She eases her hand into the sack of keys and sighs, entwining her fingers with their teeth, tracing their curves. Sometimes the bag contains candles, or shoes, and one terrifying day, a bushel of indistinguishable grains of wheat. She hid the bag for weeks after that incident, afraid to touch it, until chiming proclaimed a change to bells.
Mostly, though, it’s keys.
There are old-fashioned crooked ones, cheap store-cut keys that bend in her strong fingers, tiny ones for lockets, some that are big enough to lock a city’s gates, iron keys, plastic keys. Once, she found the key to Baba Yaga’s house, carved from a chicken’s leg bone, with a few scraps of gristle still clinging to it. She was relieved to find its door quickly.
Some days she loses herself in the sheer pleasure she gets from rolling her hands through the sack, but she remains sensible today. The trick of choosing a key is to not allow a beguiling notch or a tempting texture to lull her into picking a favorite. It has to be random or it isn’t fair. She thinks about what she will eat for lunch today—a tomato-from-the-garden and mozzarella sandwich?—and allows her fingers to close over the next key that their questing tips touch.
Pulling out her prize, she examines it, trying to guess what door it will open. She is sometimes wrong—often wrong, to be truthful—but she likes to guess anyway. The easiest ones to pick out are the car keys, and glass keys always unlock the odder doors. This key is neither.
It’s made of brass, that much she can tell, and it stinks of grease—no, oil. She rubs her dirty fingers on her shorts and turns the key over to trace the filigree engraved in its squat design. Something seems wrong with it, and it takes her a few moments to realize that there aren’t any teeth on it. The shape—a butterfly—rings a bell in her memory, but nothing solid.
She shakes her head and shrugs. The guessing game is fun, but it’s not really important, and she does have other things to attend to.
Grabbing a large bottle, she fills it with sweet mint tea, still warm from brewing in the sun. She once spent four days searching for the proper lock of a nondescript steel key. The hallucinations she rode for the next week as her body rehydrated had been interesting, but she doesn’t want to relive the experience. As an afterthought, she makes her sandwich as well with thick slices of cheese and tomato and munches on it as she walks to the room.
“The room” is how she always thinks of it, the words outlined and in block letters in her mind, casting a sort of shadow. She is a bit nervous of it, because, well. . . the sack changes, and that is strange, but at the end of the day, it’s still just a bag. If she really needed to get rid of it, a quick drive to the county dump would probably do the job. But the room is always there, except when she has friends over or when she invites the meter reader in for coffee, and it is far more worrisome. It’s probably silly to think this about a part of her own house, but so it is.
It is for this reason that she, with a sheepish but determined expression hovering on her face the entire time, installed the several bolts that she shoots back now. She has to shove her bottle under her arm to hold it as she negotiates the bolts, always stiff no matter how much oil she pours on them. And she thinks—oil from bolts. Is that why the key is filthy?
The door opens outward; inside she just has to lean against it to leave. It is a little too big for the hall, so she holds the door to avoid scraping the walls and slips inside, finishing the remains of her sandwich.
Just as the bag is mostly full of keys, so is the room usually full of doors. Small doors, about the size of a post office’s post-boxes, each of them a different shape and color. Some have been here for a long time, and she runs her fingers over them as she enters. The one door that is a different size, a tiny opening made of different wood splinters all jigsaw-ed together, with no door handle but a huge lock. Her favorite door, a cheerful red barn door with morning glories growing over it with a lock and handle worn from use. The door that is pure marble, smooth as ice and just as cold, with two gold handles and no visible lock. She suspects that it may only appear when its key does, and leaves it alone. It’s the sort of door built by the sort of important people who don’t like less important people touching their things.
Other doors, though familiar, she avoids. The barred one, composed of tight railings that sometimes allow flashes of red to shine through, she does not touch. Nor does she go near the pair of doors that have a chain running between their locks. One is spongy and warm and radiates lust; the other is covered in precious stones in designs that shift if she looks at them for too long. She wishes they would go away and but also hopes that she never finds their keys; there are some doors that should not be opened.
Most of the doors disappear even before she finds their key, so that the walls flicker with a cascade of change. She winces at the loss, but she has to follow the rules, or it wouldn’t mean anything. It’s the price she pays for her stewardship.
Rubbing her shoulder, she sets the tea down in the corner, taking a sip before screwing it shut. She weighs the strange key in her hand, twisting her head to examine its markings. Frowning, she takes in the state of the current doors.
Logic would suggest one of the stranger porticos. Walking up and down the length of the walls, she bites her lip and surveys the choices. The first time, she methodically worked her way from one corner to the other. After a week of this, she found the orange plastic door—labeled with a photograph of its key. Now she does an overview before she begins.
She pulls a piece of chalk out of her pocket and marks likely candidates. This brass one with a grate, a stained glass window, and a letterbox is a possibility, as is the one that looks like the door to a tent and is scrawled all over with Arabic. Sometimes she’s wrong on her initial guesses, and has to check the hard way, but at least she can make a start. She rejects a few doors out-of-hand—not that one, it’s a car—but makes sure, crossing them off as she is proven correct.
Humming, she scans the next wall. No. . . no. . . ah! She smiles and beelines it over to the square brass door holding the key up to it. The designs match and the lock on this door is a circle instead of the usual crooked shape. She slips the key inside and hears the satisfying click of an unlocking internal mechanism.
After the usual half-turn, she tugs at the small knob in the corner, but it sticks fast. Confused, she turns the key more, and after the third revolution her face lights up in understanding. Not just a key—a wind-up key. Enthusiastic now, she rotates the tool as fast as she can. It grows more difficult to turn as whatever is inside tightens, until finally she can’t move it anymore. A squeal comes from behind the door, then a few “boings.” Pressing her ear to the door, she listens to the clunk of gears starting up. She yanks at the knob again.
The whole door comes out of the wall and the section below it crumbles, the doors shifting on the wall to avoid the break. A pair of legs emerges, and she yelps, backing away. Arms crook out and hands press against the whole section of the wall, levering the body out of it.
A tall figure steps back and shakes itself, raising a cloud of plaster. She watches, fascinated, as it turns around, still dusting off bits of the ravaged wall, which is already knitting itself back together.
The figure—revealed to be a clockwork man—bows and tips his improbable top hat to her. Its sculpted face is too perfect, with glittering eyes that she suspects are cameras. They swivel with a faint grinding, presumably scanning the room, finally fixating back on her face. “Excuse me, miss. Do you happen to know where a man named Martyn Perwellyn is?”
The clear and human tone of its voice startles her. The rest of its body, though well-crafted, shows little attempt to match the art of its face. It’s beautiful in its own way, gleaming metal and intricate fastenings, but does nothing to make the clockwork man more lifelike. “Sorry?”
“Martyn Perwellyn. Do you know him? Have you heard of him?”
She shakes her head.
“Ah.” The voice sounds disappointed, though the face remains immobile in a slight smile. “Then, if you will grant me leave, I am afraid that I must depart, miss.”
“Oh—of course. Yes.” Shaken for reasons she doesn’t understand, she steps forward and holds her hand out to shake. “Nice meeting you. Uh, good luck finding him.”
Instead of shaking, he bows over her hand. “Thank you for your kind wishes.” Straightening, he strides to the door. She notices that his feet, the only clumsy part of him, clank on the wooden floor.
“Wait!” It takes her a moment to realize why she protests before she registers the wind-up key on the floor, having fallen out as he emerged from the wall. She kneels and picks it up. “I think you’ll need this.”
He turns back. “Ah. Yes. I must thank you again.”
She hurries forward and hands it to him. The metal of his hand is warm and smooth as her fingers brush against it. She smiles. “No problem.”
Opening the door, he tips his hat again and leaves.
It occurs to her that she probably should have shown him out, when she hears the sound of front door clicking shut and the fading noise of his clanking footsteps. She shrugs and goes to the corner, retrieving her now lukewarm tea. Unscrewing the cap, she takes a few gulps then leaves, ignoring the reappearance of the door that shakes from invisible knocking except to slam the bolts across with more violence than normal.
Then, because she’s been intending to do it for days, she paints the kitchen.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
A Cascade of Understanding
The anchor thudding onto the rocks is preceded by an explosion of fleeing finches, their drab wings and beaks contrasting the jungle’s unrelenting green. A fern droops under the heavy foliage. Lizards, their tails truncated from swimming,—
“Hold her steady.”
—clamber onto the vacated space, too intent on cracking snail shells to care about a heavy bit of metal. Flies mate on a tree with feathery leaves. A crab sidles past to a nearby tide-pool, claws clacking—
“Now pull! Gently, gently. You wouldn’t want to disturb it.”
—in a mating dance. Another crab watches, its color just different enough to suggest its femininity. A fish with delusions of grandeur flops out of the water and wiggles, heading for—
“Ease her into that crack between the boulders. Careful!”
—a shimmering insect, its movements strong even as a gull bites it in half. The fish’s clump of eggs sways in the water, only one day from birth. A sea snake plucks one from the bunch and undulates away, its scales—
“Perfect! Alright, I’ll go first and then you, Dunpoole.”
—gleaming in the afternoon sun even after a boot crushes its head.
He stands with his arms akimbo. Mud oozes over his feet and a dragonfly investigates his shoelaces. A hummingbird flits up to his sunburned face then darts away again. He glances back at his companion. “We’ll set up camp here, Dunpoole. I think that a small platform under the tents would be best.”
Leather face shaded under a broad hat, the other man nods. He knots their boat to a slender tree, slapping a shrew away before its teeth even touch the tempting hemp.
“Shelter first, then the gathering of supplies. That’s the way to do it, eh, Dunpoole?” Stamping his foot, he smiles. A line of ants quivers and shifts away from his heels. “Not bad for a foundation site. It’ll make a good port, someday. Once we’ve blasted a better harbor, of course.”
Dunpoole grunts, lugging their bags out of the boat. Setting them with openings pointed up, he checks their fastenings, cinching them tightly. A spider drops from an overhanging tree and crawls over the canvas. Thwarted, it skitters back up its line.
The sunburned man thumps the spider’s tree. “Not good English oak, but it’ll do for our purposes.” He holds his hand behind him. “Be a good fellow and hand me an ax, would you?”
Not bothering to sigh, Dunpoole crouches and opens the bag, rummaging. The spider seizes the opportunity and dives into the open satchel. Dunpoole yanks his hand out at the sight. He watches the bag until the spider emerges, then bats it from its silk and squashes it under his heel. He flashes the smile of a job well done.
“I say, Dunpoole, I—”
There is a whisper of fronds brushed aside by something very fast. Dunpoole’s eyes widen. He grabs the ax and hurls it at the green blur.
“Oh, God!” The sunburned man clutches at his leg, now spouting blood and missing a sizable chunk. His eyes roll back and he tumbles.
Dunpoole rushes to him, but the wound is deep and the skin above it is already red with infection. He swears at the komodo dragon, which speeds away into the jungle.
The other man pulls at Dunpoole’s shirt. “Help me, please! It hurts, it—”
He disappears, and after a moment, Dunpoole does as well.
Another spider ventures out of the canopy to drop into the open bag, but it vanishes as well, leaving the spider and its cargo of eggs on the ground. A crowd of ants descends on the spider, killing it and carrying away its offspring. The shrew sniffs around for the now missing boat before heading back to its den. A few worms sift the soil of the clearing as the flowers above them release their—
“Why can’t you just stay alive, you bastard!? I—you stupid son of a bitch—I oughta—”
—pollen, undisturbed by the sound of shouting and a loud splash that echo to the island from miles away. The komodo dragon trundles to its nest, a wad of flesh clenched in its teeth. It drops the meat to its babies. They rip at it and register the food as the most delicious they have ever tasted. They race back and forth, fighting each other. The little dragons are—
“I say, Dunpoole! That looks an awful lot like an island over there. What say we investigate?”
—even faster than their mother. They are too short to reach the birds that fly, startled, when sobs ring out across the water, but try anyway.
“Hold her steady.”
—clamber onto the vacated space, too intent on cracking snail shells to care about a heavy bit of metal. Flies mate on a tree with feathery leaves. A crab sidles past to a nearby tide-pool, claws clacking—
“Now pull! Gently, gently. You wouldn’t want to disturb it.”
—in a mating dance. Another crab watches, its color just different enough to suggest its femininity. A fish with delusions of grandeur flops out of the water and wiggles, heading for—
“Ease her into that crack between the boulders. Careful!”
—a shimmering insect, its movements strong even as a gull bites it in half. The fish’s clump of eggs sways in the water, only one day from birth. A sea snake plucks one from the bunch and undulates away, its scales—
“Perfect! Alright, I’ll go first and then you, Dunpoole.”
—gleaming in the afternoon sun even after a boot crushes its head.
He stands with his arms akimbo. Mud oozes over his feet and a dragonfly investigates his shoelaces. A hummingbird flits up to his sunburned face then darts away again. He glances back at his companion. “We’ll set up camp here, Dunpoole. I think that a small platform under the tents would be best.”
Leather face shaded under a broad hat, the other man nods. He knots their boat to a slender tree, slapping a shrew away before its teeth even touch the tempting hemp.
“Shelter first, then the gathering of supplies. That’s the way to do it, eh, Dunpoole?” Stamping his foot, he smiles. A line of ants quivers and shifts away from his heels. “Not bad for a foundation site. It’ll make a good port, someday. Once we’ve blasted a better harbor, of course.”
Dunpoole grunts, lugging their bags out of the boat. Setting them with openings pointed up, he checks their fastenings, cinching them tightly. A spider drops from an overhanging tree and crawls over the canvas. Thwarted, it skitters back up its line.
The sunburned man thumps the spider’s tree. “Not good English oak, but it’ll do for our purposes.” He holds his hand behind him. “Be a good fellow and hand me an ax, would you?”
Not bothering to sigh, Dunpoole crouches and opens the bag, rummaging. The spider seizes the opportunity and dives into the open satchel. Dunpoole yanks his hand out at the sight. He watches the bag until the spider emerges, then bats it from its silk and squashes it under his heel. He flashes the smile of a job well done.
“I say, Dunpoole, I—”
There is a whisper of fronds brushed aside by something very fast. Dunpoole’s eyes widen. He grabs the ax and hurls it at the green blur.
“Oh, God!” The sunburned man clutches at his leg, now spouting blood and missing a sizable chunk. His eyes roll back and he tumbles.
Dunpoole rushes to him, but the wound is deep and the skin above it is already red with infection. He swears at the komodo dragon, which speeds away into the jungle.
The other man pulls at Dunpoole’s shirt. “Help me, please! It hurts, it—”
He disappears, and after a moment, Dunpoole does as well.
Another spider ventures out of the canopy to drop into the open bag, but it vanishes as well, leaving the spider and its cargo of eggs on the ground. A crowd of ants descends on the spider, killing it and carrying away its offspring. The shrew sniffs around for the now missing boat before heading back to its den. A few worms sift the soil of the clearing as the flowers above them release their—
“Why can’t you just stay alive, you bastard!? I—you stupid son of a bitch—I oughta—”
—pollen, undisturbed by the sound of shouting and a loud splash that echo to the island from miles away. The komodo dragon trundles to its nest, a wad of flesh clenched in its teeth. It drops the meat to its babies. They rip at it and register the food as the most delicious they have ever tasted. They race back and forth, fighting each other. The little dragons are—
“I say, Dunpoole! That looks an awful lot like an island over there. What say we investigate?”
—even faster than their mother. They are too short to reach the birds that fly, startled, when sobs ring out across the water, but try anyway.
By Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
About Me, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
My name is Madison. I have brown hair and brown eyes. It is curly. I am 7 and a half years old. My favorit food is ice cream and pizza. They are really really good. My favorit part of school is recess! I also like gym and lunch and math. My favorit color is purple and pink and yellow. I have no brothers or sisters. I don’t have pets.
When I Grow Up, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
When I grow up, I want to be a lifegard. They save people from drownding and they sit in the sun and they swim. I like to be outside. I like to swim. That is why I want to be a lifegard.
My Family, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
I have a mommy and a daddy. My mommy is a mommy who stays at home. She used to work at a place where she sold money, but she doesn’t do that anymore. My daddy works at an office. He does not like it there. He is inside all day. I wood not like that. My mommy makes me pancakes. I love my mommy and daddy.
Christmas, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
Christmas is the best day in the year!!!!!! I really really love it!!! You give presents to people and they give them to you. It is fun becuz people are happy and nobody fights. I wish it was Christmas every day.
Bunnies, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
Bunnies are soft and furry. They can be brown or white or black. I like to pet them. They have long ears. Bunnies hop but they do not give eggs like in this picktur becauz there is no Easter Bunny. My mommy said. That is okay. I still like them.
Swimming, by Madison, Age 8, Miss Summer’s Class
I love to swim. It is my favorit. This is how you get ready to swim. You put on a swimsuit. Mine is very very pretty. Pink with yellow polka dots and it is two pieces. You have to be safe. I wear floaties on my arms becauz I don’t swim real good. Floaties are good if you are not good at swimming. Go to the pool! Some people go to a public pool. We used to have a pool at my house, with a white fence. Then my baby sister drownded in it and mommy and daddy cried for a very very long long time and I went to grandma’s and pop-pop’s. Pop-pop made me waffles every morning. I like waffles. Now we don’t have a pool and I don’t swim now. I miss swimming. It was fun.
My Pet, by Madison, Age 8, Mrs. Peterson's Class
If I had a pet, it wold be a dog. She would be brown and white and curly hair. She wold play catch with me. I wold love her and she wold love me too and lick my hand. It wold be a lot of fun to have a dog.
My name is Madison. I have brown hair and brown eyes. It is curly. I am 7 and a half years old. My favorit food is ice cream and pizza. They are really really good. My favorit part of school is recess! I also like gym and lunch and math. My favorit color is purple and pink and yellow. I have no brothers or sisters. I don’t have pets.
When I Grow Up, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
When I grow up, I want to be a lifegard. They save people from drownding and they sit in the sun and they swim. I like to be outside. I like to swim. That is why I want to be a lifegard.
My Family, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
I have a mommy and a daddy. My mommy is a mommy who stays at home. She used to work at a place where she sold money, but she doesn’t do that anymore. My daddy works at an office. He does not like it there. He is inside all day. I wood not like that. My mommy makes me pancakes. I love my mommy and daddy.
Christmas, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
Christmas is the best day in the year!!!!!! I really really love it!!! You give presents to people and they give them to you. It is fun becuz people are happy and nobody fights. I wish it was Christmas every day.
Bunnies, by Madison, Age 7, Miss Summer’s Class
Bunnies are soft and furry. They can be brown or white or black. I like to pet them. They have long ears. Bunnies hop but they do not give eggs like in this picktur becauz there is no Easter Bunny. My mommy said. That is okay. I still like them.
Swimming, by Madison, Age 8, Miss Summer’s Class
I love to swim. It is my favorit. This is how you get ready to swim. You put on a swimsuit. Mine is very very pretty. Pink with yellow polka dots and it is two pieces. You have to be safe. I wear floaties on my arms becauz I don’t swim real good. Floaties are good if you are not good at swimming. Go to the pool! Some people go to a public pool. We used to have a pool at my house, with a white fence. Then my baby sister drownded in it and mommy and daddy cried for a very very long long time and I went to grandma’s and pop-pop’s. Pop-pop made me waffles every morning. I like waffles. Now we don’t have a pool and I don’t swim now. I miss swimming. It was fun.
My Pet, by Madison, Age 8, Mrs. Peterson's Class
If I had a pet, it wold be a dog. She would be brown and white and curly hair. She wold play catch with me. I wold love her and she wold love me too and lick my hand. It wold be a lot of fun to have a dog.
Sailor Take Warning
Carla reached out, trembling. She touched her index finger to the horizon line.
“Smudge it, smudge it!” they cried, tongues waggling, jumping up and down with their arms and legs flying in odd, twisted directions.
She hesitated then swiped her finger to the right, smearing the green ocean into the blue sky.
“Red it! Red it! Red red red!” Their voices grew loud, shrill. Laughter jangled in random bursts and soon they had all caught it up, giggling, shrieking, cackling. They thrust splinters of bone at her, jostling each other. “Red it! Red it!”
Sticking her palm onto a random piece, Carla winced as her hand poured out blood. The lucky one shouted in triumph and brandished his stained bone to the others.
Carla bit her lip and placed her hand into the sky. She withdrew, leaving a red palm-print that dripped tendrils of color into the ocean. She hissed as a sharp sting marked her wound and stepped away to look at the result.
“More!” They pushed her toward the painting.
Carla nodded and pressed her cut against it again, wiping her blood into the sky over and over until all the blue had been swallowed by her crimson. She turned back to them and showed her clotted hand.
Howling with delight, they danced, feet pounding the packed ground, sometimes clapping, sometimes linking arms with each other. They yelled and wailed and hooted, drumming on their chests or on others,’ with no discernable rhythm. One leapt and kissed Carla, hard, but otherwise they ignored her, instead throwing themselves into their frenzy.
She stood to the side, whimpering as fresh pain sparked through her hand and the sky dripped red around her, wondering if it was worth it.
“Smudge it, smudge it!” they cried, tongues waggling, jumping up and down with their arms and legs flying in odd, twisted directions.
She hesitated then swiped her finger to the right, smearing the green ocean into the blue sky.
“Red it! Red it! Red red red!” Their voices grew loud, shrill. Laughter jangled in random bursts and soon they had all caught it up, giggling, shrieking, cackling. They thrust splinters of bone at her, jostling each other. “Red it! Red it!”
Sticking her palm onto a random piece, Carla winced as her hand poured out blood. The lucky one shouted in triumph and brandished his stained bone to the others.
Carla bit her lip and placed her hand into the sky. She withdrew, leaving a red palm-print that dripped tendrils of color into the ocean. She hissed as a sharp sting marked her wound and stepped away to look at the result.
“More!” They pushed her toward the painting.
Carla nodded and pressed her cut against it again, wiping her blood into the sky over and over until all the blue had been swallowed by her crimson. She turned back to them and showed her clotted hand.
Howling with delight, they danced, feet pounding the packed ground, sometimes clapping, sometimes linking arms with each other. They yelled and wailed and hooted, drumming on their chests or on others,’ with no discernable rhythm. One leapt and kissed Carla, hard, but otherwise they ignored her, instead throwing themselves into their frenzy.
She stood to the side, whimpering as fresh pain sparked through her hand and the sky dripped red around her, wondering if it was worth it.
A Fanfare, Just Because I Can
And nowwwwwwww. . . three flash fictions! Ta-da!
(One is a proper flash. The second is kinda weird. The third. . . a bit of both.)
Still! What a wealth of words waits for wondrous watching (reading)!
(One is a proper flash. The second is kinda weird. The third. . . a bit of both.)
Still! What a wealth of words waits for wondrous watching (reading)!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Cracked Streets
Cathy coaxed Red into her pick-up with a strip of jerky. His back quivered as he scrambled in, white muzzle slobbering at the treat almost before his hind legs had made it up. “Good boy.” She wiped her hand on the side of her jeans and started the truck, wincing at the grinding it made as she shifted into first gear.
“Where you off to, Cathy?” Tom, smoking at the end of his driveway, waved to her.
“Post office. Want me to pick up your mail for you?” She coasted, not wanting to brake.
He shook his head. “I need any excuse to get out, nowadays. But thanks.” He took another puff.
“And how is Mary Lou?”
Tom glanced back at the house. “Not so good. The doctors keep telling me that she’s got to be admitted, but. . .” He trailed off, throwing his cigarette onto the cracked sidewalk and rubbing it out with his boot. “I don’t know how long I could keep her there, and for what good? The cancer’s already spread to her lungs.” Yanking up his sweat-stained cap, emblazoned with the mine’s logo, he wiped his forehead. “Besides, you know Mary Lou. She’s determined to stick in town. Says that her gran’s buried here, her mom’s buried here, and as the Lord is her witness, she’s going to be as well.”
Cathy felt for Red’s reassuring warmth. “Damn, Tom, you think they’d keep you from the cemetery? That’s cold.”
He chuckled and coughed. “They took our damn zip code. I’m not expecting too many favors from the likes of them.” He coughed again and spat out a hunk of green phlegm. “Better get a move on, Cathy. I think their post office closes in an hour or so.”
She nodded. “I’m just going to swing by the Vomers, see if they want me to pick up their stuff.”
He shook his head. “I hate the way this town’s falling to pieces, but it seems mighty cruel to raise two kids in this hellhole, pardon my French. They oughta get out of here, give those boys a chance. Well, as much of a chance as they’ve got with that father of theirs.”
Cathy felt her throat tighten. She and John had been in the same high school class. He’d been her first kiss, took her to their junior high dance. “He’s having a hard time of it, Tom.”
He snorted. “Less of a hard time than Helen, if you ask me. And no harder of a time than anybody else who's already left town. No, he’ll get no sympathy from me, excepting what I’d give to all the Vomer men. Drink’s always been their devil.”
“If you say so.” Cathy scratched Red behind his ears, fingers tense and shaky as his tongue lolled out with pleasure. “I’m off, then.” She waved goodbye without looking back, navigating around the potholes that turned the street into Swiss cheese. A thud jostled the cab as she ran into one she hadn’t seen. “Dammit!”
Red looked at her and whined.
“Sorry, boy.” She patted him. “Guess your bones are in about the same condition as the shocks.” He licked her hand and barked, making her laugh.
She hesitated at the Vomers’. The two boys were playing around a manhole, throwing leaves into the steam to make them fly. Helen watched from the front porch, patching somebody’s jeans. Cathy waved to them, and the woman waved back, a yellow bruise coloring her forearm. “Afternoon, Helen.”
Helen’s eyes skittered toward the window before replying. “And you, Cathy. Heading to the store?”
“Post office. Want me to get your mail?”
Smiling weakly, Helen shook her head. “It’ll just be more bills and—“ She looked at the window again. “Thanks anyway.”
“No problem. See you at church Saturday?”
The boys stopped playing and stared at their mother. She wilted under their gaze. “I—not this week, Cathy. Maybe another time.”
“Alright. We’ll miss you.” Cathy stroked her dog. “Don’t be a stranger!”
The other woman laughed. “That’d be quite a feat.”
”Helen! Where’s m’beer?” The screen door slammed open, knocking off loose flecks of paint. “I told you t’ get—“ Arm raised, Tom saw Cathy and let it fall. “Cathy! How you doing, sweetheart? You always were a pretty little thing.” He headed toward the truck, grinning.
Cathy swallowed. “Sorry, Tom, can’t talk. I’ve got to get to the post office before it closes.” She shrugged and smiled. “You know how they are.”
He winked. “Okay, but stop by on your way back.”
She nodded and sped away.
Another crack had opened in Route 61, smoke a noxious black. Cathy turned onto the detour, choking. She didn’t bother with her turn signal.
“Where you off to, Cathy?” Tom, smoking at the end of his driveway, waved to her.
“Post office. Want me to pick up your mail for you?” She coasted, not wanting to brake.
He shook his head. “I need any excuse to get out, nowadays. But thanks.” He took another puff.
“And how is Mary Lou?”
Tom glanced back at the house. “Not so good. The doctors keep telling me that she’s got to be admitted, but. . .” He trailed off, throwing his cigarette onto the cracked sidewalk and rubbing it out with his boot. “I don’t know how long I could keep her there, and for what good? The cancer’s already spread to her lungs.” Yanking up his sweat-stained cap, emblazoned with the mine’s logo, he wiped his forehead. “Besides, you know Mary Lou. She’s determined to stick in town. Says that her gran’s buried here, her mom’s buried here, and as the Lord is her witness, she’s going to be as well.”
Cathy felt for Red’s reassuring warmth. “Damn, Tom, you think they’d keep you from the cemetery? That’s cold.”
He chuckled and coughed. “They took our damn zip code. I’m not expecting too many favors from the likes of them.” He coughed again and spat out a hunk of green phlegm. “Better get a move on, Cathy. I think their post office closes in an hour or so.”
She nodded. “I’m just going to swing by the Vomers, see if they want me to pick up their stuff.”
He shook his head. “I hate the way this town’s falling to pieces, but it seems mighty cruel to raise two kids in this hellhole, pardon my French. They oughta get out of here, give those boys a chance. Well, as much of a chance as they’ve got with that father of theirs.”
Cathy felt her throat tighten. She and John had been in the same high school class. He’d been her first kiss, took her to their junior high dance. “He’s having a hard time of it, Tom.”
He snorted. “Less of a hard time than Helen, if you ask me. And no harder of a time than anybody else who's already left town. No, he’ll get no sympathy from me, excepting what I’d give to all the Vomer men. Drink’s always been their devil.”
“If you say so.” Cathy scratched Red behind his ears, fingers tense and shaky as his tongue lolled out with pleasure. “I’m off, then.” She waved goodbye without looking back, navigating around the potholes that turned the street into Swiss cheese. A thud jostled the cab as she ran into one she hadn’t seen. “Dammit!”
Red looked at her and whined.
“Sorry, boy.” She patted him. “Guess your bones are in about the same condition as the shocks.” He licked her hand and barked, making her laugh.
She hesitated at the Vomers’. The two boys were playing around a manhole, throwing leaves into the steam to make them fly. Helen watched from the front porch, patching somebody’s jeans. Cathy waved to them, and the woman waved back, a yellow bruise coloring her forearm. “Afternoon, Helen.”
Helen’s eyes skittered toward the window before replying. “And you, Cathy. Heading to the store?”
“Post office. Want me to get your mail?”
Smiling weakly, Helen shook her head. “It’ll just be more bills and—“ She looked at the window again. “Thanks anyway.”
“No problem. See you at church Saturday?”
The boys stopped playing and stared at their mother. She wilted under their gaze. “I—not this week, Cathy. Maybe another time.”
“Alright. We’ll miss you.” Cathy stroked her dog. “Don’t be a stranger!”
The other woman laughed. “That’d be quite a feat.”
”Helen! Where’s m’beer?” The screen door slammed open, knocking off loose flecks of paint. “I told you t’ get—“ Arm raised, Tom saw Cathy and let it fall. “Cathy! How you doing, sweetheart? You always were a pretty little thing.” He headed toward the truck, grinning.
Cathy swallowed. “Sorry, Tom, can’t talk. I’ve got to get to the post office before it closes.” She shrugged and smiled. “You know how they are.”
He winked. “Okay, but stop by on your way back.”
She nodded and sped away.
Another crack had opened in Route 61, smoke a noxious black. Cathy turned onto the detour, choking. She didn’t bother with her turn signal.
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