EQMM, March-April 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  * * * *

  Two days later Rainbow handed Silverfish a paper with a name and address on it. “He ain't cheap. You need money?"

  "Thanks, honey. But I got some saved up."

  Jacky-boy gave the girls allowances. Some of them spent it all on shoes and makeup, but Silverfish was careful with hers. She kept herself looking good, of course—the johns had to want you—but her only extravagance was hair dye. She thought about the hair dye, and the care she took with the job she did, and on her way downtown she bought herself a wig.

  She explained to the guy downtown what she wanted. It wasn't exactly what he thought she wanted from what Rainbow told him, so Silverfish went through it twice, to make sure he got it. She gave him her cell-phone number and, just to be really safe, told him a name to use if he had to call, and a message to leave so he'd sound like a john making a date but she'd know it was him. Jacky-boy had never once messed with her phone—though he'd made her pay for the new one herself after she lost the first one—because she followed the rules, always answering right away when it was his ringtone, even if she was with a trick. And she always told him the truth about where she was, because sometimes he was watching from somewhere and just calling to check up. But still, she gave the guy downtown this secret code. You never knew. A few days later he called, and she went downtown during the day, after Jacky-boy had come by the apartment and already left. She was supposed to be sleeping, and she knew she'd be tired when she went to work that night, but she'd feel much better with the guy's papers in her purse.

  * * * *

  The next time Silverfish saw Lady Mary, the girl looked good and she was cheerful and giggly, like before. They talked about just stuff: eyeliner, and whether they'd stay married to A-Rod even if he cheated on them—which they both would, it was a total no-brainer, a guy with that much money? And what guy didn't cheat, come on, who cared?—and then a car slowed down for Silverfish ("Hey, you with the hair!") and they said goodnight.

  The time after that was pretty much the same, just her and Lady Mary, talking trash. But Silverfish was used to being right about bad stuff by now, and the next time, Lady Mary's eye was swollen and the eyebrow had a big band-aid.

  "What happened this time? Hey, girl, don't look at the sidewalk, it didn't ask you a question. What did you do, give Roach more lip?"

  In a whisper, Lady Mary said, “I didn't do anything."

  "You mean you don't know?"

  "No. I mean, I really didn't do anything. He says I do better business when I'm messed up."

  Silverfish stared. “He did that to you on purpose for no reason? Just so you could get dates with those kind of jerks?"

  Eyes brimming, Lady Mary nodded. A tear leaked from the swollen eye, dragging mascara down the side of her nose, but she didn't seem to notice.

  "Girl,” said Silverfish, “we got to talk."

  "I can't,” Lady Mary gulped, digging in her purse for a tissue. “I better get to work."

  "A quick cup of coffee. Come on.” Silverfish grabbed Lady Mary's arm and pulled her along the sidewalk.

  "Oh, what's the point, Fish?” Lady Mary wailed. “There's nothing I can do. It's gotta be like this. Let me go to work or he'll be mad."

  "You can't work with your mascara all running. Come on. Just quick.” She didn't let go. Tugging Lady Mary into the diner, she sat her down. Silverfish unzipped her purse. “It's on me."

  Silverfish took Lady Mary for coffee three more times over the next couple of weeks. The third time, Lady Mary had a loose tooth and was kind of hunched over. She didn't say a word until she'd let her coffee cool to where she could drink it past the tooth. She finished it, and then sat there for a while.

  "I can't do this anymore, Fish,” was all she had to say.

  The next time Silverfish saw Lady Mary it was bright daylight and the girl was a mess. Silverfish woke up because her cell phone was ringing. The song was “Bustin’ Loose” and it was the ringtone she'd given to Lady Mary.

  "Where are you?"

  "The diner."

  Silverfish could hear the trembling in Lady Mary's words. “Stay there."

  Silverfish got dressed and rushed out. To Danielle, who woke up and asked what was going on, she said, “Sorry! Go back to sleep.” To Rainbow, making eggs in the kitchen, she said, “Be right back,” and closed the door on whatever else Rainbow said.

  * * * *

  Silverfish came back an hour later with two dozen doughnuts and Lady Mary. All the girls except Danielle were up. Iron Chef America was on TV, everyone cheering for the challenger because he was much hotter than the Iron Chef. They all looked up when Silverfish and Lady Mary came in.

  "Here,” Silverfish put the doughnut box on the coffee table, cockeyed on a shapeless pile of magazines. “I saw those eggs Rainbow was working on before, so I thought you guys might want some real food. This is Lady Mary. She's a friend of mine. Jacky-boy been by yet?"

  * * * *

  Jacky-boy was the tricky part. Silverfish was worried. But when he finally came around an hour later, Lady Mary was brilliant.

  "Roach never threw a girl out that could still work,” Jacky-boy said, munching on a jelly doughnut. “What the hell's wrong with you that he don't want you no more?"

  "Nothing's wrong with me. He found papers in my drawer. Kind of hidden but he goes through stuff."

  "What papers?"

  "They say I'm HIV positive. And with herpes, too."

  "And you're sitting here telling me nothing's wrong with you? Are you crazy? Why would I want to run a girl like that?"

  Lady Mary's lip started to tremble.

  "But the thing is,” Silverfish stepped in, “she's not."

  "Not what?"

  "I'm clean,” Lady Mary whispered.

  "Oh, yeah, right. Sure, false positives, they happen all the time. Get out of my house."

  "No.” Lady Mary shook her head and sat up straighter. “Not false positives. False papers."

  "What?"

  "I went to ... to this guy downtown. I paid him to make me papers that said I was positive."

  "How stupid do I look to you? You expect me to believe that?"

  Lady Mary didn't answer.

  "Okay, pretend I do,” said Jacky-boy. "Why?"

  "So Roach would throw me out."

  That silenced the room.

  "He always goes through our stuff. So I got the guy to make the papers and I hid them like I didn't want him to know. He was sure to find them sooner or later.” Lady Mary reached into her purse and handed Jacky-boy the card she'd gotten last week at the clinic when Silverfish took her there. “See? I'm clean."

  Jacky-boy looked at the card for a long time. He asked Lady Mary what was the name of the guy downtown. Lady Mary told him the name and Jacky-boy called the guy. Looking right at Lady Mary, he described her. He put the phone on speaker so they all heard the guy drawl, “Yeah, that's her, little and skinny, brown hair to her shoulders. I couldn't figure out what the hell she was up to, either, but she paid cash up front so what did I care?"

  Jacky-boy clicked off with a funny smile at Lady Mary. “You're telling me a skinny little bitch like you got one over on Roach? How'd you know he wouldn't beat the crap out of you when he found those papers?"

  "Not Roach. He wouldn't touch me if he thought I was all infected. Anyway, that's what I was hoping. And if he did, I took the chance.” Lady Mary looked at the floor. “I had to get away."

  "And how do I know you're not gonna want to get away from me?"

  "'Cause,” Lady Mary said, eyes wide, “everyone says you're not like Roach."

  * * * *

  Silverfish and Lady Mary left for work together that night. On the way to the corner, after they were out of sight of everyone else, Silverfish pulled the brown shoulder-length wig from her purse and stuffed it in the trash.

  "You were great, girl!” She hugged Lady Mary.

  "All I had to do is say what you told me to. You were so great, Fish. And you're so smart. And no o
ne ever did anything like that for me before. I can't ever, ever thank you—"

  "Stop sniffling! Don't run your makeup. You're starting a new job, girl, don't mess up."

  Lady Mary nodded, found a tissue, dabbed her eyes. “You're right. And I'll be good, Fish. I'll turn so many tricks Jacky-boy'll never want to get rid of me! You'll see."

  "Yeah, well, don't get carried away and make the rest of us look bad, either."

  "Okay.” Lady Mary nodded seriously.

  "And one more thing."

  Lady Mary looked up at Silverfish as a car slowed.

  "You were asking before. About a silverfish. See, it's an ugly bug. But it does one cool thing."

  "It does?"

  "Uh-huh,” Silverfish said, sauntering off in the direction of the now-stopped car. “It eats other bugs. And especially,” she called back to Lady Mary over her shoulder as she got in the car, “especially, it eats roaches."

  ©2009 by S. J. Rozan

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  Department of First Stories: VACATION by Trina Corey

  Trina Corey has made her living as a teacher for the past twenty years. When she decided to try writing fiction she chose as setting a place she'd traveled to in college, and came up with this atmospheric tale. She lives with her family in northern California, and is currently working on a story set in the nineteen thirties.

  My ex-husband was dead, God rot him, and I had given our daughter all the solace I could (which was quite a lot, I am a very good mother). But I was tapped out, and after hugs and pats on the arm and “don't worry's from her and me, I had turned over Jenny's grief support to my son-in-law, and was heading out of town. For deep in the corners of my only partly healed soul, I wanted to dance and sing and whoop to the sky that I had outlived the bastard.

  The cover story was that I was going to look at the wildflowers which were having their bloom of the century after a winter of extraordinary rains. Since we were only eight years into the century, this didn't do even partial justice to what was going on in the wilds. Seeds that had waited through two, three, or four decades were rooting and flowering. It made the papers. Crowds of people were thronging to see. I decided to say I was joining the throngs, and it was true, I'd look at the flowers. I love flowers. I know flowers. And if people saw me out there with a giddy look on my face, I didn't need to tell them that it wasn't because I'd seen my first trout lily, but because I was drawing breath, and Stephen never would again.

  I headed for Death Valley because I'd never been there with him, and I had, most happily, been there with my first serious boyfriend. It had been a lovely trip, full of heat and life and, much to my surprise at that time, plants growing in what I'd believed to be an empty desert.

  * * * *

  The only campground where I'd been able to get a reservation was barren of all life, except people and more people. Even flower lovers come with noisy generators and blindness-inducing lanterns. I set up my tent on ground that was more rock than dirt, took a small pack with water bottles, a sweater for the cold that came with full night, and a flashlight to pick my way past the howling circles of propane- and kerosene-driven lights. Quiet and darkness came within five minutes as the trail curved around and up a steep hill. I wasn't looking for flowers now, I was looking for stars, and needed to have open ground between me and the sky-drowning glare of the campground.

  There were millions, billions. Worlds upon worlds of lights, thick across the center of the sky, more sparse toward the jagged shadows of the Panamint mountains, and colored—look long enough and you'll see the blues and golds and reds of the stars. I watched them, and breathed the clear, empty wind falling like cold water from the higher slopes. Watched until the stars had moved partway across the sky. Watched until I could see my hand's shadow on the ground from their light. Watched, and practiced breathing the clean air of a world that no longer had in it the man who had scarred me.

  When I got back to camp, it was quiet, and mostly dark. I pulled my bag out of the tent and slept under the wheeling stars.

  * * * *

  The next morning I headed into town for breakfast. I can't bring myself to cook with the kind and volume of grease necessary for proper-tasting hash browns, but I do love to eat them. The cafe I'd seen on the way into the park yesterday lived up to its clean, friendly appearance, and the young red-haired waitress brought me potatoes that sizzled and crunched and I silently thanked the pig that had died to make it possible. I also promised myself to hike far and fast, hopefully keeping my blood moving quickly enough to prevent the lard from settling in my arteries. I had opened Morris's book on desert wildflowers to refresh my memory—mostly I knew the flowers in the Santa Cruz Mountains—when the waitress came back with more coffee and a message.

  "Gentleman at the counter would like to join you, if you don't mind. He asked me to ask you."

  I looked over in the direction she'd tilted her head and saw a man about my age (early fifties), more gaunt than thin, but with strong shoulders, a good head of mostly brown hair, and gray eyes that half disappeared in laugh lines as he smiled at me and held up a book. Same as mine. I glanced at the waitress and raised my eyebrows in inquiry.

  "He's been around for a few days, comes in for breakfast, tips good. You're the first one I've seen him hit on,” she said.

  I grimaced at the phrasing, but took a deep breath and considered. Distraction in attractive male form could be pleasant. He knew, or was interested in knowing, wildflowers, so there was nonpersonal conversation immediately available. I could celebrate later. I moved my books and maps to my side of the table, smiled, and extended an open hand to the seat opposite.

  He came over, slid onto the bench seat, and rose again halfway to extend his hand. “Frank Ross,” he said, and his touch was dry and slightly cool.

  "Jane Galen,” I said. “Tell me what you've seen so far,” and gestured to the books.

  We spent the next half-hour, and two refills of coffee apiece, going over the clumps and swaths and solitaries that he'd seen. He was knowledgeable, but not fanatic.

  He was also funny, and he smelled good, and when he asked if I'd like to join him for a hike (he offered to provide, and carry, the sandwiches and water), I listened to the rumble of his voice, noted the beginnings of attraction, thought why not, didn't listen to the answer the smart side of my brain was muttering, and said yes.

  * * * *

  We met, as agreed, at the Charlie Pete trailhead and set off, west, away from the sun, on a path that wound across the flat valley floor. The day was still comfortable, though that would change in the afternoon, but not to the life-threatening temperatures that would come in later months. I'm not one of those people who count species, but we must have seen a few dozen, and as far as sheer numbers? Well, there were more flowers than people, but not by a nearly big enough margin. It felt, at times, like Disneyland. After I'd snarled at three families who thought picking handfuls of ephemeral beauty was a good idea, Frank asked mildly if I'd like to head into the hills for lunch. “With pleasure,” I snapped, and took off almost at a run for the trail that branched off to the right. He kept up with me easily, and I wasn't surprised when he said he was a runner, and averaged more than twice my ten miles per week.

  The cheese sandwiches he'd brought were delicious, and the water cold. Chewing prevented me from continuing to rant, and I was grateful I wasn't in mid swallow so I could laugh when Frank said, “Think of them as locusts, bipedal locusts, in pink capris and orange-plaid Bermudas.” His long fingers fluttered through the air, making two-legged winged shapes. We were sitting on an outcropping of shale that overlooked the valley, and Frank's hands blocked my view of the humans in question, who were continuing their depredations below. His long legs were also an enjoyable visual alternative, tanned, with clearly delineated muscles, hairs lightened almost to blond. He saw me noticing, and we looked at each other thoughtfully. The sexual attraction became damn near visible in the air between us, curling like smoke, tendr
ils growing and twisting in the wind that wasn't there.

  I stood up abruptly, “No, this isn't going to happen."

  "Why not?"

  I'd expected at least some attempt at persuasion, not this straightforward inquiry as he continued to sit calmly, packing away the remains of our lunch.

  "Unfinished business,” I said, and turned away.

  He stood up with a slight grunt of effort and followed me down the trail, and his hand on my shoulder a minute later was gentle, tracing the edges of bone. “How long?"

  Good question. I shrugged into his palm, felt his fingers tighten reflexively, then loosen fast.

  "Your call,” he said, and immediately turned the conversation back to flowers. We both got out our cameras when he pointed to a downy blue arashia that we'd missed on the way up.

  Finishing the loop back to the dusty parking lot occupied over an hour, Frank taking the lead, which left me plenty of time between flower spotting to admire the way the muscles moved in his long back, and to wonder how many more times, as life sped me toward sixty and the invisibility that falls over most women like a shroud, a man this attractive would want me. No one had made any overtures in a long time, and I sure didn't want Stephen to have been the last person I had sex with. But I also didn't know how much anger toward him I'd lay onto the next man. I didn't want that either, and that was part of the unfinished business I'd hoped the long winds of the desert would blow clean, leaving me open for someone new; and here he was, maybe before I felt ready. So much for planning. The upshot of all this overthinking was that by the time we were standing by my car, I was willing to at least keep my options open, and agreed to dinner at the less fancy of the restaurants at the park resort.

  When Frank said, “See you this evening,” turned, and started walking out to the road, I called to him and asked where he was going. He said he didn't have a car, liked to walk everywhere, so of course I said I'd give him a lift. It only made sense, as the heat had come up fast with the sun near overhead. “Rental?” he asked, waiting to get into my Camry as I tossed guidebooks and sunscreen and half-empty water bottles onto the backseat.