Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  Her eyes slid down Nora’s slender back, just barely covered by the blanket, her dark, brown hair curling across the sheets like ivy. Loxley rolled onto her side and placed her hand on Nora’s hip, feeling the heat of her body. Her friend’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath.

  Loxley remembered the bullet hole and the cold weight of a corpse, and her lip trembled. “Nora... Stop being dead...”

  Her friend turned over to face her, healed and whole, bright eyes shining with a sleepy smile. Her hands snaked around Loxley’s body and she pulled her close with a sigh, pressing Loxley’s cheek to her breast. Every detail of Nora’s naked form electrified Loxley’s skin, and she breathed in deeply of the scent. Loxley wrapped her arms around her friend’s waist and squeezed, pressing together every inch of flesh she could.

  “Please. I love you.”

  No words came in reply, but a kiss fell upon her forehead. Loxley craned her neck and her lips met Nora’s – soft, wet and wonderful. In spite of Crutchfield’s forced first kiss, she knew what a real kiss should be. She took to it naturally, following Nora’s passionate lead. Tears welled in her eyes, and she broke the connection with a sob, pressing her face between Nora’s breasts and holding her tighter. Nora stroked her hair as Loxley’s composure crumbled: all of her strength and the weight of all the pain she felt.

  This was the world that should have been.

  The Promised Land

  LOXLEY BLINKED, HER head spinning, and the cloying scent of potpourri invaded her nose once again. When she tried to turn her head, hot dizziness rushed her, and she sat up to retch. Footsteps pattered closer as her guts bucked again. Before she could vomit, someone thrust a bedpan in front of her. Her reflected breath in her face made her puke even harder. She made to grip the pan herself, but something stung on her right hand.

  “Careful, now, girl! I’ve got you,” came Don’s voice. “Don’t tear it out.”

  After she finished, the bedpan was taken away, and she looked over to see Don standing next to her. She tried to focus on him, but her eyes didn’t want to stay in one place. She became aware of the sweaty jumpsuit on her body.

  “Sir, what’s –” she began as she looked down at her right hand to investigate the sting. A tube ran into a vein on her arm, a plastic bottle dangling from a shelf over her. She’d seen intravenous drips before, but she’d never had one. She pulled at it with her left hand.

  “Don’t play with it, Loxley,” grumbled Don. “Took me forever to get it in there.”

  He’d taped it to her. The tape was bad. It made her feel ants on her arms instead of her legs, which was worse because it was different. People shouldn’t put things like that on their skin. It made her itch to know it was there, adhered to her. She scratched at the edge of the tape, trying to peel it away, but it held fast to her like it had a million tiny hooks looped through the surface of her skin. Don placed his hands over hers.

  “Loxley, stop it. You need that. You’re dehydrated and you need antibiotics.”

  He grabbed her left wrist and yanked it away. She kept her hands close together, humming and picking at the plastic as quickly as she could. She had to get that tape off. No one should tape stuff to themselves, because now, instead of skin, she had tape there. She had to get her skin back. She wanted to explain, but all that came out were jumbled noises, probably because of the tape. If she could rip it off, she could probably speak normally.

  Don’s grip intensified, and she shoved him backwards without a second thought. He let go, and she heard a loud crash, but that stupid tape was on her. Shouting happened, but she’d managed to get a fingernail under one side, so she’d have to deal with it in a minute. She yanked, and it came halfway up, leaving behind a bright red welt and a fresh slice of pain. Stupid tape wouldn’t come off without some kind of fight. She peeled it the rest of the way, and the needle tore away with it, allowing some of her blood to leak from her hand.

  She threw the tubing to the ground and held the back of her hand to her face to inspect the damage. A crimson drop oozed down her skin and she smeared it, enjoying the color across her pale flesh. More yelling and loud noises. She wiped her finger on the couch without thinking about it, and the blood came away with no trouble.

  “I hate sticky stuff. I didn’t want you to put that on me.”

  She looked up to see Maddie standing over her. The older woman blistered her cheek with a hard slap.

  “Goddamned ingrate!” screamed Maddie.

  Loxley turned to see Don sprawled out on the floor, holding the back of his head and groaning. He lay next to a toppled end table, and broken glass littered the floor. He must have fallen and hit his head when she’d shoved him.

  “For four years,” Maddie began. “Four years I’ve listened to Don tell me all the stupid things you’ve done! I told him not to hire a retard, and look what it got him.”

  “I’m not retarded.”

  “Yes, you are, you little freak! It’s obvious to everyone else!” Her voice’s pitch grew even higher, and Loxley clapped her hands to her ears.

  “Don’t call me that,” said Loxley, rising to her feet. “I want you to shut up.”

  “And you always get what you want, don’t you? You know what our friends say about you? They say, ‘Look! There goes Don’s little spaz. Isn’t he just a saint for hiring her?’”

  She started to get angry again like she had in Duke’s car. “If you say anything else, I’m going to hit you a lot harder than you hit me.”

  “The police are looking for you, and you know why, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Maddie took a step back, her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God. You did do it, didn’t you? What they’re saying? You killed that guy in the Bazaar, didn’t you? Oh God, you’re a criminal!”

  “I’m not a criminal. That man was a bad person.”

  “Get out! Get out, before I tell the police you’re here!”

  “Stop shouting at me.”

  “Get out!”

  Loxley marched into the kitchen and grabbed a small serrated knife before whirling around to find Maddie standing in her path.

  “Don’t you come any closer!” screamed the woman.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “What are you going to do? Stay away from Don!”

  Loxley sighed. “I’m leaving just like you asked me to.”

  She walked straight at the woman and hoped Maddie would move. She didn’t want to touch her. At the last second, Maddie swept out of the way, as though Loxley were a moving train. In the living room, Don sat upright, shaking his head.

  “You have no idea how much you disappoint me,” he said.

  “It doesn’t matter, because your opinion isn’t important anymore. I don’t work for you,” she replied. Loxley thought back to Officer Crutchfield in the Bazaar, standing around waiting for gratitude. “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it. You killed someone.”

  “Wasn’t planning to kill either of you, even though you’re making me very angry. If Maddie tries to stop me, I might hurt her though.”

  Both Fowlers stopped talking and watched her with wide-eyed expressions. Don’s gaze flickered between her face and the knife as he sat, belly hanging out, on his floor. He looked like a frog, or maybe a dog dragging its ass. Then she imagined what it might look like if a frog dragged its ass, and she began to laugh. The more she thought about it, the funnier it got, and she wondered what the frog might look like in a lab coat, serving out prescriptions. She thought about it hopping up onto the counter to hand off a pill bottle, and then she remembered all the different glass lining the walls of the apothecary next door – too much to remember correctly – and it made her nervous. She suppressed a hum and blinked herself back into the moment.

  “Maddie, get upstairs and call the police,” said Don, making no move to stand.

  Loxley looked him over. “Thanks again for letting me sleep here.”

  She took off t
hrough the front door, bursting onto the streets. She felt well-rested, and the sun told her it was late afternoon, which was usually her quitting time. She began walking and pocketed her knife, hoping she wouldn’t have to use it on anyone soon. She would, though, if it came to it. The more she thought about what she’d done to Pucker-lips, the more she felt like he deserved to die.

  A chill wind whipped through her clothes, and she shuddered. She needed shelter. Loxley jammed her hands into her armpits and trudged in the direction of Harrison Hoop Station, and the last person who’d offered her help.

  She couldn’t trust him, but at least she had a knife.

  Chapter Nine

  Handshake

  WHEN LOXLEY FINALLY entered Harrison Hoop Station, her nerves were shot. There seemed to be an abundance of police officers out and about today, and she no longer felt comfort in seeing their uniforms. They all had searching eyes, scouring for her, and rotten hands, ready to grope her. They carried guns because no one wanted to listen to them; that way they could kill resisters. In spite of their omnipresence, she’d managed to avoid notice, and she made her way across the station toward the lockers.

  It was the wrong time of day, but if she could play, maybe she could make Quentin Mabry appear. He’d certainly materialized out of thin air to her playing before, but she usually didn’t play for another hour. What if he didn’t take the train today? He wouldn’t be in the station, but she didn’t want to contemplate that. What brought him up to the fifth to take the Hoop, anyway? Where did some low-born black from the eighth ring go every day? All of the whores and bars were on the sixth ring and lower. Her mother told her the negroes liked whores and bars quite a bit. Her mother had also said they could be thieves, though, and Quentin Mabry wasn’t one of those.

  Her mother told her to trust policemen, too.

  When Loxley arrived at her locker, she patted her pockets for the key, but her pockets were empty. She didn’t have the key. It would be on her dresser, or worse, in the blood-soaked clothes that lay at the bottom of the Foundry. Crackles shot straight up through the floor into her fingertips, and she shook her hands as hard as she could.

  “No, no,” she sang, over and over as she scrabbled at the locker, looking for a way into it. The words transformed over a dozen repetitions into “no-nee,” but she paid little attention to herself. The rolled steel plate door offered little purchase for her fingernails, and she couldn’t figure out how to get at the spring latch that lay tantalizingly on the other side of the metal.

  The incessant screech of metal grew in the air, but Loxley didn’t recognize it until it was too late. A train thundered into the station, and Loxley fell to her knees, covering her ears and shouting over the din. Trains made a jagged clang, like a saw blade being dragged across her brain, and she usually played her violin to stop them from existing. She could’ve played outside, but she never made as much money in the streets. Trains had a hurtful noise, and like the sliminess of Don’s house, she couldn’t explain to normal people how she knew that. Music was a good noise, and harmonics could protect her from the rusty jangle of train tracks.

  “Stupid, stupid!” she screamed through clenched teeth, knowing it was her fault for neglecting the schedule.

  Brakes squealed, and the cars rattled to a halt after an eternity. Loxley wiped the cold spittle from her chin and stood, coated in a fresh patina of sweat. She stamped her feet, shaking the ants from her legs. Folks waiting for the train were looking at her, but as soon as the doors opened, they went about their day, paying her no mind.

  The train would depart soon, and she couldn’t be here when it did. Trains arriving were far worse than trains leaving, but that didn’t change her distaste for their noises in general. She spun on her heel and walked out of the station. She only faintly heard the departure from the bottom of the stairs, and she turned to look over the crowd of arrivals making their way out of the station. Several blacks, but no Quentin.

  She wanted to wait at the base of the stairs, never entering the station. After all, the platform was only a good place to make money if she had her violin, which she didn’t. It would work best to wait until a train arrived, then dash into the station to see who got off. Satisfied of Quentin’s presence or absence, she could return to the relative safety of her hiding spot. She tried this several times, and though people took notice of her, no one ever questioned her, because most folks only move through a train station, never dawdling.

  She repeated this procedure at least ten times before spotting Quentin as he disembarked the train. Clad in a perfectly-pressed suit, he looked far wealthier than his fellow passengers. Loxley thought back to what she’d seen of Edgewood fashion during Nora’s last day of life. Quentin would have fit right in up there, save for his skin color. He smiled at her, but the train was about to leave, so Loxley turned and ran down the stairs without getting to talk to him.

  Once outside, she patiently waited for him to appear, and he rewarded her in decent time. “Miss Fiddleback!” he called to her.

  She closed the gap between them. “Please don’t call my name. The police are looking for me.”

  “No shit?”

  “My friend Nora used to say ‘no shit’ and I think it’s dumb because it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Quentin folded his arms. “So you made her stop saying it?”

  “No. Someone shot her, so she can’t talk anymore.”

  “Does that have anything to do with the cops?”

  “No. The cops didn’t shoot her. One of them tried to fuck me, but I don’t think it’s related.”

  “Jesus, Loxley.” He held out his hand. “You need some help?”

  That was the reason she’d come, wasn’t it? Going with Quentin seemed like severing the connection on her diving suit and growing a pair of gills. It was a decision to stay in this strange place, instead of trying to reclaim her home. She looked down at his hand, at the difference in color between his sleek, black leather glove and his skin. “I think my mother was wrong about blacks.”

  “A lot of people are. Is that why you don’t trust me?”

  “You’re more brown. Not a very good name.”

  He stuck his hand back in his pocket. “Oh, uh, okay.”

  “There are some people who really want to kill me, Mister Mabry.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I was just at Don’s house and his wife hit me even though I was just trying to stay there. They put tape on me and I didn’t like it, but then I had to leave.” She hugged herself against the chill. “Maddie was helping me because she had to, and Don was helping me because he thinks it’s good to help people, even though he doesn’t help people for very long. I didn’t even get to spend the night. Floyd was nice to me, too, but he said he lived with bad people, and I thought I knew what he meant, but now I don’t. I don’t know who the bad people are anymore.”

  He removed his coat and placed it around her shoulders. It was warm from his body, and she didn’t know how she felt about him putting his heat on her. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but she thought of Nora and Jack, and how good that felt when they fucked. The coat smelled sweet, like machine oil or hot sugar, and it weighed on her like a hug.

  “I believe that’s the most you’ve ever said to me.” Quentin shivered, left only with his gloves, vest and collared shirt. “Listen here, chatterbox. You can come stay at the club, but eventually you’ve got to play for us if you do. We’ll dress you up so they don’t know who you are.”

  “Is that honestly the deal?”

  “Yes. Everybody has got to sing for their supper.”

  “I can’t sing.”

  “It’s a metaphor.”

  “Oh. So you don’t sing, either... And I don’t have to be a good girl and I don’t have to fuck anyone?” A square deal, on her terms. Not charity, and no ulterior motive.

  “No, you don’t have to be anything but yourself,” he said. He reached out and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “A
lot of people treated you bad, haven’t they?”

  She didn’t understand the tears that trickled from her eyes, but her lip enjoined them by quivering. “I can’t get into my locker. My violin is in my locker. Please don’t leave.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. She smelled cologne on him and something like warm bread. “It’s okay, baby. We don’t have to worry about that just yet.”

  She sobbed a little harder. “I just wanted to go home. You’re going to let me stay at your home? You’re not lying to me?”

  “We’ve got a place for you.”

  “They said the same thing to Nora before they shot her.”

  “I’m going to level with you, so you know there’s no funny business” said Quentin. “I want to make money off your talents. I heard you play. I know I can cash in. And yeah, if you can’t play, you can’t stay. You get me?”

  She wrung her hands until it hurt.

  Quentin smiled. “And if this works out, I’m going to treat you like a queen.”

  “I’m... I just...” she stammered, but she couldn’t get all the words out. She was happy, but something he’d said or done made her drop her guard for a brief second. It was like she’d let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  “Come on, now,” he said, gently nudging her forward. “No point crying in the street.”

  The Hound’s Tail

  THEY WALKED FOR an hour and a half, until Loxley’s feet ached. Quentin took many paths Loxley’s mother had warned her never to take, and soon they were in the middle of the eighth ring, sifting through a murky winter’s fog. A pink haze permeated the labyrinth of decrepit structures, and it soon coalesced into a neon sign. It depicted a pair of dogs dancing in two frames of rudimentary animation. The female dog had her hindquarters toward the viewer, her tail high in presentation.