Chapter Text
Summer in Florida was always stifling, but it was even worse with the air conditioning out.
The stuffy, stagnant air in the little trailer put Maribeth in mind of the times she had tried to hide under her covers at night to prevent her abuela from catching her up late reading, the dim glow of her flashlight quickly muted in layers of colorful quilts. She would lie there, frozen, caught between terror and glee, listening to her grandmother’s shuffling footsteps until they retreated down the hall and fell silent–the signal that she could free herself from the overwarm prison of her own trapped breaths.
At least in that situation, yanking the blankets off brought a welcome wash of cooler air. Mari heaved a sigh as she watched the fan-blades spin in their limp circle above the couch, the motion doing almost nothing to stir the humid air clinging to her skin.
“Still nothing?” Mari turned her head at the sound of Abuela’s voice, faintly muffled by the screened interior door as it floated in from outside. The older woman had been banging away at the ancient air conditioner for almost an hour now, with no noticeable results.
“ Nada ,” Mari called back wearily. “Just give it a rest, Abuela, until the handyman gets here.”
“That good-for-nothing lump should have been here thirty minutes ago,” Abuela groused, but moments later, the wooden step creaked and the screen door squealed as Mari’s grandmother eased herself inside. Broad in the shoulders and slightly stooped, with hair the color of cinnamon powder streaked gray at the temples, Abuela had always carried herself like a force of nature–hence Mari’s growing concern at the tiredness that seemed to have begun hovering at the corners of her grandmother’s eyes. She settled onto the rickety love-seat with a bone-weary sigh, rubbing at her left elbow, where a bruise had begun to bloom.
“Abuela, don’t you think you’re getting a little old to be doing repair work?” Mari spoke up after a few minutes of silence. “You look like you’re going to faint.”
Abuela’s eyes, which had been closed, snapped open, fixing Mari with a withering stare. “Next you’ll say I’m getting too old to put on my own shoes,” she replied scathingly. “Or to cook my own breakfast.”
“I’m just worried about you,” Mari said, raising her hands in surrender. “You could let me help, you know. Mamá always used to.”
“Yes, your mamá was very good at sticking her hands and nose in where she didn’t need to.” Abuela made a little ptch sound with her pursed lips. “She’s the reason we’re in this mess to begin with.”
“Okay, all right, I’m sorry I brought it up.” Mari swiped an arm across her damp forehead, scowling at the visible beads of sweat it came away with. “I was just trying to be helpful.”
Silence fell again, as heavy and still as the summer air. Mari gritted her teeth as she listened to Abuela’s gently rasping, rhythmic breaths; gradually, they became longer, deeper, the pauses between them stretched like a rubber band pulled back and waiting to snap. Only when she was sure her grandmother’s eyes had drifted closed again did Mari roll sideways, shivering as her sticky skin peeled itself away from the beaten leather of the couch. Sliding on her worn flip-flops, Mari carefully pried open the screen door just enough to slide herself through the gap between it and the frame.
The high afternoon sun beat down on the little dirt cul-de-sac surrounding the trailer, forcing Mari to shield her eyes against the unrelenting glare. Abuela’s two palm plants sagged in their terracotta pots beside the step; further into the yard–if the bare stretch of dust and pebbles could be called a yard–even the obnoxious weeds hung wilted and limp in the stagnant air. The only visible shade clustered in thick purple pools beneath the gnarly live oaks that framed the cul-de-sac and lined the single dirt road leading away from the trailer, its surface marred with potholes and scored by lines of tire tracks. Mari rolled her eyes when she noticed the mailbox once again knocked askew at the edge of the road.
Her attention was not for the mailbox this time, though. She turned and hopped off the single wooden step, dust already coating her toes as she made her way to the beaten, rusted form of the air conditioner box planted on the pebbles below a window. It had already been ancient and abused when Mari and Abuela had arrived at the trailer seven years earlier, coughing and protesting every time it kicked on; still, for all that, it had worked, at least until two hours ago. Mari tapped a hand listlessly against it, listening to the hollow thud it made.
She had no idea how to fix an air conditioner, but she was certain her mamá would have. Mamá had been one of those people who had a talent for every occasion–a “jack-of-all-trades,” as Abuela used to say. One time, a neighbor had been in need of a new shoe for his donkey–this was back when they had lived in a real house, when it had been Mamá and Abuela and Mari and sometimes Tía Veronica if she was in between travel destinations–and to everyone’s surprise, Mamá had volunteered right away, and had done what the neighbor called a “bang-up job” re-shoeing the donkey. Before that day, Mari had not known her mother had even seen a donkey before. It wasn’t the only time Olívia Lopez had demonstrated an unexpected skill, nor even the most impressive time.
But it was the last time, before she–and Mari’s life as she knew it–had vanished into thin air.
Shaking loose the cobwebs of bitter memory, Mari focused more keenly on the air conditioner. The fan at the top was barely visible through the layer of deep red rust caked onto the metal; the screws affixing the side panels were in only slightly better condition, silver surfaces tarnished and weather-beaten. Abuela’s screwdriver lay discarded beside the device, covered in dirt. Mari picked it up and flicked off the three ants making their lazy way from the handle up toward the tip.
“Might as well give it a try,” she muttered, and inserted the tip of the screwdriver into the nearest screw.
The effort required to get the screw to turn was mighty. Mari strained with all her strength, gasping and almost losing her grip on the screwdriver when it jerked clumsily to the side, emitting a ghastly squeal and shedding layers of oxidation. She paused, panting, waiting to see if Abuela had been alerted by the noise; when no scolding voice issued from the house, however, Mari resumed her efforts, finding the screw easier to turn after the initial jolt–though not by much. It was no surprise that Abuela had not been able to manage the job.
She was sweating by the time she was able to free the topmost panel and pry it up, exposing the tangle of wiring and metal beneath. The mess of colors was mostly nonsensical to her, save for a single detail–a dark blue wire, vanishing out through the bottom of the device, which originated from a box labeled ‘thermostat,’ and had been cleanly snipped in half.
Mari’s mind spun aimlessly for a second as she processed the sight, the screwdriver dangling from limp, sweaty fingers.
No one has been inside this unit in years, she thought numbly. Definitely not since we moved here, at least. The screws hadn’t been touched. So…how did the wire get cut?
She was still staring at it in silence when a voice spoke up from behind her. “Surprised you managed to get that thing off, lil’ missy. I reckon it woulda’ been hard for me even to do.”
Mari whirled, clutching the screwdriver in one hand like a weapon, until her gaze settled on the man standing behind her, and she relaxed a little at the recognizable sight of Mr. Ed the handyman, clad in his familiar blue coveralls and hat, a toothpick dangling from one side of his mouth. He scratched a hand over his scraggly beard and grinned at her, showing the gaps where several of his teeth were missing.
“What, did I scare ya?” he teased, accentuating the words with a raspy little laugh. “The way you were starin’ at that thing, you’d have thunk it were a ghost.”
“I’m not sure it isn’t,” Mari mumbled.
“Heh? Speak up, you know my ear’s bad.” Mr. Ed tapped the side of his head beside his left ear, which was missing the lobe and part of the helix. “Ever since that dang cat got ahold of me…”
“Yeah, I know.” Mari shook her head. “It’s nothing.” She decided against mentioning the fact that the air conditioner had never been opened–it wasn’t like Mr. Ed would know any more about it than she did. He lived over thirty minutes away, in Fort Lauderdale, and had only just arrived.
Gesturing toward the wires, she motioned Mr. Ed closer so he could take a look. “See, the blue one’s cut,” she said as he examined the mess. “That must be why it quit working.”
“Shoo-ee, sure enough,” Mr. Ed said with a sharp whistle. “Somebody clipped that thing right in half.” He glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, his expression concerned. “Yer old granny got any enemies I don’t know ‘bout?”
Mari snorted. “Abuela doesn’t have enemies. Or friends, for that matter. We keep to ourselves.” It’s the reason we live out here in the middle of nowhere , she added privately, with more than a trace of bitterness.
“That you do,” Mr. Ed agreed. He sniffed, hawked, and spat a glob of phlegm into the dust; Mari tried to mask her disgust at the sight of it. “I ain’t got the faintest idea who’d have done it. Fortunately, it’s easy enough to fix; wire jest needs replacin’.”
“Do you have a replacement wire?” Mari asked hopefully.
“Sure, in my truck. Parked it down the end of the drive, same as always,” Mr. Ed replied, jerking a thumb at the driveway. “Dunno why yer granny insists on that, but she pays well, so I don’t mind.”
“Trust me, neither do I.” Mari rolled her eyes at the mention of one of Abuela’s many odd demands: any visitors to the trailer–and those were few and far between to begin with–had to park their vehicles at the far end of the driveway and walk the quarter-mile stretch of dusty road to get there. It was a large part of the reason Mr. Ed was their handyman to begin with–he was the only one they had found willing to agree to such a strange request.
“I’ll go an’ get it, and we’ll have this old thing fixed up in a jiff,” Mr. Ed said. “Here, come on, you can walk with me to the truck.” He beckoned with one knobby hand, seeming surprised when Mari shook her head.
“Can’t,” she said. “Abuela’s in there napping, and she might wake up to find me gone and then freak out and call the police.”
“Aw, it won’t take but a minute,” Mr. Ed rebutted. “Plus, I could use a pair of young hands to carry my toolbox. I ain’t as old as yer granny, but I ain’t young no more, neither.” He cracked his knuckles as if to prove his point.
“Well…” Mari let the word trail off, gnawing on her lip as she contemplated how to reply in a way that wouldn’t make her seem insane, because the real reason she couldn’t accompany Mr. Ed to his truck was one that would–justifiably–make any normal person think she was crazy.
It had started the week after Mari and Abuela had moved to the trailer; fourteen days after Mamá had disappeared from their lives (and seemingly from existence). Mari, then only five years old, had hopped down the single wooden step, Abuela trailing worriedly behind, and set out to explore the oval of dirt clods and coquina debris that made up her brand new yard. Content for a while tossing pebbles to see how far away they would land, Mari had nevertheless grown bored and headed for the edge of the yard, toward the bent, beckoning branches of the live oaks lining the driveway and the inviting, light-dappled leaf carpet beneath.
She never reached them.
The sensation, when she had described it to Abuela after being rescued and carried into the trailer to lie stunned on the bed, was like what she imagined swimming through a huge pool of dulce de leche would be like. Head light, limbs sluggish, dragging through the air as it congealed into a syrupy miasma around her, then gasping greedily for breath when Abuela finally snatched her up and raced back through the front door.
No, maybe swimming wasn’t the right metaphor. Maybe it was more like drowning.
Since then, Mari had only attempted to cross the perimeter of the yard twice on foot: once, during a rare visit from Tía Veronica, when they had been playing hide-and-seek; the other, when Abuela had been particularly angry at her and chased her around the house and out into the yard, sandal in hand. Both times, it had been the same–the moment she crossed some unseen threshold, the entire world around her was transfigured into mush. Strangely, it never happened when she was riding in Abuela’s beat-up old Ford, which conveniently allowed her to go to school without incident.
A quiet little ahem alerted her that Mr. Ed was still patiently waiting for a reply, one bushy gray brow curiously raised. Mari sucked in a deep, preparatory breath.
If I collapse this time, maybe I can blame it on the heat, she told herself uneasily. Better that than to sound like a crazy person.
Aloud, she said, “Okay, if it’ll only take a minute, I guess I can come.”
Mr. Ed nodded in satisfaction. “That’s the spirit. C’mon, it’s just down the end of the drive.”
He set off at a remarkably quick pace, forcing Mari to jog to keep up with him despite his prior complaints about his age. Her muscles tensed in apprehension as they neared, and then crossed, the edge of the yard, but to her surprise, the air around her remained its standard consistency, and she was able to trail Mr. Ed down the length of the driveway, glancing back every so often as the trailer disappeared behind the curve of the road.
As promised, Mr. Ed’s weather-worn truck sat at the end of the drive, perched haphazardly on the shoulder where gravel and dirt gave way to leaves and detritus. He drew a key fob from the pocket of his coveralls as they approached, producing a sharp bleat from the truck’s horn as he mashed his thumb into a button.
“Toolbox is in the bed,” he said over his shoulder to Mari. “Wire’s in the cab. I’ll grab the wire if you can handle the toolbox.”
“Sure,” Mari said with a nod.
She hoisted herself up, bracing her feet against one of the tires as she peered into the bed of the truck. Mr. Ed’s familiar toolbox lay inside; she reached in and grabbed the handle, which was cool and rough against her palm.
“Find it?” Mr. Ed called, his voice slightly muffled by the walls of the truck’s cab.
“Yeah,” Mari called back. She lifted the box, fumbling it slightly as its weight surprised her. Lifting with both hands proved to steady the load; arms straining, she managed to drag the toolbox over the side of the bed, levering herself carefully back to the ground. Mr. Ed was still rooting around in the back of the cab, mumbling faintly to himself as he did so.
“Need any help?” Mari spoke up.
“Naw, it’s just a bit unwieldy.” He drew his head back, arms now laden with a long, tangled spool of blue wire, identical to the cut wire in the air conditioner. His head nodded appreciatively at the sight of the toolbox. “Good job gettin’ that thing down.”
“It was pretty heavy,” Mari confessed.
“Sure is,” Mr. Ed agreed with a crackly laugh. “Glad those young hands are here to carry it for me. Come on, let’s get yer machine fixed.”
Walking at a more relaxed pace now, Mari followed him back down the driveway, feet crunching deeply into the gravel with the weight of the toolbox pulling her down. About halfway back through the journey, her eye was drawn by the glint of something silver around Mr. Ed’s neck, something she hadn’t noticed previously, so absorbed had she been checking behind her for Abuela’s disapproving presence. Closer observation revealed it to be a surprisingly ornate necklace, the fine silver chain bearing a large pendant fashioned from a crystalline chunk of amber. Some unfamiliar creature was frozen within the gemstone–an insect, if Mari had to guess, but she was too far away to make out any particular details.
“What’s that thing around your neck?” she asked, dipping her head toward Mr. Ed’s chest.
“Hm?” He seemed surprised that she had spoken, his head bobbing upward as if he were jerking awake.
“The necklace thing,” Mari clarified. “Is it a bug? I’ve never seen a real amber fossil.”
“Oh, this?” His eyes darted toward the necklace, and he shrugged. “My daughter got it for me. It’s some kinda critter; looks like an ant to me. Apparently she got it when she was in South America.”
“Neat.” Mari tilted her head. Something about the way he had responded was sounding alarm bells in her brain, though she couldn’t exactly place what it was. The strange droop of his eyes, perhaps? The way his head kept lolling slightly to the side, as if he were dozing off?
“Are you okay?” she finally spoke up again. “You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I’m fine,” he snapped, so sharply that Mari flinched. “It’s jest hot, is all. Don’t know why you an’ yer granny had to live out here in the middle o’ nowhere.”
“Yeah, you and me both,” Mari managed after the moment of shock had passed. She resolved not to bother him again; apparently, the heat was more oppressive than even she had realized.
They made it back to the yard without further conversation, and Mr. Ed set about the work of repairing the air conditioner. Mari perched on the step, watching him in concern for any more signs that the heat was getting to him, but he finished the job without saying another word, straightening up and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of one arm.
“That should do you,” he announced in a much more normal voice. “Had to pull out the cut wire an’ run a new one, so it might take a while for the air in there to cool off, but it should be right as rain come nightfall.”
“Thank you so much,” Mari said fervently. “Do you want to come in for a glass of ice water? The A.C. might be out, but the icebox is still working.”
“Naw, once I get back in the truck, I should be okay,” he replied with a shake of his head. The motion drew Mari’s attention once again to the strange bauble around his neck; something about the way it flashed in the light sent a shiver down her spine. Was it her imagination, or had the creature inside changed positions?
“Okay,” she said, keeping the creepy thoughts to herself. “Thanks again. I’ll tell Abuela you came by.”
“Yep.” Mr. Ed slid the spool of remaining wire over his arm, hoisting the heavy toolbox in both hands and turning to depart. He was halfway across the cul-de-sac when he paused, turning and fixing Mari with an intent, unnerving stare.
“Maribeth,” he said, in a voice so unlike his usual one that Mari could have been convinced another person was speaking through his mouth.
“Y-yeah?” she stammered.
“Make sure you lock your door tonight.” He did not break eye contact for a long moment as silence stretched between them; only when he seemed satisfied that she had heard him did he turn, lugging the toolbox down the driveway, the chilling warning hanging in the air behind him.