by E. J. Olsen
No wonder the kidnappers weren't worried about letting loose their hands.
After helping Kevin go the bathroom, she sat down with him in the corner furthest from the stink. "Now what?" he whispered, the first words he'd spoken since the gag came out.
A hopeful sign. "We wait, I guess."
"For what? What are they—"
"None of that now! Speak so I can hear you, or else!" Farmer stood from the bucket where he sat and took a threatening step toward them, gun up.
"He just wants me to finish the story I was tellin," Leora lied.
"Go on then. So I can hear."
She hadn't gotten far past the beginning before, she was pretty sure. "So this prince was sent to a foreign land—"
"What was his name?"
"Foster."
"That's a dumb name." Sounding more like himself every second.
"Anyway, he was a prince, so you don't have to feel sorry for him. And he lived on a farm with a kindly old couple who always let him have whatever he wanted." Even if what he wanted killed him. "They had rules, but when he broke them, those old people would never raise not a hand against him."
"No spankings?"
"Not a swat. He was a prince; hittin him was against the law. Now one day, the little boy got up early, before anybody else was awake. And he went down to the kitchen and fixed a bowl of cereal, and then he went outside and walked off into the forest all by himself, although he had been told not to." And told and told and told.
"Why wasn't he supposed to go in the forest?"
"Because he wasn't supposed to go anywheres. Remember, he was a prince in disguise. He couldn't be runnin around where folks would see and recognize him. Then, of course, he went and got lost." In the great Canadian wilderness, trees and rocks and marshes—miles and miles of loneliness. "Lost. And he was hungry and tired and miserable, and he wished he'd never, never left that kitchen table. But what he didn't know was his momma—"
"The queen?"
"Yeah, that's right, his momma the queen, she had lit a magic candle to proteck him." Like Big Momma said to do. If only she had done it instead of worrying it was conjuring, the devil's work. Well, that wasn't going to stop her now. "The sun went down. Night was fallin. All of a sudden he seen a light."
"The candle?"
"The candle! You such a smart boy!" Same as Carter. "That's right, the prince seen the flame of his momma's magic candle, and it led him straight home to the farm where he lived. The end."
Kevin stayed quiet, thinking the way he usually did when she finished a story. She always knew he was thinking by the questions he would ask later, long after she'd forgotten the things she said.
The candle she lit after the funeral had been for Carter. Not to protect him. Too late for that. It was to commemorate his spirit, Big Momma had said. And to be what she called a conduit, a way they could speak with one another.
Of course, Leora had never attempted such a blasphemous thing.
Banging and a blast of cold air from the ceiling told her the thin man was back. The ladder slid down to rest its foot on the floor's middle and the thin man descended it, aiming his thin smile and a second gun through the rungs at them.
It took her till the sweatered man came down, too, to work out what was different. No masks.
It took her till they'd exchanged some talk she didn't follow and herded her and Kevin between them up out of the cellar and into the black-and-purple sedan to understand why this made her sick to her stomach.
No mask to prevent her from seeing the thin man's blond mustache and the way his nose tipped up at the end and the squint lines radiating from the edges of his eyes. No mask to stop her noticing the sweatered man's freckled forehead and the crease in his chin he didn't look to bother shaving.
So what was to prevent her from describing them to the police when they set her and Kevin free?
But of course the kidnappers had never been going to do that, since there was nobody except Aunt Rutha and Uncle Donald at the cabin, no secret heir. No prince in disguise.
Only Leora knew that though. She had thought.
She had thought she could wait till they got there, but no telling what these white men had in mind.
As soon as Farmer stopped driving, she'd have to sing.
The black-and-purple sedan's motor made more noise than the Cadillac. It was older too. The island looked empty for a Friday night. Then they reached the mainland, and she saw all the traffic lights flashing yellow. No reds. That late. Or early; early Saturday morning.
And when would the kidnappers stop the car? Where? Would she even have time to open her mouth before they shot her?
Kevin snuggled up against her on her right, both arms wrapped around hers at the elbow. In the regular flare of streetlamps Leora saw him staring up at her, worry and trust tugging him back and forth in nervous twitches. If she saved his life, he was truly hers. That's what she'd heard the Hindus would say.
The thin man had stuck a gun under her left ribs. On Kevin's far side the sweatered man crowded against the fogged-up window, flicking some switch on the gun he held. Tense or bored? Both, she decided. Wait for a change in that, then.
The lights came less often. Fewer of them; they must be near the rail yards now. Maybe here— Leora discovered she'd been holding her breath and let it go. The sweatered man stopped fiddling with his gun, but only to light himself a cigarette.
"Put that thing out," the thin man told him. "Filthy habit." He reached past her and snatched it away to stub it in the ashtray. A sudden sharp left. Lights ahead, low and steady. "Get the toll ready, Farmer," the thin man ordered. He jabbed the gun harder into Leora's side, a silent reminder to keep quiet.
They sailed through the toll booth and onto the Ambassador Bridge almost without a pause. Golden lights hanging on either side swooped their shadows across her eyes. They passed under its two signs, the red letters first facing forward, then backward.
Slaves had crossed all along here. In winter the water froze and they walked to freedom. In the darkness, on the ice, they ran over the river to the land they'd been so long dreaming of … Leora loved that freedom, the kind that came only in your sleep.
And then they were in Canada. The gun switch clicked so fast it sounded like a bent fan blade hitting its frame. A low roof lit from beneath by blue-white fluorescents chopped the horizon in half. Customs check.
Farmer pulled up to a booth. The man inside raised his eyes from his magazine, frowned, and waved them toward the parking lot.
The clicking stopped. "Shit," swore the thin man.
"Should I go where he's pointing at, or maybe I oughta make a run for it—"
"See those cop cars waiting up ahead? Think you can outrace them?"
The kidnappers continued to quarrel as Farmer veered off the road into a parking place. He left the engine idling, but they weren't going anywhere for a while. Not before they got a thorough inspection.
She smiled down at the boy beside her. This would be her best bet. Big Momma had taught her, and it was not a sin— especially in self-defense. And if it worked she would light a second candle. She opened her mouth to sing the lullaby until they shut their eyes, every mother's son.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy little baby;
When you wake, you shall have,
All the pretty little horses.
Blacks and bays, dapple grays,
All the pretty little horses.
Way down yonder, in the meadow,
Lies a poor little lamby;
Bees and butterflies, flutterin round his eyes,
Poor little thing is crying "Mammy."
Go to sleep, don't you cry,
Rest your head upon the clover;
In your dreams, you shall ride,
While your mammy's watching over.
Blacks and bays, dapple grays,
All the pretty little horses;
All the pretty little horses.
PART II
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FACTORY OF ONE
RED QUARTERS
BY CRAIG HOLDEN
Hamtramck
Fuck yeah," said Ziggy. "We're in." A piece of cheek beneath his left eye jumped, then jumped again. It was a place I'd never been, right on Joseph Campau, around the corner from St. Ladislaus. But then it all felt new to me. I'd only been back in Hamtramck, city of my life, for six months. I had gone off to other places, tried other things. When I got back, my friend Danny Lewicki got me on at the Main. I would've never got on without him. Most of the places then were laying off.
By we, I hoped Ziggy meant him and Danny. I couldn't shoot so well. I tried to be invisible against the wall. It was 8 a.m., and we were just off shift.
"We break," said the long-necked regular.
It was a close narrow place, just enough room in the front for the bar and stools along one wall, and only the light from a single window throwing over the thing. In the back it opened to a room just big enough to hold the pool table, but they'd had to shorten the cues so you didn't hit the walls when you shot.
"We break," said Ziggy. He was an old-timer, due to retire in another year or two. He didn't take much shit off anyone.
"We break," said the long-necked regular. He was shiny, with thin hair that looked like he wiped it back with his palms. He wore a leather vest, and a chain secured his wallet to his trousers.
Beyond the table, a paneled hallway led off to nothing. It was just a wall at the end of it, and an old console TV sitting there all covered with the dust of a thousand shows. Through a little window cut in one of the walls, you could see into a kind of kitchen area. There was a big stove in there and some sinks. A cook, or somebody in a white T-shirt, sat at a steel counter, counting cash out onto a sheet of aluminum foil.
"Then fuck it," said Ziggy. His hand was twitching; the middle fingers kept snapping in toward the palm. He put his cue down and headed back for the bar, so he could sit down. He looked like he needed to. He wasn't the steadiest.
"Awright," said the regular. "You can break."
"Break, Dan," said Ziggy. Danny was only a few years older than me. Ziggy was our supervisor at the Dodge Main. Poletown, they called it. This was 1979. The winter was ending, but the rumors had just started that the Main was coming down. No one believed it. It'd been there since 1912. I heard it rolled off more than thirteen million cars in them sixty-seven years. The Dodge brothers themselves built it, after they left off working for Henry. It was like a city in there, its own fire department and hospital and roads and kitchens. You could've been born in there and grown up and stayed inside the whole time, never coming out, and lived just fine.
"Watch this," Ziggy said to me. The tick beneath his eye kept time, the same time as the automatic riveter or the arm that whipped the planes of sheet metal into place. Danny broke. Three dropped, two solids and a stripe.
"Solids," said Danny.
"Drop ' em," said Ziggy. And Dan did: two more.
The long-necked regular sank a few. Ziggy sank two. The regular's partner, a true hefty boy, and with a scraggy little mustache, missed altogether.
"Shithead," said the long-necked regular.
"They call you Hamtramck Fats?" Ziggy said. Danny snickered, then cleaned it off and sank the eight.
"That's a round," said Ziggy. "Three rums."
"Three?" said the regular. "Only two of ya's playin."
"Partner there," said Ziggy. "Eddy. He drinks too."
"Two plays, two drinks," said the long-necked regular. He bought two. I went out to the bar and bought my own, and sat there to drink it.
Down at the other end were two girls. I saw them when we came in. One, whose grin was half-empty of teeth, nodded at me now. And she kept eyeing me. At least, I thought she did. The light from the window made it hard to see. I looked away from them but my head kept turning back, like they were pulling a string.
"Again," I heard the regular say.
"Rack ' em," said Ziggy. When I heard him break, I got up and stood in the open doorway between the bar part up front and the pool room in back. I leaned against the jamb, so I could see the whole place at once.
Ziggy's break sank a couple. Solids again.
It went on. Ziggy and Danny cleaned up again, won by four balls. I kept turning my head away from the far end of the bar.
"Another round," said Ziggy.
"You still got your last drinks," said the regular.
"Back ' em up," said Ziggy.
"Markers," said the bartender. He'd been watching through a little window between the end of the bar and the pool room. He held up a quarter someone had painted red. "Trade these in for drinks."
"Rack ' em," said the long-necked regular as he paid for the markers. Hamtramck Fats racked.
It went on. A stack of red quarters grew up from the bar, leaned, split into two stacks. I couldn't figure why they'd have so many red quarters.
"Use ' em," said Ziggy to me. "Might as well." I traded one in. Switched from rum to beer.
It went on. Ziggy and Dan let them win a game, handed them a couple of our quarters. "Keeps ' em biting," Ziggy whispered to me. He'd come out to the bar to rest, and I sat beside him. He had on his UAW hat, and his shirt had a UAW patch on the sleeve. Many didn't dress like that anymore, but Ziggy always did, every shift.
I looked at him, then the girls at the other end, back and forth. I could see him looking down at them too.
Then he said something about Elaine. She was a hot one we knew from the plant. A front office secretary. I knew her from high school.
"Call her," Ziggy said. "You could sure use some of that."
"She'll be in bed by now," I said. She hadn't been interested in me at Hamtramck High, and she wasn't interested now.
"All the better," Ziggy said.
I fingered the stack of red quarters.
"You know what them're for?"
"No."
"Bars all have ' em. Nothing's happening, they drop a few in the pool table or juke box or whatever to get things rolling. Then when the vendor cleans out the boxes, he knows what was the bar's to start. Don't count it against their percent."
"Really?"
He nodded, then got up and went back to the table, and I heard another rack and break.
"Shit!" said Hamtramck Fats, and Danny was laughing.
They played again, again, and it didn't get any better for the regulars.
"Here," Ziggy said when it was over and the chalk dust had settled. He handed a couple more quarters to the long-necked regular.
"Big of ya," the regular said. He retreated with Fats to their end of the bar, where the girls sat waiting for them.
"Fuck it," Ziggy said.
Danny and I drank and Ziggy told us a story about a trucker he knew who bought it on a curve on I-75. "Twenty ton come down on him," Ziggy said. "Took ' em four hours to saw him out." His cheek jumped. "Five ton an hour."
The two girls got up now and scooted down the bar. I was sitting between Ziggy and Danny. The girls sat one on each side of us, the half-toothless one by Ziggy.
"Drink?" Ziggy said. He flipped them each a red quarter. The one with half her teeth did all the talking. The other one wouldn't say nothing. She had greasy hair and little zits all over her face you could only see close up. Dan was next to this one, the Mute, and he was flicking bits of napkin at her, watching how they stuck on her hair.
"You wanna drive us to Chicago?" said the half-toothless one.
"For?" Ziggy said. He slipped off his barstool and had to climb back on. A muscle in his neck started contracting and relaxing, pulling his chin around toward his shoulder and then releasing it.
"Cause it ain't here," she said.
"Maybe so," he said. "Got a car?"
"You do," she said.
"Eddy's drivin," Ziggy said. He pointed at me.
"Wanna drive us to Chicago?" she said to me.
I looked away. She pulled my eyes back and grinned in a half-toothless sort of way. I traded in a
nother quarter and went back and started shooting around on the table. Couldn't hit a thing. It was all spinning. I had no control over my arms. I killed my Blatz and traded in another quarter.
Then I heard the half-toothless one scream and slap Ziggy. I went around to watch. She and the Mute got up and went back down to their end of the bar. Ziggy and Dan were giggling. The greasy gal talked to the long-necked regular and Hamtramck Fats and all of them started looking at us. I stuck the cue in the crotch of my arm, like it was a gun I was cradling. I was ready. I was looking at them too. Couldn't stop.
Ziggy and Danny each traded in another red quarter.
"Think you guys had enough?" the bartender asked.
"Still got five quarters left," said Ziggy. "You gonna take ' em away? Bought and paid for?" His fingers were snapping into his palm again, hard enough so I could hear it.
The bartender walked down to the other end of the bar.
I stepped out and leaned against the wall.
