by Allyson Bird
When night deepens, I climb to the yellow room and find Ambrose kneeling before a sofa draped in gold. Candles ring the sofa, boxes carted away, floors swept to gleaming. The portrait of The Violet alone leans against a wall, her eyes as pools of candlelight. She regards me as I enter, as does Ambrose, both mouths tilted with a secret. The same secret, I think.
Ambrose extends a hand to me, but I do not take it; I walk unassisted, unlacing the borrowed gown I wear before I unbutton my skin. The black stars part beneath my fingers and Ambrose’s mouth opens in silent wonder as he watches. Beneath the heat of the candles, the paper on the walls curls up, a dozen hands asking to be taken, and so we take them, and I pull Ambrose where he believes he longs to go.
Through the paper, the world becomes what Ambrose cannot ever explain; he will try, confined to his chair as he will be while his ladywife walks free, but he will not be able to speak the words to convey all he has seen, all he has come to know in the deepest marrow of him. In this realm, he is stripped of what he carries elsewhere, down to his bones, because that’s all anyone is here. Bone and blood and sometimes breath if the king gifts you with such. Ambrose lifts his hands, looking through the transparent web of his fingers, shrieking when he finds them only bones.
My feet move bare and soundless over the mossy ground and Ambrose follows as a weighted shadow, down paths we never name, but intimately know, the world around us upside down and backwards, but familiar even so. Through the bare branches of the ivory trees that hang like flawless curtains, black stars cascade, flooding into rivers upon the ground, flowing ever toward a central point, a golden and ocher hollow in the world where stands the king. The king Ambrose has so wished to know, that he tried to hollow out bodies and build an entry for him. But you cannot give entry to what has always and ever been and Ambrose falls to his knees at the sight of such glory, his mouth gaping in wordless horror. He has wanted to see the king’s face and now that he sees the face that is not a face, it is me his gaze returns to.
He thinks to find solace in my arms with their black stars; he thinks this starlight will be like that of his childhood, before the world fell to pieces and plagues, before every single thing he ever loved was lost. Ambrose reaches a trembling hand for me, but his fingers do not unravel me. Anger etches his face then and his hold turns violent. The way of men.
I unbutton my skin, parting my wrist at the mark of every black star as if my skin is but a long glove up my arm. I am not certain what transfixes Ambrose more, the sight of the stars or the sight of me beyond their streaming light, but he cannot move. With my unbuttoned hand, I mark him in black stars, flooding him the way I did in the dining room, but this time there is no mercy, and he is utterly lost beneath the waves, unable to swallow all that flows into him. Ambrose shudders and vomits stars into the heavens as he collapses at the feet of my king.
It is exceedingly late when I find Frederick, pacing within Ambrose’s sitting room; it is a room made for men, of hard lines and hot fires, so when I stride barefoot and naked across the carpets, Frederick cannot help but stop his pacing and stare. What are you, he asks, but within his question is the answer; he doesn’t not care what I am, so long as he might partake of whatever it is. He looks to the door, as if expecting the mistress of the house, but the ladies are tucked safely away; they have already seen these horrors, haven’t they? I have come for them, I tell Frederick, and placed them beyond reach, where they may no longer be defiled. Where Angelica’s belly can safely swell and she will deliver unto this world a child, a child who will wear no mask.
Remove your own, Frederick implores me, and follows when I walk way. He follows as Ambrose followed, easily swayed by bare flesh, perhaps because it is ephemeral, perhaps because they can never quite possess it the way they long to. He wonders at the line of black stars that mark my spine and does not dare touch them until we reach the yellow room. His fingers, like Ambrose’s, do not open my skin; I allow him to feel the heat of me, the promise of an unbuttoning, but he gets nowhere, even as he can feel there is more. What are you, he wonders again, and I tell him that he does not want to know, because he does not care. His mouth is a cruel twist and within his eyes, the horrors Angelica knew simmer; I see Lady Kowal pressed to the couch in her turn, each woman seeking support within the portrait-eyes of The Violet. It does not matter if she was also pressed to the couch; I do not care. Whatever these men have done, it is enough.
I put Frederick on his knees in the thick moss of the ground, yellow papered room becoming an unending ivory wood, everything upside down and backwards and delicious as black stars flow over his broad and bare shoulders before scattering away into the moss and trees. They pile like snow as the tatters of my king begin to flow around me and with my legs wrapping Frederick tight—mermaid, he calls me, mermaid—I cut Frederick from thigh to throat and fill him with the awful truth he has always known. He is unbuttoned in ways never dreamed until now. He stares and begs to know, what am I, what am I, show me who—
In black stars I mark him, a sign he and Ambrose will both carry, a burden they shall know for the rest of their days. Men who once dreamed themselves so important to the success of an Empire; men who once dared to look upon the face of a thing they never should have. Men who dared take rein of bodies that were not, and could never be, their own.
Show me, Frederick begs as the stars take from him the last bits of what make him him. When I show Frederick, when he sees the truth—that such things have no beginning and no end and simply are—he looks beyond me, seeking the eyes of The Violet, reaching for some ease, though there is none he may ever find. Show me, he whispers. Show me, he whispers for all his days, and I show him, constantly and always.
He dreams of water, the black-star ocean, and mermaid he calls the child when she flits into view. Mermaid, he says, but no—she will be raised a queen.
YELLA
BY NICOLE CUSHING
The empty man’s in his tiny, cluttered livin room, stubbin out the butt of his cigarette and sippin cheap bourbon out of a Kentucky Derby shot glass. Just sittin there, lookin at the ceramic rabbits and pigs on the coffee table. Lookin out the window at the dead, dark houses across the street. Sittin there, strainin to hear his wife.
She’s down in the cellar and refuses to come back upstairs. Been down there fer almost five days, now. She ain’t got a word to say about why she’s doin all this, neither. She ain’t even bothered to call out sick to her supervisor at the plant. Might already be fired.
What does a man do in a situation like this? Who does a man call in a situation like this? If he got her boss on the phone, what would he tell him? If he called up her doctor, what would he tell her? That she’s havin a nervous breakdown? Do ya just up and say that to people?
It’s almost enough to make him have a nervous breakdown. His brain’s like a pot of spaghetti on the stove, boilin-n-stirrin, boilin-n-stirrin…
He takes another sippa bourbon to turn down the heat in his head. To put a stop to the stirrin. Then another sip—no, more than a sip, this time. A gulp. Winces a little as it goes down. It’s almost midnight and he’s only on his fifth glass. He’ll need to drink quicker if he hopes to pass out into a nice cozy, carefree sleep.
He’s been through some shit in his life, but it’s been a long time since he’s felt this worked up, confused and (let’s face it) embarrassed. It don’t make no sense that he’s embarrassed. He’s the only one who knows she’s actin like this. But he reckons he’s embarrassed at the thought that someone might find out how bad she is and yell at him fer not doin somethin sooner. But it gets all complicated, yanno? He can’t just up and have her committed.
Oh yeah, and that makes him think of another thing: he’s spooked, too. Spooked that she’s had herself a nervous breakdown, sure, but more spooked that she’ll be pissed at him if he tries to have her committed. Things ain’t exactly been smooth sailin between em. Ain’t been smooth sailin fer almost a year, now. She’s been actin weird. Talkin dirty in her slee
p and grindin her hips in bed like she’s fuckin another guy, in her dreams. Slippin outside at all hours of the night, sayin she’s watchin the stars (even on nights when the clouds make it so there ain’t no fuckin stars). He thinks that there’s probably another man. That she’s plannin on leavin.
If he had her put away fer a few weeks, then that would be just the excuse she’d need to leave. She’d come home from the hospital, scream at him, pack her things, and make a beeline fer the door. Run off with this other fella. And this is wife number three and he don’t need the heartache of another divorce and—even more—he don’t need to go down to the fuckin courthouse and deal with all the asshole judges and lawyer-leeches and nosy clerks again, so he does…
Nothin.
(No, it ain’t like that at all…He’s doin shit…Hell, yeah, he’s doin shit. He’s bringin sandwiches down to her each night, cereal each mornin. And it ain’t just that, he’s also plannin. He’s comin up with strategies, so he can solve this on his own, so they won’t have a big fat hospital bill, that’s what he’s doin! He ain’t bein careless. No, he ain’t. He ain’t…he….)
Yesterday, the mailman delivered a thick envelope from her company’s H.R. department. The empty man don’t have the courage to open it, so he uses it as a coaster fer his shot glass.
Sometimes, late at night, when there ain’t no cars passin through their little piece-a-shit subdivision, he can hear her down there (shufflin around on the concrete, talkin to herself). He pays particular attention to her when she talks to herself, cause he thinks that might give him a much-needed clue about all this shit. She won’t tell him what this is all about, but he hopes that maybe she’ll let it slip in her mutterin. Her voice is muffled down there, so he can never make out the words all that good. As best he can tell, she talks about a fairy tale. (Or maybe a Bible story?) Somethin about a king, and a king’s death, and his resurrection—transformed—and the kingdom bein equally divided “amongst em all”. What the fuck is a forty year old woman doin, sayin that kinda shit? To herself? In the fuckin cellar? That’s some fucked up shit, right there. A little creepy, too.
But tonight, so far, he ain’t been able to hear her say nothin. And, fucked up or not (creepy or not) her voice has been a comfort and he misses it. Even batshit chatter’s better than silence. It gets real lonely, late at night in a house with no sound. Yeah, there’s the whir of heat flowin through vents, the buzz of energy coursin through bulbs. There’s the hummin, whinin sound the house seems to make late at night—ya might call it a noise of no noise, yanno? But it ain’t the same. It ain’t human.
It’d be different if they had kids. At least then, there’d be the pitter-patter of little feet—as they say—gallopin around late at night to use the bathroom. They’d be stirrin in the middle of the night to get a glass of water or whine about monsters under their beds. Yeah, they’d be a pain in the ass a lotta the time but at least they’d be company. “It’s so alone without babies,” she’d always said. “Let’s start a family.” And they tried. And they tried. And they…
He thinks about turnin on the TV just to have somethin to remind him of a normal life, of a normal family where the woman don’t hide out in the cellar and they have two kids and all their problems are shit ya can laugh at. Or maybe he’ll turn on some late night rerun of Sports Center, and hope they show highlights from the Louisville game. And he’s got his hand on the remote and he’s clickin over to ESPN and he sees they’re playin highlights of the Maryland game, instead, but they got a good team this year so he pays attention and then…
Ugly, hoarse screams. Like she’s wounded in her belly and the flaps of the wound are screamin lips. Like her heart and guts have little mouths of their own and they’re screamin too. She ain’t ever made noises like these before!
And he can’t help himself. He lets out a little, sissy-like wail and flinches at the noise. Takes another sippa bourbon. Shakes his head.
And the fella on ESPN is oblivious to it all, talkin about how the game went to double overtime and how Maryland has backbone and they just wanted it more than Michigan State. “These are the kinda games that separate the men from the boys. It was justa battle of wills and Maryland had more mental toughness”.
And he shakes his head. Shakes it again. Slaps himself.
Then more screams. Like her whole body is nothin but row after row of mouths…
And he decides that he’s gonna fix this, once and fer all. He has a fuckin backbone. His will is gonna be stronger than hers. He’s John Fuckin Wayne, the cavalry to the rescue. Off to the cellar he stumbles. Door creaks as he opens it. But now she’s not screamin no more. Now he just hears that buzz, a kinda ringin in his ears. That noise of no noise. He don’t see her, neither. Don’t see nothin but blackness.
Don’t hear her, don’t see her. But, Christ Almighty, he can smell her.
As he stands at the top of the stairs he catches a whiff of…somethin nasty—a buncha odors that have come together in recent weeks to become her new perfume. The sour smell of unwashed clothes and b.o., the hot, ammonia-like smell of piss-soaked pants, and the stench of fresh shit. Even this far away, he can smell her. Even the mustiness of the place is overwhelmed by her smell. He’s tried to make her take a shower. He has…He has…He…
Gags. “Patti?”
Nothin, so he yells louder. “PATTI?”
And he turns on the light and runs down the wooden stairs. Boom-squeak, boom-squeak…And along the way the steps fuckin bite him. And the splinter’s a bigass motherfucker, right up close to his toes. He calls himself a dumbass fer goin around barefoot but them steel-toed work shoes hurt to wear all the time.
But he’s a tough son of a bitch and ain’t gonna let a little thing like a splinter stop him. He’ll just limp a little, that’s all. And he gets to the bottom and sees all her clothes thrown across the floor. Her bigass bra’s at one end of the line. Then her panties, with a fuckin pile of shit slathered all over em. The shit has gotten on just about everthin. On the jeans. On the T-shirt. On the sweatshirt she’d worn over the T-shirt. On the little pink socks. And he dry heaves. Stumbles. Braces himself against the wall, feelin thick dust and grime cling to his fingers. Feelin spider webs. Feelin cinder blocks.
And then he kinda hears somethin—somethin off in a far corner of the cellar—that he thinks might be her. Like, maybe she’s whisperin. No, not whisperin, breathin heavy—all fast-like. Kinda like hissin. Kinda like her breath is blowin through a mouth full of slobber.
He follows the sound. Finds her. Jesus Christ, he wishes he didn’t.
She’s nekkid. Nekkid, on the cellar floor, legs spread wide. She’s got shit-stains around her hips and even some on her belly. Looks like there’s even dried shit crusted in her pubes. And she’s sweatin round her forehead (and a little down her face). Her hair’s soaked, like she took a shower. But she ain’t taken a shower in days.
Then there’s the blotches. That’s the best he can describe em, blotches. He ain’t seen em before. They weren’t there at dinner time. He’s tryin to noodle through what they are.
Bruises?
Ink stains?
Sores?
They’re startin on her forehead and runnin all the way down to her toes. They’re dark and they’re throbbin. Squirmin. Like somethin’s just underneath her skin. Like somethin’s tryin to get out from underneath her skin, from underneath the blotches.
It’s enough to make any man prissy-prance his way outta there, but he ain’t gonna be scared off. He’s gonna do what he shoulda done days ago. Gonna be a fuckin man. He walks right up to her and points at em. Stammers fer a moment, but gets the words out. “W-what are they? What the fuck are they?!”
And she raises her eyes up to meet his, and gives him this look of disgust. Like he’s the lowest, most weakass piece-a-shit in the world. “They’re His. Yeahhh, boy. Not yers, His. Fuckin miracles. MIRACLES!”
Some men might just go back upstairs after hearin somethin that nutty. Some men might just take
that as the sign that it’s time to call an ambulance to have her taken away, cause she’s nekkid and talkin outta her head. But not him. Nosirree, he’s gonna get this straightened out here and now. Gets down on the cellar floor next to her. Can barely hold his puke back in his throat as he gets an even closer whiff of her. Then, with one quick movement, he’s grabbin a handful of her hair. Twistin it. Shakes her like a rag doll.
“Now stoppit! Stoppit! Stop actin like yer crazy. Y’ain’t crazy! Y’hear me?”
And she starts beggin and whimperin. “Lemme go, Billy. Lemme go! Ya don’t know what yer doin, here. Lemme go…”
And he thinks: Who’s weakass now?
And he says: “See…the way yer talkin now…that’s the most sense ya made all this time. I’ll letcha go, but ya better keep on makin sense. None of this weird shit about miracles, y’hear me?”
And then…she shrieks.
Shrieks that grab onta his ears and gnaw on em. Shrieks that give him a headache and, somehow, make him sick to his stomach. And then she’s jabberin somethin, all fast-like. Like a surge of power just went through her system, speedin everthin up. “Dese bays anyers! Anyers!”
He can’t understand it, at first. She’s sayin it too fast. Only after hearin it four or five times does it start to make sense.
“These babies ain’t yers. Ain’t yers!”
And his grip on her hair loosens.
She’s slowin down now. Like she knows she’s taken the wind outta his sails. Like she wants to make sure he hears ever last word of this. “That’s the truth. They ain’t yers. The Yella Angel came down.”
And his grip loosens some more.
She’s lookin at him with a sick smile “Fucked me real good. Yeahhh, boy. Fucked me better than y’ever did.” Then she pats one of the blotches on her belly. “Don’t shoot blanks, the way ya did, neither.”