What is a Mother Witch to do? In a world of infinite ironies, can anything truly be ironic? Mother Witch posed to her daughters (but mostly herself) many times this question. Chapter one: Bloody Mary The oldest of the three sisters (Shakespeare warned us that witches, while often numbering many in a coven usually flock in groups of three) is Bloody Mary. A nickname her siblings gave her— she found them impossibly unimaginative. With a pretty face dominated by giant obsidian, fairytale-eyes, and mischievous hair in a pixie coiffure (color varies wildly), she resembles a fairy or perhaps a playful river nymph; looks can be deceiving. Her skin is alabaster, pale to the point of translucence; why go outside when you have Wi-Fi? She brings to mind a porcelain china doll; no, not Chinese, she is much too lithe and willowy. Japanese; Japanese Lolita Goth, that’s what the kids call it nowadays. At fourteen going on forty, like many teenagers she is a little too mature for anyone’s good. She is highly animated; a living anime, simultaneously tenebrous and ethereal, with herky-jerky motions that make one feel slightly seasick. She moves in a way that makes her seem as if she were in a badly filmed, single camera movie (one comes to mind, The Blair something-or-other) that if watched to long, makes you nauseous and fatigued. The world of Wicca knows Mary as a Succubus— her specialty, Glamour. Mary’s favorite target is over-confident boys (or to take down a peg the occasional girl who needed it). Her sobriquet is ironic because when she strikes there is rarely any blood, usually just slight scratches. She takes a hand and places it tenderly on a boy’s face: the cheek, lips, anywhere on his visage. With the other hand, she gently massages the back of his neck and head, just above the brainstem. Staring beguilingly into his eyes, she takes her nails— normal nails, often manicured, sharp, and quite pretty— and with adroit fingers, slightly perforates the surface of the skin. An awkward teenage caress, the poor boy probably thinks he is about to be kissed. Boy, are you wrong. Through a process known in witch lore as aura absorption, she would suck the very quintessence of their being from them. If she did not go too far, this rarely resulted in death. Nevertheless, parents did notice that overnight their child became extremely taciturn and languorous; they seemed to be only husks of their former selves…Hollowed. Doctors were baffled when worried parents would bring the boys in. After a battery of cognitive tests and scores of CAT scans, they would ineptly attempt to explain how the limbic system, the part of the brain that houses memory and emotion; had been eradicated. “You mustn’t keep doing this,” Mother Witch reprimanded Mary. “Why not, they deserved it,” Mary rebutted, with that petulant, sarcastic tone of a teen that so irked her mother. “No! They did not,” her mother replied sternly. However, her resolve weakened, and then slipped away as she let out a sigh. For she knew, how the sweetest of boys (and men; even some women) could quickly turn grabby and aggressive, stifling and domineering; Dr. Jekkle and Mr. Hide was more than just a mere story. She had to fight off her share, and that is not counting the hordes in her youth, even if that was many years ago— centuries in fact. Magnetism is a powerful thing. She had a sudden vision of a handsome man who had fancied her, yet, one whose affections were unrequited. She remembered him first gently trying to take her, then assertively, then violently. He would not remember that. He would remember nothing at all for the rest of his short life. “Mom, you know I can always tell when you’re lying,” Mary exalted. They both began to chuckle. “And I you,” she reminded her daughter Mary took boys from the mall, found them online (social media makes things so easy); there were few rules, only one really: “never from your own school,” Mother Witch had said; this one, nonetheless, was often broken; Mary didn’t like rules. And it’s not as if they weren’t given a chance. If only they had looked her in the eyes, those haunting changeling eyes, they might have had an inkling. Funny, how people never look a girl in her eyes. Besides, can they really be victims when they acquiesce themselves to you freely? She recently started plying her trade at bars. A little makeup and a lot of Glamour can thwart the most tenacious of bouncers. Her exasperated mother tried to put an end to all of this. Oh; but for-pities-sake, what is a Mother Witch to do when her child does the same things she did? Chapter Two: Ikillia Ikillia (actually named Amelia; sisters can be so mean) is eleven and the middle child. She epitomizes a Norman Rockwell painting come to life— the typical (well…atypical if we are honest) wholesome American girl. She has long curly strawberry-blond hair, pale skin with just a swash of freckles and enormous blue eyes that glow with ebullience. Ironically, how you see or feel about Ikillia depends on how she wants you to; for Ikillia possesses the power of persuasion. She never touches a hair of any of her victims; she can kill simply by asking as her big beautiful eyes cry out, believe what I wish you to believe. She is what followers of Wicca know as, a Charmer or Enchantress. Persuasion is her power but her true ability is efficacy; she simply wills others to her desires. By simply asking; she could make her prey: jump off a cliff, dance themselves to death in an absurd jig, eviscerate themselves in an act of seppuku, eat a lunch of poisonous spiders with a poison ivy salad, gulp down pop-rocks then drink a coke (this one was a little messy however, for the pop rocks were broken glass and the coke liquid Drano), or endlessly read Harry Potter books until they just couldn’t take it anymore. “Why did you do this sweetheart,” Mother Witch would ask her daughter, cautionary, yet lovingly, as is her way. “I only wanted them to like me”, “play with me,” or “be nice to me,” were the typical responses. “You must learn to play carefully my love. You must learn not to use your powers,” she exhorted. “But when one has powers, why not use them?” the young girl asked. Mother witch dreaded this question but knew it was inevitable. She had already gone through this with Mary. “Gods I pray it is easier with this one,” she said to herself. Soon her youngest would be asking the same question and she shuddered at the difficulties that one would pose. How can three sisters be so alike and so different she thought to herself? She wished she could have known the likenesses and differences between herself and her own sisters. If only she had had the chance. “You have to trust me sweetie, you will only make people fear you if you keep doing things they cannot understand. People have and will always fear what they cannot comprehend or appreciate. Tomorrow you and I will talk more about this, for now sweet dreams,” she said tucking her daughter into bed. Mother Witch knew a great deal about persuasion and the power of charm. She had used it quite often. She would explain to her daughter that for her, it was a matter of survival, and besides, Ikillia never relished in harming anyone. Yes; once or twice when she was very young, she may have reveled in the hilarity of watching a chastising adult pull their intestines out like a clown with a string of handkerchiefs, but now she was eleven; a very compassionate eleven and she knew better. In fact, she was often quite distraught, at the revelation she had caused pain, injury, or worse. It should be heeded, however, that a too strong-handed bully (be they child or adult) would quickly find out there were limits to her compassion. Mother Witch explained to Ikillia about the perils of persuasion. That it is a power not to be taken lightly; of this, she was very aware. Many a mortal had obsequiously supplicated himself or herself to her, through no free will of their own (though many more had, and did, of their own volition). She was not too worried though; she new Ikillia was good at heart; had been raised with love and reverence. Furthermore, can there really be victims when any atrocity they suffer is at their own hands? Moreover, what is a Mother Witch to do, when her child does the same things she did? Chapter Three: Preszilla One would think that the youngest of three siblings would be the most docile; simply by being the youngest, the most lovable— this however, is often not the case. For after going threw the joys and happiness, the trials and tribulations (for there are always trials and tribulations when raising witches) of loving and nurturing one than two, parents are often just spent and exhausted by the time a third comes along. There is simply only so much oohing and awing, cooing and doting that any parent can have in them. The youngest most often must be the most self-sufficient; being the smallest and weakest must fight the hardest, if not cleverest. Preszilla (real name Presley; oh sisters) fought the hardest.
At the mere age of six, a sylvan child, she would hide within shrubbery, a copse, or any strategic arboreal lair and await her prey— young mothers, or nannies pushing newborns in carriages or walking them in baby-carriers. There was no need for Preszilla to stalk or pounce, her impish body and cherub face easily lowered the guard of all, she hid for the simple fact that she liked to hide. She merely wobbled out of the woods, never bending her knees, keeping her legs perfectly straight, as was her way. If she was gigantic she would bring to mind a Frankenstein monster, instead she moved like an adorable penguin. Furthermore, she was small and small things can’t hurt you; right? She had the most precious way of balling her tiny hands into diminutive fists attached to pudgy arms (the chunkiness telling you she has not yet lost her baby fat) and banging them together. Hence, moms found her simply delectable, literally the cutest thing they have ever seen, next to their own babies of course. Can they be blamed for allowing her to waddle right up to the newborns, some even extending their child to her for a closer look? How could they know that hidden in those tiny fist, attached to tiny fingers, were razor sharp, talon like fingernails; weapons that would be the envy of any bird of prey? Only too late, as they hopelessly attempt to pry their precious newborns from her, do they realize that those stay-puff marshmallow arms are actually solid muscle? Now it would be wrong to condemn a new mother for not paying attention to her surroundings, so abstracted by the edification of motherhood-- the tender mews, and smell of new life. The same sounds and smell so irresistible to Preszilla. Her blood stained piranha teeth would haunt those mothers for the rest of their lives— those lucky (or unlucky) enough to escape. You must give them your utmost sympathy; they have lost so much; witnessed such sanguinary horror. However, in life (or death), the laws of nature (or the supernatural) do not subside for ignorance. Preszilla did not kill out of malice; she did so simply because she was hungry and for her, baby tasted exactly like strawberry cheesecake. “No! No! No! Not again. You have to stop this.” Mother Witch condemned and pleaded simultaneously, contemplating just how severe she should punish her youngest. “What on earth am I going to do with you? She said with a mother’s concern. “But I’m just so hungry mommy,” Preszilla said with beseeching eyes. “Oh come here little one.” Mother Witch pulled Preszilla to her bosom and hugged her forcibly, yet gently, as only a mother can do. “We must work on curbing your hunger,” she implored, while suddenly remembering the hunger she had felt as a child. She knew then, she would not repeat the discipline her mother had brought down upon her. “We will work through this together,” she put forth to her young daughter while dabbing her crimson streaked face with the wet cloth. For what is a Mother Witch to do; when her child does the same things she did. “Just love me and never let me go,” the little one said causing mother witch to gasp with bliss; restrained. She licked her thumb to rub off a particularly stubborn bloodstain from the girl’s forehead, and then subconsciously placed her thumb in her own mouth to suck off the goo and memories from the sensation of the taste immediately inundate her. She too was no stranger to the hunger. Preszilla was her mother’s greatest test of will, for she was a true Soul Eater. She truly worried about this one. Soul Eaters only came along once a generation. Fortunately (or not) Mother Witch was the last known, until her daughter, giving her insight into what to expect but making punishment difficult. Furthermore, can anyone really be a victim when…? Ok, in this case, yes, they were victims. It was then that Mother Witch recalled a memory. One she had been suppressing for what seemed like (what was) lifetimes. Goosebumps rose from her arms. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. It had been kicking and clawing in the recesses of her subconscious where she kept it locked away and now it had broken free. She quivered. She had a vision. It seemed like yesterday. Even though it was hundreds of years in the past. A millennia ago. In medieval France. Her mother and two sisters burning at the stake. Their screams. The smell of burning flesh. Sounds and smells that forever come to her in fitful sleep. She did not notice the blood that began to run down her hand from the puncture wounds her nails produced as she dug them into the meat of her palms. She remembered her helplessness. She was young, her powers far from developed, still; tremendous power she did posses. She remembered other dark days in colonial New England where people had actually sought refuge from persecution because of their faith— those hypocrites. Her kind would always be reviled as evil; would forever be persecuted and castigated to the shadows. Yet; she knew it was humans, who had perfected the art of malevolence. She could feel rage boiling within her, could sense her eyes changing, there natural intense green being inundated with an angry sepia. Like two almond-shaped pieces of polished malachite with veins of sulfur running threw them. She did what she often told her children to do when they became upset, she took a series of deep breaths. Her children had done things, terrible things, however; nothing compared to the charnel house bloodbath she had inflicted. The anger subsided, but… “They made me do what I did. They gave me no choice,” she said to the ether. A maleficent, yet lighthearted, smile graced her face. She knew all too well, just whom her children sounded like. She however was justified. They had taken so much from her. They preached compassion and forgiveness in their churches, yet; were merciless in their actions. Never would she pity them; nor be sorry, for the carnage she had latter brought down upon, those so-called Righteous people. “And they call us monsters,” she said sotto voce. “Why?” Her overhearing child asked with questioning, honey-brown eyes. “Why indeed,” She feigned anger but it was just the distraction she needed. “Why, why, why,” she mocked playfully. Her three girls used the word infinitesimally. She was dumbfounded at their ability to use the word not just as a question, but as a statement; often considered just buying them all matching shirts with the word WHY on the front. “If only I had a spell for every time you three girls asked ‘why’. I would have my own spell book by now.” She said softly with a sly grin, knowing she already possessed many a book of spells, as she gently stroked her long fingers through her youngest soft blond hair, which now, thankfully, smelt of apple shampoo. She let out a deep sigh, sitting back on the side of the bed whence she had tucked the girl into; the one now purring in sweet sleep like a gentle Cheshire cat. She sat contemplating, more and more she lived in a murky bog of contemplation; knowing one-day all three girls would demand, require, and deserve explanations. She dreaded the inevitable look in their opalescent eyes, so different yet so similar, each with their own most striking colors of the spectrum. Their eyes would bear no reprieve for her; only giant quizzical irises of vivacity, like skyrockets in the full-bloom of explosion. Coruscating starbursts of yellows and blacks, like swarming wasps; greens and oranges of exotic rain-forest frogs, and the admonitory vermillion-red, yellow and black of slithering coral snakes; bleeding into mother-of –pearl-white. They would be beautiful and quizzical, defensive and judgmental. They would each react in their own way when she told them; explained salubriously to them, the story of how they had become who and what they are. Oh, how she loved and dreaded those eyes— knew them well. They were the same eyes that stared back at her when she looked in the mirror. After all, she was the mother of those pearls. “Hmmm, why must they grow up?” Mother Witch unknowingly said aloud, deep in reverie. Was hers any different from any other family? She thought not, well…perhaps a little. She laughed aloud at the absurdity. Her little cabal must discuss, weigh, and agree upon assessments and resolutions. She could not stop thinking of her three little ones; so beautiful/toxic, charming/venomous, precious/deadly—wonderful creatures all. She would prepare them for the harsh realities and injustices they would face (and occasionally administer). She could only think of how the world today is so much different then the one she knew when she was their age, yet; so very much the same. She knew tough decisions were inevitable, but alas, what is a Mother Witch to do; when her children do the same things she did? The End
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Alex de Cruz has had a passion for fiction and writing since reading Hemingway as a teenager. Recently, he's become fascinated with writing flash fiction, short stories, and creative nonfiction. Alex’s work has been published in CafeLit, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Potato Soup Journal. He has forthcoming stories in Adelaide, Bull and Cross, and Down in the Dirt. He grew up in Santa Cruz, California and now lives in Santa Barbara with his wife, after spending forty years in the Midwest. Making A Fool Of Myself |
A 2010 English literature graduate of James Madison University, Chris currently works full-time as a copywriter and part-time as a freelance copy editor. He was the recipient of the 2010 "Future Writers of America" award his senior year in college, and his work has been featured in Across the Margin, Adelaide Magazine, Scars Publications, Spillwords Press, and the Minds Journal Magazine. Chris is an avid health and wellness advocate and enjoys skiing, golfing, competing in strongman competitions, and of course, writing. |
JUDITH
The soft lull from my iPod playing provided a soothing soundtrack for my woes. I turned the dial to raise the volume as my playlist of sad songs trickled from the speakers. Glancing at the side mirror, I took in the slowly setting sun; the last sunset I was ever going to witness. My body ached, and my throat burned, but there was a slight solace in knowing it was all going to be over soon. I sat back in the driver's seat and took a deep, mindful breath and closed my eyes once again.
I thought back to the day Timothy was born; Dina holding our son in her arms. She sat up in the hospital bed with her frizzled hair and tired eyes, embracing our new baby boy. Cooing Tim with the whispers of her gentle voice, she stared at him in awe. She looked up at me and smiled; and even in her weary state, she looked beautiful. I remembered feeling so content, as if there wasn't a single thing I wanted more in life.
The familiar tears began sneaking down my visage as I grasped the bottle of Jameson to take another swig. I twisted the cap off and held the mouth of the bottle up to my lips. I blew into it as if it were an instrument, playing a somber song. I took a quick drag and blenched as the noxious fluid entered my esophagus. Blinking my eyes lethargically, I leered into the bottom of the bottleas If I were searching for remedies to my perturbation. I clenched the bottle by the neck and followed up with a long masochistic chug and winced; the pungent sting of the whiskey flooded my nostrils, and each tear left behind a stiff coldness on my skin as they fell from my face. I pulled out my cell phone and opened my text messages:
We're away this weekend. You're picking up Tim from practice— was the last text I received from Dina.
I shook my head in disbelief; how did we ever become so distant and hostile towards each other? I recalled how we vowed to never go to sleep angry at each other and how we promised to love one another unconditionally, until death do us part. We had never missed a Valentine's day; we had never hung up the phone without saying we loved each other. We had done everything right; so how did it all go so fucking wrong? How did our tenderness turn into such enmity? Like the entity of a flower, our blossoming love was short lived and culminated after 10 years into a withered dalliance. But I guess that’s the only certainty in life; everything eventually dies.
I held the bottle of whiskey up to take another swill, only to be met with the disappointment that it was empty: just like I was. I took a deep breath and opened the door of my car and stumbled out onto the shoulder of the road. The empty Jameson jug slipped from my hand and shattered against the pavement, sending innumerable shards of glass in different directions. Woozy from the booze and drunk on sorrow, I closed the door and leaned against the side of my car. The swift passing of the vehicles zooming by rocked my car back and forth with vigor. Shivers swarmed up and down my spine as I pictured myself being hit by an oncoming truck. I imagined the rattling of a speedy vessel colliding with my body; I wondered if I would feel anything. I pondered how mangled my corpse was going to end up from the impact.
As I staggered to the front of the car, I lost my footing and fell hard on the pavement. Lying face down on the side of the road, I lifted my hands to see fragments from the broken bottle of whiskey embedded in my palms. Clutching my sides, I erupted in loud manic laughter. I cackled at the absurdity of it all. I didn't do anything wrong; I didn't cheat, I had a job, and I wasn't abusive. I was a good fucking father; how could she have destroyed me like this? I rolled over onto my back and looked up to the sky, taking in the faint emergence of the stars above. As the brisk air swept over my body, my vision began spinning. My stomach rumbled with fire as the Jameson began settling. The haggard trees along the side of the road revealed small blooming buds of color, depicting a stark dichotomy of life and death. And while the viable foliage was to defeat death as spring lingered around the corner, my long-lasting struggle to survive would end on the contrary.
I shifted on my side and extended my leg outward, trying to pull myself to my feet. I got to one knee and felt like I was going to puke. I had to do it soon before the liquid courage ran out, I told myself. Finally rising on my two legs, I swayed back and forth, trying to catch my balance. The crisp wind brushed through my hair, reminding me of brighter days. I recalled the camping trip I took Tim on a few years ago. It was around the same time of year, and it was one of the last times my son actually wanted to be around me. I remembered telling him it was a boys' weekend and that we'd go to sleep whenever we felt like it; his eyes widened with excitement. Dina was granted sole custody, so I only saw him every other weekend. I had spent the first couple years after the divorce desperately trying to plan fun things to do with him. My machination was to be the 'fun' parent and to have us do something he would look forward to every two weeks. But once Carl entered the picture, I just couldn't compete. From front row seats to Knicks' games and fucking hot air balloon rides, he swept in like a fucking hawk, stealing my family from me. It wasn't very long until Tim preferred to stay at home with them; and how do you force someone to spend time with you who is so blatantlydisinclined?
Fucking Carl, I thought to myself. What a gross, banal name. His name sounded like someone had a stroke while spurting it out. He looked like a squirrel with his little beady eyes. But he worked in finance, and I was just a writer. And I could never give Dina the life she wanted; I was never enough for her. I could feel a tingling sensation in my nose, which meant the tears were coming back. I stood at the edge of the highway and peered across the broken white lines that ran along it. Was I really going to be able to go through with this?
Car after car darted by, grazing me with their velocity as I wobbled from side to side. Closing my eyes, I tried to muster up the gall to push myself onto the road. Ceaseless heart palpitations strafed my chest as my limbs trembled; my lip quivering as I held back the incessant urge to cry again. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my St. Jude medallion and squeezed it. St. Jude was the patron saint of desperate cases and lost causes; she was the saint my English teacher Mr. Tienken always told us to pray to right before the commencement of our exams. I remembered my teacher had given one to each student in the class my freshman year of high school at St. Christopher's Prep. And for some reason, I still held onto the archaic relic ever since, pulling it out in times of distress, which was every day as of late. I hadn't been to church since high school, yet I clung to the token like it provided celestial influence. I guess I just wanted something to believe in. And I could only imagine what Mr. Tienken would have said about mortal sin. He'd tell me suicide is a mortal sin and that'd I'd go to hell for eternity, and I'd tell him that hell isn't just a place you go to when you die, for me, hell is all around.
I brazenly hopped onto the highway with eyes closed, turning my body to meet the oncoming cars. Letting my arms hang loose, I opened my eyes to embrace the slew of speedy vehicles. Glaring headlights beamed from about a mile away as I stood still. Flits of panic skirted along my back and neck while pools of perspiration slowly permeated under my arms. And as the dual lights snuck closer, I jumped off the side of the road, bracing myself on one knee. I clenched my St. Jude curio and held it against my chest. I turned around to watch the car that could have put an end to it all scurry past. The driver was an older guy with a baseball cap on. I wondered if he had even seen me on the road; I wondered if he had any idea how close our lives came to changing forever.
I stood back up and looked out onto the road. The sun was on the verge of setting, and my emboldening buzz was about to fade; I knew what I needed to do. I pulled out my phone and opened my Facebook app. I entered in Dina's name and saw there were no results; I almost forgot she had a new last name. After frantically typing her amended name into the search bar, I clicked on her picture. Her profile appeared like a brash pop-up ad, and her familiar smile pierced through me like a dagger. Her profile picture was of her and Carl hugging one another and flashing ostentatious grins like they had just won the fucking lottery. I swiped through her profile as picture after picture scrolled across the screen of her smiling widely, kissing her newfound love. I zoomed in on their wedding photo, examining her adoring stare; the same loving gaze that had warmed many of my coldest nights. And as much as I wanted to deny it, I couldn’t any longer; she was happy.
Stepping onto the highway, I turned towards the oncoming traffic. Clenching my medallion as my legs wavered with hesitation, I recalled the day we moved out of the house we had bought together. Packing pictures and loading things into boxes, I turned and watched as Dina dumped our wedding album into the trash. Unfazed by the denouement of our marriage, Dina proceeded to pack her things, almost like she was a child getting excited to leave for sleepaway camp.
“Did you just throw out our wedding album?”
Dina turned to me with a caustic smirk, “Well, what are we supposed to do with it? We’re divorced.”
I watched as she then pulled my manuscript off the same shelf and turned to me," Oh, and here's your almost-finished manuscript. Maybe you'll have time now to finish it." She held it up with her two fingers, mocking its inadequacy.
And I'd never forget her standing there, belittling me to an incomplete book: useless and unfulfilling. I remembered searching in her face for some familiarity, some resemblance of the love that had filled my life for so long, but there was nothing left. How do you spend 10 years of your life with someone, have a child together, and share yourself completely only to realize you married a stranger?
But was it really Dina that was the catalyst for this dejection? I pondered. Or was she just the personification of all my failures; a symbol of everything in life I strived for but couldn’t attain? From my lack of creativity to finish a novel to my inability to save a marriage or move on and find someone new, she represented it all. I was just a speed bump for her, the slight veer from her path before she found her soulmate; I was the mistake. And how I was supposed to live, knowing I would still see her; how could I live with the constant reminder that I was a failure?
The honking of a horn grabbed my ear as I stood steadfast on the road. The headlight beams pressed against my closed eyelids. As I prepared myself for the impact, a vision of my son entered my mind; a fatherless boy who was going to be guided by my ex-wife’s weasel lover. And suddenly, I became startlingly aware of my mortality, and an inexplicable force from within tossed me to side of the road. The oncoming car, nearly brushing against my launched body, swerved back and forth before coming to an abrupt halt on the shoulder.
I laid on the side of the road, drowning in tears; I had failed again.
“Oh my god, are you okay?” a clement voice echoed.
I glanced up to see the gentle face of a young woman with curly dark hair and lustrous blue eyes standing in front of me.
“Sir, are you okay?” she asked concernedly.
“I think so.”
“You don’t look so good,” she remarked, extending her hand downward.
I accepted her gesture and clutched her hand. Rising to my feet, I gazed at the friendly stranger.
“Sometimes, people choose a permanent solution to a temporary problem,” she said with a benevolent smile. Her pale complexion illuminated her silhouette, making her look angelic. Her symmetrical face and soft features provided an aura of calmness.
“You think it’s only temporary?” I asked in a state of disquietude, struggling to make eye contact as I sponged away at watery eyelashes with the back of my hands.
She inconspicuously rolled up her sleeve to reveal a discernible canvas of cuts along her wrist and forearm.
“I promise,” she said as she reached out and hugged me. I felt immense humility and embarrassment as I wrapped my arms lightly around the beautiful stranger. But her hug was not typical; it was heartfelt, and it was sincere. She smelled like affluent lilacs, reminding me of the purple flower gardens that sat outside my parents' house when I was a child. The warmth from her chest flowed into me, breathing a newfound hope; and for some reason, I felt like anything was possible.
“Thank you,” I said as I smiled awkwardly. “I think I’ll be okay.”
As we broke from our embrace, the ethereal woman smiled one last time and made her way back to her car.
“Wait,” I announced. “At least tell me your name.”
“Judith,” she replied, looking over her shoulder, as she got in her Chevrolet and drove off.
A Very Useless and Relaxing Time
"It would be lovely to go away somewhere, wouldn't it?" She said.
"I thought we were away."
"No, but somewhere real. Somewhere where things are happening, with people. And we could go dancing."
He did not speak or open his eyes. The air was salty and the sun was bright. The breath of silence filled with the low pulse of surf pulling back into the ocean and the whisper of rustling grass. Somewhere a gull crooned twice; a second responded. The sand was warm, and Collin was drunk. Not completely spent or sloppy but warm and cozily drunk. He pulled closer to her.
She was sitting up, perched with her hands dug into the sand, staring out over the ocean with defiant aplomb. She wore a monstrously sized, floppy hat to protect her pail skin from the Adriatic sun. Her skin felt oily and she smelled heavily of sunscreen.
Collin was at ease, lost in the enveloping warmth of the afternoon and the steady pulse of her body as she took long, relaxed breaths. He knew how dissatisfied she was with, well, almost everything, especially him. Collin didn't worry about that because they were here on his money, so he would do what he damn well pleased. Today, and for the entirety of the last week, that meant drinking on a beach in Croatia and nothing else. Occasionally, he took the paddle board out or went for a swim. Collin loved the water, loved its smell, its taste, but most of all, its presence.
They'd rented a small and pretty house on a small and pretty strip of land that was secluded and quiet. About twenty minutes away was a fishing village that they could not pronounce the name of; they had only visited twice to buy food and alcohol. Collin was curious to spend more time there, but she was mistrusting of every local because she was too beautiful and white to go anywhere in this world without being stalked by wandering, vicious eyes. Eyes intent on dragging her into the darkness and holding her and doing cruel, unspeakable things. But everyone they'd met was perfectly pleasant. Collin tried to tell her there was nothing to worry about, but her fear had been buried in a deep and indistinguishable place by her parents. No one scoffed as they pointed and fumbled between Croatian, Italian and English--fortunately, desires for food and drink are globally understood. Pointing helps. She complained about the ordeal but Collin enjoyed the miscommunication. He excelled at charades. He'd learned a great deal about it during his time in New York City talking to bodega employees and giving tourists directions. He’d spent the last five years in Manhattan after being brought in by the McPherson Company to manage a boutique hotel they'd spent two years renovating. It was an historic building in the West Village with a lengthy history he'd learned from one of the bellboys named Thomas. Thomas could be very quiet, but he was nice, reserved and knowledgeable about all things that interested him. He'd been the one to turn Collin on to Croatia. She had wanted to go to France.
"Are you ashamed of me?" She said. He could hear sand streaming out her closed first like an hourglass.
"No," he said. "What the hell would give you that idea?"
"You never bring me anywhere with people. I don't need you to show me off or anything, but I feel hidden. You seclude me to places like this," she gripped another handful of sand, "and it's getting old, Collin."
"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, but I thought you hated all of my friends."
"I don't hate them, I just think they frightfully boring. If they go out it's to a bar or a restaurant or a movie. They're not particularly social. I want to meet people, to do things, to--"
"--go dancing. I know. You've said it a thousand times. And I've told you a thousand times that--"
"--I don't dance. I know." She grabbed another fistful of sand.
"And I never have, so stop acting like this is something new and pass me the rakija."
She brushed her hand off on her thigh and stretched her lean body towards their small cooler and grabbed the slender yellow-brown bottle. Collin sat up and took the bottle from her tenderly.
"Besides, it's not like I force you to do anything. I told you we should spend some time soaking in the Adriatic and you accepted, so voila!" He unscrewed the metal cap and took a long swill of the sweet honeyed liquid. He offered her the bottle but she pretended not to notice. Collin took another long drink, basking in the silence. The cool warmth ran through his body and he felt supreme satisfaction with their location; with the sun and the surf, and his answer.
"I just," she shook her hair lightly against the breeze, calculating her words, "I just thought it would get better, you know? We've been at this for three years and--you do love me, don't you?"
Collin pulled the bottle from his lips, screwed the cap back on and planted it firmly in the sand. "Of course," he said. “If I didn't love you, you wouldn't be here." He smiled at her reassuringly.
"True." The word died on her lips. “But that’s not how this is supposed to work,” her voice as insubstantial as the breeze. She unstrapped her bikini and laid on her chest. "Would you mind rubbing sunscreen on my back?"
"You stink enough already." He smiled.
She swatted his shoulder playfully, "You know I'm perfectly incapable of tanning. I'm too sweet and delicate for this climate." She held herself up on her elbows and smiled at him from under her large floppy hat.
"What would your mother say if I brought you back with sun spots." He smacked her hat off and squeezed her side in the exact spot she was most ticklish.
She screamed and rolled defensively onto her back in the sand and, whether for the alcohol or the sun or the sound of the surf or the very real possibility that he actually did truly love her, Collin rolled with her. He took her in his arms and kissed her deeply, and she tossed sand at him and he pushed her into the surf, and they splashed through the clear, salty water before collapsing in each other’s arms in the soft, warm sand. They made love and felt as young and happy as they ever had.
For a time, she was happy. She did love him, but as often came to her at night, the feeling that they simply weren't compatible returned. Even if they were perfectly capable of having a good time or of loving each other, at a certain point that wasn't enough. There, in the sun, she knew she could never see Collin again. For now, it made sense to allow herself to enjoy this time; that she should allow him the same pleasure. She motioned for the rakija and took deep unbridled gulps of the sweet, stinging liquid. She was sweating and covered in sand and they were both completely naked. Her long auburn hair hung in salty clumps.
It was a very useless and relaxing time, she thought. But youth was hers to lose, and she knew that deep down, Collin only wanted for her to be happy. At least as far is it didn't impede his own happiness. That had to count for something. At least as far as they could share this moment. Beyond it, she knew he was useless, emotionally stunted; he would never be good for anyone with an ounce of self-possession. That was not her--had never been.
#
Before dinner, she left Collin on the beach to shower off the sand and the sweat and the salt that coated her entirely. They had polished off the rakija from the cooler, so Collin had nothing left to do but lay on his back and tan his naked body. She would bring wine when she returned--they’d had plenty of rakija for one day--and then they could start cooking. Left alone, she knew he would sleep off the alcohol, so she could take her time. The walk back to the house was only about fifty yards but sand quickly gave way to large, unsteady rocks. She navigated them carefully with her sandals, sure to test her footing before committing to the next step. The rakija had done its job: she was drunk.
Once inside, she poured a glass of water from the tap and drank it in a single gulp. Then another. She kicked off her sandals and placed her hat on the table. Walking into the bathroom, she immediately cranked the hot water to its highest setting. She closed the window to ensure the room would fill with steam. She turned to the mirror over the sink and fussed with her salty hair; it could be worse. She splashed cold water on her face and felt refreshed. Maybe it was the rakija or the endorphins still coursing through her, but she began to make faces at herself in the mirror: smoky sexy faces; goofy, tongue-out faces; frightful monster faces. She closed her eyes one at a time and furled her brow and danced with her chin while her lips pursed and popped and smiled. Her face. She loved her face. In every shape it made.
She took a step back and grabbed her breasts with both hands. The steam began to cloud the mirror as she removed her top and shimmied out of her bottom. Still, she could not take her eyes off of herself. She stared until the steam made it impossible to see her own reflection. She pulled back the curtain from the shower and stepped blissfully into the billowing steam. The water burned her skin and she turned bright red, basking in the mild pain as it stripped the grit from her body. Then, she jammed the valve towards cold: an icy shock to her steaming pink skin. Her hands caressed and squeezed every part of herself, jolting from one curve to the other: a marvel to herself.
The cool water calmed and steadied her. The pulsing waves of the rakija mellowed, and she was left with only her bliss. She washed herself delicately before shampooing her hair--as the steam dissipated, she finally emerged from the shower. She bundled her hair with a towel before patting herself dry and walked through the house stark naked. Entering the bedroom, her eyes lingered on her duffle bag, its contents spread across the dresser; it would take no time at all... no time.
But, instead, she grabbed a striped linen dress and pulled it over herself. The fabric was soft, perfectly fit. With nothing between the dress and herself, she felt rejuvenated. Again, she grabbed both of her breasts, gently tracing the outline of her nipples in the fabric.
What fun there is to have, will never happen at your expense. A permanent smile set into her freshly clean face.
She dried her hair, grabbed a chilled bottle of chardonnay and returned to the beach barefoot.
#
Collin felt a tickle on his inner thigh. It began at his knee and traced slowly up the inside of his leg, caressed him, and continued up his body until it cradled his face.
“How long was I out?” He asked with his eyes closed.
“Oh, who’s to say? Not long.” She jammed the chilled bottle of chardonnay into his stomach and he shot up reflexively; he was awake.
“Woah! Not fair! Not fair.” He gazed at her freshly clean face. The breezy pulling her dress tight against her body. A dream, he thought.
“Come on--I’m absolutely starving, and I know you’ll have a fit if I get it going without you.”
He uncorked the wine and stood reluctantly, unsteady on the sand. “Yes, yes. Just, ah,” he looked down at his undressed, flaccid self, “have you seen my shorts?”
“Behind the cooler.”
“Ah.” Collin redressed as the fog of his drunken nap ebbed and he regained clarity.
They began foraging driftwood and dried grass for their barbeque on the beach. Collin created a makeshift fire pit in the sand and filled it with dried grass before building a shaky teepee out of the wood. He smiled at the prospect of starting a fire. Ever since his days as a Scout, he'd loved building fires. His father always joked that it was a primal necessity and the only sure way to make their ancestors proud.
They sat and dried themselves by the fire. The night began to set and the Mediterranean sparkled out before them brighter than the stars, a pulsing, deep azure. Collin tended to the fire, tamping it down to a low flame so they could cook. She was perfectly capable of tending the fire herself, but Collin insisted. He stumbled to the cooler and grabbed four husks of corn that he threw directly onto the fire, sure to leave space between them so as not to suffocate the radiant coals.
He plopped into the sand beside her and leaned on her shoulder, "Now, we wait." He held his hand out for the bottle. She took a sip and handed it to him gently. He kissed the crook of her neck before settling comfortably onto her lap. He was at the perfect angle to drink without spilling while still being as comfortable and close to her as he wanted.
“You smell fantastic.”
“And you smell terrible.”
“Good terrible?”
She smiled in reply: “God, no.”
They sat in silence watching the flames dance and pop while the bright husks curled against the heat. "I'm sorry I never take you dancing," he said.
"I know. That doesn't mean it will ever change," she smirked. "I'm just better at putting up with you than you are at putting up with me."
"You can say that again," he laughed. "But, I am sorry."
She ran her fingers through his damp, thinning hair, "I know. I know."
The corn hissed in the fire. She reached out with a pair of tongs and took great care flipping each of them over.
"Almost done, eh?" He rolled over, curling against her.
"Almost. I think we're ready for the sausages if you want to grab the skewers."
He planted his arm on her leg and pushed himself up. She met his eye; her gaze was at once condescending and comforting. He struggled to his feet and found the skewers in one of their bags. He opened the pack of sausages and slid them onto the metal, one for her and one for him. He planted them deep into the sand so that they would hover over the flames without falling. She pulled the corn off of the fire and let it sit for a minute on top of the cooler before handing him one of the cobs. They ravaged the sweet, juicy corn and threw the discarded husks back into the fire to burn. The sausages were beginning to blacken and there was a steady hiss from the fire as fat dripped off the links onto the coals. Collin adjusted the skewers away from the fire and grabbed his second cob. After finishing, he removed the sausages from the fire and placed them on top of the cooler. He took a swig of the wine and offered it to her, but she was still focused on her second cob, thinking drunkenly that she had never tasted anything this good in all the world.
"And you complained that I never take you anywhere, " he laughed.
"Shut up." She clapped him on the shoulder and handed him one of the skewers.
Collin laughed and bit into the burning link with a sharp crack of the blackened casing, "It's delicious."
She polished off the wine and they fell asleep in each other’s arms in the still night. Collin dreamed of the man he would have to be to make her happy. He even considered becoming that man before banishing the notion for good; it was lovely to think. She dreamed of nothing in particular. There was a subtle sense of weightlessness and a long unbroken breeze--that, she remembered clearly. The color blue featured prominently but she could not place it--she knew it without actually remembering it.
#
Collin woke to the early afternoon sun. His skin felt warm to the touch and he was alone on the beach. His head throbbed and his back was stiff. He lumbered up the path towards their small house, eager to finish his sleep on a mattress and to take a long gulp of cool water. There would be ibuprofen too, and a pillow. She would be waiting in bed. For the first time in a long time he truly looked forward to her presence. For once, he felt he'd done right by her. Pushing through the loose screen door, he saw a bottle of chardonnay sunk into a gleaming ice bucket on the kitchen counter, moisture beading on the polished metal. Wonderful, he thought, she's ready for me. Attached to the neck of the bottle with a light blue ribbon was a small note. He undid the simple knot and opened the folded paper. It was handwritten in pen. The black ink bled from the condensation radiating out capillaries and blotches from her neat script.
It read:
Collin, I have gone to Paris. This is not a challenge. To me, this seems the best way about it. By the time you have gotten this, I will be somewhere in Italy... if the weather holds... it should be a fantastic day for travel. I wish you all the best. I truly do. Au revoir, Audrey Ann Rickman.
Her signature was large and ornate. Collin held the scrap of paper and read the note three more times. He felt a flash of excitement and considered dropping everything to pursue her immediately. Instead, he uncorked the chardonnay and took a long, relaxed sip. She was right. Overhead, he heard the sound of a low-flying biplane and imagined she was in it. He knew it was a fantasy to think so. He imagined himself at the helm of the plane chasing his lost lover to Paris to win her back: a triumph of love and the human spirit. But that was a fantasy too. He stepped out through the sliding glass doors of their room onto the wooden patio that overlooked the beach and watched the plane disappear into the Adriatic.
I would have married her. He thought.
I should have married her. To think how lovely a wife she would have made--a mother. To grow old by her side...
I would have made her miserable. He knew.
She would have made me miserable.
He lifted the chardonnay in a ceremonial toast to the receding hum of the plane--to the future he did not deserve. He stared for a long while as his mind hunted down every scenario he could be the hero of... they all ended at the same point: they would never dance.
He smirked and walked back into the house.
It was a beautiful day, and after a shower and a quick nap, he would go into town to mingle with the locals.
#
Audrey hoisted her bag to her shoulder as the train pulled into the station. The rush of wind threatened to snatch her hat from her head and carry it deep into the blossoming morning. Even as the train stopped, the breeze continued unbroken. She felt supremely at ease--weightless as she stepped across the threshold into the train car. She heaved her bag into the overhead storage and took a seat by the window. She removed her hat and leaned against the glass. To her, it seemed as if everything had fallen away: there was no train station, there was no town around it and there was not one cloud in the sky above her. No, the sky was perfectly blue.
Gradually, the doors closed, and the passengers settled. The train moaned and creaked as it pulled away from the platform. They picked up speed accelerating out of the station until the world beyond was just a blur. But Audrey didn’t notice; she stared only at the motionless, perfect sky.
END
Mike Fiorito’s most recent book, Call Me Guido, was published in 2019 by Ovunque Siamo Press. Call Me Guido explores three generations of an Italian-American family through the lens of the Italian song tradition. Mike’s short story collections, Hallucinating Huxley and Freud's Haberdashery Habit, were published by Alien Buddha Press. He is currently an Associate Editor for Mad Swirl Magazine. |
All of the Days
“It is a stomach virus?” I asked.
"The doctor said that it’s possibly appendicitis," she answered.
Earlier that day, when he first woke up, our six-year-old, Miles, was holding his stomach in pain and then threw up violently. But in an hour or so, before I left the house for work, he was lying on the couch playing video games. He seemed OK. But later, he started pointing to a specific place where the pain hurt most. That’s when Martha took him to the doctor.
"I'm going to leave the office in a bit," I replied, while writing a note on my computer. I wasn't completely sure what appendicitis was, but I didn't think it was serious anyway.
"My son's doctor says he might have appendicitis," I said to a colleague at work, after I hung up with Martha.
"Has it burst? The appendix?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said.
At first he didn’t say anything, but then suddenly blurted, “Appendicitis can be serious." Then he whispered, "If it isn't caught in time it could be fatal."
I called Martha back immediately, trying to stay calm. "I'm leaving the office now," I said. I then left everything and ran for the door.
By some miracle, I rushed into the emergency room just in time to find Martha walking in the midst of a team of doctors, pushing Miles on a gurney into a triage room. Due to the utter improbability of this happening, I expected to see angels flanking the gurney.
The rest of the evening felt like it was speeding furiously down an icy slope.
Moaning and holding his stomach, Miles asked for drink of water. The nurse said I couldn’t give him water. “Can I wet his lips with a sponge?” I asked. Miles’ lips were parched. His eyes were wet with fear. His wild, curly blonde hair splayed out on the bed, piling up behind his head like billowing clouds. His little palms were outstretched as he leaned back.
The nurse handed me a sponge on a stick; it looked like a Popsicle. I rubbed it over Miles’ lips and tongue to moisten them. I had wetted my father’s lips like this when he was dying of cancer in the hospital twenty-five years prior.
Various doctors streamed in and out of the triage room, introducing themselves and shaking our hands. I didn’t want to meet or talk to anyone.
We were then told that Miles would have to be hurried into surgery in an hour or so. Now rushed to another room, we met Doctor Lawrence, the main physician overseeing Miles. While my head was spinning, Doctor Lawrence spoke clearly and slowly, his large, white teeth strong and bony like ivory tusks.
"His appendix has burst. We're going to remove his appendix and clean out the area around it, you see, making sure it's not infected," the doctor said. His shirt was meticulously tucked in, his slacks perfectly ironed. Doctor Lawrence spoke from a place of absolute calm as my mind swirled. While the skies of my mind raged and thundered, he was unaffected and composed.
Did he say the appendix burst? I asked him a few questions: Will this be laparoscopic surgery? How long will recovery take? My thoughts were scrambled. I spoke as if under water, like my words floated across the room, drowned and muted. Doctor Lawrence gave me clear and precise answers. I found myself absent-mindedly focused on the smoothness of his skin and the delicate wrinkles around his eyes. I marveled at how well he was aging. I estimated that he was in his late 50s, only a few years older than me. I was somewhere between trusting Doctor Lawrence and wanting to be like him.
“What’s going to happen?” Miles asked. I explained that the doctor would have to take out his appendix. “Will it hurt?” he asked.
“You’ll be asleep. You won’t feel a thing,” I reassured him. I held his hand and stroked his hair. Miles asked if he could wear a surgical cap, like the doctors and his assistants wore. I said that we would get him a cap. For the first time, he started to whimper.
“I want a cap,” he demanded, now starting to cry. “I want a cap.” He’d been so brave and calm; he was getting panicked. The distress had crept up on him, like a spider. The word surgery was ominous, even to a six-year-old.
One of the assistants handed me a cap and I wrapped it around Miles’ head, tucking the soft blond curls inside. He looked a saint with a golden halo. Then his terror somewhat subsided. I could see tomorrow through his windowed eyes. I saw skies and oceans. Something miraculous was happening, like he had one foot in infinity.
Then the doctors rolled his gurney away to the operating room, leaving us behind, our hands extended, as if he dropped him away on a slalom course, disappearing down the mountain.
He was out of our control. Martha and I turned toward each other without speaking. We held each other, took turns sighing. Neither of us cried. I felt like running out onto the highway smack into a truck. My mind was trapped in a tumbler, as thoughts, emotions, and objects smashed into each other, like clothes in a dryer, rolling and tossing, rolling and tossing.
We took a walk outside to get some air and settle our minds. The sky was large and indifferent above us, curled around the gray clouds like a black beast. My mind was folding in on itself, collapsing into a murky hole that grew smaller and smaller. Martha and I held hands and hugged. Our job was to keep it together.
When we returned, the nurse at the desk directed us to an empty waiting room. “This is it?” I asked. It was the size of large closet.
“He’s claustrophobic,” explained Martha.
The nurse shrugged her shoulders. “The doctor will come get you when the operation is over,” she said. I squirreled into my seat and put my feet up on another chair. While Martha ate Reese’s Pieces and donuts, I had a few stale Budweiser’s, since that’s all they had at the bodega we stopped in on our walk. After what seemed like many long hours, Doctor Lawrence appeared in the waiting room. He was still wearing his surgery cap. “Everything went well,” he said, smiling. I couldn’t help noticing his perfect white elephant tusk teeth again. His voice was very reassuring. As he spoke, his eyes settled on the can of Budweiser. I felt reckless and savage.
After talking for a few minutes, shaking hands, not really understanding all of the details, I got the general notion that the surgery went well and that Miles was OK. Miles would be sore, but he was expected to recover in a few days.
Doctor Lawrence reached out and handed me his card. “I want you to call me, after he’s out of the hospital. I’d like to share some new therapies, new ideas with you.”
The days that followed were a mixture of joy that Miles was all right and the worry that we had caught it just in time. We had all become closer as a result of the trauma. He was then released from the hospital after five days. He started sleeping in our bed as soon as we brought him home. We all needed to be together. Miles seemed to age a year or two in those few days.
Weeks later, I called Doctor Lawrence to make an appointment, as he had requested. The receptionist said that Martha and I should come alone, without Miles.
“So good to see you,” said Doctor Lawrence when we arrived, his white teeth baring their recognizable shine. We all exchanged handshakes. “And how is Miles?”
“He’s doing well,” replied Martha, “thanks to you.”
He pointed to the chairs for us to sit. “I’m so glad you’re both here,” he said, pulling out two folders with materials in them. He placed the folders on his desk. “Now, I’m going to need you to sign these confidential papers. They’re concerning some profound new research that will be of interest regarding your son. But I can’t talk about it until you sign first.” He pushed the folders toward us.
We both sat back in our chairs. “Is this concerning Miles’s health?” a asked Martha.
“Yes, it is,” Doctor Lawrence answered. We then both reached across the desk and signed the documents. We had no idea of what was to come next.
“You see, I’ve been doing studies on children, and especially on aging,” he continued, his voice suddenly sounding deeper, more serious. “I’ve made some very interesting progress in my research, frankly. Discoveries that will radically change the world forever.” This didn’t sound like the humble doctor we’d met at the hospital. What could he be talking about? And why invite us here to tell us? He went on, “You see, with our work in genetics, coupled with new findings in cellular regeneration, we’ve made some significant advances in what makes the body grow and, more importantly, age.”
I remained silent. I felt deferential to the man, even though I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. After all, he did just effectively save our son’s life. But Martha, I could tell, was annoyed, shifting around in her seat. She winced and shook her head. “Excuse me, doctor, but why are you telling us this?” she suddenly blurted out. “I mean, especially after all we’ve been through.” He stopped speaking and looked at us over the rim of his glasses. “Please excuse me,” continued Martha. “I don’t mean to be rude, but,” she paused and looked at me now, still speaking to Doctor Lawrence. “Are you trying to sell us something? Do you have special vitamins, or shots? What’s this about, really?”
“Now, now, I do understand,” apologized Doctor Lawrence. His eyes looked sorrowful as he scratched his head. “This is all a lot to talk about, I agree. Maybe we should just do this another time.”
“There’ll be no other time,” said Martha curtly. “I’m paying a babysitter, I’ve worked all day, and if you don’t mind, I’d rather that we not waste each other’s time.” A deafening silence followed, like a blanketed quiet after a loud car crash. She began to get up, so I stood up, too.
“It’s just that, well, I wanted to offer something to you, your husband, and Miles,” he said.
“OK,” said Martha. “Say it now, or I’m walking out the door.”
Doctor Lawrence folded his arms across his chest and sat back. “You see, we’ve developed methods that can allow a child to, well, remain a child forever.” He handed us pictures of other children. Martha and I looked at the photos, passing them back and forth. He said, “I know, it sounds absurd. These children are twenty-six years old. They’ve been in our program for twenty years.” They each looked to be about six years old.
“Look at this,” he said, and then flashed up a video from his computer onto the wall. The video showed a twenty-year stretch of a child and his parents. The voice over narration explained that the parents in the film had their child later in life. The film condensed the passage of twenty-years in a few minutes. In one scene, the child was stroking the thin, gray hair of his now old father lying sick in a hospital bed.
Martha held her hand to her throat like she was losing breath. I put my arm on her shoulder, thinking that she’d lunge at Doctor Lawrence. “My research has shown that we can suspend the growth process and consequently slow aging to a crawl,” he said serenely.
Finally gathering up the courage to speak, I asked, “But what does this all mean and why us?”
“That’s a very good question,” said Doctor Lawrence. “The truth is, first of all, I really like you both and I really like Miles. There was something in your patience and calm that was inspiring to me.” He paused. “No doubt,” he added, “Miles reminds me of my son, who’s now in his late twenties. His manner, his quiet wisdom. Even his curly blonde hair. His innocence.” He looked down at this desk. “Even doctors are people, after all,” he added.
“Why didn’t you put your own son in the program?” I asked.
“Researchers aren’t allowed to recommend family members,” said Doctor Lawrence.
“Are you’re saying he’d permanently stay six years old?” I continued.
“Yes, he wouldn’t grow old, he wouldn’t get sick. He’d remain a six-year-old for a few hundred years.”
A few hundred years.
“We’d be robbing him of his life,” said Martha.
“You’d be giving him more life. You’d be expanding his life.” the doctor replied.
“But he wouldn’t go to his high school prom, or go to college, or go on a date?” Martha asked.
“No, he would stay the same perfect little boy that he is now. Don’t you think you’ll miss holding his little hand in yours, taking care of him, putting him to sleep?”
“This is ridiculous,” I huffed. “We thank you for your time …” I started to say.
“But we’d have our sweet little boy to hold in our arms until we’re old people,” said Martha, her voice softening now. “We could read stories every night to put him to sleep, even when we’re old. He would wear the same little shoes, ride his little bike forever.” She looked at the wall when she spoke, like she was talking to an invisible person. “He would never lose that sweet little voice,” she said, tears now streaming down her face. Doctor Lawrence nodded his head in agreement.
“Wait, wait, wait,” I said. “While this is all very fascinating, I have to say that I’m very uncomfortable with all of this.”
“Of course, of course,” said Doctor Lawrence. “This is an unbelievable and difficult thing for anyone. We’ve been working with a very select group of parents. The first reaction is shock.”
Now I was the one trying to leave. I reached out for Martha’s hand and pulled her up out of her chair. She wiped the wetness from her face. “Let us go home and talk about this. Let us think for a few days, maybe a few weeks, maybe more,” I said. “I just don’t know.”
Shaking our hands, Doctor Lawrence agreed wholeheartedly, walking us to the door. “Take your time, think it over,” he said. Opening the door for us he added, “Please remember that this is confidential.”
As we walked out into the night air, I wanted to break away, running as fast as I could. Martha and I were silent the entire drive home.
Blaed A. Woodley is a writer of flash fiction, short stories, and novels from Orlando, Florida. He enjoys writing in the Drama, Romance, Science Fiction and Fantasy, and Horror genres. Notably, he has written Flash Fictions such as The Reward, and The Lonely Road. In his spare time, Blaed enjoys participating in tabletop role-playing games such as Dungeons and Dragons, Warhammer, and Vampire the Masquerade. He is currently a student at Full Sail University in the Creative Writing program. |
The Lonely Road
Hitchhiking was quite dangerous. Either way, you put your trust into a complete stranger. Horror movies and stories have done a good job at dissuading people from having any part of it. Some people hitchhike for the thrill of it, but not Richard. No, he needed to do this.
Same shit, different place, he thought as he stood under one of the streetlights. A few years ago, he would have been nervous, but not anymore. He’d grown used to it.
It never usually took long for him to find a ride, but this road just seemed abandoned, and it eroded his optimism. It’s been hours. If I don’t see a car soon, I might just have to give up, he thought with a deep frown.
Just as he was about to concede, a bright light pierced through the darkness, brighter even than the streetlight he stood under. It was a car! A cocktail of adrenaline and relief coursed through him. Richard knew just what to do as he held a thumb out extended towards the road—the universal symbol for hitchhiking. There was still the chance that the drive would just fly on passed without a second glance, but he still needed to try.
As the vehicle drew near, anxiety shot through him as he noticed that it was a semi-truck.
A semi? Definitely not my style, he thought. Too large a vehicle. Smaller sedans or even an SUV would be better.
There was a moment where he considered just letting this ride go, but this had been the only vehicle to pass by in the last few hours. Richard gritted his teeth and decided to not throw away this gift. Beggars can’t be choosers, right?
When the truck came to a full stop, Richard grabbed his pack and rushed towards the cab, and lifted himself in. The stench of old cigarettes greeted him as he sat on the rough leather passenger seat. Discarded food bags, drink cans, and cigarette butts littered the cab. He was almost choking on the smell.
Then, he got to see his would-be savior. He was an older, portly man with a face full of wrinkles, a shaved-bald head, and a bushy grey beard that obscured his mouth until he spoke.
“Where you headed?” the driver asked, his voice gruff.
“Next town over. Got to find a place for the night,” said Richard in a practiced way.
The driver gave a nod of his head in acknowledgement. After Richard shut the door, the engine of the semi roared back to life, like a vicious beast, and slowly picked up speed as they drove down the dreary road.
“You from around these parts?” the driver asked.
“No, not really. You could say I’m traveling.”
“Could say?”
“Oh,” Richard said with a start. “It wouldn’t interest you.”
The driver seemed to pick up on his reluctance to answer the question and dropped the subject, something Richard appreciated.
They continued on this way for a few minutes in silence. Richard’s gaze moved about the cab, but always returned to the driver. The anxiety he had felt before had begun to transform into a familiar pang of need. Richard knew that it was now or never as he slid a hand deftly into the inside of his jacket. His palm grasped the hilt of the blade as he prepared himself for what he needed to do.
“You look nervous,” the driver said suddenly. “You alright?”
“Yeah, you just don’t fit into my usual type.”
“What do you—” the drive began but was cut off by the feel of cold, sharp steel pressed against his throat.
The driver froze, his hands glued to the wheel. His breath caught in his throat. He looked towards his passenger slowly and met Richard’s gaze. In those eyes was a dark intent. A ravenous hunger.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, though, right?” said Richard with a wicked smile.
Buon Cibo
Mario and Luigi worked from five until ten, twice a day in a brand name hotel in San Diego. First, they worked from 5:00am until 10:00am making breakfast and then they worked secretly from 5:00pm until 10:00pm making take out for guests in the hotel and others. I need to explain.
Mario and Luigi were hired by the hotel to make breakfast for the guests in the hotel restaurant. More than just a continental buffet you see in those chains, but less than a full-service restaurant you see in the finer hotels. No, the hotel only served breakfast from 6:00am until 9:00am. After breakfast, a maid came in to clean the kitchen for the next day.
But Mario and Luigi, like so many hard-working people, had to work second jobs to provide for their family. At first, they tried ride sharing, but the competition from Uber and Lyft make this time not worthwhile. They tried working in other restaurants, but the pay wasn’t enough and the hours weren’t steady.
They asked the hotel manager if she could keep the restaurant open for lunch, but they were denied. Something about insurance costs, regulations, and local tax issues.
One day, Mario and Luigi were having lunch together. “Luigi, I can’t make ends meet. My wife is expecting another baby and will have to leave her job.”
“Same here Mario. My wife’s company is moving out of town and they are letting her go. What are we going to do?”
“You know. The kitchen is just sitting there most of the day and night.”
“Yes, it is.”
“What if we were to cook take out for the guests at night and deliver to their rooms?”
“I don’t think the manager would let us.”
“Well, we wouldn’t tell her.”
“Mario, the guests would let that out. We would be fired.”
“No Luigi. I mean it wouldn’t be for service in the hotel. We could put flyers in the rooms as if we were a local pizza place and offer delivery. Then we cook the food in the kitchen and deliver it to the rooms. The guests wouldn’t know the food was prepared here. We could finish at 10:00pm, clean up and still have time to sleep before coming back to start breakfast.”
“Mario, you’re a genius. Let’s try it.”
So, Mario and Luigi created flyers for pizza and pasta dishes and slipped them under the guest doors in the afternoon. The phone numbers were their cell phones and they didn’t put an address for the restaurant on the flyer. They called their business ‘Buon Cibo’ which means good food. Luigi’s cousin Tony delivered the food, hot and ready to the rooms. Guests didn’t always want to go out for dinner after a long day sightseeing and walking the wonderful beaches.
The first week was slow, as expected. Only nine orders in a hotel with 100 rooms. But the second week it jumped to 24 orders, then 51 and an all-time high of 72 one stormy night. Bad weather is a key factor in all take out businesses.
Then they started to get requests. Making pizza and pasta was manageable, but people started asking for salads, drinks and even Mexican food too.
“Oy vey Luigi. I didn’t think this would happen.”
“Good grief indeed Mario. We can’t handle that many foods, not to mention the added costs for supplies and where to put leftovers.”
“But we’re committed now. What if a guest started making inquiries to management?”
“Or tried to find our location, maybe calling the city to check on our license?”
“Should we just close up, like some local business shutting down?”
“That would raise as much suspicion as serving more foods.”
“Maybe we could outsource the orders for Mexican food.”
“You mean get take out from another restaurant and say it was from ours?”
“You’re forgetting we don’t have a restaurant.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Well, we have to do something. People are starting to think we have this great place to eat. I saw us listed on Yelp and Twitter today.”
“All right. We’ll put a few Mexican items on the menu and see how it goes. We won’t make any profit but at least our customers will be happy.”
The next day, the Buon Cibo flyers included tacos and burritos, just three of each. Mario and Luigi had no idea what they were in for.
Once they offered tacos and burritos, the orders transitioned from Italian to Mexican. Within two weeks, 75% of the orders were for Mexican and only 25% for pizza and pasta. Their end of week profits were down 200% because they couldn’t resell the Mexican food for more than they bought it for.
“Maybe we need to drop the Mexican food Luigi.”
“And working two jobs, seven days a week is getting to be too much Mario.”
The next day after breakfast, the manager called Mario and Luigi into her office.
“Boys, you do a great job at breakfast, but I’m hearing about guests ordering delivery from a restaurant called Buon Cibo. Know anything about them?”
“No ma’am. Where are they located?” Luigi cringed when he heard Mario.
“Don’t know. But I was thinking. Why should we provide customers for some local takeout place when we can control the profits from our guests?”
“Why indeed.”
“So, I would like you to consider coming back in to the hotel in the late afternoon and preparing some dinner foods. I could cover the cost of supplies and pay you double what you are making now for breakfast.”
Mario and Luigi nodded to each other. “That sounds great. We could do that.”
“Then it’s a deal. Give me a list of supplies and you can start next week. I’ll promote it with the front desk and make some flyers to put in the guest rooms.”
“Thank you, ma’am. We won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t boys. And by the way, let’s make this a Mexican menu. You know, tacos, burritos, maybe some tostadas.”
“Don’t you think the guests would like Italian, pizza and pasta?”
“I don’t think we could compete with Buon Cibo. Have you seen their reviews on Yelp and Twitter?”
“No ma’am.”
Out of the Past
The box looked innocent enough as it sat on the front step in the morning sunlight while Darren stood examining it through the open doorway. It was a simple brown, twelve by ten by two cardboard box, with no markings, and clear packaging tape holding the lid closed. There was a label on it, but the ink was smudged and unreadable.
Did Maureen order something off eBay without mentioning it?
He looked around at his peaceful, boring cul-de-sac in his upper-middle class neighborhood. No vehicles he didn’t recognize parked suspiciously. No one walking around that he hadn’t seen before. Nothing was out of place. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He knelt down and tilted his head towards the box, listening. All he could hear were the birds in the trees and a lawnmower down the street. Running his hand over his mouth, contemplating whether to pick up the mystery box or not and the possible consequences of doing so, he was suddenly reminded of the fertility statue scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark. It was one of those weird, random things one thinks of when faced with a peculiar situation and the mind is trying to cope with it.
What am I so nervous about? He reached down slowly, and his mouth felt as dry as sandpaper as his fingertips brushed the sides of the box. He gripped the box gently and stood up. There was hardly any weight to it. He shook it slightly and could hear something shifting around inside. Glancing around the cul-de-sac once more, he backed into the house and pushed the door shut with his foot.
“Okay. Let’s see what this is about,” he said, as he walked through the living room to the kitchen. He sat the box on the counter next to his morning paper and half empty cup of coffee.
The tape on the lid was just loose enough for him to pull it off. Hesitantly, he opened the flaps to reveal a stack of photos of varying sizes, and he froze.
“How?” he whispered. With a trembling hand he picked up the first photo, a Polaroid of himself at five-years-old dressed as a cowboy, smiling from ear to ear at the camera.
Darren couldn’t take his eyes off the photo. His free hand fumbled for the stool he had been sitting on before the doorbell lured him away from his mundane daily routine. He sat down as his eyes began to well up. This isn’t possible.
He put the photo down and picked up the rest of the stack. There must have been at least thirty all together. It took him over an hour to get through them because he stopped to study each one closely. He was in each of them, and they showed him at different stages of his life. Some were of him with his brother and sister, and a few with himself and his cousins, but they were mostly just him. Holidays, family gatherings, even his graduation picture.
He was sobbing so much that he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. When he got to the last photo he froze up again. He dropped it on the counter and buried his face in his hands. It took several minutes for him to take his hands away and look at the photo again. His face was flush with heat and his eyes were puffy as tears rolled down his cheeks.
“This… this shouldn’t even exist,” he said, picking up the picture. “None of these should.”
The photo was of eight-year-old Darren, his brother and sister, and their parents. Darren, his brother, and father were in suits and ties, and his mother and sister were in red and green dresses. It was their family Christmas photo.
It doesn’t make any sense, he thought. All of these pictures burned up in the fire.
In Darren’s sophomore year of college, there had been a fire in his parents’ house. The fire claimed his parents and destroyed the home. These very photos had been in the house.
He had no idea how these photos ended up on his doorstep, or who could have possibly put them there, but he didn’t care. He thought they had been lost forever, and he couldn’t help but smile knowing that he had them back.
Karl Luntta is the author of the novel "Know it By Heart" (Northwestern University Press/Curbstone, 2003) and short story collection "Swimming" (SUNY Press, 2015), and has published fiction in journals including International Quarterly, North Atlantic Review, Talking River Review, Baltimore Review, Northeast Corridor, and Toronto Review. |
The Photograph
Sixteen hours deceased, give or take. The U.S. Embassy had gotten the call from the Belgrade city polizia, who in turn got the call from the Hotel Belgrade Mondo. A resident, the hotel staff had explained, apparently an American businessman, was dead in room two-twenty-two. Stone dead. They hadn't bothered to call the emergency medical teams for it. Malcolm Quinn had been found face down on the floor, fully clothed, his back not rising when it should have, his face immobile, mouth constricted in an ambiguous pleasure-pain rictus. Lividity fully on display, the pooling of his now stagnant blood pulled by gravity toward the floor, turning his forehead and chin and neck a mottled mauve. Cool to the touch.
The polizia had determined on the spot there was no sign of foul play. They determined this much to their own relief, for this was Belgrade, a city building itself up once more to be a world-class tourism and convention center steeped in baroque European history, free from civil war and the random murders of American businessmen. It was probably a heart attack, or stroke. Something. No drugs were in evidence, no alcohol save for a sip of gin and tonic, the miniature hotel bottle still half full next to the plastic cup. The ice had long melted. Hardly enough for an investigation, and, after an initial examination of the body, a Belgrade medical examiner was disinclined to worry over an autopsy.
From the reports, Charles also guessed heart attack. He'd seen the same situation once before, in Nairobi -- which had involved, he was sure, a prostitute who had fled the heart attack victim's room as he likely lay gasping or clutching at his numbed arms and failing heart. The victim's pants were around his ankles, his flaccidity marking his deflated life. A look of horrid surprise was frozen on his face, as if he'd suddenly realized that his final humiliation in a life full of indignities would be to die in a hotel room with his pants around his ankles.
And this one, the Belgrade death. Quinn, at fifty-eight years old, would have been dealt a bad heart. Charles put the scene together as he surveyed the room, now at least three hours since the body had been removed. Charles had him alone, sitting in his stained hotel easy chair, tie loosened, thinking about dinner, raising a toast to his successful day at the newsprint booth, blue blazer thrown across the bed. The drink and the TV remote on the stand next to him. He'd sat down, taken his first sip from the drink, felt the nascent blood-rush in his ears, had the atavistic impulse to jump up and run from it. To the door, maybe? Or to the bathroom, to the emergency baby aspirin on the counter? Is there 911 in Belgrade?
Too late, he wouldn't run from it, it was inside him. It was him. At the moment of his death, Quinn was pain writ large, his central organ swelling and taut, his panic exacerbated by the perfect knowledge that this, this very moment, was it. Perhaps he'd seen the abyss. But the fear had taken over, his thoughts muddled by it, clouded, as he'd plunged to the floor, the beige hotel carpet rushing up to meet him. Perhaps he'd screamed and clutched at something, or swatted the air. Perhaps he'd never seen the light go out.
Charles had caught the call and that was that. It was a matter of routine at this point. Go to the hotel to check the room, go over the work of the polizia and medics, gather the unfortunate Quinn's belongings, and have them shipped home. He didn't doubt that some items of value had already been stolen. Small things would be gone, incidentals, nothing that could be noticed and later cause some sort of international outcry. No to the watch and wedding ring, yes to the cufflinks. No to the Milwaukee Brewers windbreaker, yes to the leftover bottle of cologne. No to the credit cards, cell phone, laptop, and photos. Yes to some, but not all, of the cash he'd had in his pocket. They'd ripped him off, but prudently.
The suitcase lay on the unmade bed, some clothing, flannel pajamas, a bathrobe, and a white T-shirt, clean and unused on Quinn's day of manning the booth. Charles pushed the items around on the bed.
Then, the photo. There were three, actually, all slightly larger than wallet size. The first was Quinn standing behind a woman about his age, thickish at the hips, black hair in a page-boy cut. She was smiling, Quinn's hand on her shoulder, with two older teenagers, a boy and a girl, to her left. Against a backdrop of palm trees and a tropical beach. A studio shot, their dreams Photoshopped in. They'd probably had choices for the background. Niagara Falls, maybe, or the Taj Mahal. Perhaps the Eiffel Tower. Was it Quinn or his wife who'd dreamed of the tropics?
The second photo was the two kids. He flipped it over to find nothing. He guessed at their names. Robert and Olivia, Bobby and Libby. Or Jordan and Madison, something like that, standing in front of a Christmas tree, probably a year or so ago, wearing ugly Christmas sweaters, red with gold borders and adorned with reindeer and moose and snowflakes and a fat Santa. Both kids were pointing to each other's sweater, cracking up, a family joke.
The third was … was what. A triptych of snaps, Malcolm Quinn and a young woman, obviously sitting in a photo booth somewhere. That photo booths were still around was a surprise to Charles, and this was no thirty-year old snapshot taken back at the county fair. It was a contemporary Quinn, taken within the last year or two. He was already slightly overweight and jowly, hairline receding, wearing a red tie and that blue blazer, likely the same blazer lying here on his deathbed in Belgrade. The girl was young, mid-twenties Charles thought, her shoulder-length hair dyed light magenta and tucked behind her ears, with bright plum lipstick, thick black eyeliner above and below her hazel eyes. A tattoo which looked to be the green and red tail of a dragon peeked out from the shoulder of her black tank top, most of it below the camera's eye. She was punkish. She was stunning.
In the first, the top one, they both made fish faces at the camera, goofing around, as if in fact they were teenagers at the county fair. In the middle photo she sat on his lap, her arms around his neck, the side of her head pressed against his, her tongue slightly protruding, pushing through the purple haze of her lips, and glistening. Quinn smiled wryly at the camera.
The bottom photo had her head turned as she kissed his cheek, her eyes closed, hand cupping his chin, brushing it lightly with her fingers. Quinn glanced at the camera, evidently not surprised, and relaxed somehow. Content.
"Well," Charles said aloud, weighing it, hoping against the evidence that this was an older child, or a daughter from a first marriage. But this was no daughter's kiss. Grown daughters do not sit on their fathers' laps and stroke their chins. Yet, this was no prostitute or bar pick-up either. This was something more. This was intimate.
He turned it over to look for names, a date. It was blank. He slid the photo into his suit pocket, on instinct, fully aware but not fully understanding why or where he was going with it.
He packed up the suitcase and clothing and other items in a couple of large plastic storage bags, wrote "Malcolm Quinn" and the date on the labels. He glanced around the room. It was nothing now, just a hotel room in which an American salesman had poured his last gin and tonic. He left with the bags.
……………………………
Back at the embassy, he laid the photo on his desk, took it in. The hand, brushing the cheek and chin. Her slip of the tongue, warm and wet, maybe with a hint of something. Mint, or cherry cough drops. Was Quinn tender and gentle with her, imbuing their … their thing with the wonder and the joy he'd always known was still out there for him, and with the pure knowledge that he'd found it all over again? Or would he be sweaty and quick, a heavy breather, slathering her like a puppy. Eager to cash in before it all predictably, inexorably went bad for him.
Didn't seem like it, but Charles couldn't say why. Just like he couldn't say what brought this twenty-something woman to the lap of Malcolm Quinn. Whatever it was, it was behind their eyes.
The desk phone jangled, that distinct European jangle, incongruous every time he heard it. It was the same with polizia sirens or ambulances, the high-low, piercing call you always heard in the Bourne movies, like the siren was practicing a slow yodel. Why? Like the metric system, it was Europe being Europe.
It was Catherine. Being Catherine.
"Where are you," she said.
"Obviously in my office," he said. "Sorry, the time got away from me."
"We were having drinks, remember? Harry and Jackie and Melanie and me, all of us."
"Sorry, I got a call. A stiff at the Mondo, heart attack most likely. I should have called."
"That's why God invented cell phones," she said. "Texting is all the rage."
"I'm sorry, really," looking at the photo on the desk. The girl was smiling, then snuggling with Quinn, kissing him, oblivious to any teenagers in ugly Christmas sweaters. He pulled out his cell phone, focused on the photo, and snapped a picture.
"What are you doing?" Catherine said.
"Just packing up," he said. "You're at Bistro Pastis?"
"For a while." Then, "For a bit."
"I'll be there in half an hour," he said. He picked up the photo.
"Well hurry, it's getting late," she said.
"I'm on it," he said. "Later."
"You don't have to sigh."
"Sorry. Long day," he said.
He hung up, walked to the shredder. He pictured Catherine, sitting on the lap of some nameless man and, what, stroking his chin. No, she was not a chin stroker. She was more a chin puller. A look-at-me-I'm-talking-to-you chin puller.
He poised the photo over the shredder. He should probably say something, a prayer or a eulogy, for the dead Quinn and his punk girl. Rest in peace? There was no peace here, no rest. The family would be notified, and they'd react as families do. They'd be overcome. But the punk girl would wait for the call or the postcard or the email or the text that would never come. She'd be puzzled, then worried. Her texts and calls wouldn't be answered. She'd make a complicated, discreet call to the hotel and would be told something cryptic that would confuse her more. She'd think Quinn was cheating on her, if that's even possible for a married man, or had given up on the whole damn thing.
He paused over the shredder. It gaped at him, its Cheshire cat teeth lined flat in a robotic smile. Daring him to commit to the irrevocable. It should be easy. He shuddered -- it wasn't his photo to destroy, it belonged to a dead man and to his family, his final possessions on Earth.
Yet.
Yet, Quinn was gone, the girl unknown, and the wife and sweater kids should never, ever know.
So which was it, destroy a dead man's property or destroy a dead man's legacy? Both were unthinkable.
High crimes and miss the dreamers. Charles took a breath and pushed the photo in. The high-pitched grinder did its work, and the photo evaporated into the never-was.
He pulled out his phone and looked at the photo of the photo. Quinn placid, smiling behind her kiss. He texted Catherine that some issues related to the stiff had come up, and he wouldn't be able to make it to Bistro Pastis. Sorry. Again. He'd see her tomorrow. He sighed as he pushed 'send.'
He walked over to Red Bar, a smallish, homey pub a block from the embassy. It was quiet, the low-energy hum of people drinking with a purpose hanging in the haze over the bar. He felt it on his skin. Three men sat at the bar, slumped over slightly, all with both hands surrounding their glasses, the standard drunk's slouch. The booths were empty save for one, where a young couple talked in low whispers over their drinks.
He sat at the bar, ordered whiskey, rocks, then changed his mind and switched to a gin and tonic. A toast to Quinn and the last moment of his life. And to the family. The girl. That photo. Jesus.
"You are an American," the man two stools over said. His hair, graying at the temples, poked out straight, like porcupine hair, and he wore three or four days of chin stubble. A smoldering, evil smelling Driba dangled between his fingers. He stared ahead, didn't turn, preferring evidently to conduct this conversation via the mirror behind the bar. The bartender looked from the man to Charles, as if thinking he would have to referee this.
"It's your accent," the man said. "Though you speak it, you are no Serb."
"Objectively," Charles said, sticking with Serbian, "I could be Canadian. Or a Brit, Australian. Something like that."
"Nothing like that," the man said, now smiling slightly through the dinge of the mirror. "You carry yourself like an American."
"And how's that?" Charles said.
"Cool. American cool. Like Steve McQueen. Obama. Like you could have a badger hanging off your leg and it wouldn't faze you."
"That kind of cool," Charles said.
"That kind of cool. And your accent. It's nasally, twangy. Chicago, not Brisbane."
"And you," Charles said to the mirror. "You're, what, Croat?"
"Boston," the man said. "Twenty-seven years in a cab. In Boston."
Charles squinted through the mirror. He could picture it, jumping into this guy's cab on Commonwealth, saying, "Hei La Moon, Chinatown," and hearing a Serbian curse from the front seat.
"And now you're back home."
"We all come home eventually," the man said. He glanced at the mirror. "And the Red Sox were killing me anyway. It was time."
"The Red Sox have killed many a good man," Charles said.
"You know, if I'd stayed here I would have died in the war, I know it for a fact," the man said. "The wars, I should say. Either way, a man should die at home."
The cell phone sat on the bar top. "If he's lucky," Charles said.
"If he's lucky, yes. And I am lucky."
"What, you're dying?" Charles said.
"No. No, not at all. The opposite. I am just beginning to live."
"So why the talk about dying?"
"I'm a middle-aged guy in a bar. What the hell. No wife, not anymore. No kids. Seems like something to talk about. So, you're CIA."
The bartender jerked back, as if he'd caught a whiff of bad cabbage under the bar.
"What? No," Charles said. "Do I look like a spook?" He sensed that "spook" didn't sound right in Serbian, so he took an aside, and to the bartender said, "spy." The bartender nodded languidly.
"No," Charles said again.
"Who knows?" the man said. "There's one, one or a dozen, in every embassy. And you are embassy, am I right? Don't worry, I couldn't give a shit."
He glanced to the end of the bar, where the two other men sat quietly, glazed eyes fixed on their drinks. "Nobody cares, the war's over. Spooks are fine by me."
Charles signaled for another drink, and nodded to the man. The barman set them up, and Charles raised his gin and tonic.
"Cheers," the man said in English, through the mirror, and raised his whatever it was. He grinned and downed half of it in a gulp.
"So. What do you do here?" Charles said, but of course he knew.
"Taxi, what else." He turned to Charles, his face broad and flat, almost two-dimensional, something Charles hadn't discerned in the mirror. He smiled slightly and it turned lopsided, as if he were trying to work out a piece of meat stuck between his teeth. "So what's eating at you?" he said.
Charles hesitated, the truth of it striking him, as if for the first time.
"What do you mean?" he said. "What makes you think something's bothering me?"
"Glanced at your phone, picked it up, maybe three times since you sat down," the man said. "So you're either expecting a call or thinking you should make a call. Or you want to check your twitted or whatever."
"Twitter," Charles said. "And no, no calls. Look, if I'm the spook, I should be figuring you out."
"So you've already made your calls. I hope you're not thinking I'm prying. I'm not gay, if that's what you think. Though that shouldn't bother you, your gays can even get married now. Equality for all."
"'Our gays?" Charles said.
"No offence," the man said. "I mean to say I'm not trying to be sinister. I may look it, actually, but hey, we're just two guys in a bar, right?"
"We are at that," Charles said.
"So let me just play a guessing game here." Talking through the mirror again.
"Don't think I'm in the mood," Charles said.
"No, it's a good game," the man said, and settled in. "Because there's no final answer, no checkmate or anything like that. Just guessing."
"Whatever," Charles said.
"So let's say an American dies in Belgrade, a businessman, yes?"
Charles took a slow sip of his drink, buying a moment. Heat gathered at the back of his neck.
"And let's say it's an accident, or a medical thing, something like that. Not murder."
"Sure," Charles said. His sensed his breathing picking up.
"And let's say one of the first calls is to the U.S. Embassy, because the man's an American of course. With me?"
"I'm with you," Charles said. "Give me one of those Dribas?"
"You'll be sorry," the man said, smiling, and he tapped out a cigarette, pushed it to Charles, all the while talking through the mirror. "Okay, so let's say someone like you gets the job, because you're an embassy guy, as we've already established. So that someone has to go to the scene to sort it out, gather the things, get the body sent home, all that."
"Still with you," Charles said, remembering why he'd stopped smoking. He hacked, "But leave me out of this. I've been the body guy in the past, I know that job, I know what it's like."
"Fine, then it's someone like you. Now, here's the thing. There's something at the scene, something that bothers this body man greatly. It hits him hard. He can't shake it off, you see? It's more than troublesome."
Charles swirled his drink, thought about it for a moment. "Where's this going?"
"I have no Earthly idea," the man said. "I'm running on instinct right now."
"Can't be," Charles said. "This isn't instinct. You think you know something. "
"Well, we all know something, don't we," the man said. "Some things. Some useless things, some helpful things. That's me, in a nutshell."
"I can't believe you just said that," Charles said.
"I live for a good cliché," the man said. "But let's not worry about that. Let's say this embassy man, the body guy, is very troubled by what he sees at the scene. A hotel room, or an office. No, not an office, the businessman was here on a trip, probably a convention or whatever. He wouldn't have an office."
"Probably a hotel room," Charles said, sensing his voice going hoarse.
"Sure," the man said. Smoke drifted from his nose and he crinkled his eyes.
But they'd gone this far, and Charles pushed it. "Call it the Hotel Belgrade Mondo, for instance."
"Good, I like it," the man said, showing nothing. "The Belgrade Mondo. So the American has died, the body's been taken away, and the embassy's body man is left in a troubled room. Ethical difficulties are afoot. It's a morality play. But the body guy is a decent man, a principled man. And he doesn't lie. Big lies, anyway. Little lies, everyone is guilty of them. So he's stuck with a dilemma."
"Which is what?" Charles said.
"Well," the man said. "That's the guessing part, isn't it. What is his dilemma?"
Charles squinted at the mirror, trying to discern the half-smile, the steady eyes. Nothing. "You tell me. Maybe it's one of those things you know."
"Wish I did," the man said. "An ethical dilemma is like fine art. No one agrees what it is, but everyone knows it when they see it."
"You cannot keep bringing these clichés into conversations."
"Yeah, can't help it. It's clearly pathological."
Charles said, "Fine, I'll bite. Maybe the dilemma is simple. "
"Maybe it is. Depends how you define 'simple.' "
"Occam's razor, my friend. In theory, simple is the most obvious. A conundrum like this, it boils down to balance."
"How so?" the man said. "What balance?"
"The world. The world the dead man left behind. His world needs maintenance."
"What difference does it make," the taxi man said, and he turned again to Charles. "The man is gone. He has no world. Religious beliefs in the afterlife aside, of course."
"Everyone has a world, before they die, and after," Charles said. "The only difference is the world he leaves behind is a world without him. But after he's gone everyone in his life creates placeholders for him. He's a hologram. People see him in their dreams. They smell him, feel him, set the table for him. Forever. His family, his friends, his enemies."
"Well, there you have it," the taxi driver said. "He's gone, but he's not gone. Not to his family. So is it worth protecting that world? Maintaining it?"
"You tell me," Charles said, aware he was breathing deeply now, through his nose.
"But first you're thinking, at what cost?" the driver said. "I don't know. A small lie. Maybe losing something of his, nothing big. Nothing that would be missed. "
"Everything is missed, by someone." The punk girl, magenta hair, desire.
Charles signaled for another round, then leaned across the stool. He whispered, aware if he spoke out loud he'd shout it. "What in God's name is going on here?"
The taxi driver, following Charles in the mirror, tapped the ashes from his cigarette. "I actually don't know what's going on. Maybe you do. That's part of it, isn't it. See, alternatively, the body man could return everything to the family, leaving nothing behind. Because that's the honest thing to do. That would be an ethical choice, too. Am I right?"
"It would, but I'll repeat," Charles said, and took a strong pull on his drink. "What is going on here?"
"Well, nothing," the man said. "Am I being too enigmatic? You'd think I was one of those mystics or mind readers or something. The inscrutable East European."
"Too enigmatic? You're completely enigmatic. How do you know these things?"
"It's just a tale," the driver said. "About choice. Nothing more, nothing less. Someone has to make a choice, maybe it doesn't matter. As I said, there's no checkmate here. No one wins. No one ever wins."
The heat at the back of Charles' neck shifted to a low burn. "How is this a game? The game's over. What do you know?" he said.
"Not much, really. I know about love, I know about lonely men. I know about loyalty. Sometimes the outcome of all that is messy."
"Messy? That's it, it's just messy? Jesus," Charles said. He couldn't muster anything else.
The men at the bar glanced up, then down quickly, as if they'd heard a mosquito buzz by. The bartender's head stopped its tennis-match bounce between them and settled on Charles.
"And the rest of it," Charles said. "How do you know about the room, the items?"
"Look, I'm just a taxi driver, the quintessential spectator. We all are. The police, the medics, taxi men. Anyway, say something has indeed happened in that room, which ultimately has to do with your phone, let's say. That much seems evident right now."
The phone jangled, the ultimate cliché. "Tessie," by the Dropkick Murphys. They both looked at it, and the taxi man smiled.
"Red Sox," he said. "Still killing me."
Charles checked the screen. A text, Catherine again. "Sorry," he said to the mirror, and read it.
"Good night," was all it said, nothing more. He tossed the phone back on the bar.
"You know, there's one last option," the taxi man said. "One more solution to this conundrum."
"Which is what?"
"That the body guy has no option. None at all. He does what he does, no questions, no forethought. No regrets. If that's possible."
"No such thing as no regrets," Charles said.
"You could say," the man said, "he erases morality from the situation. He simply does it. Like a horse shits when walking. No thought, it just happens." He squinted at Charles through the mirror.
"Look, I'm intrigued by all this," Charles said. "But you know what? I don't want to know what you know. And I don't want to know what I know. I never want to know what I know. None of it."
"Because it's over," the taxi man said and drained his whatever it was. "It's always going to be over."
Charles picked up the phone and glanced at the text, checked the taxi man in the mirror, who'd just lit another Driba and inhaled deeply.
He typed, "Good night," and sent it sighing into the dark.
# # #
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