Maze of Souls The night was quiet in Miss Bradley’s Orphanage. Faded moonlight streamed through the window, landing upon Xavier. Two small figures stood in the dark as they looked upon him. One fluttered above while the other stood tall for its thin form. The thin form certainly looked taller with the top hat upon its head.
“He looks so peaceful, doesn’t he?” said the fluttering figure. “Yes, he does. Let’s go to the maze so we can keep it that way. The souls are going to be restless tonight,” said the thin figure. “Full moons are always a hassle.” The two figures sneaked out of the room, barely making a noise. But with the slight creak they made, Xavier’s hand twitched. Then his hand grasped for something, but felt nothing there. It didn’t take him long to wake and get his tired, ten-year-old body out of bed. In a panic, he checked underneath and behind the bed, then scanned the room. His precious stuffed animals were nowhere to be found. He knew that he had them when he went to sleep, so where were they? So, with a deep breath, he decided to brave the dark corridors of the orphanage. After all, someone had to have taken them. They can’t just get up and walk on their own. “Mr. Lala? Fleur? Where are you?” he whispered as he opened the door, checking the hallway. He tip-toed through the wooden halls and peeked in each room. No matter which door he opened, Xavier couldn’t find his animal companions. A peculiar light poked out from beneath a door from down the hall. “Did that mean janitor take them? He’s always yelling at me, so he must have taken them while I was sleeping.” Xavier ran to the door and stopped in front of it. He was told to never open the janitor’s door, otherwise he’d get in trouble. Right now, he didn’t care. His little buddies were on the line so he’d take any punishment to get them away from the mean old janitor. So, he took hold of the door handle and opened the door. There was no janitor or even a janitor’s closest. Instead, a weird light engulfed the room. Pastel colors faded from one to another, a swirl originating in the middle. With wide eyes, Xavier reached into the light. His hand disappeared for a moment before he pulled back. “What is this? It feels like water…” he said and stuck his hand back in. “Did someone stick Mr. Lala and Fleur in here? They better be in here, or else I’ll tell Miss Bradley.” Xavier closed his eyes and held his breath as he stepped into the weird light, hands outstretched. He put his foot down, expecting some sort of ground, but met nothing and flipped forward and landed face-first into something as hard as stone. He pushed himself off the ground as tears formed in his eyes. “Owie.” “What was — Xavier?” a smooth, deep voice said. Xavier looked up at a stuffed ferret with a top hat and monocle. He grinned and shot up from the ground, then grabbed the stuffed animal. “Mr. Lala! There you are! And you can talk.” “Shh! Quiet down. And yes, I can talk.” “Honey, who’s — How did he get in here?” said another voice, this time soft and sweet. Xavier turned around to find a cute, stuffed dragonfly with flower wings. “Fleur! You can talk, too!” Xavier said as he bounced around. “This is so cool. You two are even cooler than before!” “Yes, yes. Now, c’mon. Let’s get you back to the orphanage,” Fleur said as she grabbed his pants and tugged. “Let’s go, sweetie. You need to go back to bed.” “But I don’t want to! This place is so cool looking,” he said. He gazed up at the glittering, twisted tree. The swirls from the orphanage snuggled between its jagged roots. A guttural growl echoed to Xavier’s left. He turned to look down the passage, a shadow moving along the wall of… something from his worst nightmares. Fleur tugged harder and Mr. Lala shimmed out of Xavier’s grasp. “Mr. Lala!” “Stay there! I’ll handle this one,” Mr. Lala said, rushing over the opening. The shadow stopped and popped off the wall. With its multiple legs, it charged the stuffed ferret. Five sets of hollow eyes opened, all focused on the small obstruction. “No!” Xavier sprinted to his stuffed animal while Fleur grasped onto his pants for dear life. The ground beneath them rumbled as Xavier got close. As the shadow jumped, Xavier tripped and pushed Mr. Lala to the ground, his monocle almost falling off. They slid forward on the rough stone as the ground behind them began to quickly rise. The shadow missed the rising floor by inches, falling down into a seemingly infinite abyss. “Xavier! What did you do?” Mr. Lala said as he crawled out from beneath him. “Saving you! That thing was going to eat you!” “Listen. When I say I’ve got something, I’ve got it.” “But I don’t want to lose you too!” Xavier said while he teared up. “We know, honey. We know. It’s just that you need to be careful here,” Fleur said. She patted his leg as she calmed down Xavier. “Can you see where the portal’s tile went?” Mr. Lala asked. With a nod, Fleur let go and flew up a bit and scanned the horizon. Pieces flew about while she focused on the tree as its leaves glimmered in the eerie light. “Oh goodness… We better get moving. It’s already settled into a spot but there’s only one way in again,” she said and fluttered back down. “Great for when we’re defending, but horrible when we fall off,” Mr. Lala said. “Alright, let’s get going, Xavier.” “Why can’t we wait here?” “Because,” Mr. Lala said and pointed to the empty space behind Xavier. “It’s more likely to move to the spot next to this one than this one again.” The tile Mr. Lala pointed to slid up, its stones nearly falling off as it rose. The tile flew above them, disappearing from their sight. Another tile came from below, the sound of grinding stone filled their ears as the tile took the empty spot and prevented passage back from where they came. “What is happening?” Xavier asked. “Too long to explain. Right now, we need to get going before the outer portal changes location,” Mr. Lala said. Fleur flew over to Xavier and took his hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll get us home. Now, just stay behind us. Those Shadow Beasts are nothing but bad news.” “Beasts?” “Yes, sweetie.” “Beasts are meanies, so I wanna beat them up!” “No!” Mr. Lala said. His tiny stature didn’t match his booming voice. “You are staying behind and not getting involved. It is too dangerous for you to run around.” “But —” “No buts! Stay behind me,” he said. He led the way as Xavier shuffled behind. Mr. Lala went up to corners and looked high and low, checking the passage before the group moved forward. After many twists and turns, the ground rumbled again. “Check where we’re heading.” Fleur nodded and flew above the walls and with a quick scan, she floated back down. “There’s a tile five over that’s going underneath the others. There’s going to be multiple openings, though. Prepare for a Shadow Beast,” she said. “Be careful, Xavier. We’re going to be moving soon.” Xavier stumbled as the tile rose, the rumbling keeping him from getting up. He looked at the odd sky, an ever-changing swirl of purple and gold. Once the tile settled, Xavier looked at the new passageways. In one passage, another shadow stood on serpent-like legs. It took no time to close the distance between them. Xavier stood back up, getting ready to throw a punch. Mr. Lala beat him to it, sending a wave of sparkling light. As the wave passed over the beast, the shadow roared in pain and skittered back the way it came as small, glowing holes appeared on its body. Mr. Lala turned to Xavier. “What did I say?” “But it was a beast!” “It doesn’t matter that it was a beast. What did I say? “To stay behind you…” “Exactly! I know you love playing the hero. I’ve certainly got the stitches to prove it, but this isn’t something you can just punch!” “But beats are the meanies and we’re the good guys! Good guys always beat up the meanies!” “Not always, Xavier. Not always.” “Well, you’re wrong!” Xavier said. “Listen to him, sweetie. You need to stay behind as we’re protecting you from all the beasts,” said Fleur. “But I’m the good guy!” “Well, right now the good guy can’t punch things, alright?” Xavier went quiet and stomped his feet and crossed his arms. Fleur shook her head and nudged his arms to uncross, taking his hand as she floated along. Mr. Lala took the lead once more. Xavier pulled Fleur’s arm anytime he heard the roar of a Shadow Beast and whined anytime Mr. Lala hit the beast. Fleur decided to fly above and tried to keep the group safe from the Shadow Beasts. “We’re close. Only a few more turns,” she said from above. The ground then rumbled beneath them. “You had to say something,” Mr. Lala said back. She flew back down as the tile rose up. It shifted around and fell into place, another single passageway leading their way. With another scan, Fleur shook her head. “We moved five tiles back. We’re still connected but it’s going to be longer than before.” “Alright, let’s get going. C’mon Xav —” Mr. Lala said as he turned to the spot Xavier previously stood. “I should’ve seen this coming. The second we look away, he always disappears!” “I guess nothing’s changed, hun. Now, let’s find him!” The duo went down the passage, Fleur flying high to spot Xavier’s small form. Mr. Lala followed bellow and darted in and out of other passages, making sure his top hat stayed on tight. As seconds ticked by, Fleur flew higher and higher. She scanned the tiles and spotted Xavier, thankfully, wandering into a dead end. Bad news… “Found him, but there’s a Shadow Beast nearby!” “Lead the way!” yelled the ferret from below. He dashed through the maze, slamming into walls as he turned hard into the corners. With a final corner, they finally found him. Fleur’s wings shook as Mr. Lala took a second to realize what was in front of him. Xavier was being engulfed by a Shadow Beast, its form trying to drag Xavier into the ground. Being but a child, all Xavier could do was squirm in its grasp. Mr. Lala charged the beast and sent out a huge wave of sparkling blue light. The Shadow Beast screeched. It dissolved into the ground and slithered away. Xavier dropped to the ground and curled into a shaking ball. Fleur flew down to him in a flash, caressing Xavier’s hair as he nearly shook her off. “It’s alright now, sweetie. We beat the bad guy who tried to hurt you.” Xavier grabbed Fleur and pulled her into his grasp. He began to sob into her plush form, his words coming out in jumbled pieces. Mr. Lala shimmied up to him and allowed Xavier to pull him into the hug. From the speed he was pulled into it, Mr. Lala’s top hat fell off and onto Fleur. They all stayed there for a moment and let Xavier squeeze them as tight as possible. “It’s okay now, buddy,” he said, patting Xavier’s arm. “You’ve had a tough night. Let’s get you back, alright?’ “I… I wanted to protect you two! I didn’t want to lose you guys too!” “That’s kind of you, sweetie,” Fleur said. “But here, we’ll protect you from those Shadow Beasts. We don’t want to lose you, either. Now, please let us down so we can go home.” Xavier nodded and set them down. Fleur took off the top hat and daintily put it atop Mr. Lala’s head. Xavier wiped his nose with his arm and flashed a smile across his tear-stained face. With a flick of Mr. Lala’s tail, they continued their journey. Xavier stayed right behind Mr. Lala and mimicked his quick scans, moving his head so quickly it made Xavier dizzy. When a tiny Shadow Beast approached, Mr. Lala gave a simple glare and sent the measly enemy scurrying. After several corners and straight passages, the tree tile’s entrance was finally in view. They ran to their goal. A loud growl stopped Mr. Lala in his tracks while Fleur and Xavier passed right by. Mr. Lala turned to see the largest Shadow Beast yet, with its snake-like body having multiple shadowy blades that jutted out of it. “Keep going! I’ve got this!” Mr. Lala said as he faced the new threat. “C’mon, try and fight me, bucko.” The Shadow Beast lunged with its blades pulled back, ready to strike. Mr. Lala sent out a shimmering wave. It sliced the beast in two, only for both parts to attack him again. Mr. Lala backed up, sending out wave after wave at the multiplying enemy. They while the Shadow Beast was no longer large, its multiple clones were still as dangerous as before. “Mr. Lala! The ground is going to go up again!” With those words, Mr. Lala turned and bolted toward the portal’s tile. Sure enough, the tile had started to float up. The Shadow Beasts chased him, each one screeching with a high pitch. Xavier crouched at the edge, arms outstretched. Mr. Lala jumped into his arms, the Shadow Beasts clipping his tail as some of the group fell into the abyss. Xavier hugged him tight as Mr. Lala sighed in relief, his top hat askew and monocle hanging by its chain. “Can we go back now?” “Yeah. Let’s head back.” Fleur landed upon his shoulder, nodding in agreement. “Now, we won’t be able to talk once we go through, sweetie. We’ll go back to being your stuffed animals. We only talk when we need to protect this place from those beasts.” “Oh, okay… Wait!” Xavier exclaimed. “Can I come back with you guys if I do a good job at protecting you guys back at the orphanage?” “Sure, but only if you listen to us and don’t wander off again.” “Yes! Now, back to bed,” Xavier said, yawing. They stepped through the portal, landing back in the orphanage. Xavier looked behind, only to find the portal disappearing. When the light went away, Xavier made his way back to bed with his, now limp, stuffed animals. He pulled up the covers, tucking himself and the animals in. In the faded moonlight, soft silhouettes appeared and laid beside Xavier. As sleep overtook him, he only said, “Night, Mom and Dad.” END
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J.B. Stone/Jared Benjamin is a neurodivergent performance writer from Brooklyn, now residing in Buffalo. He is the author of the Micro-Chapbook, A Place Between Expired Dreams And Renewed Nightmares (Ghost City Press 2018). His poetry, reviews, and prose have appeared in Crack the Spine, Maudlin House, Occulum, Empty Mirror, Gravel, Five :2: One, and elsewhere. He is also the Reviews Editor at Coffin Bell Journal. Call of The Nightingales |
Stella Samuel is a women’s fiction author whose credits include her debut novel 34 Seconds as well as several short fiction pieces published in various literary magazines. Though she spent her early years studying theatre, Stella is now earning her BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment from Full Sail University. With a love of children and a passion for writing, each summer she teaches a children’s writing workshop with the goals of teaching children how to create and publish unique stories. Stella has been an Alliance of Independent Authors member since 2016 and was inducted into the National Society of Collegiate Scholars in 2018. She lives in Arizona, a place she calls a mile south of the sun, where her snow-loving Saint Bernard dogs and chocolate lab sunbathe. When she’s not hiking the hot desert, Stella can be found writing poolside. |
Dreams
It wasn’t until the fourth night Jordan began to take notice of how her dreams and her reality integrated, crossed over, and collided with a defying action. She had no choice but to sit up and take note.
That particular night, Jordan had taken a sleep aid. Not the one her doctors had given her to help with the demons or the agoraphobia, just good old fashion cold medicine. With the help of a head cold and the medicine, Jordan drifted to sleep. According to her sleep app on her watch, she slept peacefully for hours without movement or disturbance.
At precisely 4 AM, Jordan’s heart rate increased which disturbed her sleep with arm and leg movement. This moment in her dream, Jordan called her father.
“Hello, pumpkin.” he said as he always did, when he was alive. This time though, he didn’t wait for her greeting. He answered as if he knew she was on the other end. A convenience of modern times; something unavailable when her father was alive.
“Hi, Daddy!” Jordan said. She stood next to a man she worked with. She didn’t know him when her father was alive. “I know I’m an adult.” Another thing she wasn’t when her father was a live. “But, I didn’t want you to worry. I stay with Rome last night at his house. He worked late, and it was too late to drive all the way to my apartment.”
Though she heard her father say hello as he’d done a million times before, she didn’t hear his response. Those were words he’d never used in her lifetime. At least not all together at once in a response such as in her dream. It wasn’t something her mind was capable of conjuring.
“Sure, Dad. I’ll be safe. Rome’s mom has this really pretty dress she let me wear today. The ribbon sash is to die for.”
Jordan’s mind did exactly what it wanted without telling Jordan its plans. The dress she referred to in her dream was the very one she wore in a play in college. Her best friend Sean had made it with the help of his mother who was the props master and costumer for the theatre department. Sean hid her beloved costume one night then dropped it and watched as it fluttered from the catwalk above onto the stage. Jordan stood in the spotlight in an empty auditorium in a slip looking for her dress.
As the reality of the dress of Jordan’s past weaved in and out of the surreal dream of a father who hadn’t taken a breath in fifteen years and a man from work who Jordan only knew virtually, Jordan held onto the sash ribbon from a cheaply made costume long ago fallen to shreds, and woke with it in her hand.
As she woke to the early sun’s rays, the ribbon as soft as the day she first wore the dress, Jordan cried.
“I heard him. He was there,” she said. Her eyes remained closed. Medicine head washed over with a groggy wake. When she opened her crusty eyes, her hand grasped the edge of her nightstand. “Daddy,” she said and let go.
As the day faded to night again, Jordan repeated every action from the night before. Cold medicines, check. Childhood blanket, check check. Thinking of work and a man she didn’t know along with the father she lost before she entered the world of adult cold medicines, yeah, sure. As with every sleep initiated by a sleep aid, Mr. Sandman was quick to visit Jordan.
Again, a foggy sleep took over Jordan’s body holding it still. As she entered the stage she’d shared with Sean under the bright lights of her old college auditorium, Rome walked on stage, bowed, arms hugging his waist on either side, and opened a door Jordan knew opened only to backstage. As Rome’s arm waved before the doorway, Jordan’s father stepped out. In that very moment, Jordan heard her father’s voice cheer from the same seat he bought for every show. Second row, number twelve. He claimed no matter the show, the light wasn’t as harsh from that seat.
Unsure of which father to go to, the one in his regular seat or the one entering through the doorway to the stage, Jordan tossed her ribbon out to the doorway and jumped off the stage. She woke with her hand grasping the nightstand panting.
“I will bring you back, Daddy.”
She tried again. And she tried again. Night after night. Each morning she woke with a trinket from her dream bringing her present reality of her home and drugs to falter into a place so surreal the blur between the two could no longer be distinguished even with her colleague Rome who refused to work with her until the company did a welfare check on the occupant at 5472 Fall Road.
The final night Jordan fell into her dream with the aid of cold meds, prescribed meds, and three shots of vodka, she reunited with her father. Two days after that sleep, EMTs took Jordan’s limp body through the hospital hallway. Like seams on a bridge, the lights above Jordan’s faces bumped along her path to a room she’d sleep in as long as the machines were left on.
Charcot-Marie-Tooth
Coach Leah yelled, “Listen up for the lineup!”
The girls quieted, and I removed my headphones as coach yelled out our races. She was still finishing up as we arrived at our opponents’ high school. We shuffled off the bus in a single file line and headed toward the pool.
We walked into the warm pool area and the vapor of chlorine embedded itself in my nostrils. The bleachers were full of family and friends. My team strutted past the other and we approached our bench.
The warm-up whistle blew and we all split into three lanes. I dove into the frigid water and examined the blue tiles that formed a line on the bottom of the pool. The rhythm of my stroke was therapeutic. Every fourth arm stroke I turned my head for a breath. My Muscular-Dystrophy and all of the doubts from my doctors only encouraged me to swim faster.
The whistle blew for the first race to commence.
I cheered my teammates on, screamed their names and yelled for them to go faster. After a quick one-minute race, the girls climbed out of the pool, panting and gasping for air. Their faces were beet red and they struggled to make their way back to the benches.
The whistle blew once again. I glanced down at my wave ring and turned it a few times. My chest rose and softly deflated. I looked over to Maddie whose hand was already held out for me to hold. She boosted me up on to the block and took a step back.
My toes curled on the concrete as they clung for resistance. My hands turned to fists as they realized there was nothing to hold on to. Beads of sweat formed inside my coiled fingers. My face was burning up. The concrete on the block scraped the bottom of my feet, as I grasped on with all the strength I had. My body swayed like a piece of paper in the wind.
The official yelled, “Swimmers take your mark!”
I bent down to take my place. My left leg swung behind the rest of me and my fingers latched onto the block. The ball of my foot managed to get a little grip, but it was not enough. My right foot trickled forward, out of my control. My toes curled over the edge, trying to cling on. The weight of my unsteady body plummeted me into a shallow dive.
I did not want to come back up. I drifted underwater for what felt like centuries, thoughts flooded my mind.
Are they going to laugh? Are they going to make fun of me? Was I disqualified?
I emerged from the surface and climbed out of the water with my head down. My hands rose and fell onto my hips. I glanced up and scanned my surroundings. It was silent. All eyes were on me. I peered over to my coach. Her face was blank, almost in disbelief.
Maddie’s hand grabbed my shoulder, bringing me back to reality. She took my hand and said, “You have to get back up there. You weren’t disqualified.”
All of the girls were still up on their blocks, waiting to race. The whistle blew and I tried again.
Every fourth arm stroke I choked back tears as I struggled to breathe. My arms slapped the water and my legs struggled to propel. I pushed the touch pad with every last ounce of strength I had. I pulled myself out of the pool and rushed to the locker room.
I walked past girls changing, gossiping and arranging plans for later that night. Lockers slammed shut and laughter echoed in the confined area.
I found myself in the back of the room, in a dank corner. My back slammed into the wall, and I melted into the floor. The minute my bottom hit the ground, my head fell into my knees, and I sobbed. My vision blurred as tears built up in my eyes. Despite this, I could see the ring on my finger through the hole of my thigh gap. I picked my head up, stretched out my legs, and wiped my tears away. I turned my ring to face it the correct way.
Maddie sat down beside me. She wrapped her arm around me, and my head rested on her shoulder. She did not speak, nor did I. We have an unspoken bond when it comes to my disorder.
Just Another Friday Night
“Uugh…” She looked down at her foot, observing a mysterious package that had been sitting on her front doorstep.
“Huh,” she said. “I wonder what this is? I don’t remember ordering anything…“ Picking it up, Jamie opened the front door. She was greeted by her ashen grey cat, Smokey, who began to rub up against her legs.
“Hey, baby boy,” Jamie said affectionately. “You want some treats, don’t you?” She tossed the package on her kitchen table, going over to a drawer and getting a bag of treats out. She opened it, tossing one to Smokey. He leaped up, snatching it out of the air and greedily scarfing it down. She tossed him another one before closing the bag and stuffing it back in the drawer.
“Alright, Smokey. I dunno what this package is, but if it explodes in my face, you know where my will is.”
She moved over to the knife block, grabbing her opener of preference: the ten inch kitchen knife. She took a moment to flex her fingers dramatically, licking her upper lip. “Alright...time to begin the operation.”
As she deftly cut open the package, Smokey jumped up on the table to examine the contents.
“Nurse Smokey, I do believe we’ve found the problem!” She declared, grabbing an item that was barely peeking out from under the packing peanuts. “It’s...it’s...an egg?”
Jamie lifted it up, brows furrowed in confusion. It was jet black, and fit snugly into her palm. The surface was mottled, with slight dimples here and there.
She set the egg back down in the box, taking a moment to rub her temples. Smokey cautiously leaned over, briefly swatting at the egg before backing off and hiding beneath the rim of the box. The upper half of his face just barely stuck out from behind.
“What the heck kind of egg even is this?” Jamie asked, throwing her hands up in the air. “Who could have sent this? Why? I’m at a loss, Smokey,” she sighed, arms falling to her sides. “What do you think?”
“Mreow,” Smokey let out.
“Very insightful,” Jamie replied, raising a hand up to stroke her chin as she nodded sagely. “So, here’s the real question: is it too late to call the police? Is this edible?” She eyed the egg.
“Do I even want to eat it?” She continued. “Sheesh! I can’t even with this thing. I just can’t.”
Jamie moved into the living room, stopping at her desk and flicking her PC on. She began undoing her ponytail as she headed back to change out of her work clothes.
A few minutes later, she came back out, wearing a worn-out blue sweatshirt and pajama pants. Her hair had been let down, hanging behind her shoulders in tangled strands.
“Let’s see if I can find any information about this,” Jamie said. Smokey hopped up onto the desk to watch her as she started her internet browser.
“Maybe it’s…a bird egg? Let’s start with that.”
She spent several minutes searching, but to no avail.
“Uhhh…lizards lay eggs too, right? Maybe that’s it.”
More time passed. Jamie let out a frustrated sigh. “No luck with that, either. Maybe… maybe it’s…a snake egg?”
Just then, as she asked this, a loud noise from the kitchen table startled Jamie. She turned to look, eyes drifting back over to the package.
The egg had started to hatch.
A SOLDIER'S PURPOSE
“Are you alright mlady,” a guard asked from outside the door.
Tala jumped slightly almost forgetting he was there. “Yes I’m fine, just cut myself slightly no need to call a healer,” she said as she opened one of her desks drawrs and pulled out a cloth.
“Alright mlady.”
She bandaged her hand as she continued to shake. All I've ever wanted was to be a soldier and fight, so why, why am I suddenly regretting ever joining. She looked back at her sword, her blood flowed down the blade. It made her sick to her stomach, I guess I never really considered that I would really have to kill somebody and have their blood on my blade. She the more she thought about it the more she realized that she couldn't do it. But I am a soldier what else can I do. Her eyes turned to the window in her room, she thought about running just leaving and letting everyone else deal with it and walked toward the window. As she reached the window she stopped and thought about all the others that she would be leaving behind, all her friends that she would be leaving to deal with this themselves. She couldn’t do that to them, she isn't that selfish.
She gathered her courage and grabbed her sword, sitting back down and continued sharpening. If I can’t kill for myself, then I’ll kill to protect them, this idea filled her with new determination as her hands had stopped shaking and she finished sharpening her blade. She then scabored it on her side and walked out of her room and headed to the mess hall to eat and drink with the others in her unit, after all this could be there last night together on this earth.
Mariel Norris is a Boston-based writer and English teacher. Her work can be found in Zetetic: A Record of Unusual Inquiry, Slink Chunk Press, Scarlet Leaf Review, and TreeHouse Arts, among other publications, and she is the recipient of the Academy of American Poets Prize for Bard College. Her poetry and prose are archived at marielnorris.com. |
AFTERMATH
And then, OK this is it--I weave around rows of tables, cappuccino-sipping Brooklynites, nondescript chatter.
I tap his shoulder, as if running into an inconsequential acquaintance, say, “Nice to see you,” as if I saw him last week, no big deal.
Three Years Earlier
I noticed that his left bicep was adorned with an anchor tattoo, which I would have found corny on anyone else, but it suited him somehow.
“Is that a friendship tattoo? Does your best friend have a matching one?” I asked, my finger close to, but not touching, his arm. “Get it? Friend-ship? Ships? Anchors?” I always punned when on edge.
He smiled, a bit crookedly, a dimple creasing his left cheek. “You’re very unique, aren’t you.”
It was only 7:30, too early to be at a bar, and the place was empty aside from us and the bartender. I wished he’d find something to do, but he paced near our seats, amused by what was clearly a first date.
The more beer I drank, though, the less I cared about the bartender, and the more I zeroed in on Jack. We talked for hours--and only when he got up to use the bathroom did I notice the place had filled with customers. When he returned, we continued to exist wholly inside our conversation. We had so much to say, and we couldn’t get our words out fast enough. He stared at me when I spoke, deeply, his sea green eyes inside me. “You’re incredible,” he said at least five times.
I told him about my writing, my insecurities, my worries that nothing I wrote mattered. He told me I was brilliant and beautiful, that he wanted to read everything I wrote.
He was getting his PhD in feminist theory and teaching summer classes. “I know,” he mumbled with a self-conscious smile, “a white guy studying feminist theory; I’m such an imposter.” He’d probably said that many times in the past, to show off his white male privilege awareness.
We ordered gin and tonics and talked about how disconcerting it is that we never reach our peak; whenever we think something we’ve written is great, we read it years later and laugh. This happens over and over again--it will probably continue for the rest of our lives, we agreed. “Might as well live in the moment,” he said, “and not look back at how silly we once were. Let’s just focus on how amazing we are right now.”
I blushed, unsure if he meant that we were amazing together right then, or that we should focus on how amazing we are in every present moment.
When we’d had our fill of beer, we went bowling at a place down the street--ironically, of course. Neon orange and pink strobe lights flooded the room. “You are My Fire” blasted. We giggled at each other in our clownish rental shoes. An intellectual like him probably hadn’t set foot in a bowling alley in at least a decade. We nearly tied, but I beat him by several points. When we high-fived, I realized it was the first time we’d ever touched, and I longed to hold on. I wondered if this was what falling in love felt like and then quickly pushed away the thought--how naive to think such a thing after knowing someone for just a few hours!
I was only 22 and had already “fallen in love” with four guys: one for two days, one for a couple of weeks, and two for several months. No, but Jack could be the one--why not? Someone had to be the one, right? Why not him? Don’t think this way, I told myself. Just be in the moment and enjoy him, regardless of the outcome.
We tied in round two and then walked to our cars, the part of dates I hated most: when everything that’s built up throughout the night comes to a screeching halt, and with a quick, awkward hug, you part ways.
“See you soon!” he said, hopped into his car, revved the engine, and was gone. Would he really see me soon? What if I’d never see him again? Maybe he had tons of great dates all the time, and he’d forget this one by morning. Stop the thoughts, I told myself. Just drive home and go to bed.
The second I pulled up to my parents’ house, my phone buzzed--it was him. “I’m ready for date number two. What about you?”
“Yeah, let’s find a day soon!”
“How about now?”
“Really? Now? It’s already midnight. Where are you?”
“I pulled into a gas station and am prepared to turn around and see you again. Tell me where, and I’ll meet you there.”
Without hesitation, I suggested he come swim in the pool at my parents’ house--they were out of town.
I gave him directions to the neighborhood in DC suburbia where my parents resided and then paced back and forth in the driveway, my heart in my eardrums, waiting for the sound of wheels on gravel. When he pulled into the driveway, motion-detecting lights over the garage flickered on. They cast a dramatic glow on him as he got out of his car.
“Long time no see!” he said, briskly walking toward me. I could tell he was trying to downplay his giddiness.
We gave each other another loose hug. He smelled of artificial, sweet muskiness, which I didn’t remember from before--I wondered if he’d reapplied cologne at his gas station stop.
“I know,” I said, quickly pulling away, “It’s been ages. So, yeah...this is where I grew up. Um, you can follow me to the door.” I shuddered at how awkward I sounded.
Aside from the illuminated walkway, everything was pitch-black. I fumbled through my purse for my keys. The pulse in my ears muffled the crickets’ midnight chirps. I found my keys, opened the door, turned on the lights. There we were, in my childhood home, with family photos and my middle school art on the walls. Overripe bananas sat in a bowl on the kitchen counter, next to a to-do list in my mom’s handwriting. This is too much, I thought, what is he doing here already? I barely know him! I prayed he wouldn’t notice the portrait of my thirteen-year-old, braces-toothed self. Next to the sink, knives hung from a magnetic board on the wall. He was a foot taller than me, and nothing would stop him if he wanted to swipe a knife and stab me to death.
“So, I guess I’ll grab a bathing-suit from upstairs,” I said in a cheery tone. “Why don’t you just wait here a moment, and then we can go outside and swim!”
It was oddly business-like, this whole situation: sending him directions to the house, meeting in the driveway, having him wait in the kitchen while I put on my bathing-suit. I missed our effortless conversation at the bar and bowling alley.
Once in my bathing-suit, a coral-colored bikini, I wasn’t sure if I should put my clothes back on over it. No, that would seem silly. Maybe just cover myself with a towel? I proceeded downstairs with a white bath towel wrapped tightly around me. I handed him another white bath towel.
“Oh, thanks.”
“Yeah, no problem. Well, the pool’s this way.”
He followed me out the back door and down the hill to the pool. He on one side of the pool, me on the other, we peeled back the plastic cover, revealing a shimmery rectangle of water. Lamps at each corner made golden zigzags across the surface.
We stood there, staring for a moment at the pool. I started feeling dizzy as thoughts pounded in my head: This is not businesslike--this is romantic--this is not forced--this is sweet--I don’t know him--yet I know him. I sat down, dangled my feet in, gingerly unwrapped my towel, and slipped into the chilly water. Jack removed everything but his boxers and splashed in after me.
I swam to the deep end; he followed, a foot behind. I started to swim back; he caught me, brought me close, held me. Ripples around us smoothed to nothing, and the water grew still. He kept holding me. The night was silent; the crickets had stopped chirping. All I heard was his quick breath. Then his lips touched my neck, ears, cheeks, lips. Our kisses were watery and chlorinated.
I don’t remember leaving the pool. We were instantly in the house, instantly in my childhood room. I tossed my stuffed animals off my twin bed--soon enough, our swimsuits were on the floor, and we were bouncing on squeaky springs. His hands were everywhere, clawing into me, as if he wanted to open me up and know everything inside me: my veins, bones, soul.
Hours later, he was still there with me in crumpled, sweaty sheets. I told him about my family, my loneliness as an only child, my cousin who died in a car-crash, my ensuing anxiety about driving, my knack for baking muffins, my love of pranks. He told me about his conservative parents, his need to distance himself from them, his desire to worry less about the future and focus on the moment, his pet iguana.
We lay forehead-to-forehead, his breath lightly moving the hairs on my upper lip, his thumb making circles on my lower back. How strange that just a few hours before, I’d imagined him stabbing me with a knife.
The bed was too small--he kept nearly falling off. Seeing him in it, in my polka-dotted children’s sheets, was comical.
Eventually, I got up to turn off the light because I wanted to sleep with him curled around me. But before I turned it off, he stood up, apologizing, saying he needed to leave because he had a class to teach early in the morning. We stood at the foot of the bed, both completely naked. I shifted my gaze downwards, not ready to see him in a vertical position. After all, vertical nakedness exposes much more than horizontal nakedness, and I’d only just met him earlier that evening.
“But I want to continue all of this,” he said. “It was unbelievable.”
I glanced up at him, a naked stranger over six feet tall, taking up space in my small bedroom. I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear and looked back down at my feet, not wanting to know if he was watching me. Suddenly, I was quite ready for him to leave.
“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” he continued, “Because, as you know, I’ll be moving to LA the day after tomorrow, so it would be great to see you more before then.”
My throat tightened before I’d consciously processed what he’d said. “Wait, you’re moving across the country in two days? Did I know that?” (No, I didn’t know--I definitely would have remembered a fact like that if he’d told me.)
“Yeah, I’m pretty certain I mentioned it in our messages. But let’s make tomorrow count--live in the moment, as we were talking about. I have a 45-minute lunch break at 1:00. Come to the college--I’ll show you my dorm room. We can make out, or, you know, do what we were just doing now.”
I suddenly felt cold. I looked around for clothes but saw only my bathing suit, which was in a puddle of water on the floor. I crossed my arms over my chest and said nothing. As if to silence my silence, he wrapped his arms around me, and before I knew it, we were back in bed. He was there with me for another hour.
Then he really had to go. “Wow, I really have to go,” he said. It was already 4:30, and he had to teach at 9. “So, tomorrow?”
“Yeah, sure. It’s your lunch break, right? Let’s grab some food!”
If I didn’t give him exactly what he was looking for, he’d keep wanting me. I still wanted him to want me, even though he’d essentially lied to my face.
He shrugged, sighed, bent over to pick up his clothes. “Alright, we can do that. If that’s what you’d prefer.”
He got dressed. Still naked, I walked him to the front door. He gave me one last tongue-filled kiss and then was gone.
Back in my room, I took my plush rhino from the pile of stuffed animals on the floor, plopped it onto my bed, smoothed the sheets, crawled under, and fell asleep, hugging the creature to my chest.
Day two with Jack wasn’t quite like the first. We only had 45 minutes. I spent eight minutes trying to locate him on campus, and it took us another five or so to choose a restaurant. We got burritos to go and ate them on a nearby bench. He ate quickly and silently, as if eating were a menial task he was obligated to complete.
“Maybe we could walk around a bit?” he suggested before I was done. I gulped down the remnants of pinto beans, lettuce, and slimy tortilla, feeling everything sit heavily in my upper chest.
We meandered around the grassy campus, stone benches, saplings. He walked with his head to the ground. I wondered, wistfully, if he was upset about leaving me the next day. As if reading my thoughts, he said, “Sorry for being quiet--a lot’s going on at work right now. There’ve been reports of a professor behaving inappropriately towards students. It’s a lot to deal with.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that. I don’t mind talking things through with you if--”
“We don’t need to talk about it.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, kicking an ant off my sandaled foot.
On our left was the university library. Two prepubescent girls sat on the steps, holding rainbow popsicles that dripped blue and purple down their arms. The girls were lost in laughter at some unimaginably hilarious joke. One girl’s popsicle dropped right out of her hand and onto the grass as she convulsed with laughter. Jack and I walked silently past them.
He suddenly said, “We could hold hands, you know.” His voice sounded strained, almost forceful.
With a polite laugh, I offered him my hand, which he grasped a little too tightly. Maybe the tightness was out of desire for me, or maybe it was from his anxiety about the work situation; I wasn’t sure. Regardless, his lunch break was soon up, and we returned to my car, where he pressed me against the driver-side door, burrowed his face into my neck, and let his hands creep up my sides and over my chest. It was as if he needed to get one last dose of my body before he might never see me again. A moment later, he had to go, so he pecked me on the lips and said, “It’s been real!” before jogging away.
And the next day, he’s across the country. We stay in touch by text only, never a phone call or visit. We won’t text for months at a time. Then he’ll resurface, telling me how much he thinks of me and our night together. My whole body will pulsate. I’ll imagine him endlessly, sweaty in my twin-size bed, until it’s as if he’s really with me. We’ll stay up all night texting, telling each other what we want to do when we’re together next.
Several days later, I’ll check in with him, ask how his day’s going--no response. Months will pass, and then he’ll text me, starting everything over again, telling me he’s thinking of me, that he can’t get me off his mind. I’ll wonder if he’s in love with me--immediate, intense love, like Jack and Rose or Romeo and Juliet.
Then, a few days later, I’ll say something to which he won’t respond. He was just bored and wanted someone to flirt with, I’ll realize. He barely knows me and doesn’t care about me at all. Or maybe he’s just really busy. Or maybe he’s playing hard-to-get.
This cycle continues, but more and more sporadically. I almost start to forget him. I immerse myself in my work at a publishing press. I write poetry in the evenings. I get up early to go running on brisk mornings, my breath a frosty cloud. I date other guys--but one’s too into video games; one’s too available; one’s too egotistical. I savor the increasingly infrequent days when a new message from Jack appears on my phone--the excitement, the unknown. He sometimes appears in my late night poems.
Three years after our bowling, pool, and burrito dates, Jack lets me know he’s gotten a job in New York--not so far from DC, he points out. I tell him that as luck would have it, I’ve planned a visit to see a friend there in just a few weeks, and I could probably spare an hour or two if he wants to grab a coffee. I immediately proceed to tell my New York friend that I’d like to visit her.
***
I arrive late to our date and savor the chance to watch him without him watching me, just for a moment. I see only the back of his head, but it is him. I know the wide shoulders, the shaved head. It’s really Jack again, after all this time. He’s stooped over a book--has he been waiting long?
And then, OK this is it--I weave around rows of tables, cappuccino-sipping Brooklynites, nondescript chatter.
I tap his shoulder, as if running into an inconsequential acquaintance, say, “Nice to see you,” as if I saw him last week, no big deal.
We hug, with mostly arms, no torsos involved. I sit down. He already has a coffee and clamps his hands tightly around the mug.
We small-talk about the weather and my bus-ride to DC. When he smiles, a long dimple runs down his left cheek. His face is the same as I remember: freckled nose--less sunburnt than before--squinty eyes, stubbled cheeks.
He asks if I’m nervous to see him again, after so long apart. “No, I’m fine,” I say through a smile. Little does he know that before our date, I gulped down wine and fake-meditated, thinking of him the whole time.
Sweat jewels his forehead. “Three years,” he sighs, “But you haven’t changed.”
“Thanks,” I say and get up to ask for tea before he notices the pink heat in my cheeks.
“What were you reading before I got here?” I ask, returning with a pot of jasmine.
“Oh, my book? It’s my friend’s new book of poems. Really incredible. The poem I was reading when you came in is about how sometimes you can know someone deeply before you learn much about them at all. Sometimes knowing doesn’t come from learning.” He pauses, not meeting my eyes. “Would you like me to read it to you?”
But some preschool twins come in, shouting for cookies. Their bedraggled mother, hunched over an infant in a shoulder-sling, shouts at them to be quiet, only adding to the ruckus herself.
“Another day,” says Jack with a sigh.
We’re now silent, surrounded by noise, and my mind returns to the night he held me in the pool--our goosebumped arms, wet kisses, jagged lights on the water. Now that he’s moved from Los Angeles to New York, he’s just a drive away--we could make it work if we decide to.
When we finish our drinks, we walk around Prospect Park, along the trash-infused pond, past couples holding hands and kids playing tag. Three years, and we have little to say; we ask each other the basics: movies we’ve recently seen, books we’ve recently read, how our jobs are going. There are long, tense pauses between every topic. He doesn’t have much to tell me about his new position teaching Feminism and Intersectionality at Columbia. I want to ask him whether he’s ever concerned that his white maleness limits his ability to effectively teach this subject, or if he realizes he’s essentially taken the position from candidates of other genders and races, who’d be better suited to teach it. But I bite my tongue.
He suddenly asks me how often I think about our night together.
“Not often,” is what I say without thinking, which isn’t true. I’m not sure why I lie to him.
I’d imagined, endlessly, what it would be like to see, hear, touch him again--and if I ever would. But when it’s time for me to go, I give him a quick hug, my face away from his, signaling that I don’t want to kiss. A kiss would be random, out of place. We hardly talked about anything today. Plus, I don’t like that he teaches Feminism and Intersectionality. And I don’t like his shaved head or his slight lisp. I don’t remember him having a lisp before, but I don’t find it cute. I longed for him for three years, but now that we’re together, I want him to leave.
Yet once he leaves, he stays stuck in my mind. On the bus back to DC, I see him over and over--I try to breathe deeply and let him fade--but there he is, again and again: sea green eyes, soft voice, the drop of coffee on his stubbled upper lip, the way he walked by my side around the park: leather shoes, fitted jeans, corduroy coat that covered the anchor tattoo on his bicep.
I have to wonder, is he disappointed? I begin to ruminate. Maybe if I’d let him kiss me, we would have returned to that night three years ago. I should have done more to bring us back there. He’s probably annoyed and doesn’t like me now. All is lost--we’ll never speak again. No, he still likes me, we’ll see each other again, it will be better then. Why do I even care--I barely know this guy. Time to move on. There’s really no point in any of this.
But of course, I still want him to want me. He hasn’t texted me yet. I turn off my phone. I try to sleep like everyone else, relax into the bus seat, just sleep. But wheels spin. Street-lights glare. Rain strums, thin as violin. I turn on my phone--has he texted me yet, to tell me he had fun? No. The sun crashes below the horizon. Clouds and thunder cough and lunge at me. I turn off my phone again. My thoughts--how I long to turn them off as well. But they pour freely as the watercolor blur of yellow lines and neon lights and stop-signs.
DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning novelette, short story, and flash fiction writer with over 175 stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, Raven Chronicles, Silver Pen, Front Porch Review, and many others. DC was nominated for Best of the Net Anthology. She lives on the California central coast with her wife and animals. dcdiamondopolous.com |
Slapstick Blues
His brother Jeremiah thought him crazy to spend his day off watching white folks. The youngest of five boys, Booker was always picked on. His brothers nicknamed him Booker for preferring to read over playing ball and sneaking shots of moonshine. They teased him for working in the parish library and laughed at him when he tried to slick back his hair with brilliantine like Rudolph Valentino, but nothing straightened his thick coiled hair.
He opened the door to the dark interior. The theatre still reeked of sulfur from vaudeville days when the audience threw eggs and tomatoes at bungling performers. His pa took him and Lila Mae back in 1910, when he was six and Lila Mae eight, old enough to hoot and holler at the singers and dancers, acrobats, and magicians. He recalled his favorite, monkeys on roller skates and the sounds of feet thumping across the wooden stage—all of it replaced by the magic of moving pictures.
Since the Odeon became a moving picture theatre, not once did he see another colored person in the balcony. Lila Mae said it was important to see how ofays lived. “Why?” Booker had asked. “Just is.” She hated white people and had good reason. But she loved the flickers as much as he did.
He looked over the ledge at the seats below. He saw children, women in gingham dresses with bow hats, and men in suits. A piano was in front of the stage where a woman would play background music while the pictures moved across the screen.
His shoes stuck to the tacky floor. He found his usual seat. It was a chair still hinged in the third row near the center. In the narrow gallery, he smelled the stench of stale piss. But as the lights dimmed, so did Booker’s resentment of having to sit in the buzzard roost ‘cause of his color. He tried to twist prejudice his way, that he was lucky to sit high above the others, alone and uninterrupted. And for a couple of hours he could escape and leave his blues somewhere next to nowhere.
The curtains pulled away, revealing the white screen. Booker leaned forward. A title card appeared, and the piano player struck the keys in a ragtime ditty. Booker eloped into the high jinx of Buster Keaton. He laughed, slapped his skinny thigh, and wondered if Lila Mae had seen the same moving picture.
The Balloonatic ended and then came a short flicker, another comedy, that drew a few chuckles. He slouched in the chair, critical of the less-than-funny moving picture he had just watched.
Booker was starting to doze when a woman appeared on the screen. She was lakeside, dressed in a bathing suit and had shoulder-length hair with a ribbon tied around it. Booker sat up. A title card appeared: “Want to go for a swim?” Three other girls in bathing suits ran to the lake’s edge. There was a close-up of the stunning woman who pushed one of the girls into the lake, and everyone, including the doused girl, doubled-over in laughter. Booker took off his hat and crushed it with his fists.
He sat through another showing of The Balloonatic just so he could see the short and the bathing beauty at the lake. He had to be certain—to make sure that it was his sister, Lila Mae.
For the second showing, he paid attention as the short opened. A card came on the screen with the words, “Famous Players-Lasky Corporation filmed in Hollywood, California.” When each actress appeared, so did her name in the lower right-hand corner. Lila Mae La Croix was now Bessie Blythe and passing for white.
Images flashed across the screen just like his emotions. He juggled rage and sadness, longing and disgust. How could Lila Mae, who watched as white men dragged poor Henry away, live as one of the very people she despised?
Booker yanked at the brim of his hat and slammed the side door as he went out the theatre. He ran down the steps and into the alley. He kept walking. Thinking.
Lila Mae was like the Mississippi. The tumultuous river flowed clear on top, but underneath was the muddy sludge of slavery not sixty years gone.
Booker and his family were a spectrum of colored hues ranging from dark to high yellow, but Lila Mae’s skin was as pale as if she’d been adopted. Their pa had teased, “This child better darken up or they gonna think we stole her.” “She jus’ come up French Creole,” their mama had said. “But she as African as me, ain't no one gonna take her and nothin gonna change that.”
About the age of twelve, a change did happen. Outside of Huddle Creek, Lila Mae’s color was too risky for Booker and his brothers to be seen with. So she walked alone.
Several years back, when they had gone to the Odeon, Booker’s pride did him in. He insisted that they walk together like any brother and sister. They paid for their tickets and went around the theatre to the alley when two punks jumped him. Lila Mae hit the men, screaming, “He’s my brother! You fuckers! Leave him alone!” When they were through with Booker, they turned to Lila Mae. Through swollen eyes, Booker saw her fear—a fear colored women knew well. He took coins from his pocket and threw them at the men. As they stooped to pick them up, Booker grabbed his sister and they ran up the stairs and into the theatre.
When they got home that night and his parents saw his face, he told them it was his doing, but Lila Mae got a good yelling. She shouted back, mad as any she-devil he had read about.
As Lila Mae grew into her teens and as pretty as any moving picture star, she met Henry. One day, they went on a picnic along the bayou. A gang of men came upon them and lynched Henry for being with a white girl, so they said, or maybe they didn’t need a reason. Lila Mae had screamed and shouted, “I’m colored. Leave him alone!” She said Henry had yelled, “Run, Lila Mae, run. I’ll be coming baby.” She did. She ran all the way home sobbing, tearing into the house and telling her brothers to go help Henry. By the time they got there, he’d been strung up. Wasn’t enough to hang him, they had to set him afire too. When told what happened, Lila Mae went hysterical, ranted for days, cried for weeks. She clutched Henry’s pendant that hung on a chain around her neck like it was part of him. Nothing consoled her and not one thing was done to the men for lynching Henry.
Lila Mae had enough hurt to set the world off its axis. It wasn’t her fault, but the neighbors, the relatives and his own family, looked on her like a troublemaker.
One morning a couple of months after the lynching, Booker heard screaming, bawling, and drawers slamming. It sounded like the whole house would come down from the pain within. He dressed and went out on the porch to see his sister crying, suitcase in hand. Mama sobbed. Pa wiped tears off his cheeks. Stoic Jeremiah tried to keep his mouth from twitching.
Booker picked up the luggage and walked with his sister down the dirt road along the railroad tracks that led out of Huddle Creek to the train depot. Lila Mae cursed something fierce. She was furious at Mama and Pa, livid with the white world, angry at her kin, angry at God, just plain angry.
She was so heartbroken that she left him at the parish limits without saying good-bye. He told her he loved her, but her temper was so vicious he didn’t think she heard.
She was walking the dusty road when she dropped her suitcase, turned, and ran back to Booker. She hugged him and kissed him on the forehead and cheek. “Get out of the South, Booker. Go to Harlem. Join our brothers. Keep your nose clean.” “Is that where you’re going?” he asked. “Maybe, maybe not.” Lila Mae was as double-edged as her color. She left, leaving him with a hurt as big as hers.
Before paved streets turned to dirt roads, Booker thought about hitching a ride home, but the walking stretched his muscles, and his reflections stirred compassion.
He trudged along marshy roads that ran along the swamps. Birds sang to each other, and insects hissed and swarmed. He came upon a group of men hauling logs onto trucks, sweat gleaming off their dark skin, making it shine something beautiful.
Booker planned one day to leave, join his brothers in New York, get a job, go to college, hang out at speakeasies, and listen to jazz. He would join the New Negro Movement and had dreams of becoming a writer.
Booker would keep his sister’s secret. When he had enough money, he’d be leaving, but going west to Hollywood, California.
****
It was genuine lemon meringue pie, not a bowl of shaving cream in the face. Well, how about that, Lila Mae thought. Bessie Blythe was coming up in the world of moving pictures, but her nose hurt, and her cheeks stung. She wiped pastry from her eyes and glared at Reginald.
“Did you have to throw it that hard?” She took a gob of meringue dangling from her bangs and flung it at the actor.
The crew laughed. William, the violinist, played a fast, lively tune.
“Ah, it wasn’t so hard,” Reginald said, licking his upper lip.
“Keep going,” the director shouted. “I like your gutsiness, Bessie.”
Mr. Jasky wants gutsy? Lila Mae picked up the plate from the table and threw it at Reginald’s head. He ducked. The crew applauded. Reginald darted away but not fast enough. With pie dripping down her chin, Lila Mae hopped on his back.
“Keep it going. Good, Bessie. Now slide down. Slowly. Reginald, turn and kiss her.”
William struck high and low notes on the fiddle. When they kissed, he slowed the tempo.
“All right. That’ll get some laughs,” the director said. “We’ll pick up Monday on the bandstand.”
Lila Mae marched up to Horace Jasky.
“You tell that flat tire to go easy on the face or I’m going to sock him in the kisser.”
“Now look here, Bessie, be a good girl. The audience will love it. You’re not a bit player, but you’re no Clara Bow, either.”
Lila May wanted to sling the pie in Jasky’s face, hard, see how he liked it. Instead, she smiled, “Why I’d slip on a dozen banana peels for a laugh. You know that now, don’t you honey chile?” In less than a year she’d gone from bit player to supporting roles, and the pay increase didn’t hurt either.
“Attagirl.”
She sashayed away, swaying her supple hips off the outdoor set to a side table where she dipped a cloth into a bowl of water and wiped the goop off her face and short, wavy hair.
If Reginald knew he had kissed a colored girl, he would choke to death trying to spit out the black.
Outside of Huddle Creek, no one questioned her race. In Baton Rouge, men tipped their hats. Women smiled and nodded. Once, she was at a newspaper rack reading Picture-Play Magazine when a man bought it for her. Lila Mae resented yet found opportunity in losing herself from one world while slipping into the other.
Workers arrived to take down the set. She took her time cleaning herself and hoped to see the tall colored man who reminded her of everything she’d left behind.
She wanted to hear his deep voice, the Southern drawl that reminded her of steam rising off swamps. She missed the slow-moving beauty of the bayous and longed for her family, especially Booker. Most of all she missed Henry.
Lila Mae looked at William holding his violin like a child as he laid it in its case. He saw her watching him and smiled. She wondered if he had something to hide too. He was handsome—in a pretty way—and had the tender-hearted quality of her baby brother, Booker. He never tried to get her alone or pestered her to neck. She could flirt and play while knowing that William would always be a gentleman. Because they would never be lovers, he was the only white man she would go out with.
William carried his violin case and walked over.
“Want to go to a swanky party?”
“Want to have one now?” Lila Mae glanced around then slid the hem of her dress up her shapely thigh, stuck her thumb and forefinger into her garter belt and pulled out a flask. She uncapped it and offered it to William.
“After you, doll.”
“I insist,” Lila Mae said, looking over at the set.
William took the silver bottle and tossed back his sleek helmet-looking head. “Ah, thank you, Bessie.”
“My pleasure, honey chile.” She took the hootch, drank, and slid the flask into her garter. “What party? When?”
“Tonight. Some big cheese producer is throwing. His assistant said there’ll be a jazz band. Told me to bring my violin, maybe play with them.” William took the rag from Lila Mae’s hand and rubbed piecrust off of her neck. “He said I could bring someone, long as she’s gorgeous.” He gave her the rag.
As a white woman, she was invited. As a colored woman she’d be working in the big cheese’s kitchen.
Lila Mae never saw one colored woman in the moving pictures except once, and she wasn’t even negro; it was a woman in black make-up. It galled her that they wouldn’t hire a colored girl even for the role of a maid.
She finished wiping pastry from her hair when the tall handyman appeared, carrying a ladder to the set. She watched him climb the rungs, his muscles flexing under his sweat-stained work shirt.
“You know him?” William said.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Why else would you be staring at him?”
“Of course we don’t know each other.”
“You’re Southern.” William shrugged. “You must have seen negroes before.”
“‘Course I have.” She threw the rag on the table.
“Hey, doll, they don’t mean anything to me one way or the other. Sometimes I gig with them.”
“You play together?”
“In Chicago—speakeasies. Some joints here.”
Henry’s pendant felt heavy where it made its home against her breast.
“Bessie? How come you look so blue?” He took her hands. “Why don’t you get dolled up and we go to this big shot’s house? Could help your career. Who knows, maybe we’ll see Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford.”
“Sure, honey.”
“Let me walk you home.” William raised his elbow for Lila Mae. “I’ll be bringing the best looking Sheba in all of Hollywoodland.”
William held the passenger door of the Model T and helped Lila Mae onto the running board and into the car. When she had stepped onto the porch and saw William’s bugged eyes and intake of breath, she thought maybe she didn’t look as homespun as she felt.
There were so many beautiful women in Hollywood. When Lila Mae got her picture in Photoplay, she couldn’t believe she was right alongside the likes of Lillian Gish and Norma Talmadge. It was a proud lie. Not being able to tell Booker and her kin plum near turned it into nothing.
Lila Mae’s mood was like a pot of grits that sat on her mama’s stove, simmering, right in the seat of her happiness. No matter how famous she got, she’d always be running, looking over her shoulder, wondering when she’d be caught.
The worry gave her headaches. Liquor helped.
When William had walked her home, she could have sworn she saw Booker. The Red Car stopped at Sunset and Vine. She caught a glimpse of a slim, young colored man who wore a hat, low on his brow the way Booker wore his. He climbed the steps, and the Red Car took off.
“A penny for your thoughts,” William said, sitting behind the steering wheel.
“How old is this Tin Lizzie?” Lila Mae shouted over the roaring engine.
“Ten years.” William made a U-turn and took off for Sunset Boulevard.
“Where is this shindig?”
“Beverly Hills.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and matches.
“Want one?”
She took the pack, shook one loose, and put it between ruby-red bow lips. She lit it, inhaled, and gave it to William. She did the same for herself and handed everything back.
Nights in Los Angeles were cold, and Lila Mae’s roommate let her borrow her coat. It didn’t have the fur bands, but when rolled at the cuffs, it showed off the satin lining. Her other roommate had loaned her a peacock headband with sequins. They gussied her up as best they could. The three of them shared often, and more than clothes, also food and news about casting. She wanted to tell them the truth. But the truth was no more her friend than they were. The lie kept her stuck in a closet that had no doorknob or hinges to bust out of. But why live as a servant when she could pass as a moving picture star?
The Ford rumbled along Sunset. The wheels bounced across trolley tracks. Lila Mae held on to her seat. She kept her clutch purse in the coat pocket and the flask in her garter belt.
“You look extra beautiful tonight, Bessie.”
Lila Mae laughed.
“I mean it. You’ve got it.”
“You’re sweet to say so.”
William flicked cigarette ash out the window. “We’ve known each other for over a month. I don’t know anything about you.”
“We Southern girls like a little mystery.”
They passed the Hollywood Athletic Club. As they traveled west, she saw open fields and fewer buildings.
“Where’s your fiddle?”
“In the back seat.”
She turned sideways to look at him. He was handsome in his high collar, and his brown hair slicked to shine. “That’s your real lover, now, isn’t it?”
“You could be my lover,” William said.
With tapered fingers, she stroked his lapel. “Why ruin a good friendship?”
He sighed. She hurt him. Lila Mae didn’t want all the meanness done to her become something she did to others. William no more wanted to be lovers than she did. What a charade they were playing.
She turned forward in the seat. “Can we get on with being friends?”
He nodded.
The Model T clanked and jostled along Sunset into twilight’s shifting shadows.
Lila Mae slid up her coat and took out the flask. They drank until it was empty.
William ducked his head and peered into the dark at a street sign. “What’s that say?”
“Benedict Canyon.”
“That’s it.” He made a right turn where oaks and tall grasses grew on low slopes. William changed gears, and the Model T backfired.
“We going to make it up this hill?”
“Think so. I just don’t want her to stall.”
The nearness of the Pacific clouded the front window.
The automobile sputtered and chugged up a road that was more mountain than hill.
“How far to this shindig?”
“Don’t know.”
They continued to a driveway that zigzagged and climbed until it looked like the heavens were ablaze in lighted splendor.
“Well, slap my head and call me silly,” Lila Mae said, staring at the mansion.
“Look at all those ritzy cars,” William said. “Let me drop you off. I’ll park in the woods.”
“Oh no you don’t. I’m proud to be walking in with the fiddle player. Now, honey chile, once we’re inside, no one’s going to know we chug-a-lugged up Mount Everest in a baby buggy.”
“You’re funny.”
She winked at him and undid all her buttons on the coat, revealing a low-cut Chantilly lace dress.
A man in a dark uniform and knee boots held up his hand and walked toward them.
“Follow the driveway to the end.”
As William made a loop, Lila Mae gaped at the expensive cars.
William parked, reached into the back seat, and grabbed the violin case.
They walked toward the white Spanish-style mansion. Bougainvillea with red blossoms climbed to the second-floor balcony with wrought-iron railings.
In the center of the grounds was a fountain with cherubs.
Oh Lordy, did she want a drink. She hoped no one would look at the scuffed heels of her T-strapped shoes.
A butler greeted them at the front door.
“May I take your coat, madam?”
“Thank you.”
The entrance hall was as large as her bungalow. The centerpiece was a twenty-foot waterfall surrounded by lush palm trees. A man chased a woman up a circular staircase. She squealed. He lunged for her, stumbled, and spilled his drink. The woman turned and kissed him on the mouth.
“We’re in for a wild night,” William said.
“I hope so.”
A waiter approached them with a tray of champagne glasses. William handed one to Lila Mae and took one for himself. Lured by the jazzy rhythm coming from the ballroom, Lila Mae headed toward the music.
They passed jeweled women with bobbed hair and men in arrow collars with trimmed mustaches. She breathed in perfume and cigar fumes—everyone was smoking and drinking.
She drained the champagne glass, and a waiter offered her another.
“You’re supposed to sip champagne,” William said.
“This is the real McCoy. I’m going to get pie-eyed,” she said, guzzling her drink and handing the empty glass to a passing attendant.
She led William through an archway with a life-sized nude statue of a female archer and into an enormous, smoke-filled ballroom.
“Well, shut my mouth,” Lila Mae said. A flapper was swinging from a chandelier as a group of men waited to catch her. “How did she get up there?”
“Beats me,” William said.
Fascinated by the female Tarzan, Lila Mae watched as the ossified woman thrust her bare legs apart to give herself momentum.
“Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Lila Mae said when she saw the woman’s ace of spades.
The flapper let go and fell into the men’s arms. The crowd roared.
William took Lila Mae’s hand and used his violin case to nudge people aside dancing the breakaway. She couldn’t see the band, but what she heard made her want to fast kick her blues away and join in the fun.
When they neared the stage, she let go of William. White and colored musicians, together, were making music. This was no speakeasy but a big Hollywood party. The piano man, drummer, and horn player were colored. It was a more beautiful sight than the sunsets over the Pacific. The future of her people rode the coattails of jazz.
“Put your strings down, honey chile, and let’s pick up our heels,” she said, feeling an edge from the booze.
William went to the stage, talked to the bass player, and set his case on a stand.
They danced the Charleston close to the platform—forward and a tap and back and a tap—swinging their arms. Rubber brassiere couldn’t flatten Lila Mae’s breasts, so she did away with the fashion and let her voluptuous figure jiggle like pudding. She backed William to the side of the dance floor in front of the piano man.
She watched the musician as his fingers ran the black-and-white keys. He saw her and did a double take. Lila Mae shimmied making sure he couldn’t look away.
William grabbed her. “You’re corked.”
“Leave me alone,” she said, shoving him aside. “I’m feeling good for a change.”
The song ended, and the musicians took a break.
“What is it with you and the negroes?”
“Nothing with me and the negroes,” she said, feeling her tongue grow fat. “Go play your fiddle-de-dee.”
“You're a strange bird, Bessie Blythe. I’ll just be a minute,” William said and climbed on the stage.
Lila Mae looked up at the piano man.
“I like the way you play.”
“Thank you. But ain’t you playin’ with fire?”
His voice carried her home to wet swampy riverbanks, Cypress trees, the backwoods—she didn’t care that her naked arms trembled.
“Just looks that way.”
He studied her for a minute then took a glass off the piano lid and drank.
“How come a beautiful woman like you is lonely?”
“Who says I’m lonely?”
“Where in the South are you from?”
“Near Baton Rouge,” she said, longing for his fingers to play all over her.
“I’m from New Orleans.”
“I can tell. Your accent is smooth, like my mama’s homemade ice cream.”
His eyebrows raised.
She didn’t care that she was brash. Loneliness and love had so much in common.
“Your boyfriend,” he said.
“He’s a friend.”
“Still. Much as I’d like to, best we don’t talk no more.” He pushed the stool from the piano and joined the drummer and horn player.
She started shaking. The burden from her sorrow had nowhere to go. Sweat ran into her headband as she tried to sashay away but instead wobbled to a group of small tables and collapsed on a chair.
“Bessie. Bessie.”
She heard the phony name and looked up at the chandelier. She imagined herself swinging from the lights with no one to catch her, falling splat on the floor, red blood oozing, in the act of dying—oh Lordy, did she need a drink.
“Are you okay?” William said.
“Feeling sorry for myself is all.”
“What about?”
“Nothing honey.”
“Sorry about back there,” he said.
William would always apologize, didn’t matter if he was right or wrong. He carried a torch for her, even if he did prefer his own sex.
“If I told you something, William…” She gulped air.
“Tell me what?”
“Oh, nothing, honey. Just get me a drink.”
“No, doll,” he said. “You’ve had too much. You’re going to be a big star. Don’t ruin your chances with hootch.”
“Then go. I’ll be all right.”
The room twirled in a lubricated blur. She wanted a cigarette, but William was gone.
“May I join you?”
Lila Mae looked up to see a tall, balding man with glasses.
“Suit yourself.”
“My name is Sidney Reid,” he said, sitting across from her.
She knew the name. He was a big-shot director, but she was too drunk to sit up and act interested.
“You’re Bessie Blythe, aren’t you?” He ogled her cleavage.
“My eyes are up here,” she said, blinking.
He chuckled. “Women nowadays look like boys. Flat chests, short hair.” He waved his hand in annoyance. “I’m glad to see a real woman for a change. I saw your last moving picture. For a girl, you’re a decent comedian.” He hunched forward. “I think you’d be perfect for The Lost World.”
“Really?”
“Let’s leave. I have a wine cellar at home, not far from here. We can talk. Be alone.” He moved his hands toward hers. “Did I mention the part is for the leading lady?”
“Well, aren’t you kind, Mr. Reid. I’ll be glad to audition for the part at the studio Monday.”
“Oh. My schedule is full,” he mumbled, “for the next couple of weeks.” He stood.
“Of course it is.” Everything was fake. She’d come to the right town to hide in, while exposing herself to the world. The irony was downright hysterical, but she was too miserable to laugh.
“Nice talking to you, Bessie.”
She looked away, too broken to care about anything.
****
Unable to sleep, Booker dressed, grabbed his hat, and left the boarding house basement.
He walked up Vine Street, brooding about Lila Mae. The first time he saw her was outside the studio, walking with two girls. He had wanted to run to her, tell her how proud she made him and that he’d seen all of her moving pictures. He needed to get her alone, so he wouldn’t risk her cover.
Booker had followed them, keeping his distance so not to be caught or look to be lusting after white women.
He could hear their laughter a block away. Lila Mae’s hair had been cut to a wavy bob, she smoked, and of the three of them, his sister did most of the talking. Being white gave her confidence. He reckoned happiness could do that.
At Fountain Avenue, he headed east until he came to the Nighthawk. He opened the door.
“Thought you were an early bird,” Al said, wiping a dish, his blond hair poking out like birch twigs under his chef hat.
“Can’t sleep.” Booker took the stool at the end of the counter next to the window. Lila Mae’s house was across the street and three doors down.
“I’ll have the usual.”
“Don’t you eat anything other than eggs? No wonder you’re so skinny,” Al said, turning to the grill.
Booker glanced around the dingy cafe.
“Quiet for a Friday night.”
“Two o’clock, they stagger in. Prohibition’s been great for business.”
Booker chuckled.
Lila Mae’s house was dark. Earlier that day he had watched her leave the studio on the arm of a white man. That sight sickened him. A couple of hours later, as he was eating dinner in the Nighthawk, he heard a car sputter and backfire. It stopped in front of Lila Mae’s house, and out dashed the ofay, all spruced up looking fit for a night of fun. Booker saw his sister dressed in fine clothes and her hair done real pretty. He understood her new life, but not that—not taking a white man as a sweetheart. It got him all twisted inside, but what else was she to do? Yet how could she do it? How long did she think she could get away with passing before someone back home recognized her?
It was over. No reason to see her now.
Al put down the Coca-Cola and went back to making eggs.
Booker sipped the drink. When he had taken the train west and crossed the border from Texas into New Mexico, the porter told him he was free to sit anywhere on the train. At first, he didn’t move. But then he grabbed his hat and suitcase and walked through the cars until he sat among white folks. Accepted, that was the feeling. Looking out the window at the beautiful rose-colored desert, he darned near let his feelings roll down his cheeks.
Al set the plate of eggs and toast in front of him, and Booker ate. He remembered that feeling on the train, when he moved from the colored section and how he sat at a table with clean linen and water glasses. Maybe that’s how Lila Mae felt, like clean linen.
“Sunday I’ll be making ribs.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Where you going?”
“Harlem, New York.”
“Well, you ever come this way again I’ll make you a plate of ribs.”
“Thanks Al. I’ll be sure to drop by if I do.”
Booker looked at the clock behind the counter. It was one-fifteen. He finished eating and drained the rest of the Coca-Cola.
Al gave him the receipt, and Booker paid with a dime tip.
“Good luck in New York.”
“Thanks for your hospitality,” Booker said and left the Nighthawk.
He headed west in the opposite direction of Lila Mae’s house. At the corner, he heard a car rattling toward him. He pulled the hat low on his brow, watched the jalopy turn down Fountain and stop in front of his sister’s house. He saw her stumble out of the car and into the arms of the ofay. Lila Mae was as lost to Booker as Henry was to Lila Mae.
A crowd of people waited for the Red Car at the corner of Sunset and Vine. Booker held a suitcase in one hand and smoothed down the beginnings of a mustache with the other. He might have liked Los Angeles. Its booming ways appealed to him, with ornamental street lamps and telephone poles lining the sidewalks. Homes sprouted everywhere, even in the hills. It was a city free of hunger. You could pick plums, peaches, and oranges right off the trees. But for Booker, it would always be cursed with Lila Mae’s passing.
The Red Car’s metal wheels screeched along the tracks. As it neared, the conductor rang the bell. The doors opened. Booker climbed the steps, paid his fare, and walked down the aisle. He put his luggage on the window seat and sat down.
The Red Car moved, and the suitcase fell forward. Booker snatched it. When he looked up, he damned near pissed his pants.
Lila Mae charged down the aisle. She had dark smudges under her eyes. Her hair tangled, and her mouth curled in a scowl.
“Move over,” she said.
Booker gaped.
“I said, move over.”
He held the suitcase and took the window seat.
“Yesterday—I knew it was you,” she said in a loud whisper. “You been spying on me? What the hell, Booker.”
He was tongue-tied. She wore a sweater jacket over her dress. Her eyes were bloodshot.
“You sure you want to be seen sitting by me?”
“Why you spying on me?”
“I wasn’t going to snitch. I was hoping to get you alone,” he said in a low voice. People stared at them. “I missed you was all.”
“Where you going?” she said.
“Central Station. Where you going?”
“Hair appointment. Downtown.”
Lila Mae opened her handbag, took out cigarettes, and lighted one. She smoked as if taking oxygen and exhaled like it was poison. Booker noticed her chewed fingernails and that her hands shook.
“How’s Mama and Pa?” she said.
“Fine. Brothers send them money every week.”
“Jeremiah?”
“The same.”
He glared at people watching them.
They bounced along not saying anything. Booker held his suitcase while Lila Mae sucked and puffed, wagging her leg like it was gearing to sprint off.
“I’m proud of you, Sis,” he whispered. “I’ve seen all your moving pictures.”
“How’d you find me?”
“At the Odeon.”
She stopped shaking her leg. “You’re a real private dick.” She dropped the cigarette, stepped on it and looked sideways at him. “That mustache needs some work.”
Booker touched his fingers to it. “Just started growing it.”
“Oh, Baby,” she said, her voice breaking, “I’m so glad to see you.”
Overcome by sudden affection, all Booker could do was shake his head.
“Thought you might go all hellcat on me,” he said.
“I still might.”
“Sure you want to be seen talking to me?”
“You don’t exist, then I don’t exist.”
“You could lose everything.”
“Oh, Baby, you don’t know nothing.”
“I don’t get it,” he said.
She crossed her arms and pressed her hand to her mouth.
“You all right, Miss?” the conductor shouted above the clacking trolley.
Booker saw him staring at Lila Mae in the rearview mirror.
“Just fine, Mister,” she said—and then, turned to Booker, “Baby, why you leaving without seeing me?”
“I saw you—with your white boyfriend. No reason to stay after that.”
Lila Mae snickered. “He’s a puff.” She glanced at Booker. “Didn’t you see that?”
“All I saw was his color.”
“I cover for William. Without him knowing, he does the same for me. He’s nice. So are my roommates.”
“Long as they think you’re white,” Booker said.
Lila Mae reached up and pulled the bell cord. “We’re getting off.” She stood, holding on to the seat in front.
The Red Car stopped, and she hurried down the aisle. Booker grabbed his luggage and followed.
When he stepped from the trolley, they were in the hustle of automobiles, streetcars, and people. He saw tall buildings that hid the sun. A blast of exhaust from a passing truck made Booker’s eyes water.
“Central Station is close by,” Lila Mae said, crossing the street. “We can talk in Pershing Square.”
They entered the park. Booker passed exotic plants, fruit trees and banana palms.
Lila Mae sat at a secluded bench surrounded by bamboo and flowering trees.
“Put your suitcase between us.”
Booker set it on the bench.
“Tell me about home.”
“Not much to tell. With you not there, Mama and Pa don’t laugh so much.” It was still morning. Several people strolled across the square. “The Juneaus moved. All of them. To Detroit.”
Booker rested his arm on the suitcase. “I thought you’d be happy, being a moving picture star and all.”
“How do our brothers like Harlem?”
“They like it fine. Marvin has a girl. Says she could pass. Like you. Works as a showgirl at a nightclub called the Cotton Club.” Booker leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Marvin said she makes more money than he does.”
He heard Lila Mae sniff and glanced over his shoulder. She was crying.
“Hey, Sis,” he said, taking out his handkerchief. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said, grasping the cloth.
Booker wasn’t one for digging into other folk’s business, except Lila Mae, she seemed to invite it. “Then why are you crying? Afraid of being found out?”
She dabbed her eyes. “No, it’s nothing like that. I just made me a pile of loneliness.”
“How?” Booker said. “You’re a moving picture star. You wear fine clothes, make lots of money. Damn, you pass.”
She took out her cigarettes. “It don’t mean a damn thing.”
Her hurt and anger reminded him of when she left home, walking alone down that dirt road.
“My image on the screen—everything, fake. Tell me Booker,” she said, “how was this all supposed to end happy? I don’t fit anywhere.”
He felt tenderness toward her—wanted to put his arm around her.
“You fit with me. Our family. Maybe those showgirls who could pass.” He sat against the bench as Lila Mae smoked. “With your looks, you could be a showgirl, too.”
He watched his sister scan Pershing Square with its palm trees and landscaped walkways and wondered what she was thinking.
“You know what I saw, Booker? I saw a jazz band with white and colored musicians playing at a ritzy Hollywood party.”
“No kidding.”
Lila Mae seemed to be drinking in a happiness not found in a bottle.
“Tell me about the Cotton Club.”
“Marvin said they have singers and comedy skits. It’s where rich white folks go. For entertainment.”
She started sniffling.
Booker saw the chain that held the pendant Henry had given her. He set the suitcase on the ground and turned to her.
“Come with me to Harlem.” He took off his hat and twirled it in his hands.
Lila Mae stubbed her cigarette out on the bench and let it fall through the slats.
“Baby, I sure pulled one over on them. It’s the queerest thing. People loving you one minute and hating you the next.” She looked at him. “I had a strange sense of power knowing that. But I was the one left hurting.”
“Come with me,” he said. “Join our brothers in Harlem.”
“I wonder how long it would have lasted? Well, my terms. Not theirs.”
Booker gazed at the trees with sunlight and shadows passing through the leaves, not quite believing how it all turned out.
“I’ve saved a little nest egg,” Lila Mae said. “I need to get that and my clothes.”
Booker’s joy swept away his own loneliness. He put his hat on and beamed at his sister.
Lila Mae glanced around the park. “Here,” she said, taking a wallet from her sweater and placing a wad of money in his hand. “Take a sleeper. I’ll meet you in Harlem.”
“Ah, no, Sis. I have me some money of my own.”
“Keep it,” she said.
“You sure?”
Lila Mae nodded.
“Bessie Blythe is going to pull a Houdini,” she said, giving him a wink.
THE MAN WITH MANY NAMES
“When are you going to learn Jav?” She said scooping up the coins on the table. Jav sighed.
“When I run out of money I reckon” He said, his speech slightly slurred from the wine. He took out another fistful of coins from his tattered brown coat and placing them on the table. They played again, and she won again.
“Fuck!” Jav hissed this time slamming his fists down on the table, his pudgy face turning bright red. The tavern suddenly went silent; all eyes were glued on Jav. He was a large man, towering over everyone else in the room. While others cowered away, Nin looked at him in the eye, smiling at him knowing full well that there was nothing he could do to her; he’d learned that the hard way. After staring at each other for a few moments, Jav stormed out of the Tavern and the chatter returned as if nothing had happened.
Nin took a sip of her sour wine. Sour was the perfect word to describe the Gray Tavern, the wine was sour, the food even more so and the people were the most sour. It was little more than rotting shack on the outskirts of the small town of Gray Fell which somehow managed to be more impoverished. The tavern was under the constant threat of collapsing on itself, with the stink of unwashed bodies, rotten food, and shit heavy in the air. It was a hive filled with the worst scum in the South which was saying something, all of them were thieves, gamblers, bounty hunters, murders and mercenaries, and she was no exception. Nin often told herself that someday she should leave and go out and try doing something else, maybe she could help folks instead of killing them. But she knew better that, the world was better with her in the south.
“May I join you?” Someone with a slight eastern accent asked. She looked up startled to see a tall old man wrapped tightly in a stained and worn cloak looking down at her, his skin was wrinkled and pale, his eyes were sunken emerald coloured, his cheeks hollow, his shaggy was gray with hints of black. There was a kind twinkle in his eyes, which only made her all the more suspicious.
“What do you want?” Nin asked placing her hand on the hilt of her sword.
“To talk” He said with an easy smile, sliding onto the seat across from her.
“That’s quite a lot of coin you’ve earned there” He noted staring at the pile of coins in front of her. She scowled at him, her grip tightening on her sword.
“Don’t worry I’m not here to rob you, in fact I’ve a job to offer you if you’re interested”
“I’m not” she said, the old man smiled.
“You won’t be able to resist this offer” He said
“That a threat?” She asked, the old man rolled his eyes.
“Why do mercenaries think everyone’s out to kill them?” He asked
“More often than not they are”
“Let’s just say there’ll be a substantial reward for this Job”
“And what exactly is the job?”
“Keeping your grandfather dead” The old man said. Nin froze, her heart began to race, her mind ran through all the possibilities, but of course only one made sense.
“You know who I am” She said.
“Princess Niana, a pleasure to meet you at last” He said, she wasn’t sure whether it was a mocking tone or not.
“I’m no princess” she said, the old man snorted.
“Clearly not”
“How did you recognise me?” Nin asked this far south no one should have found her, and yet here he was.
“Finding people is one of my many talents. I knew your father, he was a good man”
“Aye and he’s a dead man”
“Killed by the orders of your grandfather King Kase’s, so I assumed it would be in your best interested to keep him dead”
“I suppose it would” Nin said letting go of the hilt of her sword.
“We shall discuss the details later; right now we have a more urgent problem” He said looking over his shoulder towards a group of four men all huddled at the corner, all of them glaring at them, with cold pale eyes and shaved heads.
“For fuck sake” She hissed, wondering how the hell she hadn’t noticed them before. Death always comes to those who least expect it her father used to say, which was ironic since he probably never suspected his own.
“King Kase’s men, still serving their master from beyond the grave” The old man said calmly. He stood up; as he did so did the four men.
“Oy I don’t want any...” The bartender began but was cut off by a knife flying through his eye. They were heavily armed, and yet the old man strode towards them confidently armed with nothing but his long worn staff. The men charged at them, Nin unsheathed her sword but she didn’t need it. The fight was over in seconds, the old man was nimble for his age, and quite lethal. The staff was sharper than any of their swords, and one by one he cut them down, beheading one of them and slicing one in half, the other two were set ablaze, the fire was extinguished as soon as it came. The floor of the tavern was soaked with their blood, that’s all that was left of them blood and ash. All eyes were locked on the old man, a room of mercenaries terrified to look at him let alone move.
“Fuck” The old man said looking at the blood smeared across his brown cloak mildly annoyed.
“I think we best be off, what do you say?”
“Agreed” She tried to say but the words were stuck in her throat, so instead she just nodded.
“My name is Ebra by the way” The old man chirpily.
“I don’t care” Nin said as they rode on the dirt road, to god knows where he was taking her.
“Regardless I have found names to be useful”
“I suppose if I say no to this job you’ll kill me too”
“Of course not, who do you take me for some kind of savage?”
“I’ve no idea what you are, some kind of Wizard I’m guessing” She said.
“You’re sharp” Ebra said dryly.
“Thought all wizards were Kings, or Lords not... whatever it is you are”
“We appear to be the exception”
“I’m no Wizard”
“Ah but you do have an affinity for magic, how else could you swindle all that money”
“My father always told me that anyone could use magic but that didn’t make them a Wizard”
“Aye that’s true in theory, but only the greatest minds can truly wield it or those with the most magic flowing through their blood”
“So what are you then?” She asked
“I was a King once, but I found the simple life far more rewarding, so I retired”
“Ah”
“And what about you Princess Niana?” Ebra asked
“Don’t call me that”
“You didn’t answer my question” he said. Nin sighed.
“I think the worlds better off if I’m out here, magic brings nothing but trouble to folk in my experience, Wizards rule the world and look how shit it is”
“Your father wouldn’t have agreed with that”
“Well he’s dead now, and what good did his efforts do? In the end all he did was start a war and get himself killed” She snapped.
“Is that why you spend your days out here in the gutter living amongst the rats, pretending you are one yourself?”
“Everyone’s a rat, some just hide it better, and besides what the hell do you know about my father anyways, or my grandfather?”
“Your grandfather was my master, he taught me the ways of his art. Of course he hoarded all the valuable secrets to himself, but he was an excellent mentor”
“Secrets like what bringing one’s self back from the dead?”
“That and much more, he was a good man too he did what he did to make the world a better place”
“He had my father because he tried to help people!” She snapped.
“Did he? What prove do you have of that?”
“Everyone knows that’s what happened”
“You still didn’t answer my question”
“If you really think that then why are you trying to keep him dead?”
“Because death changes a man, and not for the better, it turns most men turn mad. And if someone as powerful as Kase were to lose his mind well things wouldn’t go well for the rest of us”
“Least we can agree on that much” She said.
Once it started to get dark they stopped by the road. The air was growing colder, turning her hands and face red raw, and she was fighting a losing battle against exhaustion.
“We should start a fire” She said
“And risk Kase’s men finding us so easily?” Ebra said with a bewildered expression.
“They don’t seem to be much of a threat to you”, Ebra shrugged.
“Fair point, very well then” He said, and with a simple click of his fingers he produced a roaring fire that hovered half an inch from the ground. Even Nin who hated magic couldn’t help but be awed.
“See, magic can do good” Ebra said staring at his fire proudly.
“So what does this job entail exactly?” She asked sitting close to the flames.
“First we travel to Gray Fall ruins and then we perform a blood ritual”
“We? I told you I wasn’t a Wizard”
“That’s not why I need you”
“So how is Kase going to bring himself back from death?” She asked.
“His sprit rests in the ruins, only a matter of time before he regains strength. We have to be careful though; the place is crawling with skin takers”
“Ah” Sabre said starting to regret her decision to go along with this. Taking down ordinary men was so much safer, so much easier then dealing with wizards and monsters. She’d never encountered a skin taker before, but she’s heard more than enough stories. But maybe just this once she’d go along with it, just to keep Kase dead, something that might help her sleep at night.
“Tell me, if you think magic brings nothing good then why use it at all?” Ebra asked.
“What kind of question is that? Sometimes you can’t help using it”
“So you know that you’re going to win and yet you keep playing anyway, couldn’t you just choose not to play?”
“Have to make a living” She grumbled.
“I see. Well you better get some rest”
“What about you?”
“I don’t sleep” Ebra said flatly, that was far from the most strange thing about the old man so she lay down, with her face turned towards the fire and finally relented to sleep.
They were screaming at each other downstairs in a tongue she couldn’t understand. She wanted to go down there and help him, but she stayed under the bed just like her father ordered her too. She listened as shouting escalated into violence, as the men unsheathed their swords, and to brief but brutal fight all the while she tried to force herself out from under the bed to do something, anything at all. But she didn’t, even when her father begged for mercy and when his pleas were silenced she stayed put. Instead she sobbed and whimpered, hoping that they wouldn’t try finding her as well.
“Oy, get up” Ebra said shaking her. She awoke, drenched in a cold sweat.
“Nightmare?” Ebra asked. She nodded.
“I hated those” He said throwing her a strip of dry beef. Though she hadn’t eaten in twelve hours her appetite had evaporated.
“You don’t eat either then” Nin said.
“Not for nourishment no” Ebra said mounting his horse. She followed him. They rode down a dirt road until they reached a looming hill on the horizon.
“There it is” Ebra said.
“I can’t see anything”
“It’s covered in a cloud of mist”
“Oh” She said feeling a sudden urge to put as much distance between her and that fortress. As they got closer, the grass started to die away until there was only bare soil left and soon nothing but exposed rock. Then the horses came to a sudden halt.
“Why aren’t they moving?” She asked.
“They won’t cross any further, and who can blame them the place is cursed” Ebra said wrinkling his nose and dismounting from his horse. The place was silent; she couldn’t even hear the wind. It was a deadly kind of silence. To make matters worse the place reeked of rotting meat, and in the mist she could feel hungry eyes glaring at her.
“Maybe we should go back” Nin said, but Ebra wasn’t listening.
“Just follow my lead” He ordered, his usual relaxed tone replaced by one that commanded obedience. She followed him as they began to climb up the hill, the mist only getting thicker. All she could hear were her own shallow breaths, and Ebra’s footsteps. Minutes passed, or maybe hours it all felt the same up there and Ebra’s footsteps only got fainter, and only grew more distant the more she tried catch up to him. She was surrounded by mist with no sense of direction, backwards and forwards was one and the same.
“Niana?” A vaguely familiar voice croaked shattering the eerie silence.
“Nin?” The voice called out again, this time it sounded much closer, and there was no mistaking whose it was.
“Father!” She called out, vaguely making out the shape of a figure a few feet ahead of her. A voice in the back of her head told her to run, to run back down, remembering that Ebra had said something of Skin takers. She ignored that voice, rushing towards the figure. As she got closer she could see more of him, his raven black hair, his glazing emerald eyes and soft face. There was something wrong about him, his smile was warm but his eyes were cruel and bore through right her.
“Nin, is that you?” He asked.
“It’s me” She said her voice shaking.
“Nin why did you leave me?” He asked with a hint of anger in his voice.
“What? No I...”
“You let them kill me; you stayed under that bed when they slit my throat!” Her father roared.
“You told me to stay there!” She said weakly. He grabbed her by her shirt dragging her in close enough that she could smell his rancid breath.
“You left me to die you fucking coward!”, and all at once his eyes turned from bright green to pitch black and pit less, his teeth were yellow and longer than any knife she’d seen. She could feel its claws gripping her tightly cutting into her. Fear clogged her throat, made time go slower as she tried to think of some way to escape, but all she could do was squeal and hope that it would let her go. She didn’t hear him coming behind the creature, but she could see his staff which was ablaze emitting a blinding orange light which cut through the mist. She closed her eyes as the staff slashed through the creature and she felt its blood splatter across her face.
“Get up!” Ebra barked grabbing her hand. She opened her eyes, the creatures corpse had already been devoured by the ever thickening mist. Ebra held his staff in the air and started bellowing a curse in some strange language, and all at once the mist cleared. She tried get up but fell back down catching her breath wiping the creature’s blood that was still gushing down her face, or maybe it was her own.
“Why didn’t you do that at the start?” She tried asking but the words refused to come out, instead she howled as blood oozed from her leg.
“I told you to follow me!” Ebra growled grabbing her leg, and forcing the wound to close.
“I lost you” She said weakly, feeling the shame wash over her, the shame of being fooled so easily and of being as helpless as she was in the jaws of death.
“I’ve cleared the mist, but it’ll be back and those Skin takers will come with it” He said forcing her up. She looked around; it was hardly a fortress at all just piles of rocks, coated in layers of moss with ancient ruins written across them in a dead language written by a dead people.
“Come on we must move quickly!” Ebra said impatiently dragging her away. They went up the hill until they reached the summit, where ten pillars of tall stones surrounded them, each covered with large runes and symbols, some depicting men, some of other creatures like Skin takers and Dragons and of battles fought long ago, Kings, and Heroes, and warriors most of them however had faded away lost forever in the sea of time.
“I’ll need some of your blood”
“My blood?” She asked nervously.
“Yes, it is a blood ritual!” Ebra snapped. Reluctantly she handed him over her hand as he took out a small crude knife and slashed a small cut. He took the knife and smeared the blood across one of the runes as she tried to stop the blood gushing out. All the while he muttered some strange incantation, and the rune glowed bright purple, and then bright red. And then he stopped, and the colour faded.
“Is it done?” She asked hoping that it was, more than eager to get back to the Tavern, to where the world was a less terrifying place, where the only monsters were other men.
“Aye” Ebra said.
As she mounted back onto her horse she noticed a dark plume of smoke rising in the distance.
“That’s Gray Fell!” She said.
“Oh no, just the Tavern” Ebra said riding up next to her. There was something different about him now, his hair wasn’t as gray, his eyes were no longer bloodshot, and it was as if years of his life had been shaved off.
“How do you know?” She asked
“How do you think?” He asked, his lips had curled into a smug grin.
“That spell wasn’t to keep Kase dead was it?”
“No”
“Why then?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Why kill a score of the worst scum in the south, and save the life’s of thousands, preventing countless rapes and thefts?”
“You don’t know that”
“Don’t be a fool, I know you don’t really believe that”, She said nothing, instead looking at the rising smoke feeling her stomach turn, even from this distance she could swear she could almost smell the charred meat of the dead.
“It’s wrong; you can’t just burn men alive”
“Why can’t I? You think any of them could’ve changed their ways, started a new life let go of their violent ways?” Ebra said laughing coldly.
“Let me tell you the dark truth of the world, men never change, I have lived for hundreds of years I have seen all manner of people, and I’ve come to the conclusion that they aren’t as complex as you may think. In the end evil men will do evil, and good men will do good” She looked at him, all of it was starting to fit into place. The Wizard looked familiar and yet just different enough.
“You’re Kase” She said. Ebra smiled proudly.
“You are sharp” He said, and before she could even lay a hand on the hilt of her sword her body froze. She was paralysed just as a wave of sharp pain hit her; her screams were stuck in her throat.
“I wouldn’t try anything foolish” Ebra said. The pain stopped but she was still paralysed.
“Why trick me then, what was the point of all of this?”
“To get the measure of you, see if you were as powerful as you seemed. And gladly you didn’t disappoint, the magic in your blood is quite potent” He said nodding off to the rising black smoke.
“Who were those men then?”
“Oh they were mine, some of my more devoted followers who scarified themselves for the ruse, I hope you appreciate it”
“Tell me, do you truly believe I had your father murdered? I was the one protecting him all his life. I won’t say that I loved him, he was a stubborn malicious half wit but he was still my son”
“Why the hell should I believe you?”
“You already know I’m right, and that’s the dark truth about you. That story you’ve clung on to all your life is nothing but a shallow excuse. An excuse you could tell yourself whenever you watched a family being slaughtered, or wives and daughters being dragged off you could tell yourself that there was nothing you could do, because magic brings nought but pain into the world, that if you did anything you’d end up like your father and bring nothing but more misery. Your father wasn’t murdered because he tried to help people; he was murdered because he was a vicious idiot who angered the wrong people. The truth is you just want to survive, that’s why your here because is the only place where none can challenge you. The truth is that you’re a coward”, she wanted to tell him he was wrong, that it was better if she stayed out here. But she couldn’t, because no matter how badly she wanted it not to be, what he was saying was true.
“Why don’t you kill me too then, I’ve killed my fair share I’m no better than they were”
“True enough, I’d argue your kind is the vilest. Most bad men don’t know any better, they are to be pitied more than hated, but dealt with nonetheless. But your kind, those who know what they do is wrong and continue doing it. But still even vile creatures have their uses, and now I am offering you a chance to turn away from all that to a noble cause”
“You think burning people alive is a noble cause?”
“Purging the world of the guilty and saving the innocents is noble”
“And what if you’re wrong? Folk aren’t as simple as you think” Ebra laughed.
“I am the closest this world has to god, I know better than anyone what men are like. I have lived for nearly a thousand years, I have been Kings, and Lords, and to some I was even god. I have seen people come and go in the blink of an eye. Everything is simple to me”
“Everyone thinks their right, what the hell makes you any different?”
“Not everyone is me” Ebra said sighing, as if he was explaining something simple to a child.
“I am giving you a chance to pull yourself from this filth, probably the only chance you’ll ever get”
“Go fuck yourself and your noble cause!” She said, her voice quivering sure that she was about to erupt into flames like those men did instead Ebra just shoke his head.
“You had no problem doing it for money”
“I never killed anyone who wasn’t trying to kill me first”
“How disappointing, you truly are a fucking coward. I suppose the fault is mine for expecting better” He snarled, releasing whatever force that was paralysing her.
“No matter, I have hundreds of children, and thousands of grandchildren undoubtedly there are more like you out there that are more understanding” He said and without looking at her again, he turned off and rode in the opposite direction.
“What about my payment?” She called out to him.
“Your life is your reward, though I would hardly regard that as substantial. Goodbye Niana, fair warning if we met again I will not hesitate to kill you” He said scowling at her.
By the time she returned to the Gray Tavern the place was still smouldering, that and appalling stench of burnt flesh made her gag. In life they would’ve all seen themselves as so different but in death all the bones looked the same. The time for excuses was over, as was her career as a mercenary. She couldn’t say she would miss it all that much. She rode off down the dirt road, knowing that she couldn’t hide behind her excuses. She was brimming with terror, a voice instead her was screaming at her to turn back to find some other contractor to stay in the South where life was easy, where no one could hurt her, where she could live in peace. But how could she live in peace when she knew the truth, when she knew she could something to stop the pain of the world? So she rode on anyways for the first time in a long time she ignored that voice.
END
John Mara began writing fiction this summer beside a serene New Hampshire lake after years writing business articles inside a stale New York cubicle. He writes with the creative input of his wife Holly. They never fail to attract mortified glances when they discuss ideas and plot structure in restaurants. John’s short stories are published or forthcoming in eight markets, including Scarlet Leaf Review. |
Wednesdays at Dusk
Downstairs, her husband Artie thinks otherwise. Maude is a time bomb waiting to detonate his political ambitions. He holds a seat in the New Hampshire State Senate and is running for Congress. He’ll stomp on anyone, anytime to advance his career. Last month, his duplicity earned him a Senate Ethics Committee sanction, which he deftly turned to political advantage by playing the victim card. “My opponents want my hide!” he shamelessly alerted the electorate. His detractors labeled him ‘Artifice Artie,’ but his poll numbers surged ten points! Maude’s early return from the loony bin is Artie’s latest political challenge. His diplomatic compromise? Warehouse the nutcase on the third floor until the votes are counted.
From her window, every Wednesday at dusk, Maude detects a light flashing from a hunters’ shack across the lake. The signal always draws Artie to it like a Pavlov dog. This Wednesday evening, Maude decides to break the monotony of her third floor sanctuary. She kayaks across the lake.
Right at dusk, Artie’s light beckons him yet again, and he paddles his canoe straight for it. But this Wednesday, his time-worn routine takes an unexpected turn. “Oh God, Maude, what the hell are you doing?!” he cries out, when he enters the shack.
Maude points her revolver at a horrified blonde woman splayed against the wall.
“Hand over that gun!” Artie lunges toward Maude. “Now!”
“Don’t try it Arthur!” she says. “I’ll shoot off the wandering little thing that made me crazy!” She waves the gun menacingly at his groin. “Now stand right over there. Next to blondie!”
Artie clutches his manhood with tremulous hands, and beads of sweat form on his brow.
“I know why this little dolly comes here!” Maude seethes.
“You’ve … you’ve got it all wrong, honey,” Artie says. “This young lady takes walks around the lake, that’s all.”
“Walking!! Walking?? That’s just what the tramp here claims!” Maude hisses viperously. “Is THAT what you call it, Arthur? I thought all your … walking … ended after I … cut myself.”
“It did, honey, it did! I swear!”
“Then what’s with the flashing light every Wednesday?”
“An old codger signals me every Wednesday at dusk. We watch over this shack together.”
“It’s Wednesday. It’s dusk. And this blonde dolly is no old codger!” Maude aims the gun at the woman, who sinks to the floor, too horrified to speak.
“Don’t do it, Maude. Dooon’t!” Artie pleads. “Come home with me. I’ll help you get better.”
But Maude hears only her own dark thoughts. She squeezes the trigger, and the woman’s face explodes.
“Oh no! Oh God!” Bile burns Artie’s throat, and his bladder empties.
Maude flares another crazed grin. “Ain’t pretty no more, your little plaything, now is she?” She turns the gun on Artie. “I’m ending all the pain you cause me, right now.”
Artie squeezes his eyes shut to accept his fate, and he folds his hands in prayer. “God, forgive all I’ve—”
“Bang!” Maude’s brain splatters the shack before the gun barrel falls from her mouth.
“No! Nooooo!” Artie howls. Maude’s eyes stare, still holding him to account. The shock freezes him in place. “Help me God. Please. Tell me what to do!”
The fetid smell of death fills his nostrils. Artie retches, and his head swoons. He retreats outside to gulp the fresh air. He paces, and in time his pounding heart slows down. “Steady now. Get back in control.” His cold survival instincts return. “Maude’s gone, and so is the woman. I can’t change that,” he calculates. “But how do I skate outta this mess?” He suddenly hears footsteps. “I’m finished,” he reasons. He slips behind the shack.
“Big fella, y’in there?” The woman Artie calls ‘Wednesday Wendy’ weaves her way toward the shack. “Shorry I’m late,” she slurs. Two years ago, Artie promised to get her lengthy drug record expunged and then land her a proper job. After a long day atop her favorite barstool, she’s ready to tell the creep, “No more Wednesdays at dusk.”
Artie monitors Wendy through a gap in the wall planks. “Think, think.”
“Oh Lord, help me!” Wendy shrieks, when she staggers into the grisly scene. She covers her nose and hyperventilates, and then she vomits an afternoon’s worth of rotgut whiskey when she sees what used to be Maude’s skull. In a daze, Wendy kneels to wipe blood off the revolver and examine it. She crawls through blood, brain and bone, wending her way to the blonde woman. The trauma overwhelms her when she turns over the faceless corpse. The room spins, and Wendy passes out.
Artie has an epiphany. He paddles out onto the calm lake and speed-dials his campaign manager on his cellphone. “Say Slick? It’s me, Artie. Now listen good. You got one last victim card in that campaign deck of ours? I may’ve found the ten extra sympathy points we need in the polls to turn the election -- if we play our cards right! Meet me at the lake house. The press will descend on us at dawn like vultures, and we need to conjure up another good sob story.”
Artie glances back at the shack. Flashlights strobe in the dark, but this time they belong to two policemen investigating possible gunshots –- the two that got hired after Artie angled for state funding. “Yo Slick?” the artful one whispers. “Come meet your next Congressman. We just hit the jackpot!”
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