Free Nekropolis by Maureen F. McHugh

roses and lemon leaves. My wife makes them. She’s sick.”
    She nods. Her veil is white with a stripe of blue. She’s a widow, I think.
    “Who is it for?” I ask.
    “My son,” she says hoarsely and there’s the sharpness of her pain, a terrible wave of feeling. She’s hollow.
    “Is he sad, now?” I ask. That’s a center for her pain, that she isn’t needed anymore, and she cries silently as she hands me the money. She’s empty and anything I do will make her crack. Instead of letting her put the money in my palm, I take her hand, and then cover it with my other hand and she stands there with her eyes closed and the tears running down her face. She’s captured by touch, still as an animal. She stands, shocked and holding it in, and then she breaks; first her knees giving way so she sinks, and then her back bending, curving until she’s on her knees and her forehead slowly, achingly slowly, comes down until it touches my hands clasped around hers, and she sobs. “Sweet boy,” she sobs. “Sweet, sweet boy.”
    “Yes,” I whisper, feeling her strange pleasure at her pain.
    “Sweet boy.”
     
    * * *
     
    The widow’s name is Myryam and she takes me to a café and buys me a drink of cold orange bitters. She’s hungry to be touched, but doesn’t dare take my hand. It’s hard to be a widow and to go without touch and it’s drying her up inside and out. Her son was twenty-five when he crashed a lorry into a bridge abutment and after weeks and weeks of pain, finally died. She shows me a picture of a plump, smiling boy with well-oiled black hair and a shirt so white it hurts the eyes.
    “He’s handsome,” I say.
    “He is,” she says. “That was taken when he got his certificate to drive a lorry. He was happy. I was happy for him. His father wanted him to do books, but he wasn’t good at math. He wasn’t interested. He was very smart about something when he was interested, but numbers, he said he didn’t care. He got a certificate to be a lorry driver and then he could be out talking to people. He loved people.”
    She rises like bread in a warm kitchen, talking of her son and touching the corners of her eyes with her veil.
    “Maybe you can give me some advice?” I ask.
    “You’re like my own sweet boy,” she says and we bask in the pleasure of each other’s company.
    “My wife makes wreaths, but she’s ill and she can’t make many anymore. I need to find work, but I don’t know where to start.”
    Myryam’s thoughtful. “You could be a waiter. You’d be good at it, I think. Let me ask around.” She’s comfortable now. We fit together like key and lock. “You’re someone’s good son,” she says.
    The sun is going down and the dry air is cooling. The breeze stirs, swirling the dust in the street, curls and hollows, empty and full. “I have to go,” I explain, “my wife’s alone…” I walk home through the empty streets, thinking of Myryam and things I can do for her. Ask her advice and call on her to see how she’s doing. She’d like that.
    The light’s on, but the room feels cool. Hariba’s sitting on the bed, shivering and crying. “Where did you go!”
    “I went to the Moussin,” I say. I sit down next to her. Her skin is hot and dry, her hair lank and oily. “I sold all of the wreaths you made but one.”
    “I didn’t know where you’d gone!” Hariba says. “You were gone!”
    “I’m here now,” I say and hold her and stroke her hair. “Sweet girl, I’m here now.”
    “I was scared,” she says. “I thought you’d gone back.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say. Oh, I feel bad. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
    “I thought you’d gone back to Mbarek-salah. I thought you’d left me here to die.”
    “Shhh,” I say. “Shhh, you’re not going to die. I’ll take care of you.”
    “You’re just a baby here,” she whispered. “I’ve got to take care of things.”
    “I met a woman, a widow, at the Moussin. She bought your great big wreath, the one with the