The sun was sitting low and the fat little guard up the front hid under a hat as the chain-gang worked toward him. Dark sweat patches spread out from his pits and every now and then he fanned his little arms like a bloated scarecrow trying to take flight.

The rear guard was taller and younger. He toted a tatty yellow parasol and a rifle and hummed a tune of his own making.

Back at the truck, the Boss was dozing to the shimmer of cicadas when an approaching car broke his peace. The car passed by the truck and slowed right down, idling past the work gang. On this side of the border cars sped up when they passed a prison gang. They didn’t slow down.

The car finally barrelled away into the heat haze and the Boss’ eyelids were just fluttering closed when the car made a hard U-turn and started back.

“Puta mierda,” hissed the Boss. He kicked open the truck door and hit the ground with a stumble. The guards had witnessed his awkward descent and he suggested that they should be watching the oncoming car and not him.

The fat little guard stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. The gang downed tools and a waterboy hefted a rusted pail across his shoulder and shuffled down the line, pausing by each prisoner so they could drink from the dented ladle. The car passed by the gang again and pulled up opposite the truck. ‘Buenas tardes senor!’ boomed a cheerful voice from inside the car.

The Boss unclasped his pistol.

The car door opened. The driver’s seat was sitting flush on the floorpan and set way back. Two vast, long legs slid out of the car, and then a cane and then two huge hands pushing on the cane as the man-giant hoisted his bones upright. “Bloody Mary,” winced the Giant as he straightened his back.

The Boss looked the Giant up and down. With his bulbous cheekbones, knot-jointed fingers and elongated legs it was as if his frame could poke through the flesh at any moment.

The Giant went to retrieve something from his inside jacket pocket. “Uh uh,” said the Boss, clucking his tongue. The rear guard bolted the chamber of his rifle. The Giant raised his hands.

“No. Amigo. Soy un amigo.” The Giant kept his cane-hand in the air and with the other he carefully retrieved a bottle and held it out for the Boss to see and then he plucked the cork and took a drink and as he swallowed he let out a deep contented sigh.

The Boss licked his lips.

“Would you want some whiskey sir?” asked the Giant in a cheery brogue.
The Boss cocked his head. “Usted no es Americano?”

“Oh no senor. Irishman.”

“Que?”

“Irish. Irlanda. Irlandes.”

The Boss pointed to the bottle. “Irlander?”

“Si. Lo mejor.”

The Boss took the bottle and shucked the cork with his teeth. He took a whiff and screwed up his nose.

“Muy fuerte!” grinned the Giant. “Very strong.”

The Boss raised the bottle to his nose again and then he looked up into the Giant’s milky eyes and took a swig. He held the liquor in his mouth until he could hold it no more and as the heat of the booze started to creep from his belly and up his spine, he whistled. The Boss nodded and took another swig before offering the bottle back to the Giant.

“Oh no. Regalo. You hold on to it.”

The Giant limped down the line inspecting the prisoners. All these men with their crosshatched skin and crazed hair. The Boss nudged the Giant as he pointed to the waterboy.

“Mirarlo, eh? Chiflado, heh. Monstruo. Hehe.”

The Giant struck his cane into the dirt and turned to the Boss and asked if they might have a quiet word back at the truck.

II.

The prisoners were dragging themselves onto the truck in pairs. An older prisoner lost his footing and tumbled backwards taking his shackled counterpart with him. They hit the ground hard and cursed each other with their eyes as they found their feet. Once the prisoners were all in, the fat little guard made a final count on his fingers and locked the tailgate.

The Giant turned his head to the Boss, who had made himself quite at home in the passenger seat. The whiskey was already half gone and the Boss stared at the unlabelled bottle like it was a source of secrets.

Then his nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of something. He inhaled deeply trying to find the source.

“Perfume uh?” asked the Boss in a conspiratorial whisper. He’d traced the scent to the Giant’s coat.

“Oohhh,” said the Boss, clucking his tongue. “Boniiito. Niiice.”

“Vamos?” asked the Giant, keen to change the subject.

“Oh si, si vamos,” grinned the Boss. “Bonito. Hehe,”

The prisoners bobbed on the flatbed. A few miles after the sun had left the sky, the truck made a left turn onto an unsealed road and the Giant ground the gears up a couple, keeping enough distance so they weren’t engulfed in dust. The muscles in the Boss’ face were loose from the booze and every now and then he would snort himself awake, pretending to focus on the road ahead like he’d never been asleep.

At the crest of a hill the Giant stopped the car so the Boss could relieve himself. He watched the truck lurch down the hill toward the electric-lit penitentiary below – a walled prison crowned with lassos of barbed wire strewn across the main gate and lamp poles. As they eased down the hill the car headlights glinted across hundreds of broken bottles fused atop the sandstone perimeter wall where a lone guard walked the parapet.

The Giant struggled out of the car with his cane and followed the Boss over to a reinforced steel door by the main the gate. Above them, flying insects spiralled towards a naked floodlamp and at their feet, among the cigarette and cigar stubs lay scores of dead or dying moths and wasps and beetles.

When they reached the administration building, the Giant was told to wait outside. He lowered himself on to a sleeper bench and watched the guards reverse the truck into the sallyport. The Giant closed his eyes.

Heavy iron shunting against thick steel. The muffled call and response of prisoners separated across hallways. An officer booming back at them to shut their mouths. Batons bashing doors and bars and nail-booted footsteps on concrete marching up and down and another door bolted hard and then…

Silence.

Just for a moment. A short peace, before someone cut through in anger or fear or hatred or for no other reason than to just be heard.
At the Giant’s feet an upturned beetle clambered to right itself. He nudged it with the brass-shod tip of his cane and tried to flick it upright. After a few attempts it clung to the base. The Giant raised the cane in the air and the beetle shot out its wings and hummed away.

The Giant could hear the Boss talking with someone. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the conversation ended in laughter. A few minutes later the Boss opened the door and led the Giant through to a large untidy office that reeked of tobacco and old sweat. The Chief Warden motioned for him to sit.

“You are very tall,” remarked the Chief Warden in emotionless, well-schooled English.

“Aye,” smiled the Giant.

“You are Irish?”

“Indeed I am, sir.”

“I’m told you wish to purchase the release of a prisoner?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Do you have any idea how many laws you are breaking by making such a request?”

“Sir I don’t believe I am breaking the law by asking a question? In good spirits?”

The Chief Warden lit a fresh cigarillo from the one he was just finishing.

“The prisoner you speak of is sentenced. You know there is no bail?”

“I understand. I am asking you to consider granting the boy release, in return for…”

“Why do you ask for this… prisoner in particular? He is not very capable of manual work?” The Chief Warden looked at the Boss, who was trying not to smile, and then he turned back to the Giant.

“Why are you in Mexico?”

“Sabatico. I take my yearly vacation at this time.”

“Alone? By yourself?”

“I live and work in a… very close community… I like to travel by myself and as it happens I also have friends in Tijuana whom I like to visit when I am here.”

The Boss clucked his tongue.

“What do you want with this prisoner?”

“I do not believe that prison is the right place for him.”

The Chief Warden turned to the Boss who was still battling to keep a straight face and then back to the Giant.

“Could you tell me what type of work is it that you do, sir?”

The Giant twisted his cane between his palms.

“Of course, sir, but I wonder if first I may ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Approximately how is it to keep a prisoner per day, or per year? Food? Accommodation? Clothing? Salarios?”

The Chief Warden counted silently with his mouth and fingers as he did the figures.

“I would say… something in the order of… between four and six pesos per day.”

The Chief Warden stubbed his cigarillo and then asked the Giant to step outside for a moment.

III.

A diabolical melange of odours hit the Giant as he entered the cellblock and he felt many eyes on his back as he followed the guard down the corridor. They stopped in front of a cell where in the din a body lay strewn across a straw mattress, his mouth wide open in a death rattle snore. The guard kicked the door. The body stirred.

“Arriba!” shouted the guard. “Levantate!” The guard smacked his baton against the bars.

“Vete a la mierda!” came a response from a nearby cell. The young prisoner dragged himself to his feet and stood in front of the Giant and the guard.

“Mirame. Look up at me, son,” whispered the Giant. Slowly, the prisoner looked up into the Giant’s translucent eyes. The Giant winced.

“Let’s get you out of here you poor bastard.”

IV.

The beak-nosed Clerk fumbled through a filing cabinet mumbling names to himself.

“Rubeo. Ruesga. Ruiz. Sampedro. Sanchez. Sanchez. Sanchez. Sanchez. Sanfelipe. Santiago. Santiago. Ah… Saragosa.” Then the Clerk placed a dog-eared yellow envelope on the counter alongside a pen and ink before disappearing into the property room. Saragosa began to remove his greys. He was down to his shorts when the clerk returned with a sack of clothes.

Saragosa began to dress. His undershirt was blood-spattered down one side and his collared shirt was torn across one shoulder. He stepped into his shoes and then upended the sack, reaching inside for something. The Clerk told Saragosa the sack was empty and that was all of his clothes and then he called him stupid. Saragosa shot his eyes at the Clerk and snatched the envelope and tore it open. He retrieved an empty coin purse, a driver’s license two years expired and a neatly folded square of silk.

Saragosa carefully unfolded the long scarf. It was embroidered in long-faded gold and blue silk and there were stains the same as those on his undershirt. His hands shook and his breath was short as he wrapped the scarf loosely around his head and neck and by the time he had finished covering himself, the hideous melon-sized cyst growing out from his neck was mostly shrouded by the flow of the gold and blue silk.
‘Saludos, Saragosa,’ whispered the Giant.

V.

The steel door clanged shut behind them and they stood under the floodlamp looking out into the black. A moth tried to land on Saragosa’s nose and he waved it away with his shackled hands.

“We’ll drive for a while. It’s a good night for it don’t you think?”

Inside the car, the Giant handed Saragosa the key to his shackles and told him he could remove them when they reached the highway. From atop the parapet, the Boss and the fat little guard watched as the car climbed up and over the hill.

The fat little guard flicked his cigar stub and watched it fall among the others underneath the floodlamp and then he started chuckling and the Boss asked him what was so funny and the fat little guard’s laughter grew louder.

The Boss asked again what was so funny and the guard tried to speak but the laughter took over and he became short of breath. Now the Boss was laughing but without knowing why and when the guard finally calmed down enough to talk, he said that they had forgotten to tie tin cans to the back of the wedding car. The Boss burst into laughter and the guard started up again and just as they were calming down he asked the Boss whether the conjugal bed came with three pillows, and the Boss bellowed so loud that the guard dogs at the other end of the prison started howling in their kennels.

VI.

The car flew down the highway through the darkness and Saragosa hung his head out of the open window. The Giant flicked open a small pillbox and threw a couple of white tablets into his mouth and washed them down with a swig from a bottle like the one he had given the Boss.

Saragosa accepted the bottle and took a long drink, followed by another, and then another. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve and set the bottle between his thighs and watched the headlights swoop across the feathergrass alongside the road.

The Giant lit a cigar and when it was burning nicely he switched on the radio and worked the dial until he found a station, all beautiful guitars and tenor harmonies and he looked over and there were tears forming on the lids of Saragosa’s eyes and by the time he had finished his cigar, Saragosa was snoring.

From this angle, the Giant was able to study Saragosa’s neck, and the hideous tumor twisting out from it, stretching the skin taut and tight. He moved his hand to touch it, but Saragosa stirred and the Giant returned his hand to the wheel.

VII.

The motel room was cheap and decorated in burnt orange and wood veneer. There were two beds and a table and chairs. The Giant had found an American station on the radio and was listening to a morning news story about the Soviet Union’s first atomic bomb test and how they were now the only nation other than the US to have such a device. It was codenamed First Lightning and he thought it sounded like a great name for a racehorse or a brand of cheap whiskey.

The Giant stood in front of the wall mirror. He had to bend down to see his face, which was in need of a shave and he noticed that his dyed hair was greying at the roots and would need retouching soon. He squirted some oil into his palm and warmed it up between his hands and combed it through his hair.

There was a polite tap on the door. The Giant opened it and took the tray from the girl and gave her some coins. She looked up at him and her eyes widened as she registered his height, but the weight of the coins in her hand made her smile and the Giant smiled back and winked at her and thanked her for the food and coffee.

The coffee smelled good and smoky. The Giant had stayed at this Motel before and remembered that they always had good coffee. He poured a cup and sat on the end of the bed.

The faucet shut off with a thunk and moments later Saragosa emerged from the bathroom and walked over to the wall mirror where he fixed the blue and gold scarf loosely around his neck. The smell of the coffee and the sight of the beans and eggs and fried potato made him salivate.

“It’s for you lad. Eat. Comer.”

Saragosa sat down and took a fork and began spooning the hot, beautiful food into his mouth and he didn’t stop until there was nothing left and then he downed the coffee and wiped the plate clean with his fingers. The Giant drained his cup and reached for his cane.

“Well then. Time for us to get to work. There are some friends I want you to meet.”

VIII.

A month later, the Boss was making one of his visits to the city. He parked his car around the back of the club and carefully took his best suit jacket from its hanger and slid it over his shoulders. He checked his hair in the side mirror and smoothed a kink down with spit and then he strode down the side alley and around to the front of the building.

He was greeted at the entrance by a beautiful young hostess with long false eyelashes and a crimson beehive wig. She placed her arm around him and kissed him and led him up the carpeted stairs to the main parlour.

The parlour was draped with heavy forest green velvet and a pall of smoke spread across the room at head height. There was a bar along one wall tended by a dark skinned woman wearing a white shirt buttoned low. She was leaning across the bar on her elbows, flirting with an old ruddy faced American in a linen suit.

The hostess asked the Boss if he would like a drink and he asked for Irish whiskey and she stroked his cheek and kissed him again and invited him to sit in one of the plush leather tub chairs.

“Madam will be with you shortly.”

The scent of perfume hung in the air and the light was warm and low. The hostess returned with his drink and he sipped it slowly as he studied the posters over on the far wall.

One poster caught his attention and he went over for a closer look. It was the waterboy from the prison, the freak, all dressed up in a vivid blue and gold Matador’s uniform staring defiantly at the heavens.
Staring straight at the Boss was the thing–the criatura–on the side of his neck, now garishly adorned with a tuft of hair and dead bulbous eyes and an empty gaping mouth…

The poster read:

In defiance of God and science…
MONSTRUO!
World Premiere!
THE TWO-HEADED TIJUANAN
Aberration of humanity…
GUARANTEED TO TERRIFY
or
YOUR MONEY BACK!
only at
BIG BILL’S
SIDESHOW SPECTACULAR!

“Morning,” I’ll say. This is all he wants.

I saw this lady on TV talking about how two or three children are the ideal family. Only children have a tendency to be “introverted and antisocial,” which means weird and quiet. I don’t want to turn out that way. Sometimes I think I already have. How would I know?

A family at the end of our street adopted a three-year-old Vietnamese boy named Ping. I ask my mother about the possibility of adopting another kid, maybe a girl, a little sister, but a brother would be fine, too. She just laughs and says I’d better not try that on my dad. Later I ask if we can get a dog. She smiles and says she knows what I’m up to, but I’m completely serious.

I think hamsters are stupid. Not good company at all. What could I possibly have in common with a hamster? But this is what she offers me, after “a great deal of serious consideration,” as if it’s such a big deal and I should be oh so grateful. She says she’s glad she didn’t get it as a surprise because the cage and the wheel and all the other hamster stuff cost around fifty dollars. My mother thinks spending more than forty dollars on anything but a necessity is a sin. Obviously, a hamster is not a necessity. She tells me most girls my age would love to have a hamster. She is going against her principles to try and be nice to me. She doesn’t say it, but she wonders what is wrong with me. I want a brother or a sister, and I am not backing down.

My sister and I could figure out how to French inhale like Tatum O’Neal in Paper Moon. My sister would explain why my parents ignore me and say they’re not doing so. My sister and I could sit side by side on lawn chairs in the yard on long hot summer days. We could get colorful matching sunglasses and discuss each neighbor who passed by, their lives, their clothes, their hobbies. In winter, we’d make ice cream out of yellow snow and give it to the neighbors we didn’t like and laugh and laugh and laugh. My sister would refuse to settle for a goddamn hamster.

I make a friend named Kate.

She learns about being blood sisters from a book about boys.

“Blood brothers, blood sisters. Same difference,” she says.
We have to prick our index fingers so blood comes out, then hold them together so our blood can “mingle,” then drip our blood into a box.

We talk about how we have never made ourselves bleed on purpose. About how, before today, we couldn’t imagine a suitable reason why we would. It is very dramatic. We decide to prick each other’s fingers to make it more like at the doctor. Kate has stolen her mother’s Cricket lighter and uses the flame to sterilize the end of a tiny gold safety pin. We have each chosen an “item of import to our hearts,” clipped bits of our hair, and written and folded into special blood sister triangles private notes to one another.

These things are laying in a Keds shoebox on Kate’s toilet seat awaiting our combined blood. We will bury our blood sister box in Kate’s backyard. I put my silver locket in it, the one my parents brought back from their second honeymoon in New Orleans. My mother would kill me and call me a heathen if she knew I was doing this. Kate puts in a yellow plastic miniature treasure chest filled with all of her baby teeth. We both cut hair from the front of our heads using an example in a magazine to “create wispy bangs” across our foreheads, letting the hair fall into the box over our treasures. The wisps will “emphasize our eyes.”

I don’t want to be poked with the pin first, nor do I want to poke Kate first so we rock-paper-scissor for it and I lose, which means I get poked first, which is fine. I squeeze the tip of my index finger hard and Kate squeezes her eyes into narrow curves, bites her lower lip and pushes the pin in fast, with a single jerk of her arm. At first, I feel nothing, but then it hurts, just a little, like a mosquito bite. I want to put my finger in my mouth and suck the blood away.

“Okay, now me,” she says, holding her fingertip. She has poked the hole in my left hand and I am left handed, so I hold the safety pin between my bleeding finger and my thumb.

“Lay your finger on the sink,” I say, because I’m afraid I’ll miss.

“Jesus!” she says, but she does it.

After the ceremony, I look at Kate with new eyes. We are family. We are sisters. We will be friends forever. I don’t know how I ever got on before I knew Kate. I want to tell her everything.

“My dad’s killed people,” I say, “in the war.”

“Mine committed suicide,” she says.

“Woah,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says. The air conditioner clicks on and the noise sends a rattle from my stomach to my throat. I push at the bathroom door with my toes.

“I found him,” she says.

“Did you try and stop him?” I imagine Kate’s dad with a huge dagger, about to stab himself in the heart.

“He was already dead,” she says.

“Oh.” I look her in the eye. She wants me to ask more, but I don’t want to.

“Was he all bloody?”

“No,” she says, “more blue,” like she’s describing a dress, or a pair of shoes. I picture Kate next to her dead, blue father, standing hand in hand. It reminds me of a movie, I don’t know which one.

“Wanna see something?” I say, because I don’t like the picture in my head. I show her how to lace up her shoes so the bow is at the foot rather than at the top. We wear our shoes to school this way so everyone will know we are best friends.

Then she starts up with Sooty.

Sooty’s a nickname; his real name is Nathan Quavis, Jr. We started calling him Sooty after he sang the chimney sweep song from Mary Poppins in Spring Sing two Spring Sings ago, but I can’t remember ever calling him Nathan. I like him a lot, I like him too much, according to Kate.
I used to stand next to Sooty in chorus until the teacher figured out I was a soprano, not an alto. Now I stand next to Robert Girard, who I hate. Instead of sneaking peeks at Sooty, I just look at my song book and mouth the words to songs, or stare out into the empty, brown seats. Kate isn’t in chorus but I think she might join, just to keep tabs on me and Sooty.

The complicated thing is, Sooty might like me, too. We sit together before we’re asked to take our places in chorus, and he always picks me in drama, when Miss Levinson says find a partner. And there’s more. My dad hates Sooty’s dad, something about the army and being a coward. I’m not sure of the specifics, but they definitely hate each other. At the Fourth of July barbecue, my dad spit right on Sooty’s dad’s foot and called him a goddamn nigger, even though he’s white. Then my dad insisted we all go home, he didn’t care that Mom and me hadn’t eaten anything yet. I don’t think we’ll go to the barbecue next year.

The first time I see Sooty smoke a cigarette, it shocks me but I act like it doesn’t. We are walking away from school and I think, what would Kate do, which is nothing, it wouldn’t faze her, so I try not to let it faze me. All I see, though, is the glowing tip going to and from his mouth and I can’t think of anything except that I am with someone who is doing something I am not supposed to do.

“You think she likes me?” he asks, and I am glad he wants my opinion. I say no.

“Shit,” he says. Swearing. Another thing I am not supposed to do.

“I mean, she likes you. I’m just not sure if she likes you, likes you,” I am lying, something else I am not supposed to do, but I want this to lead to some other kind of conversation, one about him and me.

“I really like her,” he says.

“I know,” I say.

“She likes you,” I finally say.

“Yeah,” he says.

Most of our houses are the same, but they’re decorated differently.

It’s a little creepy to go to a new kid’s house for the first time, because you kind of know where you are, it feels like you’re home, but it’s different because of carpeting or furniture or toys or basements. Kate’s has a second story. Sooty’s is exactly like ours, except he doesn’t have a TV room in back.

The first thing you see when you walk into Sooty’s is this giant laughing Buddha on a table covered with mostly used up candles, ugly colors, yellow and green. The first thing you see when you walk into our house is an oval brass mirror with a brass basket below it that’s supposed to be for umbrellas or mail or mittens or something, but no one ever puts anything in there. Sometimes bugs die in there and just dry up.

The only time we light candles at my house is when the power goes out, and usually not even then because nobody can ever find any matches. Sooty’s dad collects matches. There’s a big glass bowl on Sooty’s coffee table filled with matches from all over the world. Kate’s mom keeps ashtrays everywhere.

Dad always says our neighborhood is small, but it takes me at least fifteen minutes to ride my bike home from Kate’s. Sooty’s is even farther. It’s not like I know everybody, but Mom and Dad do. They only spend time with a few people on our block. I am not really friends with the kids whose parents Mom and Dad invite to our house. I’ve tried to be, but those kids are either boring or strange, too young or too old.
My dad is convinced Sooty’s dad has been stealing our newspaper in the mornings. We haven’t gotten it in four days.

Mom says why would a man drive across town to get our paper when he could walk to the end of his own street and get one out of a box for fifteen cents. Dad says she doesn’t know what the hell she’s dealing with. Mom says why doesn’t he just call the people at the newspaper, find out what’s going on, but Dad’s been waking up before the sun comes out and crouching at the window, hoping he’ll catch Sooty’s dad. So far, no newspaper and nobody in the yard, just squirrels. Dad is disappointed but very determined and keeps to his schedule.

I am tempted to wake up early myself, to put on my shoes and socks and traipse out the door and down the street and buy a paper, throw it on our lawn. When my alarm rings so early and I’m sleepy and it’s just getting blue outside I think: he’ll probably catch me and I’ll panic, caught on the driveway in his flashlight, street shoes on with pajamas, nothing to say.

Me and Kate and Sooty sometimes go to movies together and Kate always sits in the middle, even though Sooty and me like our popcorn the same, butter and salt. Kate eats it plain. We pass our popcorn over Kate, she doesn’t mind. At Fantasia, we accidentally spilled the whole goddamn bag on her. Grease spots all over her blouse, she went home right after the movie, instead of going ice skating, which was what we’d planned. She wouldn’t let just me and Sooty go.

We’re in Mr. Deletsky’s class learning about the ancient civilization of Sumer and I’m sitting next to Sooty, Kate’s across the room, that’s the seating chart for now. I feel Kate watching us, we’re not even doing anything, just listening to Mr. Deletsky, which is what we’re supposed to be doing. I don’t look at Kate, and I don’t look at Sooty. Mr. Deletsky says count off into groups and both me and Kate are two’s, so we’re in the same group. Sooty’s with the Salter twins, Justin and Jason, they’re identical, red-headed and skinny. Kate acts happy to be in my group. She keeps doing and undoing her pigtails, asking me how they look and not helping me and Kurt Kunkler with the diorama. They look the same each time, and each time I tell her they’re fine. Kate is too old for pigtails, but I’d never tell her that.

At lunch, as usual, we three sit together at the same end of the same long gray table next to the same poster of the four food groups. Someone has drawn mustaches on the boys and boobs on the girls in the poster. We pretend not to notice, but we all notice. I trade sandwich halves with Sooty, I’ve got peanut butter and he’s got baloney. We sit next to each other because of the trade, Kate sits across. Kate eats her tuna salad like none of this means anything. Later, in drama, me and Sooty talk a little bit.

“Do you think she minds, me going to the movies and trading sandwiches and all that,” I say.

“No,” he says.

“Can I have one of your t-shirts?” I say.

“Sure,” he says.

I’m disappointed by the one he pulls out of his backpack. It’s just a plain men’s undershirt with a decal ironed crooked onto the front. The decal came in the newspaper a few Sundays ago, we all got one. I accept it but will probably never wear it. He obviously didn’t understand what I meant. Kate meets us after school and we walk down by the old road, near the river. It’s not on our way home, it’s just someplace we go.
Kate and Sooty hold hands, I walk behind, watching their hands swing forward and back. The ground is dark and soft and wet in places. Our shoes stick in the mud and make loud sucking noises. Kate doesn’t know I’ve got Sooty’s t-shirt in my bag and I don’t tell her.

I feel the place on my finger where she poked me with the pin.

I can still feel something, but not that much. When we get to the concrete bridge, we stop.

Sooty skips stones, Kate and I watch, sitting on our wind breakers.

Neither Kate nor I know how to skip stones. When he’s done, we walk back together, Kate and me with our muddy wind breakers tied around our waists, Sooty on the other side of Kate, until it’s time for us to split off for separate houses.
I walk in on the middle of a big conversation.

Everyone’s talking at once. My Dad has killed Sooty’s dad, or tried to kill him, or it’s the other way around, I can’t tell.

My Aunt Karen’s over, along with four or five of the neighbor ladies.

I don’t see Mom or Dad. Someone threw a brick through the other one’s window and the one whose window it was beat the other one with the brick until that one died, or almost died.

Beyond this, nobody knows anything, they all seem to be repeating themselves, and they don’t notice when I leave.

I go by Kate’s but she’s at Sooty’s so I go by Sooty’s but there aren’t any lights on so I go down by the old road, near the river and they’re side by side, leaning against the base of the concrete bridge.

I stand on the other side of Kate. If they were talking before, they’ve stopped now. We stay, quiet for a while, then Sooty goes to skip stones.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” I say.

“Yeah,” she says, picking bits of dried mud off her windbreaker. I do the same.

“Is he dead?” I ask, not sure if it’s my own dad I mean, or Sooty’s.

“I think so,” she says. We watch Sooty, throwing two stones at a time, each stone skipping three or four times, every time. It starts to get dark, but they don’t move to leave, so I don’t, either.

“Murder,” Kate says.

“Here,” I say to Kate, and hand over Sooty’s t-shirt.

“I already have one,” she says.

“Oh,” I say, and stuff it back into my bag.

Since Kate’s dad is already dead, whatever happened will make me, or Sooty, or both, more like her.

“I can’t believe nobody’s looking for us,” I say, squinting at the disappearing circles Sooty’s stones are making in the water.

“Yeah,” she says.

On the way home, I think of what I’d miss most about my dad and can only come up with five or six things. He goes to work early, he’s gone by the time I get up for school.

I’ll miss seeing his empty coffee cup, I guess, and the way he still picks me up for a hug, although I’m much too big, and the funny faces he makes and the way he smells of soap and tobacco.

I wish I’d at least tried the trick with the newspaper, maybe he’d still be alive.

I wonder what Sooty will miss if it’s his dad, but I don’t ask him. Sooty’s mom lives in Kansas or Florida or somewhere, so he’d probably miss his dad much more than I’d miss mine.

My dad would have one of those fancy, flag-folding funerals they give to soldiers. Maybe some of the people from his work would come, and his and mom’s friends from the neighborhood, with their unfriendly children. He’d be buried in his uniform. I wonder if anybody would cry besides Mom. I wonder if I would. I probably would.

Aunt Karen would come. We wouldn’t have to take those awful car trips to see the state capitols over spring break any more. And Mom would probably find a new husband, hopefully one who loves dogs and sail boats, and everything eventually would be fine.

Sooty’s dad would definitely have a better funeral. I bet he’d want to be buried in that Fuck Nixon t-shirt he always wears. Either that, or the one that says I Love My Hooker Headers. I can’t remember seeing him wear anything else, though I’m sure he has other clothes. I probably wouldn’t be allowed to go, though.

And Sooty would have to move away, most likely. We all try to guess what time it is before we split off, me and Sooty say eight, but Kate is certain it’s later.

Mom is sitting in the kitchen waiting for me and I know exactly what she’s going to say. “I’ve been worried sick,” she says, but doesn’t sound like she means it.

“Sorry,” I say, looking at my muddy shoes, wondering if I’ve made marks on the way in, hoping she won’t notice if I did. She stands up, holding out her arms, and I slip between them. She brings me close, rubs my back and rests her chin on the top of my head.

“Is Dad okay?” I ask, face pressed tight against her chest.

“He’s in the hospital, they’re taking care of him,” she says.

“He’s not dead?”

“No, no, sweetheart, he’s not dead.” I feel her start to cry.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Mr. Quavis,” she says, and sniffles. Then she releases me, moving one hand to my shoulder, using the other to wipe her nose. “Mr. Quavis and your father, they had another fight.”

“Is Mr. Quavis dead?” I ask.

“No, honey. No, nobody’s dead.”

“Well that’s good,” I say.

Dad threw the brick at Mr. Quavis’ window and Mr. Quavis chased Dad with the brick all the way down the street and around the corner until he caught up and hit him on the head with it. I want to laugh when I hear this, at the sight of them in my head, and I think good for him, good for Mr. Quavis, Dad is always so mean to him, good for Mr. Quavis, but I just listen until Mom finishes telling me and says it’s time for bed. In bed I let myself laugh out loud a little bit before I fall asleep.

After school, Mom and I go to the hospital to pick up Dad. She buys me a Dr Pepper out of the machine in the waiting room and I sip at it while she fills out some forms on a clip board. In the car, all Dad says to me is are you drinking that Dr Pepper or can I use it for an ashtray. I give it to him, even though I’m not done. I stare at the back of his head while he smokes and think of Mr. Quavis hitting it with the brick. I want to ask why do you go around throwing bricks in people’s windows, but I know he’d just get mad and not answer. Plus, why can’t he use the car’s ashtray?

At home they argue about putting Sooty’s dad in jail and about who’s going to pay for the window. I change into Sooty’s t-shirt. The decal is stiff and tickles at my chest. I put a sweater on over it and ask if I can go out. Dad says not if it’s to play with that little son-of-a-bitch Nathan, Jr. and I say it’s not and they argue about that, too, but they let me go.

I see them for more than a block before I reach her driveway. The garage door is open and Kate is sitting cross-legged on the trunk of the Volvo watching Sooty shoot baskets. If he misses the basket he could hit her with the ball, but this wouldn’t occur to Kate. I stand on the driveway behind Sooty shifting my weight from leg to leg, listening to the ball smack the pavement, feeling a sting in my cheeks until Kate says c’mon, c’mere.

I lean against the car bumper and whisper do you think somebody’ll have to go to jail, and she says that’s entirely up to my dad.

“But he broke the window. That’s illegal, right?” I imagine Sooty’s dad and my dad in a jail cell together, my dad calling Sooty’s dad a son-of-a-bitch, Sooty’s dad calling for a guard. Sooty walks up to us then, ball under his arm.

“Can I have my t-shirt back?” he says, but he looks at Kate, turning to me only after he’s done talking.

“I’m wearing it,” I say, and lift up the front of my sweater to show the decal, more for Kate than for Sooty, so she’ll know exactly which t-shirt he means.

“S’okay,” Kate says. “You can go inside and change.”

“But this sweater’s all itchy with nothing underneath,” I say.

“Borrow something from me for underneath,” she says, and they wait for me to do something, so I go inside.

Kate’s bedroom is twice the size of my own, but I know where everything is. I tug open her t-shirt drawer, take whatever shirt is on top without looking at it and pull my sweater off over my head. I take off Sooty’s shirt and leave it, inside out, on her dresser. I don’t realize until I’m getting ready for bed that the t-shirt I took used to be mine.

“Got it. Be there in five.”

I dropped the mic on the front seat of my cab and pulled out of the mall parking lot. A call at 2:00 AM on a Tuesday night usually meant a drunk, a shift worker, or someone headed to the airport for an emergency flight. I hoped it was the trip to the airport.

The ride to Madison only took a few minutes. When I pulled up I saw the light on in the apartment at the front. It spilled from behind yellowed lace curtains. Most likely some old lady with cats headed out on a red-eye flight to a funeral. The rest of the small building was dark. I debated whether or not to go to the door or just honk the horn and wait. Most cabbies just honk and wait a minute or two. I preferred to add some humanity to the job. Besides, a little personal touch and a smile were good ways to get a tip and didn’t cost you anything. No one wandered the streets or was drinking on the stoops which made me think the neighborhood wasn’t too sketchy, so I decided I’d go in and knock on the door.

The building was clean, but tired. Worn carpets, old paint and the stale odor of past meals were the palette that defined the building. I would have bet that most of the meals came from cans with Chef-boy-ardee on the front. I walked down the hall, past an ancient cast iron radiator and knocked at a door with a brass number three on it.

“Just a moment,” the woman’s voiced quavered through the door. The lock turned and I heard a chain slide from the door. I pasted a smile on my face that I hoped looked friendly and not psychotic.

The old woman was slight, and stood all of 5 feet tall. With her flower print dress and pill-box hat with a veil she could have been an extra in a Humphrey Bogart movie. Wrinkles wove character into her face and her eyes were watery and red. She reminded me of a newborn bird with paper-thin skin and blue veins.

Her eyes caught mine. “Young man, would you be kind enough to take my bag out to the car?” She pointed at an old-fashioned leather valise on the floor beside her. It had a few faded stickers that adorned its sides from vacations long forgotten.

“Of course, ma’am.” I tipped my baseball cap and entered the apartment. The furniture had all been wrapped in white drop cloths and there were boxes piled along the walls. There were no knick-knacks on the side tables and no pictures on the mantle. Clean spots on the wallpaper marked where pictures had been taken down. “Moving?”

“You could say so,” she looked wistfully around the room as she pulled on a pair of white gloves. “Thank you so much for carrying my bag.”

“Not a problem. Can I get anything else for you?”

“I have a small box in the corner,” she pointed to a small box behind the door. “It has some pictures and other things.”

I hauled the box and valise out to the car and went back to retrieve my passenger. She sat primly with her purse in her lap on one of the sheet covered chairs. Her eyes were wet as she looked around the tiny apartment.

“Ma’am? You okay?”

“Fine, fine,” she dismissed the remark with a wave of her hand. She wiped her eyes with a dainty lace-edged handkerchief. “Just an old lady who gets weepy at times.” She stood, straightened her dress and walked to me, taking my arm. I looked down in surprise, I hadn’t had a woman take my arm in, well, ever. She looked up at me and I could feel her shrink into me as the emotion seeped out of her.

“C’mon,” I said with a thick voice. “We’ll get going.” We strode slowly down the hall and carefully down the stairs to the waiting cab. She kept her head high and stepped carefully. She had all the weight of a tiny shadow attached to my arm.

I opened the rear door of the cab and ushered her in. Safely tucked in place, I jumped in the front of the cab and buckled in. “Where to?”

She gave me the address. It was the other side of town, it would take about a half hour to get there. “Off to visit?” I asked.

She laughed. “Goodness, no. I’m moving to a new place, but I want to do something before I get there.”

“What’s that?” I was curious. What would a lady her age want to do at 2:30 AM?

“Can we go through the downtown?”

“It’s not the fastest way. It’ll take –”

“It doesn’t matter to me how long it takes,” she smiled back at me in the mirror. “I’m not in a big hurry to get to my new place. They really aren’t expecting me until morning and I can afford the fare.” She tapped the side of her white faux-leather purse.

I shrugged and pulled out. We headed for the downtown district. The customer is always right, and a little extra fare wouldn’t hurt, there aren’t all that many customers at that time of the morning.
The downtown core was all shiny steel and glass buildings. Traffic lights and arc-sodiums in the parking lots kept the night at bay. The streets were deserted, even the hookers had called it a night. The only traffic included the occasional police car or fellow cabbie. If you wanted to sight-see and take your time, this was the time to do it.

Her frail voice came from the backseat as we drove around. She directed us up and down streets and stared out the window. We were out by the arena. “Can you pull over here for a moment?”

“Of course.” I signaled and pulled to the curb next to a parking lot. There were a few cars parked and an abandoned attendant’s booth. A sign announced that hourly parking was six dollars and that the lot wasn’t responsible for damage to your vehicle. I put my arm on the backseat and looked over my shoulder. “This good enough?”

She pointed to the parking lot. “There used to be a department store here. Do you remember?”

I shook my head. “I moved here about ten years ago.”

“It was a Kresge’s. I worked as a telephone operator when I was a much younger girl.” She laughed at the thought and continued. “I met my husband here, at the soda fountain. He was the elevator operator. It wasn’t a very good job, but I did get to see him every day. He looked so handsome in his uniform.”

“Things are a little different today,” I said. “Heck, those jobs don’t even exist any more.” I paused for a minute and added. “Neither do soda fountains.”

She nodded. “It’s funny, the past is so clear. When I look at all this, I don’t feel old. I feel like I was twenty again.”

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “You’re over twenty?”

She laughed and her eyes sparkled for the first time that night. “Young man, you have earned a handsome tip.”

I doffed my cap at her. “As my lady sees fit.”

She looked out at the parking lot again. “Do you mind if I get out for a moment?”

I took a look out the windshield. “It isn’t the best neighborhood in town to be wandering around in.” I looked back at her and shook my head. Her eyes shone as she looked out at that old parking lot, and I could tell she wasn’t seeing or hearing anything that I was. “It’s your meter, ma’am. I can turn it off if you’re –”

She cut me off with a wave of her gloved hand and pushed the door open. She spent a few minutes wandering around the parking lot, looking at empty places and talking to herself. At one point I heard her giggle. She slowly wound her way back to the car and climbed back in. She pointed in a new direction and I drove.

The next stop was a neighborhood that consisted of burnt out houses and abandoned cars. Weed covered lots were filled with garbage and the rusted hulks of twisted shopping carts.

“Our first house was on this street. Two bedrooms. We bought it right after we were married.”

“Not many people live in this neighborhood now.”

“Well, it was a lot cleaner then. There were sand-lots for the kids to play in, and the drive-in was only a few blocks away. My husband and I loved to go to the drive-in on Saturday nights.”

“Like anything in particular? Westerns? Scary Movies?”

She blushed. “We didn’t watch the movies much back then,” She giggled and pointed in the direction of the old drive-in. “But we certainly enjoyed the drive-in.”

I cleared my throat and felt my cheeks burn a little at the change in topic. “Was the house very expensive when you bought it?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh my, It was so dear,” She held up three fingers. “It cost us nearly three thousand dollars.” She shook her head. “I know that doesn’t sound like much, but back then it was a lot of money.” She pointed to an old oak that towered above a boarded up house to our right. I slowed to a crawl. “My husband and his best friend Ernie planted that tree in 1947. Our kids played together.” She paused and then shook her head. “Mercy, has it really been that long? I saw Ernie’s daughter last month after her husband had passed. Where do all the years go?”

I drove for a while more, stopping every once in a while so that she could just stare out the window, lost in a world that I couldn’t see. I stopped to get gas and we continued to wind our way through the city.

“Do you see that building?” She asked.

“The abandoned one?” I asked, looking at the crumbling building across the street. It may have been grand at one time with its high windows and grand entrance, but now it was boarded up and looked like it was a home to crack-heads and rats.

“It was a ballroom, once upon a time when such things were popular. Young ladies and gentlemen would meet and dance. We would be dressed up and listen to the bands. Oh, how I loved to dance. I would spend hours getting ready.” I heard her shift in the backseat. Her voice was soft and rough now. “Oscar always looked so handsome in his suit. Tall and dark with his hair slicked back. I was so lucky.” She reached out and ran a finger down the glass of the window. The sky had been lightening for the last hour and now there was a touch of pink at the horizon. She straightened and faced forward. “Let’s go, please. I’m ready now.”

We drove in silence for the last twenty minutes. I didn’t know what to say or even if I could say anything. She sat quietly in the back, head held high and her eyes half-closed.

I turned onto the tree lined street and looked for the address she had given me. There weren’t many houses or buildings of any sort. I saw the address on a sign attached to a squat white building. My heart skipped a beat and my eyes went to the rear view mirror as I signaled my turn.

“Are you sure this is the right place?”

“Yes, Saint Joseph’s Hospice. They’re expecting me.” She sat ramrod straight in the backseat, her purse clutched in her hands.

We pulled into the grounds where the hospice was located and crunched up the gravel driveway. I stopped at the front door and two orderlies stepped through the front door and approached the cab. It was obvious that they had been waiting for her.

“How much do I owe you?” She pulled a wallet out of her purse and began to riffle through the bills inside.

My eyes misted and my voice cracked. “No charge for the ride.”

“Don’t be silly, you need to make a living.”

“There’s always another fare, ma’am. But you can do one thing.”

“What’s that?”

I stepped forward and surprised myself by giving her a hug. My eyes moistened when I felt her tighten her hold. She stepped back and took my hand in hers.

“Thank you, young man. You made an old woman very happy tonight.” She stood on tiptoe and gave me a soft, dry kiss on my cheek.

The orderlies stepped forward and took the valise and small box. They put her into a wheelchair and trundled toward the front door. They were very solicitous and clinical. She was in good hands.

I drove around for hours with my radio off. I didn’t want another fare for a while.

The sun was up and people once again filled the streets. They hurried here and there, honked horns, walked while talking on cellphones or grabbed coffee. They tossed litter on the street and passed each other in a rush to get where they were going, completely oblivious to the past that lay all around them.

I didn’t pay attention to them. Through my windshield I saw a beautiful young girl in a beaded ballgown, hanging on the arm of a handsome man with slicked back hair in a tuxedo. They walked up the red carpeted stairs of the Ballroom Palace. She smiled up at him, totally in love. The muted tones of big band music could be heard when they opened the door and then faded as they passed to a happier place.

#

Sangoma shuffled to the shade of a tree and removed his white hat. Graying curls outlined his leathery black face. Fine lines revealed seventy years of wisdom. He sat cross-legged and inscribed a circle with his slender fingers in the parched ground. A haze drifted yonder.

Mustafa sat across from him and smiled. White teeth juxtaposed a black face, dark curly hair and deep brown eyes. Thick muscular arms, attached to broad shoulders, extended to strong callused hands. Mustafa placed his palms together just below his nose and inhaled deeply.

Sangoma nodded and removed some bones from a pouch. He tossed them in the circle and chanted in an ancient dialect, which Mustafa didn’t understand. Faint clouds of dust danced like specters in the breeze. Sangoma waited until the visions vanished before outlining five bones.

“What do you see?” Mustafa asked.

“I see confusion, deceit, and lies… But the question is… What do you see Mustafa? You are our leader.”

“I see an old man sitting on the ground and bones begging for life.”

Sangoma nodded. Mustafa laughed and stood up. He was born in a generation that solved problems with modern technology. People were forgetting and ridiculing the ancient ways of survival. Too often, the incantations failed to reap a reward. Thus, Mustafa had requested aid from the ghosts that flew in the sky.

Sangoma and Mustafa stood. A rumbling cloud of dust was zooming toward them. Two yellow eyes illuminated the darkening road. The modern elephant screeched to a halt. Sangoma and Mustafa coughed.
The van’s passenger window rolled down. A white face, with blue eyes and rosy cheeks emerged. A glossy white smile greeted. Eyes sparkled in the twilight. A silver chain and crucifix dangled over a pristine white shirt.

The man held a video camera and spoke with an accent that wasn’t English, American, or Canadian, but a mixture of enunciation’s derived from missionary travels around the globe.
“Good evening. My name is Tom. I’m here on missionary work to spread the word of Jesus and bring help to the underprivileged. I’m looking for Mustafa.”

“That is I, we’ve been expecting you. My village is three miles east of here. Drive to the glowing lights.”

“I’d offer you a ride, but we’re all full here.”

“That’s alright. We’re enjoying the evening stroll.”

“The supplies will be arriving shortly. They might have room. I’ll radio ahead and let them know. I want to get settled before dark.”

“The villagers are expecting you. Your accommodations are waiting,” Sangoma replied.

Mustafa and Sangoma pointed to the village. Lamps and candles sparkled like the sky’s constellations. The van rumbled over the dry terrain and vanished in a haze of dust. Mustafa and Sangoma strolled behind along the darkening prairie.

“Our culture is being lost,” Sangoma said.

“We have no choice. We have to keep pace with modern technology.”

“It’s the principles and ethics of our society I’m worried about.”

“I’m at their mercy for without help the village will perish.”

A rumbling herd approached, in a cloud of dust, from the rear. Multiple glowing eyes illuminated the foreground. Specters of the gray hulk plodded onward. Shouting solicited direction. Mustafa pointed to the village. Four cargo trucks turned east toward the glowing lights. The first truck stopped at Mustafa’s side. The driver spoke.

“Climb aboard. I’ve got room.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m carrying supplies for the new Christian community.”

Mustafa and Sangoma sat on the crates in the cab and mulled over the decision to invite the strangers to the village. Malnutrition, dehydration and disease were devastating the population. The villagers had long forgotten the traditional knowledge of survival. The practices and principles of the New World were needed. Making use of the local resources would increase the chances of survival and growth.

Mustafa and Sangoma arrived to a boisterous village of people. Men were pounding Drums. Feet were dancing around a bonfire. White faces were offering gifts. Children were cherishing sweets, from a distant land. Wooden crucifixes dangled from the black necks of the villagers.

The missionaries were handing gifts of linen and toys to the families. Exuberance was casting traditional garb into red flames. Smiles were glossy white. Pupils were large and black. Red streaked through the sclera. Jubilation was the majority. Shouts, hugs and tears ran, as a woman played guitar and sang Christian hymns.

Mustafa approached like a lion hunting prey. The guitarist sensed his presence. Her eyes elevated from the height of the frolicking children and glanced back and forth. She rose from a crouched position and stood upright. Then she stopped playing and darted through the crowd. Children followed closely behind. Mustafa glanced right.

Tom was leaning against a tree filming the celebration. He motioned for Mustafa and Sangoma to join him. Mustafa was hoping to meet Tom in the middle by finding an agreement where both parties gained from the communion. However, Tom was strolling farther away, luring Mustafa to follow like a fish chasing a lure.

“I won’t be needed any longer. I’m off to bed,” Sangoma said.

“I’m going to speak to Tom about this.”

“I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

Mustafa followed Tom, through the festivities, toward a tent while staring into the eyes of his people. Their spiritual trance was unwavering. His presence went unnoticed. Tom held the cloth door open and invited Mustafa inside. Mustafa was hesitant about entering the foreign structure. He felt like a stranger. The change of allegiance was occurring faster than anticipated.

“Are the accommodations unsatisfactory?” Mustafa asked.

“I prefer my own sleeping quarters. Come inside. I need to speak with you.”

The tent contained a double bed, a small desk and eating area. Two lamps illuminated the room. Tom motioned for Mustafa to sit on the bed.

“You must be careful with those lamps. They can catch fire.”

“They’re battery operated. Please sit on the edge of the bed. I have much to tell you.” Mustafa sat with feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. However, he wanted to express the value in preserving his culture and the morals preached by Sangoma. “You look worried.”

“I’m concerned about the sudden exhilaration. My people have had little to celebrate. Sangoma hasn’t had much luck recently.” Tom raised both hands to his mouth and exhaled.

“I understand… That’s why I’m here. I wish Sangoma had joined us. My church has great plans for your village, but your people need to convert to Christianity before things get underway. Tonight is just a taste of God’s offerings.”

“But we already have a religion.”

“Without the teachings of Jesus your people will never prosper.

“Sangoma has done a fine job instilling…”

“Do you understand the amount of money and resources I have at my disposal?”

“But that is the only part of our culture that has remained intact! We just need the knowledge of your people to teach us the…”

“Your people need to be taught the ways of Jesus!” Tom grasped his crucifix and stood. “Or they will remain savages in the eyes of God!”

Mustafa stood. Bleeding eyes peered down at Tom’s holy fist. Drumming muffled hostility.

“My people are not savages!” Wind whisked, in a spray of phlegm, from blackness through the white picket fence. His holiness elevated. Tom glared, as flames shone from the wavering door and reflected blinding
light off the relic into Mustafa’s eyes. Mustafa stumbled backward. Prey entered unannounced and became the predator. Tom’s voice softened.

“Sit down. Sit down. This is exactly what I’ve been talking about.”

“What’s going on in here?” the guitarist asked.

“It’s alright. I’m in the process of conversion. Have a seat Debbie.”

Mustafa slammed the gate on the white picket fence and glared. Liquid dripped from darkness to the ground. He looked at Debbie and breathed deeply. Frown lines formed along his forehead. Anxiety manifested in moisture under his vest. “Please sit down.” Mustafa was compliant but his limbs were twitching. “I’m filming a documentary and I’d like you to be part of it.” Mustafa’s gaze rose from the floor. “Would that be
alright?”

“Yes… that would be fine,” Mustafa replied.

“It’s partially scripted, but I’d like you to speak as though the words were your own.”

“Alright. I can do that.”

Tom shuffled through a folder of papers while Mustafa glanced at Debbie.

“I can’t seem to find it here. Why don’t you entertain Mustafa with the guitar? It must be in my other bag. I left it in the van.”

“I don’t really feel like playing,” Debbie replied.

“It won’t take me long. Music helps tame the…”

“Tom!” Mustafa grit his teeth and clenched his fists. Tom strode to the exit.

“I’ll only be a minute.”

Debbie nodded and picked up the guitar. She placed it across her knee. Classical picking and a sharp voice shrilled the ears in a haunting hymn of Jesus’ final days. Mustafa listened, but his desire was to leave. Yet, his mind felt constrained like an animal pacing in a cage.

Could a religion with such a violent nature bring peace and harmony to his people? Was the sacrifice for a greater good? Tears welled, as Mustafa contemplated the decision to forgo his religious beliefs for the betterment of his people. He wiped his anguish on his sleeve. Tom stormed in, as the last chord was struck.

“I see it’s having an effect already.” Debbie put the guitar down and frowned. “Alright I want you to read this. It’s a waver granting me the right to use this footage in a documentary if I so choose.”

“Do we have to do this?” Debbie asked.

“Yes, it will only take a moment. Debbie and I are going to step outside. Start reading whenever you’re ready.” Tom turned on the camera.
Mustafa gazed at the white paper. Tears dripped and ran blackened with ink along the parchment.

“I, Mustafa, relinquish all my rights to this video and grant Tom the right to use this video, as he sees fit, for as long as he wishes.”
Tom returned with a warm smile and turned off the camera.

“You read very well Mustafa. You should consider acting.” Mustafa ran his hand along his forehead and exhaled. “Debbie is going to play the other part.”

“I’m not an actor.”

“Just do the best you can. It’s more of a documentary. I want your natural emotions.” Tom turned the camera on and walked out the door.

Debbie entered with an inviting smile and sat on the bed across from Mustafa.

“So what do you want to do?” Debbie asked.

Mustafa’s flush-ness was masked by dark skin, but moisture was forming along his forehead. He wiped his brow with a cloth. Rhythmic drumming raced his fluttering heart, as anxiety crept up his spine.

“Well it’s getting late. I suppose I should…” Mustafa shifted on the air mattress. Debbie slid closer from the shift in weight. She laughed. Mustafa smiled.

“Here.” Debbie handed Mustafa a piece of paper and smiled. Her glare was demanding. Mustafa read the words silently. Kiss me. Then he pushed toward Debbie.

The scream silenced the festivities in a moment’s horror. Mustafa turned to the Cyclops. His jaw dropped in stupefaction, as he froze like gazelle about to be shot. Anguish tore through his heart. Debbie stood and glared. Tom stormed in with two white security guards.

“What’s going on in here!” Tom asked

“Keep your hands off me!” Debbie said. Mustafa place his hand over his eyes and stared at the floor.

“This is why you need to learn the ways of Jesus! You must learn to control your urges!” Mustafa looked up from the floor.

“I have a wife and child,” Mustafa said.

“I suggest you go home to them.” Tom walked over to the camera. “I want your complete co-operation.” Tom held the camera up. “I will use this if I have to.” Tom smiled arrogantly. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes I understand.”

“This is my wife, Debbie.”

“Your wife!”

“Yes my wife. She told me you had been eying her earlier this evening.”

“That’s not why I was watching her.”

“I’ll show your wife this video if you give me anymore trouble.” Mustafa felt adrenaline seeping into his veins. He clenched his teeth to withhold anger, but the strangers had invoked concern for the safety of his family. He looked at Debbie, as blood reddened his sclera. “You’re doing it again… You can’t keep your eyes off her. You need…”

“That is not a woman!”

“How dare you say such a thing. She has always been a woman.” Tom motioned for security to come forward. “I’ll show this video of you trying to rape my wife to every man, woman, and child in this village! Do you understand me!” Security stepped forward.

“I understand what you’ve said! But I don’t understand how that can be your wife!”

“You’re not listening to me!”

“I am listening!”

“I’ll use this if I have to! Do you understand!” Tom removed the evidence from the camera and placed it on the desk.

“I understand.”

“Point him in the direction of his home!” Mustafa’s head sank to his chest. “I’ll teach you how to repent in the morning.”
Mustafa stepped past security, through the canvass doorway and moped around the entranced villagers to his house. Fading drum rolls resounded inside his troubled mind, as he stepped through the entrance into the kitchen. Mustafa lit a lamp and walked to the doorway of his son’s room. The bed was empty.

Mustafa walked to the doorway of his bedroom. His wife Tapiwa was resting on the bed. A white crucifix hung from her neck and a new gown adorned her physique. She winced and turned away.

“Did I wake you?”

“No.”

“Where’ s our son Ike?”

“I thought he was with you.”

“He must be at the festivities.”

“Where were you?”

“I was talking to Tom.”

“Yes I heard. That’s why I left.”

“What did he tell you?”

“Turn off the light. I want to sleep.”

Mustafa extinguished the lamp and stared into darkness. Tapiwa slept at his side. Drum-rolls resounded, as the night’s events troubled his soul. Is one faith any different than another? Has he disgraced his wife’s honor during a state of confusion? Will he lose his leadership? Can loyalty be bought? Is his accusation of Debbie’s sex correct?

Then footsteps crept into the house. Mustafa rose and lit the lamp. Ike was in the hallway skulking toward his room. A white crucifix hung from his neck. New clothing fashioned his persona. Mustafa bit his lip and walked toward the eleven-year-old.

“Who gave you these?”

“Tom.”

“Have a good sleep.” Ike walked into his room. A red stain streaked from the buttock of his pants and down one leg. “What happened to you tonight?” Ike hunched over. “What’s on your pants?”

“Nothing.”

“Take them off and let me have a look.”

“No.”

“Let me see.” Mustafa forcefully removed his son’s pants. Ike struggled and yelped, as Mustafa examined where the blood had come from. Stomping resounded.

“What are you doing Mustafa!” Tapiwa asked.

“I did not do this!”

“What happened here?

Mustafa stormed out of his house. Firelight illuminated his path. The drum’s rhythm steadily increased, as he approached the tent. Thoughts of vengeance plagued his infuriated mind, but concerns of the video churned in his stomach. Should he steal the evidence and destroy it? Who raped his son?

Mustafa opened the door on the tent and peered inside. Lamplight shone onto the desk and revealed the video. A red dot blinked in the upper corner of the tent. Mustafa’s heart raced faster than the drum’s roll. He crept inside. Tom and Debbie lay motionless on the bed. Mustafa grabbed the video and turned to leave. Something fell and clanked.

“What do you think you’re doing!” Tom yelled.

Mustafa ran out the door into a group of frenzied villagers. White crucifixes dangled from their necks. Tapiwa was leading. Her eyes were glazed over in confusion. Mustafa ripped the tape into pieces. Tom stepped from the tent wielding his crucifix and camera. The drum silenced.

“What is going on!” Tom shouted.

“Our children have been raped!” Tapiwa said.

“We have a thief amongst us.”

“I am not a thief,” Mustafa said.

“I have the theft on video tape and footage of you trying to rape my wife.”

“That is a lie!”

“Let us see it!” Tapiwa demanded.

“You have left me no other choice Mustafa!” Tom said.

Two large African men wearing crucifixes approached. Debbie emerged from the tent carrying the lies and deceit. She glared at Mustafa and placed the evidence into the camera. Mustafa felt like an animal captured in a cage, as each villager peered through the eye of the oracle. Guilty, of theft and rape, was the verdict.

The villagers swarmed Mustafa and sliced off his hands, feet and genitalia. Sangoma hobbled forward chanting in an ancient language. The villagers backed away. Sangoma knelt by the fallen leader and prayed.

Wyatt was the youngest, though, and he didn’t know any better. He set the table one afternoon about a week after the funerals, and didn’t put down the plates for Ervin and Garrett. Momma turned around from the stove, glanced at the table, put her apron beside the sink, and then walked through the living room and on to her bedroom. Poppa got up from the table and set two more plates. Wyatt, Opal and me sat there and waited while Poppa went to get Momma back. Wyatt picked up his fork and started to reach for a ham slice, but I kicked him under the table. “Don’t be a dumbass,” I told him. He sat his fork down and kicked me back. “You’re a dumbass,” he said back to me. Opal told us both to shut up, and we did. When Momma came back to the table, she sat between the plates Poppa had set and asked who would say the blessing. Wyatt did, and Poppa told him he did a fine job with it.

Wyatt set the table with seven plates the next day, and the next, and then Poppa asked Momma to help him set the table. We thought it was a good thing when she started setting the table by herself again, all of us taking turns again, even with the two empty places. It was good when she started talking at the table, too, even if the things she said didn’t always go together. It seemed like she was finally coming home from the funerals.

A hundred or so dinners after the funerals, Momma made a blackberry cobbler, Garrett’s favorite, but mine, too. She scooped each of us out a warm bowlful of soft blackberries, purple juice and buttery crust, and, once it was up close, I could see that she’d served me a couple of juice-drenched yellowjackets in with it. With my spoon, I pushed a purple wasp to one side of my bowl. I looked at Opal and Wyatt and saw that they were digging out bee parts, too. Poppa had already bitten into his cobbler, but I saw a little purple pile on his napkin. Wyatt made a face and wiped his hands on his pants, but he didn’t stop eating. Opal cleared her throat. I drank a lot of water. None of us had the meanness to say anything about the yellowjackets.

“I had a time getting the berries,” Momma said. “The patch down t’gully was about grown over. Bees all over it.” Momma looked out the window as she ate, and once or twice, she brought her napkin up to her mouth and silently spit. She’d set the napkin back down, never looking at it or her bowl. “Opal, did you hear Lester Patterson ran his truck in the ditch yesterday?” Momma wasn’t looking at Opal, she was still looking out the window, but all there was was plowed empty fields there. Garrett would walk across those two acres of rough red clay barefooted if Momma had promised him a cobbler. Garrett was always the one that had picked the blackberries.

“I’d heard,” Opal said back to her. “Whereabouts was it?” She shook a jellied lump off of her spoon. She looked up to see if Momma had seen her do that, but Momma still hadn’t looked away from the window. When Ervin was working after school at Harding’s store, when he was still with us, he’d be driving up the packed dirt path beside the empty field about now. Ervin used to bring Wyatt and me Now-and-Laters on Fridays if we hadn’t missed school.

“Over at Sullivan’s place,” Momma said. “Sullivan told me. Said that Lester tore up a mess of his ditch lilies. No real harm done except to Lester’s truck.”

Opal drank a sip of ice water before she said anything. “That fool’s gonna kill himself or somebody, driving that truck around with a gutful of liquor like he does,” Opal said, shaking her spoon like she was scolding somebody. And once she had said it all out loud, she’d said too much and she knew it. We all knew it. Wyatt looked at me, I looked at Opal, she looked at Poppa. Poppa looked back at each of us before he turned to Momma, her eyes closed but still turned towards the window. He took in a mouthful of blackberry cobbler, talked with his mouth full, but we knew what he was saying.

“This is some fine pie, Frances. Can you scoop me out another bowl?” And she did. Oldest to youngest, we offered up our empty bowls for a second helping, and we ate the cobbler until it was gone.

–

The Cobbler is The Washington Pastime’s 2012 PYA Literary Prize Winner. Brian Smith is an Author Affiliate from Guilford College in Greensboro, North Carolina. Chelsea M. Burris was the Student Support Manager responsible for selecting Brian’s story.

The cold coats Jun’s skin, sinking in under the layers of fleece and nylon she’s wearing–so much colder than when she left after-school. The halogen lights form a nimbus around her mother, who swerves around on her bike, then rights herself. The bridge’s arch opens up before Jun, so monstrous that it dizzies her to look up at it. Cars come at semi-regular intervals, their headlights comforting her, reminding her they aren’t alone.

Kim watches the tiny clouds of her breath before they dissipate into nothing. Have I drunk enough? she wonders. She shouldn’t feel the cold, but she can’t stop shaking. When she walked across the bridge for the first time, two months earlier, on the kind of February day where the clouds selfishly hold in the sunlight, the kind of day where you feel like you could always use another cup of coffee or tea, she knew she’d have to be drunk. Looking down into the Hudson, she’d decided on whiskey, which was what her husband, 6,000 miles away in Daegu, preferred when he drank. She’d thought of Jun, whom she had to pick up from after-school at 5:30pm. So strange to have a day with only one obligation, Kim had thought. The gray water was so flat and mirror-like that she imagined it would shatter if she jumped in. If she stared at it long enough, she could see it swirl in lazy eddies. As the sun began to set, the river had reflected the sky’s deep indigo and cloaked everything in blue: blue skyscrapers, blue cliffs, blue bridge. Kim took pictures of the view, her fingers turning numb outside her gloves. She planned to show them to Jun, but when she looked at them later, they were blurry. Disappointed, she erased them instead.

Tonight, Jun’s mother roused her after she’d fallen asleep, telling her it was finally time to practice Long Bridge Jumping. Jun hadn’t wanted to get up at first, but her mother was smiling in a lazy way that Jun had rarely seen before, and smelled of liquor. The only times Jun had seen her mother drink were at family gatherings once or twice a year, but she never smelled like this, the alcohol as strong as perfume. Jun felt excited—they never did fun things like this. Her mother was always so serious nowadays, sitting like a lump in front of the computer, the laptop screen illuminating her unsmiling face when Jun would get up at night to use the bathroom. She used to spend hours online talking to Jun’s father, and make Jun sit down in front of the video camera with her, but Jun can’t remember the last time they’d spoken. Now Jun pedals behind her mother across the bridge, on auto-pilot, like a duckling marching behind a mother duck. She likes the alien sounds the vehicles make and the fierce shaking of the bridge as they come towards her, the trucks causing mini-earthquakes. Tonight her mother said she didn’t have to wear a helmet, and the little of Jun’s black hair that isn’t secured under her winter cap, flows out behind her.

That February day, Kim had figured out two things: she’d have to be drunk and she’d have to bring Jun. Where would Jun stay? At her sister’s? Her sister had enough worries, and two daughters of her own; being thrust into their lives like that would make Jun feel barely human, like some stray animal. With her husband back in Korea? How awkward that would be for Jun—they hadn’t seen one another since Jun was four. Kim understood, all too well, the festering ache Jun would always feel, and just knew—to bring her, to keep her with her—was right. She knew how the newspapers would describe it, but they would never understand how deep her responsibility to her daughter runs.

Jun’s mother stops in front of her, so Jun stops too. The wind is blowing steadily across the bridge, and she tries to zip up her coat further, to tighten it around her throat, but it’s already all the way up. An old man on a bicycle passes them, and Jun doesn’t like the way he eyes them so closely—his thinness and tattered clothing make her suspicious. She wishes he would continue on and leave them alone. Her mother is leaning against the bridge’s railing, looking down into the water. Jun’s too short to see over, so she crouches down and puts her head against the lower bars, feeling their vibration. It’s hard to make things out in the dark, but there’s the suggestion of something large an uncertain distance below, its slow, blurred movement mesmerizing. Jun doesn’t know how long she’s been looking at the river when she hears a clink above her, and looks up to see her mother tilting a small bottle to her lips.

“Here.” Her mother hands Jun a package: chocolate-covered Oreos, Jun’s favorite. Jun feels more cold than hungry, but shoves two in her mouth before wrapping the open end of the package tightly and putting it into her pocket for later.

“Let’s go,” her mother says. “Be brave. You’ll be all right. You’re a good jumper, I remember.”

“You’re sure it won’t be cold?”

“No, I told you, the water’s always warmer than the air.”

Kim’s stomach twists and she wonders, Can I, really? But of course she can, because slow suffocation is worse. She looks at her daughter, who’s hopping from foot to foot and staring out at the million dots of light that make up Manhattan.

She’ll never have to feel this, Kim thinks.

She’ll never have to wake at 6am every morning except Sunday, the alarm screaming that it’s time to go stand at the cafe counter. She’ll never have to force herself out of bed, feeling like a taut skeleton of rusty nerves with a thin layer of skin pulled over it. She’ll never have to notice those well-to-do women on the subway giving her pitying glances, mesmerized by the weariness written on her face. Kim had waited for months for the feeling to lift, but then she realized it had always been there, lingering around the edges of her life. Something—her parents’ authoritarian attitude, college classes, her marriage, and then Jun—had kept it from descending. When she realized she didn’t have to keep plodding through, the curtain had lifted. Not completely though—just become translucent for a few moments so Kim could see that all the struggling she did, and that Jun would do, wasn’t worth it.

Jun’s mother hugs her, too tight, and Jun’s face is smothered against her solid stomach, which smells of cooking oil and laundry detergent.

“You can do as many flips as you want on the Long Bridge Jump,” says her mother. “Like the time we visited the Huang’s and went to their pool with that tall diving board, remember? And you wanted to flip the way Jenny did, but you didn’t know how? Now you can try. You can do it.”

Jun presses her hands on the tips of her ears to warm them. Then she pulls herself up onto the top railing, and balances her abdomen on it, pressing her feet against one of the lower bars for safety.

“I’ll help you stand,” says her mother. “We’ll do it together, but we have to do it fast.”

What will it feel like? Kim wonders, for what seems like the thousandth time. Like tumbling up and down and sideways at the same time? Like the air? Or like a solid piece of matter passing through it? And will it hurt for Jun? And, most importantly, will there be time to regret?

Before Jun has time to think, her mother is balancing on her stomach, then pulling them both up to their feet on the railing, but it’s so narrow and difficult to balance, and the river looks huge and hungry, and then Jun is falling. She lands on her butt on the concrete walkway and rolls back hard, hitting her head. The pain is sharp and her eyes well up. Her mother is crying too, but in a different way. Jun looks over through the aching in her head and sees her mother curled up like a baby, her body convulsing with dry sobs, her face distorted. Jun crawls over to her. She strokes her mother’s forehead, noticing how warm it feels in spite of the cold, and after a while her mother’s sobs quiet and then she just lies there, staring at something on the concrete or in the air that Jun can’t see.

The same old man makes his way back across the bridge, weaving in small figure eights. Jun doesn’t feel scared of him now, and stares back until he looks away. Her mother is still curled up, and Jun thinks that maybe, if she can show her she’s brave enough to try the Long Bridge Jump by herself, she’ll cheer up. She remembers the Oreos in her pocket and stuffs one more in her mouth for courage, then walks toward the flickering, far-away dots of light, the vibrating railing, the blackness.

At some point in the future, allegedly.

#

Mickey Valkyrie, soon to be known only as Eleven, walked the hallway littered with young businessmen and businesswomen trying to look busy in his presence. With the economy as it was, no one wanted to appear like they were expendable, especially after the recent round of layoffs.

None of them knew who Mickey was, mind you; he just gave off the aura of being someone important and they assumed he was one of the men up top. They were right in this case, but they weren’t always. The men up top kept themselves sequestered off and never spent any time with the employees, choosing to only speak through a few intermediaries. It made the process of running the company less personal and therefore more productive. If you actually knew the employees then you might get attached to them which would only lead to trouble when one of them had to be given a shove out the door.

Once Mickey reached the bathroom near the end of the hall, he entered it silently, making certain there were no others inside. He went to the marble sink, placed his briefcase on it and opened it up. Inside the briefcase were papers, flash drives, a laptop and a black mask. Mickey took out the black mask and pulled it over his head, zipping it up in the back. He looked at himself in the mirror, now completely unrecognizable. The mask covered almost all of his head, leaving room only for his lips and eyes to be seen and even then it was tight around those portions of his face.

Without further thought for his appearance, Mickey left the bathroom and turned right, arriving at the conference room three minutes early. He stepped inside and instantly became Eleven.

The conference room was barren except for a large, circular table made out of mahogany wood. Rumor had it that One had made the table himself sometime before he entered the business world.

Eleven looked for the place card that matched his number and took a seat. Three and Five were already here, both wearing the same mask as Eleven did (if they hadn’t they would’ve been immediately terminated) and they both nodded in his direction. He’d met Five outside of the conference room a few times but had never met Three, at least not so far as he knew. Five had been an uptight fellow, appearing not to have much in the way of a personality but that might have just been the face he put on when he was at work. Forming friendships between the eleven executives was frowned upon at best. Rumor had it that the previous Three and Six had been ousted because they ended up becoming too close. A harsh measure, certainly, but a necessary one, one that would allow for the success of the business to remain at the forefront of people’s minds.

The rest of the executives came in, all masked as well, with One arriving last, sitting directly next to Two and Eleven. Eleven liked being next to One because even though he was the low man on the totem pole at least he got to sit beside One, to hopefully make a better impression than the others. He always wore his best suit, his most stylish tie and made sure his handkerchief peeked out of his pocket on the days he was to be in One’s presence (he thought it added the right amount of pretentiousness without overdoing it). He always slouched a little in his chair, though, as One was slightly shorter than him and he worried about appearing as if he wanted to upstage him.

Everyone at the table looked to One, waiting for him to give the go ahead. A few of the executives tugged at their black masks, clearly not comfortable with wearing them. One had come upon the idea of wearing the bondage masks only a year earlier and not everyone liked it and some whisperings of resentment still remained. The whispers never grew loud.

“Let’s begin,” said One. He didn’t have to say who went first, it was understood that they would go in numerical order.

Two began by saying, “There’s the problem of profits first and foremost. We’re staying steady with the rest of our competitors but since our competitors aren’t doing as well as they used to that doesn’t say much for us. We’re going to need to cut staff.”

Cutting staff? Always a tricky topic, Eleven knew. It shouldn’t have been but the press had a field day going after any companies that lay off employees. What did the media expect? Business came first, not charity.

“Not again,” said Five. “We were skewered the last time we let people go and that was only six months ago.”

“I know,” said Two, “but if we want to continue receiving the level of income that we do now then cuts will need to be made.”

“Are we in debt?” asked Nine.

A bad question to ask, Eleven thought. Nine should’ve known that.

“No,” said One, his voice strong enough that Nine had the presence of mind to look down. “Debt of any type is unacceptable. I will fire every single employee if I have to in order to balance the budget. We will never be in debt.”

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Two said, “Yes, well, something will need to be done much sooner than later lest we fall behind our competitors.”

Eleven glanced over at One. He couldn’t see his face thanks to the mask but he could sense that One was thinking something over, trying to come up with some sort of plan of action while everyone else just felt sorry for themselves, wondering what they did to deserve this suffering.

“We did 10,000 layoffs last time,” said Eight. “We can’t do that again. Not only will the press make us into villains but it will also make us appear weak.”

“Not once the next quarter’s profits come in,” said Six. “That would quiet any talk of us going out of business.”

“But if we look weak then no one will buy from us,” said Eight. “If our consumers smell weakness then they’ll flee to another company. Talons Incorporated has done a good job of looking like they’re doing better than they are so I wouldn’t be surprised if we lost business to them.”

Eleven held back a groan. Talons Inc had been a thorn in the company’s side for a while now. They seemed to expand every other day, taking over smaller companies as if it was a bodily function. He should really send an application their way.

“Are you trying to say that laying people off is out of the question?” asked Six. “I’m really interested in your solution then.”

“I don’t have one,” said Eight.

“Well then maybe we’ve found the first person who should go,” said Six.

Oh, Eight did not like that comment. He disliked it so much that he almost stood, an action that was forbidden until the meeting was adjourned. Instead, he just said, “Well what’s your idea?”

“Layoffs,” said Six. “Just get rid of a ton of people and be done with it.”

Eleven didn’t mind the idea of layoffs, not in principle, but he was worried, like Eight was, about how it’d look to outsiders. Even appearing weak could be disastrous. He’d have to jump ship if the company looked like it was going under. To have his name anywhere near a company that failed would be incredibly embarrassing. Even thinking about it made his stomach churn. The worst result would be having to take a job that was beneath him while he looked for a bigger one. God forbid it, he might have to take a job at a non-profit place. He’d heard of someone who was forced to do that and committed suicide not long after.

“How many would have to go?” One asked Two.

Two hesitated before saying, “Five thousand.”

“Oh, Jesus,” said Eight.

“Five thousand?” repeated Six. “That’s our entire Detroit branch right there. I suppose we could close that one up, though. I mean, it is Detroit.”

One lightly tapped on the table, but the move was enough for everyone to go silent. “There is a solution that would give us what we need without taking a hit in the press,” said One. “It’s a bit unorthodox but times like this call for unorthodox measures.” He paused for effect and then said, “We could just kill them.”

No one said anything. What was there to say?

One interlocked his fingers, placed his hands behind his head, leaned back and said, “Unorthodox, I know.”

“I’m… I’m not sure what you mean,” said Three.

Eleven silently thanked him for having the courage to say that.

One said, “We kill five thousand employees. The Detroit branch might work, as Six pointed out. It sounds extreme but it’s better in the long run. We make it look like an accident or some sort of madman’s attack. That’s certainly preferable to appearing like we’re weak and soulless.”

“You don’t think that might hurt us?” asked Three, his voice soft. “I mean, an explosion that kills five thousand people will not make us look like a powerful company.”

“We’ll have to do it, if we do it, in a way that makes it look like it had nothing to do with our safety standards lacking,” said Six.

Eleven thought what One and Six said had a certain logic to it, yes, but the idea of actually killing employees was, well, a challenging one. He’d have to hear that it made complete business sense before giving it his vote of approval. He wasn’t so cold-hearted as to give the thumbs up to doing such a thing without at least hearing some more facts. Heavens no.

“There’s a major flaw,” said Five. “Even if we lose the employees and make it look like our security measures weren’t at fault, the government will be looking into all of our procedures and safety standards. Can we really stand such scrutiny?”

“Likely not,” said One. “However, you forget that it is your predecessor who is in charge of the Safety Standards Regulatory Committee. He’ll have our backs.”

“That is true,” said Two. “He’s been a good ally in the past.”

“But still,” protested Eight. “Killing our own employees? That’s an act I don’t think I can condone.”

“Even if it saves the business?” asked Six. “I think we should hear a little more of this idea before we say anything that we can’t take back.”

All eyes turned to One, who smiled at the attention, his leather mask squeaking as it moved around his lips.

“Think it through, gentlemen. If we can orchestrate a way to appear completely innocent then we will be victims in the eyes of the public. All we need do is have someone go out and give a speech about how we’re going to throw a little money towards the families, not too much, and people will be saying that we’re truly a caring company. That alone will bring us business. Now, yes, some of our larger customers might want to flee, worried that this catastrophe will make us go under. But they won’t. They won’t because it would give them exactly what we’ve been fearing: bad press because they’d appear heartless. So they won’t leave and since we’ll be prepared we won’t miss a beat. They’ll continue to get the customer service that they’ve always gotten and will stay with us.”

The uncomfortable silence returned. Were they seriously thinking this over? thought Eleven. Am I? After all, it did make business sense so far. There were still the ethical problems remaining, sure, but the survival of the business had to come first.

“I rather like it,” said Six. “There are still things to be ironed out but I like it.”

“I think we’re forgetting that we’re talking about killing people,” said Eight.

“Layoffs of a different type,” said Six, waving his hand dismissively.

“Eight has a valid point,” said One. “However, so, too, does our friend Six. If we were to lay these people off in this economy they would be almost guaranteed at least three years of unemployment. There are simply no jobs out there for them. Once the economy rebounds, these people will have been out of work for a very long time which will make it still difficult for them to find a job. Killing these people is worse than laying them off, yes, but not exponentially so.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Eight.

One laughed. “Well then, how much of a paycheck decrease are you willing to take so that we don’t have to do anything? Hm? And how about the rest of you? This company still has its pride, gentlemen, and I’m not going to let that slip out of our hands. We are not going to start reducing our salaries to that of fucking managers. We are executives and we are the backbone of this company. I’ve said it before, this is not a charity. This is a business. I’m calling a vote on this one. I vote yes.”

He turned to Two who nodded and said, “Yes.

Three said, “No. No, I’m not comfortable with it.”

Four said, “I hate the idea but yes.”

Five shook his head and mouthed a no.

Six said, “Yes. There’s no choice in the matter.”

Seven said, “No.”

Eight said, “No. This is the wrong move. Laying them off and taking the hit would be preferable.”

Nine said, “No.”

Ten said, “Yes.”

Eleven was the tiebreaker and knew it. He’d kept careful count, fearing that this might happen. He’d made tough calls before and rather liked doing them; it made him the businessman he was today. But this? This was a different matter. This was a matter of life and death. Or was it? Maybe One had it correct. Maybe this was just business at the end of the day. Maybe all he had to do was decide what made business sense. Was it really up to him to make ethical decisions? Perhaps outside, when he was Mickey. But here he was just Eleven, a man who was part of something greater: a business. “Yes,” he said.

“Well there we have it,” said One. “We’ll get a plan in place and execute it, no pun intended, as soon as possible.”

The rest of the meeting went swiftly, nothing quite comparing to the conversation on layoffs. Eleven listened to very little of it, still in awe of the fact that an important company decision had come down to his vote. No doubt everyone would be taking him a bit more seriously in the future and he may well be bumped up a number or two before year’s end if he was able to work this to his advantage.

As the meeting wrapped up, everyone giving a nod of goodbye towards One, Six said, “We’ve made a good move. I wish I’d thought of it.”

Eleven headed towards the door but stopped when One said, “Hold up, Eleven. I want to speak to you for a moment.”

He’d never spoken one on one with One before. It was an exciting prospect and he felt his value increasing as he walked to One. “What is it, sir?” he asked, feeling the need to add the sir at the end lest he seem disrespectful.

The black mask made it hard to see what One’s reaction was but Eleven thought he saw a small smile threatening to form on One’s face. “I wanted to thank you for making the right call.”

Eleven said, “Thank you. I just, uh, did what I thought was best for the business.”

“You certainly did,” said One. “As a matter of fact that’s why I’m putting you in charge of something important, something that needs to stay quiet.”

“You can count on me, sir,” said Eleven.

“I know I can,” said One, placing a heavy hand on Eleven’s shoulder. “Should something come out about what we’re planning there will need to be a person who takes the fall. I’m in charge of this company so I think I’ve earned the right for it not to be me.”

“Who, sir?” said Eleven. He already suspected he knew who One would pick.

“Six.”

And Eleven had suspected wrong. “Six, sir?”

“Yes. He’s a sycophant and has never come up with a good idea in his life. With luck this operation won’t be the end of him but should anyone find out how our employees died then I want the blame to fall at one person’s feet. At Six’s feet.”

“I’ll get on it.”

“Good boy.”

Eleven picked up his briefcase and left the room, already wondering how he’d follow One’s orders. It’d take some thinking, no doubt about it, but he’d be able to do it. Letting down One wasn’t an option, not for him.

He went into the bathroom again, opened his briefcase, took off his mask, placed it back in the briefcase and became Mickey once more. He considered, for a moment, looking into the mirror and asking himself who he was and how he’d ended up here. But those would be empty questions, questions he no longer cared about answering.

So he went back to work.

They had left him undisturbed, cocooned in worn shawls in a corner of the hut. His eyes are becoming glazed, noted the daughter-in-law.

Life went on around Kasi. His wife Ganga stirred an iron pot over the fire. The mangy dog watched her out of listless eyes for the scraps it knew would never come. The daughter-in-law leaned the weight of her stomach, swollen with her eighth child, against wall.

“Ma,” she addressed Ganga with the nervousness that the latter usually evoked in people. “Ma—maybe he’d like some—water…”

Ganga stopped stirring. She strode to Kasi’s side and looked at her dying mate. Kasi’s lips were parched, and yes, he seemed to be asking for something to drink. Without a word, Ganga walked out of the hut and looked into their well. At first she couldn’t even see it. Squinting against the white glare of Belur’s morning sun, she looked again. There it was: water! Wetting the bed of the well—barely. If she went down, she would be able to collect two pails of slush, which she could pass through her only muslin sari and come up with not even half-a-pail of water. Searching the white skies in vain for a rain cloud, she walked back into the hut. She briskly poured the contents of the water pot into a brass tumbler.

“This is our last glass. The rest is—in the well,” Ganga handed the brass tumbler to the daughter-in-law.

The girl walked up to Kasi, looking at the tumbler in her hands with longing. The dying man seemed to sense her presence—he stirred awake with a sharp jolt and looked up at the girl. With a sudden burst of vigour, he reached out, clutching at her as if trying to clutch at life. The girl, filled with a terror she didn’t understand, dropped the tumbler and ran away screaming. Water spread on the mud floor rapidly, drying almost instantly in the heat.

#

They came on the noon bus to Belur: Kasi’s two younger brothers, their wives, and children. The wives had brought along a small steel jug each, full of water flavoured with rosewater and cardamom. They were adults and ten children in all.

The bus had jolted them, and their gait was unsteady. They trudged across the reddish sand dunes. They spat into the fissures that cracked the face of the ancient earth. The women drew their saris around their faces as the wind began to whip grit into their eyes. The youngest child in the group whimpered that he wanted to go home.

“Shush,” comforted his mother. “We’ll have to see your dead uncle first.”

“Dying,” corrected her husband, Haran.

And by the time they reached their destination, they had consumed the water they had brought with them.

#

Ganga stood like a sentinel at the doorway to her hut. The advancing group was no mirage created by the heat and dust. In the distance, the women dutifully set up a wail.

Ganga turned to her daughter-in-law. The younger woman dropped her eyes so that her mother-in-law wouldn’t see the excitement that flickered in them.

“Won’t they let him die in peace?” Ganga said. Her voice wafted out into the still noon air, into the ears of the approaching kin.

“Sister,” the younger wife called out, piety written with smug fingers all over her face. “If you don’t want us here, say so. We only came to help.”

#

The cool darkness of the hut came as a relief to the travelers. The daughter-in-law managed to find enough wheat to make them rotis. And the two wives stroked her hair and whispered tales about her fearsome mother-in-law in her ears.

Haran walked to the solitary figure that still stood guard at the hut’s entrance.

“Where’s your son?” he asked Ganga.

“In the city.”

“Does he know his father’s–“

Ganga silenced him with a look. “Why should he know?” she countered. “He’s in the city, trying to find work to feed his family. Why should he be told? He’ll rush back. And can he stop death?”

Haran saw the reason, in her reasoning. He had grown to understand that her capacity for pure logic was a survival mechanism. He still remembered her as a quiet bride, when she’d wed her brother. She had been soft then—soft and tender, even, in speech, thought and sentiment.

These lands do something to you, Haran thought, thinking of the day he’d left Belur as he threw his beedi on the ground and crushed it with his heel. The desert had crushed all the softness out of Ganga, giving her its proud, menacing air. That she was called Ganga was supreme irony: Ganga, holiest of all rivers; river of plenty, daughter of the ever-fresh virgin Himalayan snows.

“Ma.” The daughter-in-law’s voice was tinged with exhaustion. Ganga turned to her: the girl’s lips were stretched tight with pain. Anytime now, thought Ganga.

“Ma. He’s sinking fast. Maybe you should get the Brahmin for the last rite…”

As if seconding the daughter-in-law’s suggestion, the dying man, driven by sheer need, uttered his first coherent word that day: “Water…”

#

Parched corn fields bared their burnt cobs like decaying teeth in the face of a skull. Ganga rushed past them, her thin legs crossing the cracks on the dry earth. She thought of a time—years ago—when she had brought the strength of her plough and will to bear green dividends on this very patch. But there had been plentiful rains then. Now the rain-god had put away his bucket.

#

The Brahmin lifted his shaven head from his book and looked at Ganga. Seated on the porch of his small stone house, he looked like a ghost on the verge of merging with the air. Gone was the golden glow from his limbs. Now pallor washed his face, and all spare fat and necessary muscle had wasted away, contorting his body to a brittle hook.

“I cannot pay you, Maharaj ,” said Ganga, running her dry tongue over drier lips.

The Brahmin rose from the porch and wrapped a thin towel around his shoulders. “No payment necessary,” he said, and tried to smile—but his lips were too dry to manage this feat. “Let’s go.”

Eyes that were as dry as the land welled up with a long-forgotten emotion: gratitude. Ganga touched the Brahmin’s feet as he walked past her, and then followed him as he led the way to her hut.

#

“Om Shanti.” Rest in peace. With that, the Brahmin completed the Sanskrit hymns of his forbears, blessing the departing soul and sanctifying its path. But Kasi’s spirit clung tenaciously to its flesh, and the tussle between the two emerged in the form of rending moans. The plea was incessant. “Water…”

The Brahmin looked at Ganga, peering at her above the heads of her nieces and nephews who were watching their uncle die with ghoulish fascination.

The Brahmin asked Ganga: “Do you have any water for this poor man?”

Her sisters-in-law nudged each other and exchanged loaded looks with their kohl-lined eyes. And Ganga replied, without batting a lid: “We’ll give him some, Maharaj. There’s some, in the well.”

The Brahmin pinned her with his gaze—which she met firmly, even defiantly. Then he rose, stopping at the doorway to give her a small brass pot covered with ochre cloth. “Holy water from the Ganges,” the Brahmin said. “You must pour it down Kasi’s mouth at the actual moment of death. That’s the last rite, to help his soul merge with the Infinite.”

Holding the pot close to her face, Ganga watched the Brahmin leave. She liked the sound of the water gurgling and splashing against the cool sides of the metal. She hardly heard Kasi groan: “Water…”

#

The daughter-in-law was looking down the well, watching the sun dry up remnant traces of moisture. A sudden shaft—like a sword of fire piercing through to her womb. Pain followed in its wake—monstrous, threatening to almost rend her in two. She weaved back unsteadily towards the hut. At the threshold, her water broke with a whoosh, running in rivulets down her legs, dripping down the folds of her sari to form a puddle at her feet.

“Ma,” she whispered, sinking to the wet ground, teeth clenched to bear the agony held her in its vice-like grip.

The women quickly erected a make-shift curtain around the girl. Her strong, throaty cries—for water—drowned out Kasi’s thready pleas. And energized by the drama of impending birth—at the scene of imminent death—the women and children rushed around on errands they gave themselves. They stroked the daughter-in-law’s brow, soothing her with lies. Water is being drawn from the well, they told her; it’s being boiled now, this very minute; it’s being flavoured, with vetiver and cardamom; it’s being poured, into tall brass tumblers; we’re bringing it to you, in just a minute; hold on for one more minute, one more minute….

The two suffering souls created their own fevered fantasies: of ponds, filled with clean, sweet water from which one could drink long and deep; of temple wells, brimming with lotuses, with fresh water clinging to the pink-veined petals in such abundance that all that one would have to do would be to kiss the flowers, to be fully quenched….

Clutching the brass pot of holy water, Ganga watched her dying husband. His cries for water were weak but constant. They failed to move her. Her mate of thirty years—once formidable, now frail—was looking her in the eye, beseeching like a beggar: “Water…” She turned away from him and turned her gaze inwards, and saw her heart harden and lose all semblance of humanity. When, God, did my destruction begin? Not in one moment, like a fist to a face. But stealthily, sinuously—like the desert creeping in to stifle verdant fields, cutting off life at the root.

The daughter-in-law shrieked again “Water!” And now Ganga knew what she had to do. She hurried to the girl’s side. She undid the ochre cloth that covered the brass pot. As the relatives watched, too aghast to protest, Ganga poured into the girl’s mouth water—water from the holy Ganga, divine mother and protector.

#

The Last Rite was originally published in Shipwrights Review (Jan. 2013)

But I’ve not just been a pendulum. Sometimes I’ve been a chameleon. Sometimes I’ve been both, and sometimes neither. I wondered what I was until my junior year of college; then I took a course in quantum mechanics where I learned that a pendulum and the atoms of a chameleon obey precisely the same equations. Mathematically they were both oscillators, swinging as they sought to find a place of equilibrium. And that was what I was, too.

The first man I married was brown, like me. Actually he was much browner; I’d grown up in Jersey, and he’d come fresh from India to a headhunter who gave him a week of training in Oracle and made him a resume that said he’d had a year. So I held my breath and I carefully tuned my own color to match his. A Good Indian Girl is not supposed to look directly at a boy, so as our families sat in our living room and his father told my father the match was suitable, I pretended to be absorbed by the ornate swirls on our Oriental rug.

After I married, I cooked and I cleaned and I smiled and smiled. And I kept my head down and my eyes downcast, so I still didn’t see what my husband was until one day I came home a bit early from Patel Grocers, and caught him screwing another man.

“Just answer me this,” I said. “Why in the Hell did you marry me?”

He was sobbing, as he answered in that unique Indianspeak that hangs English words on a Hindi scaffold: “Mummy wanted me to. How I could say no to Mummy only?”

The second time, I swore I’d get it right; no more men the color of dirt for me. My therapist had told me about the power of visualization. I think she meant I ought to visualize myself happy, but I decided to take a short cut. I envisioned taking a vacuum cleaner and sucking all the Indianness out of myself. Shortly thereafter, I met a truck driver from Nebraska.

I did my best to obliterate the Good Indian Girl. I moved in with him and I had him screw me so hard that the memories of my first marriage squirted out my ears, and only after all that did I agree to marry him. I rode shotgun in his 18 wheeler and stuck myself on the back of his Harley. I choked down dry turkey with his family at Thanksgiving and forced myself to smile. At Christmas I wrapped gifts for his stepmother in silver paper, as though the birth of Christ were something I actually cared to celebrate. I made no mention whatsoever of my own holidays, Navaratri and Diwali, and as each one passed, my silence became a hollow space inside me that hurt until the days pressed in on the abscess and crushed it, sending the sadness into my blood.

We saw some Pixar movie in a rural drive-in where men with tattoos stared at me. We ate at Sonic. We took a road trip out to Cedar Point for the Fourth of July, out in Sandusky Ohio where the only thing dusky for fifty miles was me.

I held my breath and tried to turn my neck red, but it stayed golden, even as I started to suffocate. I stayed with him because that was what a Good Indian Wife did–and as hard as I tried to be anything else, that was all I knew how to be. My soul bled drop by drop out of the hole I had cut in my heart whose scarred edges were shaped like my country, until one day I felt a small gurgle as the last of my self drained.

A few hours later, my husband told me I was too damn Oriental, and he was fed up. He gunned his Harley and rode off in a cloud of dust.

When a pendulum is done swinging, it comes to rest at its low point.

“If you’re single,” my therapist said, “why don’t you try to be the happiest single woman there is? What can you do tomorrow to make yourself happy?”

“Travel,” I said.

I think she thought I meant Hawaii. That would have been nice; I had a business trip planned to Chicago, though. I flew there, checked into a yellowish hotel near O’Hare, and swallowed a handful of yellowish pills. Not enough to kill me. Just enough to make me forget, for a while. I wanted to forget the hen-like aunties in saris clucking their tongues after the end of my first marriage. I wanted to forget the tattooed men in Sandusky.

The bed began to tilt crazily under me, and my mind came unbuckled and started to slide. It slid back to when I was ten and my grandfather and I stood barefoot on the concrete terrace of our family’s bungalow, watching green parrots wing over in thousands. Then it slid forward to when I was twenty-three; by then my grandfather was long dead and I had learned that in Hindi, the word for “parrot” was the colloquial term for a man’s genitals. Finally it slid to the last time I visited India, and stood alone on our old terrace waiting for the parrots. They did not come, and later I learned that the acid rain had killed them all.

When Teesha got to the hospital, she knew the way to the emergency room. She found her mama in a wheelchair, nodding off. Band aids pockmarked her mama’s arms where the nurses tried to find veins but couldn’t. Her mama lost so much weight over the past year since she went back on the pipe, her sweat pants barely stayed up. Teesha wheeled her mama to the door and her mother leaned on her to get to the cab. Although her mama could hardly walk, she was already crying for her medicine.

“Baby, let’s go see Ray Ray.” Her mama’s head lolled from side to side.

“Mama, you need to rest.”

“I don’t need no rest, I’m fine. Please baby,” her mama said in the little girl voice she used when she wanted something real bad.

They pulled up in front of their door and Teesha helped her mama out of the cab. Her mama was as limp as a rag doll. Teesha opened the deadbolts and as the door swung in, the smell of their apartment wafted out. It was a mixture of burnt coffee, stale sweat and roach spray.

Teesha walked her mama inside and positioned her to fall onto the bed. Once she was on top of her blanket Teesha grabbed the other half and folded her mama into it. She took off her mama’s sneakers and threw them on the floor. Wisps of black frizz poked out where her cheek mashed into the pillow.

“Baby,” her mama croaked. “Get me some water.”

Teesha ran the faucet in the kitchen until the water got cold. She carried the cup to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. Her mother was crumpled by the bed trying to put her sneakers on.

“Mama, what you doing?”

“T, I got to have my medicine. The snakes is coming, they crawling under my skin,” she wailed. She scratched the inside of her arm. “I got to get them snakes out.” Her fingernails raked her skin, ripping off band aids and leaving bloody trails in their wake.

Teesha knew what could happen next, like the other times things happened. Like when her mama threw a beer bottle and Teesha needed stitches. Or when mama brought a homeless pit bull in and told Teesha it was her birthday present but it wasn’t her birthday. Her mama tied the animal to the couch but didn’t think about the dog’s need to eat or pee. And when her mama left the house to get more drugs, Teesha untied it and opened the front door. The dog ran away fast; Teesha wanted to follow it. Mama beat her later for what she did. She didn’t mind, at least one of them was free.

“Okay, mama, we gonna see Ray Ray.” Teesha put the cup of water on the top of the television in the living room and knelt by the couch. The pit bull rope was still tied to the back leg. She freed it, stuffed the coil into the back of her pants, and pulled her shirt over it.

“Baby help me get my sneakers on.”

Teesha pulled her mother back up and got her to sit on the edge of the bed. Teesha slid the rope out of her pants and pushed her mama to lie down. Her mama was so weak her body fell back. Teesha made a loop around her mama’s wrist and tied it to the leg of the bed.

“Get off me. You gonna kill me!” her mama screamed. She hit Teesha with her free fist. Her mama struggled, but she couldn’t put up a fight.

“Stop, I ain’t gonna hurt you.” Teesha straddled her mother’s chest and grabbed her other wrist. She rolled off her mother, and pulled the rope toward the other side of the bed. Teesha tied the loose end to the other leg. Her mother swore at her. Teesha went into the living room and closed the bedroom door. She didn’t want to listen to it.

She turned on the television. A show came on about poor people who won the lottery. It made Teesha sad. She lay on the couch and watched the newly rich family go on vacation until she fell asleep. When she woke the sun was setting. The television cast flickering images in the darkened room. She turned off the TV and listened; no noise came from the bedroom.

She opened the door and went inside. When Teesha pulled back the blanket her mama’s body was slick with sweat. She was shuddering and barely conscious. Teesha put her hand on her mama’s forehead; she was burning up. Teesha went to the bathroom and got a wash cloth. She soaked it with cool water, then ran back and wiped the sweat from her mama’s face.

“Baby,” her mama wheezed, “if I don’t get my medicine, I’m gonna die.”

Teesha stroked her mama’s hand and rubbed her thumb over the coarse rope binding her mama’s wrist. “I seen you when you on your drugs mama. You might hurt me.”

“T, you my baby girl. If you want, keep me tied so nothing happen. Just reach into my bra and take the twenty I got. Take it to Ray Ray and get me two rocks.”

“I never bought no drugs.”

“You ain’t buying drugs, you getting medicine for your mama. That’s what you gonna say. Hurry.”

Teesha put her hand on her mother’s chest and slid it down into her bra. The padding was drenched with sweat. She felt the limp paper bill sticking to her mother’s breast and peeled it away. She jammed the folded bill into her pocket.

“Thank you baby,” her mama said, and closed her eyes. Her body was still shivering.

Teesha pulled the covers over her mama. Her mama’s arms stuck out of the blanket at angles where Teesha had tied her. Teesha didn’t want to buy her mama drugs, but she believed her mama would die without them; the withdrawal was killing her.

When she locked the apartment door, Teesha knew where to find Ray Ray. Everybody in the neighborhood knew where he lived.

#

She knocked on the gray metal door of the ground floor apartment. She heard lock after lock being undone. The door opened and a woman with long braided hair stood there.

“What do you want?” the woman asked and looked at Teesha hard.

“I’m here to…” Teesha felt her throat close up. “My mama sent me for her medicine.”

The woman rolled her eyes and told Teesha to step inside. The woman re-bolted the locks. “Wait here,” she told Teesha and disappeared. As she stood there Teesha smelled hamburger cooking. Her mouth watered. She couldn’t remember the last time she ate.

Ray Ray seemed to materialize out of the darkness. His head was shaved; a tattoo of a cross branded his cheek just beneath his left eye. Another tat on his neck spelled his name in graffiti letters.

Ray Ray looked her up and down. “You Shiree’s little girl?”

Teesha craned her neck to look at him, he was so tall. “I ain’t no little girl,” she blurted out.

Ray Ray laughed. “That right? You look like her. What you need shorty?”

“She say if I give you this,” Teesha said and pulled the still-damp twenty from her jeans, “you give me two rocks.” She pushed the bill into his hand.

“She do, huh?” Ray Ray said, pocketing the money. “In my house twenty don’t get you two rocks. Your mama using you to get over on me…trying to anyhow.”

“Can I maybe get one?” She was afraid of Ray Ray, but she was even more scared of what her mother would do if she came back with nothing.

“Tell you what…” Ray Ray pulled two vials out of his pocket and put them in her hand. A chunky white rock sat at the bottom of each tube stoppered with a bright red cap. He closed her fingers around the vials and held her hand inside his. “Because you a new customer. When you done with this, you gonna come back to get more good stuff, right?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Teesha said. She thought I’ll never come back here. She pulled her hand away and put the vials in her pocket.

“Next time we gonna work out a real good deal,” Ray Ray said. He traced his finger down the side of her cheek. “When we be alone, you gonna let Ray Ray teach you something new.”

“I got to get home to my mama,” Teesha said. She couldn’t move. It was like her legs were stuck to the floor. She could hardly breathe.

Ray Ray unbolted the door. “Come back anytime shorty,” he said. “Day or night. I got everything you need.”

#

Teesha pulled the blanket back from her mother’s face; her mama was still burning up. Teesha shook her shoulder. “Mama, wake up.” Her mama’s eyes fluttered open half-way. Teesha brushed the hair back from her mama’s cheek with her fingertips.

She felt one of her mama’s hands still tied to the bed. It was cold. Teesha leaned down and untied the rope from the bed leg closest to her and unwrapped her mama’s wrist. There was an imprint on the skin from the coil. Teesha rubbed the mark with her thumb; her mama moaned.

Teesha turned on the bedside lamp. She took one of the vials out of her pocket. She slid her fingernail beneath the bright red cap and pried it away. It popped into her palm. She looked at the white rock sitting at the bottom. She wondered how something so small could make her mama crazy. It didn’t look like much of anything; it was like a flake of blackboard chalk, or a piece of sugar candy.

Teesha opened the drawer in the bedside table. She pulled out her mama’s lighter and glass pipe, with its scorched bulb end. She put them in her lap and looked at them. She never lit a pipe before. She picked up the pipe and tapped the open end of the vial against the side of the pipe until the white rock came out and fell to the bottom of the bulb.

The tapping of glass on glass stirred her mama to open her eyes. Instinctively her mama reached for the pipe and put it in her mouth. Teesha offered her mama the lighter, but her mama shook her head. She pulled the pipe out of her mouth long enough to say, “You do it T. Put the flame under the rock.”

Teesha watched as the flame began to cook the crack inside the bowl. It made a popping sound. The vapors rose from the white chunk and her mama inhaled as much as she could. When she couldn’t hold her breath anymore, her mama blew the smoke to the side of her mouth. Teesha was sitting so close she couldn’t help but breathe some in. Teesha felt dizzy, her heart began to pound so hard she thought she might pass out.

“T, keep the lighter going,” her mama said, her eyes wide open now. Teesha lit the bowl again, and her mama inhaled a wheezing breath and held in the smoke. Her mama’s body began to shudder, but still she held it in.

Her mama exhaled the smoke into Teesha’s face. “I’m free at last, baby girl. Free at last…”

Her mama’s head fell back onto the pillow, her eyes fully open, as if she was really seeing the world for the first time. Her hand opened and she let go of the pipe. It fell onto her chest. The glass bulb sizzled as it hit her skin.

Teesha grabbed the pipe and put it on the bedside table. A raw welt burned into her mama’s chest. Teesha looked at her mother’s blank eyes. “Mama?” Her mother was a still and heavy weight.

Teesha’s head pounded from blood pumping hard through her temples. She felt sick. Teesha pushed her mama over so she could lay down beside her. Teesha closed her eyes. She hoped the bed would stop spinning.

But somehow, inside the spinning, inside the pounding blood, inside the insides of her eyelids, Teesha felt something strange. Something new. It felt like an angel came down from heaven and touched her. Her hunger and sadness disappeared.

Teesha’s body relaxed. The pink rays of dawn lit up the spaces between the broken slats of the window blinds. She felt a love for her mama so deep she began to cry. She nestled against her mama’s warm body and thanked her for this joy. And if this kind of joy was possible in life, Teesha knew, it was only the beginning.