kaolin fire presents :: writing :: fiction

"LastRites.0"

words

"Spare change? Hey! Lady! Spare some change?"

The elderly woman did not break stride. She was not going to be harassed by these hooligans. Their wild hair and dirty, ragged clothes no longer caused her such fear. Not even when the young man bared his chest, flaunting his degrading piercings, and rippled his tongue at her insinuatingly did she really feel fear.

She clutched her purse tighter, just to blend in, and bit down on a smile of secret glee. They would not bother her much longer. Every dog had its day, and she was finally having hers. She'd lost her son to these people, these things. She had nothing left to lose. They would learn. All of them would either die, or move away. Quite simple, really. She stopped and patted her pinned-up hair, straightening and admiring herself in one of the store windows. She let herself smile. "Well, Beth. You're not too bad, after all. Shall we dine?"

The food was by no means good, nor was it reasonably priced; many sacrifices were necessary for her plan. She was strong. She could make them. She played with her food, moving a piece of lettuce around her plate in circles absently. In her mind were thousands of hands, outstretched. "Spare change? Ohmmmmmmm. Give! Give to us! Give us your life and your livelihood. Spare change? Spare some change? Spare some change to shove fast food into the ugly misbegotten grubs of children that tag along behind me? Your hard-earned bread, can I shove it in my face? Spare change?" Slowly, the hands faded from view, undulating in orgiastic grasps. Beth opened her eyes.

She wasn't going to finish the salad, she realized. But that was all right. That was according to plan. She glanced at it one last time to assure herself that she was not going to want any more. She was sure. Beth took a small zip-lock bag out of her purse. Glancing around, she took a large pinch of crushed leaves from it and tossed them on the salad. That would do. She got a doggie bag for the salad and stepped outside.

The sun was slightly obscured by light gray clouds. "Beth, Beth, Beth. You sure are a marvel." She murmured to herself, walking nonchalantly towards the nearest garbage can. She carefully unlidded her salad, and placed it next to the side of the garbage. When she saw the baby reaching for it, she almost cried out and gave herself away. She turned quickly and headed home. "Casualties of War," she consoled herself. "Casualties of War. And it was one of Their children, anyhow. What do I care for their children? What did they care for mine?" Tears were almost brimming in her eyes, and she stopped to tie her shoes, wiping her sleeves across her face.

She laughed when she regained composure. "A little uneasy, are we? Why, I'm not even wearing tennies." She looked around. If anyone had noticed, they weren't saying anything. They were used to crazies around here. "As if I were one of the crazies. Talking to myself about nonsense!" Beth adjusted her purse, acting as if nothing had happened. "I'm not the type to have hysterics," she told herself. "I promised myself. None. No quarter."

The rest of the walk invigorated her and helped her to forget. In fact she'd done quite a good job of forgetting. She always did, each and every time. Just like they'd made her forget about her Jeffrey. After her husband had passed away, little Jeffrey had been all she had. Well, perhaps not so little any more. But he was hers, of her womb and body, and by god he would stay with her until he had to go off for college.

College didn't happen. Jeffrey couldn't even stay around long enough to graduate high school for her. "Ma - this just isn't for me. I... Well, I fucking thought you'd understand, all right? I just fucking thought you'd understand. You never fucking understood." He left with those hoodlums without even a kiss goodbye. Three months later the police had told her to give up. He wasn't coming back. For all they knew, he was dead. Nobody knew of him. They tried to comfort her and placate her. Someone even set up a trust fund for her to support her in her grief. With Social Security paying rent, the trust fund helped her with food and utilities. It helped her campaign.

To give credit where credit was due, it wasn't wholly her campaign. It hadn't been her idea. One of her bridge partners one night had been ranting about how disgusting the street people were. She compared them to the plagues of rats that had decimated England, going on and on about diseases, and how they ate trash straight out of the garbage, and had no common decency, and on and on. Beth had ruminated on that germ of idea for a few weeks.

Finally, she had gone to the library. It took her a little while because she couldn't ask for help. She couldn't let any of the people there know what she was looking for. But finally she found what she wanted. Jimsonweed. It took several hours for the symptoms to take effect, but was lethal in the smallest quantities. With just a little further looking she found that she could order some jimsonweed sprouts through the mail. Apparently people commonly ordered them as outdoor plants for their interesting purple funnel-shaped flowers.

Five weeks later she had a nice little backyard garden. Several jimsonweed sprouts were filling out, surrounded by some decorous marigolds. It was quite lovely. And now it had filled out tremendously. The jimsonweed was somewhat malodorous but she had several full plants that she carefully trimmed once a week. She had leaves drying on her windowsill, waiting to be crushed and added to her baggie. "My goodness, but this whole thing is so invigorating. I haven't had this much fun in years. Beth, it's just a wonder to know you're doing good for your community."



The headlines made her feel kind of funny inside. 'Plague Hits Streets -- twelve dead, three in coma.' That was her. "Your five minutes of fame just hit the Sunday paper, Beth. And nobody'll even know you had it. But it's yours, just the same." What was the word on that talk show the other day? "Empowerment. That's what you've got now, girl, empowerment." Then the picture caught her eye. Her voice trembled a bit. "Beth, are you seeing what you think you're seeing?" His eyes stared lifeless out of the picture. There was a faint blue tinge around them from the loss of oxygen that came from the muscle paralysis of the poison. A body bag covered up most of him and part of his face, but she didn't need that much. She could see it in his eyes. How could he know? How was he there? How could this have happened? Her... her... son! That was her son!



Tuesday nights he came in here, for two years now. He had a Metallica jacket over an Exxon shirt with grease stains, and ripped blue jeans tucked down into combat boots. Sitting at the duty desk was a face new to him. Coming up to the desk, he asked, "Could I see patient Davis?"

"You are?"

"I'm Jeff, I'm her son. I was wondering if I could just watch her for a while."

"Well, I don't know... visiting hours are almost over."

"I won't be long. I just wanted to look at her. It's weird, ya know. We didn't leave on the best of terms, but I never figured she'd wind up here. I mean, yeah she was always a bat. But... poison? Punks? It's kinda meditative, lookin at her rocking back and forth. She thinks she offed me, ya know? On this killing spree. They called her the 'Gardener Granny.' Some broad, right? She weeded up the streets. That's my mother. And it's just kinda weird, looking at her. She's frozen, not like she's ended her life but like it's just there. It's just staying right there. Just sorta puts everything in its place, looking at that."

The nurse followed him back down the hallway, and stopped at a door near the end. Jeff pulled the view- hole to the side, and they both stared in at the specimen. It was a plain cell, gray carpet, gray cement walls, and gray drizzly sun creeping in through damaged shutters. She'd gotten a broken rocking chair as a reward for good behavior. Her eyes were closed, but she wasn't asleep. She was rocking gently back and forth in the chair, which just sort of knocked unevenly. One hand gently stroked what was being held by the other, a purple funnel-shaped flower.