Black & Orange

by Benjamin Kane Ethridge

She shrugged. “I suppose I’ll start driving somewhere.”

  After the clove ran too short, she stubbed it out on the jamb and flicked it off the balcony before shutting the door.

  Enrique let her hold the babies, one at a time, for one last time. She whispered a goodbye into each soft seashell ear. Little pink digits tugged at her hair and neck. Glistening eyes beheld her. She didn’t want to get all weepy, so she handed the last, Rebecca, back to Enrique. The man’s small stature rocked under the weight of the loaded papooses. “What have you been feeding them?”

  “Only the best.”

  The haunted, hunted look hadn’t left Enrique’s features, although he appeared more lucid than last time. “Your friend Martin—?”

  “At the market, picking up a few things.”

  Enrique pursed his lips, plainly not believing her, but not pressing it. He trudged over and stopped at the door. His head angled as he peered down at his feet. “Did you know there’s a letter here?”

  ~ * ~

  Teresa could not help thinking of the parents she left so long ago. She couldn’t remember if her mother had cried when David came for her. Did her father get drunk that night? Would they have imagined years later their daughter would be in the some seedy motel, exhausted from battling the night, dying slowly from cancer and doing it all, completely alone?

  Teresa kicked the Messenger’s letter off the balcony. That felt great. She needed some smokes for tonight, maybe a beer too. It would be a six pack kind of day. At the Wrangler, she swept up another envelope and tore it into pieces, which feathered down into a weedy planter nearby.

  Up the street she bought a bag of lollipops, a bottle of water and a pack of generic brand cloves. She slammed back down into the Wrangler with her goodies, peeled out without her seatbelt buckled, swerved curbside up the street and parked in front of an inoperative radiator shop. Her eyes wanted to move to the toy aquarium mounted on the dashboard. The fake, trapped fish inside the plastic orb desired attention, but she wouldn’t let them get to her. She was going to smoke and be silent, be silent and smoke.

  The window hummed down and the cold morning air rolled in with a nip. She tore open the cloves and breathed in their heavy, sweet poison. She tugged one free and stared at it until everything blurred. Except the black cylinder. It was the only thing left in her life. Why had she not been disgusted by that before? She threw it then and the clove sailed out the window. Next, one by one, she threw the rest, hand moving quicker and more assured. When they were gone she sat there a moment, stunned. Didn’t know what to do now. Should she go outside and pick them up?

  No.

  So she screamed.

  She pressed her head against the steering wheel. The wind caringly ruffled her hair and though the morning burned bright, she felt encased in dark ice. Her burning eyes lifted. She hadn’t noticed it before, but it had probably been there when she came out of the liquor store. Under the windshield wiper, unsullied, another envelope flagged in the breeze. She reached around and grabbed the damn thing.

  This time she opened it.

  ~ * ~

  After more stops and detours than the Priestess of Morning could count, they had finally arrived. Paul could not be helped. He was pulling his somnolent frame through the dirt, making his way to a stained Joshua tree. With Eggert’s dagger he resembled an Ekkian hunting a spice viper. A bushel of flies spun up from Justin Margrave and went into a fit around Paul. Justin’s black shirt came apart easily to reveal a palate of fishy skin.

  Paul worked diligently at opening a gulf in the week-old cadaver. The knife drove past bone with a thick reverberation, as through a porcelain dish. Only a few arches of caramelized blood ran from the wound over the stippled ribs. The Priestess wanted to help, but couldn’t help watching in awe. Justin’s remaining eye might have watched as well, had it not gone missing, now a dark purple hole.

  “The children are dead. Ease their song,” Paul mumbled, again and again, and had mumbled for several hours. Watching him carve Justin Margrave’s lumpy muscle away was the most sensual, real sacrifice she’d ever witnessed. Hunkered there, Paul nearly glowed with the essence of man, true man. The Priestess’s loins flooded at the sight and overwhelmed her.

  Black and orange blossoms sprung from the evisceration in Margrave’s torso and Paul jumped back in surprise. The soil to which they were planted had gone rotten, but the flowers unfurled brilliant petals yet. Paul fell back on his knees and began tearing off the orange blossoms. He stuffed them into his mouth and chewed rabidly. Random marrow seeds fell from under the petals. He gobbled twenty or more, his face bloodier and more alive with every treat. He kept at it a while longer, until it seemed he could eat no more. A look of horror and relief split his face as he gained his feet. He only got a few feet from the maggoty rot before collapsing. He lay there, so divine!

  The Priestess could take no more. Giddy like a child, she ran to him, unbuckled his belt and drew off his shoes. He was ready for her. She unfastened her pants and drew them down. Then she kicked her smallclothes off. They landed in a wad over Margrave’s opened chest where the marrow blossoms had grayed and wilted to thin, translucent straws.

  Paul smiled. His body and soul reconfigured. Oh so long! Waiting in the car for an entire day and not able to—she climbed onto Paul and put him inside her. Their power coalesced. With every grind, she fell farther inside him, putting her sight on his power, realizing it, coming closer to something true.

  Paul groaned as they became one and she told him never to worry. They would rest between the worlds, in the belly of the beast, and never take the burning passion that charged them. They would grow stronger and persevere through the night and day. Suddenly she sensed their skin melting together.

  A limo pulled through a cape of dust. Four men piled out, guns drawn. One shouted, “Get up and turn around Quintana!”

  Five feet away the ground split open and the gateway beckoned. Bats screeched with the pipe organ symphony. The Priestess thought it profound, lovely, true, something she could listen to forever and enjoy.

  Priestess/Paul stood up. Turned around. They were one now. They were destiny.

  The suited men all wore the same mask of astonishment as they beheld the figure that stood before them.

  “Chaplain Cloth?” The others edged back, uncertain why the trail to Paul Quintana had led them to the very monster that sent them here.

  “Chaplain?” the lead man stammered, his bony brown face draining.

  Cloth’s expression was menacing and they all stood back in terror. “I must rest until the next harvest,” he told them.

  The Chaplain stepped into the warmth and security of the gateway’s throat. For Paul and the Priestess separation was no longer relevant. They were diabolically larger than the two human beings that once retained their souls. The earth sealed overhead and the bewildered human faces were left behind in the desert with the drip, drip, drip, dripping of the world.

  Chaplain Cloth’s black eye soaked up the darkness and his orange eye lit the way in the womb where the lovers could grow stronger. They lay across his design, two devils locked at their poisonous genitals, the beating of their love deafening inside their terrible hearts.

  ~ * ~

  Teresa read in the letter that Patrice Middleton lived just outside East Highland. The whole trip had been a dreamy, autopilot type of experience, a series of wheel-turns, signaling, stepping on the brake, stepping on the gas, stoplights, red and green, black and—

  Teresa hadn’t cried for hours in that loathsome boxcar to only get choked up now. Things happened, you moved on. If you stopped for too long, your number might get pulled next. It was stupid coming to this place so soon. She wasn’t ready for another partner. She couldn’t go on doing this. Somehow she had to let the Messenger know she was through with this duty.

  A Nomad only stops moving when she’s dead.

  Suddenly Teresa was on the porch, knocking at the door; this was her strategy, to just let everything play
out while she sat back and came to a conclusion about how she felt.

  The water-damaged door jerked open. A family hunched in the doorway: a wet-haired mother in a cherry bathrobe, a balding father in boxers and blue t-shirt, and a young platinum blonde girl in a red nightgown, maybe eighteen years old—just about the same age Teresa had been when David first showed.

  “Patrice Middleton?” She offered the white envelope to the parents. The father’s face puckered. He showed the Messenger’s note to the mother, who only nodded. He handed it back.

  “You can’t do this,” the teenager whispered from behind them.

  The father smoothed his glazed dome with a quivering hand. “We talked about this. It’s done.”

  “You can’t!”

  The mother whirled around. “Just be quiet!”

  “We’ll never see her again. That doesn’t bother you?”

  The mother glided under Teresa’s elbow. Gently. “Let me show you the way, Ms. Celeste.”

  “You know my name?”

  The father chuckled. “We’ve known your name since before Patty was born.”

  “It was in the letters,” the mother added. “We’ve been receiving them for some time now… even before we crossed through the Messenger’s gateway.”

  “Well… I just got mine this morning,” said Teresa.

  They guided her around the front of the house and through a wooden gate to a wide backyard of burnt custard grass. The mother leaned into Teresa’s ear. Her breath smelled of black, black coffee and toast. She raised a finger and aimed some place overhead. “Patty’s up there.”

  “What, in the clouds?” Teresa joked, figuring she was a little slow in understanding.

  The father grimaced. Before he could say anything, the teenager cut in, “Just walk over if you don’t believe us!”

  “Knock it off Susan.” The bald man softened then and politely gestured. “Please, Ms. Celeste. Go on up and meet her. She’s all packed. I guess Patty wanted to say goodbye to her special place.”

  Teresa didn’t understand what these people were on, but she wouldn’t mind taking some herself. Regardless of any misgivings, she shuffled over where the grass had been crushed under something heavy. At first she thought of an old doughboy pool no longer present, but then she saw the doorway. The opening cut a rectangle into the air, which led to a hall, which in turn led to a spiral staircase, all spray-painted in blues, greens, and some pink. Mantles made the interior and were painted to look... tangible.

  The family stood near the garden hose as straight as posts.

  “What the hell is this?” asked Teresa.

  “Up the stairs,” said the mother.

  Teresa gave her a wary look before stepping inside. The hall’s length went three yards up to the staircase. She shook her head and began to ascend. Her feet hit each glittery blue stair with a startling resonance. These couldn’t all be permanent mantles—could they? She rounded the stairwell twice before reaching the upper floor.

  There, sitting on the false ground between two suitcases, was a little sandy haired girl, possibly eleven years old. At most.

  “I love you, Patty.”

  Teresa jumped. She hadn’t heard the family come up. The teenager, Susan, ran around her to Patty and embraced her sister. They stood there, hugging, in this strange treehouse made of mantles. “Love you too, Susan,” Patty replied, blank faced.

  When her sister let her go and backed off, whimpering, Patty turned to Teresa and offered a hand. The girl’s awkwardness made the gesture seem like a weird salute. Teresa crept over, untrusting of the mantle floor, and took a knee—maybe not of her own will—and accepted Patty’s handshake.

  Their eyes locked. “Did you make this place?”

  Patty nodded swiftly. “I’ve made lots.”

  “You painted them?”

  “Mom couldn’t find me when I came up here. I had to.”

  “I see,” Teresa replied, another glance around her amazing surroundings.

  “Did you make that one?” the little girl asked.

  Teresa smirked. “I don’t know what you mean. Which one?”

  Carefully, Patty placed her palm on Teresa’s chest.

  Over her lung.

  “You don’t feel it inside, do you? It’s sorta shaped like a ball, but it’s holding a mushy white lump—like oatmeal. It goes out through the back, but it’s super-thin. You’d have to think really hard to make something like it.”

  Teresa turned to the parents for guidance, her heart racing. “What’s she talking about?”

  The father shook his head. “She can see the mantles, no matter where they are.”

  “Nobody can see them!” Teresa fired up to her feet, knees cracking. But she wasn’t sure she was correct about that. “And why would she say I have one inside me?”

  Patty blinked, not showing the slightest bit of disturbance. “Because, ma’am, there is one inside you.”

  ~ * ~

  They sat in the Wrangler for ten minutes without saying a word. Patty had said her last farewells to the family she’d never see again, but occasionally the living room drapes moved aside. If they didn’t take off soon, Teresa had a feeling her family would start creeping out to the front yard again for another goodbye.

  Teresa stared at Martin’s toy aquarium. She had hung the puka necklace around it. Martin hadn’t been one to be fussed over and he would have complained about a shrine. Well, she’d never listened to him before, so why now? Teresa touched her chest, to feel something different there, but it felt like the rest of her body—on the surface. It was glaringly obvious now that a small mantle had been constructed inside her lung out to the exterior. An orb. A small prison. The damn thing was elaborate, and yet so subtle she hadn’t sensed it until Patty pointed it out.

  Teresa continued to grope her chest for answers.

  “It won’t go away.” Patty was looking forward, not paying full attention to Teresa. “It’s real strong. Why did you put it there?”

  Teresa steadied herself on the steering wheel. “I think a friend did.”

  “What’s it there for?”

  Teresa’s eyes glazed. “I’m not sure. We’ll see, I suppose...”

  She knew what it was for, but whether the containment worked would be a mystery, for a time anyway. All those hours in the hospital, his medical books, the X-ray lying on her chest... How had he been able to set the traps at the train yard afterward? And then to pull that thing off with the Priestess of Morning? It staggered her imagination. Martin was lucky he hadn’t died right then.

  She pressed play and the Sam Cooke CD came on. Martin used to play it when they saved a Heart, a victory ritual. Somehow, Sam didn’t sound as happy as he normally did though.

  Teresa reached into her pocket for a clove and pulled out lollipops instead. Oh yes, right. Smiling, she offered one to the quiet little girl. Patty lifted her goody bag. A stash of trick-or-treat candy from last night. “Dad said it would be my last time for Trick or Treat.”

  Teresa tucked a cherry lollipop in her mouth. The Wrangler started up with a purr. Before she could drive off, she glanced over. This poor girl had been handed to the wolves. It wasn’t fair. “I’m sorry if I’m looking sad. I hope you—”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  Tough kid. Still though. “Are you ready for this Patty? I mean, are you really ready? We have a lot of work to do.”

  Mint green eyes slid over. “I won’t let you down Teresa. He won’t win.”

  Steeling herself, Teresa put the car in drive.

  “Are we going to fly somewhere?” Patty asked, a little cheerfully.

  Teresa glanced at her. It was the first time Patty had looked even remotely like a child. “Sometimes. But if we can drive a car somewhere, we drive.”

  “Who says?” asked Patty.

  “The Messenger.”

  “That’s our boss?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The Messenger makes all the rules then?”

 
“Probably.”

  “Will we ever meet him?”

  “Or her.”

  “Well, will we?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Teresa?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this trip long? I don’t like long car trips.”

  The Sam Cooke CD played on as the Wrangler tracked through star-shaped leaves scattered across the everlasting road.

  ~ * ~

  A block away I watched them go. Black and orange party streamers blew in the rafters overhead. Some had crossed the street over the golden star leaves, whipped into random destiny. For most people the year was winding down, but for my Teresa it was only beginning. Planning. Everything would lead up to the next October.

  I could see the side of her face as she drove off with Patty. I quickly read Teresa’s thoughts. It wasn’t common practice, not something I felt privileged to do, but I needed to understand.

  Teresa’s thoughts were about him. Only him. On the other side of here and there, she imagined him waiting, perhaps along a vast shoreline, the warm sun lifting over the distance, the air vital with new life. He would remain there for a chance to hold her again and say the things left unsaid.

  I’ve been given many gifts, and I had the privilege of knowing the truth. Martin was indeed standing there on that sandy shore of dreams, waiting impatiently but hopefully, until they met again. And no power known to the universe could ever move him from that spot.

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