Wonder
I see the heavens above me
And wonder not
How I will reach them
But rather
How they will reach out to me.
- R. David Fulcher
The Secret of Umbria
By Karin Ciholas
|
Carmela remembered lying
sprawled across the hard road, not
thinking about anything at first,
noticing that the stars seemed
brittle and bright, that her foot lay
twisted and weighed down by
something heavy, something that
didn't move. It took a full minute
for her to realize that it was Giorgio
and that he wasn't laughing any
more. Her voice stuck in her
throat, and she had no breath in
her, even for a prayer to the
Madonnina. When they told her at
the hospital that Giorgio was dead,
she looked away dry-eyed and said,
"I know."
Except she didn't really know then
what she knew now: that he was
never coming back, that the
monsters beneath her bed would
not let her sleep, that at fourteen
her life was broken, snapped in two
like a dead branch, that her friends
whispered behind her back that it
was her fault, that she brought bad
luck. In the middle of the night she
would get up and go to her window
and look out toward the illuminated
facade of San Pietro. She heard her
father snoring softly in the next
room. A stray cat whimpered
behind the Bambini di Gesu. The
frail clang of the bell from the
duomo answered. The familiar
sounds of the night could not drown
out the noises in her head that kept
coming closer and closer until she
strangled on her own breath.
Images as smoky and jittery as old
movies kept rewinding in her head:
the disco near Narni, Giorgio'sleather jacket cool against her
cheek, his explosive motorino, the
pulsing cataclysms of engine and
music and desire until -- until all fell
silent, suddenly silent, except for
the high-pitched squeal of the
moped wheel spinning upside down
through the night air. She clapped
her hands over her mouth and sent
a silent scream out into the
Umbrian night.
In the morning the normal
activities of the household made her
cringe. Her father knocked his
spoon against the rim of his cup in a
rhythmic chime, while her mother
plucked chickens in the courtyard,
muttering her rosary to feathers
instead of beads. Her brother
clumped down the stairs, stuffed a
hunk of bread in his pocket, and left
for work at the Banca Popolare,
whistling.
She limped to the door and called
after him. "How dare you at a time
like this?"
Federico stopped, turned around,
rolled his eyes heavenward, and
slowly unpursed his lips. He
smelled of too much after-shave,
and she guessed where he planned
to spend the evening.
"It's not been a week yet,
Federico."
"Si, Carmela Vittoria, ho capito."
He scratched behind his ear, turned
away, then waited to whistle until
he had entered the Via Monterone.
Carmela pointed an accusing
finger at the half-plucked, dangling
chicken. "All you think of is cooking
and eating." Her mother laid the yellow-
skinned chicken across her broad
lap and shook a finger at her
daughter. "Figlia mia, I understand
that you suffer, but--"
"No! You don't understand at
all."
"Si, mia cara, but life goes on.
The living must eat. Even you."
As if to underscore this truth,
her father slurped the last of his
caffelatte, put down his bowl with a
clatter, wiped the back of his hand
through his mustache, and scraped
his stool across the tile floor.
"Basta!" he said. Agostino
Federico Palmucci was a man of few
words. When he had picked her up
at the hospital, he had said one
sentence to her on the way home:
"This should teach you a lesson."
As the hour and minute of the
accident of a week earlier crept
closer, Carmela said, "This time, a
week ago, I was a different person.
It hadn't happened yet. I was still
Carmela Vittoria Palmucci, a happy,
normal fourteen-year old girl with
her whole life ahead of her. And
now, just a week ago--" Everything
was measured in the perspective of
before and after. Two weeks ago.
A month ago. Two months ago. A
year ago. At her insistence,
Federico even postponed his
wedding to Emilia out of respect for
her year of mourning.
Carmela wore black like the
widow of the prime minister of
Italy. With style. With a certain
flair for drama. She seldom smiled.
She did not allow herself to forget,
even though it was more and more
difficult for her to remember the
soft beardless features of Ciorgio's
face. She knew they were different
from the frozen expression in thesolemn school picture Giorgio's
family had placed on their family
tomb. Every week she went on a
pilgrimage to his grave.
On the first anniversary of his
death she carried an armful of
hothouse roses to the cemetery --
solemnly -- like a bride walking
down the long aisle in the duomo.
She was so absorbed by the image
of herself dressed in black, clutching
the fragrant roses to her chest, that
she did not see Giorgio's family
hovering around the large white
marble stone until she came around
the bend in the pathway. His
mother was leaning over vases of
fresh flowers to plant her lips
against her son's face while the rest
of the family stood limply aside,
defeated by emotion, silent in the
contemplation of the worn, tear-
stained face that trembled against
the cold glass over Giorgio's fading
photograph. Carmela edged back
into the shadow of the Carducci
family mausoleum and waited, her
heart pounding. A wave of nausea
mounted in her throat at the
thought of lips other than her own
pressed against her sacred shrine.
Giorgio's mother could not begin to
comprehend the depth of her
bereavement or sorrow. She could
not even imagine it. How could she
know who Giorgio really was? Who
he had been?
When Giorgio's family finally left,
crunching down the gravel pathway,
chattering loudly about the
upcoming festa and the evening
game of briscola at the taverna,
Carmela resumed her ritual
procession, wiped Giorgio's
smudged face with her sleeve, and
prayed fervently to the Madonna.
Her prayers remained litanies ofphrases learned and mastered
before she was ten. "Santa Maria,
madre di Dio..." The words moved
her lips while she thought about
Giorgio's probing hands on her
body, the soft thrust of his tongue
in her mouth, the engorged fullness
of her body in response to his.
Then she leaned forward and kissed
his face, resting her breasts against
the cool marble of his stone.
"I thought you would be here."
Giorgio's mother stood like a dark
cloud between her and the sun.
"Always I hear that you come here.
You took him away from me.
Everybody says it was your fault.
And now you come here and throw
yourself on his grave. He does not
belong to you. He belongs to God.
Did he tell you he was going to be a
priest? No, I bet he didn't. He told
us at Easter two weeks before you
went off down to that horrible disco
in Narni. He was going to tell you
that night."
"You don't know what happened
that night," was all she could think
to say.
The day before her brother's
wedding, Carmela's mother took
her gently but firmly by the
shoulders and steered her to the
kitchen table. "You make the
tagliatelle."
"But, Mamma, you make them
better."
"As a gift for your brother."
So Carmela spent hours in the
kitchen with her mother preparing
for the wedding banquet to be held
in a friend's taverna: dredging the
table with flour, kneading just the
right amount of water and oil and
egg into elastic dough, pressing the
pasta into a thin crust with a marble
rolling pin, cutting long even strips,and hanging them in rows near the
window to dry in the warm breeze.
This required considerable skill,
tactile knowledge of texture and
control of the knife, but no real
concentration, no mental
absorption. Her mind was free to
wander over a hundred pathways,
up and down steep cobbled alleys
like the tortuous streets of Spoleto,
where houses slanted and
embraced each other, leaning under
the weight of layers and centuries
of stone. No matter where her
journey began, it always ended in
the same place, the only place in
town where walkways were set at
right angles to each other, where
the walls stood perpendicular and
straight, where the homes of the
inhabitants remained in perfect
geometric order and peace: the
cimitero urbano.
Each little strip of pasta became
a slice of time -- days, months, and
years piling up beyond the horizon
of her youth, little segments of
existence stretched out to dry up,
unseasoned by hope. She heard
Emilia in the courtyard laughing
with Federico and tried to shut out
Emilia's endless chatter about
lipstick and children, ribbons and
priests, taxes and the length of
Aunt Rosina's nose.
That evening Federico's co-
workers and Emilia's schoolmates
gathered on the nearby piazza and
danced until the accordion player
was too drunk to play anything but
a simple lilting chorus. Toward
midnight someone watered down
the heavy Trebbiano wine without
anyone noticing. From her window,
Carmela heard the hoarse shouts,
annoying refrains, and off-key
serenades and tried to shut herears. When her brother and Emilia
finally returned to cuddle in the cool
courtyard, she took up her father's
flashlight and waited in the upstairs
alcove until their panting embraces
reached a fever pitch. Then she
pointed the light like a weapon, and
Emilia screamed.
Federico lunged backward with a
grunt. "Carmela, is that you?"
“Si.”
"Udio! How dare you! Che
pazzia!"
The next morning Carmela's
mother was peeling onions for the
sauce when Carmela descended the
stairs for her morning caffe.
"Buon di, Mamma."
"Non va bene, figlia mia, what
you do. For one year we have
tolerated your behavior. No more.
When your brother returns, you
must ask him to forgive you."
"Forgive me?" She pulled her
dark hair straight back from her
face and cupped the steaming bowl
of coffee-tinted milk in both hands.
"Why should I ask him to forgive
me? Did he tell you what he and
Emilia were doing?"
"Santo cielo! Today is their
wedding day. So? They waited
because of you. Out of respect for
your feelings. And you have no
respect for them. It is enough.
Basta! I have my hands full with
preparations. I need your help.
But first you must promise."
"Promise what?"
"You will wear your blue dress.
You will put your grieving for that
boy aside and celebrate with your
brother and Emilia."
Carmela sipped her caffelatte and
did not answer.
"It is not fair, Carmela, what you
do.""Not fair! Federico lost nothing.
For me it is not fair."
Her mother put down the knife
and wiped her face with the corner
of her apron and patted a strand of
black hair back into place. Deep-
set dark brown eyes, teary from
onion fumes, probed her daughter's
face, but then, slowly, sternly she
shook her head and sighed. "You
will not spoil your brother's
wedding. Papa says you need a
real spanking. I say you are too old
for that. But you must go see Suor
Angela at the convent. Perhaps she
will talk some sense into you."
"Sister Angela? She is---"
"She is very wise."
"How can she--"
"You go!" She picked up the knife
again. "Then you must help with
the crostini, the sauce, the
stringozzi, the chickens, the---"
"Si, Mamma." Carmela knew the
look, the stance, the tone you did
not argue with.
In the convent courtyard Carmela
sat rigid in a rattan chair covered
with flowery cushions and kept her
eyes lowered to the terra-cotta
floor. She almost smiled when she
saw that Sister Angela was wearing
sneakers underneath her habit.
She thought that Sister Angela
must be every bit as old as her
grandmother. Probably older. Her
face looked like a walnut where
someone had drawn a thin line for a
mouth and punched two little holes
for eyes. What would she know
about disco dancing, bucking
mopeds, long winding roads, the
tickle of pine needles on her back
while stretched out on the forest
floor? What would she know about
the smell of gasoline mixed with
pine resin and the flavor of cheapwine on Giorgio's breath? What
would she know about the monsters
underneath her bed? She puckered
her eyebrows and braced herself for
the pious litany of advice that
seemed as inevitable as the glare of
the sun in her eyes. But Sister
Angela sat low in her chair, kept
rearranging the cushions, and said
nothing.
Carmela decided that two could
play the same game. She did not
open her mouth.
After five minutes Sister Angela
glanced at her watch and frowned.
"Look, Carmelina, you sit in silence
a long time. I do not have all day.
In fact, right now, I'm missing my
favorite telenovela. So--"
Scornfully incredulous, Carmela
laughed. "You watch soap operas
like all the others? You? I come
here for advice, and you complain
that I'm keeping you from your TV!"
"So you did come for advice? I
wasn't sure."
"Well, no. It wasn't my idea.
Why would I need your advice?"
"Then I will leave you to
meditate on your own. The
weather is splendid for your
brother's wedding. A perfect day!
Please give him my best wishes."
Sister Angela clasped both arms of
the chair and hoisted herself erect
in painful, slow motion. "Ciao,
Carmelina."
"Is that all you have to say to
me? Mamma will ask--"
"As you say, mia Carmelina, you
do not need my advice. Remain
true to Giorgio's memory. Don't
even think of other boys. Of
course, you must go to your
brother's wedding, but that does
not mean that you must dance, or
sing, or amuse yourself.""But--"
"That's my advice. Stay in
mourning. Black makes you look
older than you are. After the
wedding come back and tell me how
it went."
"Si, Suor Angela, but--"
"Va bene!" Sister Angela smiled,
and her eyes disappeared into
creases of skin. "Come tomorrow,
but not at this hour. Capito?"
Between hanging strings of
braided onions and garlic, Carmela
chopped parsley and chives with
sudden fury and crammed them
into the hollows of chickens she had
gutted with uncharacteristic zeal.
One took on the shape of Giorgio's
mother. Another was Emilia. One
scrawny chicken neck reminded her
of Sister Angela. Emilia was
walking around the kitchen, giving
orders about the dishes without
lifting a finger except to dip hers
into the tomato sauce to comment
on the fact that her grandmother
would have used more basil.
“Ask her to come and bring the
basil." Carmela said and she caught
a glimpse of her mother's twisted
smile of surprise.
"She sent silver wedding presents
from Milano."
"Silver won't fill the stomach
when you're hungry. Federico will
want more on his table than silver."
Carmela cut down three garlic bulbs
and began to peel the cloves and
crush them to pulp for bruschetta.
She pointed the knife in Emilia's
direction. "If this isn't enough for
you, you can cut down more and fix
them. But the little bride won't
want her fingers smelling of garlic
on her wedding night, will she?"
"Carmela!"
She scraped the garlic into a bowlfull of virgin olive oil. Then she
dumped heavy loaves of unsalted
Umbrian bread onto the table and
began to cut thick slabs and dip
them in the garlic-rich oil and place
them on a large metal sheet in the
oven. Suddenly she was mad at
Giorgio as well. For dying. For
leaving her. She pounded her fist
into the heel and noticed that her
mother and Emilia were looking at
her strangely.
"What is it? Don't you want
bruschetta?" Carmela brandished
the knife.
Her mother kept staring at her.
"So, you went to see Sister Angela.
What did she say?"
Carmela didn't answer, but
shoved Emilia aside so she could
check on the bruschetta in the
oven.
"Eh, brutta! What's gotten into
you?" Emilia swung around and
flung her arms in the air.
"Nothing."
Carmela scoured the oak table
top with lemon juice and wiped it
dry. Then, dipping her hand into
the tin by the stone sink, she
dredged flour over the seasoned
wood to start a new batch of
tagliatelle, but Emilia's face was
puffing up like stuffed cappelletti
that were about to explode, and
Carmela ducked too late as a fistful
of flour landed in her hair and sifted
down the front of her black dress.
"You act like you are preparing
food for a wake not a wedding!"
Carmela sputtered and sneezed.
"Perhaps I am."
"Look at you now." Emilia
pointed an accusing finger. "You
are as old as Sister Angela in your
heart, and some day you will look
like her! You already do in all thatblack."
Carmela lunged for the bread
knife, and her mother grabbed her
wrist and held it until the knife
clattered to the floor. "Basta,
Carmela! Basta, Emilia! The
bruschette are burning! Out of the
kitchen, both of you!" And she
shoved them out the door with a
flapping apron in a cloud of garlic-
flavored smoke.
Carmela ran until she was out of
breath and slumped over in a ditch
above the Strada di Monteluco. She
could hear the rush of traffic on the
S.S. 3 below. Beyond the walls of
San Pietro the red-roofed houses
huddled together like pieces of a
grand jigsaw puzzle. Cypresses
stood sentinel near honey-colored
stucco walls that glowed with a light
of their own in the bright afternoon
sun. She could see the chapel
tower by the convent where Sister
Angela was probably in the middle
of her riposo. Sister Angela! She
would never look like her. Never!
Violently she shook her hair until
she managed to envelop herself in a
little cloud of white dust and
therefore didn't see two boys
lumbering up the road pushing their
bikes until they were right in front
of her. She guessed they were
about her age, but they called her
"Signora!" and asked her if she
needed help. She shook her head
so that the flour dust flew, and the
boys exchanged a knowing look and
trudged even faster up the road
toward Monteluco.
"Santa Maria, madre di Dio," she
muttered and poked her fists into
her eyes until the garlic on her
fingers caused her eyes to sting.
She clambered up the
embankment, tears streaming downher face, and ran after the boys
who were now distant specks beside
the road with their bicycles blinking
silver in the sunlight. She shouted
at them, clutching at the weeds
beside the ditch, then stumbled into
a field ablaze with poppies. With
bees swarming above her head and
cars zooming by on the highway
below, she cried and smeared her
face with dirt until she thought the
buzzing bees were like a thousand
Vespas carrying Giorgio to his
death.
He was the one who had wanted
to go to Narni. On the way back he
stopped in the forest and drank a
whole bottle of Chianti he had
swiped from a stand outside
Spoleto. Then afterwards, as
though he were telling a grand joke,
he told her that his mother wanted
him to become a priest. She
remembered making the sign of the
cross when he laughed. He scoffed
at her, called her superstitious, and,
in an act of bravado -- it was the
last thing she remembered him
doing before they sputtered off
toward the highway -- he ripped the
plastic crucifix from his motorino,
threw it on the ground, and ran
over it, crushing it to pieces.
When she finally got up, the sun
was low in the west. She knew she
had missed Emilia's grand entrance
in clouds of white lace at the
duomo. She had probably missed
the toasts and picture-taking
sessions as well. Suddenly she felt
cold, a cold much deeper than the
one caused by the disappearing
sun, and shuddering panic gripped
her when she heard the two-tone
whine of the carabinieri's siren on
the highway below.
Tragic accident on the S.S. 3.She could see the headlines.
Fifteen-year old girl throws herself
on the Via Flaminia on the day of
her brother's wedding. She
imagined a photograph of herself
dressed in white like a bride lying in
tragic glory in a satin-tufted coffin.
At San Pietro she stopped in and
gazed at the red velvet drapes that
cast a glow like blood over the
marble floor. She could not pray.
Instead she dipped a corner of her
dress in holy water and wiped her
face. In the uneven glass of a
framed announcement of social
services for the district she could
vaguely see the outline of her face.
Her hair was still tinged with white,
like an old woman's. She looked up
at a large wooden crucifix where an
anemic Christ stretched out his
arms, his head tilted to one side, his
eyes fixed in a blank stare on the
opposite wall, oblivious to all
suffering but his own.
Slowly, with deliberate care, as
though she were older than Sister
Angela, she made her way down
the uneven steps, across the busy
highway toward home.
Signora Vitelli, a neighbor three
houses down, draped her massive
bosom over her window sill to lean
out far enough to yell at her. "Your
father has carabinieri looking for
you all the way to Eggi, Rubbiano,
and Monteluco! They're all at the
taverna by now. Your mother is a
saint to put up with you. You'd
better get cleaned up and get over
there. Your Papa, he say: 'non ho
piu una figlia. Not since that
accident.' Mamma mia, I would not
walk in your shoes today."
Early the next morning Carmela
was the first one up. She put on
old jeans she hadn't worn in morethan a year and a crumpled T-shirt
that proclaimed Sono Pazzi Questi
Romani in bright blue letters and
ran to find Sister Angela without
stopping to drink her caffelatte.
She found her in the little herb
garden at the south end of the
convent.
"You are wrong, Sister Angela.
Wrong!"
In tiny, mincing movements,
Sister Angela gentled the sun-baked
soil around spindly herbs with a
long-handled hoe.
"Did you hear me? You are
wrong. I cannot wear black the rest
of my life like you. I'm only fifteen.
I don't care what you say. I don't
care what the priest says. I don't
care what the Pope says. Do you
hear me? I don't care!"
"You don't care so much that you
are crying?"
"I'm not crying.”
"You are still grieving because
you are sorry for yourself." "That's
not true."
"But then grief is mostly selfish."
Sister Angela set the hoe on the
ground and hoisted a bright blue
watering can to her hip and held it
with both hands, trembling a little,
as a fine silver thread of water
spiraled down over emerging basil.
Carmela stepped away from the
little trickle of water that puddled
on the ground and turned the
thirsty earth to a rich, dark umber.
"Did you see what I have on?”
"I see." Sister Angela lowered
the watering can to the ground.
"Well?"
Sister Angela studied her fading
jeans and assertive T-shirt.
"Out of one uniform into
another."
“What?""You now look like most of the
teenagers in Umbria. In Italy.
Maybe in the world. Is that what
you want?"
"Yes!"
"How was the wedding?"
"I didn't go."
"You didn't go!"
"I went on a walk."
"And your Papa and Mamma,
Federico--?"
"Papa had the police looking for
me. I went to the taverna. Late. I
wore the bright blue dress Mamma
bought for me and I danced with
Renzo, Federico's friend. But first
Papa was so mad he crushed a
glass in his hand, and they had to
call a doctor. After the doctor
stitched him up, he went around the
room telling everyone that he didn't
have a daughter anymore. Then he
introduced me as the daughter he
no longer had! It was frightening at
first. But Renzo started laughing,
and then everyone laughed, even
Federico. But--"
"But?"
"Not Papa. If you want me to go
to confession, I won't." "What do
you have to confess?"
"Nothing, except that I used holy
water to wash my face."
Sister Angela moved to the next
plot of herbs and poked at tufts of
leaves with her sneaker but did not
water them. Carmela went to fetch
the watering can, but Sister Angela
stopped her. "No, Carmelina, not
these. These are my favorite, but
no water."
"Why not?"
"They like dry and rocky soil. If
they don't have to fight against the
hard clay to bloom, they grow long
stems without taste. Without
struggle there is no flavor. That isthe secret of Umbria."
Carmela gazed down at the
tender new leaves of tarragon and
thyme and frowned. "When you
were fifteen, did you want to
become a nun?"
"No."
"Why did you--?"
"It is not an interesting story.
My mother died when I was a baby.
My father left when I was six. The
sisters here took me in. I've lived
here since I was six years old. At
your age I wanted to run away with
a boy to America, but I didn't."
"Why didn't you?"
The set of her wrinkles shifted
upward as she smiled. "No one told
me I couldn't go, I guess. And
then, he ran away with somebody
else."
"Another girl?"
"Yes."
"Did you hate him?"
"Yes, for a long time."
"And you stayed here? You
never tried to leave?" Carmela
looked at the worn face in front of
her and couldn't imagine Sister
Angela with a boyfriend. It was
even harder to imagine that she
had ever been young.
Sister Angela's hoe caught and
severed a long, leafy stem, and a
powerfully pungent scent burst into
the clear morning air. "No, I
stayed. I could never leave Umbria.
This is my home. Here, smell the
hyssop. All the freshness of spring
is in its leaves. The harsher the
winter, the stronger the aroma in
the spring."
Carmela held the sprig under her
nose. "Giorgio's Mamma said he
wanted to become a priest, but I
never told her what happened that
night. Giorgio laughed at the ideaof becoming a priest. He cursed
God. And I -- I didn't stop him."
"Carmelina, you are not to blame
for what happened to Giorgio."
"But, Sister Angela, he did
worse."
"You think that the accident was
a punishment from God?"
"Yes."
"My dear Carmelina, God does
not need to punish us. We do it
well enough ourselves."
"But--"
"But what?"
"But Giorgio is damned forever."
"Is that truly what is bothering
you? A young boy full of life defies
his mother, curses God, and you
think God reaches down a finger
from heaven and topples his
moped? No, my Carmelina, God
has better things to do."
"You don't think God--?"
"Ah, God is used to us. Most of
his saints were rebels at one time
or another. I would not worry
about Giorgio. I would worry about
the living not the dead."
Carmela pinched off a tiny
tongue-shaped leaf of winter savory
and placed it in her mouth. It
tasted mildly hot, peppery.
"Too young to have much flavor.
You see these dried twigs from the
winter? The new leaf grows from
the same roots as the old, but the
old is gone. Still the flavor depends
on the old root." She picked up a
handful of coarse dirt and crumbled
it through her fingers. "I do not
remember my father very well. I
was very young when he left. But
one thing I remember. We were
out in the garden in the spring, and
he picked up some dirt and said
that we can never forget our roots,
and he asked me if I knew whyUmbrians do not put salt in their
bread. When I shook my head, he
said, 'Because we are the salt of the
earth.'"
"Mamma says you must make
bruschetta with Umbrian bread."
"She knows it is the only one that
tastes right. Do you know why we
don't put salt in our bread?"
"No."
"Because long ago all of Umbria
refused to pay the salt tax. We
rebelled against the Pope. To this
day we do not put salt in our bread.
But we add the salt through our
tears."
The morning sun was a shifting
dazzle behind scruffy pines and
stately cypresses. Above them the
sky arched into purple infinity, and
Carmela lowered her eyes, blinded
by the sheer intensity of light.
The crushed leaf tasted bitter on
her tongue.
4
David's Harp (Samuel I 16:14 -
16.23)
I am not King or ruler, yet sometimes
I can understand the pain of Saul
when he felt God had turned away.
Like a child I see demons in the night.
Shadows grow and the mind torments
itself
not letting go of fear.
The windows are barred, the doors
bolted
and still some relentless raven circles
over my bed foretelling danger.
And bad deeds are done in the dark.
If I could speak the common
language.
I would call forth David, in Aramaic,
Beseech him to play for me.
Please, come, over here,
near the side of the bed that feels
coldest.
To you, no shadow could he larger
than Goliath.
But if you place your hand on my
chest,
feel how fast the heart beats, afraid.
And God, like the safety of morning,
feels so far away. Therefore, I kneel
and wait
for your melody to lullaby me whole
again,
And I reclaim myself breath by breath,
close my eyes, listen and know;
under your fingers the harp strings
vibrate,
shimmer alive like corn silk in the
arriving dawn.
-Yvonne Patrick
Nick Bury Knocks
By Joseph A. McCullough V
|
In the old chair in the corner,
Allison Hess quietly rocked herself
as tears rolled down her cheeks.
Richard, her husband, paced back
and forth across the room his eyes
occasionally glancing over to her.
"Would you please get a hold of
yourself," said Richard, anger
slipping into his voice.
Allison's tear filled eyes looked
up at him, "Our son is dying!"
Richard stopped pacing and
stared down at his young wife.
"Our son is not dying. He's
going to be fine, and the last thing
he needs is his mother crying over
him day and night convincing him
he's going to die."
"But he has the plague!"
"Of course he has the plague,
but..."
A knock on the front door
interrupted the sentence. Allison
began to get up, but her husband
motioned for her to remain in the
chair.
"What could anyone want
tonight?" said Richard. "The sun is
down, rain is falling, and our son is
sick. Does no one have any
respect?"
Then Richard sighed, and the
anger seemed to leave him. With a
small frown, he moved over to the
door and pulled it open.
Upon his porch stood a stoop
shouldered man with a long pale
face, and scraggly grey hair that
hung just past his shoulders. He
was dressed in a simple brown tunic
with black pants, and brown leather
boots that folded over just beforereaching his knees. From under the
brim of a black slouch hat, a pale
green eye looked out. A black
patch covered the space where his
left eye should have been. The
man carried an old rusty shovel that
lay across his right shoulder.
“I just wanted to let you know
I'm here, Mr. Hess, " said the
newcomer in a throaty whisper.
"Who are you?" asked Richard,
annoyance evident in his voice.
"I'm Nick --- Bury..." returned
the pale man. The statement
ended in a slight chuckle that
quickly turned into a cough.
Richard, momentarily frozen by
the stranger's appearance and
manner, could not get another word
out before Nick stepped off the
porch and began to walk around the
house. Richard ran back into the
living room and looked out a
window into the small clearing
behind the house. Distracted by
the newcomer, he failed to notice
that his wife had left the room.
As Richard watched, the pale
man came around the house and
walked to the edge of the clearing
that bordered on a deep woods. A
light rain still fell. Nick stopped for
a moment and looked around.
Then, drawing four wooden stakes
from his belt, he carefully placed
them in the ground so as to form a
rectangle approximately three feet
wide and six feet long. Richard's
eyes grew wide as he realized the
old man's purpose. He looked on in
shock, anger, and horror as Nick
sunk his shovel into the soft earthand began to dig.
For a moment, Richard stood
with his mouth hanging open and
his head leaning against the
window. Not only could he not
believe the audacity of the
cadaverous man in his backyard,
but, he was also stunned by how
fast the hole seemed to grow under
Nick Bury's shovel.
Richard snapped out of his
trance and ran upstairs. He ran
past his son's room and would have
kept going had he not seen Allison
sitting quietly by the bed. Their son
was asleep.
"Allison! Do you know what that
man is doing in our backyard!"
Richard's voice held more
exasperation than true anger.
Allison looked at him with eyes
red from crying.
"He's digging a grave! Our son's
not even dead, and he's digging a
grave."
"Why don't you just let him do
it," replied his wife, "likely as not
we'll need it before the night is
through."
"What!" Richard cried in pure
amazement. "Don't you have any
faith? I've prayed, and I know that
God will not let my son die."
Allison looked at her husband,
shook her head, and frowned.
Richard sighed and walked
across the hall to his own bedroom.
Allison stepped into the small
hallway. She could hear her
husband tossing things about in
their bedroom. A moment later, he
reemerged with a short sword, still
sharp despite its age.
Richard gave his wife a smile,
and touched the side of her face.
"I'm not going to hurt
him. I'm just going to scare himoff. I'll be right back."
Richard gave his wife a quick
hug and walked down the stairs.
Allison stood for a moment ringing
her hands together and then went
back into the room with her son.
Richard stepped out of the back
door of his house and into the small
clearing. He could see Nick
standing in the grave that was
already four or five feet deep.
Occasional drops of rain hit
Richard's face as, with a scowl, he
marched over to the grave. Nick
stopped his digging and peered up
with his green eye at the man who
loomed above.
"You are a human vulture!" cried
Richard,
"I'm just...doing my job." Nick
grinned.
"If anyone digs a grave for my
son it will be me!"
"I doubt that very much," again
Nick chuckled and coughed.
Richard could not believe the
arrogance of the old man. He
raised his sword to threaten the
grave digger, but, as he did so, the
wet dirt on the edge of the grave
gave way. Richard fell into the
grave; the sword fell beneath him.
Up in her son's room, Allison
heard a knock on the back door.
She ignored it as she held her son's
hand. A moment later the knock
came again. Allison hated to leave
her son alone in what could be his
last moments, so again she ignored
it. When the knock came a third
time, she decided she must go
answer. She hurried down the
stairs and opened the door.
Nick Bury stood on the back step
with his shovel over his left
shoulder. In his right hand he held
a short sword and a belt with amoney pouch.
"Your husband's possessions
ma'am," said Nick in his throaty
whisper, "I took the liberty of
removing a silver for my services."
Nick grinned, and stared at the
woman with his green eye. Nick
handed the items to Allison who
was too shocked to speak. Nick
noticed the tears on her cheek.
"Cheer up ma'am, you won't be
needing my services again for a
some time."
Nick turned and walked across
the clearing. From her position on
the door step, Allison heard a soft
chuckle as the man walked past a
newly filled grave and disappeared
into the woods.
4
Mercy for Davy
By Debra A. Kemp
|
“Enid?" The man stepped into
the kitchen yard and stood inside,
near the middens. His cap doffed.
"'Tis Olwen. I think you best
come."
"What of Olwen, Brynn?" Enid
said, straightening from the tub she
had been hunched over for the last
hour. She wiped her hands on her
skirt.
He shrugged. "Some accident."
Curious, the women around me
stopped working. Julia cast a
concern-laden glance about her. It
was mirrored by the rest of us.
"Is she hurt? Who is with her?"
Brynn's hands shook and he did
not meet Enid's gaze.
"Davy's with her. Enid . . . Ah,
Jesu, but why did this fall to me?"
he said, crossing himself. "I am
truly sorry, Enid. Your little one,
your Olwen, is dead."
I could not see Enid's face but
she held her back arrow-straight as
she walked from the yard with
Brynn.
Dead?
Olwen?
But that cannot be.
Mere hours ago I had saved her
from Prince Agravain's belt.
My companions and I followed,
paying no heed to Brisen's shouted
threats. Olwen was one of our own.
As we crossed the dunn's
courtyard, our band was joined by
curious servants and other slaves
swelling our ranks, so that by the
time we merged with the on-lookersalready at the well, we were a force
not to be taken lightly.
The crowd parted to reveal
Dafydd sitting cross-legged on the
well's step, with Olwen in his arms.
He rocked as though coaxing her to
sleep, his eyes red and swollen.
Her battered face told her painful
story.
Why? What could a child of six
summers have done to deserve
such a cruel fate?
Without a word, Dafydd raised
Olwen to the outstretched arms of
her mother.
"What rot is this?" The overseer
chose that moment to push through
the crowd. Cursing, he grabbed at
Olwen's body, causing her to tumble
from Dafydd's grasp.
Servant and slave alike released
a gasp at such disregard for the
dead.
Dafydd blanched.
Enid reached for her child,
sobbing.
The overseer blocked her way.
"If you please, Master. My child
-- Let me hold my child," Enid said,
her voice eerily calm and strong.
"Silence, woman. Another word
and you'll be at the post with your
gown around your waist."
Dafydd, bless him, had gathered
Olwen into his lap again. He
smoothed her clothes and her hair
as best he could with his hands. If
he was aware of my presence, he
did not show it. All his attention
was fixed on the child he cradledwith such love.
Yes, a man can be tender. At
least a boy named Dafydd could. I
admired my brother's infinite store
of compassion. And I felt shamed
for the accusations and anger I had
thoughtlessly flung at him at
cockcrow.
I took a step backwards and
bumped into Padrig.
We stood shoulder to shoulder in
silence, the scene before us of far
more import than our differences of
last night.
The overseer had turned his
attention to my brother. He
grasped Dafydd's collar and hauled
him to his feet.
"The truth, boy. Now."
Dafydd never loosened his hold
on Olwen. No matter what it might
cost him, he would not let her fall
again.
"I know not how it happened,
Master. I found her thus."
"Found her? Where?"
"Here, at the well, Master."
"What, pray, were you doing at
the well? Aren't you supposed to
be shovelling shit?"
"Yes, Master. I was, Master. I
was given a command to fetch
water."
"By who?"
Incredibly, the overseer seemed
not to believe my brother.
When had Dafydd ever lied?
"A stable-hand, Master. I do not
know his name, but I can point him
out."
"Never mind. For now. Go on."
"There is not much else, Master.
She was lying there on the step
when I got here." He nodded,
indicating the stains of blood on the
stone. "I thought at first that she
was badly hurt and needed help. But when I drew nigh, I saw that
she . . . That she was . . . dead."
The overseer released Dafydd.
"This is beyond my ken," he
said, scratching his crotch. "I can
not pass judgment on a death.
Someone fetch Prince Agravain. Or
Prince Modred."
I felt Padrig's hand on my
shoulder.
"I am certain your brother will
be well, Lin. But you might be wise
to keep as far back as possible."
I shrugged his hand away. "I
cannot abandon him, Padrig. He
would never leave me. They cannot
think Dafydd guilty of this. 'Tis
mad. Someone has to make them
believe he is innocent."
"They make the rules here.
They can believe what they want."
Aye, but--
"Donall, come take this." The
overseer pointed to Olwen, still
nestled at Dafydd's breast.
Enid fell to her knees and
clutched the overseer's trews.
Tears streaked her face.
"See, Master?" she said. "I beg.
What harm in letting me hold my
child one last time before you take
her from me?"
The overseer kicked at Enid and
a warrior stepped from the crowd.
Niall, my former escort.
"Allow me," he said, yanking the
woman to her feet and pinioning
her arms.
The two men laughed at her
struggles.
It was clear, we would not be
permitted to mourn Olwen's
passing. She was merely cumal.
She had no value.
I shivered from the strong wind
gusting from the north. The sky
had darkened since I had stood inthe kitchen yard, babbling rot about
my own lack of value, Enid
embracing me. It seemed a
lifetime ago.
Someone behind me shouted for
us to make way for the prince.
The crowd parted and I saw the
crop of dark hair.
Of course it would be him.
Prince Modred strode into the
clearing, steeped in arrogant
authority. Performing a duty for
Mummy. He surveyed the situation
with a glance at Dafydd and the
overseer. I could not see the
prince's face, but he must have
been surprised to discover that I
was not directly involved.
"What is she worked up over,"
the prince asked Niall, sounding
annoyed.
"Hell if I know, my lord."
"Well, woman. What is it?
Speak."
Like commanding a dog. I
half-expected him to snap his
fingers.
And Enid obeyed.
"If you please, young Master.
Your Highness. My child has been
killed. Show us your mercy in
finding the fiend. At least, be
merciful to a grieving mother and
permit me to hold my Olwen and
bid her farewell."
"Your Olwen? I think not. You
and the brat belong to my mother.
Besides, there is no time for your
sentimental foolishness. The whelp
is of no concern to me. You should
be tending your duties, not wasting
my time."
Enid bucked against the warrior
restraining her.
"Bitch," she screamed, casting
her gaze beyond the prince to the
palace looming over us all. "I'vegiven both of my daughters to the
bitch Queen of Orkney. Both of my
daughters, gone. May the Queen's
next lover have leprosy."
Thunder grumbled as though in
agreement.
The prince held his fists clenched
throughout. His lips drew tight
across his teeth. An arm rose, as
though to strike, then fell to his
side.
"Sell the hysterical creature, she
has wasted too much of my time,"
he said.
Niall began to obey, but before
he could make more than a few
steps, Custennin burst from the
midst of the throng, and flung
himself at the warrior dragging his
wife away.
Shouting curses, he wrestled
Niall to the ground. In the initial
impact, Enid was thrown against the
well.
Before any of the other soldiers
could react, I heard the sickening
crunch of bones breaking. Then
Niall moved no longer.
Not even winded, Custennin
glowered at Prince Modred.
"You're next, boy," he said,
pushing to his feet.
The prince fingered one of his
rings, as though untouched by the
threat. But surely he must sense
his danger. Though no scrawny
boy, the prince would be no match
for Custennin's passion-fueled
advantage.
Enid clutched her husband's leg.
"How touching," the prince said.
A wave of his hand and guards
dragged the couple apart. Two held
their swords at Custennin's throat.
Another soldier knelt over Niall
and listened at the fallen man's
chest. "My lord," he said, standing.
"Niall's dead. His neck is broke.
That slave murdered him. We all
saw it." He stood at attention.
"The Queen's warriors plead for
justice."
"Aye!"
Justice? Oh, the world had gone
mad. And I could merely stand on
the fringe, watching the madness
unfold. The soldiers demanded
justice, while the slaves could not
even beg a crumb of mercy or
compassion for our loss. We would
most likely never know the truth of
Olwen's death. But I could guess.
"Hold the slave, I shall deal with
him directly. Donall, dispose of --
this, it will be starting to stink
soon." He pointed at Olwen.
Dafydd was still clearly shocked
by the recent events, so the one
named Donall had no difficulty
retrieving Olwen. The man had
little regard, and much distaste for
his charge. He handled her more
like a sack of grain than a child
recently gone from the world.
It was too much. I could remain
silent no longer. I--
"No," Dafydd said leaping to his
feet. He grabbed at Donall's tunic,
defiance burned in the normally
calm eyes. His sudden cry took
everyone by surprise. "You cannot
just toss her away like you did my
mother. Olwen might have been
destined for the collar, but she was
a child of flesh and blood. Not
waste. Let us bury her properly.
Had you been decent about it in the
first place, your warrior would still
be alive."
The crowd agreed.
The overseer restrained Dafydd
in the next instant, binding his
hands at his back."So. You are like her," the
prince said to my brother.
A cold numbness settled around
my heart. Dafydd, be careful. He
is dangerous.
I felt Padrig's hand on my
shoulder, and this time allowed it to
remain.
"Take the woman to the town
slave pen. She has proved to be
more trouble than she is worth. I
want her gone."
The warrior who had taken
Niall's place made short work of his
task. One blow to Enid's head and
she crumpled. He carried her away.
Prince Modred whirled to face
Custennin.
"You killed one of my mother's
warriors. Do you realize the
penalty for that?"
Although at sword-point,
Custennin tossed strands of hair
from his face with the shake of his
head.
"Who will pay for the death of
my daughter, you heartless son of
a whore? An innocent boy? I care
not one whit for your mother's
warrior."
"Spoken like a condemned
man." The prince waved a jewelled
hand. "Hang him."
"No," I whispered.
Padrig drew closer.
Again, I did not stop him. I
dared not glance his way for fear he
would see my helplessness.
The man who had once fought
with the Pendragon did not resist
when the guards moved. His face
plainly showed his sorrow as he
gazed at the remains of his
daughter, slung in Donall's arms.
As they led him by my brother,
he said, "Many thanks for minding
Olwen for us, son."Dafydd nodded.
What a calm dignity Custennin
possessed. Here was a man worthy
of the Pendragon. I felt honoured
that our life paths had crossed.
They took him to the top of the
defence wall, where his hands were
bound and a noose slipped around
his neck. The other end of the rope
was secured to a stone that would
serve as cross-beam.
How efficient the Irish were at
dispensing their brand of justice.
They heaved our companion over
the side.
The crowd gasped.
Dafydd swayed in his place on
the well step, then he sank to his
knees, his chin drooping to his chest
when Custennin's body finally came
to rest.
My own legs wobbled and I felt
an urge to vomit.
Padrig and others crossed
themselves.
When would this sordid, wicked
day end?
Prince Modred allowed several
moments to pass, for the example
to drive its way into our souls.
Dafydd needed me more than
ever now. I swallowed my vomit,
willed my legs to bear my weight.
The prince no doubt saved my
brother for last, to prolong the
sport. For the first time since
arriving, he scanned the throng.
I made things easy for him by
stepping forward.
"I am here, prince."
He smirked. But I noticed a
weariness in the blue eyes
regarding me, as though the
intensity of the last few moments
had been more than he, or his
mother, had anticipated.
How had the situation gotten outof control as it had? The death
count was rising rapidly. To what
purpose?
A grieving mother denied access
to her child's body because the
masters needed to exert their
power over others? How senseless.
And the prince had Dafydd and
me by the short hairs. Exactly as
he wanted. He stood poised to
destroy us both.
"Now to attend what I was
summoned for in the first place.
Then, perhaps we can get on with
more important matters." He
glanced at the stone-grey sky.
"Before the rain. What is this one
accused of?"
"Destruction of the Queen's
property, my lord. I found him with
the girl in his arms. He said she
was already dead."
"You do not believe him?"
"What's to believe, lord? He's
but a slave. I thought it best to
send for you, my lord."
"Indeed."
I watched, helpless, as the
prince circled my kneeling brother;
like the carrion birds already
hovering over Custennin's body,
assessing him. Prince Modred
stopped and cupped Dafydd's chin,
tilting his face up and studied it.
"Mercy for Davy."
I could not see the man who
spoke.
"Mercy for Davy."
This time from a woman.
Mercy for Davy, the words came
from every direction of the
gathering. Men. Women. I heard
Padrig, Julia, Rhys. It soon became
a chant, taken up by dozens of
voices at once.
I could not resist my own smug
grin at the prince. A singlemis-step and he would incite a riot.
And I had done nothing to spark it.
I'd had no need.
Mercy for Davy, I mouthed.
"Ach, this one is too pathetic to
be a murderer," he said. "The
slave-girl's death was an accident.
Flog the miserable creature for his
outburst, and whatever other faults
he might have."
My brother was led to the
whipping post and everyone
followed. We would play out the
drama to its end. Even the prince
was a puppet to the events now.
He had as little control of the
situation as I did.
Preferring to be back in the
guard room, I again positioned
myself where the prince could see
me. Where I could watch my
brother's ordeal.
The prince took his time testing
the whip, plainly enjoying the
moment, as Dafydd was prepared.
I am a stone, without emotion, I
told myself.
The prince ran his fingers over
Dafydd's bare back.
"How long have you been here,
slave?"
"I was born here, Master."
"Born here? And your back has
never been touched by the whip?
How extraordinary."
The whip whistled and left a
straight crimson line from Dafydd's
shoulders to his waist. His body
stiffened at the impact, but
incredibly he made no sound.
Stop trying to be like me,
Dafydd.
"Brave, boy. But for how long?"
The prince taunted.
What would the others think
of me if I did not do for my brother
what I did for myself? What I haddone for Olwen.
There are only two men who
matter here.
Aye. And I will help my brother.
How, if you are beaten as well?
Time to choose.
A painful choice. My brother or
my pride.
I held my tongue.
Dafydd's silence did not hold
beyond the first strokes. Quite
soon his pain took over.
To the prince's pleasure. At that
point he let the overseer finish, but
he remained on the platform,
watching me struggle with my pride
and my heart.
I felt more exposed than when I
was shackled to the post myself,
stripped to the waist. I could never
hide how I cared for my brother
from the prince, or from anyone.
But I could control my actions. I
would witness my brother's scars as
he did mine. I would hold the score
in my heart.
At last the prince's blood-lust
was slaked and he signalled a halt
to the assault on my brother. He
jumped from the platform to stand
directly before me.
"Now his back is no longer
perfect. It is scarred like yours.
Next time, I might not have such
mercy. There are always slavers in
town wanting strong backs for the
tin mines of Dumnonia. Or the salt
mines of the midlands."
When he was gone, I scrambled
onto the platform and knelt at
Dafydd's side.
I bit my lips to silence my gasp
when I saw his wounds at such
close quarters. No wonder he was
always so cross with me after my
own encounters with the prince.
My brother moaned at my slighttouch to his cheek.
"It is only me, Dafydd," I
whispered.
4
The Orange
By Don Stockard
|
The prisoners marched in a ragged
line through the blowing snow -- black,
amorphous ghosts in a murky white
hell. The men were exhausted from a
day of hard labor and staggered
forward with their heads down. The
guards were little better. They walked
with their hands buried in the
greatcoats and chins on their chests.
Only their uniforms and rifles
distinguished them from the prisoners.
The sun had long since set, terminating
the brief arctic day, and a morose
semidarkness weighed heavily on the
plain as though it, rather than ancient
tectonic forces, had flattened the land.
A prisoner slowed, lagging behind the
group.
"Close the gap!" the nearest guard
snarled.
The prisoner did not increase his
pace.
"Move, damn it!" The guard
reluctantly took his hands out of his
pockets and raised his rifle.
Another prisoner dropped back
beside the straggler. "Come on, Peter,"
the second prisoner said, putting an
arm around the first. "We're almost
there, Pick it up."
Peter stared vacantly at the second
prisoner. "I can't, Ivan. I--”
"Yes, you can." Ivan increased his
pace, hauling Peter with him. Ivan was
much larger and younger than Peter.
And although Ivan was tired himself, he
had no difficulty dragging his
companion forward. He was surprised,
in fact, how light Peter was.
The guard tucked his rifle under his
arm and returned his hands to hispockets. Ivan had been right: they
were not far from the compound which
was home to the prisoners. Once
inside the gate, the prisoners formed a
line and the sergeant called roll. Ivan
stood next to Peter, propping him up.
Other work parties were arriving and
soon the entire labor battalion was
accounted for. The guards unlocked
the shacks and the prisoners poured
gratefully into the relative shelter of the
flimsy huts.
"Come on, old man," Ivan said, as
he lowered Peter onto his bunk. "At
least get out of your work clothes.
You'll feel better."
Peter shook his head. "Too tired."
"Here." Ivan pulled off Peter's thick
coat. "Now let me get your boots."
Peter offered no resistance and Ivan
soon had Peter's outer layers of
clothing off. Ivan stared at the other
prisoner for a few moments, as though
looking at a stranger. Peter had always
been a small wiry man. But his
strength had faded and there remained
little more than skin and bones. Peter's
eyes were sunken and his cheek had
collapsed, leaving a pitiful, painted
skull. Ivan shook his head slowly and
took Peter's coat and his own to the
pegs by the door.
"What's wrong with the old man?"
Stephen, a slight man with faded red
hair, asked as Peter hung up the
jackets.
"Worn out. The winter's too much
for him."
Stephen spit out a harsh laugh.
"So? What makes him different from
the rest of us?""He's old. He feels it more."
"You should have let the guard
shoot him. It would have been a
kindness; besides, why do you care?"
Ivan shrugged. "He's always been
kind to me. When I first came, he
taught me how to survive. Without his
help I would have been dead long ago."
There was an earnest, childlike
expression on Ivan's face.
"And you're grateful for that?
Anything that prolongs life in this hell is
cruelty -- the most inhumane cruelty."
"What's done is done. I can't help
but feel sorry for him."
"He'll be gone by morning."
Stephen stretched and yawned. "One
more down. Tonight him, tomorrow me
and then you. Who gives a damn?"
Without replying, Ivan returned to
Peter's bunk and sat down. None of
the other prisoners paid any attention
to old man's plight. Peter opened his
eyes and smiled faintly when he saw
Ivan's broad face.
"How do you feel?" Ivan asked.
Peter did not reply and Ivan laid his
hand on the other's forehead. It felt
warm.
"Fever," Peter said, without waiting
for Ivan to comment.
"You do feel a bit warm. But I
wouldn't --"
"What difference does it make?"
Peter interrupted him. "There's nothing
to be done about it." He sighed and
looked up at Ivan, his eyes bright.
"I've had it. I can't take another day
out there. The body reaches a point
where it can't go on."
"Maybe you'll feel better in the
morning," Ivan said, trying
unsuccessfully to put a note of
conviction in his voice.
Peter smiled feebly. "Yes. I'll feel
much better. I won't notice any pain of
cold. It'll be over ... yes, it'll be over."Ivan did not respond. He knew
Peter was right. Death was common in
the camp. It was as commonplace as
going to the bathroom or eating;
nevertheless, the prospect of Peter's
death saddened Ivan. For he was a
simple peasant, with strong
attachments to his family and his land.
And when, for reasons Ivan did not
understand, the government had taken
him from his land and family, he had
silently grieved. Of all that he had lost,
he missed, most of all, his father, a
man of quiet courage, who had faced
adversity with calmness and
determination. Ivan had found the
same qualities in Peter. And, over
time, Peter had become a father to the
young peasant lad.
"You know what I miss most of all?"
Peter asked. Ivan shook his head.
"An orange."
"Orange?" Of all the things that
Peter might have said, this was among
the least expected.
Peter chuckled. "Yes, an orange.
Oranges were always a favorite of
mine. My mother used to peel them for
me when I was a child. And it was
under an orange tree --" a ragged
cough interrupted his description "--
that I proposed to my wife."
Peter paused and Ivan stared at
him, waiting for him to continue.
"It isn't just the taste that I like, but
it's also the color and the texture of the
skin -- rough and smooth at the same
time. I would have liked to see an
orange again before I die." He closed
his eyes, smiling. "But the world of
oranges is far away ... far away." His
breathing slowed to the cadence of
sleep and Ivan sat beside his friend for
a few more moments and then stood
up quietly.
"Where you going?" Stephen asked
as Ivan opened the door."To get an orange."
Stephen frowned. "Are you crazy or
something?"
If Ivan replied, it was lost in the
howling wind as he stepped outside.
Ivan leaned into the wind and blowing
snow and marched resolutely to the
guardhouse.
Six guards in all were in the cabin.
Four were engaged in a card game,
while the other two watched. They
looked up in surprise as Ivan entered.
"What are you doing here?" the
sergeant demanded, scowling at the
prisoner. "You're supposed to be in
your shack."
"I need an orange," Ivan said,
expressionlessly.
The sergeant frowned as several of
the guards laughed. "What the hell are
you talking about?"
"An orange." Ivan's face was blank
and his voice even.
"Look. You're not even supposed to
be in here. If the lieutenant happened
by, I'd have to shoot you. Now get
your ass out of here."
"I need an orange."
The sergeant stood up, slamming
his cards onto the table. "Damn it--”
"How much is it worth to you?"
Basil, a young heavyset guard, asked
the prisoner.
Ivan shrugged. "I have nothing --"
"Cigarettes?" Basil smiled thinly.
Ivan nodded. "Yes, I have
cigarettes."
"I just got a package from home
and there happens to be an orange in
it." Basil leaned back in his chair,
grinning. "You can have it. In
exchange I want your cigarette ration
for a year." The officers and sergeants
skimmed off a good portion of each
prisoner's allotment. But an ordinary
guard received no cut.
"A year?" Ivan asked in disbelief."That's right." Basil reached into his
satchel and pulled out an orange. He
tossed it into the air and caught it.
"One year."
Ivan stared at the orange. It was a
large navel orange with a thick, rugged
peel and a vivid orange color. The
guard tossed it into the air again. It
spun lazily through the air, as though
mocking Ivan, and then smacked into
Basil's hand. Ivan thought of Peter
lying in his bunk, sleeping fitfully.
"Okay," he said finally. "One year."
"You all witness it?" Basil looked at
the other guards, who nodded in
assent.
Ivan held out his hand.
Basil shook his head. "Not so fast.
You got your cigarette ration yesterday.
Let's have it."
Ivan hesitated.
"You want the orange?" Basil tossed
it into the air again.
Ivan took the pack out of his
pocket. He carefully husbanded his
cigarettes, allowing himself one every
other day. He regretted today had not
been a cigarette day. He handed them
to Basil. The guard took the pack and
counted the cigarettes.
"Okay." Basil tossed the orange to
Ivan.
"Now get out of here," the sergeant
said.
Ivan quickly ducked out the door
into the blowing snow.
"What the hell do you suppose the
stupid bastard wants with an orange?"
Basil asked. "Especially to the tune of
a year's worth of cigarettes."
"Who knows." The sergeant sat
down and picked up his cards. "Whose
bid?"
Ivan, clutching the orange, hurried
through the storm to his hut and burst
into the room. The other men in the
hut looked dully at Ivan as he strode toPeter's bunk. Satisfied the older man
was still breathing, Ivan poked him
gently.
Peter opened his eyes and looked at
Ivan in surprise. After a few moments
he smiled in recognition.
"Here." Ivan thrust the orange into
Peter's hands.
Peter looked at the orange in shock.
"Where ... an orange ... but how--”
"It doesn't matter," Ivan said.
Tears welled up in Peter's eyes.
"Thank you," he said. "I-I never
thought--”
"That's okay." Ivan cut him off.
Expressions of emotion were alien to
the harsh world of the camp and he felt
uncomfortable in their presence. "Do
you want me to peel it for you?"
Peter shook his head. "No. That's
all right."
Ivan nodded.
Peter closed his eyes. For the rest
of the night he lay on his back smiling
contentedly, turning the orange over
and over in his hands. Ivan sat silently
on the edge of the bed. Shortly after
midnight, Peter trembled slightly and
then lay immobile. Ivan stared at him
for a moment to be sure his breath was
indeed stilled and then pulled the
blanket over Peter's face. He crossed
himself slowly and lay down in his own
bunk, waiting for morning.
"Time to get up!" the guard shouted
as he pushed open the door.
"One gone," Ivan said softly,
referring to Peter.
The guard swore, left, and returned
several minutes later with the sergeant
and two other guards.
"Which one?" the sergeant asked,
his pencil poised over his clipboard.
Ivan nodded toward Peter.
"Bag him up." The sergeant made a
check on the list.
A guard jerked the blanket off ofPeter. "Hey," he said. "An orange."
"Well I'll be damned," another guard
said.
"It's not going to do him any good,"
the first said, reaching for the orange,
which was locked tightly in Peter's cold
hands.
"No!" Ivan screamed, grabbing the
guard before he could take the orange.
"It's his! Leave it alone!"
"Get the hell off me!" the guard
shouted in terror. Ivan was
considerably larger than the guard and
there was a wild look of fury in the
prisoner's eyes.
"Damn it!"
"Grab him!"
The sergeant and the other guards
dragged Ivan off. The other prisoners
flattened against the wall. They knew
any hint of aiding Ivan would bring dire
consequences.
"It's his!" Ivan roared.
"Hold him!" The sergeant ran to the
door and shouted. Several more
guards rushed in.
"There!" The sergeant pointed at
Ivan, who was still struggling.
They soon had the prisoner pinned
to the floor. "Settle down, you
bastard!" The sergeant slapped Ivan
across the face several times with the
barrel of his pistol.
Ivan, blood oozing from a corner of
his mouth, ceased struggling and glared
at the guards.
"Bag the body up," the sergeant
said, nodding toward Peter.
Two of the guards hurried to obey
and soon had Peter, still grasping the
orange, in the bag.
"Okay," the sergeant said. "Get
them both out of here."
Once outside, those carrying the
remains of Peter hurried toward a pit
on the edge of camp where the bodies
of dead prisoners lay frozen until theground thawed enough to allow them to
be easily covered. The other guards
led Ivan toward the small hut that was
used as a jail. Ivan watched the guards
carrying the body of Peter and began to
laugh. It was a rich, rumbling laugh
that came from deep in his chest.
Exchanging a nervous glance, his
guards pushed Ivan toward the jail.
4
Yekaterinburg, 1918
The Death of Alexei Romanov
An ordinary house with white siding, a shingled roof and a side
door
is our home this summer.
The side door has become familiar to me, the way side doors do
when you have lived in a house for a time and you are thirteen
years old.
It leads to the basement.
We can reach the basement from inside the house as well, and
that's what we do to take our family photograph.
My father wants the photograph.
It will show that we are ordinary and happy in our house with
white wood siding.
We listen to his wishes.
The basement is a drab place for a photograph, but my sisters are
lovely in white dresses.
They have sloping petal faces,
Eyes dewy and drooping.
They are beige and saffron roses in lovely dresses and my mother
gathers them to her.
I stand behind, younger, yet taller.
I hold myself apart, because small wounds make me bleed.
The photographers adjust our pose.
The angles must be precise, my father will insist.
"Tatania, bend, lean Maria, yes, smile Anastasia."
"And Alex, do not stand far apart, although I know that small wounds make you bleed."
He is done now, and the photographers level their aim.
My father cries out.
The too-lonq cameras crack.
I fall, too.
This camera insult is hardly necessary,
since always even the smallest wounds have made me bleed.
My sisters do not fall.
They have sewn diamonds into their underclothing
and the bullets cannot go through. ( continued on next page )
The photographers must therefore come from behind their cameras
with sleek and sharp blades
to open their petal throats.
-By Karen Chaffee
The Waterbed
By Bruce Stevens
|
Just after midnight Myrna was
bolted awake by a tickling sensation
under her body as if something was
alive inside the waterbed. Though it
was an obviously unsubstantiated
supposition, she still reacted
instinctively, jumping up to a sitting
position, gasping for breath. Ordinarily
a nervous person, just the thought of
being in the close proximity of a
disgusting cockroach or water bug, or
worse, a repulsive mouse would be
enough to have her leaping ten feet
into the air. But with consciousness
came reality. After forcefully calming
her manic lungs, she turned to her
husband whom she figured just had
played one of his stupid pranks on her.
She whispered in his ear, “You're not
funny, Lou.” Lying on his fat belly like
a beached walrus, with his jaw hanging
open snoring, Myrna accepted he was
out cold. She fell back on her pillow,
now assuming a weird nightmare had
awakened her, which she blamed on
the earlier and far more ghastly
nightmare at her senile parents' home.
Loud and senseless he-did-that-and-
she-did-that complaints, rivaled only by
the usual threats of divorce after fifty-
one years of marriage, pummeled her
brain for nearly three hours, churning
up dreadful emotions. Seconds after
gulping down a horrible dinner, she
threw on her coat, and escaped the
nuthouse to forestall an imminent
nervous breakdown.
Myrna closed her eyes, hoping to fall
back to sleep quickly. But a moment
later she felt that same sensation
again.And again!
For an instant it intrigued her, but
after feeling a long slinky body rub
up against the back of her thigh, she
tensed. Logically, she knew fish
didn't exist in the waterbed -- yet,
something far more enormous than a
bedbug was alive beneath her. And
it certainly wasn't her imagination,
though she knew the mind was
capable of playing some crazy tricks
on its unsuspecting self (besides the
psychology courses she took in
college, she was on the couch for
years in psychoanalysis). She
thought of waking Lou, but he'd only
start screaming at her.
Ignoring the strange phenomenon
for over an hour, she eventually
drifted off to sleep. It was not a
peaceful sleep.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
In the morning Myrna was
desperate to tell Lou about her
midnight madness, but she knew
what to expect from him -- a
belittling curl of his upper lip -- a
crude joke at her expense, and so
she kept quiet.
That evening during dinner Myrna
cinched her lips tightly about the
sensations she felt in the bed, and
instead talked incessantly about
meaningless topics. Lou thought she
was acting oddly. After dinner she
called her best friend on the
telephone and told her everything.
Her friend suggested she be
examined for a possible overactive
thyroid.
After Lou retired early, and was
snoring loudly, Myrna came into bed,
hoping that what had occurred last
night was some sort of temporary
aberration in her psyche. She laughed
at the notion of fish in a waterbed to
quell her nerves.
Around one in the morning a long
slithery body moved beneath her neck
and wrenched her awake. Another
something moved beneath her legs. A
third at her feet. She leaped up into a
sitting position, gulping in disbelief.
Now she was crazed!
Though her rational mind writhed in
confusion, Myrna forced it to analyze
and make sense of what was
happening. She quickly made a mental
list of plausible reasons for these
implausible sensations. The top of the
list was madness. And why not? she
thought. One look at her family and
nothing more need be said. Second
place, was her warped imagination,
which she craftily used to entertain and
teach the kindergarten children. It was
not uncommon for that to be out of
control, especially when emotional.
Third place, LSD flashbacks. But from
the seventies? She doubted that.
Fourth place, the house was haunted.
The house could be haunted? The
other possibilities were too ghastly to
contemplate. A brain tumor!
Alzheimer's!
The last possibility stood apart.
What if there were fish in the mattress?
It was not in her nature to dismiss all
paranormal events that defied logic as
trickery. She believed in astrology.
And miracles. And aliens living as
humans somewhere on the planet. And
God and even evil spirits. And if all
those were true -- why not fish in a
waterbed?
When a school of small fish passedbeneath her, Myrna could no longer
hold her feelings at bay. She shook
Lou's shoulder. “Lou, wake up.”
Lou stirred. “Is it time to get up
already?”
“No. It's one in the morning.”
“Are you ill?”
“I don't know.”
“If you want to fool around, I'm
very tired. I don't think I can get it
up.” He moaned. “Let's wait 'til
Sunday.”
“Lou, something is in the bed.”
Lou could not imagine what she
was talking about, but that was not
unusual as she rarely exercised a
logical mind. “Do you want me to
get a gun and shoot it?”
“This is no time for jokes.” Myrna
flinched when a long sharp fin
scraped her ass. “There! Did you
feel that?”
“The only thing I'm feeling is
exhaustion.” He refused to open his
eyes.
“Please don't laugh. I really mean
it. But I think there are fish in the
waterbed.”
Lou snickered from under the
covers. “Myrna, you're having a
nightmare. Go back to sleep. By
morning, hopefully, we'll both forget
this unfortunate conversation ever
occurred.”
Using her scolding teacher's voice:
“I'm serious. There are fish
swimming in the bed. Schools of
them. Don't you feel them?”
Lou could not believe he was
having this incredulous conversation.
“All I feel are your could toes on my
thigh.”
“It's not funny. This is the second
night.” She sniffed. “I think I can
even smell them.”
Lou sat up, brushing away the few
gray hairs left on his head from hiseyes. He spoke firmly. “There are no
fish in the waterbed. There are
marbles loose in your mind. That's for
sure. But no fish. Now go to bed.”
“Then what am I feeling beneath
me? Answer me that smarty puss!”
“Nothing! Nothing at all!” he
shouted. She had a way of driving him
crazy. “Look Myrna, fish live in the
ocean. In a lake. In a fish tank. Not
in a bed! I'm certain you learned that
in school.”
Myrna flinched. “Oh, my God! That
was a big one. You had to feel that. It
was swimming right toward you.”
“Myrna, you are out of your MIND!”
“If you loved me, you'd believe me.”
“Myrna, I love you! I love you! But
fish living in a waterbed is as real as
Flipper, Charlie the Tuna, and the Little
Mermaid!”
Myrna felt the whipping motion of
sharp fins. “Well, start believing
because they're in the mattress.” She
shrugged.
Lou jumped out of bed. “Okay!
Okay! You win! Get out of bed! Get
out of bed NOW!”
More mad than terrified Myrna
gladly got out of bed and turned on the
light. “Now you'll see I'm telling you
the truth.” She watched nervously as
Lou pulled away the comforter. “Be
careful! Don't get bitten.”
Lou pulled away the sheet.
Myrna envisioned a family portrait
above their waterbed -- teeming with
marine life, in an exhibit at Ripley's
Believe It or Not.
Lou pulled away the mattress cover,
revealing the clear plastic skin. “Okay,
Myrna, do you see any fish? Do you
see even the teeniest minnow? Do
you?”
Myrna looked carefully. There were
no fish in the clear water. Not one.
She expelled a chest full of dead air. Of course there are no fish in the
mattress! her mother's nasty voice
shouted in her ear. Fish don't live in
a mattress -- moron. Now you've
made an utter fool of yourself. A
grown woman -- a teacher of children
acting like a lunatic! Weeping, Myrna
put back all the covers, crawled into
bed, and turned off the light. “I'm
sorry, dear. I don't know what's
wrong with me. I was so sure.”
Lou kissed her forehead. “Even
though you're nuts, I still love you.”
He was asleep in two seconds.
Myrna lied in bed. Wide awake.
Her mood was plunging toward the
depths as the fish swam beneath her.
The following morning Myrna
made emergency appointments with
a neurologist and her internist. A
week later, after extensive and
thorough tests: an M.R.I., blood
work, and an EEG, both doctors
informed her that all of the test
results were negative. They strongly
suggested a psychiatrist.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Myrna refused to believe that she
was crazy. Logic told her that the
fish must have hid when Lou pulled
away the covers and that's why they
didn't see them. The following day,
during her prep period in school, she
went up to the library, thinking that if
she learned more about fish, and
found tangible proof that they could
not live in a mattress, maybe, just
maybe the sensations would
disappear. She sat in the corner and
delved into the books; some of them
were actually fascinating. In
comparing size and fish behavior she
imagined the little fish were likely
spearing or kellies. Slightly larger
fish herring or sea bass. Even larger
ones mackerel or blues. And the
biggest tuna or cod. After reading
about marine environments she
conjectured that if the plastic mattress
were air soluble, and if the big fish
were eating the little ones for food --
then, fish could thrive in the mattress
as they do in the ocean. The issues of
salinity, ammonia and nitrite levels
were obviously being maintained at
their safe levels by the miraculous
qualities of the bed -- maybe not as
great a miracle as the parting of the
Red Sea, but a miracle none the less.
Myrna had a wonderful idea. She
would call someone in the religious
community who dealt with miracles and
have them investigate. Suddenly,
sanity wrestled her craziness into
submission. What am I doing? There
can't be any fish in the waterbed! Fish
don't live in a bed! Stop being crazy!
Tears welled in her eyes. She pushed
away the books, and ran out of the
library.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Myrna called her old psychiatrist,
Dr. Bigalow, and was given an
emergency appointment. Weeks of
insomnia and mental stress were
debilitating her, she was nearing a
breakdown. While lying on the couch,
choking with anxiety, she told him
everything.
Dr. Bigalow listed to her emotional
disorder for six sessions before he
offered his interpretation. “Myrna, I
believe that you are suffering from
classic penis envy. The long fish
obviously represent a penis. On the
one hand I believe that you wish to
have a penis rather than a vagina -- a
penis in your bed is synonymous withhaving a penis in your body. As
you've told me, you've always
believed that your father has loved
your brother more than you. And
you've believed he has profound
contempt for women. So -- in your
fantasies, if you were a boy than you
could have your father's love. But --
on the other hand you fear the penis
-- not only because your father was
overbearing and brutal, but because
having a penis would intensify your
perverse sexual fantasies toward
your mother.” Dr. Bigalow felt there
was no greater healing tool than an
interpretation of unconscious conflict.
Myrna stared at the ceiling and
thought for a moment. “So, what
you're saying Dr. Bigalow, is the
tormenting fish are a hysterical
symptom. By having fish in my bed,
I believe I have the power equal to
men....I have my father's love....Yet
-- by not having the penis actually
attached to me, I preserve my
female identity.”
“Precisely.”
Myrna was a good patient.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
That night Myrna laid in the dark.
Wide awake. Her breathing was
labored and shallow. Overpowering
and unbearable anxiety racked her
tender organs. Excruciatingly painful
diarrhea curdled in her colon and
forced her to the toilet every half
hour. She could not be more
depressed as the fish swam beneath
her. If not for her belief in Dr.
Bigalow's curative abilities, she might
have acted on her emerging suicidal
thoughts.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
After hearing the stubborn nature of
the symptom at the next session Dr.
Bigalow offered an additional
interpretation to extricate the
unconscious conflict and give her peace
of mind. “Myrna, making changes in
one's life is like a ship leaving port. Not
until all the lines are released can the
ship sail into the sunset.”
Frigid tears streamed down feverish
cheeks as Myrna listened to Dr.
Bigalow's words.
“Myrna, perhaps the fish represent
your mother. So often you have
described her as an aggressive,
narcissistic bitch, who always rubs you
the wrong way. It is obvious you need
to address your hatred toward your
mother, if you wish to be free of this
symptom.” He smiled warmly, hoping
to give her the secure feeling he was
on her side and that they were fighting
the demons together.
Myrna didn't think she hated her
mother, but maybe she did? Maybe
she hated her mother as she now hated
herself?
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Despite the Freudian explanations
by Dr. Bigalow at each subsequent
session, the fish still persecuted Myrna.
Every night. All night! And although
the eminent psychiatrist had faith that
one day she would conquer her
emotional conflicts, he prescribed
Prozac as an adjunct to treatment and
as a preventative to a short term
hospital stay, which appeared
imminent.
Watching his wife sink into a morbid
depression upset Lou, and he felt guilty
that he was unable to help her. In the
past weeks he really tried to be
sensitive to her emotional needs, but
his nerves were frayed for lack of sleepand from her unrelenting crazy
gibberish. Tonight, he intended to go
to bed early. He had an important
business meeting first thing in the
morning and he didn't want to look
like a cadaver lying on a mortician's
table. As he went to give Myrna a
kiss good night, he noticed this weird
smirk on her face. “Okay, what are
you plotting?”
“Why do you say that?” She
played stupid.
“Because I know you too well.”
He scowled. “You better not be
thinking of doing something to this
bed.”
“Now why would I want to do
that?” she said flippantly as if she
were not listening only to an inner
voice. A wide devilish grin stretched
freakishly across her face. “This is
such a lovely bed.”
“Myrna, I'm telling you straight
out, I'm not going to let you throw
out a perfectly good bed because
you're delusional.”
Giggling wryly. Ignoring his
pathetic tantrum. “You know, it's all
becoming clear now.” Myrna's terror
had obliterated the fine line between
truth and paranoia.
“What is?” He was crazed
thinking he'd have to stay home and
stand guard over the bed.
“I know and you know there are
fish in this bed -- don't you?” she
said with an accusatory tone, her
eyes glazed as if demonically
possessed.
“Myrna, there are no fish in the
bed. How many times do I have to
prove that to you? It's just your silly
imagination. It's like a snowball
rolling down a hill. You have to stop
it before it destroys you.”
“The only things that are getting
bigger are the fish and your lies.”
She glared slyly at him. “I finally
figured out how you get them to hide
just before you pull away the mattress
cover. You give them a signal. A
signal! I've been watching. I bet you
didn't know that...it's your right hand
that you smack against the bed two--”
“Hide! Where the hell would they
hide?” He shouted, stressed to the
breaking point.
“So! You admit they're there.”
“I do not,” he said sternly. “Myrna,
I'm calling Dr. Bigalow and telling him
he better increase the medication.”
“Fuck the medication! Give it to the
fish!” she barked loudly. “Do you want
to know how the fish got in the bed,
Lou? Well, I figured it out. Fish eggs.”
“Fish eggs!” Lou had to finally
admit to himself that Myrna was
suffering from some kind of psychotic
dementia. She should be locked away.
“Fish eggs. Yes. They're in the
water supply. I read that. They lay
dormant for years -- and they can
suddenly hatch. Then, they eat the
microorganisms. And the algae. And
grow. Bigger fish eat little fish. And
then they grow. And lay more eggs.
You see! God, there could be millions
in there!”
Pleading. “There are no fish in the
bed! No fish! Shall I prove it for the
fiftieth time! No fish EGGS! No
ALGAE!” He was now so crazed he
doubted he would ever fall asleep.
“You've heard about the man who
protests too much -- well, I know why
you've refused to acknowledge the fish.
We both know, don't we?” She
watched for a hint of truth in his eyes.
“You put the eggs there -- didn't you,
Lou? Yeah, I know your little scheme
now. I know what you've been doing.”
“What am I doing?” he smirked
stupidly.
“Where were you tonight?”“This is silly.”
“You've got something to hide?”
“I told you I had an office party.”
“Sure! Sure! And I have an Aunt
Tilly in Wisconsin!”
“You don't believe me?”
“Did your secretary go the party?
What's her name? Miss Tits? Or is it
Miss Spread Her Legs Wide? Or Miss
Blow Job Under The Desk?”
“Myrna, now you're really acting
crazy. You think there's something
fishy going on? Something smells
rotten in the state of Denmark?” He
laughed loud on purpose. Her
craziness was getting him mean.
“Well, if you don't stop this shit, I'm
going to pack up and move the hell
out of here. How do you like that!”
“It's what you've wanted for a
long time. Admit it. Then you can
marry that house wrecker.”
“I've had it! That's it!” Lou went
to stand up. “I'm packing and
getting the hell out of here!”
Just at that moment Myrna felt a
twenty foot long fish pass beneath
her, it's huge sharp fin scraping her
thighs. As far as she was concerned
it was that man-eating shark in the
movie Jaws, which was the most
terrifying film she had ever seen.
She went ballistic with terror.
Screaming. Leaping out of bed. “Get
out Lou! Save yourself! There's a
shark in the bed!”
“Myrna, I feel something. Oh
God! It's -- it's fucking huge! It's
coming through the mattress! Oh, no
there's a shark in the bed! A giant
white! It's biting me!” He tumbled
erratically under the covers as if he
were being eaten alive by a sea
monster. “Help! Help me!” He
made gurgling sounds. Then
screeched. Then collapsed as if
dead. Only his giggling suggested hewas still alive.
Myrna stood by the door, clutching
her hammering heart with her hand.
“You're a bastard! I want a new bed!
Do you hear me! I want a real bed! I
won't sleep in that evil thing another
night! It wants to destroy ME!” She
ran into her daughter's room, slammed
the door shut, and fell on the bed -- a
normal bed with a hard, solid mattress.
Fortunately, her daughter was away at
college and it could be her refuge. She
curled into a fetal position and rocked
gently until she fell asleep.
Figure
Graphic file number 0 named a_dic045.wmf with height 13 p and width 62 p Left aligned
Myrna was jolted awake from a
horrific nightmare that was accepted as
reality until she bolted up and had the
sun glaring in her eyes. If anything in
life would eventually cause a heart
attack it would have been that dream.
In a reflex action she checked all her
body parts to see if any were missing
as she recalled every vivid detail. In
the dream, feeling guilty about her
insensitive behavior toward Lou, she
saw herself leave her daughter's room
to go back to her own bedroom.
Ignoring her fears she lied next to him,
as her way of apologizing. But he was
not there. And she remembered
thinking that was strange. Suddenly, a
tightly packed school of fish moved
around beneath her. A moment later
the fish thrashed about as if they were
being attacked by a huge predator.
Terrified by the feeding frenzy, Myrna
leapt out of bed. But instead of
running away, she tore away the
covers, exposing the clear plastic
mattress. But this time the fish weren't
hiding. And she saw them all! Man-
eating sharks. Snarling barracudas.
Thousands of menacing piranha.
Sinister eels. All with cold, bloodthirstyexpressions. Gripped in assiduous
disbelief, she froze. Suddenly, a
great white shark leaped out of the
mattress, opened its huge gaping
mouth, and bit down on her shoulder
with its rows of glistening razor sharp
teeth. It dragged her into the
depths. She actually felt the chilling
sea water on her body, and the teeth
cutting through her flesh. Her
harrowing screams alerted her
consciousness that she could bear no
more.
Myrna awoke, drenched in
perspiration, and more determined
than ever to put an end to that
hideous mattress. Kill it dead.
Annihilate it with mortal wounds.
And with water draining from it --
good-bye fish! And good-bye to all
her troubles. It was something she
should have done after the first
week. The bed meant nothing to
her. It was just a relic from their
mindless youth. To hell with Lou's
bad back. Besides, it was his fault
she was having a nervous
breakdown.
Myrna looked at the clock and the
sunlight and saw she had nearly slept
half the day away. Fortunately, she
was on a school holiday. She
dressed quickly in old jeans and a tee
shirt, and went to her bedroom. The
bedroom was closed. She opened it
and peeked inside. Lou was gone.
That was good. She feared he might
stand guard over it.
After two cups of coffee and a half
a box of cookies, she grabbed a
paring knife from the kitchen, two
buckets from the garage, and a
wheel barrel. Then she went back
into the bedroom, feeling happier
than she had in weeks. What she
was going to do made complete
sense to her now that she was calm.
Fish or no fish didn't matter. That bed
was evil. Pure evil. And she was going
to send it back to hell. She figured it
wold take her a few hours to slowly let
out all the water without destroying the
house. If there were fish she would
haul them into the backyard and show
Lou the truth when he came home. If
not -- fuck it! Afterwards she would
slash the plastic mattress to shreds, so
it could never be used again, and then
put it out with the trash. After a
shower she would call one of those
mattress companies and have them
deliver a conventional bed by the
evening. To appease Lou, she would
make him his favorite meal, and give
him oral sex.
She pulled away the comforter.
Tore away the sheet.
Ripped off the mattress cover.
Her harrowing screams shattered
the quiet community.
The water was crimson!
In the bloody was a body. A human
skeleton. Most of the flesh eaten off
the bone.
Lou's chewed face showed all the
astonishment and horror of his last
moments alive.
4
I Hear the Subway Sing
By Richard D. Robbins
|
I stand waiting for the Number Six,
my feet touching the edge of the
platform, looking down into the dark
canyon where the tracks snake along
through the station. The tracks beckon
to me. A train roars by across the way,
going south. I hear the clacking of the
wheels on the rail junctions. I hear
them call to me, clackety-clack, touch
the track, clackety-clack, touch the
track, clackety-clack. The train
continues on its way. It is not my
train. Nevertheless, I look hard at the
beckoning track. I want to touch the
third rail, but I crush the thought. It is
so seductive though. To be one with
the power of electricity, to be one with
the third rail, would be exhilarating.
My train comes into the station. I pull
back from the edge of the platform, but
I stay close. The wind flows over me
as the train screams to a halt. The
smell of the electricity and the sound of
the doors opening excite me. I board
the train.
I head uptown on the Number Six
Local. I am early for my appointment
with the doctor. It is a cold day and
the subway car is cold. It's rush hour
and the subway is moderately crowded,
but it isn't too bad. Crowds cause me
to perspire even in the cold. I sit down
in the green-yellow plastic bench. The
bench has molded depressions for
people, but these are, in fact, too small
or too large. I stare across the aisle as
the train moves along. Clackety-clack.
I look at the advertisements, a frieze
along the wall. I can't read the ones in
Spanish or Korean. The bright electric
smell of the subway is what gets to me. I didn't put the fiberglass sheet under
my watch cap this morning. It is safely
folded in my pocket. I do not want the
doctor to know about it, and I know I
will have to take my hat off in her
office. I am without my fiberglass and
I am feeling vulnerable to the ambient
electricity. Of course, electricity used
to bother me more than it does now. I
think this is because I have absorbed
so much electricity. I store it, and I am
immune to it at the same time. The
doctor thinks the improvement she
perceives is due to the medications. I
think the medications help me store the
power of the electricity, but I don't
think I'll need them too much longer.
The doctor says I will. I don't think
about touching the third rail as much as
I used to. But I still want to touch the
rail and I am both frightened and
exhilarated by the power of the
electricity. I often want to scream.
I think about Dr. Lith. That's not
really her name, but it's a better name
than her own. If I use her real name,
she will know. I fear the electricity will
somehow tell her. I love Dr. Lith,
although I harbor resentful feelings.
How can I not harbor resentful feelings
toward she who probes my mind? I am
at once empowered and terrified by
what is there, in my mind, but it is my
mind after all. What gives her the
right?
Dr. Lith's office is fairly soothing. I
feel at home and I can barely hear the
electricity. At least it is not as loud as
in the subway. I think she has
fiberglass insulation in the walls of her
office, under her rosewood panelling. Iam sure the glass is applied against the
sheetrock. On top of the glass there is
plaster and then the panelling. I know
I cannot tell her this. If I do, I will
have to take the medications forever.
She sits, her legs crossed
seductively, and pretends to be
objective toward me. I know she
struggles with her objectivity. The top
two buttons on her red silk blouse are
undone. Her grey skirt rides up a little
when she crosses her legs. She
pretends to adjust her skirt. She shifts
in her red leather armchair. I know she
is anxious. I know she struggles with
her thoughts about me. She smiles.
Her smile radiates from her and warns
me. Her eyes are flecked with gold. I
ask her, "Do you love me, Doctor?"
She says nothing. She looks at me,
her smile disappears. I am
momentarily paralysed, but I know the
truth. Even through the fiberglass
sheathed walls, I hear clackety-clack,
clackety-clack.
"Do you love me, Doctor?" I ask
again, sitting slightly forward in my
chair. I smell her perfume.
There is silence between us, except
for the snapping of the electricity in the
walls, which is, of course, attenuated
by the glass. She is very clever. I
smile.
"Why do you want to touch the third
rail, Sam?" Her voice is charming. She
shifts a little in her chair. She is very
sensual.
"It is the source of the power,
Doctor." I sit back in my chair, remove
my spectacles and pretend to clean
them with my tie.
"Oh?" she says.
“It is the source of my power."
"We talked about this, Sam . You
know this is delusional thinking," she
says. I know she is pretending to think
this is true. She knows power is all tooreal.
The clock next to her on the small
mahogany table suddenly spins.
"Time is up for today, Sam," she
says. She rises, slowly, slowly from her
chair, smoothing her skirt as she does
so. "I will see you next week."
"Yes, of course," I say. I am acutely
aware of her aura now. She is radiant.
I know that she steals some of my
electricity, my power. I am weak when
I leave her office.
I catch the downtown Number Six
Local. Clackety-clack, touch the track.
I find a seat on the blue-green bench.
Without warning, the train stops in the
middle of the tunnel, not at a station.
A crackling voice comes over the
loudspeaker saying we are stopped for
a "red signal" and will be moving in a
few minutes. Nobody seems to care.
It is then I notice the girl across the
aisle is looking at me. I guess I was
staring at her. Nobody looks at
anybody on a subway. Nobody makes
eye contact unless they mean it. I
think she must be from out of town.
And then, incredibly, she smiles at
me. A small, tentative smile. I smile
back at her. And then her smile seems
to explode into a beautiful epiphany.
Quickly she looks away, down into her
black nylon carry-all bag and takes out
a magazine. The train starts with
electrical suddenness. An old man with
a net shopping bag almost falls in the
aisle.
I can't help watching her now. She
is very beautiful. I wish I could paint
her portrait. Her face is open.
Prominent cheekbones, but not too thin
and sharp like those of the powerful
ladies on television. At some angles,
she is astonishing. At others just
attractive. The overall effect is
staggering. She wears a red silk
blouse, revealed by her open grey coat. The top two buttons of the blouse are
undone. Her grey skirt has a small slit.
She crosses her legs seductively. The
curve from upper thigh to shoe is
lyrical. I am spellbound. Her
resemblance to Dr. Lith is remarkable.
Then I am terribly embarrassed. I
am staring at her. She doesn't look up.
But I feel foolish. What am I doing? I
feel like I am invading her privacy.
I keep looking anyhow. I cannot
see her eyes, but I think they may be
flecked with gold. I look away,
pledging to myself not to look again.
But I do. The train pulls into my
station. I stand up to get off and notice
she is getting off at the same stop.
I deliberately get off first so that
perhaps I can break this spell, but find
myself slowing down as I walk down
the long platform toward the exit, in
order to let her pass me. She walks by
me and again she is beautiful.
I become greatly saddened as I
follow her toward the stairs which head
up to the street. She emerges onto the
street before me and turns right and so
do I. What coincidence that we are
both headed in the same direction.
Suddenly I am afraid that she will
notice me and think I am following her
and be frightened. I do not want to
frighten her.
She stops at a corner to cross Third
Avenue. I force myself to keep heading
north another block. I want so much to
stop on her corner and stand next to
her and maybe I will talk to her and
maybe she will have coffee with me.
I cross the avenue and walk north
on what I now think of as her side of
the street, looking in store windows. I
see her in a shoe store and then realize
it is a girl that only looks like her. I
wish I could know her and love her and
that she could love me. I realize that
this can never be. I am sad as Icontinue to walk. Clackety-clack,
clackety-clack.
I spend my week between visits
with Dr. Lith riding the subways. I feel
the power all the time. I want to be
near it. I ride to Staten Island, but I
cannot finish the trip. I have to change
to a ferry to go to Staten Island and
the water keeps me from the source of
my power. I wait on the South Ferry
subway station. There is a wonderful
curve at this station. I spend an hour
and a half watching, listening, savoring
the electrical smell of the trains as they
speed around this curve. The contacts
between the trains and the third rail
become separated for a second or two
at a time when the train turns the tight
curve. Sparks fly between the two,
spreading the wonderful ozone into the
air. I am exhilarated. If it were not for
the fiberglass, I know that I would
touch the rail. Clackety-clack, touch
the track. Clackety-clack, touch the
track.
It is Wednesday and I go to Dr.
Lith's office. My glass sheet is carefully
folded in my pocket. I am very happy
since I collected an enormous amount
of charge at the South Street Station.
I know that I will be sustained through
my visit with her by my stored power.
I sit smiling in her office. She is
particularly attractive today. She
wears black silk, clinging, clinging.
There is a single chain of white gold
around her throat. I can see the upper
part of the pendant on the chain. It is
black. It plunges downward, downward
between her breasts. The top two
buttons on her blouse are undone as
before. I try not to look at the
pendant, afraid of taking that path, but
it is impossible. She crosses her legs
as she opens her notebook. She looks
at me. I look away.
"You are perspiring. Is it too warmhere?" Her voice is laden with power
and I feel myself shrink from her. I
feel so much of my own power, yet I
have no power in her presence. I do
not answer.
She continues to look at me, her
face, lovely and perfect, cool and
distant, closed to me. It is too
disconcerting. I look away. I cannot
face her power. I am embarrassed to
even try, to be so weak.
The clock hands spin and the hour is
over. I am on the street in front of her
office. I walk toward the Downtown
Local. I am bereft. I sit in the seat's
depression, my head in my hands. I
stare at the floor. The train starts and
stops, starts and stops. Clackety-clack,
touch the track.
Then I smell her perfume. Just a
hint of course, and I look up and see
her standing over me, deftly holding
the strap over her head, reading a book
held in the other. She easily keeps her
balance as the train makes its lurching
way from stop to stop. How long has
she been there? I look up at her. She
is so close I could touch her. She
should not have to stand while I sit.
I stand and she smiles at me. My
heart pounds, sparking with the
electricity of the train. She takes my
seat. She is wearing black silk. I see
the single strand of white gold for only
an instant as she draws her coat
around herself.
"Thank you," she says. She speaks
to me. I am startled. I cannot believe
my fortune.
"I am Sam," I say. I immediately
regret telling her my name. I know it
will give her power over me.
"I am Lilly," she answers. Her voice
sparkles at me. I am forced to look
away from her. Clackety-clack, touch
the track.
"Do you hear that?" I ask."Yes." She smiles up at me. Her
coat separates at the throat and I see
the black pendant plunging, plunging. I
look up and away from her at the
window of the train where I see my
reflection in the blackness going by. I
see my frightened face. I smile at my
image and it smiles back. I am
reassured by the sight, and by the
surge of power as sparks fly from the
rail below the train. I am ecstatic. I
am not alone.
She looks up at me with a small
perfect smile. "Do you have your
fiberglass under your cap, Sam?"
I am only slightly surprised. She
hears the tracks talking, after all.
"Yes." My voice trembles.
She smiles at me again and reads
her magazine. The train stops at my
stop. She rises from her seat. "Please
walk with me," she says. Her voice
echoes in my mind.
"I will go with you." I am afraid.
We climb the stairs to the street. I
hear the train, Clackety-clack, touch
the track, as it leaves the station. I
know she does as well. She smiles at
me. I am also frightened. I am afraid
because I know that I am not alone, I
am not unique. I cannot afford to
share the power with her, and yet I feel
almost helpless. As she takes my arm
I smell the ozone generated by the
contact. I feel the electricity flow from
me to her. I feel dizzy.
She feels me waver. "Are you all
right?" Her voice is calm and strong.
"Yes," I say, my voice weak.
"Please do not touch me." I have to rid
myself of her. She is emptying me of
my power.
Suddenly, as if she reads my
thoughts, she disappears into the
crowd. I cannot see her. I am
relieved. I go back into the subway
and travel to South Station. I standthere for three hours to absorb enough
electricity to function. I do not wear
my fiberglass, even though I am afraid
that the rail will get me. Clackety-
clack, touch the track.
In the ensuing week, I take the
subway to Coney Island, Brooklyn
Heights, the Bronx, Queens. I make
the tour of New York City. In my
notebook, I carefully note my travels. I
have columns for Starting Point, Ending
Point, Intermediate Stops. I carefully
annotate the times for each of these
points, my estimate of the total voltage
and amperage to which I was exposed,
and the probable percentage of this
that I absorbed. I note in the
Comments column whether or not I
wore my fiberglass. I make the
following interesting observation
regarding fiberglass sheeting: Although
wearing it protects me to a certain
extent from the compulsion to touch
the third rail, it reduces my absorption
of power. I travel more often now
without the sheet in place, although it
is safe within my pocket. Most
important I make the observation that
the more power I absorb, the better I
fight the compulsion to touch the third
rail. I at once collect my power and
deprive the rail's ability to tempt me.
Clackety-clack, touch the track.
With the power comes insight. I see
it clearly now. Lilly and Dr. Lith
conspire to take my power from me. I
spend all my time collecting power at
great risk, only to have it drained by
them. I begin to think they are the
same person. This thought will not
leave me. It tortures me. I am
determined to test my proposition.