Westside, page 29
I dug for the key and prepared to take the steps two at a time. It was an old gesture, smooth with practice, and it would have seen me through the front door in a second or two had it not been for the smallest of the ghouls: a hungry little child who had once been called Roach, who crouched at the foot of the steps, just low enough to catch my foot and send me sprawling.
The torch rolled one way. The key another. Like water rushing into a lock, the creatures swept toward me. Roach came first.
That poor, ruined boy. Had I the power, I would have saved him, or killed him, but that was far beyond me. He reached out, hungry still, the writhing tendrils that had replaced his arms running up my unfeeling legs.
I kicked him in the face, knocking him down the steps, and stretched for the key. It was hopelessly out of reach.
Roach’s smoky limbs dug into the stone, and he launched himself at me. I rolled out of the way. He landed as silent and gentle as a cat, and crawled on all fours, mouth dangling open, eyes burning horribly.
I shoved myself backward up the stoop. Something flickered on my thigh. It was my dress, catching fire. I had rolled onto the torch and not even felt its bite. Roach lunged again. I wrapped my fist around the torch and swung it upward, catching him on the chin and scattering him among the herd.
I scrambled up the last few steps and tried the handle. Locked, of course. I banged on the wood and didn’t even feel it shake. I leaned on the door, and the shadowy host climbed the steps to greet me. There was nothing between us but the torch, and it was beginning to die.
The ghouls reached the top step. They stretched out their hands.
The door opened behind me, and I stumbled backward—graceful as ever—into Hellida’s arms.
Her hair was wild, her eyes were bright. She looked gaunt, hungry, exhausted. She had been waiting for countless hours, waiting for the door to fail, waiting to fight and die. She was not expecting me.
The ghouls followed me inside and closed us in a ring.
I unscrewed the gas can and tossed the lid aside. They unfolded their limbs across the floor, and smoke swept up our legs.
I upended the can, cascading fuel down our hair and across our faces. It should have stung, but this world was like a nightmare—terrifying but painless. We could not feel the gasoline, and we would not feel the fire.
The smoke was almost at our mouths. I dragged the torch across our bodies, as easy as cutting a throat, and we exploded into glittering white fire. The ghouls scattered and I clutched Hellida tight, dying one last time.
We awoke in darkness. I coughed on the taste of burnt fabric and seared flesh, and kicked and struggled and cursed until finally I was free. There was Cherub, standing in the doorway, holding a heavy blanket that normally lived on my sofa, and which was scorched to ruin.
“Many apologies,” he said. “I got through the door just in time for the shadows to clear, and for you two to burst in from nowhere, thoroughly on fire. This was the nearest thing I could think of to stanch the flames.”
Behind him, the world was right, the sky was blue, and the soft morning sun shone on my house: three stories of vines, dust, quilts, books, papers, cockroaches, filth, awful memories, and ones too pleasant to ever let go. It was there, and Hellida was by my side.
“Gilda Carr,” she said, hugging me tight. “You horrible child. I knew you would come back.”
Two months later, a letter came with a return address that would baffle any postman: “236 East 48th Street, The Other New York.” It was from Edith Copeland, a short note containing thanks I didn’t deserve and money I couldn’t afford to refuse. I don’t know how she got it across the divide, and I’m not going to try to find out. It’s a piddling, unimportant question, and I’m trying to leave those behind. The Westside offers endless weirdness, danger, and death. How could any daughter of Virgil Carr refuse?
Bex Red and I met for a drink one night at Father Lamb’s, sometime around the beginning of December. The repaired campanile was warmed by a bonfire, courtesy of Glen-Richard Van Alen. From the top of the tower, we watched snow swirl on the park and saw the night-lights burning at every intersection on the Westside, lower and upper. It wasn’t as bright as the other side of Broadway, but it was warm, and the shadows were still.
“What are you painting?” I said, between oysters.
“Oh, nothing grand. Nothing epic. I’ve gone back to watercolors—tiny canvases, small enough to fit in your hand.”
I didn’t tell her, but most nights, I wish I could do the same thing.
Acknowledgments
My deepest thanks go out to Sharon Pelletier and David Pomerico, who got Gilda right from the start, to Bethany Johnsrud for pointing me to Sharon, and to the wonderful women of Squeaky Bicycle—Kathryn McConnell and Brandi Varnell—not just for introducing me to Bethany, but for nearly a decade of support, encouragement, and inspiration as I figured out how to be a writer good enough to dream up Gilda Carr.
Beyond those five, there is no one who deserves thanks more than my parents, who are magnificent; my brother, who’s not bad either; and my wife, Yvonne, who is supreme. And although they were more hindrance than help, I’d like to say a final word of thanks to Dr. Baby—named Dash the Flash after this book was first dedicated—and Follow-Up Baby, who turned out to be August all along.
About the Author
W. M. AKERS is an award-winning playwright and editor at Narratively. Westside is his debut novel. He lives in Brooklyn, New York.
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Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
westside. Copyright © 2019 by William M. Akers Jr. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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first edition
Map by James Sinclair
Cover design by Owen Corrigan
Cover photographs © Utro_na_more/iStock/Getty Images (glove); From The New York Public Library (map)
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.
Digital Edition MAY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-285403-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-285399-8
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W.M. Akers, Westside
