Four Letter WordsAudra E. Westemeir

She couldn’t have been a day over twenty-five: the young woman reclining on the corduroy loveseat, propped up with pillows so that she could more fully face the television screen. The flickering black-and-white images provided nearly all of the light in the room, assisted only by a silver candelabrum and a few pillar candles that had been arranged throughout the space. The warm scent of cinnamon sugar had long since filled the air around her, the aroma comforting to her sensitive nose

The movie she was watching was a pre-color classic, circa 1920s: Dracula. The original, she thought, complete with the worst acting and cheapest sets money could buy. But she loved it. It had become practically tradition to settle down once every year with a mug of cocoa and a fire in the hearth—or candles, in this instance—and watch Dracula. She knew the story by heart after all this time, and could quote lines along with the actors.

The same movie every year and yet it never ceased to enrapture her. Since the film had debuted in theaters, the family had annually watched it together, but that aspect had become relatively impossible over the years. This was not the first time she’d been completely alone to carry on the tradition; she’d accepted long ago that life was unpredictable and you couldn’t count on someone else to accomplish anything. Even someone you loved.

The station broke to a weather report and she scowled at the news anchor as he began his typical dialogue. “We apologize for the interruption, but we have breaking news on the storm that has been making its way across Michigan state this evening…”

He was still talking, but she had stopped listening. She knew all about the storm. There was thunder and lightning and rain pouring down outside, beating against the window panes, she would have to have been blind and deaf not to know about the storm.

The movie was on again within minutes; a winter storm rarely attracted much attention. The theme music from Dracula swelled up from the television speakers. The movie was almost over, and she never missed the ending. Dracula was stooping, bringing his victim’s throat to his mouth, his fangs bared. She sat up quickly, stopping herself from crying a warning. Then, just like last year and the years before that, the sun came out. The credits followed with the last of the slightly distorted soundtrack.

The young woman shook her head, sighed, and reached for the remote. It was well past midnight, and with the ending of the movie she was beginning to feel the effects of the long day. Maybe she’d turn in early. When her hand lit on the coffee table beside the couch, however, she found that the remote control was no longer there. She frowned and sat up a little straighter to peer down the crevice between the sofa and the table.

“I can’t believe y’still watch that trash.” The statement was low and hoarse, making it sound like a growl.

She jumped back, her pale blue eyes wide as they darted over to the open doorway and the figure leaning against the wall inside. The voice had been considerably gruffer than she recalled, but the inflection—the brogue that she had grown up knowing so well—was eerily familiar. The scream that had risen in her throat was stifled by her own words.

“Connor…” A question lingered in her tone, along with a silent prayer for something she hadn’t dared to hope.

When she said his name, he smirked tersely as though he were affirming her. He pushed away from the wall and produced the remote from behind his back, jabbing the power button with his thumb and tossing the control so that it landed with a clatter on the wooden tabletop.

She glanced back to the television as the screen faded to black, but her gaze remained for only a moment before returning to the intruder. He was looking at her now; standing with his hands thrust in his pants’ pockets and his shirt half-buttoned. From the disheveled look of his 

wardrobe, it was apparent that he’d gotten dressed in a hurry; his belt was undone and his boots untied, uncharacteristic for someone who was usually careful about his appearance.

“Honestly, Drianna, s’almost as old as we are.” His second rebuke was gentler, and his voice seemed to have softened considerably.

Drianna started to her feet, but hesitated as though she were afraid if she moved too quickly he might run away. “Oh, my God,” she murmured. “Connor?” She said his name again, the way a child might ask “really?” when told something that was almost too good to be true.

He moved forward and held out his hands in a non-threatening gesture, asking for her trust, but his tone came laced with bitter sarcasm. “S’prise.”

She didn’t seem to notice as she leapt off of the sofa and threw herself at him, disregarding the wetness of his clothing and the way his muscles tensed at her embrace. “I’ve missed you so much; how have you been?” Her speech was muffled as her face was buried in his chest, and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again…” She trailed off, her excitement wavering as she became more aware of his sullen silence and the apathetic way he had placed his hand in the small of her back. She frowned and released him slowly, drawing back until only her hands were resting on his hips.

“Something’s wrong… isn’t it?” She seemed afraid to ask, even though she already knew the answer. Her hands fell limply to her sides, and the beseeching look with which she had met his eyes flickered away. As her own disappointment began to show on her face she concluded, “You wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t something wrong.”

Connor nodded, broadening the space between them. “It’s Michaela.”

Drianna’s brow furrowed as she struggled to interpret his expression. It was amazing how little seven years had done to change him. He was still the same man—in appearance and, as best she could tell, behavior—who had bid her farewell saying he didn’t know if he’d ever come back. But he had come back, and that was how she knew something was wrong.

They had kept in contact initially; either Connor or Drianna would make an attempt to call every week. Typically the former made them. He was older, after all, and somehow in seven years of holy matrimony it had never been mentioned that Michaela’s husband had a sister. But in the past couple of years the calls had become less and less frequent and the siblings had lost touch.

Only now that she was facing him, staring into the denim blue eyes that mirrored her own did she realize how lonely she’d been without him. She really had missed him; and the house had never been emptier than when he wasn’t there.

“I could have figured.” She turned away and took a few steps toward the sofa, dropping onto it with a heavy sigh. “Well, what is it, then? Did the two of you have another of your infamous marital spats?” She grinned at the attempt at humor, surprising herself with how easily she could talk to him. It was almost like he’d never left.

Her smile faltered when she glanced up at him and he returned her friendly banter with a narrow glare. “Not exactly,” he said with forced indifference. It was his turn to retreat from her, and he moved toward the canopy bed before perching atop the mattress.

Drianna frowned as she examined him. They were several feet apart now, but still directly facing each other. Through the locks of raven hair she could see his brow knit and his jaw set in an irritated way that only served to further complicate his emotional state.

“I should’ve known better.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t givin’ her enough credit.”

So it wasn’t as easily explained as Drianna had thought. Her brother wasn’t exactly a chatty person, but she had learned after numerous telephone conversations that he rarely took 

anything said in a fight personally. He and Michaela were too much alike for that. Perhaps it hadn’t been a fight after all; but what, then?

Her concern was deepening. “What happened?” she pressed.

He cocked his head to the side, regarding her through slit eyes. He seemed so distant for a moment, even though he was but a few scarce yards away. “She knows.” He said it as he exhaled, giving it a sound like a sigh and illustrating his bewilderment.

What? She almost asked aloud. There was some terrible realization in his statement and she was missing it. Then, it hit her. “Oh, Connor…”

“She threatened t’kill me.” His voice was as steady as he could keep it, and a flicker of anger was arising from his exhaustion. “Told me t’take Laila an’ get out…” His accent was thickening with the potency of his emotions, and Drianna could hardly blame him for his frustration. Connor wiped his shirtsleeve across his face in an almost savage manner, leaving his sister wondering if he had been crying or was just afraid that he might.

“She’s never understood anything,” he said. “Stubborn as the devil, that woman.”

Drianna would have smiled—her brother was often less than aware of his own hard-headedness. Both he and his wife had always been set in their ways and neither was eager to concede defeat. But he’d mentioned something—someone—else that had settled in the pit of her stomach and left a sour taste in her mouth.

“Laila?”

His features shifted to surprise—it appeared he’d forgotten his own words—then vague irritation, as his sister demanded, “Where’s Laila?”

His annoyance deepened into a scowl, and Connor jerked his thumb toward the open door. “Left her downstairs,” he grunted.

Downstairs. That was good. She was safe as long as she was in the house and within earshot. Drianna nodded, relaxing a little more on the overstuffed couch cushion.

Laila… the poor thing. She had to be so confused.

“How is she taking it?” Drianna ventured.

His reply came prefaced with a derisive snort. “Hard t’say, love.” He spat out the words and his eyes flashed a warning. “She was cryin’ too hard t’tell.” He shook his head, chuckling hollowly. “You know she’s goin’ t’hate me.”

If he hadn’t sounded so certain; Drianna might have tried harder to reassure him. But it was obvious that he had already made up his mind. “Connor,” she began. “I’m…” she swallowed, tore her eyes away from his, and started again. “She won’t—” She dared to glance back up and found that he was still watching her. He knew what she was going to say, and he wasn’t going to believe a word of it. Don’t waste your breath, he seemed to snap.

Defeated, she offered, “If there’s anything I can do…”

“There’s nothing,” he snapped, and that was the end of it. There was no use arguing with him when he was like this, Drianna knew that much. He was her brother, after all.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the thud of Connor’s hands on the mattress. He pushed himself off of the bed and stood in front of it, keeping his gaze fixed on Drianna as she warily followed him in rising.

“I’m leaving.” There was a cold determination in his statement that was compacted by the purposeful way he turned his back on her and crossed the floor to the hallway outside. He made quick work of the stairs while Drianna stood swaying in the bedroom doorway.

After recovering from the initial shock, she took up the pursuit, hurrying to catch up and calling out after him. “Connor, wait! Stop!”

He did. He halted in the center of the dimly lit living area, halfway between his sister and the loveseat upon which a tiny girl dressed in pajamas with her chestnut-colored hair tied 

up in braids was seated. Her icy blue eyes were wide, and Drianna faltered at the sight of the child she had heard so much about, but had never seen.

Connor had been right; she was beautiful.

“What about your daughter?” Drianna swallowed against the tears that were welling up. Seven years and he had just come back. Now he was leaving again?

“What about her?” he barked back. He hadn’t missed a beat, hadn’t even paused to acknowledge the child in question. He didn’t mean to be so careless. Connor was a wonderful father, and he adored Laila. He had talked about her every time he’d called.

He wouldn’t leave. Not if that meant leaving Laila, too. If he was right about what had happened between him and Michaela, then Laila was all he had left.

“I know where you’re going, and you can’t take her with you.” There was a threat in Drianna’s tone. He knew better than to drag a child into the kind of life he was willing to lead.

His response shocked her. “I’ll do as I please.”

She thought she was too surprised to speak, but before she could check them, words were leaving her mouth. “She’ll be killed! Those horrid friends of yours won’t have anything to do with her! They know these streets are no place for a little girl.” She realized suddenly that she was arguing with him, and with that thought came the knowing that she was winning. “Don’t you?”

He has to stay now, she gloated to herself with a smile.

“You keep her, then.”

And that was why Drianna made a point of never arguing with her brother. Just when she thought she had him beat, he pulled out his ace-in-the-hole.

She must have looked so lost as she searched for something to say—anything to change his mind. She could feel a sort of numbness creeping up on her; a debilitating helplessness that stuck her best comebacks in her throat. The only thing that managed to slide by was a stammered, “You can’t do this…” as she reached for his arm.

But he could, and he knew it. He’d won.

Her hand brushed his shoulder lightly before he shook her off and squared himself with her. He grabbed her firmly, one hand at her elbow and the other cupped behind her head. They stood for a moment like that in silence, and Drianna allowed herself to just look at him. The lines of his face were set in a stormy expression almost as violent as the rolling thunder outside. But she couldn’t get past his eyes. He’d shut himself off from her, she realized. There was nothing she could do.

“I guess this is goodbye, then,” he was saying, his grip on her stable, but tender. “You’ve been a good sister, Drianna.” He awarded her an odd sort of half smirk, but she could tell he meant it. His forefinger moved to tuck a wayward strand of obsidian hair behind her ear as he added in a whisper: “Don’ ever let anyone tell you I didn’t love you.”

“Daddy?” Laila was on her feet at the edge of the couch, so obviously exhausted that she might as well have already been asleep.

Drianna covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob. How was she ever going to make the child understand?

Connor released his sister and crouched down to the three-year-old’s level. Laila smiled groggily, extending her arms for a hug, but her father rebuked her with a quiet, “Not now, duckie.” Confused, the girl settled to stand in front of him obediently, her eyes pleading for an explanation.

“Aunt Drianna’s goin’ t’take care of you from now on, all right? An’ you got t’promise t’be a good an’ do whatever it is she tells you.”

Laila nodded slowly, hearing but not comprehending.

It seemed he would stop there, unwilling or unable to finish. But he did speak again, and this time his voice was coarse and abrupt. “Now you be a good girl an’ forget about me.”

This time Drianna was too shocked to recover as she watched her brother rise and turn away from his daughter—from her—and disappear into the rain outside. The front door didn’t slam with the dramatic intensity that would have been appropriate for such a closing, but instead drifted slowly shut, as if even it were uncertain whether or not he had truly intended to leave.

Connor was running then, out to the road where his motorcycle was parked, away from that house that was already haunting him with the decisions he had made. Drianna would be all right. She was strong; she would understand, but Laila?

Did you tell her you love her?

He looked up in a panic and almost stopped—his keys in the ignition, his hand ready to turn them.

Love? No, not for Laila. He’d told Drianna for her benefit, because he hadn’t gotten to remind her enough in the past seven years. But he’d told Laila every day. She knew. So they both knew, then, that he loved them. He frowned, unable to keep his eyes from drifting to the front window, part of him hoping to catch a glimpse of the people inside. After a moment of wondering, the bike roared to life. Perhaps even love was too strong a word; too easily made into a weapon.

Love. He shook his head. Love was what had gotten him here and left him: standing in the rain pretending it was that and not tears running down his face.

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