Dan Tremaglio One More Piece of Night I Reap

Vol. 12 No. 2

The man put up his hands, as if he was being robbed. "Imma help you up, you ol' biddy."

Celia scrabbled in the dirt. "Don't you touch me. You thief. You purse snatcher."

But she let him take her elbow. He was skinny and sallow, more of a boy, with yellow hair cropped on top and shaved to the skin below like a sailor. She'd known sailors at Pearl Harbor, where she'd been a nurse in the Second World War. But this man-boy, he was no sailor. "Who are you?"

His smile was more of a smirk. "You said you knew."

A trembling flush made her talk too loud. "Mind your manners."

He eyed her. "Where's your people, missus?"

The noise of distant traffic was muted by the roil of the creek. "Harmony's grocery. They'll come for me, now I'm late." She glanced up the path. "Any minute."

He laughed, short and nasal. "This ain't the way."

Celia licked her lips.

The boy tipped his head. "I'll take you. For a price."

Breathless, she nodded.

She followed him, not too close, through a break in the fence. Beyond dumpsters and rows of apartments. Down a hill. Her legs becoming spaghetti-soft, she focused on his square back, his shirt frayed at the neck. At last, a bricked alley landed them on 33rd above the shopping plaza, Harmony's at its center.

An orange sun hovered to the west beyond the Great Salt Lake. How could it be so late? Fatigued with thirst and heels burning, Celia tried not to limp. Mid-block, a stairwell dropped into the Harmony's lot close to where Celia had always parked.

Eighty-four days without Big Boat.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am. I was really lost. Ha!" She hesitated at the top of the steps.

The boy scanned the parking lot. "I don't see your people." "Oh? Don't you worry." Her mouth dry as sand. "I'll just pop in. Back in a jiffy."

She stepped down a stair.

A tug jerked her back, and relieved of her purse, Celia became weightless, launched, arms out, as if floating on water.

The parking lot flew up to meet her.

Against the warm asphalt, she gasped. Startled. A swell of footsteps and voices broke over her. How did it come to this? She was too tired to think. She closed her eyes, and the din became the currents of forgotten waters buried below the city. If she could choose, she hoped the wet heat spreading under her cheek would absorb her into the ancient lakebed. If only to give her rest. If only for a minute.

59

Black River Blues Gary Thomas

Dan Tremaglio

One More Piece of Night I Reap

The ground is hot to the touch, even through the kikmat gloves. My bagman keeps bumping into me every time I pause. This used to make me loudly swear. I remember swearing, the echo of forgotten god names. Not anymore. Some of the meteorites are only an inch deep. I can see them glowing blue through the layer of dirt as I reach down and snatch them up with armored fingertips, flinging them to my bagman behind me. Sometimes if the meteorite is bigger than a brick, he will stumble and maybe mumble, but that is all. We never speak. I used to pity bagmen, having to haul the glowing loads up and down row after row. I don’t anymore. Me, I spend all day bowing and kneeling like a goon at prayer, but I feel no pity. I feel no gratitude either. All I feel is blue, the draw of it, the blue flame burn on my fingers and palms. I