David Nickle - Monstrous Affections

Swamp witch knew it couldn’t. One day a week was part of the bargain.

She pulled back and looked at Albert levelly.

“Why did you bring tea-drinking man here? Why did you let him in?”

Albert frowned. He started to deny it, but looked into swamp witch’s eye and knew he couldn’t.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“I remember the future,” she said. “I remember the ends of things.”

“There’s no joy in that,” said Albert Farmer.

“I know.” Swamp witch stepped away and shook the lust from her head. “It’s not like the beginnings. Those are the real joys.”

Albert nodded. He leaned back against the counter; appeared to think, but it was hard to say because the lights were low.

“Are they?” he finally said. “Beginnings, I mean. Are they the real joys? You ever think much about ours?” Swamp witch looked at him. “You don’t of course. Or else you’d never say that about beginnings. Maybe you’d have killed me by now.”

It was true that swamp witch didn’t think about beginnings but it wasn’t that she couldn’t.

“I loved you,” she said.

“You still do.”

“I still do. But we’re busting up. I know it.”

Albert’s smile faded and he nodded. “That’s how the night ends,” he said. “Will you have a glass of wine with me?”

Swamp witch shrugged, like a sullen teenager she thought, and mumbled, “ Mayuswell ,” and leaned her butt against the countertop so she wouldn’t be looking at him. She heard the wine gurgling from bottle to stemware, and Albert came around the front of her and gave her the glass. She looked into it, swirled it a bit.

“You knew it had to come,” he said. “From the day we made this place, you know this had to come.”

Swamp witch sighed. She did know — she did remember. But what pleasure was there, in recalling a game of skill against this — this roadside mephistopheles, during the worst afternoon of her life? That was well hidden away, that memory.

At least it was until this moment — this moment, when she once more recalled the crossroads, just to the south of town near the sycamore grove where she sat, bruised and angry and waiting for a bus or some conveyance to take her away. When she said:

I’d just like to send you to Hell .

And when not a bus but a shiny little two-seater from Naples rolled up, and he stepped out and set down the checker board and said, “Would you now sweet mama?” and she said, “Maybe not exactly,” and he said, “Well, care to play me?” and she said, “What for?” and he said, “What do you want?”

“I wanted my town back,” said swamp witch, bringing the wine glass from her lips, “just my town. And just Saturdays. Just Saturdays. And I won it.”

“Fair and square,” said Albert.

Swamp witch set down the glass. “I cared for it here,” she said. “It was mine and I cared for it.”

“Yes,” said Albert. “It was yours. And you cared for it, all right. But not forever. You knew that.”

“Not forever?” she said.

“Only,” he said, “so long as I could keep winning.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, swamp witch. I was wandering, as I sometimes do, the other day — and I came upon a crossroads as I often do — and there who should I see but a sad old sack of a man. And I said to him as I must: Want to play a game?” Albert took a long pull from his wine glass. “And he said to me as he was wont to: I’d love a game this afternoon. And so we set down and played.”

“Checkers?” said swamp witch unkindly.

“A word game — a remembering game. And oh, he was good, and at the end of it—”

“You,” said swamp witch, “are a sorry excuse for your kind. You never lose a game you don’t want to. And now… You lost my town, didn’t you?”

“There are those who’ve been hankering for it for some time now.”

“Yes — but you .” She set her glass down. “You ought to know better.”

Oh, he ought to. But swamp witch saw in Albert Farmer’s eyes, the back of them where the embers sometimes smouldered, that he didn’t. Couldn’t help himself truly. He was a kind man and kind men helped others with the things they wanted. Fine if swamp witch were the other. But nothing but hurt or betrayal, if it be someone else.

Now, swamp witch knew with regretful certainty that she would not only lose Albert this night — but possibly the town as well.

“Others fight him, you know,” she said, thinking of the Reverend and his poisonous bite. “Others love me better.”

“Oh, Ma — oh, swamp witch,” said Albert, correcting himself, “you think I don’t love you well enough? That is a stinger, my dear. I’ve as much love for you as is in me. Now come—” he draped his arm over her shoulder “—there’s little time.”

“Is there?”

“Look,” he said and pointed between the gossamer window covers to the street. There, sure enough, was the tea-drinking man — his suit was a bit mussed and the skin around his eyes was dark with snake spit, which was also why he was moving so funny, swamp witch supposed. He stood a moment in the middle of the road, tried to smooth his hair with his hand and stomped his foot like it was a hoof. Then he looked over to the smoke and book.

Was there a sense in fighting it?

Swamp witch knew better. She leaned over to Albert, and smothered the little space left between them with a kiss. He tasted of salt and wine and egg gone bad, but swamp witch didn’t mind. She let herself to it and lived in the instant — the instant prior to the end, and when she pulled away, the tea-drinking man was there at the big window, looking in with socketed eyes and a terrible, blood-rimmed grin.

“Why’d you let him win?” she said.

Tea-drinking man’s ankles cracked as he stepped away and pushed open the door, jangling the little bell at the top. The sickness was coming off him like a fever now. Swamp witch held onto Albert harder and slid her hands into her pocket.

“I ain’ feeli’ well,” said the tea-drinking man.

“You ain’t lookin’ well,” said swamp witch. “That venom’ll kill you.”

Tea-drinking man shook his head. “Nuh,” he said. “Nuh me.”

He reached around them, arm seeming to bend in two spots to do it, and lifted swamp witch’s wine glass. Unkindly, he hawked a big purple loogie the size of a river slug, let it ooze into the glass and down the side. It fizzed poisonously.

“This is who you gave me up for,” said swamp witch. Albert’s shoulders slumped.

“’Twas only a matter of time before they saw what happened here,” said Albert.

Swamp witch sighed. She snaked her hand underneath Albert’s arm. They stood there at the end now — seconds before it would occur, she could see it clear as headlights, clear as anything. She brought her lips to his, and said: “Goodbye,” then added, fondly: “Go to Hell.”

And with that, Albert stepped away and smiled his sweet smile, and in a whiff of volcanic flatulence, did as he was told and stepped to the back of the store.

And it was just her and the tea-drinking man.

“Why di’ — did you ever want this place?” asked the tea-drinking man. “I’s a rat hole.”

“A snake pit,” agreed swamp witch. “I agree with your sentiment some days. I wanted it because it was rightfully mine. Why’d you play Albert for it?”

“Symmetry,” said the tea-drinking man.

“That explains not a thing,” said swamp witch.

“All right.” The tea-drinking man took a ragged breath. “You took this place off—” he looked into the air for the word and found it in the old dangling light fixture over the cash register “—off the grid. The world ran its course, my dear — ran to dark and to light and good and evil. Why, those of us on the outside took the time we had and made things. There are towers, dear swamp witch — towers that extend to heaven and back. Great wide highways, so far across you can only see the oncoming autos as star-flecks in the mist. We’ve built rockets. Rockets! We’ve gone higher than God. And yet this place? Stayed put. All those years. Why?” He gave a drooling little sneer. “Because it’s rightfully yours?”