Widowmakers: A Benefit Anthology of Dark Fiction

by James Newman Benefit Anthology

  I never meant to hurt you

  or her

  but circumstance

  robbed me of my grace

  and in the touch of time

  I felt my legs give way

  and I crashed to you

  my Galahad

  my only hope to handle

  all my broken parts

  I loved you as I crushed you

  and what tore you into pieces

  was not the sensual curve of my body

  but the greatness of my heart

  ancient

  before you were even young

  but it fell all the same

  so hard for you

  it was too much I know

  to ask you to carry

  what had brought me low

  the weight

  which pulled me

  into your fragile arms

  But you were never truly mine.

  even as you writhed beneath me

  you were my final lover though

  and I will always treasure

  the blood you lost for me

  so go back to her now

  and never speak of what we had

  come back to life, my sweet

  live your days alight

  and let that be your final gift

  to me.

  Home

  By J. F. Gonzalez

  J. F. Gonzalez is the author of several acclaimed novels of terror and suspense as well as over eighty short stories and numerous articles. He’s primarily known for the novels They, Primitive, Survivor, and as the co-author of the Clickers series (with Mark Williams and Brian Keene respectively).

  Born in Los Angeles, CA, Gonzalez was raised in the nearby suburb of Gardena. Following graduation from high school in 1982 he attended college, and then dropped in and out for the next several years before quitting for good in 1986. In 1990, he co-founded Iniquities Publications and worked as the co-editor/publisher of Iniquities magazine and Phantasm magazine until 1997, selecting and publishing material that would later be reprinted in various Year’s Best anthologies and winning awards. He’d consider another fiction editorial job again if the right offer was made. He currently works as a full-time writer but is considering a new career, either as a forest ranger or a tugboat captain.

  If you wish to discuss the publication, translation, or film rights to his work, commission him to write something, or wish to hire him for a ghostwriting or any other writer-for-hire project, please direct your inquiry to jfgonzalez@jfgonzalez.com.

  "Gina, it’s time."

  Gina Peck sighed and picked up her backpack. She slung it over her shoulder. With a sense of trepidation, she rose from the kitchen table and turned to face her father, who was standing in the living room.

  Dad was wearing that old robe grandma had bought him—how many years ago was that now? Three? Five? The robe hung on his bony shoulders, covering his frame like a blanket. His stringy hair hung in his face and he brushed it away. Despite the severity of their situation, he smiled at her. And, like always, when Dad smiled at her, it made her world. "That's my girl."

  "Are you sure you want me to do this?" Gina asked.

  Dad nodded. "We need you to, Gina." Dad turned to look back at the living room where her mother lay on the threadbare sofa, a blue wool blanket pulled over her. The TV screen flickered in the background, the sound muted. Mom wasn't watching. She had slipped back into one of her dozes again.

  Gina felt a lump in her throat as she looked at her mother. "I wish I didn't have to."

  "I know, honey," Dad said, his voice soothing. He shuffled into the kitchen, not looking at her. "But you know it's the only way. You've got a gift. If it wasn't for you, we'd be worse off than we are now. I can't do what you do—the people out there, they ignore folks my age even if I hang pictures of your mother around my neck with signed affidavits from her medical team. But when they see her daughter, a little girl..." He shook his head. His eyes sad, haunted. "Well, that's the game changer. They'll help a kid. Even after all the shit that's gone down, they'll still find it within their rotten hearts to help a kid."

  Gina fingered the backpack. She felt uncertain. Nervous.

  "I used to go out there and beg," Dad said. "You know that. And look where it got us."

  Gina nodded. "I know." She hung her head. The last time Mom and Dad had gone out to the streets to beg, the police had rousted the homeless camp they'd set up in and beaten them. Mom's condition had worsened as a result of the beating. Gina didn't even remember why they were released from jail—overcrowding, maybe? Regardless, that had proven to be the last time Mom and Dad had taken to the streets to beg. That had been the year Gina turned ten. Now she was twelve; in a few months, she would turn thirteen. Dad said you wouldn't know it to look at her.

  "Your mother is out of medicine." Dad leaned against the worn kitchen counter and sighed. "We have very little in the way of food. Rent is due in three days. And winter will be coming in a month. We should have packed up and moved west when we could've, but that's out of the question now. We're stuck here in this godforsaken part of the country. We're going to need money for heat or we're going to freeze."

  "How much do we need?" Gina asked.

  Dad shrugged. "By the end of the week? A thousand dollars or so to keep us in this shithole for another month. With colder weather coming in a few weeks, we're going to need lots more. How much more is hard to say with oil costs rising through the roof."

  "I can usually only get a hundred on a good day," Gina said.

  "Better than what I used to get."

  Gina looked at her father, the question at the back of her mind for the thousandth time: Why can't you get a job? Of course, she knew the answer to that. Her father was unemployable. Gina remembered Dad worked at an office a long time ago, when she was really little, like three or four. Her Mom worked in an office, too. Gina went to a day care center that was run by the company Mom worked for; later, she went to kindergarten and first grade at the elementary school downtown, and then took the bus to the day care center when school let out. At night they would all go home together and have dinner, then play games, watch TV, and read storybooks. On weekends they would go to the park or to the waterfront and eat hot dogs and take long walks. They would take Gina to Chuck E. Cheeze, even though Mom didn't like their pizza and couldn't abide the crowds (Dad liked it, though; Dad liked everything). They would go to the movies on weekends Dad's paycheck was a little fatter, when all the bills were paid and there was a little extra left over. On weekends it wasn't, they would make do with what they had. And they had everything, despite not having much in the way of riches. They had each other.

  But then the Bad Times came.

  First, Dad lost his job. He called it Getting Laid Off. For a while he was at home a lot, but he tried getting a new job. The problem, he told Mom on those occasions when they were in the kitchen and Gina was watching cartoons (but listening to their side of the conversation) was that Dad was over-qualified for the kind of jobs that were out there, and that there were no more of the kind of jobs he used to have. Gina didn't understand this, but it all made sense in a way. The parents of her friends at school were going through similar bouts of bad luck—Lindy Young said her father called it "the effects of the global recession" (whatever that was). It all meant that there were no jobs to be had. And with no jobs, there was no money.

  Mom lost her job six months after Dad.

  Then she got cancer.

  A bout of coughing startled Gina out of her thoughts and she and Dad looked back into the living room at Mom, who had woken up from a sound sleep and was hacking something fierce. Dad hustled over and picked up the bedpan that had been placed at the foot of the sofa. He brought it up and put his arm around Mom, supporting her as she coughed endlessly, at times gagging, and it all became too much for Gina. She called out, "I'm going. I'll be back with the money."

  "Be careful!" Dad called back.

  Gina waved, said she would, then dart
ed out.

  And the side door locked firmly as she shut it behind her.

  Gina stood on the stoop of the landing for a moment, looking down at the small courtyard below. A breeze picked up, lifting her hair and blowing it around. She pulled her baseball cap lower on her head to keep her hair in place, and pulled the denim coat over her thin frame to keep warm. Dad was right. Winter was coming. They needed money to pay the oil bill for heating. And they needed money for other things too. Anti-nausea and pain medication for her Mom. Medicine cost an arm and a leg now, and with no Medicaid around to help pay for it, they were on their own. Gina didn't understand why medicine had to cost so much money—there was so much about the grownup world she didn't understand. Gina ran her fingers along the thin material of her backpack. Satisfied she had everything, she went down the stairs to start her day.

  * * *

  It took her a good thirty minutes to get to the heart of downtown.

  She made the trek in silence, always watching, always observing. Traffic didn't seem any different despite what Dad and his friends usually said ("there's less and less traffic heading downtown these days", "Well, of course there is, Jack. Goddamn companies are laying everybody off, so nobody is driving downtown to work"). There were the usual taxicabs and delivery trucks, the sleek cars with tinted windows that sped by, the occasional limousine. And of course there were the police. The police seemed to be everywhere these days. After the demonstrations and rallies that had ended in riots last summer, the police presence in the city seemed to double. Gina didn't understand why there had to be more police. Why have more police when there were no more riots?

  Gina had gone downtown during the four weeks the demonstrations were occurring. She'd gone there to beg for money and panhandle because, quite simply, the downtown square was the best place for it. The square was at the heart of what Dad called the Financial District, and he said that even though millions of people like him were out of work, there were still lots of other people that had been lucky enough to keep their jobs. A lot of those people worked in the high-rise buildings that comprised the financial district. Dad had told her to panhandle there. "A lot of those people are just getting by too, honey, but a lot of others are doing really well. And despite what you might hear from the goddamn news media, not all of them are greedy, heartless bastards. They'll help. Trust me."

  Gina headed to her favorite spot. When she arrived she saw only a few of the homeless—a middle-aged man dressed in brown pants and a heavy brown overcoat was sitting on a bench. A young man and a woman were hanging around near the fountain that stood in front of the First National Bank building. To her left, somebody lay on the grass, dressed in dirty clothing, apparently asleep. Gina stood there for a moment, taking it all in. There weren't many regular people out—the few she saw appeared to be scurrying between the buildings; delivery people, office clerks, men and women dressed in suits and business attire. They ignored the homeless as they went about their business. Gina looked around for cops. There were none in sight.

  Luckily, her favorite bench was unoccupied. Gina drifted over to it and sat down. She rummaged in her backpack and pulled out the sign, which she'd created herself with a piece of cardboard and crayons. The sign read: PLEASE HELP! I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD, HUNGRY, AND HOMELESS. ANY LITTLE BIT WILL HELP. THANK YOU AND GOD BLESS.

  She positioned herself on the bench and got to work.

  She held up the sign.

  As usual when Gina begged in the Financial District, time seemed to slow to a crawl. She sat on the bench, watching people out of the corner of her eye while looking pathetic and forlorn. The homeless barely noticed her. When the non-homeless walked by, she held the sign up and looked at them, hoping her expression would be enough to get one of them to stop. Today, it wasn't enough. The non-homeless ignored her, too. Some cast disinterested looks her way; others glanced at her then quickly looked away, as if embarrassed. A few times, Gina tried to engage them as they walked by. "Hello, sir, can you please help me?" By the time she got to "help me", they were already walking past, ignoring her completely.

  She kept this up for three hours.

  Three long, agonizing hours.

  Through it all, Gina remained at her spot on the bench. Occasionally, she would get up to alleviate the cramps in her legs. She would stay near her backpack and pace back and forth, still holding the sign, watching out for the police or the homeless. Once, her backpack had been snatched by an old woman, who'd tried to get away on hobbled feet. Gina had given chase and managed to get the backpack away from the woman, but only after a fierce tug-of-war with her. The woman had smelled like a sewer and had cried the entire time, rivers of snot running down her nose to cake with the dried mucus that had settled along her upper lip. She'd also babbled something Gina couldn't understand. Gina thought she was saying something about a person named Eric. Gina had finally gotten the upper hand and given a violent tug on the shoulder strap. The homeless woman was caught off balance and fell.

  Gina had told the old woman she was sorry, and had walked back to the bench. By the time she returned, someone had stolen her sign.

  Now she always kept a more watchful eye on her backpack when she got up off the bench. And she never strayed that far from it—always staying within a few feet.

  Morning eventually bled into noon, and as people exited the buildings on their lunch breaks, Gina put things into overdrive. She asked; she begged; she pleaded. Only once did she receive anything for her efforts—a middle-aged blonde woman, probably a secretary, had given Gina a twenty-dollar bill. Gina had thanked the woman and tucked the bill into her front pocket. That might buy food for them for one night. They would need a lot more than twenty dollars.

  As the lunch hour ended, and people headed back to their office, the donations increased. A five-dollar bill here, loose change there, a few dollar bills from an office clerk; every little bit helped. Gina didn't put as much into her begging routine as she normally would because of the competition—the young couple near the fountain were working the non-homeless too; so were some other homeless. They were all getting handouts. If Gina really put on the charm, she could outdraw them in donations. She'd done it before. And that was dangerous. That could make her a target for the homeless. She couldn't have that. And neither could Mom and Dad.

  So she kept her routine as toned down as possible. Yes, she needed the help, but not enough to wind up with her neck broken in some alley. She'd heard what could happen to girls like her in the city—she wasn't immune from the bad things that happened out there. Dad had warned her. And she'd heeded his wisdom. Besides, this was all part of her act. She always made out. This was all part of the plan.

  When lunch was over and the non-homeless were back in their buildings, the cops began to show up. Gina saw the first one out of the corner of her eye, a squad car on the corner of First and Lexington. She looked in the opposite direction on Fifth Street and State Street. Two cop cars there. Right on schedule. They always showed up after the lunch rush. And by three, if the homeless were still congregating in this section of the Financial District, they would move in and began rousting them to move on. Sometimes that could turn ugly.

  Gina shoved the sign into the backpack, slung it over her shoulder, and headed toward Lincoln Avenue.

  When she reached Lincoln she glanced back. One of the squad cars had pulled up in front of the brick path that wound through the Financial District and pretty soon another would join it. Most of the homeless had scattered, but the young man and woman were still hanging out in front of the fountain, seemingly defiant toward the police presence. Gina muttered under her breath. "Come on, get out of there. Don't be stupid about this. They'll just beat you up and that'll bring more of them and then that part of the district will be off limits."

  She crossed the street and paused when she reached the other side. The homeless couple had started moving away, heading away from the First National Bank building, toward West Street. Three cops were strolling casually d
own the thoroughfare. The area was completely empty of the homeless now.

  Gina sighed, feeling relieved. Good.

  Gina shouldered her backpack and rummaged through her front pocket for the money she'd received today. Forty bucks. Her stomach rumbled. A dozen feet from where she stood was a cheap take-out place. A sign that read PIZZA, SUBS, SALAD was propped in the window. Gina smelled fresh marinara sauce. She glanced at the wristwatch she wore on her left wrist. Almost one-thirty. Plenty of time.

  Gina headed to the restaurant and shut out the world outside and, while she was inside the warmth of the shabby interior, she felt a semblance of peace.

  * * *

  The area was completely devoid of people by four o'clock when she returned to her bench.

  Gina sat down, pulled her sign out, and set her backpack beside her. She glanced around casually. No homeless. The non-homeless had already left for the day and traffic had died down. Gina had watched things from the booth in that seedy little restaurant where she'd had a chicken Cesar salad and an Italian sub sandwich for lunch. She'd eaten half of each, then requested a box for the leftovers, which she'd placed in the largest compartment of her backpack. The food would stay fresh for a while. Her parents would be pleased.

  She'd watched as people began to stream out of the offices to go home for the day. Traffic grew heavier, became clogged in places. The police were out in full force—she could tell by the more frequent patrols on foot and squad car. Watching the city come alive, she wondered how things might have been if her mother wasn't so deathly ill, if her father actually had a job. Would he be here now, hurrying to get home to his family like all these other people? She'd like to think he would. After all, he used to have a job. He used to be just like these people. But now he and so many millions were out of work. Why were so many out of work, unable to support their families, while so few people were able to keep their jobs?