She moved a strand of auburn hair out of her face and blinked. The numbers and symbols on the page before her were starting to blur into different shapes. If Christine turned her head one equation even looked like a dinosaur. She took that as a sign that her sleep deprived mind had had enough math for one night.
The seventeen year old closed her math book and stood from her desk. She moved into her bathroom and began getting ready for bed. A few minutes later, Christine quickly dove into her bed. Her mind and body were exhausted, she was happy to finally being able to go to sleep. She made herself comfortable and closed her eyes
Bang! Her eyes snapped back open. Something loud and large had hit her window. Christine's heart dropped to her stomach, she sat up and stared wide eyed at the window. Everything remained still for a few moments; the only audible sounds were Christine's rapidly pounding heart and slow breathing.
Bang! She saw it hit this time, a large round object, most likely a rock. Christine remained motionless on her bed, too afraid to see who had thrown it. Come on now Christine, she thought, mentally chastising herself. A burglar wouldn't have thrown a rock. A ghost wouldn't have either.
With new found courage, she pushed the covers off and walked over to the window. She peered outside. Illuminated in the dim glow of the street light stood her best friend Derek. His expression was haunted and he looked a great deal older than eighteen.
Christine opened the window slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. The last thing she needed was for her parents to think she was sneaking a boy into her room, even if it was Derek.
“Derek? What are you doing here?” She called down to him, careful to keep her voice low.
He shook his head. “Just let me in Tini. And I’ll explain everything.”
“Derek, what’s going on? Wh¾”
He interrupted her. “Please Tini, just let me in. I promise I’ll tell you everything.” Christine sighed and shut the window.
Christine made her way downstairs as quietly as she could. She opened the back
door and let Derek inside the house. The pair walked wordlessly back up to her room.
Christine shut her bedroom door, flipped on the light and whirled around to face Derek. A gasp escaped her lips as she took in his haggard appearance. How had she not seen it before? His left eye was swollen and slowly turning a dark purple color, there was a small, bleeding gash on his cheek, and worst of all his shirt was stained crimson.
As Christine's eyes drank in the injuries she immediately knew what had caused them, Derek's step-father. Derek's real father had died when he was four, and his mother had remarried shortly after. When Derek was ten his step-father became verbally abusive to both his mother and him. When he was thirteen it turned to physical.
Christine blinked back tears as the memory of the first time Derek showed up to school with bruises played in her mind like a movie. The teacher's had called child protective services, but somehow his step-father had still gotten away with it.
Christine sat down on the edge of her bed and Derek followed suit. He took a deep breath and the explanation poured out of him. In a voice barely above a whisper, he sat on the edge of her bed and explained everything.
“He was drinking again,” Derek began. “I don’t care when he hits me, you know that,” He continued. “But he went after her this time.”
Christine felt her heart drop. Derek’s step father went after his mother? “Is she okay?” Christine held her breath waiting for the answer. She didn’t know what she would do if Mrs. Hunter wasn’t.
Derek nodded looking away. “She’s fine for now. But I don’t think she will be in the morning.” Christine shivered involuntary. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Derek meant by that. Derek continued the story. “I just couldn’t stand for it, Tini. I didn’t think, I just acted.”
Christine’s eyes traveled to Derek’s shirt, seeing for the first time the crimson spots that stained it. An uneasy comprehension dawned on her. “Derek, you didn’t?! Please tell me you didn’t!” She begged him, her voice horrified.
“I’m sorry Christine,” He never used her full name. It was always Tini, the nickname he had given her the day they met in second grade. She shut her eyes, but the tears still managed to squeeze through, trailing down her cheeks.
Derek reached out and tenderly wiped them away. “Don’t cry for me Tini. It’ll be okay.”
She looked at him, her green eyes shimmering with fresh tears. “It won’t be
okay,” She whispered. “Nothing will ever be okay again.” She turned her body away from him, not wanting him to see her break down. She was his best friend; she shouldn’t be acting like this. She needed to be strong for him.
Christine felt his arms encircle her waist and she let him pull her onto his lap. She sobbed against his chest and he let her. Derek, the one whose life was forever going to be changed, was letting her pour her eyes out. Christine didn’t deserve his friendship.
They stayed like that for awhile. Her head resting against his shoulder, his arms around her waist.
"You could fight it you know," she sniffed. "It was self-defense, Derek."
Derek shook his head. "They didn't believe me when I was thirteen, they won't believe me now." His tone was final and Christine didn't want to argue with him.
“What are you going to do then Derek?” She finally whispered. He remained silent for awhile, and Christine was afraid she had upset him.
“The right thing,” He finally replied. “I’m turning myself in tomorrow. I just needed to say goodbye first.” She nodded, saying nothing. She didn’t trust her voice.
Derek rubbed her back. “You’re probably exhausted Tini, let’s go to bed.”
Derek removed his shirt and threw the crumpled, blood caked cloth into the corner. They then crawled under the covers together, Derek wrapping his arms around her. Christine vowed she would not fall asleep, that she would stay awake the entirety of their final night together. But exhaustion reared it’s ugly head, and soon she was pulled into the peaceful ignorance of sleep.
When morning came, Christine found herself alone in her bed. For a brief, happy moment she thought it all to be a dream. But the note on her night stand betrayed the truth.
Don't forget about me Tini was all it said. Christine felt a fresh tide of tears bubbling up from within her. She clutched her pillow and breathed in slowly; trying to calm down. But her steady intakes of breath couldn't keep the tears at bay. Her pillow became the sponge of her grief. She continued to sob onto it until she heard her mother's voice calling that breakfast was ready.
Christine sat up and wiped her eyes. Sitting here crying and feeling sorry for herself wasn't helping anyone. It was a travesty that Derek's step-father had gotten away with everything, but not this time. The system may have failed Derek when he was thirteen, Christine would be sure that it wouldn't this time. Derek was her best friend and she was going to fight for him.
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Wednesday, April 27, 2011
FICTION: A Pleasure Thing by David Meuel
The woman and the man sat at a small table in the restaurant bar in the San Jose hotel where nearly everyone at the conference was staying. The room’s dim lighting had a tired, dull, partially drunken look about it. The piped-in music was slow and soft and easy to ignore. The four people who had gone to dinner with them earlier had all said good night and gone to their rooms.
She was in her late forties, blond, with a trim figure, and feeling the strain of a long day of selling enterprise software. She would have gone to bed too, but she liked the way he was looking at her.
“Another?” he asked.
“Why not?” she smiled.
He motioned to the waitress for two more drinks.
He was about fifty with a muscular build and gray hair on the temples. They had met the day before on the conference floor, exchanged business cards, and flirted. When they ran into each other again that morning, she invited him to join her group for dinner. Within moments of first meeting, each had noticed the other’s wedding ring, but in their three conversations neither had said a word about marriages or spouses.
“So what are we doing here?” she said.
“Having a drink.”
“Let’s not play that game.”
“All right. I’m interested. I’d like to go up to your room—or my room—together.”
She blushed. “You’re pretty blunt.”
“You didn’t want me to play games.”
The waitress came with their drinks, and he closed the account, paying her in cash.
“So have you done this before?” She sipped her new drink.
“Twice.” He blushed now. “Believe me, I’m not the most experienced at this myself.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Once in a while. I don’t like being dishonest. But my wife and I—we’ve lived in different worlds for years. Her life is the kids. I spend so much time traveling.” Abruptly, he changed tone,
“Listen, if I’m making you uncomfortable, we can drop the whole idea.”
“No,” she said quickly. “We don’t have to do that.”
She took another sip of her drink, this one much longer than the last. “I’ve never done this before. In twenty-two years, never. I’m flattered. Men don’t flirt with me much anymore. I’m tempted too. You’re a very attractive man.”
“Thanks,” he smiled. “I’m flattered too. But there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Would it just be for tonight?”
“Probably. I mean—we live two-thousand miles apart.”
“Just a pleasure thing?”
“Probably. Yea.” He sipped his drink. “Listen, this has made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. You seem nice. I don’t want to complicate—. Let’s just forget what I said.”
“Okay,” she said, breathing a small sigh of relief. “Maybe that’s what we should do.”
The two finished their drinks, filling in the silences with talk of flight times and airport shuttle services. Then they took the elevator to their rooms. He got out first, apologizing again. She told him not to worry, smiled, and pressed the button to close the elevator door.
•
Alone in her room, she thought about his offer—the exact words, the calm authority in his voice, the thrilling directness of his message. And the more she thought about it, the more she wondered what it would be like to kiss this strange man, to thoroughly enjoy him for one night and then never see him again.
She was sorry about his marriage. And she felt guilty that she had so little to complain about. Her Mike was a good, sweet, decent man who worked hard, took care of the boys when she traveled, put up with her trying mother, listened patiently to her complaints about work, and—as far as she knew—had never been dishonest about anything in twenty-two years. Yes, he talked too much about basketball. And yes, the sex wasn’t as frequent or as good as it used to be. But why would any woman in her right mind want to cheat on a husband like Mike?
Although it was late, she phoned home. As expected, the call went to voicemail. She told Mike and the boys she loved them and couldn’t wait to see them.
Somehow, that wasn’t enough. She went to the bar in the room and fixed another drink. She opened her purse and sorted through the pile of business cards she had collected at the conference. She had not realized this before, but on the back of his card, he had written: Room 428. He’s done this more than twice, she thought.
She gulped her drink down, went into the bathroom to comb her hair and refresh her makeup, grabbed her purse, left, and took the elevator down to the fourth floor.
He seemed surprised but pleased when he opened the door. Then he made another round of drinks and dimmed the lights.
She was surprised by how smooth and businesslike everything went after that. Neither was hesitant or awkward. Their bodies worked well together, each moving at about the right pace for the other, each doing what it was supposed to do. After a couple of hours it was over and they were asleep.
Sometime around 4:00, she woke, gathered her clothes, dressed, and returned to her room. He slept the whole time. She felt like she had felt the night she’d lost her virginity thirty years before with a young man she barely knew: not good but not bad either. She wondered why she didn’t feel worse.
But that came two nights later after she made old familiar love with Mike. No, he didn’t suspect anything. And being the trusting type he never would. But it wasn’t the same anymore. And it never would be.
She was in her late forties, blond, with a trim figure, and feeling the strain of a long day of selling enterprise software. She would have gone to bed too, but she liked the way he was looking at her.
“Another?” he asked.
“Why not?” she smiled.
He motioned to the waitress for two more drinks.
He was about fifty with a muscular build and gray hair on the temples. They had met the day before on the conference floor, exchanged business cards, and flirted. When they ran into each other again that morning, she invited him to join her group for dinner. Within moments of first meeting, each had noticed the other’s wedding ring, but in their three conversations neither had said a word about marriages or spouses.
“So what are we doing here?” she said.
“Having a drink.”
“Let’s not play that game.”
“All right. I’m interested. I’d like to go up to your room—or my room—together.”
She blushed. “You’re pretty blunt.”
“You didn’t want me to play games.”
The waitress came with their drinks, and he closed the account, paying her in cash.
“So have you done this before?” She sipped her new drink.
“Twice.” He blushed now. “Believe me, I’m not the most experienced at this myself.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
“Once in a while. I don’t like being dishonest. But my wife and I—we’ve lived in different worlds for years. Her life is the kids. I spend so much time traveling.” Abruptly, he changed tone,
“Listen, if I’m making you uncomfortable, we can drop the whole idea.”
“No,” she said quickly. “We don’t have to do that.”
She took another sip of her drink, this one much longer than the last. “I’ve never done this before. In twenty-two years, never. I’m flattered. Men don’t flirt with me much anymore. I’m tempted too. You’re a very attractive man.”
“Thanks,” he smiled. “I’m flattered too. But there’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, isn’t there?”
“Would it just be for tonight?”
“Probably. I mean—we live two-thousand miles apart.”
“Just a pleasure thing?”
“Probably. Yea.” He sipped his drink. “Listen, this has made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. You seem nice. I don’t want to complicate—. Let’s just forget what I said.”
“Okay,” she said, breathing a small sigh of relief. “Maybe that’s what we should do.”
The two finished their drinks, filling in the silences with talk of flight times and airport shuttle services. Then they took the elevator to their rooms. He got out first, apologizing again. She told him not to worry, smiled, and pressed the button to close the elevator door.
•
Alone in her room, she thought about his offer—the exact words, the calm authority in his voice, the thrilling directness of his message. And the more she thought about it, the more she wondered what it would be like to kiss this strange man, to thoroughly enjoy him for one night and then never see him again.
She was sorry about his marriage. And she felt guilty that she had so little to complain about. Her Mike was a good, sweet, decent man who worked hard, took care of the boys when she traveled, put up with her trying mother, listened patiently to her complaints about work, and—as far as she knew—had never been dishonest about anything in twenty-two years. Yes, he talked too much about basketball. And yes, the sex wasn’t as frequent or as good as it used to be. But why would any woman in her right mind want to cheat on a husband like Mike?
Although it was late, she phoned home. As expected, the call went to voicemail. She told Mike and the boys she loved them and couldn’t wait to see them.
Somehow, that wasn’t enough. She went to the bar in the room and fixed another drink. She opened her purse and sorted through the pile of business cards she had collected at the conference. She had not realized this before, but on the back of his card, he had written: Room 428. He’s done this more than twice, she thought.
She gulped her drink down, went into the bathroom to comb her hair and refresh her makeup, grabbed her purse, left, and took the elevator down to the fourth floor.
He seemed surprised but pleased when he opened the door. Then he made another round of drinks and dimmed the lights.
She was surprised by how smooth and businesslike everything went after that. Neither was hesitant or awkward. Their bodies worked well together, each moving at about the right pace for the other, each doing what it was supposed to do. After a couple of hours it was over and they were asleep.
Sometime around 4:00, she woke, gathered her clothes, dressed, and returned to her room. He slept the whole time. She felt like she had felt the night she’d lost her virginity thirty years before with a young man she barely knew: not good but not bad either. She wondered why she didn’t feel worse.
But that came two nights later after she made old familiar love with Mike. No, he didn’t suspect anything. And being the trusting type he never would. But it wasn’t the same anymore. And it never would be.
FICTION: Endings by Charlene Hardin
There are no unanswerable questions. This was Jesse’s truth and guiding principle. Questions could take time, effort, decades, and lifetimes to answer. They could not be unanswerable.
To think so was lazy.
Mrs. Periérgeia was lazy. This was not true of her daughter, Dr. Periérgeia.
Mrs. Periérgeia clung to a narrative, a fairy-story. It was a tale to tuck the children in at night, and keep them from crying out for Daddy. He went to heaven, she told them. I saw him transformed, bathed in light.
Jesse could not remember anything but the oblong box lowered into the earth.
Dr. Periérgeia sat at the top of her own Mt. Everest. She sacrificed her twenties for the climb, traded date nights for all-night study sessions, and cruises for internships. No friends. No marriage. No children. She burned the midnight oil and candles at both ends, but never burned out. She could and she did. She could be more than her brothers. She could rock the entire world and set it spinning out of orbit if she dared.
Lifting the veil on death, she would strip the hooded figure of mystery, and lay the truth out for the world to see. She planned to answer Death’s questions.
The test was simple, elegant. This was the kind of plan destined to make the designer a science legend.
The test would take time, to collect a large enough sample size. People died every day, but coming back from the dead or the brink of death was another matter. And remembering anything from the Great Beyond held even worse odds.
For this reason, she arrived early on the icy February morning to supervise the placement of the items. No student worker with a hangover and a desire for extra credit would blow it.
She placed the test items throughout the emergency room and critical care unit. The rooms sat empty, but they were chosen for their relative likelihood of being involved in a death, or at least, one extremely close call.
Dr. Periérgeia and the team placed each article high, out of sight in places only the janitor, researchers, and the occasional incorporeal patient would ever see them.
Satisfied, Jessie headed for home. The commute was difficult, considering the strange weather of late. Spring seemed right around the corner one minute, and the next, a blizzard would hit. If groundhog’s shadows really controlled the weather, the must have been doing cartwheels.
The sun was gone and the moon made its ascent as Jessie pulled out of the parking lot. The watery melt of the day returned to ice. The roadways transformed into a black ice skating rink. Jessie never bothered with chains. Her car lost control on the bridge and plunged through the thin sheet of ice covering the lake.
Frantic pushes to the window buttons, ramming them down in repetition with lightning speed. She had no success. The car sank with speed as water flooded in from unknown crevices. She slammed a shoulder against the door. It weighed a million tons. Jessie remembered the ridiculous hammer. The multi-emergency-paranoia-tool her mother gave her for Christmas. It was the ultimate just-in-case gift for an only daughter.
As the water splashed against her cheek, and her feet went numb with cold, she fumbled with the latch. She strained to keep her head above water one gasp and one lurch at a time. Her index finger brushed the sharp metal point of the hammer head. She stretched alien, icy hands toward the unseen opening. In a swift grab she removed it from the glove box.
Submerged in a blurry world of blue she hacked viciously at the windshield until she heard the crack echo in the aquatic coffin. Her neck gulped, and lungs tried to force open. She kicked for the surface, thrashing with her deadening limbs.
Finally, there was a muted pop.
Free, but now so far under, she felt the crush of the water against her body, incasing her and compressing her.
Her brain screamed: Swim!
And she did. She clawed at the water like the eyes of an invisible attacker.
She gave a violent kick. I’m not done yet!
Jesse propelled upward. Blood thundered through her veins, desperate as she was to reach its destination as her body turned to ice. The world was airless blue and immersed in crystalline ice shards of pain.
Somewhere in sight of the barrier between water and sky the world went black.
When awareness returned, she was in the hospital—her hospital—floating on the ceiling.
She looked down at herself. Her skin was a fading watercolor was of blue. The thing was a dead fish of a woman being worked over by an army of scrub-wearing ants.
The items! There they are! It worked!
Oh, shit.
In the instant of recognition, she felt herself sucked through a portal. She was a tiny droplet in a massive straw which found itself deposited in a rolling green field. One large beech tree spread like a massive living umbrella against azure sky in front of her.
An old woman playing chess sat at a card table near the winding roots of the immense tree.
Jessie approached the woman, looking around. The woman cast weary eyes full of friendship toward Jessie. She looked down at the board, and advanced a white pawn.
“Hello?” Jessie forced a smile, eyebrows raised.
The woman looked up. A thousand happy crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes, and messy gray curls framed a face which rested on one palm.
She motioned Jessie to the seat across the table.
“Who are you?” Jessie asked.
The woman inspected a black chess piece carefully--a queen--and moved it into position near a white night. “Have you ever peeked at the end of a book?”
“What?” Jessie cocked her head to one side.
“You know, when you get curious about the fate of a character. One you’re worried won’t last to the end?”
Jessie shrugged. “Maybe I have. Once or twice.”
“Mmm hmmm…” She moved the white night out of the way. “Naughty girl,” she waved a gnarled finger, her lips twisted into a wry smile. Her eyes sparked life like burning manganese, “Naughty.” She chuckled.
Jess inspected the landscape. The green grass stretched to infinity from below the great beech tree.
“Where am I?”
“I don’t answer loaded questions, my dear, sweet, naughty girl.”
“Am I dead?”
The woman sat back and rubbed her chin. She raised her shoulders and lowered them. “You look fine to me.” She laughed.
“I was dead. I thought. Maybe I’m dreaming.”
The woman nodded. “Maybe you are.”
“I should be more upset, if I’m dead.” Jessie starred out at the green and blue horizon. “But, I don’t.” She tilted her head toward the sky.
The woman shook her head, and leaned across the checkered board. She touched Jessie’s arm with a loving pat, “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that!”
Pointing to the black pieces, she asked, “Do you like to play chess? Or do you just spend your time looking at the backs of books?” Then she winked.
“No, I don’t know how to play.”
The old woman rose from her chair, and moved closer to Jessie. “I guess you will have to go back and learn, then.”
“Learn what?” Jessie’s eyebrow rose, causing little lines to form a question mark at the center of her forehead.
The woman placed a kind, old hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “You have to learn the chess moves, of course: strategy.” She gave a gentle kiss to the top of Jessie’s head. “It’s all in how you play. That’s elegance.”
Jessie felt a mighty pull. She was plunged backward. Her eyes opened to bright fluorescent lights, she gasped. Pain and adrenaline pulsated in her veins as air hit her lungs with a blast of splintering daggers.
Jessie spent the next several days at the hospital under observation. This left plenty of time for introspection.
She did not speak to anyone, at first. There were questions, of course. Flowers from colleagues, visits filled with polite and impolite queries about her recent ordeal came and went. She began to have pangs of sympathy for the lab rats.
The answers never crossed her lips. Jesse was unsure where to begin.
One morning, as she sat in the hospital room bathed in morning light and allowed her mother brush her long, chestnut hair as she had in childhood, she did tell someone. She told someone she uttered only rare words to over the years. And even those words had only been perfunctory acknowledgement of a holiday or birthday.
She told her mother.
“Oh, isn’t that something?” her mother said. Then, she asked, “What are you going to do now?”
Jessie turned to her mother. “I don’t know.” She opened her mouth to speak, and relaxed.
Her mother stroked her shoulder. She smiled. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now.”
She shook her head in agreement.
“Maybe there is something I’ve missed.”
“Maybe.”
“I need a new strategy.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I guess I could learn to play chess.”
“Well,” her mother paused to hand Jessie a mirror. “I guess that’s a start.”
Jessie gazed at the reflection. There was something different hidden somewhere behind the eyes looking back. “Isn’t it?”
She stroked her hair and parted it into three rivers of silky brown which she began to plait lovingly.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Could you tell me about Dad, again?”
Her mother paused for a moment, and smiled. “Of course.”
To think so was lazy.
Mrs. Periérgeia was lazy. This was not true of her daughter, Dr. Periérgeia.
Mrs. Periérgeia clung to a narrative, a fairy-story. It was a tale to tuck the children in at night, and keep them from crying out for Daddy. He went to heaven, she told them. I saw him transformed, bathed in light.
Jesse could not remember anything but the oblong box lowered into the earth.
Dr. Periérgeia sat at the top of her own Mt. Everest. She sacrificed her twenties for the climb, traded date nights for all-night study sessions, and cruises for internships. No friends. No marriage. No children. She burned the midnight oil and candles at both ends, but never burned out. She could and she did. She could be more than her brothers. She could rock the entire world and set it spinning out of orbit if she dared.
Lifting the veil on death, she would strip the hooded figure of mystery, and lay the truth out for the world to see. She planned to answer Death’s questions.
The test was simple, elegant. This was the kind of plan destined to make the designer a science legend.
The test would take time, to collect a large enough sample size. People died every day, but coming back from the dead or the brink of death was another matter. And remembering anything from the Great Beyond held even worse odds.
For this reason, she arrived early on the icy February morning to supervise the placement of the items. No student worker with a hangover and a desire for extra credit would blow it.
She placed the test items throughout the emergency room and critical care unit. The rooms sat empty, but they were chosen for their relative likelihood of being involved in a death, or at least, one extremely close call.
Dr. Periérgeia and the team placed each article high, out of sight in places only the janitor, researchers, and the occasional incorporeal patient would ever see them.
Satisfied, Jessie headed for home. The commute was difficult, considering the strange weather of late. Spring seemed right around the corner one minute, and the next, a blizzard would hit. If groundhog’s shadows really controlled the weather, the must have been doing cartwheels.
The sun was gone and the moon made its ascent as Jessie pulled out of the parking lot. The watery melt of the day returned to ice. The roadways transformed into a black ice skating rink. Jessie never bothered with chains. Her car lost control on the bridge and plunged through the thin sheet of ice covering the lake.
Frantic pushes to the window buttons, ramming them down in repetition with lightning speed. She had no success. The car sank with speed as water flooded in from unknown crevices. She slammed a shoulder against the door. It weighed a million tons. Jessie remembered the ridiculous hammer. The multi-emergency-paranoia-tool her mother gave her for Christmas. It was the ultimate just-in-case gift for an only daughter.
As the water splashed against her cheek, and her feet went numb with cold, she fumbled with the latch. She strained to keep her head above water one gasp and one lurch at a time. Her index finger brushed the sharp metal point of the hammer head. She stretched alien, icy hands toward the unseen opening. In a swift grab she removed it from the glove box.
Submerged in a blurry world of blue she hacked viciously at the windshield until she heard the crack echo in the aquatic coffin. Her neck gulped, and lungs tried to force open. She kicked for the surface, thrashing with her deadening limbs.
Finally, there was a muted pop.
Free, but now so far under, she felt the crush of the water against her body, incasing her and compressing her.
Her brain screamed: Swim!
And she did. She clawed at the water like the eyes of an invisible attacker.
She gave a violent kick. I’m not done yet!
Jesse propelled upward. Blood thundered through her veins, desperate as she was to reach its destination as her body turned to ice. The world was airless blue and immersed in crystalline ice shards of pain.
Somewhere in sight of the barrier between water and sky the world went black.
When awareness returned, she was in the hospital—her hospital—floating on the ceiling.
She looked down at herself. Her skin was a fading watercolor was of blue. The thing was a dead fish of a woman being worked over by an army of scrub-wearing ants.
The items! There they are! It worked!
Oh, shit.
In the instant of recognition, she felt herself sucked through a portal. She was a tiny droplet in a massive straw which found itself deposited in a rolling green field. One large beech tree spread like a massive living umbrella against azure sky in front of her.
An old woman playing chess sat at a card table near the winding roots of the immense tree.
Jessie approached the woman, looking around. The woman cast weary eyes full of friendship toward Jessie. She looked down at the board, and advanced a white pawn.
“Hello?” Jessie forced a smile, eyebrows raised.
The woman looked up. A thousand happy crinkles appeared at the corners of her eyes, and messy gray curls framed a face which rested on one palm.
She motioned Jessie to the seat across the table.
“Who are you?” Jessie asked.
The woman inspected a black chess piece carefully--a queen--and moved it into position near a white night. “Have you ever peeked at the end of a book?”
“What?” Jessie cocked her head to one side.
“You know, when you get curious about the fate of a character. One you’re worried won’t last to the end?”
Jessie shrugged. “Maybe I have. Once or twice.”
“Mmm hmmm…” She moved the white night out of the way. “Naughty girl,” she waved a gnarled finger, her lips twisted into a wry smile. Her eyes sparked life like burning manganese, “Naughty.” She chuckled.
Jess inspected the landscape. The green grass stretched to infinity from below the great beech tree.
“Where am I?”
“I don’t answer loaded questions, my dear, sweet, naughty girl.”
“Am I dead?”
The woman sat back and rubbed her chin. She raised her shoulders and lowered them. “You look fine to me.” She laughed.
“I was dead. I thought. Maybe I’m dreaming.”
The woman nodded. “Maybe you are.”
“I should be more upset, if I’m dead.” Jessie starred out at the green and blue horizon. “But, I don’t.” She tilted her head toward the sky.
The woman shook her head, and leaned across the checkered board. She touched Jessie’s arm with a loving pat, “Well, I’m certainly glad to hear that!”
Pointing to the black pieces, she asked, “Do you like to play chess? Or do you just spend your time looking at the backs of books?” Then she winked.
“No, I don’t know how to play.”
The old woman rose from her chair, and moved closer to Jessie. “I guess you will have to go back and learn, then.”
“Learn what?” Jessie’s eyebrow rose, causing little lines to form a question mark at the center of her forehead.
The woman placed a kind, old hand on Jessie’s shoulder. “You have to learn the chess moves, of course: strategy.” She gave a gentle kiss to the top of Jessie’s head. “It’s all in how you play. That’s elegance.”
Jessie felt a mighty pull. She was plunged backward. Her eyes opened to bright fluorescent lights, she gasped. Pain and adrenaline pulsated in her veins as air hit her lungs with a blast of splintering daggers.
Jessie spent the next several days at the hospital under observation. This left plenty of time for introspection.
She did not speak to anyone, at first. There were questions, of course. Flowers from colleagues, visits filled with polite and impolite queries about her recent ordeal came and went. She began to have pangs of sympathy for the lab rats.
The answers never crossed her lips. Jesse was unsure where to begin.
One morning, as she sat in the hospital room bathed in morning light and allowed her mother brush her long, chestnut hair as she had in childhood, she did tell someone. She told someone she uttered only rare words to over the years. And even those words had only been perfunctory acknowledgement of a holiday or birthday.
She told her mother.
“Oh, isn’t that something?” her mother said. Then, she asked, “What are you going to do now?”
Jessie turned to her mother. “I don’t know.” She opened her mouth to speak, and relaxed.
Her mother stroked her shoulder. She smiled. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now.”
She shook her head in agreement.
“Maybe there is something I’ve missed.”
“Maybe.”
“I need a new strategy.”
“What do you plan to do?”
“I guess I could learn to play chess.”
“Well,” her mother paused to hand Jessie a mirror. “I guess that’s a start.”
Jessie gazed at the reflection. There was something different hidden somewhere behind the eyes looking back. “Isn’t it?”
She stroked her hair and parted it into three rivers of silky brown which she began to plait lovingly.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Could you tell me about Dad, again?”
Her mother paused for a moment, and smiled. “Of course.”
FICTION: Doughnuts for Danny by Keith G. Laufenberg
DOUGHNUTS FOR DANNY
-1-
THE FULL MOON
0 Memory! thou soul of joy and pain!
—Richard Savage, The Bastard, 1. 57.
You know not what the night will bring.
—Varro. Title of Satire.
I was attending college in the evenings at Broward Community College and driving a cab in order to help support myself, my wife and four kids and it had been a long rough night for me. I was somewhat delirious after almost twelve hours of non-stop, dizzying driving, hacking in my cab around the city of greater Ft. Lauderdale and, as I turned the cab into the dispatch office and taxicab compound, at 10-10—Yellow Cabs headquarters on NW Seventh Avenue—something gnawed at my subconscious but I couldn’t get a handle on exactly what it was and so I didn’t give it a second thought until I pulled into my driveway in North Ft. Lauderdale, a half an hour later. I was attending college in the evenings at Broward Community College and driving the cab in order to help support myself, my wife and four kids.
‘What, what was it?’ I pondered then thought, ‘aw well, probably wasn’t worth anything anyway.’ I had the same feeling about the whole night, that it had been a total and complete waste. I opened the door to my 1968 Fury and stumbled onto my driveway, totally exhausted. A two-hour workout that afternoon, lifting weights and punching the light and heavy bag’s, only added to my tiredness but I needed the workout to justify sitting in the cab for twelve hours. It had been some night but nothing particularly unusual for a South Florida cabdriver in 1990.
I had gotten my first call around six-thirty p.m., just after coming out of the YMCA on NE Fifth Street, to a local Laundromat where I assisted an elderly woman in loading what seemed like about ten tons of laundered clothes into my trunk and backseat of the cab; then a mile trip and a fifteen minute unload and carry in. The fare was a buck-ninety and she gave me two George Washington’s and told me to keep the change; big tippers were always my nemesis. Anyway, no sooner was I back in my cab then I took a call to a ritzy community just off Las Olas Boulevard, a place called Pelican Island, and I perked up immediately, especially when the dispatcher told me it was a call to the airport. A fare to the airport was always a good job, as it took you through downtown Ft. Lauderdale, but this one was even better than I had imagined, as it was not to the
Ft. Lauderdale Airport but the Miami Airport, and a ten-dollar trip had just turned into a fifty-dollar one. I picked the people up and was on the Interstate within five minutes and then, just as I pulled past Hallandale Beach Boulevard, a loud pop reverberated inside my ear and my vehicle immediately swerved wildly off the highway and, as I pulled to the side of the road, I noticed a full moon was already starting to loom in the ever-darkening sky and I knew it was going to be another one of those nights. Yellow cabs carry no spare tires and you had to call into the dispatch office for a tow-truck to come out and change your tire. I coasted noisily down an off-ramp and into a gas-station, where my two customers hailed another cab and an hour went by before the tow-truck got to me, informing me that he would have to tow me back to the Yellow Cab compound, or 10-10, where I picked up another empty cab, after nixing a dozen junk-cars—cabs that either didn’t run or were disfigured in a major way—and rolled out of the compound at a little past eight p m. I couldn’t help but notice that the moon was as full and striking as they come, so bright that it actually appeared to light up the entire town. I rolled out of 10-10 and headed south checking into zone 122, just as a call came for a pick-up at the Copacabana, a notorious homosexual nightclub, just past State Road 84 on Federal Highway. I took the call and pulled up to the club, where two obviously inebriated, effeminate epicenes stumbled into the backseat of my cab and one of them mumbled, “Tack’keysssssssss, pleazzzzzzzz,” the first on in hissed and I frowned as Tackey’s was another homosexual hangout and barely more than a two-mile trip, just a mile or so up Broward Boulevard, and I frowned when he said it. The full-moon jinx was holding me up and no sooner was I underway than I had to pull to a screeching halt to the side of the road. No, one of my tires wasn’t blown but one of the backseat androgynes was trying to do just that very thing to the other one’s Johnson and I was not one to put up with that stuff in my cab. So I kicked ‘em both outta the cab. I had this gut feeling that I should head straight back for 10-10 but I had a wife and four kids to support and I was in my usual state, broke and with mortgage and car payments to boot.
So, I stayed out and worked the mean city streets for another seven hours and I was in a constant battle with my soul, as the offers came my way, fifty bucks if I can score a bearded man in a suit some crack, twenty if I can find a hooker for an overweight inebriated dentist and ten if I can find a smashed middle-aged woman an after-hours club or some grass. The houses of ill repute are everywhere and they pay a driver the same sawbuck that the drunken woman looking for marijuana had offered me, for every customer that you bring them, and the strip clubs and after-hours joints pay anywhere from a fin to a double sawbuck, depending on how many people you bring them and how much they clip them for. Then there are the certain hotels and motels that will pay you for every room not reserved in advance and on and on, almost ad infinitum I try to fight it, tell people the strip joints are really clip joints. I try to talk to some inebriated sailors, telling them that the female companionship they are seeking is better found on the beaches in the daytime than the clubs at night, even as my dark side tells me to take the easy money—go home with a hundred instead of twenty.
At four-thirty a.m., I was just a half-hour shy of my twelve-hour shift and if I stayed out any longer I would have to pay three and a half bucks for every hour or part thereof, from then on. I knew I had had a bad night and when 1 got to 10-10 that fact was confirmed when all I had was a lousy sixty smackers and an even lousier twenty bucks, which is what I ended up with, after paying the thirty-two dollar shift-lease charge and my gas and mileage charges. I was really depressed, a double sawbuck for a dizzy day of almost non-stop driving—for approximately ten hours—but then I noticed that the full-moon was still in place and shuddered, I had thought that the darkness had gotten enough of me but was I ever wrong, as when I shuffled to my car I immediately noticed that the hood was slightly ajar and—even before I opened it—I knew somebody had copped my battery. Someone had gotten it once before, just a week ago, and I had been parking my car at a Hess gas station, on the corner of Northwest Seventh Avenue and Sunrise Boulevard, ever since. Someone had smashed in my side window, even though he needn’t have, as the hood opened from the front of the car. I felt like crying but yelled manically instead and a tall skinny, emaciated-looking black dude approached me and when I told him about the missing battery he commiserated with me and then informed me that he knew where I could get a used battery, cheap. Now, this only led me to believe that he was the thief and wanted to sell me back my own battery. He told me he was a mechanic at the garage then showed me his home, the rusted-out shell of a ‘69 Caddy and I pondered how far mechanic’s wages must have fallen in 1990 but didn’t mention it. I noticed a police car turning off Sunrise Boulevard onto NW Seventh Avenue and ran into the middle of the street and flagged it down. The squad car came to a screeching halt and I approached it wearily. I leaned into the passenger-side window and was shocked to be staring into the business end of a .45 caliber revolver, something I hadn’t seen since my Marine Corps days back in the mid-sixties but my respect for a weapon I knew could take your arm off at twenty yards, hadn’t waned any and I immediately put my hands in the air.
“Hey man, I’m a cabdriver man, got my battery stolen you know what I mean?” I glanced over at the homeless black man, who claimed to be a mechanic at the Hess station, and he stared back at me blankly. The cop lowered the .45. “Yeah, okay cabbie, I’ll call it in, tell ‘em to send a taxi down here, aw-ight?”
“Yeah, okay well thanks then.” I stared into the cops’ face and saw his eyes were red-rimmed and wide as an owl’s and wondered if he was just tired or high? Suddenly, he shot me a look, the skull-smile of death, that I hadn’t seen for two decades, since a tour in ‘Nam but still recognized and then he was gone, his car leaving a streak of rubber and, as I stared after it, I also had time to notice that the full-moon was still there, still in force, as full and brightly-round as a huge beach-ball and still on my case, as I turned towards the alleged homeless Hess mechanic when he called me over and showed me a battery he had found. It looked dead but it wasn’t mine and he demanded a sawbuck for it. I wasn’t about to give this dude ten bucks for what looked like a worthless battery, so I pulled out two George Washington’s and handed them to him and his tooth-decayed smirk turned into a gleeful grin, as he pulled a bottle from his rear pocket and moved towards the ‘69 Caddy that he called home.
I quickly installed the battery but it refused to crank and when I looked over at the ‘69 Caddy it was empty so I stood on the corner and hailed a cab, as I knew most of them were heading to 10-10 to turn in for the night anyway. I explained my predicament and he pulled his cab over; he had cables in his trunk, and gave me a quick jumpstart and I thanked him and pulled onto Sunrise Boulevard, where I noticed the black mechanic coming out of an all-night liquor store with what looked like a fresh bottle. As I stopped at the first of several stoplights, I said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t stall on me. It didn’t and twenty minutes later I pulled the ‘68 Fury III into my driveway. I staggered out of the car and it suddenly hit me what had been bothering me on my way home. Doughnuts—I had promised my four-year-old son Danny a dozen doughnuts, which he always looked forward to on the weekends and tomorrow was Saturday. I stared at the front door of my house and immediately thought of the soft, warm mattress that awaited my bone-tired body, then turned towards my car and wondered if I could drive the two miles necessary, back to the Dunkin’ Donuts store on State Road Seven. I stared down at the keys in my hand and fingered the one that fit my 1979 Duster, sitting next to the Fury III. I stumbled to the front door and stuck the key in, then staggered and fell onto the living room couch. My eyes closed immediately and I felt like I was floating in space, asleep and flying in the air. Then I shook myself awake and stood up and stared at the front door and I was outside turning the ignition key in my Duster, then I was at the Dunkin’ Donuts store ordering glazed and powdered for my wife and two teenaged daughters and cream-filled and chocolate-iced for my four-year-old son and my two-year-old daughter. I feel like I’m dreaming and wonder if I am still on the couch or actually in the Dunkin’ Donuts store. Then I’m in my car and then home and putting the box of a dozen doughnuts on the kitchen table. Then I stepped into the shower and for an instant awoke but then the hot water has me all but asleep standing up, something I haven’t done since Marine Corps boot camp. Then, finally, I’m standing over my mattress, my wife of fifteen years sound asleep, and that’s the last thing I remember.
-2-
ALL’S WELL THAT END’S WELL
And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.
— Colossians 3:14.
“Wha’ … what …?” I’m startled awake and in the background a faraway voice reverberated throughout the room.
“Now leave Daddy alone Danny, he’s tired from working all night.”
“Its aw’rye,” I mutter and blearily open my eyes. I see my four-year- old son Danny, standing before me with a cream doughnut in his hand and a creamy grin on his face. “Hey Dan-oh, hi there lil’ champ.”
“Daddy, you gots me do-nuts-ah,” he said, smiling widely.
“Sure I did son, I promised you din’ I?”
“Yeah, yeah, fanks Daddy, I love you Daddy,” he says and plants a cream-smeared kiss on my cheek, then runs back into the kitchen.
My two-year-old daughter, Denise, approaches me cautiously. I don’t see enough of her and she has a chocolate-glazed doughnut in her hand and a smile on her face. “Hi sweetie-pie,’’ I say and her smiling angel-face breaks into a giggle and she runs over and plants a chocolate-besmeared kiss on my already crème-smeared face.
She smiles at me. “I wuv you Da-ah-ee,” she says, then runs back into the kitchen even, as I smile and realize that my eighteen-dollar night has just become worth eighteen million.
-1-
THE FULL MOON
0 Memory! thou soul of joy and pain!
—Richard Savage, The Bastard, 1. 57.
You know not what the night will bring.
—Varro. Title of Satire.
I was attending college in the evenings at Broward Community College and driving a cab in order to help support myself, my wife and four kids and it had been a long rough night for me. I was somewhat delirious after almost twelve hours of non-stop, dizzying driving, hacking in my cab around the city of greater Ft. Lauderdale and, as I turned the cab into the dispatch office and taxicab compound, at 10-10—Yellow Cabs headquarters on NW Seventh Avenue—something gnawed at my subconscious but I couldn’t get a handle on exactly what it was and so I didn’t give it a second thought until I pulled into my driveway in North Ft. Lauderdale, a half an hour later. I was attending college in the evenings at Broward Community College and driving the cab in order to help support myself, my wife and four kids.
‘What, what was it?’ I pondered then thought, ‘aw well, probably wasn’t worth anything anyway.’ I had the same feeling about the whole night, that it had been a total and complete waste. I opened the door to my 1968 Fury and stumbled onto my driveway, totally exhausted. A two-hour workout that afternoon, lifting weights and punching the light and heavy bag’s, only added to my tiredness but I needed the workout to justify sitting in the cab for twelve hours. It had been some night but nothing particularly unusual for a South Florida cabdriver in 1990.
I had gotten my first call around six-thirty p.m., just after coming out of the YMCA on NE Fifth Street, to a local Laundromat where I assisted an elderly woman in loading what seemed like about ten tons of laundered clothes into my trunk and backseat of the cab; then a mile trip and a fifteen minute unload and carry in. The fare was a buck-ninety and she gave me two George Washington’s and told me to keep the change; big tippers were always my nemesis. Anyway, no sooner was I back in my cab then I took a call to a ritzy community just off Las Olas Boulevard, a place called Pelican Island, and I perked up immediately, especially when the dispatcher told me it was a call to the airport. A fare to the airport was always a good job, as it took you through downtown Ft. Lauderdale, but this one was even better than I had imagined, as it was not to the
Ft. Lauderdale Airport but the Miami Airport, and a ten-dollar trip had just turned into a fifty-dollar one. I picked the people up and was on the Interstate within five minutes and then, just as I pulled past Hallandale Beach Boulevard, a loud pop reverberated inside my ear and my vehicle immediately swerved wildly off the highway and, as I pulled to the side of the road, I noticed a full moon was already starting to loom in the ever-darkening sky and I knew it was going to be another one of those nights. Yellow cabs carry no spare tires and you had to call into the dispatch office for a tow-truck to come out and change your tire. I coasted noisily down an off-ramp and into a gas-station, where my two customers hailed another cab and an hour went by before the tow-truck got to me, informing me that he would have to tow me back to the Yellow Cab compound, or 10-10, where I picked up another empty cab, after nixing a dozen junk-cars—cabs that either didn’t run or were disfigured in a major way—and rolled out of the compound at a little past eight p m. I couldn’t help but notice that the moon was as full and striking as they come, so bright that it actually appeared to light up the entire town. I rolled out of 10-10 and headed south checking into zone 122, just as a call came for a pick-up at the Copacabana, a notorious homosexual nightclub, just past State Road 84 on Federal Highway. I took the call and pulled up to the club, where two obviously inebriated, effeminate epicenes stumbled into the backseat of my cab and one of them mumbled, “Tack’keysssssssss, pleazzzzzzzz,” the first on in hissed and I frowned as Tackey’s was another homosexual hangout and barely more than a two-mile trip, just a mile or so up Broward Boulevard, and I frowned when he said it. The full-moon jinx was holding me up and no sooner was I underway than I had to pull to a screeching halt to the side of the road. No, one of my tires wasn’t blown but one of the backseat androgynes was trying to do just that very thing to the other one’s Johnson and I was not one to put up with that stuff in my cab. So I kicked ‘em both outta the cab. I had this gut feeling that I should head straight back for 10-10 but I had a wife and four kids to support and I was in my usual state, broke and with mortgage and car payments to boot.
So, I stayed out and worked the mean city streets for another seven hours and I was in a constant battle with my soul, as the offers came my way, fifty bucks if I can score a bearded man in a suit some crack, twenty if I can find a hooker for an overweight inebriated dentist and ten if I can find a smashed middle-aged woman an after-hours club or some grass. The houses of ill repute are everywhere and they pay a driver the same sawbuck that the drunken woman looking for marijuana had offered me, for every customer that you bring them, and the strip clubs and after-hours joints pay anywhere from a fin to a double sawbuck, depending on how many people you bring them and how much they clip them for. Then there are the certain hotels and motels that will pay you for every room not reserved in advance and on and on, almost ad infinitum I try to fight it, tell people the strip joints are really clip joints. I try to talk to some inebriated sailors, telling them that the female companionship they are seeking is better found on the beaches in the daytime than the clubs at night, even as my dark side tells me to take the easy money—go home with a hundred instead of twenty.
At four-thirty a.m., I was just a half-hour shy of my twelve-hour shift and if I stayed out any longer I would have to pay three and a half bucks for every hour or part thereof, from then on. I knew I had had a bad night and when 1 got to 10-10 that fact was confirmed when all I had was a lousy sixty smackers and an even lousier twenty bucks, which is what I ended up with, after paying the thirty-two dollar shift-lease charge and my gas and mileage charges. I was really depressed, a double sawbuck for a dizzy day of almost non-stop driving—for approximately ten hours—but then I noticed that the full-moon was still in place and shuddered, I had thought that the darkness had gotten enough of me but was I ever wrong, as when I shuffled to my car I immediately noticed that the hood was slightly ajar and—even before I opened it—I knew somebody had copped my battery. Someone had gotten it once before, just a week ago, and I had been parking my car at a Hess gas station, on the corner of Northwest Seventh Avenue and Sunrise Boulevard, ever since. Someone had smashed in my side window, even though he needn’t have, as the hood opened from the front of the car. I felt like crying but yelled manically instead and a tall skinny, emaciated-looking black dude approached me and when I told him about the missing battery he commiserated with me and then informed me that he knew where I could get a used battery, cheap. Now, this only led me to believe that he was the thief and wanted to sell me back my own battery. He told me he was a mechanic at the garage then showed me his home, the rusted-out shell of a ‘69 Caddy and I pondered how far mechanic’s wages must have fallen in 1990 but didn’t mention it. I noticed a police car turning off Sunrise Boulevard onto NW Seventh Avenue and ran into the middle of the street and flagged it down. The squad car came to a screeching halt and I approached it wearily. I leaned into the passenger-side window and was shocked to be staring into the business end of a .45 caliber revolver, something I hadn’t seen since my Marine Corps days back in the mid-sixties but my respect for a weapon I knew could take your arm off at twenty yards, hadn’t waned any and I immediately put my hands in the air.
“Hey man, I’m a cabdriver man, got my battery stolen you know what I mean?” I glanced over at the homeless black man, who claimed to be a mechanic at the Hess station, and he stared back at me blankly. The cop lowered the .45. “Yeah, okay cabbie, I’ll call it in, tell ‘em to send a taxi down here, aw-ight?”
“Yeah, okay well thanks then.” I stared into the cops’ face and saw his eyes were red-rimmed and wide as an owl’s and wondered if he was just tired or high? Suddenly, he shot me a look, the skull-smile of death, that I hadn’t seen for two decades, since a tour in ‘Nam but still recognized and then he was gone, his car leaving a streak of rubber and, as I stared after it, I also had time to notice that the full-moon was still there, still in force, as full and brightly-round as a huge beach-ball and still on my case, as I turned towards the alleged homeless Hess mechanic when he called me over and showed me a battery he had found. It looked dead but it wasn’t mine and he demanded a sawbuck for it. I wasn’t about to give this dude ten bucks for what looked like a worthless battery, so I pulled out two George Washington’s and handed them to him and his tooth-decayed smirk turned into a gleeful grin, as he pulled a bottle from his rear pocket and moved towards the ‘69 Caddy that he called home.
I quickly installed the battery but it refused to crank and when I looked over at the ‘69 Caddy it was empty so I stood on the corner and hailed a cab, as I knew most of them were heading to 10-10 to turn in for the night anyway. I explained my predicament and he pulled his cab over; he had cables in his trunk, and gave me a quick jumpstart and I thanked him and pulled onto Sunrise Boulevard, where I noticed the black mechanic coming out of an all-night liquor store with what looked like a fresh bottle. As I stopped at the first of several stoplights, I said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t stall on me. It didn’t and twenty minutes later I pulled the ‘68 Fury III into my driveway. I staggered out of the car and it suddenly hit me what had been bothering me on my way home. Doughnuts—I had promised my four-year-old son Danny a dozen doughnuts, which he always looked forward to on the weekends and tomorrow was Saturday. I stared at the front door of my house and immediately thought of the soft, warm mattress that awaited my bone-tired body, then turned towards my car and wondered if I could drive the two miles necessary, back to the Dunkin’ Donuts store on State Road Seven. I stared down at the keys in my hand and fingered the one that fit my 1979 Duster, sitting next to the Fury III. I stumbled to the front door and stuck the key in, then staggered and fell onto the living room couch. My eyes closed immediately and I felt like I was floating in space, asleep and flying in the air. Then I shook myself awake and stood up and stared at the front door and I was outside turning the ignition key in my Duster, then I was at the Dunkin’ Donuts store ordering glazed and powdered for my wife and two teenaged daughters and cream-filled and chocolate-iced for my four-year-old son and my two-year-old daughter. I feel like I’m dreaming and wonder if I am still on the couch or actually in the Dunkin’ Donuts store. Then I’m in my car and then home and putting the box of a dozen doughnuts on the kitchen table. Then I stepped into the shower and for an instant awoke but then the hot water has me all but asleep standing up, something I haven’t done since Marine Corps boot camp. Then, finally, I’m standing over my mattress, my wife of fifteen years sound asleep, and that’s the last thing I remember.
-2-
ALL’S WELL THAT END’S WELL
And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.
— Colossians 3:14.
“Wha’ … what …?” I’m startled awake and in the background a faraway voice reverberated throughout the room.
“Now leave Daddy alone Danny, he’s tired from working all night.”
“Its aw’rye,” I mutter and blearily open my eyes. I see my four-year- old son Danny, standing before me with a cream doughnut in his hand and a creamy grin on his face. “Hey Dan-oh, hi there lil’ champ.”
“Daddy, you gots me do-nuts-ah,” he said, smiling widely.
“Sure I did son, I promised you din’ I?”
“Yeah, yeah, fanks Daddy, I love you Daddy,” he says and plants a cream-smeared kiss on my cheek, then runs back into the kitchen.
My two-year-old daughter, Denise, approaches me cautiously. I don’t see enough of her and she has a chocolate-glazed doughnut in her hand and a smile on her face. “Hi sweetie-pie,’’ I say and her smiling angel-face breaks into a giggle and she runs over and plants a chocolate-besmeared kiss on my already crème-smeared face.
She smiles at me. “I wuv you Da-ah-ee,” she says, then runs back into the kitchen even, as I smile and realize that my eighteen-dollar night has just become worth eighteen million.
FICTION: Answers in Snow by Ollie McLean
The temperature is steadily dropping as I drive north. I have to get to my mom in Ontario. She’s in the hospital, they say its cancer and she’s not going to last long.
Dammit, this is the third time, is it cancer or not?
Highway 195 stretches across my windshield; a constant reminder of how much road is between Chicago and Ontario. I feel bad about leaving Cate with the girls for so long, but they’re old enough now she should be okay. Or maybe they’re old enough now we should be watching them closer. I push the thought into the back of my mind. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. Thinking about Cate and the girls makes my heart ache. I forcefully change my thoughts to work, wishing I could be back at the factory. The road to my dying mother stretches ahead of me. The guys at work don’t nag, and Jane is at work.
I’ve got to stop soon, get some coffee or something or else I’m going to fall asleep. There is a town in the next fifty-miles, I’m certain. Did I pass that town already? I’m so tired. The man on the radio has just announced record low temperatures for November. Tonight is going to drop to three degrees, the coldest this week.
I drive by expansive farmland on either side for hours. Flat wheat fields, empty for the winter, stretch into barely blurs either side of me, frosted in soft snow. I think of the girls eating Frosted Mini Wheats at the breakfast table.
Clumps of green grass spot the road banks. The sun winks at me through the trees until slipping under the horizon. I roll down the windows of the truck and inhale deeply. The smell of trees and woods reminds me of Cate. I look at the passenger seat and wish I could reach over and stroke her black hair. How she was, before the kids, before my job, so many years ago.
I finally pull into Elkton around 10:45, a one-shop town somewhere north of Winnipeg. The seemingly only gas station is a dilapidated 50’s style gas station and diner with one working gas pump. The rounded metal of the diner reflects my pale skin. I watch the reflection of my khaki shirt float across the parking lot.
Something about this place gives me the creeps, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I look around at the dump as I push through a swinging door into the little gas station. Dust is covering most of the surfaces in the store. The door violently creaks as I step through, an apparent cue for the red haired teenager to look up from his phone and smirk. His nametag says Arnold.
How you doing?
I’m doing well, sir, how are you? Pretty bad night to be out driving, especially up here.
He’s nicer than I thought. His red hair is wild and untamed, strawberry curls forming a crown around his freckled face. His ice blue eyes are incredibly vibrant, pools of water in the desert of his face.
Yeah, pretty nasty. Just trying to get through it but I’m chilled to the bone. Is the coffee fresh?
Honestly, I’ll brew you some fresh. It’s been out here since about six, sir. We don’t get too many passers through.
He jogs to the drink station and starts fumbling with the coffee pots. He keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, flashing that blue my direction. I find myself watching his hands. He is taking his damn time.
Thanks, son, I appreciate it.
This seems to startle him as if he forgot I was there; he jumps and drops a filter full of ground coffee onto the floor. The grounds quickly washed over the tile.
Shit. Sorry, sir, I’ll get that.
I feel slightly embarrassed for the kid, but why so jumpy? I lean against the drink counter trying to look casual while Arnold dashes around the store. First he tries to clumsily scrape the scattered coffee grounds into a trashcan, using the discarded coffee filter. His shaking hand causes the grounds spread further onto the tile, under the aisles of candy, and clinging to Arnold’s leg, causing him to become more frustrated. The grounds mix into the dust under the coffee station and around my feet. It looks like the ground is covered in gray mold.
I’m sorry, sir, it wasn’t supposed to look like this.
His blue eyes are saucers in his pink face. A look of terror captivates his face, as though he said too much.
What?
The store was supposed to be clean, nothing like this. Everything is messed up now.
Uh, it looks fine. I just came in for coffee, is it ready?
I glance at the coffee machine and notice that the pot is still empty. I think of how impatient Cate would be right now, tapping her foot with anxiety. Once again, I force Cate out of my thoughts.
Shit. Forgot to plug it in. Sorry, sir. Crap. Everything was supposed to be perfect.
Kid, what the hell are you talking about? I just want to get some coffee and get back on the road.
Arnold looks like he’s about to cry. He walks over to the drink station and crouches down to the plug. He turns only his head and stares up into my face trying to say something without words, but I have no idea what is going on. He stands and his eyes dart to the back corner of the store as though he sees something. He dashes down the candy aisle land disappears behind the door. I hear muffled arguing and uneasiness creeps up my back. Glancing at the coffee pot, halfway empty still, I quickly drain the contents into a cup, grab some creamer and start to walk out of the store. Passing the counter, I drop leave two dollars and shove open the creaky door.
The blast of cold winter air helps clear my head slightly as I walk up to my old GMC pick-up. I’m trying to shake off the strange feeling my interaction with Arnold has given me as I pull open my truck door and turn the key. My truck has been acting up lately, refusing to start, but she’s over twenty now. An antique.
Come on, baby, start for me.
The engine kicked a few times but didn’t turn over. I smell transmission fluid and the steering wheel won’t turn.
Not here, please. I’ll do anything, I swear, just one more town.
With a few more tries the engine rumbles to life and I flip on the heater and the radio. The melodious sound of Hey Jude fills the cab. The happy tunes feel foreign and loud hitting my ears, but I welcome the comforting familiarity.
Thank you, Jesus.
I back out of my parking spot and I’m driving past the gas pumps when I think I hear shouting. I turn down my radio.
Hey, Phil, wait.
Who’s calling my name? I look in my rearview and see Arnold running to the truck.
You forgot your change, sir.
He reaches his fist into my window and drops a quarter onto my lap. Without making eye contact he turns to run inside, revealing a fresh cut on the side of his swollen eye. I’m not completely sure what I should do. I do not want my truck to stall so I mash the gas pedal.
How did he know my name?
Completely bewildered, I fumble with my cell phone, considering calling the police. I think of what I would say to them, and how ridiculous I would sound. Sure, some kid as a gas station is stalking a forty-two year old man in a broken down pickup. Instead, I decide to call my sister to check my mom’s status. My voice is shaking when she picks up. She doesn’t sound much better.
Hey, Phil.
Hey Susie. How is she?
Not good, the doctors said you should hurry. I don’t think she knows we’re here. Where are you?
I went through Belleview more than an hour ago. I should be making headway.
Dammit, Phil.
I stare at the screen for a moment, the picture of my sisters smiling face illuminated in the night. Her condescending nature is not lost in the thumbnail picture, her head tilted slightly, relaxed, a beaming white smile. I press the end button and watch the screen fade to black. I toss the cell phone onto the passenger seat. I burry my sister’s bitchy smile and even my destination under easy thoughts of the stars.
The Beatles help my nerves steady and soon I’ve pushed the thoughts of my sister and sickly mom to the back of my head. Into that part of my brain with my failing truck and Jane I’ve mastered turning off.
Jane’s hair smells like summer rain showers and Shea butter. I touch the back of my neck, searching my collar, and I find one wrapped in the buttonhole on my lapel. I intertwine it in my fingers, pulling it taught against my knuckles. I turn on the dome light and inspect the red hair, thin and vibrant against my worn knuckles.
What does a kid like that see in an old man like me?
The soft skin of her ribcage flashes through my mind. A pale ocean of orange freckles lapping at her bra and panties. I turn off the light, welcoming the darkness as though it hides the guilt from myself.
In a moment of weakness, I think of Cate at home. Handicapped under the burden of third-trimester pregnancy, she would be on the couch waiting for Allison to call from her friend’s house. I know better than to believe she is at a friend’s house. Cate was often gullible.
I think of the last conversation we had as I was leaving.
When you get home we will tell the girls, okay?
Dammit, Cate, I’ve got enough on my plate right now. Can’t you just tell them?
Of course that’s not a surprise. Its not like you were ever really thinking of them, were you?
Then she turned around and waddled back through the front door of our house. I remember feeling worried as she teetered up the front five stairs. She slammed the door with such force she knocked the number five off the door.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the number five. Momentarily I rub my thumb in on the warm plastic, but soon my throat catches and my nose tingles. I roll down my window and fling our house number into the falling snow. Immediately it disappears into black.
Something inside my truck is squealing, waking me from a trance. I glance at the clock and 2:17 blares on the dashboard. I wonder how long I’ve tuned out the noise. The old girl makes noises often, so I’m sure it can make it to the next town. Signs warn me of a sharp turn in the road ahead, but hitting my brakes I find no resistance. I press the brake hard into the floor, but only feel grinding metal under my foot. The snow is slanting into my windshield as I cut my steering wheel left, but continue forward at forty miles an hour.
My truck lifts on two wheels, as it slams sideways into a wall of compacted snow. My passenger window shatters. The glass sprays into my face. A strand slices my ear open and wedges glass shards into my neck.
First, just the hissing of the radiator could be heard. Shaking, I unbuckle my seatbelt and put a hand on the door handle.
An outside light fills the cab, unnatural illumination spilling over my dashboard. The cup of old coffee flashes suddenly, and Arnold’s face flashes into my head. Looking out my window, I see a semi truck hurtling towards the turn. He is honking his horn like a maniac, losing control on the same patch of black ice I had. I fight to open my truck door. The next moment there is a deafening roar of crunching metal and I am cheek down on the asphalt.
The air is silent, a pregnant pause. I inhale and smell gasoline and blood. I drag myself to a sitting position and look behind me. Where my truck had been is a mangled pile resembling a semi-cab. I wobble to my feet and begin making my way towards the accident, but I am have gone less than thirty feet when the wreck erupts into flames with an explosion that knocks me down. The snow banks melt around the inferno and pools of gasoline are exploding on the ground as I scream helplessly. I drop to my knees, involuntarily welcoming the heat from burning wreck.
Hello, is anyone around? Hello? Are you hurt?
I stare at the fire, mesmerized, horrified. I strain to look up the barren street into blackness. The flames illuminate a circle into the woods surrounding the road. The trees stare at me, laughing at my solitude. I check my pockets, finding them empty. Panicking, I sprint up the road from where I came, trying to remember when I had passed a town.
dammit, Phil. Pay more attention.
I stop and double over. I vomit onto the steaming asphalt, my breath coming in raspy gasps. Turning around, I stare into the flames of the distant accident.
What happened? Did my brakes fail? Hello, can anyone hear me?
Blood surges in my ears. I touch my eyebrow to find my head soaked with blood. My shirt, a khaki tourist number with buttons, is torn and stained from the accident. Already I am freezing, standing in the middle of the road, alone.
I know I have to get my blood flowing to keep my warm. I start walking away from the accident in the direction I was traveling. At least this way seemed more popular.
Away from the light of the blazing cab fire is complete black. The horizon is where two shades of gray meet; I keep my eyes glued to the snowy hills rising like ghosts in the distance.
I manage to wrestle the thoughts of hypothermia and of being stranded out of my consciousness. What matters now is my own survival. The faces of my twins swirl in my mind, their pale red hair like wheat fields.
Red hair. All my girls have red hair. Except for Cate. I think of her jade eyes under her jet-black hair. I hope the baby has red hair.
Do you want me to dye it to match her? Is that it? You have a thing for red heads? Or am I just too old and too fat for you now, after raising your twins and getting pregnant now? Again?
Cate, you’re beautiful. Please. I’m sorry. Nothing happened, I swear.
Sure, Phil, that’s why you called her your firecracker. Nothing happened, that’s why you all have texted back and forth over two thousand times.
I’ll never talk to her again.
It doesn’t matter. The damage is done. You’re having a son, Phil. It’s a boy.
It’s a boy.
On the black road I forget I am not reenacting this conversation, merely thinking it. I unclench my frozen fists, attempting to shake away the fleeting feeling of insanity.
I’ve been walking for at least an hour, but the sky is still thoroughly black. My toes are numb, and my heels are bleeding. The constant crunch of rocks under my sneakers is the only sound I hear other than whistling wind. My mind is dizzy from loss of blood. I’m sure I’ve got a concussion. The lines of the road are crossing in my sight. I have to stop and gasp for frigid air often. The cold has claimed my face and chest. My nose runs freely down my face, collecting ice and freezing in chunks on my chin. The stinging on my cheeks has been replaced by a numb, animated feeling like worms are crawling in my skin.
The wind is mocking me, carrying on it the sound of my daughter’s laughter and the smell of Jane’s laundry detergent. The road heckles me with each turn, however I have stopped anticipating human life. I am alone out here.
I see a light in the middle of an empty field to my right. Blinking the stinging tears out of my eyes, I stare at the taunting light. It is so far away, an unreal blessing floating on powdery snow. Turning left, I gaze at the blackness into which I’m walking. Without a thought of much, I plunge into the snowfield, burying my legs and waist in snow. The powder is resistant and I have to force my legs through with each step. My exposed arms shake with an agonizing cold.
I fall in the field and snow swallows me. Inside is cold and soft. Welcoming for sleep. I curl into a ball and begin to dream.
I am at home in my bed, warm and content. But my dog is licking my face, needing to be taken out. And my alarm is sounding. And the twins are jumping on the foot of the bed. They are still children, not pierced hellions.
Daddy, daddy wake up!
Ashley, I’m tired. I worked all day yesterday so I could sleep today. Go away, find your mother.
Daddy, daddy wake up!
She’s tugging on my sleeve, pulling me out of bed. I’m resistant.
I open my eyes. I am surrounded by white and think I am blind. I look down and see my hands, the tips of my fingers beginning to purple and bleed from the cold.
Daddy! Hurry up.
I yank myself upright, still sitting in the snow. I jerk my head around, searching for a person, for any source of noise. I only see soft, haunting snow.
Ashley?
The wind whispers a response at me. A light blinks in my peripheral. I turn and make out the shadow of a house in the distance, an orange light glowing from the front. I desperately look around again for my daughter then begin stumbling through snow.
My pants are filled with water from the snow, weighing me down. My arms and hands are bloody. With each hurtle I leave a dirty trail, evidence of where I have been. Visions of being hunted by a lioness jar my mind.
My eyes stay on the tips of my fingers. I watch as my body digs mechanically into a new pile of undisturbed snow, heaving along my dead weight.
Phil, do you need help?
Cate is standing in front of me, a hand on her bulging stomach. I stop climbing. I watch her stand with ease on the top of the powdered snow, not sinking through. My face is inches from her swollen feet and I can smell the ginger lotion on her legs.
You let us down, Phil.
I know, Cate. I’m sorry.
I need you here, at home. Your children miss you. Why did you choose her over us?
I never did! Please, help me.
You did. You killed our family.
She stares down into my eyes. Her black hair invisible against the empty Canadian night sky, her face a floating entity, her eyes an emotion. She is pointing, pointing towards a hill in the snow feet from us. A piercing cry shoots through the air, the gasping frantic scream of a newborn. I look and see nothing. I see flat snow leading to a mound. I look back to Cate who is now small, no longer swollen and round. She is staring down at me with over her flat stomach. Her dress is blowing around her legs, and her midnight is hair sticking to her lips. She is a witch of the night, her outstretched arm marking her curse, her hand like a lightning strike. Her fingers are curved and dead, mesmerizing. My son’s cries grip my soul, lurching my stomach, filling my legs with life.
I frantically swim through the snow towards the sound, but the closer I become the more muffled are his cries. My arms and legs are responding slower by the second, but I manage to reach the icy hill.
I can hear the baby screaming now, choking on its tears, choking on the ice. I press my face into the frozen ground; I can almost see him under the layers of frost, a blur buried deep amongst the ice. Dirt and ice grit against my teeth and I feel my front tooth crack. My lips shred against the razor edge of my broken tooth as I scream into the ground, desperately into nothing. He needs me, I can hear it in his cries. I’m clawing and scratching helplessly at the snow. The top layer is coming off easily, but the ice underneath is rigid and bitter and my skin grates against it. The tips of my fingers slice against the rigid ice hopelessly. My blood is smearing on the unforgiving ground, a violent, surreal contrast against the encompassing gray.
I lay my forehead against the ice, staring into frozen ground. I turn to scream at Cate, to ask her why, but she is not delicately standing on the snow. There is nobody and I am alone completely. The decent of the night is suffocating me. If I’m screaming my voice is whisked away by the wind and if I’m crying my tears are frozen to my eyes. The only evidence I am alive is the steady trickle of blood onto the dirty snow.
The house with the porch light is only yards away now. The sky is violet near the snow and my veins are coursing with malice.
How could she do that to me?
Jane’s full lips brush my neck. I spin, yearning for her embrace. The wind carries a naughty giggle whipping my ear as I stare at innocent snow flurries. Standing between reality and insanity, I suck the blood from my broken lips, embracing the taste of life.
The door is unlocked. From the porch I can see it is a dilapidated farmhouse, built when lanterns adorned railings. There is no orange light. The door sticks and my frost-chewed fingers are unable to fully grasp and turn the doorknob, aching against the rusted metal. I try to kick the door but pain shoots up my shins from my destroyed toes. I fall to dusty planks, laying on my elbows and knees waiting for the pain to subside. The door creeks open next to me. The eerie sound rubs against my throat, almost gagging me. The open doorway exposes a dusty hallway. Steadying myself on the doorframe, I stand and limp inside.
A layer of grime coats every surface, undisturbed. The dust gives everything a gray color, reminiscent of the glazing snow outside. Regardless of a lack of heat I am deeply warmed once completely in the door, the warmth of stale air brings water to my eyes and my fingertips are searing.
The house is wooden, from the railing of a twenty-set staircase to the elegant china cabinet in the foyer. Everything is made from wood. An enormous oak table squats in the dining room, a radiant yellow mountain in the dark. The gigantic table draws me into the room, while the elk antler chandelier looming overhead holds me in place. I collapse onto the table, a grand hand-carved piece with matching thick-legged poster chairs. My skull makes a loud thud when connecting with the oak, a welcomed noise followed by an aching headache reminding me I am still alive.
The antler chandelier, covered in candle wax and layers of dust, is an extensive piece of artwork. The warmth causes my eyelids to droop as I think of hunting trips my father took me on as a boy.
I’m ready, pop. Can’t I shoot, please?
dammit, fine Phillip. I don’t think you can handle this. Shooting is different than watching it done.
It’s okay, Pop, I can do it.
I shot a doe that day. I watched her suffer from a poor shot to the stomach for an hour. My dad made me follow her. He went home.
Did you find her?
Yeah, dad. I found her.
Did you get her antlers?
I didn’t understand what he meant until now. Cruel bastard.
Phillip, did you get her antlers?
I crack open my eyes. Color floods my vision and I am disoriented, as if there was ever an orientation.
Dad?
I sit up and realize I am on the huge oak table of the farmhouse, the knots of carved wood biting into my lower back. The wooden walls are dreary brown as the morning sun pours through dust caked windowpanes throughout the open first floor. Outside I can see only bright white, molten lava rather than snow. The chandelier hangs silent. A cat meows from somewhere above my head.
Teetering on my feet, the thought of water and food runs through my head. I am trying to remember what happened, how I ended here in this house, what my life was like before. Snow fills my brain, flurries of confusion, time lapse and blood loss run rampant on my memory. I have fluttering horrific memories, a creeping panic climbing my back like remembering a nightmare. The only certainty I possess is the shelter of this house and the injuries mangling and impairing my hands.
My footsteps arouse dust clouds that swirl and dance around my knees. My shoes, once decent sneakers, now shreds of rubber squeak with every step. The stairs threaten to collapse as I selectively climb them. A moth-eaten rug runs the expanse of the staircase and the giant green eyes of a tiger stare ominously at me as I skip that stair. Decorating the walls are faces of stoic strangers, skin infinitely smooth captured on sepia canvas.
I think of my family waiting for me to come home everyday. At the dinner table, eyes avoiding my empty plate as I pound methodically at Jane’s body. My son waiting to be born to a drained family, destined to be jaded himself. I see a man in my home, touching Cate’s shoulder, awarded with a smile. Cate chops celery, her
At the top of the stairs I find a room papered with ducks in sailor outfits. In the corner there is a wooden toy box, I recognize the knotted blonde oak from the downstairs table. I am beginning to cross the room when my daughter Ashley emerges from the closet. The sight of her red hair melts the snow coating my brain and memories of the previous night come crashing down on me. I remember Cate’s witchcraft and the suspicious kid from the gas station.
Ashley, what are you doing here? Where’s Allison and mommy?
The little girl acts as if I am not in the room, going to the toy box, opening the lid, and tenderly reaching inside. From the depths of the wooden chest, Ashley produces a slick human heart. She turns to face me directly.
Here, daddy, I made this for you.
Oh my , what have you done Ashley?
The heart in her hands beats once. She holds the organ closer to my face. The smell of blood and plasma is overwhelming. My head is swimming and I watch as my daughter’s face splits into a beaming smile.
It’s mommy’s. I hear you yell and she says you have no heart. So I took hers for you. I hope you like it.
The heart beats, the sound like a bass drum in my ears. I back into the wall, grasping at a cedar cradle on the back wall. My legs give way and I tumble to the ground. The cradle crashes on top of me. She steps closer, confusing flushing her eyes.
Aren’t you happy, daddy? I want you to have it. You need it more. Here, please daddy. Take it. I made it for you.
No, , no! Ashley, stop!
You never want to do anything with me!
I am trapped under the tangled crib, scrambling to free myself. My daughter has her mother’s green eyes, unfocused and wild, and they are filling my vision, the pale jade of illness. The beating heart is pounding my ears, threatening to explode my eardrums. Robotically, she approaches. I see long strands of red hair falling out behind her. The smell of decay is enveloping me until I shield myself from my young daughter. I wait, expecting to be doused in Cate’s entrails. Suddenly, there is the quiet of an empty house. I hear no pounding hearts or child’s laughter.
Tentatively I drop my arms. The room is exactly the same as before, save that the blonde toy box is missing. I am shaking violently as I remove myself from the mess of broken cradle.
Phil.
Mom?
I find my mother on the landing. She is in a large wheelchair, a blanket on her lap and her hair in a tight bun. Her cheeks are sunken and her eyes cloudy. Death looms in her face and I start down the stairs, feeling foolish and scared.
Wait, Phil.
What do all of you want? Why are you torturing me?
Your mother is far from torturing you. You are tormenting yourself. Allowing your mother to die without you. I’m ashamed.
I’m sorry I’m not there right now, mom. I really tried to make it.
Yes, I’m sure, there is always an excuse. Just like the excuse you give Cate every time you go out with that tart.
Jane is not a tart.
How dare you say her name to me? Do you have respect for no one? You are raising those girls on the wrong path. One of them will end up pregnant soon.
Why is this happening?
You have to make the change yourself, Phil. Protect your family. Survive. You’ve already failed in your marriage.
But dad never protected us. How am I supposed to know what to do?
Learn from your father’s mistakes. You will know. the answers are inside you.
But I don’t know.
In the next moment I am staring only at varnish and dust. Sunlight is streaking the hardwood floors. I squat in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning my face to the ground. In the dust are thousands of child-sized footprints. Prints from toddlers growing to barefoot steps the size of my daughters. Paths left from ages of my ancestors. Slowly I am extending my arm, and with my fingertips I graze the sole of a footprint the size of Allison’s. The dusty floor is soft and warm to the touch.
A gunshot explodes behind me. I startle and huddle in place momentarily, but then slowly turn. As I assumed, there is nobody standing behind me, only drab wooden walls covered in dust. A small hole marks the wall. So small, in fact, that I would not have noticed it had the dust around it not been dancing with disruption.
I hear the sound of struggling from downstairs. Not the sound of fighting or destruction, more of a panic, a heavy thrashing. It is almost a quiet sound, but far from being silent. The floorboards below my feet are trembling, the house suddenly anxious. Slowly I walk onto the landing. From below I hear the sound traveling up the staircase. There is a spasmodic knocking violently resounding between the sounds of scraping. The noise sounds particularly familiar, sending chills into the dead nerves of my arms. I approach the stairs and realize the noise is coming from the wonderful dining room. Taking one step at a time, I bend attempting to see from the staircase. From this angle I can only see the end of the table. It quivers with movement. The noise sounds more sluggish than before. I am on the bottom landing, and I make my way towards the dining room.
Turning the corner I see the doe’s head connect with the chandelier’s iron casting. A sickening thud echoes through the house as her nose breaks. She has a fine set of antlers, long and elegant, infused perfectly with the rest of the antlers on the chandelier, turning her neck at an impossible angle. Her body stretches vertically, exposing her elegant white underbelly. Her back hooves are scarring ruts into the magnificent oak table she is extended above with every panicked batter. Blood oozes from a small hole in her stomach. Each breath is shallower than the last as her own weight breaks her neck.
Daddy, why did you make me do that?
A small child is standing next to me, staring ahead at the deer. He is clutching the back of a thick chair, pale and scared. A sense of calm washes over me.
I’m not your dad.
Why did I have to do that?
He has blood on his hands and face.
Sometimes you do things that are wrong in your life. Sometimes your parents will lead you wrong. You have to make the decision.
What did you decide, Phil?
Tears were streaking rivers into the guts on his cheeks.
I made my decision too late. It’s too late.
I turn away from the scene, leaving the weeping boy and the deer alone for her last few minutes alive together, the way it had always been.
There is a man in the distance. From the hall window he is a blue smudge against the white hills. The sun is setting behind him, and I lose him momentarily in the orange glow.
I’m not going to let this happen. I am going to survive. My family will survive.
Turning my back on the window I walk into the kitchen, wandering through the grime. I idly trail my fingers over the coated counters, my counters.
This is my home, I am not going to let anyone into my home.
I hear banging at the door, an insistent pounding from the intruder. I walk to the doorway of the kitchen, looking down the hallway.
Is somebody in there? This is Rich Felman from a few houses east. Do you need help? Did you crash last night?
He just wants to kill me. He’s going to torture me like the others. Opening a nearby drawer, I find a rusty knife. The blade is chipped and broken, but the oak handle shines as if recently polished.
Go away! We don’t need you.
The intruder is pounding on the door again, shining a flashlight through the panes in the window. I feel the harsh glare of his spotlight land on my face. The sun is completely behind the hills now and my house is growing dim.
Sir, I’m coming in to get you. I can help you. You need medical attention.
I said go away asshole! You’re not coming in!
The door shatters as he forces his boot through. The shards of wood reflect his light and cast shadows on the floor, a million roaches scurrying into the shadows. I am going to protect my family. Allison grips my free hand.
Daddy I’m scared. What does he want?
I step out of the shadow of the doorway and sink my knife into the soft of his stomach. His flashlight clamors to the ground, but the whites of his eyes glow in the darkness. Red-hot blood rushes over my hands, down my pants and splatters onto my shoes. Questions gurgle in his throat as he drops to his knees. I slide my knife out of his abdomen and wipe it on my pants.
I stare out into the gray abyss past the doorway. The flashlight illuminates an ocean of blood.
I kneel next to his rigid body and affectionately stroke his beautiful antlers. I shift my weight, bending one of the twisted horns into the ground. The dead man’s head twists at a sickening angle and I begin chopping at the base of the antler.
Can I do that, daddy?
The boy sits next to me in the puddle of blood. I place the knife in his expecting hand and watch as he saws free his trophy. He struggles momentarily but pushes away my help. He’s crying and the man’s head is jerking spasmodically on the ground, sloshing in blood, mixing scalp and skin with dust from the antlers.
I can do it.
I know you can, son.
One antler snaps free and the boy stands. I remain seated next to the body of our sacrifice. I flip off the flashlight and allow the fresh night to fall around us. Allison’s approving eyes pierce through the night. The boy turns towards the open doorway and walks through, trailing the doe’s antler across the blood soaked entrance way.
Where are you going? I want to come.
Daddy, let him go, we need you here. You protect us now.
The boy does not turn. Barefoot, he steps over the porch and into the fresh snow. His small figure is cloaked in the nighttime and soon I can no longer make out his outline, only a trail marked with a child’s bloody footprints. The snow flurries around my home, pressing hot white protection against my porch. I begin to follow the boy, momentarily concerned. Allison grips my hand and we stare into the frigid abyss together
Dammit, this is the third time, is it cancer or not?
Highway 195 stretches across my windshield; a constant reminder of how much road is between Chicago and Ontario. I feel bad about leaving Cate with the girls for so long, but they’re old enough now she should be okay. Or maybe they’re old enough now we should be watching them closer. I push the thought into the back of my mind. That’s what I’ve been doing lately. Thinking about Cate and the girls makes my heart ache. I forcefully change my thoughts to work, wishing I could be back at the factory. The road to my dying mother stretches ahead of me. The guys at work don’t nag, and Jane is at work.
I’ve got to stop soon, get some coffee or something or else I’m going to fall asleep. There is a town in the next fifty-miles, I’m certain. Did I pass that town already? I’m so tired. The man on the radio has just announced record low temperatures for November. Tonight is going to drop to three degrees, the coldest this week.
I drive by expansive farmland on either side for hours. Flat wheat fields, empty for the winter, stretch into barely blurs either side of me, frosted in soft snow. I think of the girls eating Frosted Mini Wheats at the breakfast table.
Clumps of green grass spot the road banks. The sun winks at me through the trees until slipping under the horizon. I roll down the windows of the truck and inhale deeply. The smell of trees and woods reminds me of Cate. I look at the passenger seat and wish I could reach over and stroke her black hair. How she was, before the kids, before my job, so many years ago.
I finally pull into Elkton around 10:45, a one-shop town somewhere north of Winnipeg. The seemingly only gas station is a dilapidated 50’s style gas station and diner with one working gas pump. The rounded metal of the diner reflects my pale skin. I watch the reflection of my khaki shirt float across the parking lot.
Something about this place gives me the creeps, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I look around at the dump as I push through a swinging door into the little gas station. Dust is covering most of the surfaces in the store. The door violently creaks as I step through, an apparent cue for the red haired teenager to look up from his phone and smirk. His nametag says Arnold.
How you doing?
I’m doing well, sir, how are you? Pretty bad night to be out driving, especially up here.
He’s nicer than I thought. His red hair is wild and untamed, strawberry curls forming a crown around his freckled face. His ice blue eyes are incredibly vibrant, pools of water in the desert of his face.
Yeah, pretty nasty. Just trying to get through it but I’m chilled to the bone. Is the coffee fresh?
Honestly, I’ll brew you some fresh. It’s been out here since about six, sir. We don’t get too many passers through.
He jogs to the drink station and starts fumbling with the coffee pots. He keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, flashing that blue my direction. I find myself watching his hands. He is taking his damn time.
Thanks, son, I appreciate it.
This seems to startle him as if he forgot I was there; he jumps and drops a filter full of ground coffee onto the floor. The grounds quickly washed over the tile.
Shit. Sorry, sir, I’ll get that.
I feel slightly embarrassed for the kid, but why so jumpy? I lean against the drink counter trying to look casual while Arnold dashes around the store. First he tries to clumsily scrape the scattered coffee grounds into a trashcan, using the discarded coffee filter. His shaking hand causes the grounds spread further onto the tile, under the aisles of candy, and clinging to Arnold’s leg, causing him to become more frustrated. The grounds mix into the dust under the coffee station and around my feet. It looks like the ground is covered in gray mold.
I’m sorry, sir, it wasn’t supposed to look like this.
His blue eyes are saucers in his pink face. A look of terror captivates his face, as though he said too much.
What?
The store was supposed to be clean, nothing like this. Everything is messed up now.
Uh, it looks fine. I just came in for coffee, is it ready?
I glance at the coffee machine and notice that the pot is still empty. I think of how impatient Cate would be right now, tapping her foot with anxiety. Once again, I force Cate out of my thoughts.
Shit. Forgot to plug it in. Sorry, sir. Crap. Everything was supposed to be perfect.
Kid, what the hell are you talking about? I just want to get some coffee and get back on the road.
Arnold looks like he’s about to cry. He walks over to the drink station and crouches down to the plug. He turns only his head and stares up into my face trying to say something without words, but I have no idea what is going on. He stands and his eyes dart to the back corner of the store as though he sees something. He dashes down the candy aisle land disappears behind the door. I hear muffled arguing and uneasiness creeps up my back. Glancing at the coffee pot, halfway empty still, I quickly drain the contents into a cup, grab some creamer and start to walk out of the store. Passing the counter, I drop leave two dollars and shove open the creaky door.
The blast of cold winter air helps clear my head slightly as I walk up to my old GMC pick-up. I’m trying to shake off the strange feeling my interaction with Arnold has given me as I pull open my truck door and turn the key. My truck has been acting up lately, refusing to start, but she’s over twenty now. An antique.
Come on, baby, start for me.
The engine kicked a few times but didn’t turn over. I smell transmission fluid and the steering wheel won’t turn.
Not here, please. I’ll do anything, I swear, just one more town.
With a few more tries the engine rumbles to life and I flip on the heater and the radio. The melodious sound of Hey Jude fills the cab. The happy tunes feel foreign and loud hitting my ears, but I welcome the comforting familiarity.
Thank you, Jesus.
I back out of my parking spot and I’m driving past the gas pumps when I think I hear shouting. I turn down my radio.
Hey, Phil, wait.
Who’s calling my name? I look in my rearview and see Arnold running to the truck.
You forgot your change, sir.
He reaches his fist into my window and drops a quarter onto my lap. Without making eye contact he turns to run inside, revealing a fresh cut on the side of his swollen eye. I’m not completely sure what I should do. I do not want my truck to stall so I mash the gas pedal.
How did he know my name?
Completely bewildered, I fumble with my cell phone, considering calling the police. I think of what I would say to them, and how ridiculous I would sound. Sure, some kid as a gas station is stalking a forty-two year old man in a broken down pickup. Instead, I decide to call my sister to check my mom’s status. My voice is shaking when she picks up. She doesn’t sound much better.
Hey, Phil.
Hey Susie. How is she?
Not good, the doctors said you should hurry. I don’t think she knows we’re here. Where are you?
I went through Belleview more than an hour ago. I should be making headway.
Dammit, Phil.
I stare at the screen for a moment, the picture of my sisters smiling face illuminated in the night. Her condescending nature is not lost in the thumbnail picture, her head tilted slightly, relaxed, a beaming white smile. I press the end button and watch the screen fade to black. I toss the cell phone onto the passenger seat. I burry my sister’s bitchy smile and even my destination under easy thoughts of the stars.
The Beatles help my nerves steady and soon I’ve pushed the thoughts of my sister and sickly mom to the back of my head. Into that part of my brain with my failing truck and Jane I’ve mastered turning off.
Jane’s hair smells like summer rain showers and Shea butter. I touch the back of my neck, searching my collar, and I find one wrapped in the buttonhole on my lapel. I intertwine it in my fingers, pulling it taught against my knuckles. I turn on the dome light and inspect the red hair, thin and vibrant against my worn knuckles.
What does a kid like that see in an old man like me?
The soft skin of her ribcage flashes through my mind. A pale ocean of orange freckles lapping at her bra and panties. I turn off the light, welcoming the darkness as though it hides the guilt from myself.
In a moment of weakness, I think of Cate at home. Handicapped under the burden of third-trimester pregnancy, she would be on the couch waiting for Allison to call from her friend’s house. I know better than to believe she is at a friend’s house. Cate was often gullible.
I think of the last conversation we had as I was leaving.
When you get home we will tell the girls, okay?
Dammit, Cate, I’ve got enough on my plate right now. Can’t you just tell them?
Of course that’s not a surprise. Its not like you were ever really thinking of them, were you?
Then she turned around and waddled back through the front door of our house. I remember feeling worried as she teetered up the front five stairs. She slammed the door with such force she knocked the number five off the door.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the number five. Momentarily I rub my thumb in on the warm plastic, but soon my throat catches and my nose tingles. I roll down my window and fling our house number into the falling snow. Immediately it disappears into black.
Something inside my truck is squealing, waking me from a trance. I glance at the clock and 2:17 blares on the dashboard. I wonder how long I’ve tuned out the noise. The old girl makes noises often, so I’m sure it can make it to the next town. Signs warn me of a sharp turn in the road ahead, but hitting my brakes I find no resistance. I press the brake hard into the floor, but only feel grinding metal under my foot. The snow is slanting into my windshield as I cut my steering wheel left, but continue forward at forty miles an hour.
My truck lifts on two wheels, as it slams sideways into a wall of compacted snow. My passenger window shatters. The glass sprays into my face. A strand slices my ear open and wedges glass shards into my neck.
First, just the hissing of the radiator could be heard. Shaking, I unbuckle my seatbelt and put a hand on the door handle.
An outside light fills the cab, unnatural illumination spilling over my dashboard. The cup of old coffee flashes suddenly, and Arnold’s face flashes into my head. Looking out my window, I see a semi truck hurtling towards the turn. He is honking his horn like a maniac, losing control on the same patch of black ice I had. I fight to open my truck door. The next moment there is a deafening roar of crunching metal and I am cheek down on the asphalt.
The air is silent, a pregnant pause. I inhale and smell gasoline and blood. I drag myself to a sitting position and look behind me. Where my truck had been is a mangled pile resembling a semi-cab. I wobble to my feet and begin making my way towards the accident, but I am have gone less than thirty feet when the wreck erupts into flames with an explosion that knocks me down. The snow banks melt around the inferno and pools of gasoline are exploding on the ground as I scream helplessly. I drop to my knees, involuntarily welcoming the heat from burning wreck.
Hello, is anyone around? Hello? Are you hurt?
I stare at the fire, mesmerized, horrified. I strain to look up the barren street into blackness. The flames illuminate a circle into the woods surrounding the road. The trees stare at me, laughing at my solitude. I check my pockets, finding them empty. Panicking, I sprint up the road from where I came, trying to remember when I had passed a town.
dammit, Phil. Pay more attention.
I stop and double over. I vomit onto the steaming asphalt, my breath coming in raspy gasps. Turning around, I stare into the flames of the distant accident.
What happened? Did my brakes fail? Hello, can anyone hear me?
Blood surges in my ears. I touch my eyebrow to find my head soaked with blood. My shirt, a khaki tourist number with buttons, is torn and stained from the accident. Already I am freezing, standing in the middle of the road, alone.
I know I have to get my blood flowing to keep my warm. I start walking away from the accident in the direction I was traveling. At least this way seemed more popular.
Away from the light of the blazing cab fire is complete black. The horizon is where two shades of gray meet; I keep my eyes glued to the snowy hills rising like ghosts in the distance.
I manage to wrestle the thoughts of hypothermia and of being stranded out of my consciousness. What matters now is my own survival. The faces of my twins swirl in my mind, their pale red hair like wheat fields.
Red hair. All my girls have red hair. Except for Cate. I think of her jade eyes under her jet-black hair. I hope the baby has red hair.
Do you want me to dye it to match her? Is that it? You have a thing for red heads? Or am I just too old and too fat for you now, after raising your twins and getting pregnant now? Again?
Cate, you’re beautiful. Please. I’m sorry. Nothing happened, I swear.
Sure, Phil, that’s why you called her your firecracker. Nothing happened, that’s why you all have texted back and forth over two thousand times.
I’ll never talk to her again.
It doesn’t matter. The damage is done. You’re having a son, Phil. It’s a boy.
It’s a boy.
On the black road I forget I am not reenacting this conversation, merely thinking it. I unclench my frozen fists, attempting to shake away the fleeting feeling of insanity.
I’ve been walking for at least an hour, but the sky is still thoroughly black. My toes are numb, and my heels are bleeding. The constant crunch of rocks under my sneakers is the only sound I hear other than whistling wind. My mind is dizzy from loss of blood. I’m sure I’ve got a concussion. The lines of the road are crossing in my sight. I have to stop and gasp for frigid air often. The cold has claimed my face and chest. My nose runs freely down my face, collecting ice and freezing in chunks on my chin. The stinging on my cheeks has been replaced by a numb, animated feeling like worms are crawling in my skin.
The wind is mocking me, carrying on it the sound of my daughter’s laughter and the smell of Jane’s laundry detergent. The road heckles me with each turn, however I have stopped anticipating human life. I am alone out here.
I see a light in the middle of an empty field to my right. Blinking the stinging tears out of my eyes, I stare at the taunting light. It is so far away, an unreal blessing floating on powdery snow. Turning left, I gaze at the blackness into which I’m walking. Without a thought of much, I plunge into the snowfield, burying my legs and waist in snow. The powder is resistant and I have to force my legs through with each step. My exposed arms shake with an agonizing cold.
I fall in the field and snow swallows me. Inside is cold and soft. Welcoming for sleep. I curl into a ball and begin to dream.
I am at home in my bed, warm and content. But my dog is licking my face, needing to be taken out. And my alarm is sounding. And the twins are jumping on the foot of the bed. They are still children, not pierced hellions.
Daddy, daddy wake up!
Ashley, I’m tired. I worked all day yesterday so I could sleep today. Go away, find your mother.
Daddy, daddy wake up!
She’s tugging on my sleeve, pulling me out of bed. I’m resistant.
I open my eyes. I am surrounded by white and think I am blind. I look down and see my hands, the tips of my fingers beginning to purple and bleed from the cold.
Daddy! Hurry up.
I yank myself upright, still sitting in the snow. I jerk my head around, searching for a person, for any source of noise. I only see soft, haunting snow.
Ashley?
The wind whispers a response at me. A light blinks in my peripheral. I turn and make out the shadow of a house in the distance, an orange light glowing from the front. I desperately look around again for my daughter then begin stumbling through snow.
My pants are filled with water from the snow, weighing me down. My arms and hands are bloody. With each hurtle I leave a dirty trail, evidence of where I have been. Visions of being hunted by a lioness jar my mind.
My eyes stay on the tips of my fingers. I watch as my body digs mechanically into a new pile of undisturbed snow, heaving along my dead weight.
Phil, do you need help?
Cate is standing in front of me, a hand on her bulging stomach. I stop climbing. I watch her stand with ease on the top of the powdered snow, not sinking through. My face is inches from her swollen feet and I can smell the ginger lotion on her legs.
You let us down, Phil.
I know, Cate. I’m sorry.
I need you here, at home. Your children miss you. Why did you choose her over us?
I never did! Please, help me.
You did. You killed our family.
She stares down into my eyes. Her black hair invisible against the empty Canadian night sky, her face a floating entity, her eyes an emotion. She is pointing, pointing towards a hill in the snow feet from us. A piercing cry shoots through the air, the gasping frantic scream of a newborn. I look and see nothing. I see flat snow leading to a mound. I look back to Cate who is now small, no longer swollen and round. She is staring down at me with over her flat stomach. Her dress is blowing around her legs, and her midnight is hair sticking to her lips. She is a witch of the night, her outstretched arm marking her curse, her hand like a lightning strike. Her fingers are curved and dead, mesmerizing. My son’s cries grip my soul, lurching my stomach, filling my legs with life.
I frantically swim through the snow towards the sound, but the closer I become the more muffled are his cries. My arms and legs are responding slower by the second, but I manage to reach the icy hill.
I can hear the baby screaming now, choking on its tears, choking on the ice. I press my face into the frozen ground; I can almost see him under the layers of frost, a blur buried deep amongst the ice. Dirt and ice grit against my teeth and I feel my front tooth crack. My lips shred against the razor edge of my broken tooth as I scream into the ground, desperately into nothing. He needs me, I can hear it in his cries. I’m clawing and scratching helplessly at the snow. The top layer is coming off easily, but the ice underneath is rigid and bitter and my skin grates against it. The tips of my fingers slice against the rigid ice hopelessly. My blood is smearing on the unforgiving ground, a violent, surreal contrast against the encompassing gray.
I lay my forehead against the ice, staring into frozen ground. I turn to scream at Cate, to ask her why, but she is not delicately standing on the snow. There is nobody and I am alone completely. The decent of the night is suffocating me. If I’m screaming my voice is whisked away by the wind and if I’m crying my tears are frozen to my eyes. The only evidence I am alive is the steady trickle of blood onto the dirty snow.
The house with the porch light is only yards away now. The sky is violet near the snow and my veins are coursing with malice.
How could she do that to me?
Jane’s full lips brush my neck. I spin, yearning for her embrace. The wind carries a naughty giggle whipping my ear as I stare at innocent snow flurries. Standing between reality and insanity, I suck the blood from my broken lips, embracing the taste of life.
The door is unlocked. From the porch I can see it is a dilapidated farmhouse, built when lanterns adorned railings. There is no orange light. The door sticks and my frost-chewed fingers are unable to fully grasp and turn the doorknob, aching against the rusted metal. I try to kick the door but pain shoots up my shins from my destroyed toes. I fall to dusty planks, laying on my elbows and knees waiting for the pain to subside. The door creeks open next to me. The eerie sound rubs against my throat, almost gagging me. The open doorway exposes a dusty hallway. Steadying myself on the doorframe, I stand and limp inside.
A layer of grime coats every surface, undisturbed. The dust gives everything a gray color, reminiscent of the glazing snow outside. Regardless of a lack of heat I am deeply warmed once completely in the door, the warmth of stale air brings water to my eyes and my fingertips are searing.
The house is wooden, from the railing of a twenty-set staircase to the elegant china cabinet in the foyer. Everything is made from wood. An enormous oak table squats in the dining room, a radiant yellow mountain in the dark. The gigantic table draws me into the room, while the elk antler chandelier looming overhead holds me in place. I collapse onto the table, a grand hand-carved piece with matching thick-legged poster chairs. My skull makes a loud thud when connecting with the oak, a welcomed noise followed by an aching headache reminding me I am still alive.
The antler chandelier, covered in candle wax and layers of dust, is an extensive piece of artwork. The warmth causes my eyelids to droop as I think of hunting trips my father took me on as a boy.
I’m ready, pop. Can’t I shoot, please?
dammit, fine Phillip. I don’t think you can handle this. Shooting is different than watching it done.
It’s okay, Pop, I can do it.
I shot a doe that day. I watched her suffer from a poor shot to the stomach for an hour. My dad made me follow her. He went home.
Did you find her?
Yeah, dad. I found her.
Did you get her antlers?
I didn’t understand what he meant until now. Cruel bastard.
Phillip, did you get her antlers?
I crack open my eyes. Color floods my vision and I am disoriented, as if there was ever an orientation.
Dad?
I sit up and realize I am on the huge oak table of the farmhouse, the knots of carved wood biting into my lower back. The wooden walls are dreary brown as the morning sun pours through dust caked windowpanes throughout the open first floor. Outside I can see only bright white, molten lava rather than snow. The chandelier hangs silent. A cat meows from somewhere above my head.
Teetering on my feet, the thought of water and food runs through my head. I am trying to remember what happened, how I ended here in this house, what my life was like before. Snow fills my brain, flurries of confusion, time lapse and blood loss run rampant on my memory. I have fluttering horrific memories, a creeping panic climbing my back like remembering a nightmare. The only certainty I possess is the shelter of this house and the injuries mangling and impairing my hands.
My footsteps arouse dust clouds that swirl and dance around my knees. My shoes, once decent sneakers, now shreds of rubber squeak with every step. The stairs threaten to collapse as I selectively climb them. A moth-eaten rug runs the expanse of the staircase and the giant green eyes of a tiger stare ominously at me as I skip that stair. Decorating the walls are faces of stoic strangers, skin infinitely smooth captured on sepia canvas.
I think of my family waiting for me to come home everyday. At the dinner table, eyes avoiding my empty plate as I pound methodically at Jane’s body. My son waiting to be born to a drained family, destined to be jaded himself. I see a man in my home, touching Cate’s shoulder, awarded with a smile. Cate chops celery, her
At the top of the stairs I find a room papered with ducks in sailor outfits. In the corner there is a wooden toy box, I recognize the knotted blonde oak from the downstairs table. I am beginning to cross the room when my daughter Ashley emerges from the closet. The sight of her red hair melts the snow coating my brain and memories of the previous night come crashing down on me. I remember Cate’s witchcraft and the suspicious kid from the gas station.
Ashley, what are you doing here? Where’s Allison and mommy?
The little girl acts as if I am not in the room, going to the toy box, opening the lid, and tenderly reaching inside. From the depths of the wooden chest, Ashley produces a slick human heart. She turns to face me directly.
Here, daddy, I made this for you.
Oh my , what have you done Ashley?
The heart in her hands beats once. She holds the organ closer to my face. The smell of blood and plasma is overwhelming. My head is swimming and I watch as my daughter’s face splits into a beaming smile.
It’s mommy’s. I hear you yell and she says you have no heart. So I took hers for you. I hope you like it.
The heart beats, the sound like a bass drum in my ears. I back into the wall, grasping at a cedar cradle on the back wall. My legs give way and I tumble to the ground. The cradle crashes on top of me. She steps closer, confusing flushing her eyes.
Aren’t you happy, daddy? I want you to have it. You need it more. Here, please daddy. Take it. I made it for you.
No, , no! Ashley, stop!
You never want to do anything with me!
I am trapped under the tangled crib, scrambling to free myself. My daughter has her mother’s green eyes, unfocused and wild, and they are filling my vision, the pale jade of illness. The beating heart is pounding my ears, threatening to explode my eardrums. Robotically, she approaches. I see long strands of red hair falling out behind her. The smell of decay is enveloping me until I shield myself from my young daughter. I wait, expecting to be doused in Cate’s entrails. Suddenly, there is the quiet of an empty house. I hear no pounding hearts or child’s laughter.
Tentatively I drop my arms. The room is exactly the same as before, save that the blonde toy box is missing. I am shaking violently as I remove myself from the mess of broken cradle.
Phil.
Mom?
I find my mother on the landing. She is in a large wheelchair, a blanket on her lap and her hair in a tight bun. Her cheeks are sunken and her eyes cloudy. Death looms in her face and I start down the stairs, feeling foolish and scared.
Wait, Phil.
What do all of you want? Why are you torturing me?
Your mother is far from torturing you. You are tormenting yourself. Allowing your mother to die without you. I’m ashamed.
I’m sorry I’m not there right now, mom. I really tried to make it.
Yes, I’m sure, there is always an excuse. Just like the excuse you give Cate every time you go out with that tart.
Jane is not a tart.
How dare you say her name to me? Do you have respect for no one? You are raising those girls on the wrong path. One of them will end up pregnant soon.
Why is this happening?
You have to make the change yourself, Phil. Protect your family. Survive. You’ve already failed in your marriage.
But dad never protected us. How am I supposed to know what to do?
Learn from your father’s mistakes. You will know. the answers are inside you.
But I don’t know.
In the next moment I am staring only at varnish and dust. Sunlight is streaking the hardwood floors. I squat in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning my face to the ground. In the dust are thousands of child-sized footprints. Prints from toddlers growing to barefoot steps the size of my daughters. Paths left from ages of my ancestors. Slowly I am extending my arm, and with my fingertips I graze the sole of a footprint the size of Allison’s. The dusty floor is soft and warm to the touch.
A gunshot explodes behind me. I startle and huddle in place momentarily, but then slowly turn. As I assumed, there is nobody standing behind me, only drab wooden walls covered in dust. A small hole marks the wall. So small, in fact, that I would not have noticed it had the dust around it not been dancing with disruption.
I hear the sound of struggling from downstairs. Not the sound of fighting or destruction, more of a panic, a heavy thrashing. It is almost a quiet sound, but far from being silent. The floorboards below my feet are trembling, the house suddenly anxious. Slowly I walk onto the landing. From below I hear the sound traveling up the staircase. There is a spasmodic knocking violently resounding between the sounds of scraping. The noise sounds particularly familiar, sending chills into the dead nerves of my arms. I approach the stairs and realize the noise is coming from the wonderful dining room. Taking one step at a time, I bend attempting to see from the staircase. From this angle I can only see the end of the table. It quivers with movement. The noise sounds more sluggish than before. I am on the bottom landing, and I make my way towards the dining room.
Turning the corner I see the doe’s head connect with the chandelier’s iron casting. A sickening thud echoes through the house as her nose breaks. She has a fine set of antlers, long and elegant, infused perfectly with the rest of the antlers on the chandelier, turning her neck at an impossible angle. Her body stretches vertically, exposing her elegant white underbelly. Her back hooves are scarring ruts into the magnificent oak table she is extended above with every panicked batter. Blood oozes from a small hole in her stomach. Each breath is shallower than the last as her own weight breaks her neck.
Daddy, why did you make me do that?
A small child is standing next to me, staring ahead at the deer. He is clutching the back of a thick chair, pale and scared. A sense of calm washes over me.
I’m not your dad.
Why did I have to do that?
He has blood on his hands and face.
Sometimes you do things that are wrong in your life. Sometimes your parents will lead you wrong. You have to make the decision.
What did you decide, Phil?
Tears were streaking rivers into the guts on his cheeks.
I made my decision too late. It’s too late.
I turn away from the scene, leaving the weeping boy and the deer alone for her last few minutes alive together, the way it had always been.
There is a man in the distance. From the hall window he is a blue smudge against the white hills. The sun is setting behind him, and I lose him momentarily in the orange glow.
I’m not going to let this happen. I am going to survive. My family will survive.
Turning my back on the window I walk into the kitchen, wandering through the grime. I idly trail my fingers over the coated counters, my counters.
This is my home, I am not going to let anyone into my home.
I hear banging at the door, an insistent pounding from the intruder. I walk to the doorway of the kitchen, looking down the hallway.
Is somebody in there? This is Rich Felman from a few houses east. Do you need help? Did you crash last night?
He just wants to kill me. He’s going to torture me like the others. Opening a nearby drawer, I find a rusty knife. The blade is chipped and broken, but the oak handle shines as if recently polished.
Go away! We don’t need you.
The intruder is pounding on the door again, shining a flashlight through the panes in the window. I feel the harsh glare of his spotlight land on my face. The sun is completely behind the hills now and my house is growing dim.
Sir, I’m coming in to get you. I can help you. You need medical attention.
I said go away asshole! You’re not coming in!
The door shatters as he forces his boot through. The shards of wood reflect his light and cast shadows on the floor, a million roaches scurrying into the shadows. I am going to protect my family. Allison grips my free hand.
Daddy I’m scared. What does he want?
I step out of the shadow of the doorway and sink my knife into the soft of his stomach. His flashlight clamors to the ground, but the whites of his eyes glow in the darkness. Red-hot blood rushes over my hands, down my pants and splatters onto my shoes. Questions gurgle in his throat as he drops to his knees. I slide my knife out of his abdomen and wipe it on my pants.
I stare out into the gray abyss past the doorway. The flashlight illuminates an ocean of blood.
I kneel next to his rigid body and affectionately stroke his beautiful antlers. I shift my weight, bending one of the twisted horns into the ground. The dead man’s head twists at a sickening angle and I begin chopping at the base of the antler.
Can I do that, daddy?
The boy sits next to me in the puddle of blood. I place the knife in his expecting hand and watch as he saws free his trophy. He struggles momentarily but pushes away my help. He’s crying and the man’s head is jerking spasmodically on the ground, sloshing in blood, mixing scalp and skin with dust from the antlers.
I can do it.
I know you can, son.
One antler snaps free and the boy stands. I remain seated next to the body of our sacrifice. I flip off the flashlight and allow the fresh night to fall around us. Allison’s approving eyes pierce through the night. The boy turns towards the open doorway and walks through, trailing the doe’s antler across the blood soaked entrance way.
Where are you going? I want to come.
Daddy, let him go, we need you here. You protect us now.
The boy does not turn. Barefoot, he steps over the porch and into the fresh snow. His small figure is cloaked in the nighttime and soon I can no longer make out his outline, only a trail marked with a child’s bloody footprints. The snow flurries around my home, pressing hot white protection against my porch. I begin to follow the boy, momentarily concerned. Allison grips my hand and we stare into the frigid abyss together
AUTHOR INTERVIEW: Madeleine Roux
Madeleine: So far so good! It's been an absolute joy seeing the responses and hearing what all of the readers have to say.
Scott: What inspired you to start writing Allison Hewitt is Trapped as a blog?
Madeleine: I wanted to push myself to try something new. When you're updating something on a regular basis there's an urgency, a sense that you can't get lazy and let the story lie around untouched for a few days. You have to satisfy your readers or you'll lose their interest. I liked having that constant drive, and then when the comments started coming that added a new interactive element that I'd never experienced before.
Scott: I’ve seen a few self published zombie novels start as blogs and become successful, published books. What do you think it is about the zombie genre that makes it a popular way to start off writing?
Madeleine: That's a good question, and I'm not quite sure what the reason is. For me it was the appeal of putting ordinary people into an extraordinary situation and watching them learn to adapt. Zombies can represent whatever you want them to, and I appreciate that they give a constant feeling of menace to a story. They're always a background threat, and I like having that there while I introduce other sources of conflict. It lends a palpable sense of unpredictability.
Scott: Do you have a sequel lined up for Allison Hewitt or do you plan on writing a non-zombie book next?
Madeleine: Yes! The sequel is called Sadie Walker Is Stranded. It's in the same universe, but follows a new set of survivors in a very different set of survival parameters.
Scott: A lot of new writers often ask about the amount of pages or words that a published author produces each day. How much time would you spend writing on a typical day, (if a typical day exists for a writer that is)?
Madeleine: It depends. In periods of high productivity I'll get intensely focused and write ten to fifteen pages a day. Sometimes I need to recharge and step away from the computer. On more average days I try to get at least five pages done, sometimes less and sometimes more.
Scott: What sparked your interest in writing and did you start off by writing short stories or go straight to working on a novel? What markets did you send your short fiction to?
Madeleine: I've been writing since before I can remember. My parents have all sorts of embarrassing little booklets I made filled with scribblings and illustrations. I was never great at science or math so I poured my energy into creative outlets. My family always stressed reading, and my Mom had me reading Jane Austen from a problematically young age. I'm sure that influenced my sense of feminism and romance in all sorts of interesting ways. It was short fiction to start, but I started honing my longer work in the last three or four years. I had a short story published in a great Wisconsin magazine called Rosebud. I did the barrage method of sending my work to anyone who would look at it. That didn't necessarily pan out so well for the short fiction, but it was good practice.
Scott: How do you approach your writing? Do you tend to develop a story in your mind and then proceed to conduct some research or is more of an organic method where you write the story first and research any technical aspects later?
Madeleine: I tend to form a central character first, then the world or premise and the other characters. I'll take a lot of notes, just whatever springs to mind, and start immersing myself in anything that might help inspire or inform the story. Usually I'll let the idea percolate for a few weeks, to see if I'm still taken with the whole thing after reflection. By that time I'll have pages and pages of notes and I sit down to do a rough outline. Then I just start from the beginning, getting as much out as I can. I go back and add or subtract later if there are missing elements.
Scott: As a writer it is interesting to hear what other writers read in their spare time. It is often surprising to hear the genres and variety of books other authors read. Can you tell us what are you reading at the moment and what you five favorite books are?
Madeleine: I'm on A Clash of Kings by George RR Martin at the moment after about ten different friends berated me for not having finished the Song of Ice and Fire series. I've also got A Sorcerer and a Gentleman by Elizabeth Willey and Mists of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley on my night stand. It's inefficient, but I hover between a few books at a time.
Scott: There seems to be a lot more options available to authors to get published now compared to say a decade ago. What advice would you offer to unpublished writers in approaching publishers for the first time?
Madeleine: Research. Read successful query letters. Be confident and professional. Agents are angels. Get one. They help iron out the entire process. I wouldn't have gotten far without Kate McKean, my agent. She's helped with every step and really helped with the anxieties of the industry. Find someone you respect and can laugh with. Also, never be afraid to stand up for yourself or your ideas. If you think your story has merit, fight for it.
Scott: If you were stranded on a desert island, what five authors would you like to have as companions and why?
Madeleine: I hope dead people are eligible or this is going to get weird fast.
Neil Gaiman, because I bet he can make tea out of anything; Lord Byron, because look at him; George RR Martin, because I want to know the end of the Song of Ice and Fire series and he seems fond of mead; Jane Austen, for obvious reasons; and Oscar Wilde, because every writer with half a brain wants to be best buds with Oscar.
Scott: Thank you very much for your time. I look forward to your next book.
Thanks for the good questions, Scott. It was my pleasure.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
FICTION: The Contract By Mark Smith
Rose almost dropped the glass of brandy that Alam had poured her.
“You found him?” Rose asked with great skepticism.
“Yes, I found your famous Horn Helm. I must say, you certainly have interesting tastes when it comes to holding grudges. Do you know of the Shadow Walkers?”
Rose put her glass down on Alam’s mahogany desk, who squirmed at Rose’s deliberate avoidance of her coaster. She rubbed her choker, which held the faces of five signet rings, one for her mother, father, and her three sisters. Rose could still hear their screams as Horn Helm massacred her family.
“They are the city’s dominant faction of assassins. They get their orders directly from the Nebula.”
Alam refilled Rose’s brandy snifter. “Ah, the Nebula. Our city’s enigmatic collection of dark patrons.”
Alam took out a wax sealed envelope and slid it across the desk. Rose picked it up and looked at the dagger fanged snake constricting the moon stamped deep in the red wax. It was a stamp that Rose never thought she would see. She picked up her glass, condensation fighting to keep it on the table, and took a long sip.
“What does this have to with Horn Helm?”
“My dear, there is a reason why you haven’t been able to find him. He is the head of the Shadow Walkers.”
Rose almost dropped the glass of brandy. “Are you sure?”
Alam leaned in close to her. “As sure as my brother is dead.”
Rose broke the seal on the envelope and took out the letter. On the thin paper she read:
Ms. Alema,
We have been following your career for quite some time. We recently have come across an opening in our organization and wish to offer it to you. Should you choose to accept membership into our distinguished brotherhood, we require a display of loyalty and dedication. But first you must profess your many sins, preferably before the eleventh bell tonight.
Raphael Françoise
“So Raphael Françoise is Horn Helm?” Rose asked.
“No darling. I have no idea who he is. Upon receiving your invitation, I discreetly looked into the Shadow Walker’s organization and learned of their horn helmet wearing leader.”
“How is it that you, a humble merchant, come into possession of this?”
“It seems that the powers that be believe that I am your, dare I say it, friend. I suppose they thought that you visit me enough for me to be your personal mail carrier.”
Rose downed the last of her brandy, then tucked the letter away. “Thank you Alam. I’ll see you soon.”
♣♣♣♣♣♣♣
Rose walked into the Montclair Basilica, located in the center of the city. Even this late at night, the place of worship was filled. Sanctuary for all in the city, the church received donations from many of the city’s powerful men, even from Rose herself. The decor showed it: the high walls were painted with murals of gold-leaf and paint, depicting religious allegory, colored moon light, courtesy of the elaborate stain-glass windows illuminated the large cathedral . Rose looked at the large marble statues of the saints, overlooking the worshipers from high above the alter.
I suppose even thieves and cutthroats need religion.
Rose sat in the last row of pews and bowed her head. She usually only comes here once a year, on the day of her family’s tragic end. Rose brought her palms together in prayer, and opened herself to the faith.
Dear family: Mother, Father, Nina, Alexia, and Christina, I am close. The beast who took you from me is soon going to be sent to the fiery depths. I have taken an apprentice. Did you five see that coming? I certainly didn’t. She reminds me of Alexia, suborn, fire hearted, and loyal. Please watch over the both of us in the days to come, I feel that we will be knee deep in blades and deceit. The clock tower sounded the eleventh hour. I must take my leave. May your souls soon find peace.
“And may yours too find peace,” the congregation repeated to the priest.
A puzzled look came across Rose.
That was reassuring, yet somewhat disturbing.
Rose walked around the seated members, and into a small chapel that held the confessionals. There were seven, six of which had both doors open. Rose walked into the the occupied one, sat down and closed the door. This confessional differed greatly from the one that Rose went to as a child. Where the one from the past was musty, and dark, this one, made of cheery wood, smelled of the fruit. The colored light from the windows shined in through small glass windows near the ceiling of the booth. Rose could barely make out the figure on the other side, but could tell that he was not of the cloth.
“I would say bless me for I have sinned, but something tells me that you have more bodies to your name than I do,” Rose said to the man across from her.
“Ah, her wit is as sharp as her blade. It is a pleasure to finally meet you Death’s Rose. I would do this face to face, but one can’t be too careful in this dark world of ours.”
“What shall I call you? Padre?”
“Ah, she bears her wit again. To call me Padre would be an insult to all men of the cloth. You may call me Françoise.”
“So you are the one who sent me the recruitment letter. Good work with using Alam.”
“Even the best of us need a port in the storm of graft and vice. Tell me, are you interested?”
Rose paused for a minute. “Possibly. I have a condition or two.”
“A skilled killer and haggler, you impress me more and more. Share with me.”
“I want the invitation to extend to my apprentice, Jessa Deluna.”
“The daughter of Frederico Deluna. This is a surprising piece of new. Yes, I shall extend the invitation, but she will be your sole responsibility. Maybe in time we can welcome her, but all of this hinges on you doing a favor for our group first.”
“What do you need done?”
“In two days time, Jotun Alenko will be coming back to our city. He must not live to see the third day. He lives in the top suite of the building across from the clock tower. Will you remove him for us?”
“Yes. What shall we do when it is done?”
“I shall seek you out.”
♣♣♣♣♣♣♣
Rose entered her safehouse to find Jessa pouring herself a glass of brandy, her expensive brandy. Rose undid her scabbard from her belt and it crashed onto the ebony floor, startling Jessa. Rose gave Jessa a quick smirk, then she picked up Soul Cutter.
“If you wanted to have a drink you could have asked.” She placed her sword on the counter and picked up her favorite crystal brandy snifter. She walked over to the table and sat down. “Why the sudden interest in the fire drink?”
Jessa just looked at her glass. “I killed two men tonight. After I left the shop, I came across two men who were trying to rape a woman. I fought them both an killed them.”
Rose picked up the bottle, poured herself a glass and filled Jessa’s cup. “Then you really do need this.” They clinked their glasses and drained the glasses. “How was it?”
Jessa looked at her empty glass. “To tell you the truth, I liked it. I killed two people, saving a third in the process. Nothing could bring my father back, but it felt like the first stones of a rockslide tumbling down a mountain.”
Rose bowed her head, and filled the glasses again. “After we finish these, we have planning to do. We have a job which will open the doors of vengeance.”
♣♣♣♣♣♣♣
Rose and Jessa stood outside of the clock tower. Now mid-winter, the air held a sharp icy chill. Along with the cloaks, the women wore heavy velvet doublets and gloves, Rose scarlet, and Jessa dark emerald green. Their fox fur lined leather boots covered where their heavy breeches stopped. The two assassins stared at their target’s building. The building was six stories tall, the tallest building on the block. Each floor had a balcony facing south, away from the tower, overlooking the sun rising from the Thousand Port Sea. Rose caught at least three different guards look down from the roof, and another two guarding the door.
“At least three on top, two at the door, and God knows how many inside. If this is a trial run contract I can’t imagine how fun the actual ones are.”
“Yeah, can you elaborate on that a little. Who in the hell are the Shadow Walkers?”
“There are two types of assassins, the independent ones, like us, and the elites belonging to guilds like the Shadow Walkers. They are the ones that are financed by the rich and powerful. We could be the most feared assassins in the city if we play our cards right. First we must kill Jotun Alenko, which shall be difficult with all these guards about.”
“Do we know anything about them?” Jessa asked, rubbing her hands together.
“I asked Alam about Alenko. He’s the leader of the Crimson Blades, one of the city’s many mercenary companies. According to Alam, the Crimson Blades are rumored to have massacred a village that was under the city’s protection. He’ll have a few of his men in there, but I don’t think anyone will miss them. We just need to find a way to get inside.”
Jessa stared at the building, mind adrift. “I remember my father telling me stories about secret tunnels underneath the city. He said that thieves used to use them to travel and smuggle goods about the city. I was thinking that a guy with a lot of powerful people after him would have an escape tunnel.”
“That’s not a bad idea. I happen to know where one of the entrances are.”
♣♣♣♣♣♣♣
Rose rushed Jessa, and slashed at her chest. Jessa parried the attack with her left blade, then struck out with her right. The leather wrapped blade was a hair’s width away from Rose’s neck. Rose pulled her dagger out of her boot and jabbed Jessa in the ribs. The adept killer turned around and let out a frustrated sigh.
“You need to focus. We are going up against skilled mercenaries. Their blades will not be wrapped in leather. They will kill you. I don’t care if you are afraid to hurt me, I need to know you can go through with your attacks.”
She attacked Jessa again, this time, stabbing forward. Jessa spun to the left, using her momentum to strike Rose’s left leg with each of the blades. Rose broke away from the fight, taking three large steps back. She dropped the dagger, ran forward, and with a two handed swing, knocked Jessa’s left blade out of her hand. Jessa parried Rose’s attack, and elbowed the flat of Soul Cutter’s blade, slowly wrenching it from her grasp. Rose kneed Jessa in the stomach, grabbed Jessa’s wrist and twisted, causing her to drop the blade.
Rose pushed Jessa back and brought her fists up. “One day, your steel will not be within reach. Your hands will have to become your weapons. She ran to Jess and thrust her palm forward, touching the tip of Jessa’s nose with the bottom of her palm. “If you follow through with this, your target’s nose will be driven into his head. We have delicate hands, so utilize the bottoms of your palms and your elbows. Strike with as much force as you can.”
“Suppose they are wearing a helmet?”
“Knees Jessa. Even if they are not weighed down by armor, people always collapse if their knees are hit hard enough.” She brought her boot to the side of Jessa’s left knee. “Kick them here and they’ll fall. Hard enough and the leg will break. Go practice.” Rose gestured to the dummy hanging in the corner.
Rose walked into the next room, her office, and sat at her large oak desk. Spread out on it was a large yellow map with detailed sketches of the sewer and smuggling tunnels. Rose followed the major line, which ran under her safehouse, to the three left and two right turns to the intersection of tunnels right in front of the clock tower. A small X was placed in a side tunnel leading into the intersection. She remembered the night she added that section to the map, the contract she first used it as an escape route; and the scar on her leg from the stab wound in the fight previous.
Hopefully this outing will be smoother than that one. She heard the pounding of Jessa’s attacks against the dummy. I just hope she’s ready.
♣♣♣♣♣♣♣
A day later, Rose and Jessa were below the trap door leading to Alenko’s basement. Each of the assassins had a stiletto dagger, and about a dozen throwing knives between them. To eliminate the groan of their leather armor, they both were dressed in black breeches, black leather boots, and tight cotton shirts.
“I think I stepped in rat droppings,” Jessa said, scrapping her boot on the stone floor.
“This was your idea. Now you must enjoy the many flavors, and scents of wetwork. Remember, these mercenaries massacred a village, they deserve no mercy. Are you ready?”
With a nod, Jessa took out a lockpick and began to coax the tumblers. When the last pin clicked open, both of the women drew their daggers and pushed open the door. Like they planned, Rose and Jessa found themselves in Alenko’s basement. After waiting for a few minutes for their eyes to adjust. The room was filled with dust covered crates and several large selves holding wines of various vintages. The air was stale, indicating the infrequent use of the subterranean room. The assassins made their way pass the crates, to the stairs.
Rose slowly turned the door knob and pushed the door open a few inches and looked out. To the left, down a hallway about ten paces long, was what Rose assumed was the parlor. To the right, Rose could smell food from the kitchen. She was just about to signal Jessa to move when she heard approaching footsteps, coupled with the telltale sound of a scabbard hitting armor.
Rose closed the door and waited two breaths, until the guard walked pass the door. She pushed it open, grabbed him, and stabbed him in the back of the neck, driving the dagger through his spine and windpipe. Rose and Jessa picked up the body and rolled it down the stairs, hearing a thud when he hit the floor.
The two assassins crept through the door, towards the kitchen. The servants were preparing dinner when a summoning bell sounded. Both of the men walked out of the kitchen, then Rose and Jessa took their places. The women quickly stripped and reversed their clothing. Reversed, the clothes matched the color of Alenko’s servants, and had fine slits in the side of the chest so their knives would be easily accessible. The women tied their hair into sloppy buns, and each slipped their daggers into their boots. Once they were done preparing, the cooks walked back in.
“Ay, what are you two doing in here?” one of them asked.
“Apologies Signore. We were told that dinner was ready. Do you need any assistance?” Jessa asked with a small bow.
“Just begin bringing out the food. If the master is in the dining room, tell him that the main course will be out shortly.”
Rose and Jessa waled to the counter and picked up the food. Rose carried a large bowl of steaming cream of mushroom soup, Jessa a large bowl of rolls with a jar of jam in the center. The killers walked into the dining room where Alenko awaited his dinner, with two guards standing behind him. Rose and Jessa walked to his side and placed the bowl of soup in front of him. Jessa placed the salad behind the soup bowl, backed up and looked at Rose.
Rose nodded her head slightly, and Jessa drew two small knives from the slits. With a flick of her wrists, the knives sailed through the air, one embedding in a guard’s neck, the other embedding in the wall behind him. Jessa ran to the guard, and shot her palm forward, slamming into his nose, dropping him on the ground.
Alenko dropped his spoon and leapt out of his chair. “Guards!”
Rose drew her dagger out of her boot, and ran to the mercenary leader. She reversed her grip on the blade and slashed forward, cutting his neck deeply, then turned to Jessa at the sound of heavy footsteps. Jessa ran to the two dead guards and drew their swords. She tossed one to Rose, and they both turned to each of the doors leading to the dining room.
Four men entered the room, two on Rose’s side, two on Jessa’s. Rose ran forward, ducking under the swing of one of the guards. Rose stabbed forward with the stiletto, driving point through the armor, into his heart. Rose parried an attack from the other guard;who then swung his unarmed hand, clipping Rose’s chin, knocking her back and dazing her.
Once the room stopped spinning, Rose drew one of her knives with her free hand and rushed the man. Rose deflected an attack from the man, and stabbed at his side, driving the knife two inches into the leather padding. Coughing up blood, the man fell to the ground, and was killed quickly by a quick sword poke to the throat.
Rose turned towards Jessa, seeing the first guard’s body on the ground bleeding from a neck wound. She looked up to find Jessa driving her sword through a mercenary’s unprotected chest, then pushed him back with her foot. A third man, armed with a dagger, ran into the room and tackled Jessa. Rose ran to her apprentice, who was rolling the man’s body off of her, stiletto protruding from his chest.
“Are you okay?” Rose asked as she helped Jessa up.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Jessa said, holding her side. “I just got kicked in the side. Let’s get out of here.”
♣♣♣♣♣♣♣
Rose and Jessa turned the corner, panting after their run from the sewer entrance. While Jessa paused to catch her breath, Rose unlocked the door to her sanctuary. Rose walked in, letting her moist hair fall over her shoulders.
“You did a great job tonight.” Rose said, placing her knives on the table. Dead silence answered her. “Jessa?”
Rose turned around and saw Jessa down on one knee. Rose ran to the fledgling assassin. Her skin was clammy and ashen, her breathing rapid and shallow. Rose pulled Jessa’s hand away from her side, revealing a bloody hole in Jessa’s side, near her stomach. Rose put Jessa’s arm around her shoulder and carried her to her bedroom. Rose ran to her work room and came back with brandy, a role of bandages, needle and thread. She rolled up Jessa’s shirt, revealing the two inch long wound.
“This is going to hurt. Sorry.”
Rose opened the brandy and poured it on the wound. Jessa screamed in pain, gripping the sheets with her hands. Rose wiped away the blood and brandy around the wound, and pressed the bandages against the wound.
“Goddamn it! Stop it you bitch!” Jessa screamed.
“If you think I’m a bitch now, you’ll love me in a moment.”
Once the bleeding stopped, Rose dipped the needle in brandy and began to stitch the wound. Jessa began to thrash and scream.
“Stop moving! Do you want a jagged scar?” Rose cut off Jessa’s leather knife harness, and made a large knot with the strips. Rose shoved it in Jessa’s mouth. “Bite down on this.”
You idiot! Why in the hell didn’t you tell me you were stabbed? Are you really that damn stubborn? You ran through half of the damned sewer with a gaping hole in your side, losing God knows how much blood? For all I know, the knife could have hit your kidney. You could die in your sleep from an infection, hell you could die as I’m doing this.
Rose could see Jessa bite down on the leather, tears flowing down her red pain filled face, as she stitched the wound shut. After two minutes of intense pain, Jessa passed out, bringing her groaning and thrashing to a stop. Rose breathed deeply, focusing on closing the wound. The needle pierced the right side of the wound, to the left. With a careful pull, the edges met, next stitch, edges together. Once she reached the end of the wound, Rose cut the thread with a knife, and tied a tight knot to the last stitch. She took a clean linen cloth and wiped away the last of the blood. Carefully, Rose lifted up Jessa waist, and began to wrap her stomach tight with the bandage. Rose got up, shaking from the ordeal and dragged a chair to the bed. She sat down and drained what was left of the liquor, then stared at Jessa, eyes hot, with tears.
Please God, send her back. I can’t go through this again. I need her to live, to keep me alive. You allowed my family to be taken away from me already, don’t you dare take her too. DO YOU HEAR BE YOU BASTARD! SEND HER BACK!
Rose sat back in the chair, a lone tear rolling down her cheek.
Please send her back.
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