Ashes

by Haunted Computer Books

  Morris was in the midst of deleting the messages when the Kelvinator appeared in the mouth of the cubicle.

  “Morris,” the editor said. He was ten years younger than Morris, with a personal digital assistant in his shirt pocket. His eyes moved like greased ball bearings.

  “Bad headline, huh?”

  “No, it was problems in your copy.”

  “What problems?”

  “Faith Gordon has a list. You can talk to her about them when you see her.”

  “See her?”

  “Write a follow-up. That’s the only way to fix the mess you’ve made.”

  “There’s no fucking mess. I didn’t say anything about the blankets being for needy children.”

  “You must have, or I wouldn’t have put it in the headline. Anyway, the easiest way to handle this is to interview Faith. And use a tape recorder this time, so you won’t misquote her.”

  “But it was just a chummy little feature—”

  “It’s gotten bigger than that. I had a call from the Threads of Hope’s national office. Apparently Faith Gordon has been blowing smoke up their asses, too.”

  “So let them sue for libel.”

  The Kelvinator tossed a sticky note onto Morris’ cluttered desk. “Two o’clock today at the church. Polish it up for Monday’s paper.”

  “Can Laney come with me?”

  “We already have enough photos. She has to cover a flower show at the mall.”

  Morris crumpled the note as the Kelvinator returned to his office. He wished there were enough threads to make a noose. A noose of hopelessness, by which to hang himself before he had to write another quilt story.

  The church sat in a valley and a fog hung over it, rising from the river that ran beside the road. The church parking lot was empty. That seemed odd, even for a Friday afternoon. He thought he was supposed to meet the entire sewing circle. Maybe he had a solo showdown with the legendary Faith Gordon. He shuddered, opened the dashboard, and retrieved the pint of Henry McKenna and a vial of Xanax. Substances that provided his own threads of hope, or at least stuffed cotton wadding between him and his anxiety and despair.

  He stuck one of the tranquilizers on his tongue and toasted the stained-glass Jesus. “Here’s to you, Big Guy.”

  Belly warmed, Morris entered the quiet church. He had been raised Baptist but had recovered quickly, and his only religious experience since then had been a foray into the Unitarian church in a half-assed attempt to meet women. Still, the polished oak of the foyer, the sermon hall with its carefully arranged pews, and the crushed velvet drapes invoked feelings of solemnity, as if he were actually in the presence of something mystical and important. He stepped carefully, afraid to break the hush.

  “Mr. Stanfield.”

  He turned, recognizing the shrill, strident voice of Faith Gordon. He had expected a beefy, shoulder-heavy woman with a broad face and hands that could strangle an ox. Instead, she was diminutive, even pretty in a severe way. Her cheeks were lined from years of not smiling. She was about Morris’ age but had none of his gray.

  Morris attempted a boyish grin, knowing this was a time to turn on the charm, even if he came off like Clint Eastwood miscast in a comedy. “Miss Gordon. I’m sorry my story disappointed you.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s the ladies in the circle. They were so excited about being in the paper until I told them about your errors.”

  “We can make it right.”

  “You can never make it right. The damage is already done. Feelings have been hurt. And what about the children who received blankets from Threads of Hope? How will they feel when told they are ‘needy’?”

  Morris dropped his grin. He wanted to scream at her, tell her that a fucking space-filler in the back pages of a dinky local rag didn’t cause empires to rise or fall, and, truth be told, didn’t sell a single goddamned car for the dealer whose ad ran right beside it. A newspaper was fucking fishwrap, a dinosaur walking in the shadow of the Internet that was too dumb to know it was going extinct. The only people who’d read the piece of brainless crap had been the members of the sewing circle.

  “I didn’t write that ‘needy’ part,” Morris said. “My editor put that in. He thought it was more of an eye-grabber.”

  “The article has your name on it,” Faith said. “You’ve damaged all the children who have been blessed by Threads of Hope. God can’t forgive those who don’t accept their sins.”

  “God doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “If you can’t apologize to the Lord, you can at least apologize to the circle.” She stood to the side and motioned down the hallway, indicating that Morris should go first.

  He resigned himself to go on and get his “mission of contrition” over with, then hurry back to the office and type it up with Henry McKenna as his co-author. He was halfway to the meeting room when he felt a prick in the back of his neck. At first he thought he’d been bitten by a spider, and he reached to wipe the creature away. The janitor came out of the meeting room, eyes bright, jaws making gravel.

  “Let’s get him upstairs,” Faith said.

  At first, Morris thought Faith wanted him to help subdue the janitor, who looked as if he’d escaped from a facility for the criminally insane. But the janitor didn’t flee. Instead, he dropped his push broom and approached Morris. After a couple of steps, there were two of him, and Morris’s head felt as if it were stuffed with wet pillows, the silent walls drumming in wooden echoes. He spun awkwardly, and Faith held up an empty hypodermic needle, the tip gleaming with one drop of clear liquid.

  A kaleidoscope played behind his eyelids as he rose from the depths of a stupor. He’d experimented with a number of chemicals in his college days, but he could never recall suffering such a sledgehammer to the brain. The kaleidoscope slowly came into focus and he realized his eyes were open. He tried to move his head.

  The kaleidoscope that had heralded his return to consciousness turned out to be a stained-glass window. Jesus stood there, arms spread, catching the dying sunlight. Morris recognized it as the same window that adorned the steeple of the church. The room appeared to be an attic of some kind, and a bell rope ran the length of one wall and disappeared through a small opening in the ceiling.

  He must have fainted. Heat, stress, and a good dose of whiskey on an empty stomach. Not to mention the trank. And maybe a touch of the flu had crept up on him.

  Snick.

  Snick, snick.

  As groggy as he was, it took him a moment to place the sound. Scissors.

  The members of the sewing circle were gathered around him, stitching, darning, cutting scraps of cloth. He looked from face to face, trying to focus. Both Almas were there, though Morris had forgotten the names of the others. No, Reba, that was it. The chatty one. And Lillian. And one, wasn’t she named after a flower? Rose? Violet? No, Daisy, that was it. Daisy.

  He tried to smile but couldn’t. His lips were too numb.

  “Looks like Mr. Big-Time Writer is awake,” Reba said, without a trace of her earlier humor.

  “A shame he can’t be troubled to get a little thing right,” the other Alma said. “Now, what would happen if we left a few loose threads in one of our blankets just because we didn’t care enough to do it right?”

  “Why, that would be like having no hope,” Daisy said. “Worse, it would be like giving up hope on the children.”

  “Oh, but we know how needy they are,” the first Alma said. “Because we read about it in the paper.”

  Morris tried again to lift his head. The women weren’t looking at him. They concentrated on their work, snipping, stitching, working threads and needles and yarn. Morris’ stomach roiled, and he was afraid he was going to vomit in the presence of these women before he could lift himself and make it to a bathroom. Flu, for sure.

  “Don’t try to talk none,” Reba said. “You done enough harm with your words already.”

  Lillian giggled like a schoolgirl. “You tied that knot off rig
ht, didn’t you, Reba? I know how much pride you take in your work.”

  “Wouldn’t want to go disappointing nobody. Unlike some people.”

  A door opened somewhere beyond Morris’ range of vision. The women stopped working and looked in that direction, their faces rapt.

  “How’s our latest charity project coming along?” Faith asked.

  “Right fair,” the other Alma said. “Not such good material to work with, but I think we can shape it up some.”

  “Well, after all, they say we help the needy,” Faith said. “In fact, I think I read so in the Journal-Times.”

  Morris couldn’t help himself. Sick or not, he was going to tell them all to fuck off. So what if he lost his job? He could paint houses, drop fry baskets, go on welfare. At least he’d no longer have to pretend to give a damn about little old ladies making sacrifices solely because of their own selfish need to feel useful.

  He tried to speak, but his lips didn’t move. Not much, anyway.

  “Mr. Stanfield, Reba has been sewing for fifty-nine years, as you know, since you reported it in your article. That was one fact you reported correctly. So you can rest assured her stitches are much stronger than the flesh of your lips.”

  Stitches? Lips?

  He screamed, but the sound stuck at the top of his vibrating vocal cords. Faith came into view. She leaned over him, appraising the handiwork. “A silent tongue speaks no evil,” she said.

  “And doesn’t put down the good work of others,” Reba said, looking to Faith for approval.

  “That’s right,” Faith said. “I’m sorry we’re having to take time from our true work. Several children won’t get blankets this week because of Mr. Stanfield. But this task is perhaps just as important in the Lord’s eyes. This is a true charity case.”

  Morris summoned all his effort and craned his neck. His clothes were sewn to what looked like the fabric pad of a mattress. He squirmed but could only move his arms and legs a few inches. He flexed his fingers, trying to make a fist.

  “Alma, how was that tatting on his hands?” Faith asked.

  Alma Potter beamed with satisfaction at being recognized by the circle’s leader. “I done proud, Faith. Them fingers won’t be typing no more lies for a while.”

  Morris felt his eyes bulging from their sockets. The first tingle of pain danced across his lips.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stanfield,” Faith said. “I don’t have any more morphine. The hospital’s supply is closely monitored. I could only risk stealing a few doses. But my sin is one the Lord is willing to forgive because it serves a greater good.”

  The women were busy around him, their needles descending and lifting, the threads stretching and looping. The other Alma was busy down by his feet, her gnarled hands tugging at his toes. Lillian brought a scrap of cloth to his face, but Faith held up a hand.

  For the first time, Faith smiled. “Not yet, Lillian. We can close his eyes later. For now, let him look upon good works. Let him know us by our deeds, not by his words.”

  Lillian looked disappointed. Faith put a gentle hand on the old woman’s shoulder.

  “A good blanket takes care and patience,” Faith said. “Hope takes patience. All we can do is our part, and let the Lord take care of the rest.”

  “Just like with the sick children,” Lillian said.

  “Yes. They’re sick, but never needy. As long as one person has hope enough for them all, they are never in need.”

  Morris tried to communicate with his eyes, to lie and tell Faith that he now understood, that sick children were never needy no matter what the Kelvinator said, but his eyes were too cold and lost to the world of light and understanding. He was a cynic and had nothing inside but desperation. He gazed at the stained-glass Jesus, but no hope could be found in that amber face as the sunlight died outside.

  The gauze of morphine slipped a little, and now he could feel the sharp stings as the needles entered his arms, legs, and torso. Reba was stitching up his inseam, her face a quivering mask of concentration as she worked toward his groin. Daisy’s tongue pressed against her uppers as she pushed and tugged in tiny little motions. Silver needles flashed in the glow of the lone gas lamp by which the sewing circle now toiled. From outside, the plate-glass image must have flickered in all the colors of salvation.

  But from the inside, the image had gone dark with the night. Summoning his remaining strength, Morris ripped the flesh of his lips free of their stitches and screamed toward the high white cross above.

  “Look, his eyelids twitched,” came a voice.

  “There, there,” Lillian said, as if on the other side of a thick curtain. “You just rest easy now.”

  “Where—” Morris was in the sewing room downstairs, flat on his back on the table, surrounded by piles of rags. They must have carried him here after they—

  He brought a wobbly hand to his mouth and felt his lips. They were chapped but otherwise whole.

  “I think he’s thirsty,” said Faith, who knelt over him, patting his forehead with a soft swatch of linen. She turned to the janitor, who stood in the doorway. “Bruce, would you get him a cup of water, please?”

  As the janitor shuffled off, Faith again settled her kind, healing eyes on him. “You fainted. A big, strong fellow like you.”

  “Must be—” The words were thick on his tongue. He flexed his fingers, remembering the sharp tingle of needles sliding through his skin, the taut tug of thread in his flesh. A dream. Nothing but a crazy, drug-stoked nightmare. “Must be the heat,” he managed.

  “It’s okay,” Faith said. Gone was her severe and chiding tone. She now spoke in her gentle nurse’s voice. “We’ll take care of you. You just have a chill. Rest easy and wait for the ambulance.”

  “Ambulance? No, I’m fine, really, I just need—” He tried to sit up, but his head felt like a wet sack of towels.

  “Your pulse is weak,” Faith said. “I’m concerned you might go into shock.”

  “That means we need to cover him up,” the other Alma said.

  Faith smiled, the expression of all saints and martyrs. “I guess we should use the special blanket,” she said.

  “Blanket?” Morris blinked lint from his eyes.

  “We made it just for you. We were going to give it to you in appreciation for writing the story and let you enjoy it in the comfort of your own bed. But perhaps this is more fitting.”

  “Fitting,” Daisy said with a hen’s cackle. “That’s as funny as Santa in a manger scene.”

  Lillian approached the table, a blanket folded across her chest. Unlike the other quilts, this one was white, though the pieces were ragged, the stitches loose, the cloth stained and spotted. “We done our best work on this one,” she said. “We know a sick soul when we see one.”

  “Threads of Hope sometimes come unraveled,” Faith said. Her sweet tone, and her soft touch as she felt his wrist for a pulse, was far more unnerving than her previous bullying.

  “That’s right,” Reba said. “Sometimes hope is not enough.”

  “And kids die and go on to heaven,” Lillian said. “The Lord accepts them whole and pure, but their pain and suffering has to go somewhere. Nothing’s worse than laying there knowing you’re going to die any day, when by rights you ought to have your whole life in front of you.”

  Lillian helped Reba unfold the patchwork blanket. Morris saw the white scraps of sheet were actually varying shades of gray, cut at crazy angles and knotted together as if built in the dark by mad, clumsy hands.

  “There’s another side to our work,” Faith said. “One we don’t publicize. If it had a name, it might be called ‘Threads of Despair.’”

  “I like ‘Threads of the Dead,’” Reba said, in her high, lilting voice. Her remark drew a couple of snickers from the old women gathered around the table. Morris didn’t like the way Reba’s eyes glittered.

  “I’ll write the story however you want it, and let you proof it before I turn it in to the editor,” he said, his throat parched.


  “Cover him up,” Faith commanded. “I’d hate to see him go into shock.”

  Morris once again tried to lift himself, but he was too woozy. Maybe he really did need an ambulance. And a thorough check-up. He was having a nervous breakdown. And these fine women, whom he’d insulted and belittled, were compassionate enough to help him in his time of need. Faith was right, he was the needy one, not those sick children.

  As they stretched the mottled blanket over him, preparing to settle it across his body, Morris saw the words “Mercy Hospital Morgue” stamped in black on one corner.

  Sheets from the hospital?

  The cloth settled over him with a whisper, wrinkled hands smoothing and spreading it on each side. His limbs were weak, his mouth slack, as if the blanket had sapped the last of his strength. Though his skin was clammy, sweat oozed from his pores like newly hatched maggots crawling from the soft meat of a corpse. He was being wrapped in fabric even colder than his soul.

  Threads from the dead, from those who had lost hope.

  Sheets that would give back all that had gone into them.

  A handmade blanket stitched not in the attic of the heart but in the dark basement of the disappointed.

  “The ambulance will be here in twenty minutes,” Faith said. “Until then, cherish the despair you deserve.”

  She tugged the blanket up to his chin, and then, with a final, benevolent look into his frightened eyes, she drew it over his face.

  ###

  1FROM THE ASHES

  Looking back over old work is like looking at photographs: you see that younger, more innocent, and more foolish version of yourself and wonder how you ever got this far, and how you never really understood much of what was shaping your life at the time.

  Writers love their own words. They have to. They spend much of their time isolated, hunched over a keyboard, squinting at a screen until their eyes burn and their spines scream and their wrists stiffen in protest. And all they have to show for the sacrifice is a scattering of glyphs that sometimes seems to have no meaning in any language. To then assume that barrage of symbols will take on a comprehensive narrative and satisfying arc is truly an act of arrogance.