Free Ashes by Anthology

of this cage, I would show her what I could do. I would prove my love. If I could talk, I would tell her.
    The Fat Lady watches the tent flap. Somewhere a roadie is working on a piece of machinery, cursing in a foreign language. The smell of popcorn is no longer in the air. Now there is only cigarette smoke, cheap wine, leftover hot dogs. The big show is putting itself to bed for the night.
    “They’re going to kill you,” she whispers.
    I am already dead. I have tasted my own finger. I should be eating dirt instead. Once, I could feel the pounding of my heart.
    “You don’t deserve this.” Her eyes are dark. “You’re not a freak.”
    My barker says a freak is anybody that people will pay money to see.
    My tongue presses against my teeth. I can almost remember. They put me in a cage before I died. I had a name.
    The Fat Lady wraps her fingers around the metal catch. From somewhere she has produced a key. The lock falls open and she whips the chain free from the bars.
    “They’re coming,” she says. “Hurry.”
    I smell them before I see them. Maynard smells like Maynard, as if he is wearing his vital organs around his waist. The wobbling man reeks even worse of liquor. The barker has also been drinking. The three of them laugh like men swapping horses.
    I taste the straw in the air, the diesel exhaust, the smoke from the torches, the cigarette that Juggles gave me, my dead finger, the cold gun in Maynard’s pocket, the money my barker has spent.
    I taste and taste and taste and I am hungry.
    “Hey, get away from there,” yells the barker. He holds a wine bottle in one hand.
    The Fat Lady pulls on the bars. The front of the cage falls open. I can taste the dust.
    “Run,” says the Fat Lady.
    Running is like dancing. Maybe people will pay money to see me run.
    “What the hell?” says Maynard.
    I move forward, out of the cage. This is my tent. My name is on a sign outside. If I see the sign, I will know who I am. If I pay money, maybe I can see myself.
    “This ain’t part of the deal,” says Maynard. He draws the gun from his pocket. The silver barrel shines in the firelight.
    The Fat Lady turns and faces the three men.
    “I swear, I didn’t know anything about this,” says the barker.
    “Leave him alone,” says the Fat Lady.
    Maynard waves the gun. “Get out of the way.”
    This is my tent. I am the one they came to see. The Fat Lady blocks the way. I stare at her broad back, at the dark red robe, her long hair tumbling down her neck. She’s the only one who ever treated me like one of them.
    I jump forward, push her. The gun roars, spits a flash of fire from its end. She cries out. The bullet cuts a cold hole in my chest.
    I must die again, but at last she is in my arms.
    If my mouth could do more than murder, it would say words.
    I am sorry. I love you.
    They take her bones when I am finished.
    ###
     
     
    SUNG LI
     
    There's a story behind every glass eye.
    That's what Uncle Theodore says. He got his glass eye after a fight in the jungle. Said something called a "goop" got him with a piece of shrapnel. I asked him once and he told me that shrapnel was a jaggedy piece of metal. Anyway, he's the one who gave Sung Li to my Mom.
    If it's true what he said about glass eyes, then Sung Li has two stories. Her eyes aren't really glass, but I like to pretend anyway. Maybe she'll let me tell you her other story, the one you don't know about yet. But maybe not, since all you want to do is talk about what happened last night.
    Who's Sung Li? I already told that other police. But maybe they figured since you're a woman police, I'll tell the truth this time. So I'll tell you who Sung Li is, and maybe you'll believe me.
    She's the China doll that lives on the second shelf in that little showcase on the top of the stairs. She usually just lays there. Daddy says that's what girls are supposed to do, anyway. Lay there and look pretty. At least that's what he always told me on Mom's library nights. And Mom says