The Blood of Abel (Part 1)

I.

Henry David Firenze tapped his polished walking stick on the tile beneath his feet. The incessant rapping reminded Brent of a raven, just above the chamber door. "Any time now, Mister Bragg" said the older, stiffer man. "You've had ample time to fill it."

"Just a moment, Sir. If you please..."

"I do not. What do you take me for, Ebenezer Scrooge? Are we now in some sick fantasy world of yours? A Dickensonian tour of your little mind? Stop screwing around and give me what you owe me."

Brent Bragg shuffled around the counter to where Henry Firenze waited. His disappointed eyes averted from the elder's. "I don't have any more, sir. I'm sorry."

Firenze whipped the walking stick up hard and fast, striking Mr. Bragg upon the temple. The younger man fell in slump onto the tile floor, blood trickling from the fresh wound. "Stupid man." Mr. Firenze barked. He crossed around behind the counter, long, gaunt strides forcing his great coat to flow out behind him. He looked ghastly, almost wraithlike. "So, you've run out, have you? We'll see about that." He paused at the apothecary cabinet, the one with the large doors. Nearly skeletal fingers reached out from under the sleeve of the great coat and clutched the glass knob of the dark oak cabinet. The hinges screamed furiously when swung open, and Mr. Firenze stood tall, eyeing the contents of the small chamber beyond. Nothing he wanted. Nothing he was owed.

Mr. Henry David Firenze grew angrier with each passing second.

A cough startled the old man. He pivoted on one foot prepared to strike, cane at the ready. "Who's there?" he demanded.

A small girl stepped out from under the counter. "I'm sorry to have startled you, Sir" She held her doll close to her chest, and trembled a bit as she spoke.

Mr. Firenze put the cane down. His eyes brightened, and he relaxed. He seemed softer, grandfatherly. "Oh, I'm so sorry to have startled YOU, my dear, eh... what is your name?"

"I'm Matilda. Matilda Bragg."

Mr. Firenze smiled wider and thought to himself, "We've run out,” he said. “HA. Run out of others'. But you had one all along, didn't you?" He straightened, dusted his coat off, and bowed slightly to her, taking her hand. He kissed it, tasting the sweet, young skin under his dry, leaf-like lips. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Bragg. Might you have a moment to escort me to the carriage?"

Young Matilda blushed and giggled, and understood the importance of being polite. "Yes sir, but my daddy should like to know where I've gone. I'll just tell him now..."

"Your daddy stepped away for me…”

“I didn’t hear him leave, Sir…”

“You'll be alone for a while. Perhaps we could leave him a note and I could buy you a sweet at the shop downtown?"

"I would like that very much, Sir” Matilda said more brightly now.

"Alright then, I'll just, ah, yes... a note." Mr. Firenze reached over and scribbled onto a piece of paper, leaving it on the counter. It was of no significance. "Now, shall we?" and he offered his arm to the child.

Matilda took it with a mischievous grin, as though she was doing something naughty.

They left the shop, and entered the carriage standing at the curb. As expected, black, with four enormous black steeds harnessed to it with black leather. No writing adorned the door, indicating that this was a private coach, not a hired one. Matilda stepped in first, Firenze behind. They were seated in rich luxury unlike the little girl had ever been privy to in her short life. Firenze sat upright, not slouching, and glared out at the front window of the business he had just left. They started off in a flourish of hoof beats.

"My daddy isn't coming back, you know." Matilda spoke quietly. It startled Firenze in a way he didn't expect. Gooseflesh rose on his skin.

"No?" He answered. "I guess he isn't"

"That's okay. You're going to take me to, to… Him, aren't you?"

"I am," Firenze answered. He was feeling quite queer just now, far away and foggy headed. There was something wrong with this girl, and he wasn't sure what it was.

"You're the man that the other children call The Gatherer, aren't you?"

“I am.” Mr. Firenze shifted his gaze to the girl’s eyes. “Does that scare you?”

“No.” Matilda answered. “He told me you would come for me one day. I’ve been waiting.” She narrowed her eyes and went on, “I’m not scared of you, Mr. Gatherer, Sir. I’m not scared even a little.”

Mr. Firenze felt a chill run up his spine, and he clutched his walking stick firmly. “What else did He tell you, my little sweet? Did he tell you what I do with the children I take? Did he describe what happens to them?”

“No. Just that you would come for me.”

“Well then. That’s not very useful at all, is it? I’d have made sure to tell you what would happen to your young flesh, my dear. I would have told you how you would never see your parents again, and I would have made damned sure to tell you how to avoid being taken. Of course, if I had wanted you to avoid capture. So, what do you think He wanted you to know for?” Firenze was feeling in control of himself again.

“Just so I’d know when the time was right.”

“Right? Right for what?” he questioned. “Right for the taking? Right for the reaping? For what, I ask you?”

“For this.” Matilda smiled coldly. She straightened, and turned her dolly around. It was stitched to look like Mr. Firenze. In her hand she held a long pin, a hat pin from her mother’s dresser, and with a painful, slow sweep of her arm, she drove the pin into the eye of the doll. Mr. Firenze screamed and howled, dropping his stick and clutching his eye. “Obviously Mr. Gatherer, He wanted to make sure you didn’t see this coming.” With that, she drove the pin into the second of the doll’s eyes. Mr. Firenze again screamed. Matilda pierced the doll’s throat and instantly Mr. Firenze stopped screaming. “Quiet now, Mr. Gatherer. Can’t have you screaming for the whole trip”

Mr. Firenze slumped in his seat, just a blind old mute now. He felt around for his stick, found it, and began wildly waving it around. He felt it strike something soft, something firmer, and kept flailing it around. He heard the girl moan, and then he heard something fall to the floor of the carriage. Suddenly, he could see and speak again. The girl was crumpled in a heap, the doll somewhere under the bench.

“You little monster! You tiny little creature. He wants me out of the picture, does he?” Mr. Firenze brought his walking stick down again and again, turning what was left of Matilda’s perfect face into something unrecognizable. But he could still see the rise and fall of her chest. She was alive still.

The carriage stopped, and the door was swung open. Firenze gathered up the girl and stuffed the doll into his pocket. He lurched out, arms full, and made his way into the manor house just up the short walkway. As he approached, the front door opened. A butler stood, unmoved by the scene.

“Your coat, Master?” the butler asked as Mr. Firenze strode past.

“Never mind that, Ronald. Get the laboratory open. I need The Machine.

II.

Mr. Firenze worked the knobs and dials on The Machine. Matilda lie on a table, leather bound and bleeding. He stroked the slides, made some corrections, and threw the switch. Lightning leapt from Matilda’s eyes, flames belched from her body in several places, and she shuddered wildly. Mr. Firenze reached out from his chair and grasped the large brass handle adjacent the controls. The room grew dark, and lightning leapt from his eyes now, blazing the room and settling into a rhythmic throb of malevolent energy. He rose, never letting go of the handle.

“Ronald! Get the jar!”

The butler brought over a jar, ornate and gilded. Mr. Firenze placed his free hand in the jar, and screamed a maniacal scream. Power surged from his fingertips, spilling like ooze into the jar. With that, the room fell silent.

Ronald closed the jar, placing it gingerly on the control panel. “Shall I fetch you dinner, Sir?” he asked unemotionally.

Mr. Firenze slumped in the chair, spent. “Yes. My dinner.”

“Very good, Sir. You’ll feel better after having eaten.”

“Oh, yes, Ronald. I will feel better, indeed.” He smiled a wet, dark smile. He would feel better.

The dining room was ablaze in gas light. Dinner was steaming on the table when Mr. Firenze seated himself in front of it, and he ate greedily. The wine was drained, the napkin piled on the plate, and Mr. Firenze sat back in the chair. Ronald took the plate and glass away, and placed a large snifter of brandy in front of his master.

“I’ll bring your dessert, Sir?” he stood patiently while Mr. Firenze decided.

“No, Ronald. Just the jar, if you would. That shall be my dessert.”

“Very good, Sir.”

Ronald returned yet again with the jar, again delicately placing it in front of his master. “Will there be anything else tonight, Sir?”

“No, Ronald. This will be fine.”

“Very good, Sir.  Before I leave you, I would like to remind you that He will be coming this evening. I was instructed to leave the invitation on the door. Shall I still do that?” Ronald stood silently waiting for an answer while Mr. Firenze thought.

“Yes, do that as always. He is welcome here, no matter what transpires. It is through His grace that we enjoy this life, and he will always be welcome.”

“Very good, Sir. I’ll leave you now.”

Henry David Firenze smiled and waved Ronald away. He pulled the jar closer, examining the contents and seemingly deciding if he should so what he intended. “Damn it all to hell.” He decided, and opened the jar.

Lightning flared up in small swirls, licking up the sides of the jar. Mr. Firenze laughed quietly, and tipped the jar up to his lips, drinking in deep, satiating gulps. The lightning danced on his lips, arced across his face, and brightened his eyes. He had never taken a child’s essence into himself before, and it was maddeningly intoxicating. He understood now why it had to be children - there was no way an adult could possibly taste so innocent. His visitor tonight would know this innately and would understand, for Cináed Dubh had Mr. Firenze deliver him many jars over these past years, each filled with a child’s essence. Each one gathered and delivered in the same way.

Tonight, however, would be different. Tonight, Mr. Firenze would have the upper hand, and the tables will be turned forever. Tonight, Cináed Dubh would cease to be the recipient of the life-extending qualities contained in the jars. Tonight, Mr. Firenze would be the master. He could feel it. He could still taste the power on his lips.

Henry David Firenze would pay his benefactor back for the attempted betrayal, and the children of England would never be safe again.

For Christine

I knew you before I met you, through the stories I was told by the woman you raised. I knew of your wit, and your laughter, and of the way your personality brightened the room. I knew of your recipes, ones I enjoy even now. I knew how you were a supportive mother, a friend to your daughters, and that you were the apple of a good man's eye. I knew of your heart, and of your values, and of the things that made you the woman you were.

And I love the family you raised, loved, and cared for. All of the wonderful people who now miss you every moment. My life would have been richer for knowing you in the way that your children and your husband do. It would have been a joy to see your face when your daughter expressed her love for me, and to have the chance to be more of a son to you. But I have the stories and the few fleeting memories of our interaction. I have the memory of hearing you sing when you were unable to truly fathom the pleasure it brought when you did. I have the experience of seeing you smile, no matter how far away you really were. I was there in your presence, with the love your daughters and husband held firmly in their heart, I understand who you were.

Fear not the darkness that clouded your own memories, for in Gina, Tess, and Thomas, I will forever know who you were. I will see your face smiling at me from the pictures your daughter creates with the skill you encouraged. I will feel your presence when we sit together as a family once again. I will toast you at Samhain, eating apples in your honor. I will hang memories of you gleefully on the tree at Yule, and I will ever savor your Tourtière at New Year's dinner. I will give you a place at any table I may be seated at.

In the silence that falls, I shall strive to be a part of the lives you cherished. To care for them as best I can, and to see the legacy you left when you were finally set free from the fog that kept your soul  bound to this life.

Sing with glee and fly away content in the knowing that we will remember you.

Always.

For Christine Terzino, and her beautiful family that I am allowed to love.

Merry Meet
Merry Part
Merry Meet Again.

What's Up?

It's been long enough since I've written, so here goes.

The Holiday season has come and gone -with it, my traditional Christmas post (alas, no Angus), the Jen's birthday post, and my New Year's post. I've been doing other things like living my damned life and dealing with the latest issues of a bad engine in Krahe and getting through the recent rash of snow storms. So, you might ask, what am I going to do about it?

Maybe I'll just reflect on the fact that I set unreasonable expectations for myself when it comes to writing tasks, or accept that I just missed posting something to mark the passing of time. Or perhaps I'll write a bunch of late blogs and get them up. I haven't really decided yet, but I'm writing now and I think it's important to cover SOME of these items.

Christmas was a mad rush. I spent too much money on things that may or may not be important to the recipients. I can now reflect on that fact and I honestly think that one of these days I'll actually put my money where my mouth is and give to various charities in the names of the people on my gift-giving list. Everyone in my family (both blood and chosen) has enough of everything, so why not give to those less fortunate souls in the world? Next year, I think I'll buy a dozen blankets, hats, pairs of gloves, and meal vouchers and give to random homeless people instead. I've got plenty of all of those things, and it might actually be some small gesture that makes a difference in the lives of those who don't.

I would like to buy the world a Coke, so to speak.

There was a post on Facebook that linked to a story about a young man who purchased one of those month-long passes to Olive Garden and gave food to the needy. It touched me, and made me realize that such a small gift can make such a significant impact to the hungry. I gave to the food bank this year - a local market had a promotion where you could buy a can of soup (A CAN OF SOUP) and have it added to your bill. Every day I went to lunch, I'd buy a few and all told I probably bought a whole case. Now a case of soup doesn't seem like much, but added to the cat food at the local pet store chain, the donation to the food box at work, the Salvation Army can donations, and all the other small offerings I took part in, I think I can honestly say that I did some good this year. Well, I think I did, anyway.

New Year's Eve was the old hockey game at the Manchester Monarchs. It will be the last one of those since they are leaving Manchester for CA, and who knows what ECHL team will occupy the vacancy. It was the kind of event that leaves me scratching my head, though. In Providence, going to a P Bruins game is about the hockey. There's not all that much in the way of catering to the families (at least not in any game I've gone to. You go to see the hockey game and that's pretty much what you get. Manchester gives everything it's got to entertain the family - various activities and entertainment between periods, giveaways, and that damned envelope-pooping blimp that circles the rink and makes the kids go wild.  I'll take the hockey, thank you very much. All in all though, it was a really good night. A phone call to my loved ones at midnight and a toast with my lovelies and all was well. New Year's Day was a great time at Home, North with my sister and her new beaux and Gina spending the day with Jen and I playing Cards Against Humanity and eating delicious food. Next year, we gotta remember that there is pork in the meat pie though. Oops! Not everyone eats pork. ;-)

In the middle was Dear Jennifer's birthday. We went for delicious Indian food at a local place in Salem -Kashmir, followed by dessert and wine at another local place -The Tuscan Chicken, er, Kitchen. It was a really nice night.

Through all of this, I realize how lucky a man I am. I have good family, a fabulous life filled with love and understanding, and I'm ever grateful for the ability to just be ME while not taking those I love for granted. We laugh, love, and lean on each other through it all. What's better than a life filled with happiness? Nothing, as far as I'm concerned.

So there. The last two months in a nutshell. And I've written.

Tah Dah!

Now to write an Angus piece and see if I can't jog some Fornits loose from this keyboard.

Ja Ne!

m

Reverent Whisper

Lisa Ann swung her tiny legs back and forth as she sat in the chair. It was a nice chair, deeply piled and covered in soft, thick velvet that felt fuzzy against the back of her legs, tickling her just a little.  Lisa Ann waited for quite a long time. She’d colored in her coloring book, drawn pictures of her and her brother playing together, made a card for her Mom, and generally been a good girl. Lisa Ann was 5.

After quite a while, the noises from the other room seemed to start being louder, then quiet again. She wondered if she could go in there now, but didn’t want to be a bad girl. So she kept waiting, hoping that Mommy would come and get her soon. Her brother was in there with everyone, and she was very, very mad about that.  Mikey wasn’t that much older than she was, so why did he get to be in there with the adults (and everyone else) while there was crying going on? She’d have to ask Mommy about that later in the car after she’d had a nap, of course. Riding in the car always made Lisa Ann sleepy. She kept on swinging her legs, listening for the voices to finally start coming closer.

The voices were very quiet now, practically whispers.  She could hear Daddy and Mommy arguing just a little, like they used to before Daddy moved into his new apartment. She wasn’t sure what they were saying, but she could hear them like she used to, and they were moving farther away. Lisa Ann was very impatient now. She slid off the big chair and onto the thick carpet, feeling her dress slide up her legs as she did. The velvet tickled her legs, and she had some pins and needles in her feet, but she stayed very quiet. Good girls were quiet. Mikey told her that, and Mommy seemed to like it when Lisa Ann did the things that Mikey suggested. He was smart, but not always a good boy. Mommy yelled at Mikey sometimes, but she didn’t yell at Lisa Ann at all. She was a good girl, though she wondered why Mikey didn’t just do the same things he told Lisa Ann to do.  She decided that she would ask him when she saw him, and nodded firmly.

The voices were now silent.

Lisa Ann crossed the room to the door. It was quiet. She hoped it would stay that way, and padded quietly down the hall. There were still no voices close, and she felt a little bit excited at sneaking like this. She didn’t sneak often, and this was a special treat in her mind – a delicious bit of being willful, knowing that she might be doing something just a little against the rules. Lisa Ann poked her head around the corner and saw the mostly empty room. She crossed it, dodging chairs and found her brother. HE was quiet, and she pulled up a nearby chair. He stayed quiet, and she thought to herself that Mikey must be trying very hard to be a good boy. She turned her head and looked around. Still, the room was empty, so she pulled the chair closer to Mikey and took his hand in hers. He didn’t pull it away.

“Mikey? How come you got to be in here with Mommy and Daddy tonight?”

“I just was Ell.”  He only called her that when he was trying to tell her something she should be good about.

“Are Mommy and Daddy fighting? I thought I heard Mommy crying, but I wasn’t sure. Mommy always cried when they were fighting.”

“No, Ell. Not tonight. Mommy and Daddy were not fighting, but I don’t think they are back together, either. You were a good girl, right?”

“I was!” Lisa Ann smiled and nodded as she spoke. “I made Mommy a card. Want to see it?” She waved the card in her hand, never letting go of Mikey.

“It’s pretty. She’s going to like it a lot. Listen, Ell, you have to listen to me, okay?”

“Sure, Mikey.” Lisa Ann leaned in very close. Mikey had his teddy bear in his other hand. “Can I hold your bear?”

“I’m going to hold it for a while, okay?” he squeezed it tighter.

“Okay. What do you want me to do, Mikey?”

“You are going to have to be a very good girl for Mommy. She’s really going to need that. Daddy, too. I think you are going to have to be a good girl for a long time.”

Lisa Ann made a face. “I’m always a good girl, you know. I just forget sometimes.”

“I know, Ell. But Mommy and Daddy were talking about a lot of sad things, and I want to make sure that you are just going to be good so they don’t have to get mad. If you do get yelled at, try not to cry, okay?”

“What sad things? Daddy has a nice place, and I like our bedroom there…” she trailed off, squeezing Mikey’s hand.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Mikey whispered.

“Yes!” Lisa Ann liked secrets. She was a very good secret keeper.

“I’m not going home with you tonight. Mommy will talk about it more, but I’m just not. Not tonight.”

“Oh.” Lisa Ann was a little sad about this. Sometimes Mikey would sleep over Daddy’s house when she didn’t, and she missed him. It was nice to be able to snuggle with Mommy, and sometimes Mikey would leave her a note on her pillow, just in case she missed him. Lisa Ann kept every one of his notes. “Are you sleeping over Daddy’s?”

“No. But just be good for Mommy, okay? It’s really important.”

“I will, Mikey.” Lisa Ann fidgeted in the chair. It wasn’t as nice as the red one she was sitting in before, but it was still fuzzy against her legs. “Are you sad too, Mikey?”

“Yes. A little. It’s hard to explain to you, Ell. I love you. You’re the best sister ever.”

“I love you, too. You’re the best brother ever!” Lisa Ann beamed. She leaned in and gave him a hug and a kiss.

“Thanks, Ell. I’m really tired. Is Mommy coming back?”

“I don’t know. I heard them going somewhere else. That’s why I came to see…”

“It’s okay. Here…” Mikey held out the bear to her. “You take this for now. Don’t lose it, okay?”

Lisa Ann hugged the bear close to her face. She could smell her brother on it. “Thanks, Mikey. I promise I won’t lose it.”

“I didn’t leave you a note, but you know that I always miss you.” He paused, “Always.”

“I know, Mikey. I miss you too.” She was hugging the bear as she spoke. “I think Mommy is coming…” Mikey must have fallen asleep. Maybe he just needed a nap, Lisa Ann thought to herself. She hugged the bear and held his hand. She might get yelled at for being in here, but she didn’t think so. The room was pretty, now that she looked around a little more. There were flowers and candles, and it smelled like Mommy’s garden in the springtime.

Lisa Ann’s mother and father walked slowly into the room together. Her mother fell into deep, muffled sobs when she saw her daughter sitting by the small casket holding her brother’s bear.

The tears flowed freely, and her heart broke again.

fin

Black Friday

Jerry was freezing as he stood outside the locked doors of Malcom’s. He’d never even been in the parking lot before last night, let alone shopped there. But the price on the Merry Mermaid doll that his daughter had been talking about was simply too irresistible. He had to have one for her, and since his soon-to-be-ex-wife was too fucking cheap to spring for it, Jerry froze his ass off with barely more than the price of the doll in his bank account and waited for the store to open. Now, Wal-Mart had opened at 6:00 PM last night, but the Malcom’s price was much better, although he was assured when he asked the clerk on the phone Wednesday that there would be a limited number of dolls available.  That’s when Jerry decided to skip the shitty turkey roll his sister made and camped out in front of the store.  He had to have one. Just this once, he wanted his daughter to get something she actually asked for. Just. This. Once.

Jerry had been here too long already. His legs were sore, and his back ached, and his fingers were thick lumps of meat waiting to be sliced into party-sized pepperoni. But in just three more minutes, Jerry would make a beeline for the toy department and…shit.  “Where was the toy department?” he wondered. He leaned in and tried to see if there was a sign. Nothing. He hadn’t thought about this until right now. Right now. Three, no TWO minutes before the store opened. He turned to the woman beside him, a largish sturdy woman with a scarf and hat covering what little was left exposed by her heavy coat. “You wouldn’t know where the toy department is in here, do you?” He smiled a friendly, if chilled smile.

“Fuck off, buddy. Next time, do your homework.” The woman barked at him and laughed. She turned to face her friend, “Fucking Einstein shows up to a store and doesn’t even know where shit is. Fucking moron.”

Her friend laughed nervously, sounding mostly like she was scared to do anything else. She was a much younger, much thinner woman, her blonde hair springing out from under her red hat.  Jerry caught her eye with his own, a look of desperation on his face. He opened his eyes wider in a silent beg. He darted his eyes, hoping she would pick up on the visual cues. She did, thankfully. She moved her eyes up then right, and then repeated the motions. He nodded, understanding. Straight in and then right. The toys must be in the back of the store. He eased up a little. One minute.

The Thick Woman jostled him against the door, laughing at his surprise. Jerry turned to face her, really pissed off. As he began to turn his shoulders towards her, the doors sprung open and she pushed his chest hard, sending him sprawling into the security pole alongside the entryway. Jerry was flailing, trying to regain his balance as the crowd poured into the store. He panicked when he saw the number of people rushing past. “Shit!” he cried, getting steady to his feet and breaking into a run. “I hope that fat fuck dies in this”

He ran as directed, looking right again and again to gage where the hell the toys were. Then he saw the sign, skidded right, and broke into a full run as he saw more people looking at him from other aisles. They descended on the toy department like starving locusts to a cornfield. Shelves were stripped clean as they passed, but Jerry wheeled and spun, searching for his treasure. He saw the pile almost too late, as there were only three left when he got to the pallet in the aisle way. He reached through the throng of rabid shoppers and grabbed one of the boxes, his heart beating hard in triumph. As he pulled the box through the flailing mass, he felt a sudden tug. The Thick Woman had her hands on Jerry’s doll, her eyes narrowed to slits and she barked at him “Loser!” as she pulled the toy from his grip.

Jerry lost it. He sprung over the heads of the struggling crowd and landed hard on The Thick Woman. She fell to her knees and sent the doll spiraling away under a rack adorned with smiling elves and children’s coats. He scampered after it on his hands and knees, scurrying at first before getting his feet under him. He grabbed the doll and began to run down towards the registers, the voice in his head screaming at him “JERRY! IT’S A FUCKING DOLL!” “Goddamned right it’s a fucking doll. It’s MY fucking doll, and that fat fuck isn’t going to get it” he answered to himself as he admired the red hair and bright smile of the toy.

The Thick Woman slammed her carriage into Jerry from behind, hard. His heel blossomed in pain and Jerry fell onto the white tile. Blood exploded from his nose and his forehead as his face struck the floor. He was in agony. The Thick Woman picked up the doll, leaned down, and told Jerry to go fuck himself before retrieving her cart and dropping the doll in with the other items. Jerry struggled against the encroaching gray around the edges of his vision. Blackness threatened to take him, and his body wanted to give into that silent bliss.  He heard The Thick Woman laugh from somewhere out in the nearby aisles.

Jerry got to his feet and fought against the dizziness. He could see The Thick Woman sauntering triumphantly down the lane, the seams of her pants threatening to burst their banks and flood the store with her dimpled, gelatinous cellulite. He focused like a cat on a mouse and decided that he was not going to lose his doll to her. Not ever. He moved slowly, stalking her though the store. He pushed other carriages out of the way, once actually walking almost a full aisle with someone’s overfull cart. The owner yelled, but Jerry paid no mind. If the chance ever came. he'd kill her with his own bare hands.

He caught up with The Thick Woman in the garden center. She was rifling through a large bin stuffed with small stuffed animals. Her back was towards him the whole time. Jerry grabbed a cart full of snow shovels and pushed it past her in the slow procession of others trying to get by. Thinking how delicious it would be to strangle her instead, he reached out as he passed, lifting the doll from her abductor and returning it to her rightful home: Jerry’s arms. He pushed silently past, ditched the carriage so it would impede her potential pursuit, and made a dash for the registers.

Jerry was free, and the Merry Mermaid would bring a smile to his daughter in a time when there were few smiles to be had. He saw The Thick Woman cross in front of his car, barking at Blondie the whole time. Blondie did a double take as she saw Jerry through the windshield. Jerry winked, feeling cheerful for the first time all morning. His head ached, his nose throbbed, but Jerry was one happy guy. He beat that old bitch to the present of the season and he would never have to look at her fucking face again, since this was the last time he would ever come to this shitty store.

 

Home and clean, Jerry grabbed a plate of cheese and crackers and dropped into one of the old stools that served as kitchen seating. His recently-furnished bachelor pad was decorated in “Modern Ghetto” as he put it. But after the big D was finalized, he would invest in something better. Either way, his daughter would have a good Christmas this year.  Jerry slid one of the slices of cheese into his mouth as he flipped on the countertop TV to watch the news. The segment was apparently on the “Black Friday Mayhem” that occurred all over the nation, and several videos of trampling and stampedes, one of a woman and a midget fighting over a 40” TV at Target or something, and then several of people fist fighting at registers. Jerry chuckled at the videos, remembering his own struggle this morning. The announcer, a good-looking woman in her 40’s dressed in a festive (and very low-cut) dress that flattered her shape, turned the story over to Chuck, who would share a local tale of sadness.

Jerry sat bolt upright. The Thick Woman was on the screen, tear tracks staining her face. Blondie held her arm. “Margie Swanson went out this morning to buy gifts for Saint Cecelia’s Home for Lost Children, a shelter for abused and abandoned children. What she found, instead, was the violence of an angry man.

“I was so shocked when I was attacked by this horrible man,” The Thick Woman explained through tears, “and then I realized later that he stole the doll from my carriage when I wasn’t looking. Renee told me later that she saw the man smiling…smiling… after the deed was done, as he was driving away.”  She began sobbing into Blondie’s (Renee’s?) shoulder.  Blondie stared into the camera silently.

“Renee McCallister is a deaf mute who grew up under the care of Miss Swanson. She shared this earlier…” the announcer trailed off as the screen cut to Blondie signing and an interpreter speaking for her. “This man probably doesn’t even know we do this. I’m sure he was simply caught up in the moment, but his actions color the season for all of us. It is this sort of uncalled-for violence that makes it more and more difficult to enjoy the hustle and bustle of the shopping season- especially when that shopping will benefit these children who are so much worse off than our own.” The interpreter spoke as Renee signed furiously.

Jerry was humbled, but angry. If that Margie Swanson is such a saint, why did she act like such a total bitch this morning? Fuck her. Fuck her and Blondie.  The news caster went on and on, saying how the children from the Elaine Donovan Elementary School were responsible for selecting gifts to be given to the children of Saint Cecelia’s. The entire fourth grade class had participated.  Jerry’s daughter went to Donovan. She was in the fourth grade there. Holy shit. Suddenly Jerry felt very small and very far away. Had he misheard his daughter? Did she talk about that fucking doll because it was a part of her class project? He scrambled to remember. He checked his texts from her, and his email. There was no mention of it.

Had he only been half-listening when she said it? Had he only wanted to find something to one-up his ex? Jerry stood up from the stool and pulled his hair in his hands. “FUCK!” he cried aloud. “FUCK FUCK FUCK!” He grabbed his phone and punched his ex’s number. It rang several times before she picked up.

“Yes?” She answered curtly.

“Hey Sharon, it’s Jerry. Listen, did B want anything special for Christmas this year? I mean, she was talking about some mermaid doll or something… did she want that? Were you planning on getting it...?”

“I know It’s you, Jerry. And no, she didn’t want that mermaid thing. She wants a bike. She told you this already. There was something at school about the doll… some shit about an orphanage or something. Don’t you listen to her, Jerr-y?” She dragged his name out venomously.

Jerry stared at the newscast. He was on TV, well, you couldn’t see his face, but there he was. “…home video of the assault has just surfaced. It’s raw, and we apologize for the quality. “ the faceless reporter spoke. In the video, you could plainly see jerry jump over people and land on The Thick Woman, send her sprawling, then grab the doll and run off. Jerry’s face was never clear enough to make out. Jerry sat back down and spoke into the phone “I gotta go” and hung up.

Jerry dropped the package into the large slot at the post office. He had wrapped it in plain brown paper and addressed it to Renee McCallister, care of Saint Cecelia’s. He felt horrible about it all. As he drove home, he listened to the news. It started to feel like a badly-scripted movie, and Jerry was starring as the Mermaid Mauler. “Nice name” he thought to himself when he first heard it.

Later that night Jerry was feeling better about it all. The buzz had died down to a dull roar on the news, and he never made YouTube at all. “Dodged a bullet there” he said to the empty apartment. His phone rang.  It was Sharon. “Hello?”

“Jerry, listen. It seems I owe you an apology.”

Jerry was stunned. “Okay, for what?”

“B WAS talking about that damned doll. She hasn’t stopped talking about it all day after you called – there was something about it on the news and she won’t shut up. I bought her one today, but I was wondering if you’d like to split it with me. We could give it to her together.”

“She wants the doll? Where did you get one?”

“You know that shithole across town… Malcom’s or something? They had a pallet of them just sitting there. I grabbed a couple, sent one to that woman who was attacked…did you hear? From Saint Cecelia’s”

Jerry laughed into his hands. A whole pallet of them. In his mind, he saw hundreds of the dolls dancing around in a ling conga line through the store, leading him into the open mouth of a volcano where The Thick Woman stood with a baseball bat and struck him in the kidneys until he was pissing blood into the lava flow. “Sure, Sharon. I’ll split it with you.”

“What’s so funny?” Sharon asked.

“I’ve had a long day is all. A very long day.”

 

 

The Shrinking Table

Time slips past us at a fearsome rate. When you are but a child, a week feels like an entire school year, a month is an eternity, and a year might as well be never.  We age and slowly recognize that a week is but a speck on the calendar. A month comes and goes before we are prepared for the list of birthdays and holidays that fill it. A year? Well that is something we wish we could slow from coming as we realize how many things we have left undone, unsaid, or untouched. 

Time slips by.

So where are we now, a single year after our last Thanksgiving? Have we made any changes? Have we advanced our goals? Have we completed tasks we set for ourselves in the past twelve months? I know that I haven't accomplished nearly enough in my life. I haven't given enough blankets or coffees or meals to homeless people I see on the street. I haven't learned to stay my tongue when patience is called for and my hurt rises from my mouth as anger. I haven't been understanding enough to realize that age sometimes brings with it a rigidity and unwillingness to accept sweeping changes to once-comfortable lives. And I haven't looked into my own soul enough to bandage the old wounds and apply salve to where the missing scales make me vulnerable. 

Much has happened in the past year. My family is shrinking, and the core elements (my sister, my mother, and I) are not getting any younger. Warranties on the bodies that carry us through this iteration are expired, and the realization that we cannot rebuild those ailing components is painfully obvious. I accept that we should take better care of ourselves and each other.  I am thankful for the chance to improve my health, and for those I love to remain as healthy as is possible. I am also thankful that my mother and my sister are who they are, even when I can't help poke at them. I hope they never forget that it is love that guides my heart, never malice.

I see the world through a lens that others don't always share. I am thankful for the chances I am given to express my own opinions and hopefully point my not-always-delicate finger in the eye of those things I find distasteful. I'm sometimes not so careful with my words, and that can be problematic.
I realize that I live a life that many don't consider normal, but I live it happily and willingly. The women I love are part of me, and I am thankful for the chance to love them and to be there when I am needed. I am thankful for them in my heart, accepting me as I am, and being understanding when I fall down. I am far from perfect, but I try.

I watch others I love struggle with health issues, with familial issues, and with financial issues. I am thankful that I am able to be an ear for them when they want or need one. I am ever grateful for their friendship, and for the intimacy we share.

And then there is my son. I watched him grow from a child into a man, and still is see him as that little boy, wanting to please everyone and hurt none. I see him struggle with the fire of an angry young man, but with little of the wisdom of age. His world is not mine, and I often find myself unable to understand how to help him without doing for him. There's a difference. I am thankful for his beautiful, if often confused, heart. And I love him dearly. 

I am thankful for my sweet and mischievous daughter. I see her becoming a lovely and (hopefully) reasonably well-adjusted young lady. She has a thick, leathery exterior, but the heart of a human being more than twice her age. I hope she understands that I am not just an embarrassing man in her life, but rather that I treat her with respect and trust that she earns. 

I am thankful for my extended family through my partners. So many people to love, and be loved by. Sisters and brothers, mothers and fathers. Jewels among humanity.

I'll take one tiny spot here and mention those who will wish to remain nameless, but who are so very much a part of my heart. People who I hope will recognize that although we do not see each other often (years, even), they are still connected though the words we share, or the breakfasts, or music, or a hundred different ways. You are a part of me, and through peace, love, and happiness, I hope I am a part of you.

So, dear reader, gather your love in your arms and hands and hearts and hold it close. Remember those who have passed, or moved away, or moved on in any way. Sing their songs and share their stories. Be thankful for having them in your life, or having passed through it.

Just be thankful, even if just for being able to watch the passing of the time.

Digging Up the Past

There was a knock at the door. 

 And another. 

 And then, impossibly, yet another.

 Raymond Batista squashed out the short cigarette he’d been nursing for too long. He kicked the chair out using the backs of his knees and stood up, groaning.  Raymond hated this fucking holiday. Little bastards from all over come banging on your door begging for candy, and if you don’t have any, they might egg your car or cover your trees with toilet paper.  He made his way to the door, thinking that it must be high school or college kids at this time of night. The younger ones would all be at home now, digging into the private stash of goodies that they kept hidden from mom.  Their braces and teeth slathered on caramel and nougat, sugar on their breath as they fell asleep and mommy and daddy secreted away their favorites. 

There was another knock, a very quiet one, low on the door.

“I’m coming” Raymond barked, grabbing the nearly empty bowl of apples from the side table. HE always gave apples. And he always bought the culls from a local orchard for just this occasion. Not rotten, but bruised (and cheap) enough. When he was a younger man, Raymond used to fantasize about slipping a razor blade in just one of them, or a piece of glass - something extra to keep the night exciting. These days, in his early fifties, Raymond just wanted to be left alone. He’d had a hard life, and now just wanted to be away from all the bullshit that followed him around ever since…well it was a long time ago.

<knock>

“For fuck’s sake.” Raymond swung the door inward on its creaking hinges to see… nothing. Nothing but leaves blowing around the porch, lit only by the single bulb above the stairs just beyond the front door.  “Hello? Where the hell did you go?” He called into the night. There was a pop and the bare bulb went dark as it swung in the gusting wind. Leaves swirled into piles and then blew out into a flat spray against the front of the house. “Little shits” Raymond thought to himself as he stepped out to appraise the street.  It was mostly abandoned houses, a closed convenience store on the corner under the only working streetlight exclaimed ‘GOING OUT OF BUSINESS’ from the plywood covering the windows. In either direction there was the sound of wind. From the south-bound side of the street, he could hear the far-off laughter of a woman, probably a prostitute, and the loud barking of someone’s dog. Bleak. Lifeless. Depressed.  

He walked back into the house, closing the door behind him and placing the bowl of darkening apples on the stand. He sat back down at the kitchen table, the vinyl tablecloth showing years of cigarette burns and coffee stains. Fishing a Winston out of the open pack, he lifted the lighter to his face in the closing gloom. The tobacco caught, he inhaled, and blew out a stream of smoke followed by a cough.  He turned in the chair and leaned over to the radio at the other end of the table. It was usually on, but tonight everyone played that ‘Monster Mash’ song, and he really didn’t want to have anything related to ‘Frankenstein’ in his head. He spent enough time thinking about it anyway, no need to be reminded.

He smoked on.

<knock>

“Fucking kids” He barked angrily, rose and moved more quickly to the door. “I’m done with this shit.” He swung the front door again, forgetting that the bulb had blown out. This time, though, he was startled. Silhouetted against the yellow glow of the streetlight, and casting a shadow up the front of the house was a kid. A young kid, maybe not 12. Raymond couldn’t make out his face or costume, but it looked light and dark, maybe some kind of camouflage. The kid’s face was dark, too. Either he was black or in some kind of face paint. “What are you, some kind of soldier?” Raymond demanded. “Go home, kid. It’s late.”

There was a sound in the darkness to Raymond’s left. It sounded like a little girl screaming, but it was far, far away. Miles away. Maybe decades. He straightened and backed into the door frame, darting his eyes towards the sound. Nothing. When he looked back to where the kid had been, again there was nothing.  Raymond was afraid and sweating, the Winston clinging to the long ash in a comical way. The tee shirt clung to him, making Raymond Batista look like something from one of Ralph Bakshi’s animated films -  a caricature of an aging, overweight Spanish man caught in the act of something illegal.  He shook off the moment, gathered himself and moved toward the steps of the porch. There was nobody there.  

Seated at the kitchen table with a fresh cigarette, Raymond was feeling better. He’d decided to not answer the door again tonight. He was done. Screw the kids, it was late enough and the light was blown out anyway.  As he sat there, he began to think about his family and his life. His brother had gone to college and become an accountant. After that dreadful summer, Donald Batista had found the straight and narrow road to success. He stopped being the local bully and made amends in every corner he could. He became class president in high school, and had a hand in getting money from state grants for summer programs for underprivileged kids. He was a model citizen. Their mother had disowned Raymond. No son of hers was going to be a murderer. His father never spoke to Raymond again, even after he’d served his time. Raymond paid his debt to society in an adult prison, even though he was not yet 16. He was tried for murder, pleaded to a lesser charge and did ten years for it. When he got out of Prison, he discovered that being a young Hispanic man with a record made it very difficult to find work. What a surprise.  Raymond did odd jobs for years, wandering this way and that. He watched his younger brother succeed through the long-distance lens of the small articles that were published in the local paper. He tried to talk to his mother once, but she didn’t know him, or at least that’s what she said.

So Raymond was alone in life. He never had kids, or even a steady date. Prison had help make some changes to his sexual preferences that weren’t well supported in this neighborhood, so to speak. He never had a girlfriend, or even a steady interest. He’d found God for a short time, until it became obvious to him that God wasn’t going to help improve his life any more than the drugs would. So Raymond was clean, celibate, agnostic, and alone while his brother never once mentioned him in public nor offered help. 

<knock>

Raymond heard the sound from far away. He was drifting off to sleep in the kitchen chair, his head bobbing slowly downward to be propped up by his chin resting on his chest.  He breathed slowly and rhythmically as the knock came again.  “come in” he uttered reflexively though his near-sleep state.  The front door swung inwards and the silhouette of the boy was there again. It stepped forward, stiffly and Raymond’s dreaming-self turned to see the shape coming towards him. He tried to scream, but only a stream of letters floated out of his mouth. “A’s” and “H’s” streamed out of his mouth in a glowing, comic-book style. Raymond stood up, now 15 again, and blinked as he looked at his young hands. He looked around wildly and caught his reflection in the glass of one of the kitchen cabinets. His reflection spoke back to him “You’re dreaming, asshole” it shouted through a speech balloon that appeared to the right of his head. He turned back to the kid coming closer. He realized what was happening. 

He was holding a gun in his hand now, the barrel smoking. That kid teasing his brother wasn’t going to tease him anymore. Not ever. A girl in the crowd screamed, and his brother Donny first smiled at Raymond, but then looked at the bleeding kid on the ground and fell beside him, shaking him, trying to… what? Make him not dead? Raymond was dragged to the ground and eventually stopped struggling once the gun was kicked from his bloody hand.  He just stared at the dead kid In his brother’s arms.

The dead kid’s eyes moved to meet his own, and Raymond started screaming. It was pretty much a month of nightmares for him after that.  Eventually, Life took over and Raymond had real monsters to worry about, not nightmares.  Not a dead kid staring at him.  

The kid shuffled forward, his blood-stained tee shirt clinging to his young body. But it was his eyes, his begging, saddened eyes that scared Raymond the most.  “Ray-Ray” it muttered, breathlessly. Raymond stiffened, looking back at his reflection. It was now his brother staring back at him, the cabinets were gone and they were in the street. It was summer.  It was sweltering.  Donnie mouthed some words, and they appeared from his mouth in a run of letter that Raymond had to read. “WHY RAY? WHY DID YOU KILL HIM?”

Raymond tried to scream back, but only letter came out “FOR YOU, DONNIE… FOR MY BROTHER!”

The dead kid closed his hand around Raymond’s arm, Instinctively, Raymond raised the gun and popped two shots into the dead kid. It laughed at him. Raymond tried to turn away, to run. The dreamland made his motions impossibly slow, and the dead kid fell on him like a tree in the forest. An eleven-year-old tree made of bone and sinew. And blood. And staring eyes.  

They fell backwards, down a long cliff. The sky tumbled past and Raymond felt his grasp on his brother’s hand slipping. Donnie stared down the cliff at them as they fell, Raymond and the dead kid.  Donnie’s face grew smaller as Raymond realized what was going to happen. 

Raymond woke suddenly from his dream. His chest was tight, his breathing hard, and he was soaked in sweat. He clenched his chest and turned in the chair to the open front door. He fell to his knees, pulling the vinyl tablecloth off the table as he went , spilling everything onto the kitchen floor around him.  The radio turned on, sparking to life in a chorus of “They did the Mash… They did the Monster Mash…”

Raymond struggled to breathe against his looming death. He turned his face up and said through tears, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry Frankie. I’m so sorry.”

The dead kid in the blood-stained shirt looked down at Raymond with sad eyes.  He leaned down to touch Raymond’s face to turn it to meet his own.  Franklin James Stein spoke softly to his murderer through dead lips “Don’t worry. Your brother will be joining you soon.”

“No. Not him too…” Tears fell down Raymond’s face and he died face down in the kitchen of his empty house.  Alone.