Diary by Chuck Palahniuk (classic fiction .txt) 📗

Grace spoons sugar into her coffee. She pours milk and stirs it, saying, “So you really think it's these OAFF people who committed the murder?”

“Killed Tabbi?” Misty says.

Tabbi comes to the table and leans against her grandmother's chair. There's some nicotine yellow between her fingers as she lifts a saucer, studying the painted border. It's gold with a repeating wreath of dolphins and mermaids. Tabbi shows it to Grace and says, “Fitz and Floyd. The Sea Wreath pattern.”

She turns it over, reads the bottom, and smiles.

Grace smiles up at her, saying, “You're getting so I can't praise you enough, Tabitha.”

Just for the record, Misty wants to hug and kiss her kid. Misty wants to hug her and run to the car and drive straight to her mom's trailer in Tecumseh Lake. Misty wants to wave good-bye with her middle finger to this whole fucking island of genteel lunatics.

Grace pats an empty chair next to her and says, “Misty, come sit down. You look distraught.”

Misty says, “Who did OAFF kill?”

The Ocean Alliance for Freedom. Who burned Peter's graffiti in all the beach houses.

Your graffiti.

“That's what I'm here about,” the detective says. He takes the notebook out of his inside jacket pocket. He flips it open on the table and gets his pen ready to write. Looking at Misty, he says, “If you wouldn't mind answering a few questions?”

About Peter's vandalism?

“Angel Delaporte was murdered last night,” he says. “It could be a burglary, but we're not ruling anything out. All's we know is he was stabbed to death in his sleep.”

In her bed.

Our bed.

Tabbi's dead, then she's alive. The last time Misty saw her kid, Tabbi was on this very table, under a sheet and not breathing. Misty's knee is broken, then it's fine. One day Misty can paint, and then she can't. Maybe Angel Delaporte was her husband's boyfriend, but now he's dead.

Your boyfriend.

Tabbi takes her mother's hand. She leads Misty to the empty seat. She pulls out the chair, and Misty sits.

“Before we start . . .” Grace says. She leans across the table to tap Detective Stilton on his shirt cuff, and she says, “Misty's art show opens three days from now, and we're counting on you being there.”

My paintings. They're here somewhere.

Tabbi smiles up at Misty, and slips a hand into her grandmother's hand. The peridot ring, sparkling green against the white linen tablecloth.

Grace's eyes flicker toward Misty, and she winces like someone walking into a spiderweb, her chin tucked and her hands touching the air. Grace says, “So much has been unpleasant on the island lately.” She inhales, her pearls rising, then sighs and says, “I'm hoping the art show will give us all a fresh start.”

August 24 . . .

and One-Half

IN AN ATTIC BATHROOM, Grace runs water into the tub, then goes out to wait in the hallway. Tabbi stays in the room to watch Misty. To guard her own mother.

Just for the record, just this summer, it feels as if years have gone by. Years and years. The girl Misty saw from her window, flirting. This girl, she could be a stranger with yellow fingers.

Misty says, “You really shouldn't smoke. Even if you're already dead.” What they don't teach you in art school is how to react when you find out your only child has connived to break your heart. For now, with just Tabbi and her mother in the bathroom, maybe it's a daughter's job to piss off her mother.

Tabbi looks at her face in the bathroom mirror. She licks her index finger and uses it to fix the edge of her lipstick. Not looking at Misty, she says, “You might be more careful, Mother. We don't need you anymore.”

She picks a cigarette out of a pack from her pocket. Right in front of Misty, she flicks a lighter and takes a puff.

Her panties loose and baggy on her stick legs, Misty slips them off under the skirt and kicks them free of her shoes, saying, “I loved you a lot more when you were dead.”

On her cigarette hand, the ring from her grandmother, the peridot flashes green in the light from above the sink. Tabbi stoops to lift the bloody plaid skirt off the floor. She holds it between two fingers and says, “Granmy Wilmot needs me to get ready for the art show.” Saying as she leaves, “For your show, Mother.”

In the bathtub, the cuts and scratches from the steak knife, they fill with soap and sting until Misty grits her teeth. The dried blood turns the bathwater milky pink. The hot water gets the bleeding started again, and Misty ruins a white towel, staining it with red smears while she tries to dry off.

According to Detective Stilton, a man called the police station on the mainland this morning. He wouldn't give his name, but he said Angel Delaporte was dead. He said the Ocean Alliance for Freedom would keep killing tourists until the crowds quit stressing the local environment.

The silverware as big as garden tools. The ancient bottles of wine. The old Wilmot paintings, none of it was taken.

In her attic bedroom, Misty dials her mom's phone number in Tecumseh Lake, but the hotel operator comes on the line. A cable is broken, the operator says, but it should be fixed soon. The house phone still works. Misty just can't call the mainland.

When she checks under the edge of the carpet, her envelope of tip money is gone.

Tabbi's peridot ring. The birthday gift from her grandmother.

The warning Misty ignored: “Get off the island before you can't.”

All the hidden messages people leave so they won't be forgotten. The ways we all try to talk to the future. Maura and Constance.

“You'll die when they're done with you.”

It's easy enough to get into room 313. Misty's been a maid, Misty Wilmot, queen of the fucking slaves. She knows where to find the passkey. The room's a double, a queen-size bed with a view of the