Soldiers’ lips pressed against trumpets. War war war cascaded across screen, radio and paper. Knees fell on pavements, fists flew to the heavens raining down the chant, “for King, for country!” Men with more than their lives to lose took what little they had and cowered in cellars where they’d drink and think until the bombs stopped falling — or until everyone was dead. Soldiers scoured streets in search of the likes of these.

“These men,” they said, “have no gratitude for all that the Fatherland has done for them.” Off in the trucks they went as their drinks were stuffed under the driver’s seat. “A little gift for the boys back at camp,” gap-toothed smiles sealed the deal.

In childhood, the stories were read, the movies were watched. In high school, sources were revealed, histories surveyed. “This will never happen again. Not in our lifetime,” promises were made.

“Don’t be makin’ no oaths, boy,” it was said.

“It’s justified. We need to do what’s right. We have to put a stop to their tyranny. It’s justified, isn’t it?”

But who would fight? Certainly not you. Definitely not me. Then who? Who?

“Leave that up to the Department of War and the letters they’ll post in the mail. Them letters’ll decide who gets to live and who gets to be a hero. An’ if you get to thinkin’ you’re too good for the front, then the MPs will get you just like they did with Jim and Joe and every other bastard that thought his house was more important than our home.”

Before work, fathers would stand out on their lawns or by doors waiting for the postman to pass by with his bag of promises.

“Hey Pat, got anything for me today?”

“For you, Leo and every other man on the block,” he’d answer as he handed him that envelope marked

DEPARTMENT OF WAR.
URGENT - TO BE OPENED BY ADDRESSEE ONLY.

Him, Leo and every other man on the block would do well to reserve pillow talk for a revelation — first to wives, then to children. But in moments such as these, dread whispers louder than the bells of reason. Thus, the envelopes are tucked away. Hidden in old jackets, up in the attic or between pages of religious texts that know no human touch.

“I heard,” comes the wife spinning webs, “that Mark got his summons. He’s off to the front…”

She’d ask but didn’t want to know.

“…”

He’d answer but didn’t want to say.

And the children were left to suffocate under the weight of promises made to break.

Only after they had gone to bed did the wife, before the bathroom mirror, call out to her husband and ask, “when do you think you’ll be getting yours?”

He could tell what she meant and he knew better than to lie any more than he already had.

He dropped it right by her hand.

She saw the words and said, “what does it say?” with a voice that pleaded with an unforgiving reality.

“…”

“What does it say?” she got to her feet and held him by his collar shoving his head this way and that as if to get an answer to fall out of his ears. And he, knowing that there was no petitioning reality, grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close for a hug that they had denied each other since husband and wife became mom and dad.

The morning after is lighter in all the homes. Mom knows that she’s no longer mom — once again she’s a wife who wants nothing more than to hold her man in place and never let him go. The kids, tasting love in the air, are more loquacious, spirited and willing to ask for a little extra cash for lunch. But dad knows that come next week that joy would be repossessed.

“Do you have to go?” the wife would ask her man that night.

“…”

What he felt without certainty… really, what most men (maybe even the absconding Jim and others just like him) felt was a gnawing curiosity.

He would never tell it to his wife and especially not his daughter. They wouldn’t understand. They’d hear him speak and see nothing more than a beast excited at the thought of blood and guts.

“Do you have to go?” his son asked him.

“I-I think I’ve gotta. Don’t got much of a say in the matter,” he responded.

“You’ve always got a say, don’t you?”

He looked right at his boy who spoke only as a child could — rationality free of rationalization.

“You’re right,” he paused and looked outside the window. “I guess… don’t tell your mom but I guess a part of me wants to go.”

“Why d’you wanna go? Mom says war’s bad and people get killed and… do you wanna get killed?”

Dad opened the window and leaned out feeling the cool city breeze beat against his shaved cheeks.

“Your mom’s right but…” he turned to his boy, “just want to see what I’m made of. I just want to know what it’d be like to have to… I’ve never had to fight for my life…”

His son’s eyes moved from him to the night sky. Maybe he understood. Maybe he didn’t. Dad wasn’t quite sure of it himself.

“Dad,” the boy called out.

“Yeah?”

“I got myself into a fight,” he rushed through the sentence then dropped his head low.

“Who won?”

“Hasn’t… It’ll be tomorrow… Dad, I’m kinda scared and I thought… I don’t know… I don’t wanna fight him. He’s bigger than me and…”

Dad got down on his knee and moved in for a hug. The boy’s arms fell by his sides before reaching as far round his father’s back as they could.

“Don’t” the sobs came, “think-I-can-do-it…”

“Well, you’ve always got a say, don’t you?” they both chuckled in each other’s embrace. “You know what,” dad was the first to release and look his boy in the eyes, “here you are about to fight for your life as I’m getting ready to fight for mine. Looks like we’re a perfect team.”

“I don’t want you to go, dad.”

She used to bring me cheese. Cheese and grapes and a bottle of wine… You know… Like emperors liked. Like the emperors in the movies liked. I liked it, too. Liked it a lot. Of course, meat woulda been better but I can’t bring that in here. It’d go bad and I’d have to give some up for cigs or… my life. You know how it goes. Anyway. Haven’t got my cheese, grapes or wine recently. Mmmmh! I wonder why.

Don’t tell nobody this but I shouldn’t be in here. Yeah yeah, I pled guilty. The papers, the judge, the lawyers all say I’m guilty. Someone’s got to be guilty, right? This time it had to be me. It had to be me. But don’t go telling nobody none of that — if you catch what I mean — cause then you’d have bored detectives reopen the case, everyone involved getting rung up and wrung around for information and… Nah! I wouldn’t wanna do that to them. This time it had to be me.

You’re my roomie and I like you. Not as much as the cheese, the grapes, and the wine, but I like you. So, are you gonna listen to what the lawyers don’t wanna know? You’ve gotta promise me, though. You won’t tell nobody. Promise?

This isn’t me. Out there I don’t talk this way. I don’t walk this way. Had to switch up from historical docs to reruns of World’s Worst Prisons before my due date. All of them said the same thing: don’t show them you’re weak. Everyone says that. In sales, in sports, in school, they all say it. But it’s different in here, isn’t it? We’ve been stripped down to life’s bare essentials in here. Weakness is weakness and life is… Aaaa! Well, it’s all we’ve really got.

You know… I think I told you… I was a teacher. Yeah, taught kids if you’d believe. Th-they loved me. Not saying that to brag. They actually did. The whole lotta them. Kids would cry whenever our time came to an end. Even the moms shed a tear or two.

Never really wanted to be a teacher, though. Things just sorta turned out that way. The real dream was to be a writer. You know, like Lewis or Steinbeck. Don’t know why I mention those two in the same breath. They’re not the same. Not that you’d care about any of that.

Either way, I wanted to write novels. Fiction. Something that might end up on the big screen someday. People used to ask, why not write screenplays? Cause fuck a screenplay. I wanted to create worlds, dig into the characters’ psychologies, show the density of a look with nothing but words. Real genius stuff, you know. B-but I was a coward. No two ways about it. The only reason I wrote nothing of note (wrote nothing at all) is cause I was damn scared of not getting it right…

Got something right though. Got myself a girl. A real fine piece of ass. And not just that. My wife… Mmmh, she’s an angel. Everything the fairytales talk about. Every single thing you imagine women to be when you’re young and pure and haven’t been played for a sucker by a bunch of bitches. Back then… Out there I couldn’t see it. Man loves woman, woman nags, man resents woman. The cycle is infinite. Then you find yourself in this place and the woman you resented is bringing you cheese, and grapes, and wine and a conjugal visit every now and then. Funny, right?

She gave me a kid. A girl. She looks just like me. They all say it. Everywhere they say she has her father’s face. Never saw it. What I did see was her mother’s nerves. Cold, hard steel. She was born a woman. An Amazon. I loved her. Until I didn’t. I mean, all parents love their kids but… Raising kids is hard and they don’t know when you’re tired or sick. None of that matters to them. They want all of you and when you can’t give it, they demand even more.

Solved that issue by making another one. A boy who looked just like his mom. And I loved him more… Maybe cause he looked like his mom… I don’t know. Didn’t have much of a say in the matter. He was pure with his big bright eyes and curly dark hair and the way he’d say daddy like they were… magic incantations. He made me tired and frustrated and all the bad things that kids do to their parents but for some reason it… None of it got to me. He was everything. Being with him is what parenting was promised to be.

Then he died. Fell down a flight of stairs. It happens. Happens all the time. Kids are pride incarnate. They think they can fight dragons or fly down the staircase… Huh! No one can fly down a staircase. My boy knew he couldn’t fly down a staircase. I bet he knew but he fell down that flight either way. He fell… He fell.

When these things happen, no one knows what to do. Women are too hysterical to think straight so it falls on the man to figure it out. Who’d you call first? I mean, the kid is dead. Do you call an ambulance, the firemen or the police? Trick question. No matter who you call they’re all gonna end up at your door. Pediatricians trying to resurrect the dead, firemen to console a grieving mother and the police to question the stoic husband cause… Of course the reason he’s so damn calm is cause he did it.

I was taken in the patrol car. Even in there I was silent. Don’t even know if I can call it that. Don’t know what to call it when you wanna speak but… Either way. They questioned me for the whole night. Describe to the best of your ability and where were you when it happened and everything to mask the real question. Did you do it? I had nothing to say. Wasn’t even hiding nothing. Just… I don’t know. Nothing could get out of me.

Next day they sent me a lawyer and he told me I did good not to speak. Silence, right now, is your only defense. These people were playing some game and I was… I didn’t do it. Wasn’t it obvious from the fact that it was me that called them? Why would I… I loved that kid. Loved him more than anything in the world. Goddamn it! It breaks me to…

My wife came to visit me. She had that look. The same one that was probably on my face since the flight down the staircase, haha! And my lovely wife… I mean, at this point she’s not yet the loving angel but… Well, she goes and tells me that she knows it’s not me and that she knows who done it and…

Somehow it’s my fault. You may have not pushed him but it was your behavior, and your actions that caused it, she says. Didn’t love the girl enough and focused all my attention on the boy and yaddy-yaddy-yadda. But she’s a kid. Just a kid and this kind of thing would…

Someone’s got to be guilty, right? This time it had to be me. It had to be me. So now, I get my cheese, grapes, and wine. That’s all gratis, of course. The real prize for my sacrifice are the conjugal visits. Huh! Haven’t had those in a while, either. I wonder why.

This story is about a couple. Their names are Joseph and Mary. This is a bit of a problem as every Christian to encounter this story will certainly accuse the author of blasphemy at worst, or mockery at best. Of course, this is of no consequence to those who are yet to encounter the Gospels and its surrounding scaffolding.

Joseph was a teacher although he’d never plainly reveal this fact to anyone who’d ask. Oftentimes, he’d remain stolid and, at times, stoic as he pivoted ever so discourteously into another subject. However, if Joseph had a drink in hand (something that he was quite fond of), the question “what do you do?” would get a coy, “every night I go to bed and pray that God doesn’t make a virgin mother of my wife”.

What is strange is that Joseph found no shame in his profession. In fact, as a student at the university, he often spoke with such pride whenever he’d say (with a drink in hand, of course), “what higher purpose is there than to pass knowledge to the younger generation?”

His peers, often from a higher stratum of society, felt that Joseph expressed himself with a degree of hubris with which his pedigree was not owed. This might have been so. Certainly, our genealogy and nurturing offer keen insights into who we are and, even, who we’ll be.

And what of Joseph’s genealogy?

The identity of his father was a bit of a mystery. Word around town was that the police chief, Marcus Lizaveta, was the culprit. Undoubtedly, there was some resemblance. “Look at his brow!” Town gossip spread. “Haven’t seen one that exaggerated since the chief stood over me with his baton.”

On the other hand, there was the former wrestler and town legend, Garnett Miusov, who was known to be as crafty with his tongue as he was on the mat. Many a woman had fallen victim to his wiles, his celebrity and, most especially (but none would admit this in polite company), his physical stature. It was said that Joseph’s mother was one of these. Of Miusov, too, the choral public found resemblance. “He might not be as towering of a figure but, other than Miusov, who else bears that frame?”

Growing up, Joseph was raised by his mother. She was a fine dressmaker who detested all the gossip (likely because she was an enduring subject). Would you believe she went as far as to avoid mass because of this?

“All those women,” she once told her son, “have nothing better to do than to slander one’s good name.”

Despite her undeniable talent with a needle and thread, she had no good name to speak of — a woman of common birth and dubious history.

“A regular whore. That boy best leave this town and forget that we knew him as the bastard son of a whore.”

With time, Joseph discovered a simple enough solution to their insensitive quips. Age gave him the authority of a Lizaveta and the strength of a Miusov. As such, his answer to the problems posed by reality was his fists.

Several nights Joseph returned home with his shirt bloodied from rounds of fisticuffs in the streets. He lost some, won others, but everyone learned that Joseph the Bastard was not one to back down from a challenge. With fear came a begrudging respect which Joseph wrung and wrung until he squeezed out every drop of self-importance he could find.

It was during one of his drunken tirades while at the university — right as he was coming to the crescendo — that he spotted, from across the room, a brown haired girl he had never seen before. There might have been something special about her but what it was only Joseph could say.

As I have said, she had brown hair which came with a matching set of brown eyes. Under her eyes were freckles that appeared to have been put on with a pencil. It would be later that Joseph would discover that she had, in fact, put them on with an eyebrow pencil.

Mary was not from our town. She and her father — a former postal clerk, I heard — had moved to our town because he (her father)… Well, more on this later.

“The people of that place are nothing like us,” he told his daughter sharply. “They lie, they cheat, they steal young girls’ hearts and offer nothing in return.”

He had good cause to be concerned.

Miusov was not the sole Casanova in town. Despite most coming from married homes, everyone knew their father’s mistress (again — something not to be discussed in polite company).

I have it on good account that Mary’s mother died shortly after childbirth. Her father, not knowing how to handle a girl, did what any man would do with his most valuable treasure — watch her like a hawk. And thus, Mary grew up sheltered and, possibly, a little more naive than the average provincial girl.

This brings us to the party.

Her friend, Ilina, had invited her. “This will be your debut,” she flattered Mary. “No one in this town is as plainly beautiful as you are. Oh, the boys will fall over each other for a chance at your hand.”

Like all young women, Mary was uncertain of this but the thought of undivided attention, and even, to be considered beautiful by the opposite sex sparked such fervent curiosity that she could not help herself.

The party, however, was nothing like she expected. It was not the dinner parties of high society she read in her novels or heard about from friends (these friends had lied, of course).

It was men (boys, really) who wanted to prove their fickle masculinity by imbibing voraciously only to regurgitate it all before lying on the floor half-dead until a friend carried them off. It was women standing awkwardly along the edges of the frenzy hoping that one of the men (boys) would walk away from his childish ways and ask for a dance.

This rarely happened. But it did — most certainly so — when a drunken Joseph beheld an innocent creature across the room.

He took a cigarette from one of his friend’s hand and stuck it between his lips. “Who is that girl?” He asked. “That’s Mary. Go on, then, Joseph. Tell us again how you’re going to…”

“None of that right now. Look at her! Where is she from?”

Our town had a reasonable number of beautiful unspoken-for young women (I guess the same is true of most towns). Some of our young women had been entangled in Joseph’s web and others had even known him intimately. What I cannot tell you is why he, despite having his pick of the litter, willingly walked away to offer his hand to the plain young Mary.

This author has heard stories of elephants clearing jungles to get at their goal. It wouldn’t be a far cry from that to what Joseph did that night.

As they say, the rest is history.

To everyone in the town, their relationship appeared rushed. Maybe it was. I will not be offering my opinion on this particular matter. Soon enough (long before their graduation) the two sacrificed that ever so elusive freedom for a life bound to each other. No longer was it Joseph the Bastard but Joseph and Mary, Joseph and Mary, Joseph and Mary sung from the rooftops, bars and streets.

Oh, the town was awash with witty remarks about their union.

Mary’s father who questioned all the townsfolk found himself taken by Joseph’s charms and ability to lead a room. “He’s a good boy. A good man,” he said to his daughter many times.

Joseph’s mother, unfortunately, did not share that enthusiasm.

“Why her?! She’s a plain little thing… And there’s just something that I can’t quite… I’m sure a man like you can find a girl of good breeding who’ll…”

And every time Joseph would put a stop to her incessant nagging with, “don’t you read scripture, mother? God made her for me. And me for her.”

This author is not fond of happy endings. No, the couple do not walk off into the sunset. They fight. They lie. They cheat. The second born is not his. He has another family a province away… These are the parts of the tale that those other authors refuse to show you. And this author is only too happy to reveal but…

But the case appears, by all accounts, to have been different with Joseph and Mary. They walked hand in hand, Joseph spent less time in bars (this is not to say he did not enjoy his drink) and Mary was never again seen fraternizing with other men or at those parties where her friends went to experience the liberties of a decadent youth.

Upon his graduation, Joseph got a job at the local gymnasium where he taught chemistry. Mary, who also hoped to be a teacher, found herself a job as a secretary at city hall.

“Only until we get our child,” Joseph told her, “then you can put a stop to this distraction and focus on what’s highest.”

As with most young wives, expressions of disapproval with husbands (especially one as headstrong as Joseph) were an armament left as a Hail… I hope you understand what I mean.

Some of our more liberal readers might find Mary’s posture rather submissive and our dear Joseph rather oppressive. But weren’t those the times? When a man might get away with telling his wife to clean his muddy boots and scrub the toilets and so on.

Mary, like all other women of her time, looked forward to having a man toil in the fields while she nurtured his brood. Possibly even wipe down his soiled breeches (I jest). It was not a dream of fancy. If anything, Joseph’s simplistic diction — what’s highest — might have been exactly what Mary felt.

Now, the question is, was there nothing about Mary that was out of reach for Joseph? Or was there something about Mary that even her Lizavetan husband with his Miusovian ways couldn’t get to?

As I have mentioned, Mary’s father (his name escapes me at this moment) was a former postal clerk. Since their arrival, he had not worked. This was rather strange because the two, prior to Mary’s marriage, seemed to have enjoyed the sort of life that a middle income could offer. No one, not even town gossip, broached that topic (probably because all the town Casanovas and their mistress stole the airwaves).

Her father (and I will gladly acknowledge this) was intelligent enough not to hide away from that public that he allegedly disdained. He walked to the market, made smalltalk with the shopkeepers, always attended mass (unlike Joseph’s mother) and offered a “good morning” and “good day” to anyone he’d encounter on his path.

These moments protected him from the probing that chased other outsiders from our town. Let us not forget, also, that no man would dare poke at the father-in-law of a wild beast who’d walk into a bar and smash a bottle on the head of any man he felt disrespected him. And what would the law do? What would Lizaveta do to that man who might have been his blood?

Pardon me. Pardon me. I am losing track of myself here.

Mary’s father… Aaaa… Andrey Dolokov was his name. Andrey Dolokov had been a postal clerk a few provinces to the north. “Oh, Joseph! It’s a terrible place. Only a brute (someone like you) can find peace in such a place,” Mary spoke of her home. “We all shared one dream — to leave. Every single person there wants nothing more than to leave that place and move to the capital or any other place with something more than a fish market and a church.”

Joseph, being a brute, was inspired by an insatiable curiosity to visit this town where only brutes could find peace.

“Why, let’s travel to your home this summer.” He told Mary.

She would have none of that. “Anywhere, Jospeh, but there. I’m not going back and if you put me on your shoulder I will writhe and kick like a wild cat.”

There goes our Hail Mary and Joseph, being the elephant in the jungle, had no option but to clear a path.

It was in the summer. All the students were sent home from the gymnasium and the teachers were given their mandatory leave. Every other summer before that, Joseph and Mary had taken to renting a cabin by a lake and enjoying the peaceful nature. The case would be different that particular year.

“Are we going to the cabin, my love?” Mary asked.

Joseph remained silent.

“I thought we might want to go somewhere different. How about the mountains? I hear we can hike to the peak this season. I always wanted to see the world from atop a mountain. Did you ever think about that, dear?”

“My love,” Joseph cut in, “I want nothing more than to enjoy every single moment I have with you but something is clawing at the back of my mind…”

“What is it?” she wrapped her arms around him. “Tell me! Tell me!”

“Mmmh! I think it’s time we visit your home.”

Mary, like that wild cat, lunged back. Joseph was stunned by her reaction and this only drove him to insist with greater ferocity.

“I won’t be sharing anymore words with you, Mary.”

She paused. He had not once since their courtship called her by her name. “It is decided. And if you will not come, I will be going alone.”

She saw it in his eyes. He was going to have his way and there was nothing that could be done about it.

“Okay,” she relented. “But let me talk to father before we leave. It’s just… It’s just that I would like to ask him if we can still make use of our old house rather than spending money on an inn.”

“He wants to do what?!” Mary’s father snarled at her when she explained the situation. “No, no, no. We-you cannot let that happen, Mary. You just cannot let that happen.” He held her by the arms like a child with a rag doll.

“Father, please. Stop,” she begged. “You know him. You know how Joseph gets when he sets his mind to something.”

“Mary,” he let her go and dropped to the couch, “you understand, even better than I, what will happen when your husband gets there. Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten what we have done?”

She held herself where her father had squeezed. The bruising was already evident.

“I-I know, father, but… I-I just don’t know what to do. He-he’s ready to leave anytime…”

Andrey leapt from the couch and ran to a room in the back.

“Father, where are you… What are you doing?” She pleaded.

Andrey returned with an envelope. Due to its contents, it was rather thick. He held the envelope up to her face and said, “this… Give him this and…” he was shaking all over, “tell him that I have given him this as a gift to…”

“Father, we have… You have nothing else. This is it, isn’t it? This is what we’ve come down to. I… We can’t accept…”

“MARY!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Mary moved back against a wall. “Don’t you understand?! DO YOU WANT YOUR HUSBAND TO FIND OUT WHAT WE DID??? What you did???”

With her eyes closed, her back against the wall, Mary realized that she had no where else to go. No where to turn to, so she said, almost like a murmur, “it wasn’t me, father…”

Andrey moved towards his daughter and raised his hand against her. Her face was flush with his palm’s imprint.

“You worthless girl. YOU STUPID WORTHLESS GIRL! After all I’ve done for you. After all the pain and sacrifice. After your mother passed…”

Her hand was on her cheek when she said once again, “it wasn’t me, father.”

The train carriage to Mary’s place of birth was quiet. So quiet that Joseph, who found pleasure in chatting up strangers, resorted to holding the stewardess hostage.

“By God, this carriage is a ghost town.” he said to her as she in turn repeatedly looked to Mary. “How is the company making any money?”

“Well, sir,” while her eyes shifted between him and Mary, “it’s not just this carriage. It’s the whole train. Other than the cargo, this train is typically empty on this route. Very few people go in this direction.”

“My wife here, Mary, is from --. Her first time,” he turned to Mary, “back in years. My first time there as well.”

“Excuse me, but isn’t your name Joseph?”

“Yes, yes. It gets old after a while.”

“Madam, you are a lucky woman,” she gave a quick glance up and down Joseph’s frame. “Keep him close or someone will snatch him up.” She giggled as she pushed the cart down the aisle.

“That was one strange woman. Probably from the capital. Women there say such shameless things,” he sat back next to her and placed his arm around her shoulder. “You’ve been shaking like a leaf since we left… And why are you covering yourself like this? It’s too hot for this outfit.”

“I-I find trains cold, dear. Let it alone. Anyway,” she pouted and turned to the window, “you got what you wanted. We’re going to --. You get to have your way. Again.”

“Come on, now. What’s the harm in me seeing where theotokos came from?”

“I don’t much appreciate you blaspheming… It-it doesn’t matter. We’re going either way.”

Mary’s hometown was just as she had described it — more of a punctuation mark, a period, than a continuation of development. The train station was not decrepit. It was, basically, a room next to the tracks. There was no station master to speak of. What Joseph found was an old man, drunk as a skank, ensuring (barely) that everyone had their tickets. Beyond the station was wild country.

“This,” started Joseph in awe, “is where you were born?”

She offered no response.

“Please, my love. I know you’re tired and you didn’t want to come here but… Here we are. Show me. Come and take me to the place your father raised you.”

Joseph took hold of all the luggage and hurled it over his shoulder. Mary begrudgingly led the way from the station into the town square (if one could call it that).

“Is that where your father worked?” Joseph pointed to a tiny building. Mary nodded to affirm. “And is that the…?” He pointed to the church. She nodded. “And where is everyone? Where are the families and the…?”

“Everyone is where they should be,” she gave a monotone response that Joseph had never heard from her.

“One night, Mary. One night and we can get on the train and go back home. Just one night.”

“No train for a week.”

“No train for a week,” he repeated calmly. “That’s fine. We’ll get some rest in your childhood home and make the most of this journey.”

Humble is a nice word. A nice word for choices by those capable of extravagance. I would not dare use the word humble to describe Mary’s home. There was no choice in the matter.

“My love,” Joseph began as they walked in, “is this… And how did…” He pulled her close to him and embraced her as a father would embrace a hurting child. Her arms remained dangling by her sides.

That night Joseph lit a candle and had his eyes scour every inch of the room as Mary lay motionless. Despite having her eyelids shut, sleep evaded her. Joseph realized he had made a mistake and even started to understand and appreciate why Mary did not want to make that journey. He placed his palm on her belly and felt an unrhythmic movement. He would find a way to return before the week was up.

Mary should have remained in her childhood home. Indeed, Joseph wanted nothing more than to return to her at some point in the day as the hero with a solution. She would not be left there. She clutched Joseph’s right arm and together they made their way to the town square to have a word with anyone about their journey back.

In the post office, where Mary’s father had worked, was a lady of about fifty who held a newspaper in her hand. As with the train station, not much business was happening there.

“Madam, excuse me,” Joseph’s voice boomed. The woman reluctantly put down the paper to welcome them.

“Who…” she started before reverting to, “thank you for making your way to our office but unfortunately…”

“Yes, yes! I’m well aware of that. All I need you to tell me is how we can get out of this place forthwith.”

The lady looked at Joseph all confused and asked, “how do you mean?”

“I mean, kind lady, how shall my wife and I get out of this town as soon as possible?”

She shifted her weight to the side of her chair in order to get a good glimpse of Mary who retreated behind Joseph’s frame.

“You… You two are not from here, am I right?” she asked with her index finger on her lower lip.

“She’s,” Joseph pointed to Mary who was still behind her, “from here but we need to return to our home. This is no place for my wife… It’s no place for anybody.”

The woman got to her feet revealing a husky frame. She tilted to catch a glimpse of Mary then said, “are you…? No, you can’t be…”

“Ah, yes!” Joseph blurted. “You must know my wife. Her father was…”

“JOSEPH!” Mary spat out. Joseph paused. He looked over his shoulder. Mary’s eyes were pleading.

“It’s… My wife isn’t feeling all too well it seems,” he turned back to the woman. “Nonetheless, is there a way for us to leave?”

She turned her head right, then left, as if looking for the answer around her. “I don’t see any way for you to leave this place until that train returns a week from now.”

Joseph and Mary were back in her old home. Once again, she simply lay on the bed motionless.

“My love,” he whispered, “are you still awake?” She did not respond. “Why did you not want… What happened today?” Still there was no answer. Joseph sat beside her. He knew she was awake. His fingers ran through her brown hair.

“What is it you don’t want to share with me? Mary, is there something I should know?”

Nothing.

At moments such as this (if they were back in our town), the masses would have looked to Miusov and said, “there you go. That’s your son”. Fortunately, there was no one around to cast such aspersions at our town hero when Joseph held a mass of Mary’s hair and yanked her head off the pillow and shoved her against the wall.

“OPEN YOUR DAMN MOUTH WOMAN!” he demanded.

The splinters from the plank of wood cut into Mary’s skin. She tried to jerk herself back but Joseph held her with an ungodly fury. There were no screams. Only a body silently begging for release.

“You don’t get to keep things from me,” his words came. “What… Mary,” he slowly relaxed his grip, “tell me.”

Mary dropped back to the bed. Her hair fell over her face. There was no panic, no hysteria. Joseph moved for a strike when Mary looked up at him. Only, it wasn’t Mary. Whatever that was… Whatever looked back at Joseph was someone that he had never encountered before. And so, he stopped and stared back at it.

“You asked for this,” she said with finality.

All the furniture Mary and her father had used while they lived there still remained. Dusty and old as they were, they stood strong against a backdrop of a collapsing past. From a cupboard that reached up to her waist, Mary pulled out a bottle of vodka. Like the cupboard from which it came from, it was engulfed in a blanket of dust.

“My father thought he was hiding this from me,” she uncorked the bottle. “Every night he waited until I was asleep and sometimes even walked to my bed and placed his hand on my belly — just like you did — before coming here to drink this. He never drank from the bottle the way I’ve seen drunks in town do.”

She took out a small glass tumbler and placed it by the bottle. “Always this glass,” she poured the vodka into the tumbler until it reached the brim and then a little more. Joseph watched Mary as she let the vodka flow onto the table.

“When it was full,” she brought the glass to her lips, “he took it down…” she did just that. “Medicine. He always whispered medicine after that.” She refilled the glass and placed it in front of Joseph. “Here you are, my love. I fear you’ll need your medicine before you get sick tonight.”

A single candle stood between Joseph and Mary. Its flame flickered ever so slightly. Behind candlelight, Mary’s brown eyes turned a cedar red. Her skin, porcelain like the frozen earth of her home in winter, was awash with life. Joseph took it all in. This part of his wife that he had never met.

“Tell me, then,” he gulped from the tumbler. “What is it that you have been keeping from me?”

She reached for the tumbler and poured another round. She shoved it back to Joseph.

“Some things you know: my mother passed, my father raised me alone, he was a postal clerk, our town (this place) was-is no place to raise a child.”

“Yes, yes,” he said with a cadence afforded by the vodka. “I know all that. Tell me what I don’t know.”

“Once a year — every winter — our town is a bit more lively. People fill the streets, men dance, money exchanges hands…”

“Yes. What about that is…”

“My love, please. Allow me to speak,” again there was a finality in her voice. Joseph retreated into himself.

“Thank you, my love. That life, that winter… It does not belong to us. It comes from the east. They come… Hordes of horses… Orda, my people call them. Fearless men. Rich men. Raiders. But only here, in this miserable place, they do not raid for there is nothing to take. Here they rest.

With all their money, they put the townsfolk to work. All able bodied men hunt and fish for them. The women take care of their horses and some…

The money is always good. Most of everyone looks forward to their arrival. But their departure leaves a void. And that void is filled with a licentiousness and depravity that the men only desire to satisfy.

They turn to gambling: dog fighting, cards and… Anything that they can splurge their short-lived wealth on. My father was no different. He had no stomach for the dog fights so he…” she took a gulp from the tumbler, “took to cards. Betting everything. Winning a lot. Losing more. Losing. Losing. Losing…” her voice trailed off.

She got to her feet and turned away from Joseph who was about to stand and reach for her. He decided against it.

With shaky voice she said, “he had nothing left. Nothing but debt to every other man who owed something to every other man. They knocked at our doors at all hours… Dolokov, my money. My money, they yelled. Some of them… I can swear some of them cried,” she let out a giggle, “just as I am.

But father… He avoided them. He hid away. Left the post office because… of course they’d look there too. So, they stopped coming for Dolokov…” her sobs grew. Joseph felt the urge to hold her surge in proportion to her pain. Instead, he took the vodka.

“Wh-what do you mean?!” he let out brusquely.

“My father hid away. Gone. For weeks I didn’t see him and the people… Joseph,” she faced him revealing a face reddened by memory, “they didn’t stop coming. Every night they came… Every day they came… I was-I was still…” she fell to her knees.

Joseph watched her. Watched her hands extend to the floor and her fingers attempt to grip at the hard earth. And the sobs grew to wails which might have reached a kind soul if not for the boarded windows, the expansive wilderness and the single-mindedness by which hungry folk carry themselves.

Finally, he got to his feet and took those few steps to his wife. He reached for her when Mary smacked his hand away.

“I’M NOT DONE!” she hurled her words at him. “YOU WANTED THIS…”

Joseph reflexively returned to the bottle and in his haste knocked the tumbler off the table breaking it into a thousand tiny pieces scattered all on the floor. He gulped gulped gulped with eyes wide open.

“He hid away… Dolokov hid away until the men… until they stopped calling his name. And then he returned. Found me here,” her dainty finger stabbed at the earth, “like this. He-he said… he said thank you…

And I thought it was over. My father… I wanted nothing more than to hide behind him… To… The Orda returned, the people made money and once again my father was indebted to everyone. This time he didn’t run. My beautiful daughter, he said to me, thank you… Every year thank you… Every year thank you…

IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED TO HEAR?? IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED, MY LOVE?? YOUR WIFE… YOUR MARY IS A WHORE… YOUR MARY IS A WHORE…”

All her tears were gone and she could feel, probably as a consequence of catharsis, a lightness about her. That tightness she had held in her stomach for so long was gone.

Joseph, however, found himself on the precipice. Just as Mary, he, too, felt a lightness that he could thank only to his medicine. He dropped to the chair and let the bottle drop by his side.

“And,” he mumbled, “do-do they… Does everyone here know?”

Wiping her tears, Mary looked up at him.

“Does it matter? Yes,” she spat, “they all know,” she had returned but with a change. “Every single one and their mothers too. There are no secrets here, my love,” she moved on her hands and knees breaking the shards into smaller pieces all piercing her delicate skin. Blood trailed behind her yet she did not flinch. “No secrets between you and me, my love. No secrets. Just like you wanted.”

With her bloodied palm she pulled herself up to his knees and with her mousy brown eyes looked right at him and asked, “do you love me? Do you still love me?”

“Mmmmh, Tchaikovsky. Swan lake, Op. 20, Act 1 in the first tempo. First heard it when I was fourteen. A cousin was studying music. Brought home a flash drive full of classical music. I didn’t care. Wasn’t interested. Fourteen. Just started my love affair with Lil’ Wayne. L-l-l-l-lick it like a lollipop… Never considered how gay it all was. I loved it though. And I loved Lil’ Wayne. And I wanted to be Lil’ Wayne — a one of a kind. A genius, we called him. The only man, at the time at least, who was both a dwarf and a giant. I call him a dwarf but I’m not all that tall, either. Hit one hundred and seventy centimeters when I was thirteen. Haven’t moved an inch since then. An inch would be too much to ask for, am I right? Maybe God wanted me close to the earth. Close to the soil and the devils beneath. Right by you.

I’m sorry to talk about this. Tchaikovsky?! Hmph! Do you even care? Do you care that he was meant to be a civil servant? Or that he carved out a purely Russian style? Or that he had a romantic relationship with his nephew? Most don’t. Shhh! I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you. Here-here-here. Let me look at your face. Those brown eyes… Don’t close them. Let me look at them. At those tears. You can cry. You can cry. Even Jesus wept. I-promise-you. I love you. I love you more than you can ever know because you… You have given me something that no one could have ever given me. Do you know that? Do you see how much you’ve given me?

This-this was made for you — for us. Don’t you love it? A replica of… Yahidne. Russians. God made man, then He made the Russians. You don’t care about that, either, do you? Anyway, anyway, I got those chairs from ikea. The desk, too. All DIY. I hate DIY but this place had to be… perfect. You love it, don’t you? It’s hard work, you know. No one ever tells you that the lover is the hardest worker in the room. Would you say that to me? Some words of acknowledgement. Please? A simple I see you will do.

My wife — she’s not mine anymore. I had to ask her to sign… A man can’t run off into the night if he’s got others carrying his name… Anyway… Mmmmh! She wasn’t… no thank you from that one. But I’ve… I’ve always been a bit of a validation whore. Mother saw it. Teachers saw it. Bet you my wife saw it, too. A simple thank you will go a long way, I always say. Gratitude. Is that so much to ask for. But-but you understand, don’t you? In this place… Shhh! Shhh! We’re okay. This place is… This is pu-pure. Shhhhhh! FUCK! SHUT UP!

Again! I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m too crude sometimes. This isn’t… No one would want to hear this. Be talked to like this. I’m sure you didn’t say such things to… FUCK! No, no, no. I didn’t mean to… Listen. No need to bring that up. This is between you and me. Just you and me and I…

Okay. Okay. I need to catch my breath. Not as young as I used to be. My wife — ex-wife — we got our first kid real young. No one can call you a fag if you’ve got a kid, right? Anyway, anyway, we didn’t have a plan then. We were… We were kids having fun and… pop… out came a baby. Three kids by thirty, would you believe? No one does that anymore. Outliers. We were outliers. Then a plan. Travel the world, live the life by forty. Everyone that waited would look at us all green with envy. Good plan, right? Still, kids age you faster than drink or tobacco. Constantly tired. And my daughter… You took… FUCK! Again, I’m doing it… I don’t mean to. This has nothing to do with… This is just YOU and ME. Let’s not think about… Aaa, I can’t help it sometimes but…

Do you think I’m smart? Sometimes I think so. People have even said so but I-I doubt them, you know. Mmmmh! I mean, I got you here but that’s… It wasn’t... All those cameras in front of your home and of course… I mean, I’d run, too. Call a friend, go to a net cafe. Anything to get away from the lights. It wasn’t easy, though. Nothing is ever easy.

One time, I tried to get into the stock market. Read an article on Jim Simmons and thought I’m smart. I can do what he did. AI, I thought, would do the heavy lifting. Ran around telling everyone, even my wife — ex-wife. She laughed. Not really a laugh but… Well, they all laughed eventually… he-he!

But look at me now. Look at this place. My little Yahidne. And you — my one true love. I made it! WE MADE IT! Out there there’s a kid with a robin hood account thinking he’s about to hit a homerun. Or some girl thinking the guy she met at the bar is the one. Or some man trapped in a miserable job, thinking his one hour of writing a night will be his saving grace. It’s all lies out there. Nothing real. Nothing pure. But in here… GOD, I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! I-have-never felt this way. Don’t think it’s possible for anyone out there to feel this way.

You can’t hear me, can you? Just watch my lips. Watch them. These lips that would kiss you… I talked about Tchaikovsky but you don’t even get to… Taylor Swift… Anyway, you get to enjoy 22. I don’t know about you but I’m feelin’ mmmmm… Pretty hard to sing along with Tchaikovsky in my ear. 22 for you. 22 for you. Again and again and again. You’ll never forget me. And I’ll never forget you.”

Contacts still on. She forgot. Again. Azure on her face. 2AM. Should remind her to take them out and…
5, 10 minutes. Contacts out. Brush teeth. Moisturize skin.
Enough time to step onto the balcony.

One cig.

Been a minute. Thirteen days. She hasn’t noticed. She shoulda said something. When I pulled her for a hug, a kiss. She shoulda said something.
Woulda said something. She retreats.

2:03AM. Same page. Same page.
Can’t find the right words… effervescent… velleity…? Don’t feel right.
No thesaurus. Keep it simple, stupid.

Babe, your contacts. You need to take out your contacts,
then I can… Nicotine in, words out.

What’s this?!
Guy. That fucking Guy.
Another post. What is that? Two stories a week?
Prolific. The man won’t let up.
But…
Can’t believe this is what passes for a writer now.
You need an aesthetic, Oscar, and people will start reading your work.

Fucking Guy.

Smokes with impunity. Doesn’t have a wife breathing down… cancer in the family… or kids yelling
daddy stinks.
Guy still thinks it’s cool… It is.

Fucking cool.

My aesthetic? Southern gothic. Appalachian chic, he said with a Camel between lips.
Wonder how many poor, inbred whites call maledictions blessings.
If only they’d met Guy. He’d turn them into literary phenoms.

She’s still staring at her screen as I… loquacious, no… resplendent, fuck no.
babe, I can’t get a word out. She turns over. Scrolling.
Give it a rest. Turn it off. Try again tomorrow, she’ll say.

Try again tomorrow?! How about today?
How about I find a cure to all that ails me. Right fucking now.
Can’t fucking do it without my smokes… babe.

Guy won’t get married. Lived with a girl once.
All she wanted to do was talk, watch Netflix, dates. Not conducive to my process.
I smiled. Nodded. Even asked about it.
Real easy, he said. Lights off. Pop in two, three pouches. Green tea. Lock in. Four hours minimum — write, edit, repeat. Women won’t let you have that. Don’t know how you do it. Wife. Kids. I’d never let it get to that.

Didn’t have much of a choice, is what I should have said.
Most nights I steal a kiss, cop a feel.
Most nights I get a clean no. Others…

Rejection is jet fuel.

Hid a bottle of gin in the suitcase. Rocket fuel.
Wife won’t know. Buddies at the meeting won’t know.
Might pull it out once she goes...

Babe! Contacts.

But Guy knows all about that. Bukowski reborn, he brags.
Camels, whiskey, black eyes on porcelain skin… It’s all about aesthetic.
He doesn’t get it. None of us want this shit.
Hiding in the dark. Hoping the baby sleeps long enough for me to… lock in.

Guy wants it, though. Every single part of it… And where there’s no pain…
you wring it into existence, the fucker said.

One cig.

Just one and I’ll get one up on Guy.
I’m not getting any younger and he’s… 25, 26?
Pretty sure I saw him post a birthday a few weeks ago.
Yeah, yeah. Here it is. A few scrolls past the ass, the tits.
Cig in one hand, bottle of whiskey in another.
And who’s that? God, she’s hot.

Fucking Guy.

Are you almost done? You’re ignoring me again, she blurts.
I know how I got here.
An angel spread its legs.

Guy’s got me beat.

One cig.

Nakazaki-cho was our home. Of course none of us would dare reveal this to our wives but we knew that every Saturday at 4PM we returned home.

Mark and Anna Shimada ran the cafe. The posters atop murky walls, pleading fluorescent lighting and props suggested a jazz-inspired interior but Anna, with her love for classical, played nothing but the great Russian composers.

Beyond this all we knew was,

“Mark makes the best meat sauce pasta this side of the Atlantic.”

None of us had ever tasted it. All we ever ordered was coffee. Dripped, steamed, pressed.

We were five of us. There had been more but responsibilities, relocations, time and death had taken from the group. During that time, Nakazaki-cho got smaller. Patrons seemed louder, Anna came closer and Mark… Well, he was always in the kitchen conjuring up his mystery pasta.

“Something don’t feel right,” Hosea pronounced on that particular afternoon. “Where’s David, by the way?”

“Nonsense,” said Samuel. “Only thing that don’t feel right is that you’ve somehow managed to tame that tongue of yours.”

Nathaniel came to a sudden halt mid strut. “You know what! That definitely feels off. Everything okay, Hosea?”

With a baffling smirk Hosea retorted, “Samuel, how is it you put on a smile after everything you’ve been through?”

Samuel kicked at a pebble by his foot. It hobbled all the way to the back of Hosea’s foot. “A bottle a day keeps the shrink at bay, I heard.” He tapped against his left breast pocket.

Nathaniel reached for Samuel’s shoulder. “We’re going to have to talk about that” The men walked briskly.

“¥ou’ll be having your usual latte, Nathaniel?” I asked.

“Good man. Get the jitters off our backs. David’s already waiting.”

Right enough, David was there. Seated where he always sat with the same mug set on the same coaster, his face towel placed parallel to the mug as he always did.

Anna played Rimsky-Korsakov. “A new Russian every month of the year,” she told to us once. Only person that gave a damn was Nathaniel.

“What is this?” Hosea burst out in surprise as he pulled out his chair. “Summoned by the courts, were we?”

“What’s with the suit, David?” Samuel asked.

David smiled. He always smiled. “It means nothing,” Samuel said to me when I first joined the group.

The men sat as I walked to the counter where Anna Shimada sat with a tattered issue of J. Crew. From the kitchen I could hear the sizzle of oil in pans and the clattering of dishes.

“The same as always?” she asked. Her finger, nails painted a distant pink, pushed up against her spectacle frames.

“Yes, ma’am. Not ready to break character,” I mumbled. “Thank you.” She got up and started her prep. Her apron, lined with cherry-blossoms, held tightly against her frame. I couldn’t help but indulge.

“And David? He seems a bit… different,” she whispered as her eyes scanned the group.

“It’s the suit, isn’t it? Never seen him in a suit before. He does look… different. Probably summoned by the courts,” we both giggled.

“Alright. I’ll bring you your drinks.”

Everyone knew where to sit but most of all, we knew well not to sit where Nathaniel sat. Under his de facto throne was a painting that he had presented to Mark and Anna years ago.

“That’s one buxom woman,” Hosea noted when he first saw it. “Wouldn’t mind having that head banging my headrest.”

“That’s an attractive suit,” came Nathaniel. “Fortunately, you’ll never find me in one.” It would have been polite for me — or anyone else, really — to inquire as to why. No one did.

“i hit my wife the other night. no. no,” David began. His hand went atop his face towel.

…

The group, aghast, turned to David. Hosea placed a palm on his shoulder as though to stop him from going any further but,

“last night. didn’t see it coming. i… didn’t see it coming. like something took a hold of my arm and just…” he made a gesture. “swung. her hand went over her left cheek.”

…

“Goddamn it, David. A warning first,” Nathaniel said calmly. Samuel shifted his seat closer to the table and gave Nathaniel a momentary glance.

“red. sore. me, praying it don’t go purple. you know what’s funny?” That meaningless smile came over him, “she looked to be biting into her inner right cheek. kinda like the sting reverberated all the way to the other side.”

…

Anna came over with our drinks. Immediately, Nathaniel broke out in laughter.

“Anna!” he said. “Wonderful to see you this week. Look at you! What a sight! If Mark doesn’t act right I just might take you for myself.”

The rest of us remained silent. Samuel, too, flashed a smile at Anna. Their eyes never met.

She passed drinks around and said, “just might take you up on that. Mark wouldn’t even have to know.” A cheeky smile came over her. “You look good today, David. Were you summoned by the courts?”

Samuel’s hand reached into his breast pocket pulling out a flask the contents of which were poured into his mug. Anna glanced over at him momentarily. He hurriedly looked away.

Again Nathaniel laughed. “Summoned by the courts…! You, you always were the funny one here, Anna. Any new treats for my cheat meal?” I could see two of his fingers gently tag at her apron.

Hosea disapprovingly nodded his head.

“I can’t have my future hubby putting on pounds before our big day,” she chuckled with her hand resting upon his shoulder. “Anyway, you boys enjoy yourselves.”

As soon as she walked away, Hosea said, “we’ve got ourselves a regular suited wife beater. Taking as back to the good old days, are you? And how the hell did your mistress steal my line?”

“This is… This is serious. Why’d you hit her? What… What were you thinking?” said Samuel.

“He wasn’t. Thinking is what got you nothing but a bottle after your divorce, Samuel. Let the man alone. Let him speak before you go and give him your sound advice,” Hosea gave no bouts about his quips.

Samuel clenched his fist and said, “here we go. No taming that ferocity, is there?” He turned to David. “Why would you do that? What if she…”

David moved his face towel away from his mug.

“i knew it was wrong but… but when she tried to get up and leave,” his hands held against the edge of the table tightly. “i held her down. held her down and told her that she’s a damn whore who got what was coming to her and don’t she remember shoving me first? don’t she remember clenching her fist and thrusting? don’t she remember all the times I was… i’ve been good. and it didn’t mean nothing? don’t she remember that i never done nothing like that to her before?”

“Don’t be too loud,” Samuel’s hand went over his face.

Nathaniel leaned forward about to say something. David got there first.

“don’t blame her though. don’t think i’d have the space for much remembering after having a paw come at my face like that. but-but no way she was leaving that room. not yet. not yet. if she got a chance then-then she’d go right to the phone and dial the cops then-then what’d i do?” His hand went over his eyes. Hiding. Maybe crying.

…

“cops won’t listen to no man gripe about his wife being a whore. cops won’t care that i slave away to raise kids that ain’t even… no.” We could hear him whimper and plead to himself.

Hosea turned his seat and his entire frame to face David. “Now, hold on a damn minute. What do you mean they ain’t even? Ain’t even what?!”

David didn’t even take a second to acknowledge what was asked.

“the cops won’t care. they won’t care. so, i held her down and she fought and kicked and squirmed but… she wasn’t going nowhere.”

“David,” Nathaniel stretched his hand across the table. “People can hear you.” He turned around. Anna was still face down going through her old catalog.

“Don’t matter much, does it? They’re not going to call the cops if his wife already hasn’t,” Hosea noted.

“all she could do was lie down and wait,” he went on ignoring all that we had said. “lie down and wait till i was done rambling. it’s your fault, i told her. her fault. she don’t love me. never has. every sacrifice for her. a two-timing whore and… she said nothing the whole time. her eyes, glazed over, just stared at the ceiling fan. she didn’t say a damn thing and i knew… there’s no coming back from that. there’s no coming back from that.”

…

I stood up, took out my wallet and dropped a note on the table.

“What’s all this, then?” Hosea griped.

“I can’t have heard this,” I stuttered. “If…if I hear this, then…”

“What?! You’re going to have to call the authorities, are you? Get on with it then. David, you go on. Let it all out. There’s a reason we…” before Hosea could proceed Nathaniel said,

“can’t force him to be a part of this, can we? Things like these are precisely why we’re here but where’s the warning, David? I understand his position.”

“His wife won’t tell no one nothing. Unless she already… David, why are you wearing the suit?” Hosea asked.

David looked down at himself as though unsure of what he was wearing.

“i…i just bought the suit last week cause i heard… someone said you should dress as the man you want to be…”

“YOU’RE A BATTERER, DAVID!” Samuel burst out.

All the patrons in the cafe must have heard what was said. Anna lifted her head and looked in our direction. Her eyes remained.

“Cool yourself, Samuel!” Nathaniel’s composed tone came. His palm wrapped around Samuel’s thigh. Squeezing. “All of this is hearsay.”

“From the bloody horse’s mouth, it is,” Samuel grumbled. “Get your hands off me! This is madness!” Nathaniel took his hands off.

“Listen,” Nathaniel calmed himself further. “We’re glad you came to us with this. We’ve only got each other. And you,” he pointed at me. Finger as stern as his eye. “Our struggles are shared here. Nowhere else. Give David some courtesy. We will not have snakes in this garden.”

I sat back down. Nathaniel pushed the coffee closer to me and whispered, “thank you.”

Samuel glanced over at Anna. “Shit! I’m sorry. Got a bit excited there. Fuck!”

“Don’t worry about her,” Nathaniel said before standing up and walking over to the counter. He and Anna spoke briefly before the two turned towards us and shared a surreptitious laugh. I could see Nathaniel’s palm over Anna’s. Her eyes rested on him.

Nathaniel returned. “She’s a good girl. She likes us, too. That painting is doing a lot of heavy lifting.”

“A good girl?! Heck, Nathaniel, the woman is married,” Hosea gestured to Anna with his chin.

“Won’t Mar…” I was unable to finish my sentence.

Samuel, a bit embarrassed, took a huge gulp of his Americano. He coughed as the hot drink went down his gullet. “Jesus Christ almost burned a hole through me. This is… David, what are you going to do? Where is she now? What…”

“with the kids and her mom. don’t know… don’t think she’ll tell her but i sent her a message. asked her to talk to me… haven’t heard back from her. do you think i should… should i call her, nathaniel?” he took out his phone. “just check if we’re alri… if she’s alright.”

Hosea snatched the phone out of his palm and flung it at Nathaniel. “You’re not going to be doing none of that. Not now. Give the lady some room for heaven’s sake. You just smacked the Holy Spirit out of her.”

“Hosea is right. Give her some time. You’ll see her later. You’ve got kids, David. You’re wife isn’t stupid enough to take two kids and run. I know her. She’s got a good head on her shoulders,” Nathaniel preached.

“Obviously not good enough if she married a man that was going to hit her…” he turned to Samuel. “But who knows? Maybe that’s what a happy marriage needs. One good smack a year to remind the first mate that the captain’s still in charge.”

Samuel, with a little more composure, said, “you think… You think that’s what a marriage needs?!”

Hosea was about to speak when Nathaniel cut in.

“Samuel, the man’s a bastard. Don’t let him get to you. This is unexpected but let’s keep things focused on David. Can we do that, guys?”

With my voice quivering I said, “y-yes.”

Nathaniel gave me a good pat on the shoulder.

“Samuel, we were going to have a little chat about your flask but that’ll have to take a beat. Is that okay?”

Samuel nonchalantly took out his flask and had a swig. “Only person that has a problem with this is you.”

Nathaniel ignored the comment and said, “David, who else knows this?”

“this is home, right? i only speak when i’m at home.”

“…she was meant for this sorta place. The memory I have of her — arms flailing, voice wailing, heart open for heaven’s embrace — tells me that she was meant for this place. But I’d bet a pound out of my sack that she’s not here to see none of it.”

“How’d you figure? She might be somewhere out there. If she was meant for this sorta life, don’t you think the Lord would give her a chance to see it?”

“I’ve come to thinking the Lord allowed for the coming of this world to make men like us more like her. Those like her… He took their kind in His arms. What shall I say of us? We were weak and He wanted us meek.”

“You talk too much, Ham. Babble that don’t make damn sense to nobody. Shouldn’t be making much sense to you, either.”

“You’re right, Charles,” I chuckled. “It shouldn’t be making much sense. And better if it doesn’t. All this thinking won’t get us fed, will it?”

Charles lifted the bloodied sack over his shoulder. The weight slammed against the back of his leg bringing him down to his knees. “Goddamn,” he let out before getting right back to his feet. “We’re getting fed tonight. With this bounty they’d better treat us like kings. Kings, Ham. Kings. They gonna make a banquet for you and me, I bet,” Charles said excitedly. If there was a God, he smiled down on us that day.

“We’ve got to draw straws — said we would if we got ourselves something to take back.”

“I don’t understand the point of all this. Why not just talk to them? Jack isn’t everywhere all at once, is he?”

“You know that’s not how things work,” I retorted. “we draw straws and come to a conclusion on the matter lest Jack’ll have the final say again — and that means we don’t get no taste of paradise. Can’t put up with his smirk one more day. If I get to see it again I might do something that’ll have them put my head on a block.”

A trail of blood was made behind where Charles and I had walked.

“Do you think we’ll invite problems with this trail of blood, Charles?”

“From who? No other groups for miles. The blood ain’t no issue. So long as we get to camp before anyone finds it, we’re fine.” He dropped the sack and picked two twigs from the ground. “Well, then. Here you go. We’re gonna close our eyes and pick. Settle this before the feast.”

He closed his eyes as I squinted just enough before reaching my hand out.

“I’ve made my choice. Made yours?” he asked.

“Sure have. Go on, then. Open your eyes and see what you’ve got.”

“Goddammit! You lucky bastard! Seems like you get a party and an after-party then.” He took the twig into his mouth and gently bit into it.

“Guess I do then. Would you look at that. What do you think Jack’s gonna do about it?”

“Not a goddamn thing. We’ve got the kill. If he makes a fuss… We’re gonna have to… Hmmm! What do you think you’re flailing angel would’ve done about it?” Charles said with the sack back over his shoulder.

“Don’t think she’d have said a thing about nothing. Maybe sing a song. Sing a little song as she slit his throat,” I did a little jig while slicing and dicing the cold air. Charles gave a cheeky grin as he watched.

“A flailing angel. When we get to camp, you’re gonna have to be ready to do that dance of yours,” Charles turned to me. “Jack won’t give up his bounty all that easy.”

I spat onto the earth. My filthy hands wiped across my mouth leaving a foul taste that brought nothing but doubts over the contents of the sack.

“If he wants what’s here in my sack, he’s gonna have to surrender what he’s got,” I snarled proudly.

“And what of his boot lickers? What d’you intend to do about Tom and Jim and all them other boys that kiss his ass real good? If Jack commands they take what we’ve got, then that’s that,” he paused looking right at me. “Come to think of it, why are we going back to them anyways? Why not just…”

“Stop right there, Charles. You know why we’re going back.”

“No. No, I don’t know why. Come on, Ham. You with your big brain. Your fancy words. Why don’t you go on and tell me why we’ve got to go back cause a brute like me sure don’t get it,” he dropped the sack to the ground and sat atop it.

The cold wind beat against my cheeks. I despised having to be there. Somewhere beyond the hills, I imagined, was a room with a fire waiting for me.

“How about we don’t want to have to fight all them fights alone. We can’t do it, Charles. You know we can’t be fighting against men too blinded by hunger without Jack and his boys. So what if we’ve got to be their gofers every now and then. Much better than…”

Charles picked a stone from the ground and hurled it in my direction. I ducked right on time.

“You… WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

“Wanted to make sure you still had your head on straight cause you’re talking like you’ve lost it. Gofers?! Is that what they call what we’re doing? For a minute there I thought we were risking our lives so everyone could eat. And why don’t you just come out and say it, Ham. Why don’t you just say it’s his harem you want a swing at? I know it. You’ve damn well been talking about it ever since we met him. He ain’t never gonna share his girls… Goddamn straws. Drawing straws?! I’m as retarded as you are, Ham.”

He tossed his straw to the ground.

I spat and watched the spit fall right onto a puddle of blood. I dropped to my knees and let the sack fall off my back.

“What you’ve got to say about that, Ham? Got any more fancy words for me?”

Clouds started to gather above us.

“Going to get dark soon. Don’t think it’ll be smart of us to stay here much longer.”

“Well,” Charles started, “best get back to Jack’s band fast as we can.”

I picked up my sack and flung it over my shoulder. “We’re not gonna make it to camp before nightfall. Might as well find a place somewhere there,” I pointed to a place between the trees, “and rest for the night.”

“Set up a fire and burn some meat. What say you, Ham?”

“This is for everyone. Not just us, Charles,” I responded.

“For everyone but Jack the most, am I right?”

“For everyone, Charles.”

“But Jack the most.”

Raymond Murphy is quite a common name. In fact, if one were to type the name into a search engine one would find an American politician, an American medal of honor recipient, a British linguist, and an Irish apparel designer from Tokyo. What you would not find is a writer of literary fiction. What you would not find is this particular Raymond Murphy.

Every month, this particular Raymond Murphy would spend approximately ninety to a hundred hours holed up in his office chipping away at one story after another so that he could — how should I put it? — alleviate the symptoms of his condition.

He told me he was seven when he started writing. And so, I asked him, “writing what?! You definitely weren’t writing literary fiction, were you?” To which he responded, “of course not literary fiction. Not YA or any serious literature but fiction nonetheless.”

“Then,” I thought, “where’s your name?” All this I kept in my head because as he sipped on his coffee, I watched the answer live and breathe all around him.

Ryan Murphy would soon be six. About to start elementary school and his dad, Raymond, was in the process of teaching him how to walk to and from school all by himself. Even as we talked Raymond would, every now and then, blurt out, “raise that hand up as you cross a street. NO RUNNING! NO RUNNING!” Ryan would frustratingly say, “dad, I know!”

Stumbling behind Ryan was the three year old Mary Murphy. There she was chasing after her brother who was mapping out the far reaches of the known world. And even further down the chain of command was Sara Murphy who lay on the sheet spread upon the knoll with her eyes fixated on her hands, fingers, toes and every appendage that, as far as she was concerned, might have belonged to her.

“It’s not easy — what you’re asking. It’s obvious to me that you want this. But it could be that you simply don’t want it enough,” I said as I raised Sara off the ground.

“Why?! I’ve given so much to this. Since I was a child I’ve given something to this. I haven’t looked back, haven’t changed my mind... Same vision, same action every single day since I was seven. How can you say I don’t want it enough?”

Sara’s hazel eyes peered into mine. Her smile was unhinged. A pang of envy washed over me.

“Here’s why,” I said with eyes locked on Sara. “You can’t have it all, Ray. Here you are with these children. I can feel the immense love and concern you have for them. Ray, you’re a father first and it’s very difficult for a man that’s a father first to also be a great man.”

Raymond Murphy reached for Sara. She spread her arms to meet her father’s embrace fleeing mine.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he put her close to his chest.

After a sigh, I said, “think of men you would consider great. Do you know these men to be great fathers on top of being great at what they do? What I see are men giving families as collateral for greatness. Or men who sacrificed society at large to be insulated by obsession. Tell me, Ray, what makes you think you can have it all?”

“Ryan!” He yelled out. “Your sister! She’s eating bugs again!”
There he was. Being a father.

“It could be that this is where your greatness lies, Ray. You’re a father, aren’t you? You love these children, don’t you? Why would you want anything else? I have known many a man who would sacrifice greatness to be where you are. And indeed, some have. Yet I know that means nothing to you, or them, because we simply want what we want, don’t we? Why, Ray? Why?”

While his eyes followed Ryan who smacked something out of Mary’s palm, he said, “because it’s all I’ve ever really wanted.”

“Mmmh! You live in a strange time, Ray. An abundance of choice. People believe their lives are directly impacted by the choices they make. It is fascinating to me that people put off having children until they feel ready. Despite that, you never once thought to wait?! Why is that?”

Sara took Raymond’s index finger and nibbled at it with her newly erupted teeth. Her father did not pull his hand away.

“I guess…” he paused and turned to Sara as though hiding behind her presence. “Come on. I don’t want to have to talk about this.”

“Ray, I understand that. But it is no mere coincidence that you stumbled upon my work or possessed, not only the tools, but the commitment to summon me. The least you can do is help me understand why it is I need to help you.”

Sara started writhing in his arms. Raymond Murphy placed her back on the sheet and muttered, “she needs her bottle.”

Raymond Murphy reached for his backpack, pulled out two water bottles and one baby bottle that had formula in it. He opened the baby bottle, placed it on the ground and opened a water bottle that was filled with hot water that he then poured onto the formula. He closed it. Shook. Opened it again to add water from the second water bottle. He closed it again. Shook. And brought Sara onto his lap.

“Here you go, baby,” he whispered before feeding her.

“It’s very challenging for me to comprehend what is happening before me, Ray. What you’re asking me for… I don’t understand why it is you ask for what you ask.”

With Sara taking gulp after gulp, Raymond said, “you said it yourself: people want what they want. I didn’t choose to want any of this. I didn’t choose to be interested in literature or whatever the hell goes on with me when I’m locked up in that room writing. None of these things came from me. All I know is that I want it. I want it at its highest capacity. I want it all.”

That same controlled intensity he used to prepare his daughter’s milk was directed at me.

“Dad!” came a scream from the other end of the park. “She’s throwing sand at the other kids.”

With Sara in his arm and a bottle still in her mouth, Raymond Murphy stood up and went running across the park. He returned with Sara still against his chest as he dragged Mary, kicking and screaming, by her arm.

“No more running for you, young lady. You’re done for the day,” out of the bag came an apple juice box. “Have this right here.” He pushed the straw into the juice box and handed it to his daughter.

“I don’t think you need me at all. I cannot help with the problem you have, Ray,” I said.

“I don’t get it. You promised that you’d help me get exactly what I wanted. Don’t tell me you’re just going to leave me here. With this.”

“You’re right, Ray. The one thing you want. I don’t think you know what it is you want.”

Mary drank from her straw as her eyes scoured all around eternity for another source of excitement. And then, her eyes met mine. With an almost choreographed cadence she dropped her eyes to the red sheet below her and vanished into herself.

“I think I know very well what it is I want,” Raymond Murphy muttered.

“Very few people do, Ray.”

“A toast to all of you — you men and women who’ve given your years, sacrificed time with your spouses, your children,” he tilted his head slightly to the right and said, “Cole Brunelli here, would you believe it, missed the birth of his only child. And he came to me… He came to me and asked for time to be with his wife and… Cole, what is it that I said to you?”

A burly man in a loosely fitting grey suit and golden eyeglasses yelled out, “IF YOU WANT TO BE THERE, DON’T BOTHER COMING BACK!”

The room burst out in laughter. Some men clapped. The women, despite a tinge of disgust underneath forced smiles, followed their husbands’ leads. Husbands who, at one time or another, had been coerced into familial negligence by that same man they applauded.

“Why is it that you all laugh and clap?” he questioned the congregation. Confused, the laughter died down. First, gradually, then like a knock upon an anvil, came to a sudden halt.

“Cole, you need not smile, or feign understanding. Surely, what I asked of you,” he gestured to the attendants, “what I asked of all of you was far beyond what one man should ever demand.”

He lowered his eyes to the table before him — that table with golden spoons, golden forks, golden knives, plates with golden rims and glasses filled with golden flakes swimming in champagne.

“For what? Darling,” he looked to the woman by his side who might have understood what it was that was happening if only… If only her husband of fifty-three years had, over the course of their marriage, not drifted as though taken by a sudden wave, into a distant land never to be seen again.

And then, like a spark in the darkness, a memory came to her. A memory of days filled with a warmth — even a heat that was, at times, unwanted, shunned. A memory of eyes reaching, pleading for something that he could not find within himself. “When did that come to an end?” She thought. She turned away from him and faced the congregation. “He must have found it here.”

“My love, what was it all for? Extravagance? Wealth? Food placed upon golden plates? Maybe, my darlings,” he looked once again to the congregation, “it was all for this. A chance for one man, and his peers, to behold the beautiful wreckage raised by a tumultuous spirit.”

If not for my insecurities, success will never be realized.

Words that I have lived by. Words that propelled me into the place we now sit. To imagine that they were once nothing more than thoughts festering in the mind of a feeble man. Thoughts scribbled painfully into a notebook. Thoughts to be read again and again until they formed the concrete upon which an empire would be built.

I wish that my dear wife never read them. I don’t expect she did. Anyone, seeing that, would find enough reason to question the path one is on — to question the man on such a path. But back then I knew no better.

It was the hunger. No. No. It was the favors. There were so many favors. So many generous souls willing to lend a hand. I wonder — where did they all go? Generosity is rarer and rarer the further up the pyramid one climbs. Maybe that’s where they went. Kicked them all to the bottom.

All of my insecurities! I cannot name you one but many once found a home in me. Voices trailing along every thought, every action, every interaction.

Of the many people lost to time, one once said, “you’ve always been awkward.” We all say we want to be seen clearly until we are. It’s the small things, isn’t it? Never the storms, or the famines. It’s the missteps that get men to change worlds.

I turned to my wife and asked myself, how does she see me? By then, we had been together for a decade. A decade of my sensitivities, my trembling hands, my quivering voice, pleas for affection…

Would you believe me if I told you that I remember the exact date when I chose to be the man you now see? Well, I do. The yellow pen in my hand, the pocket notebook on my desk, the winter night and the cheap heater whirring as the children slept.

I remember it all and now as I close my eyes, I can see my hand writing those words:

If not for my insecurities, success will never be realized.

“I pray that the paychecks brought peace to your homes as they once did mine. Private schools and holidays in the Maldives, I have learned, come to smooth out the bumps in life. Chip and chip away at them until a valley is made. Then you get to be like me. Seated quietly at your seventieth birthday noticing that everyone there isn’t actually celebrating you. The cake, the gifts, the laughter are there but…” he paused. Sat back down.

His wife’s aged palm reached for his knee. He looked at her. He had never seen her before. Not for thirty, maybe forty years. She was still there. Frozen by the blizzard that was his life.

“Go on!” He urged the crowd. “Drink your champagne. Fill your bellies. I’ll no longer be here. You vultures can do with this kingdom as you please. My wife and I,” he placed his palm on top of hers, “will go and die in each other’s arms. Away from all this. Away from all this success.”

Mother Myrtle was her name. M.M. some would call her. Mother’s Milk. Some would tease. None of us ever believed that was her real name but she’d insist — even to us children, she’d insist. Fold her palms into a fist and pound on her thighs as she cried, “it is, it is. My name’s Myrtle. Mother Myrtle.”

One of the older kids told me that she was once a nun. That she had submitted to Christ but, after years in the nunnery, felt that the sacrifice was more than she could bear. And thus, she took down her veil and ran, liberated, from that solemn place in the mountains and returned to us mortal men and our mortal ways.

“That’s why they call her Mother. She’s got no kids. Everyone knows she’s got no kids but all the grown ups — your mom, your dad and everyone else — knows that she used to be a nun up there in the nunnery. Married to God, she was. God and no one else.”

She was kind — kind and feckless. Seemingly naive and ignorant to the marauding trickery of boys locked up in a boarding school. Whenever a fight broke out or some kid threw a rock through a window, Mother Myrtle would appear out of some corner or bush with a gentle word of dissuasion from further misbehavior. She never punished anybody and would even protect us from the callused hands and sharp tongue of the proctor.

To this day I recall her face — full with a slender nose and emerald eyes that pierced through the heart of even the most rebellious child. Her dress, ever modest, kept her close to her forgotten days.

“No man would marry a former nun,” I heard one of the older boys say. I wondered why. “If I had a wife,” I thought, “I would want her to be just like Mother Myrtle.”

I bet that when the lights went off and we were all tucked under the sheets, every single one of us dreamt of nothing but Mother Myrtle. Emerald eyes, full face, long skirts and the secret paradise that lay hidden underneath. If not them, then me. If not them, then me.

Oftentimes I wondered if she had similar thoughts — unholy thoughts of the children under her care acting out unholy deeds. Those same thoughts drove me out of my bed and into a bathroom stall where I’d close my eyes and peek into Mother Myrtle’s mind in search of sweet release. May God forgive that young child.

But that was back then. Back when I knew no better.

There were no sirens. There were no uniforms. There were no guns or clubs or handcuffs. Instead, we got two men in black suits driving up to the school in a black car. Behind them was a sedan driven by the parents of one Roger Jules.

“They’re here! They’re here!” One boy screamed as history class was proceeding. With his face pressed against the windows, he brought our attention to the drama unraveling before the pines. Seats were shoved, as were desks and bodies. Despite his attempts, even the teacher couldn’t keep us away.

Roger was a senior. The biggest kid in school. Big and strong and manly in all ways that boys dream of one day being. What we had not known until then was that Roger was man in all the ways that boys would have killed to be. Mother Myrtle knew — rumor was that she helped. But why? Why would his parents…? And the black-suited men…? Why did they come in so hastily to stop a boy from being a man?

Mother Myrtle walked between the two men with Roger’s parents hanging their heads in a confused shame. She turned back — Mother Myrtle. She turned back and for a moment her gaze met mine and I saw. No. I knew that whatever had happened was not her intention. She was sorry. She didn’t mean to have strayed so far from the nunnery. So far from Christ.

I knew it. I knew it.

February’s meant to be cold. Had to put on gloves during the wedding ceremony. To this day I’ve got a pair of gloves and a woolen scarf tucked in the deep of my bag for that one wretched month. Been a bit different for a while though.

Hasn’t been cold this year. Wasn’t all that cold last year, either. Don’t remember pulling out the scarf or blowing hot air into my palms. I remember every single bit of every single day. You know, even the little things like that chip on the side of Jesse’s car where his ex hit out of rage. Or that eroded place that Dani would spit into every morning as we walked to school way back when. What I don’t remember from this year or last is shivering.

Back when it was still cold, I’d frequent the old tobacco shop by Mayfield and Rose. The place is run by a Chinaman and his dog. The man always sits by the door as the dog mans the counter — or was it the other way round? An incomparable team dealing with tired faces and burly hands.

After a while, the Chinaman — or the dog — got tired of dealing with our kind. All of us ne’er-do-wells pulling more from our mouths than our pockets. He decided to fix this by getting himself one of those fancy vending machines that doles out cigarettes. Slide in your note and get whatever pack it is you want. Don’t know why he bothers to keep the shop open but it still is. Maybe he’d miss hearing us whine about our wives or might need someone to fill up the spittoon.

Not long after, he got another. This second one, it sells beer. How the heck did he even get a license to have one of those things?

Now, I’ve always lived on Rose. Every night, after the kids fell asleep and the missus passed out in front of the TV, I’d take a quick stroll to the tobacco shop. And every single night — well past midnight even — the Chinaman and his dog would be there.

For a while, I’d get the same thing — Strong Zero, it’s called. He said the drink was from China, maybe Japan. Somewhere far out east. Didn’t matter much to me. It got the job done. A can or two and I’d make like I was heading home.

The Chinaman never had questions. I liked that about him. The missus, however… She was made of them. Been this way since that February all those years ago.

Come the next morning, the kids join her to poke and poke as I lay in a fetal position on the couch.

“What’s wrong, daddy?” they’d ask or “why you sleeping all day? Mom says you’re being a good-for-nothing.”

Good-for-nothing, huh! The cold shoulder was far worse than the weather. The flinching even more so.

Stopped visiting the shop soon after. No more far eastern brews for me.

For a while there I was good. Played with the kids. Even got a taste of the paradise I had long been denied. Things were… They were good.

Then this fucking February…

Freezing fingers under woolen gloves don’t get to pop open cans with ease. You’ve got to come to a complete stop and fidget with the thing for a bit before you can… You know…

This guy must have passed right in front of the vending machine. Didn’t see no ring on his finger. All he had was his can which, with impunity, he craaaacked right open next to me. No glove, no protection from the cold.

Suddenly, I was back in the shop. A scrunched up bill shoved into that slit. Chinaman silent, dog wide eyed. The sweet long nights by my lonesome. Boots, boots, boots to the break of dawn.

Fucking February.

The shop isn’t only good for booze and cigarettes. Sells gum too. Mint and cardamom and… I don’t think the wife can tell. Though she might wonder about the mint, the endless chewing, the… Sleeping next to her and… She hasn’t said no… Not yet.

February’s not what it used to be.

It’s meant to be cold.

We’ve all read the reports. I’m not sure what to think of any of it. Not sure. They… This is what is expected, no? What else do they have? We have them in chains, their backs lined with streaks from our whips and look at their hands… Look at those hands callused by tools they are forced to wield.

This — this god is all they have.

But-but why do I feel this way? So-something isn’t right. We have known a defeated people. Even we — long in our history — have known defeat. This, I assure you, is not how the defeated react.

I mustn’t be the only that is circling these notions. It’s unbelievable. The guards… These reports…. Someone might think them fabricated but… No one has reason to do so, do they?

Listen to this:
they will not abandon their god, the report reads.

They will not abandon their god?!

Has their god not abandoned them? Isn’t this obvious by the stench coming from those quarters? Isn’t the starvation and death of their young enough proof of being left forlorn by their god?

Hah! It could be that what they thought was a god of war was nothing but a god of slaves… I jest but what else could explain this?

Could there be such a thing?
A god of slaves.

And even to speak of slaves… Our honorable emperor wants nothing to do with slaves. How vile. How archaic. The marble was crafted by skilled hands. Hands nurtured on this land. Not slaves. Our warriors share the blood that runs through the emperor himself. We do not need slaves here.

Disgusting.

We do not… The whips, they are… You understand, don’t you? What we want is…

Our gods are pleased, are they not?

You say, how can they know? Their ankles have been shackled for a reason… It is not to oppress but to teach. To keep them in place as we show them the…

We do not want sullen slavish face to disgrace our city. What we want is…

Aaargh! What word did Ariaramnes bring back from the oracle? And what did the scholars interpret from her divine tongue?

Barren lands will give birth
to an eternal flame.

Riddles, riddles is all she has for us. Why did she say nothing of these people? Of their god?

Barren lands?! Barren?! Dying earth, empty wombs, unmet promises and now a defeated people who mock us with their god.

What insult they bring upon us. To be in our land and offer sacrifices to a god that has been defeated in battle. What… Why…

Get me a whip and fashion a noose for the thin necks of their worm-eating priests.

Did you hear that they cast incantations in the night?! Did you hear what the guards had to say? That instead of sleep they rise and speak to their slave god?

And did you… Did you read further down the reports? Did you see what they say of their god and our great emperor?

This is… I find myself unable to comprehend the rationale of these people. Have they no shame? No honor? To speak, even of their own god, in such a manner.

They say that their sojourn here is merely a-a punishment. Their god, they say, had us enslave them as punish… What madness is this?

And the madness continues. Please, please keep me away from my blade as I fear that I might…

They call our emperor
a servant of their god…

A servant of their god.

Are they… Is this a plot to incite rebellion? I don’t understand.

Listen here. Just listen.

You know that we want nothing to do with slaves or slave rebellions. We desire nothing but... This must be obvious to you. Our cities have reached the zenith... Anyone can see that we… We… Our temples, our libraries… WE DO NOT ENSLAVE. We want peace. Just peace and…

What we want…
is a people.

The price for greatness has been paid in full.

Our sons. You see the shame they bring us. Even I have only the military as hope for my son… That or the decadence of brothels and gambling dens. What is our future? Census edicts imply we have none…

What has become of our great empire?

But these people whom we today call slaves… No. No. Unwilling guests. Yes. Yes. These guests are our future. Haven’t the gods deemed this to be so?

But still they chant to this slave god. I don’t understand. We have gods. Superior gods. Warrior gods and gods of the earth who have blessed us with… Listen. Listen. Why don’t you introduce them to our… If only they could…

One guard told me, personally, that come nightfall, the slaves all get on their knees as their priest recites some incantations. That they ask their god for the strength to accept their lot.

This I do not accept. That man — the priest — must be nothing short of a sorcerer trained by the foul magi. We cannot have magi return here. If nothing else, we must kill that man.

As for the slaves and their prayer. Something must be done in haste. If they do not submit and eventually assimilate, then the future of our empire is at risk. This god… This…

What do they call their god? Eternal fla…

No. No.

It does not matter. In fact, that god must remain forever unnamed lest his ways infect the minds of our… NO. NO.

A slave god cannot contaminate a cultured people.

DEATH.

Death to any priest that prays to a slave god.
Death to any man who bows his head to a slave god.
Death to the slave god.

Death.

“What I do is art,” she insisted. Some might have even agreed with her. Still, there were others who watched and thought her to be nothing but…
I shudder.

Stephen told me that her mother was a museum curator.
“And before that, an art history professor at a community college.”

Why didn’t that come as a shock to me?

“Yeah, yeah. Imagine that — surrounded by local artists and geniuses as a kid. Of course some of that rubbed off on her.”

It might as well have.

She’d be the first to tell you that her mother (the curator) wasn’t particularly pleased with her work. What she did was art but… Even Picasso’s work was thought (by some) to be a mockery of everything good and beautiful.

“I wish you’d see her,” she once blurted with a joint between her fingers. “Drinking from a 22 ounce glass like a fucking drunk while whining about how my art is shameful.”

Shameful?
Maybe she meant distasteful. I mean, that’s what the mom must have felt. She didn’t seem to feel any shame. At least, I never saw it on her… or felt it in her.

“What about her dad?” I asked Stephen.

He ran his hand through his greasy hair while the cigarette burned between his lips.

“You know how those people are,” he said from the corner of his mouth.

“Those people?!”

“Yeah. Artists. Liberals. Activists. Those people.”

“No. I don’t know.”

Stephen sighed and said, “free love, free spirit, free to live as you please until… Until your daughter is making that kind of art. How’d you think they feel about how she turned out?”

Like they raised a free spirit. Like they have in their midst a misunderstood artist. Like a liberal activist with liberal taste in music and men… Men like me.

“She kisses me right after taking a drag. She wears no bra… Never has, she said. For who’s benefit?! Not mine, she once complained.”

“You fell for the artist. More power to you, buddy. Don’t think I can do it. Hey,” Stephen leaned in close, “I heard that she’s into… you know… Is it true?”

There were those things about her that I promised not to bring up in public. Of course I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Eyes such as Stephen’s looking for rumor’s to feed on were exactly why I couldn’t… wouldn’t.

“You knew her before she and I started… You don’t need me to answer those questions, do you?”

“Can’t even say it, can you? Don’t worry. I wouldn’t call what you two are doing dating. Bet she wouldn’t either.”

But she did. Whispered right into my ear as she dozed off on top of me. “I love you, baby.” But while she was performing…

No, no. That’s ART. ART. It’s different with me.

“She’s a great girlfriend and I’m lucky to…”

“Hey, don’t get me wrong. She’s gorgeous. You are lucky. Just not the way you think.”

I’d seen his hand
reaching for her leg. Just
a finger
summoning goosebumps and
thoughts soon to be
purged.

But he was just playing…
just playing.

So,
it came as no surprise — not a little bit —
when the sirens were heard and
the law came cuffs in hand. But…
but I had to fake shock.
Feign awe. How could such a thing have happened without my knowing? Just enough to get them to look at me with empathy and disgust
equally matched.

But it came as no surprise
cause I’d seen his hand
and his smile
and those wretched eyes
reaching for places
that...

WHY DIDN’T I STOP IT?!?!

I knew… I didn’t but,
for a while, I suspected (guess I did). From the beginning? When he asked to take her to the park, when he asked to give her a bath…
It’s just how things are done here, they said

they said
they said
they said

I shouldn’t have listened to them
saying
all they had
to say

and I’ll never let them know that
I thought I saw…
maybe knew…
or disgust will tip the scales and they’ll turn their
judging eyes
toward me.

What about them?
Did they know?
Did they suspect?

They must have.
I… I tried to stop it…

All this is weird, I told them but none of them would listen.

Don’t you worry,
they said
they said
they said.

We’re the same. Them and me. We’re the same.
We all knew — them more than me —
and did nothing but…

Did I smile when he asked to give her
a bath?

But it was her mom that encouraged it…
encouraged the showers, the playtime…
none of it was me. None of it.

But they’ll hang me. Me,
they’ll blame.

Her eyes fell on me yesterday. Falling…
felt like they were falling and I
was supposed to catch them…
catch her
but I couldn’t. I didn’t.

She’s tired
of all the questions, interrogations, doctors, specialists, smiles to draw out answers she’d never give and I’m

turning back the clock to
August 202…

I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW.

How long had it been going on?
STOP!

SHUT UP!

NO. NO.

I don’t know.
Only she knows.
Only he knows.

I know nothing.

But her eyes…

Did she always look at me like that?! Like…
Like she… she’s been reaching.
She’s so far inside there.

I couldn’t… couldn’t feel her.

Back then, I should have been there…
But I was b
usy.
So busy with work and trying to get things… t
rying to make our lives bett…

I was b
usy.
She’ll… I think if I just get a chance to hold her… to hug her and let her know that I was…

…she’d never let me close. Never let me close enough to let her know that I…
I didn’t know…
I wasn’t sure…

THEY WOULDN’T LISTEN…

But it’s fine now. It’s fine now.

She’s safe and he’s away and the law’s…

But what if… Can they actually prove that he…

It started all the way back in August 202…

NO. NO. NO. I DON’T KNOW…

They’ll have to take her. Keep her somewhere where they can watch her…
test her…
keep her safe from him

and people like me that
can’t do nothing but

smile.

And I’ll get to sleep in my bed,
looking up at the ceiling thinking…

Was it
August 202…???

I DON’T KNOW. I DON’T KNOW.

“My skin might be a Siberian winter night,” Oleg knocked the bottle against the table as he preached, “but my mother is an angel from Novgorod. And if it wasn’t for the Lord blessing my sweet mother with the gentleness of a dove, this Siberian knight would have met his end in the cold. But she would have none of that. Out of the darkness and into the light she brought me.”

He took a large gulp of the vodka and continued.
“Out of the barren night and into the majestic beauty of Mother Russia where I stand proud and impervious to the incredulity of lesser men. COME ON THEN! Get on your feet and prove to me that my nightingale skin makes me less of a man.”

Oleg stood with a bottle of Stoli held by its neck. The three young men who stopped before him shared awkward glances.

One of them said, “Oleg… sir… we simply wanted to know if you had a lighter with you. Everyone here seems too progressive to enjoy a smoke.”

“…Yes, yes. No incendiary remarks were made of your ancestry, Oleg. What my friend wanted to make clear… what he failed to clarify is that all the progress is stripping Russia from its Russians. And now, here it is. The best amongst us is a Siberian knight. Nightingale skin.”

Oleg, swayed by the drink, dropped back to his seat.

“And-and what are your names? Where are you from?”

The one with brown hair called for a waiter who came with three glasses for the table. “Bring one more for our new friend here,” he added.

They all sat before Oleg who wasted no time in emptying one for himself and three for the rest.

“Please, Oleg. We shall get you another but I-I am Yuri, this here is Pavel and that is my brother Denis. We’re students here. Just like you.”

“And who tells you I am a student? Could be that I simply like visiting this cafe and being a nuisance. Causing a ruckus.”

Denis, the small dark-haired one, said, “you said it yourself. Siberian winter knight. Impossible to miss.”

Oleg gazed into Denis’ eyes as though he were ready to pounce.

“Yes, Oleg. Now, may I have a light?” the brown-haired Yuri asked.

With his hefty palm, he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a lighter far too tiny for his fingers and handed it to Yuri. There was a signet ring upon Yuri’s index finger.

“I-I know that. That’s from…”

“Yes,” Yuri began, “from Novgorod. Much like you. Like your angel of a mother. Not many people here know what it is. What a coincidence that the first man we encounter in this cafe is the only one to recognize it.”

Oleg slouched a bit before raising the bottle he had from under the table and refilling the glasses he had drank from. “Here you go. You must pardon me. A man like me cannot help but surrender to the drink. A man like me must have something to submit to.”

“Thank you, Oleg. And, please, do not apologize. You are more Russian than the most adroit Soviet in this godforsaken place,” here Yuri paused and gave a quick scan around the room. “I don’t think any of them would lay down their lives for the fatherland. All they can do is quote Pushkin after a few drinks and smack the table with a choreographed passion. But you… Oleg, I can see it in your eyes. You understand that…” he leaned closer and whispered, “that is what gives evildoing its long-sought justification.”

One could hear every single conversation in the cafe follow a hollow path with certain nouns and phrases used to highlight the course of the discussion. Acting both as roadmap and white flag to anyone who might, just like the men Novgorod, try to veer one off a cliff.

“Evil?! What is this evil you speak of? Are we not simply enjoying our vodka and talking about Novgorod? Do you men not miss your home? I miss home dearly. Fearfully. However, I am here to study and make the fatherland proud.”

Yuri, Pavel and Denis exchanged looks and took a sip of the vodka from Oleg’s bottle. Two men in black overcoats walked into the cafe and sat by the door.

“Did you hear, Pavel?” Denis started. “Did you hear that a war is to start beyond the borders? Somewhere in the far east. The papers suggests that we are to be sent off to fight.”

“Do not speak to me of war. There is always killing somewhere. Today we live but tomorrow…” Oleg looked over his shoulders and sang, “dark night, only bullets whistle…”

“… and anyway, why do you men from Novgorod come to this wretched place to study?”

“Oleg, wouldn’t we want to ask you that same question?”

“And I can answer if only you’d ask,” he retorted.

Yuri inched closer and asked, “why did you come to this wretched place to study, Oleg?”

Another gulp from his special bottle of Stoli and then, “I have found that there is no greater pleasure than to talk.” He placed the bottle between his feet and leaned deeper into the table.

“I am not like other Russians,” he begun with his left eyebrow raised. “This much must be clear to all Russians. Most of all, the Russians in Novgorod, where I have spent most of my life. My dear mother is just like you,” he pointed at Yuri, “and you,” at Denis, “and you,” finally at Pavel. “You can imagine for one such as her to raise something as foreign as me in a place as ancient as Novgorod only served to invite pain to her life.”

“What pain do you speak of?” Pavel asked as he placed a pack of cigarettes on the table. Oleg reached for the pack and pulled out one for himself.

“The sort of pain that only a woman can understand… Mmmh… Pain that masquerades as strength. Pain that cannot afford a smile. Pain that masters the face of a threat and traces it onto everything.

I hold a special place for Novgorod in my heart but I learned long ago that what you hold to the greatest esteem possesses the power to cause you the greatest harm.”

Pavel and Denis proceeded to light a cigarette each.

“Oleg, where are you from?” Pavel asked. Yuri, without hesitation, smacked him across his face. The cigarette flew out of his hand and landed on a table close to them. Two men seated there leaped to their feet.

“He’s a Russian from Novgorod. Did you hear nothing, you fool?” He turned to the table and said, “forgive us, comrades.” The men soon took back their seats.

“Yuri, why not give me the honor of slapping him next time?” Oleg laughed.

“The honor is all yours.”

Pavel rubbed his cheek while reaching for another cigarette. Denis lit the cigarette and handed it to him before saying, “so, did you leave for you or for your mother?”

“Young man, that is a good question. I fear,” he gulped from the bottle, “I fear I cannot answer that without condemning myself to eternal shame… Mmmh… I came here for the fatherland.” He got to his feet and struck his chest with a closed fist. “Learn, learn and learn again.”

Yuri took a sip from his glass and said, “you’re more than this, Oleg. Where is your spirit? The fatherland does not need more cogs, does it?”

Oleg’s face vanished behind a curtain of tobacco smoke. Once he emerged, he said, “for the fatherland I am but a cog.”

“Pass me the Stoli, Oleg. We all want to be as free as you. COGS FOR RUSSIA,” yelled Denis. “COGS FOR THE FATHERLAND.” A few others in the cafe heard him and raised their glasses in predestined agreement.

“Here you are. Drink, drink. If nothing else, four men from Novgorod got a chance to enjoy Stoli together today,” he handed him the bottle and sat back down.

“Will you return to Novgorod once you are done with your education? And what it is you are here studying?” Yuri asked.

“Hey you, black coats! Would you like a cigarette or this Stoli?” Oleg raised the bottle after turning to the entrance. The two men did not move a muscle. They remained seated by the entrance with mugs before them. “There’s nothing in our words that won’t be heard in a lecture hall. Just like you, we love the fatherland.”

“No need to pester them,” Yuri whispered. “They are just doing their job.”

“Well, they can do it elsewhere as far as I’m concerned. I don’t like their kind. They put a price on their fellow countryman’s head. Cowards.”

Pavel, Denis and Yuri glanced back and forth at each other.

“No need to be as crude, Oleg. Just like you, just like us, they are cogs for the fatherland,” Yuri spoke with a practiced composure.

“These are no cogs. These are the torque of the nation. We are twisted faster, turned harder. The nation is imploding not due to leaders but men such as these who want nothing more than a tap on the back for a good job…”

Pavel leaped and placed his palm over Oleg’s mouth and blurted, “too much Stoli for you, Siberian knight. How about we put a stop to all this talking and find a good meal before the day is done?”

Yuri got up and put on his coat. “Right you are, Pavel. Denis. Oleg. Let’s take our leave before we make fools of ourselves.

Oleg held Pavel’s hand by the wrist and slowly pulled it away from his mouth.

“Those black coats are friends of mine. They’re here for me, don’t you know? Here for the Siberian knight before anyone else.”

“Having to sit around watching Japanese TV all day is a fate worse than death,” he said with his palm on my shoulder. “God! Can’t imagine why anyone would do that to themselves. Those shows are stuck in the 80s and I was a kid in the 80s. Wouldn’t want to go back… But how — how are you doing? Can’t be easy. Hey, Jane was making meatloaf and she thought — we thought it’d be good for you to come and join us for dinner. We don’t want you feeling all…”

Cam was the only other foreigner in the neighborhood. Cam and his wife, Jane. For fifteen years, their pale faces and indecent banter made home of that little nook deep in that little island nation. With a ceremonially packaged towel and a bottle of wine, they made themselves known to us.

“Fucking great to have other gaijin around here. Don’t think I have another watashi wa Martha desu in me. Seven years is far too much.”

Martha immediately fell in love with them. And they with her. Those dinners were unforgettable. Like kids building fortresses to store all the secrets that the world didn’t care much about. We gossiped, complained and vented about Japan — all the little things we once loved that had, over the years, become anathema.

When the doctor gave Martha her diagnosis, it was Jane she told first. Jane — a self-proclaimed chatterbox — ran to Cam who was quick to call me to ask how I was holding up.

Of course, I was holding up just fine on account of not having heard a thing.

“Stage four,” he callously let out. “I’m sorry.”

I walked to the kitchen and met Martha’s eyes. She looked back at me and set down the knife.

“I…” she began to weep. “I just didn’t have the nerve to tell you.”

“I regret to say that the results suggest that she’s got five months,” the doctor said with a practiced look of concern.

In Japan, even the reaper is punctual.

“Thank you, Cam but…” I looked at the setting sun behind him. “I’d rather just take a stroll and call it a night. But tell Jane I said thank you. We always loved her meatloaf.”

Yuta and Miyu took their dogs for a walk at 6AM every morning. Other than ohayou gozaimasu or ii tenki desu ne, we rarely said anything to each other. Martha didn’t like them. Didn’t like the courtesies that she said hides their prejudice. I never quite understood why she felt that way.

After Martha’s passing, I found myself looking forward to seeing them.

“Ohayou gozaimasu,” they would say in unison. “Ii tenki desu ne.”

And nothing more.

Like nothing had changed.

Jane came to my door as often as I had expected. She always had something with her: a pie, kitsch, lasagna. The fridge was overflowing with the work of her hands.

“Martha wouldn’t want me to let you go hungry. You need to eat. Keep your energy up. Life hasn’t stopped for you. But if you ever feel the need to…,” she took my hand and placed it on her lap. “…Just know that I’m always here for you.”

“Thank you, Jane. You and Cam have been… You’ve been great. Thank you.”

It wasn’t long after that I stopped picking Cam’s calls only for Jane to start making more unannounced visits.

“Cam is worried sick about you,” she started. “Why won’t you pick his calls? He’d come here himself but you men are just… It’s like you don’t give two shits about each other.”

I looked right at her saying nothing.

“You know he loves you, right? I know it hurts but you’ve got people here who care about you. Don’t push us away.”

It had been a while since I had been with Martha. And Jane… Her lipstick was brighter, her hair color deeper, her dresses tighter. Cam wasn’t around and he was never one to come in unannounced. She was there. Jane was always there.

“Don’t worry. Martha would be happy for you… For us,” Jane said as she strapped her bra back on.

“What about Cam?” I asked.

She turned to me over her shoulder and smiled. “He won’t mind.”

The volume was turned up. You wa Nippon nani shi ni was on. Third time this week. Bright suits, obnoxious hosts and a general glee that didn’t exist on the faces of the general public (especially not Yuta and Miyu) was readily available on NHK or Kansai TV. Something about those over-produced variety shows added color to my dimly lit living room. Almost as though I wasn’t alone.

“You need to open the windows. This place is starting to reek. I mean, I enjoy coming here but it’s getting harder by the day. And you need to go out for a walk. Don’t let the world close in on you like this,” Jane muttered on. “It’s been months now. No one expects you to move on fast but some effort would be appreciated.”

Maybe she was right. But move on to what?

“Does Cam know you’re here?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… When you come here, does Cam know?”

She took my arm off her shoulder and got to her feet.

“Why do you want to go and ruin everything? I don’t like it when men talk too much.”

“It’s a bit hard to move on when I’ve got my wife’s best friend in my bed.”

“I was your wife’s best friend. In case you haven’t noticed, she’s dead and I thought I’d try and ease your mind out of this disgusting slump you’ve settled into. I guess I was wrong.”

From the bedroom, I could hear her slap the door shut.

The comedians in the TV went on and on and on.

According to the Tugen, King Kiptum arap Eldama (the man responsible for uniting the Tugen) had twenty three sons. The first three were children of his first wife, the queen, while the rest were born to concubines. Tugen boast of nothing more than sons, save cattle.

Unlike the agricultural Nandi or the desert Pokot, the Tugen king did not choose an heir based on order of birth. The defining qualities that destined the son of a king to take the throne, it was said, were skills on the battlefield, intelligence and charisma before a crowd.

All of these traits were possessed in droves by his fourth son (the first child from a concubine) Cheptarus arap Chesaro. This caused great tension within the courts as the queen hoped that the king’s heir would come from the brood she had sired with him.

Her sons (the three first sons of the king) might have been intelligent, even charismatic, but they lacked the mettle that life beyond the courts produced in men.

When raids were conducted in Eldoret or Marigat, the queen demanded that her sons were kept in the back and away from direct danger while the sons of concubines fought for a position at the front. This bred arrogance in the former and fortitude in the latter.

I myself do not understand why the queen of such a people would request such knowing full well that it was of direct consequence to the transition of power.

The queen knew that she could not sway the king’s decision. This might have been simpler were monogamy customary to the Tugen (as it was amongst their neighbors the Kipsigis). However, having a harem at his disposal, no one woman could influence the king’s choices.

The queen was, of course, as cunning as she was beautiful.

The Kikuyu say that they first learned of the existence of this vast kingdom far to their west when the Tugen queen sent an envoy to their lands. Their purpose, it was revealed to me, was to find from amongst the Kikuyu a wife for Cheptarus arap Chesaro.

The lady chosen was Princess Wanjiru who was, I deduce, niece to their king. For her hand in marriage to the heir apparent (a union that would strengthen both kingdoms), the queen offered four thousand heads of cattle with around 700 being invaluable bulls. The figures here appear embellished but this is what several sources have alleged.

For that price, the king of Limuru was more than happy to oblige this but his advisors were against the idea. Accounts suggest that the Kikuyu held the belief that the Tugen (or at least their cultural cousins, the Nandi) were cannibals (how this came to be no one knows) and would devour the young lady upon her arrival.

Four thousand heads of cattle was more than enough for the king turn a blind eye to his advisors concerns. If nothing else, it would have been the loss of one girl versus four thousand heads of cattle. A simple enough bargain.

Princess Wanjiru was nothing the Tugen had ever encountered. Of her beauty, the Tugen wrote songs. One man alive during that period explained to me that Cheptarus arap Chesaro went into the valley under the dominion of the Pokot and slaughtered an elephant whose tusks he returned for the queen as a show of gratitude for such a beautiful wife.

What the queen failed to mention is that another agreement was made with the king from Limuru. In order to reveal her intentions, I must first make known the practice of the Kikuyu as they were told to me.

Ng’ai (their God whom the Tugen call Asis) demands of His people a sacrifice that is to be made before cultivation and before the first harvest at the foot of Mount Kirinyaga. Of this sacrifice, the Kikuyu slaughter cows, goats and chickens. But there are forces that inhibit the acceptance of these sacrifices from reaching Ng’ai. These forces, they call Miimu.

In order to appease the Miimu, they carry off selected young women from each Kikuyu kingdom to a cave near Mount Kirinyaga. In those caves, the women are taken, carnally, by the priests of Ng’ai. Others give a different account (most of these appear to be greatly exaggerated and I will not be discussing them) on this practice but the gist remains unchanged.

Of this practice, the Tugen queen was well aware. How she gathered this knowledge we will never know.

The agreement between the queen and the king of Limuru was that during the harvest sacrifice, his niece was to leave Kabartai and travel with an entourage to Mount Kirinyaga where, it is said, she was to be given as appeasement to the Miimu.

A year after returning from her first trip to Mount Kirinyaga, Princess Wanjiru (by then already a wife of Cheptarus arap Chesaro) gave birth to her first child.

The Tugen celebrated the birth of the king’s grandson for a period of several moons. Cows were slaughtered and offered to Asis, mursik was prepared and enjoyed by the masses. Busaa (a recipe learned from the lakeside dwellers, the Luo) was consumed by the elders as an aphrodisiac to inspire in them the strength to sire children who would be bodyguards and helpmates to the king’s grandson.

Soon after these events, King Kiptum arap Eldama passed, leaving the kingdom to Cheptarus arap Chesaro who was promptly crowned king of the Tugen.

It was right after his coronation that the queen’s cunning became crystal clear to the courts.

Accounts from those privy suggest that the queen wasted no time in demanding that princess Wanjiru reveal to the court what it was that her annual journey to Mount Kirinyaga entailed.

Being that the agreement was made between the queen of the Tugen and the king of Limuru (Princess Wanjiru’s uncle), she was perplexed. “Why speak of such things?” One man claimed she said. “Is this not common knowledge in the courts?”

But the people, riled by curiosity, sought an explanation. It was then, according to accounts, that the princess revealed the mystic customs of the Kikuyu to the court.

“What is the meaning of this?” Cheptarus arap Chesaro wailed. “My wife, the future queen, is nothing but a mere harlot.” Some have claimed that he even killed a man while in that fit of rage.

Immediately, he considered the child whom he believed was not his but the child of a Kikuyu priest.

With the princess, her child, and a horde of Tugen warriors, Cheptarus arap Chesaro marched into Limuru to demand a return of the dowry given to the king and for him to take back his niece and her bastard.

Of the following, I have had only two people (one of whom was a roaming merchant) recount to me.

A confrontation ensued where Cheptarus arap Chesaro is said to have embarrassed the Kikuyu king and ridiculed their customs. In the heat of passion, the king took a spear from one of his bodyguard’s hand and flung it into the heart of the Tugen man. The Tugen warriors tried to fight, but being in enemy territory, were overwhelmed.

It is said that the king beheaded the corpse of Cheptarus arap Chesaro and placed the head on a spike on the eastern ridges of the valley facing the Tugen lands from a distance so that his eyes may forever see home but never return. Of this, there is no proof as decades have passed since said event.

Records show that the firstborn son of King Eldama’s queen, Chesang’ arap Chemelil, took the throne after learning of the death of his half-brother. Little is disputed over this.

Tugen are, to this day, hailed for their bravery in the battlefield. What, then, surprises chroniclers to this day is why there was no retaliation for the slaying of the king Cheptarus arap Chesaro. My assertion is that the queen dissuaded her son from sending forces all the way to Limuru.

Peace, of course, is not a given. It is known that soon after the killing of King Cheptarus arap Chesaro, Limuru was invaded by a more bloodthirsty people (the Meru) who inhabit the lands to this day and have made slaves of the once great Kikuyu.

Cup of coffee, two fried eggs, slice of toast burned to a crisp. Floorboards greased with years of neglect clung to Jean’s boots as he tried to shift his weight. Wallpaper was a yearning yellow courtesy of truck drivers and rest area whores smoking their Camels all day long. Pots and pans clanged and banged as José tried to squeeze through the back. To his right was Marie — ain’-no-net on her fair head. Blonde and all too gay to be toiling away at Oxtail Cafe.

Most of everyone knew her name. “Marie,” they said. “Betcha ain’-no-net don’t know who her pa is. Girl like that working a job like this is sure to be trouble. Kind of trouble that a girl with a pa that love her ain’t never cause no man.”

The stories weren’t false but they fell short of the truth.

Marie had moved around the country since she was old enough to buy a ticket on her own. So far as she was concerned, there was always something over the horizon. Always something to be found that was just within reach but far from her grasp. At twenty-seven, she found herself settling into that crossroads and calling Oxtail her newfound home.

It was the unfettered warmth offered by Josè or the misplaced comfort she found in the face of rough men. No one really knows what Marie found appealing about that place.

Jean was not the first to be caught by the tendrils of Marie’s beauty. But he was different, or so he’d say. His hair was slicked back and a wad of rolled up bills was tacked into his jacket pocket.

“That truck out there,” he pointed as Marie refilled his cup, “is my own. Don’t do no driving for no man but me. Yep, made it big out east before deciding that the only life for a man is a life on the road. What d’you think about her? Beaut, ain’t she?”

Being there for as long as she had, Marie had learned that agreeableness only served to cause more pain than necessary.

“I’ve seen worse. Seen better too.”

Jean’s index finger curled into his palm. He looked right at Marie and, before countering her retort, found himself mesmerized by her eyes.

“Never been out west. Never seen the ocean,” he later recounted to me, “but I bet you her eyes is what the ocean look like.”

“What you looking at?!” Marie barked. “Never seen a gal before?”

He gave a brief smile and said, “ain’t never seen no gal like you.”

Marie smirked. She was about to walk away when Jean reached out his right hand as though reaching for his mug. Instead, he grabbed her by the wrist. She turned around half expecting to smash the coffee pot into his face but Jean was quick to release and ask, “why do they call you ain’-no-net?”

“Don’t you be touching me, bum!”

“Hey, hey!” His hands went up. “Not looking to start no trouble. Just curious, is all.”

From the kitchen José’s voice came. “I’m hearin’ somethin’ I don’ wanna be hearin’ out there. Everything okay, Marie?”

Marie stared down Jean who gave her his best submissive glance.

“No problem here, boss,” Marie called back.

“I’m curious, is all,” Jean repeated.

“You know,” Marie began, “you can find a whore and be all the sorts of curious you want.”

Jean dropped his hands and pulled out the wad of cash from his jacket. After licking his index finger, he took out a one hundred dollar note and dropped it on the table.

“Ain’t looking for no whore, ain’-no-net. You can keep the change.”

Marie looked at the note and back at Jean.

“You can keep that. It’s on the house.”

Jean, confused by her response, slowly shoved the bill to the edge of the table.

“We don’t need patronage from your kind, sir. Oxtail is a family establishment.”

Del Shannon’s runaway played on in the background. Marie turned her back to Jean and walked to the counter. He sat there, the note immobilized by the muck on the table, watching her.

After an unwarranted smile, Jean drank the remainder of the coffee and put out his cigarette. Without touching the note, he got to his feet and walked to the counter.

“Thank you for the service, ain’-no-net. You sure know how to get a man chasing. I’ll try me a different approach next time I pass on through. What do you say?”

Nothing was what she said.

With a damp cloth she went on cleaning the countertop. Another man walked up to the counter and said, “thank you, Marie. Best key lime this side of the mountains.”

“You’re welcome, Jay. And next time why don’t you come on down with the missus. I’ve got some stories about bums,” she gave a glance at Jean, “making fools of themselves. Betcha she’d like some local gossip.”

“I know a thing or two ‘bout bums and this guy,” Jay turned to Jean, “he ain’t no bum. Might be a two timing fool, but he ain’t no bum.”

“Who you calling a fool, buddy?” Jean moved towards Jay. Jay didn’t budge.

“Takes a fool to threaten a man twice his size, buddy.”

Marie looked at Jean through the corner of her eye. Jean turned to her then gave a step back.

“It don’t matter. Glad to make your acquaintance, ain’-no-net. And you,” he turned to Jay. “You’re one big son of a bitch, I’ll tell you that much.”

Jean got back in his truck and lit a cigarette.

“A man’s got to drive in with a fleet to get some damn respect around here,” he whispered to himself.

The smoke was quick to settle inside the cab and he was slow to roll down the window. An ashtray to his left was filled with half smoked butts. After opening the window, he flung its contents right to the curb catching a glimpse of Marie, from the cafe window, looking back at him.

“Why the hell did I have to pull out that damn note?” he thought.

Drivers, much like bored housewives, are excited by only two things: rumors passed around like a plague and a cheap shag in grimy motels.

Someone along the vast network of highways got it inside of them to tell a tale of a fine dame called ain’-no-net. A tale that got Jean, and a bunch of other drivers, believing that they would arrive at Oxtail and encounter the most beautiful whore that God ever created.

So, Jean, prior to his arrival at Oxtail, walked right into a bank and got “however much’ll make me look like a big shot.” The teller was more than happy to oblige on account of the firearm forming a bulge where Jean had none.

“I wonder what she’d have done if I stuck a Luger in her face,” he pondered before turning on the engine.

George Saunders was a small man. This is not to simply imply that he lacked physical stature (which he did) but there was, in his presence, an absence of presence. Being like other small men, this had, at times, bothered George. But having been small all his life, he had mostly come to terms with his predicament.

George Saunders was the CEO of a small company in the small town of Carnation. Everyone in Carnation knew and loved him (excluding the envious and the wretched). Unlike caricatures of corporate leaders, George was kind, considerate, and all the good things that allowed small men to be men.

However, there was something inside of George. Something that had grown way beyond the capacity of his miniature frame. Something that, thanks in large part to his smallness, George had fed and nurtured longer than he could remember.

It takes a unique man to be both well-loved and honestly seen. Other than his smallness, George was in no way unique.

George’s wife was a fine woman. The people of Carnation might have loved George but they revered his wife. The daughter of a former councilman, she displayed herself as an esteemed wife and homemaker with the general sense to comprehend that public image mattered as much, if not more, than anything else.

To her George was all those wonderful things. This was precisely because she expected no less of her husband, the CEO. She had grown to love all the wonderful things about her husband that she had learned in her youth not to expect from men. Together they raised three children whose images were as curated as they were functional.

It was not that his wife did not know about the thing that was growing inside of him, but rather that she did not bother to look. Like everyone else, she was pleased with the mask. Happy to live on so long as the world beheld a small but compassionate man by her side.

Unbeknownst to his subordinates (and everyone else in Carnation), George was involved with one of his employees. Jane (the lady in question) was a married woman with kids who attended the same school as his.

Before Jane, there was nothing particularly lacking in George. He was, after all, the big boss who signed her big paycheck. If for no other reason, this made him larger than life in his eyes.

Their escapades were far outside the town and scheduled as fishing trips for George and bird watching for Jane in their respective calendars. There was little fibbing necessary as the two actually considered those activities as hobbies.

Their liaison was to occur once every two months.

Oh, you can imagine the excitement that overtook them after maintaining professional distance within such close proximity for that long.

The fishing trip (or bird watching depending on who’s calendar you were to look at) was anything but. Yes, George did have an hour or so to go down to the lake and maybe even Jane did get to see a bird or two but the vast amount of time was dedicated to… Well, you can fill in the blank.

Despite their careful (even excessive) planning, George and Jane were simply human.

It might have been a fight with a spouse, disillusionment with the current state of global affairs or an itch so far down that only a tryst could scratch. What I do know is that someone made a call and asked the other to meet at the office late one night.

To the outside observer, there was nothing suspicious about any of this. Given their positions, such did tend to happen every now and then.

However, on that particular occasion, there was no fire to put but one to set alight. Upon first sight the two pounced on each other like jaguars on prey.

Thus began the fall.

George Saunders was a small man. And small men, often but not always, cannot fathom desire directed at them. In fact, during their dalliance (you know, once every two months) George might have been under the impression that he was nothing more than a useful object for the exquisite Jane. Something for her to diddle herself with when life felt heavy.

And, of course, the same might have been true of Jane who probably found in George a willing partner in a crime that many commit but all found revolting. Someone with whom she could, for a weekend every now and then, pretend life was something it wasn’t.

I am, at this stage, speaking of things of which I have no veracity to speak of, of course.

Things were different after their office encounter. George found himself before a woman who seemed to want nothing more than to wrap herself around him. It was not the big fat paychecks or the golden nameplate.

Something had, that night, been given room to express itself. Something that had been small and silent within George. Something that exists in all men but very few get a chance to reveal.

Carnation was once wolf country.

When the pioneers first settled, they did not much concern themselves with natives or harsh climates. It was the growls in the night, the gnashing of teeth before a kill and yellow eyes under starry nights.

The children of Carnation are, to this day, told the stories of how men hardened by loss took to the mountains like packs of those same wolves and massacred every single one of them.

We haven’t seen or heard a wolf in generations.
We haven’t seen or heard of such men in just as long.

Sit down with George Saunders long enough and he’ll trace his bloodline right back to those men. He’ll pull out an archaic photo album that has in it photos of men all the way to the very first photographs and beyond… Beyond that lay a family tree that’ll prove that George Saunders probably spent every waking moment comparing himself to those men.

And he would never match up…

Until Jane gave him a taste.

For George, Jane’s infernal desire was comparable to the power he believed his ancestors possessed. Without much effort, Jane gave more and more of herself to him. This, in turn, revealed something to George.

Of this something, his wife was the first to register.

No longer was George as willing to concede. No more did he plan his days off around her schedule. Intimacy, once rarely initiated and often rejected, became often initiated, just as rejected and twice indifferent. She found herself, on more than one occasion, trying to accost her husband, who appeared slightly larger, in the laundry room for a hasty romp.

Something had changed about him and she could not rest until she knew what it was.

George did not become a CEO by being a fool. His wife understood that going through his phone was likely to yield nothing and following him around the town would be grounds for psychiatric hospitalization.

What she did (what any wife of a CEO would have done, of course) was hire a PI. This PI was to track her husband’s movements and bring back something — anything — that could explain the inexplicable.

Of this PI, I do not know.

Carnation is a small town where everyone knows everyone else. A PI in our midst would be a pariah. Such an individual would not get invited to dinners, never asked out for coffee, let alone a date. He (or she. It might have been a woman) would be as avoided as one would a venereal disease.

The investigation, on the other hand, proved to be worth every penny. What was discovered, however, had nothing to do with George and Jane.

Here, dear reader, I ask that you give me leeway to drift (as I have done every now and then).

One evening (I say so despite it having been after dark), Candace who lived across the street from the Saunders saw George get into his truck with a duffle bag. According to her, George left the car on neutral and pushed it down the driveway.

This was a story that no one had ever heard. I imagine that the women had shared it amongst themselves but us men knew nothing. This was until his wife filed for divorce.

“He must’ve been up to no good. There was always something strange about him,” the people whispered.

The PI, experienced and wise, knew better than to follow George around. What deposit was given to him was handed to the local riffraff. Teens who spent nights drinking and drugging. All they had to do was report anything they had seen regarding George.

One of the boys (Newton, I believe) returned to the PI with something.

“Saunders — the CEO — drove up to us…”

We heard that George didn’t fight the requests made by his wife. He conceded alright. The house. Gone. The kids. No custody. The company. Quit.

Of George Saunders…? Who knows? Maybe he’s now acting big in another small town. God knows he got a taste of it.

Come neighborhood barbecues, dinner dates and town halls, the people of Carnation couldn’t help but whisper about him.

His ex-wife never did make known what it was that forced her hand. “He wasn’t who I thought he was,” is all she ever said.

Who, then, was George Saunders?

Only of his smallness, do we know.

The following will be long.

Do not bother reading during work or as you walk.
Ideally, you will read it in the fifth floor bathroom at the end of your day.
Certainly, the contents of this message will impact the next steps you take so please…

Lauren, there were no shortcuts taken in the making of this production — my magnum opus. You have, more than once, accused me of acting impulsively. Of being an extremist (even a terrorist) with my implementations.
You will be glad to know that intense planning came before implementation this season. Months — might even be years.
But who’s counting.

Before I proceed, I would like to ask that you take the kids directly to your sister’s after daycare.
UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCE SHOULD YOU BRING THEM HOME FIRST lest you risk PERMANENT TRAUMA.

Now, I will dive into the meat of this message.

First and foremost, I would like to thank you for 15 wonderful years. Even now, as I type this, I cannot help but ponder over the life we have built. It has been an honor, and blessing, to have been your friend, lover and husband over that course of time.

Do you remember when we met? I was just 16. A little younger than you might have liked but I was resilient, determined and rather hardheaded.

I’ve always wanted to ask — what made you say yes?
By all conceivable metrics, there was not much in me. Brittle as a bundle of twigs, I was. No job, no house, no car, not even the height that you haven’t shied away from stating as your preference.

I guess you’ll be taking that answer to the grave.

Me first lol

It doesn’t matter.

All jokes aside, I will now turn hastily to more important details.

First, we have financial matters.

Earlier today, I packed a couple of suitcases for you and the kids. Inside your suitcase, you will find all my cards enclosed in an envelope.
The PINs are as follows;
Chase Bank debit card PIN: 1984 (what a surprise).
SMBC debit card PIN: 1984
AMEX card PIN: 1984.

(Huh, looking at that makes me feel rather unsophisticated.)

Regarding Debt;
Rakuten: $632
Mortgage: $150,151
Car: $3423 (almost done, baby)

I went ahead and canceled my phone plan so you need not worry about that.

Also, be aware that you and I have been officially divorced for around three weeks now. All you have to do is revert your surname (the process has been started. You will simply be required to sign some papers and hand them in at city hall. This should be completed within a month.)

All of our shared assets have been transferred to you. You need not be troubled with the documentation.
Our legal stamps will be in the same envelope that has my cards.

In that SMBC account is a little nest egg that I have been putting aside for a couple of years. You will be glad to learn that there is enough in there to keep you and the kids living at the current standard for at least one year even if you left your job.
I expect you to be back on your feet and moved on by then.

Now (and this is very important), YOU CAN TELL THE KIDS WHATEVER YOU WANT ABOUT THIS.
It is not necessarily important that they view me in a good light, especially if that will inhibit healing.
Say and do whatever it takes to make the transition smoother.

Once you drop off the kids, call the police or fire department and ask them to come to the apartment.
If you follow these instructions to a tee (and I have anticipated error due to the nature of the situation), they should arrive within an hour or two of my passing. Not much would have changed by then. Simply livor mortis (you can look this up).

You need not come in yourself. Simply let them know that you believe I have come to harm myself. Use this message as proof if necessary.

The aforementioned suitcases are currently in a locker room at the train station. Unless the authorities ask you to go into the apartment, you should not do so.
In fact, you can insist that you do not want to. They are not required to ask that of you.

Locker Room Area A, locker number A1201.

You will find the key to the locker in our mailbox.

As for my parents -
They have been informed or are currently getting to know the facts of my decision as a message was sent to them first.

I imagine that my mother will be contacting you shortly despite me having made it clear that she should not do so for at least three days.

Why three days?
Well, by then you should have dealt with the authorities and have already come to terms with the predicament (I assume so based on my perception of your temperament).

If she does call you before then, ignore her. I have already informed her that you will most likely not have the bandwidth to deal with her for at least that long. If you do (have the bandwidth), then please do as you please.

Mark and I wrote a new business contract that will transfer my ownership of the company to you. Once again, you are free to do with the company as you wish.

Do not assault Mark. He is unaware of my reasons. As far as he is concerned, I simply intended to ask for a divorce and leave the country.

I will have you know that my decision has very little to do with you. This, however, does not mean that you are unlikely to blame yourself. In case you do, stop. You would be wasting time.

On Monday next week, someone will contact you. The number is 080-4560-xxx. Please answer this call. He is a man that has been tasked with assisting you and the kids transition during this period. His name is Charles Baudelaire. I ask that you trust him, or at the very least, trust his expertise. He has been thoroughly investigated.

In closing, I would simply like to say thank you for the time we have had together.
I do love you but this is something that was bound to happen whether or not you were in my life.

Yours sincerely,
Augustus.