His Hideous Heart

by Dahlia Adler

“Construction.” I motioned to the hole. “Management asked him to patch up this wall. Broke it open to fix the plumbing.” I held my breath for five seconds, watching Darrell try to drown himself in sorrel. “You should see inside.”

  “What? Inside this hole here?”

  “Yeah.”

  Darrell stuck his head in and gasped. “Ohhh!”

  Inside were the remnants of an old sleep shed. A wooden chair and a low cot with fresh sheets. He stepped in, turning back to me.

  “Ha! So … this why you brought me down here? To be alone?”

  I smiled with a small shrug, joining him. “Maybe.”

  He smirked. “Ha! Boi, Cindy. Yuh full of surprises today,” he said, stepping in farther to investigate the bed.

  That was when I swiftly clicked closed the waiting handcuff around his ankle and jumped back out the hole.

  Darrell looked down at his foot, now chained to one of the cinder blocks sealed to the wall, almost amused.

  “Heh. What’s this?” He kicked and the short chain jingled. “Cindy, I didn’t know you were into freaky shit.”

  I held a stare with him. He had no idea what was about to happen. That made the moment all the more satisfying.

  “You know, my grandfather—from Bridgetown, Barbados—used to build houses using these blocks,” I said, motioning to the stack in the corner. “He was good with his hands. He taught my daddy, who then taught me.”

  I wheeled the fresh concrete mix closer to the hole. Darrell blinked, his smile slowly fading. He tried walking toward me, but the chain snapped him back, keeping him a hair away from freedom.

  He chuckled, nervousness caught in his voice. “Cindy, come now, quit playing around.”

  “These blocks can be so heavy,” I continued, lifting one off the stack and setting it in place at the bottom of the hole. “But not too heavy for me to manage.”

  I set down three blocks and grabbed the tossed trowel, holding it up like a knife ready to slice a cake. Darrell wiggled, his eyes growing wider.

  “He had a rhyme for it,” I said. “He would say, ‘Scrap, slap, brick, pat.’ Watch me?”

  I scraped a large chunk of wet cement, slapped it on the bricks, then laid another brick on top and patted it in place … just like Daddy taught me.

  “See?” I asked, watching the realization dawn on him. “This shouldn’t take long.”

  “Ha ha ha! Very funny, Cindy. Who put you up to this? DeMarco? Ah, I’ll get him good for this.” Darrell pulled at his chain, quickly sobering. “Okay now, Cindy. This isn’t funny anymore. This thing is starting to hurt my ankle.”

  I focused on smoothing the cement, keeping the blocks nice and even so I could patch the hole without anyone noticing the mix of bricks.

  “Okay, stop it, Cindy,” Darrell snapped. “What? You’re gonna bury me in here? You can’t!”

  But I was already at the third layer. I always moved quickly under pressure.

  “Cindy! Cindy, quit playing! Stop!”

  I ignored his cries as he grew more frantic.

  “You can’t be serious! This is crazy!” he hollered. “My friends! The ones who saw us! They’ll be looking for me!”

  “No one saw us come in here,” I said with a laugh. “Everyone is out enjoying the bacchanal.”

  Darrell froze, his lips trembling.

  “HEEELP!” he screamed toward the window. “HELP ME!”

  I laughed. “Boy, no one can hear you. See?”

  We fell silent, listening to the roaring crowd outside, cheering at the passing floats, waving flags as the pans played.

  Ting ting ting ting ting ting ting

  “No! No!” Darrell yanked harder at his chain. “HELP!”

  Scrap, slap, brick, pat. Scrap, slap, brick, pat.

  “DeMarco! You said he’ll be coming by! He’ll see what you did here!”

  I chuckled. “You really fell for that? I don’t even live in this building.”

  Darrell shuddered, pulling on the handcuff, desperate to break free. Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and dug in his pocket, retrieving his air horn. With a smirk, he tooted it towards the window and screamed.

  I paused to watch him, wondering if he knew his air horn was indistinguishable from the dozens of other air horns on the road, or that no one could hear his screams through the blasting music. The hope the air horn spurred in him was useless, but it was hard telling anyone that when freedom was just a short distance away. He wore himself out trying, and I continued on.

  Scrap, slap, brick, pat. Scrap, slap, brick, pat.

  “Okay, Cindy, what do you want?” he gasped, out of breath. “Money? I can give you money!”

  “Money can’t fix everything.”

  “Fix what? What I ever do to you?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “What didn’t you do?”

  “Nothing! I did nothing!”

  “Hey, flat-back American gyal!” I said, mimicking his accent. “Flat-back, big-belly gyal! That was what you called me, right? How many other names did you and your stupid friends make up about parts of my body? How many times did you talk about my father? My mother? I lost count.”

  “But … but … meh only teased you!” he wailed. “Not enough for all this!”

  My stomach rumbled. A part of me wanted to believe him. Perhaps I was taking this too far. Perhaps not.

  Scrap, slap, brick, pat. Scrap, slap, brick, pat.

  The wall was nearly complete. Only a few smaller bricks left, and enough time to enjoy the rest of the parade.

  Darrell worked himself up into a sweat, honking the horn until it only sputtered out a squeak. The hole grew darker and darker. He collapsed on the ground, sobbing.

  “I can’t breathe, Cindy. I can’t. Please!” he cried. “Please. I’m sorry. Please let me go!”

  Ting ting ting ting ting ting ting

  “Ah … finally. The last block,” I said, and peeped through the remaining hole, squinting in the darkness. Darrell’s glassy eyes stared back at me, straining.

  “Jesus, Cindy! PLEASE! PLEEEEEEASE!”

  I mocked his cries and slapped on the last of the concrete, wiggling the brick into place. I dusted my hands and took a step back to admire my work.

  Silence. Not even a whimper.

  “Darrell?” I whispered softly.

  A weak horn blew from the other side of the wall. I had thought about taking it from him, but the horn would be out of air before Carnival was over.

  As the elevator hummed back up to the lobby, my stomach twisted, tying itself in tiny knots. Food, that’s all it is, I thought. I just need something to eat and drink after all that work. I tossed the leftover materials in the trash outside and headed for the jerk pots.

  * * *

  I bet you’re wondering why I’m telling you this story, after so many years of silence. I bet you’re wondering if I still feel that clawing at my insides. Was that a form of guilt? Do I feel sorry for what I’ve done?

  No. I feel nothing. I don’t feel the least bit guilty.

  I’m telling you this because it brings me great amusement knowing he’s still down there, propped up on the bed, horn rusted to his bones, listening to Carnival pass him by every year.

  Night-Tide

  Tessa Gratton

  inspired by “Annabel Lee”

  No one will tell me how she died. Not exactly.

  * * *

  The cold ocean slips up my ankles, to the ruffled cuff of my bloomers, grasping at my skin. Beneath my back the sand is cold, too, but I’ve made a cradle for myself under this beaming moon. As the night progresses, the water will rise.

  * * *

  This is Kingdom by the Sea, a resort hotel only a decade old, perched on the grassy bluff overlooking this bright blue bay. Black-winged cormorants soar against the pristine afternoon sky, distracted only by loud seagulls. Sandpipers rush like packs of eager kittens toward the surf to bob their long beaks into the sand, then scatter for oncoming waves. Colorful umbrellas dot the creamy beach;
under them, wealthy ladies pretend to enjoy the sun while their husbands, sons, and young daughters romp with kites or swim the shallows in their sleeveless bathing suits. We girls unfortunate enough to be too old for play but too young to make our own lives sip cordials beside our mothers, sneaking a hand out of the shade if we dare, reading poetry or discussing gossip or playing word games. Mornings we walk arm in arm with other girls for exercise, allowed to go unsupervised if there are three or more of us. And we remember to wear our virgin-white straw hats. If the wind blows too harshly or rain drifts in off the Atlantic, we gossip and pretend to enjoy the tea in one of the sitting rooms, watching the different beauty of bad weather through tall, narrow windows. In the formal dining room for the evening meal we behave as though we’re still in New York or Baltimore or Philadelphia—whichever city we reside in during the rest of the year. The silver and fine linens are arranged, and every course is served by maids in pressed aprons.

  Last year, Mother allowed me a single glass of wine with dinner.

  Perhaps it signaled something to me, that I was nearly an adult, that I was ready. For what I could not have said, nor would I try to explain now. But Annabel had a glass of wine with her dinner, too, and it put a flush in her cheeks. Mr. Crane Fitzwarren said to my father that it reminded him where she’d come from. They did not think I was listening.

  I knew, of course, the rumor that Annabel’s grandmother had not been a lady, but one of the family’s maids. Fortunately, Annabel was so pretty—her mouth a dark pink bow, her eyes light and her pale skin soft, unblemished—and she was so sweet tempered, she’d clearly not been tainted, regardless of the truth. And I adored her freckles. Annabel told me it happened so long ago it didn’t matter, but I wonder, now: if not for that scandal, would they have looked so hard for ours?

  * * *

  We arrived a week late this year, and I was ill with eagerness, light-headed with the thought of Annabel Lee.

  People turned from me, glanced away—as if I’d not buttoned my collar up my neck, or wore scarlet paint on my lips. There were no whispers yet. Those grew like a tide over the first twenty-four hours. I searched for her, expecting her to find me first as she had every previous year, with a new ribbon for me to match hers, and together we would scamper off to one of the cushioned benches in the lobby so Annabel could rebraid my hair with it.

  She did not manifest. I looked a question at Sally, one of the lobby attendants, but her mouth bowed in sorrow and she glanced away. She ought not be seen speaking to me here, when there were men and guests in need. I shouldn’t glance too warm at her either, or I’d get her in trouble with the concierge. It wasn’t until my family had been shown into our suite and I swore I’d unpacked well, not in the whirlwind it seemed, that Mother gave me permission to visit the Lees.

  Smoothing the pale blue of my skirts, I went to find Annabel Lee, polished shoes sinking into the thick carpets of the elegant hallway. I pinched my cheeks for color, laughing at myself, but I wanted her to be struck by how I’d matured. I was sixteen now, and my mother allowed me a day dress with darker trim, instead of childish pastel. My breasts were grown and fit nicely flat beneath the modest bodice, my hips just round enough to provide a curve to the fall of my skirts. Beneath, my legs were strong, for I ran when I could and joined my brothers in calisthenics when we were home.

  I arrived at the Lee suite and knocked just beneath the golden Room 107 painted on the wood.

  A stranger answered; I apologized, gape mouthed, and asked after the Lees.

  They’d changed rooms this year, the young man told me. I continued to stare. He was obviously a guest, and leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks. He said quietly, “They did not wish to be reminded too directly of their loss.”

  “Do you know the room?” I asked, breathless at the word loss.

  The young man did not answer immediately but watched me, his smile curving with a hook of flirtation. “Just above us, I believe. If their daughter was as pretty as you, I’d be more inclined to remember.”

  It was easy to turn and leave stiffly, my ears ringing dull with the word again and again, loss loss loss. I nearly unbalanced, feet unstable against the stairs, and brushed my fingers against the cold wall for support.

  I paused. I shuddered. I whispered her name, just to taste it again before I knew.

  Room 207.

  I knocked, and the Lees’ regular maid answered. She looked immediately at her feet but allowed me in. Only that young man’s warning and now her hesitance kept me from calling out for Annabel. My footsteps were silent on the long green runner, and I turned carefully into the sitting room, a paneled chamber painted in light pink and white, with deep green molding and sheer curtains. Mrs. Lee sat upon a wicker chair beside the open French doors so that the ocean breeze ruffled her hem.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lee,” I said, curtsying unsteadily. I looked around for Annabel—peering a moment too long into the gilded mirror over the hearth, exactly positioned as it was in every guest suite, for I was much taller than last year, and could see all of my face.

  “You,” Mrs. Lee said, heaving up from the chair. “Get out.”

  Shocked, I stepped backward but did not leave. “Pardon me?” I whispered. “Is Annabel here? May I see her?”

  “You may not, ever. I know what you did to my baby,” Annabel’s mother said, her voice unrecognizably thick. She lifted a hand, clutching a vivid blue hair ribbon, and gestured at me. “I know what you are.”

  * * *

  They say angels loved Annabel Lee so much they sent a cold wind from heaven to retrieve her.

  Perhaps what I am, then, is an angel.

  * * *

  The backs of my knees tickle as the tide reaches high, lapping at the delicate skin. My bloomers stick to me, damp and ruined, as seawater climbs up through the linen faster than the tide comes in. I gasp at each gentle surge, each new level of cold foam leaping up my legs.

  * * *

  “But what happened?” I cried, hands clutched together against my chest, pressing as if I could calm my heartbeat. “Where is Annabel?”

  Mrs. Lee stepped forward as if to strike me but simply said again, “Get out!”

  I fled.

  Down the hallway and to the broad staircase that spilled in a soft curve toward the lobby. Each step brought me back to myself, but when I crashed into that sunny lobby, eyes turned toward me. Curious, dismissive—not yet mean, judgmental, hostile. The desk staff and bellboys had heard my name since my family arrived, and gossip had filled in some stuffing in the story between Miss Jaclyn Lavery and the departed darling Miss Annabel Lee.

  * * *

  If I had been the one to die, would I be the darling and Annabel the I know what you are?

  * * *

  My shoes stuck to the polished wood that stretched out from me in perfect thin lines, a ship’s deck, a boardwalk, a ballroom floor, and I the only dancer. From sofas and window seats, from the check-in and concierge desks, from the open front doors of the Kingdom, they stared.

  I took a deep breath and continued straight outside, as if that had always been my intention. A salty breeze wafted over the porch, a smell like sunshine, sand, and old seaweed. My heels tapped against the wood, and I breathed deeply again, and again, making my way off the porch, away from the circular drive, toward the bluffs.

  Grass drifted, the pale sand glinting under the same sun that warmed my skin but could not find my heart. I climbed one hill and slipped down the opposite slope, knees buckling. I caught myself, palms scraping on the rough sand. There I remained until Sally from the front desk found me. “Miss,” she whispered, despite being a few years older than me. She glanced back toward the Kingdom before adding, “I’m so sorry.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “Sickness, I heard. All winter.” Sally gently touched her hand to my shoulder, then just as gently took it away.

  * * *

  None of the other girls woul
d tell me the gossip. Their mouths pressed shut when I approached, and if I asked, they pretended they knew nothing. I could not possibly inquire of an adult, and my father only said, “Such a tragedy, sweetheart,” too wrapped up in Mother’s needs to notice mine. At dinner, at the beach, any time I was with my parents, normalcy reigned. But if I ventured out alone, a thread of whispers followed me through the Kingdom. Two of the other girls refused to hold my arm for the morning constitutional—their mothers insisted, they claimed. It wasn’t their fault.

  I understood the gossip, somehow, in my guts. It was me, I was unnatural. Her death was my fault. I loved her, and she died. I longed for her, and she died. I touched her. And she died.

  Unnatural love kills, the whispers claimed, or spoils at least, and when sickness comes, a ruined girl has no defense against the cold winds of hell, nor the yearnings of heaven.

  * * *

  We summer at Kingdom by the Sea for my mother’s health. Since Robbie was born, she has needed to get away from the city, to relax in the warmth, unbothered by foul city air and the stress of company, of running a household. The most important thing is that I do not upset her.

  And so when Mother cupped my cheek and asked what was wrong, I smiled my least-sad smile and promised I was well.

  “You miss your friend,” she said, drawing me onto our balcony.

  “Yes,” I murmured.

  “I confess, I never liked her mother much, but it’s dreadfully sad what happened.”

  I bit my lip, then asked, “Do you know? None will tell me but that she was sick.”

  “A fever took her, Jackie, late in the winter. It is so easy to lose a child.” Mother’s voice drifted into a whisper.

  Just as easy to lose a mother, I thought, and hugged her fiercely. “I love you.”

  “Oh, darling.” She stroked my hair.