“It’s been fouled,” the Constable said. And it had. The tiny body had already started to leak.
“No matter. It’s still usable. Go on now.”
The Constable walked slowly out onto the heap, his heart like a boulder in his chest. He knelt down, and scooped the baby out of the box. It would be unrecognizable soon. The flesh would corrupt and loosen and fall; the sinews would be picked away and the bones would bleach until they shone.
The child never was. And that was that.
But as the Constable walked away, holding the reeking box as far away from his body as he could, he heard it again.
A child’s voice. He couldn’t tell where it came from—the air, the birds, the drizzling sky, or the trash under his feet—but the sound was unmistakable. The gurgling voice of a little baby.
And it was laughing.
11. Now.
Marla doesn’t hear from the junk man or his daughter for weeks after the bird incident.
No one mentions what happened at church that day. They talk about the weather. They talk about the increased hours at the factory. They talk about grandbabies and funerals and whether they should plant corn or soybeans this year.
All the while, in the silent spaces between neighbor and neighbor—the bird, the bird, the bird. It rings and spins and ricochets between mouth and mouth, heart and heart, eye and eye, though all in silence. A storm is mentioned—the bird! A wedding is announced—the bird! A potluck is planned—the bird, the bird, the bird! That foul-tempered cancer-bird haunts darkened corners and hidden alleys and littered streets. It is everywhere, and it is silent. No one mentions the bird. Everyone thinks about the bird.
But, bird or no bird, one thing is for sure: Martina Strange is healed. Healed. For the first time in her life she breathes and breathes without hack or hesitation or wheeze. Her cheeks are pink, her eyes bright, and, perhaps most weirdly, her seven missing teeth have suddenly re-erupted in her mouth—straight and white and shining. She walks back and forth between her hovel of a house to her job as a charge-packer at the munitions factory with a gravity of bearing, an integrated sense of deep joy. She walks like a prophet, a sage, a queen.
Marla the egg woman doesn’t know what to make of it. And she worries.
Because under her feet she can feel it.
A buzz.
A rumble.
Getting bigger every day.
“My Sparrow, my Sparrow, my Sparrow,” she whispers. “What are you planning?”
Except her heart does not say, what are you planning? Her heart says, don’t leave me.
And it does not say my Sparrow. Her heart says, my child.
12. Then.
There was a time, so long ago the Minister could hardly remember it, that he was a boy. A child. There was a memory that he treasured above all others, of standing with his mother in a field and looking up at the stars.
There, his mother said, a planet.
And there, she pointed high above, the largest of all known stars.
And there, she tracked her finger across the sky, a bit of magic. If you can find where it lands, then none of us will ever die. Not me. Not your father. Not you. We will live forever.
In his memory of that moment, his mother’s face was young and beautiful, made more so by the long thin scar that began at her left temple and arced prettily down her cheek, hooking over the curve of her jaw and ending at the center of her windpipe. The Minister, as a boy, loved that scar, and he tracked its trajectory every night with his index finger, just as his mother tracked the falling star.
When he was young enough to assume that his hopes were powerful enough to true themselves upon the face of the world, and old enough to understand loss, both his parents donned their uniforms and marched off with most of the other parents of his acquaintance and headed into war. He had no idea what war was, and assumed it was similar to the wars that he fought with the other children in the neighborhood, in which the only casualties were the occasional broken arm and a few tortured pet dogs that were not to be mentioned later.
His mother was so beautiful in her high boots and fatigues. The moment before they marched away, both his parents gathered him in their arms and kissed him. The Minister sat on his grandfather’s lap and waved and waved and counted the days until his parents would return and life would become normal once again.
It did not, alas. His mother, thanks to an inopportune step, had been blown to bits. There was nothing to bury. Only his father came back. The Minister never forgave him.
In the ensuing years, the Minister spent most nights in the backyard, looking up at the stars. He couldn’t bear to be under the same roof as his father, who couldn’t bear to look upon the face of his son. War had become commonplace in those days, and blackouts were a way of life. The roof of the night sky, therefore, was unspoiled by leaking lights or passing cars. While his neighbors crouched and shivered in the darkness, the boy Minister watched the workings of the heavens on full display before him—each glittering body smartly following their courses like soldiers. He kept records and drew maps. He delighted in their punctual grace. Each time an asteroid fell, he traced it with his finger along the curve of the sky, and thought of his mother.
There, her voice in his mind, a bit of magic.
And the Minister became convinced that his mother’s words were true. And he became convinced that perhaps he should have found the place where the falling star fell, and perhaps if he had, he might have been able to save her.
And perhaps there was a way to prevent himself from ever dying. It was a thing worth wishing for, after all. Freedom from death. From erasure. From oblivion. And once he thought it, he began to want it. And then it was all he wanted. Well, almost all. He held his finger in the darkness before him, and traced the curve of his mother’s scar. He would never forget it. It haunted his dreams.
And maybe I can bring her back.
13. Now.
They are two towns over, the Sparrow and her father, and they are wet through, and chilled to the bone.
“How can there be no whiskey,” the junk man moans. “There is always whiskey.”
And it’s true. There is always whiskey. Or at least there has been whiskey in abundance for the last fifteen years. There have been many things in abundance for the last fifteen years. The junk man has theories about this. He has memories of a miraculous baby. But they are faded and fuzzy, as wobbly and patched-together as his own dear cart. He puts his arm around his daughter, who wraps her arms around his middle. She is the only thing that’s real.
The rain pours harder. The Sparrow pulls her father close, helping him scoot further into the lee of the wagon, their backs curving under the edge. Surely it will stop soon. Four identical chickens—all Most Remarkable Hens, and all named Midge—peck at the ground under the cart. From time to time, they touch the tops of their heads to the girl’s back, as though reminding themselves that she is still there.
They love her. So much.
The face of the Minister gazes over the town from massive billboards. They are everywhere. The Minister’s smile is practiced, his skin is slick as resin. Even from here, the Sparrow can smell the formaldehyde and camphor on his breath.
The billboards will be useful. The junk man’s daughter has a plan. But not yet, her heart pleads. I’m not ready. She leans her cheek on the bony angles of her father’s shoulders and tries to breathe him in. She cannot leave him yet.
People rush by with their homemade umbrellas or their oilcloths or their remnants of old plastic sheets. They see the junk man, but they do not greet him. They do not offer shelter. They have heard the stories. They have considered writing reports, but they fear incriminating themselves. After all, the junk man has been selling his wares in their jurisdiction for years. Years.
A troop of soldiers—twelve in all—marches by, their boots splattering mud. Th
eir original faces are covered. No one knows what they looked like before. On the day of their initiation, their bright Interfaces are fused to their cheekbones and linked to their eyes—allowing everything they hear, smell, see, and think to be uploaded, searchable by the Minister himself. Each Interface has a scar, starting at the temple, arcing prettily across the cheek, and hooking under the limit of the jaw.
The Interfaces look ever so much like the Minister’s mother. No one knows this. No one except for the Sparrow. It only makes her love him the more.
“I just don’t understand it,” the junk man says, shivering again. “How can it be gone?”
“It’s a mystery, Papa,” the Sparrow says, but it’s not. In truth, she dumped it out. It’s an experiment—one that currently is going poorly. “You’ll adjust to its absence in a bit I’m sure.”
It has been thirty-two hours exactly since the junk man’s last drink. He is not adjusting well. He is yellow and gray and woozy. A shadow of himself. He shakes and groans and sweats and shivers. He cannot hold water. His heart strains in his chest.
“Just hold on.” You need to be okay if I am not here, her heart pleads with him.
Not if, says a voice deep in her soul. When.
“I am so hot, my child. And yet I am cold. I am dying, or perhaps I am dead.”
“If so,” she squeezes harder, “perhaps it is temporary.” She smiles at him. She is not a particularly pretty girl, but he loves her face—its over-wide forehead and over-small nose. He loves each freckle and those black, beady, glittering eyes.
“Temporarily dead,” he muses. “I remember . . .” He holds his breath. He presses his hand to his chest.
And the junk man’s daughter feels an opening in her heart. It is made of light. It is not death she fears—indeed, why should she?—but it is the thought of her own oblivion that keeps her up at night. There are so few people who see her, who notice her, and most that do forget her within a moment.
To be remembered by somebody.
To be longed-for.
To be missed.
This is her hope. It is all she wants.
“Come on, Papa,” she whispers. “Temporarily dead. There is more to the story. It’s in there somewhere. You can do it.”
And in a flash, the junk man remembers. He remembers everything.
14. Then.
The Constable sent Marla the egg woman to see to the mother of the dead baby.
“I won’t do it,” Marla said.
“She won’t see me, that’s for damn sure,” the Constable said. “And someone needs to look after her. After all, considering your history—”
Marla slapped him as hard as she could across his right cheek. And then she slugged him in his belly. The Constable wrapped his arms around his middle and doubled over.
No wonder no one wanted this stupid job, he thought.
Marla sighed. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll do it. Never mention my history again.”
And she walked away.
People didn’t mention Marla’s history. It was too sad.
The mother of the dead child had taken no food or drink, save liquor, for over a week. When Marla arrived, the woman was in bed. The room reeked of sweat and sick and an overripe chamber pot. The husband had given up days ago, opting to drown his grief in the company of men at the tavern, rather than increase it in the presence of his raving wife.
Marla took the pitcher to the pump and filled it. She emptied the chamber pot and changed the sheets and opened the windows to let in the day. The mother of the dead child scowled and howled and made a feeble attempt at fighting, but she was too weak.
And anyway, no one could best Marla in a fight. No woman, no man, no soldier. No one.
Finally, when the grieving mother was in a clean gown on clean sheets, Marla propped her up on a pillow and started spoon-feeding a soup with eggs and chicken and chervil. Easy to digest. Good for the soul.
The mother sipped it dutifully.
Finally: “You had one, didn’t you?” the mother said. “A magic child.”
Marla took a long breath through her nose. Her face was stone. She didn’t answer.
“How old were you?” the mother said.
Marla closed her eyes. “Fifteen,” she said. “I was fifteen.”
The woman’s eyes were red and damp. “Hell of a thing,” she said, and Marla nodded. “Yours still alive?”
Marla stood. She needed to get out. Right now. She forced herself to stay. Turning to the woman in the bed, she held her eyes for a long time. “There’s no way to know. They don’t exist, remember?” But the woman’s face was pleading. And insistent. Marla sighed. “Probably not.”
She filled up the water jug one more time, and hid the whiskey and made sure there were enough foodstuffs nearby. She kissed the mother on each cheek and told her that every day would be a little easier.
A lie, of course.
She left without another word.
She did not tell her that her breasts still leaked for a child who went away forever.
She did not tell her that her heart, once big and passionate and full of heat, was now a tight, tiny stone, rattling in her cold, empty chest.
She did not tell her that every night she saw her girl, her taken girl—pale lips, milky eyes—at the top of a dark tower, flung out against the spangle of stars in a limitless sky.
She did not tell her that every night she dreamed of flowers. Red flowers, red flowers, red, red, red, red.
15. Now.
The junk man’s daughter slides along the back of the low, one-roomed building that houses the Constable’s office. The alley lights are out again—energy crisis. It is always an energy crisis. She appreciates the dark. Pressing her hands against the wall, she curls her fingers into the bricks. The sun is down and the moon isn’t up yet. The night air is a puckering cold, but the wall is still warm, and so are her hands. She can hear the Constable inside, explaining things to the Inquisitor.
“I don’t care what you think you’ve heard, sonny,” she hears the old man say, “there ain’t been a whiff of magic anywhere in the county since the last batch of those babies, and we both know full well what happened to ’em, don’t you dare think I don’t remember. You can’t make a stone bleed and you can’t make an ox lay eggs and you sure as hell can’t find magic where it’s not. Now you can write that down on your report and send it on up to your superiors. You got bad information is all. And not the first time, neither.”
A scribble of pen on paper.
An old man’s harrumph.
The junk man’s daughter leans her cheek against the radiant bricks and inhales the scent of sun and clay and smoke. Dust from the stockyards. The oily belch of the munitions factory down the road. The bricks keep a record of the town’s life in smells. The girl smiles. She loves her home. She loves it so much. Despite everything. She bounces a couple times to steady herself, and then she begins to climb.
The Minister’s many faces loom on the top of every building—paper eyes, paper lips. They are large, faded, and garishly lit, as though watching the town. The Minister is always watching, with his smooth face and his white teeth and his rigid smile. There are only eighteen buildings in town, and thus there are also eighteen Ministers of varying sizes, the largest of which sits atop the Constable’s office.
It is terribly large.
And in this, the largest of the Minister’s faces, the dear leader does not smile. He does not show his teeth. His eyes are wide. His lips curl in. He is frightened, she thinks. Or angry. He is a child lost in the wood, a supplicant at the feet of a cruel and unfeeling god. The rims of his eyes are wet. His prominent cheekbones have a greenish pallor. She closes her eyes as she climbs and feels her heart skip a beat.
The junk man’s daughter loves this billboard best. And she loves the Minister, though he does not
know it. She shinnies up the bracework behind the Minister’s face, as clever as a spider, and hooks around to the catwalk along the bottom rim.
“There were only two babies in this county born with the mark last time ’round, and one of them died before it took its first breath. You know it. You saw ’em. You held that dead baby in your own two hands and you made me throw it in the trash heap to be burned.” The girl hears the smash of a fist on a desk. She hears mugs and paperclips rattle and fall. The Constable’s voice is loud. Rageful. The Inquisitor says nothing. He only scratches his pen on the paper. “You think I don’t remember? I was there, damnit. You took the pictures and ran the tests and filled out your goddamned forms, and that was that.” Each word is an accusation. “And now you’re wasting my time on rumors? Please. It’s a lot of old nonsense, and you know it.”
She can hear the worry in the Constable’s voice, hiding under the righteous anger and indignation, and she knows it is for her. The Constable’s one for secrets, that’s for sure. And he’s one of a precious few that gives a rat’s nethers over whether she lives or dies. Which is why she feels a great sorrow for what she is about to do. She has never wanted anyone to get in trouble.
She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.
“You can interview the whole damn town if you want to,” says the Constable’s voice. It is heightened now. And even louder than before. He is a man to be reckoned with, even when he is lying. “But it’s the same. You’ll find nothin’ when there’s nothin’ to find. Unlicensed magician, my eye.”
The junk man’s daughter feels it first in her ankle bones. A buzz and heat. She removes four strands of hair from her head and, with loops and skillful knots, ties them into the shape of a butterfly. The buzzing sensation crawls its way through her bones. It is in her knees, then her hips. It inches up her spine. The butterfly made of hair is motionless in her hand. The buzz reaches her shoulders and down her arms, and spreads upward into her skull. It is in her fingers, her jaw, her teeth. She blinks bright floaters out of her eyes. Her eyelashes begin to singe.
She places the butterfly made of hair on her tongue and gently presses her lips together. She puffs out her cheeks and closes her eyes, and feels that unpleasant buzz heat its way through her muscles and organs. She feels it crawl across her skin like the scuttle of a thousand ants. She is covered. She is burning. She is so alive.
Dreadful Young Ladies and Other Stories Page 16