Baltimore Stories: Volume One
Nik Korpon
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Nik Korpon
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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Author’s Note
Some of these stories were published long ago (relatively speaking) and some in publications that evaporated into smoke. I like them all and wanted to give them a chance to be seen, to be read. Several have connections to Stay God, and some just feel like they should.
Thank you to all of the editors for believing in them (or letting me dupe them into believing.) Thank you to you, for reading this collection.
‘Amber Flowers’ originally published in you’re dead and I Killed You (Brown Paper Publishing)
‘Our Blessed Mary’ originally published in Colored Chalk Magazine, Issue 7
‘Devil Children Unite’ originally published in Eternal Night: A Vampire Anthology (Living Dead Press)
‘Eucharist’ originally published in 3:AM Magazine
‘The Bones of Miracles’ originally published in short-story.me and their Best of Horror Anthology
Stories
Amber Flowers
Our Blessed Mary
Devil Children Unite
Eucharist
The Bones of Miracles
Amber Flowers
Standing at the edge of the cliff, she-loves-me-loves-me-noting an orchid, a wave crashed against the rock, sending a plume of water skyward and muting the thump of a closing car door. She crept behind him, gun cocked.
‘This is my favorite part,’ I said to Chelsea.
She stuck the gun into his back, then the screen tilted, turned lime green. I smacked the side of the TV set and he turned around, shocked that the previously-thought-dead sister of his lover was now jabbing a gun in his belly. How’d you find me, he said, to which she countered, I just followed the stink.
‘That’s horrible,’ Chelsea said.
‘Don’t be such a drag. Just enjoy it, the good part is coming.’
He said something that was washed away in the static of poor reception and I readjusted the antennae, right as she said, But I guess it’s all relative and pulled the trigger. I squeaked, clapped my hands. He fell backwards, another plume of water catching his body and taking it out to sea where no one would find it until he washes ashore in the sequel. She peered over the edge and told him he wouldn’t be getting an invitation to Christmas dinner, then climbed into her sports car and spat gravel from the tires.
‘Pretty cool, huh?’ I said. Chelsea rolled her eyes. ‘All right, it’s not a great movie, but did you see how good Conner was?’
‘He’s a mighty nice faller.’
‘He said it took them eight tries to get it so the water came up as he was falling.’
‘That’s a lot of jumping,’ she said, wrapping her apron around her forearm. Someone knocked on the door to the cafe. Chelsea just shook her head, tapped the place on her wrist where a watch would be. ‘Does he have another stunt or can we go home now?’
I searched the coffee station for the keys I knew were hanging out of my back pocket, waiting to see Conner’s name in the credits, then eked out a grin as Chelsea dangled them in front of me. ‘Yeah, we can go now.’
By the time we came to the park by Monument and Charles, the autumn sun had edged below the jagged line of building tops, a few rays escaping in alleyways or over a collapsed tenement. Rush-hour traffic clogged the street, drivers white-knuckling their steering wheels as Chelsea and I walked up St. Paul. I coerced her into posing a few times on the fountain, a bench, the marble steps of the cathedral, and once with a handful of leaves, speckled orange, yellow and red against her mahogany skin. That a camera provided a different way to see things, she understood, but she said embracing the beauty of mundane life meant I was reading too much Kerouac and Camus.
‘I need something to cheer me up while Conner’s gone,’ I said, ‘so don’t burst my existential bubble.’
‘But you don’t know anyone here? At all?’
I shook my head.
‘So why come to Baltimore?’
‘Conner,’ I shrugged. ‘He had a few leads for jobs, knew some people in stunts here.’ I nodded at my building. ‘This is the home-front. You know, it’s funny.’
‘What is?’
‘That he’d rather jump off a four-story cliff into freezing water than wake up next to me.’
A gust of wind blew up the collar of her coat, twisted long curls around her ears. ‘This weekend, I’ll take you out and you can meet some of my friends. You’ll love Mary, she’s a legend.’
‘I mean, do you know how high four stories is?’ With my finger, I ticked off strings of windows. ‘I live on the fourth floor. And that’s a small jump, apparently.’
‘At least he’s not afraid to experiment when he comes home, right?’ She gave a toothy grin and nudged me in the ribs with her elbow.
‘I don’t think I know you well enough to talk about how he fucks me.’ I pursed my lips in an embarrassed smile as the mailman passed us. His cheeks flushed, though from the wind or my comment, I wasn’t sure.
‘As long as Creep doesn’t hear you two.’ Chelsea pointed up, where an old man with a golden fedora peered out of the window above my apartment.
‘He’s probably waiting for the mailman.’ I picked a leaf from her hair, looked up to the window. ‘See. He’s gone now.’
‘Still weird.’
‘You close tomorrow?’
‘Yeah. I’ll call Mary and we can meet them after we get off.’ Chelsea glanced up behind me.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’ I gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Thanks for walking home with me,’ and waited for the light to change before crossing the street.
Walking up the front stairs, I glanced over my shoulder. Chelsea stared at the building, hand shielding her eyes even though the sun had set. I held the door open for the mailman, waved to Chelsea, and when it wasn’t returned, stepped into the lobby.
Utility bill, phone bill, Have you seen me? and donate to the Baltimore Rejuvenation Committee. No new letter from Connor. I left the junk mail on top of the building’s mailboxes and took out the postcard he’d sent last week. A cough echoed through the tile stairwell. I tilted the card, tried to guess what the word was that he scratched out, what he was drinking that dripped onto the corner of the postcard, tried to pretend I was in the diner booth next to him watching him write. A cloud of tobacco smoke and something acrid, like photo developer, snuck up on me like a summer thunderstorm. I startled, looked up from Connor’s scribbling. A wrinkled man with a golden fedora slid his mail key into the lock. His hat looked like a mangled halo.
‘Sorry to give you a fright.’ He smiled, cocking his head. He had prospector eyes, like something out of a Wild West book. They were the same color as his fedora. ‘You’re new here, ain’t you? I know every face in this building. Lived here twenty-seven years, know every pipe, outlet and face.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Just moved from Austin.’
‘Ah, Boston. Lovely city. Took the wife—God Bless—up there many moons ago. She wanted to see Faneuil Hall, I wanted to see Ol’ Brooksie and the Os beat the Sox.’ He leaned in, conspiratorially. ‘They were still cursed back then, see. The Bambino was haunting Fenway Park. Yeah, they were days.’
I bit my lip to hide a smile, slid Conner’s postcard back into the mailbox.
‘I’m sorry, my manners slip me sometimes. I’m Herschel, the maintenance man.’
‘Raquel,’ I said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Ah, Raquel. Fancy name.’ He did a slight bow, took my hand and kissed my knuckles. His hands felt like sharkskin. ‘Don’t mean to bore you. Without the wife—God Bless—a crazy old man like myself don’t get much chance for conversation. Just “Fix this, fix that, my sink don’t work ‘cause I shoved too much crap down it,” pardon the language, Miss Raquel.’
‘It’s okay, Mr. Herschel.’
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Just Herschel. Mister Herschel is my father.’ He gave a soft nudge and winked. ‘I hate to pry, but your eyes look red. Why a beautiful young lady like yourself crying? You miss your man, don’t you?’
I stepped back, planted my fist on my hip. ‘How do you know if I have a boyfriend?’
He just smiled. ‘Man have to be plenty crazy not to try and suit you. Even crazier to leave you alone.’
I inhaled, exhaled.
‘And I saw you two carrying in a couch few months back.’ He laughed.
‘Oh,’ and blood rushed to my cheeks. The front door opened and a guy who lived on second floor came in. He smiled at us and unbuttoned his corduroy jacket, a turquoise ring flashing in the light. ‘My boyfriend works in movies, so he’s gone a lot.’
‘Don’t say. An actor’s lady.’
‘He’s a stunt double, actually. Falls of roofs, flips cars, gets thrown around a lot. He’s really good at it.’
‘Mmm,’ Herschel said. ‘Must be hard on your nerves, though.’ Corduroy closed his mailbox and his cowboy boots clicked up the stairs.
‘He landed a spot on the Assassin’s Bride sequel. That’s where he is now.’ I waited until the closing door echoed, then lowered my voice. ‘The weirdest part—except for the mole over his lip, that guy who just walked by could be Connor’s twin. It’s so odd.’
‘Kinda like seeing him every day, you think about it the right way.’
‘Makes me miss him more, sometimes,’ I said. ‘Though he’d never wear a gaudy ring like that.’
Herschel laughed, coughed. ‘Well, Miss Rachel, all kinds of people got all kinds of different ideas about what’s nice.’
‘Hi, Burt,’ I said. Burt meowed, rubbed his back against my leg. Connor named him after Burt Reynolds, because Cannonball Run made him want to be a stuntman. I dropped my purse on the kitchen table, walked down the hall to the bedroom and changed into Conner’s favorite Stunt Guys shirt—the one he got while working on Stay God, his first job—then flopped on the bed. Something cold and wet hit my cheek.
‘Dammit Burt,’ I yelled down the hall. Pulling the blanket up, I held out my arms. The wet spot spread past my arms. A pungent smell, but not cat piss. Something dripped on my arm. A dark circle hung to the ceiling like a lunar eclipse. I dialed the rental office, but the digital voice told me they were closed for the weekend, so I grabbed a sheet and sleeping bag from the closet and fell onto the couch like I’d been shot.
My mouth tasted like the bottom of a shoe. In the kitchen, I found a treat for Burt and a beer for me. I popped Assassin’s Bride into the VCR and plopped on the couch again, spilling half my beer over Conner’s shirt in the process. After I washed it in the sink, I hung it on the clothesline strung across the fire escape then carefully lowered myself to couch because I was tired of getting up and down and hit play on the remote.
Twenty minutes into the movie, Burt hopped up next to my leg. The guy who dies at the end chased his soon-to-be-dead wife through side streets and alleyways, scraps of sports car flying when they hit the wall. This was Conner’s favorite part. Growing up, his dad had a Corvette but would never let Conner polish it, much less drive it. I could feel his vindictive smile as he slammed the car into the brick wall. Burt’s paws kneaded my thigh, as if he was making bread. I adjusted my bra strap, laid my hand over his back and scratched his belly. His paws kneaded.
‘What do you want?’ I looked down and he was nudging a gift towards me, a bone. ‘When did you start eating chicken,’ picking it up with a tissue, ‘or whatever it is you’re eating?’ I tossed the bone in the trashcan, looked at Burt. ‘Didn’t I tell you pigeons have all kinds of germs?’ He meowed.
A knock at the door.
‘Is it for you?’ I said to Burt. I pulled on another shirt, peeked through eyehole. Herschel stood in the hallway, distorted through the fisheye glass. Something small in his hand. I latched the chain, cracked the door open eye-width, front foot wedged against the bottom.
Herschel beamed a broad smile. ‘Sorry to bother you so late, Miss Raquel, but I thought I’d bring you something.’ He held out his hand, a small velvet box cupped in his palm like a newly laid egg.
‘Thank you, Herschel.’ I opened the door an inch farther. ‘That’s… very nice of you.’ Snaking one hand out, I readjusted my grip on the handle with the other, leaned more weight onto my front foot. I reached for the box like it was a dormant snake.
He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Raquel. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’ He lifted the lid. A brushed silver brooch sat on tissue paper, twisted into a Nouveau curl with dried flower petals underneath amber resin. ‘You seemed upset earlier and I thought I might could cheer you up. Can’t stand to see a lovely lady cry.’
‘It’s beautiful. So… classic,’ I breathed. The amber shimmered under the hallway lights as I turned it in my fingers. Burt hissed behind me and I swatted at him with my foot. I set it on the tissue paper, looked up to Herschel. ‘You made this for me?’
‘It’s a hobby I picked up when I was stationed in Austria during the War. The children loved them.’ His frown lifted to a bashful smile. ‘I thought you’d like it, your man being away and all.’
‘Thank you, Herschel. Really. ’ The chain caught when I opened the door. Heat spread across my face. With a meek smile, I said, ‘Can’t be too careful, I guess.’
‘No you can’t, Miss Raquel. No you can’t.’ He doffed his fedora, said, ‘Well, I’ll bid you a good evening then.’ He climbed the steps, whistling a Sinatra song. I’ve got you under my skin.
The door whispered closed. Thin lines cut through the ochre petals, sliding under bubbles and granules in the amber. Like looking into a gypsy’s ball, the amber was depthless. I meandered to the couch, lost beneath granules and swirls. I propped the box on the table, dimmed the light and grabbed my camera. Emerald beer bottle, chipped white coffee cup. A mismatched bowl with a spoon sticking out.
A roll of film later, after luring Burt into two shots with a well-placed bag of treats, I put down my camera and rewound Assassin’s Bride, laid my head down to sleep.
*
‘Why are you still wearing that creepy ass thing?’ Chelsea made a face like she’d ordered foie gras, thinking it was a type of fancy salad.
‘He started making them for little Austrian kids who’d had their houses bombed so they’d have something pretty to wear.’ I unpinned the brooch and tried to lay it on her serving tray. ‘And anyway, I like them. They’re unique.’
Silverware rattled against porcelain dishes as she dropped her tray. She extended one finger when a customer came to the counter. ‘Them?’ Her eyebrow rose, told me I was crazy.
I emptied the espresso machine, said into my shoulder, ‘He left another one in my doorway when we were out with Mary.’
‘It’s not right, Raquel. Something ain’t right about him.’ Then she turned to the customer, said, ‘Christian, if you ever want to drink coffee in this city again, you will stand there quietly until I’m done asking my crazy-ass friend why she’s taking weird-ass jewelry from a creepy-ass old man.’
‘He’s not creepy, he’s lonely. We can relate. And you say ass too much.’ To change the subject, I said, ‘Mary’s really nice, by the way. Her boyfriend is kind of cute, in a nerdy way.’
Chelsea breathed a laugh. ‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘Can you make her cappuccino?’ I nodded at the woman sitting alone at a table, handed a cup to Chelsea. ‘I have to call my landlord.’
I dialed the number, heard Christian ask if I had a boyfriend in between dial tones. She dropped a bagel into the toaster for him.
‘Yeah,’ said a voice that could de-scale fish. ‘What is it?’
‘Uh, hi. I live in the building on St. Paul and—’
‘Name.’
‘Oh. Raquel. My ceiling—’
‘Number.’
‘410—’
‘Apartment number, lady.’ Chelsea looked over her shoulder at me and snickered, smacked Christian’s shoulder. She blushed, cheeks turning a deeper brown.
‘200,’ I said. ‘My ceiling is leaking. It ruined my mattress.’
‘Be out in two days.’
I spoke before the voice could hang up. ‘Can’t you call the maintenance man to do it?’
‘Ain’t got no mainence man. Fired ‘im.’
‘Oh,’ I said. Chelsea leaned in towards Christian, telling him my lonely neighbor was a serial killer or the Anti-Christ or a Jehovah’s Witness, with such exaggerated whispers and hand gestures that she didn’t notice the twists of smoke creeping from the toaster. ‘But what about—’
‘Put up a tent an’ pretend yr campin’. Be out in two days.’
The dial tone buzzed in my ear like a hornet.
I’d re-read Conner’s postcard three times by the time I smelled developer, or resin. Acetone, maybe. He was in the window as I walked up the sidewalk, and I thought he would’ve been down quicker.
‘That’s a mighty nice piece of jewelry you’ve got there, Miss Raquel,’ he said. ‘Talented hand made that.’
‘I wear it every day. A lot of people comment on it.’ I slid Conner’s postcard into my left breast pocket like a prayer book.
‘That’s nice of them. I don’t do it for accolades, though. Just seeing a smile is payment enough.’ He smiled, adjusted his fedora. In the corner of his starched collar, an eraser-sized dot. ‘Miss Raquel, I’m headed out to get some coddies. Care to join me?’
‘I ate at work.’
‘Can’t come to Baltimore without having coddies.’ His golden eyes twinkled, hand extended as if he was going to help me over a ravine. ‘My treat.’
‘Thank you, Herschel, but I’ll have to pass.’ Pressure in my hands, and I looked down, saw my fingers twisting my purse strap. ‘There’s a leak in my ceiling and I need to make sure it hasn’t cracked.’
‘Really,’ cocking his head, his eyes inquisitive. ‘Would you like me to have a look?’
I paused as if I was considering, then shook my head. My heart beat against Conner’s signature.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’m working on something I think you’ll really like. I can look at your ceiling when I bring it down to you, if you want.’
‘Just knock loud,’ I said, trying to keep my voice from wavering like a warped record. ‘I might take a nap.’
‘Okay, Miss Raquel.’ He tipped his fedora to me, gave a slight bow. ‘Sweet dreams til the sun beams find you,’ and he passed through the door like a breath.
Another bone on the couch.
‘Goddammit Burt,’ I groaned. I locked the deadbolt and chain, then dropped my purse on the floor. The ceiling in the bedroom hung swollen like an infected sore, spiderweb cracks with a vein of water clinging to them. All the apartments in the building had the same floorplan, and the thought both frightened and disgusted me. My uniform landed on the floor, and I realized I’d left Conner’s shirt on the fire escape.
‘Burt,’ I called. ‘Can you bring me Daddy’s shirt from outside?’ Sliding into a pair of jeans, I padded to the fire escape, dirt and crumbs sticking to the bottom of my feet. Burt batted something along the grate, and nothing hung on the line. ‘Shit,’ I muttered. ‘Burt, why didn’t you remind me to pin it?’
As I turned back inside, his paw hit my foot. ‘Hold on cat, I need a shirt.’ His paw hit my foot again, a starburst of sharp pricks as his claws pierced my skin. ‘Stop it, you little bastard.’ He scurried away, up the fire escape. ‘Burt! I’m sorry.’ I looked down, at his present.
A bone.
Flesh around the tip. The fingertip, with no fingernail.
Chewed skin at the edge.
A gaudy turquoise ring at the knuckle.
‘Jesus fuck,’ I breathed. Looked up, through the grate. Burt’s silhouette above me. This was wrong, it wasn’t what it seemed. Things like this didn’t happen in real life. I’d watched too many movies with Conner. He called it research, scouting, and it’d rewired my brain, crossed connections.
‘Pssst. Pssst, Burt, come here.’ I clucked my tongue, wiped my cheeks dry and crept up the fire escape, lightly snapping my fingers to get his attention. Cold metal beneath my feet.
At the top of the escape, Burt turned his head to me. I could’ve sworn he smirked before jumping through the window. Shaking hands, I cracked open the window farther. A peek around both sides, listening to the apartment. Dead silent but for the thumping of heartbeat in my ears. A thousand invisible needles probed my temples. I swallowed and crawled through.
Pots with half-cocked lids sat on the stove, the smell of stale food so thick I could taste it. A poster with Memorial Stadium and a cartoon Oriole hung on the wall. Bookshelves, lamps and frames.
‘Burt.’ My voice cracked as I whispered. ‘Burt, come here.’ His meow, down the hall. Towards the bedroom. Stupid stupid stupid. Bad idea. A thousand horror movies started like this. Ended like this. ‘Burt,’ I whimpered, creeping across the carpet towards the meowing.
The bedroom door at the end of the hall, closed, light flickering underneath. A soft lapping noise, like a sheet in the breeze, the only sound. I picked up a grilling fork from the carpet. Stale cigar smoke and something acrid—something chemical—enveloped me, pressed against my skin. Burt, I mouthed, no sound passing my lips. I rubbed my cheek against my bare shoulder.
Stupid stupid stupid stupid. So fucking stupid.
Fork clenched in my right hand, I laid my left on the doorknob. I bit my bottom lip, squeezed the fork handle and twisted the doorknob. Something clattered inside the office. A meow.
‘Jesus Christ, cat.’ I pushed open the door and stepped into the office.
Burt sat on a drafting table dotted with amber globs and silver ribbons. A soldering gun rested in the pencil holder next to a rusted coffee can. Pinned to the wall were Nouveau sketches, curls and twists and color swatches. By my hand, a half-finished brooch with three petals set in resin. I set the grilling fork down and ground my palms on my eyes. Don’t cry, Raquel. Don’t cry.
I started to cry. Burt rubbed against my side, his fur silk against my skin. Patches of bare floor scratched against the bottom of my feet, probably where a ball of metal had burned through the carpet. I stretched my hands over my head, breathed deep to collect myself and opened my eyes towards the ceiling. White, just like my ceiling, before the drip. The drip, in the next room. I picked up the fork, and as I turned, a flash caught my eye. Light, in a mirror. And in the mirror’s reflection, me. Drawings of me.
Waiting for the bus.
Reading on a park bench.
Taking pictures of a fire hydrant.
Sitting on the couch, in my bra, Burt at my side.
I spun around, pushed Burt away and he knocked into the coffee can, spilling petals over the floor. Sketches of me lined the wall. Charcoal, pen, pencil, something darker but not India Ink. Fingerprint smudges muddied the edges, but delicate strokes shaped my face. Steady, compassionate lines. I faltered back a step, breathing heavy through my nose while biting my lip to not scream or cry, and felt a crunch. I pinched one of the petals between my fingernails and pulled it from my sole, held it to the light and saw a fingernail, pinched between my fingernails.
A sheet flapping in the bedroom. A coffee can full of fingernails. Burt’s presents and turquoise rings. The drip in my ceiling.
Hand on the doorknob, the other wrapped around the grilling fork, I shooed Burt away with my foot and opened the bedroom door. Chemicals kicked me in the face with shit-encrusted steel-toed boots. Shoved into the nearest corner was a mattress, floral sheets draped over the pillows and a fluffy duvet tucked under the edges. A small dresser with antique oval picture frames—Herschel and his wife in black-and-white—and a painter’s mask. An umber stain edged from beneath a lawn tarp, discolored rags sitting in pools of jaundiced liquid. A laundry drying rack placed in front of a fan, a piece of cloth flitting in the breeze. And in front of some pictures thumbtacked to the wall was a sheet, draped over something statuesque propped up in the corner.
Goosebumps like metal pellets under my skin. I crept forward. Each fiber of carpet tickled my foot and the fan was an arctic blast on my bare skin. I covered my nose with the crook of my elbow. Somewhere down the hall, Burt hissed. The liquid rippled in languid circles as I nudged aside the drying rack, the cloth brushing my side. My breath coursed hard against my arm.
I bit my lips until I tasted metallic blood, then poked the sheet with the fork. It hung motionless. Trembling hands wiped my cheeks dry and then in a motion like if I did it fast enough, I would startle away whatever demon might overtake me and be safe, I ripped away the sheet.
A mannequin slumped in the corner, its head just an ovular lump with hooks behind where its ears should be. The smell of plastic. A faceless mannequin, wearing Conner’s Stay God shirt. The shirt gone missing from my fire escape. Over my feet, the sheet laid cold and lifeless as a burial shroud. Close to the wall now, I could see the pictures. Burt was still hissing. I squinted, focused, concentrated to determine if I was having double vision or if they were really pictures of famous couples with mine and Conner’s faces pasted over them. Crop marks and scribbled notes along the edges.
I gasped, cried out despite myself. The cloth touched my ribs again and I tried to smack it away, but my finger was stuck. The fan breathed cold, so cold on me that the pellets were going to breach my skin and leave me a bloody mess and my finger was stuck in the cloth, the carpet tickled my feet and that smell brought a pocket of bile to the top of my throat and I didn’t want to breath because I could taste the smell, and I tried to tear away the cloth and when I looked down I could see, realize, that my finger was stuck in someone’s mouth. The cloth. A mouth. My scream was like something underwater through the bile in my throat and when I opened my hand, the cloth drifted to the ground, one eyehole thinner than the other, as if it was winking at me. As if he was winking at me. He, Corduroy. Corduroy’s face, on the floor, at my feet.
‘Miss Raquel.’
My throat shredded when I screamed, wielding the fork in front of me.
‘Miss Raquel! Please don’t scream.’ Herschel held his hands out to show he was unarmed. ‘Don’t be afraid.’
I could only scream, fall to the floor with the fork in front of me, scramble back against the wall and scream. Damp carpet seeping through my jeans.
‘Please, Miss Raquel. I won’t hurt you.’ Tears like melted gold fell from his prospector eyes. His hands shook as he held them out, as if trying to hold my hand from across the room and stroke it to calm me. ‘I’m sorry.’
His fedora slid off his head and rolled along the carpet towards me. I stabbed the fork through the center of it, stabbed it, stabbed it until it looked mesh. He dried his cheeks with sharkskin hands.
‘You said he looked like your man and I just,’ he said in sobs, trying to catch his breath like it was a frightened rabbit. ‘Miss Raquel, I just didn’t want you to be lonely no more.’
Our Blessed Mary
Ripken homered in the second and Mussina broke the Yankee shortstop’s nose in the third because he was crowding the plate, blood splattering over the batter’s box like he was Jackson Pollock. Even the umpire had to get a disinfectant wipe from one of the batboys. Combined, those had been the highlight of the evening.
In the stool next to me, Christine hovered like a vulture over carrion, one lazy-eye on her pint, one on the Orioles game. I chained smoke after smoke until I sounded like Louis Armstrong. The fog of cigarettes hung heavy in Frasier’s, and it was almost like I could use that blanket as an excuse for smoking instead of talking. It didn’t seem like she minded. Or noticed.
I waved my hand to Ray, chatting up some chick at the other end of the bar with hair the color of a raspberry I’d gladly eat off her bare chest. It took using both hands like I was directing plane traffic to get his attention. I pointed two fingers down, one to the whiskey glass and one to my pint. He nodded and continued charming Red. I lit another smoke and turned my attention back to the game. Yankees had men on first and third, one down, but even in the sixth, Mussina was still throwing 90-plus.
‘He’ll go eight, easy,’ I said in the general direction of Christine.
‘Yeah, easy.’ She bit a straw until it was flat and cleaned something from under her nails. At that angle, I could see the red lace at the top of her black bra. I stared for a hot second then finished my pint.
‘Did you want to stay at my place tonight?’ she said.
I tried to blow smoke rings like a target over the mirror reflection of myself. ‘Doesn’t matter. Whatever you want.’
Half an inning later, Ray managed to pull himself away from Red and refill my drink. I nodded at Christine’s drinks—‘Another for her, too, please’—and he sighed like I was part of the Spanish fucking Inquisition but took her glass anyway. While pouring her pint, he licked his teeth, sniffed, grinded his jaw, inhaled hard enough to make his nostrils distend, sniffed twice more. His hand vibrated as he set her pint down and he was back to Red before I finished blinking. Definitely riding high on the white horse.
I was watching him, smiling to myself, when the front door opened. A blast of bright lights made the townies cover their eyes and backlit a figure in the doorway. Definitely a woman from the curves, possibly a goddess descended into North Baltimore. The headlights passed the bar door and she came into focus.
She crossed the bar like she was walking on water, but with a swagger in her step that gave me the urge to tie her to my couch and lick every bead of sweat from her body. Black motorcycle boots and low-cut jeans that hung below the curve of her pallid seashell hips. Rosewood hair pulled back into a delicate ponytail. She garnered the attention of the bar—Ray included—with only her lips.
I must have her.
Something like a hammer on my bicep startled me. I shook my head, gathering myself, and looked to Christine. She nodded at my future.
‘Who is that?’ she said, rubbing her fingers together like there was a phantom nipple. I shrugged. The announcer said something about bases loaded for the Yanks.
Ray rode his white horse back with the goddess’s drinks. She smiled, her eyes disappearing in a way that was painfully cute, and knocked back her whiskey in a breath. She commandeered my heart before she could even swallow.
‘She doesn’t look familiar?’ Christine said from somewhere.
I started to answer when the goddess caught my staring, pretended to cough into her fist to hide a smile. I took a long drag on my cigarette as she meandered over to us with her Yuengling. Christine’s breathing was audible. The announcer said Mussina picked off the guy on third base.
‘What kind do you smoke?’ the goddess asked me. Her smell like salt in an onshore ocean breeze. She glanced over my shoulder to Christine, smirked.
‘Casamir,’ I said, trying to play it Bogart-cool.
‘I have Lights, too,’ Christine chimed in. ‘They’re kinda nicer than the regulars.’ I lit one of my smokes for the goddess. Her eyelids, bathed in the blue of electricity.
She nodded at the television. ‘Who’s winning?’
Christine sputtered Red Sox and I said O’s at the same time.
‘So it’s a tie, then?’
I shrugged and Christine laughed like a nervous hyena. Wisps of silence twirled through the fingers of smoke around us.
‘I’m Mary,’ she said eventually.
‘Christine. Just like the movie,’ laughed, laughed some more, held out her hand like she might stab Mary with it. ‘Only I can’t set things on fire with my mind.’
‘I always wished I could do that,’ Mary said, a stilted edge to her voice. ‘I’d never have to pay a heating bill again.’ That got another cackle from Christine.
I muttered That was Carrie, moron then turned back to the game, cursed as the Yankees singled and scored two runs. Two long drinks and my glass was mostly empty. Ray was busy wooing his chick, though, so there wasn’t much point in trying to get another round. I lit another cigarette instead. Christine nattered on behind me.
Mary called out and I watched her motion towards me, looking without looking. Not more than thirty seconds later, a full pint sat at my hands. I took a deep breath as John Bonham played drums inside my chest. I clinked my glass with Mary’s. She winked, bit her bottom lip and I kept as neutral an expression as I could manage so she wouldn’t smile and I could stare into her eyes, like oceans of sapphire. Endless and depthless and able to devour me with a blink. I could swim in her for days without coming up for air.
Her eyebrows made a V shape, finger on my forearm. ‘That isn’t what I think it is, is it?’
My tattoo, a K inside a shield, from when I was fifteen. ‘Depends.’
‘All they do is scream and complain,’ Christine butted in. ‘I mean seriously, how much does a junkie have to complain about? He’s got all this money and still bitches, waa waa waa, no one understands me.’ She leaned in to Mary, laid her hand on her thigh, and said with a huff, ‘That’s a Nirvana tattoo, by the way. I mean, seriously? And with everything that’s happening in Yugoslavia…’
I sighed and swiveled back to the game. The announcer updated us on the Yankee shortstop, said he had massive facial injuries but no word on anything neurological. Christine continued to call me infantile and other assorted things. I finished my pint and moved to the next one, felt heat next to me. Slowly, their conversation seeped through my loathing of Christine.
‘I don’t think that’s true. A lot of times, it’s just posing. Like a lounge act,’ Mary said. ‘Because, usually, truth is just covered in security. And I’d like to let it smother me, I’d really like to but it wouldn’t work unless you’re trading off and taking turns.’ This Mary, this blessed Mary, where did she come from? This Mary who downed whiskey like holy water and wore motorcycle boots and picked out the difference between Christine and Carrie but didn’t point it out to be polite. Who quoted ‘Lounge Act’ by Nirvana in conversation, the song that said I’ll wear a shield because Kurt Cobain got a tattoo to impress a girl and the reason I got the tattoo in the first place was now impressing a girl. She scooted closer to me, touched her knee to my back and set my skin aflame. ‘Just, don’t regret a thing.’
Christine laughed through her nose, the laugh she’d give me that said you’re a genetic mistake.
I turned around in my stool to Mary, touched knee to knee. Her eyelids drooped and I knew I set her to flames as well. Christine’s laughing faded into spent cigarette smoke.
‘I’m Damon,’ I said. ‘We should hang out sometime.’
Devil Children Unite
A wooden stake in his hand. Drops of blood fell like hesitant tears. The crowd screamed, threw out their arms like receiving the sacrament. Teenage angst and packaged rebellion, exorcised through changing vocal cords. Sweat, cigarettes, spilled beer and mold hung in the air like algae. Emerson swam in the moment, driving the kids into a frenzy where we thought they’d cover the floor in foam. Pendulum hips, shirtless with blood and sweat slicked over xylophone ribs. The quiet drone of feedback like a train entering the far end of a tunnel.
A beating heart, Jon kept time with his bass drum. One hand poured beer down his throat, the other dried his forehead with a hand towel. He tossed the bottle to the side, nodded toward Emerson—now swinging the mic cord around his head like a lasso—shook his head, laughing to himself. He did this every night. Gerry with a G leaned against the side of the stage, his purple-tinted John Lennon glasses bobbing out of sync with his ponytail. Bajet clapped his hands, bass hanging crooked at his waist, and baited the crowd to follow. Only a hundred bodies in the club but I could barely hear the drum beat over them. People held up their lighters, Freebird-style. It made me nauseated.
My stomach growled, now acclimated to regular eating over the last year. Used to be, we could only eat once a week and tried to conserve our energy in the dry days. This band never would’ve made it then.
Emerson sauntered to the right side of the stage tossing garlic to the crowd and rested one leg on the speaker. Leather pants stretching, he gave them a fair shot of his crotch. Jon and me, we could’ve been Ramones. Bajet would get lost in an elevator of anorexic lumberjacks, but there was always something off about him. But Emerson, motherfucker’s an undead Mick Jagger. He took the rock-n-roll vampire thing a little too seriously.
I started building the riff that ended our last song, ‘Original Sin as a Bedtime Story,’ and he surveyed the crowd, looking for the lucky fan. His gaze paused too long on her. Cropped black hair, light make-up, piercings that sparkled in the light, tattoo covering her chest. She’d followed us down from Boston, last six or seven shows. We didn’t know her, but fuck if we knew she was trouble. Even if Emerson played blind man to it. Jon led in with his high-hat and snare, Bajet weaving through the backbeat with single notes. I edged closer and nudged Emerson with the head of my guitar, a blast of feedback as I muted the strings for a second. He spun around, eyes blazing. A thin line from the corner of his mouth that glinted different from sweat. Saliva. I opened my eyes wide, gave him a What the fuck? look. He narrowed his eyes, ran his tongue over his teeth and smiled. I whipped my guitar around but he leaned back before I could hit him. He held his hand towards the crowd—still staring at me—two down from the girl but close enough, and brought a kid onto stage. The kid’s friend started freaking, looking at everyone around him for acknowledgment, a celebrity by association. Poor kid had no idea.
Standing in the cross drawn on the middle of the stage, face agog at sharing our space, at participating in the spectacle, Emerson circled him like a shark. We picked up the volume, pushing to the brink then pulling back then pushing, leading the crowd along the razor edge of aural orgasm. They screamed, flagellated themselves. The kid had obviously been to one of our shows before and fell to his knees as Bajet and I drew closer. He bent his body back, face flipping between excited teenager and deity so quickly it could trigger epileptic seizures, outstretched arms and neck already bared. Emerson stood in front of him, chest dripping, rising, falling. He licked his lips and wrapped the mic cord around his neck like a noose. The crowd screamed so loud they turned white noise. Emerson nodded to us and with a cymbal crash, we shoved the crowd over the razor edge as Emerson sunk his teeth into the kid’s neck. His eyes shuddered, glassed over the look of recognition that no, you’re not part of the show, you’re not a gimmick, you’re not a prop for theatrics.
You’re dead.
Screams so loud they disappear bathed us as Bajet and I fell to our knees and bit his arms. My chin was sticky, cheek rubbing against his forearm as I readjusted. Underneath the shrieking feedback, the beat fell apart for a second as Jon craned over his drums, staring at us like an oasis. He hurried through the drum roll finale, giving the crowd something to cheer about, then tossed his sticks into the club and waved. Geezer the Roadie dropped the curtain and Jon vaulted his drum set, pushing Emerson to the side.
‘Don’t take it all,’ his voice muffled into the kid’s neck.
Emerson leaned back and lit a cigarette. I looked up a mouthful later and he was a ghost.
Backstage on a couch with springs poking through the fabric. I sipped a beer and toweled blood from my face. Burped and tasted copper. Tossing the rag to the side, I strummed a Tom Waits song, sung to myself.
Bajet sat cross-legged in the corner, a pile of dead matches in front of his knees. Another match flared and he watched the flame until it licked his fingertips. Spoon, rubber tubing and needle in his lap, thread of blood on his forearm.
Jon and Gerry with a G on the other couch, hunched over papers on the case of an amp. Gerry with a G glanced up at Bajet, then Jon. Jon told him not to worry about it, then started with residuals and merch royalties. He’d always been good with numbers.
Our band worked on the same principles as horror movies: take a base primal fear and make it tangible. Engage the viewer, allow them to be a willing participant and taste the bile of adrenaline in their throat. We went a bit over the top with it for appearance’s sake but I figured if no one said boo about Iggy Pop, then fuck it. You were safe watching a horror movie, because they were controlled. You were safe watching our show, because there was no actual danger. In theory, anyway. And the types of clubs we played, no one would notice if we left another body in the alley. Drop one of Bajet’s needles a few feet away and homicide would’ve probably actually thanked us for making their job easier.
A flare-up in the corner. The smell of burnt hair. I poured beer on it, threw Bajet’s book of matches into an ass-sized hole in the far wall. He pulled another from his pocket. Jon didn’t even look up. Gerry with a G rubbed his hands together, talked about marketability.
Way back, I never would’ve allowed myself to dream this. Years fell like leaves and fear had eroded into disgust, morbid curiosity, maybe, like the way you’d poke a dead bird to see if you could make its wings move again. We were the same, but different. The type of thing that Lincoln, MLK and Ghandi understood. They had charisma, though. With them, people could identify and empathize, they could look past preconceptions and see the person behind it. Us, we needed a better mouthpiece. All that Hollywood bullshit didn’t help, either.
The door opened like a breath and Emerson swaggered in, unbuttoned shirt billowing behind him like a cape the color of sex. Gerry with a G started to stand until Jon laid a hand on his shoulder. Emerson looked at me, flashed a grin as if he was about to spit razors.
‘Guys,’ he said. ‘This is Sparrow.’
In walked the girl, piercings flashing, face flushed. She smelled of body fluids. ‘Hi,’ she chirped.
Jon gave a curt wave. Gerry with a G tried to stand again. Bajet watched his fingers burn.
I downed my beer. ‘What the fuck kind of name is Sparrow?’
Emerson edged forward, shielding her almost.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ he laughed. ‘He’s got daddy issues.’ Sparrow chirped, held his arm.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘He was burned at the stake.’
Sparrow’s giggle caught in her throat, eyes darting left and right. Gerry with a G coughed into his fist. A cloud of sulfur in the corner and Jon just smiled.
‘You guys are really good,’ Sparrow finally said. ‘I saw you in Boston—’
‘And the seven nights since. Yes, we know.’ I opened another bottle of beer.
‘Thanks for coming to the show,’ Jon said. ‘We appreciate our fans.’
Gerry with a G piped up. ‘And you’re getting in on the ground floor. Devil Children are going to be huge!’ He rubbed his hands as if to start a fire, a terrible turquoise ring on his knuckle.
Sparrow nodded, eager to show how happy she was for us. Emerson looked at me from the edge of his eyes, mouth moving like he was licking his teeth. He laid a hand on the small of her back, rubbed in small circles.
Geezer appeared in the doorway, held up an eyeball-sized bag and nodded to the corner. Jon called Bajet’s name. He looked up, looked through Geezer. A smile formed like a developing picture. He stood, walked across the room. His bones might’ve been made of toothpicks balanced on end. Jon smirked, a triangle of white flashing over his lip, and patted Gerry with a G’s shoulder.
‘Your costumes are’—Sparrow paused, gauged my reaction to her—‘authentic.’
‘Right.’ I killed my beer, stood. ‘Sparrow, real nice of you to come out and all. Can you excuse us for a minute?’
Emerson tried to glare a hole through my forehead. She hesitated back a step, knuckles pale holding his arm, as if my breath would blow her away. She rubbed the toe of her ballerina shoe on her calf. Jon gathered the papers, asked if Gerry with a G wanted a drink. Emerson patted her hand and she followed them out the door.
So angry, he was vibrating. The room, too small to hold us.
‘What the fuck is your problem?’ Emerson said.
‘Her,’ I said. ‘You.’
‘No. You. You are the problem. She did nothing.’
‘You did. You brought her around here. You’re going to ruin this for us.’ I sipped my beer to calm down.
He snorted when he laughed, shook his head. ‘You have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You fucking idiot. Look around us. It’s money, it’s easy living. They’re handing it to us. And you’re going to ruin it.’
‘You worry too much. She doesn’t know anything.’
‘That’s not the point. This is about us.’
He took a cigarette from Jon’s pack, lit a match and held it in front of my face.
‘Fuck you.’ I smacked it away. ‘You remember how we had to hide? Remember that goddamn ache? You want that again? This is a constant food.’
‘Whatever.’ He started to turn and I grabbed his shoulders, spun him around and crumpled his shirt in my fists and brought them against his neck. He smirked.
‘Don’t do it.’ My breath, hot, rushing from my mouth with flecks of spit. Words scraped their way up my throat. ‘Don’t do it to that girl. I see it when you look at her, and you won’t go all the way.’
He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing against my knuckles. ‘What if I love her?’
I exhaled, closed my eyes, laughed. As much to myself as to him, I said, ‘You don’t love her. You’re just bored.’
‘And if I do?’ He wasn’t smirking anymore. I hadn’t seen him look at someone like that since we were ankle-biters and Poe was lamenting Lenore.
‘Then leave her alone.’ I relaxed my fists, stepped back. He tried to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt. I handed him a cigarette.
‘Look, I’m sorry. I really am.’ I gave him a bottle of beer. ‘But there’s no compromise in this. Either stay a virgin, or have the abortion.’
*
Halfway through ‘Draw an Ink Heart with my Dagger,’ at our Welcome Home show in Baltimore, Emerson tried to light me on fire.
He staggered across the stage like a drunken rooster, grabbing a girl in the front row and licking her face then dousing the group in liquor. A bottle in one hand, a wooden stake in the other. He carved an ‘S’ into his chest and tipped the bottle over it. The lights over the stage made his body a bloody kaleidoscope. Jon shot me a worried glance. I shrugged. Then Emerson turned to me, stuck a Zippo in my face. Guitar half-cocked and ready to decapitate, he spat at me, barely missing the flame. I wiped vodka from my eyes and he shouted into the mic, ‘Like father, like son,’ then went into the chorus.
Four songs passed in blur, random images flash-frozen in my memory. Emerson writhing on the floor, holding the hand of the inevitable Sparrow. Bajet humping his bass at some kid’s open mouth. Gerry with a G hiding in the wings, clapping like a wind-up monkey with cymbals for hands. The smell of burnt flesh, so strong I could see it.
Motherfucker actually tried to set me on fire.
The razor-edge build-up of ‘Original Sin.’ Jon and the beating heart. Emerson stood on a stack of speakers, looking for the lucky fan, our meal. I edged towards the speakers. Jon threw a drumstick at me, shook his head like a seizure. The speakers wobbled as Emerson pumped his hips. Jon threw another drumstick at me. I just smiled.
I kicked the bottom one, bringing the whole thing down like a headshot. Two speakers fell into the crowd, a shower of sparks when they hit the floor. Faster than a spider, Emerson had already jumped off, grabbed a kid and brought him on stage. The crowd screamed, rabid. Just another part of the show.
Kid on his knees, arms outstretched with Bajet and Emerson surrounding him, I dropped my guitar to the floor.
I shirked away when Jon grabbed my arm, said, ‘I’m not hungry,’ and walked backstage.
Three empty bottles strewn at my feet. Bajet on the nod in the corner. Geezer and Gerry with a G had gone to the bar next-door. Jon adjusted the head of his snare, tentative glances up at me. I contemplated the label of the bottle.
I sighed, leaned my head against the wall. ‘I can’t do this anymore.’
‘Yes you can,’ he said. ‘You’re pissed, it’ll pass.’
Downing my beer, I said, ‘He tried to set me on fire. I think that’s a little out of line.’
Jon smiled to himself, shrugged. ‘You tried to drown him in speakers. I’d say you’re even.’
‘Idunno.’ I opened another bottle, flipped my guitar over. Fractures like lightning bolts snaked up the neck. ‘It’s different now. He’s gone over or something. Almost like it’s sport-hunting to him.’
Sharp cracks as Jon tuned his drum. He paused, started to speak and took a cigarette from Bajet’s lap instead. Bajet lifted his head, said, ‘Fate,’ and nodded off again. A jet of smoke from Jon’s lips, like exhaling a soul. He looked at the fake security camera in the corner.
‘It is what it is.’ Taking a drag, he said, ‘And we are what we are,’ and he turned his head to me. ‘Nothing ever changes.’
The door opened, the stink of sweaty bodies mixing with the musty air of the band room.
‘Don’t come near me,’ I said to Emerson. Jon turned, cocked his head. Sparrow lilted through the doorway, so high she was almost preserved. The popped collar of her denim jacket seemed to be the only thing holding up her head.
I blinked for years. ‘What do you want?’
‘She’s hanging out tonight,’ Emerson said, stepping into the room. ‘No big deal.’ He guided her to the couch, set her down as if she was a crystalline egg and nestled himself next to her.
‘You idiot,’ I said. ‘It’s bad enough we have to travel with one pincushion, and now you bring another?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s cool.’ He whispered to Sparrow, brushing hair away from her forehead the way you’d touch fine silk. A smile ebbed over her face like a changing tide. Eyes unfocused. The corner of her lip twitching. Her hand like a porcelain leaf falling into his lap.
Behind them, Jon set down his snare. I imagined squeezing the bottle until it broke, shiny triangles jutting from my palm like emerald teeth.
‘Emerson,’ I said. ‘We need to talk.’
More whispering, then over his shoulder, ‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Now, I mean.’
He shrugged. She breathed ragged as if she was trying to giggle, and her head dipped to his. Brown dots on her collar. Two holes in the side of her neck.
‘You selfish prick.’ I stood.
He turned to me. ‘Mind your own fucking business.’
‘You are a bastard.’
‘I said shut the fuck up.’ He sprung to his feet, stood inches from my face. Her blood in the cracks at the corner of his mouth. Copper riding on his breath.
‘Hey, guys, chill out.’
Emerson said, ‘Stay out of this,’ and as he pointed at Jon, I rabbit-punched the side of his neck. He gasped, stepped back with his hand over his throat. I lunged towards him and caught my foot in a cable. Spider-like, he sidestepped me, dug his hand into my head and threw me to the ground. Straddled over me, fist raised, he paused for a flash. A vein pulsed in the side of his neck. And an anvil dropped on my mouth. Warm gushing over my face. A white triangle stuck in his knuckle. Cold air where my tooth had been and the anvil dropped again, a streak across my cheek so hot with pain I could see it. And again. And again.
His fist dripping onto my chest. Jon shouted something, grabbed Emerson by the arm and pulled him backwards. They grappled like a bug on its back trying to right itself. I wiped my face, lifted myself on my elbows. Sparrow, still in the same position. Each blink five seconds long. Fading from existence. From one world to another, like a tunnel lined with dripping water and shadows that tore at your skin, emptying into a void haunted by insatiable hungers and loneliness so profound it numbed your fingertips.
I grabbed my guitar, staggered to my feet as if I was made of pipecleaners and thread.
‘Hey.’
They paused, arms knotted together like flesh yarn.
And I brought the guitar down on Jon’s forehead, the wood shattering, body attached only by the strings. His eyes rolled back before his head touched the ground. Emerson, shocked frozen. Eyes darting, hands still holding Jon’s.
‘What the—’
And I fell to my knees, pushing the neck of the guitar into Emerson’s shoulder. His mouth opened to scream but could only gasp. A pop, like a carrot snapping, and Jon’s finger jutted at an obscene angle.
Hands and knees, I crawled to the couch. Emerson wheezing, Jon coughing. I dragged myself up next to Sparrow. Her eyelids cracked open, languid brown irises rolling towards me. I stroked the back of her hand. It felt like the inside of an oyster shell. As if I was handling a newborn, I folded down the collar of her jacket, leaned her head to expose the virgin side of her neck. Out of respect.
A metal vice on my ankle. Emerson’s hand. His face flecked red and brown. Watery colors in the corner of his eyes. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Please.’
Her irises lightened, began to turn gold before me. Top lip twitched, something inside her mouth growing.
‘Please,’ Emerson whispered. His hand on my ankle weakening. ‘Please.’
Two fingers on the underside of her jaw, concentrating to feel a pulse, I lowered my head and kissed her neck, whispered you’re welcome. I opened my mouth and tasted copper, then felt her pulse whimper. Fade. Fade.
Fate.
Eucharist
I flaked rust off the mailbox flag and pressed it between my fingers until it was soft as a fresh scab. Wayne shuffled down the driveway, gravel flying like epithets, nudged my elbow. He smelled like the background of a Tom Waits song.
‘Come back to the house.’
Dried brown splotches on his nose. I thought of a pig snout. His lips were like rice paper, rice paper ringed with foil burns. I wanted to touch them, but stopped myself.
‘There’s no light in the house,’ I said.
He only shrugged and scratched his crotch, turned away. In the window, shadows moved like languid wraiths.
The ground vibrated and I listened for a train whistle but only heard the wind blow over my ears like the top of a cracked milk jug. I laid the rust on my tongue and felt the pockmarks dissolve. It tasted of blood.
The Bones of Miracles
With the barrel of a gun trained on him, Mr. Chan blinked once and stifled a yawn. The man in the Reagan mask cursed and jabbed the muzzle into his cheek, pulled it back and gave him another fair view of the gun that threatened to paint the bamboo wallpaper of his store a vibrant shade of grey matter. Mr. Chan wasn’t nervous, though, and it gave his eye the look of a target, concentric circles of iris and undilated pupil. Cartoon noises seeped from the apartment above them. He wondered if his daughter was still watching Looney Tunes. He swallowed a laugh, an image of himself with a finger stuck in the barrel of the gun and Reagan with wisps of smoke curling like errant hairs—his own private Daffy Duck cartoon—lodged in his head. In the back room that served as both a storage space and the Chan family kitchen sat four large simmering pots.
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(Pages 1-29 show above.)