Vila Miller

The judge raised his hands again, trying to quiet the frenzy before it grew too strong. After a fruitless attempt, he resorted to raising his voice, announcing to the man, “I'm afraid the evidence does not support your claim. Seeing as you have no further proof—” “Wait, wait!” the man cried. But his words were drowned out by the buzz of the crowd. One of the flintlock-holders kicked in his knees. The man buckled to the ground. “—you are officially pronounced guilty of all charges—” The mob surged to the front of the stage in a flurry of arms and dirty bodies. Grey-toothed smiles appeared as they realized what was to come. “—and you will face immediate capital punishment by our executioner.” The crowd broke into a series of chants and shrieks, resuming the throwing of items at the stage. “Your fate will be a warning to the others,” the judge told the man. “With this beast’s death,” he cried to the crowd, “a hundred men will be saved!” Everyone cheered as a tall man entered the stage, carrying a long, rusted flintlock in one hand. The screams grew louder than ever as he pushed a silver ball into the barrel, aiming it at the head of the kneeling man.

BANG!

** They carried off his body not long after, marching through the streets in search of a pike to place his head on. It was decided to put the pike in the center of town. “It’ll ward off th’ others,” one said as the judge embedded the wood into the soft, bloody dirt. “Keep ‘em away from our fam’lies.” “Tha’ monster d’served it,” another agreed. “Wha’s one death matter if it’ll save all of us?” The town entered their homes that night in peace. Some stumbled through the door, sloshing tankards still in hand and the taste of victory on their lips. Everyone slept well that night, comforted by the warm blanket of hope. But another body was found two days later, and another appeared a week after that. More came in the autumn months, found buried and ravaged by claws and teeth. And each day, the townsfolk passed the decaying, misshapen head that was planted in the middle of town, wondering why their silver bullet had not worked.

They Called Her Mademoiselle

Vila Miller

Mom insisted on bringing me when she moved in five years ago. We lived only a few blocks away from the house—we were just stopping by—no, we wouldn’t stay long—she knew I was busy. Yes, just seeing an old friend. I think it must have been July. Maybe early August. The air was probably humid and nasty just like it always is during the infamous Midwestern summers, but that is not what I remember from that night.

The house was on Cheryl Lane—not that there was any house to see when we arrived; more people were gathered in the streets around it than the entire turnout of the town’s annual Hotdog Fest. (In the little town of Frankfort, Indiana, we took our identity as “Frankfurters” very seriously.) As my mother dragged me towards the nauseatingly large crowd, a bearded man adorned in a mustard yellow turban and a faint accent remarked, “Ha! There must be ten people per square meter here!” And he shoved into the sea of flesh and bright clothing.

Mom fought through the dense foliage of people with a death grip on my wrist, nearly pulling my arm out of its socket. But even the strength of my mother could not entirely penetrate the Great Wall made out of us. My mom did not look exasperated for a minute; it did not take long for her to find old acquaintances and to leave me in the middle of this dreadful ocean. My head spun around and around as people wearing every tint of color imaginable milled around and around until everything blurred together.

Of course, my natural instinct was to escape the congestion. When I finally found my way to the shores of the crowd, I stood there. Just stood there aloof and alone as the tide of people fluctuated in and out. As I caught my breath, I stared at the colors. Most people were wearing shorts and T-shirts, but I saw some people in other things. I saw people in clothes that marked different religions and cultures—they seemed to be from everywhere I could fathom in my wildest dreams. I even noticed a discarded Frankie the Hotdog costume (the town mascot, of course) on the road. I heard unfamiliar languages and foreign bursts of laughter. I smelled that summer sweat in the air. I stood there, a person admiring a painting at a museum gallery. So many details. Yes, I stood there, mesmerized by the crowd.

There was an elderly woman in her eighties or something on the fringes of the crowd, and she was surrounded by a herd of children who ran in every direction. She wore her hair in the usual old lady fashion—the short head of white curls. She wore a cheery yellow blouse and seemed to be running with the kids (one could call it running for an old person). She was standing about a dozen yards away when one kid slapped his hand against her side and screamed, “Tag, you’re ’it’!”

And the lady looked up—in my direction. She accelerated—in my direction. Straight towards me. I am young, but there was no way I belonged in the game of tag full of little children. Even so, the woman touched me on the shoulder. “Tag, you’re ’it’!” I froze. I looked at her. She looked at me, “Aren’t you going to tag someone?”

I stared. She finally seemed to acknowledge the awkwardness of the situation and said, “Oh, okay. I’m still ‘it’.” She winked mischievously and ran back towards the children who were shrieking with joy as she pursued one of the bigger ones. After finally tagging a smaller kid, she slipped into the crowd.

I was fed up with this party or gathering. I called Mom. She didn’t answer. I walked home alone.

The neighbors talked about it for a week—which is about a record extent of time to gossip about a single topic. There were all sorts of speculations and rumors that Mrs. Janson, the lady across the street from my home, who was commonly referred to as “Batty,” would tell anyone within earshot. The people who were too polite to shut her up never heard the end of it until something else interesting caught Batty’s undivided attention. I stayed away from her at all costs, but Mom was one of the unfortunate. Never before had I met someone who could carry on prattling pointlessly like my mother until we met Batty.

I had learned nothing about the identity of the new neighbor from neither Batty nor my mom, but from my little brother, Jaime, about a month after the party.

Mom told me I should keep an eye on him while he roller-skated; he was eight years old. I followed him closely as he skated from street to street. Jaime eventually led me to Cheryl Lane. I couldn’t help but stare at the house that had been blocked by people a month ago. It was quite small—the front yard even smaller. The front of the house was light blue,

moss-covered vinyl. The lawn was well-kept, along with the little garden bed with colors that reminded me of all those people that visited. By the garden bed, there was an elderly woman. It was the same one who had tagged me!

As I stood there, Jaime started to circle around me in his skates. This was the perfect opportunity to show off to me.

“Look, Jenni,” Jaime called out to me. “Watch this!”

He raced forward on the sidewalk as fast as he could. When he stopped, he looked back at me, hoping I’d look impressed. Disappointed, he started to skate backwards.

“Watch this!”

That provoked my attention.

“Be careful, Jaime!”

“Bravo, Jaime!” I jumped. And turned around to see who had applauded him. It was the old woman.

Jaime had an audience now. It was time for his greatest feat yet.

“Watch this!”

Jaime skated forward again to gain momentum. And he leapt.

“Jaime, no!”

It was too late. Jaime had hit the ground. Jaime shrieked like a banshee in a cemetery. I dashed immediately to his side, and the woman wasn’t far behind me.

Jaime’s elbows and knees bled the most. We were several streets away from home, and it would be a difficult task to drag a bloodied screaming child that distance.

I looked at the woman. She looked at Jaime and shook her head.

“I think we’ll have to bring him inside. Will you help me lift him?”

and on one of the chairs around the kitchen table. The interior of Mademoiselle’s house was plain, and there was not a lot of furniture. She had a large bookshelf with all sorts of books and handmade art that looked like they came from a safari, a hike in the Amazon, and a journey across Europe and Asia. I didn’t have time during Jaime’s screaming to really look at them, so I forgot what they even were, but I know they seemed out of place. I called Mom while the woman grabbed cloths, medicine, and bandages with little characters on them.

When I finally hung up after explaining Jaime’s injury to Mom, I turned around. Jaime was quiet. He sat placidly on one of the kitchen chairs, blissfully slurping on a blue popsicle. The woman had applied ointment to his knees and was finishing bandaging them up.

“You’re so brave,” the woman said, sticking on the last bandage which had a blue tiger on it. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Jaime. That’s my sister Jenni,” He pointed at me as I stood there listlessly. “What’s your name?”

The woman smiled, “You can call me ‘Mademoiselle.’”

“Mademoiselle? Is that a name?”

“That’s what friends call me.”

“Are we friends?”

“Sure! We can be the best of friends,” Mademoiselle declared.

Jaime was pleased by this idea. I was ready to go home.

“Jaime, do you think you can walk home?”

Jaime remembered his pain and sniffed loudly. “Yeah.”

“Tell—” I paused, not knowing how to address the woman.

“Mademoiselle,” Mademoiselle prompted.

“Tell Mademoiselle, ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you, Mad-mwuh-zell.”

Jaime liked to frequent Cheryl Lane every subsequent summer. Mom started letting him skate alone, and when he came back, his tongue and mouth would be bright red or blue.

I was naturally curious about Mademoiselle. Mom said that Mademoiselle visited Frankfort often before she decided to travel. I think Mom met Mademoiselle at a wedding or something like that. Mom said she was super nice and spent most of the evening talking to her. Nothing very interesting. I think she said that Mademoiselle grew up in Frankfort, and had several friends still living there. According to Mom, Mademoiselle knew seven languages and had traveled around the world. She couldn’t say much else that was worth noting.

I didn’t see Mademoiselle again that year until that winter when Mom baked Christmas cookies that were intricately decorated with red and green frosting. She told me and Jaime to deliver cookies to all the neighbors. Jaime got to take his wagon to all the neighbors on our street. Mom told me to make a special delivery to Cheryl Lane.

Mademoiselle warmly invited me inside and had me sit down on her old, brown couch. She set the large plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of me and brought in a silver tray with a thin green teapot and two short, round handleless mugs that matched the teapot. She poured a mug of tea for me, and then for herself.

“Tell your mom, ‘thank you’ for me. These cookies are works of art.”

I nodded, and said that I would.

“What do you like to do? Are you in any sports or do you have any special hobbies?”

“Umm, I like writing.”

“I love writing too! What are you working on? Could I read it?”

“Umm, maybe. I don’t write very much.”

“Well, keep writing. I want to read something of yours. Bring it to me, okay?”

I nodded. I think the conversation lasted maybe ten minutes until I said I probably needed to go.

Those years came and went fast enough. Mademoiselle never went past her garden bed, but every festival, holiday, and event acknowledged in Frankfort came to her. Men always came during the Christmas season to decorate her home with the extra lights from the TPA park’s light show. After the Christmas parade, families would intermittently arrive at Mademoiselle’s door for hot chocolate. Some of the floats even passed through Juniper Lane and stopped in front of the vinyl-sided home, while Mademoiselle would clap her hands and wave exuberantly. During the town’s annual Hot Dog festival, flocks of neighbor children would stop by to grab a popsicle, and their parents would visit with Mademoiselle. There was even another time when Mrs. Janson saw a llama in Mademoiselle’s yard after a 4H competition.

Mademoiselle often had company, but her regular guests always had very specific times they came. Batty explained this to everyone. She never left her house, but somehow, she knew. She said there was someone who always visited from 3-5 p.m. on Thursdays, another who visited on Monday evenings, another who always spent their Sunday mornings with her, and so on.

She made friends with every single child who set foot in the town; her free popsicles on a summer’s day were legendary. Her backyard was an excellent place to build a fort, and she always let them help her in the garden when they wanted. Many children pridefully brought home fresh zinnias and tomatoes that they helped cultivate in Mademoiselle’s haven. She was also popular with other people. The adult neighbors would bake cookies or make soup for Mademoiselle. I made deliveries every now and then, and Mademoiselle would read my latest writing in front of me. I started a novel, and with every time my mom baked bread or cookies, it grew and grew.

“Keep writing,” she always said to me.

I was finishing my final draft when my mom called me to report the news. The funeral was yesterday, at her house by her request, of course. That is to say the block around her house; it was that summer night five years ago again. I met my mother in the parking lot of the little Catholic church on the street perpendicular to Cheryl Lane. She stepped out of her tiny Volkswagen wearing a matching canary yellow dress. As Mom ran off, I looked on to the rainbow of people ahead. I must have been the only person wearing black.

I stood on the shores of the sea of people again. I stood alone, thinking about Mademoiselle’s life. I realized I never even learned her name—her real name. I knew almost nothing about her, but she knew everything about me.

People talked and laughed and cried in English, Spanish, Arabic, and who knows what else. I stood silent. My face was unfeeling and stoic.

As I paused to ponder, I noticed a group of children playing tag. They were running and laughing, forgetting about the woman who had joined them five years ago.

As I watched the children play, a girl—probably about twelve—bolted in my direction. She had her thick, dark hair in a long braid that flew behind her, and she was wearing a solid red dress and a large, childish grin that I knew.

“Tag, you’re ‘it’!”

“Mademoiselle?” I knew it was her.

“Oui.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Oh, I just wanted to stop by. I always wanted to go to my own funeral.

This is almost as good as the time when I got pulled into a street fight in the fish market in Buenos Aires.” Her smile grew even more. Her eyes sparkled with life and energy.

I looked down at the girl and gaped.

“I also wanted to talk to you one last time while I’m dead.”

“Am I hallucinating?” I had to check just to be sure.

“You might be. Who cares.”

“What are you doing here?”

“You never visited me again. I never got to congratulate you on your bestseller.”