Two: Showboat
***
For the rest of that spring Keltie kept very much to herself. When not in class, she spent most of her time with one of Penelope’s trash romance books, or on Frog’s ancient gymnasium balance beam. She had gained a reputation with the latter activity amongst the other girls, besting all of them in the basic moves—turns, leaps, jumps—as well as the more complicated tricks. Some even asked for lessons, which she gladly gave, provided they had the contraband. Norwalk paid its legitimate teachers in bank deposits; Keltie took her wages under the table. Cigarettes and mix tapes, chewing gum and Coca-Cola.
“You’re a natural, you know that?” Penelope said one evening.
“I practice a lot actually,” Keltie told her.
“I practice shooting baskets a lot. I’m still pretty bad at it.”
“You weren’t that bad tonight.”
May skidded into June. The weather outside, balmy already for the time of year, grew hot. Keltie woke up most mornings with sunlight streaming through the window that let on Benedict Avenue. By noon, most of the detention center’s classrooms were hot enough to be uncomfortable. Girls stretched and yawned at their desks. Homework papers, folded into makeshift fans, waved.
By the time final exam week arrived students were demanding fans of the electric variety. Some of these were provided by the DC, others were brought in by the teachers. The one in Keltie’s class turned out to be particularly large, so it was with papers and pencils flying in a hurricane gale that she took her finals.
Herman Melville’s Dick, the paper before her read. A gust of air swept her bangs. The paper changed. Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, it now pronounced.
“Of course,” Keltie said.
She went on to flunk the Dick portion of her test. And why not? She’d already done it once earlier in the year. Later that afternoon Penelope informed her the DC would be orchestrating a work outlet program for its less troublesome residents. The only requirement was a visit to the vice principal’s office to fill out a form.
“And then what happens?” Keltie asked from her bed. “The DC places us?”
“Correct,” Penelope said. She took off her t-shirt and tossed it into a laundry basket. “You should sign up. Stop moping around. It depresses me.”
“I’ve been on a Sylvia Plath kick lately,” Keltie had to admit.
“You don’t have to tell me. Or any of the other girls.”
“It’s that obvious?”
The bra came off next, so Penelope’s boney chest was completely bare when she turned and said: “You’ve been like a hermit. You hardly ever leave this room. People are starting to ask if we’re lesbians.”
Keltie’s jaw dropped. “Really? Come on.”
“Really. You’re the brooder who dresses in black and I’m the LPGA inspired golfer.”
“Ha! Drive that range, girl!”
Penelope didn’t laugh. She put on a fresh bra, a fresh shirt, then told Keltie in a quiet voice: “Put on something pink. Then we’ll go downstairs and sign up.”
“I don’t want to work.”
“Neither do I. But it will get us away from this creepy building four nights a week. We can even request to be placed together.”
But Keltie could only shake her head. She tossed the book she’d been reading aside—Breathless Girl, by Frankie Plume—and told Penelope thanks but no thanks. She had no use these days for strange new places and strange new people. Did her friend even remember how they’d gotten locked up in this creepy building to begin with?
“The boy I was with that night told me it was his dad’s car,” Penelope said, “as I’ve already told you a hundred times.”
“Penny, he was thirteen years old. The boy I was with that night told me he had a motorcycle.”
“And he did!”
“Yeah. In a box. And when I asked him what a change lever was he showed me the lock on his bathroom door.”
“This time it’ll be different, Kel. No boys. No bullshit. Just work. For pay,” Penelope added, seeing her friend grimace at the dreaded W word.
Keltie let a long, tired sigh rush from her lips. Having a best friend could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. In all of the old Star Trek movies she’d ever seen, Captain Kirk always seemed to talk Spock into some crazy escapade. Sherlock Holmes often criticized Doctor Watson for documenting his cases as entertainment. And Robin was always fucking things up for Batman.
“Don’t expect much,” she said at last.
“Of course not.”
“If one asshole customer tells me reheat his soup, I’m gone.”
“Keltie—“
“If one asshole boss gives me shit about my make-up, I’m gone.”
“Keltie.”
“And don’t even think about covering for sickies.”
“Keltie?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re a real hardcore bitch, you know that?”
Both girls stared at each other in the afternoon sunlight that shined through the window. Keltie’s resolve broke first. She started to giggle, and then laugh like a loon. By that time Penelope had joined her. She grabbed a My Little Pony pillow and winged it at Keltie’s head. Nobody would hire them—Keltie was sure of that. They sucked at everything they tried. Nobody would hire them.
Nobody.
***
“Ladies,” the head waiter said, “this is an easy job. Just smile. Be polite.” He glanced over his shoulder at the crowded restaurant for a moment before continuing in a lower tone. “And for fuck’s sake, don’t fuck up any orders! Capeesh?”
“Capeesh,” both girls said together.
The head waiter scowled, then disappeared into the dining area, leaving the girls to sink or swim on their own. Keltie thought the analogy a fitting one, as the restaurant they’d been placed at was a converted ferry called The Showboat. It was docked between a quarry and a beach on Sandusky Bay. The local newspaper often commented on this being a less than suitable location, as one side of the vessel always smelled of salt, while the other carried a distinct odor of dead fish and rock moss. Keltie had no idea if this was true—yet—but all the same, she did want to smack Penelope upside the head for getting her into this mess.
The dining area looked like a zoo. It was a Saturday night in the middle of June, and the seafood lovers were out in droves, sipping their wine, clanging their forks. And worst of all, raising their hands for service. All the waiters moved at a near frantic pace beneath the golden lights, the crystal chandeliers. A terrible band had been booked for the weekend. The guitar player had the distortion on his amp cranked so high that every chord he played sounded the same. In the middle of his set he gave Keltie a wink. Keltie gave him the finger.
“Romance in the air,” Penelope sang as she swooped past with a tray of oysters.
“Fuck off,” she said.
“Miss Burke!” a deep, male voice boomed from her shoulder.
“Oh fuck.”
She turned to face a round man with a bald head and a black mustache. The manager. In an effort to look composed, she straightened her blouse, smoothed over her skirt. Fat chance.
“The Showboat,” her manger said, “is not Denny’s. It is not Berry’s. Or Johnny Angel’s. Or The Shake Shack.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The word fuck is not in our vocabulary.”
“No, sir.”
He nodded. “Very well. Please refresh the water at table six, as your customers asked you to do five minutes ago.”
“But I need to pee,” Keltie winced.
This was not a lie. Her bladder had grown heavy over the past hour, though no one seemed disposed to give her a breather. Now the issue was close to dire.
“Hold it,” the bald manager snipped.
She took care of the table and made it to the ladies room with barely a moment to spare. The deluge came just as she was bending to sit down. Breathing deeply, Keltie put her head between her legs until every last drop had fallen. Then she reached into her bag. There was a pack of bubble gum at the bottom. Underneath that, cigarettes.
I’d like to see the fat bastard say no to this, she thought, popping a Capri between her lips.
Her thumb was just about to flick on her lighter when she looked up and saw it—a sprinkler fixture. “Goddammit!” she hissed. “Goddammit all to fucking hell!”
“What’s your damage, girl?” someone outside the stall asked.
“Penny? That you?”
“It ain’t Jessica Rabbit.”
Keltie threw the smoking paraphernalia back into her bag and got dressed. A savage pleasure swelled in her chest. Now that she finally had Penelope alone, shit was going to hit the fan.
“I hate this job!” she said, yanking the stall door open. “I hate this job, and you…you…”
Penelope stood outside the door, smiling. In her hand was a large baggie of weed.
“You are,” Keltie said, “the best friend a girl could ever have.”
“I thought you’d say something like that,” the taller girl winked. “Now let’s go find someplace to get high.”
***
That someplace turned out to be a storage room on the lower deck, deep within the ship’s hull. Keltie blindly followed her friend through a few swinging doors off the kitchen, then down several shadowy flights of stairs that let on even more shadowy corridors. Occasionally Penelope would stop and try a door. One after the next turned out to be locked, however, obliging them to plunge further and further below decks.
The storage room lay at the end of the darkest corridor yet. A flickering orange bulb showed them a passage cluttered with old life preservers.
“No way that’s going to be unlocked,” Keltie said, her eyes on the latch.
“Check it and see,” Penelope said. “I’ll stand guard here.”
Keltie walked to the door. It came open with a rusty creak. Pitch blackness waited on the other side. “Now what?” she called over her shoulder. “I can’t see.”
“Try your lighter, genius.”
Keltie began to rummage through her bag. Cool, musty air crept from inside the room. Water lapped at unseen walls. She found the lighter, clicked it on.
A hand clamped down on her shoulder.
“Boo!” Penelope said.
“Stop that! Help me find a light switch.”
It was on the left—a knob that turned with a heavy snap. A large room full of steel shelves came into view under light barely bright enough to see in. Cardboard boxes of every size were stacked on these shelves. Ancient silverware glowed in dust-covered velvet bedding. Cracked plates. Broken picture frames.
“It’s a junk room,” Penelope whispered.
Keltie went to one of the shelves and opened a box. Dust plumed in her face. Inside was a plastic Christmas wreath. Santa Claus grinned from a ring of gnarled, fake flowers. Ho! Ho! Ho! he bellowed at Keltie.
“Green Giant,” Keltie sang back.
“What?”
She closed up the box. “Nothing. Is this room good enough?”
“I suppose,” Penelope shrugged. “But let’s light up in back.”
They plunged deeper into the boxes. Shadows grew larger; the room got darker. As they made their way further from the door Keltie noticed the boxes had gotten larger as well. Some were now the size of living room furniture. Convenient, she thought. It’ll give us some space to roll a good sized joint.
“Hand it over,” she said, once they reached the back wall.
Penelope dropped the bag into her hand. Keltie opened it, and was just about to reach inside when Penelope said: “What’s that?”
She was pointing at a long, wooden crate about five feet from where they stood. Keltie looked at it without much interest. It was just another box—larger than the others, but still just a box. In fact the lid would provide a pretty good place for her handiwork.
“It looks like a coffin,” Penelope’s voice whispered.
“I suppose. Give me some light over here, will you?”
“Let’s open it.”
The bag slipped from Keltie’s fingers, bringing a curse to her lips. “Now look what you made me do! I lost our stash!”
“Relax. It’s right under the coffin.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Keltie knelt down, scuffing her black waitress stockings on the filthy floor. She reached under, found the bag—
And something inside the crate knocked three times.
In a flash, Keltie shot to her feet. “Did you hear th—“
“I heard it,” Penelope, slack-jawed, said. “Now we really need to open it.”
“I disagree.”
Keltie was backing away from the coffin now. A coffin, she suddenly decided, was exactly the right word for it. Brown planks of unfinished wood had been hammered crudely together with rusty nails that jabbed at them like rose thorns. A lid that did not fit right lay over the top. Keltie was reminded of the days when she used to catch grasshoppers and trap them inside old Tupperware containers with a book.
She opened her mouth to tell Penelope they should leave—like right now—when her friend stepped forward and pushed the lid off on her own. Penelope then peered inside. Moments later her lungs gave a quick, hard gasp.
“Well?” Keltie said.
“Come here.”
“Do I have to?”
She went back to the coffin feeling like someone had a hand around her throat. Her eyes dropped. The weak light revealed a boney white figure dressed in a long shirt that looked to be made of silk. Two deep-set eyes—shut—were nestled in a bald head with pointed ears. A thatch of gnarled vines were curled together on the figure’s chest, and where its feet were supposed to be Keltie saw two talons that looked strong enough to clutch a dead tree at midnight.
A slow, appreciative smile spread over her face. “That,” she said to Penelope, “is so, so cool.”
“They must go all out for Halloween on this boat.”
“Yeah. I’m not sure I’d be able to eat with one of these hanging over my table, though.”
Penelope slowly reached to touch one of the gnarled hands. Craftsmanship was not Keltie’s specialty, but she thought this piece would look scary even in a well-lit room. Back and forth went Penelope’s fingers, evaluating the ornament’s texture.
“What’s it made out of?” Keltie wanted to know.
The other girl froze. Her eyes went to the ornament’s head. A chilly mix of confusion, fear, and doubt began to take hold her features.
“Penny?”
The ornament’s eyes flew open. Penelope screamed, but already her wrist was caught—snapped by one of the clawed vines. A white face with red eyes rose from the coffin. It opened a mouthful of rusty scissor-blades and hissed.
“Keltie!” Penelope screamed.
“KELTIEEEE!” the monster shrieked back. “KELTIEEEE!”
Keltie turned and grabbed a box off one of the shelves. Something rattled inside of it—she didn’t care what, as long as it would effectively cold-cock whoever the hell this creep was.
“Asshole!” she yelled, raising the box high.
Two blood-red eyes glared at her for a moment. Then the monster gave a yank, opened its gigantic maw, and bit off Penelope’s head.
The box fell from Keltie’s hands. Her feet staggered. Penelope’s body collapsed to the floor, fingers clawing at the place where her head had been. They couldn’t find it. Bloody bone and torn tissue were all that remained. What’s wrong with my head? What’s wrong with my head?
Gasping for breath, Keltie looked at the monster. A thick strand of her friend’s hair hung from its mouth. The red eyes looking back seemed pleased with their prey. The monster was a cat, Penelope’s head was a mouse. Blinking, the cat bit down. Bone crunched in its jaws.
It was enough for Keltie—way, way more than enough. She ran back down the aisle, tripped on one of the boxes and fell hard. One of her nails broke; one of her shoes flew off. From the coffin came another long, dry hiss, followed by scratchy, dragging footsteps.
“Keltieeee,” the monster’s tongue slithered.
She spun around, expecting to see it at the foot of the aisle. But no. Nothing stood in the pale orange light. Penelope’s feet lay twisted at an odd angle towards the coffin. Something that might have been blood shined on the floor.
The footsteps came closer, closer…and passed by in the aisle opposite. Keltie’s whole body felt frozen to the floor. She had no idea what to do now. The monster was making its way towards the exit, blocking her escape. She was trapped. Powerless.
Like a girl underwater, she reached up to grab one of the smaller boxes from the shelf. Her only chance at survival was to find a weapon. In a room like this, there just had to be one somewhere. Her fingers scurried inside the box. They came out with a plastic, toy spider. Scary. Keltie might have screamed had Penelope surprised her with it back at the DC. Tonight it was nothing more than a goddamned joke. Delving again, her hand closed around an old jump rope. That wouldn’t work, either, unless the monster felt inclined to do calisthenics between kills.
“Keltieeeeee!” she heard it call for the third time.
There was a click as it turned the switch by the door, and the lights went out, pitching everything into utter blackness.
Keltie inhaled the deepest breath she could into her lungs. Holding it, she reached back into the box. Sharp metal grazed her fingers. What was this? There were teeth along the metal, leading down to what felt like a cheap wooden handle.
She grabbed the handle. It was a knife. Not a big knife—it felt like something a child might use to cut steak upstairs—but a knife all the same. Kicking off her other shoe, Keltie rose to her knees. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark—a little. The shelves on either side of her were three tiers high. She stuck the knife in between her teeth and climbed to the top of the nearest one. The blouse she had on didn’t seem