Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  Grabbing a package labeled Sacred Seeds, he started reading its cover. “A little warms the heart, too much burns the soul.”

  “So, what the hell are you talking about, man?”

  “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t get the idea of moderation. That’s because your brain cells have already atrophied, and your synapses can’t connect anymore!” He turned away in disgust.

  “That’s a load! You’re still stuck in the 1950’s, man! So anal. And seeing some of the things I’ve seen lately, maybe you’re more establishment than I had thought.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” His tone sharpened.

  “I…I don’t know. I’m just talking. “She paused for a few seconds. “It’s just, well, you won’t ever try any stuff with me, not even marijuana brownies. I wanna feel like you’re with me, you know? I mean, sometimes you drink like a fish. But this is the 60’s. Why not try getting high my way?” She turned petulant.

  If only the chest pressure would stop, he stewed. Perhaps I am having a heart attack. Oh, why can’t Ashton get me out of this? I just want out. I want out with Lyla, I want out with Susan. Oh, God. The hell with everyone.

  He looked over at her, shook his head, and sighed. “OK, I’ll try a tiny bit of acid. Then after that, leave me be.”

  Lyla flung her arms around him and as they held onto each other several seconds, it was a reminder of old times. Then, trotting off toward the bathroom, she returned with her enamel tin can. It was empty.

  “Uh-oh. OK, I know where I can get more of these guys. Come with me.” She smiled mysteriously; she was in control again.

  “Where the hell are we going at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday night? I think I should be getting home.” He could feel his pulse throbbing through his ears.

  “Oh, noooooo you don’t. Not this time!” Lyla took him by the hand and started pulling him after her. Still holding hands, they rounded the corner and went up a flight of steps into a dilapidated apartment building. Once inside the urine-stained vestibule, she led him downstairs into an L-shaped basement apartment with a solitary light bulb just inside the front door. The window, covered with an ornamental iron burglar grill, sat half-hidden from the street. An old mattress lay on the floor in a far corner, and a small table was placed off to one side, covered with drug paraphernalia, a beer can, several crumpled Kleenex, and a pair of scissors. The only things he recognized were three of her macramé pieces on one wall, arranged in order of size—papa-bear size, mother-bear size, and even a baby-bear size.

  “What the hell kind of place is this? This is creepy, Lyla. I don’t need this now. Let’s go, please!”

  “I know. It’s not my apartment. It’s a friend’s, but it’s my hangout sometimes; that’s why some of my pieces are on the walls. Please. The police will never find us here. There’s only one neighbor and she’s never in. Please, please?”

  He was so tired of fighting them all. So tired. Maybe just half a tab and then I can go home and sleep for a week.

  He stepped forward and she popped five tiny pills into his mouth. They both stared at each other, their arms down at their sides.

  “What now?” He broke the silence.

  “Now, we wait.”

  A minute passed. Two minutes. Three minutes. Four minutes. This isn’t so bad, he thought, relieved. But when the room started taking on different dimensions, he was confused. Did the north wall come in two inches, or was it his imagination? No, wait. It did move. Or did it? He wasn’t sure. The macramés were activating into tiny movements. How come he didn’t notice that before? Oh, my God! Are those Black Widow spiders or just Daddy Long Legs? Wait. That wall is definitely coming in towards me. I can see it now, and why didn’t Lyla warn me about the spiders? That bitch! She’s no better than Quentin! You can’t trust anyone! You can’t…

  “John! Are you OK? I think you’re having a bad trip.” Lyla’s voice was beginning to quiver.

  “What?” His voice crackled through the hollow room.

  “You just called me a bitch! And who is Quentin?”

  He stared at her. Her head looked enormous and her mouth, so distorted––a spotted grouper about to surround its prey amongst the corrals. Hey! You’re ugly, you’re evil! Why are you doing this to me? You’re one of them, sent to kill me! You’re…”

  “John, get a grip! You’re really, really scaring me now. Let’s get someone.” Lyla’s wide eyes took up one quarter of her face.

  The spiders are building a Cat’s Cradle of tangles. If I look away, maybe they won’t be there when I turn back. Crap! They’re still there. Now they’re multiplying. Oh, God. Oh God!

  “What spiders? Please, please calm down!”

  He saw her as if for the first time. “Yeah, that’s right. The Ken Kesey/Timothy Leary girl. The original hippie. The one who is also spying on me. The one who thinks she knows all about me.”

  Lyla came towards him with her arms outstretched. “Yes, I’m the hippie girl, the one who loves you. I don’t care what you’re into. I…”

  Suddenly, his large hands were around her neck, choking her, her macramé amulet intertwined with his thumbs.

  “Pl-e-uuh-uh-uh,”eeked out of her throat like a human tube of toothpaste slowly being squeezed out.

  He released one hand, yanking her necklace off onto the floor, and as she tried to duck, his other hand swung up and smacked her face on the right side. She let out a scream and ran for the front door, but the lock wouldn’t release and catching up with her, they both tumbled together onto the floor against the wall, arms flailing, legs kicking—octopus-style.

  “Stop! Stop! It’s me, it’s Lyla!” she shrieked. But he was beyond that now. His face twisted with rage as he seized her by her hair and punched her mouth, knocking her several feet away.

  She lay still while he grabbed an umbrella lying nearby. As he raised it up over his head, it broke the exposed light bulb, shattering glass all around them, and for a split second, he studied her inert form. Gotta stop her. Gotta stop them all! Groping the wall in the dark, he made it over to the table and reached for the scissors. Gotta stop them. Gotta…

  Scissors in hand, he worked his way back to the door until he could feel her body at his feet. Kneeling down, he touched her soft hair and cheek. The swelling had already begun and he could feel her directly beneath him as the scissors entered her stomach and chest. One—you’ll never get me—two—they can’t get me—three—oh, God—four—oh, God!

  He sank back on his haunches, tingling. The room was spinning and he thought he could hear someone gasping for life, but it was only his own breathing. All of a sudden, he felt so exhausted. Even more exhausted than when he was a teenager with Mono and he could barely make it to the bathroom. I need to sleep, he reasoned. Sleep…

  When he woke up, he had a throbbing headache and had to strain to see in the semi-dark. What time was it? And where was Lyla? He glanced over to his left and saw a large shape resting on the floor. “Lyla? Is that you?” He inched over to her.

  She was so still, so soundless. Reaching out to her, his hand touched moisture. What the—! Something was terribly wrong. He stood up and tried turning on the light switch, but nothing happened, so he reached into his pocket for a box of matches he had on him from The Matrix. Striking a match, he turned to face Lyla. She lay stagnant, in a crumpled position.

  “Lyla? Lyla?” He could see clearly now. Oh, God! Was he having a nightmare? Or did he? No! No! NO!”

  His mind raced. My life is over. Over! He held his hands over his eyes, struggling to think. After a long two minutes, two words popped into his brain without warning. The Zodiac. The Zodiac killed two of his victims by a knife—two hits to the backs and several more to the stomach, the journalist had said. Maybe, just maybe…A pair of scissors? He glanced down. On the floor next to him were the scissors, still slightly warm and sticky.

  He gathered them up, turned her over and shuddering, drove two more thrusts into her back. Then he carefully wiped them off, put them in his r
ight jacket pocket and was exiting when something caught his eye.

  The light was beginning to filter in through the window, causing a bluish tint everywhere and giving the ruby in the center of her precious amulet a purplish glow, like a piece of coal still smoldering in a turned-off barbeque. Her umbrella in hand, he quickly scooped the necklace up and tossed it into his other pocket before hurrying out the door.

  Back at her apartment, he cleaned himself, got into another one of his outfits, and dumped the bloodstained clothes into a garbage bag. Then, carefully wiping down every surface, he searched for diaries, a personal telephone book, and any other incriminating evidence before sitting down at her desk and pulling out a part of the San Francisco Chronicle from his jacket.

  He had already hatched a plan. Extracting a pencil and piece of paper from her top desk drawer, he meticulously began tracing one of the Zodiac’s codes from a newspaper section, taking his time in order to get it right.

  August 1969

  Blinding flash bulbs aimed at her body made talking to the detectives difficult, but John managed to display an appropriate level of shock.

  “Prof. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?” Chambers inquired.

  “I really don’t want my wife Susan involved in any of this.”

  “Of course. Do you know who Lyla’s family is and where they live?” Once a P.I., always a P.I.

  “Her name’s Lyla O’Neil. You’ll have to go from there.”

  Back in her apartment, John made it clear to Captain Maynard that his wife was not a part of this and his relationship to the deceased was a private matter. At the same time, he dropped some important names to the captain who nodded knowingly.

  “Hey, I found a bundle of letters in her closet,” a rooky detective puffed up his chest.

  Curious, John couldn’t restrain himself. “Let me see that,” he blurted out pushing past several of the others.

  The detective revealed the return addresses— always the same: J.T. Ashton, 154 West Elm Street, Scarsdale, New York. Oh, my God! ASHTON!

  “I found her birth certificate in a cardboard box.” The rooky swelled with self-pride.

  John strode over and peered at the document. “Lyla Ashton, born Corona, N.Y., 1949. Mother’s Maiden Name: O’Neil. Father: Jonas Thomas Ashton.” All this time. Ashton—my God!

  “Come on, Prof. Let’s get out of here and get a drink.” Chambers knew that was the way to relax him, but after an hour or two at the Matrix, the two drinkers had had enough and started to exit the club just as open faucets of rain pelted them.

  “Man! I forgot a jacket and umbrella tonight. It’s awful out.” Chambers began to shiver.

  “Here. Take my-my-thingy…I mean—my jacket. I gotta umbrella-for-the-rain-go over my head.” Sloshed, the Prof took off his jacket, handed it to Chambers, and staggered off towards his car.

  The P.I. slipped on the jacket and tried to hail a cab. No such luck. He wanted to form a whistle with his lips, but he was too wasted. He thrust his hands into the pockets to keep warm, hoping for a vacant taxi to show up soon. Poor Prof. Terrible. The Zodiac’s at it again. Poor Lyla. Poor…

  His left hand closed around something in the left pocket, the right knocked against something brittle. What the? Even in the rain the ruby amulet sparkled, emitting an infinitesimal flicker and the scissors looked too clean.

  “The Necklace. It never leaves her neck…” And scissors?

  Within 72 hours, Quentin and Chambers were standing side by side, watching John being led off to jail, his head down and the handcuffs reflecting the last of the late summer’s sunset.

  Chambers turned towards Quentin. “Did you know him?”

  “In a way. You?”

  “In a way.” The two men wouldn’t admit to more.

  The Prof started to get into the squad car then paused. Looking back in their direction, he figured they both might have shown up.

  Quentin approached the car. “You poor dumb bastard,” he said softly. “You could have gotten out in the end, you know. Ashton would have let you get out, especially because of her. You poor, dumb bastard!” he repeated as the black and white sped away.

  NIGHTMARE AT FOUR CORNERS

  Curiously enough, it was Helen’s housekeeper who first noticed a couple of things out-of-whack: a portable phone shoved deep into the sofa cushions, a shower cap left carelessly on the dining room table. Small things, unworthy of most people’s attention. Yet Little Wind had a sixth sense. She realized her boss was headed for trouble long before anyone else did; still, she kept silent. After all, it was not part of the Hopi tradition to offer opinions unless directly asked.

  But when Helen couldn’t even pull on her own panty hose without ugly, guttural sobs permeating the bedroom, Little Wind came running. The Native American didn’t need any explanations; wrapping her bronze arms around her distraught employer, she simply held on until the sobs slowly dissolved into soft whimpers.

  “I can’t take it anymore!” her employer finally managed. “My life seems so pointless. The kids are gone, my husband has his own life. What should I do? I’ve lost, well—me.”

  Little Wind broke the boundaries. “You must follow your heart—it is telling you where to go.” She sat very still and straight, as if she were still there on the reservation her people had originated so long ago, with the southwest wind gently undulating around the pueblo structures, echoing through the canyons of smog-less air.

  Helen’s friends and family had cautioned her about hiring a Native American Indian, especially from the Hopi tribe. They were all too proud, too distant, they warned, but Helen wouldn’t listen to any of them, and now, having once trusted her own instincts, she took another chance. Subjects that had always remained taboo were finally discussed, and Helen was left with a flicker of hope.

  The next day, much to the chagrin of her psychiatrist, she cancelled all her appointments, hummed while she showered, and searched for the phone number of an old newspaper editor with whom she had worked years before. She was returning to journalism.

  “I’m going to try and write an article for my former editor,” she muttered, half to herself, half to Little Wind as she faced a couple of family photos up on the wall. Her housekeeper stepped in to take a closer look, but all she could see were various white people receiving awards.

  Helen continued. “I can do this! After all, I come from a family of prize-winning journalists for God’s sake. Actually, that was my goal many years ago. Now I’d be happy if I could just get a good by-line.”

  Little Wind drew a deep breath and returned to her ironing.

  After twenty years, the Marvelton Times had changed exponentially. Industrial cubicles, outfitted with brand new PC’s were covered with a mauve colored fabric that deadened every sound, from the steady stream of telephone calls to the constant hum of keyboard clicks. It used to be so much noisier, Helen mused as she was ushered into Michael McGruen’s office.

  “Well, well, well. Helen, you look great!” Coming out from behind his massive desk, Michael bear-hugged his former employee before she sank down into one of his leather chairs.

  “What’s it been? Ten years, twelve?” He sat on the edge of his desk, rubbing his hands together.

  “Twenty. Look, Mike, I won’t waste your time. Frankly, I need to work. I will do any assignment—anything, just so I can get back into the swing of things. When I worked for you right out of college, before kids, you told me I had a lot of potential, remember?”

  “Whoa, whoa—back up a bit, will ya? That was twenty years ago, Helen! What have you been doing in the meantime, playing mommy and housewifey-poo? How do I know if you still have ‘it’?” Mike was suddenly all business.

  Red-faced, Helen cleared her throat. “Look, if I come up with a great story, will you at least give me a shot at it? Please, c’mon, please, Mike, for old times sake?” Her soft, pleading eyes reminded him of earlier attractions.

  “Jesus, Helen. Let me think about it, OK? Meantime, it w
ould certainly influence me if you did come up with a good story. See what you can do, all right? Now, remember, no promises. Just wow me!”

  These days her ranch-style house, so vibrant when the kids were young, now felt particularly hollow and with her husband Bill still at work, the only signs of life seemed to be coming from Little Wind’s bedroom, next to the kitchen. Tiptoeing in that direction, Helen could hear her maid’s monotonal, hiccup-like chant interspersing with a light bell tinkling over and over again. Just outside the door, she stopped and peered in.

  Sitting on the bed, cross-legged ‘Indian style,’ Little Wind had gathered around her an assortment of weird looking wooden figurines, each one more distinct than the next. The figure she was holding had five or six little bells around its neck and each time she shook it, it would jingle, and with each new jingle, came another round of chanting.

  She was transfixed in her own world and Helen, embarrassed by her intrusion, started backing up slowly when suddenly, she stalled, mesmerized. The small room was indeed a shrine to Native Americans—beads draped over a chair and towel rack, and several menacing masks hung on the walls alongside posters of Arizona and New Mexico. Peripherally, Helen spotted at least one full Indian dress hanging in the closet. She continued her retreat but it was too late. Little Wind had already glanced over, her face a collage of surprise, annoyance, and relief.

  “Don’t go. It’s all right. I’m glad you saw me.” She got off the bed and stretched her hand out to Helen.

  “I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to share with you my possible wonderful news. By the way, what is that you’re holding?”

  “It is one of my Kachina dolls. Very sacred. Very important to the Hopi Indians. Something the white man will never understand. You see, I still communicate with my family, and I have tried hard not to lose the Hopi ways. It is difficult to explain, but these Kachina dolls bring us hope, or good luck, or whatever we need. I thought you needed help. Do you understand?”