by Anne Heltzel
I focus on what Sam is reading; he’s intensely involved in this story about the circles of hell and the people who are stuck there, condemned. The words roll over and around his tongue like a rich ice cream he takes time to savor.
O rabble, miscreated past all others,
there in the place of which it’s hard to speak,
better if here you had been goats or sheep! . . .
But if my words are seed from which the fruit
is infamy for this betrayer whom
I gnaw, you’ll see me speak and weep at once.
Betrayal. Fear. My head pounds, the knife resumes its merciless stabbing inside my brain. There is a sudden flash, a snapshot, and for an instant our underground palace lair is not a palace at all but a dirty, damp cave strewn with garbage and threadbare blankets and stained sheets. Then another flash and I blink and it is normal and lovely again. I shudder.
What, mija? Sam asks. What is it, little girl?
I saw a scary place, a place where everything is dark and ugly, I tell him. I snuggle deeper into his chest.
Not here, Abby. You and me have an invisible shield. We’re protected from the ugliness as long as we’re together.
Then, where?
Here, he says, shaking his book in the air. And there. He points beyond our cave lair. It’s out there, he says, that things are ugly. He watches me carefully as if to gauge my reaction.
But I’ve seen it out there. The blue sky and glittery lake. They’re beautiful.
Those are the lies, he says. Those things ring false. Temptations that will betray you. His voice is adamant, almost angry.
Like the ninth circle. I gesture toward the book, a catalog of hell. The ninth circle is the worst one, the part of the story I’m most afraid of.
Yes, just like that. His voice is softer now. I can see that he is pleased with me for making the connection. Then he leans closer to me, his face serious, and takes my hands gently in his. That’s where you were before, Abby. But you’re safe now.
Did someone hurt me in the ninth circle?
Sam pauses to think for a moment. Everyone, he finally says. Everyone hurts everyone in Circle Nine, and they especially hurt you.
Betrayal?
Betrayal everywhere. By people you thought you loved. It is hell out there. In here, we’re safe. I saved you from it, remember? From the fire that night and from everything else out there, the horror of it.
And then I feel it. The splitting pain below my heart, a pain strong enough to match the one in my head, the thing I didn’t feel the other day but I feel now in a panic. I am afraid of something I am concealing from myself. It will gut me if I dwell on it.
I can’t go back there, I say to him. I shudder and push the darkness out, and I focus on the room around me, on our world and its comforts.
You won’t go back, Sam promises me.
Grease is everywhere, all over our beautiful stone floor. Sam spilled it there. He’d been making bacon and tipped the pan, and now the place is flooded. The glorious smell of bacon fills my nostrils but soon I realize I want to smell anything but bacon. Too much of something delicious becomes something poisonous. Sam’s laughing at me; it’s loud and full, and it carries over the sound of the pouring rain outside. I’m pretending to ignore him so he’ll clean up the mess on his own.
Too good to help me, princess? Come on, baby. He hands me a rag. Give me a hand.
It’s your problem, I say, wrinkling my nose. You’re the one who made the mess.
Everything’s us now, baby. We help each other out.
Sure, when it’s convenient for you.
Don’t be like that. He comes over and gently wraps his arms around me. Then he starts to draw me backward toward the soapy bucket he’s prepared with the water that drips outside and sometimes inside, too, but I feel him falter and the bucket spills and his feet slide around on the floor and out from under him and he’s clutching my shirt and then we’re both on the floor, grease and sudsy water all over us.
Sammy! I yell. I turn my face to his. I try to keep it a mask of fury, but I can feel a giggle leaking out. Then he’s laughing and I’m laughing, too, because everything about this boy is contagious.
Come on, he says. I’ll help you up. I give him my hand and he pulls me up, but instead of letting me go, he’s pulling me over the floor in a mad dash. I scream at him to stop, but his laughter kicks out my screams and replaces them with laughter of my own again. We run and we slide, first holding hands then separating when he gains more momentum than I, then we’re on the floor again, rolling around in the stuff.
It’s so much fun, my happiness is leaking out of me everywhere, pouring out of me and mixing with the water and bacon grease on the floor, which is mixing with my hair and my sweat. I see Sammy in a low crouch on the floor, the beginnings of getting up, but I jump up faster and tackle him back down. Sammy’s skin is a special eau de toilette of Sam and pig. It should be disgusting, but it is delicious. I want to lick it. So I do. I lick his arm. He licks me back. I bite his lip. He bites mine. Then I taste his tongue, just to see. Then I’m enjoying the slippery-slide of his arms and his chest against mine.
Take a bath, Sam says after we’re all tired out from being playful. You stink. I swat his arm.
What about you?
I have an errand.
An errand? It’s not even night, I protest. Sam never lets me leave here except at night, even though he leaves often in the day. I pout. Why should you get to leave all the time but you keep me here like a princess in a tower? It is becoming a familiar argument.
Because I’m stronger than you are, he says. I’m used to it.
Please let me come with you, I say.
No way, princess. He pushes me aside.
That’s fine, and he is strong, very strong, but I don’t like it when he’s not around. And sometimes I want to see more of the day. I go around in the woods just outside our cave-palace, but sometimes I wonder what else there is. I reach back into the recesses of my brain and feel such a pang of fear when I do that I stop wondering and promise myself not to wonder anymore. Sam loves me and keeps me safe. Curiosity kills the cat.
Well, where are you going?
My business, mija.
No way, Sam. I shake my head sternly. Everything’s us now.
You’re right, he agrees, looking at me teasingly. Who said that? Must’ve been somebody pretty smart. Then he zips his jacket tighter.
Sam! I say. Out with it.
I’m just . . . sick, baby. Nothing to worry about, he says hastily because I must look as worried as I feel. But I need to get something to help me out.
Medicine?
Yes, I guess that’s what medicine is, right? Something to make your body feel better.
So you’re going to the doctor?
I’m going to my friend’s, mija. He gets it for me.
OK, I say, but I am a little wounded. I don’t know why I can’t meet his friend.
Good-bye, little girl. He kisses me on the cheek, tells me not to look so sad.
I wait for hours until Sam comes back. I’m not sure what to do with myself, so I sketch. Sketching makes me feel somehow calmer, and I can tell by how good I am that I’ve been doing it for a long time, maybe years. By the time Sam comes back, I’ve nearly finished my sketch of a tiny cityscape, antlike people hurrying down the streets. I’m so happy to see him. I hug him right away, and he hugs me back, but he’s much quieter than usual.
Something wrong, Sammy?
No. He smiles a big goofy grin and shakes his head. His eyes are shining, as if something wonderful lit them up from inside his head.
Did you bring us dinner? I ask. My stomach has been rumbling.
No. He shakes his head slowly and lies down on the sofa. I’m a little disappointed until I remember that we have leftovers of a huge ham, the kind you eat at an elaborate feast, tucked away somewhere. I make us both a heaping plate of it with mashed potatoes, too, and we tuck up under the covers and
eat in bed together. I ask Sam about his friend, whose name is Sid, and he tells me I didn’t miss much.
I’ve got to keep you away from him, he teases. He might like you a little too much, and then I’d be jealous. I laugh, but his eyes look as if part of him is serious.
That’s silly, Sam, I say. I’m all yours. We fall asleep together hand in hand under the covers with our plates littering the floor just until tomorrow.
There are voices outside. Sam and I hear them at once. The feminine, lilting one and the other one, smokier and not as girlish. Our cave in the woods is the perfect little home. The only thing it lacks is neighbors. We are not used to hearing voices all the way out here. I sit upright in my chair, and quickly Sam is behind me, covering my mouth with his hand. I am perfectly still. I am not afraid, just curious. Sammy seems afraid, though. His hand grips my face so tight, and his fingers stretch in front of my nose, too, so it’s hard to breathe. I snuffle a little until he relaxes his grip.
Shhhh, he whispers. Not a sound.
The voices grow louder. The girls are heading closer. Sam grabs my hand and we inch quietly toward the skylight, a rough-cut hole in the stone of the cave. It’s as far as we can get from the sound of the voices. I can make out the words now. Sam pushes at the glass pane covering the hole, but it’s stuck. I don’t remember us ever opening it before.
What is this place? The girl with the pretty voice asks the question.
Just an old dump, the other one says. Looks like an old mine shaft or something. Let’s go.
We pause. Maybe we don’t need to go out through the skylight after all. Sam doesn’t want these girls to see us. I feel like I don’t want them seeing us, either. They’re invading our little home. They’re intruding.
Then we hear, Let’s just have a quick look around. Who knows? Maybe we’ll find buried treasure, and they’re giggling and coming closer and Sam’s tugging extra hard at the skylight and suddenly it grinds up and he’s pushing my body through it. I’m struggling and I’m nearly halfway through and now there’s silence.
Did you hear that?
What the hell was that?
Nothing. It was nothing. Come on, let’s look.
Now I’ve pulled myself up to the grass, and Sam’s after me, and he pushes the pane back over the gap almost all the way. We hear noises below us in our home.
Ewwww, the raspy girl says. I told you it was just a dump. I’m probably getting some nasty disease just by standing here. Her words slap me hard in the face. I am so proud of our lovely underground kingdom. Sam is clutching me hard again. I see him looking at me as the girl talks, like he knows I’m upset with her. My knees are pressing into the damp soil beneath me, and a tiny iridescent fly lands on my arm, but I don’t swat it away. I must pretend as if I am carved from stone.
Jess, says the softer one, someone’s been here recently.
Of course we have, I angrily retort in my head. Can’t you see last night’s meal in the fridge and our candlesticks on the dining table all covered in wax? Can’t you see our rumpled sheets?
No way, the other one says, and I hear a note of fear in her voice. This is totally freaky.
Look at all this stuff on the walls, says the soft one. Her voice has wonder and fear in it, now.
Seriously, the other girl agrees. If you want to stay, feel free. But I’m outta here.
The other girl must want to join her because we hear their shuffling moving away again and the crunch of grass and twigs growing distant, then more distant, then gone altogether. Even so, Sammy makes me sit outside with him for a very long time. Finally he says we can go inside. I wonder what invisible messenger told him it was not OK for those other interminable minutes and OK at just this particular minute.
When we get inside, I sit at our long oak dining table, and Sam pours us coffee with milk. He sets my coffee in front of me along with a plate of toffee-butter cookies, my favorite, and a tray of caramels, his favorite, even though he says he buys them for me. My porcelain teacup has yellow elephants on it. I selected it myself. I know I did. But I can’t remember when. I love my teacup and use it for everything, including coffee and juice. I fill it with water at night and leave it by my bed. I admire the way it looks smooth against the rough grain of our chop-block table. I gaze into its murky depths.
Abby! Sam’s voice is harsh. He snaps his fingers in front of my face. Focus, he says. We need to talk.
What about? I ask, munching my cookie.
About what just happened.
I don’t know what happened, I say.
OK, Sam says slowly.
I just think they were rude, I tell him after a minute. They were not our guests. We did not invite them. They intruded and then they insulted us.
That’s right, he says. They were just two very rude girls.
And besides, I say, our house is charming. I take a long, trembling sip of my coffee. Something those girls said crept inside me and is nesting there. It wriggles around, making the rest of me feel uncomfortable. Why would they say these things that aren’t true? Why am I threatened by these lies? I feel my head throbbing, my eyes wanting to water. The skin on my chin spasms, but I think the cup hides it from Sam. I am trying to be less emotional, and this is not helping. I want to show Sam that I am strong and he doesn’t have to protect me all the time. Strong enough to leave here, sometimes.
The thing is, says Sam, maybe they will come back. I don’t like this news at all.
Let’s block the front. We could build a slab of something to cover it. It could be a makeshift gate. This is our place.
That’s a good idea, he says carefully, but it’s even better if there’s nothing. Because if we build a gate, they’ll know we’re here.
Sam, how can anyone not know we’re here! Is everyone so crazy?
I just don’t want a gate. His voice is firm, the kind that means I can’t challenge him and maybe I’ve already said too much. Then he relaxes a little.
I’m sure they won’t be back. It’s no big deal.
And if they do come back? And you’re not here to look after me?
Just walk away and hide. Or if you can’t hide, pretend you’re like them, exploring the woods, too. Like you accidentally came across this place but you don’t know anything about it.
Why can’t people know we live here?
We’re too young, Abby. We don’t own this home. They might want us to go live with people in Circle Nine. I am horrified at this idea. And then we’d be separated, he continues, and we might be in a really bad place, like a jail for people like us, people without families.
That would of course be the worst thing that could ever happen, so I agree that if someone ever sees me here, I will pretend I am from the outside, finding this place for the first time and that I belong somewhere else. All so no one decides that they know best where we should belong. If I am ever separated from Sam, my life will be no more. I am not OK without him. I don’t know of a life without him. It’s like I was born with him and I plan on dying with him, too. I have trouble understanding my feelings toward Sam sometimes. It’s not just as if he is someone who understands me. It is as if we were made from the same clay, and he is me. Our souls speak to each other all day long, and when they are conversationally at rest, they link arms. I have a hard time thinking of anyone else’s soul even coming close to this with me. I think everyone else must be alien. So without Sam, I would be living among aliens, foreigners. I would be the only one of my kind. Without Sam, there is not me and anybody else. There is just me. Facing the world alone like that is the worst kind of pain I can imagine. It is not a possibility.
Even now he knows what I am thinking. He gently pulls my head to his shoulder and kisses the top of it, strokes the back. His hand pulls away all of my bad energy. With each stroke of his fingers on my hair, I feel him tugging out all the fear I’ve ever felt. When he is around, I can relax and let everything go. We spend the rest of the night playing chess, which Sam has taught me and I have taken to with
remarkable skill. I have won seventy-two times, and he has won sixteen. By the time we are done, what happened before has blown through my mind, light and calm.
Sam is out again. This makes twice in two days, which is highly unusual. I am sketching, but I sketch all the time and you can only pass so many hours filling up a blank page. But there’s really no other choice, unless I take a nap. I have few ways to amuse myself when I am alone. I don’t like to lose myself in my thoughts, because there’s a limit to how far they will reach. For example, I can think of last night and Sam. Or last week and Sam. And my happy memories give me a good feeling, but it’s no better than when he’s with me in person, and when the memory-feelings fade, I realize he is not at my side and there’s a crushing disappointment. So remembering good things often makes me feel worse in the end.
Or I can try to think of what happened Before. I simply don’t if I can help it, because my mind is a blank void before that night, and when I push it further than it wants to be pushed, it retaliates by sending through me waves of pain and fear. I wonder if I feel the same pain and fear the people out there, who spend all their time in Circle Nine, do. Or maybe theirs is much worse than mine. I don’t know how anyone with worse pain than mine could endure it. I think it’s one of the things that makes me different from Sam. He says my sleep is restless. That I babble. That I wake him up at night.
My only other choice is to think of the future. This is the best way, but it’s also difficult. My experiences that I can remember are so limited. That alley, that house. Sam, this cave-kingdom. Rumpelstiltskin and England in the Golden Age and Russia in the time of War and Peace. These last things are from the stories Sam’s read to me and the stories that are lodged somewhere in my brain like flotsam I brought with me into this world. So I can imagine Sam and me living in a Russian palace, and I can imagine our behaviors and who we’d be, but we end up being exactly who we are now and doing what we do now except in a different, possibly more exotic kingdom than the one we live in. So that possibility is limiting.