Cackle(35)

“What did he say that hurt you?”

“He said . . . he said something about how he used to have to be home for dinner. Like, there was an insinuation that I kept him on a short leash, something like that.”

Sophie gasps. “What a hideous thing to say!”

“I don’t think I had, like, unreasonable expectations when we were together. But I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I did.”

“Annie,” she says. She pours herself a glass of rum. I notice her hand is shaking. Badly. Something’s wrong. Something is very wrong.

The nag of fear is back. The flapping bird of panic.

“Sophie,” I say.

She lets the glass fall from her hand. It smashes when it hits the floor. Completely shatters. Glass everywhere.

She steps on the glass without caution. It crunches under her boots. It’s a horrible sound.

Outside, the sun bows beneath the trees, a sudden descent that chokes the light from the room. For a moment, in the chaos of the newborn dark, I can’t see her at all. She’s nowhere. But then she appears beside me, sitting next to me at the table. The only source of light in the room is the candle, the manic dance of an orange flame.

In the candlelight, shadows traverse her face. They climb up her neck, claw at her cheeks. The subtle warmth about her that I’ve grown accustomed to, the slight upward turn at the corners of her mouth, the fullness in her cheeks, eyelids relaxed to conceal the full whites of her eyes—all of that is gone.

Her mouth is flat, cheeks gaunt, eyeballs bulging out of their sockets.

“Annie,” she says, her voice low, hoarse, “are we friends?”

How else am I supposed to answer?

“Yes,” I say. “Of course.”

“Do you want to be my friend?”

“I already am,” I say. “We’re friends. I’ve slept over at your house.”

There’s a sting on my arm. She’s grabbing me. Her hand clutches my wrist. Her nails dig into my skin.

“I need to tell you something,” she says. “Something about me. Something I believe you may already suspect.”

“Okay,” I say. I wriggle my hand and she loosens her grasp, though not enough for me to escape it. She has me.

“I’ve told you before, I feel real affection for you. A kinship. And I . . . I can sense you pulling away from me. Perhaps I’m imagining it, manifesting my fear. You see, it’s very tempting for me to be my whole, true self around people I care for. But whenever I am, I take the chance of scaring them away.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sophie,” I say. “It’s fine. We’re good.”

“I’m so afraid, Annie. I’m afraid if I tell you, it’ll ruin everything. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend. And I could be a good friend to you. I could help you!”

She leans closer to me. “I know what it is not to know your place.”

“Sophie,” I say, “it’s cool. We’re cool. We’re good.”

She sighs, her exhale blowing the candle out.

But only for a second. It reignites itself somehow.

Sophie pushes a closed fist toward me, toward the light. She flips up her forearm. Then she slowly unbends her fingers, revealing her open palm. In it, a giant spider.

It’s got a long body, skin like black velvet. Its front legs stretch out, rest on Sophie’s index and ring fingers. Its back legs dangle off either side of her wrist.

“Shit,” I say, pushing my chair back away from the table, away from her.

“I meant to help,” she says as the spider crawls up her arm, settling on her shoulder. “I wanted to make things better for you.”

“Sophie,” I say. I feel disconnected from my body, weightless in this strange reality. I move to stand.

“No,” she says. “Sit down.”

There’s a pressure on my shoulders, like two strong hands are there wrestling me back down. I collapse into the chair like a rag doll.

“Please,” she says. “Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you?”

“Sophie,” I say, “I’m sorry, but you’re freaking me out.”

“Hold on,” she says. The spider stirs. It disappears behind her back. A few seconds later, the light above the table comes on. I look over and see the spider on the wall near the switch.

“What the fuck?” I mutter in spite of myself. “What the fuck? What the fuck . . . ?”

“I thought you liked spiders,” she says.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what’s happening.

“Do you understand?” she asks. “I would never hurt you. Never. I don’t like to hurt anyone. Well, unless they deserve it.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m not telling you, darling. I’m showing you. This is who I am,” she says. “What I am.”

“What?”

She shakes her head. “Does it matter to you? If I’m . . . different?”

“Different from what, Sophie? Different how?”

“There are many misconceptions,” she says. “I won’t say the word.”

In the light, I can clearly see her vulnerability, same as the other day in the diner. The way she leans, the wideness of her eyes, the straight line of her mouth—it’s all desperation. She’s not a threat to me. She’s pleading with me.