Bone Meal Broth

by Adam Cesare

  The chapter on lobotomy had diagrams and illustrations. The captions touted the ease and speed with which the process could be administered. The pictures seemed so inclusive that Danny didn’t bother with the text.

  Grandmother’s smallest-gauge knitting needle substituted well for an ice pick, and Dylan kept a small hammer in the kitchen junk drawer for repairs.

  Properly equipped, Danny set to work.

  He tucked a towel around her neck, threw the lever on her chair, and prepared himself an instant operating table.

  Putting the tip of the needle above her left eye, Danny lifted the hammer. Quick, strong taps said the caption.

  He paused, took a deep breath, and whispered, “Just like Mom.” As he took his first swing, squinting his eyes and missing the needle altogether, he didn’t notice the flies in Grandma’s mouth.

  His second swing sent the needle all the way in; had he not been holding the end with his thumb and forefinger, he may have lost it.

  There was no blood.

  The next diagram showed the ice pick moving back and forth like a windshield wiper. Danny followed suit. But instead of the needle hole remaining small, the gash above his Grandma’s eye opened wider.

  The skin that connected her eyelid to her brow began to tear like tissue paper. Danny panicked. Not only because he had caused such damage to his grandmother’s face but because there was something under the thin skin.

  Something moving.

  He heard the flies before he saw them, hundreds of them bubbling from her mouth and wound. They were a black mass that turned his grandmother into a bearded lady.

  The boy’s screams drove the flies to take to the air. A deafening buzz surrounded Danny as the small apartment filled with the insects.

  Dylan heard the hum from the vestibule. Loud air conditioner, he thought as he tried to work his key loose from the lock. As he approached the apartment, he knew something was wrong.

  “Danny,” he shouted, and hurried to work the door open. The door was vibrating.

  When the lock was undone, the door exploded open. The black cloud knocked Dylan to the ground.

  “Danny.” He made the mistake of screaming for the boy again and his mouth filled with flies. Hairy bodies and squirming wings buzzed under his tongue.

  With the added room the open door afforded, the flies spread out into the hallway. Dylan spit, careful not to open his mouth again, as he rushed inside.

  The boy was a motionless black lump on the floor.

  No no no no.

  Dylan hoisted him up and rushed for the door, almost not finding it in the black room.

  On the street outside, he wept as he started compressions.

  One. Two. Three.

  The way she taught you.

  Danny was motionless. Dylan swept the flies from his face, gave him a breath, and tried once more.

  This time a fountain of flies burst from the child’s mouth as he coughed. Flies, some dead, some alive, cascaded from his lips as he turned onto his side.

  “Thank you,” Dylan said, and gave firm pats to the boy’s back as he gagged.

  On the first night they were settled into their new apartment, Dylan put Danny to sleep and then vomited up some maggots‌—‌something he had been doing for a while.

  Rollin & Jeanie

  Rollin limped through the field on a combination of all fours, the scars and calluses on his body protecting his skin from the sharp, tall grasses.

  Jeanie held a little piece of twine tied to Rollin’s neck. Her short one-piece dress left her pale legs unprotected from the grass and briars. The pair made their way to the middle of the clearing. The girl held a shotgun over her shoulder, and the boy would occasionally pull on the end of the twine, stopping to investigate a rabbit hole or dead bird.

  The sun was climbing in the sky and had just started to dissipate the little clouds of dew that hovered above the county on mornings such as this. Jeanie’s dress was a white formfitting sheet made of a loosely knit mesh that gave an occasional peek at her light pink nipples and the thatch of dark hair between her legs.

  Her brother, also clad in only one article of clothing, wore denim overalls matted and darkened with dried mud. Rollin had adorned his one outfit by tying dried grass and found bits of string around the clasps.

  Before dawn that morning Jeanie had went over to Rollin’s corner of the room and tried to shake her brother awake.

  “Git up,” she whispered in his ear, and gently shook him. The boy stirred slightly but then rolled over and put his hand down the front of his dirty underwear. Rollin’s sleeping face was one lumped and asymmetrical mess. This was partially due to pocks and scars from thirteen years of gimping around into trouble, but mostly due to God. Jeanie flicked the boy’s ear and one eye shot open.

  What you want, sugar pea? Rollin said this without moving his lips and removed his hand from his pecker.

  “Want to go shootin’?” she asked in a whisper. Rollins face was unresponsive, his grey eyes unmoving, but she heard him thinking it over in her mind.

  Yeah. Get the gun.

  The two siblings held conversations that no one else could hear. For everyone but Jeanie, Rollin’s retardation was absolute.

  Jeanie trod lightly into her father’s room. The big man was passed out, half on his bed, and from the smell Jeanie could tell he’d pissed himself and would not be waking up to catch her. She took the shotgun off the rack in his closet and the shells from a box under his bed.

  Listing to one side as if drunk, Rollin loped after a brown snake as it darted through the grass trying to escape. The twine grew taut and Jeanie let go.

  “Don’t run off now, remember we’re shootin’,” she yelled at her brother, but Rollin’s attention was on the snake, which he now had between his thumb and forefinger.

  The snake thrashed its head about, trying to bite Rollin’s hand, but its teeth were too small to find purchase in the boy’s rough skin. Rollin giggled and tightened his grip, keeping the head still. He brought his hand to his mouth and made kissing sounds, attempting to charm the frightened creature.

  He smiled wide back at Jeanie, who sat on a stump watching the boy.

  Look at this, sis. His smile grew wider, his cracked and crooked teeth a uniform green-yellow. Before she could stop him, he had the snake’s head in his mouth, biting down with an audible crunch. The snake’s tail went wild and Rollin started laughing uncontrollably, a wet muffled laugh, blood and spit spilling from the sides of his mouth.

  It was grotesque, but Jeanie could not bring herself to beat the boy. When he was done, he wrapped the snake’s corpse around one hand, turning it into a tight loop, and then placed the loop in his front pocket. Finished playing, he made his way back over to Jeanie.

  He crawled up to her on his stomach, making cooing noises and laughing. Pillows of dandelion seeds stuck to the muck on his face and chin as if the boy were tarred and feathered. He grabbed Jeanie’s foot and gently gnawed on her big toe.

  “Stop it, dammit.” She shook her foot away from Rollin’s face but not out of his grip. The boy got frustrated and pulled her from her perch. Her bottom hit the ground with a soft thud, dirt and dust darkening her white dress.

  Forcefully, but still with the air of play, Rollin hopped on top of her and pinched her nose while his other hand tried to bat away any resistance.

  “No,” she shouted as Rollin pressed closer. “We’re shootin’, not now.”

  His giggle filled her mind and she could feel the darkness in it. She brought her hand across his face, but he did not even flinch. She forced her palm into his upper lip and nose, mashing his face as she pushed his writhing and sweaty form off her.

  Rollin fell back. Fine. We’ll shoot. He did not have to say We’ll finish this later‌—‌Jeanie felt what was implied.

  Low to the ground, a distorted shadow, Rollin crawled out into the wilderness.

  While the boy made his way into the taller and taller grasses, Jeanie cocked the levers
and put her hand on her belly. With great effort she tried to keep Rollin from hearing what she was thinking, even though he had never been able to hear her thoughts. Would the baby be like him? A perverse little monster running through the woods and fields? She was sick in the mornings, and had seen other girls pregnant before. The feeling that Rollin’s child grew inside her was more than a suspicion‌—‌it was a certainty.

  She lost sight of him. He was preparing his attack, and Jeanie prepared herself by leveling the gun. Absolute stillness and quiet flooded the clearing. It was shattered by Rollin springing from his hiding place in the grass, clapping his hands and screaming. With that a handful of birds flew from the underbrush. Jeanie squinted and fired. The thunderclap echoed through the trees in the distance. The first shot was a miss, but the second caused an explosion of feathers on the horizon.

  Jeanie broke the shotgun open over one knee and loaded two more shells from her dress pocket. She thought she could hear the baby talking to her.

  In a minute Rollin was at her feet, the trampled and bloodied bird in his hand. Good one, Jean bean. Pow!

  “Thanks,” she said, and put her hand on top of his head. His hair was greasy and thin, and his scalp was as bumpy as his face. “Go out for another one.”

  Rollin turned to go, but before he did he took her hand and kissed it. When he was a few paces away, Jeanie brought the gun up and fired.

  Rollin’s body was slumped on the ground, the top of his head gone. He lay in the dirt with his shoulders and knees propping his rear end up to the sky.

  Jeanie let out soft cry and then listened to the silence. No birds stirred in the field while the sun beat down upon her and her dead brother. She sat back down on the stump and watched the grass sway.

  Mama? Why’d you do that, Mama? Jeanie heard the words form in her mind. What did you do to Daddy?

  “You ain’t real,” she yelled out with a sob at the crickets and birds and rabbits in the field.

  Oh yes I am, sugar pea. Rollin’s laughter filled her mind and she knew she’d been had‌—‌the baby wasn’t talking. There was only him, and he would never let her be.

  A final shot echoed through the early morning, and with it a family was blinked from existence.

  Pink Tissue

  The broad was hell.

  She wasn’t sin. She wasn’t the “Devil in Disguise.” She was pure hell. That’s what I knew as soon as I saw her glide past the bandstand, eyes fixed on me, on two long legs that looked like they could have squeezed the life out of even the toughest longshoreman. I wasn’t even drunk yet, if that’s what you’re thinking.

  Pete the barman poured me another whiskey. It was phosphorescent yellow, like piss after you’ve taken too many vitamins. I didn’t know what he made it out of, and to this day I don’t want to know. I tried not to think about it and took a big gulp. I began to ruminate on life in New Orleans before the gas and had forgotten all about the girl until she was close enough to bite my nose off.

  She was gorgeous, but rarer than that, she was completely normal.

  Most people had little, well, reminders of the gas. I myself only had a burn where my left ear had fused to the skin of my scalp. I was lucky‌—‌on my good side I looked like Cary Grant. Pete wasn’t so blessed. The poor bastard had fleshy lobster claws for hands. He could still mix a perfect Manhattan though, so I guess his talents made up for his handicap.

  “Mr. Jacoby,” she said. Her lips were a perfect uniform red. Her eyes were chestnut and there was no waxy plasma buildup in the corners, which was damn near impossible to avoid in this town. “I need you to find my sister.”

  My clients were never pretty; this wasn’t the old times like in some crummy movie. The lack of sexy clientele had become so disheartening that I never even went into the office anymore. Jacoby & Associates Investigating sat empty most days. I even had to let the secretary go, not to mention all the associates. I stopped by in the mornings to check my messages, but other than the occasional “Find out if my fat slob husband is stepping out,” there wasn’t much work. I just bummed around Pete’s bar, listening to the band and watching the patrons pinch their pustules.

  I gave the girl the once-over, from her dirty blonde hair to the hem of her silk burgundy dress. She seemed to favor her left leg, but there was no deformity that I could see, and I could see a lot. Her body was thin but muscular. She smelled like caramel and looked even sweeter, but the expression on her face could have frozen the tits right off you.

  “I’ve heard all I need to about you, Mr. Jacoby. So don’t even open your smart mouth. My sister is a danger to herself and others, and I need you to find her.” She opened her clutch, which matched her dress perfectly.

  I started to speak, but she held up a long manicured finger. She then reached into the tiny bag and pulled out a small blue envelope and thick a roll of green prewar bills.

  “This should get you started,” she said, pushing the money and envelope into my hand. “I have reason to believe she associates in the Quarter with a gentleman by the name of Mr. Snatch. You’re to find her and bring her to me. I’m staying at the Algonquin. Room 303.”

  She was talking tough, and she could have fooled me if she hadn’t tried to light a cigarette. Her hand was trembling, and when I squinted I could see that she wore a ton of makeup under her eyes to hide how sunken and black they were. The broad was still pretty, but she was also pretty sick and pretty scared.

  “What are you scared of, girly?” I asked. She didn’t drop the act but had sense enough to put the cigarette away.

  “You have twenty-four hours, Mr. Jacoby, and then I find someone else. I suggest you go talk to Mr. Snatch.”

  “Snatch is a nobody lowlife, plus we haven’t even discussed payment.”

  “Payment will be more than adequate,” she said as she made an about-face and headed for the door.

  I could have caught up with her‌—‌the bar wasn’t exactly packed‌—‌but I was enjoying the sway of her hips too much. Plus, I like any reason to put the squeeze on Snatch.

  I just don’t care for the guy.

  As I walked I counted the bills and then inspected the envelope. Inside was a small wallet-sized photo of the sister, only it wasn’t. I could have sworn the picture was of the same dame from the bar. The photo looked like it had been recently ripped in half, the kind of thing you do when your wife leaves you.

  It was starting to drizzle, so I put the photo back and stuffed the envelope into my pocket. The rain would have destroyed it.

  I tried not to look at the sky as I walked, but I saw its pale green color reflected in the puddles anyway. Thinking about it made me blue, and I stayed blue all the way to the Quarter.

  This place used to be a shithole filled with tourists and winos, but these days there are a lot worse things you could step in than frat-boy puke.

  I could see Snatch from two blocks away. He was under one of the French Quarter’s famous streetlights, slightly corroded over the last few years but iconic nonetheless. He wore his trademark novelty elf ears, which I suspected were there to hide some horrible deformity, and a bright yellow slicker. Ears or no ears, he still looked like a freak.

  His head was on a quick swivel, less the confident cool of a pimp and more the paranoid twitch of a junkie. I was lucky his cataracts were so bad, because he probably would have made a break for it if he saw me coming.

  “Jack,” he said in a nervous yelp. Only once he was within arm’s length did he make me. I threw a hand around one of his toothpick wrists and bolted him in place.

  “Hey, Snatchy,” I said. It’s hard to give a proper nickname to a guy who only goes by Snatch. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’ve just got a few questions.”

  I tried locking eyes with him, but it was no use. His twitchy rodent eyes were all over the place. You accidentally break a guy’s nose one time and he never trusts you again.

  I saw letting go wasn’t in the cards any time soon‌—‌stupid bastard might have maced me‌�
��‌so I dug into my pocket with one hand without losing my grip with the other. I brought out the photo, pushed it against Snatch’s least milky eye and asked if she was one of his.

  “Yeah, but I haven’t seen her in at least a week.” He looked like he was thinking quite hard. “Maybe even a month,” he added, attempting a shrug but looking more like an epileptic.

  “What can you tell me about her?”

  “She was gorgeous,” he said.

  “I want a description, not a marketing ploy.” I squinted and he flinched.

  “I mean unusually pretty, a girl like that, she don’t come down here,” he managed to stutter out.

  “Any reason why she would?”

  “Well, I always figured she was hiding.”

  “Is she on the spike?”

  “No. I mean, I think I know what that looks like.” He made a swooping motion with his hand over the opposite sidewalk. “Which one of these chickens isn’t shooting up?” There stood his girls, and he was right: I’d never seen a more pathetic roost in my life. Scars, bruises, torn clothing. The girls looked as decrepit as the buildings they stood in front of.

  Snatch was twitchier than usual. He knew something. I had to roll him, but I couldn’t in front of his whores. I didn’t care much about dying, but if I was going to go, I would much rather death not come at the end of twenty pairs of knee-high neon-pink hooker boots.

  “Well, if you see her again, you be sure to call me,” I said as I started to walk away. I’m not the best at playing dumb, but I’m good enough to fool a rusty nozzle like Snatch.

  “You bet, Jack.” His words came out quickly, with a short sigh of relief.

  “Ya know what, Snatch? I’ve been just awful to you in the past. How about a drink?” He jumped in surprise and disappointment that he wasn’t rid of me yet. His eyes spun around in his head, as if he would find an excuse not to drink with me tattooed behind his eyeballs. “Well, I really should stay here. Look after the girls.”