by Chris Dennis
“Don’t I know it!” Pam replied. “But why, is the real question?”
Tia stood militantly, her head craned to observe the many cardinals flicking erratically among the highest branches. She walked directly up to the little box and, with all her strength, shoved it backward a few feet toward the trees.
“What are you doing?” Pam cried out, except the box had produced an earsplitting squeal, like the sound of many metal gears grinding beneath the earth. The trap was attached to something. Pam could feel the mechanism rumbling below her feet. As it rolled through the leaves and dirt, the wooden walls of the box folded down until it was completely flattened out, making a perfect platform in front of a small hole where the trap had always sat. The two women stood over the opening in awe, peering down.
“How did you know?” Pam asked, her entire body throbbing.
“It was a hunch,” Tia said. “Obviously the box was put there to hide something. Like most inconspicuous things.”
“My God,” Pam said, moving into a better position, allowing the sun to illuminate the dark cavern below.
“It’s enormous down there. It must be an old mine shaft,” Tia said. “Down where all those old Indian bones transform into coal. Shall we go in?”
“Down inside?” asked Pam.
“Don’t you want to?” asked Tia.
Tia put her hands on Pam’s shoulders and pulled her away from the hole. Tia lifted a muscular leg and stomped around the opening. Stones and the earth tumbled down, clacking musically at the faraway bottom, echoing after they hit.
“You’ll fit perfectly now,” Tia said.
“Is this it?” Pam said. “Are we really doing this?”
“I just figure friends should help friends, Pam. Woman to woman. You know?”
“Are we friends?” Pam asked.
“Of course! More than friends, I’d say.” Tia patted Pam gently on the back.
Pam wasn’t sure. A faint trickling of water could be heard inside the cave. The underground magnified it, causing even the dripping to take on an infinite quality.
Tia knelt down. “Hello!” she called. The cave caught her voice and held it for a moment before flinging it in a dozen directions.
“Time is different down there,” Pam said.
“Undoubtedly,” Tia said, taking Pam’s hand. “You first?”
There was a rocky ledge right below the platform of the trap, and other stones like steps that led into the blackness, making the descent seem irresistible.
Pam had her Walkman. She put it on after finding the first landing. Cher’s voice scored the dank air so finely it was as if she were down there with Pam, singing to her from inside a thousand moist hallways. There was the silver light in the distance, mirrored by the glistening deposits of coal that ran in bent seams through every corridor.
After a minute, Pam swore she heard her mother’s slurred, raspy alto, attempting to harmonize with Cher. She picked the most obvious hallway and stepped inside. Maybe Tia had come to help her after all, she thought. Pam felt different, smaller. The hallway she’d chosen widened into another, larger cavern. There was a placid pool at her feet where dangerous fish darted in the murk, disturbing the sparkling sediment. Reflected in the water she could see a fire, and an ugly shaman behind her, descending in a glass elevator. She didn’t even notice when Tia slid the box back, hiding the opening again. She could hardly hear the elaborate gears grinding overhead, their rusty teeth firmly catching as the trap locked into place.
Acknowledgments
So many people helped to make this book. Over a decade of my life went in to these stories. But I wasn’t alone. I was helped by the wisdom and work of numerous lovely and smart people: friends, family, colleagues, teachers, editors and one unwaveringly thoughtful agent. I don’t even know where to begin except the beginning. Through every version of every story my precious friend, Melissa Borries, the poet laureate of my heart, has given me endless amounts of supernatural insight and encouragement. There wouldn’t be a book without her. Also, Amy Baily, whose rare combination of genius and kindness helped me to write beyond myself. And, of course, my first creative writing teacher, Joey Flamm-Costello.
The world would be impenetrably dark without my friends and l have been lucky to have the kind who have always been gracious when I needed help: Gina Bayless, Lizz Cooley, Jona Whipple, Julai Whipple, Melanie Lentz, Robert Devillez, Kyle Winkler, Heather Overby, Maurine Ogbaa, Amanda Goldblatt, Katya Apekina and Trevor Wood. I am also grateful for my invaluable teachers: Rodney Jones, Beth Lordan, Kathryn Davis, Mike Magnuson, Marshall Klimasewiski and Kelly Wells.
I’m forever grateful for the love and support of my family: Carol Brooks, Paula France, John Mark Dennis, Lucy and Delaney Dennis, Shawn Owen and my sister and best friend, Monica Dennis.
Thank you so much to John Freeman, Ellah Allfrey, Patrick Ryan and Claire Boyle. And especially to PJ Mark and Mark Doten for their patience and generosity and for making me feel so deeply understood.