The Invited(53)

Nate laughed, and Helen said, “He’s just joking. Come on, let’s see if we can get our first window in. Let’s start small—the bathroom?”

Riley helped them fit the window into the frame, then shim, square, and level it and nail it in place. When they finished the first window, they went on to do four more, in what seemed like no time.

    “Wow,” Nate said, admiring their work. “If we had you here more often, we might even get back on schedule.”

“Big project like this is bound to get a little behind,” Riley said. “I’m happy to swing by and help out when I can. And if you want to break down and hire a pro for a week or two to help speed things along, I’ve got lots of names.”

Riley was wearing a tank top, and Helen was struck by the woman’s tattoos. She was covered in designs, all in black ink only, ranging from delicate to bold: an eye, a fish, a pentagram, a crystal ball, a winged horse. She had a black snake in a perfect circle on the back of her neck, its tail tucked into its open mouth, just visible under her angled bob.

Helen saw Nate looking at the tattoos and knew he didn’t approve—he couldn’t understand why anyone would want to do that to their body. Helen had toyed with the idea of getting a tattoo once, back when they were first together, but Nate had advised her against it, warning that she’d be sure to regret it at some point.

“I think we owe you a beer,” Nate said.

“Sounds great! And I’ve got a little weed if either of you are interested,” Riley said.

Nate shook his head. “None for me thanks, but I’ll go grab some beers.” He gave Helen a raised-eyebrows you’re not really going to do that, are you? look that helped her make up her mind.

“I’d love some,” she said, sitting down on the front steps of the new house beside her new friend. Riley produced a joint and a lighter from her bag, lit the joint, took a hit, and handed it to Helen. Helen inhaled the smoke, let it seep into her lungs. She looked out across the yard to the tree line, to the path that led down to the bog. She was sure she could smell the bog, the dampness and earthy scent of peat, when the wind blew in their direction. It was as if the wind from the bog was telling her: You are meant to be here.

And: I chose you.

She hadn’t smoked pot since college, but it seemed like the right thing to do—part of who the new Vermont Helen was. She felt loose and relaxed for the first time in days.

She imagined the shit she’d get if her friend Jenny back in Connecticut could see her now—Embracing your hippie self, Helen? First step weed, second step unshaven armpits, then you’re commune-bound for sure. And if Jenny had any idea Helen believed she’d seen a ghost—her old friend would be up here in four hours, shoving Helen into her Land Rover to go back to the safe predictability of life in Connecticut. An intervention, she’d call it.

    Helen imagined having a dinner party with Jenny and Riley—pictured Jenny staring at Riley’s tattoos, piercings, and blue bangs. Helen got a little thrill out of the idea of introducing them, showing off Riley like an exotic pet—look at my new friend, look at my new life.

Riley’s skin seemed almost alive to her. “I’ve been thinking about getting a tattoo,” Helen found herself saying.

“Awesome! I can hook you up with someone. There’s this guy, Skyler, I apprenticed with him once upon a time when I thought maybe I wanted to be a tattoo artist. He’s amazing. Most of this is his work.” She held out her arms and Helen saw things she hadn’t noticed before: images and faces within the designs.

“Do you know what you want?” Riley asked.

What did she want? Her mind drifted, spun. She stared into the empty black eye socket of the crow skull on Riley’s forearm. Nate would like that one, Helen decided. It was like something he might draw in his nature journal.

“Do you have a design in mind?” Riley asked.

Nate came back with a six-pack of beer.

“What are we designing?” he asked.

“Helen’s tattoo,” Riley said as Nate passed her a beer.

“Is that right?” he asked, his tone carefully neutral, but he shot Helen a look of concern—or was it derision? He pulled up a folding camp chair and sat facing them on the lawn in front of the house. Helen felt a twinge of guilt, like she had betrayed him somehow. The weed was making her paranoid, surely.

“Nate,” Helen said, as he settled into his chair and cracked open a beer. “You should tell Riley about the deer you saw this morning.”

Nate had a good swig of beer, then told Riley the story of the albino deer.

Riley smiled and nodded, happy for him, but not seeming the least surprised.

“Wait,” Nate said. “You know about the white deer?”

“That was Hattie you saw,” Riley said.

Helen’s stomach clenched.

“What?” Nate laughed.

    Riley laughed, too, but comfortably.

“Oh yeah! There are tons of stories that go back for decades about a white doe in these woods. A couple of hunters back in the late sixties swear they found a naked woman out here by the bog. She ran, and while they chased her—they say to help her—she transformed into a white doe.” Riley’s leg was pressed against Helen’s as they sat side by side on the steps.