The Children(83)

Guin tapped his glass with hers. “Cheers to bad feelings.”

The bartender passed by, silently depositing a plate of fries between them. The man began eating them three, four at a time, talking while he did it. It was sexy and she wasn’t sure why. The gusto, maybe. Also, shoulders. “How about you? You ever experienced anything like that? A flash of the uncanny?”

Guin inspected his face for a moment. “My life has been so normal you wouldn’t believe it,” she said. “Explainable at every turn.”

He laughed, though she hadn’t really made a joke. “Well, cheers to canceled flights. I feel like I just walked out of a remake of The Hangover and into a Hitchcock film. Meeting a dazzling mystery woman in a bar.”

“Hitchcock set a lot of movies ten yards from a Tim Hortons?” He did look a little dazzled, though. When her hair fell into her eyes—when she tipped her head to make it do so, fetchingly—his hand made an involuntary gesture, like he wanted to push it back.

Sometimes, when people looked at Guin this way, all she could think was: Don’t they see it? That long raw edge to her, where so much was ripped away. Wasn’t it visible? All she felt right now was the low sweet buzz of alcohol and anticipation.

“I don’t know your name.” He said it in this sweet, wondering way she wouldn’t be able to shake, not for days and days. Like her name was the secret he’d been questing for.

“I’m Guin.”

“Guin.” He tested it, then took her offered hand. “I’m Hank.”



* * *




Hours later the storm had passed. The sun was starting its rise over Toronto. Guin lay naked in an overheated room of the airport Sheraton, her right leg slung over Hank’s. Each had an arm up, hands entwined over their heads. They hadn’t slept yet and were talking lazily about the things you talk of when it’s all gone well, and you’re very tired. High school crushes, first concerts, bad dates.

There was an art, Guin felt, to spending hours talking about yourself while revealing little. The way they’d done it almost felt like a game. She didn’t know what Hank did or where he was traveling to. She only knew his last name from glancing at his credit card receipt.

He reached for her hip, turning her gently to face him. His hair stuck to his skin in damp locks, and his stubble was thickening by the hour. “Hey, where are you from? Or, where do you live?”

She wrinkled her nose a little, preemptive regret. “I live in New York. Manhattan.”

His eyes widened. “Whaaat. I’m in Fort Greene!”

“Brooklyn?” She pulled back, touched her throat. “I thought you were from Chicago.”

He frowned. “What, do I sound South Side to you? I’m from Bensonhurst.”

For a minute they stared at each other. Same pillow, not so many inches between them. Guin knew she looked consternated and couldn’t quite fix her face. Slowly Hank began to smile, moving in to press his mouth to her neck.

“Poor Guinevere,” he said against her skin. Her full name had come out in the course of the night. “You thought you’d never see me again. Now that jabroni from the airport bar is gonna follow you all the way to JFK.”

“Jabroni?” she murmured.

Neither spoke again for a long while. When they did, they learned they’d been rebooked on the same flight home.

In the end she followed him, all the way to his apartment. She didn’t leave for two days.





Forty-Four

2004




Maeve Carter arrived at the Farmhouse five hours late, carrying a gift basket from Zabar’s.

She was a pretty Boston ballerina turned actress with a big lollipop head. That wasn’t just Guinevere’s opinion, Maeve’s mother straight-up said it. It never would’ve looked right in the corps. Fondly she stroked her daughter’s glistening pony hair. But it shows up beautifully on film.

Her mother was also her manager. Both wore knee-length skirts and matching Alice bands. Maeve was fifteen, but with the headband she could almost pass for ten. Movie ten. She’d been cast to play Guinevere Sharpe in the Ninth City film adaptation. She was staying at the Farmhouse for a few days to, one assumed, soak up some Guinevere vibes.

Not one person had thought to ask actual Guinevere how she felt about this. Not her parents or Ennis or goddamned Jonathan Froud, who of course was here, pale with excitement and impeccably dressed. The closer the movie got to being made, the worse he got. Hollywood filled his head like a heroin habit.

The seven of them—the Sharpe family and Jonathan, the actress and her mother—sat around the dining room table for dinner. Maeve nodded and smiled and laughed sweetly, right up until her mother rose and said, “Which way to the little girls’ room?” As soon as she was gone, Maeve stuck her tongue out like she was dead and said, “Sorry my mom’s such an irritating bitch.”

Even Edith looked startled.

You’d think Maeve would want to hang out with Guinevere, considering she was playing her. But after their first meeting Maeve barely looked at her. She was more interested in Ennis.

He’d shot up over the past year. At thirteen he was taller than Edith. All his thick blond hair was gone: a few weeks ago, he cut it off over the kitchen trash, then shaved what was left. He laughed at her face when she saw it. Calm down, Guin, I’m not dead.