The Intruder

The Intruder

He knew the smell of the color of her hair, the slight saline deposit at the nape of her neck, how it dispersed at the slope of her hips and thighs.  He knew every inch of the warm armpits where wafts of light deodorant lodged in the daytime. At night, the scent became crisp and clean from her shower. She was as redolent as the meadow of poppies where he once ran free. That liberty now arose from her perfumed arm pits: the lilac, geranium, rose, orange blossom and jasmine of the Provinces wafted up from her wrists, from behind the lobes of her ears where the down was softest, just like his mother’s lap. When the sun was high and days were warm, he cuddled up to her: minty, fruity, spicy, ambrosial flesh, tawny and sand-colored at this time of year. Her skin reminded him of his long walks on the beach as a youngster. When the leaves turned brown and fell to the ground he would lay on the dark Turkish tapestry in her dining room and watch the passers by. These Parisians were an anxious breed, trotting busily along the sidewalk, barking into phones, their breath whirled into the cold air, like smoke from a cigarette. As it grew cooler he could smell her skin beneath soft fabrics: angora wraps, cashmere sweaters and heavy socks that separated her flesh from him.  He learned to like these clothes, but longed for warmer days to return. Fall and winter separated him from her body odor and this was intolerable, for he was a jealous guardian.  Anything or anyone that kept him from his mistress wound up in that fatal memory of separation from his suckling mother, or so he remembered—wrenched away from that bed of teething mouths which smelled of rotten milk and eggs, all sucking—sucking—sucking hard upon the bulging nipples, pulling hard against the bare skin of their mother: her heart throbbing in the ecstasy of suckling. 

Of all the smells he knew, it was Angstgeruch: the fear smell, he knew best. He had grown up with the odor of fear. Fear of hunger. Fear of cold. Fear of death.  Now, there was a new fear, a fear he could smell: the fear of loss, of losing all these new smells he had discovered on her skin, her breath, in her clothes, her bed, her home. He feared losing her. And now he knew what jealousy was. Now that he had this mistress.  Her breath exhaled the saline breeze of the sea. Her hair smelled like  sandy pines, lavender, thyme, and the lilac of his roaming days. This mistress—like his suckling mother—had protected him and he had become her protector, a constant companion, faithful, enterprising, intelligent—extremely intelligent—that he was—and jealous to the hilt.  She promised him eternal love.  He believed her every word. 

Jewel—she had named him—her precious jewel. He was not one to converse at length. He understood everything with his nose.  In the morning, he could smell spicy pumpernickel bread, croissants, confiture mingled with café au lait and he knew that this meant petit-dejeuner.  And when she beckoned: “Jewel !”  He knew what that meant.  No more fighting with his siblings for a teat, dried up at the root by his little brother or sister, no more clawing for survival, no more whimpering. He was King. He had his own seat next to Julie. For that was the name of his mistress and he knew it well. Jewel and Julie.  King and Queen. At dinner, the smells were pleasing, unlike the sweaty-oily, sour-cheesy, repulsive odor that clung to humans.  On special nights, there was filet mignon and mashed potatoes with gravy. He did not mind eating them cold. Hot vaporous smells had always frightened him like everything that hissed. He preferred meat that no longer moved, churned or spat at him. Seated on the Turkish rug, he watched her every move, until she was done. 

At dinnertime, the phone began to ring.  He watched his mistress clutch the plastic case and snuggle up to a deep droning voice. Jewel tried to get a whiff of the new sound.  He was perplexed; it had none of the sweaty-oily substance that clung to humans. Jewel ate dinner later and later, colder and colder.  Autumn had passed and the winter began to creep back into his life. When he came to his mistress’s bed she was fully dressed. He detected a leafy fragrance on her clothes. She was wearing a chic Herringbone suit that night. He liked this. The warm tones, twisted into brown and beige threads—gave her a fawn–color­—but her smell was not intimate.  He liked better to feel her skin, rub his nose against the curve of her soft thighs, her saline armpits. Hear her say: “Jewel.”  It had been so simple. Until now. She was on the phone at length with this plastic voice that had no odor.  He felt a shudder. It came back upon him in a sickly, nauseous rush of memory.  Those years of struggling with his siblings for a place close to his mother’s heartbeat.  It all surged back and he knew now what he smelled: Angstgeruch, the stench of fear.  When the phone rang again, a sound he had not made for years seethed out from behind his teeth—half growling, half pleading.  Julie pushed him away, with a nervous jerky gesture. She pressed the phone closer to her ear. From the Turkish rug he watched her. He tried to understand. But there was no smell or aroma to help him understand—only the odor of Angstgeruch that clung to him.

Jewel ate his meals alone now.  Cold. Silent He had no one to be polite for. He woofed down his food.  It dribbled off the corners of his mouth onto his neck, got stuck in his fur. This displeased him. He could detect new odors coming from his body: foul, bitter, acrid, sour, salty. One day, having gone twenty-four hours without nourishment or water, he made an attempt to break into the pantry, cutting himself on the splintered cabinet. When Julie got home she apologized for being late and took him out to do his business. Then she quickly placed leftovers on his plate, not noticing his struggle to hold his neck steady.  She pinched her nose: “Uggh, what a stink!” She pushed the bowl toward him, not even noticing his wound, or the stench that came from his open flesh.  When he finished his meal, he directed himself toward his mistress’ room. She was in a fetal position on the bed, fully dressed, with the phone clutched to her ear.  Before he could even cross the threshold, she cast the phone aside. “Ughh,!” She glared at Jewel who had prepared to leap up on the bed to show her his neck, but she interjected: “Jewel, you stink!”  This was a new word.  Stink.  It had a harsh tone and frowning lips.  “Go now, go into the study, in your bed, it’s late!”

Her body odor was lodged in every nook of his memory bank. He had always coveted certain parts of her more than others.  Now he had to give up all those scents. The yummy, herby, leafy, violet fragrances she exhaled were all barred, along with the human odors: pungent, nutmeg, singed pork, horn shavings. Gone. And with them the memories of cuddling under her bedcovers: near her chest, between her arms.  

He heard her voice—tense, cautious­­—from behind the door.  “Well, of course François, come over, now, mon chéri! It’s hard to bear much longer—this game of hide and seek…Yes, I read the papers today. Well, yes it’s true.  He’s Corsican. I don’t know who he’s connected to... Oh François, who cares! I’m just renting the apartment to be close to l’Elysée.  To be close to you. I want you terribly, terribly, chéri.”  There was silence.  Jewel could hear her crying softly.  He had learned a new word: “chéri.”  Well, not so new. She had used it before, for him.  In the same tone.  He went to his bed, as his mistress had commanded him. She came in momentarily.  But it was not to wish him goodnight. When he made a begging gesture with his paw, he felt a slight kick of her soft pink slipper, which had the odor of geraniums. “Jewel, you must sleep in your own bed now!” She said this with a frown, reminding him of the contractions of her face when she had said that new word “stink,” earlier. 

Julie gathered the newspapers and the mail on her desk and slammed the door to the study.  Casting away the first newspaper—“Liberation”—she flipped the magazine—“Closer”—upright, and glared at the front page again.  François on an Italian scooter. Gucci lace-ups. A helmet with an open visor revealing him smiling after their midnight tryst; her face barely visible from the angle at which the paparazzo had jumped to snap the shot. The image would create world headlines and this scandale was just what she needed to move out of the wings and into the limelight.  She looked at her watch. She ripped off her turtleneck sweater and pulled out her infamous t-shirt emboldened with the slogan: “I Only Date Superheroes.”  Perfect for the occasion, she smiled.  As an actress she knew how important roles were in the political world, on stage, and off. She removed her jeans, put on a shorty string and slipped a déshabillé over her superhero t-shirt.  

Jewel detected her pitter-patter from the bedroom a few yards away. When the doorbell rang, he did something he had never done before, he barked: powerful and ominous.  The door closed. Two voices mingled. He began to growl when he heard the new word: “chéri,” murmured low.  Then, there was the noise hot food made coming out of the oven, the microwave, or the frying pan: a spatter of huffing and exhaling. He inched closer to the door where the sporadic noises became a rhythm of sucking and crying. He knew about crying sounds. He remembered something similar when he had pushed up against his mother’s teats, working away his sisters and brothers who threatened to rip away his sustenance.  It all came rushing back to him;  the stench: rotting, stinking, rank, reek, pong, niff, fester of their wet bodies pulling at his mother’s warm chest; trying to push him away. 

The fungal past rushed back, with the smell of the forest, eggs, seeds, nuts, pine cones, textures and odors. 

Jewel sat in the living room. His two paws were lined up against the door guard: forelegs cropped up next to his chest; his ears taut, each hair sticking out straight in the direction from which the heaving and hawing was coming.  He began to whine.  A long high sound ripped out of his chest.  The noise bled under the door and through the keyhole like a wounded animal’s cry.  Jumping up, he turned circles in front of the door. He leapt at the handle. The lock released and the door flung open.  His mistress’s superhero t-shirt was on the floor at the entrance. He sniffed it. It had the odor of male sweat glands. Snarling, he clenched the t-shirt beneath his teeth.  He tore it to shreds, flinging the bits across the room.  Pieces of the t-shirt were now littered everywhere. Shreds lay on the dining room chairs and on the vintage Louis XVI recliner where he was now sitting, chewing on a piece of the cloth… gently now, as if he were suckling a bone. 

When François stepped out of the bedroom into the darkened living room, Jewel was cuddled up, dozing quietly next to the mutilated cloth. François sputtered: “Why Julie, come have a look at what your chien, that stinking dog, has done!”

Jewel awoke to the sound of “stink.” He saw François from the corner of his eye. He sensed danger: the smell of Angstgeruch filled his nostrils. 

“Honey pot…come here my little French dip, just take a look at this!” François cooed, backing towards the couch in order to take in the whole room. 

So, this was the muffled voice he had heard from the plastic case. It had a smell of body effluvia, cumin and stinky-cheese. When François was close enough, Jewel threw his tense and quivering body into a lurch and floored the man.  

“Julie!” François  bleated out.  

Jewel curled his upper lip and sunk his teeth into the jugular vein of the soft skin. An irony taste of the inert body of his mother caught in the farmer’s rat trap filled his mouth. 

Julie rushed up to François. Groping furiously for whatever was in arm’s reach to plug the flow of bright crimson jetting out from the vein—her hand fell on the spongy superhero t-shirt that had dropped out of the dog’s mouth. 

“Oh Julie,” François whimpered, “my gravy giver, Julie…”  

She touched his pulse. The dog came back and licked the droplets from Julie’s cheeks. The odor of Angstgeruch had evaporated with the intruder. Jewel felt renewal coming: savory foods and warmer nights with his mistress: smelling of primrose, tuberose and wisteria.

Pussy-Kate

“Pussssy-Kate! Pussssy-Kate!” 

She heard him calling, but refused to budge this time. Why should she always be the one to jump into his arms—gaze into his eyes—snuggle up in his lap, close to his groin, charged with the odour of crushed hazelnuts, pinesap and dank weed? Oh! But there was no denying it: he was irresistible!

The Schlimmers lived in an immense chalet facing the highest mountain in the area: Mont Ventoux, situated in the Provence region of Southern France. Their son lived in Boston and they had one cat that loved to eat, hunt and sleep around. Their three-story scots pine chalet covered almost four thousand square feet, complete with the staff quarters, all designed entirely by Herr Schlimmer. He was an introvert whom the locals referred to as the hermit from Saint Gallen.  The exposed beams, the wiggle-board treatments on the eaves and decks, along with the fanciful rails that frame the porch completed his signature hallmark as a leading international architect. The voluminous interior and high ceilings allowed for large gatherings, which usually never took place.  The top-level porch jutted out over a twenty-meter cliff, like a bird’s beak suspended over the open air. It was a perfect place for Swiss blood to deliquesce in the crotch of vernal, voluptuous nature where beech trees, Atlas cedars and pines flourish along the hairpin curves of the winding roads, then disappear abruptly only fifty meters from the pinnacle of the mountain. The top, entirely barren, save a scrub or two, shines in the sunlight, glowing like a receding hairline.  It was in this area, facing “Bald Mountain,” as the locals call it, that Herr Schlimmer built his nest. 

 Mont Ventoux’s strange appearance has made it legendary and uncanny tales circulate about mysterious occurrences in the surroundings of what some inhabitants have nicknamed the “Beast of Provence.” Situated at a two-thousand meter altitude, from the valley it looks like nothing but barren white rock. The very tip of the mountain sports an evocative nipple, hidden beneath what looks like dusted powder. Only the locals, the cyclists, or the rare soul who dares venture to the top of “Bald Mountain” know that the blinding whiteness is nothing but bare limestone, without vegetation or trees. From a distance, it makes the mountain's peak appear snow-capped, all year round. 

The long drive up sinuous mountain roads to get to the Schlimmers has deterred many a prospective guest. But those who venture here receive a hearty welcome. They are served drinks and invited to stroll through the west wing with its breathtaking drop-off-terraces. In the brisk mountain air, the clinking of crystal can be heard—zum Wohl: bourbon for the gentlemen, santé: champagne for the ladies. On these chilly evenings, Herr Schlimmer’s wife would clasp the stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger and sniff at the bubbly prickles before washing down the frothy liquid in one gulp. Then she would extend her flute friskily: a smile flickering across her lips as she eyed her empty glass.  Her husband would look askew as she came closer, rubbing up against him playfully.

“Freshen up! Again?” he would protest, obediently refilling the flute. Then in his clipped Swiss-German accent he would turn back to the guests who had braved this trip up to their chalet:  “Note the position of Mont Ventoux—,” he gestured and paused to draw the wide mouth of the snifter up to his lips, taking a sip, swishing the bourbon around, and inhaling the savours with evident pleasure. His bourbon snifter extended, he pointed towards the band of sunlight sinking into the valley, and proudly announced: “This is the largest mountain range in the area. It dominates the entire region.” Then turning toward his wife, he would nod and say:  “ja genau!”

With one hand cupped around her flute, the other gesturing out towards the cliff, she would nod her head, licking a champagne bubble from her lips, and comment on the rich wildlife in the area: “on a clear day you’ll see little nesting birds and large raptors.”  After this terse commentary, she would ring for the majordome and gently beckon her guests towards the drawing room where the dinner table was waiting. 

Herr Schlimmer had learned to master formulas, tables and calculations for engineering some of Switzerland’s most cutting edge architectural constructions. He had counted amongst Zurich’s most eligible bachelors. He was unflagging, restless and possessed the resilience to endure a Napoleonic sleep regime of four hours. After a long span of bachelorship, he confided to his mother that he had finally met a woman. “A woman from the New World!” she knitted her eyebrows, “what happened to Gretchen, your high-school sweetheart?” His mother had always hoped to conserve the family’s blue-blood heritage. She had commissioned one of St. Gallen’s local artists to paint her son’s portrait. Age twelve at the time of that arduous sitting, he wanted nothing better than to escape the acrylic smell of ammonia: pent up as he was in that small room, his chin held high, his back crying out in pain, with each passing stroke of the paintbrush. He had carried an innate dislike for Swiss walnut high-back side chairs ever since. The coat of arms of the Schlimmer family now hung next to his portrait in the sitting room of his chalet. As a young man, he had inherited the aquiline features particular to Swiss-German aristocrats. He was cut out for the cover of “Gentleman’s Quarterly,” but for some reason, he didn’t find himself handsome, so he dressed down, preferring large baggy trousers, and comfort to style. 

He had never slept with his high-school sweetheart, or anyone else: at least not the ones he desired. This was a subject he could not broach with his mother.  She had no idea how hard the chase had been for him.  Now there was this woman who had become his wife and he would have completed his mission in life. He had tactfully found a means of divorcing his mother by marrying this American. When Andy came along, he decided to rent out his home in Zurich and moved his young wife to a more temperate climate in France. He built his refuge in the hills of the mountains where he could work on projects in hermetic solitude. They hired private tutors for Andy until he reached age six and then sent him off to the boarding school in Zurich where Herr Schlimmer, himself, had been sent to learn the inexorable rites of Swiss precision.   Marital life suited him well. He no longer had to explain to inquisitive minds why he was still not married. As the years went by, his well-chiseled features gave way; his lean body became soft and flask. Nothing interested him more than a 3D layout on the computer, which had become his main companion, morning, noon and night, weekends and holidays included.

…………………….

“Pussy-Kate! Pussy-Kate!” his voice resonated over the hillside. “That’s enough, I’m not begging you any longer!” He slammed the large oak door and walked past his wife’s bedroom. The housekeeper had done her best to make it look the way it used to. A pack of Dunhill’s, half empty, lay on the bedside table, next to an open book. He forced himself to continue walking down the hallway, and then backtracked. Suddenly there he was standing in her room with those luxurious velvet curtains splayed open. He walked over to the nightstand. Her perfume seemed to emanate from the bedclothes. He sat down, feeling the suppleness of her body slip through his memory, irresistible, demanding, and acquiescent at the same time.  There was a marble top gilt wood nightstand in the corner, with an open book. He flipped the book closed, glancing at the cover and muttered to himself:  “Müll,” rubbish! He replaced it in exactly the same position, open to page 134. It wasn’t his fault, after all. No, he had remained the same. Only, she had changed since Andy had grown up, moved out and made his own life. Yes, she had changed. Change was distasteful and wasteful. He looked back down at the book. A bit of white paper had fluttered to the floor with her handwriting on it. She was always scribbling something. At all hours of the night—the later it was—the more she scribbled. He balled up the paper to throw it away. Of course he never threw anything away. He smoothed out the wrinkled paper and put it back under the book, got up to leave, then went back and sat down.  Looking at the piece of crumpled paper at length, he felt a sudden urge to burn it.  But he would read it first. 

1) Love, a word that does not exist in his dialect. 

2) Make love, Germans prefer: "Ich möchte mit dir schlafen;”  or :“sex haben” – trans. I want to sleep with you, or have sex.  

“Müll,” he hissed, smoothed out the paper and replaced it under the book. 

…….

Down in the verdant surroundings of the chalet, Pussy Kate was on the prowl. On the hillside, a flock of sheep had sensed her presence. They scrambled together to form a pack—drawing away from the roadside, bells tinkling: their cautious baah baah broke the silence, warning that something alien was near. The cattle dotting the hillside were fully concentrated on snatching up the tufts of grass from the upper crest of the road where it grew highest, so as to alleviate the pain of grazing off the flat ground which strained their necks. Sometimes a swarm of gaudy cyclists would fly through the steep mountain slopes like a horde of insects—then disappear around a curve. 

This is where she most liked to hunt. Fowl, in particular. There was a wide variety of fauna near the sheep farm: dozens of nesting birds, voracious raptors, including the goshawk, and short-toed eagle. The cool breeze carried the odour of a blue tit in her direction. Pussy-Kate hid behind an Atlas cedar, preparing to pounce on the colorful bird. But a large mother boar came running in her direction; the mother was on the trail of a red fox that had sniffed out the baby boars, dozing in the shade. A lamb bleated. The band of sheep stormed off in different directions.  The mother boar charged. A tusk rose up from the cloud of dust, ramming into the rust-colored fur. Her piglets bounced up and gathered in a half-circle around their mother. Their high-pitched snorts succumbed to low grunting as their mother ripped open the corpse, splayed out before her.

Pussy-Kate had kept her position, not budging an inch, turning her attention back to the blue tit that had taken refuge in the tree hole of a large holm oak. The bird poked its beak out, tilted its white head with a blue cap to the right, then to the left. Hopping out timorously, it cocked its frail head downwards. On the lower branch, a spider was working madly to dislodge a fly from the orb of silky thread that held it hostage. The blue tit flapped its wings, warbled a few notes, turning a summersault in mid-air, just long enough to grasp hold of the end of the upper branch. Using its strong claws to hang upside down, it nicked the spider from its web and flew down to the ground.  Pussy-Kate leaped out from her hideaway—pouncing onto the blue tit whose supple neck cracked as delicately as a pick-up stick. The spider fell from the tiny beak—thrust its spindly legs forward in a mad rush and disappeared into the blades of grass that bent gently in the wind. The bird lay there in the crushed grass—its lime-green breast heaving gently.  It locked eyes with its tormentor for a moment. Pussy-Kate extended a soft paw towards its head and swatted it delicately. She circled the bird, once, twice, eyeing it closely. Then she sat down on her haunches, extended her foreleg and her bright pink tongue flicked out as she commenced her ablutions, licking her paw daintily. She stood up and stretched, swatting her tail at a fly buzzing around her buttocks. The sun was setting on the horizon. She blinked her eyes, turning her attention back to the feathered bundle with its little legs frozen upright against the grass blades. She gave it a quick swat again—examined it closely, circled in—smelling it up and down, then with a look of benign satisfaction, she toyed with its glossy ultra-violet blue tail, and in a fit of mindless joy, leaped towards the bird’s neck, which she gripped between her two paws, flipping it over once, twice, until it was on its back again. There it lay with its tiny claws locked stiff, in the open air. 

She was afraid of nothing—with the exception of those rare, frightening streaks of vibrant color that would sometimes fly by: the bikers bodies grinding away, doubled over in the wind, their feet churning savagely, their eyes fixed on the empty space of the winding road.  Tonight, they sounded like cicadas swarming down on her. A mass of color streaked by. In a panic, she stretched her haunches and headed straight away for home: bolting over the hillside, through the valley, not even stopping along her way to see Marly, Fritz or Castor.  She ran faster and faster, forgetting the hunt altogether. It was growing dark: she could slip in through the service entrance. Quietly, stealthily, she approached. It was cold outside; she wanted to be in his arms. Feel him caress her sides, her chest, her stomach. Hear him murmur “Pussy-Kate.” Of course, he would need some coaxing. It didn’t come naturally to him, those words of affection—like her nickname: “Pussy-Kate.” Cuddling, stroking: none of this came easily to him. And it would be even more difficult this time since she had not come home this morning when he called her. 

She approached the chalet and could hear him calling: “Pussy! Pussy! Pussy!” She pricked up her ears, thinking of the warmth of the fireside.  

“Where are you, you little slut, you?” He pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He had opened the door to the main entrance and was standing next to his housekeeper. 

Frau Schmidt pushed the door open wider; her voice glided over the mountaintop, echoing from hill to hill: “Pussssssy-Kate!” Her matronly figure filled up the entire doorway; she had camped her robust legs in a V shape, leaving enough space for the cat to scamper in. Pussy-Kate headed for the sitting room. Sensing the tip of a shoe graze her chest, she let out a sound that turned to a hiss when she saw Herr Schlimmer point his other foot in her direction. He gazed down at her. “You little whore you, where have you been?” His breath cut into the crisp night air: rancid, it smelled of spoiled milk, pipe tobacco and bourbon. “As if it’s not enough to schmooz about in our neighbor’s kitchen; don’t deny it, you’ve been roughing it up with Fritz, haven’t you!— Well haven’t you?” he raised his voice an octave.

Frau Schmidt was wearing the typical Swiss cotton apron, bleached to a glaring white. She turned towards Herr Schlimmer— furrowing her thick eyebrows; she placed her hands on her hips to punctuate her dissatisfaction. “Sir, perhaps you would like to dispense with that snifter. If I may say so sir, you seem a bit edgy tonight.”

He pulled himself up straight and muttered “ja genau!” —shoving the glass in her direction and then thinking better of it, retracted. Turning his back to her, he walked towards the portrait of Frau Schlimmer hanging at the entrance. Extending a shaky finger, he wiped off some dust from the edge and straightened the frame which was slightly askew. 

 “Sir,” the gap toothed housekeeper said gently. “It’s not easy, I know, but don’t take it out on Pussy-Kate.” 

“Her name is Pussy now! Pussy, the whore— out for a good time, humping all the neighbors’ cats, gobbling down their food. You’d think we didn’t take care of that little slut!” 

The housekeeper raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to him; her gap-toothed smile disappeared, leaving in its place a sagging chin and a slight frown: “Sir, that is not dignified. It’s the scotch talking, not you.” She tried to wrest the tumbler from his grasp. 

The subject of their discussion sat there gazing at the two of them, striking a pose of indifference, but inside Pussy-Kate’s heart threatened to explode. Her gaze followed Herr Schlimmer’s every move:  his quivering hands, his fidgety lack of composure. This was so unlike him. He had changed. Ever since Frau Schlimmer had left him that night. He was not the same man. Could this possibly be her protector? For the first time, she was afraid of something other than just the horde of bodies she sometimes crossed on the road toward Mont Ventoux. 

The sound of Herr Schlimmer’s discordant voice broke the silence: “Out with her, out with her, I say, out with that little bitch!”  He aimed the tumbler at Pussy-Kate. Frau Schmidt interceded, snatching the glass from his loose grip.  Pussy-Kate jumped up onto the mantle of the fireplace with an air of defiant dignity. She turned to look at them again with blank aloofness that concealed her wildly beating heart. 

“Sir, off to bed you go!” Frau Schmidt took him by the arm and headed him in the direction of the gloomy spiral staircase. He wobbled up the flight of stairs, obediently, shutting the door to his room. 

……………………..

When the phone rang, Frau Schmidt ran over to the corner of the living room where Pussy-Kate was sitting. She picked up the receiver: “Hallo! Hallo!” she repeated, a bit louder the second time. 

“Vera—it’s Katherine,” came a soft familiar voice.

She exclaimed: “Frau Schlimmer!”

Pussy-Kate moved closer to Frau Schmidt, striking a profile pose, her ear directly in line with the receiver. 

“Frau Schlimmer, I can’t hear you, it’s breaking!”

“Vera, call me Katherine, please!”

“Frau Schlimmer,” she insisted, “you must come back. He won’t hold out much longer!”

“For nothing in the world, Vera! I just called because Andy’s coming home and he needs to know. I haven’t told him and I don’t want him to get his father’s version first. You must tell him for me… you must tell him the truth!” 

“The truth! What is the truth, Frau Schlimmer?”

“Call me Katherine, Vera, Katherine!”

“You must come home. Nothing has changed. I have kept your room just the same, neat and tidy. You’ll feel right at home. Nothing has changed. Well, except for him.”

“He’ll never change, Vera, never. That is precisely why I left.”

“But, you have everything! What more can you ask for? It’s not my business, I know, but it seems to me that … well, you do have everything! When you met him, you must admit….”

“Vera , I know what you think, but you’re wrong!”

“Well, you must come back. I can’t deal with him, all alone.” 

“Never!”

“For Andy, you must!”

“Now that’s why I’m calling you, Vera, please listen. I’m counting on you. I don’t have anyone else to turn to. Promise me! You’ll deliver this message before his father gets to him, promise?”

Pussy-Kate’s green eyes blinked open, slowly exposing the enormous black pupils which had dilated in the night. 

“I promise. But he has told me a few things, as well, and I have eyes of my own to see. I have a heart too. He is in pain, Frau Schlimmer.”

“Stop it, Vera!—Now, listen to me. What has he said to you?  That when Andy grew up and went off to the States his mother became a lust-ridden harlot? Do you really believe that? It wasn’t for lust that I left; it was for love, or rather the lack of it. A woman doesn’t just up and leave for the fun of it; she’s trying to fill a void, an abyss in my case.” She stopped speaking for a moment. “Do you know what it feels like to be invalidated? He’s wedded to his ego, not me!” She paused and took a deep breath: “Please tell Andy I’ll see him soon. Don’t let his father poison him with that Müll, that Spiel of his. Promise me! You have some influence over him.” She paused. “You understand? I have no ulterior motives. I just want to feel alive again, not civilized to death.” 

“But, how are you going to get by? How will you survive like this on your own?” 

There was no response, only the night owl hooting in the midst of the forest. 

“Frau Schlimmer, Hallo, Frau Schlimmer!” The housekeeper hung up the phone gently. Perplexed, she slipped her hands in her apron and sighed. 

The window above the gilt rimmed Louis XVI daybed was ajar; the moonlit night spilled into the spacious salon, casting a long shadow over the painting of Frau Schlimmer, situated just below the window next to the escritoire.  Pussy-Kate turned her back to Frau Schmidt, stretched out her haunches and in one leap, was out the window. 

When she thought about it, she knew the ropes in life well enough. She could have her stints when and where she pleased. Despite her physical appearance: her missing toe, her gnashed eye; she was not a beauty, she had no illusions about that, but she was an excellent hunter, and this in itself was an attribute. 

She looked back, considering the warm smoke jutting out of the chimney, remembering the odour of Brautwurst, the fetid egg smell of his groins, the salty warmth of his prickly armpits, all those comforts she had learned to enjoy. Was that holding her back? Was it fear? What it him? No. Yes.  A bit of both, surely. Her heart was racing. She bolted straight for the forest where Marly, Fritz, or Castor were probably waiting for her at this very moment. 

Copyright © 2018 Sydney Alice Clark .

THE GRIM REAPER

I was sent forth as a lamb in the midst of wolves. He taught me to be as wise as serpents, and harmless as doves. But they have taught me to become a wolf.  And I must fight. For Life. I will come up against them with the sword of my mouth.

The Reaper’s Digest, Book I.

As a child, many a Sunday morning, I’d wake up and catch sight of balsawood boxes with seasonal fruits and vegetables sitting in the shade of our front porch because Mama hadn’t had time to hide them from me and make as if she’d gone out to the market to pick them up herself. The sight of them made my blood boil; it pulsed through my veins; rose to my cheeks; my heart knocked at my chest so hard I feared I was possessed by  some evil spirit. I felt as if I were being cleaved in two. One part of me believed what Mama said: I was just a little kid and I needed to eat wholesome food, I was lucky to have all this...  But the other part of me would take over and tell me to grow up and face the truth. That part of me festered like a sore; it stunk like rotten meat; it sent shock waves to my brain, threatening to explode; every hue of crimson imaginable went swirling around in my mind, spurting off its liquid particles from a sleek shiny axe-blade; the axe that Mama used to chop down trees in wintertime, as timber for our fireplace. I got hot, so hot I could feel my ears burning red and little drops of sweat would peep up around the cupid’s bow of my upper lip, spread out into my armpits, until I was drenched in my own perspiration, with those thoughts swirling around in my mind like a kaleidoscope.

I couldn’t make sense of it all, but I knew something was wrong. I was a small lad and I had to do something about it, so I guessed Mama was right: I had to eat, that’s all there was to it! My Mama said I had better eat or, I wouldn’t grow up tall and healthy. I didn’t care about being healthy, but I wanted to be tall and very, very strong.  That meant I had to eat, but I didn’t want the stuff in those balsawood boxes churnin’ around in my stomach. I didn’t want to touch any of it: none of the peaches, bananas, blueberries; crab apples, snap beans, ochre, cabbage, spinach, collards, sweet potatoes; not even the watermelon was enough to make my mouth water. And Lord knows, I was one hungry boy: skinny as a rod. Our cupboards were more empty than full. But I didn’t want that horn of plenty in our house. Not on my Mama’s table. I knew where it came from: the biggest farm in Puntville, Georgia. Half of it was to be sold for local produce; the other half was to be shipped up North where the margin of profit was much greater.  Everyone in Puntville knew “Jenky Farm.” You couldn’t miss it, with its long wooden fence that ran along the old Puntville highway where cherry trees, magnolias and apple trees dotted the horizon; where cattle grazed quietly and horses gathered about the watering troughs, batting their tails lazily at flies in the heat of the day. 

The cattle were left outside, but the horses were herded up at night and closed up in the barn, so they wouldn’t catch cold. Not that anyone had their better interest in mind: those workhorses were just worth a lot. Part of the farm was allocated to raising high quality cattle and sheep. There were also billy goats and cows for dairy products, while the greater portion was for harvesting wheat and corn. A ways down from the workhorse stables was Puntville train station, lying smack in between my neighbourhood and “Jenky farm.”  The train tracks wedged a long metal passage into the soft wake of rolling countryside, going on for miles right up to Philadelphia. 

A big wooden sign at the station said: “Punville.” That made me ashamed. Someone had misspelt the name of our town and up to this day it still says “Punville,” which is actually closer to the pronunciation around these parts, because consonants are generally slurred or swallowed altogether. I used to spend a lot of time at the train station, watching trains rattle by every now and then. Puntville was a main stop for picking up fresh produce and depositing light harness workhorses. There was a small corral set up there next to the station to keep the horses that had arrived by train: most of them in slings. Not all of them survived confinement, excessive vibration and road noise during the trip down South. It was a dramatic shock for the workhorses with their heavy coats, shipped down from their native north to Puntville. For those who did survive the trauma of transportation - inhalation of exhaust fumes, deprivation of water and food, there would be another ordeal:  “Jenky Farm.” I knew a lot more than anyone else knew about that farm, since I was a part time stable boy after school. Those horses - they taught me about strength, patience, grace, and docility. I felt closer to them than most anyone in Puntville.  They lived and died nameless at Master Jenkins’. But I had nicknames for most of them. The jet-black draft horse of Percheron breeding, I called “Harmony,” even though she was a mare and a skittish one at that. She had a most commendable rolling gait, even when harnessed and weighed down with corn seed. The stock horse, who could cut his way through the long seamed fields like a knife, was a gelding with a sleek white coat. I called him “Saber.”

As I was saying, I was one hungry boy. I would have rather eaten collard greens and fried eggplant (which I despised above anything else Mama put on the table) - for weeks on end - rather than put a peach or a plum coming from Master Jenkins’ farm into my mouth. Just the sight of a watermelon, fresh from his vines, gave me stomach cramps. My Mama pleaded with me, but to no avail. I shook my head in disgust. She referred me to our local Pastor to “talk some sense into me,” as she said. Me and Pastor Jacobs were tight. A feverish youngin’ and a wise ole’ man - we had become inseparable over the years. Pastor Jacobs, had good intentions, so he tried to make me see it as a gift, this “cornucopia” as he called it. “Boy, thank the Lord for being able to partake of such munificence” - how often had I heard him repeat that?  I had my own opinion on the subject, but I stayed quiet most of the time, because I knew that to speak your mind around here could be dangerous, very dangerous. I forced myself to be self-composed and practiced restraint. But underneath, my blood was boiling. That’s why I started boxing later – with Franky and my buddies. Deep down I believed there was no retribution like a fist, but Mama liked sermons. She didn’t like my buddies as I grew up. I swore to Mama I would never become a fighter, no; I’d be like Pastor Jacobs! I already knew how to get a little crowd worked up: just with words. “Words are my sword,” Pastor Jacobs would say. He believed that I was a natural orator; after all I was to follow in his footsteps.  I spent days and nights reading at his side, learning the scriptures. 

But nothing could erase the memory I had of that ole man coming up to our porch like some stray dog, dragging his right foot in the clay dust, hitching up his overalls. What got my blood simmering was the bouquet of dogwoods he’d slip next to the balsawood box in summer months. Sometimes I’d snatch a glance of those flowers before Mama could get her hands on them. I’d trash them in the river down the street. Everyone down South knew dogwood trees were sacred. There was the song all of us Southerners grew up singing: 

“When Christ was on earth, the dogwood grew
To a towering size with a lovely hue.
Its branches were strong and interwoven,
And for Christ's cross its timbers were chosen. 

“Being distressed at the use of the wood,
Christ made a promise which still holds good:
'Never again shall the dogwood grow
To be large enough for a tree, and so,
Slender and twisted it shall always be,
With cross-shaped blossoms for all to see. 

“'The petals shall have bloodstains marked brown,
And in the blossom's center a thorny crown.
All who see it will think of me,
Nailed to a cross from a dogwood tree.
Protected and cherished this tree shall be,
A reflection to all of my agony.'

Things were hard enough for me and Mama without that flower of ill omen smelling up our home. There were nights when I could hear the squish squash of his boots, real quiet like, and the smell of ivory liquid and “Clubman Aftershave” he left behind. But I knew all that clean smell could never wash away the dirt piled high up in his soul. He had it under his nails too. He was rich, but he wasn’t a gentleman, no, that he wasn’t. 

“Remember son, the Lord is thy shepherd, thou shall not want…” - the minister turned to me, pointing down at Psalm 23. 

“I fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” my voiced droned on obediently. I didn’t need the Holy book any longer. I cited from memory, trying to conjure up the image of our Lord, the Holy Father – with large full lips, soft brown eyes and flowing spring-like helix shaped locks, so dense they twisted about his chest and waist like a gray cassock. robe. If he were u bi qui tous, a word the Pastor taught me, he could be in Puntville, herding a flock of goats on Master Jenkins’ farm, which lay abreast of Clay Street, where I lived. And I continued to imagine our Holy Father holding a cane rod so as to set things straight in Puntville; I figured one day he was bound to set justice right with Master Jenkins.

“When our Lord comes to Puntville, will he chase Master Jenkins off?”  

“That, my son, is not for you to decide. Pastor Jacobs looked me in the eyes as if to apologize. “You must be meek and mild in the face of adversary,” my little one. 

I paused to hear this new word: ad ver suh ree, which rolled off his tongue in honeyed syllables. Pastor Jacobs’ voice was soft and reassuring. When I came to see him, he would sit me down in a wicker chair. He pulled up one of his own and placed two Bibles on my seat, so I would be on the same level as he was.  I read slowly while he traced his snarled index finger across the important passages. If I tripped up, I had to start again. In the end, I knew almost all of Matthew, Mark, Luke and John by heart. After school, I would come to see Pastor Jacobs. For hours we would travel across deserts, mountains and seas, through Egypt, Libya and Jerusalem where nights settled into crescent moons, and brothers in arms wrenched out each other’s tongues as blood spattered battles wasted away on the dry desert plain and martyrs and slaves were caught in the net of their henchmen. With each turn of its axe, the earth would steam under her caked wounds. With each turn of the page, we drank in the dark elixir of sermons and prophecies.  We trembled in unison as I followed his finger: my voice punctuated by anguish, fear and shame. When he stopped to underline something crucial, I requested an explanation, for this journey across distant lands was far away from Puntville, and yet strangely familiar, despite its remoteness, it was my story too. If the countries were alien to my mind, the people were not. For I lived amongst beasts, much like our Lord.

“They spit upon him, and took the reed, and smote him on the head” (Matthew 27: 30).

I stopped breathing. My fists were taut, flexing nervously. I struggled to breathe.  I felt momentarily flattened out - like a boxer fighting to regain consciousness; apprehending the mad gleam of his opponent above him; the gaze: triumphant; the body: packed tight against the rope; teeth: gritting the mouthpiece; feet: dancing little steps to keep the blood circulating; haunches: prepared to lurch forth. 

“But, this is not just!” I cried.

Pastor Jacobs took my clenched fist and placed it on the book of our Lord. His calm voice was balm to my feverish mind. The old man was my benchmark, my trusted father: the closest in line to heaven. Rich tonal baritones flowed from his lips; they struck me with such overpowering wonder that I paid but passing attention to his prophetic words: “a door was opened in heaven: and the first voice which I heard was as it were of a trumpet talking with me; which said, Come up hither, and I will shew thee things which must be hereafter.”[1] 

I had just turned twelve years old and I had known Pastor Jacobs ever since first grade.  Mama told me that after serving as one the Lord’s shepherds up North, he had been sent to us folks down here in Puntville. We never once missed one of his Sunday sermons. When the whites of his eyes started moving about in his sockets and his lips began to tremble, I knew he was in a prophetic trance. He would start chanting: “When you see me cryin’ (Lord yes); it ain’t nothin’ but love yes, (Lord) it ain’t nothin’ but love.” It was the Holy Spirit, Mama said, come to look after us. Folks would raise their voices in feverish ecstasy. It was a mighty moment of jubilation - when we all came together - like one body swaying back and forth in unison; all of our limbs ticking away in time to a huge metronome.  I let go as best I could; I wanted to be like what she wanted me to be. I breathed deep again and let up on my fists. My pockets were all moist: my hands clammy. The pages open to Saint Luke, stuck fast to my fingers.  She had her Bible clasped to her chest.  I wanted to be that holy book so bad, right then and there. If I could tell those prophecies the way Saint Luke did, why, I bet she would have taken me more for a man: not little boy, Johnny. 

I decided I would ask Pastor Jacobs to deal with Master Jenkins since the Lord our father seemed to have overlooked him and since I was incapable of doing so myself, being too small a boy. Anyways, I had promised to take care of Mama the way she wanted me to: through faith. I swore I wouldn’t let her down. I would become a Son of God and with the help of Pastor Jacobs, I would get a diploma and end up in theology school. I promised her and I promised Pastor Jacobs; but myself, I couldn’t promise, because there were two of me: one that wanted to help Mama as much as any good Angel of Mercy. I wanted to be her shepherd. I wanted to bring her peace and hope. Then there was the methat kept saying that I could only protect her if I were strong. If I let my fists do the talking - not my tongue. That’s what my youth was - holed up in a body inhabited by two different people. I discovered I was my own worse adversary. I didn’t know what course of action to take to protect Mama, cause that’s all I wanted - to protect her, the way she had always protected me. 

I started going to see Pastor Jacobs more and more often as I had questions burning inside me.

“It’s not right what he does to Mama,” I sucked in my breath, looking up at him: my jaws clenched, my teeth gritted, my small fists anxious to have it out with my ad ver suh ry. But Pastor Jacobs reminded me of the cornucopia:  of Master Jenkins’ good deeds and of my oath to serve our Lord. He uttered words of warning: “The Lord is thy shepherd. Cast not wrath upon your brethren, lest you become one of their martyrs, like Cyrene, compelled to wear his Lord’s cross.”[2] 

I did not ask him to explain this time. I knew he was speaking words of disapproval: warning me that the horns of honour and dignity ramming at me from the inside should be silenced. 

I took refuge in Pastor Jacobs’ parish. We would talk until he pushed me gently out into the dying light of day.  When the doors of the portal swung closed, I could hear the rusty metal key crunch into the edges of the bolt lock as the minister disappeared into the peaceful shadows of his parish, while I made my way back out to Clay street where I lived in a dingy row of houses, lined up one beside the other, with grass sprouted up unevenly like hair on a balding man’s head. This bleak neighborhood was the glory of Mayor Atkins’ program for redevelopment in Puntville. The lawns were separated by a few yards of dirt driveway. Scattered in the backyards were dogwoods, plane trees, oaks and sometimes plum trees and crab-apple trees. 

In our backyard, a batch of muscadines had climbed up the side of an old oak where a honeysuckle rope hung from the tree limbs. It was back here where I meditated. I became convinced that beyond Puntville something was waiting for me, something I had a calling for and yet could not put my finger on. I was only a youngster when Mama sat me down in the swing and I began to have those premonitions as I got closer and closer to heaven. It was a moment of perfect harmony. I could see the blue vault, spotted with clouds – within arms reach –  a space unpolluted by man, a place that could never be chained down, so vast and immense was this blue dome hanging over my head. I felt dizzy, as she swung me higher and higher, the wind grasping at my face, the air swilling about my limbs: this steady vertiginous swinging sent me into a state of drunken beatitude.  If the earth had been enslaved, I concluded, not so the sky. While my mother pumped away at the ropes of the swing, I grew wings, my legs filling the open air, my hands rising higher and higher into the blue heavens. 

Our home had white washed shutters with iron hinges that creaked when you opened them.  At night, Mama would double check to verify that everything was locked and bolted: every shutter clamped up tight. She often came to my room because I was afraid to sleep alone, as afraid as she, I reckon. I’m darn sure that my Mama was scared out of her wits, more than I. But she put on a good show of being brave. So, I didn’t figure it out for sometime. She would hold me close, telling me how much she loved me.

I looked at her and inquired: “More than anything?“ 

“Yes, anything!” 

“Than anything in the world?” I asked, testing. “More than our Almighty? More than the Alpha and the Omega?”[3] 

“Oh, Johnny,” she chortled; nodding her head, Pastor Jacobs would be downright proud. No denying, you’ve got the makings of a great soldier of God.” 

I balled up my fists. My breath stuck in my throat: A soldier, yes, I would make a good soldier. 

Her warmth, like the balm of Pastor Jacobs’ sermons, took the fire from my veins, quenched the adrenaline igniting my body: too small to harbour the raging blood that galloped madly, calling me to disobey. I can’t forget those nights I spent in the iron poster bed with freshly washed white cotton sheets drawn up to my chin, my mother at my side. She would smooth back my hair, breathing softly. I could feel the lub dub of her chest, and this temporarily banished the cries and whispers that pawed at my memory. Curled up at her side, I burrowed my face into her shoulder. With her hand, she enlaced my fingers: we formed a small ball, a universe of perfect unity. I had committed to memory— passages from Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Mama listened, fixing her eyes on me with sudden hope. I promised her that one day I would be like Pastor Jacobs; I would go to the Lord’s pasture and I would shake the hand of the prince of the kings of the earth. 

When Master Jenkins stole onto our porch one rainy night my fists were at my side. They would barely fit into my pockets as I had sprung up fast, into size ten shoes, a man’s size even though I was barely thirteen. Lolly set off barking. That bark was mean, but the whole twelve inches of her could not make up for the fact that she was nothing but a big sound box with no fangs to scare off her adversary. Wafts of ivory soap and aftershave mingled with the odour of oily garlic, putrid smoke, alcohol and sweat – all this crept up onto the porch and into the house, into my bedroom.  He started jingling his coins in his pockets. Stamping on the staircase, kicking the screen door. He came up under the window of my bedroom. She hushed up, making like she was asleep.

“Mabel, you listenin”? This my house too. You gonna regret it if you don’t get down here fast as a licker an’ open the door.” 

With a gentle hand she pushed the hair out of my eyes and placed her warm lips on my cheek. “I’ll be back,” she whispered.  But I knew she wouldn’t. 

That’s when I decided I’d done enough waiting, trying to become the Lord’s shepherd to please my Mama. I’d waited years. All that time, sitting on my fists, sweating it out, listening to those sermons: waiting for them to sink in and turn my rebel heart into a place the Lord would bless. Well, it didn’t work and I wasn’t going to wait any longer.

I learned boxing in the decommissioned church that was being used for a warehouse to stock hay for the farm animals to help run Master Jenkins’ livery and produce exchange. His business was one of the most lucrative in Puntville. They said he had eyes on making it even bigger up north. Hah! What a laugh: those Northerners would just as soon close all their shops as let that redneck Southerner on their turf. They did real business - those Northerners – they worked. Ole Jenkins just didn’t qualify. He only knew how it worked to be a traitor. That was a quality that lots of Southerners had. There were two kinds of Southerners: the ones who ran the show and the others who had to suck up. The ones who had to suck up didn’t come in any clear cut colors; they had to take it because they were plain poor. There were the yes suh, obedient servants of our Lord, who stayed that way their whole life, and the Others: the no suh, I won’t grovel forever; go ahead and chunk me beneath the belt; I’ll come up swinging, cause I don’t turn the other cheek no more! 

I had finally converted and I belonged to the latter. 

It was real quiet down there in the old decommissioned church, far away from everything. I would sneak out from Mama’s sometimes to do night rounds with my buddies. It felt good. My body was getting stronger and more disciplined. With my erring soul, I had to practice fortitude. I had character and skill with a sense of timing so perfect a metronome could have been there at the ringside, keeping the tempo of my shuffles. My legs behaved so well no one could get near me; my footwork and speed were meticulous. I moved stealthily and cut down my opponents with a finely executed combination of blows. 

That’s when I came to understand that I was beautiful. I began to get a reputation with my buddies. I was their idol. Some of them turned into jelly just looking at me in the middle of a shuffle. How could they get to me? I was a believer now more than ever before. I knew what I was fighting for, at last. It made sense.  No adversary could hope to whoop me. I could belt out a double combination in the wink of an eye and trace a bluff just by looking at my opponent’s footwork. I had a technique:  rope-a-dope and shuffle combination that was unbeatable. And that’s not bragging, because even my buddies agreed. What they didn’t understand was why I kept going to Pastor Jacobs.  “What do you mean – you gonna be a preacher. What good is that going to do you Johnny boy? Not going to get you any closer to heaven, or any richer!” They patted me on the shoulders and jostled me around with a few light punches, joking: “Though I shuffle through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no adversary: for it’s hard to beat someone who has made up his mind he wants to win.” 

I smiled. They continued taunting me merrily, looking down at their trousers lewdly: “My rod and my staff, shall comfort me.” 

“Cut it out dudes,” I protested. 

“Johnny boy, gonna be a preacher, Amen!” they wheezed from between their mouth guards. “Go up there on the pulpit and give us a sermon, tell us, what you gonna preach Pastor Johnny?” 

Franky pointed at me: winking and making a sign of the cross, he drawled: “Lord, I speak no evil for my mouth guard protect me whilst I set things straight with my bretheren.” 

They were right to mock me, but I couldn’t tell them it was for Mama. It was all for Mama. 

That night I went home and waited for the jingling coins, the Ivory soap and garlic to close in on our porch. When I heard his feet dragging along in the dirt and leaves at a distance, I moved out from under the gas lamp until I was at the corner of the porch on the top row of steps. I stood there holding the long wooden handle comfortably under my right armpit. I sucked in my breath and said my last prayer: “Lord in heaven, he will reap what he sows.” I took the scythe and spit on it. I shined it up till I could see my beautiful face: my white teeth, smiling. I was exceptionally calm. Now, I was big enough to tower over Jenkins. Especially since I was standing at the top of the steps. My pulse racing, the heat lapping at my insides; I was nothing but adrenaline. 

Ole Jenkins came  limping up to the porch, like so many times. He didn’t expect to see me, naturally. First he heard me breathing hard as I drew the glinting metal blade up higher to greet him. Then he saw it, the blade, in disbelief and gasped: “Johnny Boy what ya doin!’” I swung. An ace swing, perfectly manicured to cut into his flagging skin; it lopped off his thin neck like a squabbling chicken’s. The head was still rasping “Johnny Boy” when it hit the step with a tremendous thud. In no time it was over: just some spit running off his mouth mixed into the crimson and that dumb look that stuck in his eyes. I shut the lids for good measure. Now I knew my fists were big enough to talk. I took my mouth guard out and put it in my pocket. Though I had never spoke a word to him, I had something to say to now. I leaned down close to his ear: “She ain’t your harvest to reap, no more!”  

I felt good. Real good. It was over, the struggle with my ad ver sary. At last.  Or, so I thought. 

Now, I don’t know if what I did was right. I just know it felt right. My guts told me so. I had to clear town – went up north. The authorities couldn’t prove it was me and anyway Jenkins had enemies; even the authorities hated him. Probably glad he was dead too. I didn’t miss Puntville, not one bit, but I missed my Mama. It wasn’t prudent to go down south to see her right away. I’d have to wait a bit. I found out that Ole Jenkins had a fist full of enemies and one of the main ones was Sheriff Baker, which was my good luck. He had interrogated Mama about Jenkins. She gave him a story about one of his unpaid clients who’d chased him down from the stables, all the way to Clay street, here, on her own property. A skirmish that turned sour. And the scythe? Oh, stolen off of the ole man’s property. Probably wasn’t too convincing, but he swallowed it because Pastor Jacobs pitched in his own two cents worth, claiming what a good school boy I was, raised to fear the Lord, and trained to go to that theology school up north where I was now. Mama wrote me letters. Time passed. I had to see her. I was mighty proud of myself now and I was hoping Mama would be too. Still, I hadn’t kept up my end of the bargain.  I hadn’t become one of the Lord’s shepherds. But I had done better, hadn’t I? Up north I had learned to become a real fighter. Professional. I had become one of the United States number one heavy weight champions.

When I finally got home to Puntville, I recognized our old house with white washed shutters, more grayish than white, chipping around the edges. I recognized Lolly, a little itchy bark with a graying coat of hair, and little patches of skin pushing up around her tail end, just as rambunctious as ever. I recognized our house and the screen door, with more rusty patches and that scratchy noise in the hinges, but I did not recognize Mama. Or, rather, I didn’t want to.  Her hair too had grayed. She was hunched over slightly with a cane rod in her right hand, which she leaned on with quivering fingers, gnarled like the branches of an old dogwood. She smiled at me. I smiled back. Her eyes lit up like a sudden meteorite speeding across the Milky Way and then turned back to the dull light of that cloudy evening.  A slice of the moon stood guard over our porch, whilst the two of us came together for our mutual tryst after ten years of separation.  I turned my eyes downward, toward the cane rod. My taut muscles let up as my body became limp. My fists: naturally active and ready to spring forward at the slightest movement, were two empty palms, turned open, the steady abrasive flow of blood and adrenaline that surged through my rebel veins, came to a halt and I felt as if I were suffocating.  

“How stealthily you tread upon our doorstep, my son. Well, come in. You must be tired after such a long trip.” 

I followed her. We sat down on the large sofa. “How are you, son?”
 

“Mama,” my lips trembled, my fists went slack and my skin swelled up with little patches of sweat. For one brief second, everything screeched to a stop, and I could remember nothing. Nothing. Then that night came back in a flash, my blood seething, and perspiration covering my face. I took her arm, stuttering: “Mama, you don’t have to fear him any longer, I fixed that.” 

She turned away. 

“Mama, what’s wrong? Tell me!”

She laid her cane rod down on the floor and paused. She took me by the hand, trembling. “You don’t understand, Master Jenkins, son, he was your Pa.”

[1] (Revelation of St Jean, Chapter 4 ; 1)

[2] (Matthew 27 : 32)

[3] Revelation of St John Ch 1 (8) I am the Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come the Almighty.