Charles D'Ambrosio - The Dead Fish Museum

“Yes?” the woman said.

“Evening, ma’am.” Kirsten handed the woman a pamphlet. “I’m with BAD,” she said. “Babies Addicted to Drugs. Are you busy?”

The woman switched on the porch light and held the printed flyer close to her face. Closing one eye, she studied the bold-red statistics on the front of the page and then flipped it over and looked into the face of the dark, shriveled baby on the back.

“Doesn’t hardly look human, does it?” Kirsten said.

“No, I can’t say it does,” the woman said.

“That’s what’s happening out there, ma’am. That, and worse.” Kirsten looked off down the road, east to where the town ended and the world opened up to cornfields and darkening sky. She thought of the little girl.

“Smells nice inside,” Kirsten said.

“Cookies,” the woman said.

“You mind if I come in?”

The woman looked quickly down the road and, seeing nothing there, said, “Sure. For a minute.”

Kirsten sat in a Naugahyde recliner that had been angled to face the television. Across from her was a couch covered with a clear plastic sheet. The woman returned with a plate of cookies. She set them in front of Kirsten and slipped a coaster under a coffee cup full of milk.

“My partner and me have been assigned to the Midwest territory,” Kirsten said. “I got into this when I was living in New Jersey and saw it all with my own eyes and couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Those babies were just calling out to me for help.”

“I’ve got three children myself,” the woman said.

“That’s what the cookies are for,” Kirsten said. She bit into one and tasted the warm chocolate.

“Homemade,” the woman said. “But the kids like store-bought. All they want is Wing Dings or what have you.”

“They’ll appreciate it later, ma’am. I know they will. They’ll remember it and love you.”

In the low light, Kirsten again noticed the spectral smudge of flour on the woman’s cheek — she had reached to touch herself in a still, private moment as she thought of something she couldn’t quite recall, a doubt too weak to claim a place in the clamor of her day.

“That baby on the flyer isn’t getting any homemade cookies. That baby was born addicted to drugs. There’s women I’ve personally met who would do anything to get their drugs and don’t care what-all happens to their kids. There’s babies getting pitched out windows and dumped in trash cans and born in public lavatories.”

“Things are terrible, I’m sure, but I can’t give you any money. I worked all day making the kids’ Halloween costumes — they want store-bought, of course, but they can’t have them, not this year.”

“What’re they going to be?”

“Janie’s a farmer, Randall’s a ghost. Kenny’s costume was the hardest. He’s a devil with a cape and hood and a tail.” If she could coax five dollars out of this woman, Kirsten thought, she could buy a cheap bra out of a bin at the dime store. Her breasts ached. When she’d seen the trike on the lawn out front, she’d assumed that this woman would reach immediately for her pocketbook.

“With a ten-dollar donation, you get your choice of two magazine subscriptions, free of charge for a year.” Kirsten showed the woman the list of magazines “Cosmo,” she said. “ Vogue, Redbook, all them.”

“I’m sorry,” the woman said.

The front window washed with white light.

“You had better go.” The woman stood up. “I don’t have any use for your magazines.”

On the porch, they met a man, his face darkened with the same brown dirt and dust that had rolled through and clouded the sky that day. Spikes of straw stabbed his hair and the pale gray molt of a barn swallow clung to his plaid shirt. A silent look passed between the man and the woman, and Kirsten hurried away, down the steps.

“I thought she was trick-or-treating,” the woman said as she shut the door.

“Nothing?” Lance said. “Nothing?”

Kirsten tore the wrapping from another piece of gum. They had driven to the outskirts of town, where the light ended and the pavement gave way to gravel and the road, rutted like a washboard, snaked off toward a defile choked with cottonwoods. Every street out of town seemed to dead-end in farmland, and here a lighted combine swept back and forth over the field, rising and falling like a ship over high seas. The combine’s engine roared as it moved past them, crushing a path through the dry corn.

“A man came home,” Kirsten said.

“So?”

“So the lady got all nervous and said I had to go.”

“Should’ve worked the man,” Lance said. He ran his finger along the outline of her breasts, as if he were drawing a cartoon bust. “We’ve talked about that. A man’ll give money just to be a man about things.”

“I’m too skinny,” Kirsten said.

“You’re filling out, I’ve noticed. You’re getting some shape to you.”

Lance smiled his smile, a wide, white grin with a hole in the middle of it. Two of his teeth had fallen out, owing to a weakness for sweets. He worried his tongue in the empty space, slithering it in and out along the bare gum.

“I wish I had a fix right now,” Kirsten said. She hugged herself to stop a chill radiating from her spine. The ghost of her habit trailed after her.

Again the voracious growling of the combine came near. Kirsten watched the golden kernels spray into the holding bin. A man sat up front in a glass booth, smoking a pipe, a yellow cap tilted back on his head.

“My cowboy brain’s about dead,” Lance said. “What do you think?”

Kirsten had died once, and had made the mistake, before she understood how superstitious he was, of telling Lance about it. Her heart had stopped and she had drifted toward a white light that rose away from her like a windblown sheet, hovering over what she recognized as her cluttered living room. She was placid and smiling into the faces of people she had never seen before, people she realized instantly were relatives, aunts and uncles, cousins, the mother she had never known. Kirsten had grown up in foster care, but now this true mother reached toward her from within the source of light, her pale pink hands fluttering like the wings of a bird. A sense of calm told Kirsten that this was the afterlife, where brand-new rules obtained. She woke in a Key Biscayne hospital, her foster mother in a metal chair beside the bed, two uniformed cops standing at the door, ready to read Kirsten her rights.

“Don’t always ask me,” Kirsten said.

“Just close your eyes, honey. Close ’em and tell me the first thing you see.”

With her eyes closed, she saw the little girl, alone, running, lost in the corn.

“Let’s get out of here,” she said.

“That’s what you saw?”

“Start the car, Okay? I can’t explain everything I see.”

She had met him in Florida, in her second year of detention. Her special problem was heroin, his was methamphetamine. They lived in a compound of low pink cinder-block buildings situated maddeningly close to a thoroughfare with a strip of shops, out beyond a chain-link fence and a greenbelt. At night, neon lights lit up the swaying palm fronds and banana plants, fringing the tangled jungle with exotic highlights of pink and blue. They’d climbed the fence together, running through the greenbelt, disappearing into the fantastic jungle. A year passed in a blur of stupid jobs — for Lance, stints driving a cab, delivering flowers, and, for Kirsten, tearing movie tickets in half as a stream of happy dreamers clicked through the turnstiles, then sweeping debris from the floors in the dead-still hours when the decent world slept. Lance, dressed in a white uniform, worked a second job deep-frying doughnuts in blackened vats of oil.