Fierce Pretty Things Read online

  FIERCE PRETTY THINGS

  What My Last Man Did by Andrea Lewis

  Girl with Death Mask by Jennifer Givhan

  FIERCE

  PRETTY

  THINGS

  STORIES

  TOM HOWARD

  INDIANA UNIVERSITY PRESS

  This book is a publication of

  Indiana University Press

  Office of Scholarly Publishing

  Herman B Wells Library 350

  1320 East 10th Street

  Bloomington, Indiana 47405 USA

  iupress.indiana.edu

  © 2019 by Tom Howard

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48–1992.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Cataloging information is available from the Library of Congress.

  ISBN 978-0-253-04149-4 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-0-253-04151-7 (ebook)

  1 2 3 4 5 24 23 22 21 20 19

  for Abbe

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1 BANDANA

  2 HILDY

  3 TEMPLE & VINE

  4 FIERCE PRETTY THINGS

  5 SCARECROWS

  6 GRANDFATHER VAMPIRE

  7 THE MAGNIFICENTS

  8 XIOMARA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Warm thanks to the editors and staff of the journals in which these stories first appeared:

  “Bandana” appeared in Willow Springs, Issue 74, 2014.

  “Hildy” appeared in Masters Review, September 2015.

  “Temple & Vine” appeared in Bellingham Review, Issue 70, 2015.

  “Fierce Pretty Things” appeared in Indiana Review, Issue 40 (2), 2018.

  “Scarecrows” appeared in Ninth Letter, Issue 15 (2), 2018.

  “Grandfather Vampire” appeared in Broad River Review, 2014, and also in Emrys Journal, Volume 31, 2014.

  “The Magnificents” appeared in Cincinnati Review, Issue 12 (1), 2015.

  “Xiomara” appeared in Booth, Volume 9, 2015.

  FIERCE PRETTY THINGS

  1

  Bandana

  Over dinner one night I told my dad about the League of Scorpions, just to break up the deathly silence. I told him how the League was a kind of school club, except instead of doing activities and sports and charitable things, the boys in the club mostly punched kids and wore black bandanas and inspired dread. Told him how the leader of the Scorpions, Tripp Nolan, had a tattoo of a scorpion killing a dragon that was eating a shark. My dad said sounds like they’re the top dogs in school and I said yeah, that’s the case. He said tell me more about the black bandanas and I admitted they were fierce impressive. He said why aren’t you in the League of Scorpions, and I said they only take one new kid each year, and he said sorry, I didn’t realize you were so unexceptional and lacking in ambition. That didn’t make me feel great, so I said you have to beat someone up just to get an application, and I never even threw a punch before. He said you’d better stop talking now because my love for you is diminishing. Said he was glad my brother Quinn was dead so Quinn didn’t have to hear me make that comment about how I’d never thrown a punch before. Quinn killed a dozen Talibans with his bare hands before they strapped an IED to his head and blew him all over Kandahar. My dad said Tripp Nolan could probably kill a dozen Talibans with his bare hands, too, sounded like. He said maybe you should focus less on books and more on being worthy of the League of Scorpions. Then he went to his bedroom and turned out the lights and listened to Vic Damone records, which was the only thing that gave peace to his grieving heart now that Quinn was dead and my mother had run off with the bastard Kit Crawford, our former exterminator.

  I went to school thinking about who I could beat up without repercussions, main problem being that I didn’t hate anybody too much, other than maybe Gary Compton. Gary Compton was already six feet tall in the seventh grade and had to shave twice a day. He was skinny and colorless and gangly like a skeleton, and he had black eyes that shone like demonic marbles. When Gary slapped you or punched you, which was often, he’d look at you with such hatred that you’d start apologizing because you’d think there’s no way anyone could look at someone else with that much venom without a damn good reason. After he punched you, Gary would wait a second and then say, “You’re a dumb abortion baby.” Which didn’t make sense, but it made you feel bad. I wouldn’t have minded punching Gary Compton. But Gary was second in command of the League of Scorpions.

  I settled on Wesley Bloom. Wesley was small and thoughtful and delicate looking. His mom got her hair caught in the mixer blade while working at the salsa plant in Bridgeport, and after she’d been mixed pretty well Wesley’s dad jumped in after her, which most people considered more a suicide than a rescue attempt. After that, Wesley moved in with his grandmother, who was blind and half deranged, and started school at Richfield, where he was unpopular because he wore glasses and had a walleye and everybody said Wesley was a gay prince’s name. Despite all that, Wesley didn’t seem bitter. He made a point of being nice to the kids who were even weirder and less popular. He gave half his lunch away to the Posner twins, whose lunches were regularly stolen by Gary Compton as punishment for them living in a houseboat and being albinos. Wesley just seemed happy to still be alive and part of the world, maybe because he knew that at any moment he or anyone else could fall into a salsa mixer. He spent most of his lunch hours by himself at a picnic bench in the school courtyard, eating the raisins that were left over from his lunch after the Posner twins received their distribution. He sat and ate and sometimes read a comic book or put his head on the table and watched bugs crawl through the grass around his feet. My point is that he was probably the sweetest and most good-natured kid I knew. He forgave everybody for everything. That’s why I decided he was the one I should beat up.

  I waited at lunchtime until I saw Tripp and Gary Compton and Teddy Nantz walk into the courtyard, wearing their bandanas. When Wesley walked past me with his raisins and carton of milk, I was nervous but also angry. I hated Wesley’s glasses and his walleye and his sad little box of raisins, and the more I looked at him the more I hated him. I hated how defenseless he looked more than anything else. It ended up being pretty easy to sock him in the gut. Raisins flew everywhere and Wesley doubled over and fell to the ground. When I tried to get out of the way, I accidentally stepped on his glasses. I felt sort of bad about that so I jumped off right away, but I landed on his milk carton and sprayed milk all over his face while he clutched his stomach. I looked around and Tripp Nolan gave me the nod. Everybody else just laughed at Wesley, who’d been dumb enough to get punched in the stomach and have his glasses broken.

  Wesley rolled onto his back and didn’t move. I said just get up now, kind of whispering to him, but he didn’t even look at me. That made me angry too. Him just lying there, not even bothering to wipe the milk off his face. My dad would’ve been furious if he’d seen that. So I kicked him one more time because I was so full of hate.

  Next day I opened my locker and there was a note inside: “NICE JOB WITH THE WALEYE. RETORN APPLECATION ASAP.” The application asked for my name and social security number and for me to list the top seven most terrible things I’d ever done.

  “Well, what are you waiting for,” my dad said when I showed him the application. I’d already told him what happened in the cou
rtyard, with the raisins flying everywhere. “Sounds like this Bloom had it coming,” he said. “Quinn’s ghost is probably somewhat less mortified by you being a blood relation today.”

  I said thanks but was having misgivings. Wesley hadn’t shown up for school and I’d had nightmares all night long. I knew better than to admit this fact. Instead, I made up some things for the application that I thought would impress Tripp Nolan, mostly involving bitterness and ethnic hatred, and I slipped the note into Tripp’s locker vent the next morning. Wesley still hadn’t come to school. By the end of the day there was a black bandana waiting in my locker.

  My dad wanted to celebrate, so he told me to wear the bandana and drove me out to the field behind our old house, which we’d had to sell due to hard times, et cetera, after the divorce. Now the bastard Kit Crawford lived in the house with my mother. My dad shot beer bottles off tree stumps for half an hour until Kit came down from the house and said he was going to call the cops this time for sure, while my mom stood at the top of the hill holding her new baby, the Demon Bastard. I waved but I don’t think she saw me. My dad shook his fist at Kit and we got in the car and drove away. Even so, he was in pretty good spirits. He said now that I was a member of the League of Scorpions he could stop referring to me as the one who should’ve died. I said I appreciated that. He turned on Vic Damone and I tried not to think about the squishy sound Wesley’s stomach made when I punched him.

  My first week as a Scorpion was quiet. We met afternoons in Tripp’s garage and he flipped through girlie magazines and talked about people who deserved grievous punishment. This included the president of the United States and left-handers and the principal at Richfield and the gay couple who owned The Gilded Swan taproom and the blacks and a lot of girls he knew and most people named Todd or Jayson with a Y. I just listened. Sometimes I stared at the bandana and reminded myself how important it was. I imagined Quinn standing there with his arms folded over his chest, his clothes covered in Taliban guts, smiling at me. He said, “Someday you might grow up and kill people with your bare hands too.” Then his head blew up again and I flinched, and the others stopped what they were doing to stare at me. I tried to explain about Quinn killing a dozen Talibans and getting blown up over in Kandahar and mentioned seeing him there in front of me from time to time. Gary Compton punched me in the shoulder and called me a weird doofus pussy. Tripp said he liked that I hallucinated, that it gave me character. Gary said whatever. Tripp said maybe Gary could take a few lessons in being a badass from the weird doofus pussy, since the rumor was that Wesley Bloom was out of school because he’d overdosed and tried to commit suicide. Meanwhile, Quinn’s head was back together, but he kept reaching around behind him to check for explosives. I closed my eyes and ignored him.

  A week went by and I went to see Wesley at his house. His grandmother answered the door and I said I was Wesley’s friend and she said that was the dumbest thing she’d ever heard, but she told me he was probably at the dump if I wanted to see him. I asked if she needed some help since she was blind and she said fuck off. So I went out to the dump and found Wesley sitting on an old broken console television, holding a gun to his head.

  “What the hell are you doing,” I said.

  “I’m thinking it’s better this way,” Wesley said.

  “It’s ass-stupid,” I said.

  “I’m tired,” he said. “Go away.”

  That would have been a perfect time for me to apologize for beating him up in front of everybody. Or to say that if he could handle his mom and dad falling into the salsa mixer and having a blind grandmother who talked like a pirate then he should be able to handle something like this. Instead, I felt all this anger well up in me. I said, “You walleyed coward. Nobody cares if you’re tired. You want to go out like that? You think people talk about you now, wait till they hear you couldn’t handle things and blew your own idiot head off.”

  Wesley lowered the gun and dropped his head and said yeah, that’s probably true, and then he lifted the gun and shot me dead.

  My body was still falling when I slipped free of myself. It felt good to be out of it, like shrugging off the snowsuit my mom used to make me wear on snow days. I wasn’t angry or worried about anything anymore. I thought maybe I’d go see the world, especially the Eiffel Tower and the Great Wall of China and the Aurora Borealis. I’d always wanted to see the Borealis. I figured I didn’t have much time before I was sent to hell for being a hateful son of a bitch and turning Wesley into a child murderer.

  Then I looked down, and it was a sad little scene to behold. Broken appliances and scraps of lumber and tile everywhere, the ground littered with candy wrappers and raisin boxes and other trash. And me lying dead with a bloody hole in my chest and a dumb look on my face, with Wesley standing over me with the gun.

  He stayed like that for a bit, frozen. Then he stood up straight and put the gun to his head, and I yelled out don’t you dare blow your brains out. Because if he blew his brains out then I was responsible.

  He looked up and spotted my celestial form with his good eye. “You’re gonna haunt me till the end of my days then.”

  “I’m not gonna haunt you,” I said. “I just need to make sure you don’t kill yourself. My soul’s filthy enough.”

  Wesley nodded and sighed. “Well, I’m just going to jail then anyway.”

  “They’ll put you in juvenile,” I argued.

  “I imagine I’ll get raped there,” he said. Not so much complaining as just reporting a fact. “After a while I’ll develop some weird personality disorders I guess. I’ll be medicated most of the time so I don’t injure myself or others. Then when I get out I’ll be a homeless person and eat garbage and live under a bridge.”

  “You’re not going to eat garbage and live under a bridge,” I yelled. “Why do you have to expect the worst?” Then I thought about it a bit more. I lowered my voice and said, “Never mind. That is probably what’ll happen.”

  “It’s okay,” Wesley said. “I’m going to call the police now. Thanks for not letting me kill myself I guess.”

  But I was already thinking. On the one hand he was a murderer, sure. But on the other hand I’d provoked him. I didn’t see how it was going to make things any better for anyone by having Wesley get raped in juvenile and then end up eating garbage and living under a bridge.

  “You’ll have to bury me,” I said at last.

  It took some time convincing him that this was the best solution. It also took me threatening to haunt him mercilessly if he didn’t follow my instructions. I’m not proud of that. But eventually he gave in. Took most of the afternoon for him to dig the hole. When it was done and he’d covered my body up, I had him push an old refrigerator over to hide the gravesite.

  It was getting dark by then. We stood together in front of the refrigerator and Wesley said a couple nice words. He said he was sorry for stealing the lives of all my potential children and grandchildren, which hadn’t occurred to me until he said it. I told him it was okay and that they’d probably be monsters anyway.

  “Now what,” he said.

  “Lay low,” I said. “People will think I ran away. Eventually they’ll forget about me and you can go on with your life and be happy.”

  “As a murderer,” he said.

  “It’s best if you don’t keep saying that,” I said. I told him to go home and get some sleep. Things would make sense in the morning, I said.

  Once he was gone, I hung out for a while at the dump. Mournful cries rose from the graveyard on the other side of the hill. I walked over and stood behind the fence, listening to the dead. They were a regretful bunch, and there was considerable moaning. The town librarian, who drove into a lake with her three girls a few years back, came over and said I was welcome to join in the moaning if I wanted to, even though I wasn’t buried on consecrated ground. I said I appreciated that but I needed to think. I told her I was trying to redeem myself a little so my soul wasn’t so rotten. She said that always works out well, the
n rolled her eyes and walked away wringing her hands.

  I went home and snuck into my house and spent the night in my room. But I didn’t sleep. My dad was up the whole night pacing, which made me feel guilty. Every now and then he looked in my room and I waved a little, but he didn’t see me, and even if he had, I thought seeing me waving like that would’ve been creepy, so I stopped. I had enough to worry about with Wesley. I needed a plan to salvage his soul, or at least to keep him from getting raped and developing weird personality disorders.

  In the morning I found him on his way to school. “Just don’t be anxious,” I said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “I’m thinking it isn’t,” he said. “Plus, I feel like it’s bad that I can see you. Like it means I’m a lunatic and I’m likely to shoot up the school in the near future.”

  I said that was the exact wrong way to think. I said we were a team. I’d help him put his life back together and become happy, and he’d help me not have such a filthy soul. First thing, I said, was to deal with the rumors in school that he’d tried to kill himself. I suggested he tell people he was recuperating all week from a rattlesnake bite.

  “Or I could just tell the truth,” he said quietly. “Maybe people would be compassionate if I just say I’d had enough and didn’t know what else to do.”

  I said as his spirit guardian I had to strongly advise against that.

  We argued all the way to school, and right away when we walked inside kids started calling him names. Only instead of Walleye and Salsa Boy they called him Prince Valium and said he wasn’t even good at killing himself. Wesley went to his locker and didn’t say anything. Then Gary Compton showed up wearing his bandana, overflowing with rage, as per usual. Other kids came over to watch. Gary pinned Wesley against the locker and said only cowards took pills to kill themselves, and he asked why Wesley was so damn weak and pitiful.