On the Line:

    â€‹“Deckard is the boss man’s name. You’re the new blood, so just make sure you got your head down if you see him. He’s the guy with the King of Diamonds on his lanyard. He thinks everyone ought to know him already, so he thinks it’s funny to wear it. He’s the boss man, though, so he’s prob’ly right. Everyone ought to know Kevin Deckard. Listen, just don’t take your hands off the packing slips, even to wave at him, if you see him. He don’t like being looked at. Don’t take it from me, though.”

At Lunch:

    "That’s Deckard outside the break room. Looks like a nice guy, always laughing. Easy to laugh when you make what that fella makes for just walking around giving folks like us a hard time. He has an office uptown, but he’s always down here, talking it up with the managers. They hate his ass, too. Some time you’ll hear them at their cubicles in the middle of the production floor out there. They’ll be chuckling and doing impressions of Deckard. Lucky he ain’t come by and seen them. Don’t take it from me, though.”

On the Line:

    “He’s got a line, you’ll hear him say it a lot. He says anyone who says you can’t take it with you just ain’t willing to dig a bigger hole. You believe that? When that man dies, he’s going to be surrounded by all the gold he can get his hands on. Ain’t no way to live. Don’t take it from me, though.”

At the Lockers:

    “Some time I imagine Deckard when he goes home. Sitting there with his family. Knock-out wife. She came in once, fine as hell, boy, I tell you. He got two kids, too. Six and four. Little girls just as cute as daisies. I don’t envy them, growing up calling a man like that their daddy. But, I imagine him in that spotless house, like a museum or hospital or something. Goes home, eats his wife’s dinner. Sends them girls to bed. Goes upstairs and pounds the bejesus outta that wife, I tell you, boy, you know it.

    I love my wife, but she ain’t as much to look at. Don’t take it from me, though.”

In the Alley:

    â€‹Deckard lay on the concrete. His wallet lay unfolded on his chest, rifled, and his arm spreads over a pile of distended garbage bags, which he had apparently clung to during the assault.

    The greasy run-off from the garbage trickles nervously into the street, flowing into a puddle of rain water and motor oil. It shines under the streetlight, driving a rainbow into Deckard’s endless eyes like a steak knife.

2: Ardor

    I used to play with Legos as a child, but I never built a prison. I had the colors for it. For this one, at least. Sometimes I played with them in the dirt, or in the sweet cedar ash in front of the fireplace. This cell has a grey, rusted concrete floor. I could’ve grinded down the burnt sienna pastel and smeared it over the little ashen Lego knobs.  My cell also has a cat, but I never had a cat Lego. The bottom half of the walls are green, and a sickly pale yellow over top, like a bowl of split pea soup sitting stagnant, separated. My Legos had all the colors of split pea soup, because I used to make all of my mother’s food with them. We used to cook together, she at the stove and I with a plastic cauldron, until the accident. That was the first fire, when she died, and it was an accident.

    â€‹The priest visited some time ago, maybe a few weeks or a month, to drop off the cat. This cat was being issued to me, as I understand it, for comfort. The priest said it would give me purpose for the remaining time, though the cat doesn’t seem to need me. The guards feed him, and he’s trained to use the toilet in my cell. I spend a lot of time watching him. He’ll chase bugs around, his wild nails clicking madly across the concrete. Sometimes I’ll lay on my side and watch him lick the pea soup walls for hours, and I can almost taste how cold it must be. I think about cooking it, but then I remember the awful taste of melted Legos.

    When I lay down to sleep, the cat leaps up on my chest. He circles once before settling with all of his feet hidden beneath his plump body. I can feel the weight of him, the heat breathing in and out, swelling and shrinking. When I wake, he is sitting in the center of the cell. His eyes meet mine. His tail ticks back and forth, swaying like a drunken metronome. The rusted concrete casts a fiery glow around his shadow that bursts frantically as the light flickers.

3: The Hedges

    The garden glows on a day like this. The summer sky is soon to swell grey, soon to lick at the roots of the fruit trees and flood the fountain. Edgar, a blond boy of nine years, is curled over the edge of the stone fountain. He pretends to be a bear, hand in the water, toying with a clownfish. While he cuts through the gentle waves, the sun dismounts a dizzy cloud and fires a sharp finger at Edgar. It crashes into the fountain, and just as it cuts into Edgar’s eyes, a shout is heard from behind.

            “Boy!” squeals the joyful voice.

            Edgar turns to see about the clicking steps rushing toward him. His eyes are cracked from the prodding sun, and so he only sees a soft blush of what nears him. It is a bell-shaped figure, the dome a flowing forest green. The lip and belt are yellow as the sun, the crown is a burst of strawberry blonde, and two black clappers chime opposite each other, clicking against the cobblestone as if the hours were spinning wildly out of control. It closes in, now sharp in his sight. It is a girl of about his age, mousy-figured and grinning.

            “Boy!” she cries again, stopping just short of diving into the fountain. “Come on! I want to show you something!” She points toward the hedges.

            The labyrinth was a mystery to Edgar. His parents had forbidden him to enter it, as they didn’t want him to lose his way. The girl grips Edgar’s hand, smiling, smiling forever, and tugs at him to come along. Edgar looks toward the hedges. Someone had blanketed the tops of the hedges with white linens along a particular path into the labyrinth. Above the hedges, the clouds have formed a cape around the sun. It would rain soon, and the garden offered little shelter. It would be another hour before his parents came to collect him from the park, and so Edgar clicked along behind the girl until the two were safe beneath the sheets.

            They travel deeper and deeper into the vibrant green growth. The sheets cast shadows upon the stone beneath them, breaking up the sun into stripes along the path. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Soon, the sun is flanked, surrounded, and consumed by the billowing clouds. The bright stripes disappear, and the vibrant greens and yellows slip into a comfortable grey. Edgar and the girl move along beneath the linens at a quickening pace before stumbling into an open area of the maze.

            Children are gathered all around, in their various groups, and only here, in this populated place of the maze, the sun breaks the clouds and exposes the unsheltered courtyard. Within these dense, impassible walls, many children have come to pretend in this growing thing, each traversing down its corridors and beneath the eclipse of its countless sheets, to arrive at this spot. A sudden flash of wind from the path behind him puts Edgar on his hands and knees. He turns quickly to see the path still grey, and the wind tearing the linens from the tops of the hedges. The guides that would lead him back to the fountain now dance violently toward the sky and disappear into the grey.

            At an iron table in the center of the courtyard, children dressed in their parents’ Sunday clothing drink a golden juice. Their boisterous callow voices ring out in a blustery whirlwind of laughter. In one corner of the courtyard, a boy steals a kiss from a girl and turns coyly away. In another corner, a girl does this to a boy, and in yet another, a boy to another boy. The fourth corner completes this pattern, as one girl runs off to chase the other, and the strawberry blonde bell who gaily befell Edgar’s same fate runs off to chase them. Through all this bewildering merriment, Edgar catches the sound of weeping from an aged woman.

            Within the far wall, a woman of middle age, ragged regalia, and haggard features is fallen to her knees and bound by both arms to the hedges. Leafless, petrified vines reach out from the dark innards of the verdant wall and spool themselves about her from wrist to shoulder in thick, tight tangles. As Edgar marvels at this, a boy several years his junior approaches him, leaving a crumpled, leafy trail from the soles of his little Florsheims. The boy is wearing his Sunday best, clutching to his chest a book without a cover. Upon his head, nestled in his flaring, wild hair, rests a set of glasses with cracked lenses. He fumbles as he pulls the book from his breast and perches his busted glasses upon the bump of his little nose. He begins reading from the book.

            The moment the boy utters his first word, the leaves of his last footstep come ablaze. A moment later, the leaves of the step before go up, as well. This continues as he reads, until the flame reaches the hedge wall. The fire catches a bit of the foliage, and sends a quick burst of flame across the hedge, gripping the petrified vines and setting the woman’s arms aglow. The woman lets out a shrill shriek, and at that precise moment, the sun swells fiercely and whitens Edgar’s sight. Edgar stumbles around in the heat, blind, hearing the laughter of the children grow in combat with the shrieking of the woman.

As Edgar is stammering around, a soft linen strikes him in the face, putting him briefly on his backside before catching a strong wind and spinning him swiftly into the sky. The temperature rapidly cools and rain pelts the sheet as Edgar twists against the tangles of the fluttering cocoon, tumbling hand over foot through the storm clouds. He rolls blindly in the sky until he feels the sheet wrap around his wrists and grip tightly. In one sudden twist, the sheet flips behind Edgar and blooms above him, catching him on the wind. He drifts toward the ground, seeing beneath him the stone path that led into the hedges as it comes into view behind a dark smoke. His feet gain traction against the cobbles as the sheet releases his wrists, putting him once again at his hands and knees.

He puts himself to his feet and turns to view the labyrinth. It glows in the storm, blazing unforgivably, spreading toward him over the cobblestones. Edgar turns to run away only to discover the fountain at his heels and the fire surrounding him. With little choice, he climbs upon the edge of the fountain and steps in. The fire crawls up to the edge of the water and begins catching on the shimmering surface. Edgar dives beneath the surface, wondering how long he can hold his breath.

4: Trying Imogen

                The weight of the August evening crawls into the garage with a great nicotine huff. The door was raised so that the smoke could escape, as if it hadn’t already taken up permanent residence in every box, bin, can, tabletop, and canvas bag that forms a cityscape littering the garage. Roger drops into an old wooden dining chair and sets his beer bottle on the coffee-stained gateleg table, sending ashes dancing over the glazed patina surface. He rubs his hands together to dry off the condensation, and adjusts his newsboy hat. Ten years ago, it would have been fashionable to wear such a hat backward, but Roger always thought it looked trendy, thus a thing to be avoided. He pushes his glasses up the narrow bridge of his nose, then pulls a pack of cigarettes from the breast pocket of his tweed blazer and lights up as though he’d been doing it for half a century. Speed is the mark of experience, of course, and Roger could never be brought to suffer the indignity of youth, despite his own age being not yet thirty. He tugs his tie upward, allowing it to bloom over his sweater vest.

The door to the house swings open and a young man, about Roger’s age, steps down into the garage. Following behind him is a thin young woman dressed in a fitted leather vest over a grey tank top and dark blue jeans. Her boots clomp on the plywood steps as she descends into the garage.

                “Hey, Mason,” Roger says, lifting his cigarette and taking notice of the attractive girl. “Who’s this?”

                “Roger, this is Imogen. Imogen, Roger.” Mason nods as Imogen adjusts her patent leather purse to shake Roger’s hand. “She’s a sophomore at ISU.”

                “Good to meet you,” Roger smiles. Her skin, a deep topaz, glows under the incandescent light. He forces his gaze on the ashtray as he flicks his cigarette, but still watches her the way you might watch someone trying to wake you when you’ve made your mind up that you’re still asleep.

“Grab a seat,” Roger waves. He tugs to loosen his tie a bit, suddenly aware that a sweater vest in early August may not have been the best decision.

                “Where’s the beer?” Mason asks.

                Roger points toward the door into the house, signaling the refrigerator in the kitchen. Mason nods and steps inside. Imogen takes a seat across the table from Roger. She reaches into her shiny bag and retrieves a twisted soft pack of cigarettes which have been mangled within and rendered useless.

                “Damn,” Imogen sighs with a wide English accent. “I don’t mean to nudge, but I don’t suppose you have a fag I could bum.”

                Roger is paused at her accent, staring at her with a crooked smile. A Brit in the Midwest is a rarity, and a tickle spins up Roger’s spine at the thought of it. Oh, but now there’s a Brit. The tickle fires into Roger’s stomach, now a twinge, and sinks. It strikes him that his fair-weather anglophilia may really be something of a trivial fanaticism to an Englishwoman, and not the catalyst for cultured conversation that it has been among his American friends. His crooked smile flattens out.

                “I’m sorry, is there something wrong?” Imogen asks, leaning back and perking her shoulders.

                “Oh, sorry, did I not say anything?” Roger fumbles. “I thought—I’m sorry, I thought I said yes, did I not say yes?”

                “No, I’m afraid you didn’t,” Imogen says, returning to her slouch. “Just gave me a look as though I had a knob growing out of my forehead.”

                “No, no, sorry,” Roger stutters, retrieving his cigarettes. “Here.”

                “Thank you.” Imogen flashes a pressed, knowing smile.

Roger watches as she leans to light her cigarette. He trails her glittering black hair down to her slender neck, out to her shoulder, and back down her collar bone. He’s cognizant enough not to stare at her breasts, but rather fixates on her mouth. Her lips wrap tightly around the cigarette, rouged by the glow of lighter’s wriggling flame. Is she dating anyone, Roger wonders. Mason, perhaps, but it’s quite early. He must have met her only days ago, because there was no talk of her at the pub. The pub, Roger thinks. Now that there’s a real Brit around, would he sound pathetic using such a term out loud? It is a pub, after all. It serves food and alcohol. But that’s what Brits call the bar, isn’t it? God forbid he embarrass himself. Maybe just call it a bar. No risk there. Can’t embarrass himself with that. It’s settled, then.

“You’re doing it again,” Imogen says, slipping her hair behind her ear.

“Bar?” Roger blurts out, in place of what.

“I’m sorry?” Imogen scowls.

“What?” Roger shakes his head.

“You were doing it again. Staring. Only this time, the knob was growing out of my chest.”

In all his paranoid considerations of pub versus bar, Roger’s eyes had managed to slip and fixate with a pondering frown upon Imogen’s breasts. How would he fix this? He purses his lips as though prepared to speak, but nothing comes. His mouth opens, but again, nothing comes. He must speak. He must say something. Just start speaking and something will come.

“I was,” he starts, “Or well, I wasn’t, I mean—“

“It’s all right,” she smiles. “You don’t strike me as the type.”

“What type is that?”

She grins. “A tosser.”

“Yes, well,” he starts again. “So, Mason. He’s a good guy.”

“So far. Though, he does strike me as a bit of a tosser.”

“Not so bad, I assume, since you’re dating him,” Roger says, fishing for an answer. “Right?”

“Well, he certainly seems to think so.”

Mason returns from the house with two beers. He hands one to Imogen and takes a seat next to her.

“What are you guys talking about?” he asks, straining his voice as he bends to sit. He exhales to welcome conversation.

“Nothing, really,” Roger says over Imogen.

“Tossers,” she spurts firmly.

“Oh,” Mason pipes. Imogen smiles at Roger. A moment of silence cuts through the humidity.

“Well,” Mason faces Roger, “after we finish our drinks, you want to head to the bar?” Roger nods. Mason and Imogen share a smile and begin talking to each other.

As their conversation carries on, Roger watches them, feigning attention with nods and the occasional breathy chuckle when the tone seems appropriate. He seems to think so. Roger mulls over this. What is that supposed to mean? Is she interested in Mason or not? Mason doesn’t need this kind of thing right now. His father just passed not two weeks ago. Mason is certainly finding some distraction in Imogen, and these are the sorts of distractions that cannot afford to be short-lived. Mason has never been the type to indulge in flings, anyhow. This is why Roger likes Mason. He’s an old-fashioned sort, always looking for something simple and solid, and not the least bit flighty. He isn’t burdened with the abundance of passion that so many others their age can never seem to overcome. He’s a good man, so why wouldn’t she be interested in him? She’s just looking for a fling. Something short, stupid, and messy. Does she know about Mason’s father? The thought that she might starts Roger’s stomach churning. This would certainly be a testament to her character. Roger needs to know if she knows. He waits for a lull in the conversation, the right tone for such a topic. It finally comes.

“I don’t mean to bring this up at such an odd time,” Roger hesitates, “But how are things with you, Mason?”

“It’s all right, man. I’m sure you’ve been concerned. It’s going. Just need time. I think a few drinks will definitely help. Don’t worry,” he says, as if interrupting Roger’s thoughts, “you know me better than that. I’m not going to hit the bottle, it’s just nice to relax.”

Roger nods and looks over at Imogen, searching for some sort of sign. She nods, blankly, looking down at the table, as if lost in the grain. This does nothing to signal Roger’s suspicion. She may just be acknowledging the mood, being supportive without intruding. That would be something, at least. Some gift of character. Or it may be that she doesn’t care, or doesn’t want to be involved in it. She doesn’t want the attachment, or the guilt of knowing whatever it is. Roger will have to pry a bit further to find out, but this is decidedly not the time.

“All right,” Roger marks. “We don’t have to talk about it right now. Not with a fun night ahead and with Imogen here.”

“You can call me Immy,” she says, flagging her hand at Roger.

“All right,” Mason and Roger echo each other.

The three stand, gather their things, and exit through the garage door. Mason pushes a few buttons on a panel and the door closes behind them. Roger watches Imogen as she walks around to the passenger side, tracing the curve of her back, down to her bottom. Mason surprises him from behind as he walks past Roger toward the back seat.

“I know, right?” Mason whispers.

 

                 When they arrive at the pub, Imogen heads straight to the bar. Roger and Mason head through a stone archway into the pool hall, waving at Imogen to signal where they’ll be. Imogen leans over the cherry wood counter and holds up a folded twenty between two fingers, nodding at the bartender.

                “What’s it gunna be?” the bartender asks with a voice full of Midwestern rye.

                “You have pints?” Imogen asks, flashing a guilty smile.

                Mason grabs a cue from the case. Roger fingers through the sticks, inspecting each tip, finally settling on one with a mushroom cap shape. Mason slips a few quarters into the machine and racks the balls. Roger stands at the other end of the table, leaning on his cue, waiting to break.

                “Nothing like a tight rack,” Mason smiles, but his voice wavers, the words unnatural to him, as if he were pretending to enjoy a poorly cooked slab of beef.

                “You all right?” Roger asks.

                “Fine,” Mason sighs. “Why?”

                “I don’t know, you’re just acting funny. You sure you’re handling everything okay?”

                “Listen, man,” Mason squares himself, “I’m fine. Just trying something new, is all.”

                “You mean reckless?” Roger prods, throwing his glance away from Mason.

                “I’m thinking, ‘carefree’,” Mason says, flashing his hands.

                “Carefree, huh? And what about Imogen? She’s certainly new. Mason, if you want to change, that’s fine, but start with a new pair of socks or something. You don’t go out and buy a Ferrari just to see if it fits your ass better than the Honda. I get that you’re dad—“

                “My father died alone. Growing up, it was about responsibility and tact. Go for the safe bet that gets you somewhere, not the wild card that might get you everything. And what was left? An empty bungalow and one final pristine suit. I’m tired of perfect, Rog. My head’s a mess, and for once, I’d just like to wallow in it for a while.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “Don’t be. It’s all right, man, I’ll be fine. And Immy’s great, I really think this one might go somewhere. And if it doesn’t, that’s fine, too.”

                Roger nods. “All right, well let’s see how tight that rack is, then.” He cues up. He fires the cue ball into the rack, sending balls spinning over the green felt. Imogen crosses to Mason and places three pints on the shelf against the back wall, sending ashes dancing across the glazed patina surface. She wipes her hands on her jeans to dry the condensation. She fingers through the cues.

                “Good Lord, it’s hard to find a good head,” she quips. Roger and Mason look up from the table at Imogen’s back, then at each other. “Cut throat, then?” she asks, slipping a cue from the case. “Roger broke and Mason, you racked. Whoever racks is third, so that puts me between the two of you.”

                The evening moves along, rack after rack and pint after pint, with Mason picking up any slack he may have accumulated in his life up until now. He tries to cue up, but miscues as he rams his stick toward the ball with a slurred, but fervent goddammit! Imogen laughs, but this puts Roger at attention. He has never heard this word escape Mason’s lips, most certainly not in such an explosive manner. This word was forbidden in his family, much as it was in Roger’s. Though Roger has occasionally wondered about the reasoning behind such a forbiddance, as “god” is not the Lord’s name, he very rarely allowed the word to slip out, and certainly never without guilt.

                “Well, it’s about that time,” says Roger.

                Mason squares himself. “No! It’s fine, it’s all right. It’s not—it’s okay.”

                “Roger’s right, Mason.”

                “Goddammit, I’m fine, I said! I don’t need told what to do, I’ve got under control, everything under control,” Mason states with pressed enunciation. Roger reaches to take Mason’s cue, but Mason doubles back and slips onto a bar stool. He props himself on the cue. “You don’t know I’m fine. You don’t know me, I’m fine.”

                “I don’t think he’s going to go,” Imogen says. Roger shrugs. “Well, there’s only one thing we can do,” she states, squaring her shoulders. “We’re going to have to black him out.”

                “What?” Roger asks, as if he hadn’t heard her. “We aren’t going to black him out, it’s terribly irresponsible.”

                “Terribly irresponsible?” she echoes. “Well, bugger off and let me do the deed, then.”

                “Fine,” Roger sighs. “What should we order him?”

                “I’ll take care of it,” she says. “Have you got a fiver? I’ve already paid my tab.” Roger hands her the bill.

                Imogen disappears through the archway and returns with an old-fashioned glass full of a dirty-orange liquid. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing. I think this is a piss up he’d best not remember, anyway.” She hands the glass to Mason. “Drink this and I’ll shag your bloody brains out tonight.”

                Mason smiles and takes the whole glass in one tip. Roger watches as Mason’s face sinks from joyful stupor into what may only be described as bewildering nausea.

                “On your feet, Roger, quickly,” Imogen strikes with captain’s authority. “Grab an arm, the sad bastard’s brain is capsized!”

                Roger and Imogen lift Mason from the stool and manage to walk him to the car before he collapses in the back seat. Roger slips into the driver’s seat, adjusting his jacket and putting on his seat belt. He pulls his tie over the seat belt so that it won’t cause creases in the silk, and adjusts his rear view mirror.

                “I think it’s best we take him home,” Imogen says.

                “Right,” Roger confirms, pushing his glasses up. “Where are you staying?”

                “Not with him, that’s for damn sure.”

                “All right, where do you live, I can drop you off.”

                “Chestershire,” she says, rolling the window down.

                “Haven’t heard of it, what side of town is it on?”

                “The England side,” she states, lighting a cigarette.

                “You don’t have a home here?”

                “I did, but I don’t now. Good enough? I’ll stay with you.” She sighs, wiping the sweat from her forehead and drying it on her jeans.

Roger presses a button and turns a dial. The air conditioner hums before releasing a chilled blast into the cab. Imogen jumps from the surprise and shudders. Roger looks over to see her take a deep breath, the sweat on her collar shining in the glow from the dashboard. It beads quickly and races down her chest, soaking into the rim of her tank top. Goosebumps appear and swell.

“Sorry,” Roger pips, “I’ll turn it down a little.”

“No, it’s fine,” she sighs. “Feels good.”

Roger takes a deep breath, squares himself, and slips the shifter into reverse. Imogen peaks over, running the outline of Roger’s profile, and a pursed grin stretches over her face.

 

Clothes litter the floor of Mason’s bedroom. Roger kicks a pair of jeans aside as he and Imogen carry Mason in. Piles of assorted paperwork are scattered over a dimly lit desk, an ashtray blossoms and overflows on the night stand, and the bed is awash with Hallmark cards bearing condolences and letters from extended family. Roger and Imogen lower Mason onto the bed, bracing his teetering frame. Imogen sweeps the cards and letters onto the floor and adjusts the bedding, turning over the floral comforter. Roger tilts Mason back, guiding his head to the pillow. Mason writhes, kicking his legs out to the foot of the bed.

“Immy,” Mason smiles, a sour musk tinging the air. “I’m ready for love.”

Imogen’s face contorts at Mason’s disenchanting invitation. She leans over him and gives him a peck on the cheek.

“I’m going to go downstairs for a quick fag, darling, but I’ll be back up. Love.” She turns away and clings up rigidly, flashing a mouth full of gnashed teeth at Roger. She starts off with a cartoonish tip-toe that levels out to a brisk walk as she exits the room. Roger closes the door behind them.

“Good Lord,” she exclaims with a whisper, “that smell! It’s enough to curl your toes, and not like a good shag, which he certainly won’t be getting tonight. Egad.” She breaths heavily as they descend the staircase and exit the front door.

Roger drops into the driver’s seat and tilts his head back against the rest. Imogen lowers herself into the passenger’s seat, turns, bringing her knees in first, and tucks her feet under her bottom. Roger turns the key, still resting his head. He knows what’s coming, and he’d prefer not to face it. This is exactly the sort of insufferable thing that he’d spent his teenage years avoiding. He had watched other kids give in to loveless dogging of the flesh, careless and drunken pursuits of sentimental carnality, their hearts inevitably trodden upon and wrung out, strung up for all others to see how terribly broken they are. Catalysts for trite poetry being grinded out as a guitar gently weeps on a pristine suburban lawn. Of course, no one understands them, no one has ever felt as superficially downtrodden. They’re idiots, all of them, without even a shadow of anything deeper in their character. God, what a disaster this has become. And a Brit, no less! All his imaginings of this perfect woman that would come tumbling into his life on a strong London wind, perhaps while walking their respective dogs, or chasing down a loosed fedora—or maybe they would meet at a patisserie in Nice while taking personal vacations from the drudgery of work—all of this, dashed in the wake of an easy English girl’s fancy to shag a stranger.

Well, now that isn’t fair. He barely knows this girl, after all. What has she done to make him think so low of her but to deny a drunken wreck an opportunity to further his misery? How could Roger be so upset, then? Because she wouldn’t take advantage of Mason’s weakness? Of course not, she did exactly the right thing. It’s clear, now, that she’s not intended to date Mason because of his situation. She isn’t looking for a serious relationship, but she wouldn’t have known anything of Mason when they met only days ago. She’s done nothing to deserve Roger’s suspicion. Now she’s here, in an unfamiliar country, without a home or friends of whom to ask favors, and Roger had planned to turn his back on an unjustifiable suspicion. Character, indeed, Roger.

“You’re welcome to bed down at my place,” he says warmly.

“Well, thank you,” she smiles. “I’d hate to think you’d put a pretty little Englishwoman on the street for such terrible misfortune. An unwanted shag has a habit of putting you off for a good lifetime, and I’m afraid I’m not quite ready to give that up.” She rolls down the window and lights up a cigarette for the short drive back to Roger’s house.

 

Imogen tosses her cigarette as they pull into Roger’s driveway.

“I’ve got some extra linens for the guest room,” Roger says as they walk up the steps toward the front door. “You’re welcome to anything in the fridge.” He unlocks the door and they step inside. Imogen takes Roger’s hand to guide her in the dark foyer. Roger frees his hand and clicks on the lamp over the entry table. Imogen rolls her palm over the ball that caps the smooth oak bannister’s post. She runs her finger up the hand rail, looking over the framed Kincaid prints that adorn the wall of the staircase.

“You strike me as the type to keep wine on a rack in the dining room,” she says, gripping the rail.

“You’re still thirsty after all that beer?” he asks.

“Just a bit draggy after carrying Mason.”

“Right, well the wine is right where you think it is. I’ll grab the linens if you’d like to pour yourself a glass.” He turns a corner into the den.

Imogen peers around on her way to the dining room. The walls are filled with prints of Kincaid and Rembrandt, some framed on either side by wooden sconces. She runs her fingers over the dark oak chair rail, tracing her way into the living room, where floral gold-stained trim silhouettes the cream-toned Louis XV parlor chairs and sofa. The broadly carved coffee table bears a stack of Bond films and a recent, pristine issue of Wine Enthusiast. She makes her way to the dining room, where an equally stuffy dining set rests like an old white rhinoceros in the center of an ornate tan and burgundy rug. She retrieves two glasses from the hutch and locates a bottle that looks like it’s probably very red and very dry. She pours the wine into the two glasses, nearly to the brim, and takes a sip, wincing. She nods, approving for Roger’s sake.

“Come upstairs when you’re finished,” Roger’s voice echoes down the hall. Imogen grips the bells of the glasses and tip-toes up the velvet staircase.

Imogen stands in the doorway to the guest room, holding the two glasses up. Roger straightens the sheets over the bed and looks up to see her silhouetted against the dark hall beyond the room. Her caramel skin glows under the yellow light, a dark vignette embracing the outline of her. She sets the two glasses on the end table and tumbles onto the bed.

“We can’t do this,” Roger states, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I can,” she states wryly. “You’re a bit young to have a shy knob.”

“I’m serious, it’s not right.”

“You want me to go back to Mason, give him a go at it? I don’t think you do. He’s in no condition, anyway. Physically or otherwise.”

“I’m not denying that,” Roger says, tracing the curve of Imogen’s side. “But he’s a good man, and he cares about you.”

“No he doesn’t, he cares about sex. He’s not who you think he is. Not right now, anyway, and he doesn’t need me muddying up his pig pen. He needs to wallow alone for a bit.”

“And what do you care about?” Roger says, loosening his tie.

“I care about not giving Mason a bloody heart attack,” she fires back. “I may or may not be looking for something better, I don’t know, and I don’t think you know either. But I’m not looking for something worse, and right smack dab in the middle of worse is Mason.”

“What about me?” Roger asks, his eyes grazing the floral sheets.

“I like you. I like you quite a bit, and I might just stay here until you give me a shag or I give up the ghost. The former’s a bit more fun for both of us, and it keeps the night from ending on a terribly awkward note.” She reaches out and throws a finger over the knot of Roger’s tie, drawing it loose.

Roger can feel the heat rising, but the cold cloud of guilt still lingers at the back of his head. She’s right about Mason, he doesn’t need this. But he doesn’t need this, either. If Roger does what a good chunk of him wants to do, Mason will never forgive him. It happened before, in college, and they didn’t speak to each other for two years. Roger had since sworn off any flights of fancy that might damage his relationships, especially his friendship with Mason. Again? With another girl? How could Roger live with himself?

But she’s certainly not going back to Mason. That ship has long sailed, capsized, and sank, and the captain went down with it. Mason has no chance of reconciling his relationship with Imogen. How much of a shame would it be to abandon any notion of a relationship with such a gorgeous, perfect woman? A Brit! For God’s sake, look at her! She’s here, waiting. Wanting. She’s filled up with desire, and if Roger denies her in this moment, she might go back to Mason. That can’t be allowed to happen, it would be worse than if Roger gave in. God, what can be done?

Imogen crawls across the bed, looking up at Roger through her thick eyelashes, teeth bore, like a jaguar ready to leap.

“I can’t,” Roger fumbles.

“You’re a man, aren’t you?” she prods. “If I start, you won’t stop it.”

A man? Certainly not a boy, not one to give in to superficial passions like this. Of course he’s a man, so what would a man do?

“What would Bond do, eh love?” She draws in close and presses her lips against Roger’s, pushing his jacket back over his shoulders. Roger loosens himself from his tweed jacket and leans over Imogen, pushing her to her back. The two are soon entangled, shedding their clothes, swallowed whole by the rolling linens.

               

The following morning, Roger wakes to an empty bed. Imogen had left some time after sunrise. Roger remembers that she had gotten up to use the restroom, but he had fallen back asleep before she returned. She didn’t. Without a clue as to where she may have gone, and not satisfied to believe she had simply left with no intention of returning, Roger dresses himself and takes a drive to Mason’s apartment.

                Mason answers the door in his bath robe, holding a dripping bottle of water. He nods at the sight of Roger.

                “I’m sorry,” Roger sighs. “I’m sure you already know.”

                Mason would never forgive him. Could never forgive him. He’ll close the door, and that’ll be the last Roger sees of him. Roger had done precisely what he would never do. Certainly what Mason would never do, and had never done to him. This would be it, the end of their friendship, and with good reason. Mason is a better man than Roger, and he may have been able to forgive him, if it had not been for the timing of his betrayal. His father had died not three weeks ago, and Roger had just destroyed Mason’s best chance at contentment, however short-lived it might have been. He would have been distracted for some time, by someone who would have been content with being only a distraction, and in the wake of that, Mason could have recovered with his friend by his side. Not now. Now Imogen is gone and Roger has shattered the most intimate, unwavering thing in Mason’s life. Mason is a good man, though. He will recover. Perhaps Roger had done him a favor in betraying him. Perhaps Mason would now see the danger of the reckless pursuit of selfish pleasures. Mason may yet recover quicker from his crisis, though at the expense of their friendship. Yes, perhaps Mason needed this, and it is good that Roger bears the shame of it. In Roger’s failure, Mason was saved his own. Then there is only one thing for Roger, and that is to walk away. He has given his apology, and now it is time to go.

                Mason looks Roger up and down. Roger’s clothes are disheveled, his hair a tangled bird’s nest, his eyes weighted with burden. Mason smiles.

                “You look terrible, Rog,” Mason says, handing him the bottle. “Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.”

                Roger takes a big drink from the bottle, nearly choking. He hands the bottle back to Mason. What is this? Did Mason not know? My god, what if he doesn’t? And Imogen is gone for good. Mason would never have to know, never have to remember what a fool he’d made of himself, and how much more devastating it would be to discover where Imogen went after blacking him out and leaving him a mess in his own room. Their friendship may not be lost after all, and Roger could help Mason through this difficult time. Roger could get Mason back to the man he ought to be.

                “How was she, man?” Mason asks, his face lighting up.

                Roger stumbles, nearly falling. He looks up at Mason, shaking his head slightly, frowning at Mason. His lips purse, as if he’s prepared to speak, but nothing comes. Roger is suddenly aware that his hands are soaked in the condensation from the bottle. He wipes them on his wrinkled slacks.

5: Crow Feathers and Fire

“Thanks for dropping me off, man,” Cork says, glancing at Ezra, who is sitting in the driver’s seat of his Corolla. “You sure you don’t want to come in? Will was hoping you’d hang out tonight.”

“I’m good,” Ezra remarks, staring at his hands on the steering wheel. “I need to get over to Lydia’s.”

“All right. You two should stop by later, though. We’re gonna toke up, belly up, and order a shit load of Chinese,” Cork laughs. “Prolly gonna booze up, too.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Ezra doesn’t look at him. He just pictures him. That scrawny athletic frame. His slouched shoulders. The swooped bangs. The hawk nose. Ezra could only imagine those sagging eyelids and pointed grin, and Cork’s words emanating like rusty steam from a sewer grate. The “scene kid” mentality is written all over him. He’s a Y.A. novel in the oily, lustful flesh, Ezra thinks to himself. No will power. No self-control. No wit to wash the worthless away.

“All right, man, take it easy.” Cork gets one foot out of the car before turning back to open the center arm rest. “Shit, dude, don’t want to forget this.” He retrieves a small chunk of pot immortalized in plastic wrap. “Later.”

Ezra watches him as he walks toward the door to Will’s suburban home. The door opens and Will greets Cork with raised arms.

“What’s up, Cork? Hey, Ezra! You should come inside.”

“Don’t bother, man,” Cork remarks through his teeth. “He’s pissy about the Lydia thing.”

“The Lydia thing?” Will asks.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you about it later.”

Will waves at Ezra, and disappears with Cork into the house. Ezra grips the steering wheel and pulls away from the curb.

Ezra drives slowly down Reaver Street in this late hour, his tires crunching the densely-packed snow. He looks over the houses as he passes them. They’re all so similar and so small. Each house is only one story, and the pitch of each roof is nearly flat. Most bear aluminum siding or the occasional vinyl. Grey. Cream. Pea green. Nondescript white. A strip missing. Three-tab shingles, always grey of varying degrees, all covered with gravel streaks and snow. Reaver is narrow, and looks more like an alley than a residential street. Each yard has a steep incline near the road that levels out for thirty feet before crawling beneath the flat, stoic face of the house. None of them have driveways, but most have a narrow stretch of loose gravel near the street.

            Lydia’s house. Ezra pulls onto the gravel, hearing it stir up with the snow beneath his tires. He props his elbow up on the window edge and rests his head in his hand, staring at the front of her house.

Why am I here, he thinks. “The Lydia thing.” That’s what Cork called it, as if it was a notch on the post, or an overdraft fee. It’s mundane to him, and if something so serious drives out no more than such a phrase, what value could Cork’s friendship possibly be worth? The Lydia thing. Lydia things are transparent vinyl skirts and sticky hair dye boxes left on the bathroom sink. Lydia things are cut-up black shirts and balled up strips of purple tape. Lydia is an aspiring mortician, doing tattoo work as a hobby. She is a student, a sister, and a wife. She is a manic-depressive schizophrenic. She has short black hair and thick wet lips. Wide hips and a gracile neck. A long tongue that comes to a point. Ezra perks up abruptly and looks ahead toward the street. He slouches, runs his hand over his face, and looks back at the house with a grumble.

There is only the width on the face of Lydia’s house for one narrow steel door, looming like a miser on the stoop, and a twisted tin window. The flat white face offers a filthy aluminum glare to welcome Ezra. This is what the ghost of a house looks like, Ezra thinks to himself. The visage of this place is a grim specter in some frozen nook of the night. The living room light is on, glowing through black curtains. Black curtains. Definitely Lydia’s house. Ezra glances at the dashboard and stares for a moment, soaking in the familiarity of the white and green glowing lights, then disengages the engine. The Corolla quickly shuts down, leaving nothing but a bitter breeze whistling through its imperfections.

He creeps up the crumbling concrete steps and across the walkway. A seven-foot privacy fence on one side of the yard stands vigilant in silent protest. A twisted chain link fence on the other side of the yard bears an uprooted post that leans into the shambling tool shed in Lydia’s back yard. The barren lot beyond the chain link fence houses a brooding old oak tree. Ezra thinks that it may be the only living thing for miles, towering over Lydia’s shotgun shack and dropping small, brittle fists all across the roof, as if knocking softly and screaming “Let me in.”

He reaches the matte grey door and hears movement inside. He steps over to the window and finds a small crack through which to peak. He stands there listening, having quickly forgotten his own presence. From inside, Lydia’s voice strikes.

“What? What is it? I’m writing,” Lydia states.

“On the wall again,” notes Reese.

“So?”

“So you’re writing on our walls,” Reese remarks sternly. “Look at this place, Lydia, it’s a living diary of bat shit.”

Lydia stops writing and sighs. “So what, then, you want me to stop? This place is driving me fucking insane, I can’t do anything else.” She returns to her writing. “I’m hanging out with Ezra tonight.”

“What? Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” asks Reese. “You’ve been doing this a lot lately, going out with Ezra or Cork last minute and not telling me anything. What am I supposed to,“ he asks, but is interrupted.

“I don’t know, Reese, what are you supposed to think?” strikes Lydia. “Don’t think, just leave me the fuck alone. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“If you’re sleeping with somebody else, just tell me. We can get past it.”

“Fuck you if it’s not that important,” Lydia barks, rising from the couch. She moves outside of Ezra’s vision, but sounds as though she’s moving toward the door.

“Goddammit!” Reese shouts, pounding his fist on the kitchen counter. Ezra, jarred, fumbles over the hard lumps of dirt near the foundation. He stabilizes and looks to the front door, but before he can move, the curtains shoot open and Lydia is standing in front of him. Ezra freezes, staring into Lydia’s callous eyes. He stands motionless, until his stomach settles. His brow furrows as he notices that Lydia is looking past him. She doesn’t seem to see him. Reese is on the other side of the room with his back to Lydia.

Ezra slowly turns and inches his way to the stoop. He runs his hands through his short groomed hair and gently taps the toes of his wing tips on the concrete. He gives the door the “Shave and a Haircut” knock, abandoning the punchy “two bits.”

“It’s Ezra!” Lydia whispers, quickly closing the curtains.

Just then, the door opens. Reese is standing in the opening, a casual expression on his face. “What’s up, man? Lydia said you were coming over. Come in, grab a seat. Oh, we don’t smoke inside anymore, so if you want a cigarette, just step back out onto the stoop.”

“It’s all right, I just had one,” Ezra says. “Hey, Lydia. Ready to go?”

“Yeah, let me grab my bag.” Lydia goes to her bedroom, which is a narrow door just off the living room. Ezra watches her as she goes. Her short black hair flickers as she turns, like crow feathers. He looks around while he waits near the front door.

The place is cramped. There’s only room for a futon, two file boxes for a coffee table, a short black TV stand with a small LCD television, and a plain, particle-board book shelf—the kind you would find at a Walmart. Books are stacked everywhere, papers piled all over the file boxes and floor, filled ashtrays scattered about surrounded by bursts of settled ashes, and crusted dishes intermixed among the fray. Just on the other side of the living room is the counter that serves as a divider between the living room and kitchen. The kitchen feels more like a cordon with sand bag walls. It is just as unkempt as the rest of the tiny house, with open cereal boxes and potato chip bags, piled dishes, and milk that has probably been sitting out since the night before. The walls are all a sickly, nicotine-stained eggshell white, and every wall is littered with writings in thin, black permanent marker.

Reese pipes up. “Where are you guys headed tonight?”

Ezra scans the walls, not really reading any of it. “Don’t know yet. She just said she wanted to hang out for a little bit, so I came over.”

“I know you two used to date, so I get how close you are, but,” Reese is interrupted.

“I’m not sleeping with Lydia.”

“Yeah,” Reese affirms. “I didn’t think you were, I just… I don’t know.”

Ezra’s eyes stop on a phrase in the middle of the wall writings. Motion lines are drawn around the phrase, as if the thought were only to be screamed. Lydia appears in front of him.

“Ready?” she tweets, clapping her hands in front of her mouth, in the prayer position.

“Yeah,” Ezra sighs, opening the door. The two of them walk out together.

They get in the car, fiddle with their seatbelts, and settle motionless at precisely the same time. There is a void of sound for a moment.

Ezra looks over at Lydia, “Well. Where do you want to go?”

“How about the park?”

“Done,” Ezra nods, and starts the car. On the stereo, “The Dreaming Tree” cuts through the quiet.

“Can we listen to something else?” Lydia asks, looking off through the passenger

window and rubbing her thighs.

“Grab the cd case out of the floorboard, there. Grab whatever you want. I’ll warn you, most of it’s Dave Matthews.”

“Great,” Lydia grumbles. She flips through page after page as they pull away from her house. “Moody Blues, Pink Floyd, Zero 7, The Gorillaz… do you have anything that isn’t slow or weird? Any Disturbed or System of a Down?”

“Nope. You can try the radio.”

Lydia clicks the radio on, breaking half-way through Blackbird. She lets out a grunt and changes the station to alternative rock.

“Not in my car,” Ezra laughs. “Here, I know. The one thing we both like.” He flips the dial around and stops.

“Classical?” Lydia nods. “We can do classical.”

 

They pull into the parking lot, nearly sliding into the felled walnut trunk that separates the parking spaces at Weller Township Park’s baseball diamond. By this late in January, the trunk looks like a small mountain range covered with snow. The exhaust from the car fills its valleys like evening fog. As Ezra rises from the driver’s seat into the cold, he lifts the collar on his topcoat and buttons it.

            “You always look sexy in a suit. My sexy Ezra,” Lydia says heavily, stepping out of the passenger seat.

            Ezra watches as her voice drifts off in a puff of thick vapor. He wonders how such weighted words can touch the air so delicately and disappear without grudge. He burns the outline of her face into his mind, trying to remember her when she was kind without reservation. He stares as she folds her thick coat over and buttons it up to her red and black scarf. She raises a pack of menthols to her mouth to retrieve a cigarette. It juts out from the perch of her lower lip as she lights the end. When she exhales, the smoke blends with the vapor of her breath, like the fog in the mountains below. Ezra finally takes his eyes away to light his own as he looks out into the diamond. It’s nothing but a fence, a trench, and a field of dirty white.

            “What made you want to come here?” Ezra asks, before taking a drag.

            “I don’t know. It was the first place that came to mind,” Lydia shrugs. “Remember when we went down to the creek under the railroad bridge?”

            “Which time?”

            Lydia shakes her head and looks away.

            “Oh. Well, I’m not going to forget that,” Ezra quips. “That was a terrible idea. Imagine if we’d gotten caught.”

            “Let’s go somewhere else,” Lydia sighs.

            The two of them finish their cigarettes in silence. Ezra sits down and starts the car. Handel’s Water Music Suite No. 1 fills the air. The dugout looks like an ice cave, Ezra thinks. The whole place looks abandoned. Lydia sits in the passenger seat.

            “I know where we can go,” she affirms.

            The gravel crunches beneath their tires as they pull out. They drive down pothole ridden roads and through dense, moonless woods before finally pulling off to the side of a gravel road near some farm land. After the harvest, the winter moon drains the land of its color. The corn field up the road appears like a bone yard. Where they’ve pulled up, a small, white, colonial structure is ensconced upon a wooded hill. On the one side, Ezra thinks, there is a grim, open space, and on the other there is an unsettling claustrophobia. He kicks the tips of his shoes on the bumper of the Corolla, and the two of them head up the hill and into the building.

“You know this used to be a Klan church,” states Ezra, barely able to see Lydia. The two of them sit in the front row of pews. The dim moonlight reaches through the broken windows, only slightly illuminating the shoulder of a pew, a pile of rubble and insulation, a ghostly old phonograph pavilion, standing on its rim, with a crack down the side that makes it look like an abandoned Liberty Bell. Everything is dramatically unsaturated.

“Does the name Caligari mean anything to you?” Ezra quips.

The late winter breeze sails through the cramped sanctuary like sand through the husk of a corpse, kicking dirt up inside. When the dirt settles, it slips through the crevices of the floor, raining filth into the basement.

“I remember coming here last time we went spooking,” Ezra says. “I never thought you’d want to come here to spend time together.”

             “It’s the kind of place that isolates you from anything good,” Lydia notes. “Metaphysically, I mean. Or at least, it feels like it.”

            “And that’s what drew you to it? I don’t know if a place can be inherently evil.”

            “What makes you think that a place without good has to be inherently evil?” Lydia prods.

            “Well, if it’s not good, what’s left?”

            “How about neutral? You’re a Christian,” remarks Lydia. “What about purgatory?”

            “I’m not Catholic, and purgatory isn’t really a ‘neutral’ zone the way most people think it is. It’s sort of like the mud room of Heaven,” remarks Ezra, wryly. “I’m not a Jew either, but Sheol would be a more appropriate comparison.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Before Heaven was accessible to Jews and Christians, all souls went to Sheol. It was more what people think of when they think of purgatory. Sheol was the land of the dead, but not Hell or Heaven. Just a void-like space where the souls of the dead just sort of… hung out, I guess.” Ezra raises a brow and smirks. “You’re a pagan. You might get a kick out of this. Actually, it was possible for humans to contact the souls of the dead in Sheol, which happened in the Bible. But in Deuteronomy, it was forbidden by God to do so.”

            “Why? It seems like the living could learn a hell of a lot more from the vocal dead than a silent God.”

            “My guess is because the dead could give advice to the living, which sort of defeats the purpose of learning anything on your own.”

            “So I guess that means you and I are stuck here in Sheol,” Lydia says, leaning in toward Ezra. “You know, if all souls go to Sheol regardless of how they lived their lives, then there really isn’t a right and wrong, is there? It’s all just a big grey blob, like Sheol.” Lydia puts her hand on Ezra’s knee.

            “It doesn’t work that way anymore,” Ezra says as he stands up. “And you’re not Jewish, either.” Ezra walks slowly toward the podium, creeping along sideways, feeling the air in front of him with his hand. He thinks about falling through a weak spot in the floor and landing in the basement. It’s another world down there, Ezra thinks, a sub-space. He imagines that if he were to fall in, he’d spend the rest of eternity staring at a crack in the floor above and laughing at the moon’s distant blush.

            “What are you doing?” asks Lydia. “Why are you walking like that?”

            “I’m trying to find the podium. I don’t want to stub my toes, so I walk sideways through the dark.”

            “Is your night vision that bad? If you aren’t used to walking in the dark, you shouldn’t be wandering around in it.”

            Ezra keeps poking along. He finally finds the podium. “Man, I can’t see anything.”

            Lydia stands up and walks to a window, graceful as an owl. She reaches up and grips the tattered draperies so tightly that her hand chokes out a puff of grey dust. She yanks the curtain down with one violent tug, and a fog of moonlight, softened by the airborne filth, spills across the floor and washes over the podium. Ezra coughs.

            “Damn, it’s like a haunted sauna in here,” he jokes.

            Lydia sits back down in her place on the pew. Ezra stands at the podium, looking around at the newly revealed atmosphere. The room, which is the entire structure, couldn’t be more than twenty-five feet across. Above their heads, a patient cloud of dust lingers in the vault, cringing when the wind creeps inside. A balcony about eight feet off the ground is perched in the back of the sanctuary, with one row of pews that only seats a few people. The balcony is piled with old clothes and folding chairs.

            “I’m doing my damnedest to imagine this place before it was a disaster,” Ezra pipes up. “Maybe make it seem less creepy, you know? The pews weren’t torn, the windows weren’t busted. Everything was white, straight, clean.”

            “Everything was white, all right,” Lydia laughs.

            “True,” Ezra laughs along. “Ah, casual racism. Seriously, though. I wonder what it looked like. This was a regular-looking place for people back then. It’s hard to imagine it was ever like that, or that they’d ever have thought about what it would look like now.”

            “Yeah, that’s weird to think about.”

            “Well, I guess it probably wasn’t all that difficult to imagine the place full of ghosts, considering.”

            Lydia laughs.

            “I bet the basement is even creepier,” Ezra notes. “Assuming we can even see down there.”

            “Wanna go?”

Ezra considers it for a brief moment. “Yeah, surprisingly, I do.”

 

            Ezra looks down into the basement. His feet are deep in the mounded snow around the base of the cellar door. Standing at the event horizon, Ezra watches his breath as it is sucked into the basement, disappearing into the darkness. He waves Lydia over.

            “You still want to go down there?” asks Ezra. “I can’t even see the stairs.”

            Lydia walks in front of him with her back turned to the cellar. She stares at him, smiling, as she takes a step backward into the abyss. Her foot disappears into the dark. It makes contact with a wooden stair that whines in brittle protest, echoing in the void of the basement. She takes another step.

            “Come on,” she says, grabbing Ezra’s hand.

            She takes another step and turns around, leading Ezra down the stairs one at a time. At the bottom, an eerie glow from the moon’s light shining through the floor boards upstairs, blanketing the basement. The light bounces off the walls, which are draped with ghostly white bed linens. The room is clean.

            “What the hell?” Ezra whispers. “It’s all clean. I mean, there’s dust covering the floor, but the place is set up as if someone actually spends time down here.”

            “Look closer,” Lydia says. She bends down and flips the switch on the power strip. The room is illuminated with the soft, orange glow of incandescent light.

            In the corner, there’s a bed with pristine floral print covers. It has a metal frame, like the kind you’d see in an old photo of a hospital or a psychiatric ward. Next to it is a night stand, on top of which is a shoebox with a cocked lid. Hanging from the box is a dish glove. At the foot of the bed is a floor lamp with a directional shade pointing at the bed. The power strip is plugged into an extension cord that leads up the wall and out of a window near the ceiling.

            “I don’t think we should be down here,” Ezra says, turning toward the stairs.

            “Wait.” Lydia grabs his arm.

            Ezra freezes, “Wait a minute.” He turns to look at Lydia, his green eyes shining under his flattened brow. “You knew about this? I remember you said you knew the old couple that owns this place.”

            “Yeah.”

            Ezra looks at the scene. “Whose room is this, Lydia?” He stares her down, waiting for a response. She folds her arms behind her back and glances at the concrete floor, clicking her heel like a horse who knows the answer.

            “There’s a box under the bed, too,” she finally says. “I think you’ll like what’s inside.”

“What does that ring on your hand mean to you?”

“So you don’t care about me anymore?” Lydia asks. “I remember that not too long ago you were weeping in your hands over me.”

            “Over who you used to be.”

“I was married then, too. Who did you used to be?”

She sits on the bed, hunched over, with her hands between her knees. Her soft shadow stretches across the bed and twitches on the floor as the light flickers. Ezra crosses his arms and looks down at his scuffed and dusty wingtips. The dirt from the floor seems to slowly creep up his legs, speckling his slacks.

“Reese knows,” Ezra pipes up, tapping the tips of his shoes on the concrete.

“Yeah, and this is my give a damn face.”

“What do you want from all this?” Ezra asks, furrowing his brow. “What purpose does it serve you?”

“Why is it so important to you?”

“You’re casting a long, dark shadow, Lydia. And you’re always facing it, ready to dive.”

“I need things visceral, Ezra. Schizophrenia and stagnancy make shitty bedfellows.”

“Then why get married?”

“I don’t know. I guess I still want those kinds of things, even though I can’t have them.”

“Well you aren’t going to get them with Cork,” Ezra states. “I had a dream last night. I gripped Cork’s head in this hand and his jaw in this hand. I started pulling apart until the flesh tore at the corners of his mouth. I pulled until I split his torso open like a snow crab.”

“Why do you hate him so much?”

“Because eight years of friendship doesn’t mean as much to him as a good fuck.” Ezra turns his back to Lydia. He follows the extension cord, slowly walking along the side of it. He stops at the wall and traces the cord until it disappears out of the window above him. “It’s a power trip for him.”

The lights go out. Ezra turns quickly, but can see nothing. He stumbles, his eyes having adjusted to the light before. The springs on the bed creek. A cardboard box is being shuffled around. Ezra turns to his side and begins slowly walking toward where he expects the lamp to be. Something like a small ratchet turns, clicking into place, and then again, as the chinking of metal chimes in the dark. As he walks, Ezra trips over some kind of small cloth. He reaches down and pulls the cloth from his shoe, wadding it, feeling it in his hand to identify it. He feels silk and bits of lace.
            “Dammit, Lydia,” he barks. He reaches out and manages to find the lamp post. He follows the bar up and turns the lamp on. The light flashes over the bed, revealing Lydia’s sprawled out flesh, glowing a soft, incandescent yellow. Her hands are bound to a pole at the head of the bed with metal cuffs. Her thick, dark hair is blossomed over the mattress. Her eyes are glossy, gleaming, and red. Glittering lines spread over her cheeks, like the spoors of wounded game.

“What are you doing?” Ezra stammers.

“You think you own me?” Lydia sneers. “Come and get the good fuck.”

“I don’t want to do this.”

“Bull shit. This is your thing, isn’t it?” Lydia smiles. “Mine, too.” There’s a cleave, a ball gag, and some duct tape under the bed. Take your pick. Take control.”

“Not like this, Lydia. It’s wrong.”

“It’s wild, Ezra. It’s strange and dark and deeply human. I don’t know myself anymore, but I know you. You need me. You need the thoughtless flesh of me, the emptiness. You want control, and you can have it with me. You can have me.”

Ezra stares into Lydia’s eyes. They begin to swell and glisten above her crooked, wet smile. He leans over her, drawing his face close to hers. Lydia closes her eyes. They share a cold, clammy kiss. Ezra pulls away, still leaning over her.

 “I know that I have a problem,” Ezra says. “You’re right, I do want control.” He sits up. “But I don’t want to humiliate you. I don’t like this.”

Ezra reaches under the bed and pulls out the box. He opens it. “I don’t think the problem is that you’re empty.” He pulls out the keys to the handcuffs. “I think the problem is that you’re too full.” He unlocks the cuffs, releasing Lydia’s wrists. Lydia covers herself with the blanket.

“Until you have control of yourself,” Ezra says, “I don’t want control over you.”

Lydia brings her knees up and wraps herself in the blanket.

 “I’m never going to be the girl we remember.” Tears start to stream.

“I know,” says Ezra.

“I’m just going to lose more and more of myself,” she cries, “until there’s just… parts. Pieces, scattered across other peoples’ memories.” She starts to weep. “Where will I be, then? Where will I have gone?”

“I don’t know,” Ezra sniffles. “I don’t have any answers for you.”

“My memory’s already starting to fragment. I don’t know who I did certain things with. Events blend together.” She picks up the roll of duct tape. “I can’t put it together anymore. I can’t lift the fog.”

“What about the medications?” asks Ezra.

“They’re the cause of it. It’s either lose myself in the fog of meds, or lose myself to psychosis. My mother seems to prefer the former, and I guess,” she sniffles, “I guess I do, too. I’m not violent, at least, when I’m on the meds.”

“It’s nice to have this time with you,” Ezra says. “The clarity, I mean.”

“Yeah, but the fairy godmother said it’s only going to last ‘til midnight. Then I turn into a pumpkin. Carve a face for me, would you?”

Ezra smiles. “Yeah, I think I can do that.” He wipes the tears from his face.

“I think I’d rather die,” Lydia whispers.

“What?” Ezra sparks.

“Than go the way I’m going,” she clarifies. “At least then I’d have control over how people remember me. I could go after this night and feel satisfied. I was clear, straight. I wasn’t screaming, I wasn’t throwing things or plastering my walls with psychobabble. I wasn’t stumbling around my house, shattering bones on counter corners, or throwing up all over cheap plastic tiles.”

“I’m not sure what to say,” Ezra sighs. “I know I don’t want you to kill yourself.”

“I’m not going to be myself for long, Ezra. I don’t want to die in a frenzy of psychosis. This disease is going to force me to peel myself apart, bit by bit. I’m going to expose every part of me, and I won’t be able to control it.”

“What are you saying, Lydia?”

“I want to know if you could say goodbye to me, right now, if I asked you to.”

“What are you asking me to do?” asks Ezra, furrowing his brow. “I’m not going to kill you, don’t ask me to do that.”

“Of course not,” she strikes back. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that.” She looks at her feet, poking out from beneath the blanket. “But if I wanted to die right now, could you walk away? Could you say goodbye to me, as I am now, and leave?”

“No,” Ezra states firmly. “I won’t do that. I won’t say you’re crazy, but you aren’t thinking clearly right now.”

“Suddenly I’m very cold,” Lydia says, folding her hands between her thighs.

“Well, your clothes are scattered. I’ll get them together for you.”

“I’ll dress myself,” she says, “but could you get my coat from your car? We can talk more, but I’m freezing.”

“Yeah, I’ll go get it.” Ezra stands and starts away.

“Wait,” Lydia strikes. “Hug first?”

“Oh,” he turns. “Yeah, okay.”

Ezra wraps his arms around Lydia. She presses her face against his chest. He can feel her tears seeping through his dress shirt. Lydia digs her fingers tightly into the soft muscle of Ezra’s back. He can feel her head shivering as she pressed deeper into his chest, her brow furrowing against his sternum.

“We’re going to be all right, aren’t we?” Lydia pleads. “When my mind goes, you’ll still see me?”

“You may not be there,” Ezra pauses. He pulls her away, looking down into her swollen, forest eyes. “But you’ll be somewhere.” Ezra turns and makes his way upstairs.

The car is frosted over, and a light snow has begun to accumulate. Ezra fumbles with his keys, but drops them in a shallow footprint. He reaches down to pick them up, but his foot sails out from beneath him in a streak of red lace. His head thumps against the driver’s side mirror. The world flashes red and floods into darkness.

His face is planted firmly into the cold, densely-pack dark. There is a pain in his ribs from where he landed on his left arm. He lifts himself with his right arm, turning himself upward and taking a knee. The ground is blurry beneath him, and the flurry of snow stings his neck. As his vision clears, he picks up an orange-red blush against the ground, and feels around his head for blood. As his icy fingertips slip around his scalp, a crackling swells from behind. As if a bat has stricken his head, a snap and tumble echoes against the car, and Ezra’s scouring hand trembles in place. There is a warmth upon his back. The ground and car glow the unmistakable storm of fiery hues. Ezra catapults himself to his feet, bracing himself against the car, and spins to face the church. The shambling structure is entirely ablaze, like a Christmas tree that caught a spark from a faulty light. The star that adorns the steeple is shrouded in clouds of black smoke, writhing in the rising winter wind.

Ezra thinks about moving, imagines racing into the basement and dragging Lydia from the bowels of the inferno, but he is paralyzed. His mind is clear, but something is pushing him back. He cannot look away, even blink with the heat against his eyes, or tear his twisted arm from the mirror. It is as though a tremendous net had burst from the church and tethered Ezra in an inexorable embrace to the car. A murky storm stews in Ezra’s stomach. It rumbles and rises until his throat trembles and a raspy, bellowing cry explodes from Ezra’s diaphragm, echoing through the woods, petering to a bay and, at last, a whimper like grinding bones.

Ezra is finally able to release himself from the car, but a single step lands him back on his rear with his legs spread before him. The steeple collapses into the sanctuary, and the weight drives it down into the basement. As Ezra follows the star’s decent into the belly of the church, his gaze is caught by a flash of red lace upon his shoe. There, draped over his dusty wingtip shoe, twisted around the tip, the arch, and the heel, are Lydia’s black and red panties, silhouetted against the sky-bound flame.