Wellsbury
By Scott Hilton
“Whole or skim for your Latte?” The barista’s expectant eyes grab you while she pushes a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Whole and a blueberry scone,” you say.
The Wellsbury cafe’s black tile floor pleasantly offsets the pine tables and chairs. On the walls are colorful posters of your favorite Broadway musicals– Rent, Oklahoma, Les Miserables, Cats, Hamilton. You grab the coffee, and the still toasty scone wrapped in a napkin and ease out the door, ass first. As you walk on the pristine cobblestone sidewalk, the morning sun splashes on your face.
“Nice day today, Frank,” you say to the postman who passes by this spot every day at this time.
“Twenty-point win for the Celtics last night,” he says with a wave. Frank always has the latest ball scores.
A white-steepled church, brick town hall, and clapboard homes surround the town green. You bee-line to your favorite bench. Two children play on the teeter-totter in the wood chip playground. Their dog, Rusty, you believe is his name, romps around them.
“Hello, Delores. How’re the boys?” you say to the woman standing by the slide on guard duty.
“Rambunctious as always.” She smiles. Her perfect teeth and beautiful blue coat seem to sparkle.
You smile as you sip the nutty-smelling coffee and warm your hands—a perfect day.
A rumbling sound comes from the East, and you turn. The sky shifts to green-gray as the sun hides its face in the rushing clouds. Today is supposed to be a clear day. The wind rustles the trees and blows dust and leaves into the air, making the street fuzzy and faded.
You turn, and the boys, the mother, and Rusty are gone. You stand and look at the bench. Your scone has vanished. Good news, the coffee is still in your hand, and you take a sip.
“Uck.” The lukewarm liquid tastes like water.
You walk briskly down the street. The wind blows in your face, and you see only snippets of the world through the swirling dust. You peer into the CVS on the corner, and the shelves are empty. Your heart begins to race, and you wonder if it’s happening again.
You race to the cafe. The windows are now jet black. You reach to open the door, but there’s no doorknob. The door begins to pixelate and turn to dust. You look down the street; the buildings are naked frames, no longer covered in brick or wood.
“Noo,” you yell into the wind.
You’re lying on your back, staring into the void of light and sound. You reach up and touch a plastic shell that surrounds your body. You’re trapped in a box, a plastic coffin. You squirm, and your shoulders and legs bump against the walls. Your breath comes in short gasps.
You bang against the cover- again and again. “Let me out,” you cry.
The capsule’s lid creeps open, and bright lights sting your eyes. You sit. Peering at you is a plastic face without eyes.
“Welcome back,” the mechanical voice says.
You sink back into the capsule. Wellsbury is your happy place. You asked for permanent retirement, and now you’ve been recalled.
“I want to go back, as you promised,” you say.
“Duty calls,” the robot says. “The Kraken have returned.”
STAN-THE-MAN
By Scott Hilton
John entered Pleasant Valley Assisted Living with a sign above the security door.
A PERFECT PLACE FOR YOUR LOVED ONE
Well, that was a lie. The light green walls, taupe linoleum floors, and coded locked doors made the rundown building feel like a medium-security prison. John waved to the blue-scrubbed attendant at the front desk.
“He’s in a mood today,” the attendant said.
“Thanks for the warning,” John replied. He carried the CVS bag filled with Depends over his shoulder.
The place smelled of antiseptic that barely hid the odors of urine and stale, over-cooked food. John’s father, Stan-the-man, lived in room 199 at the far end of the hallway. He liked to be called Stan-the-man, and everyone in the place humored him. Except for his mortal enemy Phil, the octogenarian who lived next door, who blared Frank Sinatra 24/7.
John took a deep breath at the door. These visits were a roller-coaster—sometimes a pleasant trip down memory lane and other times a recitation of grievances, demands, and disappointments. Stan-the-man never approved of John’s career as a school drama teacher or his husband, Joaquin.
John knocked and pushed the door into a cramped efficiency apartment. Pleasant Valley called it a Garden Apartment. It was neither an apartment nor a garden since the one window looked into the parking lot and the steamy dumpsters. He heard a groan.
His father lay prone next to his recliner chair and the tipped-over walker leaning against the single bed.
John rushed to him. “Dad, are you ok?”
Stan had forgotten to dress and was only wearing his Depends.
“I’m fine. Who are you?” Stan-the-man’s rheumy eyes looked at John. He struggled to his knees.
“Your son, John. You’re supposed to use the walker. We’ve talked about this,” John said.
“I know you. Don’t I?”
“Yes, Dad. When did you shower last?” John could tell it had been a while
“I dunno.”
Since John’s mom passed 18 months ago, Stan had been slipping as if he didn’t care.
John helped Stan into the bathroom and got the shower going. Stan’s once athletic body was now liver-spotted and saggy.
While the shower ran, John went to the bedroom to straighten up. On the dresser, he noticed the pictures he had seen a thousand times:
Stan-the-man in his green flight suit, standing at the nose of an F-4 fighter jet.
Stan finishing the Boston Marathon looking fresh as a daisy
Stan dancing with his wife at their 20th anniversary. A sullen teenage John scowls behind.
The father that John was forgetting. They were both forgetting in their own ways.
“Dad, let me help you dry off,” John said as Stan-the-man stepped from the shower.
MORNING WALK
By Scott Hilton
Clara held Steve’s hand as they chatted on their morning walk through the forest. They giggled, recounting how Steve spilled a beer at last night’s party, almost dousing on his step-sister, Meg’s, Chihuahua, Bert.
Something caught Steve’s eye, and he squatted down in the fallen autumn leaves. He held a burgundy, felt-covered case up to Clara. When she saw the curlicue black script on the box – Alex – 2014, she knew.
“What’s this?” His blue eyes scanned her face.
Clara turned away. “Never seen it. Probably just some kids lost it. Let’s get moving before the rain.” She scrambled back to the trail.
“It’s supposed to be sunny all day. What’s got you spooked?”
“I wanna go back.”
Steve glanced at the box. “Let’s at least look inside. Maybe we can return it.”
She pulled the arm of his canvas jacket. “Leave it.”
Steve shrugged and dropped it. She held his arm tight to her side as they walked to the trailhead and through the suburban neighborhood to her antique two-story Victorian on the corner.
He could never open the box.
Clara groaned and rolled off the couch. Her crusted eyes opened, and she shimmied on her pants. The only sound was the drip, drip of the leaky sink. Good sex always made her pass out, and Steve had been good. She rubbed her eyes. Steve could never be this quiet. She checked the basement door– locked as usual. She glanced into the mudroom, and Steve’s boots were missing.
The door opened, and Steve stood, jacket open, grinning. He lifted his hand, and the burgundy box sat on his long fingers. “It took a while, but I found it,” he said. “I think it’s yours.”
Her muscles coiled. “Did you open it?”
Steve stepped into the living room. He saw Clara’s face shift from surprise to fear to determination. The box was light in his hand, but seeing her reaction, it felt heavier, as if filled with liquid mercury. She unfolded from the couch. Her sinewy frame opened like a fan with the athletic grace of a dancer. Her aggressive beauty reminded him of the day they met on a blind date set up by his step-sister, Meg.
Clara reached her hand out, eyebrows scrunched and lips pursed. “Give it to me,” she said.
Steve pulled the box away and turned. He flicked the small latch.
“Don’t,” she said.
A fat diamond ring gleamed inside the cushioned, pink interior. Steve’s eyes barely registered the bling as he stared at the gray flesh of a human finger surrounded by the ring. Stiff black hairs gathered near the knuckle. The finger’s base was severed as if cut by pruning shears. Steve gasped, and a cold slice of panic slid down his back. A wolf-like growl, deep and rattling, exploded from Clara. He caught her red, angry eyes a second before she swung the iron fry pan. An ice-pick of pain traveled up his nose, and the lights went out.
Clara dragged Steve, feet first, to the basement stairs. The frying pan hadn’t done the job, but the boning knife under the ribs had. Clara touched his bruised left cheek. It was a shame it had to end before the appointed time. He was a cute one. She guided him down the wooden stairs, his head bumping on each step. The fluorescent lights gave the room a greenish tinge. A red line followed Steve’s body across the floor past the washer and dryer to the utility shelves at the far end. Clara pushed against shelves, and they split and opened to her inner sanctum. She smiled as she looked into the dark wood-paneled room with Tiffany lamps, overstuffed couches and chairs, and a whiff of lavender and pipe tobacco. On the walls were bookcases and pictures of long-ago husbands whom she had loved and killed. This was her sanctuary to be her true self. She hoisted the body onto the iron table. She leaned over and kissed Steve’s blood-encrusted lips.
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” she whispered.
Clara pulled her pruning shears from a drawer and placed them beside Steve’s hand. A feeling of excitement bubbled inside her. She turned to the bookshelf behind, and at eye level were 13 burgundy, felt jewelry boxes. She ran her fingers along the treasures. The first was inscribed in curlicue black script – Harold-1874, her first husband and sacrifice. She ran her finger to the next one – Joshua-1884. Her mother had taught her the ways of the Lilith family and the ten-year cycle of immortality. She pulled the box Steve found from her pocket and placed it in its rightful place.
“Thank you, Alex, for your sacrifice,” she whispered. “You shouldn’t have run that night.” Clara had botched the killing and chased Alex into the woods before finishing the deed and losing the box in the process.
On the lower shelf, dozens of empty felt boxes lay stacked. Clara lifted one and examined it– perfect. With a whalebone calligraphy pen and black squid ink, she wrote Steve-2024. Now, the final part of the ceremony. Clara grabbed a gold diamond ring from the inlaid jewelry box on the side table. She lifted Steve’s stiffening ring finger and slipped on the ring. With satisfying pressure and a crack, she squeezed the pruning shears till the blades closed, and the finger dropped. Clara dabbed the bloodied end with a laced handkerchief.
“I do,” she said and bowed. The finger went into the box and onto the shelf.
Clara retrieved a serrated bone saw from the hook on the wall, the teeth glimmering in the lamplight. Now, to the task of rendering Steve’s essence.
Clara’s brow glistened as she stirred the flesh and bone in the sixty-quart stockpot. The onions, garlic and allspice covered the sickly sweet smell of human flesh. The boiled-down liquid would become stock for her Sunday elixir. The elixir that kept all the Lilith women young and immortal.
She heard a door close and the skittering noise of tiny paws crossed overhead. Heavier feet followed.
“Clara, are you here? Steve?” Meg’s voice carried down the open basement door.
Clara heard the first basement step squeak and Bert’s claws on wood as he skittered down. Steve’s head, skull opened and empty, sat on the rendering table with bloodied towels spread on the floor. Inside, she screamed in rage. Why was everything so hard? Clara grabbed the bone saw.
“Clara. It’s me, Meg.” Meg’s voice had shifted, deeper and guttural. “I know what you are.”
Clara stood back from the door, her bloodied forearms dropped to her sides. Meg’s new voice was familiar and soothing. Meg pushed open the door. Her eyes were red like Clara’s. The bugged-eyed Bert was nestled in her arms. “I’m your distant cousin. I sent Steve to you. Let’s get this place cleaned up.”
