Every Mountain Made Low

by Alex White

  So now he was dead, riding in a Consortium car. He hadn’t died from slow illness, or else he wouldn’t have made a ghost. Malevolent spirits came from those who couldn’t accept death. Small children, the terminally ill and the elderly were rarely problems. She told herself to forget about Kimball; no good came of bothering the dead. Just like the youthful victims of shootings on the seventh ring, she merely needed to wait and someone would scrape them up.

  The trek up to the third ring was short – just a few ramps and a pedestrian elevator once she’d crossed over the fourth ring. Once she got up high enough, the Hole below resembled a labyrinth. The far side was completely obscured by a column of steam from the Foundry. She’d always felt like that veil of mist stopped her from solving the maze of the city. Sometimes, when the white buildings of Edgewood caught the sun right, the fog would glow, filling the streets with an otherworldly light.

  She reached Fowler Brothers’ Apothecary a full fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. The shop had a wooden front and curly gold letters etched across its large windows. Stained glass runners ran across the top, spilling colorful light onto the dirty sidewalk. The store sat on a crowded street in the administrative district where much of the steelworks’ accounting happened. Loxley had asked for a job at the apothecary because she liked the flowers on the planters out front, but now that winter had come on, the flowers were long gone. She’d told Don Fowler she could help him build a greenhouse just like hers, but he hadn’t liked the idea, saying the building had a proper appearance to maintain. She figured flowers ought to be part of that appearance, but she didn’t complain.

  She let herself in the front door and immediately looked down, as was her custom. Don liked to keep thousands of brown glass bottles of all shapes and sizes on the full-length shelves, and unless she made a deliberate effort, Loxley would find herself trying to mentally catalogue each one. Of course, the bottles didn’t actually have anything in them. The chemicals were all in the back, each one separately packaged in a white bottle with the Consortium’s orange and black logo stamped onto the side. Rank upon rank of repeating logos gave the place a kind of order Loxley could live inside. Don said the front had an old-timey feel that folks liked. She didn’t understand.

  Don swept around the counter the moment he caught sight of Loxley, his lab coat trailing in his wake. He was a fleshy, gnomish man with wispy hair like cotton batting.

  “Sweet Jesus, Loxley. What happened to you?” He reached down to take ahold of her wrist and she recoiled. She wasn’t ready to be touched again today.

  “Nothing,” she said, pulling her sweater sleeve lower over the bruise.

  “Am I going to see track marks under that sleeve?”

  She wouldn’t have known what he meant, except he always talked about the junkies on the lower level. When he’d first hired her, he’d constantly warned her about the dangers of the men of the seventh ring, and eventually, he began to ask after her own habits.

  She made eye contact with him for a moment, but she couldn’t tell if he was angry or worried, and some of the flutter returned to her heart. She looked away.

  An odd flask on the wall behind him caught her attention. It was slender and long, like a drip of water caught in a photograph. Green glass flower petals lined its sides, and a flaking cork stoppered its top. It had probably held wine or something of the like. She scanned the shelves for another, wondering if it was the only one. She found another, similar one, a little shorter... then another, a little fatter... then another, a little greener... then a brown one. Each find straightened another jangled line in her brain.

  “Loxley! Can you hear me?”

  “Sorry, Mister Fowler.”

  “You always do that.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “This is why I can’t have you working the counter.”

  “I know, sir. Do you have a headache?” She made for the stockroom door. “I could get you something from the back.”

  He looked her up and down and sighed. “You show early, looking like Hell. You don’t have time to pretty yourself up, just a little? Now I know you’re retarded, but surely you understand that your time could have been better spent throwing on a little makeup or rinsing the street off of you. You’ve seen the way other women dress, haven’t you, young miss?”

  “I’m not retarded.” She looked down at the dull, gray carpet – nothing to distract her. “My brain works just fine.”

  “Just fine for the stockroom. Don’t begrudge what God made you. You’re taking the wrong message away from this conversation.”

  She wanted him to shut up, and she wished to tell him so. He would fire her if she did. She swallowed, bitterness in her mouth.

  He tapped his foot a few times and slid his hands into his pockets. “I think we can both agree that I did you a charity by hiring you. A lot of folks wouldn’t have done the same for a young lady from the seventh ring, no matter how sweet. And I know even fewer who’d help someone with your... condition.”

  “That’s the message?” A knife edge entered her voice.

  “No, Loxley. The message is this: next time you want to come in here looking like you washed out of a drain, you come in the back. I don’t want my customers seeing a woman composed so poorly. Now go on back and start filling those orders. And don’t think I didn’t notice your attitude just now, young lady. If I were you, I wouldn’t speak one word to me for the rest of the morning. I hope we’re clear on that.”

  She preferred being told to get to work, and wished he’d done that from the beginning. The stockroom was nicer for her – plain walls, boring white, beige or brown bottles, and a tiny window at her sorting counter so she could look out if she wanted. Loxley could turn on the vent on the chemical hood and drown out the rest of the world if she had to, though Don might get out of hand about the electric bill. Her first week, she’d taken to singing, but Don had told her to work quietly. She kept her out of tune singing to her garden after that.

  In spite of Don’s constant speeches, her job wasn’t so bad. It had a lot of quiet time, and she could absorb herself in measurements. She’d gotten quite fast with her short-bladed spatula, and pills made a satisfying rattle when she shoved them into bottles. She blew through her orders in minutes, packaging the drugs Don had already compounded. She wasn’t allowed to do the apothecary work, but she knew nearly everything about it. She’d watched most of her employer’s formulations over the past two years, and people largely ordered the same thing every time.

  The front door chimed, and Loxley looked into the shop. A middle-aged blonde strode languorously to the counter, all sighs and sadness, wrapped in a wool pencil skirt and bleached shirt. She made fleeting eye contact with Loxley before speaking in hushed tones to Don about her ill daughter. She told him she couldn’t afford the bill for the drugs, to which the apothecary replied, “It’s on the house, my dear. You just worry about getting her well.”

  Loxley watched him march into the stockroom to begin filling the capsules. He looked her squarely in the eye. “Out with it,” he grunted, setting about his work.

  She refocused on her task at hand, taking inventory of their various chemicals. The blonde lingered out front, inspecting the racks of pre-mixed medications on the counter.

  “What?” he whispered. “I can see that brain of yours turning.”

  He’d instructed her not to speak, and she weighed his proscription against his current demands. “I don’t understand why she doesn’t have to pay.”

  “The greatest of all virtues is love. I wish someone like you could understand that.”

  “Do you feel love for me?”

  He shook his head. “‘Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.’ That’s why I’m so hard on you, young miss.” He filled up the bottle and rushed out front to receive the adulation of his customer.

  Loxley tried not to frown, but she didn’t understand. She’d seen him turn away so many needful men in their trials, but he gladly handed over a few dollars’ worth of goods to a complet
e stranger when it was a woman. Don was a married man, and didn’t treat the blonde as though he wanted sexual favors. When he’d first hired Loxley, he gave her lots of deference and patience, but that had grown thin. Perhaps she had come to bore him over time.

  She crossed to the stockroom window and looked out onto the busy side street. Fowler Brothers’ had an excellent view of the fourth ring ramp, and she watched people scuttling up and down the stairway. Few of them came in the direction of the shop, instead heading further into the banking district. A limousine caught her attention as it crept up the automobile ramp, chrome flashing in the sun. Its front radiator was a large silver grill with an angel on top that reminded her of a tombstone.

  Much to Loxley’s surprise, she spotted Nora’s brown mop of hair as her friend climbed the stairs from the fourth ring. She carried the agriculture manual and another book under one arm, and wore a big smile. Loxley stifled an excited yelp and made for the front door, only to bump into Don.

  “Would you please try to pay attention?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll be right back.”

  “Hold it right there. This is a constant problem. I always see your eyes drifting, and I know you’re not really concentrating. We’ve got dangerous substances in here, and people’s lives depend on our accuracy. Do you think that’s worth your time?”

  “I’ll only be a moment.” Loxley made to move past him, but he blocked her exit.

  He jabbed a finger into her collarbone and she sucked in a breath. “No, ma’am. Not until you look me in the eye and tell me you’re paying attention.” His raised voice sent a shiver up her spine.

  He folded his arms, and she looked at his gnarled hands. She hadn’t wanted to be touched, and the spot where he’d poked her stung. She felt the ants in her legs again, and she tapped her foot to try to stop them from climbing higher. Her eyes flicked up to his face, but it was a contorted, nasty mess, and she looked away. A short, tuneless note issued from her throat. She took a step back.

  “You’re not going anywhere, young miss. Now have you got something to tell me?”

  Nora should have been coming through the door any second. Loxley waited, stalling for her friend as best she could. No one opened the door. She inhaled, and forced herself to look Don in the eye. Her foot tapped harder. “I am paying attention, Mister Fowler.”

  “Good. So we’re done having these kinds of problems?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good,” he said, stepping aside.

  Loxley rushed to the door to look out, but saw no one she recognized on the sidewalk. She waited for a few moments, then ducked back inside and ran to the storeroom, past her protesting boss. She peered out the window to see Nora, chatting happily with someone inside the limousine. The tall woman had become animated, smiling and laughing as she gesticulated. Did Nora know the limo passenger? The car looked like it had come from Edgewood for sure. Loxley had seen one before, but they were a rare sight, even on the third ring. She didn’t figure her friend knew anyone that rich.

  Without warning, Nora nodded and stepped into the vehicle, along with Loxley’s book. Her hand shot to the window as Loxley watched her most treasured possession disappear for a second time that day. Her toes itched, her legs became restless and she bounced on the balls of her feet as the limo glided away like a boat from its berth. When it was finally gone, she settled and frowned. Who was in that car? Why did Nora leave? Why couldn’t she bring the book first? She turned to see Don, his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

  She tried to silence her thoughts with quotidian tasks, but Nora’s appearance had wrecked her concentration. No one had ever visited Loxley at work before, and she’d been hurt that it hadn’t happened for the first time today. She spilled a script for cream as she went to bottle it and she cursed aloud, a rare event for her in both cases. She managed to quietly clean up the mess, but she still had to ask Don to make more, and that hadn’t gone well. After that, she had to count out pills three times for a single order, and she still felt worried about the result.

  The leprechaun in the lab coat wouldn’t leave her alone either, taking every opportunity to remind her how to do her job. He often spoke to her as though she was stupid, but he paid extra special attention to her that day. Even her most tepid responsibilities became boiling priorities for Don after she’d spilled his order. He harangued her as she counted, as she filled, as she cleaned, as she fetched, and together, neither of them got much done.

  And still Loxley could not move her thoughts from the loss of her book, of her cart and her cash. By the end of the day, she’d grown flustered and twitchy, offering up a quick, “Yes, sir,” to anything Don brought to her attention. They came to a breaking point when she dropped her second bottle of the day, and capsules dashed underneath every cabinet and storage bin like frightened insects scattering under sudden light.

  Don slapped a stack of papers down on the counter. “That is it, Loxley! What on earth has gotten into you today?”

  Disparate thoughts of Birdie, Nora, the book and the ghost of Mister Kimball came swirling into her mind, but all that came out were sobs. She managed to say she was sorry, and wiped her nose. She didn’t like Don. She didn’t want to be weak in front of him. She wanted to punch him squarely in the nose. She tried to stop herself from crying, but fear of losing her job because of his lack of sympathy was too great.

  “Okay, now,” Don stuttered. “Maybe we just calm down a bit.”

  “I’m – I’m trying!”

  He rubbed her shoulder, another unwelcome sensation. It did little to calm the temperature of the conversation, and it was only through mustering her courage that Loxley was able to speak. He smiled as her breathing slowed.

  “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on?” said Don.

  A bright girl is an honest girl, Loxley. You tell me what you did, her mother used to tell her. Loxley knew a normal person would think she was crazy if she told them everything, so she replaced all instances of the word ‘ghost’ with ‘scary man.’ She told Don the whole story of her day, focusing on how much money she’d lost when she was attacked. She showed him her bruise, pointing out the subtle discolorations that indicated finger marks, and she told him about losing her precious book.

  “And did anyone come to help you after you were attacked?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. I had to run too fast.”

  “Have you got a lot of money saved up?”

  She nodded, but she didn’t tell him the amount.

  “You can’t keep living on the seventh ring, young miss. It’s too dangerous down there. One of these days, you’re not going to come into work, and I’ll know it was one of those thugs putting the knife to you. I want you to consider taking an apartment up here.”

  She thought of her mother’s spot on the mattress, and how she’d been raised down below. “I can’t, Mister Fowler.”

  “When Maddie and I were your age, we moved up from the fourth ring because I felt like it wasn’t safe for her. We moved into the space below the shop here, and look at me now. I’m doing well, aren’t I?” He spoke deliberately, measuring out each word the way a mother might when explaining the dangers of fire to a child.

  “It’s too expensive to live up here.”

  “I’m sure you could figure it out. I don’t know how you could garden up here, but you should consider leaving that to the professionals, especially after this morning’s events.”

  She frowned. “I don’t see why I should stop gardening. I’m going to own a farm one day, and I need to know how to work a farm.”

  “Loxley, you live in a perilous place, doing perilous things, just so you can wake up every morning and play in the mud. Isn’t it time to grow up and admit how silly that is?”

  “It’s not silly.” She had told Don about her gardening during some idle chatter some months ago, and now she regretted it. “I just need more money.”

  “You asked me earlier if I loved you, and I do, young lady. You can�
��t afford to have your little farm and be safe.” He brushed off his lab coat and crossed his arms. “And you know, I’m contributing to all that nonsense, too. I’m not blameless, here. A person with your condition can’t always be expected to make sound decisions for herself.”

  “I don’t have a condition.”

  “You only think that because you won’t see a doctor. I’ve always suspected I was overpaying you, and here you are, all bruised and battered because of me. If I’d been paying you a sensible wage from the beginning, you might have been making sensible decisions. As it stands, I’m doing no better than giving needles to a junkie. Of course you were going to show up with a sob story one of these days.”

  She balled her fists. “I need every penny of my wages, Mister Fowler. I need a raise, even. I’m going to buy another cart and keep making an honest living.”

  Don smiled and shook his head. He worked as he talked, as though he cared little about the outcome of the conversation. “No. I’m done supporting this lunacy. I’m cutting you back to four dollars an hour.”

  She tapped her foot, trying to shake the ants onto the rug.

  “I’ve got a friend from church who can let you a room up here – Sheila Handy. You won’t have a whole lot of money left over for ridiculous notions, but she can keep an eye on you and help you make good decisions.”

  “This isn’t right, Mister Fowler!”

  He measured out a few milliliters of a solution, holding up the beaker to read over his glasses. “It’s the only thing that’s right. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. I’m sorry I didn’t because I know I’ve caused you a lot of heartache. You could have been getting adjusted to this arrangement when you needed me most – when you asked me for a job – and it would have been easier to accept.”

  “You don’t know what’s best for me, sir.” He’d enraged her to the point that she felt as though her fist might hit him on its own. She took a step back, more for his protection than hers. She wanted to flap her hands, but he would call her retarded again, so she clasped her fingers in front of her. She felt like a shaken soda bottle.