Little Deadly Things

by Harry Steinman

  Eva hunted in Sofia’s stores. She sought just the right talisman to rekindle the magic that once existed between the sisters. A week into her quest, fresh from a successful raid at a library branch and clutching a chemistry text thick enough to double for building material, Eva spotted a small brooch in the window of an antiques store. It was a gold beetle studded with red, blue, and green stones. It’s pretty, but it’s odd, she thought. It was a scarab, an insect that feeds on feces.

  Eva walked into the store. A pleasant musty smell announced a different world. Crowded displays of curios and keepsakes, used furniture and costumes from bygone eras greeted her. A squat man with a gray-speckled beard sat hunched on a stool behind the counter. The shopkeeper looked up from a leather-bound book. His black fedora, fashionable sixty years earlier, topped a bald head ringed with a graying fringe. A necktie from the same era—a wide silk paisley with what Eva thought were impossibly cheerful colors—wrapped his pale neck. He looked up from his reading, registered Eva’s presence with a gracious nod. He moved deliberately as he marked his place with a well-worn leather bookmark and presented a pleasant expression. Eva found herself drawn to the odd-looking man. His eyes narrowed, not with suspicion, but because his wide smile lifted generous cheeks and his eyes had no place to retreat from the spreading grin.

  Eva stood motionless, waiting for him to speak.

  “What are you reading, young lady?” he asked, pointing to the thick text Eva clutched in her left hand.

  “It’s a chemistry book.”

  “A serious topic. And on paper, as well. Do you enjoy it?”

  “Chemistry or paper?” Eva asked.

  “Well, both, I suppose. It is a bit unusual to see anyone carrying paper except collectors. Why not read on your dataslate?” His voice was soft, restrained even.

  “I like paper. I can get these out of the library without a fuss.” She didn’t add that “fuss” meant returning the books. “What about you? What’re you reading?”

  “Ah. A treasure. A first edition of Alice in Wonderland. Would you like to see it? Have you read Alice?” He turned the book around to face Eva.

  “No. I don’t read made-up stories.”

  “Not at all?”

  “No.” Eva’s voice was simultaneously flat and emphatic.

  “What a shame! There is a whole world of imagination that’s waiting for you.” The shopkeeper put his book away and muttered, “No fiction. What a shame.” He turned back to Eva, “What about history or poetry? Art?”

  Eva frowned.

  “Just chemistry? You must love books to carry one so heavy from the library. What else do you read?”

  “Science books. Computer texts.”

  “That’s it?” The merchant drew up his eyebrows.

  “That’s all I need.”

  “What about the classics? Studies of the human soul?”

  Eva said nothing.

  “Well, my dear, if you ever wish to dip your toe into the ocean of human experience, come back to my little shop. Maybe we can find something enjoyable for a, a serious reader. You may well find that the study of people will make you a better scientist. Now. To what do I owe the undiluted pleasure of your company?”

  She frowned at his flowery speech and pointed to the pin that caught her attention. “Why would anyone want a shit-eating bug for jewelry?” she asked.

  “You recognize Scarabaeoidea? Good for you!”

  She waited for him to continue, thinking that he would make a better teacher than the drones at school. This man seemed to invite her into his world, not try to force her. He was as different from her teachers as a guide from a kidnapper.

  The shopkeeper’s smile continued to hold court on the man’s face. “Why indeed. Well, the ancient Egyptians held these little insects in high regard. The scarab was a symbol of rebirth.”

  Rebirth? Perfect. A gift to renew her relationship with Gergana. But the pin was rare and valuable, the shopkeeper said. He named a price. Eva thought for a moment and made a counteroffer. “Give me the pin and I’ll give you protection.”

  He laughed, a hearty sound that rose from a deep well of joy. “Protection from what? Why would I need protection and how would a chemistry student provide this wondrous service?”

  “Dogs. I’ll keep them away. I’ll keep your sidewalk clean. No more dogshit.”

  The shopkeeper tipped back his fedora and rubbed his forehead. He walked around the counter, navigated between an antique wheelbarrow and a child’s rocking-horse to the window display, his ample body surpisingly agile. He took the pin and returned to place it on a square of black velvet on the counter. The two stood side by side and examined it. Jewels from the brooch sparkled against the cloth’s plush black surface.

  “I’ll tell you what, Miss Scientist. You clean my sidewalk for one month and I’ll give you the brooch. Don’t bother the dogs. You could get hurt and I do not wish to risk the loss of such a valuable new customer.”

  When the shopkeeper arrived to open his store the next morning, a faint odor of bleach replaced the smell of feces and the sidewalk shone. He stopped and perused the storefront. In a voice louder than one would use when talking to oneself he said, “Beautiful. Just beautiful.” He waited a minute, then without turning, he called over his shoulder, “Welcome back, Miss Scientist. You did a very nice job. Of course, you know that because you heard me say so when I arrived. Would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”

  “How did you know I was watching?” Eva asked.

  “I heard you. I live in a quiet world. Why would you sneak up on me?”

  “I didn’t sneak. My world is quiet, too.”

  The proprietor held the shop door open for Eva. Today he’d replaced the fedora with a gray homburg, the wide brim turned up all the way around. A long white feather shot from the hatband, transforming the semiformal headwear into something jaunty. On another, the feather would be an affectation. But on this man, it was an antenna that transmitted his vitality.

  The strange pair entered, a sedentary looking older man bristling with energy and a diminutive child brimming with strength. Without a word or backward glance, the man walked into a room behind the store. Eva followed into an office-cum-kitchen. The shelves were lined with books from earlier centuries. An antique red and blue Persian carpet muted their footsteps. Two parallel walls were painted yellow, as bright a color as she could imagine. Their counterparts were a correspondingly deep blue. A triptych of paintings hung along one of the long yellow walls, three masses of color, each swirling in a tight pattern of curves, streaks, and spatters. Along the back of the office was an antique partner’s desk. Both sides were crammed with books and papers. To her right, Eva saw the shopkeeper at a small counter, fussing with a kettle and hotplate. A stained teapot, its glazing cracked with age, matched two antique white ceramic mugs. He whistled tunelessly as he worked, and gave Eva sidelong glances. When she caught him looking at her, he held her gaze and smiled. Tiny pastries appeared on a small plate and suddenly there were two chairs and space on the counter for their impromptu snack.

  The store owner gestured with an outstretched hand to the tea and pastries and they began a snack and a silent conversation. Eva nodded acceptance of the invitation and then pointed with her chin to the trio of paintings. The man tilted his head down and formed an arched eyebrow question. She looked at the reproductions and shook her head. Then she spoke for the first time since entering the store.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Coombs, at your service.”

  “Is that your first name or your last name?”

  “Just Coombs. And you?”

  “Eva. Coombs isn’t a Slavic name. Are you British?”

  “What do you think of the paintings?” he asked, without answering her question.

  Eva looked at the framed art and asked, “Worms?”

  He laughed. Once again, the sound was unforced. “I take it you’re not familiar with the work of Jackson Pollock.”

  �
��You’ve got bugs for brooches and worms for paintings.” She paused, considering, “I’ve never seen worms like that. The colors are wrong. It’s not realistic.”

  “No, not realistic at all for worms. But Pollock didn’t so much try to paint worms as he tried to make art without a brush coming between him and his creations. So he dripped paint on his canvases rather than brushing it on.”

  “You like these?”

  “I do. Eva, look at them. If you wanted to make a painting of the energy in a chemical reaction, how would you do that?”

  “I don’t know. Not like that, I don’t think.”

  “What about, say, Brownian motion?”

  “These paintings are supposed to be the random movement of molecules?”

  “Good. Now think bigger. Pollock was trying to show the energy and movement of life. That’s my opinion, anyway.”

  “It looks like a baby’s scribbling.”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. Look deeper, Eva. What he did was to use things he could control—the thickness of the paint, the movement of his body, how absorbent his canvas was—to portray things he couldn’t control. It looks chaotic, but isn’t life chaotic? Don’t we all try to control the chaos around us? That’s what I see in his work. Think of chaos theory and then imagine it as art. You just might end up with Jackson Pollock.”

  “So what? Why would anybody want to paint science?”

  “Art can inspire science.”

  Eva gave a snort.

  Coombs continued, “A sculpture that looked like a tower of needles inspired a major breakthrough in understanding cell structure. Four hundred years ago, the divisions on a horsetail plant inspired John Napier to discover logarithms.”

  “I don’t need art to do science.”

  “Okay.” Then, “How’s your tea?”

  They sat without speaking for several minutes. Eva stood and explored Coombs’s work area and looked at his book titles. “May I offer a suggestion, young lady?”

  “Eva.”

  “Yes, indeed. Well, Eva, I have a suggestion. Your work cleaning the sidewalk was better than I expected. I should be taking advantage of you by offering only the brooch as full payment for this good a job. I’d like to give you a book, real paper, an old edition with some value.”

  “What book?”

  “It’s called To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  “How hard can that be?”

  “Eva, it’s not a textbook.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s the story of a young woman like you. A good girl named Scout must face terrible things and terrible people. She has to struggle to be herself despite awful events that happen around her. I rather think you might enjoy reading about how she managed.”

  “How old is Scout?”

  “When the book starts, she’s five.”

  “I’m thirteen.”

  “You were five once, yes? And now you’re older?” Eva nodded. “Well Scout grows older, too.” Coombs went to his book collection and muttered, “I know it’s here.”

  Eva continued to wander about the work area. She stopped at the Pollock triptych for several minutes. She said, “It’s funny. I don’t like stories because they try to tell you something is true when it’s not. This—” she nodded to the grouping, “—doesn’t try to lie. It doesn’t try to pretend to be a picture of something. It might be nonsense, but at least it’s honest nonsense.”

  “How does it make you feel?” Coombs asked.

  There was a long pause and Eva turned away. She turned back to Coombs and said, “I have to go. Thanks for the tea.”

  “What about the book?” He reached back to the shelf for the slim volume.

  But when he turned back, Eva was gone.

  She did not miss her duty once, not even Sundays. Thirty-one days after first meeting Coombs, she skipped home, bobbing under her mantle, the brooch in her pocket. What a splendid gift she would present to Gergana. Eva imagined all of the things that they would do together, once again, and she smiled.

  Eva’s smile died the moment she crossed the worn threshold into the Rozen apartment. She heard hoarse cries of pain from Gergana’s room, exhausted pleas in place of Gergana’s insubstantial chatter.

  Eva edged to the door, paused, listened and heard the crack of a palm striking flesh. There was a muffled thud followed by an explosive whoosh of air forced from unprotected lungs. Why today, of all days? When she had the brooch that would bring them back together and restore the magic they once shared?

  She turned the doorknob, paused, and slipped into the bedroom. Her senses recoiled at the tableau before her. She registered the sour stink of sweat and hatred. An obese man was the source. He was naked, with blemish-mottled pallid skin. He lay between Gergana’s legs with his hands loosely at her throat. Skin puffed out from his neck to give the impression of a bleached bullfrog. His face was frozen in a rictus, a grotesque parody of ecstasy.

  Eva tore her eyes from the fat man and took in every detail in the room. The markers of Gergana’s youth—stuffed animals and movie posters—were torn or trampled. She saw a broad-shouldered man in one corner of the room. His mouth was a compressed red slash. His bare chest was decorated with a heavy gold chain and thatched with a dense mat of black hair. Shards of pale blue ice, shaped like human eyes, looked from his face and focused on Eva. They froze her in place.

  Bare Chest looked down at an old-fashioned wristwatch, and then back to Eva. When he spoke, she felt the paralyzing cold again. “You come to join, little girl?” Bare Chest asked. “I get good money for you. Better than your cow of a sister. Come here.”

  Eva could not move. Bare Chest closed the distance between them with feral grace. One moment he was seated, the next he towered over her, a steel-gripped hand wrapped around her left wrist. She was too stunned even to flinch.

  Gergana moaned. “Nooo...not her. You promised. Not her,” she croaked.

  Bare Chest laughed. “This ugly runt is like a doll. She will fetch good money.” He looked down at Eva, “You want to feel nice like your sister, eh? I give you something to make you fly like the angels.”

  Eva looked at Gergana. There were puncture marks on the arms that had held Eva. The face that had looked at Eva with adoration was livid with bruises. The eyes that had cherished Eva were swollen. Eva tugged but Bare Chest kept his easy grip on her wrist.

  “Hey, Doran,” Bare Chest called to the fat man. “You want this ugly runt? I let you have her cheap.”

  Eva looked up as the man called Doran continued to piston his hips and tightened his grip on Gergana’s neck. Her eyes bulged.

  “Don’t mark her face,” Bare Chest snapped, “Now she’s lost value and you have to pay more.” Doran relaxed his grip.

  Eva was suspended in terror. Her eyes darted about, desperate to find something she could understand. Torn posters and stuffed toys. Gergana. The fat man. None of it made sense.

  Bare Chest reached in his trousers and freed himself. He forced her unresisting left hand down and wrapped the girl’s small fingers around his sex.

  Eva said nothing. She merely complied. The room around her started to collapse into a pinpoint and her reason was pulled toward a black hole of fear.

  Again, Gergana tried to lift her head. Again, she gasped, “No. Not her. You promised.”

  Without taking his predatory gaze from Eva, Bare Chest hissed at Gergana. “Shut up.”

  Still, Eva said nothing. She was nearing the event horizon of terror. In a few seconds, she would be lost.

  She shut out Gergana’s cries of pain and walled off her own terror. That’s better. Nice and quiet, she thought. Then she heard another sound, one from within, first a murmur, then a tumult. A babble, then a coherent Voice shouted to her, “Fight!”

  But how? she whimpered in silence. The Voice said, You’re a scientist. Use what is at hand. How did you stop Papa?

  She looked at Gergana and then back to Bare Chest. Her eyes narrowed and her head moved in a slight double-take, as if
the obvious solution to an intractable problem had presented itself. Then she nodded: a decision proposed, seconded, and approved by acclamation.

  Now Eva spoke with a steady voice. “Nobody calls me a runt. I’m going to kill you.”

  “Oh, you think so?” Bare Chest snarled. “For that I will split you open.” He looked back to the fat man and said, “Hey, Doran, I give you the runt when I’m done. No charge. A present from me.”

  Eva heard herself shout—or was it something within?—Now!

  Eva’s right hand, her free hand, moved unseen under her cape as Bare Chest spoke to the fat man. She slipped her small squeeze bottle out from an inside pocket. One-handed, she flipped the cap open. The action was practiced and smooth, thanks to Papa’s nocturnal visits. She sprayed Bare Chest’s blood-engorged penis. It would be three seconds before his sensitive skin reacted to Eva’s homemade pepper solution. In that time, Eva reached up. In a motion perfected by her encounters with Papa, she sprayed Bare Chest’s eyes. The effect was instant. His eyes reddened, bled, and bulged. Surprise, then agony, replaced his grin. Sightless crimson puddles replaced his ice-blue eyes. Then the oily fluid penetrated the dilated blood vessels in his penis. He screamed. Eva reached up to empty the remainder of the bottle’s sap down Bare Chest’s throat.

  He gasped in agony. The pepper-laced oil coated absorbent tissues in his lungs, searing and choking him. His throat began to swell and his yelps of pain trailed off to a rasp. Eva, her right hand still hidden under her cape, dropped the spray bottle and drew her knife. She thrust the four-inch blade, aiming for Bare Chest’s genitals. She’d never used a knife in anger, and she missed her target. But the blade sliced neatly across his groin and severed the femoral artery. The resulting blood loss was instant and catastrophic. Bare Chest was still rubbing his eyes when he collapsed. Blood spurted as he bled out. A bitter stench filled the room as Bare Chest’s bowels relaxed. Eva stabbed again. Her blade penetrated a corpse.

  In the moment of Bare Chest’s truncated scream, Doran lost all restraint. He bore down on Gergana. The weight of his body radiated through fat arms. Sausage-sized fingers dug into Gergana’s slender neck. He pressed harder and now she convulsed, her feet moving in a frantic swimmer’s kick, up and down, up and down. Then they were still. Doran grunted and relaxed in his release, Gergana relaxed in hers.