Hold Your Fire

by Lisa Mangum

  And now he was gone. Why had Micah not reconciled with the bastard? But how could he have if Foster never apologized?

  That anger seeped out from under his bed again. He used it. He used it to push through the burn in his shoulder, the stiffness in his neck. Faster he went. Harder. Sweat blurred Micah’s vision. He plunged forward, harder still.

  The bastard. All he had to do was apologize. Say he was sorry. Micah would have forgiven him. They could have continued the relationship they’d once had instead of the mess it became.

  Smoke tickled Micah’s nose. He was close now. A few more pushes and pulls.

  “Pass me that nest,” he said, but Rebecca had it ready. The embers had fallen out the notch, black and red on the dirt. Micah pushed them with a stick into the nest, folded it in half, and held it up. He blew, softly at first, then harder as the nest glowed red and ignited.

  He sat the fireball in the base of the tepee of kindling Rebecca had constructed. Minutes later, they had a sustainable fire.

  They sat in silence, Micah enjoying the fire, the jerky, the hardtack, the smooth-tasting water of the creek, not like that piss he drank from his own well. He didn’t get away enough. Probably because it all reminded him of Foster.

  “Did you hate him?” Rebecca asked.

  “Foster?” Micah considered the question. “No. I didn’t hate him.”

  “He thought you did.”

  Her words tore at him like that bullet so long ago. “And if I did? He was a worthless drunk.” As the words left him, Micah knew he shouldn’t have said them.

  “He wasn’t,” Rebecca blurted. He heard the sadness in her voice. “Worthless or a drunk.”

  “I … I didn’t mean nothing …”

  “He felt sorry, Micah. Real sorry. He didn’t drink since.”

  Micah didn’t believe that for a second. “Sure.”

  “He didn’t. In fact, that’s why they killed him. They asked him for a drink, and he told ’em he didn’t have any alcohol, that he’d never touch the stuff. Devil water, he called it. They killed him ’cause they thought he was lying.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. He told me that stuff had cost him his family and his best friend, and he wouldn’t touch it as long as he lived.”

  “If that were true, why didn’t he apologize to me?”

  “He did.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did so. I took the letter myself.”

  “Letter? What letter?”

  “Several, in fact, that I know of. We’d give ’em to Jenkins who’d come by once a week.”

  “That bastard.” Jenkins was a thief. He’d usually comb through the post for valuables or letters holding information leading to valuables, like shipments and travel plans. He’d feed that news to men like the Chacon Gang for a commission. Micah had tried to out Jenkins a few years past, and the two nearly went to bullets. Since then, Jenkins wasn’t about to do Micah any favors. No wonder Micah hadn’t received any letters.

  “What did they say?” Micah asked. “The letters. You ever read any?”

  “No. That’s private.”

  Dammit. He’d been a fool. Both of them had. The letters probably held an apology and a request to meet. That would have been awkward but knowing himself and knowing Foster, the two would have embraced and resumed their friendship.

  “What are we doing here?” Micah thought aloud. “What am I doing? This is a matter for the authorities, not some rancher and a girl.”

  “I can fight.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying. These are dangerous outlaws. Killers. Foster would be downright pissed at me for bringing you along on this fool’s errand. I don’t know—I suppose I’m chasing after them out of guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Regret, then. Foster raised me. He was sober when I was with him, but he started drinking when I went to fight with the Rough Riders. When I got back, he was a mess. I always wondered if he knew it was me when he shot me. I don’t think he did. It was the booze doing the shootin’. Not Foster.”

  “He didn’t know.”

  “Yeah.” Micah nodded. “I don’t suppose he did. Say, did he ever teach you how to trap?”

  “Yep. Figure fours and all that.”

  “There are many others too, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Grandchildren, I mean. Foster took in many a stray.”

  “I know,” Becky said again.

  “So that makes us, what? Cousins?”

  “Foster cousins, I suppose.”

  “What happened to your parents?” Micah asked.

  “Some white men killed my dad because he was Indian. And they killed my mom because she married one. How about your parents?”

  “Geronimo. He hit our wagon. Would have killed me too if Foster hadn’t been passing by at the time.”

  The two sat in silence. Micah’s mind drifted to the violence that dotted his life. He’d seen killing. He’d known meanness and hatred. He’d seen firsthand the destructive powers of vices. He’d let anger rule his actions, but what good had come of it? Any of it? It wasn’t hatred that brought peace. It was love. Foster had loved him. Foster had loved Rebecca.

  As he stared at the fire, the flickering flames and the dancing shadows, Micah had an epiphany. One that had been there stashed away under that mattress with all that other stuff. There were two forces in this world, both fueled by choices. One good and one bad. At the end of the day, Foster had made mostly good choices but some bad ones, and still he suffered a violent fate. But that wasn’t fate at all, was it? No. Rather that was the result of a bad choice of another, someone who probably had made some good choices in his life, but mostly bad.

  Because of Foster’s kindness, he’d taken Micah and Rebecca, and many others, out of terrible situations stemming from the evil of other people. He’d provided for them. He’d raised them. Taught them things, like the bow drill. And because of it, despite the violence in their lives, they’d been shown kindness and goodness and love.

  Good could counter the effects of evil. Micah didn’t know if good would always win, but fighting evil with hatred and anger didn’t make any sense. There were more important things in this world, like helping others. Teaching others. Passing on what had been taught to him. Everything else seemed so trivial now.

  Micah had a choice to make, but he’d already made it. Hearing about Foster’s letters didn’t release the anger from under the bed. It took the entire bed away, the anger, and the shame. It quenched those feelings like water on a campfire. And what remained was the warmth of peace.

  To choose good or bad. Love or hate. Selflessness or selfishness. To mentor or to destroy. His existence boiled down to that. And Micah knew what to choose. He’d had a good teacher.

  “Get some shut-eye. Tomorrow, we’ll report the murder to the sheriff and get some supplies for you in town. Then I’ll figure out how to add a bedroom to my little shack.”

  “And Dodee and Gomez?”

  “Foster wouldn’t want us to waste another second on them. They’re bad men doing bad things. You and me, let’s be different. Let’s do good things.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll teach you the bow drill for starters.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Maybe you could brush me up on trappin’. It’s been awhile.”

  Later, nestled in their bedrolls aside the glowing embers, Micah reflected on how his life had changed over the last twenty-four hours. He hadn’t expected to become a mentor, and he hoped he’d be a good one, like Foster had been to him.

  “Micah?”

  “Yeah, Becky?”

  “If I live at your place does that mean I have to drink your nasty piss water?”

  About the Author

  Jace Killan lives in Arizona with his family, wife, and five kids, and a little dog. He writes middle-grade fiction, thrillers, and soft sci-fi on the side. He has an MBA and works in finance for a biotechnol
ogy firm. Jace plays and writes music and enjoys everything outdoors. He’s also a novice photographer. For more information about Jace Killan and his writing visit jacekillan.com.

  Dream Girl

  Kitty Sarkozy

  I saw you for the first time in my favorite coffee shop. You looked so sad with your rumpled hair and equally rumpled suit. It looked as if your body was trying to slither out but couldn’t find an exit from the hot, itchy wool, or whatever suits are made of. You looked tired and stressed.

  I thought about talking to you right away, but I was learning to knit that day. Orange and pink fuzzy yarn tangled around my fingers, soft butterfly-leg fibers caressing my skin. Sadly, the bamboo needles were silent. I had hoped they would click with each stitch. Maybe the clicking was something you developed over time; if so, I would totally get it.

  I was concentrating on my knitting, trying to grow a super funky scarf from the single line the sweet old lady at the knitting shop had cast on for me. I wasn’t unhappy that day. Maybe I was a little lonely, the way you get when you sit alone in a café watching all the sad people with their sad lives—all of them pretending to not be alone by traveling in pairs, holding hands, or talking excitedly into expensive phones.

  The Smiths were playing in my earbuds; they always make me feel better. Their songs are dark yet catchy, perky and alive. They remind me that no matter how bad things get, you can always smile and dance.

  You were talking on your phone when you came in, but you didn’t have a happy phone face on like the three people who came in before you did. Your face was real—real sad, real disappointed. I don’t know what you were talking about. I tried to read your lips, but I don’t actually know how to read lips. I should learn; that would be awesome.

  You sat at a table in the corner and ordered several refills of coffee, which can’t have helped your stress level. You had a laptop that, against all reason, made you even more stressed-looking. You ran your fingers through your hair over and over. No wonder you are such a rumpled teddy bear. I feared you might start pulling it out. I had totally decided to come talk to you as soon as I finished the row I was on when you abruptly slammed down the screen of your laptop and stormed out.

  That’s when I knew how badly you needed my help. I gathered up my knitting as fast as I could, but balls of yarn are wiggly. By the time I got outside, you were gone. I ran around the building hoping to see you, but I guess you drove. I don’t drive, so I sometimes forget that other people do.

  I was sad for a while. I cried a bit, sitting alone on the cold metal seats outside the coffee shop, shivering because I had left my coat inside. You needed a kind word or a smile. I let you down. I had been selfish and not listened to the call of fate. I vowed that day to follow the signposts of the universe and be true to what I knew was right.

  You can’t imagine how happy I was when the cosmic spirit of the universe said “You have work to do!” and brought you back to me less than a week later.

  I was at the park on Tuesday; I think I was listening to Regina Spektor. She’s just awesome, right?! I was singing along, but it was okay, because it was early, before kids start having recess, so I had the swings all to myself. I love swings; if I close my eyes, it’s like flying. My whole body tingles with the falls and soars with each rise. I close my eyes, and I’m a dragon or a seagull. Thankfully I didn’t have my eyes closed when you walked past, your gaze on the ground, shoulders slumped.

  I leapt into action right away, which was great, because the swing was at the perfect height for it.

  I followed you for a few blocks. Putting the Smiths playlist on Spotify, obviously. I was dancing a little, you know, to look casual, like I wasn’t following you. I was just a regular girl walking around. You went into a FedEx. I sort of hung around outside near some bushes that smelled like Froot Loops.

  When I saw you at the register, I got into position a few yards away, then I walked quickly back toward the doors. The universe timed it all perfectly, and I bumped into you as you came out, causing you to drop all your papers.

  “Dammit!” you growled.

  “Oh, God! I am so, so sorry. Let me help you,” I said, hurriedly picking up papers.

  It was so weird. As you looked at me and our eyes met for the first time, the song changed. Right as I was thinking about how tired you looked, I realized what song it was. As I picked up papers, half of them résumés on linen paper and half of them “Wanted: Roommate” flyers, I figured out what you needed from me. Maybe it was later that I knew for sure, but the idea entered my head then, even if I didn’t realize it consciously at the time.

  “Asleep” is our song, chosen for us by destiny.

  You were mad at me about the papers, but you were madder at life. I offered to buy you a coffee. You looked at me and said, “Sure.”

  Maybe you agreed because I had worn my favorite headband that matched the pink highlights in my hair, or maybe you said yes because I was wearing a super cute sundress with long striped socks and the fabulous orange-and-pink scarf I had finished knitting the day before. Or maybe you wanted a cup of coffee. Either way, fate brought us together. We went back to the shop where I first saw you.

  This time you were not alone at that little table. This time, instead of being angry at your phone and laptop, you were with me. I made you laugh. I told you fun stories about all the great things I have been doing. I showed you pictures of my kitten. I supported you by listening to your seemingly endless list of problems, but only while we were at the coffee shop.

  I spent the rest of the day with you, on the condition that you not think or talk about your girlfriend dumping you, your father being disappointed in you, or how you didn’t think you could pay the rent alone. I told you that today was your day off from being you. I even picked out a new name for you. I called you “Luke,” like from Star Wars. Boys love Star Wars.

  We walked around the city, and it was like you had never seen it before; all of it was new and shiny. I picked the first bright dandelion of spring and put it in your hair, but it refused to stay, so you put it in your pocket for safekeeping. I let you wear my scarf. We watched the swans in the lake and fed the ducks. We went to my favorite diner and had banana waffles for dinner.

  When it got dark, we danced to the music in our souls in the empty parking lot of an abandoned, dilapidated shopping center. At one point I waltzed while you did something like a cha-cha. Then you spun me around, and we laughed as you held on to me to keep me from falling. The stars in the sky danced with us. You told me it was the most wonderful day of your life.

  When we slow danced, you cried a single tear. I kissed the salty drop away from your cheek. Then you kissed me. Your kiss was tender, in a way that others might not have expected from your angry, stressed exterior. I wasn’t surprised. I knew Mr. Angry wasn’t the real you. The real you, the person you should have been, was in that sweet, innocent kiss. I was honored you shared yourself with me in a perfect moment of clarity.

  We went back to your place. It was a gray and dreary place. The ghost of the relationship you’d had with your ex haunted every room, every inch, dusting every surface with the ash of “What should have been?” and “What went wrong?” It would take a hundred perfect days to clean that ash off your soul. I don’t know if it could ever be cleaned from your apartment.

  You still had a picture of her in the living room. She was one of those girls. Her hair dyed the same color of blonde as every other girl like her. She had a name-brand purse and brand-new matchy-matchy clothes, a forced smile, and empty eyes. She was the type of girl who wanted a successful man, an expensive engagement ring, a white picket fence, and 2.5 kids. Maybe if you had never dated her you wouldn’t have come to me so broken, so tired. Or maybe you dated her because you were broken, worn down by a lawyer father, a conservative family, and social expectations.

  You and Ms. Name-brand might have broken each other, enforcing the rigid lives that had been handed to each of you. But I had touched your soul and knew
the real you. Had things been different, you could have been so much more. You were a good person, your hands strong, your lips so very gentle.

  I went to your bathroom to pee and had a look in your medicine cabinet. As I looked at all the bottles, our song played in my head, and I knew why I had been led to you. My heart broke, and I cried for you, for us. If only we had met earlier, before empty-eyed girlfriends, before itchy suits, before gray ash and shattered everything. You could have seen the beauty in the world, in yourself. We could have loved each other and created joy.

  I got in your ceramic bathtub, which was so cold it burned my skin. I wrapped my arms around my legs, hiding my face in the brightly colored cotton dress. I cried for what had been done to you, for the shame and expectations that had been piled on, crushing you stone by stone. I cried for the person you could have been and for who we could have been together. I cried a salty ocean for all that was lost. When I could cry no more, I washed away my tears, put on fresh purple eye shadow and a happy smile.

  You had lit candles while I was gone, giving the whole place a warm glow that almost hid the ash. Exactly how your smile and excitement almost hid the crumbling person inside. Sometimes, when I dance alone in that empty parking lot, I wish that it had, so I could have ignored the truth.

  We made love that night, tender and passionate at the same time. We drank bubbly Moscato, and you drank me in. You filled all the holes that life had made in your soul with the clean, cool water of my love. You were complete that night for the first time in so long. I was happy to be with you, the real you.

  We made love for hours.

  I poured you a drink—whiskey, I think. It smelled bad, like medicine. You were already sleepy, but after you drank it, you got much sleepier. I had a moment of doubt looking at your peaceful face, but it went away when you looked at me, pleading, with tears in your eyes and said, “Stay. Please. I don’t want to wake up alone anymore.”