His name is centuries old. I like this. It makes me feel like we’ve met before, that maybe our histories have a more distinct beginning.
“Hector was the firstborn son of King Priam and Queen Hecuba, a descendant of Dardanus and Tros, the founder of Troy,” I inform him, happy to know something.
He gives me a puzzled look again. I’m getting used to this expression of his. “You are like, the queen of Wikipedia.”
I don’t know what that means. So I just keep talking. “Hector was slain by Achilles and his corpse mistreated for twelve days.”
“Yes,” he says, a little impatiently. He won’t look at me anymore. He shifts his body from foot to foot. He’s antsy to leave. It’s better, really, for him to go away. I can’t stop imagining my fingers stretching across his neck, pushing on those tender points and damming those red rivers for eternity.
Stop it, Anda.
Oh, why is he here?
He ought not to be here.
“I…I should find some food,” he stammers.
I stare at him.
“I haven’t been able to get enough fish, and your kitchen is running low on stuff. I thought…well, it would be wrong…” he murmurs, scratching his sparse beard. I’ve a notion to cut it off, so I can unearth the planes and angles of his cheeks. Would he trust me to be close to him with a razor? Would I trust myself? He clears his throat, and I clear my head of thoughts of blades kissing skin. “But I don’t think we have a choice.”
What is he talking about?
“We need to break into the Windigo camp store.”
“Oh!”
Hector’s face is full of concern. “I’m sorry. I thought I brought enough food. I was so wrong. And then there was the fox. Even if I’m lucky enough to get a fish every day, it’s not enough for two people.” Hector bites his lip, and I’ve a notion to bite his rather than mine. “There’ll probably be a lock. Maybe I’ll need a piece of metal or something…”
Breaking a door or taking objects means nothing to me. They are things easily fixed and replaced. Mother and I care little for the creations of men. They’ll get torn down by dust and time eventually. Sometimes we simply allow the performance to happen before time’s curtain rises.
But Hector is troubled by this. For someone who’s living on an island he’s not allowed to be on, I find it odd that this would bother him. I hear him mutter things like, “Maybe I’ll pay them back later. I could mail it anonymously…”
He heads toward the back door and shoves his feet into his boots. On goes a thick flannel shirt and his heavier coat, and he empties out his backpack. As he reaches for the door, I follow him, but he puts a hand out.
“No. You should stay here. You haven’t been well. I’ll bring some food back soon, okay?”
Father would say similar things, but his offerings didn’t help me. With Hector (and I like to say his name in my mind—Hector. Hector. It’s sharp and shiny, at the same time) it feels like we are on the same side of caring. Falling toward the same charred destination.
Suddenly, I don’t want him to leave. It’s easy enough to bring a wind against the cabin, and when he opens the door, I shut it. Hard.
“Ugh. This wind!” he says, pushing against the door.
“I should like to come with you,” I say.
Hector pushes the door, and it bobs open before the wind slams it shut again. “Jesus!”
“I should like to come with you,” I say again.
Hector lets go of the doorknob and stares at me, his face still and watching. He suspects something.
He knows. Anda, don’t play. Just kill him.
I push away her words. A dark shape hovers outside the window, but I ignore her. Hector stares at me like I’m a wild beast.
He speaks slowly and quietly. “All right. You need to get dressed. Wear warm clothes. It’s pretty cold. And we need to make sure the helicopters and boats don’t see us, so don’t wear anything bright.”
I nod. My nightgown swooshes as I turn into the bedroom to search for clothes. The weather is the least of my worries now. I am the weather; I don’t need to shield myself from myself. But I should be cautious. The boats and the helicopter are searching. I’m more visible when people are looking in earnest, especially for pretty things, like corpses.
I should wear something appropriate, only I’m not fully sure what that is. I take out everything from the drawer where my clothes are. There is underwear, and chemises, and tops. Jeans. Socks. Most of them have not been worn more than once.
I shed my nightgown and pull on a pair of underwear, then a thin white cotton camisole with a satin band at the edges. Father bought these over a year ago, and they’re both a little too snug. Should I wear two pairs of pants? One? All my shirts at once? Hector said it would be cold. Cold to him and to me are disparate things. The idea of clothing layers confines me and I already miss the looseness of my gown. I gather up all the garments and bring them into the main room, where Hector is busy watching the search boats with the binoculars.
“What should I wear?” I ask.
Hector turns to look at me. I drop the armful of clothes onto the floor and his eyes go immediately to my bare legs, and then my breasts, stretching the camisole thin. Not the clothes piled on the floor. He nearly drops the binoculars, then clumsily places it on the windowsill. “Uh.”
It’s the only word that issues from his mouth for several seconds, while he drops his eyes to the floor. He’s still not looking at my clothes. Finally, he seems to shake himself and walks over to dive his hands into the pile at my feet.
“Uh. This shirt. And uh, this one, with this sweater on top. Wear these long johns beneath the jeans.” He won’t meet my eyes. I’ve done something wrong.
The emotion is fleeting but familiar. Father is never disappointed in me; he understands what I am. But when I was smaller, when children came to the Isle with their parents, I longed for them to see me. My heart was partially a child’s, once, and it had its childish needs. But when other children’s eyes went through me, past me, I always knew I’d done something wrong. Just by being me, I was wrong. It was a flavor of hurt that only a child may know so keenly. It was a hurt I have been more than happy to forget. Except that I haven’t, because I feel it now. The fear of inadequacy, and being passed over for my allotted portion of kindness that all humans crave.
As I start dressing, I say, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry.”
“I’ve upset you.”
“Oh, you haven’t upset me.” He laughs, but it’s a tinny, artificial laugh.
I’ve buttoned on two shirts and the sweater, but I pause before grabbing the pair of waffled long john pants. “What is it?”
“Uh, nothing.”
“You’re lying.”
Hector’s brown eyes go wide with wonder at my accusation. A faint ruddiness suffuses his cheeks again. Perhaps he’s ill?
“Anda. Look. I’m trying to…concentrate. And you’re standing there in your underwear.”
“Yes.”
“With me. I’m practically a stranger.”
“Yes, practically. Technically, not really.”