NAKED, ON THE EDGE

By Elizabeth Massie

“Beneath our clothes, our bodies are naked. Beneath our skulls, our brains are naked. Beneath our hearts, our souls are naked.”

– Elizabeth Massie

Naked, On the Edge

Pushed or dragged or on our own

Past shadowed, bony, leafless trees,

Through tangled briar and rock-strewn field

As hearts pound madly with unease.

Up to the end of all there is,

Where darkness hangs in shrouds of mist

Our souls stand trembling, staring, awed

Within our terror’s hardened fist.

It’s here, where life and death divide

Where anxious, troubled minds lay bared

The time has come, its time to choose,

Step out or back, be forced or dared.

We stand there, naked, on the edge,

At mercy of ourselves or fate,

Circumstance and dreams collide,

It is too soon. Or no, too late.

What waits out in the fog of night

Beyond what we can see or hear;

A rescue from this bloodied world

Or all the horrors that we fear?

The wind blows hard upon cliff

We cling to hope and to the ledge,

’Til strength is gone, we teeter, cry,

Then tumble, naked, from the edge.

Shadow of the Valley

One, two, three, four, five, six, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn one, two, three, four.

He stopped, scratched his ear and his neck. Several drops fell from the ceiling and he put his fingers to the wet then brought the wet to his mouth and sucked at it. Then, he picked up where he left off.

Five, six, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two.

And then he remembered, and he remembered hard, and he dropped to the damp concrete, his bare knees accustomed to this move after two years, cushioning the fall with thick, bulbous layers of scar tissue. His butchered hands went together, his blood vessels picked up a rhythm of familiar, sweat-driving dread, and he prayed his impotent prayer.

“Lord is my shepherd. Shadow of the valley of death. Do unto others all the days of my life. I pray the Lord my soul to take. Little hands be careful.”

He repeated it until the words lost their meaning and he was freed again from the knowledge of his past, his present, and his inevitable and horrific future. Standing, he felt his way in the darkness to the corner and began again.

One, two, three, four, five, six, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, turn.

His name was Marcus. He knew that. He knew he was thin; he could feel the rib bones and hip bones beneath his naked skin. He knew there were people beyond the darkness, and these people were his jailers. He knew he was fed once a day, and he knew that sometimes, the water he was given through the slot in his door was fouled with urine. But he drank it, anyway.

He knew these things, but he didn’t think about them.

Thinking made him remember, it opened the door of his mind and the truth came in and if he couldn’t pray it away, he would spend the next hours screaming and crying in a corner. And so, he walked. He counted. He prayed. And when weariness came mercifully, he slept, curled against the door in the single tiny sliver of silver light that came through the food slot, his arms wrapped around his knees, his penis tucked between his legs to keep it safe from the centipedes and spiders that shared his cell with him.

Marcus stopped walking and looked at the sliver of light. For a moment, he saw his father’s grim mouth, set hard in soft, fat flesh. Then the vision shifted and he saw the indecipherable countenance of God.

“Shadow of the valley,” he whispered. He went to the wall by the door. His hands suddenly dove forward as if they’d forgotten that the wall, as was the floor, was solid, cold. Immovable.

Like his captors in their judgment.

His hands banged on the wall, and he counted. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.” He could count no farther because there was nothing past eight. The cell was six feet wide, eight feet long. The door was six feet tall, three feet wide. The ceiling, which he could touch on tip-toe with up-stretched arms, was seven feet high. He had eight fingers, four on each hand since he’d had his thumbs removed for an infraction he couldn’t remember.

A shiver caught his bare spine and shook him like a mouse in a dog’s mouth.

Dropping his hands from the wall, he turned. He walked.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn.

In a tiny nick in the long wall, six feet from the floor, was a spoon. Marcus had kept the spoon from one of his daily meals. In truth, he hadn’t kept it on purpose. It was only a thin metal spoon and could not have been much of a tool for burrowing a hole in the concrete. That was, if Marcus had considered trying to burrow from his cell of eternal night. And he hadn’t. Even if the spoon were a chisel, it wouldn’t matter. He was in a center cell. He knew this; he remembered being brought down here from the main population on the ground floor so many months ago, and remembered the guards stripping him of his clothes, hosing him down to get rid of fleas and lice he didn’t have, then throwing him in and locking the door, shutting off all sounds, nearly all light.

His cell was in the middle of the prison cellar. If he dug through a wall it would only be to find himself in another solitary cell. And then another and another and another. This was not the movies. There was no air vent system to hasten him to the outside world, no sewer system to slide through, no rivers in which to float unseen to a safe haven.

And even if there were, there was no safe haven. Safe from what? His torment in the cell? The random tortures by the sergeant guard? Perhaps. But not from eternity.

Nothing could save him from eternity.

Five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, turn, one, two.

“Little hands be careful. Shadow of the valley of death.” He hit the floor on his knees, his clutching fingers finding each other in the dark like brittle insects driven to copulation, his mind, his heart, his soul tearing at each other, clawing each other to shreds in certainty of his eternity.

He’d been told by the old, craggy minister of his fate.

“God will not forgive you,” the minister had whispered after sentencing had been pronounced. “You are beyond the grace of God and no prayer, no supplication, no pleading will deliver you from the eternal damnation in the lake of fire.”

To Marcus, who had been sitting in the jail cell awaiting delivery to the state prison, the minister’s words hadn’t registered. He’d been angry, furious beyond reason that he’d been sentenced to life for a murder his brother had committed. He’d been there, certainly, he’d even taken the Twizzlers they’d found in his grimy pockets. But he hadn’t killed the shop owner. Brad had done that with a blow to the skull with a tire iron. Marcus had stopped in his tracks in the shop’s candy aisle and had stared as the owner dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes. Brad had screamed for Marcus to come on come on come on let’s get the fuck out of here when a shopper came in, the little door chime tinkling. The man had been carrying a concealed weapon, newly legal in their fine state, and had shot Brad with a single blast directed at the forehead.

The tire iron had been in Brad’s fist, but the shopper didn’t feel there was enough dramatic justice to have a dead murderer to present to the police. You can’t discipline a dead murderer before the public. And so he’d claimed that Marcus had wielded the iron, and as Marcus had used the iron many times in the jack when helping Brad change blown retreads on his truck, his prints were on it. He was convicted.

The shopper had been praised for attempting to stop the robbery and save the already-dead owner’s life. Marcus, sixteen at the time, though tried as an adult had not been given the death penalty as most citizens had screamed for, but life in prison. Two times over.

Five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two, three.

He was sorry now. He knew he shouldn’t have listened to Brad. Brad was his brother and Marcus loved him but Brad didn’t know shit about right and wrong. God have pity, fuck it all, where was Brad now? In the never-ending lake of torment? Of course he was.

Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two, three, four…

“Your tongue’s ticklin’ my ear!” whined Tonya. “You feel like a old wet worm.”

Jimbo pinched Tonya’s cheek then pulled back and tugged the sweat-crusted brim of the guard’s hat down, covering Tonya’s eyes. “A wet, willin’ worm, honey,” he said.

Jimbo grinned and lit a cigarette. He was good-looking, and Tonya knew she was lucky to have him like her. He was twenty-three, muscular, and covered with knock-out tattoos. She’d first seen him in the 7-Eleven in his guard uniform, buying a pack of smokes before he went to work. She worked behind the counter. When she’d slid the pack across the countertop to him, he’d put his hand on top of hers and said, “Want to light one for me?”

Tonya, at nineteen, was ecstatic. She’d never had a boyfriend before Jimbo, had never even been touched in that way by a boy before. Her height, six-one, had scared off most boys, and besides, she was skinny and flat as a train track and her bottom teeth poked out a little. So, with a trembling match she’d lit a cigarette for Jimbo, and the next morning when he got off work and came back by the store, she’d gone out with him and lit more than that.

Dating hadn’t exactly been what she’d thought it would be, and she didn’t have any girlfriends to compare notes with, she only saw what couples did on movies and on the T.V. But Jimbo kept coming back for more, so she figured it was going okay.

They’d been dating for four months now. At first, Jimbo had made love to her easy, in her bed or his, once out by the pond and once in the back of his pickup on the overlook at Raven’s Roost. Then, it began to change. It wasn’t making love anymore. It was screwing, fucking, humping. And she had the bruises to prove it. But he was her boyfriend.

Most of the time now he scared her. But he was her boyfriend.

My boyfriend, she thought. She had no idea exactly what he wanted today, a fuck in the prison basement? Probably. Just so he didn’t try to put ants down her blouse like he did one time in the woods so she’d buck harder when he came.

They stood alone at the end of a narrow hallway in the far reaches of the prison. Jimbo had a tangle of keys hanging from his belt. It made him look very sexy.

“Now don’t be making any noise, you hear me?” Jimbo warned Tonya. “My friends aren’t going to say anything but Captain Harner will have me out of here on my ass if he finds I got you in here. He’ll probably fine me or even have me arrested. Fuck. You want me locked up in here with these stinking criminals?”

“’Course not.” The gum she’d had resting in the side of her mouth made its way back to her teeth. She stretched it, blew a bubble, and it popped. “Now, what are we gonna do, Jimbo?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out. And you be a good little girl and keep your fucking mouth shut. You hear me?”

Tonya nodded.

“It’s gonna be underground.” His brown eyes sparkled, his square jaw cracked in a smile. He unlocked the steel door to the cellar stairs, tugged the door open, and grabbed Tonya’s hand.

Tonya had come into the prison easily, under pretense of visiting a prisoner, Eddie Stratford, who had twenty-five years for armed robbery. Eddie had no desire to see Tonya; she reminded him of his old girlfriend that he tried to kill one time, but he was willing to play the game in exchange for the cash and cigarettes Jimbo was able to provide. “Hi, Tonya, good to see you how’s the baby how’s the job?”

Jimbo had then sneaked Tonya away from Eddie and hid her in the male guard’s restroom. With help and a bribe from another couple buddies who worked check-in, Jimbo’d gotten her signed out. In the restroom, Tonya’s donned an old uniform and put on Jimbo’s cap. Her heart had beat irregularly with dreadful hope.

Then Tonya and Jimbo had slipped deeper and deeper into the prison confines, through the gates and down the passageways, Tonya bending low beneath the bulk of her costume so the prisoners wouldn’t notice her. Jimbo’s friends winked as they passed. After many twists and turns, they came to the stairs leading down to the solitary confinement cells.

“Ain’t supposed to use the cells down there no more,” Jimbo explained in a hushed voice as he’d opened the panel to the light box and flicked a switch, throwing yellow glow down the steps. “Warden don’t even know we use ’em. Say it ain’t humane. Fuckin’, pussy-lickin’ ACLU. Fuckin’ crybabies. It’s their damn fault. What do they think punishment is, a party and a birthday cake? I say screw ’em. Hang the thieves, the drug-addicts, the dealers, the murderers. Hang the goddamned white-collar crooks and those women who don’t get off welfare in a year. Torture ’em first then string ’em up where the public can watch and take pictures. Put the pictures in the post office.”

“You mean there’s guys down there in cells?”

“That’s what I’m saying. Keep up with me and keep your goddamn thoughts to yourself.”

Tonya nodded.

“I know what I’m doing, okay?”

“Okay,” said Tonya. She didn’t know anything about criminal justice, but Jimbo sure did. He knew about everything, cars, politics, religion, hunting. He would make a hell of a president, she thought. Straighten everything out. She followed Jimbo down to the cold concrete floor of the cellar, keeping one hand in his, the other on the crumbling wall. The smell, wafting up from the cellar, was strong, a blending of wet and mildew and cold sweat.

“Only got two down here now,” said Jimbo. “Both murderers. Since neither of them made it to death row, some of us guards decided we would give ’em a little treat down here for a while. Captain Harner approved it, and the warden won’t never hear of it ’cause he doesn’t take much stock in the day-to-day. One’s of the criminals down here’s an old fart, been in prison for, shit, over thirty years now. We put him down here for throwing food in the cafeteria. Now he can throw it all he wants, nobody knows or cares. That’s him there.”

Jimbo pointed. Tonya looked.

The cell was directly in front of them. It looked like a steel closet, with a slot in the door like a mail slot. There was no door knob, only a keyhole. Tonya guessed you tugged the door open with the key. Above their heads, the long, bare fluorescent lights pulsed and hummed.

“Is it dark in that cell?”

“Guess so.”

“No lights at all?”

“Don’t think so.”

“How do they see in there?”

“They don’t, idiot.”

Tonya took a deep breath that stung her nose. She shifted one foot to the other. “How long’s that guy been in solitary?”

Jimbo shrugged. “I don’t know. Couple, four months. He don’t make a sound, but he’s alive ’cause he eats what we stick in the slot. He’s got a mattress, too, so he can’t complain. Homeless people ain’t got mattresses, so this asshole should send us a thank you note, don’t you think?”

Tonya said, “Guess so.”

Jimbo put one arm around Tonya’s waist, glanced around, and then put one hand on Tonya’s right breast. “Shit, it makes me hot, being one of the good guys.”

“Where’s the other con?”

“Cell over this way,” said Jimbo. He gave Tonya’s breast a healthy, painful squeeze, then ushered her down the hail thirty feet, past other steel doors and knob-less keyholes. Beetles scurried into drains; brown, fat-bodied spiders clutched draglines in the shadowed corners. God, don’t let him want to put spiders down my blouse, Tonya thought. Half-way to the second con’s cell, Jimbo spun around, put his hands down the front of Tonya’s guard pants and kissed her neck. “Can’t stop, baby,” he hissed, and Tonya tried to think of what he was doing to keep her mind off whatever the hell he might be asking her to do in a few minutes.

He took up the spoon and felt it and put it into his mouth, pretending there was food on there and that it tasted good. He sucked the good food, it was mashed potatoes with pepper this time, then licked the spoon eight times until it was clean. He licked his lips and put the spoon back in the nick. Then he paced.

One, two, three, four, five, six, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

He remembered again. The sledgehammer of memory slammed him in the back of the head and he stumbled.

God pity me have mercy why why why don’t please don’t I don’t want to die I want to live forever so I won’t go into the lake of burning torment God no! Marcus fell to his knees then stretched prostrate, his cheek losing skin on the concrete.

“Lord is my shepherd,” he said to the floor. “I pray the Lord my soul to keep. Shadow of the valley, all the days of my life.” He burst into sobs. His tears were thick with salt. If he could have killed himself at that moment, he would have. But that would only bring him into hell more quickly. There was nothing ahead of him but life’s agony. And then death’s agony.

When the crying eased, he touched the tears on the floor and brought the wet to his lips. Then he stood, found the wall, and walked.

Jimbo pulled his fingers out from Tonya’s bush, sucked them, and then shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Can’t push that too far,” he said. “I want something raring to go when my time comes. I’m a steel rod, baby.” He winked. “You like steel rods?”

Tonya said, “What do you mean, when your time comes?”

“It’s gonna be something special today,” said Jimbo.

“What is it?”

Jimbo said, “I mean this.” He walked another ten feet then planted his hand on a steel door. “There’s a lover boy in here, ready and waiting.”

Tonya came over and touched the door, too. She peeked in through the food slot and couldn’t see a thing but tar-blackness. She had promised herself to do anything for Jimbo. He was her man. He bought her stuff. He liked her ass. He didn’t hit her. Anything, she had told him. But her stomach turned with uncertainty.

There were many things she’d done to keep Jimbo happy. She’d let him pee all over her in the bathtub once. She’d screwed him in a gravelly parking lot where a gang of construction men could look down on them. She’d gone without panties into a hardware store then bent over to show the clerk what kind of nails she wanted to buy while Jimbo watched through the store window.

But she’d never fucked somebody else. Especially not no damned con in solitary confinement.

“You want me to fuck him?” she asked.

“He’s probably too weak to hurt you, baby,” said Jimbo. He touched her cheek and tweaked her nose.

“You mean he’d want to hurt me but he’s too weak?”

Jimbo frowned. Tonya didn’t like his frown. “I don’t know, Tonya. Don’t press me. He’s been there a while. He ain’t gonna hurt you.”

“How long he’s been there?”

“Two years. Longer than I been here. But, like I said, what the warden don’t know won’t piss him off. This con’s got no family, no lawyer checking on him. He could stay here his whole life for all I care.”

Tonya’s head began to pound. “Ever see him?”

“No. But I been down here for feeding. He eats, so he’s alive, just like the other one. Hear Captain Harner took off a couple the guy’s digits one time.”

“What’s a digit?”

Jimbo made an exasperated sound deep in his throat, and Tonya shivered.

“Harner hates rule breakers and human trash,” Jimbo continued. “He even put a buddy guard of mine down here in a cell for a couple weeks for smart-mouthing off.” Jimbo laughed. “Harner’s right on.”

“Why don’t you just go on and let the cons here die? I mean, if the warden don’t know and all. You think they ought to die, right?”

This seemed to make Jimbo think. His lip drew up and one eye squinted. Then he smiled. “Damned paperwork is one reason. But I guess it’s more fun like this, too. Kind of like a secret club. You like secret clubs?”

Tonya’s nose wrinkled. She hoped it looked cute. But in truth, it was a spasm of fear. “Yeah. But what if he’s a queer and don’t like me? He might hurt me then, Jimbo.”

“I’ll be watching, so if he starts to hurt you I’ll kick his ass, how about that?”

“Well….”

Jimbo took Tonya’s arm and shook it. “Well, what? You gonna do this, aren’t you?”

“Sure. ’Course I am.”

Jimbo nodded, then put a key into the hole in the door. “Thought so,” he said.

He knew every corner of his room, every crack, every lump, every chink. His fingers were his eyes and they were rough but clear. Sometimes, though, his mind became his eyes and it showed him the cell from above, a clear picture with him in it, twenty years old, naked, shivering, and doomed.

“I’m sorry,” he said to himself. Five, six, turn, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, turn, one, two. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, three, four, five, six, turn, one, two, three.”

His hand rode again over the nick with the spoon. He took it out and carried it with him, dragging it along the wall’s surface so he could hear something besides his own voice and his own breathing.

There was rattling at the food slot, and he ran to the corner and crouched, covering his head with his hands and the spoon and screaming “I’m sorry!” The phantom fingers flamed into agony, recalling their disciplinary amputation, wondering if the fingers beside the scarred spaces might be next.

“He’s screaming!” said Tonya.

“Shut the fuck up and get in there,” said Jimbo. He pulled the door open, and the dim light spilled onto the bare-floored cell.

He saw the silhouette in the middle of the blinding light, a tall, thin human form with long hair. It wasn’t a guard. It was a devil.

Death was here, and it was time to step into the lake of eternal fire and damnation for his unending punishment.

“I’m sorry!” His knees pulled up to his chin and his eyes blurred. “Not now, please!”

The devil stopped in the doorway, said something he couldn’t hear, then took a few more steps. The minister had said to Marcus, “When you die, you’ll wish you could kill your spirit, too, because it’s going to suffer for ever and ever and ever, you murdering bastard!”

Marcus’ throat twisted, and he sputtered in a strangled hiss, “No, please.”

The devil, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, said, “Be quiet.”

And so he was.

“Be quiet,” Tonya said to the man in the corner. He was hard to see, hard to imagine. Jimbo had said the man was weak and couldn’t hurt her.

He better not, she thought. Or I’ll kick him in the nuts.

“Don’t just stand there, seduce him,” whispered Jimbo. “Bring him out where I can see and take off your clothes. Spread your things and get him going. Damn, this is going to be something!”

Tonya said, “Come out here, let me see you.” She clenched her fists at the ready. “Slide over here into the light.”

“Slide over here into the light,” the devil said. On his butt, dragging against the rough of the floor, Marcus went. He kept his head down, his knees up. He didn’t want to see the face of death.

“Lay down.”

Marcus lay on his back. He wondered if, in the moment of death, there would be at least a second of peace. He closed his eyes. The devil said, “Open your eyes.” He did.

The devil knelt beside him. It was a she-devil. Her face wasn’t clear, but her hair was golden, catching the light from behind her. She had on guard’s clothes. Like the wolf in sheep’s clothing, the devil came in disguise. A thief in the night. She would strike him now, and claw out his open eyes before she sucked his life away and then spit his worthless spirit into damnation.

A hand reached out and touched him on the face. It was warm, not icy cold or firebrand hot. Marcus waited. She took her hand away, stood, and stepped out of the clothes. There was no tail, no scales. Only smooth skin.

Marcus’ heart picked up a new rhythm, one he’d not felt before. “What…?” he asked.

“They did cut off your fingers, didn’t they?”

“Yeah. Captain took them. And now you’re gonna take the rest of me?” Marcus heard the doom in his own words. The devil would chop him up and then put him back together so he could burn alive forever.

“That’s pretty shitty,” said the devil. “Doin’ that to some person.”

Marcus blinked. What had she said?

How can I do this? Tonya thought. He’s fucked up big time. He’s ugly and he ain’t got all his fingers. Shit.

She could feel Jimbo’s steady, horny gaze on her back. She could feel her own insides recoiling at the idea of this con’s naked, stinking flesh against her own. Slowly, she knelt again and put his hand on her breast. He was so cold and thin it was as if she was trying to fuck a dead man. Touching him was the worst thing so far Jimbo had made her do.

“Seduce him,” growled Jimbo.

Her voice was pine cone dry as she said, “Hey, honey, I’m going to take you to heaven.”

She’d said heaven.

Before he could think more she was touching him, pulling his hand up from his chest and placing it on her breast. His breath caught and the hairs on his arms went erect. His penis, which he had covered with the spoon, did likewise.

No, it’s a lie!

He jerked his hand away and sat up, thrusting the spoon in her direction to keep her

from touching him again. It sounded as if she swore quietly, then she reached out again. “Don’t you want to go to heaven with me?”

“The minister said I was going to hell!” Marcus screamed.

She sighed and rubbed her face. She said, “Let me touch you.” Her hand went to Marcus’ crotch and she caught his penis with warm fingers. She began to rub and tug gently. “Come on, honey. I’m your angel today.”

Marcus didn’t resist. He watched her as she aroused him. Her eyes were visible this close, and they were beautiful eyes.

She had said angel. She had said heaven. Heaven.

Oh, God. She meant it.

He dropped the spoon onto the floor.

Oh my God. Am I forgiven?

His smell was the worst. But she told herself not to think about it. Get it done, get it over and get out of this place.

She let go of the penis and folded herself around the thin, stinking convict, her lips rolled in so she wouldn’t inadvertently try to kiss his fouled mouth and rotting teeth. Her hands, less critical than eye or nose, explored the ravaged territory of his body. He was indeed young, no older than she was. On his chin was a growth of long, prickly hair; on his head filthy, limp hair that came at least to his shoulders. His cheekbones were prominent, and his shoulders narrow. There was no hair on his chest, and his heartbeat could be felt through the skin.

“I’m your angel,” she said. “Let’s go to heaven.” She rolled onto her back, pulling the thin man with her. He tried to resist, but he was light, like a featherless bird. He said something she couldn’t understand, and she said, “Yeah, honey, that’s right.” Her legs opened and she found the penis once more, now hard as a stick, and guided it into her slit. She felt his face come down on her right, and he said, clearly, “Am I forgiven?”

“What?” she asked.

The man was crying now, even as his hips began to pump. “Am I forgiven?”

She opened her eyes. Over the man’s head she saw Jimbo, hands on hips, clearly disappointed with this pathetic show of lust. Then she looked at the man, whose face was turned to the floor, his bony hand beneath his nose. A drop was on his nose and it was shaking.

She, in turn, began to tremble. “Sure. Sure you are, honey.”

He sighed, a sound soft and gentle and full of rapture.

The angel said he was forgiven.

God had sent her, and he was forgiven. The minister was wrong. Marcus was not damned to eternal fire. Oh, God, he thought.

He held the angel, he loved her and praised her. It was over. It was done. He was no longer despised. He was no longer hated.

She loved him in return, touching him with her unearthly warmth, healing him with her divine breath.

He came inside her, humbled and grateful. “Bless you, angel,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you for saving me.”

There was a long pause. Then she said, “You’re welcome.” Then she stood up, looked at him a moment longer, and left the cell. The door shut, and it was dark again.

“That sure wasn’t much,” said Jimbo as he locked the door and turned on Tonya. “What the fuck was that, anyway? A game of patty-cake? That was as sexy as a junior high school dance.”

“Fuck you, asshole,” said Tonya, her words stammered, caught on her tongue but spit out before they could change their mind.

Jimbo’s eyes widened. One hand went up as if to strike her. “What the hell did you say?”

Tonya said, “I said…I said fuck you. I’m through with your games.”

Jimbo shoved her and she landed on her butt on the hall floor. But she didn’t take her gaze from him, and with growing anger she said, “You ain’t gonna treat me like shit no more.”

“I treat you like I want, bitch!”

“I’m not a bitch.”

Jimbo laughed. “You’re a bitch of the worst kind. You’re a mindless, stupid, buck-tooth bitch.”

“No.” Tonya took a hissing breath through her teeth. She said, “I’m…I’m an angel.”

Jimbo eyes rolled up and his head followed, angling back on his neck, his mouth dropping open. A howl of glee came out. “Angel? What the fuck are you talking about? I ought to crush your skull for talking trash like that! Goddamn, did that guy screw with your head or something?” Suddenly, he grabbed her by the throat and hauled her up. She clawed at his fingers.

“Did he screw with your head!?”

Tonya let herself go limp. She gasped, “No. It ain’t nothing. I’m kidding, just spoutin’ off. Sorry.”

Jimbo glared at her then loosened his hand. “What’d you say?”

“I said I’m kidding. You kid with me. I thought it’d be funny. It wasn’t. Sorry. Let’s get out of this place. I’m cold.”

“You best be sorry. I ought to beat the devil out of you when I get you back to my place. I just might, you slut. What was that shit, that angel talk?”

“It wasn’t nothing.”

Jimbo grabbed her arm, gave it a painful tweak then let go. The two moved down the hail and climbed the steps to the main floor, leaving the dark solitary cells behind.

Tonya thought, I’m an angel.

“Bitch,” muttered Jimbo.

I’m good, she thought. I don’t deserve Jimbo’s shit.

Jimbo pushed Tonya through the door at the top of the steps and locked it. The keys jingled haughtily. “Put the damn hat back on,” he said. “Pull it low like before, you whore.”

She did.

As they walked through the corridors, Jimbo dragging her, pissed off more than she’d ever seen him, Tonya watched for the best moment to shout and yell that she was being kidnapped. Wouldn’t old Jimbo be shocked at that, and wouldn’t his smart mouth be silenced when Captain Harner came to help her, an innocent female in the hands of an ego-crazed guard? Wouldn’t Jimbo be surprised to find himself handcuffed and taken away? Maybe to have a digit whacked off by the trash-hater? Maybe to have a little time down in a solitary cell himself?

Wouldn’t the pussy-licking ACLU look pretty good to him by then?

Marcus found the spoon and a corner. He slid down, wedged himself deep into it, and said his prayers. Then he dragged the sharp spoon handle across both wrists and waited as the blood and warmth and life drained away, the weight of himself flowing away and lightening him for the flight to heaven.

Learning to Give

The mockingbird was singing, and it was morning. The bird was alone, but close by in a shrub, and its song was forceful and clear. From somewhere beyond the roof of the tool-shed, the baleful medley crossed the yard. It drifted in the stifling summer air and entered the tiny attic window where the flies and the gnats and the smoke came in.

Anna knew the song belonged to a mockingbird. Very long ago, her mother had told her of a bird that knew how to sing many different tunes. A bird that could change its melody in a heartbeat. This was a survival skill for the bird, and it flourished. Anna remembered her mother’s story clearly, although she could no longer remember her mother’s face.

As the bird sang to the sun, Anna and all Greta’s other friends sat in the sooty dust in a circle on the attic floor. They wore dirty, sleeveless summer tops and matching short pants, but they sweated just the same. Greta’s mother had sewn the clothes for the friends, a large set for Joseph, who was fifteen and the tallest, a small set for Margarette, who was nine, and sizes in between for the others. Anna was twelve, William ten, and Susanne eleven. No one in the circle spoke because they didn’t have permission to speak.

It was time for class.

Greta sat on a short-legged chair. She had her fingers linked about her knees, causing the hem of her pretty pink dress to hike up around her ankles, revealing pink embroidered socks. Her blond hair was curled about her chin. She smiled at her friends as she looked them over. She had an elegant smile. No living soul, regardless of race or class, could have seen that smile and not said it was elegant. The dimples on the smooth cheeks, the gentle parting of lips over perfect teeth. Greta gave the smile to the friends frequently, and it made their blood run cold.

“Good morning, children,” Greta said.

“In unison, the friends said, “Good morning.

Greta tilted her head and licked her upper lip with a slow motion of her tongue. Anna thought Greta must have had a teacher once who had used that very gesture. Greta was enamored of the adults in her life—her relatives, her parents’ acquaintances. Sometimes she talked to the friends at great length about the adults she knew: her father’s coworkers, her mother’s dressmaker, her grandmother and her uncle Geoff. Greta’s eyes danced, and her hands were dramatic understudies to her lively voice. When Greta talked this way, Anna would nod as if she were listening while throwing all her concentration to the sounds of the birds outside the window. She knew the other friends did what they could so they would not have to listen either. To hear of family, to think of family was to open wounds that would never heal.

“Joseph,” Greta said.

Anna felt her own body draw up in unison with Joseph’s.

“I see that your hair’s grown long. How could you come to class like that? You look such the ruffian, like a boy from the ghetto.”

Greta smiled a horrible and elegant smile.

Joseph, tall for fifteen and as lean as a willow branch, turned his good eye toward Greta and shrugged.

“What is that? What is that shrug?”

Joseph, now having permission to speak, mumbled, “I don’t know.”

“Hmmmm,” said Greta. Like Anna, she was twelve, but she already had gained the matter-of-fact conversational style of her father, Erik Bnimmer, the adult she admired the most. “How can we conduct class with a ruffian here on the floor? We should cut it, then, shouldn’t we?”

Joseph said, “Yes. We should.”

There was, of course, no other possible answer.

“Good,” said Greta, and she smiled her smile at them all.

She went to the small chest near the open window and lifted the top. From inside she brought her sewing set and from the set, a small pair of scissors. She stood and turned to face the friends in their circle on the floor. She smiled.

“I should like to be a beautician someday, like my Auntie Kate. She is a wonderful woman. She plays the piano as well as she can fix hair and polish fingernails.”

Little Margarette raised her hand.

“What do you want, little one?” asked Greta.

“Would you need help for the cutting? I could catch the curls.” Margarette sat still. Her tiny smile was not as elegant as Greta’s, but it was a true smile. Margarette was the treasure in the attic; she was the friend of the friends, and Anna knew if she would ever allow herself to use the word love, it would be for Margarette.

Greta, who because of Margarette’s youth was usually more patient with the girl, said, “No, you stay in the circle and see how it’s done. See the scissors, how sharp they are? Dull ones tear the hair. And see how they are short? Long scissors can snag and make a mess.

All the friends were silent. They had learned the importance of paying attention.

“Tip your head my way,” said Greta. She sat back down on her stool, and Joseph slid around on his bottom until his back was almost touching Greta’s knees. He stared straight ahead, and the other friends averted their eyes from his. It was best not to look and see the fear that had flared there. Joseph would have to handle the haircut as best he could. Whatever the haircut would entail.

“Head back,” said Greta.

Joseph put his head back. Anna could see, from the corner of her vision as she looked at the barren bookshelf beyond the soft tousle of Joseph’s hair, the thin fifteen-year-old put his head back. She could see his blind white eye, but not the good one. She was glad because the blind eye was dead to emotion. Emotion was a dangerous commodity.

Greta slid the scissors’ tips into the mass of black curls. They came together. A curl dropped to Greta’s lap, and she brushed it off with the brusque movement of someone slapping a fly away. In a matter of minutes the haircut was done. Anna let herself look at Joseph then. The haircut was poor, but no other harm had been done.

“Now, isn’t that much better?” Greta said. No one moved except for Margarette, who nodded slightly.

“Isn’t that much better?” Greta’s voice held a sudden, sharp edge.

Everyone on the floor nodded vigorously and said, “Oh, yes.”

“Good, then,” said Greta. “And I hope you watched carefully and listened to the lesson because I will ask someone to cut hair very soon, and it best be done the right way.”

No one moved.

“Joseph,” said Greta.

Joseph glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“You may go back to the circle.”

Greta stood and shook the remaining hair from her lap. As soon as she was gone down to her family for lunch or for piano lessons or for whatever else she did when she was not in the attic with her friends, Anna and the others would scoop up every strand and throw them from the open attic window. Listening was a lesson they had learned well, and so was cleanliness. Not so much cleanliness of themselves; Greta did not see much use in giving soap and water to the friends in the attic. Greta believed as her father had taught her; children such as these were used to being dirty. They liked being dirty.

“Now,” said Greta. She walked to the open window, fanned herself with delicate motions of her hand, and then moved back to the chair. “I’d like to hear a story. William, you tell the class a story. A story about a day at the beach because it’s so hot in here. A cool day by the lake where the children go swimming and the parents sit under umbrellas and talk about their work and their duties in the world.”

William, who had been a pudgy little boy when Erik Brummer had first selected and gathered the friends together for his daughter, rubbed his face frantically. The palm of William’s hand bore a shiny burn scar. William had a nervous tic in his right cheek.

Anna looked at William, then at Greta. If it took long for William to tell the story, Greta might get angry. William, Anna feared, had never been to a beach, had never seen a lake, because William’s family had been poor.

“William,” said Greta. Anna felt her shoulders pinch. Her lungs hurt in the heat and hurt in anticipation of what might happen if William could not think of a story. She grit her teeth. Panic swirled in her gut, and she fought it down. In a gentle motion, Margarette leaned over and squeezed William’s hand.

“There was a lake,” said Margarette.

“There was a lake,” said William, and Anna’s lungs heaved a burst of air in relief. She hoped Greta did not hear it.

“A big lake and with a lot of water,” said William. “And a lot of fish.” He rubbed his face again. It was stretched and scarred with so much rubbing. His eyes were rheumy with torment. “There was a family, a big family with lots of children, very pretty children in nice clothes. Pink dresses and blue trousers. They all went to the lake on a hot afternoon and sat down and took off their shoes.”

Anna looked at Greta seated on her low chair. The girl’s lips were pursed, but she didn’t seem dissatisfied with the story. If William told a good story, and a long story, Greta would be happy and would go back downstairs to her family and leave the friends alone. If William did not tell a good story and made Greta angry, she would teach a new lesson to the class. It was the angry lessons that had, just days before, made Joseph climb into the tiny open window where the flies and the gnats and the smoke and the mockingbird song came in and try to squeeze himself through to fall to the dog-guarded yard four stories below. Only Margarette could talk him back inside by promising him silly but lovely things when the bad days were over and they could go home again.

“The children went swimming and they swam for a long time,” said William. And then he stopped. It was obvious he couldn’t think of what to say next. He did not know the beach of the lake and could not even imagine it well. William rubbed his face and looked around the circle at the friends. Susanne looked at the empty bookcase. Joseph licked his lips and folded his hands. Anna looked at William for a moment before looking away. She knew about lakes but was afraid to speak up and help William with his story. William’s burned hand was the result of a music lesson Greta had given one morning. William had no rhythm, and Greta had insisted on all the friends clapping to her song. Try as he did, William could not keep the rhythm. When Greta had come back with the friends’ daily meal, she had also brought one of Erik Brummer’s cigars. William still could not clap in rhythm, but now he bore the rightful sign of the failed lesson.

“And what then?” asked Greta.

William’s eyes squeezed into red slits.

Margarette’s hand went up. Greta turned to her, the smile gone. “Now what, little girl?”

“Please, I’d like to tell some of the story, too.” Greta crossed her ankles like her mother must have done. Her eyebrows strummed a rhythm of irritation across her brow, but then she said, “All right.”

“They liked to go fishing, these children,” said Margarette. “They caught many colors of fish, red and blue and green and gold. Some they caught with nets and some with hooks.”

Greta said, “Did they eat the fish?”

“Oh, some of them they did. Some they cooked and ate on the beach. They made a fire and cooked them, and the smoke went up as high as the clouds. Everyone sang songs. There was a girl named Greta, and she could sing better than any of the other children.”

And the story went on. It wound around the bitter air of the hot attic, in Margarette’s lilting, little-girl voice, laced with distant bits of Margarette’s memory, embellished with daydreams.

After some time, Greta held up her hand to halt the tale, and she left the attic. She promised, in reward for the story, to come earlier with the daily meal. The dust and soot swirled where her footsteps had been. The door closed with a click. No one spoke. Margarette closed her eyes, and shivered.

Then Joseph said, “Thank you.”

All the friends looked at Margarette and whispered, “Thank you.”

Anna said, “I’ll give you half my meal,” although she knew Margarette would refuse, and she knew that was part of the reason she offered.

The friends stayed in the circle for a while longer. Then, slowly, they fell apart, moving to their own spots on the attic floor where they rested between lessons and dreamed their own dreams and fought their own nightmares. Anna curled up beneath the tiny window and looked at the crude beams of the ceiling. Outside, the mockingbird sang the tunes of the robin, the jay, the chickadee, the sparrow.

After a few minutes of silence, Joseph said, “The children sang as they sat on the beach. They sang as they sat with their parents in the boats and fished. They sang the same song as their parents, and there was no harmony, just melody. The melody was flat and ugly.”

William grunted as he turned to face Joseph.

“The fish were not different colors,” Joseph continued. “They were all the same, silver and blue, like shining gems. But some were big and some were small. Some had twisted fins, and some were blind. The parents drew the fish in on the lines and put them into buckets. When they got to shore, they put the buckets on the muddy bank.”

Anna turned her head slightly, her nostrils blowing the soot on the floor beside her, listening.

Joseph’s voice was tight, and it trembled. He said, “The parents only fished for sport, to see the creatures struggle out of the water. The big fish with no flaws were sorted into one bucket. The fish that were not perfect went into another. The baby fish were taken from the parent fish and given to the children as pets.”

Margarette said, “Joseph, I liked my story better.”

Joseph said, “This is a good story. So listen. The fish with flaws were tormented then set afire. The fish with no flaws were kept longer, but were set afire as well. The smoke did not rise to the clouds, it was so thick it hung low and made the sky stink with soot and death. The little fish were tormented by the children, and flopped in the buckets, trying to find the air they needed.”

Susanne, by the empty bookshelf, whispered, “Margarette’s story was about fish, Joseph. Don’t do this to us.”

“And my story is about fish. Haven’t you learned the listening lesson? I am telling about fish. This is a little story about people at the beach. People playing and having fun, nothing more, and of the worthless fish they caught.”

Anna stared at Joseph. The badly cut hairs of his head were wild beneath the linked fingers of his hands as he lay on the floor. He looked like a prophet; he looked like a mad lion.

“No more story,” said Susanne.

“Please,” said William.

“I want to kill her,” said Joseph.

No one answered. Anna lay, listening to her heart, listening for the mockingbird that had grown silent, watching the fine mist of gray gossamer smoke drift through the window over her head.

Margarette began to sing a nursery rhyme, and Anna faded into sleep.

The opening door woke them all on cue. They sat abruptly, having learned the lesson of quick attention. Anna’s head spun but her eyes were open wide to appear alert. Greta was in another dress, this one green with a White collar. She had brushed her hair up and back, and it was secured in silver. She sat down on her low chair, and the friends scurried to their places in the circle.

“Good news!” she said.

The friends waited.

“My father has found a new friend to join us. He is a little boy, younger than you, Margarette. I had asked my father for a little boy, but my father is a very busy man. But this morning he said he’d found a nice one during the selection, and shall bring him to us tonight after he’s been checked over.”

The friends watched and waited. Obviously Greta had forgotten her promise of bringing the meal early.

“Are you happy?” asked Greta.

All the friends nodded.

Joseph’s fingers slid upward along his neck, found the ragged ruins of his hair, and began to play with them. Anna glanced at him then looked quickly back at Greta. Joseph’s good eye had been hard, bright, and twitching.

“Today’s lesson will be a math lesson,” said Greta.

“I have cards here that I borrowed from my uncle.” She pulled white cards from the pocket of her blue dress. “I’ll hold up the cards and you will tell me the answer to the problem.”

Anna balled her fists in her lap. She was not good at numbers. If Greta would only give her an easy problem.

“You,” said Greta to William. She held up a card that read “5 + 12.”

“Tell me, what is the answer to this?”

William rolled his lips in over his teeth. The tick in his cheek was vivid. Then he said, “Seventeen.”

Greta had to check the back of the card, and said, “Yes, good.” She put that card down and held up the next. To Susanne she said, “Tell me this answer.”

Susanne looked at the card. It said, “18 — 9”

“The answer is nine,” Susanne said immediately. She was good with math.

Greta checked. “Fine,” she said. Then she looked at Joseph. “Your hair looks nasty.”

Anna looked at Joseph. His hair, where his fingers had clutched and pulled, sat up in pointed strands. Joseph flinched and began to rub it down again.

“No, no, no, no,” said Greta. “I think it needs doing again. I think you’ve played with it and ruined the cut. I best cut it over.”

Joseph rubbed harder, trying the flatten the spikes against his scalp. The bright twitching of his eye had become a nervous flutter. His mouth opened as if to say, “No,” but it closed again then, silently.

Margarette said, “I can do a problem. Please show me one.”

Greta stood, the cards falling to the sooty floor. She said, “Joseph, come here and I’ll do your haircut again.”

Joseph looked from Anna to Greta to Margarette. His teeth began to clap together.

“Please let me do a problem,” said Margarette.

Greta opened the chest by the window and took out the sewing kit. She lifted the lid and stared inside.

Joseph licked his lips. William’s tic picked up speed. Susanne looked in confusion between the friends. Margarette folded her hands and trembled. Anna’s heart leapt into a fear-driven arrhythmia.

Greta stared into the open sewing case. Then she slowly lowered the lid. She turned to face the friends.

Margarette said, “Please, let me do a problem. I like numbers.”

Greta said, “You have all been my friends for many weeks now. I’ve brought you good food and have taught you good lessons.” She pressed her fingertips together into a steeple of consideration and control. “Music lessons, art lessons, things other children of your station would beg for.”

Greta walked to her low chair and sat, smoothing down the hem of her green dress with the white collar. “If not for me, you would not have learned to listen, you would not have learned manners at a meal. I have been a good teacher.” Her face clouded over then, darkening storms growing at the corners of her eyes. She said, “But oh. You are still very selfish, selfish children.”

Anna needed to cough, but she swallowed it down. The hairs on the backs of her hands were prickled and alert. She looked at the window and back at Greta.

“My father has told me that I shouldn’t expect very much of you. I don’t want him to be right.”

Joseph began to groan. It was a soft growl that, by the twist of his face, Anna could see frightened even him.

“Joseph,” said Greta. “Is it you who has been selfish?” Joseph’s growl grew louder, a pinched animal sound almost musical in its intensity. Susanne put her hands over her ears; Margarette held a hand up as if to quiet him.

“Joseph,” Greta said. “I asked you a question. Answer. Is it you who stole from me?”

And Joseph stood suddenly, driving his hand into the waistband of his filthy short pants and pulling out the hair scissors. He screamed and lifted the scissors into the air, pointing them at Greta. His good eye was wide and ready. Greta stood from her chair and backed up a step.

Joseph took a step forward, the scissors poised.

Greta said, “Children, if he hurts me none of you will eat for a week, perhaps two weeks. And you know I never lie. I was taught not to lie. Lying is a sin.”

Joseph took another step forward, but Greta did not move. She knew she was safe now. At once, William, Susanne, and Anna were up, taking Joseph’s arms and wrestling them down. William pulled the scissors from Joseph and presented them to Greta like a kitten presenting a prized mouse to its owner.

Greta brushed a tiny strand of hair from her face. She went to the chest and returned the scissors to the kit. Susanne and William and Anna sat down in the circle. Margarette took Joseph gently by the hand and helped him sit.

With her hand on the rough wall, Greta stood for a moment and looked out the tiny window. Anna looked at Greta, at the slice of shed roof outside the window, at the dark tops of the smoke stacks beyond the yard of Greta’s home, at the smoke that hung, like the smoke in Joseph’s story, too thick to reach the clouds.

Greta went to the door. She did not turn back as she whispered, “Selfish children.”

When she was gone, Margarette said, “This won’t be forever. We won’t be here forever.”

Anna did not sleep for a long time that night. She listened as William and Susanne tossed restlessly on the floor. She listened as Joseph buried his face in Margarette’s little-girl arms and, with her words and lullabies, she tried to soothe the insanity away.

Morning came with rain outside the tiny window and stale, humid air in the attic. The mockingbird’s call was faint, as if he had found shelter from the rain in the branches of a distant tree, somewhere outside the yard. Anna lay awake for a long time. Her neck ached from the hard floor and the change of weather. No one spoke. Joseph was up, standing by the empty bookshelf with his face pressed against the slat of one shelf. His eyes were closed. Susanne and William were still asleep, or trying to be asleep. Margarette was making play shadows in the gray, rain-shrouded light on the attic floor.

The door opened and Greta came in, wearing a smile and a yellow dress with big front pockets. She did not push the door shut, but stood in the center of the room and put her hands on her hips. The friends moved quickly to their circle spots.

“A new lesson and a new friend today!” Greta said. She smiled individually at each friend on the floor. Her hair was in yellow ribbons. “First the new friend! Michael!”

The friends looked at the partially ajar door. They saw tentative movement, and then a small boy was standing in the doorway. He was no more than five. His dark eyes huge and numbed.

“He was to go with his mother, but my father brought him to me! My father is a good man to do this for us. Michael, sit with the others. We have many lessons in the circle. Susanne, make room there for Michael.”

The little boy did not move. Greta’s smile faltered.

Margarette said, “Michael, come sit with me.” She patted the floor. Michael shuffled to her, and she eased him down. Margarette touched his hair as if in apology.

“I have a new lesson today,” said Greta. She sat on her chair. “The selfishness yesterday was a surprise to me, though father would say I shouldn’t be surprised. And so today the lesson is learning to give. I have given to you many things, and unselfishly so. Today you will learn to give to me.”

No one spoke. The bird outside the window, far away in its tree beneath the rain, changed tunes from bluebird to wren to starling.

Greta pulled a revolver from one deep dress pocket. She made a sweeping circle, pointing it in turn at each of the friends. Then she trained it on Joseph. “You were very selfish yesterday. Ah, such a bad boy you were, Joseph. I could have my father take you away but I’ve decided there is still a chance for you to become good. Today you will learn to be good. You will learn to be unselfish. I want you to give me something you treasure.”

Joseph’s good eye blinked at the revolver.

Greta then took a small white-handled pistol from her other pocket. She smiled and held it out to Joseph.

“Take it,” said Greta.

Joseph’s lips twisted into a silent, numbed grimace.

“Take it,” Greta said.

Joseph took the pistol.

Greta said, “Give me who you love most, and I will forgive your selfishness.”

Joseph stared at the pistol. His hand did not shake. “Give me who you love most,” said Greta. She nodded at the revolver in her own hand. “And if I think you want to turn it on me, if it even looks as if you are thinking of turning it on me, I will use this on everyone here. Now, give me your treasure.”

Joseph turned the gun toward his face and lowered his mouth to the barrel.

“Ha!” Greta barked, leaning over and smacking Joseph on the side of his head. “You don’t love yourself! Look again. I know your silly little heart, boy, and know what you love. You cannot fool me. And if you act incorrectly, all here will suffer for your stupidity.”

Joseph looked around the room. His good eye batted crazily, as if a gnat had gotten inside. Then, he raised the gun to Margarette, across from him in the circle.

Greta clapped her free hand to her cheek. “Yes! Give me who you love most.”

Joseph did not pull the trigger.

Greta said, “If you don’t give her to me, I will kill her and then Anna and William and Susanne and you. My father sees hundreds just like you every day. I can watch from my bedroom window what goes on beyond our house, beyond the high fence. Many silly, weeping children are sent off with their parents, passed over by my father and gone in the blink of an eye. There are more friends if I need them. More than would fit here in the attic. I can have as many as I want. There are always more of you to be found under any stone.”

Joseph slipped his finger into the trigger loop. Anna put her hands to her ears, her face into her knees. There was a crack, and a squeal of delight. Anna drove her face into the hairs on her legs; her jaws ground together. Then Greta said, “Cleanliness! Haven’t you learned? Clean up this mess and I’ll teach you some new ballads and you can clap with me.”

Anna lifted her face. She went with Susanne and William to the chest where the rags were kept. They wrapped up the mess and put it outside the attic door. Joseph spit on the floor to wash up the red stains. It was futile, but the effort seemed to please Greta.

Back in the circle, Greta sang new songs to the friends; Michael threw up and cried, but Greta, for the moment, was too happy with her songs to notice. She would see it after the music was done. For the moment, however, she was the magnanimous queen in a pretty dress and the friends the willing servants of her humid court.

Even William clapped, his enthusiasm almost masking his inability to keep a beat.

And Anna sang her heart out. Her voice was forceful and clear. And her song rode the damp air and sailed out to the yard among the flies and the gnats and the smoke. Her melodies skipped effortlessly from one to another, and the mockingbird had met its match.

Fisherman Joe

Katie Flory had gone on ahead, her Toyota’s backseat crammed full with groceries, lighter fluid, matches, and target pistols. She knew where they had planned on camping, and by the time Bill Flory and friends Joshua and Melinda Asterton had finished packing the van and caught up with her, she had promised cleared tent spots, gathered wood, and a cozy campfire blazing. It was obvious to Melinda that Katie needed to do this to prove she was okay, that she was at least on the road to becoming okay.

“Just wait ’til you see it,” Katie had said. “I wasn’t a Girl Scout for nothing.”

She left a full hour before the other three had found the lanterns hiding behind the Easter baskets in their garage. By the time all was secured in the van and ready to roll, it was past two o’clock.

The camping spot was isolated, a good forty-five-minute drive from the city, back in the mountains where roads no longer qualified for paving and there could be a mile or more between houses. Most of the homes along the steep, graveled roads were small and colorless, sitting inside wire-fenced yards with cows and goats grazing nearby.

“It’s Americana,” I said Melinda with a chuckle to Bill and Josh as the van groaned into another gear. “I wonder how many of these people all look mysteriously like each other.” Bill glanced in the rearview mirror at Melinda in the backseat. His eyes, nervous and twitching, blinked several times before he spoke. “Quite a few, I’d bet,” he said. “I’ve seen them come out of the mountains to the emergency room, and the resemblance to each other is amazing.”

Josh, seated in the front passenger’s seat, took a bite out of the Hostess cupcake he’d bought at the service station.

The two couples had discovered the camping spot on a Sunday afternoon drive just weeks before. Just inside the boundary of the National Forest, it was off the road several hundred feet, down a dirt path in the dense trees. There was a creek, a canopy of sycamores and oaks, and across from the creek, a sheer cliff of rock that seemed to beg to be climbed by weekend vacationers. Large patches of humus would make great spots to pitch tents. A central dirt area could be honed into quite the place for a fire.

“Turn here,” said Josh, his mouth full of cupcake. Bill steered from the main road onto the unpaved stretch. Melinda settled against the door as the van began its climb up the foothill. Sunlight winked through the branches of the tall pines and deciduous trees. It was a beautiful afternoon, just as Melinda had hoped. They all needed a beautiful afternoon, but for Katie and Bill, it was more a necessity than a luxury. Katie was managing, it seemed. But Bill, sweet little chubby Bill, a nurse at St. John’s Memorial Hospital, was still struggling to keep his sanity.

The van hit a bump. Josh said, “Hey, I dropped part of my cupcake!”

“Sorry,” said Bill. His voice was soft and anxious.

“No problem,” said Josh, leaning over. “There’s more where that came from.” And he held up a second pack he’d bought.

“Katie said she was going to make us a snack,” said Melinda. “It’ll be ready when we get there. Baked apples with raisins. Banana boats with nuts and chocolate and marshmallows. Maybe deep-dish peach cobbler, cooked in the coals. Doesn’t that sound amazing?”

“Katie’s a good cook,” said Bill. “She never could teach me how, but she tried, bless her. She was teaching Gillian, though, and Gillian was getting pretty good.”

Josh said nothing.

Melinda said, “That’s nice, Bill. That’s really sweet.”

Not having a child of her own, Melinda couldn’t fathom the anguish at the death of a child. Gillian Flory, seven years old, had been killed by a drunken, hit-and-run driver who had slammed into her on the sidewalk in front of the Florys’ house six months earlier. No one had been caught or convicted. Katie still grieved, but her stoicism helped keep her rational. Bill’s grief, however, had the man walking an edge that was sharp and dangerous.

It was Melinda who had talked Bill out of suicide two week after Gillian’s death.

Melinda poked Josh in the shoulder. “You aren’t going to have room for Katie’s snack after eating that.”

Josh swallowed a bite of the chocolate cupcake, turned around, and grinned. There was chocolate on his tooth. “I always have room.”

“Watch to the left,” said Melinda. “The dirt path to the site will be any minute.”

They watched. The van bumped along, spraying gravel dust out behind it, dipping around curves and smacking potholes. And then out of nowhere a man stepped into the roadin front of them. He turned and stared like a deer caught in headlights. His black hair was greasy, his eyebrows as bushy as a bear’s. Over one shoulder was a fishing pole and tackle bag. In the other arm was an ax.

Bill stomped the brake and laid on the horn. The van shuddered and skidded to a halt.

Bill’s head shot from the window. “Get the fuck off the road, asshole!”

Melinda’s heart jumped at Bill’s shout. The man in the road squinted then sauntered off into the trees.

“Goddamned moron,” Bill said. His shoulders began to shake; his voice was tremulous. He sounded close to tears. “Goddamned inbred insipid moron. Why don’t people look?” All three sat for a moment. Bill’s breathing was heavy and loud, like a steam engine roaring. His neck was flushed red. Josh caught Melinda’s hand and gave it a squeeze. After a long moment, Bill said, in a near whisper, “I m sorry.”

“No problem,” said Josh.

“It’s okay,” Melinda managed. Goddamn it all!

“I want us all to have a good time,” said Bill.

“So do we,” said Josh. “We’re going to have a good time. I promise.”

“Thanks for being our friends,” Bill said. “I’ve never had such good friends as you two.”

Melinda said softly, “You’re welcome.” Goddamn it to hell, we don’t need any scares this week.

Bill pressed the accelerator; the van moved on.

And then the dirt path was there. Bill slowed the vehicle. “Ah,” said Josh. “My bet is banana boats. Please let them be banana boats.”

“I forgot my camera,” said Melinda. She smacked Josh on the shoulder. “You let me forget my camera!”

“Nothing to take pictures of, ’cept lions and tigers and bears.”

“Oh, my,” said Melinda.

Bill steered the van onto the rutted pathway. The branches above were quite low, and Melinda instinctively dipped her head a bit as they drove under them.

The van stopped beside the trunk of a wide sycamore. The three friends hopped out and stretched. A cheerful fire burned in the center dirt spot. A pile of wood was gathered and laid beside the fire. Two tent spaces had been cleared of twigs and rocks.

“Hey, nature girl really does know what she’s doing,” said Melinda.

“Katie?” called Bill.

“Open the back,” said Josh.

Bill reached in and popped the hatch, still staring out among the trees for Katie. His hands crawled slowly into his pockets. “Katie? Where are you?”

Melinda walked past Bill to the campfire, picked up a stick, and lifted the lid of a large pan that was nestled within the glowing logs. Above, a small breeze rustled the leaves and a red-winged blackbird squawked.

“No banana boats,” she said. “It’s peach cobbler.”

“Okay, that’s the next best,” said Josh.

Bill walked to the back of the van, pulled out his blue tent case, and carried it to one of the raked tent spots. “I wonder where Katie is?”

“Probably taking a nature break,” said Melinda. She put the lid back on the pot, then walked to the other raked tent spot, where Josh had already upended their red tent bag onto the ground.

“Well,” Bill said, dusting off his hands. “I don’t remember how to set this thing up.”

“Just wait a few minutes and we’ll help you,” said Melinda. Josh untied the strings and flipped the tent open on the ground. Melinda picked up the stake bag. Bill looked around, his eyes drawn up in concern. “I’ll find Katie. You have your own tent. We can certainly do ours.”

Melinda shrugged. She dumped the stakes onto the pine needles by her foot.

Bill walked through the spiny branches of young dogwoods and disappeared down the knoll leading to the creek.

“Don’t worry. The weekend’ll be fine,” Josh said to Melinda.

“I hope so,” said Melinda as she picked up a tent pole and unfolded it to snap it into place.

From down near the stream, they could hear Bill calling, “Okay, Katie! Finish your business. Your man is a wimp in the woods and needs your cunning to put up the tent!”

“God, I’m glad to hear a little humor coming back to him,” said Josh. “Remember his sense of humor? He used to have us rolling in the aisles.” Melinda nodded.

Down at the creek, Bill belted out a Tarzan howl.

“Listen to him. Maybe we’re going to loosen him up a little too much,” said Josh. “He’ll want to go in to work Monday with a chimp and a loincloth. Won’t the sick people just love that?”

“Would that be considered sexual harassment?”

“Depends on how bad Bill looks in a loincloth.” Josh helped Melinda thread the first pole through the tabs on the tent, then poked the ends through the metal rings into the ground. The tent swayed like a kite.

“Get that other pole,” said Melinda.

Bill howled again.

“He won’t be fit to live with,” said Josh, shaking his head, bemused.

Melinda stopped, and tilted her head in the direction of the creek. The howl was longer this time and didn’t end with the traditional wavering Tarzan vibrato. It held in the air, guttural, clear, and loud.

Melinda dropped the pole.

“What?” Josh asked.

Bill’s howl cut off, then resumed. It was not a shout of playfulness.

“Oh, God!” said Melinda. She stepped forward toward the small trees, her mouth caught in her hand.

It was a cry of torment.

Melinda raced toward the trees, batting branches away and skidding down the knoll to the creek. Behind her, she could hear Josh drop the tent stakes and call after her.

“Bill!” Melinda shouted. She looked up the creek, where water swirled around rocks and rotting branches, carrying leaves and minnows down its course. She stumbled several yards down the creek and saw the top of Bill’s head above a thick jam of logs on the bank.

“Bill!”

Bill looked up over the top of the jam.

His face was the stretched face of a haunted, demented clown. Melinda made herself walk to the jam. She looked over. Katie lay on the creek bank. Her neck, face, and chest were covered with gaping wounds. Blood covered her clothes and body like a slick coating of dark, nearly black oil. Her eyes were open to the sky, but she was beyond seeing. Her red hair was matted in dried gore.

Melinda dropped to the bank in the sand, her knees instantly soaked. She threw back her head and screamed.

“We have to call the police!” said Josh. Bill had loaded the semiautomatic target pistols and was filling his pockets with clips.

“We’ve got to call the police!” Josh repeated. “Bill, are you listening?”

Melinda stood, holding on to the branch of an oak, the remains of her breakfast spattered on the toes of her shoes.

“We’re the law now,” Bill said. His voice cracked, broke.

“Bill, I’ll drive,” said Josh. “There’s no phone reception here but a few miles down the road, yes. Come on. Let’s call the police and let them find the murderer!”

“We’re the flicking law,” said Bill, his words barely audible. He turned and pointed the pistol at Josh and Melinda. “These uncivilized people don’t know the law.”

“Don’t point the gun at us,” said Josh.

Bill licked his lips. “I’m sorry.” He held the gun down. “You’re my friends. Help me.”

“Bill,” said Josh. “We’ll help you. Let us drive you out of here and find help. The sooner, the better.”

“Help?” screamed Bill. “She’s dead! What do you mean the sooner the better? I have to go find that guy now! No one else cares! No one else will care! I’ve seen how it fucking works! Help me, please!”

“We’ll help you,” said Melinda, and Josh glanced at her, shocked. But she knew Bill was right. She knew if they didn’t find the murderer, no one would. Gillian was un-avenged. Katie couldn’t be left the same way.

“Melinda!” said Josh.

“You know I’m right,” she said. “Bill, too. It’s now or never, Josh.”

“We catch him, then what?”

“Drive him to town. Citizen’s arrest.”

Josh bared his clenched teeth, shook his head.

Bill winked, a mad, appreciative move in Melinda’s direction. “Thanks,” he said.

“Give us the other guns,” Melinda said. Bill handed her a pistol and clip; she loaded it and held it out. Josh hesitated, then picked up the third gun and jammed in a clip.

“Bless you guys,” Bill said. He sobbed once and wiped his hand beneath his eyes, leaving a long, dark streak of soot. He turned then, and led the other two on foot up the dirt path toward the road.

The murderer had not gone far. He was sitting, blood smearing his jeans, on a boulder just across the road from where the van had almost hit him. He was eating a sandwich from his tackle box; his fishing pole and ax were propped against his foot. The ax had dried blood on the blade.

He looked up as the three approached him. He raised one hand as if in greeting. His mouth was lopsided.

Fucking shit, he’s retarded, Melinda thought.

And before the reality of the situation could register on the man’s face, Bill was on him.

It took very little for the three friends to subdue him and drag the man and ax back to the campsite, his legs kicking, his sandwich forgotten in the dirt.

“Time for court,” Bill whispered to the man before he had jammed a handkerchief into the screaming mouth. Yes, thought Melinda. Let justice be done this time.

The man doubled over with the blows of Bill’s boot. Then Bill lifted the man and threw him against the sycamore tree. His new strength was astonishing, and Melinda stared with wonder.

“Help me!” Bill called to Josh. Josh held the man up on the tree, seeming not to want to look at the man’s face, as Bill cut a length of nylon rope. Then he lashed the man to the trunk with a rope around his neck, waist, and knees. The man coughed and opened his eyes. They were red and wet and wild.

“Caught me an uncivilized asshole murderer! Caught a redneck Fisherman Joe!” shouted Bill. He balled his fist and drove it into the man’s jaw. There was a crack. The man cried out. Bill swung his boot out and caught the man squarely in the crotch. The man screamed.

Melinda drew her hands into her pockets. Her heart thundered. Her breaths were jagged, shallow. Let this be done quickly, she thought. Justice can be swift, I heard somewhere.

“You like this, don’t ya, Fisherman Joe?” said Bill. He leaned in to the man on the tree and pulled the wadded handkerchief from the man’s mouth. Bill’s teeth clacked together; he was beyond anything but the job at hand. “You like this? I’m a creative son of a bitch, more creative than you were with Katie. You haven’t seen the first of it!”

“Bill,” said Josh. “Please. That’s enough now. Reconsider. You’ve caught him now; he’s tied up. The police won’t have to go looking. We can drive him in to the station, for Christ’s sake.”

“Got to do the justice ourselves,” Bill said. “Got to be judge and jury. There’s no justice in the justice system.”

Melinda felt Josh’s eyes turn on her. She didn’t look back but said, “Bill’s right. He’ll be free in a few years. Katie will never be free now. But Bill, please, do it quickly.”

Justice can be swift. Justice should be swift.

Fisherman Joe struggled violently, back and forth against the nylon rope. At last he spoke. “Please don’t! What you doin’ this for?”

“Katie said that, I bet!” laughed Bill, ignoring Melinda. “No, Katie yelled it, I bet. She screamed it, begging for her very life, I bet! ‘No, don’t! What you doin’ this for?’ Did it make you hard, you flicking redneck bastard?” Bill stepped up to Fisherman Joe and almost pressed his lips against those of the bound man. “Did you get hard when you cut my wife into ribbons?”

“I didn’t do nothin’!”

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth!” Bill cried. He picked up a stick and slashed it across Fisherman Joe’s mouth. The skin split apart on contact, leaving the man with a wide, bloody grin-like wound. Joe sobbed.

“Now,” said Bill. He began to pace back and forth before the tree, rubbing his chin.

“Let me see if I can recreate this little scene for you. Stop me if I leave out any important details. You found Katie building a campfire, and she looked like a good piece of ass. Yes?”

Joe, blubbering, shook his head. Tears, blood, and spit ran down his face to his shirt:

I thought so,” said Bill. “Good-looking piece of ass that would have nothing to do with an uncivilized thug from the backwoods. So you throw down your fishing pole and go for her. Hey, pussy tastes better than trout any day, doesn’t it!”

“I never even seen her!” screamed Joe. “I killed…”

Bill hurled his fist into the man’s face. Fisherman Joe coughed and sputtered.

Bill strode to the campfire. He felt around inside the utensil bag until he found long handled barbecue tongs. From the fire he fished a glowing, bright red piece of wood. He went back to the sycamore tree. “Open his mouth,” he said to Josh.

Josh said, “Bill, good Lord, would you let the law—!”

“Open his mouth, Josh! Let’s have it done!”

“No!” cried the man on the tree. “Stop it! I killed–”

“I fucking know you did!” screamed Bill. He slapped Joe’s bloody, drooling mouth.

Josh went to the tree and pried Fisherman Joe’s jaws apart. The man gasped and gurgled, tossing his head back and forth. Bill shoved the burning coal into the mouth. The cries covered the sounds of sizzling, although Melinda could see steam rising from between the lips and out both sides of the bloody gash.

Bill dropped the tongs. “Man was perjuring himself,” he said. “Can’t have that in a court of law. Now, the evidence will continue.”

Melinda felt her gorge rise, but she couldn’t look away. Kill him if you’re going to, she thought. Get it over with!

“She struggled, not wanting you to put your filthy claws on her,” said Bill. “And so you picked up your ax and gave her a few chops. That old, trusty, rusty ax.”

Fisherman Joe cried, coughed, and shook his head. Melinda glanced at the man’s ax on the ground, at the dried blood and the black hairs stuck in it.

Katie’s hair is red, she thought.

“Sliced her good and left her to die on the creek bank,” said Bill. “You know, I’m trained to heal people, but I bet I can’t heal Katie. You think I can, Joe?”

Fisherman Joe’s head wavered, his eyes rolled in the sockets.

“I’ll give you what Katie got. A little pain before you must be going.” Bill took the pistol from his jacket pocket, and aimed at the man’s foot. He pulled the trigger. Joe’s shoe exploded with red. The man howled around his ruined tongue. Then Bill shot the man’s other foot. Joe slumped, no longer able to keep his weight up.

“Get it over,” said Melinda.

I love you guys,” said Bill, looking over his shoulder. His face softened for a moment. “Kill him,” said Melinda.

Bill shot Joe’s knees out, then put bullets through both of the man’s palms.

“He looks too much like Christ that way,” Bill said. He shook his head. “Can’t have that. This man is no Christ.” He picked up the ax, lifted it, testing the weight. “Nice tool. Sharp and heavy.” He walked to the tree and with a grunt, swung the ax at Joe’s heaving chest. It smacked deep into the flesh and bone. Josh groaned and turned away.

“No more Christ,” said Bill.

“No more Fisherman Joe,” said Melinda. Bill looked up at the man’s face. He was indeed, dead. His mouth hung open. His eyes were glazed globes.

“Hmmm,” said Bill. “And I had some other ideas.” Beside Melinda, it was Josh’s turn to lose control. He doubled up and barfed bile into the leaves.

Bill took the ax to the campfire and dropped it in the center of the flame. He collected the three pistols, wiped them off, and put them back into the van. “We were never here,” he said to Melinda and Josh. “Get the tents, put them away. Douse the fire, stir it up. I’ll take the Toyota, you two the van. We found Katie’s body in the ghetto. You understand me? Then the justice system can begin its tailspin.”

The tents went into the van, all traces of camping packed and swept away. Fisherman Joe remained tied to the tree.

“If he can feed the buzzards,” said Bill, “then his life wasn’t a total waste.”

“Now,” said Bill as he closed the hatch of the van. “Let’s get Katie.”

As the three walked through the dogwoods and down the knoll to the stream, Bill caught both Melinda and Josh’s hands and gave them a squeeze. “Thank you. Greater love has no man than he who will help take a life for a friend.” He was nearly giddy in his torment.

Josh and Bill gently lifted the butchered body from beside the jam of logs and leaves. One shoe fell from the dead woman’s foot into the water. As Bill and Josh carried Katie up the bank toward the van, Melinda followed alongside the creek to catch the shoe and take it back with them. No evidence could be left. Melinda grabbed a stick from the bank and tried to reach the shoe but it floated on, just out of reach.

The creek made a sharp turn around the rock shelf on the other side. Melinda, holding branches so not to fall in, went around the turn, watching the shoe.

She stopped.

She dropped the stick she was holding.

From somewhere behind, up at the campsite, she heard Josh call, “Melinda! We have to get out of here! Hurry up!”

Katie’s shoe was snagged on a small creek rock within reach. Several yards beyond the shoe, lying on the creek’s bank with its head split open was a black bear. Melinda took several steps closer. Her lungs were caught on the spikes of her ribs.

The bear’s paws were splayed out, one on the ground, one across its chest. The ax-sharp claws were clotted with blood. A hank of red hair was tangled in one set of claws.

Katie’s hair.

Melinda stepped into the stream and picked up the shoe. She hurried back to the campsite, where the van and car were turned around, engines revving.

As she climbed into front seat she was careful not to glance into the back where Katie lay wrapped in a tarp. But she did look at Fisherman Joe on the tree, mouth open and still, his expression one of terror and righteousness.

I never seen her!

“Let’s go,” Melinda said to Bill.

I never killed her, I killed….

She leaned against the door and closed her eyes. The van hit the road and sped toward the city.

What Happened When Mosby Paulson Had Her Painting Reproduced on the Cover of the Phone Book

Mail was in.

Elliott Mitchell stepped out onto the front stoop, pleased and shocked, as he usually was, at the cool roughness of the concrete beneath his bare feet. From the mailbox he pulled assorted flyers and bills, several final notices, and two copies of the new phone book, wrapped in brown paper. Elliott flipped through the collection, taking mental notes of the exciting variety of places from where the mail had come and filing this information away in the hungry places of his mind.

Washington, D.C. Chicago, Illinois. Pueblo, Colorado.

If there had been an atlas in his home like there had been in school, he would have looked them up. But the names themselves were intriguing enough.

He moved back into the house. His feet found the familiar, sticky warmth of the worn living room carpet. The cats peed here, and food from Elliott’s mother’s tray were spilled here. Elliott couldn’t keep up with it all anymore, and so the cats continued to pee and his mother’s trembling hands continued to knock portions of her dinners onto her lap and onto the floor.

Elliott dropped the stack of mail onto the top of the console television. He moved into the small kitchen. The windows were closed and locked in defiance of the cool May air. Orange flowered curtains hung, dead weights against grease-iced window glass.

There was a two-liter Dr. Pepper in the refrigerator.

Elliott took a long swing from the bottle. “Ellie?”

Elliott’s stomach fluttered. He turned toward the call. A drip of cola caught in the corner of his mouth then slid to his chin. “What, Mom?”

“Can’t hear my set. Come turn it up, honey.”

Elliott put the drink back and closed the refrigerator door. On the door, held by an eclectic collection of magnets, were some of Elliott’s best school papers from seventh grade. A spelling test, “A+!” A letter written in social studies to George Washington, “96, Good job Elliott!” Numerous charcoal, pastel, and watercolor artworks, each praised in red ink on a Post-It Note by Mrs. Pugh, the middle school art teacher. He would have had Mrs. Pugh in eighth grade this year for advanced art if he had not been so sick.

But he was homebound now.

He was sick. He knew it, Mom knew it. So very, very sick.

“Just like me, Ellie,” his mother had said. “If you go to school today I might just be dead when you get home.”

And so homebound was the only answer.

“Ellie? The set, I can’t hear it and I can’t get up. My back’s doing it again.”

Elliott went down the short dark hall to his mother’s room. The door was open. Smells of stale cigarettes, medicated vaporizer, and illness hung around the doorway, a heavy, eye-stinging, invisible fog.

“Set, baby, fix it for me.”

He stepped into the bedroom. The floor here was bare linoleum. It was not the pleasant coolness of the front stoop; it was clammy on the skin of his soles. But it was familiar. It was never a shock.

Mom was on her back in her bed, three pillows against the wobbly headboard, one set of white fingers curled around the bedspread at her chest, one set around a cigarette. In the blue light of the television set the skin on her thin face seemed to jump and crawl. When she smiled, Elliott could see her bad teeth. There were three of the cats on the bed with her. Next to the bed was the wheelchair the health department had given her.

“Can’t hear it,” Mom said. She drew on the cigarette. The smoke blew back out in the wind of a violent cough. She found her voice and said, “Just a little volume, honey.”

Elliott stepped to the tiny black and white set on Mom’s dresser, and poked at the volume button until the chattering voices were uncomfortably loud. Mom said, “That’s just fine, Ellie.”

“Anything else?” There was a cat turd on the bottom of Elliott’s foot. He looked at the bottom of it but couldn’t see except that it looked dark and it felt soft and warm. “You need anything else?”

“Teacher come yet?”

“No. Mrs. Anderson won’t be here until two.”

Mom sucked on the cigarette like it was the tube on an oxygen mask. She let the smoke out then said, “I just can’t rest good today. I’m hurting. My back, my heart is just hammering like it wants to come out. Lay with me ’til I’m asleep.”

I thought you wanted to watch T.V., Elliott thought, but didn’t say. He went to the bed and lay down beside his mother. The mattress was lumpy. When his mother turned to him, her breath was familiar and strong.

“I feel a little better, honey.” One side of her mouth went up in what might have been a resigned smile. It looked as if even her face hurt her.

Mom always called Elliott honey. Never “Wee-wee Boy", or “Poop-Man” like the kids at J.E.B. Stewart Middle School did. Elliott’s mother loved him, even as she was dying. And she had been dying since Elliott had been in third grade. Her heart was bad, she told him. She couldn’t breathe very well because she was born with bad lungs. Her stomach made juices that were poison. Her muscles were giving up inside her skin and her nerves had so many short-circuits the doctors couldn’t even find them all. Month after month she begged him to stay with her and not go to school. Daddy had insisted, getting Elliott onto the school bus when he could. But most of the time Daddy left for work before the school bus came, and three days out of five, Elliott would stay with his mother because if she died when he was at school, what would he do then?

Elliott awoke to the tune of All My Children. He had slept next to his mother for almost two hours. It was time to find something for them to eat for lunch. At two o’clock, the teacher, Mrs. Anderson, would come.

Mom didn’t eat much of the bean with bacon soup Elliott fixed. She let Elliott wheel her to the bathroom but she would not eat with him in the living room. She insisted on a tray in bed, and then only sipped a couple of spoonfuls and ate the chips Elliott had put in a bowl for her. She didn’t want the Dr. Pepper he’d poured for her. She wanted Sprite. There wasn’t any Sprite, so Elliott told her he would make a list for Daddy when he came home. He could go into town and get Sprite for tomorrow. Mom settled down with another daytime show, and Elliott took the tray to the kitchen, ate his own soup and Dr. Pepper in the living room, and looked through the mail again.

He opened the bills and put them back on top of the console television in a pile for his father. He slid the paper cover off of one of the telephone books, and stopped.

The cover was not the normal photograph of the mountains or a rolling cattle farm, as the phone company was prone to use. It was, instead, a painting. A reproduction of a childish watercolor, splashed in its brilliant colors across the book’s broad cover. The painting was of a bright blue-green ocean, and a sailboat with smiling people all lined up together on the deck. White sparks flashed in the water; the sky was pink and yellow. At the bottom of the painting was the title, “The Adventure on the Sea” by Mosby Paulson.

Elliott cleared his throat, feeling the raw pain of his own illness, his own poor blood and bad lungs and short-circuited nerves.

Inside the front cover was a description of the painting.

“Mosby Paulson is a sixth grade student at J.E.B. Stewart Middle School. She is in Mrs. Connie Pugh’s art class this year, and entered the phone book competition along with over one hundred middle school students throughout the county. All the entries were judged by a panel of artists in the area, and Mosby’s work, ‘The Adventure on the Sea’, was selected as the winner for its lively depiction of movement, brave use of effective colors, and originality of shape.”

Elliott looked back at the cover. Happy people smiling, going somewhere on a silly sailboat in a bright sea. Going places that Elliott would never know, places he would only see as return addresses on the mail that came daily to his dented mailbox.

He could have done better. If he’d been in Mrs. Pugh’s art class this year, he would have entered the contest. And he could have won. He could have had his art somewhere besides on the door of the greasy refrigerator.

“Ellie?”

“What?”

“Can’t find my lighter. It fell down under the bed, I think.”

Elliott went into his mother’s bedroom and dug under the bed while his mother coughed above him. In the shadows beneath the bed, one of the cats blinked at him. He found the lighter on top of a dust-softened sock then crawled back out.

“Thank you, honey.” Mom took the lighter, pulled a cigarette from the pack on the little table by the bed, flicked it three times before it would catch, and then settled back into the pillow with a long, raspy draw.

Elliott watched his mother. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks sharp and skeletal. Her nose was runny and her hair was thin and short. The cigarette smoldered in her mouth, the tip glowing and dimming as she sucked on it and eased the smoke out through her lips without even taking the cigarette out.

“Mom?”

“Huh?” The cigarette did not come out; the word was muffled.

“The new phone books are in.”

“So?”

“Thought you’d want to know.”

The tip of the cigarette grew longer, glowing, smoldering. Then she said, “Our number ain’t in it, is it? They put an unlisted number in there I’ll sue ’em, I tell you that.”

“No, we ain’t in there.”

The ash on the end of the cigarette trembled.

Elliott wondered how long until it fell to the bed covers.

“Good then. You go watch your T.V. until the teacher comes. I’m tired.”

The ash wobbled. If it fell to the bed, it would catch the covers on fire. People who smoked in bed sometimes burned themselves to death, Elliott had heard.

“Go on now,” said Mom.

Elliott went on.

Mrs. Anderson knocked on the door just after two o’clock. She was a young woman, hoping to get a permanent job with the county as a reading specialist. Now she was teaching two students on homebound, Elliott and a boy named Richard who lived on the other side of the county and who had polio real bad because his parents never got him his vaccination.

Elliott opened the door and Mrs. Anderson put on her happy-to-see-you smile. Sometimes, when Elliott heard her car out front, he would watch her get out of her car and come up the walk. She never wore that smile when she thought he wasn’t watching.

“Elliott, how are you today?” Mrs. Anderson’s eyebrows went up. They were funny

eyebrows, drawn thin with a black pencil. Mrs. Anderson always smelled strongly of perfume, as if she didn’t like the smells of Elliott’s house.

“Okay.”

Mrs. Anderson came into the living room, her huge, unbuttoned white spring coat billowing out when she moved.

She removed the coat and hung it on the door knob of the closet. She studied the sofa a moment, and then sat down with her briefcase in her lap. She said she liked cats but Elliott knew better.

Elliott sat on the lawn chair, the only other piece of furniture in the living room except the console television. His teeth found a loose piece of skin on his lower lip and began to chew.

“And your mother,” said Mrs. Anderson. She opened her brief case and took out Elliott’s lesson plan book. “How is she today?”

“Same,” said Elliott.

“Mmm-hmmmm.” Mrs. Anderson looked up at Elliott then. Her happy-to-see-you smile was getting heavy, folding back down into an expression of perfunctory purpose. “How are the exercises going?”

“Exercises?”

“We talked yesterday about your weight gain, Elliott. You’ve put on quite a bit of

weight since you stopped attending school. Without a physical education program daily, you’re doing your body a disservice.”

“I didn’t do any exercises yet. I tried one but my stomach hurt so much I stopped.”

Mrs. Anderson sighed. Elliott had heard that sigh many times, from many of the adults at his old elementary school and at the middle school. On the days when Elliott had been put on the bus by his father, he would have severe stomachaches during homeroom. He would go to the guidance office but the counselors would try to talk him into staying. They would sigh that sigh and say, “Elliott, if you just stick it out through lunchtime you’ll feel better.”

Some of the days he would make it through art class, but then insist on calling his father to pick him up. Most days, however, he would wet his pants or have a bowel movement and the counselors had no choice but to send him home.

He was a sick boy. He was sick like his mother, and he needed to be home with her. If she died when he was at school, he would never forgive himself.

Elliott looked at Mrs. Anderson. Mrs. Anderson looked at Elliott. She said, “Are your parents treating you all right, Elliott? How are you getting along with them?”

“Fine.”

“Anything you’d like to talk about?”

“No. We’re getting along okay.”

She rolled this around on her face a little then let it go. “How about your math, did you finish the page of fractions?”

“I finished some of it.”

“Why not all of it, Elliott?”

“I didn’t feel good.”

“And your civics?”

“I didn’t have civics.”

“Yes, you had a chapter to review. We were having a quiz today.”

Elliott said, “Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“Get out your books,” said Mrs. Anderson.

They spent the next two hours working through civics, pre-algebra, and English. Elliott wondered if a homebound student could have entered the phone book contest. He wished Mrs. Pugh could come at least one hour a week out of his required twenty and let him paint for her.

Mrs. Anderson left at four, and Elliott watched cartoons until six. He made supper of canned chili and chips and talked his mother into coming into the living room and eating on a T.V. tray next to him. She spilled half of her chili then went back to bed. Elliott rubbed most of the chili up with one of his father’s dirty work shirts from the laundry basket.

He lay on the sofa and looked at the phone book. He could have painted one of his horse pictures. Mrs. Pugh had loved his horse pictures. She said they made her feel free just to look at them. He could have made a picture the judges would have loved. He could have had his work on all the phone books in the county.

Elliott fell asleep on the sofa. His father woke him when he got home from work at ten, and sent the boy to bed.

“Ellie, I can’t get up. Bring me the bedpan.” Elliott was in the bathroom on the toilet, looking at the phone book. His teeth clamped together. He hated doing the bedpan. He pretended not to hear.

“Ellie, can you hear me? I need the pan ’fore I make a mess in here!”

Elliott squeezed his eyes shut. Behind his lids, he saw horses running, watercolor horses free and running across a yellow beach and into the water where a happy white sailboat drifted to places far away. When he opened his eyes, he saw his pants down around his ankles, and the penis his mother said the boys would make fun of when he had to dress out in gym class when he went to the middle school.

“The doctor made a mistake when they circumcised you, Elliott. You got a little penis with a nick in it and when the boys see you they’ll laugh.”

When his father had sent him to school anyway, Elliott would wet his pants before gym so he could go home to his mother. For a couple of days the assistant principal walked him to gym and made him dress out. Elliott had hid behind a locker door and cried while he pulled on the royal blue gym shorts. In the gym, he refused to participate, and sat against the wall with the back of his head pressed into the cinder block. After a half-year, Elliott was removed from gym and got to sit in the library and read a book during second period.

“Ellie!”

Elliott went to his mother’s room. She was already wrestling with the hem of her nightgown, tugging it up. “Hurry, honey!”

Elliott took the pan from the floor and slid it under his mother’s rear end, then turned away. He could hear the water run into the aluminum, could hear his mother’s airy whistle of relief around the cigarette in her mouth.

“Done, honey.”

Elliott took the pan into the bathroom and dumped the urine into the toilet. He glanced at the phone book on the -bath mat. Mosby’s painting lay face up, taunting. Elliott rinsed the pan and took it back to his mother.

She was already drifting to sleep.

“You want some breakfast?” he asked.

“My stomach hurts too much to eat. I don’t got long, Ellie, I know that. This morning I’m in more pain then I been in for a long time. What you gonna do when I’m dead?”

Elliott did not know what to say. And so he said, “Do you know where my crayons are?” “Your what?”

“Crayons.”

“Crayons? Those things you had when you was little?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure we throwed them away, Ellie. You ain’t got time for crayons. I need you. You and me, we need each other, we’s so sick.”

“I want to make a picture.”

“Make yourself useful. Vacuum the living room so Mrs. Anderson won’t turn us in for neglect.”

“I want to make a picture. I’m better than Mosby Paulson, so much better you wouldn’t believe it.

“Go.”

Elliott vacuumed the living room. The large cat turds he pushed under the lawn chair because the vacuum nozzle wouldn’t pick them up. He put the vacuum back into the living room closet and went into the kitchen. The windows were still closed, and through the glass he could see the wild and green weeds of his side yard.

Horses eat wild, green weeds.

Beyond the weeds was the neighbor’s house, a blue trailer with a homemade deck on the front. Elliott knew that the Campbells lived there. They were old people, and they used to have two children, but the children were taken away to live in foster homes because the Campbells beat them up a lot. For the first time in the four years since the Campbell children were gone, Elliott wondered where they were.

Maybe Pueblo, Colorado. Maybe Washington, D.C.

Maybe across the ocean on a white sailboat.

In a junk drawer, Elliott found several broken pencils and a knife. He sharpened the pencils with the knife and then drew a horse on a paper bag from under the sink. It wasn’t as good a horse as one would have been had he had his crayons, but it was a fast horse. It ran with its mane and tail in the wind and its nostrils up to the air.

He hid the picture in his bedroom. Then he watched T.V. until Mrs. Anderson came at two with her concrete smile and bright white coat and her chastisements and her nose that couldn’t stop twitching at the smell of cat pee.

Elliott’s father woke him from his sleep on the sofa.

On the console television, David Letterman was well into his monologue.

“You snoring, boy,” his father said.

Elliott wiped his eyes and tried to sit up. “Was not.”

“Was too. You getting so goddamned fat you snoring like an old man. I wish to hell you was back at school where you belong.”

Elliott blinked and rubbed his eyes.

“You can do jumping jacks, boy? Get up and show me a jumping jack.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’s always tired. I work two goddamned jobs and you say you’s tired. Show me a jumping jack!”

Elliott stood up and looked at his father. The man was short and dark and thin. His eyes were angry, dull chips in his skull. He worked at the cigarette factory in the day and the Exxon station at night. Elliott remembered his father saying once that he wished Mom would go ahead and die.

It would be easier on us both, he had said.

Elliott had cried at that, and crapped his pants, and his father had never said anything like that again.

“Do it,” said his father.

Elliott jumped up and down three times, slapping his hands together over his head as he did. When he stopped, his heart was hammering, and his breath was glass in his throat.

“I’m sick,” he sputtered.

“Hell you are.”

“I’m sick!” Elliott ran to his bedroom and cried and wet the bed. He didn’t change the sheets until the next morning.

Elliott got the mail from the mailbox. He stood on the stoop and sifted through the stack. There wasn’t much today, just a folded Little Caesar’s Pizza advertisement and a bill from the oil company. He looked through the untrimmed hedge bordering his yard at the Campbell’s trailer. He wondered how beat up the Campbell children were when they finally got taken away.

He went in and ate some Frosted Flakes from the box.

He then fixed a bowl of red and green colored special edition Cap’n Crunch left over from Christmas, stirred up some instant milk to wet it, and took it to his mother. She was awake, and clawing at the arm of her wheelchair.

Elliott put the cereal on the nightstand. “Where you going, Mom?”

“Got a cramp, got to get up and get it out.”

“Want help?”

“Course I do. I can’t do without you.”

Elliott watched for a moment. In his mind he saw his mother falling onto her face and breaking her nose. He saw the blood bleeding down into the cracks of the old linoleum where her food scraps and her cats’ pee and her own existence seemed to be drawn.

“I know,” he said. He helped his mother into the chair. “I got you breakfast.”

“Mixed it up with that shitty milk I bet.”

Elliott watched as his mother struck a match on the side of the wheelchair and touched it to the tip of the cigarette in her mouth. “Well, yeah.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I’ll give it to the cats.”

Elliott’s mother grunted and drove the heels of her hands against the wheels. The chair shuttered then rumbled out of the bedroom.

Elliott followed her. She went into the living room and, after tugging weakly at the curtains until Elliott pushed them back himself, settled before the window and looked out at the yard and the cracked walkway and the untrimmed brush and the county road.

In the kitchen, Elliott picked up the phone book.

Already, Mosby’s picture was scuffed and bent. Elliott’s father had used the phone book, treating the artwork like he treated everything else around him, as something made for a purpose, a single purpose, and nothing else. Daddy’s purpose was to work and sweat and be the head of the household. Elliott’s job was to go to school like all the other boys his age, like the boys who weren’t sick and didn’t have a ruined penis and boys whose mothers weren’t dying. And Elliott’s mother’s job was to go on and die.

The grimy, strawberry-shaped clock over the stove read ten-thirty seven. Mrs. Anderson wouldn’t be there for another three and a half hours.

Elliott went into his bedroom and sat on his cot. He pulled the paper bag out from under his pillow and looked at it. Even with the dull pencil lines, the horses were good. He was a good artist.

“Mom, you think I draw good?”

From the living room, “Huh?”

“You think I draw good?”

“Whatever.”

Elliott put the horses back. He walked through the living room into the kitchen, where, through the open door, he looked at the bony back of his mother’s neck as she looked out the window.

He turned on the stove. He filled a pan with water and set it down to boil. He wondered how bad scald burns would look. He wondered how they would feel. He felt around in the junk drawer and took out the little knife he’d used to sharpen his pencil. He wondered how hard someone would have to push if neck skin were to part?

He went out to the living room and stood beside his mother. From outside, he could hear one of the cats picking on the door.

“Cat wants in,” said his mother.

Elliott opened the door. The cat trotted in. Cats, Elliott thought, were like his father. Cats believed people had a single purpose—to serve them. Elliott shut the door and the cat ran into the kitchen in search of food.

Elliott said, “You want me to turn on the T.V.?”

“My head hurts too much. You gonna give me a massage on my head, Ellie?”

Ellie rubbed her head with one hand. In his other, he held the little knife.

He stopped then, because he could hear the water boiling in the kitchen. He left his mother and went to the stove.

Before lifting the pan, he went to the window, unlocked it, and pushed it open an inch. May air bled into the stuffy room. The crusty orange curtains trembled as if afraid of the breeze.

Elliott looked over at the Campbell’s yard. He thought about their children, taken away.

He turned Mosby’s wrinkled painting upside down.

The knife was put back into the drawer for next time, if the water wasn’t enough.

Then, sucking air through his clamped teeth, he poured the boiling water over his forearms and hands. The skin erupted, bright and red. Angry, insulted blisters rose.

He caught his breath.

“Goin’ back to bed, honey,” said his mother. She rolled away from the living room window and out of sight.

He caught his breath. Pale cat hairs, floating in the kitchen, landed on the burns and beneath the pain he almost felt a tickle.

He dropped to the kitchen chair and lost his breath; he thought of horses running running running on sand toward the beach. He caught his breath again.

Elliott faced the living room and the front door and he waited for his smiling teacher with the white, billowing sailboat coat.

Forever, Amen

Then Pilate went out to the people and saith unto them, Behold, I have found no fault with this man. The chief priests and officers cried out, Crucify him!

Pilate held forth his hand towards Jesus, who bore a crown of thorns and purple robe, and saith, I may release to thee a man on this day of feasting. Whom will ye that I release, the man Barabbas or this man Jesus?

And the crowd cried, Give us Barabbas! Jesus must die!

When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing to save the man Jesus and that Jesus was indeed to die to please the crowd, he offered the execution of noble captives, to have the man’s wrists slashed with sword and thus causing him to bleed quickly unto death. But from the crowd called up the man Andrew, son of Phinneas the shepherd, who said, Jesus must suffer for his words! Do not give him the gentle death! Crucify Him! The crowd joined in the mocking call, He must suffer for his words!

Then Pilate went from the crowd and washed his hands, and turned Jesus to the officers and soldiers, who gave unto Him a cross and bearing such went all unto the place of the skull which is called Golgotha.

There they crucified Him, and two others on either side with Jesus in the midst.

Book of Trials, 7:23-8

Danielle stood against the rough wall, her red eyes turned furiously towards the shrouded figure on the gurney. Marie and Clarice were gone, spun away with dour exasperation, vanished through the small ceiling-high window of the cellar. Their words still echoed in the room like late-season flies caught in a bottle.

Marie: “He is not Alexandre! He is nothing. He is less than nothing.”

Clarice: “It’s done! Come with us. Sister, take my hand. It stinks in here.”

Marie: “Look if you must, gaze for a moment, but be done with it, and then come.”

Danielle had pressed her gloved hands to her ears and shook her head. “No.”

Marie snapped her fingers sharply as if Danielle were a dog to obey her mistress, and Danielle had simply said, “Leave me be.”

Marie and Clarice had done just that. They thought their companion mad, not a good thing for a creature of the night. Madness could only lead to foolishness and carelessness, and with carelessness, destruction. They had left their mad friend to her own fate.

Danielle stared at the soiled sheet, the sharp protrusions beneath the cloth where the nose and chin were, the feet. Softer mounds of the shoulders, the fisted hands, the groin. Light from lanterns, hung in this subterranean room by the men who had departed just minutes ago, sputtered from ceiling hooks. Water pipes dripped puddles onto the dirt floor. Spiders and their webs, left in corners by the hasty custodian the day before, held still as if pondering the strange and recent occurrence.

“Alexandre?” Danielle said softly, tasting the cold of her breath as it passed through her incisors and her protruding canines.

“Why can that not be you?” She took several steps forward, hesitated. So much she had witnessed in all these many years, so much terror and viciousness and death, yet this one was almost beyond her ken.

“Why can that not be you?” she repeated, then touched her own face. “Is this not me? Am I not still walking this squalid earth in the form of a young woman, though nearly 120 years of age?”

The sheet stirred slightly. Danielle gasped and put out her hand to find that it was just a current of air passing though the damp brick room, travelling from one ill-hung door to another in the opposite wall.

Was this world not filled with such as her, existing in conjunction with mortals who most often believed their own reality was the sum and total? And so what incredulous magic could not happen, and what damnable curse was impossible?

The room was hot and rancid, foul human scents coiling like smoke from the floor, the walls, the chairs, the gurney. The men who had been here just minutes ago had stunk at first of excitement, and then disgust. They claimed for themselves the crown of civility, yet winced and vomited at the result of their self-proclaimed goodness.

“Is this not me?” she repeated. “Look, Alexandre, and see that flesh which you once loved.” She shook her head, warding off the stench, then ripped her gloves from her hands and threw them to the floor. She clutched at the frilly bodice of her dress, and ripped it from neck to waist. Her dagger-sharp nails raked the white skin of her breast as she did, leaving long, bloodless skin-lips gaping silently in the air.

Cursed costume of the modern, nineteenth-century woman! Such prudes, such whores, tied up and trussed and playing at seduction with their prim dress, not knowing what it is to be wholly female! Ah, but she had known! Alexandre had known her femaleness and she his maleness, and they had reveled in the wonder of it all.

She tossed the ripped cloth aside. Then she wrenched off the rest of her garb — the leg-of-mutton sleeves, the long muslin skirt, the petticoat, cotton stockings, garters, buttoned shoes. All were hurled away. The hat, the hairpins, the ear bobs. Her auburn hair fell free about her shoulders.

Danielle closed her eyes and caressed her cold skin. She traced the length of her arms and torso, feathering the soft hairs on her chilly stomach, strumming the already healing skin-lips on her breasts.

She had been naked when they had taken away Alexandre from her the first time. Lying in a stall of the weanling barn they’d been, Danielle leaning gaily into the wiry hair of Alexandre’s chest and laughing at the prickling straw in her hair and in her back. She had picked up a yellow stem and had ticked his chin and his nose. He had kissed the straw and then her fingers. He had wrapped his arms around her waist and nestled his chin into her neck, his tongue playing easily along the tender flesh there.

“You were tender and true,” she said, her brows knotted and lips trembling. “But only one wrong laid on your head, as any human would have who has lived past infancy. How, then, did this curse come to you?”

Beneath the sheet, Alexandre did not move. Danielle took several more steps and grasped the sheet that covered her beloved.

The handsome, tattered young man arrived at Bicetre on a frosty, late March morning in 1792, appearing like a spectre beneath the shadows of the pear orchard behind Paris’s infamous hospital and prison. The sky had rained not an hour earlier, and the rain had been cold and severe, drilling chilly puddles into the ground and knocking branch tips from the naked trees. Shivering droplets hung triumphantly to the fur of the animals in the paddocks and to the emerald leaves of the boxwood shrubs that lined the narrow dirt pathways.

The brick institution of Bicetre was large, dark and filled with most unpleasant business — that of madness, of loneliness, of anger, desperation. Of screams. Of silence. Bright, curious doctors ministered to the sick. Hardened officers tended the miscreants.

In the shadow of the great place, flanking its west side, was a four-acre plot on which animals and vegetables were raised for the use of Bicetre’s personnel, patients and inmates. It was called appropriately the Little Farm. Fenced paddocks monitored the cows and sheep and pigs; in a small hutch nested chickens and pigeons. Several gardens bordered with woven vine fences offered up turnips and beans in the warmer months. A tiny grove of pear trees held sentinel near the stone wall where, beyond, the citizens of Paris pounded back and forth in the rhythm of their individual and now collective lives.

Danielle, one of three young maids employed to tend the animals and gardens, had been in the paddock on a stool, scrubbing the udder of one poorly producing cow and slapping flies from her face when she saw the man amid the naked pear trees and thought, My God, but he is beautiful! Thank you for this gift today! She left the stool and the muddy bovine for the orchard, stopping several yards away and drawing her wool shawl about her shoulders.

“Good morning,” Danielle said. “Are you lost?”

The man raised his hand in tentative greeting — a fine, strong hand it was, a working man’s hand with dark knuckle hair and calluses — and said, “Not now that I’ve beheld you.” He smiled, and Danielle could see that his teeth were fine and white. Her mother, before she had died, had told Danielle that good teeth meant a good heart.

Danielle didn’t back away nor did she turn her gaze to the ground as the finer of France’s daughters would have done in the presence of a strange man. She was not a maid in the sense the Maid of Orleans had been; Danielle had had her lovers, most of them young doctors at Bicetre and an occasional nurse, who brought her to their private offices within the heavy walls of the institution, made over her lush body on firm, practical sofas, then laughed at her and sent her back to the barn with a slap to the ass. The Revolution stated there was to be no more class distinction, and Paris had turned nearly upside down with its fervent attention to la chose publique, “public things” which had to be monitored for counter-revolutionary thought and action. Yet Danielle and her sister maids at the hospital farm found their lives little changed. The gnats and flies were as thick as before, the cows as dirty, the pears in the orchard as worm-ridden, and the doctors as lustful towards girls in maid garb.

The young man beneath the pear branches was quite handsome, with dark hair, a black beard, and gentle, crinkling eyes. He had obviously scaled the stone wall, and had torn the knee of his breeches.

“Are you thirsty, sir?” Danielle asked. The man nodded, and she led him past the dirty cow and the stool to the well. Here he put down his worn leather satchel and drank countless dipperfuls which she supplied from the dented tin bucket. Her fingers brushed his once as she passed the dipper, and the hairs on her knuckles stood up at attention.

“What brings you here?” she pressed as he sipped. “You’re not a lost patient with a simple mind, are you, to stumble back to the hospital from which you were attempting escape?”

He saw that she was joking, and he smiled broadly and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m from the north, and have come to Paris for work as my home and shop were burned in a fire just a week ago, leaving me without means. I am a cobbler by trade. An accident it was, with the wind knocking a lantern from the window on to the floor. Christ, such a loss.” He paused to wipe stray drops from his beard. “But I cannot make it over, cannot make it right. So I brought a few things with me to the city. From the road I spied some browned pears, still clinging to branches, and climbed the wall in hopes of plucking some without being spied. Then I saw you and was glad I’d been seen.”

“Rotten pears!” Danielle raised a brow. “The third estate cannot say they eat such things now, for dire poverty is of the old days! Shush!”

“They cannot say, but they certainly can eat, yes?”

Danielle smiled then tipped her head. “This is a hospital, and a prison. There are shoes always in need of repair. I would think you could find work here, if you would like?”

“I might like that very much,” said the man.

Up the boxwood-lined path from the pigs’ paddock strolled the two other maids, Marie and Clarice, each steering a waddling sow with a stick. But they only smiled at Danielle, allowing their friend her time, and trudged on to the stoop and rear door that led to Bicetre’s kitchen. The pigs were poked and prodded into small wicker cages by the door, where they would await a fate their grub-fed brains could not fathom.

Danielle offered the man a place to rest in the empty weanling calves’ barn and left him alone several hours until she found a spare moment between her farming and kitchen duties. She carried with her a slab of ham, some bread, and a bottle of wine beneath her skirt, pilfered from the enormous cellar beneath the kitchen. The two shared food and drink in the straw. And then came kisses, caresses. She learned that he was Alexandre Demanche, twenty-two, an orphan raised in the countryside outside Beauvais. He had been engaged but never married, for the young woman had died of consumption three weeks before they were to wed. Alexandre learned that she was Danielle Boquet, born in Paris to a patient at Bicetre who expired during childbirth, leaving Danielle to be raised by various matrons about the institution who taught her to cook, garden and manage livestock. In all her nineteen years, she had only set foot off Bicetre’s property to attend weekly mass. She was, she admitted, afraid of the city and its people, but felt safe behind the stone walls of the Little Farm.

In the morning Danielle presented Alexandre to Claude LeBeque, the pudgy little man who was in charge of the massive loads of laundry produced within the thick walls of the hospital and prison. She stopped him at the hospital’s front gate. Behind him on the street milk carts and fish wagons rattled back and forth in the cold spring sun, and children were tugged behind mothers with baskets on their arms and hats pinned to their hair.

LeBeque pulled at his substantial, red-splotched nose, then sniffed at being detained. “This man needs work? You’re good for what, Monsieur?”

“Good with shoes,” said Alexandre.

“So you say?”

“Someone must supply clothing and shoes to the inmates,” said Danielle. “Who would that be?”

LeBeque pulled his nose again, then a small smile found his cracking lips. He dabbed at his fleshy forehead with a filthy handkerchief and purred, “That would be me.”

Alexandre stepped forward. “I understand this place houses a good many people and therefore, I suspect, a good many shoes. I mend shoes and I make shoes. Have you a need for such as myself?”

LeBeque shrugged and raised a brow in a way that seemed to tease. “Oh, I might find a place for you. I’ll send word soon. Don’t go too far, sir.”

With permission to stay on the premises and await hiring, Alexandre made a tidy bunk for himself in the empty barn. He used a blanket Danielle brought from her own room in the cellar and rolled his cape into a pillow. She helped rake and toss out the mouldy straw and pile up fresh that she’d brought in from the sheep’s shed. A roost of swallows, perturbed at losing nesting space, squawked, swooped, and evacuated with a swirl of scissored tails and batting of sharp wings.

From his satchel he removed a journal, pen, ink well and pouch of ink powder and placed them on a protruding beam. A small black volume, tied shut with a string, joined these items on the shelf.

“I will call this home for now,” he said with a touch of resigned satisfaction.

Danielle linked her fingers together and said, “Take rest. I will come back to see you as soon as I am able.”

Bearing a beeswax candle encased in a sooty lantern, Danielle sneaked out from the hospital to join him that evening when duties were done. Madame Duban, the head cook, demanded that the girls in her charge retire to their cots in the cellar at nine, and had always threatened dismissal at any hint of disobedience. But Danielle would not be denied, and when the old woman was snoring soundly in her spinster’s bed, Danielle took several bits of bread and the light and crept outside into the tainted glow of the Paris moon. She followed the path to the barn, happy that the little building would not be needed for another few weeks when the first of the spring calves were old enough to wean and were placed in the barn to keep them from their bawling mothers.

The lantern was hung on a rusting latch on the stall door, and then Alexandre drew Danielle to himself with gentle strokes to her auburn hair. “My sweet,” he said into her neck. She kissed his arms and the backs of his solid hands, then moved them across her body to the warm and secret places beneath her loose fitting blouse and simple wool skirt. They loved until late, when she brushed off her skirt and hurried back to her cot beneath the hospital’s kitchen.

Monsieur LeBeque appeared on the path near the barn the following morning. Danielle was milking one particularly ill-tempered cow and Marie was beside her, pouring milk into the churn for tomorrow’s butter. The chubby man had spruced himself up since the previous morning. He had combed his thinning hair and had put rouge on his cheeks. It seemed as if the ruffled shirt he wore had seen the inside of a wash tub as recently as a week’s time. He planted his cane tip into the dirt beside Danielle and demanded, “Where is the young cobbler you brought to me yesterday?”

Danielle paused in her squeezing. “You have decided to hire him?”

The man stamped his cane and frowned. “You mean to question me?”

“No, sir,” said Danielle, and looked away long enough to roll her eyes in Marie’s direction. Marie put her hand over her mouth so as not to giggle. “He sleeps in the calves’ barn, sir.”

“And where is the calves’ barn?”

Danielle pointed down the path.

An oily nod and the man meandered off up the path. “He shall be employed,” whispered Danielle as she began squeezing again. The thin stream of milk sizzled into the bucket; the cow’s tail caught her across the cheek. “He shall be able to stay here!”

“You take care, now,” said Marie. “He’ll be busy and so will you. He’s not a doctor to make excuses for your absences. Madame Duban may be old but she can smell the scent of sex like a horse can smell fire.”

Danielle grinned. “Then I’ll steal some of her cheap perfume. And we’ll make time. And aren’t you just jealous?”

Marie put the empty bucket down by Danielle’s stool and put the wooden churn lid in place. “I have my fun, don’t worry about me.”

The girls laughed heartily.

With the onset of April, planting time arrived. The Little Farm’s plots were plowed by one of the imbecile boys from the hospital who was strong enough to guide the sharp furrowing blade behind the old sorrel gelding. The girls followed with bags of seeds on their hips, sprinkling the soil and covering up the grooves with their bare feet. It took several days to put in the rows of beets, cabbage, beans and onions.

Yet her days were more pleasant, in spite of back-bending work and the flies, for at night she sneaked to the barn to make love with Alexandre on the blanket in the straw. Each encounter was a flurry of heat and joy, followed by the muffle of pounding hearts and the sounds of Paris’s night streets. When lovemaking was done and their passions spent, Danielle lay in his arms and asked him about his day. How many shoes had he repaired, how many new pairs had be requisitioned? Had he a cobbler’s shop within the institution, or did he carry with him tools from room to room? What was it like in the prison? She had seen only the kitchen and the cellar; did the men foam at the mouth and chew off their fingers?

But Alexandre gave up little detail. He had a wooden workbox with tools, purchased for him by Monsieur LeBeque, which he took around with him when he was called for repairs. Monsieur LeBeque himself had requested a new pair of boots for which he supplied the leather.

“It is work I know,” Alexandre said simply. “I shall do it until I must find something else.”

“Why would you need to find something else?” asked Danielle. “I know your lodging is poor, but surely they shall find a room for you soon.”

“I do not want a room, I want this barn and you.”

It was on the fourth night that, lying against Alexandre’s chest, her fingers probing his nipples, she looked at the makeshift shelf and said, “What is that book there, my dearest? The black leather?”

Alexandre wiped his mouth and then his chest, pushing Danielle’s fingers away. “It’s a Bible.”

“You?” marveled the maid. “A God-fearing man? I’ve yet to hear you preach to me, only to cry into my shoulder, ‘Dear God, dear God!’ in the height of your thrusting!”

Alexandre didn’t return her laugh. His jaw tightened, drawing up the hairs on his chin. “Don’t blaspheme.”

“I’m not, Alex,” said Danielle. Pushing up on her elbow, she took the book from its beam and brought it down to the hay. “I was raised Catholic, I know the wages of blasphemy, at least in the eyes of the clergy.”

“Put it back, please,” said Alexandre. He held out his palm, and the insistence in his voice taunted Danielle and made her laugh the more. She sat abruptly and flipped open the pages. “Book of Temptations? Book of Trials? I’ve not seen these in a Bible. What is this, truly?”

Alexandre shoved Danielle viciously against the stall’s scabby wall and snatched the book away. “I said put it back! Do you not know what to leave alone?”

Danielle blew a furious breath through her teeth. “Oh, but I do now, Monsieur Demanche! It is you I shall leave alone!” She scrambled to her feet, knocking straw dust from her breasts and arms. “I’m never worth more than a few days, anyway! Ask the doctors!”

But Alexandre’s face softened, and he grabbed her by the wrist and said, “Don’t leave me. I’ve been alone always. I couldn’t bear it should you go. Please, dearest Danielle, I’m sorry.” His voice broke and went silent. And she held him again then, and knew that she loved him.

The following day, a cloudy Sunday, Danielle, Marie and Clarice attended mass under the stern supervision of Madame Duban at the Chapel of St Matthew three blocks over, and then returned to Bicetre, for in spite of the Lord’s admonition to remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy, there were chores on Sunday as on any day of the week. Danielle had peered inside the barn before Madame had ushered them out the gate of the stone wall, hoping to convince Alexandre to join them, but the man was not there.

Surely he hasn’t shoes to mend on Sunday, she thought. Perhaps cows’ udders cannot wait, but a man’s bare feet can.

They returned in the mid-afternoon, and the barn was still empty. “Perhaps he’s gone to his own church,” Danielle said to herself as she gathered her stool and buckets and settled down by the pear trees. “His own peculiar Bible, perhaps his own peculiar sect. No matter.” She selected the first of the four cows and brought her down for the milking. The teats were slathered in feces, and she spent a good five minutes scrubbing off what she could. Shortly afterwards, Marie came out and took her by the sleeve. “Do you know what they’ve brought to Bicetre? Do you know what they have set up in the courtyard on the other side of the hospital?”

Danielle shook her head.

“Guess!”

“No, Marie.”

“The Louisette! The beheading machine! It’s been brought from the Cour du Commerce to us this very morning. Madame Duban told me just a moment ago that as she was crossing the courtyard the wagon came in, bearing the beams and blade. They mean to test it on sheep, and on the unclaimed corpses of prisoners and patients to see if it is ready.”

Danielle let go of the soft teat and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I should like to see it,” she said. “The Assembly promised the poor should have the right to a quick death as do the wealthy. No more rack or garrote for those who are covered with an honest day’s filth. How can we get to see it, Marie?”

“I don’t know. Unless you’d like to go as one of the corpses. I could tell Madame Duban about your trysts with Alexandre and she would choke you for certain.”

“Ah!” screeched Danielle gleefully, and she flicked milk from her fingers at her friend. “You are dreadful!”

When there was no more milk to be had from this cow, Danielle led her back to the paddock to get the last of the four who were producing. She hung the bucket on the fence post and kicked at the wall-eyed creature. “Come on, you little slut,” she said. “I let you have your peace until last. And don’t flare those nostrils at me.”

“Danielle!”

Danielle whirled about. Alexandre was there, hands on his hips, a line of sweat on his forehead.

“Dearest!” said Danielle. “I’d come for you for mass, but you weren’t there. Where have you been?”

“Shoes for Monsieur LeBeque,” said Alexandre. “He’s been after me these past days to come measure a new pair for himself and this morning insisted I take care of that business.”

“Indeed? Shoes on Sunday? God will not approve, I can tell you that.”

“Nor do I,” said Alexandre. “Come with me to the barn. I must speak with you.”

He glanced around anxiously, to the pear trees, the wall, the kitchen door up the path.

“I’ve got milking,” said Danielle. “The cook makes a great deal of bread on Sunday afternoon to last the week, though we aren’t supposed to labour on the Lord’s Day. It cannot wait. But I’ll come tonight as I’ve always—”

“Tonight I shall be gone.”

“Gone? Beloved, no, you cannot…”

“And you with me, yes? Dearest Danielle, I could not leave without you, but we must be very careful.”

“Why? What has happened?”

“Come to the barn. I won’t speak of this in the daylight. There are eyes and ears we may not see, and which we do not want to know our business.”

Danielle’s heart kicked, and her arms tightened. What had happened? She didn’t want to know, but she had to know. She latched the gate to the cows’ paddock and followed Alexandre to the barn.

Huddled in the back stall, Alexandre took Danielle’s hands in his. “I’ve made an enemy with Monsieur LeBeque. He is furious that I’ve spurned his advances.”

“He wanted you?” Danielle’s eyes widened. “I thought the man married.”

Alexandre made an exasperated sound in his throat. “Married, to show the world his respectability. The man spouts words which he feels are acceptable to those whose status at this place is above him. But then I’ve seen him take patients from their cells to his own room, and have seen the fear in their eyes as he closes the door. He’s pulled me aside and has tried to charm me with hideous quotes from writings of Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, thinking, perhaps, that I was as twisted a libertine as he fancies himself. This afternoon, as I sat in the laundry room nailing a sole back on to an officer’s boot, LeBeque staggered in and said it was time to pay for my employment.”

“Dear Lord!”

Alexandre put a finger to her lips. “Shh, my dear, don’t fret. I said I would have nothing to do with a man who so cruelly and selfishly uses others. I pushed him away, and said I would be gone by tonight, and he could keep the pay which is owed me and shove it up his own blustery dung hole.”

“You didn’t? Sweet Mary! You’re in trouble!”

“I think if I leave quickly, the man will soon forget about it. He’s not bright, and he’s got many around him who he can use much more easily.”

Danielle wiped her eyes and dragged her fingers through her hair. “Yes, leave. I have little here that I need to take. I will get it right away and return before you can blink three times.”

Alexandre closed his eyes, then opened them, and drew her to himself. “To have you, my only love, will make any journey a pleasure, any struggle a joy.” He kissed her forehead, her ear, her cheeks. His breath on Danielle’s lips made her body arch into his. Instinctively she shed her blouse and skirt and nestled into him and into the straw. “Love me quickly, dearest, most darling, for one last moment before we…”

The barn door was yanked open and the dusty room was filled suddenly with a swirl of dim afternoon light. Three men in breeches and crumpled jackets burst in, stopped short, and stared at the couple in the shadows.

“Ah, love amid the manure!” cooed one, his tone dark and ugly, his blue eyes frosty with contempt. “I remember it well when I was young.”

Danielle snatched her blouse and held it before her. Alexandre jumped to his feet and grabbed the pitchfork that was leaning on the stall door.

“Get the hell out of here!” he shouted.

“Such an order from such a criminal!” laughed a second. He was a bald man with a greasy moustache and boils on his chin. “To make demands of us!”

“Criminal?” said Alexandre.

“Nearly killed LeBeque, knocked his skull and almost cracked it open,” said Blue Eyes.

Danielle stared at her love, stunned. “Criminal?”

“You make a mistake,” said Alexandre. “I pushed the man away, but I did not harm him in any way!”

“Pushed him away, and down against the fire grate,” said the man with boils. “I found him dazed and bloody, wailing that the cobbler tried to murder him. Came up behind him and struck him what he’d hoped was a deadly blow! But you are not so lucky, my friend, and we’ve come for you.”

The three men fell on Alexandre then, knocking the pitchfork across the stall, and in spite of his struggles, Alexandre was pinned with his arms back. Blue Eyes tied the hands with a rope. Alexandre tried to kick and knock the men off, but they wrenched the rope upward and his shoulders popped noisily. Alexandre paused in his struggling. His teeth were set against each other and his eyes wide with rage.

“Monsieur LeBeque is abed now,” hissed the man with boils, “tended by one of the best surgeons at the hospital. But he made demand for you to be done with and out of his sight.”

Danielle saw hope. “We are leaving,” she said as she slipped into her sleeves and fumbled with the hooks. “Please, do you hear me? We will be away from Bicetre in but a minute, if you just let Alexandre go!”

“No, girl, we’ve other plans. Plans from Monsieur LeBeque himself. They have a few corpses from the hospital morgue, but the cobbler shall be the first live one to experience the Louisette, the first to feel the kind, cold bite.”

“Dieu a la pitié!” screamed Danielle.

Alexandre began to writhe again. Danielle saw the world swaying violently, but she held tightly to the wall so she would not fall. “No, you cannot do that! He’s not been tried, nor convicted!”

“Convicted enough,” said Blue Eyes. “And he should be pleased! Why, this is the method of execution provided by the Assembly. This is the humane way of putting to death those who deserve it. No rack for him. No slow, piteous strangulation in the garrote! We are a civilized society now.”

“Stop!” wailed Danielle. “Sweet mercy in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and all the saints!”

Suddenly Alexandre looked back over his shoulder at the black volume on the beam. Danielle thought he was going to ask for it, to carry it with him as a charm against harm. But he said, instead, “I remember. Oh, God. I remember now!”

The men struck out at Alexandre’s heels to make him move, and tugged him from the barn. Danielle tugged on her skirt and stumbled after. “What do you remember, fool?” asked the man with the boils.

But Alexandre was addressing Danielle, as if he thought she would understand. “I remember the blade on my throat, the quick slash, the smiles of those sunburned faces. Ah, so very civilized, they said! We are indeed a humane society, they claimed!”

“Alexandre?” cried Danielle.

“He’s mad with fear,” laughed Blue Eyes. “He’s soft in the mind now. Maybe we should just lock him up in the hospital? But no, we’ve got our instructions. We should gag him, though, to keep his tongue silent.”

Alexandre looked at the sky, the grey and cloudy sky which was threatening an early April rain. His eyes reflected the grey, and his teeth were barred in anguish. “I remember now! Why again? Why again? Forgive me, and no more!”

“Madman!” laughed Blue Eyes.

The third man, who had said nothing up to this point, mumbled simply, “Shut your mouth,” and he drove his fist into Alexandre’s jaw. Alexandre doubled over, groaning and spitting. Then the man pulled a handkerchief from his front jacket pocket and gagged Alexandre tightly. Then the man with boils pointed a finger at Danielle. “Stay here, wench. We’ve no patience for your whining!”

They dragged Alexandre from the Little Farm and around the north side of the huge brick building. Danielle ran after, staying back so they would not see her.

They did not notice her as she scurried through the stone archway into one of the smaller courtyards within the confines of the hospital. No one spied her as she crouched behind a two-wheeled cart in the shadows and stared, horrified, at the tall contraption erected on the barren centre ground. The three men who held Alexandre drove him to his knees to watch the preliminary beheadings. First, a sheep was locked into the neck brace, and with a swift movement the blade was dropped from the top of the wooden tower and severed the head. It flopped into a basket. From windows in the upper stories of the hospital came whoops and shouts of the prisoners. Some banged and screamed.

“Better,” said the man at the control to the small gathering of witnesses — finely dressed men in hats, ruffled shirts, and heeled, buckled shoes, standing with feet planted apart and hands clasped behind their backs. “The angle of the blade, you see, makes for a cleaner cut.” Heads nodded. Genteel faces, concerned with the civility of it all, clearly pleased to be part of the advancement.

Two corpses were beheaded then. One a fat, naked man with wiry yellow hair, the other a muscular cadaver with only one foot. The already lifeless heads popped from the lifeless necks and, spewing not a drop of blood, dropped into the wicker basket.

“What have we here?” The man at the control turned to where Alexandre was held to the ground. “Who is that there? We’re not using it for executions yet. We’ve got no papers for that man. The first is selected already, a Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier. As soon as the machine is perfected, he shall die.”

Blue Eyes said simply, “Just one more test subject, sir. At the request of one of the officials here at Bicetre.” He nodded towards a second-storey window, where the visage of LeBeque could be seen, his head wrapped in a bandage, his arms crossed furiously.

“We’ve got no papers,” repeated the man at the control.

“Who’s to care? Who’s to know?” asked Blue Eyes. “He’s a dangerous maniac who’s been housed at Bicetre for years. He nearly killed the official in the window there. He’d kill you or me were we to unbind him. Who’s to know, but you, these witnesses and a few babbling idiots in the windows above.”

The man looked at Alexandre, then at the blade which he’d just raised back into position.

“A live one will tell you more of what you need to know,” said Blue Eyes. “And then he’ll merely be a third corpse.”

Alexandre tried to scream around the gag, but only garglings came out. Danielle put her hands over her ears, but could not take her gaze from the dreadful sights.

“Well,” said the man, whirling his hand impatiently and pursing his lips as though he had his doubts, though the temptation of a live subject was too much to pass. “All right. Quick, then. This should be our final test.”

And they made quick business of Alexandre Demanche. The man was bound at the ankles and placed with much huffing and grunting upon the wooden gurney. His head was slipped through the neck trough, and then secured when the wooden slat above was brought down and locked. Alexandre, still in his gag, strained to look around as the man in charge reached out to release the heavy blade.

He spied Danielle trembling in the shade behind the wagon. His expression screamed what he had spoken back in the barn, though the words did nothing but confuse the already terrified mind of his young lover.

Why again? Why again? Forgive me, and no more!

The blade slid smoothly, an easy rush of air and steel. With a thwack, it found its rest at the bottom of the track, throwing the head neatly into the basket. But this one bled, and profusely. The body bounced off into a large wicker casket beside the gurney.

Danielle covered her face with her hands and drove her face into the ground.

She returned to the Little Farm when darkness fell. She felt her way rather than saw it, for her eyes were full of the hideous visions of the courtyard. Marie and Clarice were on the path, panicked for the loss of their friend, and when they saw her, they ran to her and held her close.

But Danielle would have nothing of it. She said simply, “I must die.”

Marie shook Danielle’s shoulders. “What are you saying? Where have you been?”

But then Danielle said, “But should I kill myself I go to hell! Should I live I live in hell!”

“Oh, sweet Mother of God,” said Clarice, “what has happened to you, dear friend?”

Danielle broke away, and reached the barn to see if she’d made a mistake, to see if Alexandre was waiting for her in his stall. But the straw was kicked about, and the pitchfork dropped on the floor where Alexandre had tried to protect her. His jacket was in a tangle by the wall. Danielle wailed, picked up the jacket, and clutched it to herself. Her friends stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.

“I must die, too!” she screamed.

“Danielle!” It was Clarice. “Come out of there. Talk to us! You’ve got us frightened!”

Alexandre’s journal was on the beam. But the Bible was gone. Danielle dug through the straw, clawing and sifting the sharp, golden bits, but the Bible was not there. Alexandre had not taken it with him. But it was no longer there.

What had happened to it? She wanted it for herself, to take it with her to her death.

Danielle stood and fled the barn. She knew the answer, as surely as she knew LeBeque and Blue Eyes and the man with boils and the man at the beheading machine would go to hell for their civil and humane test. She shoved past the other maids, saying, “I shall go to the places where the prostitutes wander. I shall make myself available to a murderer, that’s what I shall do! I will go to heaven if I’m murdered. For I will not live without him!”

Marie and Clarice tried to grab Danielle to hold her back, but she was too fast, too mad with grief, and they were left clutching air and the first raindrops of the evening.

They followed her. Against Clarice’s concerns that they’d be relieved of their duties for leaving Bicetre without permission, they scurried after Danielle, shawls drawn up around their faces. Down one. narrow Parisian street after another they went, calling for their friend, but not so loudly to attract the attention of the increasingly frightening citizenry of the streets. The rain let itself go in full force, driving some pedestrians from the roads and leaving only the determined, the tardy and the mad.

Danielle pushed her way to the rue Leon, a small and dismal alley lined with tall, narrow whorehouses, saloons and tenement shacks, some of which leaned precariously on poor foundations. The rain blurred the lights of the lanterns which sat in splintering windowsills. Whores stood in petticoats and stockings in sagging doorways, thrusting their breasts and wiggling their tongues. Drenched clients in coats hurried for the warmth of the diseased temptresses, and vanished into the houses with low chuckles and growls. A skeletal dog limped across Danielle’s pathway and wormed its way into a tenement cellar through a cracked window. In the shadows beneath rain-blackened stoops and behind rust-banded barrels lurked eyes that seemed to have no sockets. Teeth that seemed to have no mouths.

Danielle stopped in the centre of the alley. She stared up at the dark, rain-sodden sky and raised her hands as if bidding some divine spirit to save her.

“Kill me!” she said above the drumming of the rain on the cobblestones and rooftops. “Come now, there is surely someone who would relish the chance to sate their blood lust! Here I am, and there is no one to charge you for my death, for there is no one in this God-forsaken town who would care I was gone!”

She closed her eyes and kept her hands aloft. She took a breath, expecting to feel a plunging knife in her ribs, or a dagger drawn across her throat. Now, she begged silently. Let it be done and over.

She heard nothing, save the giggling of the prostitutes in their houses and the cries of babies in the tenement rooms. She said again, “Here I am! A gift, for free!”

Spattering rain and muted laughter.

Then, “No, I don’t want to die. God forgive me.” And then again, “Yes, die I must! Release me!”

And then a hand on her forearm and a whisper, “Sister, you’re soaked to the skin!”

Danielle opened her eyes to see a pair of red orbs gazing intently at her, mere inches from her own. The skin around the eyes was as white as a corpse’s. Danielle gasped and floundered, but the full red mouth smiled and said, “Fear not, dear. I have what you want. You are certainly a young thing, yes?” Cold fingers gently brushed Danielle’s hair from her neck and tipped her head to the side ever so slightly.

Danielle could not move her gaze from the red eyes, and she thought for the briefest moment, This is just a painted whore. A whore who kills on the side to assuage her anxieties. That’s fine. That’s good. A whore may kill more kindly than a man would have.

“I will release you to life that is not life, death that is not death. My gift to you. The gift many of us have asked for because of the dreadful state of our mortal existence as women on earth. Hold, dear, hold now.”

Danielle held her breath.

“Danielle!” The scream was from behind, and Danielle tried to look back but the whore with the white face and cold hands held her as strongly as any man.

“Danielle!” It was Marie, somewhere back at the entrance to the alley.

“Shh,” cooed the red-eyed whore, “shh.” The white face dipped to Danielle’s bare neck. A searing pain shot through the flesh, the muscle, and into the very core of bone. Danielle screamed, but the scream was met with the whore’s shushing and the shifting of the rain in the wind.

Then there was warmth and numb peace, and a swirling giddiness that caught her thoughts and threw them like pebbles in the wind. She almost laughed, almost, but then she fell into herself and there was no bottom and no light and she fell and fell and thought, This is death. I shall find you, Alexandre. In the good Lord’s paradise, I shall find you!

They settled in Buffalo, New York in February of 1889, when Danielle insisted that the population of Sisters had grown too large in New York City. Marie was tired of moving. So was Clarice. But Danielle was always restless. No matter the availability nor the quantity of prey or the relative safety of their hideouts, she was happy in one place no more than a matter of months, and then began insisting they move on. Marie and Clarice, not wanting their friend to venture off on her own, always went along.

They had stayed in Europe for over eighty years, moving from Paris to Lisbon to London and countless smaller cities and towns, taking the blood they needed to survive, meeting with other Soeurs de la Nuit — Sisters of the Night — and sharing their stories, their pain. Laughing with them when some memory was amusing, mourning with them when a memory was too harsh.

The Sisters were an order of the undead, much like the lone wolves of their kind but different in their need and sympathy for each other. They lived on the blood of others, most often the blood of thieves and rapists, murderers and wife-beaters. They drank their fill, often passing the dazed man about to their fellows for a share, then killed their victims with a twist to the neck. The Sisters did not have a desire to bring such villains into eternal life with them.

On the rue Leon so many years past, a Sister had heard Danielle’s pitiable cries and had come to her aid. Marie and Clarice, who had fallen at Danielle’s side, were likewise brought into the world of forever.

At first they had been unable to accept their new reality, and had hidden in a whorehouse cellar for nine days, trying to go out in the morning but unable, and finding themselves nauseous when presented plates of turnips and pork yet ravenous when offered a drunk card cheat. Danielle had cried for Alexandre; Marie and Clarice had just cried. Yet with increased feedings and encouragement from the other Sisters who tended them, they grew into their new selves.

They returned to Bicetre one starry evening, and while Marie and Clarice took out their rage on several doctors who had taken advantage of them then tossed them out, Danielle had gone to the lantern-lit office of Monsieur LeBeque and had tortured the man to near death as his champion the Marquis de Sade would have done, though she, unlike the libertine, took no orgasmic pleasure in the act. When he was reduced to a mere remnant of what he had been, clothed in shredded flesh and pawing at the air in hopeless desperation, she drank his noxious blood and twisted his neck about.

But Danielle felt no satisfaction.

For 117 years Danielle had found no satisfaction, no peace. It was she who wandered without purpose, followed closely by her two loyal friends, watched over by them, often protected by them. Yet they knew her restlessness and her longing for what she had once had, briefly, had not drained from her even as her own life had done.

She longed for Alexandre.

She pined for him and ached for him. Her days’ sleeps in random cellars and stalls, attics and storehouses, were troubled with dreams. She cried his name out and awoke herself with her cries. Sometimes she would bite her own wrists to relieve the agony of her heart, or to bring her consciousness to a close once and for all, but it could not be done.

There was nothing for Marie and Clarice but to love her, still.

Buffalo was a thriving city in the western corner of New York State. It was Clarice’s suggestion once Danielle began making noises that New York City was too crowded with their kind. Not just the loners but the Sisters as well. Marie and Clarice liked the fellowship, but Danielle grew irritable with them very quickly. And so when Marie suggested Buffalo, Danielle was ready to move.

They travelled by train at night, dressed modestly as women of the time were expected to do, in prim grey dresses of wool and cotton that pressed their bosoms tightly into their chests, their undergarments that cinched their waists unmercifully. When alone, they dressed as they pleased, and often went naked, but to pass in public they played the charade.

Marie had a brochure in her lap that touted the city’s finer points. “They call it the ‘Electric City of the Future’,” she read, holding the paper to the light of the lamp beside her on the wall. The train jerked constantly, and she had to move her head with the tremors to keep up with the printed words. “More electric lights are in use here than in many other places in the United States. What do you think of that, Danielle?”

“That sounds fine,” said Danielle. She picked at the cloth-covered buttons on her bodice, imagining her hands were Alexandre’s. His hands were beautiful. She would never forget those hands. Marie continued to read and Danielle heard nothing but the tone of her voice.

Then: “Danielle?” It was Marie.

“What?”

“You’ve been silent for hours. It’s nearly dawn and the train is still miles from Buffalo. We must find a sanctuary.”

The Sisters moved gracefully from the passenger car to the storage car. It was here that luggage was stacked, and flats of tools and boxes of foodstuffs and sacks of material and paper. They curled up into three crates filled with nails, and awakened that evening on a loading dock along the Erie Canal. Quietly, they removed themselves out and away before the dockmen got to the crates.

It was easy to find the part of town that revelled in drink and sex for money. It was not unlike the seedy sections of any city, except that here the dens and whorehouses sat toe to toe with grain elevators and shipyards. The number of undead was small; Danielle estimated no more than five or six from the vibrations in the air. They were the only Sisters. They stopped outside the gate to a large, canal-side elevator and teased the lone watchman at the gate into letting them in.

“We’re from France,” cooed Marie. “Just freshly arrived, Monsieur. We’ve never seen such a structure. It has us quite mesmerized. Please?” She touched her red lips coyly, but kept her face down so he would not see her bright red eyes.

The man, flustered with the attention, said, “I don’t do no whores. Go on ’bout your business.”

Marie feigned horror at the suggestion. “Whores? Mon Dieu! Sir, we are ladies in the truest sense, sisters come from another land to learn what we may. But if we offend, then we shall be gone.” The three turned away, and the man relented.

“Well, then,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, ma’ams. I meant no disrespect. Come in and I’ll show you how the grain elevators work here in ole Buffalo.” He unlatched the gate and the ladies came through, invited. But his brief introduction to the history of the canal was cut off as the three of them fell on to him and took his blood, then his life. They then found a comfortable hide-away in a small storeroom next to the elevator.

The following days tumbled one into the other. The Sisters slept undetected in the storeroom during the day, pressed like shadows behind old bits of furniture covered in cobwebs and many months’ worth of dust. At night they walked Ohio and Erie Streets, dressed like ladies, unthreatening and demure, finding human creatures on which to feed and, when done, throwing the twisted bodies into the canal with the other sewage.

Things were as they had been for a long time. Until early March, when Danielle was pretending to sip coffee at a shop soon after nightfall and she spied through the grease-iced window a fruit peddler on the street pushing his cart and wiping his brow with a large and muscular hand. The man’s face was not familiar — a hollow and sunken face it was — and the body thin and unspectacular. But the hands, she knew.

The hands were Alexandre’s. She gasped.

Marie and Clarice, seated at the tiny round table with their friend, reached for her. “What is it?” whispered Clarice.

“Alexandre,” said Danielle.

“You’re mad!” said Marie. “What blood have you drunk last, that you would think you have seen your dead lover?” “It’s him.”

“It’s a fruit vendor,” said Clarice. “Get your wits about you.”

Danielle tore free and raced out to the street. The vendor was gone, and she spent the nest of the night tracing his path by his scent and the scent of his rotting pears and apples. But the smells of the Electric City were strong, mingled, woven together into a brash and stinging tapestry, and she lost track. They retired when the darkness began to dissolve into day, and for the first time since her rebirth in Paris, Danielle felt a new hope. A new reason to embrace her immortality. She would be with Alexandre again.

Each subsequent evening she placed herself in the same shop, at the same table, buying a cup of tea she never drank, and gazed out for the fruit peddler. Even when the shop closed at eight, she stood on the corner with her irritable friends, and studied each of the dirt-coated vendors and scraggly, mobile merchants.

Surely he lived in Buffalo. Fruit peddling was not a job that took one from town to town. She only stopped in her vigil to tend to her need to feed, then returned beneath the moon or the stars or the rain or the fog to catch her love and his cart.

Several weeks later, at quarter past three in the morning, while Marie and Clarice were seated on a trolley bench comparing loose stitching in their gloves, there was the shouting of drunken men and laughter from up the street, and then a small crowd stumbled past in a makeshift parade. One man was seated in a fruit cart, another pushed, while the rest danced beside them as if they were celebrating the King of Fools. The man in the cart, nearly out with drink, was Alexandre. Danielle motioned to her friends, and they followed the mob to a rickety tenement house near the railroad station. The men dumped the cart, fruit and all, and then stumbled off to the street corner and out of sight.

Danielle hurried to the drunk man’s side, pushed away the squashed fruit that covered him, and took his hand in hers. “My love,” she said. Her heart hammered as if it were still alive. “My love, I’ve found you! Alexandre, it’s me, Danielle!”

Marie said sternly, “Let it be, Danielle. It is not Alexandre.”

But Danielle knew they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe. It didn’t matter, though. She did. She helped the man to his feet, and touched his split lip with her cold finger.

And then a screech from a window above: “William Kemmler, is that you? Get your sorry ass up these steps before I come after you with this hatchet, and I’ll do it, you know I will!”

“Fishwife!” screamed Danielle. “You do not know who you are talking to!”

A lantern came to the window, and then many lanterns at many windows, and there were faces peering out and down.

Someone shouted, “Fishwife? Tillie ain’t Kemmier’s wife, just pretendin’ to be so they’s can fuck and still go to church on occasion!”

There was a burst of raucous laughter, and then someone spat, a long, hefty hawk the colour of rust that landed with a phatt in a puddle near Danielle’s shoe. An old man came out of his flat and catch Alexandre by the forearm.

“Who is you, anyway, woman?” he asked.

Danielle let go and turned away. She would let it go for now. For tonight. She would come again where there was not so much attention. For to try to reclaim him now would be careless. And carelessness could bring destruction. She had found him. She would return tomorrow, quietly, as her kind was greatly talented, and speak to him.

And bring him to his senses.

And back to her bed, back to her heart. And unlike the other misfortunates who had fallen under her bite, she would raise him from the dead for herself.

The following evening was clear and cold, with a silver moon riding above the lights of Buffalo like a jealous and forgotten toy. Marie and Clarice warned Danielle to let it go, it was insane to believe her love was reincarnated into a fruit vendor, and when she refused to hear them, they refused to go with her.

“We wash our hands of this,” said Marie. “We cannot endanger ourselves for your folly, as much as we love you.”

Danielle said, “Then do not.”

She went to the tenement house and watched from the shadows of a dwarfed maple tree as the occupants wandered in and out. Within minutes, two ragged women came out to the stoop in hats and shawls, their teeth broken and brown, and one said, “You get me some of them cigars if you can, Tillie. If you swipe ’em, we can sell ’em and make us a bit of coin, don’t you think?”

Tillie, a skinny thing who could have been twenty or forty, said, “I’ll swipe ’em and you can pay like the rest of ’em.”

“Bitch!”

Tillie strode from the stoop and the other woman spun angrily and went in the other direction.

Danielle counted to twenty. And then she went to the door of the tenement and waited. A man opened the front door, and flinched when he saw her standing there. She kept her lids lowered to obscure the red of her eyes. “Hey, honey,” he said. “What’s a fine-looking filly like you doin’ standing here?”

“Waiting for you to invite me inside,” said Danielle simply. The man did. She broke his neck in the hall, and stuffed him under the steps. No one was outside the flats to see, and she guessed they might not have cared much, anyway.

Tillie had shouted from a third-floor window, on the left. Danielle trod softly and quickly up the flights of stairs to the flat that surely belonged to William — to Alexandre. The door was locked, but with a simple jerk to the handle it swung open freely. She stepped inside the cluttered apartment.

There were three rooms, set like boxcars one behind the other. Danielle stood in the kitchen. A door to the left led to a parlor. A door to the right led to a bedroom. There was a pot on the cast-iron stove half filled with slop. There was a bedpan on the floor by the table, filled with urine.

“Alexandre,” whispered Danielle. “What has brought you to another difficult life? You suffered in Paris, and you suffer here. What, precious love, has so cursed you?”

She moved silently into the parlor. Several framed portraits sat, covered in dust, on a tiny table. The cushion of the blue-upholstered settee had popped its seams, and down oozed from the splits. There was a small shelf on the wall behind the settee. On it was an ink well, a pen, several volumes and a black leather book bound with string.

“Yes!” hissed Danielle. “It is my love, no doubt!” She took the book from the shelf and dropped on to the lumpy settee. He had not wanted her to look in this Bible, but she could not let it be. She flipped through the thin, yellowed pages and came to a place that had been thumbed to near illegibility.

It was in the Book of Trials. She read:

When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing to save the man Jesus and that Jesus was indeed to die to please the crowd, he offered the execution of noble captives, to have the man’s wrists slashed with sword and thus causing him to bleed quickly unto death. But from the crowd called up the man Andrew, son of Phinneas the shepherd, who said, Jesus must suffer for his words! Crucify Him! The crowd joined in the mocking call, He must suffer for his words!

“What has this to do with you, Alexandre?” Danielle wondered aloud. “I don’t understand. But I must, to help my dearest lover!”

There was thumping at the door, and a woman came into the kitchen. It was Tillie. She saw Danielle through the doorway, and her lips drew back in a snarl. “Bitch!” she shrieked. “Come back to fix my shoe and what do I find here? One of William’s whores, brazen and bold as a sow, sitting on my very own sofa, she is! Waiting for him to come home, eh? Waiting and thinking I wouldn’t be back soon?”

Danielle stood slowly. There would be no contest with this woman, but she didn’t care to kill her if she didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve made a mistake. I thought this was the home of my cousin Randolph Sykes. I beg your pardon, miss.”

But the woman was not to be appeased, and she reached for a hatchet that was leaning against the stove.

Danielle held out her hand. “Miss, just let me go without a fuss. It would be for the best.”

“What’s the best is that William quit his whorin’. What’s best is you die quickly and keep your trap shut about it.” Tillie ran her wrist across her nose, sniffed, and stepped into the parlour, hatchet raised.

Calmly: “Put it down.”

Tillie’s mouth opened wide; she growled and stepped closer. “Down middle o’ your head, that’d look good! Part your hair right down the middle!”

The hatchet swung out in an arc, and down towards Danielle’s forehead. Danielle stepped deftly to the side and the settee received the full force of the blow. Feathers flew.

“Damn it!” screamed the woman. She tugged the hatchet free and spun on Danielle again. Danielle retreated into the kitchen. She would wait on the street, in the shadows, and come back when Alexandre did. She’d been invited into the building so entering would be no trouble. She felt a strange sympathy for this woman, who, she supposed, cared for Alexandre in her own ignorant way.

Suddenly there was panting on the steps, in the hall, outside the door, and she whipped about to see Alexandre standing there, clutching the doorframe and panting. He looked past Danielle to the woman with the hatchet.

“What’s happening here?” he cried. “I could hear you wailin’ from the street below! What you doing now, going to kill some woman who looks like she just got lost?”

“Alexandre,” whispered Danielle in amazement.

But the man brushed past her and flew at Tillie, snatching for the hatchet as he clutched her hair with his other hand. “You can’t be trusted with nothin’ or nobody! Oughta stick you in the asylum, I oughta! Give me the damned hatchet or you’ll find yourself up for murder!”

Tillie jumped away, stumbled against a straight-backed chair and fell to the floor. Alexandre — William — leaped again and grabbed for the weapon. She swung it at him and missed his face by a hair’s-breadth.

Danielle stepped into the parlor. She could be cut, it wouldn’t matter. But she would not let Alexandre be killed. Not again. Even in this incarnation, even as this crude, enraged fruit peddler, she would save him at last. She reached for the wavering hatchet just as the man snatched it from the woman on the floor.

“Get back!” he cried to Danielle.

Tillie was up on her feet in a second and latched on to Alexandre’s arm with her teeth. He screamed, and jerked away from her, leaving a chunk of flesh dangling from her lips. She dove at him again, snapping, snarling. He dropped the hatchet and kicked at the woman, shoving her back and away. But still, she came for him.

“I’m sick of you!"’ he wailed. “Why can’t you trust me?”

Danielle watched in horror as the couple stumbled past her into the kitchen. Tillie grappled the pot from the stove, lifted it to slam it into Alexandre’s head.

“Here’s to you, William !” she screamed.

And Danielle snatched up the hatchet in a flash, and buried the blade deep into Tillie’s face. The woman fell through the door and down the stairs to the landing, fully dead. Alexandre followed, his face twisted with both horror and victory. He pulled the hatchet from her and stared at the carnage.

Every flat door seemed to open at the same moment. Screams and curses followed, with fingers pointing at Alexandre and Danielle. “Murderer!” a man cried. “Killer!” screamed a child. Men flooded from their flats and took hold of Alexandre.

Danielle, dumbfounded, retreated to the apartment and escaped through the window into the mist of the night.

William Kemmler, after intense interrogation by the authorities, confessed to the murder of his common-law wife, Matilda Ziegler, and was sentenced to death by the state of New York. He was transferred to the prison in Auburn, where in August of 1890 he awaited his execution.

But the execution was to be a civil and humane one, the first one in which electricity would be used to snuff out the life of the convicted. A chair had been built of oak and electrical circuits, and tested on animals to make sure the death would be humane.

Though there had been arguments between the two leading moguls of electric power, Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse, as to which of the currents — Edison’s “Direct Current” and Westinghouse’s “Alternating Current” — it came to be through some underhanded manipulation that Edison assured that AC current would be used for the electric chair. Although Westinghouse refused to sell his equipment to the prison for the death machine, Edison arranged for some used equipment to be purchased without his competitor’s knowledge and made into the chair. This, Edison knew, would seal in the minds of Americans that AC was deadly, and so DC should be used in homes. Men at Auburn prison as well as reporters in their daily and weekly newspapers began joking that a man put to death in the electric chair would be said to have been “Westinghoused", a term that horrified the developer of the alternating current.

None of this mattered to William Kemmler, however, nor to Danielle Boquet. With her charm and grace she had been able to gain welcome into the prison’s main building, but had yet to be invited to enter the separate death house where her Alexandre awaited his execution. She had the power to kill the guards but did not have the power to force them to offer her entrance.

And so she waited. And she fretted. And Marie and Clarice tried to console her. She went back to the tenement flat in hopes she might find a clue, some bit of information to help her love escape yet another death by the great and humane justice-makers of the world, but there was nothing. She took the black Bible and kept it close in her skirt’s pocket, but reading it clarified nothing. Explained nothing.

Danielle stayed by the exterior wall of the death chamber at night, and during the day slept in a closet of the prison’s gasworks. Marie and Glance stayed with her, assuring her that it was not Alexandre and once he was dead she would come to her senses.

Witnesses arrived at the prison the evening of August 6th, twenty-five men, fourteen of them doctors, anxious and excited to see this new death that would not cause undue suffering.

The chamber itself was in the death house’s cellar, and Danielle lay in the steamy, bug-infested grass at one of the windows, staring through the steel bars and glass at the horrific scene playing out below. The witnesses walked in, clutching top hats and gloves, and most of them settled themselves on seats that had been arranged to face the electric chair. Other men stood. And then the warden and several guards entered, with Alexandre between them. A priest, looking bored and disinterested, followed behind in his robe, holding his Scriptures to his chest.

Alexandre glanced about the damp, stark room. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and the terror what was ahead.

The guards nodded at the chair. He walked to it, but could not seem to sit down. A guard said, “You’ll like this a lot better than the gallows, boy.”

“I must get in,” whispered Danielle to her Sisters behind her.

Marie and Glance, standing a few yards back, said, “You cannot. You’ve not been invited.”

Alexandre turned and lowered himself into the chair. Then he sprang up again. “I remember!” he shouted.

“Shut up and sit down,” said the warden. “We’ll break your arms to do it if we have to.”

“No, no, hear me, I remember!” Alexandre’s face twisted with dreadful knowledge. “Oh, God, I remember!”

The warden shoved Alexandre into the chair. Guards began securing the leather straps at his legs and arms. But Alexandre continued. “I remember the blade on my throat, the quick slash of the merciful Africans who said I was the first to die a civil death! I remember the blade of the guillotine, and the assurance that the execution would be painless. I remember now! But why? Why again and again?”

“He’s crazed with fear,” said one nervous doctor. “Let’s have it done!”

“I know why! I am Sula! I am Alexandre! I am William!” cried Alexandre. “But I was Andrew first, my own words condemning me again and again to that which I would not allow the Lord! A fair and gentle death was what he’d been offered him. A courteous and mild demise! But I got the crowd to demand the dreadful death on the cross!”

A strap was quickly buckled at his waist and a leather harness with electrodes was shoved down on to his head. “Enough babbling!” said the warden. “Shut your mouth, criminal!”

Danielle pressed her forehead to the tiny slit of window and screamed, “Alexandre, then do you remember me?”

All faces spun towards the window. Alexandre stared, his mouth open.

“Alexandre! Let me in!”

Behind Danielle, Marie and Clarice gasped, “No, Danielle, let it be!”

Danielle banged on the steel bars. “Alexandre, please, let me in!”

“Are you my love from so long ago?” gasped Alexandre. “Sweet Danielle!” The guards fumbled with the chin strap, and drew the leather through the buckle. Before they could seal his jaws shut with the strap, he managed, “Dearest, come in!”

Marie grabbed Danielle’s wrist from behind, and snarled at her, “Do not dare! They will see you for who you are. The priest has a crucifix. We will be done in, Sister!”

Danielle twisted violently, but Clarice took her other wrist and held it firmly. “We will not be destroyed by your carelessness!”

Danielle bit her Sisters, and clawed. She kicked and spun, and the bones of her wrists shattered, but they would not let go.

Inside the cellar, she saw the priest raise his hand for the sign of the cross. He stepped back. A guard nodded to a man at the back of the room.

“No!” Danielle screamed, and the witnesses crossed their arms and shifted in their seats, uneasy with the spectacle this had become.

“Now,” said the guard.

“No!” cried Danielle. She kicked the bars and the pane of the window. The glass shattered and sprayed the cellar floor with shards.

There was the sound of a rushing trolley, a high-pitched and whining burr that caused the entire room to vibrate. Alexandre’s body convulsed and strained at the leather straps. Smoke rose from his hair, and then the hair caught fire, crackling and popping in a tongue of orange and blue.

“Jesus,” said one witness.

“I pray he’s dead already,” said another.

The body danced within the confines of the chair, a puppet on electric strings, until the warden nodded and the current was shut off.

Danielle could not move. She lay on her side in the grass, her fingernails dug into her forehead, her eyes staring, staring, taking it in and rejecting it at the same time.

Alexandre, dead again.

And then Alexandre moaned.

The witnesses gasped and put their hands to their mouths. The warden pointed urgently towards the man at the wall switch, who threw it again, and again Alexandre danced.

It was all done in six minutes. At last Alexandre was dead. Guards gingerly unstrapped him, complaining that he was boiling to the touch, and with coats over their hands for protection, they rolled the body on to a gurney that had waited at the side of the room. They covered it with a sheet.

But when a doctor attempted to examine the body, he could not remove the clothing for the heat. The warden escorted the ashen-faced men from the death chamber until the body cooled.

“Half-hour,” the warden said. “Let it cool and let the air clear a bit. And get a guard to arrest those women in the yard!”

“I hate you,” Danielle said to Marie and Clarice.

“No., you don’t,” said Marie.

“Oh, but I do,” said Danielle. The hands loosened on her wrists, and she was at last able to transform herself to mist to move through the window and into the cellar. Her friends, uninvited, watched through the window, shaking their heads.

Danielle reformed and then stood, the stench of red-hot dead whirling around her. She was silent for a moment and then said, “I’m cursed as much as he is.”

“We are not cursed, Danielle,” said Clarice from the window, “we are blessed.”

“What is a curse, then? That which you do not want, which you never asked for, yet which will not let you be!”

“It isn’t Alexandre,” Marie said again. “Come with us now. Come out with us.”

“You don’t know anything,” said Danielle. And she did not go with them.

She stepped to the gurney and lifted away the sheet. Her love lay there, his sweet face charred half away, his hair blackened and crisp. His beautiful hands cooked into claws. She held one hand and kissed it and cried her tears on to it.

“I would remove your curse if I could,” she whispered. She bent to the scorched neck and bit there. The blood had the flavor of charcoal.

She heard the men’s voices coming towards the chamber. Footsteps pounding the cement of the hall floor. She would go. But she would find him again. She would be keen and sharp, she would have her wits always awake and would be ready. She would follow him and perhaps, next time, save him. Save him for what, she wasn’t certain. Save him into what, she couldn’t know. But she would find him.

She touched her skirt’s pocket. The Bible was gone. It had gone ahead, to follow her love once more.

“Until later, dearest,’ she said.

On still-lingering tendrils of smoke, she left the cellar. Marie and Clarice were not to be found. She knew she would never see them again. That was all right. She did not want to burden them. She would do this alone.

She bought a red-eye flight ticket to Virginia from Illinois. She’d heard rumors that the Department of Corrections had decided to allow inmates on Death Row to choose the electric chair or the new, less violent and certainly more civil and humane method of death by lethal injection.

She did not know if Alexandre was in Virginia. He might be the one scheduled to die first with this new technology. Or he might be the first scheduled to die this way in any of the other states as they accepted the new method over electrocution or the firing squad.

She would not know his face or his name. But she would know him by his hands.

She pushed up the plastic window curtain and stared at the moon. The moon was the same, year after year, century after century. Was it cursed, too?

“I come, Alexandre,” she said to the night.

And if she failed, she would only have to wait and try again. She would save him. She would rescue him. Someday.

She had all the time there was. All the time there would ever be.

No Solicitors, Curious a Quarter

Across the kitchen table from Chloe sat Nannie, her right hand holding a melamine cup full of hot tea, her gnarled left hand trembling on the surface of the table, stirring grains of salt and sugar into miniature whirlwinds. Afternoon sunlight strained through the dusty window, and June bugs hummed a relentless tune in the woods beyond the side yard. Nannie lifted the cup to her lips, the nubs of the missing two fingers of her right hand beating the air. The bandage on her left elbow had begun to ooze again. Brown and red stains bubbled up beneath the gauze.

The rotary fan on top of the refrigerator rattled as it moved back and forth. Nannie’s smell wafted back and forth with the moving air.

“Stony say it’s gonna make tumors,” Chloe said. She held a cup of tea as well, although her cup was a fine piece of blue china, inherited from her mother. The steam drew a pink glow from her face. Although only seventeen, her hair was bound up and back like her grandmother’s. A handmade ragdoll sat in Chloe’s big lap, its face flopped over. “Stony say you gotta stop.”

Nannie swallowed, then looked at Chloe. There was kindness in her eyes. There was even kindness in her reprimand. “You do the embroidery?” Nannie asked. Chloe shook her head. “You do the needlepoint, and the dolls? Honey, you’ll just never understand this. We won’t never be rich, but we don’t care. We make enough from the people that come and see. You seem to be eating fine. You’s getting to be such a big girl.”

Chloe’s fingers played across her pudgy face, and then dropped to her big stomach.

“You’re my girl,” Nannie went on. “We’ll be all right. Enough talk of Stony.”

There was a click beetle on the floor beside Chloe’s foot, and Chloe stepped on it with her toe. She held the doll’s head down for it to see. “Bad old bug,” she said. Then she said, “Nannie, Stony said you being bad.”

“Child,” said Nannie. She put her cup down and swiped her lips. Some of the drips were wiped away, many were left. A small string of spit followed the hand down to the table. “You’s simple, but I love you. Trust me. Them boys’ll never have the best of me long as I live. You’ll always be my girl who needs me and I’ll do right by you.”

Chloe was silent. She watched her grandmother pull herself up from the table to put the cups away. There was no telling Nannie what to do. Stony, Chloe’s older brother, was always trying. He would continue to come over once a week after a day at the turkey plant and try to scold some sense into the old woman. It did no good. Nannie would tell Stony to go home to his wife and son and take care of them because she would be all right. Then Nannie would take the knife to her side again.

At the sink, Nannie braced herself and rinsed out the cups. It was hard for her to walk. She hadn’t gotten used to hopping on one foot yet. One cup clattered as it slipped from Nannies grasp. Chloe flinched, and grabbed the straps of her sleeveless sundress, her forearms coming up over her breasts. She said, “Break, Nannie?”

“Nah,” Nannie said. “It was my cup. Plastic don’t break like glass, honey.”

“Oh,” said Chloe.

“Goin’ to the porch?” asked Nannie.

Chloe nodded and helped her grandmother out of the kitchen and down the short hail to the barren living room at the front of the house. The doll went, too, crammed under Chloe’s unshaved armpit. A breeze blew through the screened door, lifting the stench of Nannie’s wounds and making Chloe rub her nose with her free hand. Out on the porch, the fresh air made sitting next to Nannie more tolerable. Nannie settled down on her chair, the wood barely giving under her wasted body. Chloe’s own chair creaked mightily under the girl’s weight.

“Want me to read you the funnies?” Nannie asked after Chloe had retrieved the folded Virginian Dispatch from the base of the porch step.

Chloe shook her head. She sat the doll on her lap and stroked the yarn hair.

Nannie fumbled the newspaper open with the three fingers of her good hand. “Fine then. Don’t forget to fix that sign ’fore you go on your walk,” said Nannie. Chloe nodded. “And you’ll watch out for boys?”

Chloe said, “Uh huh. But you got to tell me what letters to put on the sign.”

Nannie smiled at her granddaughter. It was Nannie’s great pleasure to take care of Chloe. Chloe had been twelve and Stony sixteen when their mother died, the result of massive head injuries after being struck by a pickup truck on the road outside their home. Stony inherited the old family car and the gun that belonged to his long-since-run-away father. Almost an adult then, Stony had said he was ready to be on his own. He secured a cheap room with a friend and a job plucking turkeys at Plenko Poultry. Chloe, who received her mother’s set of china, an old collection of perfumes and Avon decanters, and a little pocket change, moved in with Nannie. She grew up in her grandmother’s house, quiet and obedient. Each year school classified her as mentally deficient, and her absence was subsequently ignored when Nannie took Chloe out of school in the eighth grade.

The old woman and girl sat on their porch chairs, watching the road as no one came by, squinting until the sun was gone behind the clot of maples at the road’s shoulder. Nannie sighed, then shifted down as if to fall asleep,

Chloe got the paint cans and the brush from inside the house and walked down the short graveled driveway to the large sandwich board sign. The sign was gritty and as worn as the siding on Nannie’s house. The bottom of the wood was frayed like an old hula skirt.

Nannie’s old sign had been painted over and over many times in the past weeks. Originally, large once-red letters proclaimed that here was “Blue Ridge Country Crafts.” Ever since Chloe had lived with Nannie, Nannie had been a maker of crafts. She designed marvelous cornhusk dolls, embroidered hankies, and warm, thick quilts. The entire front living room had been Nannie’s show place. Travelers from the Skyline Drive, looking for another isolated route to wherever they were heading, came down the mountain in all seasons, driving the hairpin turns and cracked pavement to view the forest in its fall-splashed or snow-shrouded beauty. At the bottom of the mountain, the road passed Nannie’s house. Nannie would sit on the screenless porch, sunning her arms, waving a gaily painted fan and wearing a homemade bonnet. The travelers, intrigued, would stop by to chat. And to buy.

Money from the vacationers’ purchases as well as a little Social Security had kept Nannie and Chloe in food, craft material, and heating oil.

Chloe stooped down and pried the top from the paint can.

She flicked a few chunks of dried paint from the bristles of the brush. She called for Nannie to wake up, it was time for the spelling. Then she began to work on the correction.

Three months earlier, on a cool spring evening, some local boys had come riding by Nannie’s house. They were loud and drunk, hooting over the roar of their trucks and throwing empty liquor bottles to smash on the driveway. Nannie had been awake at that late hour, embroidering a tea towel in the living room. Chloe had been awake as well, lying in bed and counting the allowance savings she kept in a paper bag.

The boys had crashed into the house, breaking the simple hook lock Nannie had on the front door. Hearing the screams and the laughter, Chloe stayed behind her bed on the floor. The assault was quick. The boys grunted and howled; Nannie’s demands that they leave were reduced to muffled screams. Two minutes later, it was over. When Chloe heard the boys head outside to their trucks, she got up from the floor and looked out of her bedroom door. When the trucks roared out to the road, throwing rocks in their hasty departure, she crept into the living room.

Nannie was on the floor on her side, her legs drawn up and her arm spasming. She was bleeding from holes in the left side of her body. The craft shelves were overturned, and the crafts lay among the blood and wreckage, a carnival of carnage, a slaughterhouse of Nannie’s dreams.

Chloe fell beside her grandmother. “Who done this, Nannie?”

Nannie’s head moved slightly. Her eyes seemed almost ready to shake loose in their sockets. One went wall-eyed, and Chloe thought the eye would pop out.

“Want the doctor?”

Nannie shook her head. Blood pooled in her mouth, and she pushed it out with her swollen tongue.

Chloe stared at Nannie, and was silent. She was certain Nannie would die. Nannie’s right ear had been torn from her head. Large hanks of hair had been ripped out, and numerous knife scars traveled the length of her left arm and her torso. Her leg was mauled. But the old woman weakly demanded that Chloe leave it be. She said she would mend at home.

And so Chloe put Nannie to bed in the back room. Nannie only lost consciousness once, when she was stitching herself up. Most of the time she slept or stared out of the window. Sometimes she had Chloe bring in the newspaper and hold it up so she could read it a little. Chloe changed bandages and kept the sign on the front door flipped to “Closed".

Chloe went on her walks when Nannie was asleep.

It was five days from the attack that Nannie got back on her feet. She asked for tea, and drank most of it, then pulled herself up on her good leg and said, “Enough of this. I got work to do.” She limped into the kitchen and tried to butter some toast. The severed nerves in her hand would not allow it, so Chloe tried to butter it herself. Then Nannie went out into the living room to see what was left of her craft shop.

She stopped in the middle of the room, put her good hand to her mouth. She said, “Oh, Chloe.”

The room was nearly empty and the cash box was gone.The boys had broken most of the crafts, and Chloe had swept them up and tossed them out. The shattered shelf boards lay on the floor and against the wall where they had fallen. Only a few button-eyed chickens still sat on the floor beneath the window, and painted brick doorstops lined the back wall. The braided rug had been thrown out with the ruined crafts, having been stained with Nannie’s blood.

Nannie sat down then, fell actually, onto the bare floor. She hid her face in her good fist.

Then she said, “Chloe, you cleaned up. What a good girl. But you could have hurt yourself with the bits of glass and all those splinters.”

Chloe said nothing.

Nannie sobbed a few silent tears, then said, “What am I going to do?”

“Make a craft, Nannie,” Chloe offered. “That’s a happy thing, makin’ crafts.”

Nannie shuddered then her back went rigid. She sat up as straight as her damaged body would allow.

“You’re right, honey. Get me some material from my trunk, and find my sewing kit. Bring them to me.”

Nannie spent the next hour trying to thread a needle with her dead hand.

Then she tried to shuck a dried cob for a doll’s body.

She tried to dab paint onto a brick from the pile out back, to make a flowered stop. The paint fell in large blue droplets to the wood floor. She looked at the drops and took a shuddering breath. She said, “Chloe, this is a good time for you to go on your walk. Take a stick in case you see any boys.”

Chloe took a stick on her walk, but she left it in the woods just past the side yard.

When Chloe returned, Nannie had made it into the kitchen. There was water on the floor where she had tried to fix tea, and a burned biscuit in the oven. Nannie was sitting at the table, with a knife in her hand. Chloe stood and waited for Nannie to say something.

“No more crafts,” Nannie said, finally looking at her granddaughter. “Boys took it away from me. Stole it from me. Criminals, all of them.”

Chloe was silent.

Nannie brushed bread crumbs from the kitchen table with the blade of the knife, and said, “We ain’t gonna make no more money with the shop.”

Chloe said nothing.

“Your granddaddy was alive he’d go after them boys. But we’s just two women.” She laughed. “An old crippled woman and a woman with a baby mind. But never you bother. Maybe we can’t get them boys for what they done, and maybe that’s for God, anyway, but I got an idea.”

Chloe sat down and picked her doll from the chair beside her. She held it close to her bosom. “What idea, Nannie?”

Nannie smiled, only one side of her lip going up the right way. “Fix dinner, honey. I’ll tell you how to do the stove if you’re real careful.”

Stony came over at seven thirty that evening, relieved that Nannie was up again, and not unduly surprised that she would not be making crafts again. He sat with them on the porch, holding his ball cap in his hands and alternating his gaze from Nannie’s bandaged wounds to a patch of poison ivy by the porch step.

“There’s state aid,” Stony said. “And I got a little saved up. You got Chloe here to keep the house, ’though God knows she ain’t half as dumb as she puts on. You ought to put her to work somewheres, least ways part time. Then she could take care of the house in the evenings.”

Nannie shook her head. Her hair had not been brushed in days. “You don’t know nothing ’bout your sister. She’s a poor child God gave a body and no brains. She got a home with me long as I live and I’ll take care of her. I’m making a plan. Leave us be. Go home.”

“Damn it, Nannie, you can’t work no more. I brought money, and I want you to take it.” Stony shoved one hand deep into his overall pocket, and pulled out a wad of dollar bills. Nannie would not reach for it.

Chloe said nothing.

“Don’t ’barrass me now by dying of starvation. You’re family. Take the damn money,” said Stony.

“You never tried to help before this. Just you and yourself. Then you get married and you never come over to show me your wife or your baby. That’s family, Stony? That’s how family acts? Go home.”

“Nannie, you make me look like a fool. Everybody at work asks how you are. I have to look at ’em and say, ‘She can’t work no more but she won’t take money from me, and now she’s gonna eat dog food and roots and shoe leather’? Take the money.”

“Go home.”

He went home, and Nannie sat on the porch for a long time, while Chloe played with her doll and caught lightning bugs in her fists.

The next morning, Chloe found Nannie down the gravel driveway on her face, a paint brush in one hand and blue paint bleeding into the coarse gray rocks. Chloe pulled Nannie up with much effort, but the old woman’s face, though stone-bruised, was smiling.

“What’cha happy about?” Chloe asked.

Nannie pointed at the old sandwich board sign by the road. Large, runny blue letters were painted in bold strokes over the faded “Blue Ridge Country Crafts.” The new sign read, “Victim of Violent Crime. No Solicitors, Curious a Quarter.”

Chloe shook her head. “What’s that say?”

Nannie’s smile did not fade. She tapped the bandages on her left arm, and on her hip beneath her cotton dress. “Crime gonna pay this time, honey. It’s gonna pay for us.”

On the way back into the house for breakfast, Nannie flipped the “Closed” sign on the door back over to “Open.”

At first nobody came. Nannie told Chloe the local folks were not ones to peek too soon, but after a few days there was a trickling of women and men and children, slipping up the driveway and coming hesitantly to the door. The first of the curious pretended to be on church work, bringing along homemade pies and fried chicken. They were anxious to see, but didn’t want to appear anxious. The hands which held the pies and chickens were sweaty hands, and the pockets on those dresses and trousers were full of quarters.

Nannie sat on a stuffed chair in her living room where once her dolls and toys had sat. She wore a loose skirt and blouse. When the quarter was dropped into a can by the door, Chloe would pull up Nannie’s blouse and the curious would ooh and ahh at the ragged, red scars of Nannie’s violent crime. After an uneasy start, the flow became steady for more than a week. People came and paid, acting as though they were embarrassed to be there, making Nannie promise not to tell anyone about their visit, hurrying down to their cars as if they were afraid they would be seen and chastised. Everyone wanted to see; no one wanted anyone to know they wanted to see.

Chloe took the money on her walks. She would be gone a while, and would pick up groceries at the little country store on her way home. Half of the time she bought what Nannie had asked her to buy, the other half she got an odd assortments of pretty shapes and brightly colored boxes and cans. She and Nannie ate well.

Then the money slowed and nearly stopped. Nannie’s scars weren’t so bad anymore. Kids even scowled and rolled their eyes after they saw what their school lunch quarters had bought them.

So Nannie gave the proof of her assault a little boost.

With a keen kitchen knife, she opened several of the healed wounds, making them a bit bigger than they originally were, and the curious came round again. Nannie upped the price to fifty cents, and displayed the red, draining cuts to those who would make crime pay.

Chloe watched the money clank into the can, and she helped Nannie undo her blouse and lift her skirt. In the late afternoons she took her walks. And after supper she sat and played with her doll while Nannie put on the nighttime dressings.

When Nannie took off her first finger, Stony was back in a rage. He would not come up on the porch, but stood at the bottom of the front stoop steps and shook a fist at the woman and the girl.

“You’s crazy! No wonder Chloe ain’t right upstairs, she got it from you.”

“Go home, Stony,” said Nannie.

“They are talking ’bout you at work now. You’re the bathroom talk, Nannie. You’re the lunch room talk! You can’t do this to yourself. Take some money. I can’t handle this shame.”

Nannie licked her lips and patted Chloe’s face with a four-fingered hand. “Go home, Stony. We don’t need you.”

“There’s openings out at the turkey plant. Let Chloe come work there. She might be crazy but she ain’t dumb like you think she is, Nannie. She’s fooling you in a big way.”

“She can’t, Stony. Don’t fool yourself. Go home.

“And why the hell’s she getting so fat these days? She got bad glands or something? Won’t take yourself to the doctor, won’t take her, either, I guess.”

“We’s eating good,” said Nannie. “Chloe’s just a healthy girl. Go home.”

“You pregnant, Chloe?” asked Stony.

Nannie stepped down to Stony. Her good hand shot out and cracked her grandson on the side of the face. “You speak trash on my porch?”

Stony almost exploded. “You ain’t my family!”

“I always knew that. Go home.”

Stony went home.

And so it went. Nannie cut herself in the daytime, while Chloe held a cloth to catch the blood and sometimes put a rag in Nannie’s teeth so she wouldn’t groan so loudly. At night, Nannie wrapped herself up good so as not to bleed to death.

Stony didn’t come back when Nannie took off another finger, nor did he show up when the left big toe came off. Nannie upped the price to seventy-five cents. The locals knew it meant more gore, and coins filled the bucket again with new fervor.

“What’s a ‘r’ look like, Nannie, I forgot,” called Chloe from the sign.

Nannie made broad strokes in the air to show her granddaughter. “Take your time, now, you’ll get it.”

Chloe put the paintbrush to the sign and formed a lopsided V. Then she sat back and painted the length of her forearm with the paint. She held it up to show Nannie. “Pretty!” she shouted.

“Chloe, honey, now you got to wash that all off.”

Chloe brought the can and paint brush to the stoop.

“All done,” she said to the doll on the porch floor.

“That sign looks right nice all done over again,” said Nannie, raising her one good hand and squinting out at the sandwich board. “Now with me asking a dollar, they’ll know they got some real crime to look at.”

Chloe sat on the stoop and rubbed the doll’s face in the paint on her arm.

Nannie turned awkwardly in her chair. Severe shadows shadows cut down the side of her face. She stroked her throat and pulled at the wrinkles. She leaned over and pulled at the end of the sock on her left foot. The sock was orange with drainage. “Threads catching on that gone toe,” Nannie said. “Ought to get me a prop-up chair.”

“Nannie, Stony says I crazy like you.”

“Stony don’t know crazy,” said Nannie. “You and me, we’s just practical. Give me a hug.”

Chloe leaned into the rancid dress and gave her Nannie a hug.

Nannie sat back. She said, “Stony tells me you can do more than I think you can. In a way, he’s right.”

Chloe put some of the yarn doll hair into her mouth to suck. She strummed the now-blue doll’s face.

“I know you can do many things. You can help me move ’round the house. You help me do a little cooking in the kitchen. You paint the signs for me, don’t think I don’t love you for it. But there is something else…” Nannie’s voice trailed. Chloe licked the palm of her hand, and watched her grandmother.

“Want you to do my eyes,” said Nannie. Chloe blinked, and rubbed her own.

“I can hold still I think. If I cry don’t stop.” Nannie scratched at a curly eyebrow hair. Then she took a butter knife from her skirt pocket. “Dull one’ll do better.”

Chloe flinched and she drew back from the knife offered in her direction.

“George Stewart lost a thumb in his thresher last Thursday,” said Nannie, her voice thoughtful and sad. “Mrs. Stewart told me when she come ’round with her money. Ain’t nothing to see gone fingers now.”

Chloe squinched her nose and shook her head.

“Honey, crime got to pay. We got to eat.”

“How I do it?” asked Chloe.

“Just a little twist, like scooping oleo margarine from the tub.”

Chloe put her doll down. She gingerly took the knife.

“Like oleo?”

“Yes,” said Nannie. She leaned over to Chloe and kissed her on the forehead. “I’m the tub, honey.”

Chloe licked the knife once, for luck, she told Nannie.

Stony thundered into the living room, knocking over the can and spilling all the change. Coins rolled in a flurry through the dust bunnies on the floor. Chloe ran around behind Nannie’s stuffed chair. She grabbed her stomach with one hand and the top of Nannie’s head with the other.

Nannie, on her chair, buttons of her blouse almost all done back up but all done wrong, straightened and snorted.

“You!” Stony screeched, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the crusted holes where the eyes had been. “Oh, my God, you’ve really blinded yourself. I prayed the folks at the plant were lying to me, trying to get my goose for all this nonsense!”

“Weren’t lying,” said Nannie. “Chloe done it for me. Guess you was right, she can do some things.”

Chloe looked around the back of the chair. Stony glared down at her. His face was red and his ears were sweating. He pointed his finger at Chloe. “You little bitch! How could you do this?”

“Don’t talk like that in my house. She’s my family. I asked her to do my eyes,” said Nannie.

“And you’re crazy!” shouted Stony. He spun on his heel and picked up the empty

coin can. He shook it in Nannie’s face, but her empty sockets could not see. “I ought to put you out of your misery. It would put me out of mine!”

“Go home, Stony,” said Nannie.

“Home,” said Chloe.

Stony hurled the empty coin can to the floor, and it bounced loudly. He clawed at his face. “How can I stand this? They didn’t give me the promotion I was gonna get, since they said you is nuts. Said it must run in the family!”

“Go home, Stony,” said Nannie.

“It ain’t fair. I gotta ruin my life for my crazy grandma!”

“Show Stony the door, Chloe,” said Nannie.

Stony stood stock still, with nothing but his eyelids twitching. Then he reached into his jacket and took out out his pistol.

“I can’t ruin my life for no crazy woman,” he said. His eyes teared up, and he blinked the tears away.

“Chloe, honey, you hear what I said?” said Nannie.

“Show Stony the door.”

Chloe stood up slowly. She and Stony stared at each other. Chloe held up her doll, and showed her brother. The doll’s eyes were dug out.

“Christ Jesus,” said Stony. He aimed the pistol at Nannie’s head.

Chloe reached for Nannie and patted her arm. She did not look away from Stony. “I love my Nannie,” said Chloe.

The pistol began to shake in Stony’s grip. Chloe leaned down and kissed her grandmother’s mangled left hand.

“It’s a sin!” Stony cried. “It’s a sin! Goddamn it, you witch, won’t you stop this?” And he dropped the pistol. He turned, and holding his throat, stumbled through the door. The screen clapped behind him. He stopped on the stoop and put his face into his hands.

“Stony gone, honey?” asked Nannie.

“Yeah, Nannie,” said Chloe. She picked up the pistol and held it to Nannie’s temple. “He’s all gone.”

She bent to kiss the hand again, and then pulled the trigger.

Nannie’s eyeless head jerked and fell forward. Blood spattered Chloe’s hand, her face, the stuffed chair, and the doll tucked under Chloe’s arm. The red was hot and thick, like paint on the sandwich board. The wound was round, like Nannie’s empty eye sockets. Chloe licked the blood from her hand. She licked the barrel of the pistol.

“For luck,” she said.

“Oh, Chloe,” whimpered Stony from the stoop.

Chloe looked out the screen door. Her brother was pressed against the screen like a

monkey caged in an outdoor zoo. His face was a mask of disbelief, his eyes white and huge.

“Chloe,” he said again.

Chloe put the gun back on the floor. Then she crossed the bloody floor to the door and put her hand flat against the screen where Stony’s face was pressed.

“Nannie hated them boys,” she said.

Stony closed his eyes.

“But I like boys. Like ’em for a long time. Since before Mama died. Mama didn’t like me to see boys, but I did. Seen ’em on my walks a lot. Boys is pretty. They say pretty things.”

“Chloe, you ain’t dumb. You never was dumb.”

“They give me pretty things, Stony. Things Mama never give me. Things Nannie never give me.

“Mama?”

“Boys do things for me if I give ’em my pussy. They call it that. Pussy! Like a cat!”

“Wait…did you say Mama?” whispered Stony. “Oh dear God.”

“Boys didn’t do it right this time, though. They didn’t do it like they did Mama with that truck. And Nannie didn’t die.”

Stony looked at Chloe. Her lopsided smile was coated in blood. She pointed at Nannie. “Bad Stony, you killed her.”

“Chloe, you can’t do that to me.” Stony choked, and looked at the gun on the floor. “Chloe, I tried to help you!”

“And you give me a baby.” Chloe rolled the palm of her hand around on her bulge.

“Shit! What?”

“Bad boy.”

Stony said, “You wouldn’t do that, Chloe.”

Chloe chuckled. She tore the head off of her ragdoll and went over to Nannie’s chair, where she dropped it onto her dead grandmother’s lap. When she turned around, Stony could see her face clearly. She was silent.

And her smile was no longer lopsided.

The sale of Nannie’s house made a nice profit for Chloe.

The money was put into a bank, and because of the trauma Chloe had survived it was a flexible trust which allowed her to buy something nice when she wanted it. Stony was put away where the sun don’t shine, promised a life sentence and lots of attention from muscular men who liked to do a little turkey plucking themselves. Stony’s wife and child moved away.

Chloe was taken in by a charitable, elderly widow who had once brought canned peaches on pretense of seeing the marks of a violent crime. After all, it was not Chloe who was insane, it had been her grandmother and her brother. Chloe was a poor child, with hardly a thought in her head. At her new home, Chloe played and ate and listened to the widow chat about church meetings and the neighbors. When the widow didn’t know, Chloe handled the pretty glassware in the pie safe and played with the silver hidden in the cellar trunk.

When the baby came, Chloe gave it up to the state and didn’t even cry.

“She’s can’t keep a baby,” said the widow to the nurses.

“It’s not that she’s crazy, she’s just slow as snail in the sun.”

Chloe was quiet and obedient.

And in the early spring, she began talking long walks again.

Miss Dowdy

There are things you want to forget. Like when my cat got run over by the snowplow and the night my Dad drove off in our new 1962 Chrysler and never came home.

Then there are things and people you don’t want to forget. But how can you care that you forgot them, if you forgot them?

Our neighborhood was like most in my small town — tree-lined streets, warping sidewalks cross-hashed with chalk for games of hopscotch, fenced yards, and tidy frame houses. My sister Jena and I, seventeen months apart, spent the summer between my third and fourth grade year collecting rocks from the road that looked like gemstones and building a tree house out of lumber scraps we dragged across the alley from where Mr. Richards was putting in a new sunroom.

There weren’t many kids in our neighborhood, and I played with them though they liked to get me into trouble. David lived across the street and Marla lived two doors up. They helped us with our tree house and we helped them do other stuff, like train David’s fat beagle to pull a wagon and teach Marla the alphabet in sign language.

This particular summer was especially buggy and sticky. Mom was pregnant, which didn’t alarm us but which made David snicker because he said, “Your Dad’s been gone more than a year.” The baby was due in September, so she was pretty big and didn’t chase us around us much as she usually did. This gave us a delicious freedom we’d not had in summers past.

Miss Dowdy lived near the end of the block where the road curved down and to the right. Her home was a grayed, wood-shingled bungalow with a front porch with a low-riding roof. She was a really old woman, at least 200 Jena thought, but I knew people couldn’t live that long so I put her at 150. Neither of us had seen her, though. Until that summer we had never played as far away as Miss Dowdy’s house, not that we’d wanted to. We’d heard the rumors. She was a witch. If you got too close, you’d be cursed. Nobody knew what kind of curses she wielded, but they couldn’t be good.

On July 2nd David’s dog got away from us. Usually the dog, as round and short-legged as a footstool, never went far when he tired of our attentions. He’d just trot a few paces then role over on the gravel. This time, though, he must have smelled or heard something enticing, because he dashed down the sidewalk, cutting catty-corner across to the other side, never looking back, his tail sticking straight out like the flag the crossing guard holds when we walk to school.

“Buddy!” called David.

Buddy kept on running.

“You better catch him before he gets hit by a car,” Marla said.

“Damn stupid dog,” I said.

“Ah, Annie, you cussed!” said Jena.

“It’s not cussing if you’re not saying it to somebody.”

“Oh, yeah, it is,” said Jena.

"Buddy!” shouted Marla.

“Buddy!” David called again.

After a good full minute of calling, David kicked at a discarded Mountain Dew bottle and said, “Ya’ll coming with me?”

“Not my dog,” I said.

“Yeah, but…”

“Yeah, but what?”

“But if he went, you know.”

“What?”

“Near that woman’s house.”

“What woman?”

“You know. Miss Dowdy.” He whispered it so softly I really only read his lips.

“You mean the witch?” asked Marla.

“Shh!”

“She’s not a witch,” I said, though the word chased a chill down the back of my t-shirt. “That’s baby talk.”

“Then you get Buddy since you aren’t scared,” said Marla.

“I said already, it’s not my dog.”

“Then you are scared,” said David. “And if you don’t come with me, I’ll tell your mama you cussed and you’ll get a spanking like last time.”

And I knew he would do it. He and my sister had gotten me several spankings in the last few weeks.

I cursed again, this time under my breath. Then I took a deep breath and puffed out my cheeks until they stung. I was scared, but as the oldest, I couldn’t show it.

Clenching my fists, I marched off after Buddy. Jena, David, and Marla tagged behind, a nervous, chittering parade. My heart felt like a water balloon being squeezed in and out, in and out, so hard it might pop. Down the sidewalk we went, scuffing the hopscotch chalk and avoiding cracks so as not to break our moms’ backs. Trees heavy with mid-summer foliage shaded our footsteps. Little kids behind chain link fences wanted to know where we were going.

The road turned and dipped; we turned and dipped with it. Then we stopped. There was Miss Dowdy’s house, tucked up in her yard, grass grown tall and tangled, the pine trees next to it pressed so tightly they seemed to be holding it so it wouldn’t collapse. The porch roof hung down like a droopy eyelid.

I heard David’s sharp intake of breath. Buddy was in the old woman’s yard, sniffing at a dead cardinal.

“Buddy!” he whispered. “C’mere, boy!”

The dog looked over but then continued to sniff.

“Buddy!”

Marla grabbed David’s arm. In any other circumstance, he would have shaken her off or shoved her away. But this time I think he was glad for the touch. “Let’s go. Buddy’ll come back when he’s ready.”

I’d never really looked closely at Miss Dowdy’s house before; I’d never really wanted to. When our family went shopping, we always drove the other way. On the rare occasion we did travel in this direction, like when we went out of town to visit Mom’s sister, we went by fast enough that it didn’t really register. As I stood on the sidewalk with my sister and friends, my teeth set hard against each other, I wondered if the old woman was on her porch. It was hard to tell; the shadows were deep, near black. Yet I detected what looked like the outline of a glider or porch swing moving slowly back and forth.

“Let’s go,” urged Jena.

I took a small step forward, right to the edge of her yard, tilting my head, looking at the porch but not really wanting to see.

And then she coughed.

David, Jena, and Marla squealed and ran. I wanted to, but for some reason, my legs had other ideas. I held my ground.

Buddy had heard the cough, too. He looked up, shook his head, and then waded through the weeds to the porch. I wanted to call him back but was afraid that if I spoke, the witch would suck up my soul.

Miss Dowdy coughed again, then said something I couldn’t hear but that Buddy clearly could. He stopped at the foot of the porch steps and stared. And then he climbed up the steps and vanished into the shadows.

Buddy…you’re done for now!

I went home. There was no way I was going to ask for the dog back.

But it didn’t seem to matter. Because when I found David, Marla, and Jena in our tree house, trying to see who could throw pieces of bark the farthest, and I told David what Buddy had done, he stopped flicking bark and said, “Who’s Buddy?”

I let out an exasperated grunt. “Don’t play stupid with me.”

“Don’t call me stupid, stupid!”

"You don’t care what happened to your dog, then fine. I don’t care, either.”

“I don’t have a dog, you moron!”

“Yes, you do, you dumb shit!”

“I’m telling you mama!” squawked David.

I wanted to punch him, but knew it would only make things worse for myself so I gritted my teeth. One of these days, I thought, just you wait!

Jena dropped her pieces of bark and looked at me with genuine, seven-year-old seriousness. “He doesn’t have a dog, Annie, why are you saying that?”

“So,” I insisted, “what’s that doghouse doing in your backyard?”

“I don’t have a doghouse in my backyard!”

“We’ll see about that!” I stomped across the street to David’s house, around to the back where Buddy’s homemade hovel was nestled against the tool shed.

But it was not there.

David’s Mom was watering her rose-of-Sharon, sunglasses slipping on her nose. “Mrs. Hirst, where is Buddy’s doghouse?”

Mrs. Hirst gave me an odd look. “Who is Buddy?”

That night, I stared at the ceiling long after Jena had drifted to sleep. At dinner I had asked Mom if I could have a dog like Buddy. She said she didn’t know what I was talking about.

Buddy was gone, sucked into the witch’s house and forgotten.

I had to know if it was real or if I was just going crazy from the summer sun, like my grandmother warned would happen to kids who didn’t wear sunhats.

Marla had a hamster, Hitty-Pitty. We liked to take it outside to run in the grass and then we would catch it. The morning after Buddy became a non-dog, I borrowed Hitty-Pitty. None of us locked our doors, and we knew each other’s homes almost as well as we knew our own. Marla was playing with Jena in the tree house and Marla’s Mom was sunbathing in the hammock outside. I sneaked in, collected the hamster in a paper bag, and went down the alley so as not to be spotted. In the pocket of my shorts was a roll of masking tape. Under my arm were six cardboard tubes that had held wrapping paper an hour earlier. The paper was now crammed in my closet. I’d put cotton balls in my ears so I wouldn’t hear Miss Dowdy if she coughed or spoke.

When I was several houses from my own, I skirted back up to the street and continued down to Miss Dowdy’s. The hamster rattled about in the bag.

I sat behind a big oak and taped the cardboard tubes together, creating a tunnel about eighteen feet long, long enough to reach from the sidewalk to the first porch step. Then I got up and stood before the little house. Carefully, I slid the tubes across the yard and onto the bottom step. Then I sent in Hitty-Pitty.

At first she went in a few inches then sat there, like she suspected my motives. Then I blew on her and she vanished into the depths. A moment later, she emerged from the other end of the tube on Miss Dowdy’s porch step.

I swallowed, the sound loud in my skull. I began to hum in case the cotton wasn’t good at keeping out witch sounds. The humming worked, or the witch had decided to be silent. Hitty-Pitty sniffed the step, then hauled her little furry body up to the next step, then to the next, and she was on the porch. She scurried into the darkness, and that was that.

Withdrawing the tube I immediately crumpled it, avoiding the end that had touched the porch step, then threw it into a trash barrel in the alley. I caught up with Marla and Jena, who had tired of the tree house and had flooded a hole in our front yard with the garden hose. “We’re making soup,” Jena said.

“Can we play with Hitty-Pitty?” I asked Marla.

“Hitty-Pitty?” Marla blinked.

“Your hamster.”

“Shut up, Annie.”

“Shut up why?”

“You know my mom won’t let me have a pet. You’re rubbing it in.”

My blood went cold. “Jena, do you know what I’m talking about?”

“No, and be quiet.” She was sprinkling bits of dandelion into the mud hole. “I have to get the soup right or the queen will be mad.”

Hitty-Pitty. Gone to the witch and forgotten.

“You want to play?” Marla asked.

I shook my head then went to the tree house and climbed up alone. I broke off a thin, dry branch and snapped it into tiny pieces. Tossing the handful of broken branch bits into the air, I watched as they spun in a breeze then fell to the ground. Why was I the only one who remembered Buddy and Hitty-Pitty? Miss Dowdy’s house was creepy, but this was the creepiest thing of all.

I avoided Jena and the others for the next few days. Mom wondered why I was moping around, looking at television but not really watching it, spinning my fork in my food but not really eating it, cradling my Breyer horse models but not really playing with them. She said if I didn’t quit it she’d make me go to the doctor’s and get a shot.

I began to really wonder what Miss Dowdy looked liked. I wondered what it was like inside her house. I wondered if she had baked Buddy and Hitty-Pitty in a pie. I wondered what would happen if a person wandered into her yard and onto her porch. Would they be forgotten just like the pets? Had it already happened but those people were forgotten?

I wondered if I could kill her.

There were no guns in the house; Dad had taken those. Jena had a wooden bow and arrow set but it didn’t shoot very well. I’d have to drive the arrow right into the witch’s heart if that was my weapon of choice. I wondered if witches even had hearts.

There was powdered poison in the basement that Mom used to kill mice. All I needed to do was poison something Miss Dowdy liked to eat and somehow get her to eat it. What did witches like to eat?

I figured everybody likes cookies. We had a pack of Oreos in the kitchen, partly eaten, held shut with a clothespin. I took the Oreo pack to the basement, dumped in some poison and shook it up. Back in the kitchen, I put five cookies on a plastic plate, covered it in plastic wrap and taped the wrap securely. Next, I secured cotton balls in my ears. Then, making sure Jena, Marla, and David weren’t spying on me so they could then tell on me, I took the plate down the street, over the chalk marks, past the kids in their wading pool behind the chain link fence, and around to Miss Dowdy’s house.

Nothing had changed. The shadows that held the porch hostage were as deep as before, as if the sun didn’t dare challenge the will of the witch. But the distance from the sidewalk was too far to toss the plate.

The only option was to run to the porch without touching it or the steps, and run back. It wasn’t until Buddy or Hitty-Pitty touched the porch that the trouble began.

Inhaling deeply and then holding it so I wouldn’t breathe Miss Dowdy’s foul air, I dashed across the yard. Four feet from the porch, I hurled the plastic plate at the top step. Then my foot struck an overturned birdbath base hidden in the tall weeds, and I went down. My head hit the edge of the porch, driving stars clear through my brain.

“Are you all right?” The voice sounded far away.

Head pounding, I pushed myself into a sitting position. The world wobbled.

“I said, are you all right?”

I touched my forehead. It wasn’t bleeding, but it stung like blazes and there was going to be a huge bruise.

“Take out that cotton so you can hear me better.”

I glanced at the porch and saw something move in the shadows. “No!” I managed.

The movement shifted, developing a shape, coming closer to the top step. I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to see. But the voice said, “Look at me, it’s all right.”

I looked back at the street and the sidewalk, which continued to waver.

“It’s all right.”

I looked. She was on the top step now, a small woman in a pale blue dress and white sneakers. Her gray hair was in two braids that were coiled and pinned to her head. Her skin was nearly as white as her shoes, but she bore no horns, no warts that I could see, no claws or fangs.

“They’re all scared of me, I know, but not you.”

Oh, yes I am! I thought.

“You’re my first real visitor in a long time. Won’t you come in?”

No! I know what happened to Hansel and Gretel!

“I know you remember the dog. The hamster. If you come in, I will tell you the truth.”

“I don’t want to come in.”

“Then sit on the porch. I don’t mean any harm. Truly I don’t.”

I stood up and looked over my shoulder, hoping to find someone to talk me out of this. There was no one on the street.

“Never mind, then,” said Miss Dowdy with a sigh. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

I heard myself say, “I’m not scared,” and in saying it, I found I wasn’t so much. I pulled the cotton out of my ears.

“Come.” She smiled. It was a lovely smile, really. “I’ll explain it to you. Sit with me on the porch.”

Once up the steps I could see the porch clearly. It had a little glider and a rattan chair with a sunny yellow cushion. She motioned for me to sit. I chose the chair.

“In a way,” Miss Dowdy said as she lowered herself on the glider and began to rock back and forth, pushing at the porch floor with the tips of her shoes, “you children are right. No, I’m not a witch but yes, I do have power. You know that there was a dog. There was a hamster.”

I nodded, noting with surprise my head didn’t hurt any more.

“I’ve got a responsibility to help people, to try and keep their lives from being any sadder than they are.”

“What do you mean?”

“Buddy was riddled with cancer, but David didn’t know it. He would have been very upset if he’d had to watch his dog to wither away and die. I called for Buddy and he came to me. Now, David doesn’t know there was a Buddy, so he won’t be sad.”

I thought about this. What a strange idea, yet it made sense. “But…what about Hitty-Pitty? You didn’t call for her. I brought her to you.”

“Honey, that hamster was going to get away from you kids the very evening you brought it here. A feral cat was going to eat it almost to death, and Marla was going to find it and have to put it out of its misery. Do you know how much that would hurt your friend?”

“But I didn’t know that. I only did it as a test, to see what would happen.”

“You might not have realized what you were doing, but something in you knew the hamster was in trouble and it made you bring it to me. Now, it won’t suffer and neither will Marla.”

Something in me? What the hell? “But…but what about…?”

“Yes, there have been others. There was one little girl a couple years back, who was soon to be kidnapped, raped, and murdered. I called her here, like I called Buddy. Her parents forgot they had a child, and so didn’t miss her.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, my fingers going to my suddenly dry lips and beginning to pick. “The little girl. She was cute, red hair. I knew she’d gone missing but nobody said anything so I just…I don’t know…forgot, too.”

Miss Dowdy nodded. “It’s good the children think I’m a witch so they’ll leave me alone. This work is best done without interruption.”

“Have there been a bunch of others?”

“Oh, yes, from the whole town. Many you wouldn’t know, and a lot of them before you were born.”

I looked at the old woman, at her little white shoes and her little gray braids. I looked out at the street, and the sunshine that reflected off the bits of quartz in the gravel. I should be with Jena, collecting quartz. We were going to make a million selling our rocks once we had enough.

“You said,” I began, then began again. “You said something in me knew about the hamster. I don’t get it.”

“It means you’re like me. You’ll take over for me someday.”

“No!” I jumped up. “I’m not going to do stuff like you do!”

“Not now, honey. When you’re grown and old enough to understand the importance and can handle the responsibility. It’s nothing to worry about now. Later. Later.” She reached over and patted my knee. It didn’t burst into flames. Her touch was kind, soft. Then she said, “How about the cookies, now?”

“Oh.” I looked at the cookies on the step. “No, you can’t. They’re…stale.”

“All right, then.”

I said good-bye to Miss Dowdy, collected the cookies, and hurried home. The plastic plate of Oreos went into the kitchen trashcan under a bunch of sloppy leftovers from supper the night before. That way, Mom wouldn’t see it and dig it out to save the plate.

All night long I tossed about in bed, thinking about the terrible things that could happen to people and their pets, and how Miss Dowdy did all she could to make things better. It was kind of like Jesus or Superman, helping others like that. I tried to imagine myself as a grownup, sitting on a porch in the shadows, calling for people and animals to come to me, making those who loved them forget they ever existed.

Jena and I continued to collect sparkly rocks from the road until our jars were filled to the top. Marla finally learned the sign language alphabet and we signed dirty words to each other up in the tree house. David’s mom gave into his nagging and bought him a black lab that he named Rusty. I walked around with an uncomfortable sense of superiority bubbling just under the surface, knowing that one day I would be a savior.

On a Friday afternoon in August, when Mom and Jena were watching one of Mom’s stories on television, I sneaked out the back door to slip down to Miss Dowdy’s house. It had been weeks since I’d sat on her porch. I just wanted to have a look to remind myself that what I’d learned was real, that she was real.

David was in the alley, sticking out his tongue and swinging an old jock strap he’d found in somebody’s trash. “Where you going?”

“None of your business.”

“Here, smell this.” He wiggled the jock strap at my face.

“Get that away from me.”

“No, smell it!” He jabbed it at my nose and I slapped it away.

“Stop it, you asshole!”

“I’m telling!”

Hatred and heat raced up my spine. “No, you aren’t!” I drew up my fist and cracked him so hard in the jaw he fell back onto the gravel and bit his lip.

“You’ll get a spanking for this, just you wait!” he wailed around a trickle of blood. “You can’t do that to me!”

“I just did, now get out of my way!”

I left him in the gray dust, knowing Mom would be furious, knowing there would be punishment waiting. “One of these days!” I whispered around the knot in my throat. But still, I had to see Miss Dowdy again. Nothing was going to stop me.

The house hadn’t changed. Still small and dark, the grass still tall and tangled. I

thought for a moment of going right up to her door and knocking, but I didn’t want neighbors to see that. We had a secret, Miss Dowdy and I. So I sneaked around the side of her house and crept low beneath a scrubby forsythia bush. Maybe she would sense I was there and let me in the back door.

I heard it then. Weeping, moaning. Very soft, but unmistakable. I squatted close to a tiny, filthy window at ground level and squinting, I peered inside.

The cellar was dirt-floored, stone-walled, and low-ceilinged. It was dark except for a roaring fire inside a huge oven set into the far wall. Miss Dowdy, in her blue dress and white sneakers, stoked the fire with a poker. The flames licked at her cheeks, coloring them orange and yellow.

In the deep shadows along the other walls I detected the outlines of cages. Cages with faces pressed to the bars. Small animal faces in the little cages. Human faces in the larger cages, and hands that reached through the bars, clutching, pleading. Miss Dowdy only laughed, and then tossed more wood into the oven, making the fire erupt anew in a bright and sparkling dance.

And then she looked up at me, smiled, and winked. Her lips were blood red; her eyes the same.

I fell away and ran from her house. I hadn’t wondered what had happened to all those who had gone into Miss Dowdy’s keeping. I suppose I’d thought they had, once forgotten, become nothing. As if they had never actually existed.

Up in the tree house, alone again, I held my chest as my heart pounded and railed within. They were still there. They were still alive. Miss Dowdy had lured them in and kept them for her own needs.

Terrible!

Terrible.

But what power that old lady had. What incredible power.

I heard Mom call me from the house. “Annie! Where are you! Get in here, I have a bone to pick with you!”

My heart clenched, picked up an angry, painful beat, but then it slowed, and didn’t hurt as much.

“I mean it, Annie! I’ve had about enough of your bad behavior!”

A beetle crawled along a limb near me and I squished it with my thumb.

I wondered what it would be like to have that much power.

I guessed I would find out.

One of these days.

Crow, Cat, Cow, Child

It took almost ten minutes to catch both the beetle and the centipede, but Hannah Livick’s paper cup finally had the captives securely inside, and she walked them down to the grassy stretch behind the dumpster and let them go. Best to be out in the wild than in her apartment, where they might get stepped on or caught by one of Hannah’s cats. It was more time consuming now to keep up with her promises. With the onset of fall,more insects sought warmth inside, and she spent more time chasing them and putting them out.

But promises she had made and promises she would keep.

She went back inside and dropped down on a kitchen chair. On the table before her was an opened letter from her father. The bastard. She flipped her hand and the letter fluttered to the floor. The two stray kittens she’d rescued from the college parking lot blinked at her from the hall. Timothy jumped onto the table. Hannah kicked off her shoes and tucked her hair back behind her ears. She waited as her breathing eased and her heart slowed. She needed to let things like this go. She was thirty-two, for heaven’s sake, no teenaged flower child. She should no longer be thrown for a loop when others didn’t understand. In fact, their lack of under-standing only clarified her own. It clarified that of Karla Casey and little Allen and Joe and the other student members of Voices for the Voiceless, people who had true commitment to great causes.

“Great causes,” she said to Timothy. She gave him a kiss.

Last night had been a glorious moment for a great cause. Another round won for the animals. Hannah and her friend Karla had led Voices for the Voiceless in a midnight raid on the county animal pound. The pound was clean enough, and part of their purpose, that of placing unwanted animals for adoption, was humane enough, but Joe had said the holding cell of unclaimed animals was now full and an execution was pending. Joe Farrish, a psychology major at the college and one of Hannah’s brightest students who worked part-time at the pound, had stolen a key and he break-in was not a break-in at all but a calm open-the-door-and-help-yourself-in.

Dressed in a denim skirt and black sweatshirt that read, “A Crow is a Cat is a Cow is a Dhild", Hannah had hacked the padlock from the holding cell, then stepped back as Karla’s nine-year-old son, Allen, was allowed the first rescue.

“Go in, sweetie,” Karla said, giving the little boy an encouraging push. “Those kitties and puppies are going to be poisoned if we don’t set them free. They will cough and shake and vomit and suffer. Go get the first one out.”

Allen, in his little red “Peace Now” ball cap, had gone into the dingy cell among the condemned, cats in a cage on the right of the cell and dogs in a cage on the left. The condemned watched him with hesitant wags of tails and blinks of eyes. He pulled the pin to the cat cage and lifted out a scraggly calico. As he turned to face the other rescuers, Joe snapped a Polaroid photo.

Grinning child and living cat. The crow is the cat is the cow is the child. Bless the beasts and the children.

Equality beyond specieism.

The photo was now displayed on her refrigerator along with photos of other events in Hannah’s activist life; protests, marches, passing home-computer generated pamphlets out on the street in front of the college and the nearby grocery stores.

Commitment and courage. Promises kept.

As little Allen would say when asked if he would always look out for the weaker creatures, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Hannah stared at the photos, letting pride in what she was doing squeeze out the irritation at her father’s selfishness. It took a little while, but it worked.

Joe wore a red plaid flannel shirt, not quite grunge but amazingly attractive in its carelessness, faded jeans, and boots. He sat, as he always did, in the middle of the classroom, leg crossed casually, pen top in teeth, scribbling notes faster than Hannah spoke.

Interpretations, she assumed. His own additions to her lessons, questions, comments, insights.

As humans went, he was beautiful. Young and dark. Committed and courageous. And agonizingly sensual.

Hannah spoke today on the contrasting beliefs within the fundamentalist denominations in early twentieth century America. As was true in any class period, some students leaned forward with interest, some slumped back in boredom. Timothy, brought to class each day in his airy cat-tote, lay on a fluffy folded towel in his windowsill overlooking the campus green. Every so often he would stretch, arch his back and scoot down a bit to catch the movement of the afternoon sunlight.

Class ended with the usual assignment, Hannah’s challenge to younger minds. “Study those around you. See what we are. Observe and remember. Until tomorrow.”

And the students were gone then as quickly as water from a draining tub.

Joe sat unmoving at his desk, leg crossed, pen tapping his closed notebook. Hannah collected her books, scooted her podium over to the wall so the janitors could better clean, and took a last sip of the coffee from her earth toned “Love Your Mother” mug.

Joe did not move. Hannah patted her hair and smoothed the tight bridge of her

nose, then looked at him directly. He was smiling his beautiful smile. Her heart clenched at the beauty.

“Did you have a question?” she asked.

“I wanted to thank you for letting me be part of the rescue last weekend, Miss Livick,” Joe said. His pen continued to tap.

“We couldn’t have done it without you,” Hannah said.

“Of course you could have. It’d have been a little more dramatic, but you could have.”

“It was your idea.”

“And you agreed to take me up on it.”

“So we both should be congratulated.”

“Congratulations to us. And to those we saved.”

Hannah sat on the top of a front desk and crossed her arms. There was more to come here, she just had to wait.

“We should celebrate.” Joe stopped tapping the pencil. He uncrossed his legs. “How should we celebrate our success?”

“I don’t have balloons or confetti in my desk, nor any champagne. I supposed we could shout, “Hip, hip, hooray?”

Joe shook his head. His dark hair rippled. “I was thinking more in line of a dinner. Do you have plans tonight? We could have dinner and toast our beliefs.”

Yes, I have plans, damn, she thought. But I’ll work around them. No problem.

“That would be nice. Do you want to invite some of the others?” she asked. “Susan and Thomas and Barbara helped us set those animals free.”

Joe stood up and put his notebook into his satchel.

The pen he slid through the thick hair to rest on his ear.

“I thought just us.”

“Just us. Well,” said Hannah. She looked at the window. “Timothy, come on, boy.”

The cat turned his head and blinked. He was clearly too comfortable to move.

“Timothy, it’s time to go.”

Timothy shut his eyes and rolled over, exposing his stomach to the warmth of the light.

“Jerk,” laughed Hannah. She went to the window and picked up the cat. He drooped in her grasp, a furry soft-sculpture with twitching whiskers. “Into the case with you.” Then she looked at Joe. “He’d get up under the gas pedal if I didn’t contain him. They may deserve the same rights as humans, but I don’t think they’re quite as smart.”

“Ah.”

“That was supposed to be a joke.”

“Oh. Ha.” Joe walked over to Hannah and the cat carrier, stuck a finger through the slat and scratched the cat. He brushed Hannah’s retreating hand as he did.

“So, you can make it tonight?”

“Sure. And there is a wonderful restaurant, the Garden Gourmet, out on Booker Street. What do you think?”

“Actually, I have a lot of food at my place. Would you mind eating there? It’s not a bad apartment. I’ll actually run the vacuum for you. My roommate is gone for a few days, and I don’t often have a chance to cook for someone else.”

“Oh, sure. That’s fine.”

“Seven?”

“Could we make it eight? I have to meet Karla at six and then I need some time to get ready, feed the cats, all that,” said Hannah.

“Eight’s good. You won’t change your mind, now? You won’t call and say you’ve come down with something?”

He smiled, one eyebrow going up.

“I don’t break promises.”

“I knew that. After we eat, maybe we can take Timothy to the park. So bring him.”

Hannah bit the inside of her cheek to keep the insipid grin she felt building from showing on her face.

“Sure,” she said.

Joe gave her a wink and strode from the classroom.

Hannah hugged the cat tote to her chest, held her breath, and waited until the unsummoned thumping between her thighs eased.

Karla was late getting home from work. Hannah sat in her car in front of Karla’s house, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel as Timothy whined in irritation from his cat tote.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “We’ll be home soon. Be patient.”

On the back seat of Hannah’s Bug was a box load of Voices for the Voiceless brochures that she had run off at Kinko’s just an hour earlier. Karla was attending a state senator’s re-election campaign rally this weekend, and planned on getting a copy of the Voices mandate into every flesh-pressing palm. No doubt it would either catch the attention of the press or of security, giving Karla the brief limelight she sought.

Tonight, Karla was going to work on her presentation and make a couple conference calls with folks across the state. And Hannah had agreed to babysit Allen.

“Come on come on come one,” Hannah said.

“Damn it.”

Karla’s blue two-door pulled up behind Hannah’s car and stopped. Karla climbed from the driver’s seat, looking weary. Allen hopped from the passenger’s seat and bounced around to Hannah’s window. Hannah rolled the window down.

’Hey, sweetie!’’

’Hey, Hannah!” said the boy. “I got an A on a science test today! It was all about earthworms. Do you know an earthworm swallows dirt and then poots it

out the other side? It makes the soil rich for growing vegetables and flowers and stuff.”

“Uh, yes, I think I remember something like that,” said Hannah. She smiled at the child’s enthusiasm. Whenever she imagined herself as a mother, she envisioned her child beautiful and innocent, like Allen. Karla came up and draped her arm around Allen’s shoulder. “Hi, sorry I’m late. It’s been a day and a half, I can’t even get into it.”

’’Don’t worry about it,” said Hannah. “Do you have Allen’s things ready for tonight?”

“Yep,” said Karla. “Allen, here’s the key. Go get the overnight bag out of the front hall.”

Allen raced up the sidewalk, unlocked the front door, and disappeared inside the house.

“You’re a saint for agreeing to keep Allen,” said Karla. “It’s not that he gets underfoot, really, but sometimes I just need to be alone to keep my thoughts straight. This campaign is so important, Hannah.”

“I know. You don’t need to convince me,” said Hannah. “Come on, Allen, hurry up.”

“Give me a call if you need anything,” said Karla.

“We’ll be fine,” said Hannah.

Allen bounded out of the house and hopped into the passenger’s seat of the Bug. Karla gave him a quick kiss through the open window, then went to the house.

Hannah smiled at Allen and said, “You know, there’s a really good movie on down at the Tripoli.”

She’d given Allen a quick meal at her apartment; homemade macaroni and cheese, some carrot sticks, and orange juice. Then, at 7:20, she’d driven him to the Tripoli Theater, which had an 7:30 Disney double feature. They’d parked, and Hannah had walked Allen to the box office.

“My mom never lets me go to movies on school nights,” Allen had said in the car, his eyebrows drawn up, as though he was afraid the confession might make Hannah change her mind.

“And you can’t spend the night at friends houses on school nights, either,” Hannah had answered. “But tonight is different. It’s special.”

She’d bought the boy a ticket, had glanced around to quell the nagging sense that it might not be a good idea to send a child to a theater alone, had seen nothing in the movie-going crowd but parents and children, and so, relieved, had kissed the boy on the head, pressed ten dollars into his hand for snacks, and said, “Be watching for me at nine-thirty, sharp. Stay inside the theater but watch out the door. I’ll pull up to the curb right here in front.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t talk to strangers.”

Allen giggled. It was clear he’d heard this many times before. “I won’t, Hannah.” And he’d stood on the sidewalk, waving, until she was out of sight.

I have an hour and a half for dinner, Hannah thought as she drove back to her apartment to take one last look at herself in the mirror and to collect Timothy. An hour and a half isn’t bad. Dinner, some conversation, maybe time to work up another get-together.

She turned on the radio and hummed along, even though she didn’t know the song.

Joe’s apartment was pure college-man. Hannah walked in, holding Timothy in his tote in one hand and some daisies she’d picked up at the grocery store on the way over. Nostalgia washed over her; memories of her own shared flat when she’d been an undergraduate, a place she’d shared with buddy and fellow history major Charlotte Reeder. The furniture was salvage, the music loud and fast and current. Even the smells were familiar — spoiled food cleaned up but not completely, trash taken out just moments earlier, cigarettes and incense, sweat and air freshener, youth and vigor.

“Great place,” Hannah said, standing on the living room mat just inside the door. In his tote, Timothy whined.

Joe laughed. “Oh, well, thanks. It’s not quite what I’d call great, but I like it. It’s home. I vacuumed.”

“Thanks.”

Hannah glanced at Joe. His gaze was steady and a bit disconcerting. It made her heart kick in expectation.

“Dinner is still brewing,” said Joe. He reached for the tote and popped open the lid. Timothy’s furry face appeared at the top. “Hey, guy, how you doing in there, kitty?”

Timothy whined again and caught the edge of the tote to pull himself out.

“Is it all right if I let him roam around?” asked Hannah.

“Sure,” said Joe. “As long as we can keep an eye on him. There are a lot of little nooks and crannies that a cat could get stuck in.”

Timothy gratefully stretched when his paws hit the worn carpet, and he began to sniff the perimeter of the room. His whiskers stiffened and twitched.

“Sit, please,” Joe offered. Hannah sat on the faded plaid sofa, Joe sat beside her. “Now, do tell how you got interested in teaching. It has to be one of the hardest jobs of all.” He put his hand on the back of the sofa, near Hannah’s hair. She wished he would touch it.

“I’m from a long line of educators,” Hannah said. “My mother, who died a while back, was a high school principal. And my father….” Hannah took a deep breath. Her father. Shit on it all.

“What about him?”

“He’s an elementary school teacher. Third graders.”

“Why did you make a face when you mentioned him?”

“Ever the psychology major, aren’t you Joe?”

Joe grinned. “I suppose. So tell me.”

“Oh, let me just say that the two of us don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on a number of matters.”

“Such as?”

“Such as animal rights. In fact, I think he hates me for my views.”

Joe tilted his head. He put his foot up on the Afghan-covered trunk that served as a coffee table. “Really? Hate? That’s a pretty strong emotion toward a daughter for a mere differing of opinion.”

Hannah glanced at her watch. It was 8:02. She wished the meal was ready. Regardless, she had to be out of here by 9:20 to get to the theater on time.

“Yes, really. He had a favorite student last year, a little boy with cancer who had gone into treatment at the children’s center west town. Well, the same day the boy was admitted, there was the freeing of the animals at APD and then the bombing of the APD lab, remember?”

“Yes, I do.”

“There was no connection. I mean the hospital is on one side of town, the lab on the other. But the boy died after a month, and my father suddenly blamed the animal activists. He said it was our fault because we don’t want cancer cured. I tried to talk with him, to tell him I’d love for cancer to be cured but not at the peril of other living things. But he went on rampage. He said my mother dying was my fault because of her emphysema. My grandfather dying of heart disease was the fault of me, or at least people like me. It all fell on my head.”

“Were you in with the bombing?”

“No,” said Hannah. “I do my work in a peaceful way. I mean, what if all the animals hadn’t been released? They would have died in the bomb.”

Joe’s fingers found the top of Hannah’s head and began to stroke. For a second, Hannah couldn’t find her breath, but then she concentrated her efforts, and said, “My father writes me every so often, with all sorts of information he gets from an organization called ‘Putting People First.’ I just throw it away.”

“Good for you,” said Joe. “Want a drink?”

Hannah thought she should say yes, but doing so would take his hand from her hair.

“Well,” Hannah began.

“No?”

She looked him in the eye. “Maybe in a minute,” she said. And she knew the breathiness of her voice told him what she was thinking, what she was hoping.

And then Joe’s lips were on her own.

Her body instinctively pressed into his. And the lust was as wonderful as she’d dreamed it would be.

She might have imagined it, but sometime during the lovemaking, Joe had laughed and called her a cheetah. Indeed, she felt she was one. Her blood raced like red-hot ice, her heart hammered like a native drum. She thought she heard the sound of distant chains rattling as he pawed and clawed her, probing her pussy with his lips and fingers. He growled with delight as he mounted her then, and caught her breasts in talon-fingers.

She felt she was flying, crashing, flying.

Holy shit!

“Holy shit” Joe had cried. And then he had crumpled onto her, spent and panting. Hannah held still, then bucked in the throes of her own orgasm. Moaning, then, she curled her face into him and licked the sweat from his neck.

Finally, Joe’s face lifted from hers. His eyes were wide and bright and as cunning as a cat’s. Hannah grit her teeth to pull her soul back into her body. Never had such sensations invaded her; never had she felt so like an animal in her passion.

And then Joe stood abruptly from the sofa, his limp, damp cock dangling, and smiled. “Now, for the question,” he said.

“What question?” Hannah liked the sound of her voice. It was gritty with sex.

“A crow is a cat is a cow is a child.”

“That’s not a question,” Hannah said. She sat up slowly, and saw then that she really had heard chains. Joe had chained one ankle to the leg of the sofa. She laughed slightly, confused but still willing, and touched the chain. “You beast,” she said. “What’s this?”

He said nothing.

“Okay, what’s this for?”

He said nothing.

“All right, okay. I think we’re done. You can let me go now. Though it was wonderful, honestly.”

Joe said nothing, but his eyes narrowed, and he made a soft tsking sound.

Hannah’s sense of pleasure dried up immediately. Her smile faded. “Joe?”

He finally spoke. “I thought you’d figure with a psychology student there’d be a test before the night was over. Come on now, surely you knew.”

“Joe, enough, really. Let me go now.”

Joe said nothing.

Hannah reached beneath her and tried to straighten the crumpled skirt. She scooted to the sofa’s edge and planted the free foot on the floor. “Psychology or not, Joe, now, this is uncomfortable.” She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes after nine. “And I’m afraid I don’t have time to eat. I have to pick someone up at 9:30. Sorry.”

“Scoot closer to the chain and you’ll be all right. It won’t be so awkward. I really don’t mean the test to take very long. Promise. Though how long it takes will be up to you.”

He stared at her. There was no smile there. She stared back, whatever remnants of passion still in her freezing and crumbling in her chest like sharp fragments of ice.

“Joe,” she said, her teacher voice pulling into place.

“Hannah.”

“Joe, I have to go. Unlock this damned chain now.”

“No, Hannah. We’re not done.” He went out of the living room and brought back two jars. Inside one jar was a spider. In the other, a mouse.

“It’s a study, Hannah, now you can appreciate that. You’re of an academic family.” Joe sat on the trunk in front of her, holding the jars.

“What study?”

“A crow is a cat.”

“So?”

“So, really? I want you to choose which of these will live and which will die.”

Hannah tossed her head. She pulled against the chain on her ankle. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Which?”

“I won’t choose. Life is life.”

“Then I’ll kill them both. Hannah’s choice.”

Hannah stretched her neck. This man, this beautiful man, was insane. She would not show her fear. She would not play his game.

Her jaw chattered.

“Your hand is not mine, Joe.”

“Choose?” he asked.

“No.”

Joe unscrewed the lid on the spider jar. He tapped the arachnid onto the floor and squashed it with his foot.

Hannah turned her face away.

“Your hands aren’t mine” said Joe. “But your will is my command, like the old genie story. Therefore, what I do is your responsibility.” Joe smashed the mouse jar on the edge of the trunk, sending glass fragments into Hannah’s lap.

“Shit,” mumbled Joe. “He isn’t quite gone.” She heard his heel drive down onto the floor. Hannah’s stomach squeezed and turned over. She flipped the glass from her skirt.

Joe laughed.

“What’s your point here?” Hannah managed. “Whatever it is, it’s rather pathetic.”

“It’s a study of convictions, of promises.”

“Joe, listen to me, this is….”

“Let’s try again.”

Hannah looked up as Joe left the living room again. She could not bear to look at the floor. Joe came back with two more jars. In one was a mouse. In the other, paws folded and eyes popping, was a baby guinea pig.

“Oh, please no…”

Joe sat on the trunk. “Now,” he said. “Mouse, or guinea pig? Which one’s life is more valuable? If you can’t decide, then both lives are gone.”

“Damn it, Joe! What kind of man are you?”

“That’s irrelevant. Choose.”

“I won’t choose. I can’t choose. This is insane.”

“Hannah, come on now.”

“I believe what I believe. This is so wrong!”

“Fine.” Joe lifted both jars and at the same time, brought them down hard against the edge of the trunk. Hannah’s eyes snapped shut and her hands slapped over her ears.

“No no no, don’t do this!” she screamed. “Stop this!”

“Well, guinea pig’s gone, but damn, these mice are resilient,” said Joe. Hannah felt the thud as he stomped the mouse to death on the floor.

Hannah fought the cuff. She clawed at the sofa leg and shook it to break it. She then stood and tried to dive for Joe across the glass and dead animals, but Joe jumped back off the trunk beyond her reach. Hannah’s trapped ankle tripped her and she fell on her face onto the trunk. She shoved herself back up and onto the sofa, fragments of glass now embedded in her palms.

“I’ve got money, Joe!” she cried. “Not much but you can have it. A couple thousand dollars in savings. Just stop what you’re doing. Let me go and it’s yours.”

“I can’t stop. The test isn’t over.”

“Of course it is! You wanted to make me scream with ecstasy, and then scream with horror. You accomplished that. Write your damn paper. And let me go!”

“The test isn’t over. When it is, you may go.” He stood and left the room again. Hannah pulled at the chain, bounced the sofa, trying to loosen it. She cried, she screamed for help.

Joe returned with a large birdcage. Inside, two parakeets fluttered, working to keep themselves on the wooden perch.

“No use screaming,” he said. “We have lots of loud parties here. Nobody thinks a thing of it.”

He sat the cage on the trunk, then took an extension cord from the top of the television and held it up. On one end was the plug; the other end was a raw and frayed. He plugged it into the wall and drew the raw end over to the trunk.

“Which one, Hannah? The green parakeet or the blue? I don’t mean to sway you, but I’m partial to green.”

Hannah held her fists up. They shook madly. “You shit! You inhumane fucker!”

“And you are a good test case, I have to tell you, Hannah. You’re holding out better than I thought you would. Now, green or blue?”

“I can’t!”

“All right,” said Joe. He stuck the cord’s end into the cage. The blue bird clenched its claws and dropped to the gravel at the bottom. Hannah dropped her face and covered her eyes. She could smell the smoke, the charred scent of feathers and flesh.

“This is insane this is insane this is insane! Stop it stop it!” Hot, furious, impotent tears coursed down her cheeks.

Then she heard Joe calling, ” Timothy, come here, boy. Timothy, kitty, kitty, kitty.”

Hannah’s head jerked up. “Don’t touch him!”

Timothy trotted up to the man and wrapped around his legs. Joe laughed and lifted the cat, then found the abandoned tote by the front door. “Here you go, my friend,” Joe said. “We’ll tuck you right in here.”

“Joe, don’t do this. Listen to me, are you listening, Joe?”

Joe eased the cat inside and shut the top. He came back to the trunk. “Nice boy, nice kitty,” he said.

Hannah grappled again for the sofa leg. It came up an inch, but the chain would not slide over the sofa foot. “Goddamn you!” She yanked, yanked. The chain bit into her ankle, drawing a thin line of blood. “Goddamn you, stop, please!”

“Sit down, Hannah, this is the last test. Get a grip, Christ.” He pushed her back. She fell against the sofa cushions with a grunt.

“Now,” said Joe, standing by the trunk. ” We have one animal here, but we need a second. Where should we find another one?” He stroked his chin. “Let me think.”

“You can’t kill Timothy. Joe, are you listening? You can’t kill him!”

“I don’t know if I have any more animals,” said Joe. “You’ve killed them all so far, Hannah. Spider, mouse, guinea pig, another mouse, two birds. A spider is a mouse is a guinea pig is a bird, I suppose.”

“I haven’t killed a fucking thing!”

“Hmm.”

“Joe, listent to me! Wati! Just listen! Don’t kill Timothy!”

Joe put the tote on the floor by his foot and said, “And you killed that little boy in your father’s third grade class.”

“What? What did you say?”

“As sure as you put a bomb in the school, you killed him.” Joe’s jaw was tight. His voice hissed. “You and your bleeding heart, idiot, moronic friends.”

“Joe, you make no sense.”

Joe reached over and slapped Hannah soundly on the cheek. Her head snapped back, reeling.

“He was my little brother, Hannah. You didn’t even know his name, did you? Your murder victim. His name was Denny Parrish. The sweetest kid you could ever know. Never to grow up. You bitch.”

“How did you…? I didn’t… kill….”

“Oh, shut up and let’s get the test finished. One more and you’ll be free to go. Now, we have a cat. And,” Joe looked down at the trunk. “Yes, we have another animal right here in the trunk, I remember now.” He pushed the Afghan off to the floor. “An animal in there. You choose, Hannah. The cat in the hand, or what’s behind trunk number one.”

“I swear go God, I didn’t kill your brother.”

“Oops, forgot,” said Joe. He went to the television stand and pulled a pistol out from the single drawer. When he came back, and a smile had returned. “Now, then, which animal shall live, my dear teacher?”

I can’t let Timothy die, her mind reeled. Whatever dog or cat or groundhog in that trunk isn’t as precious as Timothy. I can’t let him shoot my cat!

“Don’t make me wait,” said Joe. “Your father told me you were always such a slow-poke.”

“My father?”

“We know each other. I visited my brother’s class occasionally. I even went on the field trip to the wildlife center with all those little kids. Your dad talked to me privately, asked if I could bring you to your senses somehow. I said I didn’t know. I was a psychology major, but not a shrink yet. I need a few more years on me for that. But that’s an aside. Now, pick, Hannah.”

“You can’t kill Timothy,” Hannah growled.

“Fine, then, this shouldn’t take long.” Joe flipped back the lid on the trunk. He raised the pistol and aimed it inside. Hannah didn’t look. It no longer mattered. She had broken her promise to herself. A crow might be a cow but a cat was of more importance to her. She wanted to vomit.

“Oh, before I do this,” said Joe. “Maybe I should just loosen this little gag here.”

There was a pause, then the sound of crying. Sobbing.

A child.

There was a child in the trunk.

“Oh, my God,” said Hannah.

“Hannah!” shrieked the child.

Allen.

“I followed you all afternoon,” said Joe. “To Karla’s, to your apartment. To the theater. Allen doesn’t talk to strangers, but we saved puppies together, didn’t we, Allen? You know me.”

“Hannah!” cried Allen.

“I met him at the theater as soon as you left. I told him we were going to surprise you, that we had a party here at my apartment for you and the other animal rescuers. He thought it was a fine idea.”

“Shoot the fucking cat!” screamed Hannah.

“Fine idea,” said Joe. He pointed the gun at the tote. Hannah turned away. Joe fired four times, and Hannah felt each one cutting through her mind, searing her brain, tearing up her sanity and spitting it out like a catnip toy.

Joe stepped to the sofa and leaned in to Hannah, his mouth on her ear. “Now, you see there is a difference, don’t you, Hannah?”

She said nothing.

“Do you?”

Hannah said nothing.

Joe shook his head and stroked her hair. “Hannah, there is a difference. Admit it.”

“Yes.”

Joe straightened, sighed, and nodded. “Thank you. Now.” He put the gun down and wiped his hands. “That’s about it. I’ll get little Allen out of this thing and you and your cat are free to go.”

Hannah opened her eyes. She saw Timothy, clearly frightened by the loud noises, cowering in his crate, pupils huge.

“You didn’t kill him!”

“Didn’t really need to. Got the answer I wanted. Besides, I like cats pretty much. A lot more than mice, that’s for sure.”

“Oh, shit… oh, my God…”

“Good psychology test, don’t you think? Too bad I won’t be able to use it as part of my deviant class research. Some research has to be kept under wraps, don’t you know? But still, it’s all informative.” He chuckled.

A crow is a cat is a cow, Hannah thought, and she began to weep.

“No, don’t,” said Joe as he put cable cutters to the chain on her ankle. “I know I lied about dinner. But believe me, it’s not worth a single tear.”

A child is a child is a child is a child.

A promise is a lie is a promise is a lie.

“I can’t cook very well.” The chain fell away. “You didn’t miss much.”

Someone Came and Took Them Away

(Inspired by an actual, ghostly 1980’s photo taken in the cellar of the Bartlett House in Parkersburg, where Dr. Charles Bartlett’s daughter died in 1879.)

“I feel hot, Mama. I hurt.”

“I know.”

“I don’t like it here.”

“Here is your bed, your washbasin…”

“Let me come back up with you.”

“Shh, now, this is for the best.”

“Mama…”

“Bessie, don’t cry, my love! You’ll upset your father.”

“Please, Mama!”

Mrs. Bartlett shook her head and pried the small, fevered fingers away from her arm. “You are to be quiet, now. Rest. I will return anon.”

“Mama, I hurt!”

“Sleep, daughter.”

“Mama!”

The woman gathered her skirts and stepped away from the cot. She dared not kiss her child for fear she would catch the typhoid, too. Without another word, she climbed the wooden stairs out of the cellar.

“Mama!”

Carol knelt on the scratchy grass and peeked through the cellar window of the empty house on Ann Street. A dusty spider tumbled out of her way as she placed her hands carefully on the sash and pushed. It didn’t budge.

“Well?” said Rachel, who stood behind Carol with her arms crossed. “Can you do it or not?”

Carol scratched her ear. “Hold on.”

Rachel humphed, as did her best friend Philly. Carol pushed again, harder, with the heels of her hands. The window remained shut.

“You said you could get in,” said Rachel.

“You did say that,” said Philly. “Liar.”

Carol glanced back over her shoulder at the two frowning girls. Both were eleven, older than Carol by a year. Both were the most popular kids in school. Both had promised to be Carol’s friend if she played Truth or Dare with them.

“I can do it,” said Carol. “Just hold on. Jeez.”

“We don’t think so,” said Rachel. “So we’re back to truth. Tell us, Carol. Why you a foster kid? What happened to your parents?”

Philly snorted laughter. “Yeah, what happened? You kill ‘em or something?”

“I’ll get it open,” said Carol. She turned back to the window. She had to complete the dare. There was no way she would talk about her family.

With another grunt, some pounding with the heel of Carol’s hand, and several shoves, the window squealed open nearly a foot. Carol’s thumbnail bent backward with the effort. She sucked air against the pain.

“Told you,” she muttered under her breath.

“Don’t get snotty with us, orphan,” said Rachel. Carol opened her mouth to beg them not to be mean but snapped it shut again. The last thing she wanted to do was make them angry. She wanted friends more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life.

They squeezed through, Rachel first, followed by Philly and then Carol. Philly whined about the cobwebs and the smell. “It’s like somebody died down here,” she said as she brushed off the knees of her jeans.

The basement floor was littered with old papers, stained towels, and shattered jars. There were several rooms, each with low ceilings, brick walls, and damp, uneven flooring that made Carol feel she was walking on the moon.

“Okay, you got us in,” said Rachel. “Now, we got to mark this place so people’ll know we’ve been here.”

Carol stood back while Rachel and Philly took turns scrawling on the walls with the black Sharpie markers they’d brought along:

Rachel is bitchin’!

School suks!

Gag me with a spoon!

Phillicia Monroe is totaly awsome!

Rachel turned and glared at Carol. “Aren’t you going to write something, orphan?”

Carol reached out for the marker but Rachel shook her head. “Didn’t you bring your own?”

Carol shook her head.

“Well, you aren’t touching mine. You might have some creepy disease you caught at your foster home.”

Philly said, “Hey, don’t boys pee to mark their territory?”

Rachel made a face. “We aren’t boys, now, are we?”

“Duh,” said Philly.

“You a boy, Carol?”

“No.”

“You’re standing there all stupid like a boy,” said Rachel. “You’re ugly and dumb like a boy. And we said we’d be your friends? I don’t think so.”

Carol’s mouth fell open. “But you…”

“But you! But you!” said Philly. “But you better butter your butt!”

“We’re going upstairs,” said Rachel. “Don’t you follow us or we’ll kick you down the steps.”

“Don’t go away!”

With a shriek of laughter, Rachel and Philly bolted up the wooden stairs and slammed through the door at the top.

“Mama?”

“What, darling?”

“I’m burning hot.”

“You’re sick, honey.”

“Where’s Papa?”

“Working.”

“Can’t he make me better?”

“Shh, now.”

Bessie turned over on the cot, and her stomach cramped violently. Her mother held the bowl up but there was nothing to catch. Bessie had not eaten in days.        “Here’s a cool, wet rag.”

“Mama?”

“What, dearest?”

“Will Papa come see me soon?”

“Perhaps. Sleep now.”

“I hurt, Mama.”

“I know. Shh.”

“Don’t go away!”

The wooden steps creaked.

“Mama, I’m so lonely!”

The voice from the top of the steps, “Shh…”

Carol sat on the cold, lumpy floor, her head down. She could hear Rachel and Philly running around upstairs, marking walls, slamming doors.

The old house had been for sale for a while now, with someone hired to mow the lawn and clip the bushes, though most shrubs around the sides and back had been allowed to grow tall and wild. Carol walked by the house on her way to school, always stopping to stare at the windows, the stone porch, the sloped yard and shadowed front door. There was something in there, pulling at her, wanting her. But she then moved on, afraid of being arrested and thrown in prison like her grandmother, or being locked up in a mental hospital like her mother.

Carol didn’t ride the school bus. Since moving to Parkersburg three months earlier to live in an apartment on Franklin Alley with Mrs. Jones, her new foster mother, Carol had become the target of every joke imaginable to the middle school mind. Of course, it was no surprise. No matter where she’d lived, she’d been the brunt of ridicule. She was homely to most people and hesitant in her speech. She had no sense of fashion. She was painfully shy. No, she was never surprised others taunted her, but was always disappointed. So to avoid some of the pain, she told Mrs. Jones she would rather walk to school than ride. Mrs. Jones didn’t care. She had three other foster kids to tend to.

Then two days ago, Rachel and Philly pulled Carol aside at lunch and told her they’d be her friend if she played Truth or Dare with them.

In the corner of the cafeteria, Rachel said, “So, what is it? Truth or dare?”

Carol hesitated. “Truth.”

Rachel grinned. “Okay. Why’re you in foster care?”

Carol’s eyes went wide. “No, wait. I meant dare.”

“You can’t change your mind like that.”

“Really, I meant dare. I…I just said it wrong.”

Rachel looked at Philly. Philly looked at Rachel.

“Well, okay,” Rachel grumbled. “Here’s the dare. We want you to break into a house for us.”

Carol frowned. She’d never done anything really bad before. Her grandmother and mother would be horrified. They always told her she was special, that people would not understand her, and so she would have to be very, very careful throughout her life.

But here was a chance for friends.

“Okay.”

“Okay, then what house?” asked Philly.

“There’s one on Ann Street.”

The decision was made.

And now she had broken into the house, broken the law, and broken her thumbnail, but she still had no friends.

She closed her eyes, and thought of her grandmother. All the woman had done was help a detective find the body of a murdered man after the case had gone cold, but knowing where the body was lead to suspicion, planted evidence, and conviction. Then Carol’s mother, who’d left her cruel husband when Carol was six, was declared insane and placed in an institution. Carol’s father actually had evidence — recordings of Carol’s mother screaming in the voices of those who had passed on, recorded videos of her in trances on the floor. Her institutionalization was to be intensive though not necessarily permanent, but she lost custody of Carol to the father, who, in a matter of weeks decided he didn’t want her. This landed Carol in one foster home after another. She bounced around the state, kicked out time and again because her foster families found her extremely unsettling, overly sensitive.

Peculiar.

Carol sighed. A song she’d heard and liked long ago came back to mind. It made her happy and sad at the same time, the music at once hopeful and resigned.

“You got to have friends, the feeling’s oh, so strong,” Carol sang softly off-key into her knees. “I had some friends but they’re all gone….someone came and took them away.”

“Hello.”

Carol’s head snapped up. She looked around. She didn’t know who had spoken. Rachel and Philly were still upstairs.

“Hello there,” came the voice again.

Carol stood, shakily, and walked around the corner to the other section of the cellar. She stopped and stared. A young girl was in the middle of the floor. She wore a long pink nightgown. Her long dark hair was parted in the center; her skin was brutally pale.

“Did my mother say you could come down here?” asked the girl softly.

Carol’s brows furrowed. “Your mother?”

“No one comes down here but her. Not even my father.” The girl took in a long, silent breath then let it out. One hand moved to her hair. The arm trailed a strange, ethereal blue light. “He doesn’t want to catch the fever. He works to support our family.”

“Oh.”

The girl’s face lit up with a pained smile. “I’ve been lonely for ever so long. Mother has let you come visit! I am so glad to have a friend!”

Carol glanced over at the wooden steps. She angled her head to listen. There was a laughing upstairs, a crash, and a door slamming. Rachel and Philly could be heard running off across the yard.

Carol looked back at the pale girl. “Who are you?”

“Bessie, silly,” said the girl. “Will you play with me? I was so very sick but am much better now.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” asked Carol.

“Me?”

“I felt you in here when I was out on the sidewalk.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

But Carol did.

Her grandmother and mother had told her she was like them, carrying in her blood and bones their own their own unique abilities, passed down, though Carol often tried to pretend it wasn’t true. She was special. She was different. Tuned in to what others weren’t. Things beyond the physical. Things of other dimensions.

Carol took several steps toward Bessie, staring at her in wonder. Bessie was not of this time. She was not flesh and blood. Something sad, something terrible, had happened to her long, long ago.

But she wanted a friend as much as Carol did.

And so they played.

Each day after school, under pretense of staying late for choral practice, Carol slipped down through the cellar window and visited Bessie. They ran about the chilly rooms for hide and seek. They skipped rope. They made up songs and riddles. Never did they touch, though. This was something Carol’s mother had told her. The two dimensions could never connect in that way. It would only lead to disaster.

For the first time in Carol’s life, she was happy. She caught herself smiling, at times even laughing. Carol drew pictures of herself and her new friend, though always tore them up so no one else would see them.

On the seventh day, when Carol and Bessie were in the middle of a game of hopscotch, they heard footsteps upstairs, and deep voices.

“Shh,” said Carol.

“Who is that?” asked Bessie.

“I don’t know.”

The girls stood and listened. A man’s voice. A woman’s. Little girl’s voices. The man said, “I’d love to buy this old place. It’s fantastic.”

The woman replied, “Let’s take some photos.”

Carol backed toward the window, her eyes locked on the wooden steps. “I have to go,” she whispered.

Bessie shook her head. “No! Don’t go away. Stay here with me.”

“I can’t.”

“But you can! If you hold my hand you can stay here forever! Those people up there will never know. We’ll play oh, so quietly!”

Bessie extended one pale, thin arm toward Carol. Carol gazed at her only friend. Bessie was right, of course. If Carol touched her she would be changed; she would be like Bessie.

Forever.

Carol looked up at the sunlit sky outside the cellar window. A ladybug landed on the pane, crawled about then took off again. Carol looked back at Bessie in the dim light of the cellar, at the low ceiling and filthy, uneven floor covered in broken glass and old papers.

Then she scrambled up and out through the window. On her hands and knees she turned to peer once more into the cellar. Bessie had backed up against the cold brick wall, her hands folded, her head down. A sparkling tear trickled down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, Bessie. I’m so sorry.”

She raced around to the front yard, down to the street, and home.

I Am Not My Smell

The moon is a chalk rock, hanging in the sky in the black of the night and the blue of the day. It is there because it has room there; it is comfortable there. The moon is not its light, though some would say it is. The moon is a big round body with a purpose which I don’t understand but don’t need to understand.

I am a woman with a bad foot. My foot was crushed last month by a passing car on Ocean Front Boulevard. I didn’t get out of the way fast enough and it was run over and now my foot is dying. It is purple and fat and aches when I move it. I have washed it in the salty surf when no one else was around. I have pressed on it to pass the pus but it is still dying.

The boardwalk along the beach is where I live. I scour the rusted barrels in the sand in the blue of the day and curl up under the lip of the walkway in the black of the night. I have room here, but I am not comfortable. My swollen and pounding foot smells very bad. My body is covered with old sweat from my arm pits to my ankles and new sweat from each new day, but I am not my smell. Some think I am. I am a body with a purpose which I just now understand.

Last week I found two wonderful things. One was a brand new tee-shirt in the trash outside Surf Side Souvenirs. I clawed it out before the manager chased me away and threatened to call the police. It was tight but I ripped it up the sides and pulled it on over my sleeveless blouse. The other treasure was a dog. I named him Sunshine.

A dog has never been a treasure to me before. In fact, when I first found Sunshine, I thought he was ugly and gaunt. He growled at me and snapped, but I offered him some French fries I’d found in the dumpster behind Dairy Queen, and he calmed down. And then he sniffed at a small gash in my bad foot and began to lick. This amused him, or pacified him, I’m not sure which. His ears went up and his tail began to wag. It didn’t hurt me at all. I shut my eyes, sitting there behind a beach bench on the boardwalk, and let Sunshine lick my swollen, dying foot. I squeezed on the foot, letting it drain for him. Sunshine licked. I pretended I was having a massage from the Man I Love.

As I sat, not bothering any of the vacationers, a child with a red ball cap leaned over the back of the bench and said “Mom, look. That’s gross !”

The mother, face all painted and plucked, also looked over the bench seat. Her face registered my smell and then my foot. She contorted. “Disgusting.”

I said, “In the Bible, Lazarus let the dogs at the gate lick his sores.” But the mother and child were gone already, off in a hurry down the sandy walk and they didn’t hear what I had to say.

Sunshine nipped my foot then, a love bite like cats give to their owners, and licked some more.

The dog had bonded with me, and we stayed together. I had little to feed him; I barely can keep up with the demands of my own growling belly. But we slept together and he would lick my foot and ease the heaviest of the throbbing. His hair was warmer than the grit of the ground under the boardwalk lip. He smelled, too, but a dog is not his smell. Even the richest of people know that. They laugh at a smelly dog and excuse him because they love him and because he is not his smell. He is a body with a purpose and they understand.

The Man I Love came out to the beach several days after I found Sunshine. The Man wore his yellow swim trunks and an unbuttoned red shirt that billowed in the breeze and let me see his tanned chest and black chest hair and little pink nipples. He comes to the beach once a week, on Saturdays. Therefore, I know he is a working Man. A good Man who is a sane Man. A sane man can hold a job.

I haven’t held a job for two years, since I was twenty three. Am I insane? I don’t understand insanity, or if I am insane. But I know now that I have a purpose. If sanity is purpose, then I’m sane. My purpose is dreadful, but it is as sure as the beauty of the Man I Love.

The Man I Love is sane and good. He walks with his chin up and he stretches out to the sun and sea before settling down on the rolls of beach sand. He smiles even when no one is looking at him.

I watched him from my shadows under the boardwalk, but Sunshine trotted across the hot sand and sniffed at the Man’s crotch. The Man laughed and pushed Sunshine back a little, then petted him on the head.

“What a good dog,” he said.

Sunshine wagged his tail and didn’t growl.

“If you were a little healthier,” said the Man. “I’d take you home with me. Go on, now, boy.” He petted the dog again, and Sunshine just stood and wagged his tail until the Man shed his shirt and went for a swim in the waves.

Sunshine came back to me. I sat in the shadows, my bloated foot resting on a mound of sand I’d made, and rubbed the dog’s head. The dog’s nose was wet and probing, first on my hand and then back to my foot. What a wonder to pet something the Man had pet.

As I ran my rough fingers through the dog’s fur, I began to understand my purpose. I began to realize why I existed.

My heart hammered, and the painful rhythm echoed in my foot.

I slept restlessly and feverishly that night. A barb was in my chest, cutting with each breath and making it feel as though blood were seeping out to my stomach. I was nauseous, but swallowed it down as I stroked Sunshine.

The next day was Sunday. A lot of people come out on Sunday, even more than Saturday. The sun, in its purpose, was bright and hot. The moon held its position at a distance. It was white and faint.

I moved along the boardwalk. My good foot was bare. My bad foot was wrapped in a rag that had once been a beach towel left behind on the sand by a careless family. Pain sang with each step, hitting high notes when the weight was on the ball of my bad foot. I sweated hard, as the heat of the infection climbed around inside me. Sunshine trotted along, hoping, I suppose, to be given more french fries or to have the chance at my foot again.

The Dairy Queen was busy. Gaily striped inflated floats were propped up against bike stands. Customers ate inside in the air conditioning and outside at the umbrella-shaded tables. I stood beyond the low chain fence, watching the people eat. Dusty sparrows fared better than I; they flew freely among the tables to gather the scraps. Vacationers watched them with smiles. But I was gawked at by those who noticed me. Their stares held me back behind the chain fence.

To the rear of the restaurant was the Dumpster. I limped around and waited until a pock-faced boy had emptied a container, then I dug inside. Sunshine sat at my feet and waited, chin up. I found some ketchup-covered buns for him. For me, there were chunks of cheeseburger and a third of an apple pie.

I went to a small tree and slid down to eat. I studied the beef beneath the bright orange varnish of cheese. A cow had its purpose. If the cow knew it, would she be distressed? Or in knowing, did a cow embrace life for what it was? The meat was cold.

As I licked grease from my fingers and Sunshine nosed into the towel to get at the fluid from my foot, I saw a flash of open white shirt. My head turned, and there, not ten feet from me, was the Man I Love. He was fumbling in his shorts pocket for his wallet. Seeing his nipples, my own grew hard. I wished I could have licked them like Sunshine licked my foot. I wanted to give them a love bite, and not have the Man push me away because of my smell.

Sunshine ran to the Man. The Man didn’t see the dog coming, and when Sunshine jumped up and wagged his tail, the Man stumbled back. Sunshine dropped down and the tail-wagging increased.

“Hey, boy, you’re back?” he said.

Sunshine’s whole body wagged. I thought, if I was the dog, could I make the man like me enough to take me home? I sucked my fingers and scratched at a sweat-inspired tickle on my stomach.

“You ugly old thing,” he said. He rubbed Sunshine vigorously beneath the gangly, whiskered chin. “What do you want from me? You’re a mess, now get away.”

Sunshine’s claws clattered on the concrete of the sidewalk, a happy dog’s dance.

“I can’t take home an old, skinny dog. Sorry, pup. Vet bills aren’t something I want to get into.”

The Man I Love squatted down and played with Sunshine’s ears. My own ears tingled, imagining the sensation. “Now get. You made my hands stink.” He laughed, sniffing his hands. Sunshine’s body wiggled with joy.

The Man left, wiping his hands on his shorts, certain to wash them once he was inside the Dairy Queen. But certain not to think the dog was bad because he had a smell.

Sunshine came back to me, sat on his haunches, and dipped his tongue to my foot. I pushed him aside and went back to the Dumpster. Beneath mangled Styrofoam, I found a half a fish sandwich. I took it to the tree, slid down, and worked my fingernail into the gash in my foot. It hurt, but the sharp, rough edge of the nail tore the gash into a substantial hole. Sunshine watched. I stuck a small piece of the meat into the hole.

“Sunshine,” I said. I pushed his nose to the hole. He sniffed, licked, and then gave my foot a bite. It was gentle at first. I gathered handsful of grass to each side of me. “Sunshine,” I said.

Sunshine licked, then bit again, this time harder. A pain that was not the pain of infection drove up through my ankle into the calf of my leg. I sucked air through my teeth. The grass in my fingers ripped from the ground. “Sunshine,” I whispered.

The dog began to chew, working for the fish in my foot. Blood and clear liquid oozed out between Sunshine’s working jaws. Bright stars prickled the edges of my vision.

Not here, I thought.

My foot jerked away from Sunshine. He whined softly, and then reached for the running wound again.

“Not here,” I said. I put the rest of the fish sandwich down the front of my tee-shirt and tucked the shirt into the waist of my shorts. Then I pushed up from the ground, holding low, thin branches of the tree for balance. My weight was on my good foot, and I was afraid to shift.

A young couple, arm-in-arm, walked by me. The girl wrinkled her nose and nudged her boyfriend. He frowned in my direction and said, “This place wants tourists, they should keep the trash out of public view.”

I wobbled; my bad foot caught the brunt of my weight.

A groan scrabbled up my throat and whistled through my lips.

It took me a very long time to walk back to the boardwalk.

The railings of the steps to the beach were hot and welcomed. They eased the burden on the bad foot and allowed me to slide down to the sand. Sunshine kept by my side. His tail didn’t wag. He was all business. That was as it should be. I crawled beneath the lip of the boardwalk, then under the steps where the sand was wet and dark and white ghost crabs scuttled about as if it were night.

I eased down onto my butt. My lips were dry and my throat full of the sand of my soul. I wedged my good foot against the back of the bottom step to hold me in place when the real pain came. I pet Sunshine on his gaunt, fur-covered dog skull, and then pulled the fish sandwich from my shirt.

Dogs, I’d heard once, had germ-killing saliva. That was why they could lick their own wounds and not get ill. That, I supposed, was why the dogs who licked Lazarus’ sores didn’t die. That was why I knew I could feed Sunshine and make him healthy, and then the Man I Love would take the dog home with him.

Through the slats of the steps, the vacationers cannot see me, but I can see them. I can see the hairy legs of the men and the shapely legs of the women as they descend to their temporary paradise by the ocean.

Happy people, oblivious to the crabs and the ugly dog and the stinking woman beneath the steps.

I poke more of the fish sandwich deep up into the gash in my foot. Sunshine nuzzles, licks, and then chews. My eyes squeeze shut against the razor-screams of my foot. I feel the hot blood rush out onto the cool sand and the rhythmic stroke and pull of the dog’s teeth.

Sunshine won’t eat all of me. He will lose interest after a bit and will go off after a Frisbee or a toddler, looking for a playmate. I saw a black and white documentary once, a long time ago. A Nazi dog chased down a Jew and mauled him, but even a trained Nazi dog did not eat a whole Jew. The Nazis had to give the man to the wild pigs to finish.

But what I give Sunshine will be plenty, more than I could ever salvage at one time in a dumpster without being chased away. And what I give him will be my end. My bleeding is profuse. Even a towel-rag could not stop it. If I wanted to stop it.

My teeth clench and I search out through the step slats for the moon. I can’t find it, but I know it is there. The chalk rock in the blue sky, the meaning of its existence a mystery.

I loosen one hand long enough to cram in more fish. My foot screams the agony of the crucified, offered for a higher purpose. Flesh rips within the canines. Then I feel the bone snap, crunch.

Sunshine will blossom and be fat and full and healthy and go home with The Man I Love. I will be part of it. I will be pet even as the dog is pet and loved even as the dog is loved. I will lick the man’s chest and pink moon-nipples even as Sunshine does.

I howl into my shoulder and grab the steps.

Sweat pours from my flesh, thick and sour. My breath on the air is that of a corpse in the grave.

But the smell of my blood is sweet.

As You Have Made Us

Their chapel is a gutted service station at the edge of the blistering city, situated between an abandoned warehouse and a lot choked with briars and detritus. They only come to pray at midnight, for that is when no one is there to stare at them or shoot them for sport.

There is nothing left to the station but four walls, a sagging roof, a restroom in the back that requires a key that has been long since lost, and a counter with a shattered glass case that once held candy, quarts of oil, and colorfully illustrated maps to places far away. The floor is covered with leaves blown in on countless winds and bits of glass or metal or cloth the worshippers leave behind as offerings. Sometimes they cut off tiny pieces of themselves, too, pieces decayed and dead, and leave those, but the vermin that scour the small building in the wee morning hours find them and clean them away, carrying the bits home as treats to their nested families.

There are teens and children, men and women, none so old as most of their kind die before they are forty. They come from the darkest, most hidden places in the city. They are the hated ones, the abandoned ones, those looked upon by the Ordinaries as less than human. They are the Discards — distorted and twisted, deformed and ravaged. Born to destitute mothers who have drugged themselves so badly that nothing whole could grow in their wombs, dumped out with the trash. Rescued by their own, one generation to the next, squirreled away and fed and kept warm as best as can be done, clothed with cast-offs, sheltered wherever shelter might be found.

Their pastor is Ryan. He is like them in many ways, thirty-four, dark-haired, jobless, homeless. His is missing an eye and one of his ears is melted down his neck. His left arm ends at the elbow at three nubbed fingers that flex poorly. He limps violently, for his right leg is twisted. Ryan sleeps on the damp earth in the cellar of an empty garage. The Discards love to hear him preach, though his sermons are short. Most of the services are dedicated to prayer and songs.

Each night, they shamble to the chapel. Ryan locks the door behind them, lights the candles. Those who have knees kneel to pray. Hands, where there are hands, rise toward the heavens. Eyes, where there are eyes, close in humble respect and penitence. Tongues, where there are tongues, recite the prayer of acceptance:

“We are as You have made us. We ask nothing but nourishment for our bellies, covering for our bodies, and darkness in which to hide. We ask that the Ordinaries find other means of entertainment than us, and that when it is our time to die, that You remember us well.”

Ryan always brings food for the service. Half-rolls, cooked potatoes and chicken scraps, lumps of cheese, mangled pastries. The Discards never ask where it comes from, the tasty and plentiful offerings, wanting to believe in at least one miracle. He would tell them he found them in bins behind diners if they asked but they don’t. They pray, listen, sing, eat, and then wander off through the shit-black shadows.

It is a cool, late September night when the new Discard comes, inching along in a wheelchair that looks like scrap from the early 20th century — scarred wood, caned backing ripped and rotting, two large wheels with one small, wobbling one in the back. He is no worse off than the others, thin, dead legs, hands twisted and skeletal, and a big hole where his right cheek should be. The bones and teeth that are visible through the hole are blackened, and his breath smells like a fire-pit that has been doused in urine. No one makes a fuss over him. They merely nod and offer him weary looks that accept him into the fold.

He rolls toward the counter where Ryan is shrugging out of his tattered coat and tells Ryan that his name is Ben. Ryan looks at him, says, “Bless you, Ben,” and then inclines his head toward an open space beside one of the benches where those who are able to sit, sit.

Ben maneuvers his chair to the assigned spot, thumping into some of the others as he goes. A woman drops down onto the bench beside him. Her head is oddly shaped, as if someone has crushed it in a vice. Her skin is scaled like that of a shedding snake. She looks at Ben and tries a smile. It is the ugliest thing Ben has ever seen, outside the Master when he is enraged.

Ben watches as the rest of the Discards find their places. He breathes in and out through the hole in his cheek as his nose is clogged. He hates this place. This station, this city, this fucking world. He grinds his stubbed molars together, recalling how much the Master wants Ryan, how much he drooled over the prospect of such a tasty morsel sucking his dick then being roasted and served on a skewer for dinner. Ben hates the Master yet must please him. To please him is to suffer less. To not please him is to suffer profoundly. Ben shivers, as much from fear as from cold. He is always cold.

And now, added to the cold, a damned headache. It started the moment he got inside the station, hurting like someone digging at his brain with a nail. He’s not sure if it’s the Master’s doing. It might just be the shitty air inside this shitty place, unfiltered through the shitty hole in his face, the fucked-up face of the fucked-up body the Master gave him for this task.

A one-legged devil walks into a bar, lookin’ for a good, stiff whiskey…

The Master never appreciates Ben’s jokes. He has no sense of humor at all. Yet Ben can’t help it. He was always a joker before, always quick and witty in hopes of a laugh, and can’t help himself now. He offers puns or wisecracks or stupid stories, hoping someday to make the Master like him more. Hate him less. Whatever.

Ben crosses his arms, hard. The chair creaks beneath him.

The prayers begin, then the songs. There is nothing melodic about the wailings of the twisted creatures, and it’s all Ben can do to keep from putting his hands over his ears. It makes his head hurt worse. He pretends to sing and pray, as well, moving his jaw, waggling the stubby tongue the Master gave him.

The service lasts several excruciating hours. At some time during Ryan’s speech about earthy temporals and eternal peace, some of the Discards begin to scrape at themselves and drop pieces of flesh on the floor. Ben knew they did this, had been told by the Master, but seeing it makes his gorge rise. Ryan says nothing, as if he doesn’t notice, doesn’t mind, or has some strange understanding of the acts. Some of the Discards wriggle in place, working out sounds and smells that cause Ben to tuck his nose under his elbow. The place grows hot and thick with the stink of blood, diarrhea, and resignation.

What do you get when you cross the devil, an angel, and a politician…?

Another joke that fell flat.

Ba-dump-bum.

At long last Ryan raises his good hand and offers the final benediction. The Discards who are down push themselves up. Those who are up push themselves forward, and, silently, they eat the food Ryan has spread out on the countertop. No one speaks, but they nod their thanks then wander away. Several hold hands as if they are lovers, or friends, or are just afraid they might tip and fall over. The rest keep their distance from each other. Out of fear or respect, Ben can’t quite tell.

Not that they matter.

It’s Ryan who matters to the Master. It is Ryan who has the Master’s tongue and loins tingling in delicious anticipation. If Ben can’t please the Master with humor, he’ll please him with obedience.

The last Discard, a child who looks more simian than human, blows out the candles in the windowsill by the door.

Then there are only Ben and Ryan in the shadowed station.

Ben sits in silence, rubbing his temple, trying to press out the pain in his head. Ryan stands at the counter, gathering the plastic trays, wiping off the crumbs. For all his hideous deformity, Ryan moves with a certain grace that pisses Ben off. It’s all for show, though. Certainly Ryan knows Ben is sitting there, watching him. And so Ryan has to play his part as long as there are eyes…or eye…to see. When he leaves this place, he tries to get himself drunk with left over puddles of beer found in bottles on the side of the road, and then he jacks off into the empty bottles, breaks the bottles, and proceeds to cut his legs with the shards. He hates himself more than any person has ever hated himself, so says the Master. And the Master should know. He watches. He sees. He hears. He tastes the fear and the angst within the human race, and he savors it all.

“So…” begins Ben.

Ryan looks up from the trash bag where he’s secured the plastic trays, ready to drag them back home to use again tomorrow night.

“How can I help you, Ben?”

“Actually, I was just wondering how I could help you.” Ben replies. The words sound hissy without a cheek to help hold in the air and fashion the sound. Couldn’t the Master have given him a body that wasn’t quite so pathetic? One that at least had an intact face? “Seems nobody else is willing to hang around long enough to ask.”

“Yeah, well.”

Ryan slings the bag over his shoulder and limps from behind the counter. He looks like Santa in a child’s worst nightmare.

Santa, Ben thinks suddenly. Poor little Julie was scared of Santa, even a smiling Santa in his white beard and red suit. I tried to tease her, to make her laugh so she wouldn’t be scared. It didn’t work too good but I tried….

He shakes his pained head and clenches his jaws. The last thing he needs are memories of Julie. “Master, don’t make me think of her, not now,” he whispers.

“What’d you say?” asks Ryan.

“Nothin,” says Ben. “I’ll get the door.”

The night air is a bit fresher than that inside the station, scented with wet leaves and exhaust. Ben struggles with the chair; why he had to be this crippled to do the job is beyond him. His head continues to pound. The wheels snag in deep gravel, and Ryan reaches over to takes the chair handles to wriggle Ben free. Ben is caught immediately by the heat roiling off Ryan, pouring from his body in waves. Clearly, the man has some kind of sickness. Ben holds his breath until Ryan steps away; a knee-jerk reaction, left over from the days when he was alive and catching someone else’s disease was a thing to avoid.

Ryan then says, “See ya, Ben,” and turns north to head into the deeper bowels of the city. His strides are lopsided and wretched, though he picks up a good speed. Ben stares after, then calls, “Hey!” He shoves the heels of his hands against the wheels and, with great effort, chases after Ryan. It’s harder steering the thing than he would have imagined. When he reaches Ryan, he is panting.

“What do you want?” Ryan doesn’t seem angry, just tired, distracted.

Ben makes sure he stays at least five feet from the preacher. The man’s body heat is still detectable. “Listen. I got a couple bucks in my pocket. How about a beer?”

“Beer?”

“Yeah, you know. Bud. Miller. Corona. A beer?”

“I know what a beer is.”

“Well?”

One of Ryan’s brows furrows; the one over the bad eye looks paralyzed. Then he says, “If it’s on you, okay. I’m flat broke. But you sure you want to be seen in public? The rest prefer their privacy. This is a dangerous city, especially for us. Ordinaries have little patience with Discards.”

Ben cringed at the name. He was no more a Discard than he was God. He was what he was, a dead, joke-cracking fuck-up who’d gone to hell for living a miserable life he’d pretty much forgotten after seventeen years. Now he spends all his time just trying to humor and please the Master, trying to keep him off his back, trying to keep hell’s tortures to a minimum. “I’ll be all right. Where’s the nearest store?”

The nearest store is up a couple blocks past empty tenements, some closed junk shops, and several bars with blacked-out windows. The store is half the width of a typical shop, with only enough room to squeeze down the narrow aisle between the counter and the single row of shelves. Unable to fit inside, Ben watches from the street as Ryan limps in with the wad of bills Ben has given him and selects a six-pack. The guy at the counter — old, white hair, sneers — growls, “Didn’ I tell you damned freaks to stay out of my shop?” until he sees the money in Ryan’s hand. Then he shuts up.

A freak preacher walks into a store to buy some beer… Ben can’t think of a punch line for this one. Later, maybe.

Ryan comes out with the six-pack, stands holding it in the puss-yellow light that leaks from the shop’s door. Just looking at Ryan makes Ben’s head hurt all the more. That damned ear and screwed up eye. The arm that looks like it should belong to some freaky doll. He tries not to let his discomfort show.

“So, where you live?” asks Ben, though he knows. The Master has shown him all he needs to know, told him all he needs to hear. In won’t take long to toss out the hook and reel this one in.

Ryan says, “Not too far.” The way he says it lets Ben know that Ryan’s ability to keep up the kindly minister act is waning fast. He’s tired. He’s starting to sound irritated.

The devil was sitting on a tombstone one afternoon, waiting for the next soul to come along….wait, you’ve heard this one? Shit…

The empty garage is a dung-hole, that’s certain, situated at the back of a small, ruptured parking lot. The faded sign, “Martin’s Auto Repairs,” has long been down off the top of the building and is propped up against the front wall. Ryan hobbles on, over the potholes and briars, the beer case thwapping against his leg. He glances both ways before pushing through the door of the garage. Ben follows with effort, grimacing, his brain rattling in his skull.

The place still smells of the work that had been done here years earlier. Sweat and oil and gasoline and cold metal. Yet it is as hollow and forlorn as the service station where the Discards go to pray.

Ryan opens a small door near the back and descends the narrow steps. Without looking back he says, “Shut the door behind you, and flick the lock.”

Ben sits in his chair at the top of the stairs and glares down. He shivers hard, so cold not only in this forsaken place but cold beneath his flesh. “How the hell…” he begins, but Ryan calls up, “Just crawl down. It’s not that far.”

Fuckedy-fuck! Ben thinks. He has to keep with his charge, but now he’ll be even more gimped. Again, the Master is having him on, somewhere out there in the darkness, enjoying Ben’s misery.

What do you get when you cross a hole-faced, sluggish mutant with a set of cellar steps? One big splat at the bottom, that’s what.

Rim shot…

He shivers hard inside his skin.

Thump-thump-thump-thump. The rough wood of the steps scrapes the palms of his hands, leaving countless, needle-sharp splinters. His ass bounces heavily, his dead legs trailing at odd angles. He works hard not to lose himself and become the splat, the butt of his own stupid joke.

No candles in the cellar, only two battery-powered camping lanterns. It’s hard to see at first, and Ben’s eyes adjust only partly. There is a cot in a corner. A pile of blankets on the floor. Windows up near the ceiling, covered in wire mesh.

As he slops off the bottom step, he is hit in the face with the stuffy heat in the room. It’s like someone has turned a radiator way up. It’s Ryan’s sickness, whatever it is.

Shit on it all.

Ryan sits on the cot and rubs his knees with his good hand. Then he snatches a beer bottle from the carton on the floor and twists off the top with his teeth. Ben finds this mildly impressive.

“Your place sucks,” says Ben.

“You shut and lock the door?”

“No, I couldn’t. You know I couldn’t.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Ryan. His voice is softer now, drained, weakened. He’s almost ready for my offer. This shouldn’t take long. Good!

“Hey, Ryan,” says Ben. The pain in his head flares again. He grunts through his teeth.

“What?”

Ben drags his sorry body across the concrete floor toward the cot, over a damp drain hole in the center, through several dried and flattened mouse carcasses. “How long you been livin’ here?”

“A while.”

“You always been like….that? All messed up?”

Ryan shrugs. “Why?”

“Born that way?” Ben cocks his head, and the jaunty motion, meant to display cocky confidence, only makes the pain worse. He pretends it doesn’t. “How do you say it in that prayer? ‘We are as you have made us?’”

“Why do you want to know, Ben?”

“All that shit you talk about to the other…Discards. Telling them to accept how they are. Are you fucking kidding me? Are you fucking brain damaged? I know you hate the way you are, the way they are, hell, the way I am right now. Look at me. A bag of human garbage on your floor! Could it get any worse?”

Ryan takes another swig of the beer. “Could it?”

Ben arranges his legs beneath him and pulls a beer from the carton. It’s so very hot near Ryan, like being too close to a bonfire. He fumbles with the bottle but his hands are sweaty and he can’t get a grip on it; Ryan takes it, opens it, gives it back.

Ben scoots away from Ryan and the man’s body heat, clutching the bottle. He takes a draw; some goes down his throat but the rest trickles out through his cheek-hole. The brew is wet and cool, but doesn’t taste as good as he remembers from his living days. Or maybe the Master has decided his crappy tongue should have crappy taste buds. He drinks the rest hard and fast, tilting his head to get it down, draining the bottle in just moments.

“Why’d you follow me home, Ben?” Ryan has finished his beer and he drops the bottle onto the floor. It falls over and rolls toward the drain hole, clack-clack-clack, past Ben and through the dead mice.

“You don’t believe the crap you tell those monsters,” says Ben. “I know you don’t. You only do what you do because there is nothing else for you to do. Pretend it’s not so bad. Pretend you…they…are as they are because of some kind of fucking divine intention? Do you ever look at yourself? Do you ever listen to yourself? It’s like watching a bad comedian on the stage, dying with every joke. You’re pathetic! Well, my friend, I’m here to turn your sorry life around.”

Ryan reaches for another beer bottle but what Ben has said makes him pause. His good eye blinks. He paws at his melted ear with his stubbed fingers. It looks as if he is now trembling, ever so slightly.

Good. This is good. I’ve got him now.

Ben tries to sit up as straight and tall as he can for a man on the floor with bum legs. He needs to appear confident, in charge. Pain continues to pulse back and forth beneath his skull. The sooner he gets this done, the sooner he can get out of here. The Master will have his hands otherwise full with others he is tormenting, and will leave Ben alone for a while.

“It can be different, you know,” says Ben. He glances about, sees a floor-length mirror nailed to one of the damp walls. It is covered for the most part with a ratty, mildewed bath towel. He drags himself over to it, panting, catches his breath, then gestures. “If I pull down this towel, you’ll see what I see. You’ll see what the world sees. You’ll see something no one in her or his right mind could care for. You’ll see why people in the city take potshots at you when they get to feelin’ feisty. You’ll see why nobody would ever come close to you, let alone touch you, Ryan. As He made you? You mean God? He made you a piece of shit, a cosmic joke, that’s what.”

“I don’t need to look.”

“Yeah, you really do.” Ben starts feeling a bit better, now that he’s into the job and through with the small talk. He yanks the towel away and watches as Ryan considers himself in the mirror. He can’t quite read the expression, but it certainly isn’t one of joy.

“When was the last time you got it on?” Ben asks.

Ryan coughs, doesn’t answer. He reaches for another beer, cracks off the top, swigs, burps, takes another drink. He gazes again at the mirror.

“Did you ever get it on with something other than your hand, Ryan? Ever get some real juicy pussy? Pussy with a smile? Free, willing pussy? Not one you had to be buyin’, Ryan?”

Ryan says nothing.

“You know, you could be a good-looking guy, if you wanted to be. Time to step up and take your golden ticket, boy. Time to claim what you deserve. And I’ve got it for you.”

Ryan looks away, up toward one wire-covered window. “Cover the mirror, Ben.”

“No, no, look again, Ryan. See what you are, and let me show you what you can be.”

“I don’t want to.” The voice is very soft now. The one eye appears sad. Ben’s spiel is working.

“Seriously, look again.” Ben pats the mirror. “Do you see yourself as you can be? I see it. So can you. Look, right there in the mirror! Tall, straight, whole man, handsome, confident! This could be you. Women will want you, fucking throw themselves in your direction! You’ll be sought after to work for companies who want an enigmatic, entracing front man with just that right look. You’ll make money. You’ll be rich. You’ll be more powerful than you could have ever imagined. You’ll never have to live like this again; hell, you’ll never have to think about this part of your life again.”

Ryan struggles up from the cot and limps toward the mirror. As he gets closer, a wave of heat rockets off the man and catches Ben in the face like a slap. Ben wobbles, feels himself losing his balance even as he is sitting on the floor. What is wrong with Ryab? Why is he so goddamned hot?

But Ben keeps talking. He has to. No choice. Get it done. Get it done! “Just say the word, Ryan. Just say your soul isn’t worth that much to you, anyway. Offer it up. An easy trade. Crappy soul for a perfect, flawless, incredible life.”

Ryan is closer now, glancing back and forth between the mirror and Ben. The heat from the man is blistering. The hair on Ben’s head crisps. His skin reddens. He scoots away. Sweat pours down his check, neck, arms, and buttocks in slick, salty waves. His heart pounds.

“Just say the words, Ryan!” Ben manages, his tongue baked dry. “Just say, ‘I want to be handsome, I want to be rich, I want to be out of this body. I give my worthless soul for such a treasure!’ Say it, Ryan! And I promise you, you’ll start living your new life!”

Ryan stops a few feet from the mirror. Then he looks at Ben and smiles for the first time. The smile is unexpected.

Relaxed.

Peaceful.

Ben is pissed and scared. “What are you smiling about? Are you taking the deal or not?” He can barely breathe now; the heat burns his eyes and nose and the hole in his face. “Shit, what is wrong with you? Do you know who I am?”

“Who are you, Ben?” asks Ryan. The voice is different now. It isn’t tired. It isn’t drunk. It’s calm, steady. Terrifying. Commanding.

“I’m a representative of the Master! Don’t fuck with me!”

“What Master?”

Ben blinks, swallows a gulp of stagnant air. “The Master! The Dark One! The Lord of Eternal Torment!”

Ryan chuckles softly. “There is no such thing, Ben.”

“Of course there is!” Ben scoots back even farther, slamming up against the cinderblock wall. “Wait! No, no, oh shit, wait! Are you him? Disguising yourself? Are just screwing with me because you can? I was trying to do what you wanted me to do! Don’t hurt me anymore! Please!”

“I’m not going to hurt you, Ben.”

“You’ve said that before! You lie! You’re the Master of Lies!”

“You’re mistaken,” says Ryan. “Now I ask you again. Who are you?”

Ben drives the heels of his hands against the floor, as if he could get away by sliding up the wall. The heat continues to stream off Ryan. Ben is certain it will soon melt his skin away.

“Who are you, Ben?” Ryan repeats kindly.

“I’m dead, I’m one of the dead! One of the cursed!”

“Why do you think you’re cursed?”

“Fuck you, Ryan!”

“Why, Ben?”

“I killed my daughter, okay? She was twelve. I was drunk, drove my new convertible into a tree. I…I…” Ben closes his eyes. He does not want to think of it, to remember it.

“Tell me, Ben,” says Ryan.

“Fine! Fuck, you want to know? She smashed into the windshield. Split her head wide open. And I left her there to die! I blamed everybody but myself! The guy who sold me the car. The man who sold me the goddamned beers. I blamed Julie, for God’s sake, for begging me to let her have a ride! Fuck me, right? Three days later I killed myself, still blaming everyone else. So I went to hell. Now I do whatever the Master tells me to do. I’m one of his groveling, obedient minions. He torments us. He torments me! Sometimes I get out to claim a soul, and if I’m successful he gives me a little break. But then he’s back to the tortures. But…but…you know all that! You’re him!”

“I’m not him.”

“You are! I can feel it! You’re hot like the eternal flames they told us about when we were kids! Hot like the lake of fire!”

“You say you’re in hell?”

“Hell yeah, I’m in hell!”

“And you mentioned eternal flames? The lake of fire?”

“Yeah! All that Biblical crap!”

“Then why do you feel so cold all the time?”

“I….what?”

“If hell is fire, why are you cold all the time?”

“Shit, why’d the chicken cross the road? Why’d the angel buy an umbrella? Why’d the devil rob the barbershop? I don’t know! Who really knows anything?”

Ryan nodded gently. “Think about this, Ben. When those who are frozen come close to something that is warm, they hurt. They feel the warmth as painful, as if it were fire.”

“Shut the fuck up, Ryan! My head aches! I’m burning up! Leave me alone!”

“Look at yourself in the mirror, Ben.”

“No!…Why?”

“Just look.”

The voice is so certain, so authoritative, Ben finds himself reluctantly dragging his body back across the floor to the mirror.

“What do you see, Ben?”

Ben stares into the reflective glass. He sees himself as he was when he was alive. Ruddy-skinned, healthy, whole. Not handsome but not the worst looking of mankind, either.

“What do you see?”

“Fuck you.”

“What do you see?”

“Me. As I was. You know that, though, don’t you?”

As Ben stares at his reflection in the glass, something stirs from behind it. It rises deep and dark, a silhouette of ominous shape. No clear features but a perfect and terrifying darkness, stretching out with arms that end in clawed fingers, a head huge with nubs that lengthen upward into pointed horns. Then, punctuating the darkness, two coal-red eyes and white, razor-sharp teeth.

“There!” shrieks Ben. “There! See him? He’s there! He’s coming for me! I didn’t do my job! Can’t you just let me have your stupid soul?” He spins about on his ass to face Ryan.

Ryan continues to smile, patiently, kindly.

“He’s there!” Ben cries. “In the mirror! Look!”

“You want him to be there, so he is. Just a reflection of what you think should be there.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Who are you, Ben?”

“I already told you!”

“You don’t really know. You haven’t figured it out.”

“Figured out what?”

“You are Ben. You are as I have made you. Free to do wrong, free to do right. I have to admit, though, you’ve tangled yourself up pretty bad. You couldn’t wrap yourself around the terrible thing you did, figured you could never be forgiven, so what the hell, you up and put yourself in hell. Peopled with all the crap you believed, even hoped, would be there. The Master. The tortures. The demands. The horrors you’ve faced. The pathetic chores, trying to steal souls. This twisted body you gave yourself for this, your latest, unnecessary venture.”

“No! All that was real! It all is real!”

“You wanted them to be real. It’s been your death-dream. You never stole a soul from anyone.”

“I did too!”

“Did not.”

“Did too!”

Ryan chuckles. He crosses his arms. His nubbed fingers grip his elbow. “Time to get warm again, Ben. We can take it slow, if you want.”

Ben recoils. “Listen to me. Just shut up and hear me out! The Master told me all about you, Ryan. He told me where you preached, and there you were! He told me where you lived, and here you are! It wasn’t just lucky guesses!”

“I made those suggestions to you, and you assumed it was your Master talking. You were so into the hell game with all those self-imposed rules and expectations. But you’ve played at it long enough. It was time you and I had a little talk. Face to face.”

“Who are you?” Ryan wails. Then he stops. He shakes his head. He stares.

“Oh, Christ.”

Ryan laughs lightly. “Not this time. Just Ryan.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Shit…just look at you!”

“I know. A bit dramatic.”

“So you really aren’t a preacher?”

Ryan just smiles.

“Who are all those others? The Discards?”

“Some are angels in human form, here to help me out. Others, they’re truly as they are. As I have made them. Good people. Perfect. Innocent.”

“You preached to them as a person, what, for months already? And what about them now? You’ll go off and leave them alone?”

“Don’t worry. I’ve got it covered. One of the angels’ll take over. And I’ll be watching and listening, of course.”

Ben’s fists, which were clenched, begin to loosen. He licks his lips, runs his tongue along the hole in his cheek. “You put on this whole scenario just for me?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t you think you’ve put yourself in hell long enough?”

“I…” Ben mind crashes back to the wreck, his drunken stupor, how he’d crawled out of the car and ran away, thinking if he didn’t see his daughter dying then she surely couldn’t be dying. But she was. And she did. Thinking he could not have done what he did. But he had. Julie, the little girl scared of Santa. The older girl who loved every stray dog that ever came along. The almost-a-teen, excited because her father had just bought a brand new yellow convertible. The kid who knew nothing of drunks and idiocy and irresponsibility. Reduced by his pathetic defenses and denials that he took his own life to escape. Ben begins to weep.

“You okay, Ben?”

“I’m….I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry for what I did. I’m so goddamned fucking sorry! What I did was horrible! The worst!”

“It was.”

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Ryan nods. “I know.”

Ben clenches his skeletal fists. “Oh, God, Julie, forgive me! Please forgive me!”

“That’s all we wanted to hear. Now come here.”

“No! I can’t! You’re too hot!”

“You’re warming up already.”

“I can’t!”

“Come here. It’ll be fine.”

Ben wipes tears and snot from his face, and slowly, hesitantly, scoots over to Ryan, his hands palming the uneven flooring, his twisted legs scraping out behind him like thin, fleshy contrails. He feels Ryan’s intense heat licking his skin, but as he gets closer and bears into it, it eases. When he reaches Ryan’s feet, there is only warmth.

“See?” asks Ryan.

“Yeah. Wow.”

“You ready to shed that skin of yours? It’s really just an illusion, anyway.”

“I guess.”

Ben looks down at the floor. He sighs. All this, all he’s been through, his imagination. His spirit wrangling itself, punishing itself.

He looks up.

There, hovering over him, standing where Ryan had stood, is the Master. Dark, cold, red-eyed and claw-handed, snarling and stinking of ash and sulfur. Ben shrieks and covers his face and wails.

“Ben, I’m kidding with you!”

Ben looks up again. Ryan is there once more, a sheepish smile on his distorted face. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Not funny?”

“Damn! No, not funny!”

“Okay, okay. I apologize. But dealing with sin and death and life and eternity, sometimes you can appreciate a sense of humor. You know that. You’re pretty funny yourself. You crack me up sometimes. All those jokes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I like that.”

Ben feels the corners of his mouth tug into a small smile.

“Hold still now,” said Ryan. He reaches out and touches Ben’s forehead, and in that instant Ben finds himself standing straight and steady. His headache is gone. He is warm. And Ryan is no longer in the Ryan body, but is transformed into Light.

“Just don’t tease me like that anymore, okay?” Ben asks.

“I won’t. I promise,” says God. He reaches for Ben’s hand. Ben’s fears fall away. “I love you. And I never break my promises. Oh, and did you hear the one about the one-legged devil who went into the car wash, looking for a whiskey?”

“Yeah. I made that one up.”

“Oh, that’s right. That was good…really good! Got a big chuckle out of that. Glad to have you back, Ben. Glad to have you back.”

Sneak Preview

SINEATER

The Bram Stoker Award-Winning Novel

PROLOGUE

1979

The young boy stands by his mother’s bed, watching her scream.

Beside the boy is his younger sister, a tiny blond-haired five-year-old. The little girl’s pale hair is plastered to her cheeks with tears and sweat. Her eyes are tightly closed. They wince with each scream. It is mid-June, and the room is hot and wet like a soaked wool blanket.

At the foot of the bed, sitting on a kerosene can, is the teenaged midwife. Her name is Jewel Benshoff. Jewel’s eyes are nearly closed, too. The boy knows she does not want to be in this room; she does not want to be birthing the child who is soon to come. The boy’s own fear terrifies him. But the midwife’s fear excites him.

Curry Barker, the seven-year-old boy, the oldest of the two children, does not close his eyes. It is his duty to watch his mother. She said a new baby was the family’s business, and it was not a private thing. Curry can see his mother’s private things, though. They are splayed out between her spread legs, hairy and gaping and red. He makes himself look at them, and at the blood and wetness running out onto the mattress.

Curry’s mother screams into the dishrag clamped in her teeth. She bucks her shoulders. Her fingers slash the air. Mottled, leaf-stained sunlight from the cabin window patterns her face. The rest of the room is dark, the walls of black wood and pitch. The mother’s feet flex in the darkness, then draw up and push out violently. She takes a breath, a moment of silence, allowing faint goat bleats to be heard from outside. Then she screams again. The sound is loud and long, a throaty wail that rattles the bed frame.

Birthing is a family matter. Curry is there. His sister, Petrie, is there.

But, of course, the father is not there.

“Feel it coming!” cries the mother around the rag.

Curry clamps his teeth down. His eyes want to shut but he makes them stay open, and they sting. He watches the place between his mother’s legs for it to come. The blood reminds him of the blood of the chickens he kills for the family meals; of the fresh, stinking blood of the deer his mother is teaching him to hunt. The white of the mattress makes him think of the white muscle of the stripped oak branches his mother is training him to form into simple baskets. Jewel’s bloodied, grasping fingers make him think of the hands of the damned in the lake of fire of the Bible, reaching out for pity and salvation.

Curry’s father’s hands would be eternally damned if Curry were not alive. Curry’s father, Avery, is the sineater. Curry knows he was born to keep Avery from God’s holy and terrible burning lake when he dies.

Petrie squeaks, a muffled scream. Curry gives her a stem look, and then looks back at his mother.

“Push,” says Jewel.

Curry’s mother growls with the pain. “I feel… ,” she begins, and then cries out with the contraction.

Jewel frees the heels, and her trembling hands reach between the thick, vein-marbled legs. A slick black mass appears at the opening. The mother’s feet rise slightly, the toes spread and clutching, then fall back to the mattress.

Petrie utters a loud gasp of fear. Curry takes her firmly by the arm. “You hush now,” he whispers.

“Mama’s dying!”

“I’ll slap you you don’t hush,” says Curry. “She ain’t gonna die. And if she do, Avery will send her to heaven.”

Petrie wails louder then, and Curry drives his palm against her cheek. Petrie chokes, shudders, and falls silent, wiping the red spot on her face.

“You got to push now,” the midwife says. The mother strains and grunts.

“Coming!” screams the mother on the bed. Jewel shudders visibly. Curry feels blood rush the veins of his hands, and cold rush the skin over his skull. If Mama died having this baby, Avery would have to come and send her to heaven. Curry and Petrie would have to put food on her chest. They would have to turn away to the wall while the sineater came in, ravenous with hunger, slobbering and seething with the heat of sin. He would eat up the food. Curry wonders if sineater’s drool is poisonous.

Jewel’s hands cup about the baby’s head.

“Now!” the mother barks into the rag. She bends at the waist, her face rising toward the midwife like a phantom in the shadowed room. Wet baby shoulders jump out. A rank, rich smell of blood and fluids hits Curry in the face. He gasps.

The mother twists herself back and forth, as if trying to shake the baby free. “Now!” she screams again, and the dishrag is spit into the air. She grunts hoarsely and slams her fists into the bulge of her belly.

The baby shoots out, red, gummy face squashed and silent. The midwife quickly folds it within a white scrap of flannel, then snips and ties the cord. The baby squeaks once, weakly. Jewel puts it onto the bed between the mother’s legs and leans over to press the mother’s stomach to help the afterbirth along. She begins to hum a Jesus song. Curry has heard his mother sing this song. She sings it when she is afraid. She sings it late at night when there is no wake and she knows Avery will come home to eat supper alone in the kitchen after everyone has gone to bed.

“Mama?” says Petrie. Her hands are clasped together as if she were trying to pray.

“It’s all done now, Petrie,” says the mother. She seems to sink into the mattress, her voice faint and small. She sighs and slowly licks her lips. It seems as if she is trying to lick away the spots of sunlight. “So what we got then?” she asks the midwife.

Jewel says, “Boy.”

There is a long silence. Curry tries to see the baby, but it is covered in the cloth. “A boy.” The mother’s words are soft now, the abating pain edged with wonder. “His name is Joel.”

“Joel,” says Petrie.

“Curry,” says the mother. “Is Avery outside?”

Curry’s mouth goes dry. He has to work his jaw in order to speak.

“I think he’s near the mailbox, Mama.” Curry’s father is the sineater; he knows when to be where he needs to be. About an hour ago, Curry had gone out to the porch with Petrie to bring in an armload of towels from the bench. Down in the deep shadows, something had moved. Something huge, thick, and dark.

The sineater.

“Call to him, then. Tell him it’s a boy.”

Curry’s heart tries to turn inside out. It scrapes against his ribs, and he digs his fingers against his chest through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. He doesn’t want to call out to the sineater. He didn’t know he was going to have to say something to the sineater. It is too dangerous.

“Curry, what’s matter with you? I say, go now.”

“Mama, I don’t want to,” Curry says. The family has little to do with the sineater. Curry, Petrie, and Lelia are to be asleep on nights when the sineater comes to eat his meal. The family is to be hiding in bedrooms, clinging to the blanket of night’s oblivion when Avery Barker has no wake to attend, and takes his midnight supper in the cabin’s small kitchen. Curry doesn’t want to call out to the sineater.

Petrie rubs her fist under her running nose.

The mother coughs. “Give me the baby,” she says to Jewel. “Give Joel to me.” And to Curry, “You hear me, boy?”

Curry watches as his mother puts the baby under her chin and strokes its ugly wrinkled face. The baby has dark hair like his mother. It is still for a moment then it flails its legs suddenly, loosening itself from the white flannel. It startles itself and begins to cry.

Petrie reaches out and touches the thin baby arm.

Curry’s teeth fight each other, making scraping noises in his ear.

Then he says, “Yes, Mama.”

Jewel draws herself up on the kerosene can and tucks her face down as if the sineater is going to come into the room with her. Curry grits his teeth, then goes out of the bedroom and down the short hall to the kitchen. Petrie’s baby kitten, found with its dead mother several weeks ago down by West Path when Curry went to look for may apples, lies in its wooden box near the stove.

Curry puts his hand on the door to pull it open. He does not want to call to the sineater. What if your voice carries your soul?

Mama would not ask him if it were dangerous. Mama knows what to do.

What if your soul comes out when you scream? What if it comes out and the sineater sucks it up?

Mama would not make him do something dangerous. He thinks for a second that Jewel Benshoff should have to call to Avery. Her soul didn’t matter as much as Curry’s, because he would have to be sineater when Avery died. Jewel is only a midwife.

Curry pulls the door open. He steps one step out onto the porch. He digs his fingers into his hurting chest, where his heart waits to see what he will do. He puts his other hand to his mouth. The fingers cup. He calls, “It’s a boy!”

The words fly down the stone walkway toward the trees and the mailbox and what hides in the seething summer shadows. He feels a hot wind whip back up the walkway, like a stinking, devil’s belch.

And before Curry can feel or hear more, he slams the door and throws himself against the safety of the sturdy wood, panting.

1990

PART ONE

JOEL AND LELIA

1

“You trust me, don’t you boy?”

Jesus, the boy thinks. She’s crazy. I knew it. He moves his head a little, and hears ringing in his skull. He thinks he is drugged, but his mind is too numb to decide.

“Don’t you, Burke?”

Faces shift behind the woman’s voice. A nameless Brother, a nameless Sister.

“Burke, if you don’t trust me, this will be in vain. I want to care for you. Your mama and daddy entrusted me to this. I promised I would do what was necessary. We’re of the same flesh…”

Burke tries to clear his throat. The sound burrs in his ears, a worthless distraction.

“…and the same spirit.”

Burke looks over the woman’s shoulders at the Sister and Brother.

Then he tries to focus again on his Aunt Missy. He does not understand her. He knows little of God except for what he has been told since he moved here. His own mama and daddy never spoke of God, so Burke does not know if they believed or not. Burke senses that there is indeed a peculiar love for him here. And yet, it bounces off him, reflected like a dull light from the mirror shard that is his heart. He had no love at his other home, and cannot fathom if what Aunt Missy offers now is good or bad.

“Listen to me, boy. Remember. Have you forgotten all I’ve told you?”

Burke shakes his head.

“What then? Tell me.”

Burke blinks and tries his mouth. His tongue is fat and dead. He cannot make words come out.

“It’s the evil come home to us here in Beacon Cove, Burke. Those what live here are trampling on our holy traditions. They chew them up and spit them into the mouth of Satan. Now Satan’s mouth is waiting to have us.”

Burke’s gaze moves from Aunt Missy to the wrapped bundle she holds to her like a dead newborn. He knows what is in the bundle. He tries to lick his lips, but whatever is in his veins will not let him.

“You got to see it, Burke. You got to know what is out there, and what you must be vigilant against so you’re safe.”

Burke nods faintly. There is rampant sin, Missy has told him. It is settling and growing thick like sludge on a boiling pot. Many will suffer the sin. Many will be crushed under its weight. But those of the light will be spared.

Those with the sign of the Light. The mark of God.

No, Burke has not forgotten what he’s been told. And now, Aunt Missy’s hand is outstretched, offering to hold him above the sin around him. She is crazy for what she is about to do, she has scared him, and she loves him. Burke cannot make his hand move to hers.

“Burke,” says Aunt Missy. Burke cannot answer. “Repeat me, boy.”

The Brother and Sister drop to their knees. They fold their hands.

“Lord God of creation!” Missy says to the air above Burke’s head.

“Lord God of creation,” say the Brother and Sister.

Burke says, “Of creation.”

“Sin has found our neighbors and friends. Sin has crept in and made them unclean.”

The Sister and Brother repeat. Burke says, “Unclean.”

“And now the sin of them what die,” Missy says.

“Die,” Burke manages.

“Is consumed in deadly excess by the sineater.”

“Sineater,” says Burke.

“Protect us from the sin come back to harm us. Protect us from the sineater.”

Burke tries to focus on his aunt. The rim of his vision swims.

“Sineater,” he says.

“Give me your arm,” says Missy. The Brother and Sister stand up, two solemn and silent specters. “Burke, it’s time.”

Satan’s mouth will open wider and wider, Aunt Missy has said.

Burke knows that without the mark of God, he will fall into that maw. But he is also afraid of the mark of God because he knows it will hurt.

“You are all I have now that Patsy is lost. Trust me.”

At his other home, hate meant pain. Here, love is going to mean pain, too.

“Here, Burke.”

Burke wonders if there is a difference between love and hate. The only difference he can see is salvation.

“Burke.”

Burke looks at his arm, and then raises it clumsily toward Missy.

The arm is covered with freckles and red-gold hairs. The faces of the Sister and Brother move closer. Their hands reach out for Burke’s arms, and hold them firmly down against the wood of the table. Aunt Missy pushes the sleeve of his t-shirt up to his armpit, and twists the inner flesh of his arm to face her. As she moves, the short sleeve of her own cotton shirt pulls up, revealing that which Burke is about to receive. Burke thinks about pain, and wonders what he is supposed to think about while it is happening.

“Think about the safety of God,” Missy answers for him. She unrolls a small knife from the bundle. It looks like the knife he used two days ago when he brought in three trout from the Beacon River on his fifth day in Ellison. But this knife, he thinks, is not the same. It is a special knife.

“Think of God,” and Aunt Missy presses the point to the smooth flesh of Burke’s inner arm. “Think of the sineater and his evil. He is filled with more sin than can be held. He will rise up like the devil and chew us up. Think of…”

And the point slices down and under the skin and Burke arcs backward, sucking air in surprise and exquisite pain. He bolts straight again, but the Sister and Brother are strong. Aunt Missy’s fingers tighten about his thin arm, and the knife begins to slice up and down, carving, severing, working out the pattern.

“Jesus!” Burke cries.

“Yes!”

Burke’s eyes roll futilely; his feet dig against the floor beneath him.

“Yes!” repeats Aunt Missy. “Think of Jesus!”

Burke pants, swallowing air, gnashing teeth. He cannot think of God or love. He can only think of what he had at his other home, of BETRAYAL, and of HATE, and of PAIN. He can only watch the knife dancing through his living skin, gouting out blood and making the pattern of God. There is lava in his arm. He closes his eyes and howls through the anguish and sweat. If this is love, his tortured body screams, then God be damned! If this is good, he wants evil!

And then Aunt Missy says, “It’s done, boy. Look at this beautiful sign.”

Burke’s eyes cannot open right away, but he feels her withdraw the knife and place something heavy and cold on the fire of the wound. Then her hand touches his face.

“Look, Burke. It is a good thing.”

Burke opens his eyes. Missy is watching him. The Sister and Brother had stepped back. Missy lifts the wet washrag from his arm. There is a raw, bleeding star where smooth flesh had been. “He is the Light,” Missy says. “Say it, boy.”

God be damned. You be damned, Aunt Missy! Burke thinks.

“Say it, Burke.”

“He is the light,” Burke whispers. He stares at the crude star. He is nauseous.

Aunt Missy slathers her hands in a thinned tar solution and she rubs it into the cut. “In the morning,” she says. “I’ll take turpentine to this. It’ll clean off but what is in the pattern.” She turns Burke’s arm all around, looking it over. “Fine job here.”

Burke tastes blood and Aunt Missy’s spiced cabbage in the back of his throat, trying to come out.

Missy takes the bundle and knife across the room and puts them on the mantel. She rubs her hands with a towel. “We’re growing stronger,” she says finally. “The sins of this generation will not have dominion over the saved. The consort of the devil will not destroy us.”

The Brother and Sister nod, watching Burke.

Burke feels the coppery strangle of vomit shoot into his mouth. He gags, but swallows it down. He will not let her see him weak. His shoulders shudder, his stomach contracts, and he feels his body fold over with another heave. He grits his teeth. He swallows it down.

Missy shows the Brother and Sister to the door. The three go outside to the stoop. Moths and mosquitoes hurry into the kitchen on the wake of the closing screen door. Burke stands uneasily from the table. He head reels. When his stomach cramps this time, he lets it out onto the floor. He clutches himself weakly, wondering why Aunt Missy wouldn’t come now and put him to bed. Couldn’t love at least do that for pain? But as the nausea recedes, he is glad she didn’t. She has reminded him that love is a fake. In the real world, strength is the only truth that matters. If Missy knew his mind now, she would throw him to the demons without a second thought, screaming “Blasphemer!” to his back.

Missy comes back into the kitchen, alone. She takes a cup from the cupboard counter and hands it to Burke. “Drink this. It’ll make things easier.”

The pain screams through Burke’s arm, forcing him to drink. It soothes his burning throat, but as the liquid moves into his stomach, it blossoms into an unnatural warmth. More drugs. He doesn’t care.

Missy then takes his hand, and leads him gently out back to the dark yard. “I need your help,” she says as she opens the door to one of the sheds.

The job for which Missy needs him is made much easier by the drugs.

Copyright

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

© 2012 / Authog

Cover Design By: Cortney Skinner

LICENSE NOTES

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Wire Mesh Mothers

Homegrown

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Content

NAKED, ON THE EDGE
By Elizabeth Massie

Naked, On the Edge

Shadow of the Valley

Learning to Give

Fisherman Joe

What Happened When Mosby Paulson Had Her Painting Reproduced on the Cover of the Phone Book

Forever, Amen

No Solicitors, Curious a Quarter

Miss Dowdy

Crow, Cat, Cow, Child

Someone Came and Took Them Away

I Am Not My Smell

As You Have Made Us

Sneak Preview SINEATER The Bram Stoker Award-Winning Novel

PROLOGUE 1979

1990 PART ONE JOEL AND LELIA

1

Copyright

LICENSE NOTES

ALSO FROM ELIZABETH MASSIE & CROSSROAD PRESS

Buy Direct from Crossroad Press & Save