Page 27 of Together We Rot

Spoiler: I’ve never been to Planet Hollywood, Orlando. Someone from Goodwill has, though.

“My dad is going to kill me,” Elwood moans into his knees. He’s exaggerating, but it doesn’t take long for him to realize that he isn’t too far off. His dad might literally murder him.

I can’t think about that, though, because that feeds into a different fear I don’t want to believe—that my mother isn’t trapped and waiting for me somewhere but long dead. There’s always been a part of me kept smothered, a nagging worry that my instincts aren’t far off. All the times I’ve looked to the trees and the world around me and grasped for a connection—I am here. I am alive—but never finding anything. The line between us is pulled so taut, frayed and worn, would I even notice if it had been severed?

I force the idea away for now because it’s too big a truth for me to swallow.

“Your dad won’t get the chance,” I say, and mean it. “You forget I hate the man more than anyone else on this planet. I’d gladly fight him on your behalf.”

As infuriating and awful as Elwood is, I have to admit I need him. Cherry’s words cycle in my head on a constant loop. With enough evidence and with a witness, I can fix this. Mom’s disappearance, solved. The motel, saved. The Clarkes and Sheriff Vrees locked behind bars for the rest of their lives.

Elwood stares at me. His eyes are unnervingly green. I break away on instinct.

“Before we figure out how the hell to go about this, let’s figure out breakfast,” I suggest. He doesn’t reply; he’s too busy stress-clawing at his skin. He did that freshman year too. Whenever he got really nervous back then, he’d start worrying his fingers and scratching his skin bloody. Good to know some things haven’t changed. Altogether, he looks thoroughly Off His Shit, so I wave away the idea of him following me to the kitchen.

“I’ll grab something. I guess stay put. If your dad jumps out from under the bed, give me a holler and I’ll come back and kick his ass.”

•••

In a miraculous feat that only Jesus himself could perform, my dad is up before the wee hours of one p.m. Well, he’s kind of awake. He looks half dead at the kitchen table, but that’s kind of his “look.” His hair is wild and spiky, and he’s wearing the old robe I “got” him when I was ten. Really, Mom bought it for him, but she let me sign my name on the card. His eyes are blurry and unfocused, his breath reeks of whiskey. It’s nothing new. He carries the scent like it’s his go-to brand of cologne. Whiskey and Trash, the signature edition.

I make a noise in my throat. He won’t get a good morning from me, but he’ll get a humph. “I know you’re upset, Minnie,” he mutters as I sweep right past him to the coffee maker. I throw a glance his way, but he isn’t looking back at me. He’s too busy fiddling with the tear in his sleeve. The robe looked great when I was ten. Now it looks like something he fished out of the garbage.

He clears his throat, and it sounds like a fork going down a garbage disposal. “I thought I heard you talking to someone last night. Did you have a friend over?”

“Must’ve imagined it.” I shrug. It’s not technically a lie. He said “friend,” not “estranged former best friend.” And even then, I would shrug him off. It’s none of Dad’s business. He doesn’t get to pick and choose when to care about me.

“I could have sworn I heard—”

I’m about to say you’re hearing things, but then Elwood decides now is the best time to show up in the doorway. Dad might not be looking at me, but he’s certainly looking at him.

Elwood shuffles forward like a newborn calf. I wait for the wrong gears in Dad’s head to turn. The two of us. Here. In pajamas. Clearly disheveled. Elwood absolutely drenched through with sweat. Dad chokes on his own breath.

“H-hello, Mr.Greene.” Elwood’s breaking out in stress hives already. The color rises from his neck to his face to the tips of his ears. He shrinks in on himself, his shoulders slouching like he might vanish if he puts his mind to it. He must not try hard enough, though, because a minute stretches by and he hasn’t evaporated into thin air.

He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get the chance to finish.

The sound of the lobby door echoes down the hall, and Elwood jumps faster than I can blink.

I watch all the red bleed away to a ghostly white. His eyes bulge and a full-blown shiver travels beneath his skin.

“Hello?” The voice is deep and familiar and aggravating. It’s followed by the rush of wind and the harsh slam of the door falling shut on rusty hinges. I’d know it anywhere. Elwood’s father. Everything that comes out of Mr.Clarke’s mouth sounds like it’s spoken in italics. He sounds like Siri if Siri only talked about the Lord.

“I’d be surprised to find him here, Ezekiel,” another voice grunts. On the flip side, Sheriff Vrees can’t be bothered to enunciate. He talks like his mustache is choking him. I wish it would. “They have a hard enough time finding actual guests. Frankly, this place would look better as a parking lot.”

“He’s not here,” I mouth to Dad. “Make them go.”

After a full second of me mouthing obscenities, Dad sighs and sits up. What comes next is a weak gesture for us to scramble into the walk-in pantry and another quick motion to be quiet about it.

Dad doesn’t need to tell Elwood twice. Elwood would gladly sink into our floorboards and never come back out if presented with the option. Elwood sneaks in first and I follow suit. Between the cracks, I give Dad a slight nod before slowly pulling the door shut. “Good morning, Sheriff Vrees,” I hear Dad call out. I can’t imagine how he must look, strolling out to the lobby in his pajamas. His voice is formal enough, but anything pleasant saps from his tone as soon as he says, “Good morning, Clarke. Suppose the two of you aren’t looking for a room?”

I shuffle where I stand, looking around at the shadowy imprints of shelves. For a walk-in pantry, it’s pretty barren of actual food. We’ve got some old Cheerios and a couple trays’ worth of ramen. Aside from that, I spot a can of spinach that expired two years ago.

It’s a far cry from the past. Before depression mowed Dad over like a semitruck, he doubled as a chef. We weren’t the run-down pit we are today. Dad’s whole dream for this place was a bed-and-breakfast. He’d rise at the crack of dawn every morning to start cooking for guests, and the wildest part was he loved it.

Now, unless Cherry’s the one cooking for me, most of my meals are of the microwavable variety. Frozen nuggets, withered and limp “lasagna,” ribs that both taste and smell like dog food.

With Dad’s ambitions shot dead, he’s used this pantry as yet another storage space for all our old junk. It’s packed to the brim with boxes sealed over in both tape and dust.

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