by RABE, JEAN
Yeah, left behind. I thought about what Mrs. Hanratty had said earlier, and I knew I had to do something to get out of here. The tantalizing hint of going far away to college, where the bills would be paid . . . it sometimes made me crazy with desire.
Yeah. Crazy. My brother Alan had clearly and forcefully told me with his words and fists that college wasn’t in my plans, that I was now in partnership with him, and there was nothing else I was going to do except work for him.
I thought about what Mrs. Hanratty would say to that, that I was a prisoner in my home—and someone’s home being a castle, so I guess I was a prisoner in a castle, hah-hah-hah—and that my psycho older brother said he would break my bones if I ever tried to leave him, and that I had no choice to believe him, because I had seen what he could do.
I got up, turned the television off, and then went to do my homework, though a cheerful little voice inside of me asked, what’s the point? What’s the point of good grades, when Alan wouldn’t let you free?
Good question, and I told the little voice to shut the bleep up.
A year after Mother had departed, Alan brought me out to the hallway connecting the other two third floor apartments and said, “Lookee here.”
“Here” being a small door at the end of one of the hallways, which was now open. I followed Alan up a very steep set of stairs and then into a cold and damp attic with exposed beams and uneven floorboards. At the end of the attic was a wide bench, and on the bench were a couple of hotplates, some glassware, and bags and other stuff.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“Not sure what to think,” I said. “What the hell is it?”
“My own little production facility, that’s what. You take some drug store meds, some other chemicals, and follow the right instructions . . . pure crystal cash, Patti, pure crystal cash.”
I stared in disbelief at what he had done. “A drug lab . . . here? Are you out of your mind?”
“Not at all. This is a wide-open market in this part of town, and with the right product, I’ll do just fine, thank you very much.”
“How did you get up here in the attic?”
“Broke the door open, put in a new lock.”
“And you don’t think the landlord will notice?” He laughed. “Oh, that’s nice, Patti. What the hell, you think we’re living on Park Avenue or something? When did you tell the landlord about the leaky toilet, and how long has it taken him to fix it?”
“Hasn’t been fixed yet, you know that,” I said.
“My point, Patti. They don’t care, they’ve never cared, and I found a place to set up a little production line.”
I turned to him. “I don’t like it.”
He leaned into me, close enough that I could smell his breath. “Tough. You don’t like it? Then move out. Or quit school and get a job and pay your share of the rent and the groceries. I’m supporting the two of us, Patti, and a little goddamn appreciation would be nice.”
I held out my hand. “You want me to appreciate this? A drug lab over our heads?”
He pushed by me, heading down the steep stairs. “Fine. Be all pure and holy. But I know you, sister.
You’re gonna stay and live off what I can do, and that’s just fine. If not, well, go up to the diner where mom used to work. I bet they’re still looking for a waitress.”
In the small kitchen I spotted the two faded postcards from Florida that we had gotten from Mother, both more than a year old. In each she just said she was having fun with a man whose name began with G—Gus or George, neither Alan nor I could figure out the scrawl—and looking at those faded postcards just made me choke up some.
And to take the mood further, I guess, I went into Mother’s bedroom, which we’d both left pretty much alone. Alan uses it as a place to dump junk and old shoes and torn clothes. I opened the closet and burrowed my way past some of Mother’s belongings until I reached a big green torn trash bag shoved into a corner.
I sat and opened up the bag, and inside was the last of Father’s stuff. Some old shirts and trousers and his dull khaki leather coat. I pulled the coat up and brought it to my face and smelled the old scent, and then the tears really started to flow. The old musky smell just brought back all the memories of being out with Father in the woods, in both daylight and in the dark, and I remembered all the times I’d be asleep in my bed and there’d be a gentle little tug on my foot, and Father would lean over and whisper, “Wake up, princess. Your king wants to take you on an adventure,” and that would always make me laugh, and I’d roll over and pretend to be asleep until I gave in and got up and went out with him.
Oh, some of my friends back then couldn’t believe that I would get out of a nice warm bed and go out in the cold air with Father, but they didn’t understand that it was our time alone, just the two of us, and he took such pride in teaching me how to shoot, how to set traps, and how to read the sky and the stars.
Once, out in the woods in late November, a snow squall came up suddenly, making us stand nearly still in white-out conditions. I was scared, but Father quietly and quickly got to work, made us a lean-to shelter out of boughs and branches, and built a fire. He made a bough bed as well, and we cuddled in the shelter, out of the wind, watching the snow fall and feeding the fire.
And Father had said, “Remember this, Patti. We’re better than those flatlanders down south. They lose power, they panic after half a day ’cause they can’t see their television or play with their computers. They lose power for a week, and they’ll be fighting in the streets over a loaf of bread. Up here, we lose power that long, it’d be rough, but we’d make it.”
He tossed a length of dead pine onto the fire, as the white flakes battled their way down to the ground. “That’s because we take care of ourselves. Don’t rely on anybody else. You remember that, honey, and you’ll go far.”
I held the coat closer again to my face, willing the tears to stop. Then I put the coat back into the bag, felt around, found Father’s shaving kit, some medals and patches from when he was in the Army, some of his smaller traps and traplines, his favorite pipe, and a couple of other odds and ends. Missing, of course, were his good rifles and shotguns. Father’s idiot son had pawned them years ago to buy God knows what.
I closed the bag, thought some, and then left the room.
One evening, soon after he got his drug lab up and running, Alan came to me and said, “You know what the biggest problem is for guys like me?”
I was looking through the day’s New York Times to prepare for a current events quiz in my sociology class tomorrow. “Good grooming skills?”
“Hah, Patti, very funny.” He sat at the kitchen table and put his elbows on it, which caused it to shift and make me drag my red pen across the page. If he noticed that he was ticking me off, he was keeping it to himself.
“The problem is marketing, Patti. Getting customers to buy what you want without getting nailed by the cops or the State Police drug task force or anyone else. You start getting a rep, you start getting known, and then you get watched. You get followed. And if you’re seen passing over little packages in exchange for cash, you’ll get your ass busted for possession. And possession with intent to distribute is another pretty way of saying getting some additional serious jail time.”
I folded the newspaper. “So my smart drug dealer older brother has come up with a plan.”
That famous smirk made its reappearance. “That’s right. Look at this.”
From his coat pocket he took out some square pieces of cardboard. On each square was written a numeral, from one to ten.
I looked at him and said, “What? You have problems getting your shoes off to figure out how to write above ten?”
His face colored. “Lucky for you I’m in a good mood, Patti, or your ears would be ringing. Now listen up. This is important.”
He stabbed a finger at the white card marked with the numeral three. “Let’s say I’m hanging out at the mall one day, okay? And some guy I know comes b
y and sits with me on a bench, and we talk about the Red Sox and shit, and he says, well, you selling today? And I say, yeah, and he says, how much? And I say, fifty bucks. And if that’s agreeable, we talk some more, and he leaves and goes to a store in the mall—like one of those clothing stores—and I follow him a bit, and he drops off an envelope with the cash in it, okay? Maybe in the dressing room or something. So I pick up the money. No big deal. Some cop rousts me, I just make all innocent like and say, so what? I found this cash. No name. No ID. Finders keepers, right? You following me?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s fascinating.”
“Good, glad to hear it.” And my brother went on, his sarcasm detector obviously off the for the day. “Then it’s my customer’s turn. He follows me, and maybe by a trash can or something, I toss in some trash from a breakfast burrito or something, and at the edge of the trash can, I leave this number one. That’s his claim ticket. Got it?”
I stifled a yawn. “Oh, yeah, I got it.”
“Good,” he said, “because this is where you come in, where it gets all neat and tidy.”
I stopped yawning. “What do you mean, where I come in?”
He was really grinning now. “Got it all figured out. My stuff is in your bedroom, and at the right time, the guys use a flashlight or a laser pointer or something like that, and they get your attention. You open your window, you lower a basket or something, and they put the ticket in. You bring up the ticket, find the matching baggie, and lower it down. Boom. Transaction complete, and I’m blocks away, and if any cop is watching me, they see nothing. It’s all done quietly in the rear alley, no fuss, no muss.”
I stared at him, finding it hard to believe that this creature was my brother, was actually my own flesh and blood.
“No,” I said.
“What?”
“No, I’m not going to do it. Don’t even think about it.”
His face colored some more, and he abruptly left the kitchen table, went out to the living room, and my heart thudded some, me thinking, well, at least I got away from that.
Then the television set came on, and Alan boosted and boosted the volume, and I realized what he was doing and tried to make it to the door leading outside, but he grabbed me before I got there.
And about a half hour later I agreed to do anything he wanted, and I stayed home from school the next two days, humiliated at how my face looked.
Dinner was by myself—which was fine, some carrot sticks and corn beef hash out of the can—and then Alan let himself in and grinned and said, “The night of nights, Patti. This is gonna be great.”
I was drying the dishes by the sink. “I still don’t see the big deal.”
“Deal? Deal?” Alan went to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a can of Budweiser, which he popped open. “Here’s the deal, you moron. There’s this guy, Duff Horton, who’s connected with some activity up on the northern blocks. He’s heard of my little deal and little production facility, and he wants to do some investing. So tonight, he’s gonna sample my wares.”
“Lucky him,” I said, putting the chipped plate back in the cupboard.
Alan took a long swallow of his beer. “No, honey, lucky me. He likes what he sees, how he scores, and this could mean something big. More business. More distribution. More of everything.”
“And more police attention,” I said. “Alan, look, you’ve been lucky so far. Why not do something different? Why not step away? Why keep on gambling like this?”
Another long swallow. “It’s worked, so why should it change?”
I wiped my hands on the towel and threw it on the counter. “Because you never asked me, Alan, not ever . . . and I want out. I want to stop.”
His eyes glinted at me. “Don’t talk like that, Patti.” “I’m tired of being cooped up in here, tired of being your prisoner, tired of everything. How much longer, Alan? Huh? How much longer am I going to have to do this?”
Moving quick like a snake, he had his hand around my throat. “As long as I want, princess. And you want to know the truth? You’re gonna do it tonight, and you’re gonna do it right, with no fuss and muss. Remember, sweetie, you’re part of this deal, and if the cops ever do arrest me, why, I think you might have put them up to it, and I’ll give you up.”
My breathing was getting raspy. Alan went on. “And if that doesn’t get your attention, remember this. This guy, Duff Horton, doesn’t take no for an answer. Got it? One time, I heard somebody made a move on Duff Horton’s girl, and they found the guy’s hands in a trashcan a month later. Nothin’ else. Just the hands. So he’s not a guy to dick around with.”
I tried to move away from his grasp, but I couldn’t. “So tonight, Patti, I’m gonna be right by Duff’s side as he signals you and you lower the basket. Do it right, and we’ll all make out. And don’t screw it up, sister.”
In the darkness I sat, waiting. On the bed was Father’s old jacket. I had gone into Mother’s bedroom for ideas and moral support. A few minutes ago, I had taken the jacket and had drawn in the scent again, remembering Father’s firm but gentle ways. I’m sure he would be some pissed at Mother and at what Alan had done, but I also think he would have been disappointed at what I was doing. Or not doing.
Father would have expected more from his princess.
Something caught my eye. I looked up at the ceiling and there it was, the bright red dot of the laser pointer. It was a cold night, so I put on Father’s old jacket as I went over to the window. I lifted up the window and heard voices down there, and I made out the shape of my brother and a large, hulking man that must have been Duff Horton, and a couple of others.
“Princess, princess, let down your wares,” someone called out, and everyone laughed.
I ducked back in, got the heavy basket, gingerly lowered it down, looking closely, seeing it approach, even noticing the eager way Alan was holding himself, the basket going down, now at eye level, Duff Horton talking and reaching in and—
snap
Maybe it was my imagination, maybe not, but the next sound I heard was certainly loud enough, as Duff Horton screamed and took his hand out of the basket, one of Father’s old leg-hold traps snapped tight around his hand. Duff Horton screamed and screamed, and then the other men were on top of my brother, and I dropped the thin rope.
And as I ran out of the apartment house, my few belongings safe in a knapsack, I thought of Father, and the tears came, but in the tears, too, was joy and pride.
His princess was free, and she had done it all by herself.
REVENGE OF THE LITTLE MATCH GIRL
Paul Genesse
At the ripe age of four, Paul Genesse decided he wanted to be a writer. It took him a few years before he started selling professionally, though. He loved his English classes in college, but he pursued his other passion by earning a bachelor’s degree in nursing science in 1996. He is a registered nurse on a cardiac unit where he works the night shift, keeping the forces of darkness away from his patients. Paul lives with his incredibly supportive wife, Tammy, and their collection of frogs. He spends endless hours in his basement writing and is the author of several short stories featured in Pirates of the Blue Kingdoms, Blue Kingdoms, Shades and Specters, Fellowship Fantastic, Furry Fantastic, The Dimension Next Door, Catopolis, and Imaginary Friends. His first novel, The Golden Cord, Book One of the Iron Dragon Series was published in April of 2008. Visit Paul online at www.paulgenesse.com.
The girl shuddered as a gust of freezing wind blasted through the thin apron in which she carried her bundles of matches. Tall men in thick coats jostled past her in their rush to get home.
“Only a penny a bundle.” She held up the matches as the men hurried along to see their families on this last evening of the year—New Year’s Eve. Carriages raced home in the muddy streets. No one even gave her a second glance as her fair hair became white with snowflakes. She brushed the snow from her brow with fingers that had started to go numb, wishing dearly she owned a scarf or a bonnet.
After wandering in the cold for several more minutes, she took shelter beneath the awning of a shop; it would give her some small protection. Darkness would come soon, and she asked a man who came out of the doorway if he wanted to buy some matches.
“Get away from my shop, you filthy wretch.” The merchant raised his fat fist to strike her, and she bolted into the muddy street. Her heavy clogs slowed her, as they had been her mother’s and were twice the size of her tiny feet.
A carriage thundered toward her, the driver’s uncaring eyes locked onto hers. He barreled ahead, and the little girl clumsily ran for the other side of the road. Another carriage came at her from the opposite direction. Horses’ hooves pounded and sloshed through the mud as the wheels cut ominous furrows.
One of her clogs became stuck in the mud. The carriages continued toward her. She slipped out of the shoe and staggered through the frigid mud as fast as she could. The other clog fell off, and one of her bundles of matches slipped out of her apron and into the street as she dove onto the sidewalk.
One of the carriages ran over the matches and one of her shoes, pressing her lost items deep into the muddy street. She started to reach for the lone clog still above the surface when a boy with cruel eyes and a mocking grin snatched it up.
“Steal shoes that fit next time, you stupid little girl!” He scraped the mud off and flung it at her face. She could barely feel the sting on her numb cheeks. She wanted to tell him the shoe had belonged to her mother, but he wouldn’t care. No one listened to her anyway.
The boy laughed and ran off down an alley, holding her clog high.
She sat on the sidewalk and scraped the cold mud from her feet and face. Her belly ached with hunger. Her toes had turned blue and throbbed with pain when she touched them.