Earthquake I.D. by John Domini

than an obsessive-compulsive wardrobe. Paul revealed as well a mastery of street theater, acknowledging each new supplicant with a disarming hipshot posture, fey but friendly. The boy paced himself, taking neither too much time nor too little with the bric-a-brac offered, now a crucifix and now another of the votive bas-reliefs. He gave each a touch and a murmur, no more. Barbara was relieved by the child’s command of the stage—you go, girl—but she still couldn’t believe there was anything supernatural about it. Rather, what she saw was the wiles of a younger brother. Since coming off the plane Paul had kept an eye on his two elders, both of them loud and bumptious, obvious Americans.
    So the kids were one burden. The Jaybird was another, in on the nasty secret and yet, these days, such a nice guy. When he complimented Barbara’s looks, the man offered sweet nothings the likes of which she hadn’t heard in years. Naturally she could see through his ploy, his own silver-tongued go at Paul’s healing touch. But she couldn’t begin to explain the slick and muscular way in which she’d repaid his kind words, two nights out of three. Two nights out of three, after they’d found themselves alone, she and Jay had tumbled into fucking. Fucking seemed to be the word for it, an angry business well-nigh impossible to make sense of. The grind and sigh were familiar, granted, as were the sensations of climax. These seemed to buck off her caked-on experience until Barbara was returned to layered glass, knitted and flexible, and between the glass gaps some other flesh-bound portion of her skied downward, hooting. Yet the need to come like that wasn’t the same desire she used to know. Her greediness erupted in the middle of bedtime, it cut into her sleep, even as it set up a wholly unrecognizable counterpoint to the prayers that Barbara kept attempting during her days. Her downtown rosaries were supposed to offer Extreme Unction. At the end of everything, absolution.
    The husband, beneath his bandages, must’ve suffered the same confusion. Like Barbara he couldn’t think of anything sensible to say about their lovemaking. Rather, in the mornings as they shared a cappuccino, or in the evenings as he helped with the dishes, the Jaybird found other things to talk about. In particular, he was interested in Owl and the kids making a tour of his job site. He thought it would be good for the family to visit the Refugee Center.
    â€œWhat we’re doing up there,” he said, “think about it. It’s good work.”
    Was this was the second morning after the morning of the attack? Was it the third? In any case the man checked over his broad shoulder, in his white chef’s top, making sure none of the children were in earshot. Then, just above a whisper:
    â€œI mean, if it’s over between us, okay. If that’s what has to happen, okay. But you should at least get a good look at the kind of guy you’re leaving.”
    Barbara knew this gambit too: calling the bluff.
    â€˜You should have a look, Owl. The kids too, the kids especially. Hey, you know Silky’ll drive. You know he loves to take out that Humvee.”
    Barb shook her head, though she couldn’t say just what she meant by it. She might’ve been declining a trip out to the Refugee Center, tomorrow or the next day, or she might’ve been shaking off the wild ride she’d taken in the bedroom down the hall, just the night before. Trying to understand, there at the table and later in the church, she recalled some of the seedier confessions she’d heard at the Samaritan Center. She remembered in particular an all-but-divorced couple who’d enjoyed a standup quickie on the way to their final mediation session. They’d done it in the elevator, those two, and now Barbara herself seemed none the wiser. Under her polished surface she seemed nothing but contradictory animal impulses: lick