Jithinia awoke with her breasts pressed tightly against Nathaniel’s back, one leg draped across him, and her pelvis hugging his bottom. Her face was in his hair. It felt soft like a kitten, smelled like musk and flowers, tickled her skin, and made her mind tingle. She rubbed her eyes, still gooped in the night’s makeup. Sunlight streamed in through a crack in the drapes where Houdini sat watching pigeons. She tickled her fingers across the sun on Nathaniel’s back. She traced the scars he hated so much, twin twists of flawed flesh bulging from his shoulder blades.

“It’s — it’s a birth defect,” he said so long ago, with eyes abashed like a guilty cherub’s in the presence of God. “I know they’re ugly.”

“No,” she said, and her eyes were gentle like the Mother Mary’s. “You look like an angel who lost his wings.”

“A fallen angel then?”

“No,” she said, pushing his hair from his face. “A broken angel.”

He giggled. “I like demons better. Angels are pussies.”

The ringing phone woke Nathaniel, but he let the machine get it anyway.

Parliament Funkadelic played: -- YOU'VE GOT A REAL TYPE OF THING GOING DOWN, GETTIN' DOWN,
THERE'S A WHOLE LOT OF RHYTHM GOING ROUND –

Then Jithinia’s recorded voice said, “Thank you for calling the Funkadelic Hotline. All our representatives are currently busy, please hold,” which was followed by the beep.

“You have got to change that message!” Nathaniel said.

“Jithinia, it’s Laurel —“

“Want me to get it?” Nathaniel yawned.

“Fuck her,” Jithinia said.

“— Gramma is sick —“

“Get it,” she said, and Nathaniel passed her the phone. “Hello,” she said, followed by, “Uh-huh — Uh-huh — Mmmkay — Well, I need to shower and get some grub, so I’ll be there around three. —Yeah, you, too. — Bye.”

“What’s wrong?” Nathaniel said.

“My Gramma Georgiana’s sick, so I gotta go home.”

“Want me to come?” Nathaniel’s puppy dog eyes begged for permission.

“Yes, I do, but I don’t think they’d understand.”

Nathaniel’s instincts failed him. He faltered and looked empty instead.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I can’t deal with it right now.” Her eyes were lost in the rumbles of a nearing storm.

Nathaniel realized her grandmother must be seriously ill, and he came to his senses. “I’ll miss you, pretty princess,” he said. He rolled over onto her and buried his face in her breasts.

She pulled his soft tresses through her fingers. She brought them to her face and inhaled his scent. She had just gotten him yesterday, and his face would be a memory again too soon.

Jithinia felt overwhelmed with dread as she packed her bag. She wrote down her mother’s phone number and stuffed it into Nathaniel’s backpack. She didn’t want to let go of him as she hugged him good-bye.


* * *

Kneeled among flowers, Georgiana worked the earth, her withered hands kneaded damp dirt. She wore a blue housedress, stained with soil, and her right cheek was smudged with mud. Her hair, chaotic in a spring breeze, played peek-a-boo beneath a well-worn hat. Her hands pressed into the earth around the base of a flower, securing it into the ground. She took a trowel, dug a hole, and planted another.

Shrouded behind blue curtains, Jithinia watched the aged lady from an opened, second story window; a yellowed doll sat cockeyed on its sill. The curtains, dancing with Spring’s warm breath, tickled Jithinia as they floated by her little girl face.

Ting! Ting! Ting! Georgiana’s trowel hit a rock. The old lady pulled and tugged at the stone, but it wouldn’t budge.

Oh, how Jithinia wanted to rush outside and help her grandmother, to claw at the soil with her, to place her hand beside Georgiana’s and help her tug.

Jithinia looked again out the window of her childhood bedroom. The ting, ting, ting of the trowel was now the dull thud of her father’s sledgehammer splitting wood, driving in, like a crooked nail, the chisel of reality.

“What are you doing?” Laurel asked, closing the window. “You’ll catch your death.”

“Just thinking,” Jithinia said. She picked up the musty doll and turned it over in her hands. The doll’s clothes were dingy, her once white dress yellowed with forever. Its hair was ragged, and its face cracked from nose to chin in a crooked S. “Where did this come from?”

Laurel took the doll from her sister. “I don’t know. It’s kind of creepy.”

“I like it.”

“Figures,” Laurel said and handed the doll back to Jithinia. “Gramma’s awake.”

“Oh, good.” Jithinia left the memory lingering just outside the window as she and Laurel moped down the stairs to their Grandmother’s room.

The dark, solid door seemed heavy and immobile, yet stood slightly ajar as if inviting her inside. Through the crack, she could see the silky wallpaper, blotched and venerable; the pale blue shade was Georgiana’s favorite color.

Proud. If one word could describe this gentle lady, it would be proud. She walked with shoulders back and eyes towards the heavens. Not to say she didn’t respect her roots, for they made her proud. She worked hard on the farm and wouldn’t accept anything from anybody without paying them back twice over. In the evening shade when all the chores were done, she would tuck her wavy copper-white hair beneath an oversized straw hat, sit back, and watch the sunset. She would squint her large green eyes at the sinking, pink sun, and they would be smiling. All around the pale-blue, Victorian house were grinning fields of flowers. Georgiana loved all that bloomed: daisies, roses, irises, tulips, begonias, marigolds, and poppies — tons of poppies. They were her favorite.

“Hey, Gramma.” Jithinia beamed a smile as she pushed open the too heavy door.

Georgiana lay in an antique bed beneath a patchwork quilt, her face frozen into an eternal frown. Her grandmother’s stern face had always frightened Jithinia as a child. She didn’t know why Gramma had such a sharp frown. She didn’t understand it was the Parkinson’s disease. Things like that didn’t cross a little girl’s mind. Had she known then, things — things might have been different. She might have spent more time with her Gramma.

Jithinia couldn’t breathe; the stale air felt suffocating and smelled like old candy. “It’s stuffy in here. Would you like me to open the window?” she said. She walked to the white framed window and struggled to push it open. Purple mountains majesty, a pine forest, an old wood shed, three horses, a field of corn husks, and a tree full of blackbirds — what a wonderful view that her Grandmother couldn’t see from her bed.

“Are you crazy?” Laurel said, shutting yet another window. “My goodness Jithinia, it’s ten degrees outside. You’ll give her pneumonia.”

“Oh yeah, I guess so.” She turned to her grandmother. “Do you like the flowers I brought you? They’re not as pretty as the ones you grow, but it’s the best I could do for October.”

“Yes, dear, they’re beautiful,” Georgiana said; her voice was a fading whisper.

Jithinia loved flowers, too. She had a balcony full of Morning Glories this summer past. She hadn’t raised plants in years, always too busy with homework or friends, but this past spring Nathaniel had given her a blooming cactus, and the urge just bit her like a bug. If she had only realized earlier how old her grandmother was becoming, how little time they had left; they could have spent some time together, planted flowers together, fixed up dolls.

Jithinia loved dolls. She had been collecting them since she was little. Not the expensive porcelain dolls from magazines, which came with numbered papers and tags of authenticity, but run down dolls bought from thrift stores. She would clean them up, comb their hair, repaint their faces, and sew them new dresses.

Jithinia had forgotten all about her grandmother’s doll collection. Then one day, just after Danielle had run away, she was helping her mother clean out the upstairs of Gramma’s farmhouse, so they could move in with her and take care of her. There they were, tucked away in what would become Jithinia’s room, hundreds of dolls with repainted faces and dresses sewn by her grandmother’s hands. Jithinia had carefully packed up all the dolls and set them up on shelves in Gramma’s bedroom.

“Look at this doll,” Jithinia said, holding out the doll with the broken smile for her grandmother to see. “She was sitting in the window of my bedroom. I wonder where she came from.”

Georgiana remembered. She remembered wrapping the doll in metallic pink paper with a big pink bow. She remembered writing, “Happy Birthday, Baby Girl,” across the package with sticker letters. She remembered how Jithinia had shredded the paper, how wide her eyes became at the sight of such a gorgeous doll, once old and ragged but all new again, fixed up by Georgiana’s own hands.

The wheezing of Georgiana’s shallow breath whispered and whispered to Jithinia, “It’s too late! It’s too late! It’s too late!” The broken smile across the baby doll’s face grinned with agreement. Jithinia knew there was nothing she could do now but watch her Gramma whither and fade away.

Proud, proud Georgiana, her season was over.


* * *

The first thing Nathaniel noticed as he walked into Up All Night was the odd man with the guitar. He was older, mid-forties, with a mop of shaggy black and gray hair. His shirt was orange and blue paisley, his bell-bottoms blue corduroy, and his grin of the shit eating variety. He played an acoustic version of “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” that made Nathaniel chuckle.

The next thing he noticed was the artwork on the walls, demented dolls with bleeding eyes and skeleton girls in wedding gowns. The artwork alone was enough to scare most people, but the signature made Nathaniel shudder. Sara, his first girlfriend, had a knack for saying just the right thing to make him cry. He never cried in front of her; he wouldn’t give her that pleasure, but when he was alone in his room at night, lying in bed, afraid to fall asleep, afraid he’d dream of the bugs crawling all over his body, he’d run those mean, mean things she said over and over again in his mind. She’d moved away shortly after she broke his heart, and he wondered what turn of events had brought her back to town.

In retrospect, the artwork should’ve sent him screaming home, but with Jithinia gone, the apartment creaked and echoed distant voices of neighbors unknown. So here he stood, paying too much for a cup of Joe and finding Purp alone in a dark corner.

“Purp, what’s up?” Nathaniel said. He set his backpack in the floor and took the seat facing his friend.

Eldridge looked up from his book, a little startled; he had forgotten he was wearing Purp like a new skin. “Oh, hi —“ Purp’s ghost fluttered around Eldridge’s insides like a butterfly on delay. Purp was a fresh kill, and, like a bug in a Venus flytrap, Eldridge was slowly absorbing Purp’s soul until all of Purp’s memories would become as his own. “— Nathaniel,” he said. “How’s Jithinia?”

“Her grandmother is sick.”

“Sad to hear that,” Eldridge said.

“Watcha reading?”

Eldridge held up a well-worn book. “Closer, Dennis Cooper.”

Nathaniel’s forehead crinkled. “I thought you hated that book,” he said.

Eldridge called to mind that Purp did indeed hate the book and said, “I thought I’d give it another try.”

“Hey, where’d you go the other night? We looked all over for you.”

“Home with a pretty boy,” Eldridge said. He studied Nathaniel and found him beautiful. His lips were the dark poet Morrison’s. His skin was a pale blue rose dipped in cream. Eldridge thought he might like to climb inside this boy and wear him for a while.

“Anyone I know?” Nathaniel said.

“His name was Seth.” Finding Seth’s soul, Eldridge said, “No.”

“What was he wearing?” Nathaniel asked, pulling a cigarette from his jacket pocket.

“Black wings.”

“Oh, Golden Bottom,” Nathaniel said, and he couldn’t find his lighter.

“Excuse me?” Eldridge said.

Purp’s ghost was Nathaniel’s echo, “The boy with the fine bottom, worth its weight in gold,” Nathaniel said. “I believe was how you put it.”

“Yes, I guess so,” Eldridge said, and he lit Nathaniel’s fag with Purp’s Zippo.

“Oh hey,” Nathaniel said. “I’ve gotta joke.”

“Okay.”

“What was the king of Jew’s biggest conundrum?”

“Mmmm,” Eldridge said. He lit his own cigarette. “I have no idea.”

“A free ham sandwich.” Nathaniel swallowed the last of his coffee, cold and full of unmixed sugar, and he made a horrible face. “Uhhgg!” he said. “Hey, you wanna get outta here?”

“Absolutely.”

“I got some brownies in my pack. You wanna go to Le Théâtre Optique? See an old movie?”

“Okay. After that, we can head back to Seth’s and raid his liquor cabinet.”


* * *

A few hours later, Nathaniel sat curled up on the sofa with his face half-buried in the cushions. He didn’t say much. He just kept looking at his feet.

“Sorry,” Eldridge said, breaking his stare.

Nathaniel shifted in his seat and then dug out some gummy worms from his bag. “Worm?” he said, holding out the floppy candy.

“No thank you,” Eldridge said.

Nathaniel munched the worm himself. “I like Seth’s house,” he said. The house was Victorian vintage; a hodgepodge of plush antiques contrasting against contemporary bric-a-brac. Everything was neat and in its place. A multitude of lit candles lined the hearth of an empty fireplace.

“Me too,” Eldridge said. “Did you enjoy The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari?”

“Ummm,” he bit his lower lip, “yeah.” He hadn’t seen the flick before; he had seen only bits and pieces on the wall of a club once as the surreal backdrop for a local industrial band called Asteroid. Maybe he was dumb, or it could’ve just been the weed, but the movie didn’t seem to make much sense to him.

Eldridge lit a cigarette, so Nathaniel did, too. “Spider Baby is showing next week. We can go if you like.”

“Oooooh, how spooky and gothic,” Nathaniel said, looking like the Mona Lisa, if she was a boy in makeup with bad hair. “I’ll ask Jithinia.”

“Would you care for a drink?”

Nathaniel shrugged and hoped Purp would take it for a yes.

“Feel free to put on a CD if you’d like.” Eldridge headed for the kitchen.

Nathaniel shuffled to the stereo like it took all his energy. He crouched down before the CDs: Nick Drake, Swans, Rachmaninoff, Brandenburg, Nicholas Lens — uhgg. He dug out Electric Hellfire Club’s Satan’s Little Helper from his backpack and put it on. Then he noticed a cello behind the door; its case was painted with a picture of Rozz and Gitane.

“Here you are,” Eldridge said. He handed Nathaniel a whisky sour.

Nathaniel returned to his position on the sofa. He clutched the glass tightly, almost desperately, as he downed his spirits. He thought he probably shouldn’t have his muddy feet on such a nice couch. Then he noticed Purp was staring at him again.

“Would you like another drink?”

“Yeah.”

Eldridge returned with another drink. Then he retrieved a fat blunt from a wooden box on the coffee table and lit up. He toked a bit and passed the beast to Nathaniel, and that’s when things started to skew and mush.

Nathaniel just sat there gnawing his lower lip and not quite sure how to speak.

Eldridge located Nathaniel’s eyes buried somewhere in all that black makeup, and they seemed to be screaming. He couldn’t stand to look at them any longer, so he kissed Nathaniel instead. The kiss wasn’t tongue filled and sloppy, but almost fragile, like two spider webs stuck together in a zephyr.

Nathaniel thought Purp looked different somehow, like some looming skeleton, kind of funny, like death in a blonde wig. Purp’s bone hand slid across Nathaniel’s cock. Nathaniel thought it felt good through his thin skirt, so he closed his eyes and laid back. He wriggled his wraith like hips forward as the bone hand pushed up his skirt and then pulled down his underwear.

Purp ripped the crotch out of Nathaniel’s fishnets, and then he took Nathaniel’s erection into his mouth. Nathaniel clutched Purp’s black hair, which seemed almost white now. Purp’s back had an odd hunch to it, and Nathaniel wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. He wondered why he was noticing it now, when Purp’s tongue felt sooooooooo good.

Eldridge unlaced Nathaniel’s corset and tossed it aside. He sat down next to the boy. He unzipped his own vinyl pants and pulled out his mojo. A tiny pearl of pre-cum glimmered on its chubby crown. Nathaniel ached to go down on it, but Eldridge had other things in mind. He pulled Nathaniel onto his lap. He found his bottle of lube hidden in the crack of the couch, filled his hand full of goo, and oiled his shaft. He slid his finger into the boy’s bottom and made the hole wet. He braced his cock for insertion with one hand, and gripped Nathaniel by his hipbone with the other.

The head sank in. Nathaniel panted as he felt it split him open. “It hurts,” he whimpered.

“Relax,” Eldridge whispered; his lips nuzzled against Nathaniel’s ear. Eldridge slid his hand from Nathaniel’s hip to his cock and stroked it. The boy relaxed a bit and let Eldridge a little deeper inside.

“That’s my boy,” Eldridge whispered. He pushed himself in balls deep. At first, he fucked Nathaniel slowly, but as Lust possessed him, he quickened his pace. He took hold of the boy’s shirt and ripped it off over his head.

Eldridge stopped. Nathaniel’s skin was twisted and rough, identical to his own grizzled flesh. He felt stoned, drunk, sick, and haunted. He trembled as discordant voices inside him screamed. He pushed the scarred boy away.

The cold marble floor was a chessboard of black and white, and Nathaniel hit it like a fallen queen. “F, f, fuck you!” he said. His big eyes were beseeching, like a puppy dog’s eyes, and tears dawdled there, caught up in a net of mascara stained lashes. His lips were full and slightly open, as if wanting to speak, but only begging for a kiss.

“Go home, Nathaniel,” Eldridge said through quivering lips. Depression overwhelmed him. Leave me alone, or hold me god damn it, I’ll ask for one but never the other, he thought.

“Purp, what’s wrong?”

“Just get the fuck out of here!”

“What’d I do?”

“Ugly, ugly, ugly SCARS!” Eldridge threw Nathaniel’s shirt at him. The shirt draped across his face, shrouding him. “Put your FUCKING CLOTHES ON!” he yelled, his voice like a thousand flies buzzing in unison.

Nathaniel put his shirt on. His underwear was still wrapped around one ankle, and he nearly fell again as he fixed it. He brushed the dirt off his skirt. He found his corset, stuffed it into his bag, and then looked to his feet. His voice was almost a whisper. “I need a ride,” he said.

“Get out. Get out. Get out, or I’ll kill you, Nathaniel. I’LL KILL YOU! I MEAN IT! GET THE FUCK OUT!” Eldridge screamed. His eyes were crazy and somewhere else, his lips were as close to Nathaniel’s as when they had kissed. His hand gripped Nathaniel’s shirt tightly, like a drowning bug on a leaf, and he pushed him towards the door chanting, “LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE, LEAVE,” with his voice skipping like a broken record.

Nathaniel fell through the doorway and into the savage night. He didn’t have a clue where he was going or where he had been. He could still hear Purp’s chanting from a good five miles up the road, where he found the payphone at Leon’s Grocery. Thank Baphomet Jithinia had written down her mom’s number and stuck it inside his bag.

“Leave! Leave! Leave!” Eldridge kept chanting the words even though they had lost their meaning. The boy’s essence — Nathaniel’s essence — Granville’s essence — haunted Eldridge from five miles away, as if the boy’s heart were still beating in the same room.

Eldridge trembled, screamed, worried, and cried, as the soul sharing Kinder awaited Nathaniel’s ride.