Free Midian Unmade by Joseph Nassise Page A

lied. He picked up a rubber crocodile toy, turning it over without interest. “I was hoping to get something with an angel on it.…” He looked at her, looked for a reaction. Nothing. “You know, to send to the folks back home, something fun.”
    Now she did speak, this woman with the wet features.
    â€œWhat’s so fun about it?”
    Upendra pushed his hat back, and gave her a cheeky smile.
    â€œI’m sorry,” he offered. “I didn’t mean any harm. I’m just passing through, and heard about the angel—”
    She cut him off, her voice like a bullwhip in the small shop.
    â€œHorseshit!” She jabbed a finger at him. “You’re just another big-city journalist come to dig the dirt. Come to spoil our good name!”
    â€œActually,” said Upendra, apparently unaffected by the brutal force of her menace, “I’m here to do a puppet show.”
    The woman spat on the floor.
    Upendra looked at the spit glistening on the linoleum and laughed, his eyes wide. “Are you serious? In your own shop?”
    â€œGet out,” she hissed at him.
    He tipped his hat to her, and made his way very slowly from the store, idly scrutinizing the bric-a-brac on his way. But before he left, he noticed, up on one wall of the store, a large display informing visitors about the history of crocodiles in the area. Mounted on the wall, like some trophy kill, were two crocodile skulls. But one of them, the larger of the two, was radically malformed, its snout misshapen and snub-nosed, its brow higher and slightly domed. Upendra stopped and pointed at the skull, throwing the woman an incredulous look.
    He scoffed.
    â€œAnd what’s that supposed to be?”
    She threw a stapler at him.
    He grinned and finally crossed the threshold and into the glare and ferocious heat outside.
    *   *   *
    Out in the street, Upendra saw that the townsfolk were still at their windows, but some had traded windows for doorways, their thick arms crossed over their chests and their mouths turned down. It amused Upendra, a little. But he had lived long enough to know that the promise of violence was in the air. Perhaps it was only the insufferable heat that quelled it?
    Nhuwi wasn’t in the car. The door was wide open.
    Immediately Upendra looked to the people in the doorways, looked about for the telltale sign of some bully with revenge carved into a smile on his dull face. But instead he found the boy: he was levitating in the middle of the street, an illusion the heat gave, melting the asphalt at the boy’s feet to make it appear he floated. He was staring at the sky, the full force of the sun on his face.
    â€œNhuwi! Let’s roll!”
    The boy dropped his head, and began running back toward the car, flipping his middle finger at one of the silent witnesses as he did so.
    *   *   *
    John brought them cool water, with ice, and a scotch each for himself and Upendra. True to his word, the interior of the hotel was cool and dark. They’d had too much sun for one day.
    â€œI’ve put fresh linen in your rooms, and made the beds,” said John, taking a place at their table.
    â€œThank you,” said Upendra, “you’re too kind.”
    â€œPish posh,” snorted John with a wave of his hand. “Don’t get too many visitors. It’s good to have customers. To have company.”
    He raised his glass and Upendra clicked his own against it.
    â€œI thought this was a tourist destination, what with the tourist center and all.”
    â€œSure, it is,” said John, “history and all. Goes way back.” He pointed to a wall where old photographs were pinned amid tracts of text. “You can read about it over there, even. But a lot of folks that visit out here have their caravans, their Winnebagos and whatnot. Not a lot of call for an old-fashioned room anymore.”
    â€œShame,” mused Upendra,