said Pete, going back to untangling the controller cables. “My mom says he used to beat her and her daughter.”
“So what happened to the husband?”
“He died a few months later in prison.”
“What killed him?”
“Nobody knows. I heard it looked like tubber—ta-bulkyer—”
“Tuberculosis?” Wayne asked helpfully.
“—Yeah, that. But they never could find anything. What’s this?” Pete held up the tangle of cords so he could see underneath them. He laid the tangle down on the floor and reached into the box, lifting out a Nike shoebox. Wayne abandoned what he was doing and politely took the shoebox, putting it on the bed.
“It’s, ahh…just some old stuff.”
Inside was a pile of photographs, a bottle of perfume, a gold ring with a simple ball-chain through it, the kind of necklace that usually has dog-tags on it. Wayne took out the ring and reverently lowered the chain around his neck, letting the wedding band rest on his chest.
“Nice ring, Mr. Frodo.”
Wayne looked up. “It was my mom’s.” He picked up the photographs and shuffled through them with delicate hands.
The photos depicted separate events and locations—one seemed to be a very young Wayne celebrating a birthday in a dark kitchen, everything washed out by camera-flash, his face underlit by the feverish glow of a birthday cake; another was an older but still juvenile Wayne with his father and a pretty, small-framed woman. She was in all of the photographs, always smiling, always touching, embracing, or pressing against her son.
Presently Pete came out of the funk and went back to pulling at the knot of cables. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She died a couple years ago. In Chicago. Cancer. Throat cancer, I think. It wasn’t really the cancer that did it. Dad said, like, ‘complications’ or something. I don’t really know what that means. Something got infected.”
Wayne lifted the ring to his eye as if it were a monocle and gazed through it, the gold clicking against his right eyeglasses lens. “A couple of months ago, Dad was like ‘man eff this shit, we need to get out of here, there’s too many memories here, we need a change of scenery,’ so he got a job down here and we packed up and left.”
“Damn, dude. I’m sorry.”
The eye inside the ring twitched toward Pete. Suddenly the soft brown eye seemed a decade older. “When I miss her, I like to look through the ring like it’s a peephole in a door. I pretend that if I look through it I can see into a—uhh….”
“Another time? World? Dimension?”
“Another world, yeah.” Wayne tucked the ring into his shirt-collar and took off his glasses, buffing a smudge with his shirt. Emotion etched a sudden sour knot at the base of his skull. “I feel like I can see into another world where she’s still alive. You know, like Alice in Wonderland, lookin’ through the lookin’-glass.”
Pete seemed as if he were about to say something, but cut himself off before it could get out of him. Wayne thought he knew what he was about to say. He had thought it himself before, hundreds of times.
What if you look through that ring one day and she actually is there? What then, wise guy?
3
R OY WAS OUT GASSING ant-hills when the sun went down. He slipped a Maglite out of the pocket of his jeans and took a knee, watching the gasoline soak into the grainy pile. Hundreds of ants percolated up from the tunnels, scrambling over each other in the pale blue-white glow of the flashlight beam.
They had found a grasshopper somewhere and dragged it back to the nest, and they had been in the process of cutting it into pieces and pulling it down into the dirt when he’d interrupted them. He liked to imagine the jackboot tromping of their tiny feet, the sound of a klaxon going off as the gasoline washed down into the corridors of the nest, little panicked ant-people running to strengthen levees, hauling children to safety, swept away by the stinking
“So what happened to the husband?”
“He died a few months later in prison.”
“What killed him?”
“Nobody knows. I heard it looked like tubber—ta-bulkyer—”
“Tuberculosis?” Wayne asked helpfully.
“—Yeah, that. But they never could find anything. What’s this?” Pete held up the tangle of cords so he could see underneath them. He laid the tangle down on the floor and reached into the box, lifting out a Nike shoebox. Wayne abandoned what he was doing and politely took the shoebox, putting it on the bed.
“It’s, ahh…just some old stuff.”
Inside was a pile of photographs, a bottle of perfume, a gold ring with a simple ball-chain through it, the kind of necklace that usually has dog-tags on it. Wayne took out the ring and reverently lowered the chain around his neck, letting the wedding band rest on his chest.
“Nice ring, Mr. Frodo.”
Wayne looked up. “It was my mom’s.” He picked up the photographs and shuffled through them with delicate hands.
The photos depicted separate events and locations—one seemed to be a very young Wayne celebrating a birthday in a dark kitchen, everything washed out by camera-flash, his face underlit by the feverish glow of a birthday cake; another was an older but still juvenile Wayne with his father and a pretty, small-framed woman. She was in all of the photographs, always smiling, always touching, embracing, or pressing against her son.
Presently Pete came out of the funk and went back to pulling at the knot of cables. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“She died a couple years ago. In Chicago. Cancer. Throat cancer, I think. It wasn’t really the cancer that did it. Dad said, like, ‘complications’ or something. I don’t really know what that means. Something got infected.”
Wayne lifted the ring to his eye as if it were a monocle and gazed through it, the gold clicking against his right eyeglasses lens. “A couple of months ago, Dad was like ‘man eff this shit, we need to get out of here, there’s too many memories here, we need a change of scenery,’ so he got a job down here and we packed up and left.”
“Damn, dude. I’m sorry.”
The eye inside the ring twitched toward Pete. Suddenly the soft brown eye seemed a decade older. “When I miss her, I like to look through the ring like it’s a peephole in a door. I pretend that if I look through it I can see into a—uhh….”
“Another time? World? Dimension?”
“Another world, yeah.” Wayne tucked the ring into his shirt-collar and took off his glasses, buffing a smudge with his shirt. Emotion etched a sudden sour knot at the base of his skull. “I feel like I can see into another world where she’s still alive. You know, like Alice in Wonderland, lookin’ through the lookin’-glass.”
Pete seemed as if he were about to say something, but cut himself off before it could get out of him. Wayne thought he knew what he was about to say. He had thought it himself before, hundreds of times.
What if you look through that ring one day and she actually is there? What then, wise guy?
3
R OY WAS OUT GASSING ant-hills when the sun went down. He slipped a Maglite out of the pocket of his jeans and took a knee, watching the gasoline soak into the grainy pile. Hundreds of ants percolated up from the tunnels, scrambling over each other in the pale blue-white glow of the flashlight beam.
They had found a grasshopper somewhere and dragged it back to the nest, and they had been in the process of cutting it into pieces and pulling it down into the dirt when he’d interrupted them. He liked to imagine the jackboot tromping of their tiny feet, the sound of a klaxon going off as the gasoline washed down into the corridors of the nest, little panicked ant-people running to strengthen levees, hauling children to safety, swept away by the stinking
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