by Nisi Shawl
Cinnamon wasn’t going there. “Is that Klaus Beckenbauer with you?”
“Who else? He should come around soon.” Marie peeled derma-wax from Klaus’s nose and chin. “The pass-out heart-thing looks worse than it is. That’s what Klaus says. I don’t know if I believe him. Maybe dancing in this heat was a bad idea. He can still kick it, though.”
“No, no.” Cinnamon gripped a sweetgrass broom leaning against the sofa and let her theatre voice boom. “You two can’t just sneak back into somebody’s life in fucking disguises and then do idle chit-chat about pronouns and sexy dance moves.”
“You looked right through us!” Marie yelled too. Bruja sat up and whined. “How could you not recognize us?” Marie was mad that their disguises worked so well. This was unreasonable, but Cinnamon swallowed an angry retort. Marie sniffled and stroked Klaus’s chest again. “The air is better in here. Look at him breathe.” She blinked contacts lenses into a plastic case. Familiar brown eyes glared at Cinnamon. “I’m still not nice, you know. I’ve never been nice.”
“I remember.” Cinnamon always liked how snarky Marie was. “You two are like, ghosts come to haunt me. Spooky.”
Marie rolled her eyes, still a hardcore realist. “Is it spooky and nice at least?”
Klaus, Marie, and Cinnamon had been tight friends back in Pittsburgh, more than friends actually, teenagers in love, doing plays, dancing, and carrying on. Klaus and Marie were Cinnamon’s first loves. She’d lost track of them. Her heart ached to see them again, on her sofa. The passion they’d professed for each other at sixteen and seventeen was stored deep in her heart—part of her algorithm for love. How could they be real?
“We were so sullen, ardent, and clueless.” Loneliness crashed into Cinnamon, crushed her chest, made her gasp.
Marie eyed her. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Out there quoting Japanese wisdom from the old country—really?” Marie snorted.
“From Granddaddy Aidan’s journal, not about you being Japanese-American.”
“But you talk that crap to strangers? Jesus.”
“I can’t believe you’re fussing over nothing, and after all this time.”
Marie softened. “I was joking.”
“Ha, ha.” Cinnamon’s costume itched prickly skin. “What is it, thirty years?”
“Forty years and some change. And I recognized you right off.” Marie pouted.
“Well, I’m not trying to hide my face, am I?”
“But you are hiding out here all alone! Taiwo is mad at you for that and for going country and throwback on us. Anti-technology, you?”
“Yeah. I’ve killed three AI assistants—Willy, Milly, and Geraldine—fussbudget spies, collecting my data, talking so sweet, and the bitches were steady using me against me.” Cinnamon balled her fists. “How could you come as salesmen?”
Marie flipped her braids from side to side. “Hiding in the outback is no way better than masquerading on the road.” Marie was always good on nailing her.
Cinnamon bent over Klaus. “What can I do?” She stroked his head. He loved that when they were young.
Marie clutched his hand. “He didn’t really explain. He said don’t worry unless it takes more than thirty minutes for him to come ’round.”
“That’s bullshit if I ever heard it.”
“You know how he is.”
“Still?”
Marie almost burst into tears. “Sorry. It is so good to see you. I can’t tell you how good.” She stood up and moved in for a hug.
Cinnamon backed away. She bumped into Taiwo’s altar. A picture of Cinnamon, Klaus, and Marie as teenagers fell over, and the glass in the frame shattered. A thousand pieces sprayed across the floor. Marie dropped down, plucked the old photo from the shards, and shook it gently. Their teenage selves wore goofy smiles and colorful regalia from Africa and Georgia swamp Indians. They were hanging all over each other, love on public display. Cinnamon had forgotten the title of that play—a monster-with-a-golden-heart gig. Marie touched their eager, sweet faces. They were fearless, staring out at a grand future. She held it against her chest and swallowed a sob. Cinnamon grabbed the sweetgrass broom again and swept up the glass, letting Marie collect herself. Marie hated public display. Cinnamon dampened a cloth in a water can and wiped up the tiny fragments.
Marie hovered over her. “So what are you doing?”
“What? Oh, you mean with my life.” An awful question. “What are you two doing? Salesmen?” Cinnamon was disappointed and jealous. At least Klaus and Marie were in the muck together. She dumped the glass in bottle recycling. “Couldn’t you find anything better to do?”
“You haven’t been out on the road.” Marie was ready to cry again. She set the photo back in the altar among cowry shells, red feathers, and giant acorns. “I like who I used to be. I miss her, and every day takes me further away, to, to—”
“To some cranky stranger with bad teeth and a foul temper.” Cinnamon and Marie laughed and fell into a hug. It was awkward and itchy at first.
“What’s this fabric?” Marie marveled as the demon feathers and feelers turned soft and silky.
“Second skin. Taiwo’s juju-tech.” Cinnamon pecked Marie’s cheek, chaste and reserved suddenly. There was no protocol for old teenage lovers sneaking back in your life—gray, crinkled, and tough as nails. She bent over Klaus again. His eyes fluttered.
“A kiss would wake me right up.” He grinned at her, cheeks pale and cool again.
“I guess you’ll have to go on dreaming then.” Cinnamon didn’t resist as he tugged her close and kissed her forehead. He sat up slowly. She kissed his rough cheek and touched the pulse on his neck. It was steady, strong.
“I was listening to you two. It felt like a dream.” He laid his cheek in the palm of Cinnamon’s hand.
Marie poked his shoulder. “So what, you’re fine now?”
“Almost. A little hungry, but otherwise fine.” Neither Cinnamon nor Marie challenged him. “Dancing in the sun, I worked up an appetite.”
“Uh huh.” Cinnamon gave him the stink eye.
“My condition looks worse than it is.” He raised his voice. “I’m a doctor. Trust me.”
“Where’s the potty?” Marie asked, scowling. Cinnamon pointed.
“Where’s the kitchen?” Klaus jumped up, acting fit and frisky. “You got any food?”
Cinnamon jumped up beside him. “I’ll get you something.”
Of course Klaus had to come around the corner with her. A screen and a wall of DVDs hung opposite the refrigerator over a breakfast nook. Klaus stroked a row of old-fashioned jewel cases.
“You don’t stream movies, I take it.” He pulled out Brother from Another Planet and The Shape of Water. “Do you have Black Panther?”
“No streaming.” Cinnamon fought a wave of self-righteousness. “Remember Aunt Iris busting up the TV?”
“During commercials.” He pushed the films back in.
“Why hand your enemies the keys to the kingdom?”
He laughed as she smeared a fortune in cashew butter on a thick slice of three-seed rye. She added fresh strawberries from her greenhouse. Klaus scarfed the food down and chugged a mug of lukewarm green tea.
“So what’s your story?” She tried to sound casual.
“I’m jealous. Marie didn’t talk to me like to you and no snark. As if I don’t have all the cups in my cupboard.”
“Cups in the cupboard is a German thing; we say all the lights aren’t on, or something.”
“I didn’t recognize Marie either. She was standing under my nose, grinning.” He spooned the last of the cashew butter onto another hunk of bread. “We weren’t expecting each other, not like walking up to your dumb house, knowing you’d try to kick our predatory capitalist asses.” Delighted at this image of Cinnamon, he popped whole strawberries into his mouth and swallowed without chewing.
“You can’t blame Marie. It’s not like you talk unless we beat it out of you.” Cinnamon passed him a hunk of soy
cheese.
“Marie’s as sad as you.” Klaus ran his finger over Cinnamon’s creased forehead.
She stroked his sparse hair. “Is Marie as sad as you?”
“I hear you all talking about me!” Marie yelled from the bathroom.
Klaus crammed cheese in his mouth and crept back toward the center room. Balance was elusive. He steadied himself against the wall and smiled at the props and sweetgrass baskets and fans. Bruja thumped her tail, encouraging him.
“You’re a charmer,” Cinnamon said. “Witch-dog prefers circus-bots to most people.”
“What about you, you been good? You got yourself a magic haven, not a dumb house.” He was on the sofa again, shivering. “Sit down so we can all talk, tell each other everything.” He winked at her. “I got a chill in my bones. Warm me up.”
Cinnamon wanted to let her heart go, let it fly to him and Marie, but folks dropping out of nowhere was a bad sign. Cinnamon was on somebody’s radar. Marie swooped in from the bathroom and pulled Cinnamon down on the sofa with Klaus. After a few awkward moments, they squished close together and giggled like teenagers and old farts. Klaus popped out the misty green contacts. His silvery blue eyes were sad, tired. Cinnamon clutched their hands and looked across the room to the photo. It felt like looking across the years.
Klaus had been a Doctor Without Borders and Marie a Singer Without a Stage until the water wars. They stuttered, talking around the present, vague and protective. But stories about old times, magic times, tumbled out of everybody’s mouths. Cinnamon wanted to hug them close and never let them leave. She also wanted to chase them out the house.
“So tell me, people.” Cinnamon shook off a suspicious funk that could have paralyzed her and pulled them close. “You did deep research and ambushed me. I know zip about recent history. How long have you been hooked up?” Jealousy was better than depression.
Klaus and Marie pulled away from her. “We just met this morning.” They spoke in unison as if they’d rehearsed this. “Nobody else—”
“Wanted to come out to my hoodoo-voodoo farm.” Cinnamon chuckled. Forty years and they still finished each other’s sentences, and she was still jealous for nothing.
Marie flipped her braids around. “Taiwo and haints, come on.”
“A ghost-dog and a witch-dog.” Klaus poked her demon second skin. “And this costume.”
“A good horror-rep is the best protection against desperadoes.” Corporate spies were another matter.
“Can we trust you?” Marie squinted, looking for signs of betrayal.
“Of course we can,” Klaus blinked at Cinnamon. “Can’t we?”
Marie reached over Cinnamon and slugged him. “Naïve people get killed.”
“You all in some kind of trouble?” Cinnamon sucked her teeth. “Is that why you—”
“Came to see you? No.” Klaus looked wounded.
“We’re Whistleblowers,” Marie whispered, proud and devilish, “not real salesmen.”
“You told her, not me.” Klaus held his breath.
Bold Marie stroked Cinnamon’s braids. Klaus pulled one that curled tight at her forehead down to her chin. They were saying just what Cinnamon wanted to hear. “So you’re warning folks about toxins, scams, and hostile takeovers.”
Klaus nodded. “Any straight up evil mess.”
Cinnamon licked dry lips. “People say the Whistleblower thing is an urban legend. Wishful thinking.”
“Scheiße!” Klaus cursed in German.
“Yeah, shit,” Marie groaned. “That’s exactly what the big corps want you to think.”
“Die Arschgeigen!” Klaus muttered.
“Ass-violins? Ass-fiddles? Really?” Cinnamon was laughing.
“People should believe, even if we are secret.” Klaus hissed. “We should be possible.”
“Join us. You’d be a great Whistleblower.” Marie sounded excited.
“You’re here to recruit me?”
“For a traveling show.” Klaus was smooth. “We got inside info, sugar. Double agents gotta know what’s what.”
Consolidated or some other mega-corp was after Cinnamon’s farm and the other Co-op farms nearby. A slick algorithm expected her to jump at fancy rigs, bug drones, and hair-thin sensors. Eighty percent chance that curiosity might bankrupt her, and a mega-corp could scoop up the entire region. One farm failing would start a cascade.
Cinnamon was flabbergasted. “My land, not information?”
“Co-ops are a threat.” Marie shrugged like it was obvious. “Dumb houses are a nuisance, a gateway drug.”
“To what? Revolution? You’re kidding.” Cinnamon had to get out more.
“Food, social resources, water,” Klaus said.
“One system to rule them all.” Marie did a wicked monster laugh.
“Shh,” Klaus looked around. “Do you hear that?”
I am Guardian at the Gates
I have many plenty heads! You do not know me
I ask:
Which direction you goin’ take?
Who you mean to be?
“Taiwo’s morning chant, second verse,” Cinnamon said.
“It echoes through the house all day.” Marie shook Klaus. “Is that cool or what?”
Color painted Klaus’s cheeks. “How does that work?
Cinnamon pointed. “Speak your heart to the Eshu altar that guards the house.”
Marie tugged Cinnamon’s arm. “So, you want to be a Whistleblower? Do guerilla traveling theatre?”
Cinnamon slumped. She wasn’t ready for them or for all that. “I can’t leave the farm or ditch the Co-ops.”
Klaus and Marie looked crushed at this plausible excuse, then Marie spoke. “We thought you’d say that.”
“The farm, the Co-op, that’s good work,” Klaus added.
A bell rang. It was like being wrenched out of a dream. Taiwo called them to the gate. Cinnamon was relieved. She shouldn’t trust anybody too quickly, not even Klaus and Marie. “I’m sorry about getting you fired. The Ghost Mall infirmary is great. They’ll patch you up, patch up your dumb car. Nobody will suspect you’re Whistleblowers.”
“We still got jobs.” Klaus stood up. “Getting fired is part of the pitch.”
“Can we leave a chant for you?” Marie asked.
“Why not?” Cinnamon went to the garage to get wheels for Marie and to hook up a trailer to her bike for Klaus. She’d hear the chant later, a surprise to come home to. Marie packed up the inflatables, Bruja nipping at her heels. Klaus insisted on walking to the garage. He took precise steps, not a joule of energy wasted. Cinnamon stuffed the flatbed trailer with Miz Redwood’s pillows.
He sank into them, stretched out his legs and sighed. “I’ll be fine.”
THE BIKE PATH wandered two miles through the woods. The pink-orange rays of the setting sun got tangled in stark black boughs and branches. The air close to the ground was blue-green and hazy. Cinnamon’s pedal-people bike lumbered along like a tank. Klaus was no heavier than other gear she’d hauled. Cinnamon tried not to worry. Nobody’s cover was blown. Maybe she’d have her old friends in her life or they’d disappear again. For sure she’d pay off Consolidated with the last of her savings.
Loud bangs and angry voices jolted her. She pumped the pedals harder. Bruja ran ahead, a silver streak vanishing beyond the trees. Cinnamon squeezed the brakes just before they slammed into the gate. Klaus groaned at the abrupt halt. She jumped from the saddle, peering at the road. Marie pulled up beside them. Klaus stepped out of the trailer. They pressed their faces against the iron latticework.
A short way down the road, a car exploded in flames, an old jalopy, what salesmen drove. Cinnamon shuddered and looked around for Bruja. Witch-dog had a secret passage to the main road. Cinnamon whistled for her.
“Not our car,” Marie said, calm. “We wheeled if off the road and covered it in bushes.”
A mob of men taunted each other beyond the burning vehicle. Their blood-smeared suits, raggedy jeans, and denim jackets coul
d have been rival team jerseys. “Bad boys, desperadoes, and salesmen,” Klaus sucked his teeth like Cinnamon. “The ambulance won’t drive into this.”
Taiwo jumped through the stringy yellow flowers and red leaf-buds of a white oak onto the blazing car. Muscled, scarred, and fierce, Taiwo looked like a buff African Amazon. A little more gray in the crown of braids these days, but not much change since Cinnamon was sixteen. Taiwo wore a black and red top hat from Carnival decorated with cowry shells and plumes. Lightning streaked across the storm-cloud cape as it fluttered around a cutlass. The men missed this grand entrance, banging and slashing at one another. Bruja barked and got their attention. They swallowed whatever they’d been yelling and froze.
Taiwo drew the fire from the car, sucking down blue and orange licks of flame. The mob was ready to pee themselves as Taiwo spit the blaze toward the orange ball of sun at the end of the road. Flames winked out or merged into the bright light. The blackened jalopy shifted under Taiwo’s weight and belched ashes out broken windows. The mob was backing away. Bruja ran to Taiwo, who cut a fine figure backlit by the sun, storm-cape snapping in the wind: badass monster on the case.
“You must be willing to die in order to live.” Klaus, Marie, and Cinnamon shouted a line from their old monster play in sync. “The lightning eater!”
Mangy desperadoes were the first to bolt, followed by hill town bad boys. Four salesmen gawked at Taiwo on the jalopy, uncertain. Bruja growled, and they jumped into a beat-up SUV and sped off.
“This spectacle should keep folks away for a month.” Cinnamon opened the gate and ran to Taiwo. The old African stumbled off the car roof and leaned on her.
“Good day today, you three together. Fire, easier than lightning, only a night to recover.” Taiwo enveloped Marie, Klaus, and Cinnamon in the storm-cape, holding them close until a driverless ambulance pulled up. Cinnamon had paid for a medic, but why fuss? Klaus and Marie waved from the back window. Cinnamon decided to visit them at the infirmary. Taiwo was right. It was good having folks tugging at her heartstrings.
“Don’t scold me; I won’t scold you,” Taiwo said, and disappeared into a tree house.
