Morgan Nyberg - Since Tomorrow

Langley said “Shit, I don’t care about that stuff anyway. I’ve decided to leave it all behind. You want my stuff, Frost? You can have it. I got stuff you ain’t even dreamed of. What about this woman? What about Grace? You want Grace? You want Grace alive? That’s fine by me. If I can leave my stuff behind I can leave this woman. She’s nothin’ to me anyway. In business she’s what we call a bargainin’ chip. But I do like that dress. And them pearls.”

Frost bent, picked up the black handle of the espresso-maker, sniffed the cup-like end of it, let it fall. He still did not look at Langley. Sticking to the edge of the empty circle of earth, he walked slowly along the perimeter formed by the piled commodities, the appliances, the furniture, the electronic gadgets.

“Anyway, it’s all yours, Frost. Stuff, woman, dress, pearls, the whole kit and caboodle. All’s you got to do is hand over that there sword. That’s more than a fair trade, sounds like to me. I’ll say goodbye to Grace down the trail a piece and head off in search of a new business venture. We’ll be done with each other once and for all.”

Frost stopped at the stove. Using a fold of his poncho he pinched the handle of the lid and pivoted it open. He stared down into the flames, which painted the dripping white beard and the creased skin and the rain-specked glasses with an intense light.

“That there’s my airtight. You feel how warm it makes a place?”

Without closing the lid Frost stepped back and kicked the stove. It rocked on its feet. The light of the flames shook against the ceiling of crisscrossed boards and tarpaper and roofing shingles. The stovepipe came noisily apart. From the section that was still attached to the stove smoke poured into the room.

Langley said “Now don’t go burnin’ this place down! You ain’t goin’ crazy here, are you? I hear you go crazy sometimes. Well, if you want this here woman to stay alive you better start thinkin’ a little clearer and stop wreckin’ my stuff!” His voice had the angry whine of a wasp. “Jesus, look what you done! We’re going to choke on smoke. I know what you’re doin’. You’re tryin’ to shake me up. Bustin’ my stuff. But I’m past getting’ shook up. I’m, past it, Frost. So let’s get this here deal done so’s we can both hit the road. Just give me your god damn sword.”

Frost spoke at last. He looked directly at Langley. His voice was tired and rough. “I should’ve done this a long time ago.”

“What? You should’ve done what?”

“Done what I’m going to do. Good people would still be alive. It’s my fault they’re not.”

“Hey! Hey, listen! You ain’t going to do nothin. You want to talk about fault — well, listen to this. It’s goin’ to be your fault when this here woman’s throat is cut open! That’s what’s going to be your fault. And it’s going to be your doin’ if she lives! Ain’t that clear? What the hell could ever be clearer than that?”

Frost stared at Grace. She had turned her head to watch the business at the stove. This must have caused Langley’s knife to bite, because the ribbon of blood crawling down her chest was an inch wider.

But the dead eyes had changed. They had come to life. She smiled fully, openly. She said “Frost.”

Frost started, as if from an electric shock. He let out a ragged sob. He waited another minute, watching Grace, watching the eyes and the smile, which did not change. Then he looked away and took the blade of his sword in his left hand and let go of the handle with his right. He waited again, staring at the ground. He coughed from the smoke. He stepped forward, holding the weapon out, offering it. He nodded to Langley.

“That’s better, Frost. Now we’ll be done with this business.”

Frost stepped closer. Langley leaned to take the sword.

Grace lifted her hands from the earth floor. Frost looked puzzled, then afraid. Grace stopped smiling. She closed her eyes. She pushed both hands hard against the blade of the knife. She twisted her head, once left, once right.

Blood sprayed across Frost’s legs and hissed against the stove. He shouted “No!” and reached toward Grace. But Langley pulled the knife away and drew back his foot and pushed Grace with it, and she fell sideways and lay there looking with fading eyes into her own pooling blood.

Langley stood. He gaped at his bloodied jeans and hiking boots. He said “Jesus!”

Frost reached toward Grace, bent his knees to kneel, but Langley hacked at him with the knife. Frost dropped the sword. He stumbled away and fell to his knees but rose again and staggered backward. His left arm hung limp at his side. His poncho was sliced open and there was a deep gash below his shoulder, with blood pulsing from it. As Frost glanced at the wound, blood started dripping from his fingertips.

Langley said “I guess we got to do this the messy way.” His own left arm also hung useless. He ignored the sword at his feet, stepped past it. He coughed from the thickening smoke and blinked his eyes and wiped them with the back of the hand that held the knife.

Frost moved along the wall of goods to a place beside the stove. There was a chrome-edged table with a matching chair lying on it. Frost tugged at a leg of the chair, but it was snagged firmly on something and would not come loose.

Langley stepped rapidly toward Frost.

Frost grabbed a leg of the table itself and pulled viciously, and it slid out from under the things heaped on it, which crashed one upon the other. Frost dragged the table between him and Langley, but Langley kicked it against Frost and leaned and hacked with the knife again and opened a profound gash across his chest. Frost moved to his right, but Langley stepped sideways and stood in Grace’s blood and blocked the way. Frost went back behind the table and searched again among the commodities, but there was nothing he could grip with his one working hand.

With a foot Langley found a leg of the table and nudged it out of his way. Frost held the opposite leg. Then he heaved his end of the table upward and threw himself against it between the legs. But the table twisted and did not hit Langley squarely. Frost`s glasses flew from his face. Langley elbowed the table aside and lunged and sank the length of the blade into Frost`s abdomen and jerked it out.

Frost gave a long choked cry. He doubled over and twisted and hobbled away.

Langley said “You’re old, Frost. That’s your whole problem. You’re old and you’re a farmer.”

Frost held his good arm across his gut and turned his back on Langley and leaned on the stove. A smell of burning wool mixed with the dense smoke. Langley took a long step forward and swept back the bloodied knife. Frost reached into the open stove and reared up with a blazing piece of cordwood and turned back to Langley, who hesitated at the sight of the flames curling among Frost’s fingers. Frost smashed him in the face with the wood.

Langley cried out “Ow! God! Damn!” and stepped backward and tripped over Grace and sat, with blood gushing from his nose, and an ember flickering in his hair. Frost came forward on his knees, with his face already pale from the blood that had left him, pale in the light of the burning thing in his raised hand. Langley managed to poke the knife forward and into Frost’s chest again, but still Frost leaned over Langley’s outstretched feet and smashed him once more with the wood.

Langley hollered hoarsely. He got up and rose twisting to his feet and stepped away from Frost. He sat in his chair, with both arms hanging and the knife gripped loosely. His face was charred and well bloodied, and bits of his hair were burning. Frost came forward another six inches on his knees. He teetered. He raised the burning wood and threw it weakly. It landed in Langley’s lap.