Tiny Crimes

by Nadxieli Nieto Lincoln Michel

  Carmen Maria Machado

  60

  shallow graves and their bodies near the unlit parking lot of the bankrupt, half-gutted strip mall, and before they arrested the high school chemistry teacher and the community demanded answers, and before they learned that they would never, ever get them, Maria left a note for her mother on the fridge telling her that she loved her and was sorry and missed her already, and as she sat on the bus to Chicago, her backpack in her lap and her rosary coiled in her coat pocket and the windows smeared with someone else’s face grease, she imagined that the missing girls were all living in the city in brick row houses on a single block, a well-lit block with gardens and parks and a sidewalk, where they all laughed and made art and dated and dined and fucked and danced and aged and married and had children, and at night told stories to each other about the last, long-ago time they’d truly been afraid.

  Mary When You Follow Her

  61

  Ghost Light

  Elizabeth Hand

  I was never a fan of Zeke McDermott’s music. Too angsty, despite the Tom Waits growl and lumberjack look favored by guys who wouldn’t know a maul from a mailbox. He wasn’t famous enough to sell out the Burnt Harbor Opera House, or get booked in summer, when the big names come through.

  But he might well have sold out if he’d had the chance to play in July rather than February. He had buzz—solid Pitchfork rankings, an NPR feature. Still not my taste, though a lot of people here like his stuff. Once the foodies started migrating north from Brooklyn and Boston, the Opera House drew a younger demographic. When McDermott came through last winter, the house was half-full, damn good considering

  63

  the show had been canceled due to a blizzard, then rescheduled for two nights later.

  McDermott didn’t travel with a road crew. Few solo performers do unless they’re a name—that’s why places like the Opera House hire guys like me to run lights and sound. McDermott rode out the storm at the Harbor Inn, in what passes for downtown. That was when he hooked up with Bree. Bree lives above the Rum Line, across from the Opera House. Bree’s cute, small, and tomboyish, with a fish tattoo on her upper arm, a brookie. I assumed she was gay. I never caught any sexual vibe from her, not so unusual when you consider I’m twice her age, a former roadie who drives to Ellsworth to attend weekly NarcAnon meetings.

  Anyway, she met McDermott at the Rum Line. They spent the next three nights together. My place is a few doors down from the Inn; I saw her leaving a couple times. I wasn’t stalking her: that’s just the kind of thing you notice in a town small as this.

  Plus, Bree works for me. She went to Northeastern to study music—she plays mandolin—but moved back home after a year. Money issues. I know her dad and, as a favor, took her under my wing. Taught her the basics of wiring, how to rig the lighting pipes, set up and break down a show. How to check the ropes, which were sisal and prone to fray. Bigger venues like the Camden Opera House have updated their tech. Burnt Harbor can’t afford that, so we make do.

  Elizabeth Hand

  64

  Bree was good at it. I ended up hiring her. I liked having her around, liked hearing her play the mandolin while I figured out lighting cues. Far as I know, she never slept with the talent till McDermott. Didn’t matter to me as long as she did her job.

  And all bets are off during a blizzard. She showed up on the afternoon of the rescheduled performance, and we got to work.

  That was a magical gig. People were stir crazy after the storm, not a full house but enthusiastic. McDermott had a strong stage presence. Good-looking enough, with a beard and dark hair, a disarmingly gruff, somewhat theatrical manner at odds with all those heartachy songs. He sat in a chair near the edge of the stage, cradling his Gibson as he sang into a mic that dated to the Nixon era.

  His only special request was he wanted a floor lamp within reach. He did this shtick during his closer, something else he copped from Waits: set down his guitar and danced, did this little drunken waltz with the mic, singing as he grabbed on to the lamp like an old-time cartoon drunk. Our lamp had a tasseled shade and had done hard duty in community theater plays for decades. Blue gels in the follow spot simulated moonlight; dust in the air glowed like snow. Schmaltzy but effective. He got a standing ovation.

  To top it off, he brought Bree and her mandolin onstage for an encore. I don’t know if they planned it or not. Not,

  Ghost Light

  65

  I think, from the way she blushed. They sang “Shady Grove,” the two of them grinning at each other like they’d done this a hundred times.

  I know they were together that night—next day was one of the few when Bree showed up late for work. I didn’t say anything. She looked happier than I’d ever seen her.

  That didn’t last. Weeks went by, then months. She never told me, but I knew. She gained a little weight, then lost it, showed up a few times drunk or stoned. I reamed her out—it wasn’t just unprofessional but dangerous. I didn’t want one of those pipes falling on me, or her.

  After that I’d still see her at the Rum Line, but she showed up sober. Never heard her play the mandolin again.

  A year went by. Come February, McDermott’s back. No blizzard this time: freakishly warm weather, no snow, maple sap running. I called McDermott and asked if he wanted anything special.

  Nope. Like last year, just a mic and standing lamp close to hand.

  Bree laid down spike tape to mark where his chair and mic would go. The lamp we’d used before had been totaled during a production of Arsenic and Old Lace, so we used the ghost light. That’s a safety precaution required for theaters: a standing lamp with a naked bulb that’s turned on after hours, when the house is dark.

  Elizabeth Hand

  66

  Our ghost light was old, like everything else. Bree measured off from McDermott’s chair, set the lamp there. We were good to go.

  We didn’t sell out, but it was close. Locals remembered last year’s show, and the springlike weather brought people from far away as Bangor. Inside, it must’ve been eighty degrees, worse onstage with the footlights. I’d asked Bree to turn down the heat; either she forgot or so many bodies raised the temp.

  Still, McDermott put on a great show. When it came time for his final song, I dimmed everything save for that spooky blue follow spot. He waltzed around with the mic, sweat streaming down his face: a convincing drunk. Did his little pirouette and grabbed the ghost light.

  It looked like part of the act. His head snapped back: he clutched the mic in one hand and the lamp in the other, staggering to the edge of the stage. Some people laughed.

  Then he plummeted offstage, pulling mic stand and lamp with him. People screamed. Somebody—Bree, probably—hit the houselights. Somebody else called 911.

  Probably he was dead before he hit the floor. From the lighting booth, I could see how his neck torqued as his head struck the stage edge. I raced down, yelling at people to get away in case the mic and ghost light were still live. Fortunately, the cords were yanked out as he fell.

  Ghost Light

  67

  I dealt with the cops and EMTs when they arrived, and later with more cops. So did Bree. Everyone knew me, everyone believed me when I said I’d checked everything beforehand. With all that antiquated equipment, I’d invested in a good continuity tester and a Klein Non-Contact Voltage Tester. I went around before every show, twice, making sure nothing was hot—that none of the lights or equipment had a live current. I’d done that as usual before McDermott’s gig.

  The death was ruled accidental. No one blamed me, or Bree, but the Opera House was shuttered afterwards and we had to find other work. Neither of us spoke to any media, though videos of Bree playing with McDermott showed up online, along with footage from his final show.

  I know what happened. That old ghost light had a two-prong plug that wasn’t polarized like modern ones. If you plugged it into the wall outlet one way, no problem. If y
ou put it in with the prongs reversed, the metal lampstand would be live with current. Even that wasn’t a problem—unless you grasped the lamp with one hand and something else that was grounded with the other. Like a mic.

  Bree knew to plug in the ghost light so it wasn’t hot. And I’d checked it, twice. At some point before the performance, she’d gone backstage, yanked the plug then put it back in, reversed so the ghost light was live.

  If you brush a hot piece of equipment with your knuckles,

  Elizabeth Hand

  68

  you’ll get a shock, though not enough to kill you. If you grab it, the live current causes your muscles to contract: you can’t let go. Combine that with sweaty hands, a grounded mic, a dim stage, and an eight-foot drop, and you get Zeke McDermott, RIP.

  I never said anything to Bree about it. I assume she had her reasons. She’s taken up the mandolin again—I see her sometimes at the Rum Line’s open mic night. She’s pretty damn good.

  Ghost Light

  69

  Highway One

  Benjamin Whitmer

  I’m tripping balls, the coldest fucking night of the year. We got the acid from Manny. We always do. Manny lives in one of the houses back over in the new development. It’s one of those that went up in six weeks and makes no fucking sense. A Cape Cod next to a Victorian next to a California bungalow, all different colors. Toon Town we call it. Manny’s got no reason being around us, never, and he never sleeps with us down by the river. His game’s fucking the girls like Eli. It’s why he comes down on Friday with beer, or, say, a sheet of acid.

  “I got something to show you,” Roth says. His dreadlocks are trying to blow in the wind down the alley,

  71

  and his eyes’re black, all pupil. He’s grinning at me like the time I caught him in the library park watching two cats fuck, eating M&M’s and rubbing his dick through his jeans.

  This piece of shit. I hate smoking weed with Roth because he’s always trying to fuck with you, and this is eleven hits of Highway One. The alley’s nightshadows are breathing, everything’s pulsing. It’s cold enough I can’t barely feel my fingers, but the muddy-smelling wind off the river is something you could lay back on and take a nap. “You don’t have anything I need to see.”

  He holds his hand out to me. I have to squint, the way the moonlight filters down through the buildings. It’s a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes, closed, the cellophane intact. And next to it, also in his hand, a single Pall Mall cigarette.

  “Horseshit,” I say. “Fuck you.”

  “Look,” he says.

  “I don’t need to look.” But I’m standing there staring at his hand, everything photograph-grainy. I can’t move, the motherfucker.

  “It must have fell out,” he says. “But how?”

  “Horseshit. It didn’t fall out. You got it out somehow.”

  “How?” That cat-fucking grin on his face.

  “I don’t give a fuck.”

  Benjamin Whitmer

  72

  He squints at me. “Don’t be cunty. Manny’s fucking that bitch. He’s got her bent over a dumpster, beating that pussy.”

  He’s talking about Eli. She just showed up this morning. Comes from some small town in Michigan where they make baby food, is what she told me. That’s all I know. That and she carries a hammer in her bag, flapping around on her side with some clothes and a bunch of worry dolls.

  I found her sparechanging out front of the toy store. A good place to sparechange, especially around Christmas. Works best when you look like Eli, too, almost a kid yourself. A thin little face, brown eyes that’ll reach in your purse and find every nickel. I was smoking a Drum-rolled cigarette with her when one of the new cops walked by and saw the hammer too. “What’re you planning on hammering?” he asked her.

  She was smoking her cigarette, the one I rolled her. When she looked up at him, you could see the cop go weak-kneed. Her eyes’d do that to you, out from under the hood of her winter coat. “Nails,” she said.

  “Nails,” he repeated. Then I swear the motherfucker blushed, and he walked away down towards the hardware store.

  “You should come down by the river,” I said to her.

  Highway One

  73

  “What’s down by the river?”

  “It’s where we hang out,” I said. “If you ain’t got anywhere else to go.”

  But I was already wishing I hadn’t said it.

  Because it was Friday, and Manny was probably already down there.

  Manny was already down there.

  “You never answered about how I got this out,” Roth says. He’s got a twitchy nose. He’s the kind of guy you always did figure fucks cats. Who wouldn’t even have the decency to duct tape it so it doesn’t explode. That kind of guy.

  “Walk, motherfucker,” I say. “Just fucking walk.”

  We do, down the alley. Huddled down in our coats, the alley slick and greasy with garbage ice.

  And then we stop.

  It’s Manny. And he ain’t moving. He’s down on his knees with his head pressed against the asphalt, like listening for a train.

  “Fuck you, Roth,” I say. “You ain’t fucking with me no more.”

  “This ain’t me,” Roth says.

  “Horseshit.” I walk up on Manny, kick him in the ass. “Move, motherfucker.”

  He doesn’t move.

  I walk around him.

  Benjamin Whitmer

  74

  The profile of his face is pillowed in gore. All the muscles in my body run like water. “You ain’t fucking with me?” I say.

  “I ain’t fucking with you.”

  I take Manny under the arms, stand to lift him. His body lifts easily, but sticks at the head, stuck on the ground like it’s been nailed there. I let him drop, squat down.

  “I wouldn’t fuck with you,” Roth says. “Not like this.”

  I pull out my Case knife, use it to dig at the frozen blood gluing Manny’s skull to the asphalt. Once I’ve cut free what I can, I take him under his arms again and heave. It’s like trying to pull up a railroad tie with your bare hands.

  “He’s fucked up, for sure,” Roth says.

  My back bows, my arms grind in my shoulder sockets. I huff and puff, and with a rip his head jerks free, and I tumble heels up backward in the street. Manny flopping over me, his head banging into mine.

  “Motherfucker,” I say. I’d pulled the skin clean off the left side of his face. Patches of muscle stringing off the bone, an oily discharge where his eye used to be. “Motherfucker,” I say again.

  “I told you it wasn’t me,” Roth says.

  Then we both stop talking.

  Because just barely, but without a doubt, he’s breathing. A swirl of breath from the hole in his cheek.

  Highway One

  75

  And then there’s a laugh from the shadows by the wall.

  Eli.

  Eli laughing.

  But I can’t see her laughing. I can’t see nothing but her eyes under that hood. That and the hammer in her hand, frosted with blood.

  And so I start to laugh too. And so does Roth.

  It’s those motherfuckers in Toon Town. They don’t walk like you and me, they don’t exist. Even watching their breath frost through a hole in their cheek with their face ripped half off, they ain’t real. See, when you trip on acid, you learn somebody, but you can’t learn them motherfuckers. You can’t even figure what kind of full of shit they are, whether they fuck cats or don’t.

  But then you look up at the thin river of sky through the alley buildings, the stars skimming like water bugs, and you think it ain’t like that at all. That they’re the same kind as you and me, after all. That it’s all heartbreak, and there’s no deviation from that. Not ever. Your heart will always break for everything that’s lost, and what’s always lost is everything, and everybody’s heart breaks in the exact same way.

&
nbsp; But that’s horseshit too.

  Benjamin Whitmer

  76

  Airport Paperback

  Adam Hirsch

  Dear Maria,

  THANK YOU. I received your and the rest. One of the brighter parts of the day-to-day routine is surprisingly modern buildings so when it gets cold, the sky fades to the color of concrete. The times we’re allowed to roam the camp, I can hear the staccato harmonies of some birds out in the woods. Last week I thought I recognized the song of a .

  And, yes, to answer your question,

  77

  We eat. My hair’s going; waking up I see more and more thin black strands laying on my pillow. Back in Los Angeles, Without question, an airport paperback, myself in the surreal I have read it again and again, the days with bodega stoop ennui, but the one thing that has become certain is that I am now a criminal.