Paramour Is Unrelated

#15 (Part III)

2012-01-31T01:00:00.000-08:00

#15 An Answered Scream ( Part III)

“Here, now. That’s enough. You were sent to go get her. Not bring her here.” A new voice said. A shadow fell across my feet. It was solid and wide and no-nonsense. When the great gaspings for air stopped, when I no longer sucked in breath against the psychic venom, I straightened. The woman was as her shadow indicated: solid and forthright. And though her eyes were cold they also made a promise that I dared not let go of: I would survive this. I would survive this misery much as I’d survived everything that came before. All the betrayals that came before.

I would survive this thing my husband brought down upon my head.

#15 (Part II)

2012-01-30T01:00:00.000-08:00

#15 An Answered Scream ( Part II )

I stared at her. All thoughts of the times before disappeared under the weight of this newest loss. Crippling grief welled up within me. I bent in half, my arms wrapped around me. I bent in half and screamed. I screamed to the spring bud grasses growing beneath my feet. I screamed at the leather shoes shodding my feet. Shoes that, for a moment, I understood were not mine. Were never mine. I screamed because, in that very second of understanding I knew that I was no better than the paper dolls in my classroom.

#15 (Part I)

2012-01-29T01:00:00.000-08:00

#15 An Answered Scream ( Part I )

I was shattered. Utterly and truly shattered. "W-what happened?"

     Penny grimaced. She gestured to the ashy remains of the house. My home was reduced to remains. Coils of smoke still twisted upwards in wispy spirals. The soul of the house was being lost unto the wind. She said, "It happens sometimes when he gets angry."
     "He?"
     She turned to look at me, her gaze searching. Then, grasping my arm, she pulled me closer. "You have something from before that you hold onto, right? You keep a hold of it. Keep it in your mind."
     "If I don't?"
     "Then he wins. He gets it all. Try! Try now!"

#14 (Part IV)

2012-01-28T01:00:00.000-08:00

#14 Real versus Fake (Part IV)

"I. . . yes. I'm teaching them."

     She stepped in fully, her eyes going from row to row. Revulsion gathered in her eyes, spread to the thin press of her lips, and finally to the wrinkle of her nose. As if she smelled something rotten in. . . rotten in . . . I couldn't find the word to finish the saying.
     "I had them, once, for Sunday school."
     "You're a teacher, too?" I was at once thrilled to have such an acquaintance. Someone like me. It made me feel less alone.
     She smiled briefly. It was not enough to change the look in her eyes. "I've come to take you home."
     Oh, how my heart thundered in joyous ovation for this very moment.

#14 (Part III)

2012-01-27T01:00:00.000-08:00

#14 Fake versus Real (Part III)

"I will collect your books at the end of the day. Please don't play around. Your education is very important."

     The sudden cessation of noise hurt my ears.
     There was a scrape of sound somehow outside the others: like knowing jet black is not the same as ink black although the eyes might not be able to pick out the difference when one was layered over the other. I turned at this sound, unsurprised to see the face peering into the classroom. The door handle twisted and a woman stepped in.
     "You're teaching them?"

#14 (Part II)

2012-01-26T01:00:00.000-08:00

#14 Real versus Fake (Part II)

Of their own accord my fingers wrapped around the chalk. "Pay attention now: I want you to write down three colors you associate most with art." My eyes sank closed at the hush that went through the room. For a few moments I could pretend the scratching behind me came from the feet of birds nesting in the rafters, and not the nibs of fountain pens against composition papers. "And now write down three words that describe the colors you find on your clothes." I could pretend the breeze playing across the broken window panes was the source of the whispering I heard.

The chalk at least was real.

#14 (Part I)

2012-01-25T01:46:00.001-08:00

#14 Real versus Fake (Part I)

Of all the things to be real in a fake paper classroom - why the chalkboard? I pushed the thought aside."Open your composition books to -"

     Had I not known the children behind me were paper I would have sworn the sound of books slapping down on desks were real.I would have sworn the books were real, their desks were real, and that the giggling and whispering . . . all of it was real.
     Until I turned around.Not a single thing, paper doll or otherwise, was out of place. By accident my gaze fell on the cigarette-burn eyes. I shuddered and jerked around to face the only thing that I knew was real: the chalkboard. The cool stick of chalk in my hand lent a weight to reality. Just holding it helped soothe the fear caused cramping in my stomach.
     Behind me the room erupted into laughter.

#13 (Part III)

2011-12-15T01:00:00.000-08:00

#13 'Teach' Envelope (Part III)

I turned on my heel to look over the classroom. Paper faces, some pale and some brown with age, stared back at me. There was even one where someone had used a cigarette to burn holes for eyes. I did not look towards this one; my skin was already crawling with revulsion. As if talking to real children, and not oversized paper dolls, I addressed the class, "I expect you to behave. This is important. Someone has given you an identity through art. I am telling you about yourselves."
My words were a teacher’s words. They were the only protection I had against the waxy green eyes pasted to some faces, and the chalk brown drawn on others. There was even, amazingly enough, a face painted in crisp watercolor reds and purples. They all stared at me, unhindered by the noises that brought unwelcome memories to the surface of my mind. How well I remembered the taste of fear in my mouth, the prickle of nerves down my arms and legs. These were reminders of that night with my husband long ago. These feelings I had hoped to never experience again.

#13 (Part II)

2011-12-14T01:00:00.000-08:00

#13 'Teach' Envelope (Part II)

     I tried to put from my mind the horror stories my husband scared me with on long wuthering nights.  It was all a ruse for him, all to push me into his arms and us into a love making where I honored his hero's status.  After all, he was the one who saved me from the monsters and goblins in his stories.  Towards the end he hadn't made up a story, but told me to climb under the covers while he stood watch.  The wind had made noises like it did now.  "What is it?"  I had dared to peek over he edge of the comforter and ask.  "Fetches."  He said.
     From behind me came a shrill flute-ish whistle.  I jumped, spun around.  I glared at the cracked windows, the dirt encrusted windows.  These were the windows that made the entire building equal to that of a bottle organ, a mouthpiece to lost souls.  .
     With perspective back in balance I returned to teaching.  "We came into a new style of artistry.  I can see by the . . . by the designs on your dresses that you've already had an introduction to the subject."  I lifted my hand to the faded walls, wrote out the words 'Art Nouveau'.
     Somewhere, behind me, someone giggled.  I knew that sound, the distinctive uplift of a child in mischief.

#13 (Part I)

2011-12-13T01:00:00.000-08:00

#13 'Teach' Envelope (Part I)

     Low moans of tortured souls drifted under the door to the classroom.  I wrapped my fingers around the broken piece of chalk.  It wasn't the first time in the last hour I'd lost place in the lesson plan.  I turned back to the chalkboard, jumping at movement out of the corner of my eye.  Automatically my head whipped around, my arm came up for defense - and the arm of the shadow came up as well.  My shadow.  Just as I was to congratulate myself for yet another nervous reaction, the sounds stopped.
     Down the hall, as if from a distance, came the distinctive clatter of reed chimes.  And children giggling.
     Almost at once the moans started up again.

#12 (Part III)

2011-12-12T01:00:00.000-08:00

#12 The Nature of Punishment (Part III)

I lifted one hand to rub at my eyes. This is how tired I was: the black of the word “Teach” blazed up at me from the white of the envelope. I tore the envelope open. A chipboard key slid out. In a spidery scrawl the words, 'teach', 'trust' and 'communication' were recorded. The reverse of the heavy cardboard cut out was printed an address I recognized, an address that made my heart sink.
I did not want to go back there again. I did not want to face the macabre students in the linen and cotton and coffee sack colors. And though it was a different floor listed on the chipboard key, it might as well have been labeled Morgue. For that was how I suddenly felt: surrounded by hopeless death.

#12 (Part II)

2011-12-11T01:00:00.000-08:00

#12 The Nature of Punishment (Part II)

Deliberately, I turned my back on sleep. I swept the comforter to the side, hissing at the scrape of the toothpick ends along the flesh of my fingers. I padded to the envelope propped on the top of my suitcase. It was a light weight in my hand, a terrible burden of the future. More than anything in the world I had wanted my husband back. But that was door closed to me. Now my dreams were hamstrung and limited to things I could influence. Like teaching.

#12 (Part I)

2011-12-10T01:00:00.000-08:00

#12 The Nature of Punishment (Part I)

     All the comforts of my new home were stripped away. I hadn't seen earlier, hadn't thought to check whether I still had sheets and pillowcases. The idea of sleeping underneath a splinter embedded comforter as welcome as if it were glass shards I slept under for warmth. My only other option was to spend the night miserably frozen.
     At least sliding under the comforter gave a few moments reprieve from tomorrow’s task. The weighted cloth rested heavily over my body. If I lay still enough it was bearable. Almost
     I drifted along in the strange twilight between the awake and the not, my mind cataloging the rise of whispers from above, but not alarmed nor interested in what the people upstairs said. Until . . .
     "The tormented Oscar and Wilde once spoke to me of the nature of gods, 'If the gods wish to inflict a punishment, they answer our prayers.'  They would know the truth of the issue.  I believe them."

#11 (Part III)

2011-12-09T01:00:00.000-08:00

#11 The Table (Part III)

     At once the table collapsed.  Again the wrongness hit me: there was no loud booming sound of wood hitting tile as one would expect in a large, undecorated basement apartment.  It sounded  . . it sounded empty somehow.  Too light.  More like reedy wind chimes than fully realized wood.
The collection of wood bits at my feet made no sense at first.  They were an optical illusion my eyes would not sort out.  This was the remnant's of Thorn's table, a table made by a carver-magician.  A table Thunder assured me was important in the community.  A table that gave stability to the officials of the City of Tamorace.  I couldn't see the table for the hollowed insides.  Perfectly empty.  Except . . .
Except for the envelope protruding green-stick like from the top of one of the shattered legs.  Dread filled me.  I reached for the envelope.

#11 (Part II)

2011-12-08T01:00:00.000-08:00

#11 The Table (Part II)

Threaded into the cloth of the comforter spread out on my bed were splinters of wood. They'd been evenly spaced, perfectly held in by their fat needle bodies. Near perfectly shaped bodies. I set my bags down and extracted one from the comforter. No, not splinters. Tooth picks. Hundreds of them the same color as the shattered wood at the bottom of Thorn's table.
I padded back to the hallway. Something was wrong with the table, something beyond the four impressions marring the surface. For a moment I hesitated, hardly daring to touch the table.

#11 (Part I)

2011-12-07T01:00:00.000-08:00

#11 The Table (Part I)

There is no sight more bizarre than a table that has been destroyed by shattering the center of each leg. Impression marks scarred the warm surface. Indents from a sledge hammer showed where the blows - four equally well placed blows - landed. I could imagine the force of each blow traveling through the table, down the length of the leg until it was too much to bear and the feet . . . the hand turned feet exploded. Shredded.
Should have left splinters everywhere.
Someone had set the table back against the wall. Someone had swept the floor clean. Someone had gone as far as to wax my floor, and put a new liner in the trash can in the kitchen. Someone had left my bedroom door open. Someone had put a white down comforter on my bed similar to that in Thorn's home. Except . . .

#10 (Part IV)

2011-11-24T01:00:00.000-08:00

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part IV)

“It’s too late for that.” He said. “You’re going home, Ms. Applewhite. And you’re going to be hobbled.”

“I’ll run!”

“No money and no food. I doubt you’ll have much beyond the few clothes you brought along. What things you have left in your apartment will be gone forever. No. No, you won’t run.” He held up his hand so that his two fingers angled the gold circlet they pinched to catch a glint of the dim compartment light. “Not if you want your ring back.”

My heart froze. Instinctively I looked down to the hand he had held so tightly just moments ago. A pale band of skin circled one finger, the marriage finger, where a ring is set when a woman is wed. My gaze jerked to where the man with the newspaper stood.

Or had been.

I heard a faint cry, a broken cry, an infant’s cry, not mine. I was desperate and voiceless.

#10 (Part III)

2011-11-23T01:00:00.000-08:00

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part III)

He was not done. “You misunderstand me. You see it was the smart slave owners who found more unique ways to hobble a thief. Some slaves were, after all, more important if they could run. But they wouldn’t. Not after the master was done with them.”

“I’m no thief!”

“Oh, but you are. You’ve not completed your job to the best possible outcome. This is what you will be judged on. This is what I was judged on. You got on this train without what you were sent for.” He tapped Thorn's apology letter against his bottom lip. His green eyes studied me. Abruptly he stood, tucked his newspaper under his arm and started down the isle.

I caught up with him only a few rows away. “I’ll get off on the next stop, go back and force Thorn to give me the journal.”

He turned to face me, his legs braced apart. For the first time I appreciated the sleek muscles of his body. His pants and shirt molded to him almost like a second skin. Here was another man my grandmother would have written great things about. Once she had said there were men who knew how to properly use a chair. I wondered if the man with the newspaper was one such man.

“It’s too late for that.” He said, “You’re going home, Ms. Applewhite. And you’re going to be hobbled.”

“I’ll run!”

#10 (Part II)

2011-11-22T01:00:00.000-08:00

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part II)

My head snapped round to face him. “I didn’t steal it! I met with Thorn. He said plans fell through.”

"Our employer won’t see it that way. Do you know what hobbling is Ms. Applewhite?”

“N-no.” The word whispered from between numb lips.

His fingers tightened on mine, a warning. “In the old days a slave stealing away in the night – even if it was simply to cross from his master’s fields to the neighbor’s fields to visit a loved one – was seen as thievery. Most masters would hunt down the slave, chain the slave in the yard for all to see, and serve punishment with a sledgehammer or axe. Either one left the thieve unable to roam far.”

“I’m not a thief.” I tried to free my hand. His fingers tightened.

He was not done.

#10 (Part I)

2011-11-21T01:00:00.000-08:00

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part I)

I must have slept. Someone sitting beside me moved, and the cushion under me moved as well. The same someone bumped my arm. I heard the distinct crackle newsprint has when it is being folded back for the first time, when it is still fresh and un-creased.

“I find it tiresome to have to repeat myself.” The cultured, foreign voice of the man with the newspaper cut through my thoughts.

“I don’t have it.” I pulled the letter from my pocket.

His slim fingers lifted it from my hand. He was careful not to touch me. After a day of Thunder’s big-brother treatment I felt the lack of contact disturbing. I reached for the man’s hand only to pull back at the last moment. What was I doing?

“I’m sorry.” I turned my face back to the window.

“It’s not me you have to worry over.” His tone said he was annoyed. A moment later his cool fingers curled over mine. “In the old days thievery was not taken well.”

My head snapped round to face him. “I didn’t steal it!”

#9 (Part II)

2011-11-20T01:00:00.000-08:00

#9 The Note (Part II)

“Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster. “I am a teacher. Or I was supposed to be. My husband . . . well, if he were still here I’d be a teacher by now. I’d have a real classroom with real students. This job was my only shot at becoming a teacher again. Do you understand that Mister Thorn?” Tears gathered. “You’ve ruined my life!”

“She’s very dramatic.” Thorn said.

I tried to kick him.

Thunder caught me, set me down. “Put the blanket back and I’ll take you to the train station.

“Is there any chance,” The old man sitting on the couch spoke up, “That the table will be returned?”

All eyes turned to me.

“I think,” I said after a moment of consideration, “My employer wanted that journal. He sent me all this way. He gave me hotel vouchers and round trip tickets." I pinned Thorn with a look. "He deserves a note of apology at least.”

#9 (Part I)

2011-11-19T01:00:00.000-08:00

009 The Note (Part 1)

Laughter rumbled from the big man standing not more than six feet away. He took his leather cap off, rubbed his hand over the cloth tied over his head. His stained leather vest matched his pants. There were spikes on the toes of his boots. Three spikes. “I’m a professor.” He held a hand out to me, the palm itself as big as a dinner plate.

“You?”

“I’m Thorn.” Then, at once, the self-assurance of a professor and his prison arrogance melted away. “I don’t have the journal. You’ll have to tell your employer –“

I interrupted, temper wearing thin. “You lied! How could you do that to me?”

“Ms. Applewhite . . .” Thunder’s tone was warning.

I looked up at him. “He lied to my employer. He said come get the journal. My employer sent me. What do you think my employer is going to do now?”

I found myself lifted, turned, and staring right into Thorn’s eyes. It was from this perspective that I was reminded of the resemblance between Thunder and Thorn. It was in the deep chocolate color, the flecks of gold, the way their noses wrinkled up when unhappy with something.

“Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster.

#8 (Part II)

2011-11-18T01:00:00.000-08:00

#8 The Appraisal (Part II)

A moment later shadow blocked the slim line of light from under the bedroom door. “It is all right, Ms. Applewhite. Let me in.”

I did not let go of the comforter. My hands trembled, and turning the lock became a chore. Thunder pulled me into the living room, his arm draped over my shoulders.

“Damn to her!” The man belonging to the icy voice snarled, a hand going to his mouth and nose. He glowered at me with baleful black eyes. “Damn to her, and damn to you!”

The old man sitting on the couch began to rise.

The icy voiced man shoved past the old man, toppling the oldster back to the cushions. He said something else over his shoulder, but it was garbled and broken. The front door slammed shut behind him.

“A wise trick.” The oldster adjusted his cane and stood again. “Wrapping yourself in goose-down when so many of his ilk are allergic to it.”

“Is that what I did?” I couldn’t help the relief in my voice. I looked up at Thunder. “Is that bad?”

“He won’t come near you now. He’s probably on his way to the clinic for treatment.”

“I thought you said he was military. Don’t those in the military have an infirmary or their own doctors to check in with first?” I was curious about this glimpse into Thunder’s life. Too much of what Thunder said confused me. “At least I didn’t run. I wanted to. That is worth something, right?”

“Worth, I think, less than it could be.” The deep voice said.

I looked up and around, pulling the comforter closer to me. I could only but stare at the man standing there. I could see at once the similarities in the eyes and face this newcomer had to Thorn. But ti was the huge man's clothes that confused me - clothes no sane man would wear. “Once more,” I told Thunder, “I must admit this makes no sense to me at all. Your brother is a . . . a convict?”

#8 (Part I)

2011-11-17T01:00:00.000-08:00

#8 The Appraisal (Part I)

I locked the bedroom door.

“Who is the woman?” A voice cut through to me.

This voice I did not like. Despite the interest in the words there was an icy detached quality to the voice.

I backed up step by step until the backs of my knees bumped the bed. Then I sat down abruptly. I hadn’t liked it when Thunder warned me not to run. My fingers fisted in the white downy comforter. I wrapped it around myself. It was the only protection I had against such a voice.

“It is not ours. That is all that matters.” Another of the men answered. It was a weary voice, tired. And it was deep, too. Once I met one of my husband’s uncles. The man sang opera for fun. We had him to dinner one night. During dinner he ate plenty, which he said was to keep the weight on to better preserve his tone. What I found most fascinating was when the uncle spoke normally, as one normally speaks in conversation, the crystal on the table vibrated. “And I fear I may have made the situation worse.”

“Worse?” The question warbled out thinly. “It is my business that is to be destroyed for this! It is my reputation to be broken! My certificates of authenticity will be –“

“Nobody is saying you are a liar, Strumbeck.” The deep voice soothed. “This is not your fault.”

“And it is yours?” Thunder asked sharply.

“Bring the woman out.” The deep voice said.

#7 (Part II)

2011-11-16T01:00:00.000-08:00

#7 The Scout with the Appraiser (Part II)

    “When all the world knows you have something valuable and important, when reputations and jobs are staked on the truth of the matter, why would the military not get involved?”
     I looked up at Thunder as he turned out to the street. He was serious! “I don’t understand.” I told him.
     His motorcycle was only a short length away. Thunder helped me put the helmet on. Then he grasped my shoulders, “I don’t know which scout it is Strumbeck brought along. You must listen to me very carefully Ms. Applewhite. If I tell you to do something you must not question me.”
     “Now would be a good time to drop me off at the hotel. I can stay there until Thorn arrives.”
     “No. Too many people can play end-of-days with your arrival and any issues with the table.”
     “End-of-days?” His use of the term seemed precognitive.
     “It’s a game of marbles.”
     The drive to Thorn’s house was quiet. It was hot in the helmet. By the time Thunder pulled up into the drive sweat blotted my forehead. Thunder helped me off with the helmet. This time he was the impatient one. Then, with a hand wrapped around my arm, he took me back inside.
     Not that I saw much. The table was no longer in the hall. Four or five people were seated on the creamy white living room couches. Thunder, though, walked me straight through to the guest room I’d had a nap in just hours before. “Lock the door. Do not run. Understand?”
     I dared challenge, “What happens if I run?”
     Thunder paused. I knew he was going to lie a moment before he did; his eyes darkened, narrowed. “The scout has brought his dogs and they are prone to chasing anything that flees.”