Pursuit Of The Cygnus Thief

Chapter 10 - A Stranger...

“A Stranger…” By Roseyone

Chapter 10

       He grabbed my right arm and yanked me up. I stared. The stranger’s lips were stripped bloody, his scelera leathery and reddened; it was the kind of damage only a prolonged fever or too much time in the open desert could wreak. Near the wall, Mr. Abel was still on the floor, he grunted, climbed up, clutched the back of his head with one hand, rubbed, inspected. Satisfied that his fall had not broken skin, Mr. Abel squared his shoulders and faced the stranger.

“Who the hell are you?” Mr. Abel said. I trembled though he wasn’t on me, in me or near enough to do harm.

       The stranger peered down at me. “Are you alright?” he asked. He wasn’t from California. His voice started some place low, a good portion of it got piped out through his nose along the way yet remained flat and solid, it made him sound gruff, as if he didn’t want to give up too much breath as he spoke. With hair that hung past his ears and days of stubble on his face the stranger looked like he might have wandered off the set of a sword and sandals flick. It was a plausible summation, there were two large Hollywood lots located in the northern region of Muncie County, epic desert scenes were often filmed there on the cheap.

       In response to the stranger, I shook my head too hard and it began to hurt. I couldn’t align my thoughts, it was all too big, too angry. I couldn’t speak. There were fragments of grain trapped beneath my throbbing tongue, I could taste the rye bread, mustard, roast beef, the saliva sweetened beer from Mr. Abel’s lunch, even the brylcreem transferred from his hair to his fingers had reached me but foremost, increasingly; I could taste my own blood. If I had spoken, I would have first been forced to either swallow the swill in my mouth or spit it out onto the tavern floor.

       The stranger aimed his chin at the front door “Beat it.” He said with a subtle flick of his head. “And don’t come back to this perv.” he added. I shot a look at Mr. Abel and cringed when I found his glacial eyes fixed on me.

       “You’ll go to the kitchen.” Mr. Abel commanded. There was suddenly a handkerchief in front of my face. I snatched it and looked up at the stranger. This time, I noticed that he was a young man beneath all of the hair. He was wearing a black suit, a partially buttoned white shirt and matching white tie. Despite his parched unkempt appearance, the stranger hadn’t worn the suit for very long, it was still crisp and except for the beaten work boots on his feet his clothing was dust free.

       “Go home.” he insisted. The stranger stepped in front of me, he eclipsed Mr. Abel and commanded my full attention with the same singular, flagrant disregard Freddy often displayed. I needed to spit, to be warm, to see the light, to escape Mr. Abel, his tavern, even the man who had just saved me. I darted away then out through the partially unhinged front door of the tavern, out onto Main Street and into the sunlight.

       Except for a few parked cars, Main Street was empty. I went to the curb and spat out blood and Mr. Abel but soon I was on my knees between the bumpers of two parked cars with my face just inches above my own vomit. My tongue burned, the corners of my lips stung. I could still feel where Mr. Abel’s knuckles had bruised the roof of my mouth, smell his breath, feel his knee between my thighs forcing me to struggle. I ran over to Barca Lane then slipped into the alley behind the tavern. I found Mrs. Nan perched on a bench in the shade next to the open back door of the tavern, she held her narrow face in her hands, the deficient gray bun she wore just over the nape of her neck was pointed at the sky. There was a Crosley radio at her feet that blared what she surely meant to be a cleaving wall of music at top volume.

       I was almost on her when Mrs. Nan’s face popped up. The sound of her voice was lost in the music but I read her lips easily, “Oh dear…come…I’ll help you clean up.” She stood up, our eyes met for a moment then hers fixed below my waist as if my dress, the slip beneath it and my underwear were all transparent. Mrs. Nan draped a thin arm on my shoulders, her brows rose, her forehead wrinkled.