Weavers

by Aric Davis

  Darryl shook his head. “It’s going to be harder than you said. At least I think it is. But it’s not impossible, like with the phones. I already know this is different than that. I can connect here.”

  “I knew it,” said Terry. “I knew you were, I could tell. You got that look on your face. That’s the only time you look like that—when you’re in.”

  Darryl frowned. Terry was getting too excited. He was already looking for word that it was time to start doing jobs.

  “This is different, like I just told you,” said Darryl. There was a lot that he would never be able to explain to Terry, not because he didn’t want to but because Terry would never understand, and this was at the top of the heap.

  Even if I’m right, what will be left behind? That had always been their downfall before. It was hard to take what you wanted even once without getting caught, and this was a lot different than just suggesting things to a couple of girls at the bar. This was serious, and if it worked the way Darryl thought that it could, there was going to be some serious recoil when he was done. Recoil? More like shrapnel. They needed to figure that out first. It was risky enough to hide a body in the earth, but leaving one out in daylight at the other end of a computer line across town or, hell, across the whole damn country—that would require finesse he wasn’t sure either of them had.

  “I know, man,” said Terry. “I just want to know if you can do it, if you can really get in there and push buttons.”

  “I can,” said Darryl after a moment. “At least I think I can. This wasn’t like on a phone or in a crowded building. I could home right in on the person I was talking to. I didn’t try and suggest anything, but I was there. Once in a twelve-year-old boy named Russ Fredricks, and then again in a sixteen-year-old girl named Tara Hunter. I was there both times, but that was as far as it went. I didn’t want to blow anything out. At least not yet, not until we figure it all out.”

  “Couldn’t you make the chick itch her face, or make the boy type something?” Terry asked. “It’d just be a ripple, a nothing. Make sure they listened, check the delay, and then get out.” Terry snapped his fingers. “Simple.”

  “Not simple,” said Darryl. “Dangerous. Every suggestion from an adult leaves a footprint—that’s one of the rules.”

  “But you’re good,” whined Terry. “And if it’s like you’re saying, it might be different. Maybe you don’t need to worry about burning them out or leaving a footprint. I mean, you’re not really there, so why—”

  “You need to stow that shit,” said Darryl. He was already thinking about another beer. Terry could have that effect on him. If you want a beer now, wait until the drought. Wait until you’re crusted on some of that Bolivian shit. Darryl grimaced at the thought. Going without was the worst, and for all he knew this new way would mean an even longer period between drinks, a longer stretch of staring at his own topknot in the mirror, knowing every single day when he woke up that it might be purple. Or black—wouldn’t that be a kicker? Black like your liver. Black like your guts. Black like your prostate. Darryl shook his head, then walked to the refrigerator and got a beer. He opened it, walked back to the room, and sat heavily on the couch next to Terry.

  “I know it’s tough,” said Terry, and in answer Darryl drank beer. “But maybe this will be the last time. If you bend the right kids, we can do a couple of runs and then retire. Think about that, Darryl. We’ve been running a long, long time. Can you imagine stopping? All you need to do is your little trick, maybe even just once, and then we can go. We could live on an island, sand and bitches 24/7. Or Alaska, or wherever the hell we decide to.”

  “You just need to remember that it has to be clean,” said Darryl, “and I have to be dry. Going in half-cocked wouldn’t do me or the kid any good. Give me a few days to get well, and then we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Three days?”

  “A few,” said Darryl. Terry was pushing it, but if Darryl wasn’t drinking in the first place, then they wouldn’t need to wait. Let him try this. Let anyone try it without drinking. “Maybe three, maybe more, but today doesn’t count.”

  “Are you going to need any blow? You know, to—”

  “I don’t know,” said Darryl. “I hope not.”

  Terry nodded. “We still have enough money. I’ll get some just in case. Vic probably still has some. He pretty much always does.”

  Darryl nodded, already dreading everything that was to come. Shaking, being all the way there, even that odd euphoria that felt so good until it was gone. Like true love, all good until it’s gone. The first place Darryl had heard those words was in juvenile hall, but it took him years to fully understand them. It was true, though: being in the bend was good until it was gone, but the disconnect was hell.

  “You never know,” said Terry. “This time could be different.”

  Darryl nodded. Terry was full of shit, but he’d let Terry have it. Terry was a good friend, and it would only be a few days of suffering. It would be worth it. You won’t think that when you look in the mirror and your topknot is black, when you’re staring at the proof you’re rotting from the inside out. Darryl slammed his beer, then stood and walked to the fridge for another one.

  As he pulled the tab, he called to Terry, “When I wake up, I want all of the booze out of here.”

  Terry said something in agreement, but Darryl didn’t hear him. He slammed the can, grabbed another one, and dreamt about it all being done. No more living in this porn-covered flophouse. No more drying out to bend some poor kid. Just beaches, like Terry said.

  CHAPTER 7

  Cynthia and Mom were unpacked far faster than it had taken them to pack. Even in the small apartment, Cynthia couldn’t believe how bare it was when they were done. Mom’s room had just an air mattress, a closet with a few outfits that Cynthia had never seen before, and an alarm clock. Mom seemed happy enough as she unpacked, though. Cynthia had been scared that Mom might cry once they started to get settled, but she came to realize, as she watched her mother work, that perhaps what she had needed was less time with Dad. Mom was hurting. Cynthia didn’t need weird dreams to let her know that, but she could also see that her mom was healing. Mom was looking to the future.

  Cynthia’s room wasn’t much better than Mom’s. She didn’t have a bed, just a sleeping bag on the floor with a pillow, but she didn’t really mind that. She had always been a good sleeper, something Mom and Dad had been quick to remind her of when they reminisced about her early years, and she figured a spot on the floor would be as good as any bed. What she did miss was the security that everything in the morning would be the same as it was when she went to bed. After all, Mom and Dad weren’t even in Vegas a week before divorce and affair destroyed them, and for all Cynthia knew, she and Mom would have to leave the apartment in the morning.

  A part of her was hoping for exactly that—for Mom to somehow forgive Dad and then take them back to the yellow house on Glenwood. Cynthia knew that wouldn’t happen, not with how proud Mom seemed to be of moving her to this confusing apartment building, where nice old ladies smoked cigarettes that smelled like flowers and where strangers carried dirty clothes outside. It wasn’t until bedtime that Cynthia even really took stock of how they were living now. Neither of them had beds, most of their clothes were still in the yellow house, and aside from Sammy, so were her toys. They had no TV, no radio, and there were no dishes in the kitchen. Mom, who never liked to get takeout, had settled on ordering in a pizza for them to share, and though Cynthia enjoyed the treat, she wanted to know if this was how the foreseeable future was going to be.

  “What’s on your mind, Cynth?” Mom asked. “I know you probably have a lot of questions, and I’d like to try to answer them if you want to shoot me a couple.” Cynthia smiled at Mom, and Mom grinned back. It was a sad smile, though, not the toothy grin Cynthia was used to, the kind Mom used when she looked at Dad or was proud of Cynthia.

 
“Why did we have to move away from Daddy?” Cynthia asked, and Mom sighed and nodded.

  “Because Dad and I were having some problems, and I couldn’t forgive him. You’ll understand better when you’re older, Cynth. This will probably all make sense, unfortunately. What it boils down to is that Mommy decided she couldn’t trust Daddy to tell her the truth about some things, and I decided that I’d had enough of people knowing my secrets and laughing behind my back.”

  “You said that Dad was the best dad in the whole world,” said Cynthia. “If he’s the best dad, why would you leave him? Why would you make me come with you? I already miss him, and I miss my house and I miss my toys.” Cynthia sniffled. Knowing that Mom hated the sound of a child who needed to blow her nose, she blew snot into a napkin. When she looked at Mom, she could see the beginnings of tears welling in her eyes. You asked the wrong thing, Cynthia said to herself, and now she’s going to cry, and next she’s going to leave you. That’s how this works.

  “It’s OK, Cynth,” said Mom. “You aren’t doing anything wrong, and those are very good questions. I do think that your dad is the best daddy in the world, especially for you. I just don’t think he’s the best husband in the world for me. Your dad would never lie to you, or do anything that he knew would make you sad just to do it, but I’m not sure that he feels the same way about me.”

  Cynthia gave Mom a quick once-over. Mom didn’t look hurt, but . . . “Wait,” she said. “You mean like Dad hurt you inside, like here?” Cynthia tapped her chest over where she imagined her heart was, and Mom nodded.

  “Exactly right, Cynth,” said Mom. “I don’t think Dad even meant to—men can be funny about that sort of thing—but he hurt me all the same, and he left me with no choice but to leave and get all of this sorted out. I’m not sure what Dad will do with the store, but I’ll need to find something else to do. I’ll figure it out, though, and that’s not something that you need to worry about.”

  “Why is Dad going to hire more people for the store?” Cynthia asked. “Is Linda still going to work there? I like her.”

  Mom started to cry again then, and Cynthia wished that whatever had happened at Nan and Pop’s could happen again. The voice had known what to do, and though she was having a hard time remembering it, she was pretty sure the voice had told her how to read the threads. Were there threads? What does that even mean?

  “Linda may well still work there, along with a lot of other people, but I won’t be helping Dad at the store anymore,” said Mom as she dried her eyes with a napkin, but there was a tone in her voice when she said the younger woman’s name that Cynthia saw as anger. Linda has something to do with this, thought Cynthia, but she couldn’t imagine what that could possibly have been. Linda was sweet, a college student, and she always made sure Cynthia got a piece of candy at the store and that her slushie cup was filled to the top.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” said Cynthia, though she didn’t know what exactly she should be sorry for.

  “It’s not your fault, Cynth, and you don’t need to worry about me always being like this,” said Mom. “I’ll get my head on straight in the next few days, figure out what I’m going to do for work, and we’ll go from there.” Mom smiled, and Cynthia smiled back, but she knew that Mom was only smiling for her—there was nothing real there. “We’ll figure this out, kid. It’s just going to take some time.”

  “When do you think we’ll get to see Dad?”

  “I don’t know, Cynthia. I think at the very least a few days. Believe it or not, even though we’re the ones who moved, Dad might have even more to figure out than we do.” Mom shook her head. “We’re going to miss him and he’s going to miss us, but everything is going to work out for the best, and you certainly don’t need to worry about not seeing him, OK?”

  Cynthia nodded. She wasn’t worried about not seeing Dad; she was just confused as to why they all had to live separately if they were all sad about it. There had been nothing wrong with the yellow house, but now she was sleeping on the floor of an apartment, and Dad wasn’t with them. None of it makes any sense.

  Mom clapped her hands. “All right, bugaboo, time to do your teeth and get to bed. I’m exhausted, and we’ve got another long day tomorrow.”

  Cynthia just nodded. She was tired, too. She couldn’t bring herself to ask Mom about the long day. All she wanted was to wake up, not have any dreams about what was going to happen, and to have everything turn out normal.

  CHAPTER 8

  1945

  We were called into the yard today, and I felt certain that it was going to be another selection. I was ready to feel the hand on my shoulder, to hear my number called as one of the ones to be doomed to an early grave, but they weren’t calling anyone. We just stood in front of our barracks as the wind battered us, waiting for these men to tell us what they wanted, or possibly for the roar of a machine gun to start up as they began to do away with those of us who are left. That would have been fine with me. I am young, but my years on this earth have been hard, and I am used to death. It is not a thing to fear, just an animal that hunts us. Not out of anger, but because the German people have decided we must be culled.

  A man began speaking, telling us he was proud of the work that we had been doing and that work was going to be delayed for a few days. “There will be a new selection process, a new way for some lucky ones of you to find your freedom,” he said, but we knew what he meant. They were picking which of us were to die, and all I could wonder about was whether my abilities would allow me to survive. So far they had seen me through everything, only to leave me as the last of my blood, and with the ghosts of my family begging me to join them. I will, I tell them, but if I have a choice they will have to wait a little longer. There will be great rewards for my people somewhere, but first one must survive so that the atrocities done to us may be shared with the world. I do not long to be that voice, for I am just a blind girl who knows little of the world, but I will live if that is what God chooses for me. Otherwise, why would I have my gift?

  After the man was done speaking, there was a silence, and then I could hear someone clear their throat and begin to speak. To my surprise, it was a woman. What in the world is a woman doing with the guards? It made no sense. Our guards were soldiers, men doing what their country asked of them, and there had never been a woman in their ranks. Would a woman be able to kill like a man? In my heart I knew that a woman could.

  I knew from my own experience that evil is not committed by a single sex, but if she was now in charge, would this woman continue to allow us to be killed like animals? I knew the truth, but hope can be as poisonous as hemlock, and the sound of her filled me to the brim with wistful joy. I had given up, but now I had hope again, and I knew that having it torn away was going to be painful. Still, I could not help myself. My skin became goose-bumped as she began to speak, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the things she said were true.

  “My name is Fräulein Kaufman. I am here to help Commandant Wolfe and Herr Grumman with the women here, and to begin that process I will be interviewing you one by one. Germany has decided that it may still have need for a few Jews, and I’m here to help the Fatherland find the right ones. I will not mince words: I am to save but a precious few of you from the hard labor that you endure. Please be honest with me when you speak so that no one is wasting any time, either mine or yours.”

  I could not see Fräulein Kaufman as she left the yard and walked back into the office next to the men’s barracks, but over the chattering of the women around me I could hear something that I doubt anyone else could. Fräulein Kaufman wasn’t just a Nazi or a soldier of some sort; she was also a woman who enjoyed fashion. Her feet clicked on the boards as she left the frozen earth, and it was obvious to me that she was wearing heels or heeled boots, and this in the dead of winter! Only a lady who truly cared for such things would dress in such a way, to put her appearance over function in a death camp. I should no
t have admired Fräulein Kaufman, but I did, despite what she was and represented. No one would ever put heels on a blind girl, but I still lusted after the fashions that I had never seen before and would certainly never see now. I like this fräulein.

  No sooner did the thought cross my mind than I felt the churning feeling in my belly that meant I was out of myself. I could see colors here—not faces, but bright strands twirling above the women around me. Amongst the ladies of the camp, these were hurt and angry colors, hues I will never see save for in this way—reds, purples, blues, and blacks—colors that I have not seen since I was very small. Over Fräulein Kaufman, so far away as to make my sight even weaker, were the colors yellow, green, and pink. Never since the last bit of my sight was gone have I seen anything, and even here in this hell this was beauty beyond measure. The colors were so disorientating that I needed to be shoved back into my barracks—the commandant was already ordering the girls from Barracks 1 to line up in front of the office—and all I could think was that I was in Barracks 4 and I wouldn’t wait long.

  It was three days later before the women of Barracks 4 were ordered to line up before the office of the Fräulein, but already the camp is abuzz with stories of her. The biggest rumor is that she had only selected four girls from the first three barracks in her special selections, but since the process began, no one else has been chosen in the regular selections! I have a hard time believing that only three girls were chosen, but I know the second part is true, as no one could ever forget a selection.

  The second rumor is that the Fräulein is a wicked, wicked woman, and that she is here to kill us all. This rumor I know to be untrue, because if she wanted us dead, then why should we be alive? Every one of us could be ordered to the showers, never to be seen again, if that is what she wants. I know that what she told us is true: the colors coming from the mind of Fräulein Kaufman mean inquisitiveness. She really is searching for something—or, as she says, someone. That part I know for sure, but I cannot tell anyone, of course. Threading the needle in this world is more dangerous every day, and the last thing I need is for the other women to think I am crazy.