Part 11: Chalk-toothed Menace

Previously in—the Vines Inquiry, Frank and Harlow discussed the Vines’ eerie reputation around town and reconnected with Jean, a long-time waitress who always seems to know just what her customers would like.

Frank’s eyes scurried around the diner, suddenly worried. As it turned out, Harlow’s mother had early and often warned her children about the Vines house.

”You know, general ‘stay away’ sort of stuff. Not that it ever stopped Stella. She was up there all the time and she never died!” They both took another gulp of coffee. “As far as I know she never died. But the twiggy thing is oddly durable.” 

Was it too late? Was a fishy demon about to drag him to a watery, cold… He didn’t know where yet and that was part of the problem!

Frank knew what he’d heard last night, dream or not. He also knew he hadn’t actually seen anything. Maybe he was just suffering from the long-reported and always ignored effect of the island. That unnameable thing Carlisle seemed to do to everyone. The ole eeriness that permeated the morning mists and nighttime howls from the pines. His coffee cup celebrated it, why couldn’t he? That was part of the charm of growing up in a place like this. The local legends. No one ever figured they’d become one, but Frank guessed when all-star athlete siblings drown on their birthday and their parents seclude themself in an admittedly hilltop/creepy manor, well, connections are bound to form. 

After Dick’s death, it was like a switch in his parents turned off. It would take something out of any set of parents. Damn near everything. Frank had always assumed at some point they would come back. That they might all carry it together.

He was the one who was there when it happened. He was the one they could still bring in from the cold.

But being back was like stepping into a collapsing bubble full of sweet memory that caved in with each inhalation until it hardened into a smothering, plastic mold. It forced him to shrink, to cut off the pieces of himself that didn’t match. Or to run. He just had to decide which path to take. 

“I have to call work,” he said.

“Good for you. It’s time to do this, Frank. Besides, you deserve a Christmas off.“

“Pot. Kettle. I’m gonna see if we have any partner hotels in the area that can help me get out of here.”

“You think a La Quinta is going to have a hook up with what? A jet ski?”

“I’d take one of those big blow-up bananas if it got me off Carlisle literally four minutes sooner.” 

Frank pulled out his phone, buttoned his coat and walked out into the storm. 

Harlow watched Frank try to shield himself from the snow as what had to be numb fingers pressed at his phone. The storm had been going all night, but only with tiny, wispy sort of flakes, and the morning sun had melted away a lot of that progress. But now, it was starting to stick, dusting the McCroy’s parking lot. 

She tried not to blame Frank, to be angry. She’d make him pay for breakfast with all that ‘big city, never came home’ money. Anyone with a lick of sense would see her point, and even though they didn’t discuss it due to Frank’s intensely Caucasian style of conflict management—ignore the problem and it’ll probably wither away long enough for one of the involved parties to die so that someone can yell at someone else’s grave—she knew he’d agree.

It hurt to be left, even if Frank extended a hand behind him while he ran. 

Damn the holidays, she thought. Or at least the Grinch makes some valid points.

They always got her thinking. About leaving, about her sister Stella. And that led to hurting and wishing and hoping and praying…which was just a Dusty Springfield lyric…

“Jean,” Harlow mouthed across the diner. “Another, please?”

Jean smiled, crinkling her increasingly blushed cheeks. Harlow guessed she’d decided to celebrate this morning too. Her hands shook as she reached under the counter for the ‘liqor.’ 

And not a moment too soon, for something had just strolled through the diner’s front door, jingling the little bell like a mad crier. 

Tucker Reagan, scourge of Kuhlman Hall, fifth floor.

He ran one thick-fingered hand through full brown hair that he’d always called ‘sandy blonde.’ He’d fit in perfectly in the handsome corner of a fraternity’s common room, boat shoes reeking with encapsulated sweat and salmon colored shorts hugging legs tanned on summer canoe trips. Harlow knew as much from experience. Back when she’d pressed any life out of her hair with a hot pink flat iron and worn irrevocably plaid skirts in a tongue of Burberry that had been run through Google translate. 

And always a North Face fleece. Why always a fleece? What was even under it? Had to be a shirt, right? Oh god. A Polo?

Tucker’s jaw cocked to the side as he spoke with the young cashier, sending her into a fit of giggles. By the looks of her, a Bramford undergrad. Certainly not a local. He wore one of those tan overcoats tall men wear, but his wasn’t even short at the wrist. 

Harlow hadn’t seen Tucker since their senior year at Bramford; one of her only successful post-grad plans. He grabbed one of the cookies next to the register while he spoke with the cashier. Harlow tried not to sneer at him, if only to avoid conversation, but the Christmas coffee was hitting her empty stomach and he’d taken a cookie. Like it was nothing. Right away.

Those cookies are for after your meal. And only if you tipped good. Dammit. Tipped well. I really shouldn’t have a second cup.

Harlow took another sip.

“LoLo?” said Tucker. The nicknamed tripped out of his mouth. “LoLo Voorhees?”

Harlow stared right back at him, unresponsive. She knew she was in it, but you can’t blame a girl for trying. She watched Tucker smile at her, then look over his shoulder, questioning whether or not he was mistaken. He walked over anyway, still smiling. 

“I saw F.T.F outside and thought you must be around here somewhere.” He took a seat opposite her. 

“You have about as much permission to sit down as you do to use either of those names.” She matched Tucker’s shit-eating grin, doing her best to ignore the rabbit-paced alarm in her chest. “Especially Frank’s. Even in high school, it was almost too dumb to be cruel.”

“Almost,” he said. “I thought he sort of reclaimed it at the end there.” 

“Wouldn’t be the first time you’ve been wrong and awful.” 

She took another sip, letting the coffee-colored booze galvanize her vocal cords. Tucker whistled through his perfectly-white teeth. Each one looked like a piece of sidewalk chalk; the thick blocky kind that Harlow theorized might crumble rather than crack if you hit it hard enough.

A hypothesis that she hoped someone, someday, would put to the test. 

“I love what you’ve done with your hair.” Tucker reached out to flick one of Harlow’s braids, but stopped at the last second. He gleamed with pride at his restraint. His open-eyed respect. “That’s a protective style, right?”

“Well look who got a Google for Christmas.” 

“LoLo, coming in a little hot.” He smiled, leaned back in the booth and cast a glance towards the cashier. She was still blushing. Harlow swallowed a curse, eager to not make a scene and have it roll down-island to her parents’ ears. 

“Don’t call me that.” Stay calm. Be direct. Stay calm. Be direct. Smile, Lo. SMILE. “My name is Harlow. But you know what? Don’t you worry about remembering that, because this is going to be the very last time we speak.” 

Tucker’s smile waned. His unfortunately pillowy lips stitched themselves together to downgrade his grin to mere smirk. 

“You were always a hard pill to swallow. But hey, consistency is key in your industry. It’s vital to bring the same number of French fries to every table.”

Harlow swallowed her shame, doubly so. The cashier called to Tucker as she came out from the back with his bag of to-go. “Seems to me you’re not above French fries.” 

“They’re delicious,” said Tucker, quieter now. “But you know my favorite part is getting served.” He leaned over the table, close enough she could smell the grape-flavored vape on his breath. “That’s everyone’s favorite part, LoLo.

“Do you think people go to your mother’s dive for the food? The drinks? The ambiance?!” He laughed, a genuine astonishment. “They’re there to watch you hurry away like a good little girl when they want more catsup. Even if those thighs rub together. At least your arms match now. I don’t remember them being so big in college, but you know, proportions and all that.” 

“Brazen,” said Harlow. 

“Oh, I’m sure your Instagram is ablaze with ‘You go girls!’ That’s what you do now, right? Instead of a life?” 

She rubbed her arm and tugged on the red velvet gloves that reached her biceps. When she’d slipped them on that morning, with her hat poised just-so, Harlow was giving Mrs. Clause, if you’re nasty. Now, even as she felt so small, the outfit bulged on her. An unflattering mockery. All these years later and someone could still step on her day. 

The Insta page had started as a window. Then it grew into a door. An escape. Or at least she told herself as much.

Harlow thought there must be people like who she pretended to be.

People who always celebrated their body, who legit loved their small-town life. She didn’t shame them. Couldn’t dare throw rocks from her ‘glassest of houses.’ But this… The smell of fry oil hit her. The same fry oil she’d been smelling for three decades.

“Whatever works, I guess,” said Tucker. Harlow grit her teeth. “I’d hate to have a failing business as a tenant. Of course, if the profits don’t improve…” 

She swung her hand towards him, one finger pointing in a diamond-sharp accusation, pushing her knife off the table and shattering what remained of her confidence.

“You wouldn’t,” she said. 

“Already did,” said Tucker. 

Harlow could feel the blood in her toes going cold. “My parents have had a lease with the Kerkoviches for…for forever.” 

“And good ole Mandy K. sold it to me and mine for a song. And your parents didn’t even tell you. Yikes, they don’t trust you at all, huh? Could be because you’re a quickly-aging overweight virgin who still lives at home and can’t manage to keep her silverware on the table.” 

Tucker reached down to pick up the knife, and by all the gods, demon queens or not, it took everything in Harlow not to knee him in the mouth right then. She watched him, dreaming of it, sending the signal to her leg. Flex, dammit. Crack him in the canines.

“Your foods getting cold,” was all she could say. The heat of her cup singed her palms, but she squeezed tighter. Tucker smiled away, chalky teeth returning for an encore.

He put both hands up. “You’re the expert on that. Stella was always more fun. You used to be a good time girl, though. What happened?” 

Harlow slammed her hand down on the table, rattling the silverware. She stood up, knees quaking. She could feel the other diner’s eyes on her, but did her best to hold. To use her fury as an anchor. 

“You need to go,” she said, voice more than quivering. “Now.” And that was fine, for the moment. That had to be fine. Her fear had to be fine. She could hold it. She could keep it together long enough. 

Tucker nodded, of course grinning, as he stood. He swung out of the booth, grounding his feet as close to hers as possible. He towered over Harlow. Even at 5’10”. Even in heels! Tucker’s square jaw, a trait that flowed back through the Reagan men all the way to whatever inbred village they’d slimed their way out of, hovered over Harlow’s forehead. She looked up at him, grinding her own teeth to dust. 

“Do I?” he whispered in her ear. Then, giddy. Carefree, Tucker leaned back. “Oh yeah. My food’s ready.” 

Tucker walked back over to the cashier, jolly as ever, and took his breakfast. The young girl slipped a piece of receipt she’d scribbled on into the bag. Harlow felt comfortable assuming it was a number. Tucker turned back to her, holding it up like a bunny he’d shot. 

“Well would you look at that,” he said, winking at the cashier. “Nice seeing you, LoLo. Say ‘hey’ to Stella for me.” 

Harlow collapsed into the booth and emptied the rest of her mug as Jean appeared. 

“All you kids back home for the holidays.” Her words melted together like a ‘fun aunt’ on Thanksgiving. 

“Not that one,” said Harlow.

Jean giggled. “Oh, I guess you’re right. Tucker’s back for good, isn’t he? For the college?”

Harlow dug her fingernails into her palm. “What?”

“Yeah, he starts at Bramford next semester. Adjunct of History? I always thought your sister would do something like that. She was so involved in that historical society as a kid. Strange, kinda, for someone so pretty. Not that you aren’t, hon. But you understand.” 

Lester the cook rang his bell and Jean swam off. 

Harlow did understand. She’d stayed here, hiding for years, and all the beasts of her past had still found her.

Not anymore.

Frank sat back down, hands numb and escape nowhere closer.

“Nada,” he said. “For the best though. The whole time I was out there, I kept hoping it wouldn’t work. I need to figure out what’s going on, Harlow. And I don’t expect you to come along. I’ll still swing by Lillian’s later but—.”

“I’m in,” said Harlow. “Let’s find out what’s up with your parents and their beloved FiFi.”

"We’ve given my parents scary god a nickname?”

“It’s helping me,” said Harlow. “And hey, if it turns out they really are like, a death cult, Tucker will probably die with us.” 

“Cheers to that.”

And so the inquiry investigation began.

Another bit longer one today! Do we like that, or prefer shorter bites? Please let me know in the comments and thanks so much for reading.