Behind the Mask

by Link, Kelly; Rambo, Cat; Vaughn, Carrie

  Finally she says, “What do you want?”

  A sea of crickets out beyond the scrim of light, the distant tidal roar of traffic on the highway.

  “Can I come in?” He speaks with a familiarity that borders on insouciance. Years ago, it would have driven her to pin him against a wall, gaze upon him, and order him to do something—to walk a thousand miles, or wash his hands until they bled. He’d have been powerless against it. She’d done that and more to those who had failed to treat her with the subservience she deserved.

  Now, she pulls tight the collar of her robe, lets him in.

  He steps up the Sportsmen’s stairs, ducking against the low ceiling, folds his long legs into the kitchen booth.

  “You were here earlier today. In the tent.”

  He seems more timid now that he’s inside, nervous about gazing upon her ruination, her lenses and sloughing skin. She slides in to the other side of the booth, considers taking off her wig. Leaves it on.

  “I know who you are,” he says simply, his hands folded in front of him. Not accusatory, like a proffering.

  This, strangely, comfortingly, seems to carry no impact. She feels nothing. She is pleased to find that she is unafraid. “And who might that be?” she asks.

  “You’re the Madam,” he says.

  “And who are you?”

  “Well, my name’s Dan.”

  “Dan? How did you find me, Dan?”

  “It’s one of my . . . that’s a gift I have. Finding people.”

  She nods—she’s hardly surprised to find that he has powers of some kind—and rises, goes to the refrigerator and takes out two Budweisers, sets one before him.

  He grimaces. “This is shit beer. We don’t even sell this at my store.”

  Madam sits. A hiss as she twists off the cap. A lifetime ago she would have told him to run his head through a window. “Your store?”

  “I work at Nature’s Table.”

  “Ah.”

  Acidly, snapping his fingers, Dan croons, “Like nature’s fable straight to your table.”

  “Yes,” Madam says.

  Dan opens his bottle, and they drink in silence.

  The record stops and she rises, takes the few steps to the record player. She flips the record, drops the needle, and thinks, Now. I will turn around and he will be standing before me, and whatever is going to happen next will happen.

  But she turns and he is still there at the table. The music starts, solemn and smoky, and she walks over and grasps her beer. Walks over to the camper door, opens it. Hears the wind shirring the grasses outside.

  “I’m not anybody,” she says.

  “I was a lieutenant with the ground forces in Seoul.”

  “During the blackout?”

  He nods. Of course. This is where she knows him from—if not by face, by the way he carries himself. A member of the Viper Clan, a foot soldier, nameless. One among thousands. “I was arrested,” he says, “with the rest of my platoon after Sergeant Liberty filled the streets with Slow-Gel. We were stuck. Easy pickings.”

  “So that’s what happened. I always wondered.”

  “You and Professor Smart and Mister Fist all escaped.”

  “We did,” she said.

  “I did three years in Lewisburg.”

  Madam says nothing.

  “They’re not big fans of the Viper Clan in Lewisburg, Madam.”

  She holds tight her robe with one hand, gazes out at the fields beyond the parking lot, the Rockies cragged and impenetrable beyond.

  “They’re winning, you know,” he says.

  “You need to leave,” she says.

  He snorts—a sound that conveys disappointment, contempt, incredulity—and then he stands. Walks out into the night without brushing past her, without touching her at all.

  • • •

  The next day brings a still, crushing heat and short-tempered, sweat-lashed crowds. The tent is stifling. She sees a father yank a child and swat her behind after the girl takes one look at Madam and begins bawling. She sees a fight nearly break out between two families over who was in line first. The heat itself seems nearly malevolent, alive. She thinks of the fan in her trailer, the beaded condensation on a beer bottle.

  The customers gaze at her sullenly, fanning themselves with their Hara-Sobanza handouts, when she hears Tina farther down the line, in a voice bright with fear, say, “That’s enough. Stop it!” People murmuring, jagged caws of laughter.

  Madam Glass rises from her throne, her knees protesting after sitting for so long, and then she is over the rope, threading her way among the crowd. Past Ernie, past the ululating vapor-shape of Mister Fog.

  And there is Tina, half-standing before her own throne, crouched, and there are two boys, young men, inside her section, having stepped over Tina’s rope. One is holding a phone, filming, and the other holds a . . . newspaper? The front page of a newspaper that he’s showing Tina, who stands curled at the waist as if she’s been punched, and maybe she has, or maybe it’s simply that the newspaper shows a grainy, blurred image of Tina being walked to a police car in handcuffs, her irises glowing red from the camera flash, the kid holding it before her crowing, “This is you right? I knew I knew you! You’re the hooker freak that got her kids taken away!” and the ghost of movement in Madam’s muscles is like any other ghost—always present, always coiled in memory—and she cups the two boys’ skulls, one in each hand, and drives them together. There is a clack like a bowling ball dropping on a wooden floor, and they tumble like de-stringed marionettes. She clutches Tina, who wraps herself in Madam’s arms, sobbing, sobbing.

  Still holding Tina, she drives the heel of her stiletto into the outstretched hand of one of the boys. Bones break as delicate as filigreed china.

  • • •

  A knock on her camper door later that night. She drops the needle on the record—Peggy Lee—and opens the door, expecting Mr. Hara-Sobanza to tell her she is fired. Expecting an angry mob of carnival-goers, or a phalanx of DOJ agents to take her into custody.

  But it’s Dan. Dan in his pale yellow shirt, his bowl haircut, his simmering rage.

  “I want to show you something,” he says.

  She follows him, their feet crunching on the gravel, a mosquito whirring past her ear, the flit of bats overhead among the lights.

  Dan has parked his sedan—an old rust-eaten thing—at the edge of the lot. As they walk, she catches a whiff of the tiger cage, dank and sweet with the rot of dead meat, the animal’s own ineffable fug. The light as they continue grows buttery and vague.

  He opens the trunk and there, accordioned among the trash—a tire jack, a bottle of motor oil—is Sergeant Liberty. He is wrapped in chains, gagged. He wears chinos and a polo shirt. Laddered in veins, his arms are mapped in burn scars, exit wounds. His blue eyes glitter in the scant light. Of all the things she sees at play on his face, surprise is not one of them.

  “You have a choice to make,” Dan says to her, his hands on his hips, gazing down at the man in the trunk.

  Scorched Madam, seared Madam, melted Madam Glass, she can hear a torch song drifting low and mournful from her camper, a testament to all things lost, gained, lost again.

  Keith Rosson is the author of the novels The Mercy of the Tide (2017, Meerkat Press) and Smoke City (2018, Meerkat Press). His short fiction has appeared in Cream City Review, PANK, Redivider, December, and more. An advocate of both public libraries and non-ironic adulation of the cassette tape, he can be found at keithrosson.com.

  The Beard of Truth

  Matt Mikalatos

  I figured out my superpower at the drive-through window of Columbo’s Burgers A-Go-Go when I handed over my wadded-up five and the burger jockey said, “My girlfriend is manic depressive. Mostly depressed is what it feels like, though, you know? I don’t want to leave her because it will depress her more.” I said something noncommittal, something like, “Oh.” Then he gave me my change.

  After my burger, I went by the post office and wait
ed in line as the twenty people in front of me handed over packages and cash. When I got to the window, I couldn’t get the clerk to stop telling me about her relationship with her dad. He left when she was a kid, and now he was dying and wanted to get to know her, but she didn’t think she could handle another loss like that. She started weeping and they had to send another clerk, and then he started telling me how he had been overcharging people for postage and pocketing the difference.

  That’s when I knew for sure my power had finally kicked in. I dialed my girlfriend. She said hi and I said hi and I said, “I got super-powers today.”

  She laughed. “That’s amazing, Jimmy! What did you get?”

  “Some sort of truth serum thing. Try to tell me a lie.”

  She paused, then said, “I’m leaving you.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um. Please tell me my truth serum isn’t working.”

  She laughed for a long time. “Must not work over the phone, dummy. I just started dinner, so buy some wine and get over here.”

  When I got to her place, she flung open the door, pulled me in by the shirt and shoved me down on the couch. She had her hair pulled up, a black tank top and khaki shorts on, and her long brown legs and her strong arms set my heart racing. She had a ballerina’s grace and a runner’s body— balanced, lean, and fit. She gave me a kiss and said, “I’ve always worried you were just a rebound for me. I was so messed up after my break-up with Brad.”

  “Hey!”

  She frowned. “I guess it works in person. Sorry.”

  I met Lindsey when we were both working as servers at a restaurant called Pizza the Action. Her boyfriend-at-the-time, Brad, was away at grad school. They had a messy breakup, and we fell in love three days later. I’m always worried I’m not enough for her because she’s amazing and I’m only okay. But getting powers—that could change everything. It could bring us money, fame, influence.

  “On the other hand,” she said, “it’s really hot to have a boyfriend with powers. I still think about going back to Brad sometimes.” She clapped her hand over her mouth and scrunched up her nose, like she always does when she regrets what she just said. She smoothed the frown off my face and kissed me. “Brad doesn’t have powers, that’s for sure.” She took a big swig out of the bottle of Prosecco I’d brought. “You are about to have a very active evening.” She pulled her shirt over her head, then started unbuttoning mine. “I hate your shirt,” she said. She pulled her shorts off, then her bra. “I’ve always hated it.” She yanked me down on the floor. “You need to shave and your breath stinks and I hate it when you frown like that, and get ready for something amazing.” I started to roll her over, but she pushed me back down. “I’m in charge tonight. When you don’t shave you look old and sad.” She put her mouth over mine, and from then on we didn’t say much, which was probably for the best.

  Later, she told me it was good for her, too, and I knew she wasn’t faking. I hoped maybe my new powers worked as an aphrodisiac, not just a truth serum.

  • • •

  In the morning, after I’d shaved and showered, Lindsey told me she hadn’t meant it when she said she still thought about Brad sometimes.

  “Wait, Lindsey. Is that true? Because that means my powers didn’t work on you.”

  She sighed. “No, I lied just now. I still think about Brad. I guess your powers stopped working.”

  “That hurt my feelings, you know.”

  She threw her hands up in the air. “You’re the one with truth serum powers.”

  “Oh, this is on me?”

  “Yes! We’ve been together for a year, and I’ve never said anything stupid like that before.”

  “You’ve been thinking about going back to Brad since we first got together?”

  She bit her lip. “It’s not like I think about it all the time. Just once or twice when you’re driving me crazy. Like right now.”

  I sighed. “You’re lying to me, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Dammit, my powers aren’t working anymore!” I yanked on my jeans and threw on a shirt. I’d heard of people whose powers only lasted a couple of hours, and if that was the case, I wasted them listening to my girlfriend tell me her doubts about our relationship.

  She put her arms around me. “You know, they say the powers are triggered by weird things sometimes. Maybe your powers turn off after you have amazing sex.”

  I laughed. “Or maybe they only work the first hour I’m near someone.”

  She smiled at me and said, “Maybe they’ll turn back on if I turn you back on.”

  “I’m going to be late for work,” I said.

  “Yes. Yes, you are.”

  • • •

  On my lunch break I called the Powers Reporting Line. A woman with a pinched voice answered and asked for my name. I told her.

  “Are you reporting your own manifestation or someone else’s?”

  “My own.”

  “I am required by law to tell you that if your manifestation inadvertently caused the harm or death of someone else, you have the right to a lawyer, and any prison time may be commuted to time served in the Military Powers Program.”

  I choked. “People get killed by new powers?”

  “Yes, sir. Just last week we had a call from a man who accidentally turned his gardener into gelatin.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Actually, sir, our scientists think it’s possible the gelatin is still sentient, so it is being kept under observation at our facilities here in town. Perhaps it will turn back into a gardener.”

  I cleared my throat. “That’s, uh, good news. And I’m relieved to hear the gardener might be okay.”

  “We had a woman last week who causes people’s livers and brains to trade places.” I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. She waited a long time before saying, “Those people are dead.”

  “Uh. Yeah. Well. Either way, I didn’t hurt anybody. My powers just make people all . . . truthy.”

  “And where are these extraneous teeth growing, sir? Please stop me when I reach the appropriate location. Mouth. Eyes. Forehead. Fists. Knees. Belly—”

  “Not toothy. Truthy.”

  “Truthy?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in ‘honest.’”

  “That would be another word for it,” I said.

  “That would be the correct word for it, sir. Please hold while I transfer you.”

  I had no idea why she would need to transfer me. The Powers Act required that anyone who manifested powers had to report it within twenty-four hours, but I was unclear what happened after that. There were rumors, of course, of people being drafted or locked up or becoming politicians. But I just figured those were all things that could happen to you, powers or not.

  Another voice came on the line, crisp and authoritative. “Mr. Stevens, I am Special Agent Sam Travis.”

  “How did you know my name?”

  “I have limited telephone-lepathy, which only activates when I am filling out forms. If there’s a blank on a paper in front of me and you know the answer, I can fill it out. But only if we’re on the phone.”

  “That’s amazing.”

  “I suppose. Nothing like a truth serum, though. I can see from your paperwork here—”

  “I haven’t filled out any paperwork yet.”

  “Telephone-lepathy, sir. Try to keep up. As I was saying, your power has gone dormant, probably because of some change in your person. It’s unlikely to be the sex thing—”

  “I put that on the paperwork? My girlfriend would kill me for sharing that!”

  “Sir, I can see it from your mind. While we’re on the telephone. I’m going to go ahead and round your IQ down, I think you may have exaggerated it. In any case, yesterday was Tuesday, so I’ve set up an appointment for the two of us for next Tuesday in case your power only works then. Do everything you did yesterday. Wear the same clothes, do the same errands, eat the same breakfast. When your po
wers start to kick in again, drive directly to my office. I’ve sent you an email with these instructions, my phone number, and our address. Any questions?”

  I hadn’t really followed all of that, but I figured I could read the instructions off the email. “Which email address did you use?”

  “The one on the form, Jimmy.”

  I tapped my fingers on the table. “Yeah. Okay.” I hung up. I asked one of my coworkers how his day was going and he said fine, so I knew my powers hadn’t kicked back in yet.

  • • •

  That whole week, Lindsey and I got along better than we had in months. Lindsey felt bad about the things she said when she was being honest. I felt bad my powers had introduced this weird thing into our relationship. Both of us were worried about my powers, whether they would come back, and what would happen when I went to the meeting with Special Agent Sam Travis.

  Tuesday came. I woke up early but didn’t get out of bed, just like the week before. I had crumpled my shirt on the floor the night before. I hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. I checked my email on my phone, then got up and played some video games. At eleven I went to Columbo’s Burgers A-Go-Go, and when I pulled around the corner and that little window opened, I held out a crumpled five and held my breath. The burger jockey hung out the window, took my money, and said, “Buddy, if you keep eating here, you’re going to have a heart attack.”

  I took my change. “Thanks, pal.”

  “Also,” he said, “I think my girlfriend is cheating on me, probably because she doesn’t think I make enough money. We don’t even get tips at this restaurant. I make most of my money selling pot on the side.”

  “I thought you were going to leave your girlfriend.”

  “That was last week, man!”

  I nodded, grabbed my burger, and drove straight to Special Agent Travis’s office. The secretary told me she hated all the freaks and losers who came through the door, and refused to shake my hand. She also told me she had just moved to town a couple of months ago and wished she could go back home, but she hated her sister, who had just moved there with her husband and kids. I nodded dutifully and took my seat.