All's Well(33)

He’s still smiling at me, smiling at what the spider has spun.

“Can you even picture it? Toy dagger. Fake blood. Witches.”

Low laugh from the fat man.

“I haven’t seen a scary witch in the longest time, have you, Ms. Fitch? That truly frightened you?”

I look at the three of them. Shadows getting longer as they wait for my answer. Red handkerchief blooming from the middling man’s pocket like a flower. The fat man looks up at me through his yellowed locks with the yellowed whites of his eyes. Even the third man has turned his sharp profile toward me. Ticktock. Ticktock.

“No,” I say.

They laugh.

“Oh, the melodrama, Ms. Fitch. They’ll murder it. And Briana is no Lady M, is she?”

“Never,” I agree.

“She’s no Helen either.”

“How did—”

“No wonder, Ms. Fitch,” he says, looking like he’s going to cry. “No wonder at all about your back. No wonder you’re all out of whack.”

“Broken, broken,” whines the fat man. “Bank, bones, spirit.” He covers his eyes.

“Bank, bones, spirit,” I hear myself repeat. “Broken, broken.” I hear my voice crack. A mirror shattered.

“It’s a wonder you can stand at all.”

“It’s a wonder,” I whisper, staring at the shards. “It’s a wonder.”

“But pain can move, Ms. Fitch. It can switch. Easy. Easily. Do you know how easy? From house to house, from body to body. You can pass it along, you can give it away. Piece by piece.”

“Give it away?” I repeat.

“To those who might need it,” the middling man says.

“Even want it. Even thank you for it,” the fat man says. He’s looking right at me now.

“Exactly. Just like theater. It’s all theater in the end.”

“Here, here.”

The middling man looks at me. “You know what I’d love? I’d love to show you a trick. Do you like tricks, Ms. Fitch?”

Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t like tricks. Up to something, these men. I should go. Now. Leave and never come back.

“I like tricks,” I whisper.

“I think you’ll enjoy this one a great deal. Being in theater. It’s a theater trick.”

The fat man starts to laugh so hard he begins to cough. He coughs and coughs, growing red in the face. The veins on his cheeks fatten, grow livid.

He’s going to die, I think. Keel over any minute.

“May I show you?”

I look at the three men waiting for me to answer.

Run, I tell myself. Drive home drunk. Die there alone in your dark room.

“Show me.”

And then the fat man reaches out his hand and grips my wrist. Blue skies in my blood blacken. Great weight on my chest. Spinal cord a column of fire. Can’t breathe. Can’t speak. On the floor. Cheek resting now on the cold floorboards. Three pairs of shiny black shoes pointed toward me, tapping. Tapping along to music. Music somewhere. Familiar. Old movie music. Making the floor shake beneath my temple. What’s happening? What is this? I try to get up, but my body won’t listen.

The pain is searing, immobilizing, an iron maiden, metal stakes holding me down. Through the fog of it, I see a stage lit before me. A mic wrapped in fake roses and fairy lights. One pair of suited legs, black pointed shoes walking toward it. Taking their time. I hear a voice from the speakers.

“First up tonight! The Weird Brethren!”

Who’s that? I want to ask, but to even think the question hurts in a way I’ve never known. You thought you knew pain, says a voice inside. Cryer of wolf. Wolf, wolf, wolf. Well, here is the wolf at last. The teeth at my throat, the claws sinking in.

Music suddenly swells. All around me.

Violins.

Horns.

A drum, a drum.

I know this song, I do. I’ve heard it before. Where?

The fat man is onstage, standing at the mic. My breath catches and this sends a fresh fire through my bones. Gone are his red veins, his pockmarks. His once yellowed eyes are white white, revealing bright blue irises. His stringy yellow and gray hair is golden now, leonine. His skin and eyes and teeth shine down on me. He smiles. He smiles at me lying immobile on the floor. And then I know. I know his tears are in my eyes. I know his black tarry blood flows through my body. His lungs of lead are in my chest, making my every breath burn. He opens his mouth and begins to sing. A show tune. A song my mother used to sing. Judy Garland. “Get Happy.&” His voice is rich and clear and deep. He knows the song well. He’s an amazing performer. He glides around the stage, so light on his feet now, like the soles are slicked. The middling man and the third man clap along. Sing along. I don’t see them, I hear them, feel them behind me. They know the song too, so well. They raise their gold-green drinks. Tap their feet.

The fat man’s voice soars. Black wings high above me. Circling and circling. Watching me inhabit his grief. Singing and singing.

Forget your troubles, c’mon get happy Ya better chase all your cares away Shout ‘hallelujah,’ c’mon get happy Get ready for the judgment day



The stage lights die. All except for a single spotlight shining on his black pointed shoes. Descending from the stage. Walking toward me step by step. Gliding black leather feet with their heavy, slippery soles. Whistling. Skipping toward me. Every step hurts my skin. Every step brings a new tear of his to my eye. Makes his heart thrash its tail in my rib cage. He crouches down before me until we are nearly face-to-face. His eyes so bright—the whites so white, the blue so blue, where once all was yellow and murky red. Cocks his golden head to one side as though I’m such a curious thing, this woman who is riddled with his unbearable pain. He lies down on the floor next to me, facing me, pressing his rosy cheek, his temple, against the cold stone. Gazing at me dreamily as though the vibrating, cold bar floor is a pillowy velvet.