Human Spines

Who Names Their Child Glen?-II

Dumaine

        Emmeline's holding my hand. Why's she holding my hand? I don't even think she remembers she's holding my hand. I don't know what to do. She grabbed it so quickly it almost hurt but smiled afterward.

        "Have ya'll decided what you'd like?" The waitress asks. I have, but I highly doubt Emmeline's even looked at the menu. But it's too late now because Glen's already ordering. I start to lift my hand to point at what I want but Emmeline's still holding it. And now I can feel my face turning red. Not cool.

        I stutter as I speak, suddenly very aware of Emmeline watching me and my own heartbeat. I stare at the table until the waitress leaves.

        "So where are you two headed?" Glen asks politely.

        "Same as you, New York." I swallow my embarrassment. "We're off to find someone. Don't know who, but we're gonna find them," I reply.

        "In the city, I assume?"

        "Yes, sir."

        "That's an optimistic goal. There are millions of people in that city, and most of them aren't the type to chat with a couple of teenagers. But hey, if you're meant to find this person, I believe you will. I once left to find my long lost father, rumored to be in Canada, but instead came back with a woman who's now my wife. It was simply meant to happen. The world's amazing that way." He shares a warm smile.

        "My mother once told me—" I stop. Emmeline's leaning in. Her mouth's so close to my ear I can feel her breathing. This is a problem. I'm blushing and my hands are sweating. Sometimes I feel nothing but friendship for Emmeline, others... are very different. So very different.

        She's whispering something to me, but I don't know what she's saying. I hope it's not important. And I hope whatever I was saying to Glen wasn't important because I can't remember what we were talking about or why I was talking to him or the reason Emmeline's holding my hand or if I even like her, which I know I do, but I also know I shouldn't like her this much in this way.

        I almost drop my head onto the table as I comprehend the next words whispered in my ear.

        "Expired butthole."

        Feeling Emmeline's lips so close is no longer pleasant. The Demon backs her away, smiling, slowly crushing my hand in Emmeline's. I attempt to ignore it, resuming my conversation with Glen, but the waitress has appeared. She decorates the table with plates, politely grinning. The Demon lets go of me to grab its food. I've learned Demons have a specific liking toward food. They eat everything on their plate (and sometimes mine) often licking it clean. They savor every taste, smell, and texture.

        We all eat silently, except Malinda, who makes little noises every time her father gives her a spoonful of the baby food he pulled from nowhere. She holds one hand out toward me, grasping, and watching while I dig into my fish... that doesn't taste like it should at all. I eat it though, now realizing how different the rest of the world is compared to the French Quarter. The only time I would leave home was during Mardi Gras, when my parents and I would visit their best friend, somewhere in Slidell. I've never pictured leaving Louisiana. It doesn't scare me it just... wow. When we get off this train we'll actually be in New York City.

****

        We've finished eating and the waitress has taken away our dishes. We sit, our stomachs content. Mostly. I can't tell if Malinda's happy as she's still doing that grabby hand thing, but she smiles at me when I grin at her. A much better response than the Demon's, who's started quietly spitting curse words every time I look at it.

        "Best wishes to you both. I hope to one day hear how your quest for the one in eight million ends, even though finding you after we get off this train is probably close to impossible." Glen smirks.

        "I'm very optimistic when it comes to nearly impossible. I think I myself might be the most impossible thing to exist. If I do exist. Malinda, do I exist?" Emmeline! She watches Malinda intently, waiting for something. The child's eyes flick toward her and Emmeline bursts upward, standing on her seat and squealing, but Malinda's staring at me again now. Emmeline stops, still smiling, and crouches back down beside me, lightly pushing on my shoulder. Glen stands and I follow, along with all the other people in the car. Emmeline rises beside me and salutes to Glen before curtsying to Malinda.

        "It was a pleasure meeting you," I tell him. "And you, too." I smile at Malinda. And I finally realize what she's doing. My heart stops. And so does her hand. But now it's restarted faster than before, perfectly in time with my panicking pulse.

        Emmeline's leaving the train car and I'm following her because that's something I can do without thinking. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking, how's this possible? Thinking, when did Emmeline notice? Thinking about Malinda the heart monitor. A baby broadcasting hearts. Obsessively, correctly, personally, unquestionably, unnecessarily.

****

        "Play something for me?" Emmeline asks. Emmeline doesn't often ask questions, she tells questions. But she asked just now.

        We're back in our little room and Emmeline's already gotten my accordion out of its case and set it in front of me. Maybe she did tell that question, just not with her voice.

        I set it in my lap and play. I don't have to think too hard to play. Maybe it's because I look at my fingers.

Emmeline

        He figured Malinda out and now it's messing with his head. I'm trying to help him, but I don't know how. He likes playing his accordion, so it's what I have him doing for now. The room's empty, just us inside. Emmeline and Dumaine. Dumaine and Emmeline. Emmeline Jefferson and Dumaine... Chartres? Yes, Dumaine Chartres. He finishes his song, his eyes dragging up to me.

        "Dumaine... Shartray." I don't actually know how to pronounce Chartres. I'd simply read it on the street sign when I found him.

        "Char-trez," he corrects, voice confident but eyes unsure.

        "Shar-trez," I counter, watching him hide a smile.

        "Chart-ess." He whips his dreadlocks out of his face like Beyonce, pretending his pronunciation is better. But a giggle escapes his lips.

        "Oh-hoh-hoh-hoh," I feign an over-the-top French accent. "Your name iz Dumaine Shaatrhey!" I wave my hands about fabulously. He bursts with laughter, pushing his accordion beside him, he folds in half, sounding explosive and free. I chuckle with him, but quietly. I like hearing him laugh.

        Finally he's able to look at me without busting up. He straightens, his cheeks red and his eyes watery.

        "Charters. My parents pronounced it Charters," he breathes, his complexion evening out.

        "Emmeline Jefferson and Dumaine Chartres. I like it." I nod.

        "And I like sleep," he responds, securing his accordion in its case.

        Then sleep it is. A voice echoes in my head. I see the orange claws rip through the ceiling this time.

        "Goodnight, Dumaine Char—"

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