Soul's Road: A Fiction Collection (6 page)

The jurors convicted Catherine on multiple counts of collaborating with known terrorists, multiple counts of conspiring to plot terrorist acts, and a single count of domestic terrorism. She was also charged with lesser crimes like obstructing justice (lying to the police during an investigation, falsifying information on a government employment application (her real name was Sarah Mary Jenkins), damage to public property (the street where the Bible exploded), damage to government property (the shuttle), and finally, a contempt of court charge because she kept shouting that God would save her and bring down His wrath on everyone in the courtroom while the judge was reading out her list of crimes.

Alba slipped her arm around Mort’s and they left the courtroom amid a barrage of journalists asking her for a statement about what she felt about the trial.

“Do you know that, statistically speaking, men are more likely to blow something up than women?” she said. “Women are more precise killers. We’ll poison you, stab you in your sleep, you know, something that has less collateral damage. We’re thoughtful that way.”

Mort nodded.

“That makes Catherine a statistical anomaly. And did you know that the DA wins over 90 percent of his cases because a criminal has decided to testify against his coconspirators? I found this book the other day at the book store Interesting Facts For Dummies— ”

Mort sensed a shift in the seasons.

ISLA MCKETTA

Empirical Facts

MY MOTHER’S ARREST IS an empirical fact.

Late in the evening of my brother’s seventh birthday when I am four, there is a knock at the door. It is the kind of strong, slow knock that makes your heart feel hollow even if you don’t know why. I look at my family around the table and at the cake with seven slim candles on top. Cut crystal plates sit in a stack beside it. I’ve been waiting all day for that cake. I watched my mother peel the apples, cut them, and lay them in concentric rings inside the pan. Then she whisked the batter and poured it over the top of the apples. She saved the flour for this. The sugar she borrowed. And now the flames on the candles on the cake are shaking and Mama and Papa and Paweł are statues and the knocking echoes through the stillness of the flat.

Until it stops.

Thousands of rats shuffle on the stairs and the landing. They don’t even wait for Mama to open the door before they kick it in. Her hand on Papa’s shoulder—it was the last time she touched any of us.

The door bursts open and the man in black and his rats take over the flat. Infiltrate. He stands still and barks orders as books are swept off shelves, plants dumped greenside first onto the floor. There are rats enough to dig through all of it. Enough to flip through every page of every book and when they find nothing, there are enough to rip pages from the spines. Enough to hold Mama in front of the man. His words aren’t even questions, information he spat-a-tat-a-tats at her. “Born March 14, 1953. One hundred sixty-eight centimeters. Black hair, green eyes.” He doesn’t need to yell or scream. He has complete control. Others hold Papa in the background.

Paweł wraps his hand around my little fist and yanks me to the back bedroom. The rats have already left nests of bits of yellowed padding from the sofa bed and pillows chewed into bite-sized pieces. They chewed up my room and spat it out. The floor is covered in piles of their droppings: my drawings, my toys, my clothes. My throat is raw and I don’t know if it is from screaming or not screaming but Paweł has his hand shoved across my mouth and he’s holding me down against the bare springs and wood of the sofa bed. The look in his eyes tells me how far he’ll go to make me quiet. To keep me quiet. Even after I’m too scared to scream anymore the fleshy pulp of his hand presses against my mouth and his fingers are wet from my spit. After he takes his hand away the skin of my face still aches from being pressed against my skull.

I don’t remember any shouting—only the shuffle of footsteps getting farther and farther away. Paweł peers out past the door and I climb up on my knees onto the frame of the sofa bed to look out into the courtyard. In summer I play out there between the buildings as mothers watch from behind curtains. Tonight the horde of rats tramples a muddy trail through the snow dragging Mama by her elbows—the army van and the black car parked where grass should be—her head is down and she’s not struggling. The rats push her—she stands. The rats spit in her face—she stands. The rats kick her to her knees and pull on her hair—she stands. They fold her into the car but her fingers grip the doorframe. She’s trying to get out. She looks up at my window. The rats squeeze her into nothingness between them in the back seat.

She’s gone. Dark tracks in the snow and red tail lights in the night.

The rats destroyed everything. Pictures off of walls; wardrobes ajar, drawers out of desks. Crumpled papers and thrown papers and torn papers. Papa’s manuscript, the one we are never to touch, is trampled type scattered up and down the hallway. The crystal plates we would find smashed on the floor and beside them the mass of precious crumbs and apple rings sealed into the rug with candle wax.

KAREN K. HUGG

The Heap

IT BEGAN WHEN I made myself some popcorn. Of course, Ty not only liked popcorn, but liked flavoring it in different ways. He would match the spices to the movie we were watching that night: Italian for The Godfather series, Indian for Dev Patel cop thrillers, candy syrup for anything with a Sasha Obama cameo. (To him she'd always be that sweet little girl in the White House.) So when I sat down with a bowl of caramel-and-sea salt and watched the Wizard of Oz, I didn't think about the Tin Man or yellow brick road, or even the spectacular CGI effects, but only the empty spot on the couch beside me.

I know it's foolish for parents to see their spouses in their children but I couldn't help it, William looked just like his father and acted like him too. He had alert brown eyes, honey skin, and a permanent smirk that warned people of his insulting wit. Of course, a dozen years ago he'd resembled Ty even more since he was twenty pounds lighter and a few wisps of hair thicker, but he still had Ty's stately frame and the same urgency to set things right. That may have come from being the son of a policeman or maybe because William had survived thyroid cancer at age twelve, I don't know. Either way, that night sitting on the sofa with my movie and gourmet popcorn made me yearn for my son.

He appeared on screen with a thin sort of Fu-Manchu moustache. I laughed. I was about to ask him about it when the video died. "Sorry about that," he said. His voice crackled through the speakers. "The card is on the fritz. It goes in and out."

The screensaver showed my last cat, Helga, lounging on a windowsill. "That's okay," I said, "just calling to see how you are."

"Alright, I guess. Charger's got the flu but he's surviving."

"Again? Poor thing. Is the fever high?"

"It was 104, but it went down to 102 this morning."

"That's still pretty high. Did you take him to the doctor?"

"What doctor, mother?"

"At the hospital."

"And how am I going to get to the hospital?"

"I don't know, Buggie, is your car not working anymore?"

"I told you, I sold it. You don't remember, do you?"

"No, yes, I do now, sorry. So … how is the garbage pick-up going? Did they come yet?"

"Well, sort of." Suddenly his face came on screen. He rubbed his temple with his forefingers. "They came and picked up everything in the cul de sac north of us, and then a few days later they cleared out the pile at the south end, but then missed ours. And I don't know how that happened since we were the ones that god damn paid for it."

"That's a shame. Did you call?"

"Yes, five times -- at least."

"And no live person?"

"Oh yes, talked to two people who both said their records show they picked it all up."

The video broke into little squares and disappeared into a picture of Ty at fifty years old reading a book at the kitchen table of our Sacramento house. I had to blink to remember what I was doing and who I was talking to.

"So you're at a dead end," I said.

"Well, my neighbor, Ethan, has a camera," he said, "so we're going to take some pictures and send them. Of course, I don't think he's got connectivity so hopefully his gear will work with my tablet."

"Well, you know you can always come here -- with the garbage."

"Come on, don't be silly."

"What? There's a big dumpster outside the building and they empty it every week. No one would know."

"And how would we get down to Phoenix?"

"Well, you could drive -- or take a charter train."

"Mom, I'm still not working."

"I know, but that's even more reason to come. You could stay until you get back on your feet … and keep this lonely bird company."

"How in the world would we do that? They patrol."

"Well, I'm entitled to up to six adult visitors at one time if I want."

"But moving in?"

"Will, there's a Guatemalan couple down the hall and their grown son lives with them."

"Isn't he retarded or something?"

"No, just a toxin handicap."

"Well, that's probably why, but whatever, we can't do such a drastic thing -- and I'm not going to put your wellbeing in jeopardy."

"Don't be so dramatic … well, I would just love to see you and Emma and the baby, even for a short visit."

"I know, we want to see you too."

"It's been so long, I barely recognize you. You have a moustache now."

"Ah, you mean this?" I could tell by the relaxed voice that he was smiling. "Yeah, I did this for fun. Just to see how long it could go."

"Do you two have plans for Thanksgiving?"

"Just visiting Brittany."

"Yes, I see. How is she doing?"

"She can't get around much anymore."

"Oh … is her diabetes worse?"

"Yeah, she might lose her foot."

"Her whole foot?"

"Well, it's her own fault. You know, she doesn't walk. And she likes donut bombs and bacon leather and cheesy dogs."

"I love cheese dogs, who doesn't."

"I don't."

We were silent. William had always prided himself on managing to grow much of his and Emma's food.

"Alright, well, let me know how things go with the sani company. If you need help, I can send you a little cash."

***

I spent Thanksgiving with my old friends Dylan and Megan. It took three buses to get to their place down in the city, but they had a free-standing cottage and I was able to sign out for the entire weekend and enjoy their company. Dylan had always been close with Ty but after Ty passed away, he and I became even closer friends. Over the years Megan and I had sparked over politics, but since Dylan had been diagnosed with progressive asthma last March, she called me more often. We talked mostly about domestic things. Ultimately, Dyl and Meg were friends from the past and I felt lucky that friends from the past were nearby. They knew me and I knew them and we trusted each other.

That Sunday evening I came home to three audio messages from William. With each message, he sounded more and more determined that I call him back.

"What's up?" I said. "Sorry, I didn't take my computer with me."

The video popped on. His moustache was gone. He was wearing his "God Save the King" T-shirt that he often slept in. "Remember that guy you used to be friends with who works at Sacramento Public Health?"

"SPH? Hmm … like Jules Morten? That was at least ten years ago."

"I know, but do you think you could call him?"

"I guess so -- I don't know if he still works there though."

"I'm sure he does. I found his name in the directory but I haven't been able to speak to him."

I let go a breath. My mace stick leaned against Ty's wooden desk, the spray cavity still open. "I could try," I said. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"Well, one of the neighbors put really stinky oil on top of the garbage pile."

"It's still there?"

"Yes."

"Oh, gosh."

"And now the oil -- it's food oil or something -- is attracting rats."

"That's not good."

"Yeah, and the rats are mean. One of them almost bit Charger."

"Bit, as in, with teeth?"

"Yeah, they're sort of taking ownership of the garbage now. It's their food source."

"You mean because of the scraps in the bags? How could anyone throw food out?"

"It's leftovers…"

"But aren't they eating them?"

"I don't know, mother."

"I'm always hungry."

"Well, I think it's a retaliation thing."

"Retaliation? Toward who?"

"Us."

"Us, like who?"

"Me and Emma."

"You and Emma?"

"We've been throwing dirty diapers on the heap. It's … we have no choice. We don't -- I can't get god damn Burton Industries to pick up the garbage."

"William, it's been at least four weeks."

"I know."

"Did you send the pictures?"

"Yes, and they said a truck would come out in a couple days, but it never did."

I imagined a pile of black bags mounding in the middle of that manicured circle they moved into fifteen years ago. Each property had had their own ornamental maple in the front yard: a feathery dwarf, one with peeling bark, a green twisted one. Will and Emma's had had pink leaves. "But you put the diapers in bags, right?"

"Yeah, but … you know, they smell comes through. It's been a warm November."

Outside my sixth floor window, the LED signs of Arco and Hardware Depot and Temps for Hire glowed in a settled pattern of white and red and blue. The long line of streetlights that led from Silver Rock toward I-10 West gave the sky a murky gray hue. "I wish I could be with you."

"Me too. So can you call Mr. Morten? If there are rats in the streets, isn't that a public health issue? I mean, wouldn't Public Health step in?"