Beckoners by Carrie Mac

at the door. Dog stood there, hands stuffed into her pockets.
    â€œWell, thanks,” Zoe said. “For doing this on such short notice and everything.”
    Dog shrugged. “I wasn’t doing anything anyway.”
    â€œStill, thanks—” Zoe was just about to call her Dog to her face, but she caught herself. “Thanks, April.”
    At Heather’s, Lindsay flung open the front door. “Janika! Girlfriend!” she slurred. “Get your skinny black ass in here!” She smelled of beer and of her musky perfume, which she’d put too much of on, as usual. She pointed her drink at Zoe and practically hollered, “You brought
her
! Man, Heather’s going to freak!”
    Zoe watched the taxi pull away, brake lights disappearing around the curve. She was stranded.
    Zoe wandered through the crowded house and found Beck in the kitchen, sitting cross-legged on an island counter in the middle of the room. Heather stood in front of her, leaning against Beck’s legs. Brady was in front of Heather, his hands gripping her hips. Zoe stood in the doorway for a while, watching Beck. People bee-lined to her, bringing her drinks and birthday gifts. She had a red feather boa draped around her neck, and a tight black T-shirt with the words
sugar & spice
on it in curvy silver letters across her chest. She evaluated each of the gifts when the giver left the room, either flinging it over her shoulder or adding it to the little pile beside her. She was tanked, her movements exaggerated and sloppy.
    After a long while, she noticed Zoe. She winked slowly at her.
    â€œZooooooooooooe. What the hell kind of name is that, huh? Zoooe. Zzz, ooooh, eeeee.” She kicked a red boot in her direction. It skidded onto the counter near her, sending a full whiskey bottle smashing to the floor. Everybody laughed except Heather.
    â€œWhat the hell is she doing here? I told you I didn’t want her in my house, ever.”
    â€œIt’s my party, right?” Beck leaned into Heather’s face. “And I want her here.”
    â€œYou should’ve told me.”
    â€œYou would’ve said no.”
    â€œExactly.” Heather pushed her away and scowled at Zoe.
    Zoe picked up a dishtowel and bent to clean up the mess. Beck pushed herself off the counter, staggered over and grabbed her shirt.
    â€œNo, no, no. Slave boy will do that.” She snapped her fingers. A boy, maybe ten years old, dressed in a sheet draped like a toga leapt to attention from where he’d been washing wineglasses at the sink. “Clean it up, slave boy.”
    He curled his lip at Beck and turned back to the sink.
    â€œMove it, Malcolm!” Heather pointed a fake-nailed finger at him. “And I swear, you tell Mom, I’ll pull your teeth out with pliers. You got that?”
    Malcolm scurried towards the broken glass.
    â€œI’ll help him,” Zoe said.
    â€œYeah,” Heather said, “You do that, sweetie.”
    â€œNo, no, no you don’t,” Beck said. “He’s mine and I want him to do it all by himself and I want him to sing too. I want a singing slave boy. Sing something!”
    Malcolm muttered something nobody could hear over the music.
    â€œWhat?” Beck leaned forward, nearly toppling off the counter. “WHAT?”
    â€œI don’t know any songs.”
    â€œYou do so.” Beck squinted at him. “You have Mrs. Allan, right?”
    He nodded.
    â€œThen you know ‘Michael Row Your Boat Ashore.’ Sing that.”
    He shook his head.
    â€œSing it!” Heather chucked a plastic cup at his head. “Don’t piss her off, Malcolm. She owns you. Do what she says.”
    Malcolm started singing, his voice a tiny little warble under the bass thump from the dining room.
    Poor Malcolm. He kneeled in the pool of whiskey, ducking his head to hide the tears, his blue underwear peeking out from the folds of the sheet, singing his song over and over