by Mark Morris
“Tastes good.”
Graham jerked in his seat; he was not alone. What he thought was a nest of shadow turned out to be a man leaning against the wall, arms folded. He too was watching the game and Graham had sat directly in his line of sight.
“I’m sorry,” Graham said, meaning it as an apology for blocking his view, but the man took it as a request to clarify his statement.
“The taste. It is good.”
“I’d prefer there was some gin to go with it, but yes, it’s a refreshing drink.”
“Not your glass. The juice in the body. The meal of it.”
Now Graham saw that the man held a newspaper in one fist. He brandished it. Graham couldn’t translate the headline, but he recognised some of the words he had already heard today.
O Sedento.
“Ricardo?”
The guide offered a loose salute in return.
“You sound as if you admire him,” Graham said.
“Who said it was him?”
“A woman then. Whoever it is.”
“Who said woman?”
“Then what? A witch? A curse? A bad dream?” Graham wished he’d go away. He wanted to watch grainy football on a shit TV, drink his tonic water and go to bed.
“I don’t know,” Ricardo said. “Maybe all of those things. Maybe none. Maybe O Sedento is the appetite we all carry. The best of us keep it hidden, no?” He folded his newspaper and slotted it into his back pocket. He touched a finger to his forehead. “I sorry. I don’t mean to annoy. Have a good night. Do not go to bed thirsty, yes?”
Any other day and Graham—who hated confrontation, hated the feeling he might have slighted someone in some vague, infuriatingly British way—would have offered some sop in reply, bought the guide a drink, invited him to stay. But he was glad to see the back of him. The door banged shut and through the window he saw Ricardo’s hair leap in the wind before the shadows consumed him.
Graham finished his drink and headed back to the apartment. Rain was in the air now, a fine mist that the wind seemingly would not allow to settle anywhere. It seethed around him. He was soaked by the time he reached the door.
He towelled himself dry and sat in the chair. Sleep came on like a rehearsal of death. He had not felt like climbing the stairs to bed; the meat from his dinner sat heavily in his stomach as if his teeth had not macerated it first. His hands gripping the arms of the chair, looking too much like the bleached white carapaces of dead crabs they’d seen in the harbour earlier that week. His sweat was dry glue on his skin. His gut rumbled; it was as if the plant had spoiled him for any other sort of nourishment.
For some reason he was thinking of the first time he had seen Cherry, on a quadrangle in the university where they had both studied. He was coming to the end of his first year of some Mickey Mouse degree that would prepare him for no job at all; she was cramming for her finals, with a placement at a City bank already secured… but that was knowledge for the future. All that he knew at that moment was the back of her neck and that she was curled on the grass and the pile of textbooks by her side. The sweep of her neck, unusually long, the way her hair was up, stray strands teased by the breeze, the dimples either side of her spine…
He stared at those dimples until he was sure she could feel the weight of his scrutiny; she sat up, her head twitching. She planted a hand in the grass and pivoted on it. Insane dream logic showed him Felix within the circle of her arms, though he was seven years away from being born.
Everything around them shivered, as if he was watching it on a TV screen with a bad reception. And then the mown grass was gone, and he was alone with his family, on the nearby beach where an ancient ship was rusting into the shingle. She dragged Felix away, the both of them casting fearful glances back over their shoulders. They disappeared inside a giant rent on the ship’s port side. He followed, but every time he called their names, the juices in his throat caused him to gag.
He pressed his hands to his eyes and pushed until he saw shoals of colour sweeping across that inner dark and when he opened his eyes again he was alone in the room and it was full night, and the storm had matured, was battering the coast and their door was flapping open in the wind.
Alien flavours rose in his craw.
“Cherry?” he called out.
There was no answer. He thought she might have drunk a little too much and decided to reignite the flame he’d seen hopping between her eyes and those of the young bartender. Or maybe she’d decided to go for a midnight dip in the pool. Or maybe she’d just conked out after her long day of leisure.
He closed the door and clattered up to the bedrooms. Empty. Felix’s bed was a mess of blankets, as if he’d suffered restless dreams. Or, his mind mauled itself, he’d struggled with an assailant as he was snatched from his bed.
He checked the bathroom in the insane hope that they’d decided to have a late shower together, but every room was empty. He returned to the lower level, almost tripping on the spiral staircase, and flew into the rain. He called out but his voice was spirited away by the thrashing wind. Shutters all across the complex were rattling in their frames, or, where they had not been secured properly, were crashing rhythmically like stoked metal hearts. The trees seemed aghast. The pool area was empty. All the loungers had been tied down but some of the large cushions had been blown free and floated in the water.
Steel blades flashed behind grey cloaks lifting on the horizon. He heard the police helicopter moments after it blatted overhead and watched it, momentarily distracted, amazed that the pilot had braved the violent winds tonight. A spotlight on the chopper’s belly created a beam busy with rain. It picked out the fevered tops of trees, the roofs, the edges of the cliffs. Had someone been found out there? A body on the crags? His gorge rose again and he tried to let it come: he wanted his stomach to rid itself of the textures and tastes of the plant. But its coagulated syrup was not ready to leave him just yet.
He ran through the hotel grounds to the tennis courts at the rear. In one corner was a gate, which led on to a sandy path to the beach. He was there in minutes, and could see the foam-topped combers on the sea as if they were lit from within. The helicopter was hovering as best it could above the hillside that sloped down to the cliff edge. Figures were arranged upon it, like toy soldiers on a blanket. There were half a dozen black shadows and a single figure in an acid white T-shirt. Even at this distance, Graham could see that it was Ricardo: the wavy hair, the limp posture. He held something in his hands. The uncertain spotlight flashed around and over it, but would not settle. Was it… no, Christ, no. Was it Felix’s jumper?
Ricardo turned to look at him. And then raised his hand as if to wave. And then he dropped, as if he had been instantly deboned. A moment later and the sound of gunfire reached him. The light shifted on the hill; he could no longer see what was happening. The police helicopter was returning along the coast. It passed directly overhead and its light picked out the rusting remains of the ship from his dream.
Was that a figure, slipping back into one of the fissures in the hull? He was torn between going to the hill to confirm what he thought he had seen, and continuing his search for his family. If it was Felix’s jumper, then so what? Maybe Felix had taken it off that morning because he was too hot. Perhaps Ricardo had simply been trying to return it. His mind could not cope with the narratives he was forcing upon everything; he had to cling to the positives. The alternative was too hideous to contemplate.
Graham stumbled back along the rocky outcrop, conscious that the ground fell away from him to needles of rock some thirty feet below. The rain slashed almost horizontally across the path, stinging his face. Here was the channel leading down to the beach where the rusted ship was incrementally disintegrating into the shingle. He passed into a zone of relative calm. Now the wind was negated he could hear the rattle of rain on the decaying hull, the crisp attack of the waves upon the stones.
Lightning jagged around the inlet. The aperture in the bulkhead where the figure
had sought shelter was ink black. Iron ribs edged it, splayed inward: presumably this had been where the ship was fatally breached. He approached, conscious that the flowers Ricardo had entreated him to suck were arranged around the failing metal hull as if they were somehow taking nourishment from the oil sweating from the sumps, the soot in the stack, the endless, psoriatic rust.
At the hole he paused. Another level of quiet accumulated. There was a high stench of iron and diesel and rotting marine life. He could hear his breath, ragged in his throat, echoing in the cavernous chamber, unless it was that of another he could not yet see. He bit that thought off at the root and spat it away. He called his wife’s name and it fell dead at his feet, as if poisoned by this air.
He was about to move into the ship and beggar the dangers when lightning arced once more across the night. It lit up the inside of the hull for a millisecond, but that was enough for him to be able to see what looked like the limp remains of a body hanging from a metal spar thrusting down from the ceiling. He was put in mind of filled coat hooks in winter bars. Though darkness had rushed back into the space, it remained imprinted on his retina. Emptied… drained… Or maybe just a coat after all, he hoped. But no: there were crimson-tipped knuckles, where something had been chewing. He imagined the grind of tiny metacarpals in pistoning jaws. A sound like bar snacks being munched.
He staggered backwards and slipped on one of the plant leaves. He fell into a nest of swollen stems. The smell of Mother’s Tears rose like a terrible seduction. His mouth flooded with juices, all red and raw. To deny them, he tore up a fistful of flowers and sank his teeth into their centres. That sweet, brackish slime burst across his tongue and he drank it down. Now his stomach railed against the stew of textures mingling in his gut and he felt his back arch violently as he regurgitated his meal. Before darkness became absolute, he was able to gaze upon his mess and discern, within the half- digested lumps and granules, the wet gleam of a wedding band upon what was left of a finger.
DOLLIES
by Kathryn Ptacek
All the dolls I owned as a child were named Elizabeth— which is not my name, but might have been if my mother had figured out how to shoehorn it into my already lengthy list of names—and they all died of smallpox.
I did not “help” my dolls by using ballpoint pens or crayons or markers to put blue dots on their faces and arms and legs and torsos. No, those blue dots just appeared.
And why I associated blue dots with smallpox, I don’t know. I’ve read accounts of that disease’s outbreaks, and I don’t recall anyone ever mentioning the pustules having a blueish cast. Nevertheless, I announced to my mother one day that Elizabeth 1, an oversize baby doll my grandmother had sent to me and for which she made beautiful clothing by hand that I didn’t appreciate at the time, had died from smallpox.
My mother was rather dismayed by what I said—that I would even consider one of my dolls having died and that I would say it was from smallpox. I mean, how many five- year-olds know smallpox is a disease, much less one that kills? Somehow, I knew.
Elizabeth 1 was tucked away onto a shelf in the closet as I played with other toys. I had never much cared for dolls, had never put a doll on my birthday or Christmas list, but that never kept my parents and grandmothers and other well- meaning relatives from giving me dolls. I mean, I was a girl, so I was supposed to play with dolls, right? Not really.
The few friends I had seemed to have all sorts of dolls: the ones that talked, which I always found kind of creepy; the ones that were as tall as actual kids, called the “doll twin”, and which also bothered me, because that wasn’t really what a twin was like, or was it? Others had collections of smaller dolls from various countries where relatives had visited. Some dolls had more clothing than anyone I knew, and they had all sorts of purses and shoes and hats, which kept my friends busy for hours. I would go over and play for about half an hour—then I’d get bored and would wander from the room where all the other little girls were dressing up their dollies.
That’s where I overheard for the first time my mother whispering to Petra’s mother that I was such a strange child. I felt proud at that very moment; only when I saw the expression on my mom’s face did I realize that what she said was not a good thing. I never told her what I’d heard her say.
It wasn’t long before another doll came into my life.
Elizabeth 2 was as tall as me—and I was a child who towered over other kids of the same age—and she was refined, with a porcelain face and hands. Dressed in some vague historical outfit, all lace and delicate material and bloomer- style undies, she was beautiful—a “Madame Alexis doll” from some company that had made these dolls for many years. My mom said she’d had one when she was my age. I was dubious about the doll being in my care, but the old lady whom my parents and I were visiting insisted I take her home. I glanced across to my mother, who nodded imperceptibly, and I said solemnly, “Thank you.” I clutched the doll to my chest, and I guess anyone looking at us wouldn’t have been so sure who was holding who up.
We drove home through the snow, and when I got into my bedroom, I placed the doll—already christened Elizabeth 2—in a child-sized rocker that had been my mom’s. It sat alongside my twin bed with its pink comforter and cat- shaped pillows. I went into the bathroom across the hall and brushed my teeth and put my flannel pajamas on, then came back to bed, and after my parents had tucked me in—no story tonight, I said—I looked at Elizabeth 2, faintly seen in the light flooding in from outside, and I wished her a good night.
It took about a week, but that’s when I noticed the first blue spot on Elizabeth 2’s dainty white hand. I spit on my finger and rubbed at the spot, but it remained the same: small and blue… a shade between robin’s-egg blue and navy. I was unhappy about that, because I liked Elizabeth 2, although I didn’t play with her. She was one of those dolls obviously meant only for display. I had a couple of tea parties with her and my black stuffed dog and my teddy bear that had once been brown and white until my mom put him in the washing machine and now was gold and a runny brown. I poured imaginary tea for my companions, and I put thin wooden blocks on the plates—pretend cookies—and we chatted. Elizabeth 2 remained patiently sitting in the little rocking chair, her wide blue eyes staring ahead, her golden ringlets bright in the sunshine that flowed into my bedroom during the afternoons.
When the spit didn’t work, I got a tissue and wet it in the bathroom, and I scrubbed Elizabeth 2’s hand. Nope.
The next day I found a second spot, this one on her neck. I looked at her, and she looked back. Neither one of us said anything. By the weekend, when my dad and mom and I were going out to dinner, I had found eleven blue spots on Elizabeth 2’s neck and hands. I hadn’t checked her body, but I knew there were more there. I turned her in the chair and then moved it back out of the sun a bit. She was in the shadows now, and you’d have to examine her closely to see the blue spots. I figured I’d better hide them from my mom. I suspected this was an expensive doll, and I thought I would get into trouble.
We drove to the cafeteria where we always went for dinner on Saturday nights. As I pushed the peas around on my plate, I announced, “I think that Elizabeth is dying.”
My dad, about to cut a chunk off his pork chop, glanced over at my mom, who put down her coffee cup with a sharp crack and said, “I thought you put Elizabeth in the closet and weren’t playing with her anymore.”
I nodded, my bangs flopping against my forehead. “I did.
This is the other Elizabeth. Elizabeth 2.”
My mom arched an eyebrow. “The Madame Alexis doll?”
“Yup.”
“She’s Elizabeth, also? Don’t you want to name her something else, Nonny?”
“Nope. She’s named Elizabeth. She told me.”
My dad tried not to smile, while my mom just watched me.
“All right, honey. But I think you should name your dolly something else. Wasn’t one Elizabeth enough?”
I shrugged and grabb
ed a piece of buttered bread and stared down at my plate.
My parents started chatting about various things—my dad’s job, my mom’s office, the neighborhood, wasn’t that the lady from the bank over there by the piano?—and it wasn’t until I was pulling on my coat and we were heading out to the car that I realized my parents hadn’t asked me how I knew Elizabeth 2 was dying and what was killing her.
* * *
Elizabeth 2 succumbed not long after that, and was relegated to the death shelf in the closet. I didn’t have any dolls after that for a while—just stuffed animals. They all had different names (Froggy, Spot, Kitty… I guess I wasn’t very original when it came to naming) and never got smallpox, and I was glad, because I much preferred them to dolls. I made up complex stories about these toys, and they fought battles and got married and visited other worlds, and I was quite happy with my menagerie of fluffy critters.
It was about then that my mother started coming into my bedroom at night. She’d stand by my bed and not speak or move. I kept my breathing even like I was asleep, but I watched her from beneath my lashes. Mostly, she just stared at me. One time I heard her whisper something. It sounded like, “Dolly.”
I never said anything to her about the night-time visits, nor did she mention them in front of my dad—or to me at all. I realized after a while that she had sneaked into my bedroom for years… but I was just too young to remember it, I guess.
On my eighth birthday, I received a lot of presents from my grandmother (my mom’s mom, the one who had given me the baby doll), but no dolls, I was happy to see. However, my other grandmother had gone back to the old country on a recent trip, and she had brought me a souvenir—a doll in native costume.
“How cute!” everyone exclaimed at my party—it was just me and my parents and grandmother—and then everyone said how much the doll looked like me, with its high cheekbones and brown hair with bangs. The doll’s eyes were even brown and green like mine, and I wondered, with a faint shiver, as I traced the patterns on the little white cap on her head, how long before Elizabeth 3 died from smallpox.