by John Kenyon
* * *
One evening, I sat waiting for a girl I knew in a trendy bar downtown. I already suspected the date wasn’t going anywhere and, mildly depressed, I was looking around the place to pass the time, when I noticed Gato standing at the bar. He was all dressed up and I might not have recognized him if in my boredom I hadn’t allowed my eyes to linger. I was more than a little irked to see that Gato’s “work boots” turned out to be the fanciest cowboy boots I’d ever seen. He stood there talking to several other Latino guys, their voices soft and low, and I got the feeling he was up to something and that I might not like it if I knew what it was.
But by now I knew that the girl had ditched me, and maybe more out of a general recklessness than any kind of plan, I paid the check and walked over to the bar. I feigned surprise at seeing Gato, though he had probably made me earlier—at that point I didn’t know and didn’t care.
“Señor Frank,” he said. His drinking companions gave me the once-over and drifted away. I was in no mood for them so it was just as well.
“Hi there, Gato.” I glanced down at his feet. “Those the new boots?” I asked, expecting to embarrass him.
To my surprise, though, he smiled—the first full-toothed grin I’d ever seen him give. “You like them?” he asked, turning them so that they could be seen from all angles.
“Well, of course,” I said. “Not sure they’re the best work boots I ever saw,” I couldn’t help teasing. “What are you fixing to be, Gato? A cowboy?”
He regarded me with an air of injury. “There are many different kinds of work, Señor Frank.”
I decided to let it slide. We downed a couple of shots together, after which we decided it was the wiser course to walk home and pick my car up later. It was a warm, moonlit night, and many people were still out and about. The river walk became a kind of paseo on evenings like this one. We came around a bend and I saw Gato shudder at something ahead. It was not a shudder of fear, though, but more like that of a hunter that has seen its prey. A quiver of anticipation. It made me uneasy.
“You all right, Gato?”
“Pardon me, Señor Frank.” He gave me a quick searching look, as if to know me all at once and forever. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course,” I said. And until that moment, I had.
“Bueno,” he said.
Then he pushed me into the river.
When I bobbed back sputtering to the surface, he was running around on the path like a crazy person, the least resourceful version of himself I had ever seen.
“Ayudame! Ayudame!” he called. “Ay, ay, ay! No sé nadar!”
Dazed though I was, even I knew enough Spanish to realize he was saying he couldn’t swim. But I can, I thought, so what’s the problem? Although at the moment, I wasn’t doing so well at it. He must have slipped something in my drink, I realized as I went under…
…And came to, my head in the lap of the woman I loved. My happiness was so complete, so unsurpassable that I knew for certain I had died and was in heaven. Gradually, though, it sank in that this couldn’t be true, for I was lying on hard ground and shivering in my wet clothes. I blinked, expecting my beloved, Marina Reyes, to have undergone a more prosaic transformation as well. But this part of the dream lasted. She remained herself. She looked into my eyes with a shock of recognition. It was a look that made me think perhaps my love hadn’t gone entirely unrequited after all.
Meanwhile, Gato was involved in an intense conversation with Marina’s father.
“Marina!” Señor Reyes exclaimed. “Would you believe it? We have rescued the very man who’s been sending us those fine Cuban cigars!”
“There is some mistake,” I protested feebly. But Marina pushed me back, even a tad forcibly, and put a finger to her lips.
“What did he say, Marina?”
“Nothing, Papa. He is not yet in his right mind.”
“But I—”
This time she laid her finger to my lips, and to be honest, I lost all desire for speech.
“We should bring him home with us, get him some dry clothes,” she said.
“Of course,” Señor Reyes said. “He must stay the night.”
“Ah, no, if you would just help us find a cab, I could get him home,” Gato said, but he continued to sound rather ineffectual and helpless.
“You lack a woman’s touch,” Marina said, dismissing him, though in actuality this was far from true. “He must come home with us. I will tend him.”
In truth, I doubt Marina had tended much of anything in her life up till that moment, but I wasn’t going to argue the point.
The luxury condo of the Reyes family was but a stone’s throw away. Which Gato must have known, I realized as I limped along—leaning, I suppose, rather unnecessarily on Marina. I still wasn’t sure why he had been trying to kill me, but it was all working out rather well for me and I thought I would deal with that later. As the doorman opened the door and we filed in, Gato hung behind. Señor Reyes turned to him. “Surely you know you are welcome here, too, my friend?”
“Gracias, Señor Reyes, but I regret to say I have somewhere that I really must be tonight.”
“Well, call in tomorrow then, if you will.”
“If I can, Señor. If I can.” He gave a strange courtly little bow and then hurried off into the night.
Señor Reyes and entourage caught the first elevator while Marina and I waited in the foyer. “It’s lucky we came along when we did,” she said.
“Incredible.” I hesitated, and then asked, “Tell me something. Do you generally pass that way at this time of evening?”
“Most regularly,” she said. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” I said.
“And your friend?”
He’s not my friend, he’s my servant, I thought. But I only said, “Gato?” Just then, the elevator doors opened, and we went up and spoke no further of it.
* * *
About a year or so after my brother Joe renovated my dad’s place, he flipped one too many houses and lost everything he had to foreclosure. Bill, after restoring the Lincoln, was driving it to a big car show when he somehow lost control of it on the highway, totaling it. Even I lost what I suppose was my inheritance, because the night I became reacquainted with Marina Reyes, Gato disappeared.
On the other hand, I got the girl.
Gato resurfaced at our wedding. I’d danced with the bride, and then he had, and we now stood watching from the sidelines.
“This is all down to you, isn’t it?” I asked.
“No, Señor Frank,” he said.
“You pushed me into the river so that they would save me. You softened Señor Reyes’ heart with Cuban cigars. God knows what else you did.”
“It was love alone that did it,” Gato protested.
“Let’s just say that ‘love alone’ hadn’t gotten me too far before you came along.”
He shrugged expressively. “Perhaps not.”
I felt a tiny shaft of insight trying to work its way into my skull. “Gato, can I ask you something?”
He looked at me. “If you wish, Señor Frank,” but his tone said if you must.
“Did you visit my father in the hospital before he died?”
“Of course.”
“What did he say to you?”
Gato hesitated. “He told me to look out for you. That no one else would.”
“Ah,” I said.
I turned away from him, and we watched the dance floor in silence.
“You were his youngest son,” Gato said. “He loved you. He would never have left you with nothing, you know.”
I looked across the room, to where my beautiful wife was now dancing with her father. Oh, how I dearly wished she could have danced with mine.
“No,” I said, in some ambivalence. “Not nothing. Not nothing at all.”
I turned to Gato—hoping for some further wisdom, I suppose. But all I saw was the last of those handsome boots, slipping quietly out the door.
M
ary
By Eirik Gumeny
“Mary” started as an absent-minded riff on the opening line of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” but then it quickly took a turn. Which is probably good, because I don’t actually know the rest of the words to the nursery rhyme.
Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb, Mary had a little lamb, a side of potatoes, a salad, and just a hint of OCD. She was pretty and she was sweet and she always tipped generously. The hostess had smiled as she sat her; the waiter was nearly beside himself to take her order. Mary was a living, breathing greeting card.
And everywhere that Mary went, Mary went, Mary went, everywhere that Mary went, Clem was sure to go. He ran a hunting supply store near the edge of town and had been infatuated with Mary for the past few months, ever since he had helped her change a flat tire. Most people regarded Clem with the same disdain they had served his alcoholic, racist father, though Clem was little like the man. But with the old hunters dying off, and the small town he grew up in quickly becoming a city, Clem found he had few customers left to defend him. But Mary, Mary was nice to him. Mary was kind. She had smiled at him, laughed, seemed genuinely thankful for his presence. It wasn’t a reaction Clem was used to, and his uneasiness was readily apparent to Mary. She had just laughed it off, kissing him on the cheek before driving away. Ever since, Clem, not having much else to do, had a tendency to follow Mary around if he got bored or especially lonely.
Mary had long ago, long ago, long ago, Mary had long ago written off Clem as harmless. He was polite, if awkward, maybe a little slow sometimes, and it’s not like Mary wasn’t accustomed to men chasing after her. As Mary left the restaurant that day, Clem grinned and waved and started following right behind her, asking how her meal was and if she was busy later that night. Mary said the lamb was pretty good, but the potatoes were cold, and while she’d love to stay and chat, she was meeting her boyfriend in half an hour and needed to get changed. Clem didn’t take too kindly to this information and grabbed Mary by the shoulder. He said that no real man would leave a woman as beautiful and fragile as Mary to fend for her own dinner in a town as rife with people and potential rapists and death as this one was anyhow. Mary managed a half-smile and some mild amusement before saying goodbye to Clem and walking off.
But Clem followed her back home that day, back home that day, back home that day, Clem followed her back home that day, which was against the rules.
Clem watched as Mary laughed and played, laughed and played, laughed and played, Clem watched as Mary laughed and played, through the window of her home. He saw Mary in a way he never had before, with the man who was not him. Clem shook his head and closed his eyes, because Mary was sweet and not vile, and Mary was his friend and not this other man’s. Clem calmed his mind and opened his eyes but still Mary was undressed and on her knees, only now she was looking directly at him.
And then the boyfriend turned to shout, turned to shout, turned to shout, and then the boyfriend turned to shout, but still Clem lingered near. The man sprinted outside, grabbing Clem by the neck and throwing him to the ground. He cursed and spat and raised his fist. Clem saw the fire in the man’s eyes and had no other choice but to stab the man in his neck and then, then things weren’t looking quite so much like sunshine and daisies for Mary anymore.
Clem waited patiently about, patiently about, patiently about, Clem waited patiently about until Mary did appear. Clem leapt from the front steps, placing his hand over Mary’s mouth and pushing her against the door jamb. He whispered gently that it was all right, that he would not hurt her, no, that he was here to protect her. In hushed tones and soft words, Clem explained to Mary how the sudden and surprisingly messy demise of her boyfriend revealed to him that life was short and even the most rational and calm person could be overcome by violent, homicidal urges at any given moment for almost no reason at all. The world, he explained, was simply a violent and horrible place and one must always be on the defensive. And for you to allow yourself to get that close to a man that evil, Clem said, well, that just proves that you need my help.
Mary scratched and kicked, scratched and kicked, scratched and kicked, Mary scratched and kicked and then Mary ran. Mary ran and screamed and Clem was sure to follow. Mary ran through the rain that had begun to fall, trying to make it to her neighbors across the street, only to slip on the curb and fall to the street. Clem lifted her up and covered her mouth again, telling her there was no reason to shout. He pointed at the abandoned sidewalks and the lack of people about, proclaiming this to be just another sign of mankind’s cowardice, everybody panicking and fleeing from a little rain. Still Mary fought against him and Clem shook his head. Maybe, he said, maybe I was wrong about you, Mary. Maybe you’re not so nice, not as special as I thought. And then Clem reached for the hunting knife he kept attached to his belt, only to find an empty leather sheath. Clem looked Mary in the eyes and then doubled over, coughing up blood.
Mary laughed and smiled, laughed and smiled, laughed and smiled. Mary laughed and smiled and wiped her hands off on her dress.
Candy House
R.L. Kelstrom
“Hansel and Gretel” scared me silly as a kid with its child abuse, old lady cannibal and candy house. I aimed at keeping the feel of the original while updating it with drug abusers, a dealer, and a crack house.
It looks like her from here. I shove past the crowd circling the park and duck under the crime tape, wheezing through the giant clog in my throat.
“Back behind the line, old man.” The cop slaps his baton across my chest.
“I think I know her.”
He raises a brow, but grabs my arm. “Okay, Chief. Have a look-see.”
The CSIs, or whatever they’re called in Portland, swarm around her, poking and pinching, carrying little bags and cameras in their free hands. I force myself to look. The body lies in damp bark dust, the shadow of a jungle gym criss-crossing over it. The hair’s the same, faded red, the brow’s heavy, the cheekbones high. But Pigeon’d be nearly fifty now and this dead girl would need a fake ID to get in a legit tavern.
“So?” The cop’s in my face, rattling my arm.
I shake my head and barrel through the throng. My mission mac and cheese gushes out, right under the legs of that big metal elephant. Wiping my mouth on my sleeve, I stagger to the nearest bench, collapsing, head in hands.
It’s been so long. The image of her floats in my brain, more fairy tale than reality.
* * *
I empty my pockets and slide back on the creaking vinyl booth. The coins plop on the diner table next to the meager pile she just dumped out of her thrift store My Little Pony purse. “That’s it, Pigeon.”
She plucks a few ones out of her bra and scoots the money into matching groups with a trembling forefinger. “This won’t even buy half a rock.”
Or feed us or pay for a cheap room. I don’t say this out loud. She doesn’t need to hear that in the shape she’s in. My fingers feel too much bone when I rub her back.
“Don’t.” She twitches out of reach, scratching at a sore on her arm. It’ll abscess if she doesn’t leave it alone. Another trip to the emergency room. Maybe we can find a doctor who doesn’t know us and score good pharmaceuticals.
She echoes my thoughts. “We need to get some stuff. Anything.”
“Maybe we can call in a favor.”
She falls into a laugh that deteriorates into coughing and on to choking. I lift the white mug to her lips. She gulps and sputters, “Like anybody owes us.”
“Yeah, even Bruno won’t front us.” I wave the coffee cup at the tired waitress. She ignores me. She knows she’ll be lucky to get paid for the bill, let alone a tip.
Pigeon raises her plucked to nothing brows, sure sign she’s getting an idea. A bad idea. “Bruno’s in Seattle, bailing out his whore.”
“No.”
“Raf.” She sags into me. “Baby, I’m hurting. Real bad.”
I look down. Her face is thin and drawn. She looks more like an old wo
man than the kid she is. I feel the shivers running through her and I know it’s going to get worse. And worse. “He still live in the same place?”
* * *
The bus cruises over the bridge with me, my girl, a kid shrouded in his sweatshirt and a hard-eyed old lady. After I paid the surprised waitress, we had barely enough for the fare. Pigeon’s teeth chatter like we’re heading into the Arctic Circle. She moans when I pull her closer, but she doesn’t push me away this time.
I half carry her off at our stop. The old lady scowls her judgment. Pigeon’s still with it enough to flip her the bird in return.
We backtrack a block and enter the no-man’s land by the train tracks that straddle Powell, Division and 12th. A few houses nest among warehouses, vacant lots and closed businesses. Everything’s pretty dark, scant light provided by a half moon buried beneath a layer of Northwest clouds. The moisture in the air bores into my bones, but good news. No rain.
She’s babbling and shivering. I’m on my own.
The tiny house leans against a larger cinderblock and sheet metal building. Both look deserted. I know the house is the place because I remember the ornate Victorian trimming, gingerbread. That’s what they call it. The place might have been appealing once, before the paint peeled and the wood cracked.
I prop Pigeon up on the sloping back porch and listen for silence before checking the windows. Breaking and entering is not really my forte. A small window on the side is open a few inches. I’m in luck, if I can fit through. I’m big even when I’m skinny. The window slides up a little, tight, but I squeeze through. And fall into a bathtub, still wet with water and who knows what.
I shake like a dog and feel my way through the dark house to the back door. The deadlock pops free and I pull Pigeon inside. We’re in the kitchen. I smell food scraps and rancid meat. Pigeon slaps into a wall a few times until I settle her onto a chair. It creaks with each jerk she makes. “Stay put.” I brush a kiss over her hair.
