Sunspot Jungle

by Bill Campbell

  I rub my face. I don’t even have time to process what happened when the door opens again. The not-passenger. “Sorry!” he spits out, leaving a thousand-ariary bill on the seat and taking off again, fleeing me like I’m a curse. Smack again.

  I get out when the coffee man comes by. I tell him he’d better wash a cup good and clean for me. He laughs and obeys. We swap stories around his brazier cart. He laughs when I tell him I haven’t had any passengers. He takes off without getting his cup back and before I can pay him. I laugh, too, when I realize it. I savor the last sip of my free coffee as long as possible.

  Then I see her coming into the circle of light. There’s a dog in front of her. She’s already grabbing the handle.

  “Where do you think you’re going like that, ma’am?”

  “Over to the Place du 13 Mai.”

  “… That doesn’t exist anymore,” I say.

  Even if I’d wanted to quickly hop in and lock the car, the dog’s weaving around my legs. Smack. She’s already forcing a smile at me through the window. She turns toward me, inviting me to stare at her hollowing face.

  “Do I look like someone who wishes to go to a place that does not exist?” she inquires, purulent strips dropping from her cheeks, her neck, with every word.

  I take my seat at the wheel and start off. Toward the Place de l’Amour, since that’s what they rechristened the square in front of City Hall. I try to say something, to prepare her. “It’s changed, you know …”

  I stare at her in the rearview mirror. I peer into the middle of the small rectangle, focusing on the light deep within her eyes.

  “There’s a big pool and jets of water—it’s a fountain now.”

  “A fountain? What a good idea, water for everyone!” She perks up, her eyes shining.

  “No. There are gates.”

  “There are gates?”

  “You can’t actually get in, you just look at it.”

  The light in the rectangle blinks.

  “But it’s pretty!” I’m almost shouting. “The jets of water are choreographed with color-changing lights, they turn white, purple, red, green, and blue.”

  It’s getting weaker and weaker. My words are what seem to be holding her above the water like wax holding a tiny flame at the end of a wick.

  “It’s wonderful! Families gather around the gates on Sundays. People come from all over the country to see Antananarivo’s fairy tale. Country folk who might not know that running water exists, they just stand there, dumbfounded by the leaping fountains. They have their picture taken in front of them. Even I go sometimes. It’s like the pool’s sleeping, then it wakes up in a bunch of sparkling, humming springs, a magical sight with huge jets of water. I could watch it forever pressed up against the bars of the cage, dreaming up a new life to replace my own. The sun sparkles in the spray, the water cools the surrounding air, the close city smoke feels a little more breathable … Ma’am? Ma’am! Are you okay? Do you want me to take you to Andraharo? To your husband’s office?”

  She opens her eyes and murmurs, her lips barely moving: “Please, take me to the Place du 13 Mai.”

  We’re on our way. You don’t meet a lot of people in the dead of night. She sags into the corner of the backseat. I adjust the mirror to keep an eye on her, forget that I’m supposed to go under the Andravoahangy Bridge. Concentrate on driving. A few furtive nocturnal shadows let themselves be caught in the headlights. Three figures pissing into Behoririka Lake. Cops on the Rue de Pochard, but they don’t wave me over. Soon we’re hurtling past the train station. Only half of City Hall is lit up. The water gurgles in the dim light. I park facing the fountains to give them more light. I cast a quick “We’re here!” behind me.

  I slip into the yellow beams and pass through the gates with a daydream woman. Daytime under the warm spring sun. We’ll walk right up to the pool. The woman will play in the droplets that rain down on her. I’ll scold her a bit like a child. She’ll laugh, twirling around on the paving stones. I’ll tell her to be careful. She won’t let anybody boss her around. Right when the jets of water shoot upward to form a tower of shining mist, she’ll shove me into the fountain. And then pull me out of it a few seconds later and kiss me, soaking wet.

  “Place de l’Amour, really? ‘Love,’” my impossible passenger jeers, face drained of blood, staggering but upright, in front of the shimmering sprays. She mutters something I don’t understand. Something like Not the change I expected. Then she mellows, staring up at the dark sky above us.

  “Dawn is breaking,” she says. “We’ll go give them a hand.” She points at the open square.

  I clutch the steering wheel and shake my head. Clearly, we’re not seeing the same thing.

  She shoots me a smoldering look and passes through the cage, leaving bits of putrid skin behind on the bars. I throw open my door and manage to vomit (almost) outside the car. I’ve emptied my guts and hurled my bile, and my eyes are watering. It’s hard for me to get back up. Her squelching, echoing steps sound wrong against the gurgling water. My headlights are glowing more and more weakly. I want to turn them off to save the battery, but all of a sudden I’m afraid of the dark. The squick-squicking comes back louder. With rumbling moans. Every step is heavy with condemnation. A hoard floods the square, all victims of the rice fields. An unrelenting wave that swallows everything in its path. The water fountains, the pool, the gates. Shaking, I twist the ignition wires. The starter button. It whines like an animal in a trap. I’m the one who’s going to be trapped here. I mash the white button in desperation. More whining, then sputtering. I try again. The engine dies.

  “Alohalika ny ranom-bary e!”

  The Spooky Japanese Girl is There for You

  Juan Martinez

  You lose your credit card

  and call the company, but no one answers—and that hissing noise? The Japanese girl ghost. You say “Hello?” three times. Then she hangs up. You shiver … What’s that? A replacement card. In your wallet.

  You’re on a date

  and trying too hard. You drop a knife, and there she is, underneath a table—pale arms, red dress, long black hair covering her face. You jump back. Your date says that you look like you’ve seen a ghost. You try to laugh, but can’t. Your date thinks you’re a complicated man, a man haunted by a dark, interesting past. And you are. You are haunted by your past—also by the ghost of a Japanese schoolgirl.

  You’re at the gym

  and slacking. You think you’ll do 15 minutes on the treadmill and call it a day. But you look up and the spooky Japanese ghost is on Fox News complaining about broken borders and how no one cares about the middle class. You run for a full half-hour, fueled by righteous indignation.

  You’re at home

  and it’s late, you’re tired, and none of the light bulbs you’ve just replaced are working right: they flicker, they cast shadows that look like people or birds or household appliances. You’re in bed, the TV tuned to static because you were so angry about the war on the middle class that you canceled your cable, and you’re looking at the ceiling. The Japanese ghost crawls from one corner to the next. Her hair still covers her face. She moves in bizarre, halting steps, crawling to every lamp in your house and adjusting every bulb until the bedroom is bathed in a soothing glow. You sleep and forget to turn off the lights. The spooky Japanese ghost does it for you, then vanishes, never to appear again. Years later, you’re walking down the street and spot a small distant figure in a red dress, and you run to her and—never mind, it’s someone else. She’s gone, you miss her, but ghosts move on: They can’t hang around all day. They’ve got things to do.

  The Executioner

  Jennifer Marie Brissett

  The day of the execution was the first and only time I’d ever been in a prison. It was a lot bigger than I expected it to be. There was more light in it, too. I thought it would be a dark place with screaming inmates yelling at me as I passed through. But that’s not how it was at all. Everyone fell silent when they saw me
. My path opened like Moses parting the Red Sea as people moved out of my way. There were guards on every side of me as I walked through the prison. They guided my way to the death house in the backyard. I was Death personified that day, and everyone knew it. I felt kind of powerful. I looked up and saw these big, tough men who were afraid—of me. That’s what I became that day, Death personified.

  I was warned not to look anyone in the eye that didn’t work for the State. So I kept my head down. It was hard not to look up, feeling the heat of so many stares on me. But I did as I was told. I was a good citizen. This was what the State required. My name had come up, and when that happens, you do your duty. That was how my family raised me. You don’t shy away from your responsibilities. You stand up and do what needs to be done. I took no joy in being there. I knew that this was nothing to be happy about. This was just something that had to be done. And my name came up. That was all there was to it.

  They marched me into the back where there was a large green lawn. Inmates were working to cut the grass, and they, too, stopped to stare at me as I passed by. The sky was unusually bright that day. It was clear and blue as far as the eye could see. And it was so quiet. Like the birds themselves knew that it was a solemn day.

  I had just had my second child a few months before. I would have rather been home with her. She was such a little thing. And a really good baby. I could hand her to anyone, and she wouldn’t cry. She’d just look up at them with wonder and lean into their chests, calm and pleasant. I felt so lucky to have a good home and family. It was the State that kept us all safe from the likes of the one that I was going to put down. The way I looked at it, this was little to ask of a citizen whom the State had given so much.

  The death house looked like an old chapel with its small “A” roof and peeling window wallpaper made to resemble stained glass. Inside was quiet, and people spoke in hushed tones. There were prison guards everywhere. They, like the prisoners, stilled when they saw me.

  The warden was there to greet me. He was friendly enough, businesslike, though. He shook my hand and escorted me to the lunchroom where a fine meal was waiting for me. The State sent a packet to my house with a return form requesting that I list the meal I would like to be served. I must admit that they got everything just right. Funny, I can remember enjoying the meal, but I don’t remember the meal itself. It’s like I have a memory of a memory about it.

  While I sat and ate, the warden and the prison guards watched. It felt strange to be the only one chewing. The warden told me to eat up since I wouldn’t be able to have anything again until the next day. It’s the way the drugs worked. If you tried to eat right after taking them, they could make you really sick to your stomach.

  When I was done, the warden and I had coffee together. This time the three guards with us joined in. It felt like I had become part of a ritual of theirs. I wondered how many of these executions they had attended. I wanted to ask but didn’t. We just all sat quietly together sipping at our coffee until it was gone or got cold.

  The warden took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. For a moment I thought that he was crying. When he looked up, I saw that he wasn’t. He just looked tired. He put his glasses back on and laid his palms out flat on the table.

  “Did you read the packet that the State sent?” the warden asked.

  Yes, I nodded.

  “Good. Well, I’m going to briefly go over the basics again of what is going to happen tonight. Please stop me at any time if there is something you don’t understand or if you have a question.”

  I nodded again.

  “We will take a little bit of your blood now. It will be used to create the drug cocktail. It will be prepared and injected into you in about an hour. Once you receive the injection, you are the State’s agent of execution. The drug will only affect the condemned. It is coded with his DNA and yours only. You cannot harm any other person with your touch. Do you understand?”

  I nodded.

  “You have to answer verbally. It’s the law.”

  I said, “Yes.”

  The warden continued, “We will wait until midnight for any last-minute reprieves. If there are none, you will be escorted to the death chamber by these guards to face the condemned. Myself and the minister for the condemned will be in the room. A family member and a witness for the condemned may also be in the death chamber. He will be strapped down securely onto a gurney. You will be perfectly safe.”

  I instinctively looked at the guards sitting with us. One of them lowered his head to avoid my eyes.

  “He will be allowed to say his last words,” the warden said.

  “Will he say anything to me?”

  “The law states that a prisoner has the right to face his executioner. So he may say something to you.” The warden took off his glasses again and spoke softly. “My advice to you is to pay no attention to what he says. He doesn’t know you, and you don’t know him. Remember, you are not his judge or his jury. You didn’t determine his guilt or innocence. Others performed that function. You are his executioner. You are just performing your lawful civic duty.”

  I must admit that I always just assumed that the man was guilty. I didn’t even know what he was condemned for doing. The packet from the State suggested that I not research the case, so I didn’t. Sometimes I think that was a mistake.

  “When you feel ready, you are to physically touch the condemned.”

  “How am I supposed to touch him?” I asked.

  “Any way you see fit,” the warden said. “I’ve known some who hugged them and others who have just put a pinky finger on them. There is no right or wrong way as long as there is physical contact.”

  “And that is all it takes?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Death will commence at that point.”

  “How long will it take?” It felt ghoulish asking, but I really wanted to know.

  “Death may occur within a few moments. You are legally required to remain with the condemned until he is dead. Then you are free to go.”

  The night passed slowly. The lab technician who had mixed the drug cocktail was also the one to administer my injection. He made me roll up my sleeve and rubbed my arm with cool alcohol.

  “This may sting,” he warned.

  It did.

  “You may get a slight fever tomorrow,” he said. “It will pass. You will be fine in a day or two.”

  I unrolled my sleeve as he put his needles and things away. The area where I was injected felt sore and began to throb. My arm ached for several days after that. Such a small price to pay.

  “At least you won’t ever be asked to do this again. The drug only works once. It will never work in you again. At least that’s something.”

  “At least that’s something,” I repeated.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon in the lunchroom with the guards. They were good people. We talked about our families and showed each other pictures of our kids. We played cards and dominoes to while away the time. I couldn’t help constantly looking up at the clock. It seemed to be ticking slower than usual. I began to feel anxious as the sun came down. I had survived the weeks preceding that night by simply not thinking about ending a man’s life. After the sun came down, all that changed. What I was about to do was all I could think about. I was just a small-town mother of two. How had I become this agent of death?

  By 9 p.m. I was visibly shivering.

  “I don’t feel well,” I said to my guards. “I want to go home.”

  They just looked down. One of them said to me, “You’re just nervous. This happens to everyone.”

  “But I feel sick to my stomach,” I said. It was no lie. My stomach was twisted into knots upon knots. I felt like I could throw up.

  “That’s normal,” he said. “I feel like that every single time I have to do one of these.”

  By 11:30 p.m. the guards and I were all on our feet. The cordial feeling between us was gone. Now it was all business. The minutes passed like hours. Then it was finally time. The
guards escorted me to the death chamber. My legs were moving on their own because I felt nothing. We entered the room, and it was like the warden said it would be. He was there standing next to a minister. And there was the condemned man. He was on a gurney, strapped down by many large belts. His arms were stretched out on two protruding extensions of the gurney, so that he looked like a man on a cross. He was just a boy, really. Maybe he was in his late twenties. There was something about his expression that reminded me of my little brother. He physically looked nothing like my brother, but the way he held his face and moved his head was just like him.

  I heard a whimpering as if it were coming from an injured animal. There were two women standing behind a glass window. They were holding each other. One looked elderly; the other was young.

  “Do you have any last words?” the warden asked.

  The boy craned his neck to see the two women through the window.

  “I love you,” he said. “I’m sorry, Momma.”

  I felt my knees begin to shake. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be there. The boy looked back at me. He had soft brown eyes. He was not what I expected at all.

  The warden nodded to me that it was time. My legs went completely numb. I couldn’t move. I could hardly catch my breath. My feet were like wet cement melting into the floor.

  “When you’re ready,” the warden said.

  Many moments went by, and I still didn’t move. I stared at the boy. My heart pounded in my chest. No one said anything. It was deathly silent. It was all up to me, and I couldn’t move.

  The warden waited patiently, then he looked at his watch. I saw him wave his hand to the guards. And these men, these good men who I had spent the whole day with and shared pictures of my kids, grabbed me and forced me forward. It was then that I understood that the guards were not there just to protect me but to force me if I tried to refuse.