Lily

by Michael Thomas Ford

  She and Lester rode without speaking, creeping along until they came to a paved road and the trucks could drive more quickly. Lester continued to smoke cigarette after cigarette, and the smell permeated the still air, which despite the open windows seemed trapped in the cab. Lily’s throat began to burn, and she wished she could find it in her to ask him to pull over and let her go into the wagon.

  “Where are we going?” Lily asked.

  “Vinton,” said Lester. This meant nothing to Lily, but Lester offered no further information. Besides, one town looked like the next, and she never ventured outside the grounds of the Holy Gospel Caravan anyway.

  Lester reached over. Lily flinched.

  “Don’t get excited,” Lester said. “I’m just gettin’ something out of the glove box.”

  He pushed a button, and the box fell open. Inside was a bottle, which Lester pulled out. He uncorked it with his teeth, then took a long pull on it. He held the bottle out to Lily. “Want a swallow?” he asked.

  Lily shook her head. Lester placed the bottle between his legs, resting on the seat, and lit another cigarette from the stump of the old one. Lily concentrated on the lights on the truck ahead of them, wondering how long it would take to get to Vinton.

  “You and your ma are somethin’ of a mystery,” Lester said. “Nobody knows much about you. Not even where you’re from. It’s almost like you’re runnin’ from somethin’.”

  Lily looked out the window. Clouds had formed, blotting out the stars, and it felt like rain.

  “Let me guess,” Lester continued. “Your pa treated her mean.”

  Lily, thinking of her father’s face, and remembering how he had tucked her into her bed each night and kissed her on the forehead, started to object. But maybe it was easier if the man believed what he wanted. Even though it pained her to suggest, even tacitly, that her father had been anything but kind, Lily said, “Yes. That’s it.”

  “I figured so,” Lester said. “The way she keeps to herself. Well, mostly,” he added as he picked up the bottle and took another drink. “She and the Reverend seem to be gettin’ along just fine.”

  The first drops of rain spattered against the windshield. Lester turned on the wipers, which groaned and slid reluctantly across the glass. They didn’t do much to clear away the water, and the view outside became distorted, a kaleidoscope of taillights. It made Lily slightly dizzy. She leaned her head out the window, letting the rain fall on her face.

  “Hey,” Lester said. “Get your head back in here. You don’t want to go getting numoaney.”

  Lily didn’t know what he was talking about, but she did as he asked. She rolled the window up so that the rain couldn’t get in, then leaned her cheek against it. She was trying to figure out how to ask Lester about the witch’s daughter.

  “Must be hard, not havin’ many girls your age around,” he said. “Must get kind of lonely.”

  “Sometimes,” Lily said, surprised that he would even notice such a thing.

  “What you need is a friend. Someone who treats you nice like.”

  Lily, sensing an opportunity, said, “There’s the girl with the marks on her skin.”

  “The witch girl?” Lester said. He shook his head, as if Lily had spoken a deplorable word. “You don’t want to go gettin’ mixed up with that one.”

  “Why not?” Lily asked.

  “First of all, the Reverend wouldn’t like it none,” said Lester. “More important, she’s just plain evil.”

  “Because of what her mother did?” Lily said.

  Lester spat out the window. “Just because she is. Some people are born bad.”

  “Someone told me she has a sister,” Lily said.

  Lester nodded. “She does,” he said. “From what I hear, she’s even worse’n the other one. Never seen her myself.”

  “Why not?” Lily asked.

  “They keep her locked up, away from the other freaks,” said Lester. “I could see her if I wanted to. Some of the other fellas visit her pretty regular.” He looked over at Lily and grinned at her with rotten teeth. “But I don’t want to get messed up with that devilry. I’m a righteous man.”

  Lily didn’t reply to this remark. She was growing tired. The pattering of the rain on the truck’s roof and the rhythmic tump-tump-tump of the tires on the road made her want to close her eyes. She did, and soon she slept.

  She dreamed about the monkeys. She was in a forest, following a figure who remained just out of her sight. The trees were full of the tiny, mocking figures. As she tried to make her way, they jumped from branch to branch, scolding and hooting in their shrill voices. They sat just above her head, caressing themselves with their tiny hands and reaching for her hair. She tried not to look at them, but they were everywhere.

  Then the forest and the monkeys were gone, and she was looking at a disheveled bed in a cramped and dirty room. Lying on the bed, atop a stained and crumpled sheet, was Lester. Several empty bottles were scattered about the floor, and a half-full one was still clutched in his lifeless hand, as if he’d been determined to take it with him to wherever his soul had departed. His head was turned to one side, and a trickle of sick, now dried and covered in flies, ran from his lips onto the pillow.

  Lily opened her eyes. Looking down, she saw Lester’s hand resting on her leg. He had pushed her dress up, and his grimy fingers were caressing her skin. It was this contact that had triggered the vision of his death.

  She still smelled the foulness of the room, still saw his pale, lifeless face as he turned to her and showed his stained smile. “What you need is a friend,” he said.

  She pushed his hand away and pulled her dress down.

  “I was just bein’ friendly.” He sounded wounded. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I thought you liked me.”

  Even though it was still raining, Lily opened the window. She breathed in the clean air, and let the rain touch her face. This time, Lester didn’t tell her to stop.

  “Just bein’ friendly,” he said again.

  They didn’t speak again. Lily pushed herself as tightly as she could into the corner between the seat and the door. Lester continued to smoke and sip from the bottle. The rain kept falling, and the road rolled on until, with the sun still not up, they turned onto a smaller road and rumbled through fields of corn. When they passed a sign saying WELCOME TO VINTON, Lily began to breathe more easily. And when, twenty minutes later, the truck came to a stop in a field, she leapt out and ran to the wagon. Opening the door, she retreated inside and fell into her bed, where she slept without dreaming.

  T W E N T Y - F O U R

  “STOP THAT NONsense,” Baba Yaga told the monkey, rapping his tiny, busy hand with a stick she’d picked off the floor of the moving truck.

  The monkey obeyed, but leaned back, holding on to the bars of the cage with both fingers and toes, exposing himself and daring her not to look. She again smacked him with the stick, this time aiming lower. The monkey yelped and grabbed at himself, which caused him to tumble into a pile of shit-covered straw.

  self, which caused him to tumble into a pile of shit-covered straw.

  “You think I haven’t dealt with that sort of thing before?” Baba Yaga said as he attempted to extricate himself from the mess. “You’re lucky I didn’t magic it away.”

  She couldn’t really do it, of course, but the monkey didn’t know that, and looked alarmed. He wiped bits of straw from his fur and covered himself as best he could. He wished he had his pants.

  “Now then,” Baba Yaga said. “Tell me about the girl there.” She glanced at the other cage, where the witch’s daughter was asleep, curled into a tight ball like a kitten.

  The monkey chittered an answer, which caused Baba Yaga to raise an eyebrow and snort. “Is that so?” she said. “I’m surprised she allows that. She seems spirited enough.”

  The monkey scratched himself out of habit, realized what he was doing, and quickly removed his paw. He said something more.

  “Ah,” said Baba Yaga. “
I understand now.” She sighed. “I’m beginning to think this world could do with a bit of a sorting out. Which reminds me, what do you think of this god of theirs?”

  The monkey, who currently had a finger stuck up his asshole both because he itched back there and because he thought it would keep him from offending Baba Yaga, considered the question. He was seldom asked his thoughts on anything, and had never before had a conversation about subjects much deeper than the wonderfulness of bananas or the unpleasantness of spending most of one’s life perched on the shoulder of a clown. He had, however, thought about things on his own, and had developed some firm opinions, which he now shared with the old woman.

  “Yes, yes,” said Baba Yaga. “I think you’re right about that. But religion is such a strange thing, isn’t it? Who’s to say?”

  The monkey elaborated on his previous point. Baba Yaga snorted. “Having your own god is all well and good,” she said. “I’m just not sure this one is everything they seem to think he is. I’ve been waiting for him to turn up, so that I can ask him about some things that have been on my mind, but so far he’s kept his distance.”

  The monkey screeched.

  “Yes, I imagine he could be busy,” Baba Yaga conceded.

  The monkey pointed and said something else.

  “Do you like it?” Baba Yaga said. “I could make you one of your own if you like.”

  She rooted about in her various pockets, pulling out paper and some clever silver stars that she’d discovered could be stuck to things if one licked their backs. After a minute or two of tearing and gluing, she took the tiny crown she’d fashioned and placed it on the monkey’s head.

  “It suits you,” she told him. “Now I suppose the others will think you’re their king or some such.”

  The monkey jabbered.

  “Well, it involves a lot of water,” Baba Yaga explained. “Yes, I suppose you could do it in a bucket. It didn’t take with me, but you might very well have a different result. It might help if you hold them under for a longer time.”

  The monkey scampered away, calling to his brothers. Baba Yaga left him to his undertaking, opening the back of the truck and scrambling onto the roof, where she could ride with the wind and the rain. As she settled atop the truck, she chuckled to herself as she imagined the clowns’ puzzlement when they made their discovery the next morning.

  T W E N T Y - F I V E

  ON THE CARAVAN’S first night in Vinton, Lily sat in the stands, listening to the Reverend preach. She had met with four visitors earlier in the evening. Their deaths had been difficult ones to witness, but she was becoming used to the seemingly endless parade of violence and sadness. She no longer was shocked. But she was tired. Still, she wanted to see the witch’s daughter. She had been thinking about her constantly since their meeting.

  As Everyman launched into his now-familiar patter about sin and its consequences, she waited expectantly. The witch’s daughter was always the final example, meant to shock anyone in the audience who still doubted the preacher’s testimony.

  But this time, she didn’t appear. Instead, an armless and legless man was brought out in a wheeled chair. The stumps of his truncated limbs looked raw, as if instead of being born with his condition, he had suffered some kind of recent accident. Lily could see that the flesh that remained was held together with black thread that crisscrossed the man’s body like the footprints of insects.

  Everyman went over to the man and placed a hand on his shoulder. The man winced. Something about his face seemed familiar to Lily.

  “My friends,” the preacher said. “Tonight I’ve shown you some tragic examples of the wages of sin. And now, before I offer you the opportunity to come before the Lord and ask his forgiveness, I give you one more. This is Marty. Just weeks ago, he was as whole as I am.”

  The Reverend stood behind the man’s chair and stretched out his own arms, reminding the crowd of what Marty might have looked like with a complete body. He held the pose for a moment before continuing.

  “What do you think Marty’s sin was, friends?” he asked.

  There was a momentary hush. Then a woman shouted out, “Fornication!”

  Her enthusiasm encouraged others, and around the tent voices called out: “Blasphemy!” “Sloth!” “Avarice!” In the row just below Lily, a man stood to his feet and bellowed, “Self abuse!”

  Everyman let them call out their guesses, cupping a hand to his ear to encourage them to speak more loudly. Whenever a new voice was raised, he pointed a finger in the direction of the speaker and then clapped his hands, suggesting that they might be correct.

  “Gluttony!” “Idleness!” “Thievery!”

  “Perversion!” “Idolatry!” “Covetousness!”

  The Reverend held up his hands. “Thank you, brothers and sisters. You have comported yourselves most righteously. I see that you’ve studied the word of God and know what it is that most offends him. Yet none of you have guessed correctly.”

  A disappointed murmur moved through the tent.

  “In the book of Matthew,” the preacher said. “Jesus says to his disciples, Except ye turn, and become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of heaven.” He indicated Marty. “Many times God offered this man salvation. And many times, this man refused it.”

  Marty turned his head away. He looked up into the stands, and Lily saw him clearly, and recognized him. He was one of the men who had accompanied Mr. Scratch to the carnival. He had been standing outside the tent on the day on which she had been tested.

  “God will only be refused so many times, brothers and sisters!” Everyman continued. “Then there will come a day when he will remind you of his power and might. He reminded Marty of this by making him as a little child again. Now, like a child, he depends on others to feed him, to bathe him, to clothe him. Now, as helpless as a child, he must come before God and ask for forgiveness. Because only then can he be saved.”

  Everyman walked to the front of the stage, leaving Marty and his chair in the spotlight.

  “Come, my friends,” he said. “Stand and come forward to receive forgiveness and salvation.”

  Many in the audience got to their feet, crowding into the aisles to go to the front of the big top, where Everyman and the clowns waited for them. Marty, alone on the stage, watched them with an expression of pain, anger, and humiliation. Lily, recalling the fearless set of his eyes the first time she’d seen him, as if there was nothing in the world stronger than himself, wondered just what had brought him low. Whatever it was, she couldn’t see how God would have any part in it.

  She left the stands and went out into the night. While the clowns were distracted with their work, she sought out the green truck in which the witch’s girl traveled. It was unattended, but the padlock was closed, preventing her from opening the doors.

  She found an empty crate and dragged it beneath the window on the girl’s side of the truck. Standing on it, she could just barely see through the bars. The witch’s daughter was there, sitting in her cage. She was wearing only a thin dress, and they had taken away her blanket. The smell coming from inside the truck was terrible.

  “Are you all right?” Lily called.

  The witch’s daughter looked up at her. “The monkeys are dead,” she said. “All but one of them. They say I did it. But I didn’t. They were dead when I woke up. They didn’t believe me.”

  “The door is locked,” said Lily. “Do you know where the key is?”

  “One of the clowns has it. He keeps it on a ring on his belt.”

  Lily’s heart fell. How was she going to find one clown among so many? And once she found him, how was she going to get the key? Still, she wanted to give the witch’s daughter hope, and so she said, “I’m going to go look for it.”

  The girl said nothing in reply, and so Lily climbed down from the crate and left her there as she went in search of the clown. She really had no idea where to begin. The clowns were scattered all across the carnival, some helping
with the crowds of worshippers, some operating the rides and attractions, and some simply loitering in the alleyways.

  After following half a dozen of them, and finding nothing, Lily was thinking she would have to give up. Then, as she skirted the edge of the midway, she saw Ash. He was on the merry-go-round, sitting astride a painted wooden rabbit that appeared to be leaping through the air. It was blue, and had a saddle decorated with gold and pink roses. Ash was holding onto the pole that extended from its back. As he passed by Lily, he acknowledged her with a nod.

  She stood and watched as he circled several more times. Then the music that accompanied the ride slowed, and the carousel came to a stop. Ash dismounted from the rabbit and came over to where Lily stood. He reached into a pocket and held out his palm. On it rested a key.

  “How did you know?” she asked, taking it.

  “I didn’t,” Ash told her. “I don’t now. But I know you need to open something. This will do that. But only once. Then it will refuse to open anything.”

  Lily wrapped her hand around the key. “Thank you,” she said.

  She hurried back to the green truck, pausing only a moment before sliding the key into the padlock. It clicked open, and she pulled it free. Opening the doors, she reeled as a foul odor belched out. She turned her head away, gasping. It was the scent of death.

  Fighting the desire to flee, she went inside, covering her nose and mouth with her hand. The witch’s daughter was lying on the floor inside her cage, unmoving. Lily rushed to the door and slid the key into the smaller lock holding it shut. She turned it, and it refused to move. Then she remembered Ash’s words. She tried again anyway, but could tell it was useless.

  “Wake up,” she said as loudly as she dared.

  The girl stirred. After a moment, she sat up.

  Lily glanced about the truck, looking for anything that would help. It was then that she saw the pile of bodies heaped in the other cage. The tiny, furry limbs were tumbled together like sticks. Small, dead eyes stared back at her.