by David Ohle
In the sleeping area, defined by a blanket hanging from a rope, was an acceptably comfortable cot. A few feet away, a commode, dotted with old excrement, signaled that the place had not been occupied for at least a few months. Beside it was a pump handle for drawing water up for the commode and the sink from a shallow well below the tower. A pellet stove sat in a corner next to a crock filled with pellets. On a plastic-laminate table were stacked three boxes of specimen jars and supplies of methyl alcohol and tongue depressors.
In addition to a copy of the Reverend's Field Guide, there were items of clothing in an old chiffonier, mostly rags left behind by previous occupants. When Mildred opened the door, she found pinned to it a drawing of a brown spider with the clear marking of a fiddle on its back. She put on her spectacles and read the caption: `Danger! Loxosceles reclusa - The brown recluse, or fiddleback spider is capable of inflicting a serious bite which may ulcerate and require removal of infected tissue. The species is common in outbuildings, under boards, in attics and other little-used, dry areas, such as this dwelling. "
"Oh, dear," she said aloud, looking at the dusty floor and feeling on her face a steady, warm, dry, late-July breeze. She wondered if the Administration might be able to provide a dust or a spray that would kill them. Meanwhile, she halffilled four specimen jars with water and placed the cot's legs in them, hoping that would keep the spiders away when she was asleep.
A pedal van from the Administration, she had been told, would deliver food and mail on a monthly schedule, and the driver would collect stool samples for analysis. She was to use a tongue depressor to remove a sample from her stool and deposit it in one of the jars, which were to be labeled as to date and time and filled with alcohol.
She had not been allowed to bring any books or other reading material into the facility and her knitting was taken away at the staging area. So, to pass the time on her first full day in the tower, Mildred studied the Field Guide's Hundred and One Sayings for a while, then wrote letters to her grandchildren, knowing it would be months before they got them.
Dear Roe,
I'm so lonely I could cry. I have nothing to do and barely enough supplies even for that. So I'm writing to my darlings to pass the time. Is your sister taking decent care of you? Are you playing your saw every day? Please write me in copious detail. Ask your sister for help holding the pencil if necessary. I know how your hands tremble since your grandfather's terrible fall. I'm so sorry you children had to see that.
But I must tell you, I don't know how long I'll be away. And if the parasites get the best of me, I may return in a small box. The fully dead are cremated here and the ashes sent to next of kin by mail. But you know me, I've got plenty of parasite-fighting mental resources to work with. I'm sure I'll come up with something before the little beasts get into my heart.
Love, Grandmother
Dear Ophelia,
They've sent me out to live in the middle of nowhere. There's not much to see. The view from my window is a dry creek bed snaking through a cluster of dead sycamores, scattered palmettos, creosote bushes, wild poppies and urpflanz.
I don't have the creature comforts I'm used to, but it isn't so bad. Though the summer heat is extremely oppressive during the day, a cooling breeze blows at night. There's a pellet stove to keep me warm this winter and a crock full of pellets.
Today was a dreary, hot Tuesday, not a drop of rain or a cloud all day. I found a drowned blackfly at the bottom of my teacup this morning and a few parasites in the stool sample. I don't know how they live on it. Perhaps they don't. Perhaps it's just their mode of transport into this sweet, airy world of ours. Even though my load of parasites is light, I feel heavy all the time, and sleepy.
Watch out for that dreamy brother of yours. You know how his mind can drift. Remind him to check himself for worms twice a day. Make sure he oils his saw and waxes the bow strings. And we don't want him wandering off and getting lost, so make sure he has plenty of ribbons in his pocket when he goes for a walk. He can tie them to bushes and find his way back. And I want you to stay close to home and shave him when he gets his tremors. We don't want him nearly beheading himself again. And don't lock him in the closet when he's being crabby. It gets him excited and he masturbates.
It must be springtime there. Have the hydrangea begun to bloom? What about the wasps' nest in the potting shed? Someone should tell that lazy yard man that the cure for that is to tie a rag at the end of a long pole, set it afire and burn the devils out. Does that turtle still sun himself on the dead cypress knee by the pond? Is the old white swan still alive?
The trip here on that clattering old orbigator, Noctuk, was more than unpleasant. In the stool sample line a man was brained as I stood by and watched. His crime? Slow bowels. They couldn't wait. Nothing but starch bars to eat and they crack open his skull with a billy club for slow bowels. It's an abomination.
As Ever,
Your Loving Grandmother
P.S. Don't be keeping company with either the butler or the yard man. Both of them are moral imbeciles. I intend to dismiss them as soon as I return.
A few weeks into Mildred's stay at Permanganate Island, she had visitors from the Administration. The pair arrived in a new Q-ped. Grasshoppers had burst green and yellow across the twin windshields. The belts and chains smoked as they cooled.
"Hello there," one of them called out. "May we come up?"
"What do you want? Who are you?"
"Administration. There could be a release in the works. We'd like to talk it over."
"By all means. Do come up. The steps are quite bad."
The pair were Raymo and Alana. "We're associate wardens," Raymo said.
"In charge of pardons," Alana added as they came breathless to the top of the stairs. Once inside, Raymo slid a document from his dusty briefcase. "Before we get started, Mrs. Balls, I want you to know that we know who you are."
Alana reached to shake Mildred's hand. "Your husband invented Jake powder. You're that Mildred Balls."
Raymo took her other hand. "Not to mention your own design for the Q-ped. Now I can say I've shaken the hand that held the hand of Jacob Balls and the pen that drew the first Q-ped."
Alana said, "What would the world be like if it weren't for those great ideas?"
Raymo began to pace, two or three steps in one direction, then two or three in the other. "Now, to get back to what I was saying. The Administration is willing to consider a fifty percent reduction in the normal time we keep infestation cases here, assuming we can get your parasites under control. And we think we just might be able to do that if we all pitch in and try hard. This would be in exchange for carrying out certain humanitarian tasks."
Alana and Raymo removed their duck cloth pedaling coats to reveal the typical uniforms of low-level Permanganate Administrators, their arm patches displaying the Permanganate Parasite Facility insignia-the letters PPF in black within a circle of stylized, red parasites.
Mildred hung their coats on a nail in the wall. "And what would be the nature of these duties?"
"You care for a group of stinkers, fourth-stage," Raymo said. "Retired donors, no longer useful in that way, but a lot of them are still surprisingly animated, so we want to build a pen out there where they'll be exposed to the elements night and day, year round. We'll want you to observe them and keep daily logs of their activities and behavior. You'll start with two or three of them."
"We'll replace any die-offs," Alana added. "They don't eat or drink much at this stage, so there's hardly any waste to dispose of. All you'll have to worry about is washing them once a week and rubbing them down with scented oil. Other than that they're pretty self sufficient."
Raymo continued, "The washing, as you also know, is mainly to keep the stink down. We'll leave you with ample supplies of soap, oil and sponges. Remember, their skin can parch and peel off if it gets too dry. That exposes muscle and bone to damaging sunlight, so be careful. And keeping detailed records is important." He produced a record book
from his briefcase. "Everything goes right here."
"Don't laugh when you see what they're wearing," Alana chuckled. "It's mostly clinic-staff hand-me-downs. Stinkers have no sense of style whatsoever."
Mildred gave the offer some thought. Not only would it shorten her stay dramatically, she would have something to fill the hours. There would also be a limited degree of companionship, assuming she could communicate with stinkers at all. If frequent washing meant keeping the stink down, a year would pass quickly enough. Moreover, if her parasites proliferated beyond control, it was only a matter of time until she herself would need to be cared for. In that way helping out a few stinkers would be time well spent. "I'll sign on," she said. "It seems very fair."
Raymo gave the record book to her and she signed the agreement.
"One caution," Alana said. "Imps tend to gather when stinkers are in the area and they have been known to prey on them."
Raymo said, "They've given up grass and scum for a diet of stinker meat, what there is of it. No one knows why. A couple of them can chew up a downed stinker in a few minutes, head to toenails."
The Administrators put on their coats. "We'll be in touch at intervals to check on your stinkers," Alana said. "And, as a word of encouragement, we're on a fast track to finding a way to flush out those parasites. It's a matter of months. We've had several spontaneous cures lately. We're in the process of developing some theories about why as we speak."
"Be patient, Mrs. Balls," Raymo added. "Trustees will be here tomorrow to build the pens."
Alana had an afterthought. "One more thing, Is there a copy of the Field Guide here?"
"Yes, I found it in the closet."
"Have you been boning up on the Sayings?"
"I've memorized a few. `Too much learning is a dangerous thing,' 'Travel is the serious part of frivolous lives,' `The greatest affliction in life is never to be afflicted,' and, 'Excess of grief fora put-down stinker is an insult to the fully-alive.'"
"Only four?"
"I'm getting old. I don't have the memory I once had."
Alana said, "We'll try to be as patient as we can. You've got ninety-seven to go. Please, see that this gets done."
The next morning trustees arrived and went to work on the posts, wire and gate of the pen, finishing the job in a few hours. Meanwhile, Mildred sat near her window, keeping an eye on the trustees and writing another round of letters.
Dear Roe,
I hope to be back at the estate in less than a year. I've made an arrangement with the Administration. I'll be taking care of some donor stinkers in exchange for early release, depending on the level of my parasite load. I hope you and Ophelia are getting along. I've asked her not to lock you in the closet so much of the time. Make sure you take your medicine, practice your saw playing, and don't be putting any warm raisins in your sister's nose while she's asleep.
Your Grandmother
Dear Ophelia,
Make sure you have the butler give Roe his daily colonic. You know how he gets without it. And clean up after you shave him. Take him for walks. Above all, don't leave any fruit where he can get to it. I remember when you found him behind the stable forcing his little "worm" into a cored apple. That's a thing not to be repeated.
I'm praying that lazy yard man rakes the algae and duckweed from the pond. I don't want to come home to a stagnant little swamp. Tell Roe to go out to the potting shed in the afternoon and see if the lazy whelp is taking a nap on the peat bags. We catch him at that much too often.
I hope to be home sooner than expected. Until then, you are the "man" of the house in your grandmother's absence. Please fulfill your responsibilities to the estate and to Roe.
Finally, this is my message to you from captivity. Don't be such a shy, withering little flower. Advertise yourself. Dress prettily and have Roe take you to town. Dance with some of the fellows over at the Reverend's Templex. A few of them still have their heads screwed on and know not to kiss you. And you, of course, will not kiss anyone under any circumstances. To show affection, if you must, just touch the tips of your fingers to your tongue, then press them against the person's forehead.
I don't mean to be rushing you, but the sooner you mate, the sooner we'll have an offspring to nurse, play with and rear. I promise to be a full partner with you on the project. We'll build you and the child a nice little cozy cottage on the estate grounds.
All of this begs the question, though, which is, will the parasites die before I do? I hope the answer is yes. I hope there's a way to expel them, every last one and all their eggs.
Remember me in your nightly meditations.
With all my affection,
Grandmother
Sealing the letters and stamping them, she called down to the trustees. "Please, can you take these letters back to Administration for posting?"
One of them said, "We build pens for stinks. That's all we know about."
Mildred waved the letter in the air. "Isn't there a letterpost there, at Administration?"
"Yeah, there's one."
"And you're going back there, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"And you won't just drop these off at the post?"
"Nope. Can't do that. All we do is build pens for stinks. If we did anything else, theyd spank us till our rumps were purple."
"I'd pay you, but they took every buck I had."
A third trustee said, "Don't you boys know who that is? That's Mildred Balls. She's rich as God. Her old man owned the recipe for making Jake, and she invented the Q ped."
"Please, will you take these letters to Administration?"
"Shit on you, you rich old cow. Look where your money got you."
The day following completion of the pen, a pedal truck appeared with three stinkers asleep in the bed under a blanket of leaves and straw. Mildred threw on her house robe and stood in the doorway. Two trustees got out of the truck in the midst of an argument.
"You lazy clump of shit! Who did all the pedaling? My legs are killing me."
"Who got out and oiled them chains every couple miles? It was me, slopehead!"
"Stop that fighting!" Mildred shouted.
One of the trustees shook his fist at her. "Stay out of other people's business!" He poked the stinkers with sharp sticks to wake them. "Here you go, lady, three old stinks in sore need of a good washing."
The weary stinkers, all males, climbed out of the truck's bed and were prodded into the pen. All wore soiled, wrinkled business suits, outlandish ties and mismatched footwear. Once locked into the pen, they lay beside one another in the dirt and began to snore.
The two trustees got back in the truck and resumed their bickering.
"This time, I oil and you pedal, you rotten son of a bitch."
"Kiss my ass till your nose breaks off, you god-damned moron."
Mildred went inside and got the letters to her grandchildren. "Can you take these with you and post them? I don't want to wait a month."
The driver's head angled out of the window. "We haul stinkers, lady. We don't carry no mail."
"Please, can you make an exception?"
"A what?"
"Just this once. Take my letters to Administration. My grandchildren. They worry about me."
"Okay, one time. Next time, wait for the mail pickup."
"I will."
"You swear?"
"I do."
The other trustee trudged halfway up the stairs. "My legs hurt. Throw 'em down. I'll catch 'em."
Mildred tied the letters with an imp-hair strand from her sweater in hopes they would stay together, then tossed them to the trustee with a flick of her wrist. The catch was successful and the trustee backed down. "Okay, that's it. No more schleppin' mail, lady. You know what I'm sayin'?"
"Oh, yes."
The truck moved slowly down the narrow road that led west, and the quiet returned. Mildred stood by the window as the sun set and kept an eye on the stinkers until it was too dark to see them. The door had no lock and s
he went to bed fretful. Why, she wondered, would the Administration send her three males? It seemed thoughtless. Surely females would have been a better choice for an old woman to handle. She had read many times in the papers of criminality among late-stage stinkers. It was not unheard of for them to commit assault, rape, even murder.
But the night passed without incident. Though Mildred could hear imps shrieking in the distance, they hadn't yet picked up the scent of her stinkers, who slept peacefuly together on the ground. Their snoring was something of a comfort, like far away thunder, and Mildred awoke with the first sunlight that reached her face. When she opened the window, a small cloud of urpflanz pollen blew in. "Autumn's on the way," she said to herself.
The stinkers were walking around the perimeter of their pen, hands in pockets, searching the ground, as if something of value, or importance, had been lost. They looked up in her direction for a moment.
Mildred cupped her small mouth with arthritic hands and shouted, "Yoo-hooo, fellows? I'll be down there after breakfast and give you baths."
First, she would have to collect her stool sample. After working the noisy pump handle until the tank of the commode was Ul, she sat down with a fresh tongue depressor, emptied her bowels, and lifted out the required amount.
The odor of the stinkers seeped under the tower's loose siding and through the window, curbing Mildred's appetite. She was able to get down only a small plug of imp meat and a few bites of starch bar before putting on her rags, tying her long white hair into a bun atop her head and slipping on a pair of leaky rubber boots she found in the closet.
As she walked toward the door with an armload of washing supplies, scented oil and a pan of water, she felt a sting on the bottom of her foot. It was not particularly painful, less so than a bee sting, so she stepped down hard, crushed whatever had bitten her, and carried on with her obligations. She recognized the possibility that it might have been a fiddleback, but chose to file the thought away.
