Choices

[vulnavia]

Have you ever marveled at the way we become products of our choices? As kids it was ‘Eenie Meenie’ or ‘one potato, two potato’. As we grew up we progressed to the flip of a coin or drawing straws, dine-in or take out, or in my case…

It was getting dark and the ‘knuckle’ was telling me she was getting hungry again. To tell the truth, the old engine wasn’t the only thing rumbling; aside from an occasional truck stop hot dog, my last real food was almost 1700 miles ago, and I was ready for a hot meal. I topped of the tank at a little station on the edge of town then eased toward a brightly lit section of this little burg.
The café was clean enough and the smells from the kitchen were promising. I love the looks I get from citizens when I pull up and get off. All five foot four of me. You know, “What’s a little girly girl like you doing on that big old bike?” I slid into a corner booth and tossed my aviator cap on the table as a waitress came up with a pot of coffee. “Could I get some cream, too; a strip steak, rare and fries.” She toddled off to turn in the order and bring back a small pitcher of cream. I spent the next few minutes casually watching the other patrons and wondering if I had made the right choice.

The phone’s incessant jangling interrupted my mid-morning routine; “Yeah?”
“You still looking for some work?” His tone was just as snide as I remembered it. This was not exactly the serene start I hoped for my day. “Working for you, ‘bastian?”
“No way I’d hire you, cowboy. Nah, the guy I work for is needing a new collector, the last one had an accident. Anyway, I figured this would square things between us. Told them you were a pretty good ‘in-and-out’ and not one to back down. I did NOT tell them you occasionally like to cover the ground in brass. Anyway, the job’s in Anchorage, boat comes in weekly and you won’t be doing any delivery work. Pay’s twenty-five a week. He wants you up here by next Thursday. I can have a ticket waiting for you at the airport…”
“Oh, hell no! I ain’t flying anywhere. I’ll ride up.” Hmm, ten large times twelve.
“Yeah, well just don’t kill yourself before you get here. I stuck my neck out a bit on this and now we’re even.” The click of the receiver cut short my opinion of his idea of ‘even’.

Just once I’d like to order a rare steak and actually get one, at least the coffee wasn’t too bad, but it was no café au lait. I flipped a ten on the table, grabbed my cap and my check, paid and walked into the brisk night. I have spent days (nights?) trying to piece together the rest of that evening. An exotic face and a name that began with ‘R’, beyond that is like trying to see clearly through a webby curtain; peripheral images that refuse to come into focus, I can’t even remember if she spoke to me. And as another night falls I find I am still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that I am me yet more than ‘me’. Or perhaps less.

[vulnavia]

This isn’t what I expected. Hard enough comprehending what I’ve become, I’m still struggling with the method used to sustain myself. Too much like cannibalism. Sure there are other options but the effort expended hunting the sewers for the rats needed (vile thought in itself!) and the compelling drive of the thirst demanding to be satisfied...I’m just going to be pissed if I end up spending eternity with some blood born disease. The fantasy books are wrong on so many counts, why not this too?

I left the bike parked near the café and decided to do a foot reconnaissance of the town and surrounding area. I found myself in a small commercial district; shops, warehouses and offices and turned down a main street, the dark sidewalk regularly lit by street lamps. I haven’t seen many junkies, homeless or prostitutes. I did occasionally spot other not-humans, a few stared, most just ignored me. Humans were the vast majority, lots of law enforcement as well which I thought was due to the...others like me. But it seems there is a fair sized organized crime element here as well. I wonder if they’re hiring? My visions of a new and lucrative job in Alaska blurred and vanished. Passing under the light, wrapped in thought, I felt the hair at the back of my skull prickle and I froze staring at the sidewalk. It seemed an eternity before my conscious brain accepted what my animal brain instinctively knew: I had no shadow. Belatedly ducking into a narrow alley, I came to the conclusion that it wouldn’t be a good idea to leave right now, at least until I figure out how to keep from being found out and killed. No shadow, no reflection either and it wasn’t just mirrors; not on the window glass or polished metal of the new-ish Lexus I ran past. Nothing. Hurrying down the alley a thug stepped away from a building and blocked my path. Not in the mood to play right now, chica. I stopped and drew a small knife from my belt sheath and she proceeded to kick my *** like I was a newborn baby! This isn’t happening! I ran blindly, putting the lights behind me as quickly as I could, through a park green and into a wooded area at the outskirts of town.

The humiliation hurt more than the little bullet wound. So much for supernatural badassery. I was going to need to score some firepower myself if I hoped to continue this reborn existence, pathetic as it was proving to be. I wonder if anything I have learned as a human is going to help me. I sat on the grass beneath a huge tree. Definitely a gun or two. And a safe place to duck into if things got too hairy. Those will cost money. Dammit, I felt seventeen again! Penniless, homeless, unskilled and surviving on petty thievery. I know I’ve said I’d like to start my life over but this is not what I had in mind. The chuffing sounds of a passing large animal shook me from my reverie; this is no place for a wimp with an itty-bitty knife. I climbed the tree and waited until the sounds faded to nothingness.
Sliding back down, I began walking toward town planning to use the time to calm my mind and line up a course of action.


A place to hole up should be first; I was beginning to get the feeling that, regardless of which side of the law they were on, it would still be a case of them against me. Them being humans.

Funny, I don’t remember any of these trees. Either I was really spazzing when I ran out here or I missed a turn someplace. A line of some old poem drifted through my head, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep; …And miles to go before I sleep.” A tiny thrill of panic zipped up my spine as my eyes strained to see a horizon through the heavy timber and I picked up my pace. In a small clearing I caught a faint lightening of the sky to my right; finally, the town lights. Or, or, oh crap! Even if I tried to run for it, I wasn’t going to make it. I ripped off boughs of evergreens by the dozens, and lay down covering myself by interweaving the branches as best I could on top of me. My last thought as I covered my face against the bluing sky was if the sun could turn us to ash or were the tales wrong there as well.

[vulnavia]

Oh dammit to HELL! I awoke with every nerve screaming and my neck feeling as if I tried to block a chainsaw with it! The maddening pain was joined with a raging thirst. It took several minutes to comprehend what happened. All my branches were gone. Not just moved, like an animal would have done, but piled neatly one atop the other under a nearby tree. To add insult to injury my neck had an enormous slash wound. The baffling part was the complete lack of tracks, human or animal, in the soft loamy soil. Clearly whoever had done this was just playing with me, torturing for no apparent reason like a child pulling wings off a fly. Little comfort that I was still functional. I felt as if I were starving, struggling to focus I backtracked as best I could remember and turned left wondering what were the odds I’d find a family of campers.
At last I came within sight of the town’s skyline and at the edge of the woods managed to catch a brace of rabbits. A couple passing humans near a building, the hunger making me forget about both cannibalism and discretion; the first was easy enough but the second I didn’t have the strength for and he ran when he saw “Captain Crispy” attack his friend. I didn’t have much luck picking pockets either, looking like a freak show reject.
Not much point describing the agony of the next few nights as the wounds healed ever so slowly; the constant hunger and pain each a repeat of the night before. At least by now I had gotten over my aversion to drinking human blood. Why is it taking so long to mend? Five days of looking like a piece of bacon.

----------
A week of nearly incessant pilfering has allowed me to buy a small, unfurnished apartment. I made a trip back to the café and picked up my bike, spending much of the evening cleaning the dust and leaked oil off, polishing the knucklehead, springer and pipes. Needs a rebuild and new gaskets soon, when I get rich and get things sorted better maybe. Snuck her up the elevator to my room and laid down a thick stack of newspapers under her...


Texas in June; warmer than I liked but eased a bit by cruising Loop 12 in a big circle. Still, I’d rather have been home.
It was supposed to be a simple hit. I may have complicated it, but it was Sebastian’s fault it went as wrong as it did…
The guy was mid-sixties, assistant in the state attorney general’s office. High enough to be privy to useful information, and low enough on the pay scale to be tempted by the stack of benjamins every month. Married to a badly ageing socialite who sought comfort in face lifts, furs and a bottle of gin. A daughter, late twentys, working as a paralegal in some Dallas law firm. The problem was the old dude was starting to hold out for more money, trying to pad his nest before taking a powder on the whole thing; too many ‘coincidences’ were causing the AG’s office to begin looking internally. And if they got around to questioning him, his answers were going to be inconvenient for a lot of people.
His daughter’s name was Elena and between the time she got off working as a paralegal and went home she usually spent one or two hours as a volunteer at one of the local animal shelters. The plan was to make nice with her and collect what info I could on dad’s routine or plans. I’ve always been a sucker for animals so it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience to sign up to help at the same times she did. At first, it was intimidating working beside someone like that even if we were just cleaning litterpans and washing food bowls. But she was naive and honest, and always reminded you of daffodils and sunbeams. I appreciated the fact that she wouldn’t shirk the nasty cleaning and never brought up her money or education. By the end of the week she asked if I’d like to join her for a cup of coffee after the shelter closed. Our coffees became routine; we talked about growing up (she got the sanitized version of my childhood) and how, as a kid, she felt suffocated by her father’s political aspirations and her mother’s upbringing while I talked of the places I had been and where I wanted to visit. I have no great love for mankind, so I was surprised I felt so relaxed around anyone.
One afternoon I talked her into a ride out to White Rock Lake park (she’d never been on a motorcycle) and she mentioned that her father would be hosting a fundraiser that Friday for a state senator running for re-election. It took a few minutes of casual ‘dumb hick’ curiosity to get the name of the valet service and caterer. That evening I called Sebastian.

[vulnavia]

I think I’m finally starting to get the hang of this. I hate the damned baby steps though. I located several shops, some banks (I’m tempted to try my Bonnie Parker impersonation, but there are always so many cops!) and cafés with public computers. A bit of a waste as far as I’m concerned, I’ve never bothered to learn how to use one.
Sneaking has always been fun, there is something satisfying about learning things not necessarily intended for you. The ability to sneak has another use almost as rewarding; stealing stuff! For the past week I have spent my time gathering information and booty to sell or pawn as the opportunity arises. I managed to find out that not every...ok, I’ll say it, vampire...is like me. No clue what they are called or what I am, yet. But I’ve been spending time testing my limits and have learned a few new tricks, one is a sneaky little number that’s come in handy especially when you consider the amount of security in most of the commercial buildings. Still trying to find stuff for the apartment that I like. The sound of my footsteps and voice echoing from the walls in the bare rooms is unnerving. At times it almost sounds like there is a second voice…
Security in this building isn’t much better than a flop house hotel. I was just sitting in the lobby minding my own and was attacked by a human. What’s to keep them out of my room? I suppose I’ll have to find a way to booby-trap the heck out of it. As grandpa used to say, “Locks just keep honest people honest”. I just hope I don’t end up blowing myself to bits, I ain’t nearly as good with explosives as Sebastian.

The call to Sebastian was brief, he’d do some checking and get back with me. I had always envied him his contacts. For someone who took so much pleasure in devising ways to off people he was almost sadistic in the enjoyment he got in talking to them. Watching him at a party was a riot; he’d talk to them a bit, size them up, then envision personalized ways to dust them. I never gave two snots in a shoebox for socializing. Human relationships are too demanding. Animals on the other hand are closer to god than humans could ever aspire to be.
I was pulling on my jeans, a towel wrapped around my wet hair, when someone rapped on the door. A quick look through the peephole revealed Sebastian’s slightly distorted but familiar features; narrow nose, thin lips. I flipped the lock so he could let himself in and turned my attention back to getting dressed.
“This is coming together easier than I hoped.” He flopped down on the cheap sofa and lit a cigarette.
“Well, give me the Cliff Notes version or I’ll be late at the shelter.”
“Whatever. It is just the animals you’re going for, right? Anyway, it took a bit of doing but I have a way in through the valet service. From there it should be a piece of cake.”
“And your instrument of choice?”
“Oh, percussion definitely. Triangle or cowbell I think. I picked up some model airplane racing fuel. Add a touch of nitrocellulose, a pinch of ammonium nitrate and a dash of elfin magic. Take a thimbleful, top it off with a number six cap*: poof! I figure to connect it to the front wheel and use the odometer linkage as a ‘timer’. Tick off a few miles, baby boom and goodbye front wheel, steering linkage, hydraulic brakes. Should be fun if it’s rush hour.”
I shook my head. “You’re a real piece of work. Gotta go. Lock up when you leave.” I snatch up my leathers as I open the door, “And stay out of my left over pizza.”

[vulnavia]

I got lost in the sewers today and panicked. Muffled voices echoing off the damp, slimy walls. There are some pretty creepy things down there and a lack of safe places to hide. Though I really have to question if there are any havens anywhere. Ended up coming out in a fenced in area of town; quarantined zone, I heard someone say. But why? Radiation? Biohazard? I found out soon enough. I ran into the first walking corpse in an abandoned theater, skin pale and greenish, shrunk snugly to the skull beneath.

Elena was just getting out of her ’57 300SL as I pulled into the shelter parking lot; she gave me a mischievous smile, waiting until I shut off the bike before speaking: “So, do you have any plans for Friday night?”
“No…oh, hold on. I, uh, I don’t do social gatherings.” The soft ticking of the hot pipes faded as we walked to the entrance.
“No, silly. I was going to ask if you’d give me an excuse not to be there myself. Those things are sooo boring. I thought you might give me another motorcycle ride and we could go to Fair Park? See the gardens and the lake? Or someplace else if you prefer. Anything to spare me listening to politicians glad-handing for campaign money.”
“Sure, why not. Sounds like fun.”
“Fantastic! Come by around 5pm. That should allow me to gracefully exit long before any of the guests arrive.”
I didn’t hear from Sebastian until Friday morning when he came tap tapping at my door. Groaning, I let him in and turned back to the little kitchenette where my Monsieur Java was taking his sweet time making my ‘breakfast’.
“If you are going to darken my doorstep before noon, please have decency not to be so stinking happy. Coffee?” He nodded, still smiling and slid onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
“What can I say, I enjoy my work.”
Pouring the coffee, I glanced up at his face, pale in the weak light of the small florescent bulb above the counter. His thin lips seemed to disappear in his smile, giving the image of a skull topped with a thick shock of dark hair. “You haven’t done anything yet. I have thought of a couple hiccups though. How do you plan to cover the fact that you’re using plastique? And how will you be sure that it does the job? One of these days your ‘creativity’ is going to get in the way.”
“And you ask too many questions. You’re only responsible for your part, so what do you care? But since you asked, I plan to put a small, sealed container of nitromethane in a discrete location. It isn’t much for burning exposed to low temperatures but it will go boom pretty good if you hit it with a hammer. No front wheel, steering or brakes and the car is bound to hit something. Not much left but picking up the pieces.”
“Ok, but it will still be obvious it was no accident. There’s that whole ‘chickens coming home to roost’ thing.”
“Let me worry about it.” He smiled, finished his coffee and left like a good magician. Always leave them guessing.

[vulnavia]

Today I did a bit more exploring; ran across a few gangstas and gave them back some for the one who shot me, it seems ages ago but it’s only been a few weeks. Pickings are pretty slim, I need to find a better neighborhood to rob. The city seems more tense, more alert tonight than usual. Ha, it can’t be over the two rent-a-badges who ambushed me in my last B&E. I gave them the chance to walk away. Maybe it has to do with the nightmare I ran across while walking down a side street, some monstrous creature…thing. I took a couple of shots at it but it just reared up and came at me, I ducked into a café and nearly got blown up by a proximity mine. Who the heck puts a mine in a public building like that, I ask ya? Talk about a town full of wack-jobs. And I have another problem, I think someone is following me. Occasionally I hear someone whispering behind me, in the shadows. But I can never catch them.


The answering machine was flashing when I walked in from shopping, I hit the replay message button before heading to the kitchenette to put away my milk and box of PopTarts (breakfast of champignons) and Sebastian’s voice drifted across the distance. “Easy peasy, the valets and caterer are supposed to show up between 4:30 and 5. Give us time to set up before the guests start arriving at six, and me the three minutes I need. See you in the funny papers.”
I grabbed a quick shower and gulped down a cup of leftover coffee I heated in the microwave. The knuckle barely got out of third until we hit the highway. Dammit, big D traffic at quitting time on Friday. I was gonna be late. I ran the big bike between lanes earning nasty looks from the cagers. It was a quarter past five when I pulled through the gated entrance and up the front drive, past the valet stand where they were already beginning to park the cars of early arriving guests. Sebastian seemed surprised that I was there, but gave me a subtle thumbs up and that nasty smile. I saw Elena’s emerald green SL parked by the garage, surrounded by a couple of Benzs and Beemers. I rang the bell and the door opened to her mother, martini in hand and baked as a pan of biscuits, “Catering staff are to use the rear entrance, and I hope you brought a change of clothing…”
“No ma’am, I’m here to see Elena.”
“Oh, dear. You’re her little friend from the shelter. She is so bad about taking in all kinds of strays.”
I was trying to figure out how to respond to the insult as she continued, “She had to leave for a bit, said she had to run back to the office to pick up a brief to work on before Monday. You are welcome to wait for her by the bath house if you like.”
“Her car is still in the drive, maybe I can catch her…”
“Oh she left about 20 minutes ago. Took her father’s car, it was the only one those stupid valets didn’t have blocked in.”
It took all my composure to thank her, turn and walk to the bike. Sebastian was just taking the keys from another guest and I quickly signed “C F”, kicked the knuck over and rolled the throttle, leaving a short trail of black on the brick paved drive behind me. The situation was indeed a full Charlie Foxtrot. There was no way to catch her and I knew Sebastian’s work well enough to know I didn’t want to come on it; animals and innocents are the only things I get a bit squeamish about. Now it was all about damage control.

[vulnavia]

Whoever it is following me, is getting braver and I’m afraid someone, some human, will hear the whispers of my stalker and be curious enough to really look and see me for what I’ve become. I stayed in my apartment for most of the week, venturing to the lobby for a random human when I couldn’t ignore the hunger anymore. The problem is they may be getting suspicious; they are staying in groups and that makes it risky to feed. I did manage to venture out and break into a few homes and a warehouse or two, but the local fence is a bit of a gyp, I did well just to get a third of the value. Maybe he just needs to get to know me better. He did have a nice sword and some mediocre pistols, even a sweet little Uzi. A shame he didn’t have an H-K PDW.
--------------

Pure luck is all that kept me from getting stopped on the way back, the old bike a blur weaving through traffic. I popped into the apartment long enough to call a cab. The few minutes wait was hardly time enough; toss on a wig and swap leathers, jeans and boots for a little summer dress, flats, shades and grab a large ladies’ tote from the closet.
I asked the cab to drop me off at a gas station just a couple of blocks from a car rental. A ‘signature’ and swipe of a pseudonymous credit card and a little Toyota 86 retraced the Harley’s route, slowed only by the minute stop to drop the plates and take the MP7 out of the bag.
Sebastian was nowhere in sight as I rolled down the window and eased up the driveway, dropping the coupe into first but with no intention of stopping. Three quick shots from the rear lawn told me where he was and I took it as a signal. At 950 rounds a minute, it took longer to change the 40 round clips than to empty them, the H-K’s barrel was still smoking as the Toyota took a deep breath and sped back to the highway. Northwest to DFW where I leave the car in one of the long-term lots and catch DART rail back to the south city, a bus to the apartment. There is no way I am sticking around; success or failure the risk is too great. I stuff the dress, wig, flats and tote in a trash bag and tie it shut. Dressing takes a bit longer, the adrenaline shakes are slowing me down, or my brain is moving so fast my body has no hope of keeping up. A couple changes of shirts and jeans folded, with the MP7 on top, wrapped in an old Army blanket bedroll; I had just picked up the roll and trash bag when the jangling ring of the phone scared the crap out of me.
“Yeah?”

“What the hell, b****? The cops will have no trouble picking up your casings, they could do it with a shovel! Do you always go cowboy or do you just come apart when things get tight?”

“Says ‘Captain Cockup’. Didn’t I say that your creativity was gonna mess you up? Only in the process, now I’m involved.”

“Hey, no one told you to come back. You were only hired to collect info. You could have just left.”

“Except you ended up killing the wrong person; the person I spent all that time with to get that information. You think the cops wouldn’t eventually come looking for me? And I’m also partly responsible for making sure the job got done. Thanks to you I’ll be lucky if anyone considers me for another job. And then what am I supposed to do? You owe me, yo-ne-ga.”

“Whatever. Where you headed?”

“Taco Bell time. Then who knows? A slow way home, maybe.” I dropped the receiver and picked up the bedroll again. The trash bag joined the dozen or so in the dumpster from the other tenants, tied the bedroll to the ***** bar, kicked the engine over and pointed the headlight in the direction of Juarez.

[vulnavia]

Dear Diary…Ok, seriously something is wrong. It’s more than just my friendly stalker of late, as unnerving as that is. I tried telling myself all week that the sounds in my apartment were due to thin walls and loud neighbors but now I’m sure the source is actually inside the apartment…


“Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
The odometer ticked off the miles; I-20 to Big Spring and north on 87 to 180 and into Carlsbad where I stashed the H-K in a station locker before turning back into Texas, south to El Paso and Juarez.
A couple days of drive-bys, bad food and mediocre entertainment at the corrida and I had my fill of what Ciudad Juarez has become. I headed across northern Mexico, keeping tabs on Texas news stations. A description of me and one 'Juan Escobar', valet (funny he is a dead ringer for my erstwhile working partner) as ‘persons of interest’. By the time I reached Ensenada they released police sketches and had pieced together enough of the falsified notes Sebastian had planted in the car (i.e. they had no other viable leads) that they were calling it a retaliatory strike by some local drug syndicate the good assistant was checking into. ‘Juan Escobar’ was wanted for questioning and I was taking no chance they had forgotten about me. A box of cheap hair dye and I’m a redhead, a cheap dentist to pull an upper molar on each side and I have hollow cheeks like Kate moss without giving up my fried squirrel and gravy. The bike would be more difficult; four years of myself spent turning an inanimate object into a reflection of my spirit and now I was going to erase part of it.
Four weeks and a paint job later I was cruising up the coast highway to Coronado then Vegas, Pagosa Springs…the miles ticked off in an endless blur. By Garden City my wallet was starting to look like a Dachau survivor. I could either try to hustle a job scrubbing dishes or head home. I had made my decision before I had completed the thought; southeast and back to my beloved Ozark mountains.

[vulnavia]

I decided to name my stalker; Shadow Woman and Hides-in-Corners, and she is pissing me off. She makes no demands, doesn’t even seem to be trying to talk to me, just whispers semi-incoherently in the dark to herself. She’s making life more difficult than it already is (life? Is that even correct?). Psss, psss, pssst while I’m trying to dodge guards and make some cash; mumble, mumble as I try to stealthily sate this wretched hunger. I know the ***** is the reason I’ve been caught so much of late and ended with so little to show for my efforts. And just last night humans caught me sleeping; she let them in, I’m sure of it. Probably went out and dragged them here. Catching her is going to give me so much pleasure. Then there is the other problem. I came to the conclusion that my apartment was bugged and somehow what I was hearing was some kind of feedback. Until I picked up a second apartment. The voices in it are even louder


The foothills rose up gently behind the old cabin. The old horse perked up slightly as I came down the drive, trying to decide if it were worth the effort to spook at the new ‘scary thing’. He turned his attention back to the tough clump of fall grass. Uncle’s pick-up slowly rusting in the drive. I remember the smell of the old truck when we would bounce down the logging roads to gather firewood; gas, oily exhaust and, when you turned the defroster on, the smell of old mouse urine from the nests they built the previous summer.

Aunt Lily appeared in the open doorway as I dropped the kickstand, the smell of fresh frybread and homemade stew following her like a shadow. She stopped short; her eyes narrowed as they went from my face to my hair and back again making little clucking sounds of disapproval before stepping off the porch into the dusty path to give me a quick hug.
An exuberant 17, my cousin was a bit more direct, “Dang, pinto! It ain’t Halloween till next month.”
The thin brown hand was nearly invisible as it moved, the nostalgic ‘thwock’ of a wooden spoon meeting the back of Eliza’s head as Aunt Lily returned to her old wood cook stove and the goodies cooking there.
“Ow momma! She knows I’m jokin’!”

Pinto, no nation…these were the nicer names I was called as a kid. Grandma’s sister’s daughter, Lily, and her family were the only ones on my mother’s side to completely welcome me into the ‘family’. I had no warmer reception with my dad’s family. At best I was ignored by both sides. At worst? Let’s just say by the time I was 12 I learned to run faster than the men and to hide from the girls unless Lily was close.
Eliza and I walked over to the tire swings hanging from an ancient beech and we sat, dragging our feet in the stony reddish dirt.
“Come for the ‘stomp’ tonight? You ain’t been to a dance for ages.”
“Probly ‘cause I always seem to do more fighting than dancing.”
“It could be different this time.”
“Yeah and the hickory might stay awake for seven nights.”
Eliza looked downcast. “You know I was only foolin’, right?”
I reached out with my fingertips and poked her in the forehead. “No problem, ‘Cochise’. Let’s go steal some bread.”
“Hey! Youn’s are gonna give me brain damage!”

[vulnavia]

The inside of the two room cabin was comforting and homey and always smelled of good food and cedar. Another piece of golden frybread came out of the skillet and joined the growing stack, draining on paper towels. Eliza grabbed two pieces and smeared some chokecherry jelly on them.

“Hey, Aunt Lily, you got an outlet I can plug my phone into?”
“Unplug the radio and use that one. You two can go outside to eat that, I don’t want to spend the afternoon cleaning jelly messes.”
“Thanks.”

Eliza and I wandered to the pasture, our attention divided between watching where we were walking and trying to keep the jelly from sliding off the warm bread.
“How long are you planning on staying? Mom was kinda sad that you didn’t make dad’s funeral, she really would have liked you to be there.” Uncle Nathan’s funeral had been three months ago, right in the middle of the Texas fiasco.
“Sorry about that, ‘Cochise’. I don’t think anyone else missed me much.” We spent the next hour or so picking the cockleburs and fairy knots out of the old horse’s mane and tail. “She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes in shape no bigger than an agate stone. . . That plaits the manes of horses in the night and bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish hairs, which once untangled, much misfortune bodes.”
“You a poet now?”
“Nah, just a bit of Shakespeare I remembered. C’mon, I need to go check my phone. The president might have tried to call me.”
Eliza responded by kicking a dried ‘road apple’ at me and sprinting for the house. The chase stopped at the porch, “No horse hair in my kitchen. Eliza, go wash up.” I started to follow when Lily motioned for me to come in. Brushing myself off, I picked up my phone and walked over to the kitchen table where Lily was pouring me a cup of coffee and chicory.
“There’s tinned milk in the fridge. And your phone rang, but they hung up before I could call you.” I pressed the menu; 37 missed calls, 0 messages and all from the same number, going back two days. Frankly, I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk to him yet. If ever. Something in my face must have concerned Aunt Lily. “I know you think life hasn’t been fair, and you certainly haven’t gotten your share of love. But you’ve cut people out of your life, too. No one makes us walk the path we are on, we choose it on our own, a good road or a bad one, and we decide whether we stay on that road or not. Even a bad road may have its purpose.” She stood setting her empty cup in the sink. “Come with us tonight, it might do you good.”I thought a minute, then shook my head. “I appreciate it, but I think I’m going over to the folks house for a while, try to clean it up a bit. “Say bye to Eliza for me.” The bike kicked up a rooster tail of dust as I left, not knowing when I’d be back.

The drive to the folk’s old, tiny tarpaper shack was longer than I remembered. Or it seemed that way because that time was spent thinking on stuff I really didn’t want to think about. I threaded the bike through the overgrowth, dodging the junipers and oak saplings that sought to reclaim the forgotten lane. I guess I was half hoping to find it neglected but standing in silent testament, so I was heartbroken to see nothing but a few charred pieces of wood and bits of melted glass. Crappy as my childhood had been, my chest hurt when it finally sunk in; you can never go back home. I retraced my way back to the highway and rolled the throttle open trying to outrun the hurt.

North and east through the hills to a rundown wide spot in the road called Gravois. Mom and her 10 or 12 siblings took turns riding an old plow horse, five at a time, to school here when there was still a mill. But now it clung desperately to life on the tiny bit of tourist trade it could grab from the newer, flashier places. It looked the way I felt. I picked up a few necessaries at a market saw an ad for a tiny, dumpy one room shack for rent. At one point it had been a ‘summer cabin’ for tourists but when Silver Moon closed, the shacks were moved or just torn down. Well, hell. Why not? I dialed the number.

The cabin was almost like home; same single room, same bare wall studs with no insulation (allowing you to see directly outside through the occasional hole), wood stove, bare plank floor…the only difference was instead of tarpaper it had boards for the exterior. I sat the little sack of groceries in the sink and threw the bedroll on the floor.
It was nice waking up to nothing more than the sound of birds and the squirrels rustling through the first fall of leaves looking for late summer acorns. Tossing a hand full of kindling in the fire grate it didn’t take too long to start a fire. I took the sack of canned goods out of the sink and filled my tiny coffee pot with water and grounds and set it on the stove. I was washing my face when my cell started ringing.
“You still looking for some work?”