I’m sweating by the time I round the corner to my street, even in the cool autumn air. I get the tingling sensation that I’m being watched, and I find myself walking at a brisker pace, my heart hammering away inside my chest.
“Magpie.”
I spin around, eyes wild, hair sticking to my sweat-drenched forehead. I must look like a madwoman as I scan the emptystreets, my gaze darting around rapidly. My ragged breathing slows as I study each and every shadow. He wouldn’t be standing in the street, even with the sun as mild as it is. It is still daytime, and I’m still safe. I repeat those words in my mind, turning swiftly around. I run the rest of the way to my apartment, not stopping until I slam my door shut and lock it.
I study the solid metal door, with all five locks latched firmly in place, as I try to calm my heart. I can’t shake that sickening feeling of eyes on me. I scrub my hands over my face, a nervous gesture. Peeling my hands away, I rush to my mattress and yank the sheets off, locating the small tear in the material. Leaning forward, I press my hand into the slit, searching. My fingers roam around the fluff and springs inside the mattress, until I feel it.
Sucking in a breath at the sensation that slides over my skin the moment I make contact with it, I pull out a long, blood-red ribbon. Hanging from the end is a wrought iron key. Its gothic design casts a strange shadow, all twisting, ornate curls and jagged edges. The top of the key is crafted in the outline of a bird in flight. Black and white, with its long tail and sharp beak, it’s a bird I know too well. A magpie.
Gripping the key tightly in my hand, I turn and walk back to the door, leaning against it and sliding down to the ground. The sensation of holding the key is overwhelming. It is near agonizing to ignore the call of it, and I only allow myself to hold it for a few moments a day, if only to remind myself that I still have it. Gazing out the window in front of me, I keep watch long after the sun sinks below the horizon and plunges the world into darkness. I sit in the shadows, staring straight ahead, and with an instinctual feeling, I sense the clock ticking over to midnight.
Night has fallen, and I’m no longer safe.
“Maggie, it’s just a house,” Tim says as he rubs my shivering arms up and down. My teeth are chattering nonstop in the autumn cold. I look up at the great Victorian farmhouse, its looming awnings and dark windows staring back at me. It isn’t painted black with gargoyles adorning the drainpipes, nothing like the haunted house I pictured whenever Tim and Jessica brought this place up to me. It looks well-loved, cozy, even. It certainly shouldn’t fill me with a deep sense of foreboding.
It’s just a house.
“Doesn’t it seem strange that they would make us wait this long?” I mutter between my chattering teeth, sinking further into my coat as my eyes stray back to the picturesque house. I shiver again. Tim wraps his arms around me, pulling my back tightly against his chest as he presses a kiss to the top of my head. I try to lean into his touch, beg myself to feel anything when his lips press against my skin. I try to battle the creeping numbness that has filled me steadily these last few years, but after so long fighting, I’ve realized it’s easier to just pretend.
“They have to wait for everyone to get through,” Jessica says, shivering beside me, pulling me from my thoughts. She nudges my shoulder and grins at me, trying to infect me with her excitement. I return a half-smile, the best I can muster. “It won’t be any fun if the place is full of people. The emptiness is spookier.” She makes her voice deep and dramatic for the last word.
“Don’t you want to be scared, Maggie?” Tim asks, holding me tighter, and damn if it doesn’t feel like a cage.
I shift uncomfortably against his hold, and he instantly relents. I take a hasty step away, giving him a sheepish look. How can I possibly explain that his touch borders on suffocating? Tim has never been anything but respectful and kind all through our high school relationship, following us now into college. He is a perfect boyfriend on paper, and it is that perfection that I resent.
It would be so much easier to sink into this numbness if he weren’t there, trying to pull me out of it. I can easily ignore the growing disquiet inside of me when I’m alone. None of my classmates take note of the sullen girl who never speaks up, never asks questions. No one at work questions why I’m not chattier, why I never agree to go out with them for a drink after work. When I’m around anyone but Tim and Jessica, I can let that abyss of darkness inside of me spill out and consume everything. I can drift in it, get lost in it.
Tim and Jessica are another story. Friends since childhood, we’ve grown up alongside each other, a near inseparable trio. We do everything together, and it was a surprise to no one the day Tim finally asked me out on a date. Most people would have thought we would ruin the dynamic of the friendship by dating, but our group’s bond is deeper than that. The three of us would stay up into the late hours of the morning, planning our lives down to the last detail, determining how to always remainin each other’s. I used to love it, melting into Tim’s arms with Jessica by our side, excitedly imagining the future. It used to be so calming to have every detail of my life decided.
I don’t know when the aching cold first crept in. It was so slow it’s hard to say. I became used to it, unaware that it was slinking closer, freezing more of me. I realized it first when we were discussing which college we would all attend, and the conversation suddenly felt like planning my own funeral. I found myself uncomfortable in Tim’s arms, his loving embrace suddenly too tight. I shook the feeling off, too scared to consider why my life suddenly felt smothering. It was the first time I forced a smile onto my face, and I never melted into him quite the same way again.
