Kate Fox & The Three Kings

by Grace E. Pulliam

  “Ice cream, of course,” Helen hopped onto the counter and slid to the other side. She grabbed a deep, glass bowl and a scoop and attempted to open the cooler I was standing in front of.

  “Do you mind?” she asked sweetly. “Or are you going to cunt-punt me again?”

  I moved back to my book, flipping through the pages once again. Helen dropped four giant scoops of mint chocolate chip into her dish, hammering several pumps of hot fudge over the top, and sat down with a giant spoon in-hand. I internally chuckled at the sight: an immaculately groomed woman, with not a single hair out of place, hovering over a massive bowl of mint chocolate chip.

  “Hemming tries to pass this off as homemade,” she spoke through a mouthful of ice cream, using her spoon to point down to the bowl. “He’s not fooling anyone. I know it’s Blue Bell.”

  I nodded, not knowing how to carry on a conversation with someone who threatened to cut my body up into tiny pieces weeks prior. “Skip ahead to the good part. The rest is schizophrenic nonsense. Page 88,” she instructed, watching me try to make out a drawing of the human anatomy on page 5. I turned to page 88, and sure enough, “The Three Kings Game” was scribbled across the top.

  It hadn’t occurred to me that the Game was actually a ritual composed of moving parts. The author had provided instructions for the player, nailing down the details of time and materials needed.

  RECIPE

  The Three Kings Ritual is a game that detaches the soul from the player, in order to access the Shadowside. Understand, the game is not for the uninitiated, for it takes power and wit to emerge as the victor. If the player loses the game, the soul is trapped in the Shadowside, leaving the body to decay. The players include the King, the Queen, and the Fool. Each player believes they are the King, and from their perspective, you are either their queen or their fool.

  That being said, if you have questions, you will get answers. You might not like the answers, and the answers might lead to more questions.

  Ingredients:

  1.A quiet, dark place with no windows: ideally, wellhouse or barn. A pantry will do.

  2.Black salt

  3.Two, large looking glasses

  4.A single candle

  5.A bucket of water

  6.A personal belonging of sentimental value, also known as the anchor; a pocket watch, wedding band, etc. will suffice

  The ritual must commence at exactly 3:33 a.m. Not 3:30, not 3:32, not 3:34. The evening prior, at twilight, set up for the game, making a triangle with the two mirrors and what you plan to utilize as a seat. Fill the empty space between the mirrors and your seat with a line of black salt, linking the objects together, but do not close the triangle until 3:32 a.m.

  Try to rest before the game. Designate a friend or family member as the helper. The helper will check on the ritual room several times while you sleep, making sure no doors open or close, no objects move, and no looking glasses shatter. If any of these things happen, you’re late to the game, or if the helper notices any abnormalities with the set-up, do not play the game.

  At 3:28 a.m., proceed to the ritual room, ignite your candle, close your triangle with the rest of the salt, and take a seat. Instruct the helper to blow out the lights and shut the door at 3:33 a.m. The helper will re-open the door at precisely 4:33 a.m. Focus on the flame or gaze into the darkness. Do not peer into the looking glass, no matter how they tempt you.

  “So, why is it imperative I do the ritual?” I asked after re-reading the instructions twice. My stomach growled, and I pulled a protein bar from my purse and began to unwrap it.

  “How else are you suppose to know how to control your own power? The Three Kings will give you answers,” Helen said, licking the back of her spoon.

  “That’s the thing, what if I don’t want to control my ‘power’? What if I just want to go to college and work in an ice cream shop and be boring?” My stomach growled again, as I searched the contents of my purse for something more substantial.

  “I think you and I both know that’s not going to happen,” Helen placed her bowl in the sink. I wasn’t sure what to make of her somewhat-friendly mood. “If you can’t control your power, your power will control you. Much like your friend Gideon. His taste of power made him hungry. It ate at him until he got desperate,” she was referring to our altercation at the funeral. “I hear the final moments feel like you’ve downed an entire bottle of Fireball whiskey, burning your insides until there’s nothing left.”

  “You think that’s what’s happening to me? That’s why I’m so hungry all the time?” I gulped down a can of Diet Coke.

  “Indeed,” Helen nodded. “Speaking of hungry. I’d like to have a little chat about my brother,” she slinked towards me.

  “What about him?” I replied, picking up the mop and busying myself with cleaning the floor.

  “Don’t play coy,” Helen appeared in front of me, blocking my mop path. “I’m trying to save you some heartache, baby Fox. How do you see this little crush on my brother ending? All roads lead to the same place. You kill us, or the Three Kings Game kills you. Either way, it’s not the happily-ever-after I’m sure you’ve been picturing.”

  I shoved the mop into Helen’s empty hand and my apron into the other. I tugged the ribbon holding my hair back and grabbed my purse from under the counter. “What do you think you’re doing?” Helen called after me.

  “Forget me killing you or the stupid kings game killing me. I honestly might kill myself if I have to spend another moment with you,” I opened up the messenger on my phone and began to type. “I just sent your brother a text. I told him I wasn’t feeling well, but you were kind enough to watch the shop for me until close.” The bell jingled behind me as I skipped out the door.

  I sauntered home before I climbed up to the loft and cried for the rest of the afternoon. I knew I shouldn’t have let Helen get under my skin, but her words were a splinter I couldn’t remove from my mind. “You kill us, or the Three Kings Game kills you,” replayed over and over in my head. I went into the bathroom to retrieve a box of tissue, but paused to study my reflection. My eyes were puffy, and one side of my hair was disheveled from lying on the bed. My face was flushed in an unattractive way. I hated how soft and round it was, making me appear young. My collarbone didn’t protrude far enough, my thighs touched, and my butt was so big, my jeans gapped at my waist.

  “I hate you!” I yelled at the mirror and smacked my fists on the granite countertops. I hated how weak and powerless and out of control I felt. I hated how much others knew. I hated that I let people control how I felt about myself. I hated my fat arms. I hated how I didn’t trust easily. I hated how lonely I was. I hated that I couldn’t stop loving someone who wanted me to destroy them. I grabbed the box of tissues, wiped the tears from my face, and headed back to the bedroom to sleep away the afternoon.

  “I received your text…Are—are you alright, Miss Fox?” a rough voice asked from across the room. I gasped in surprise. Hemming perched on the edge of my bed.

  “People who ask that question don’t want to know the real answer. I’ll tell you what you want to hear, so you can leave. I’m fine. Just great. Fabulous, even. You know, these darn allergies and effects of global warming,” I plopped down onto the bed beside him and hid my face in a pillow.

  Several moments later a hand rested on my back. “You shouldn’t speak to yourself like that, you know,” Hemming said quietly, confirming he had overheard my tantrum. I lifted my head from the pillow to see him. He brushed the hair from my face and laid down beside me. I reached out to touch his scarred jaw, which he shied away from but eventually let me touch him.

  “What is my sentence?” I asked him after a while.

  “Your sentence?”

  “Yeah, my sentence…in the story of your life,” I muttered, realizing how stupid and childish I sounded. I was barely a blip on his radar.

  “Oh,” Hemming replied, clearing his throat.

  “It was naive to think you might have a se
ntence about me,” I tried to salvage the moment. “Especially when I’m sure you’ve met many exciting women, I mean, um, people, in your long and interesting life. I’m not exciting. I haven’t swam with the dolphins or dyed my hair or gotten a really regrettable piercing. I’ve never even flashed a bus of old people on their way to Key West, and I tried coffee only a few months ago,” I chuckled and nestled into the cozy space between his chest and arm without his permission and tried to memorize his scent, hoping a trace of it might linger on my pillow. He smelled like pine needles and leather.

  “What about—hmph— escaping a cult and letting a giant dog guide you through the Kentucky wilderness? Destroying the black-eyed children without even breaking a sweat? You don’t consider that exciting?” he inquired, keeping his voice low as I traced the outline of all the buttons on his vest with my fingertips. It felt like a treat for Hemming to let me touch him freely, but I didn’t push my luck.

  “I guess so,” I muttered into his shoulder. “What was my dad like?”

  “We only spoke once,” Hemming stared at the ceiling.

  “And?”

  “He loved you,” Hemming turned so he could see me. Occasionally, he’d run his fingers across my hair; his touch was careful and hesitant. We lay like that for a long time, tangled and content with saying nothing, until the tangerine sunset came into view, and I knew Aunt June and Billie would begin to worry if I didn’t join them for supper.

  Hemming planted a kiss on my forehead as though he’d read my thoughts, then swung his long legs off the bed, and scuttled down the loft ladder as I quickly padded behind him.

  “Do you wanna to stay for dinner? I think we’re having chili,” I called after him.

  “I can’t stay,” Hemming answered dismissively, and I frowned. He stood with his hand on the door knob. “She was—hmph— a wonderfully odd girl,” he paused, only for a second to clear his throat, “Quietly strong, but burned the ground with her intensity when she was done being quiet. She made a half man whole again, like the first warm ray of sunshine after a blackberry winter, thawing away at life that had been frozen for far too long,” and before I could say anything, he disappeared through the door.

  Finals week tore my thoughts from Hemming, Helen and the Three Kings. For the entire weekend, I locked myself into my makeshift study arsenal, on the couch, two pillows and a stack of books on either side of me, with the TV disconnected, and a pile of notecards on my lap. I reminded Hemming I wouldn’t be able to work my shift that week over text message. I hadn’t spoken to him in person since his appearance at the pool house the other day.

  “Whadddup?” Billie glided in, wearing a Mrs. Claus apron, carrying a plate of frosted Christmas cookies. “Mom and I just baked these. We knew you were studying and didn’t want to interrupt. Now I don’t care. Want one?” she wiggled the plate in front of me.

  “Maybe later,” I coughed. I hadn’t felt hungry all day, which I contributed to pre-test nerves. “Thanks, though,” I smiled, then sneezed into my elbow.

  “Please tell me you’re not getting sick as soon as classes are over,” Billie whined, clearing a spot for her to sit down.

  “I’m not sick!” I shot back defensively. My hoarse voice wasn’t incredibly convincing.

  “That’s whatcha get for swapping cooties with Cyclops,” she teased. “I saw him leave here in a hurry last week. What were y’all talking about?”

  “Gonorrhea.”

  “Good. It’s always good to make sure your partner is clean before insertion occurs. What a great student I have,” Billie pinched my chin, got up, and plugged in the TV. She reclined on the sofa and flicked through the channels.

  “Wait!” I grabbed the remote. A flash of neon on the news caught my eye.

  “No, you shouldn’t watch that!” Billie tried to snatch the remote back in attempt to shield me from what was on the screen. They were there, picketing on the steps of the Florida State Capitol.

  “Those fag-lovers wanna to legalize gay marriage,” a large woman spat at the news anchor, her bloated face barely fitting in the frame. I dropped the remote, recognizing Joy’s unpleasant expression. “God won’t stand for it. He sure won’t. Men with men! Women with women! Disgustin’. It’s against the natural order! Do ya support such an unnatural couplin’?” Joy directed the question at the news anchor.

  “My partner and I believe marriage is a human right. We’d like to be granted the same rights as straight couples,” he replied without skipping a beat.

  “That’s too bad,” a tsk-tsk sound hissed through Joy’s lips as she shook her head. She seized the microphone out of the anchor’s hand. “Let this man be a lesson to all y’all out there livin’ in sin. The end is near. Judgment day is upon us.” The man’s face turned as blue as his suit as he grasped his neck, signaling distress to the camera crew. Joy stepped out of the frame. The news anchor collapsed on the ground, foam and drool dribbling from his mouth. His body began to jerk, while his colleagues tried to hold him down, then all of a sudden, he was eerily still and didn’t move again.

  Billie covered her gaping mouth with her hand. My heart strained against my rib cage, growing more frantic with each beat, panic pumping through my veins. Billie’s face was pale as she clicked off the TV.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she muttered, attempting to compose herself by managing a reassuring smile and combing out the wrinkles in her blouse.

  “’Don’t worry about it’? That guy just died on live television!” I screamed back at her, pacing Back and forth in front of the TV. My stomach lurched forward in an anxiety ridden flutter.

  “He probably had a heart condition?” A bead of sweat glistened from Billie’s temple as it trickled down to her brow.

  “They know I’m here, Billie! Joy is probably parked on the curb, wolfing down her triple cheeseburger, planning to drag me back to hell,” I was tormented with memories of mine and Joy’s last encounter, filled with neon signs and marked by a narrow escape.

  “Mom knew,” Billie blurted out.

  “What do you mean? She knew they were in Tallahassee, forty minutes away?”

  “Yeah, well, you remember that personal investigator she hired at the start of summer? He and his associate have been keeping an eye on the Smiths. They reported to mom last week, that Blood of Christ was in town, so they’ve been surveying the situation and have tightened up security around the house. Mom seems to think the Smiths know where we live—that they’ve known for a long while,” Billie sighed, clutching a throw pillow in her lap.

  “I—” I picked up my notecards once again, attempting to block out the chaos and refocus. Bile rose in my throat, and this time, it wasn’t a threat. My heart thumped in my ear as I tried to gulp down a trail of thick saliva. “I think—I think I’m gonna be sick,” I covered my mouth and ran to the kitchen, emptying the contents of my stomach into the trashcan.

  10

  God’s Love, The Greatest Lie

  After my last final, I headed home that morning and crawled back in bed. I felt like death. My lungs burned with each and every breath. It was nearly noon when my alarm sounded, signaling it was time to show up for my shift at the Soda Fountain. I tugged on a loose sweater and went to retrieve Billie from in front of the TV. Aunt June insisted I be driven to work, rather than walking alone. I popped four Ibuprofen and didn’t argue.

  The familiar chime of the entry bell jingled in my ear, causing me to cringe at the shrill sound. The shop was completely empty. I found Hemming back in his office, hunched over paperwork.

  “Hi,” I called out, my voice scratchy. “I’m here ‘til close, if there’s something you need to go do.” Hemming always left when I appeared, returning only before my shift was over. Though, I wasn’t sure where he went. It was none of my business.

  His scarred face peered up from the stack of papers. “You’re ill?”

  “No,” I lied, muffling a cough.

  “Go home, Miss Fox,” he ordered, stapling sheets together.

/>   “I don’t want to go home,” I yawned, searching for a place to sit down. I walked around his desk and lowered myself into his lap.

  Hemming froze for a moment. Then, he set the stapler down, focusing his attention on me. “So, you’d rather infect all of our loyal patrons?”

  “Yes.”

  I leaned into him and rested my head on his shoulder, hoping my weight wasn’t crushing his legs. His warmth felt nice against my skin, but Hemming didn’t relax. “Are you hungry? Would you like me to—hmph—get you something to eat?”

  “No.”

  Hemming’s hand was hesitant as he picked a piece of lint off my sweater. He casted the piece of fluff aside and rested his hands around my waist, pulling me closer. “Did you do well on your finals?”

  I chuckled, which scorched my throat, amused by Hemming’s attempt at normal conversation. “I made a B on the art final, which I took today and was comprehensive, and A’s on the rest,” I relayed, feeling proud of myself. The semester had been challenging, and I noticed I studied more than most, yet my efforts yielded the same results as the rest.

  Hemming grunted in acknowledgement, and I figured we’d reached the end of our mundane conversation. I redirected my attention to his desk, where a paper titled “Last Will and Testament” sat. A pang of sadness jolted through me, but before I could ask about the paper, the front door jingled once again.

  I left his office to tend to the customer. I’d wear gloves and not cough on the ice cream, I assured Hemming. No big deal. I tied my apron and sanitized my hands, making my way to the counter.

  “My, my miss Katie,” a familiar masculine voice lingered in the air, and I stiffened at the sound. I whipped around to find the source, standing in front of the quarter machine, with his back to me. The white-haired man rummaged through his pockets for a quarter, inserting it into the machine. I watched the quarter fall, and the lever moved forward, pushing a few quarters off the ledge and into the coin retrieval. He smacked his cane against the floor in excitement. “Would you look at that? Beginner’s luck,” a sly grin expanded across his face, holding up four quarters, meeting my wide eyes with his icy blue ones.