City Fishing

by Steve Rasnic Tem

  I closed my eyes then, and tried to imagine my sister, and my sister and me holding each other.

  Somewhere Grandma was saying, Halloween is for brooms, and Brooms are in memory of the dead.

  Myra was pulling me to my feet. At least I thought it was Myra. I was groggy, it could have been anyone. Even her.

  “Looks like she dropped us here,” she said.

  The front of Grandma’s house came into focus. “Out of the sky?” I asked.

  “I …” Myra stopped, shook her head. I put my arm around her. “Did we kill that little man?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No. She did, but because of us, I guess. Showing us what Halloween’s about. Or something like that. I don’t know.”

  Brooms know the secret lives of insects, mice, and children, Grandma used to say. And when the dead speak, only a broom is there to listen.

  ANGEL COMBS

  The morning had sharp edges. Annie could see them.

  Her mother had gotten her up an hour before dawn—the earliest she could remember ever getting up, except for that Christmas Uncle Willy had stayed with them, and she knew she was getting something nice that Christmas because she had seen a half-moon sliver of the doll’s face with the long blonde hair in the big brown sack Uncle Willy had carried in. That night she hadn’t slept at all. She had dreamed of the doll’s hair, how it might be arranged, how long it might grow. Maybe the doll was a little magical and the hair might grow forever. She dreamed of it stretching around her little room, catching her other toys up in its waves, carrying them along like colorful boats in a river. She dreamed of drowning pleasantly in the flood it made. Most Christmases it didn’t much matter. Most Christmases Momma couldn’t afford much of anything.

  Her bedroom window looked out on the back yard. Under the brownish streetlight she could see the rough darkness of her dead father’s old car, wheel-less, drowning in weeds. The occasional razor-sharp gleam of a discarded tin can.

  Annie kept thinking maybe they should clean up the backyard a little. Maybe turn it into a garden or something. They could have fresh vegetables, their own peas and lettuce and corn. But Annie was too scared to be in the back yard very long: the weeds were too tall, and sharp, and things were always moving there. And her mother kept saying she just didn’t have the heart.

  There was usually a little bit of a fog in the backyard. A mist. This morning was no different. This morning the fog looked torn, like some ferocious beast had ripped into the middle of it, pulled it to shreds. Great long pieces of it hung from tree branches, eaves, and junked machinery like fingers, or teeth. It fascinated Annie, but it also made her nervous to look at. Eventually she turned away and started getting dressed.

  She could hear Momma getting dressed in the next room. Humming, happy. Only now and then snapping at one of the twins to get a move on. “Tommy! You don’t want me to dress you! Nossir. You don’t want me to squeeze your scrawny little butt into them tight jeans!” Then she’d go back to humming, singing, as if nothing had happened. It had been a long time since they’d made, as Momma put it, “a major purchase.” She always said that with a soft, serious voice, like she was talking about somebody that’d died. Her mother was almost funny when she talked like that.

  Momma had found this ad in the paper. “Bedroom Sets. REDUCED! $40!” And they had just a little over forty dollars saved. The little over would go for the tax, Momma said. And if the tax didn’t take all of that, they could use the left over for an ice cream treat. The twins were excited by that, all right. They didn’t care much for the idea of bedroom sets, but the prospect of a special ice cream, a separate one for each of them without having to share, that had kept them talking most of the past evening.

  Her mother said it was like a miracle, the way they’d just gotten that very amount saved, and for sure a hard saving it had been, too, and here this furniture store comes out with this nice sale. And them needing the bedroom furniture so bad. Like a dream, Momma said. A fantasy come true. She’d shown Annie the picture in the paper. It was a drawing so you really couldn’t tell that much. That’s what Annie had told Momma, but her momma had said, “No. They couldn’t do it up in the paper like that if it wasn’t true.” And of course that wasn’t what Annie had meant at all, but she just nodded and let her mother point out each piece and tell her how fine it must all be.

  There was a bed with four posts (the sketch in the paper showed wood grain so Momma said it must be oak and “oak is about the best there is.”), a bedside table with two drawers (not just one like most bedside tables had), a set of drawers, and a little dresser with an oval mirror (“They call that fine detail.”).

  “Now maybe I can buy my children something that will last,” Momma said.

  Maybe it was because Annie hadn’t shown enough enthusiasm about the “major purchase” to satisfy Momma, or maybe it was the way Annie had looked at that dresser. But last night, after she’d gotten the twins into bed, her Momma had said, “You know I’ve been thinking. I think maybe you should have the dresser. I’ve got that dresser Grandma Smythe willed me, and it’s special enough. Why, it’s an antique. And you need a private place to comb your hair. Every woman, or about-to-be-a-woman, needs a private place to comb her hair.”

  Without really thinking about it, Annie began stroking her long, brownish-blonde hair with her palm, then opening the fingers slightly—as if they were the teeth of a huge, heavenly comb—and catching her hair now and then with those finger-teeth, using them to melt away the day’s filth, making the tangles and snarls vanish one by one into the cool night air.

  Annie had looked up at her mother, seen her mother’s satisfaction, and then realized what it was she’d been doing. And stopped it immediately. She’d seen herself in that dreamed-of oval mirror, seen herself combing the hair that was so much like her mother’s, hair that was the only thing even remotely special about her. Hair even the rich girls in her class envied. She’d seen herself combing herself in that fine and private place that once was her bedroom, that special place because the dreamed-of dresser was there.

  And at that moment Annie was almost angry with her mother because of the dream.

  They arrived at the furniture store only a few minutes after it opened. There were a few other customers already inside: two well-dressed women, an older man in a ragged overcoat with dark spots on its sleeves, and a tall young man casually dressed, but Annie thought his clothes might be expensive since she’d seen some just like that on one of her favorite detective shows.

  Her mother looked a little panicky when she saw those other customers. She’d wanted to be at the store before it opened, but the twins had gotten in a fight at the last minute—Momma tried to slap at least one of them but they got away from her—and then their old car had stalled three times on the way over. Annie had been wondering the whole time how they were supposed to get the new bedroom set back to the house. Surely they just couldn’t tie it to the top of the car. She’d heard about having things delivered but she didn’t know if the furniture store would do that, especially for something on sale like that, or even how that sort of thing was done. She doubted Momma knew how that sort of thing was done either. It would be just awful if they couldn’t get the bedroom set after all because they didn’t have a truck and somebody who had a truck got there first, or because they didn’t have enough money to pay for the delivery.

  Again, Annie found herself absently stroking her hair, seeing her reflection in each display case they passed, something glinting between hand and hair, and almost hating her mother. Suddenly she just wanted to get out of there. She just wanted to go home where no one could see her.

  Her mother made her way quickly to the back of the store, clutching the newspaper ad, looking around to see if any of the other customers were looking at the bedroom set.

  As they stood there waiting for someone to notice them, Annie looked around the store. Nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. A man in a blue suit and tie was talking to the ca
sually dressed young man, who was looking at sofas. Two other men in suits were talking to the well-dressed older women, showing them something in a huge book on one of the counters. The man in the dirty overcoat was going from chair to chair, sitting in each one, occasionally saying something aloud to no one. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to him, either.

  All the bedroom furniture had been shoved into a far corner of the store. From that distance Annie didn’t see anything that resembled the picture, but she reminded herself that you really couldn’t tell anything from those sketches. One of the well-dressed women was making her way toward the bedroom furniture, and Annie’s mother was watching the woman, licking her lips nervously, her back rigid, hands fisted tight. But still she didn’t try to get the attention of one of the sales clerks. It was all crazy. Annie’s face was growing warm with anxiety and unfocused embarrassment. The man in the filthy overcoat looked at her and grinned with broken, brown teeth. Annie closed her eyes and imagined herself combing her hair with a beautiful curved, silver comb. Gazing into a mirror that made her look far better than she thought possible. Combing away all her nervousness, all her fear. Combing peacefulness and beauty back into her body.

  “May I help you?” a male voice asked.

  Annie opened her eyes. A tall man in a suit leaned over them. Annie’s mother bobbed her head spastically, as if she had just awakened from a trance. “This ad,” she said, shoving it into the salesman’s hands. “We’d like to buy … to purchase that bedroom set.” Then, anxiously, “You still got it, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. Several, in fact. Right over here.” The salesman started toward the bedroom furniture. Annie’s mother breathed deeply, relieved, and hurried after him. For all her hurrying, Momma was trying to look queenly.

  “Here we are. A fine set. And a very good price.”

  “Oh yes, a very good price,” her mother said. “We’re not against paying the money for quality, mind you,” she said hurriedly. “But why pass up a bargain, I always say.” Momma laughed off-key.

  “Hmmm. Yes. Of course. Anything I can tell you about this particular set?”

  Annie could see that her Momma could hardly look at the set, so nervous she was. She just kind of moved her eyes around the furniture, going “Hmmm, hmmmm, yes, oh yes,” all the time. Not really seeing anything. Annie, on the other hand, looked at every piece. It wasn’t much like the newspaper sketch. A slightly different style, and of lighter color than she had imagined. Certainly not oak. The color, in fact, was unlike any wood she had ever seen. She went around to the back of the headboard and the set of drawers and discovered some other kind of board with little chips pressed into it, and plastic. But still it was nice enough looking. Certainly better than anything else they had.

  And the oval mirror was real nice. Not expensive and elegant like they’d imagined, but clear and shiny. Her hair looked good in it. It caught the highlights. At a certain angle her hair seemed to grow dozens of brilliant sparkling places, as if she had filled it with all these tiny silver combs.

  Someone touched her hair, softly. But she didn’t see anyone in the mirror, and when she turned there was no one there.

  Her mother was crying. Louder and louder, until she was almost wailing. People were turning around. The two elegantly-dressed women were whispering to each other. Annie saw all this, looking all over the store before she could bring herself to look at her mother.

  “But the ad says forty dollars!” her mother cried.

  The salesman looked embarrassed and a little angry. He was looking around too, as if he were trying to find someone to come help him, to help him shut up this bawling, embarrassing lady. For a panicky moment Annie imagined him calling the police. “That’s forty dollars reduced, ma’am. The price has been cut by forty dollars. Four sixty down from five hundred. It’s …” He looked ready to plead with her. “It’s still really a very good price.” He looked around, maybe to see if his boss had shown up yet. “Maybe you could finance?”

  Annie’s mother looked thunderstruck. The casually dressed young man was looking their way, smiling. The raggedy old man was smiling, too. Annie wanted to kick them both in their smiling mouths. Annie wanted to kick them all. Something cool and metallic was in her hair, stroking it. She turned to the salesman. Her mother was like a doll, a dowdy mannequin. “We can’t … finance,” Annie told the salesman. “We don’t have the money.”

  The salesman nodded, and for a moment it looked like he was going to reach out and touch her hair. But her mother had moved behind her, and now was breathing cold and sour into her hair. “How dare you,” her mother whispered harshly. “We’re going,” her mother told the twins.

  “What about our ice cream?” one of the twins cried. Annie didn’t know which one.

  Her mother turned around and grabbed both the twins by the arm and started dragging them toward the door. They both screamed, and her mother had to threaten them with slaps and worse before they faded into sniffles and whimpers.

  Annie took one last look at the mirror. In her reflection, sharp-edged glints of silver seemed to be attacking her hair. She broke away and followed her family out to the car.

  That night Annie had been sitting in the kitchen, just staring out the window, absently stroking her hair. Her mother came into the room, looking drawn and pale, but at least she had calmed down. She pulled an old purple brush out of her robe and began brushing Annie’s hair. “I just wanted to get you something nice,” her mother said.

  Annie squirmed away from her mother and walked quickly to her bedroom. Her hair felt warm, uncomfortable.

  The next morning Annie found the first comb under her pillow. She had had bad dreams all night, of sick smiles and dirty poor people and of teeth, mostly teeth. Biting and ripping, or sometimes just pressing up against her soft skin and resting there, as if in anticipation.

  When she woke up she’d still felt the teeth, working their way into her skull like the worst kind of headache. Then she’d lifted her thin pillow and discovered the comb. Long, curved metal. Not silver, she didn’t think, but something like it. The teeth long and tapered, spaced just the right amount apart, it seemed, so that they wouldn’t snag the hair, but pass through softly, like a breeze through the woods.

  Tentatively she pressed the beautiful comb into her hair. It was as if all her nerves untangled and flowed as softly as her hair. She could hear a soft buzzing in her ears. Her skull went soft as moss. She hated to take the comb out of her hair. Her hair clung to the comb, making it hard to take away. She could feel her skull pull toward the comb.

  Annie took the comb, holding it like a baby to her chest, into the kitchen where her mother was drinking coffee. “Oh, Momma. Thank you,” Annie said.

  Her mother looked up at her out of ugly, red-rimmed eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Annie was suddenly confused. “The comb. You put it there, didn’t you?”

  Her mother pursed her lips, put her coffee down. “Let me see that thing.”

  Anxiously, Annie handed her mother the comb, already thinking about what she would do if her mother refused to hand it back. Her mother dropped the comb onto the kitchen table. It made a musical sound, like a triangle or a very small cymbal. “You steal this at that store yesterday?”

  “Momma! That was a furniture store! Besides, I don’t steal. I found it under my pillow this morning; I thought you had given it to me for a present.” Annie felt on the verge of tears.

  Her mother grunted and stood up, took her coffee and started back to her own bedroom. Much to Annie’s relief, the beautiful metal comb was still on the kitchen table. “Well, I don’t care if you stole it or not,” her mother said as she was going out the door.

  When Annie walked back to her bedroom, moving her beautiful new comb through her hair rhythmically, in time with her steps, she thought she saw two silver wings resting on the edge of her bed. When she got a closer look, however, she could see that they were two small, metal combs, only a couple of
inches long.

  Something unseen whispered through her hair. Insects buzzed at her ears. The comb moved rapidly through her hair, dragging her hand.

  Annie thought she could see bits and pieces of her reflection in the air around her. Slivers of face, crescents of shoulder. Long flowing strands of hair, floating through the air like rays of silver dust.

  Row upon row of long silver teeth dropping through the morning air.

  “You dream too much. You eating junk before bed?” her mother said, when Annie told her about the eight metal combs she had found around her bedroom.

  “Just a glass of milk.” Her mother looked at her skeptically. “But see,” Annie said, reaching into a worn paper bag and dropping the musical assortment of combs onto the table. “This isn’t a dream.”

  It gave Annie satisfaction to see the dumbstruck look on her mother’s face. Her mother stared at the assortment of combs for a very long time before actually touching one of them. “This one’s cool,” she said, running her finger along the spine of the longest comb. “Like ice.” She picked up the smallest comb, one so curved and delicate it resembled the skeleton of a tiny sunfish. “And I swear this one’s warm as a kitten.” She stared at them a while longer, then looked up at Annie. “But what good are they goin’ to do us?”

  Over the next few days Annie discovered combs everywhere. In the silverware drawer, nestled cozily among the forks and knives. Arranged in a circle under the front door mat. Hanging from the ivy that grew up the back wall of the house. Flowering from otherwise dusty mason jars in the cellar. Planted in rows in her mother’s flower boxes. Jammed into the house foundation’s cracks along with leaves and twigs. Raked into the weeds that had swallowed the back yard. The combs’ positions changed a bit each day, so that Annie imagined a steady drift of combs, grooming the weeds into ornate stylings.