Some Quiet Place

We fall silent again, each buried in our own pasts and unsatisfactory circumstances. It’s not like the silence yesterday with Charles, a stillness where we didn’t speak because there was no need to say anything. No, this silence with Fear is laden with a thousand words, meanings, hints, inclinations.

The sun is gone entirely, sunken down into the other side of the world. Somehow it always happens without my noticing. The only source of light now—the moon is smothered by clouds—is an old, flickering light bulb dangling from the ceiling. As one, Fear and I look at it.

What a peculiar pair we must make, I think. I see it from the outside: surrounded by strange paintings, a seemingly ordinary human girl sits, face devoid of all expression, looking as if she belongs among the wood and the hay. Beside her, lounging against the wall with so many expressions on his face that you could never hope to catch and define just one, is a lovely, changeless being, whose very name evokes shivers down the spine. He looks so out of place in the barn that anyone else would keep blinking, thinking he would vanish in another instant.

“You never answered my question,” I say when the hush is broken by a cow moaning in its stall below.

Fear shifts his position a bit, enough so that his shoulder is pressed to mine. He can’t resist. For once I stay where I am. Maybe it’ll make him cooperate. “What question?” he inquires. I raise my brows at him. Fear smiles, knowing that he hasn’t fooled me. “I answered you as best I could.” He runs his finger down my cheek before I can evade the touch.

“No, you didn’t. I asked you if you ever get tired of it all, and you sidestepped it pretty skillfully.”

“But it is my only purpose,” he points out logically.

A breeze has picked up strength, slipping through the cracks in the walls. It stirs my hair, cooling my skin. The air and Fear’s closeness make me shiver again. He notices. In a blur he’s crossed the room, picked up a horse blanket I brought up for cold nights like this, and draped it around my shoulders. I don’t thank him; showing gratitude would be unwise.

“You’re tired,” Fear says suddenly, sounding surprised.

I tighten the blanket, huddling into its warmth. A screaming flash hits me, an image of the boy’s shrinking pupils. I pull the blanket tighter. “I haven’t slept well, is all.”

Fear hesitates. “I … ” The hay begins to tremble again as he, again, becomes edgy. He plunges. “I could help you sleep.”

He means he could use his power. But his offer isn’t what’s out of the ordinary—it’s the motive behind it. In the strength of his uncertainty, his carefully constructed expression of arrogance has weakened, melting away to vulnerability, and I see that he isn’t thinking of himself or personal gain. His only thought is of me.

I don’t comment on my discovery. “No. I’ll manage on my own.”

Fear’s expression closes, and he nods. The distance he’s put between us is slight but palpable. “Perhaps I should leave you to your rest, then.” Deliberately formal.

I watch him stand, feeling the pierce of shovels inside me, digging the hole of inhumanity deeper, deeper. “Okay.”

The air around him practically crackles. I’ve hurt Fear’s ego by rejecting his offer of help.

“You really do feel nothing,” he says to me, voice colder than a Wisconsin blizzard. “I thought you had to feel something, even just a little. Sometimes when I touched you, or watched you, I thought I saw a glimmer of humanity.”

“I’ve never lied to you, Fear,” I murmur. “I’m good at pretending, is all.”

“Apparently.” His eyes burn. I remain seated on the bale of hay, considering my next words. Suddenly Mom’s voice slices through the tense air, distracting Fear.

“Elizabeth, there’s a phone call for you!”

She sounds as if she doesn’t expect a response—really, she doesn’t want one—but I raise my voice. “Coming.”

“Who’s calling you?” Fear demands as I brush past him to the loft’s stairs. He vanishes and reappears in front of me, blocking my way. “You have no friends.”

I walk around him, the stairs squeaking beneath my feet. “That’s not true. Maggie is my friend.”

“Not for much longer,” he retorts, following me. His presence disturbs the cows once more; they start to bawl frantically. Fear’s coat flares around his feet as he stalks me to the house.

Choosing not to acknowledge this, I lower my voice as I tell him, “You should go. My mom isn’t feeling well right now.” And I don’t want her feeling any more uncomfortable around me than she already does—if I can’t live here, I’ll have nowhere else. Fear doesn’t reply, and when I turn, I see he’s gone. A lingering sense of hurt fills the air.

As I enter the kitchen Mom does her best to appear preoccupied, avoiding me. The phone lies on a table and the cord dangles across the floor from its base on the wall. I step over it and pick the phone up. “Hello?”

“Hi, Elizabeth. It’s … it’s Joshua.”

“Hello.” I notice Mom listening; besides Maggie, no one has ever called me before, much less a boy. When Joshua says nothing in response, I add, “How are you?”

He clears his throat. “Fine. Good. You?”

“Good.”

Joshua pauses a second time, then says with a nervous waver in his voice, “So, listen—” Something in the background clatters, and I imagine him tripping over a chair. He coughs, probably in an attempt to cover the sound. “I just wanted to let you know that today in Mrs. Farmer’s class, uh, after you left, everyone chose their partners for the project. And you and me are the only ones left.”

It wouldn’t be sensible to encourage this, to begin another friendship—not when that person is as observant as Joshua, and I’ve been so distracted lately. But then there’s Courage’s advice; he’d been so frank, and for once I find myself inclined to trust an Emotion.

“That’s great,” I say, trying to sound young and just as shy as Joshua.

If he’s surprised, he does well hiding it. “Okay, neat. I mean, cool. You’ve probably already looked at the handout, but the poems and story have to have a theme to them, I guess, and I was thinking we could—”

“I’ve looked at the handout,” I interrupt, hearing Tim’s heavy tread outside. “We can talk about it more at school. Okay?”

Joshua doesn’t ask questions or try to stay on the line. “Okay. See you.”

“Bye.” I hang up. Mom is still looking at me curiously, but I don’t offer any explanations. Tim’s opening the door, the hinges groaning. I’m gone before he sets one foot into the house.

Eight

It didn’t escape me, during his last visit, that Fear never gave me an answer when it came to the newspaper. Clearly the article disappearing changed things for him, and he intends to pursue this on his own. Although Fear is an excellent liar—he’s had centuries, millennia, to perfect the art—he can’t seem to hide the truth from me. As if some part of him wants me to know. And I will know; I’m good at research.

During lunch, rather than sitting in a corner by myself like every other day, I go to the school library. The librarian, Mrs. Marble, nods when she notices me slip into the room. I move quietly to the back corner, slipping in and out of shadows between the bookshelves.

I can’t rely on Fear to find answers; as soon as those words vanished right in front of me, I’d made the decision to search for my own copy of it. Though there shouldn’t be anything strange about a story like surviving a car accident, the fact that the article faded right as I was reading it makes one fact obvious: there’s something in it worth hiding. And I’ve tried, but I can’t recollect ever hearing about the incident from my parents or anyone else —why wouldn’t they tell me?

The school archives are limited at best, but it’s the only library in Edson, so if a copy of the paper is anywhere, it’ll be here. Mrs. Marble leaves me to my search and I bury myself in the dusty corner where all the records are kept, sneezing once in a while. No one has been back here in ages.

I start by looking at dates. If I was three or four at the time of the accident, the paper should have been published in 1999 or 2000. Many of the newspapers are missing, but I look anyway.