Michael Bunker - WICK

The house was filled with a warm, tempting aroma of food and life, and he felt the hunger in his stomach tumble, and that feeling pleased him too. He looked across the room and saw Veronica with her back turned to him, her long twists of hair flowing across her back as she moved around her kitchen.

“I appreciate this. I really do.”

“No worries. It’ll be nice to have company for dinner. I took the liberty of washing your clothes. I hope you don’t mind. I tried not to be too snoopy.”

“No, not at all. And thanks. I’m afraid I am putting you out.”

“Hmmph,” she said, and went back to cooking. She told him it’d be ready in a minute.

Clay had once heard that the best way to tell if you’ll get along with someone is to question their tastes in music. He walked across the room to a small stereo, where the woman had CD’s lined along the window.

“You like The Mountain Goats?”

“Yes, I like John Darnielle’s passion, and his lyrics. I even like his religious album.” When she said this, she made quotes in the air around the word “religious,” and Clay knew exactly what she meant—that the album had not really been religious, and that anyway, all his music was suffused with a kind of respect for such sensibilities, and that anyway, one man’s religion was another man’s folly. He understood her meaning as certainly as if they shared a secret language, which as fans, they kind of did.

“I saw him in October at the Bowery Ballroom,” Clay said.

“Yeah? Yudehdedaedadiwahdehdowndeh?”

“Ummm. What?”

“You deh… de day… dad I… wah deh… down deh?”

“Oh, yes, I guess I was. Wasn’t it great? It’s a surprise I didn’t see you.” He blushed because he realized that he had just as much as said that she was hard to miss with her long black hair and her striking features. His blushing made her blush, and she smiled, reaching up with her hand to cover the smile.

“Yes, well it’s a surprise that I wasn’t seen.”

The meal consisted of something she called “buss up shot” which was a light, flaky dough cooked in ghee butter (“because it looks like a busted up shirt,” Stephen said, as if that somehow explained everything.) Veronica set out three separate bowls with each having a separate dish of chickpeas and spinach and curry chicken. “Just tear off a piece of the bread and wrap it around a bit of these and put it your mouth,” she told him, “and if you’re feeling brave, try a little pepper sauce.” She pushed a small bowl of some condiment across the table, from which extended a spoon.

Clay was feeling brave although Stephen apparently wasn’t, and after his first bite he realized why. He reached down and gathered a bite of chickpeas in the dough and poured a bit of the sauce from the spoon and ate it. His mouth was set aflame with a sensation he hadn’t quite felt before. His eyes and nose and mouth began to water. Veronica and Stephen began to snicker and then finally busted out laughing as Clay wiped his face. “I told you that you’d better be brave, Mister, but I didn’t say be stupid! Just a drop, Clay. Just a drop.”

“Yeah, well you left that part out, Veronica.” He choked for a moment and then felt the taste of the food kick in, and reached in for another bite.

It was the best meal he’d had in months. The company, the food, the warm cup of coffee afterward — Clay found himself thoroughly enjoying the whole experience. They sat and talked about the storm and how Veronica had come to this island from another island, from a small town outside of Port-of-Spain.

“There was a hill there you could drift down forever,” she said. “Just get on your bike in the morning and begin rolling downhill, never once pedaling, and not stop until the sun was setting. Of course, then you had to walk back up!”

Clay told them that he’d once climbed a tree in his forest in Ithaca to see the sunrise, and as he was watching it come over the horizon, it had been so beautiful that he lost his balance and fell out of the tree and hadn’t landed until evening. “Of course, most of that I’m making up,” he said, “but, hey, what good is a story if it is entirely true?” They all laughed and the bowls slowly emptied.

After they finished, Clay helped Veronica clear the dishes from the table and Stephen went into the living room to turn on the TV. The news of Sandy’s devastation was on every channel, and they gathered around for a moment to watch. The video of destruction was sobering—of roller coasters falling into the sea and smoke rising up from cinders and waters rushing over streets and sand piling up on the barriers or being washed out to sea. It seemed like a million miles away now even if some of it was right outside the door.

“You sure you want to go back out into that?” Veronica asked.

“That’s exactly what I am leaving,” Clay said.

“Yes, I see your point. Well, then you better get some rest, Clay.” With that, she got up and excused herself, and as she turned to leave, she looked back over her shoulder and asked, “You a Republican, Clay?”

“Tonight, ma’am, after that meal… I’m whatever you want me to be.”

“I’ll put you down as a political agnostic, which is good enough for me,” and with that she said that she had to go out to run a few errands. She went back into the hall and came out with a bag and told Stephen to watch over their guest. Then she let herself out, and the two of them sat for a bit, watching a few minutes more of TV.

In between the reports from the storm, the talking heads were already looking for the next big story. The election dance was playing itself out in real time, and both sides seemed to be wondering how to best use the destruction and death and suffering to insure their ascension to power. Vladimir Putin in Russia was strengthening his hold on the former Soviet Republics, and political dissidents were joining the press in accusing his government of killing or silencing his opponents. A video showed Secretary of State Hillary Clinton trying to thread the needle between these two storylines, saying that Russia was secretly moving to rebuild the former Soviet Union, and that the incumbent candidate leading America would not sit idly by and let that happen. After just a few moments of politics and world news, the scenes shifted back to local destruction and loss and calls for the government to help those who found themselves in dire need.

After a while, shaking his head thoughtfully, Stephen stood up and walked towards the television. “Do you mind if I turn this off?”

“Not one bit,” Clay replied.

“Listen to some music?”

“Sure,” Clay said, as the boy walked over to the stereo and pulled out a CD, slid it into the player, and pushed the button. The somber, soulful cry of Ellington’s Harlem Nocturne came plaintively out of the speakers. The music stood in sharp contrast to the day’s events with its peaceful, swinging somnambulism.

“I figured you liked Duke Ellington.”

“I do,” Clay said.

And the two of them listened to its end.

Wednesday

Clay slept like a rock.

When he woke in the morning, he was feeling refreshed and happy, the weariness of yesterday’s travels washed away by peaceful rest. He put his feet over the bed and dropped them to the floor, then put on his jeans and shirt. He pulled a lambswool sweater on and then his socks and boots. He stepped out into the hall and smelled eggs, and the heavenly scent of coffee in the air. Veronica was standing at the stove tending the eggs, humming to herself, doing a lazy sway while she did so. As she heard him enter, she turned around. “Good morning, Mr. Fugitive.”