Monsters
by James Patrick Kelly


                         1992 by Davis Publications, Inc. First Published in 
                        Isaac Asimov's Science Fiction Magazine, June, 1992.

                        When Henry looked in his dad's old mirror, he couldn't 
                        see the monster. He touched his reflection. Nothing. No 
                        shock, no secret thrill, not even a tingle. Usually his 
                        nipples tightened or the insides of his knees would get 
                        crinkly and if he were in a certain mood he'd crawl back 
                        under the covers and think very hard about women in 
                        black strapless bras. But this morning -- zero. He 
                        stared at a fattish naked white man with thinning hair 
                        and yellow teeth. A face as interesting as lint. He 
                        wished for a long purple tongue or a disfiguring scar 
                        that forked down his cheek, except he didn't want any 
                        pain. Not for himself, anyway. Henry hated looking so 
                        vanilla. There was nothing terrifying about him except 
                        the bad thoughts, which he told no one, not even God. 
                        But this morning the monster was cagy. It wanted to get 
                        loose and he was tired of holding it back. Something was 
                        going to happen. He decided not to shave. 
                        The gray dacron shirt and shiny blue polyester pants 
                        hanging on the line over the bathtub had dripped dry 
                        overnight. His nylon underwear was dry too, but the 
                        orlon socks were still damp so he draped them over the 
                        towel bar. Henry wore synthetics because they wouldn't 
                        shrink or wrinkle and he could wash them in the sink. 
                        Some days, after wallowing in other people's mung, he 
                        boiled his clothes. He liked his showers hot too; he 
                        stood in the rusty old clawfooted tub for almost half 
                        and hour until his skin bloomed like a rose. The water 
                        beat all the thoughts out of his head; nothing wormy had 
                        ever happened in the tub. He opened his mouth, let it 
                        fill with hot water and spat at the wall. 
                        He owned just five shirts: gray, white, beige, blue and 
                        blue-striped; and three pairs of pants: blue, gray and 
                        black. As he tried to decide what to wear to work, he 
                        had a bad thought. Not a thought exactly -- he flashed 
                        an image of himself bending toward a TV minicam, hands 
                        locked behind him as he was pushed into a police car. 
                        Blue or blue-striped would show up best on the Six 
                        O'Clock News. 
                        He petted the shirts. Maybe he was already crazy, but it 
                        seemed to him that if he 3:01 PM on 5/19/96wore blue 
                        today, it might set off the chain reaction of choices 
                        the creature was always trying to start. He pulled the 
                        white shirt from its hanger. 
                        Henry ate only two kinds of breakfast cereal, Cheerios 
                        and Rice Chex. Over the years he had tried to simplify 
                        his life; routines were a defense against bad thoughts. 
                        That's why he always watched the Weather Channel when he 
                        ate Cheerios. He liked the satellite pictures of storms 
                        sweeping across the country because he thought that was 
                        what weather must look like to God. He didn't understand 
                        how people could think weather was boring; obviously 
                        they hadn't seen it get loose. 
                        After breakfast he tried to slip past the shrine and out 
                        the front door, but he couldn't. The monster was 
                        stirring even though he had chosen the white shirt. He 
                        dug the key out of his pocket, opened the shrine and 
                        turned on the light. He was in the apartment's only 
                        closet, seven feet by four. Henry bolted the door behind 
                        him. 
                        The walls were shaggy with pictures he'd ripped out of 
                        magazines but he didn't look at them. Not yet. He 
                        pressed the play button on the boom box and the Rolling 
                        Stones bongoed into "Sympathy for the Devil." He knelt 
                        at the oak chest which served as the altar. Inside was a 
                        plastic box. Inside the box, cradled in pink velvet, was 
                        the Beretta. 
                        He had bought the 92SB because of its honest lines. A 
                        little bulky in the grip, the salesman had said, but 
                        only because inside was a fifteen shot double-column 
                        magazine. It was cool as a snake to the touch, 
                        thirty-five hard ounces of steel, anodized aluminum and 
                        black plastic. He wrapped his right hand around the grip 
                        and felt the gentle bite of the serrations on the front 
                        and rear of the frame. He stood, supported his right 
                        hand with his left, extended his arms and howled along 
                        with Jagger. "Ow!" 
                        Schwartzenegger trembled in his sights; even cyborgs 
                        feared the thing lurking inside Henry West. "Now!" The 
                        pistol had a thrilling heft; it was more real than he 
                        was. "Wham!" he cried, then let his arms drop. Manson 
                        gave him a shaggy grimace of approval. Madonna shook her 
                        tits. The monster was stretching; its claw slid up his 
                        throat. 
                        He spun then and ruined Robert Englund, wham, David 
                        Duke, wham, and Mike Tyson, wham, wham, wham. Metallica 
                        gave him sweaty glares. Imelda Marcos simpered. Henry 
                        let a black rain of bad thoughts drench him. He'd give 
                        in and let it loose on the Market Street bus or in the 
                        First Savings where that twisty young teller never 
                        looked at him when she cashed his paycheck. He'd blaze 
                        into Rudy's Lunch Bucket like that guy in Texas and keep 
                        slapping magazines into the Beretta until he had the 
                        mass murder record. Only not when Stefan was behind the 
                        counter. Stefan always gave him an extra pickle. Or else 
                        he'd just suck on the gun himself, take a huge bloody 
                        gulp of death. He sagged against Jim Jones, laughing so 
                        he wouldn't scream. 
                        "Why me, God?" he said, rubbing the barrel along the 
                        stubble on his chin. "Let me pass on this, okay?" But He 
                        wasn't listening. Just because He could be everywhere, 
                        didn't mean He'd want to be. He wouldn't stoop to this 
                        place, not while Henry was celebrating slaughter. 
                        When the music ended, he fit the pistol back into its 
                        velvet cradle. He felt split into two different Henrys, 
                        both of them moist and expended. Part of him suspected 
                        this was nothing more than a bughouse riff, like old 
                        Jagger prancing across some stage playing Lucifer. The 
                        Beretta wasn't even loaded; he'd hidden the ammo under 
                        the sink behind the paper towels. But if this were 
                        nothing but pretend, why did it give him more pleasure 
                        than a mushroom pizza and a jug of Carlo Rossi Pink 
                        Chablis and a new stroke flick? It may have started as a 
                        game, but it felt real now. Under the influence of the 
                        gun, he was solid as a brick. The rest of his life was 
                        smog. 
                        He locked the shrine behind him and went back to the 
                        mirror, the only thing he'd kept when he closed dad's 
                        house. The creature leered at him. He stuck out his 
                        thumb and smudged his reflected eye. The hair on the 
                        back of his neck prickled. He thought then he knew what 
                        was going to happen. It wanted to touch someone else and 
                        he was going to let it. 
                        The new bus driver was a plush moon-faced woman. She 
                        didn't even bother to look at him as he slid a dollar 
                        onto her outstretched hand, brushing fingertips quickly 
                        across the ridges of her skin. He was nobody to her, 
                        another zero. The monster's looping murderous rage was 
                        building like an electric charge as she jabbed at the 
                        coin dispenser for his change. Notice me, pay attention. 
                        She dropped the quarter into his palm and he curled his 
                        fingers suddenly, grazing her palm. The unholy spark of 
                        madness crackled between them. She yipped, jerked her 
                        hand away and stared at him. "Oops," he said. "Sorry." 
                        She gave him an uneasy laugh, like someone who has just 
                        suffered through a sick joke she didn't want to hear. 
                        She'd think it was just static -- what else could it be? 
                        She couldn't know how good it felt to give away pain. He 
                        was still grinning when he swung into an empty seat and 
                        saw her watching him in the rear view mirror.
                         
                        Another monster worked at Kaplan's Cleaners. Celeste 
                        Sloboda pressed and folded shirts across the room. Only 
                        she didn't count. She hadn't made the choice; she'd been 
                        born a hunchback. Besides, she wore her thick black hair 
                        down to her belt when she wasn't working, trying to 
                        cover her deformity. She would've had better luck hiding 
                        a chainsaw in her purse. What made it worse was that 
                        Celeste was tiny, barely five feet; she looked like a 
                        twelve-year-old going on forty, complete with sags and 
                        wrinkles and a hump the size of a turkey. She smiled too 
                        much and hummed to herself and yattered about her cats 
                        as if they were smarter than she was. Jerry said she was 
                        kind of cute if you pretended she wasn't lopsided but 
                        Henry didn't have that kind of imagination. 
                        He knew that the reason Celeste kept honeying up to him 
                        was that she wanted to switch over to the cleaning side. 
                        Kaplan kept crabbing that there was no money in shirts, 
                        that he only took them so that shirt customers would 
                        bring in cleaning business. If Kaplan axed shirts, he'd 
                        have to axe Celeste too -- or else move her over to 
                        Henry's side. But Henry already had a helper and, even 
                        though Jerry was a jack-around, at least he left Henry 
                        alone. 
                        Celeste perched on a stool, steaming shirts on the form 
                        press they called the susie. The laundry had delivered 
                        just three mesh bags; usually there were between five 
                        and eight. "Guess what I had for breakfast today?" she 
                        said. 
                        Henry, at the spotting bench, did not reply. In the six 
                        months Celeste had been at Kaplan's, he'd learned to 
                        pretend that he couldn't hear her over the rumble of the 
                        cleaning drum. 
                        "Broccoli in Velveeta sauce. I know you think that's 
                        weird but then you think everything I do is weird. 
                        Besides, I like leftovers for breakfast. Meat loaf, 
                        potatoes, lasagna, I don't care. When I was a kid I knew 
                        this girl poured root beer on her corn flakes so I guess 
                        broccoli for breakfast isn't so bad." 
                        Henry followed a trail of coffee splatters up the 
                        placket of a silk blouse, sponging them with wet 
                        spotter. He blotted the blouse and set it aside for a 
                        few moments. 
                        "What if our bodies don't wake up all at once? I mean, 
                        the eyes are always last, right? Ears wake up before. I 
                        swear I can smell coffee brewing even though I'm asleep. 
                        So maybe my taste buds have insomnia or something. Say 
                        they're up at two in the morning. By six-thirty, it's 
                        lunch time. I can't remember the last time I ate bacon 
                        and eggs. What did you have for breakfast, Henry?" 
                        He scraped the splotch on the lapel of a charcoal suit 
                        jacket with his fingernail. Some kind of wax -- a 
                        candlelight dinner gone sour? The cleaning machine 
                        buzzed and the drum creaked to a stop. 
                        Celeste cupped a hand over her mouth. "I said, what did 
                        you have for breakfast?" 
                        "You talking to me?" He flushed the wax away with the 
                        steam gun. "Cheerios." He tossed the jacket into a 
                        basket filled with darks. "With milk." There were enough 
                        clothes in it to make a new load. "Jerry," he called. 
                        "Yo, Jerry!" 
                        "He's pretending he can't hear you." Celeste giggled. 
                        "Probably trying to get into Maggie's pants." 
                        That was his squawk with Jerry. When something needed 
                        doing, Jerry was either at the front counter flirting 
                        with the cashier or in the bathroom. Henry ducked around 
                        the coat hanging beside the spotting bench, grabbed an 
                        empty basket and wheeled it to the cleaning machine. As 
                        he gathered the warm clothes from the drum he breathed 
                        in harsh perchloroethylene fumes. He wheeled the basket 
                        over to the empty rail next to the presses. Perk 
                        nauseated some people, but Henry liked the smell. It 
                        filled his head like Stairway To Heaven. 
                        "How do you clean a syrup stain, anyway?" said Celeste. 
                        "Huh?" He started pulling the clothes onto hangers and 
                        setting them on the rail. "You want my job, is that it?" 
                        
                        "Your job?" She buttoned a white spread-collar shirt 
                        onto the susie and stepped on the compressed air pedal. 
                        With a hiss, steam ballooned the shirt away from the 
                        form and jetted from the neck and sleeves. "Don't be 
                        paranoid, Henry -- you're the best. Just trying for a 
                        little friendly chit-chat, is all." She pulled at her 
                        hair net. "Hey, I'm a slob. Syrup's an accident I'll 
                        probably have someday." 
                        He grunted and hung the last of the load on the rail. 
                        "Sponge it with water then use wet spotter with a couple 
                        drops of vinegar. When it's loose, you blot."
                        "Now was that so hard? Shit, how come getting you to say 
                        anything is like moving a refrigerator?" She wiped her 
                        forehead. Her work smock, already limp with moisture, 
                        clung to her child's body. Pressing shirts on the susie 
                        was hot, dreary work. At least on his side, every 
                        garment was different. Henry didn't blame her for being 
                        bored; he just didn't want to entertain her. 
                        Henry was pitching darks into the machine when Kaplan 
                        elbowed the back door open. He was carrying a bag filled 
                        with takeout from Rudy's. 
                        "Gonna rain." Louis Kaplan was a pink little man who 
                        wore a short-sleeved shirt and a paisley tie that some 
                        customer had neglected to pick up -- probably on 
                        purpose. He set the bag on a shelf next to a jug of 
                        acetone. "What're you doing?" he said to Henry. Without 
                        waiting for an answer, he turned to Celeste. "What's he 
                        doing?" 
                        "Getting ready to run a load?" she said. 
                        "I can see that. But I'm not paying him to do the idiot 
                        work. Where's Jerry?" 
                        "I didn't know it was my turn to watch him." She pulled 
                        a damp shirt from the blue mesh laundry bag beside her 
                        and snapped it out. Kaplan scuttled toward the front of 
                        the store. 
                        "If that's what being boss does to you, I'm sure as hell 
                        glad it's him in charge and not me." She draped the 
                        shirt over the susie. "Well, I'm ready for a break." 
                        While Henry finished emptying the basket into the drum, 
                        she pulled an assortment of styrofoam coffee cups and 
                        cardboard sandwich boxes from the bag and sorted through 
                        them. "Want yours now?" 
                        "Not yet." He didn't want her near him. Touching the bus 
                        driver hadn't satisfied the thing inside him. Maybe she 
                        hadn't felt enough pain. All morning long it had been 
                        swelling like a balloon. If Celeste accidently touched 
                        him, he wasn't sure he could keep it from striking out 
                        at her. He had never let it touch anyone at work before. 
                        
                        "You get time off for good behavior, Henry." 
                        "I said, in a minute." 
                        She shrugged and went back to her stool, unwrapped an 
                        egg bagel with cream cheese and lox. Only when she was 
                        settled back on her stool did he pick out his tea with 
                        extra milk and the English muffin. Coffee break could be 
                        the longest fifteen minutes of the day. He needed Jerry 
                        right now to shield him from Celeste. That was about all 
                        the kid was good for. What were they doing up there? 
                        "Don't you ever get bored eating the same damn muffin 
                        over and over again?" she said. 
                        "It's a new muffin every day." 
                        He was dunking the tea bag when he heard someone up 
                        front shouting; the racks of clean clothes muffled the 
                        sound. "Shush!" As he strained to hear, he felt a twinge 
                        of dread. He hadn't worn the blue but still, something 
                        was happening. The noise got closer; he recognized 
                        Jerry's whine. 
                        "What do you want me to say? No, really, tell me what 
                        I'm supposed to say. I mean, I'm sorry and all and it 
                        won't happen again." 
                        Kaplan was the first through the door; his pink face had 
                        flushed a meaty red. 
                        "Why won't you listen to me?" Jerry tagged behind like a 
                        bad dog on a short leash. "Nobody saw, really. How could 
                        they? We were way, way back, behind the 'W' rack." 
                        Kaplan hesitated, trapped by his own machines. If he 
                        wanted to keep walking away from Jerry, he'd have to 
                        leave the store. He glanced blindly around before 
                        deciding his only escape was to dive into a cup of 
                        Rudy's coffee. 
                        "Please, Louis." 
                        Jerry tried to come around to face him but Kaplan veered 
                        away. He clutched the styrofoam cup close to him and 
                        fixed on it as if it were telling him secrets. 
                        "Nobody could've seen us back there," said Jerry. "Go 
                        see for yourself. Besides there weren't any customers. 
                        Maggie was listening for the door chime. Mr. Kaplan, 
                        please say something." 
                        The creature squirmed in delight at Kaplan's distress, 
                        watching as he worried at the drink tab on the lid. "You 
                        had your hand in her pants." 
                        Celeste used both hands to smother a giggle and Jerry 
                        realized he had an audience. Since Kaplan's back was 
                        turned, he let a grin slink across his face. 
                        "No, no," he said. You don't understand. Yes, we were 
                        kissing. That's what you saw and I'm sorry but it's not 
                        what you think." 
                        Kaplan tore the plastic lid off and hot coffee slopped 
                        onto his hand and down his trousers. "Shit!" When he 
                        tried to dance out of the way, he bumped into Jerry and 
                        half the cup splatted onto his shoes. Celeste laughed 
                        out loud. 
                        "Okay, okay, so I was playing with the elastic a 
                        little." Jerry's smirk curdled what little sincerity he 
                        had left. "But that was as far as we were going. I mean, 
                        this is a public place. We're not stupid or anything." 
                        "You're right, Jerry. You're not stupid." Kaplan put the 
                        dripping coffee cup back on the shelf as if it were a 
                        weight he was glad to set down. "I'm the stupid." He 
                        finally turned to confront Jerry. "You've worked here 
                        for two whole months and done nothing but screw up. I 
                        guess that makes me dumb as a box of rocks. But I've 
                        learned my lesson, kid. Get your stuff and go. You're 
                        finished." 
                        "You're firing me?" Jerry seemed to shrink six inches. 
                        "What is this, a joke?" 
                        "I'll give you a week's severance. The check will be 
                        ready by closing. You can come back then." 
                        "Oh come on, Mr. Kaplan. Give me a break." 
                        His voice was hard as the sidewalk. "Take your lunch, 
                        you can even take your coffee, if you want. But go." 
                        "Henry." Jerry spun toward him in desperation. "You 
                        can't let this happen. He'll make you do both our jobs, 
                        Henry. Tell him you need help." 
                        Henry was certain that if he opened his mouth the 
                        monster would leap out and strangle them all. Jerry 
                        plucked a vest from the basket and shook it at Henry. 
                        "Who do you think is going to clean this? Miss Dumpty 
                        Humpty?" 
                        "He already does most of your work," said Celeste. 
                        "Asshole." 
                        "Celeste," said Kaplan. "Enough." 
                        "No." Jerry threw the vest to the floor. "I'm not going 
                        anywhere unless you ask Henry. He runs this place but 
                        you're all afraid of him. I'm the only one he ever talks 
                        to." 
                        A sound like the squealing of brakes filled Henry's 
                        head. He knew it wasn't real but held his breath, 
                        waiting for the crash. 
                        "Celeste," said Kaplan, "I think you should call the 
                        police. Tell them we're having a little problem here." 
                        "See, Henry?" Jerry was full of scorn. "They don't even 
                        trust you with the phone." 
                        "Get the hell out of my store!" Kaplan stepped toward 
                        Jerry. 
                        Celeste edged off her stool. Henry tried to think of a 
                        way to stop her. He knew Jerry and Kaplan were very 
                        close to fighting; she was going to keep them from 
                        hurting each other. When he closed his eyes, Henry saw 
                        broken teeth and dark blood beading on the floor tiles. 
                        His fists clenched. This was so much better than the 
                        shrine. He had never been so close to real violence 
                        before. 
                        "Aww, fuck all of you." Jerry snatched his coat. "I 
                        never liked working here anyway. The pay sucks and 
                        you're nothing but a bunch of loonies and losers." He 
                        retreated toward the back door. "Just make sure my check 
                        is ready." He stalked out, not even bothering to slam 
                        the door behind him. 
                        Kaplan slumped against the spotting bench. "I'm sorry 
                        you had to listen to that." Henry guessed he meant both 
                        of them, even though he was speaking to Celeste. "I 
                        should've taken care of him after work, but I .... 
                        Listen, we're going to have to pull together for a 
                        couple of days." He looked about as together as dust. 
                        "I'll get an ad in the paper right away. I-I should stay 
                        up front today, keep an eye on Maggie. What I think we 
                        need to do is keep pushing the cleaning out on schedule, 
                        which means you'll have to help Henry. If there's time 
                        left, we'll worry about the shirts. No money in goddamn 
                        shirts, anyway." He considered for a moment, then 
                        gathered himself. "That little weasel." He pushed away 
                        from the bench and clapped his hands. "So, then, can we 
                        handle this?" 
                        Henry had been flashing Kaplan firing Jerry after work, 
                        when there'd be no witnesses. Jerry coldcocked the 
                        brittle old man, then straddled him and grasped the pink 
                        head between his hands. When he pounded it against the 
                        floor, it exploded like a light bulb. The monster was 
                        frustrated that nothing had happened. "It stinks," Henry 
                        said. 
                        "I'm sorry, Henry. Just give me a couple of days." 
                        "Don't worry, Louis," said Celeste. "We'll handle it." 
                        Kaplan shot her a grateful look and hurried off to keep 
                        Maggie from ransacking the till. Henry bent to snare the 
                        vest Jerry had thrown. He dropped it in the hamper. 
                        "Look at you." Celeste chuckled. "He's gone and you're 
                        still picking up after him." 
                        "It's your fault." He snapped at her. "You laughed, you 
                        got him fired." 
                        "That's bullshit, Henry, and you know it. Jerry blew 
                        this job off long ago. If you ask me, he got what he 
                        deserved. I'm sorry if that bothers you. I'm sorry if 
                        you hate my guts. But other people don't make you do bad 
                        things. You do them yourself." 
                        Even though she was wrong, he didn't reply; she'd only 
                        chew his ear some more. He folded his untouched muffin 
                        and rammed it into the cup still half full of lukewarm 
                        tea. Of course other people could make you do wrong. 
                        Henry was proof of that. And he didn't really hate her. 
                        Yes, the grotesque hump repelled him and she had the 
                        personality of Brillo but he was also a little sorry for 
                        her. 
                        It was the monster who hated her. 
                        "So what do you want me to do?" she said. 
                        
                        Henry figured that the reason it was always dark in 
                        church was because God didn't like bright places. His 
                        God tended to lurk in the shadows and not say much, like 
                        a stranger at a wedding. When He spoke in His midnight 
                        whisper, it always took Henry by surprise. God certainly 
                        wasn't a rattletongue like Celeste or a smartmouth like 
                        Jerry. Henry believed that He preferred the dark 
                        because, like Henry, He was shy. 
                        Even though Our Lady of Mercy was only two blocks from 
                        Kaplan's, Henry's midday routine was to bring his lunch 
                        to St. Sebastian's because the light there was so bad 
                        that it was hard for anyone to see him eating. Also, 
                        Sebastian was the martyr that some Roman emperor had 
                        shot full of arrows; his painting was in the side 
                        chapel. Henry liked to sit in the third pew from the 
                        back with his regular tuna sandwich, pickle and 
                        chocolate milk. The priests usually left him alone 
                        because he never made a mess, but sometimes parishioners 
                        would crab at him. 
                        The rain had come earlier than predicted, chasing at 
                        least a dozen other people into the church, so he had to 
                        be cagy about eating. And the clouds had dulled his 
                        favorite stained glass; the reds had gone to mud, the 
                        blues almost black. Each of the fourteen narrow windows 
                        of St. Sebastian's depicted one of the Stations of the 
                        Cross. Henry liked to pray to the sixth: Veronica wiping 
                        the face of Jesus. Once, years ago, he had wondered 
                        whether the impression of His face that Jesus had left 
                        on Veronica's handkerchief could be removed with wet 
                        spotter, or maybe a hydrogen peroxide soak. It was as 
                        close as he had ever come to having a bad thought in a 
                        church. 
                        After he finished the pickle, he slid forward onto the 
                        kneeler to say a Hail Mary. The monster snuffed the 
                        prayer by ramming a fist up Henry's windpipe. He rocked 
                        back onto the pew, choking. People turned to stare; 
                        Henry put a hand to his mouth and pretended to cough 
                        into it. It took a moment before he could breathe again. 
                        He sat very still, closed his eyes and tried not to 
                        panic. Our Father, he thought, Who art in ... His head 
                        snapped back as veins of fire pulsed across his lids; it 
                        felt as if someone were squashing his eyes into his 
                        skull. He couldn't speak, couldn't even think to Him. 
                        Henry had never needed God's help more. Why couldn't he 
                        ask for it? Nothing else had changed: Up at the altar, 
                        votive candles still flickered like angels and the 
                        tabernacle glittered with the gold of heaven. But Henry 
                        could not pray. He covered his face with his hands. 
                        "Hey, you. Bum." 
                        Henry turned and blinked at a pale twitchy man in a 
                        rain-spattered blue jacket stitched with the name Phil. 
                        "This is a church, scumbag." Phil's voice swelled with 
                        outrage, snapping through the gloom like a sermon. "Not 
                        some flop where you can sleep off a drunk. You 
                        understand? And look at all this garbage. Go on, get out 
                        of here!" 
                        Henry crumbled the sandwich box and the wax paper into a 
                        ball. The last place he wanted something to happen was 
                        in God's house. He sensed the creature plugging into the 
                        man's anger, feeding off it into a frenzy. If Phil tried 
                        to hurt him, it would hurt him back. Oh God. He had to 
                        get away before it was too late. As he gathered in the 
                        milk carton, Phil decided he wasn't hurrying fast 
                        enough. 
                        "Now, bum! Or I'm calling the cops." He grabbed at Henry 
                        to haul him out of the pew. 
                        He tried to twist away but Phil's hand closed on his 
                        shoulder. Henry moaned with dread and pleasure as he 
                        yielded to the madness. The spark surged down his arm; 
                        muscles spasmed in an explosion of awful strength. He 
                        snapped his attacker back as easily as a wet shirt. Phil 
                        hit the wall of the church with a sharp crack. He sagged 
                        to the floor, face slack, eyes like eggs. 
                        Someone screamed. The shock of monstrous pleasure had 
                        left Henry momentarily limp; now he shuddered and flung 
                        himself out of the pew past the body. The touch had 
                        never been this good before, this vicious. He sprinted 
                        through the baptistry out the side door into the rain. 
                        He ran five blocks before he realized no one was paying 
                        attention to him. Everyone was hunkered down against the 
                        weather. 
                        He slowed to a walk. His cheeks were hot; he was in no 
                        hurry to get out of the rain. The monster was spent and 
                        he was back in control. He hadn't felt this relaxed in 
                        weeks. What harm had been done, really? Phil would wake 
                        up with a headache and a story he'd exaggerate down at 
                        the corner bar for years. So Henry would have lunch at 
                        Our Lady of Mercy for a while. Or find an even darker 
                        church. 
                        "Hail Mary, full of grace," he said to a parking meter. 
                        "The Lord is with thee." He fished a dime from his 
                        pocket, cranked it into the slot and the violation flag 
                        clicked down. "Deliver us from evil." He laughed. 
                        "Amen." 
                        By the time he got back to Kaplan's, he had convinced 
                        himself that for today, at least, he'd left the 
                        nightmare behind. 
                         
                        It rained that afternoon on everyone but Henry; he was 
                        still shining hours after lunch. Even Celeste's 
                        yattering failed to rile him, perhaps because she talked 
                        mostly about drycleaning instead of her cats and rice 
                        pudding and the world's tallest woman. And she worked 
                        much harder than Jerry; he was secretly impressed. She 
                        may have been a rattletongue, but when Celeste started 
                        something, it got done. 
                        He was pressing pants and she was hanging whites. "How 
                        long ago did you start in cleaning anyway?" she said. 
                        "Ten years, twenty?" 
                        "Before your time." 
                        "Really?" She brightened. "How old do you think I am?" 
                        He didn't understand why she was still honeying up to 
                        him, now that she had what she wanted. Henry pulled a 
                        pair of gray pinstripes off the rail and ignored her. 
                        "Don't be such a gentleman. The answer is thirty-six, 
                        same age as you. Or at least that's how old Jerry said 
                        you were. Unless he was making it up." 
                        "No." 
                        "So how come you never opened a store of your own?" 
                        He stepped on the compressor pedal; steam billowed 
                        through the pants. His own shop? That's what his dad 
                        used to say. But the thought had never appealed to 
                        Henry; he had enough to worry about. 
                        "After all," said Celeste, "you know the business." 
                        "Twenty-five pounder is the smallest rig they make." He 
                        nodded at the drycleaning machine. "Cost Kaplan thirty 
                        grand." He took his foot off the steam pedal and the 
                        pants deflated. "You've got to be smart to play for 
                        those stakes." 
                        "So? You're smart. All you need is a rich uncle. Or else 
                        hit the lottery. I play my birthday and Madonna's every 
                        week. 7/28/56 and 8/16/58 . Tell you what: when I win, 
                        I'll stake you. Only you have to name the store after 
                        me. Sloboda's Cleaners." 
                        Brown gabardines were next on the rail. He said nothing. 
                        
                        "Because it's nice work," she said, "drycleaning. I 
                        mean, it's fun because there's progress. You can see 
                        what you've done at the end of the day, not like bagging 
                        groceries or stitching shoes. You start with something 
                        ugly and it ends up pretty. How many jobs are there 
                        where you try to make the world a more beautiful place?" 
                        
                        Henry had no idea; he cared zero for the world. He liked 
                        the iron tang of steam hissing from the presses, the 
                        furriness of wet wool, the backbeat of the spinning 
                        drum, the way silk clung like caterpillars to his rough 
                        skin, the perfect chemical luster of nylon, the attic 
                        smell of shirt cardboards, leather jackets as heavy as 
                        raw steak, the airiness of rayon, the delicate crinkling 
                        of plastic bags fresh off the roll and especially the 
                        intoxicating palette of chemicals at the spotting table. 
                        He liked sweating through his tank top in the numbing 
                        heat of July and basking in the cozy humidity of the 
                        back room at Christmas. What mattered to Henry was that 
                        the job filled his senses and kept away the bad 
                        thoughts. Mostly. 
                        "Yeah," she was saying, "I like it here just fine even 
                        though it's not exactly what I want to do for the rest 
                        of my life." She waved her finger at him. "Don't you 
                        dare tell Kaplan I said that. I'm trusting you." 
                        A pair of tan suit pants. 
                        "No, what I really want to be someday is a travel agent. 
                        That way I'll get to go all over so I can tell people 
                        where the best times are. You know, like a librarian has 
                        to read all those books? Because I'd love to see the 
                        pyramids and China and San Francisco and the Disneys -- 
                        all the Disneys. I read where they have one in France 
                        now. And learn to ski. And I'm going to try all those 
                        warm places where you just lay around on the beach in 
                        your bikini and waiters bring you drinks with cherries 
                        in them." 
                        The idea of Celeste in a bikini made him laugh. She'd 
                        need to buy a third piece to cover her hump. 
                        "Yeah, what's so funny?" She was suddenly brittle, as if 
                        a cruel word might shatter her. "You don't think I could 
                        do it?" 
                        He had never seen her fold up like this; maybe she had 
                        never told him anything that mattered before. He sensed 
                        that if he said what he really thought, she might never 
                        speak to him again. A couple hours ago he would've 
                        killed for this chance. Now he let it pass. "Don't you 
                        have to go to school for that?" He waved vaguely toward 
                        downtown. 
                        "Probably. I don't know. Never mind." She picked an 
                        armful off the rail of hanging clothes and carried them 
                        over to the big press. "It's just something I've been 
                        thinking about." 
                        She didn't speak, sing, or hum for fifteen minutes. She 
                        just hurled clothes around like curses: yanked them onto 
                        the press, jerked down the cover, threw them onto 
                        hangers when they were done. Kaplan wheeled in a basket 
                        filled with dirty clothes from up front and parked it by 
                        the spotting bench. He beamed when he saw the long line 
                        of finished orders ready for bagging. 
                        "I should've gotten you two together weeks ago." He 
                        rubbed his hands. "This is great; I really mean it. 
                        Look, it's been a tough day. Go ahead and finish up the 
                        shirts and you can knock off a half hour early." 
                        Olive twills. 
                        "Thanks Louis," said Celeste. She watched him go with a 
                        lemon expression on her face. "Half an hour early? Shit, 
                        we should go home now. We've already done a hell of a 
                        lot more than he had any right to expect." Then she 
                        chuckled; Celeste wasn't built to pout. "Well, if you'll 
                        bag up the cleaning, I'll move over to shirts." 
                        "Sure." 
                        "You're an odd one, you know that, Henry? At first I 
                        thought that you didn't like me. Then Jerry said you 
                        didn't like anyone. But we talked today and you 
                        survived. My guess is that you're just shy." 
                        He hung the last pair of pants. 
                        "Mind if I ask you a question?" 
                        He sighed. 
                        "What are you doing after work?" 
                         
                        It had been three years since Henry had last ridden in a 
                        car -- not since he first started having bad thoughts. 
                        Now he remembered why. The bus might be crowded and slow 
                        but it was safe as the living room couch. Cars were 
                        vicious. The streets seethed with tense, drunk, angry, 
                        worried, impatient drivers. They were lost, late, stuck 
                        in traffic and their windshields kept fogging up. There 
                        was no place to park, some scut had just cut them off, 
                        so they screamed back at their radios. He could see them 
                        jittering behind the steering wheels of their weapons, 
                        feel the darkness inside him feasting on their anger. 
                        He should have known better than to disrupt the 
                        routines. The monster was back. 
                        "It's because they think I'm their mother," said 
                        Celeste, who drove as if she were alone on the road. 
                        "For a cat, leaving a dead mouse in the middle of the 
                        kitchen floor is the best way to say 'I love you.' They 
                        can't understand why I'm not grateful. Probably think 
                        I'm crazy." 
                        Her junker '82 Escort would have lost a collision with a 
                        lunchbox. He grasped the shoulder belt with his left 
                        arm; his right hand crushed the armrest on the door. 
                        Something was happening. 
                        "My mom used to say that there are two kinds of people 
                        in the world, cat people and dog people. But come to 
                        find out there're all kinds of people. Bird people, fish 
                        people, snake people, plant people, even petless people. 
                        Bet that's you. You don't strike me as the pet type." 
                        He shook his head. 
                        "See? So what does that mean? That you're not human?" 
                        Riding a tuna wagon down the mean streets was bad 
                        enough, but what really spooked him was Celeste's 
                        driving. She was barely tall enough to see over the 
                        dashboard. He had never realized how big her hump was 
                        until he had watched her wiggle it into the tiny car. It 
                        forced her forward so that she seemed to be looking 
                        through the steering wheel at the road. Except she 
                        wasn't. She kept trying to make eye contact with him 
                        while she babbled about cats. 
                        "Of course, Slippers leaves most of the little prizes, 
                        these days. Figaro isn't quite the mouser he used to be 
                        since the operation. They cut a tumor off his chest. 
                        Cost me two hundred dollars. So what about your dad? You 
                        didn't say whether he's covered by insurance or not." 
                        "We're okay." Henry should never have told her that he 
                        always visited his dad on the way home from work. And 
                        then he should've realized what would happen when she'd 
                        asked what hospital he was in. And then he should've 
                        lied about the forty minute bus ride that got him there 
                        fifteen minutes before visiting hours ended. He and his 
                        dad did not have that much to say to one another anyway. 
                        
                        "Pick a lane, Grandma!" She swerved around a LeBaron 
                        with Alabama plates. "That's good, because a hospital 
                        bill can kill you faster than any peckerhead doctor. 
                        Believe me, it'd be cheaper for him to stay in the 
                        presidential suite at the Sheraton. Probably more fun. 
                        How is he taking it anyway? My mother died of lung 
                        cancer, which isn't surprising seeing as how she smoked 
                        like Pittsburgh. She was a okay mom, better than I 
                        deserved. But I'll tell you, she was a bitch at the end. 
                        It was really hard." 
                        "He's drugged," said Henry. "Doesn't talk much." 
                        She signalled for a left turn and the Escort rattled up 
                        the ramp onto the interstate. "See," she said. "Almost 
                        there. Dad will have a nice surprise." As the 
                        speedometer skulked toward seventy, Henry braced against 
                        the floorboards hard enough to leave footprints. "I 
                        think the worst of it was when she decided she had to 
                        find God before she died. She hadn't been within 
                        spitting distance of a church for forty years and the 
                        next thing I know she's a born-again Baptist. Three 
                        weeks later I buried her. Only I have to put up with 
                        this douchebag in a collar who throws dirt on her and 
                        talks about how she's eating bon-bons with Jesus in the 
                        Kingdom of God. And charging me fifty bucks for the 
                        privilege. You're not a believer, are you Henry?" 
                        Henry hesitated, fighting a bad thought. If he touched 
                        her now, she'd faint. He could whip the wheel over and 
                        they'd jump the median into the oncoming traffic. "I go 
                        to church every day," he said. 
                        "Oh." She turned pale, as if he'd said his hobby was 
                        drowning kittens. "Me and my big mouth." She signalled 
                        for Exit 7. "Sorry. I guess I fucked up." At the bottom 
                        of the ramp, Memorial loomed like a giant's headstone. 
                        She pulled up to the main entrance. "See you tomorrow 
                        then. Sorry." 
                        "Yeah." Henry bolted from the car before the monster 
                        ripped her hump off and stuffed it down her throat. 
                         
                        "You look like a bum." Roger West had been cranked into 
                        a semi-upright position and propped in his hospital bed 
                        with pillows. "You come in here again, you shave." 
                        Cancer had chewed on him until there was only the 
                        wrinkled brown pit of a man left. "Why're you here?" His 
                        eyes were bright with pain. 
                        "I came to visit, Dad. I always come." 
                        "Not before the pill, you don't. Time is it?" 
                        Henry glanced at his watch. "Four-eleven." 
                        "Jesus God, nineteen years until four-thirty. Go find 
                        the nurse, tell her I can't wait. Service stinks in this 
                        lousy hospital you stuck me in, kid. I keep begging them 
                        for the pill, but they don't bring me nothing." His 
                        fingers curled and scrabbled at the sheet. "Why am I 
                        here? I hate this." 
                        "You're sick, Dad. The doctor brought you here to take 
                        care of you." 
                        "That's right." He licked his lips. "Okay." 
                        "The reason I'm early today is I didn't take the bus. I 
                        got a ride over." 
                        His dad closed his eyes. He sounded like he was 
                        breathing through a straw; the arms that used to hold 
                        Henry were limp as wet cardboard. He sat beside the bed 
                        and gazed out the window. At least his dad had the view. 
                        The middle bed was empty. The privacy curtain was drawn 
                        around Mr. DeCredico's bed near the door. 
                        "What she say?" His dad didn't open his eyes. 
                        "Who?" 
                        "The nurse. My son's coming, don't you understand? I 
                        need my pill." 
                        The room got very small then so Henry went to the hall. 
                        He leaned against the doorway and listened to the 
                        florescents hum. Down the hall someone was watching 
                        Jeopardy. The PA system chimed. He scuffed the carpet. 
                        It was gun barrel gray. The wallpaper was beige and 
                        shiny and easy to wash. Henry rubbed a hand through the 
                        stubble along his jaw. It wasn't a bad thought to want 
                        to kill dad. He could do it with a pillow; he wouldn't 
                        even need the Beretta. Dad would be grateful for the 
                        favor. It'd be payback for everything he had done for 
                        Henry, bringing him up all by himself. But this was the 
                        only murder the monster didn't lust for and Henry didn't 
                        have the spunk to do it by himself. He went back in. 
                        "You're early," his dad said. "You didn't get fired did 
                        you?" 
                        "No dad, I told you, I got a ride with someone." 
                        "A ride? With someone?" 
                        The monster hated Celeste and, for the moment, so did 
                        Henry. She had done this to them by disrupting the 
                        routine. He should've taken the bus and his dad would've 
                        scarfed the pill and none of this mung would've 
                        happened. 
                        "Time is it?" 
                        "Almost four-thirty." 
                        His dad's laugh sounded like a cough. There was a plant 
                        with long shiny leaves like swords that he had bought 
                        for his dad by the window. Snake plant, the florist had 
                        said. Nothing could kill it. Henry could see the 
                        interstate, the bridges and the river glittering like 
                        the road to heaven. His dad had a room with a view on 
                        the twelfth floor. All the fabric snobs in the worsted 
                        wool suits he cleaned would kill for the chance to sit 
                        behind a desk with a view like this. 
                        "Know why I can't get a pill? I can't pay. If I still 
                        had a credit card, I could charge all the pills I need." 
                        He swallowed painfully. "I know what they're trying to 
                        do. They're hoping I'll get sick of the lousy service 
                        and leave. I should. Just go home." 
                        "You're sick, Dad." 
                        "Don't tell me that. You don't know what sick is. You 
                        get a runny nose, you take a day off. But I'm empty. 
                        Nothing inside me. At least the pills fill me up." His 
                        mouth hung open as he gasped for breath. "But they're 
                        not giving me mine because you sold the house. That's 
                        why I can't go home, isn't it? I get sick and you let 
                        them take everything. I built that house. Where's my 
                        furniture, Henry?" 
                        "Take it easy, dad. It's safe in the warehouse." 
                        "You think I can live in some damn warehouse?" 
                        "Don't swear. When you get out, we'll rent an 
                        apartment." 
                        "I'm not getting out. You're just like the nurses. Here 
                        I'm dying and you want to wait until four-thirty. I 
                        don't know why I had you, you useless bum. We would've 
                        been better off buying a dog." 
                        "Why Mr. West, good afternoon." The nurse carried a tray 
                        with a clear plastic cup of apple juice and a tiny paper 
                        cup with the pill. "You're early today." Her acrylic 
                        uniform dress was whiter than anything Henry had ever 
                        cleaned. There was so much pain in the room, it was hard 
                        not to touch her. He flashed on the monster hurling her 
                        through the window. There'd be stains on her uniform 
                        that would never come out. 
                        "He wants his pill," he said. 
                        "Of course he does, it's four-thirty." 
                        "Don't mind him." Roger West lifted his head off the 
                        pillow. "He's having a rough day." He opened his mouth 
                        for the pill as if he were taking the sacrament. 
                         
                        Henry was dancing with the boom box. No more routines; 
                        it was finally happening. Guns 'N Roses was cranked to 
                        the bughouse level. He cradled the noise to his chest, 
                        balanced it across his shoulders like an electronic 
                        hump, swung it in a straight-arm loop over his head. 
                        Someone was out to get Axl Rose but he wasn't going to 
                        take it. Neither was Henry, not as long as Slash was 
                        allowed to perform brain surgery with a guitar. Henry's 
                        underwear was not as white as a nurse's uniform. He had 
                        pulled one sock halfway off. The bathtub was filling up. 
                        
                        He whirled into the bedroom, set the boom box on the 
                        nightstand and hurled himself at the unmade bed. He 
                        bounced up and sprang again. Again, three, five times, 
                        as if the mattress were the plane of sanity that he 
                        might crash through, if only he tried hard enough. The 
                        song ended, the next one was about drugs. Henry didn't 
                        need drugs; he was high on death. He punched the eject 
                        button, flung the tape across the room and carried the 
                        boom box to the shrine. The door was wide open. 
                        He slapped the Talking Heads into the player and 
                        snatched the Beretta off the altar. Wham! No more Louis 
                        Farrakhan. Wham! Die, Robert DeNiro. But pretending 
                        wasn't enough anymore. He wanted to flash like he had 
                        when Phil had put a hand on him. He wanted to feel the 
                        gun kick when he pulled the trigger. While David Byrne 
                        was quavering about psycho killers, Henry decided to 
                        show the Beretta the rest of their nasty little 
                        apartment. The boom box came along for the ride. They 
                        turned off the water in the bathtub and changed channels 
                        on the tv and straightened the picture of Henry and Dad 
                        at the lake. They were on their way to the kitchen to 
                        look behind the paper towels under the sink when the 
                        phone rang. Qu'est-ce que c'est? 
                        As soon as he turned off the music, he knew it was the 
                        hospital calling to tell him dad had died. Henry had let 
                        him down, hadn't given him what he wanted. It rang five 
                        times, six. A hand he wasn't quite in control of 
                        trembled over the phone but did not pick up. Ring. He 
                        was crying. Ring. 
                        "Hello," he said. 
                        "Henry? This is Celeste." 
                        Hail Mary, he thought, full of grace. "Yeah?" 
                        "Hey look, I'm sorry for what I said this afternoon. You 
                        know, about religion and all. It's my problem, okay? It 
                        has nothing to do with you." 
                        He dabbed at a tear running down his cheek. "Uh-huh." 
                        "Anyway, I've been driving around ever since then, 
                        thinking about what a jerk I was and I just looked at my 
                        watch and saw that it was six-thirty and realized I was 
                        hungry and I'm just around the block from Angelina's and 
                        I was wondering ... I was wondering if you liked pizza? 
                        Because I was thinking I'd spring for a large with 
                        pepperoni or mushroom or extra cheese or whatever you 
                        want and bring it over and we could split it and then 
                        maybe I could convince you to forgive me for being such 
                        an idiot. I mean, it's okay if you're busy but ..." 
                        "Mushroom," said the monster. 
                        Her squeal of delight made the speaker buzz. "Mushroom? 
                        All right! How about something to drink? Beer? Wine?" 
                        "Carlo Rossi Pink Chablis." 
                        "No problem. This is great, Henry. I knew you'd 
                        understand. This shouldn't take long; what if we say 
                        I'll be there around seven-fifteen. I mean if that's too 
                        soon, I can come later." 
                        "Seven-fifteen," it said. "You know where I live?" 
                        "Sure, 117 Queensberry, apartment 22. Jerry told me. See 
                        you then." 
                        The monster hung up the phone and glanced around. The 
                        apartment need some straightening up. Things needed to 
                        be put in their places. It stuck the gun in its belt and 
                        went out to the kitchen to check behind the paper 
                        towels. 
                         
                        The bed was made, the breakfast dishes were washed and 
                        put away, the living room floor was vacuumed, the door 
                        to the shrine was locked and the Beretta was loaded and 
                        stashed under a cushion of the couch. The sound of 
                        Henry's mewling for it to stop came as if from a great 
                        distance, as it opened the door for its guest. 
                        "Pouring out there." The rain had flattened Celeste's 
                        hair but hadn't washed away her smile. "It's a good 
                        night to stay home." 
                        "Thanks for coming." It took the pizza box from her. 
                        "Come in." The top was soaked but the bottom was still 
                        hot. 
                        "Ta-da!" She pulled a squat jug of wine from a paper 
                        bag. "Took me three stores to find it." 
                        It hung her slicker over the bathtub and saw that she'd 
                        changed her clothes. She'd been wearing a red pocket tee 
                        and acid washed jeans under her work smock. Now she had 
                        on a ramie skirt that hung just above the knee and a 
                        fake batik polyester blouse -- a smart choice of 
                        fabrics. You could get blood stains out of ramie, as 
                        long as they were fresh. 
                        It had already decided not to rush. Now that it was in 
                        charge, there was no need to lunge; it could enjoy the 
                        moment. Besides, even monsters liked mushroom pizza and 
                        it hadn't eaten since lunch. 
                        They sat at the kitchen table and tucked away all but a 
                        slice and drank sweet wine out of coffee cups while she 
                        babbled about crusts and exotic toppings and Roseanne 
                        and the high cost of mufflers and kitty litter. She 
                        asked what kind of movies it liked and it told her 
                        comedies but that its VCR was broken. She confessed to 
                        staying up too many late nights with horror flicks. Her 
                        favorite was the Nightmare on Elm Street series. 
                        "Too violent for me." The monster couldn't help but 
                        notice that she was watching it like a movie. Her eyes 
                        never left its face. She was lit with an expression of 
                        fascinated suspense that got brighter and brighter with 
                        each cup of wine. 
                        "The problem is," she was saying, "they're running out 
                        of ideas. You can watch just so many decapitations 
                        before you stop taking them seriously. Half the horror 
                        flicks these days play for laughs. The other half are 
                        about as scary as Count Chocula." 
                        It offered the jug for a refill. She laughed and waved 
                        it away. 
                        "I've still got plenty left. You trying to get rid of it 
                        or what?" 
                        "Maybe we should move to the couch?" It was excited now. 
                        "More comfortable there." 
                        She stumbled coming out of her chair and it caught her, 
                        exercising so much restraint it thought it might burst. 
                        "'Scuse me," she said, her voice suddenly husky, "Hell 
                        of a lot drunker up here than I thought." She steadied 
                        herself with an arm around its waist and let it lead her 
                        down the hall. Her body was firm under her clothes; it 
                        could feel her heart pumping. "Where'd you say we were 
                        going?" 
                        It steered her through the door. "You remember the 
                        living room?" 
                        "Ah, yes. We were introduced earlier. Miss Lamp." She 
                        bowed. "Mr. TV. Mr. Table." She giggled and twisted 
                        around in a deft way that took it by surprise. She 
                        pressed closer and closer, arching up on tiptoes, 
                        stretching until their lips touched. Her tongue nipped 
                        against his teeth and she was kissing Henry, not the 
                        monster. When he realized he was back in control, he 
                        began to tremble. 
                        "I know." She moaned softly and pushed him toward the 
                        couch. "Me too," she said. "But sit down first." 
                        He slid as far away from the gun as he could and gaped 
                        as she unbuttoned her blouse. 
                        "You probably think I do this all the time." She was 
                        wearing more underwear than he had expected. Her bra was 
                        white lace, sheer enough that he could see her nipples. 
                        Above it was a wide elastic harness made of ace bandages 
                        stitched together. He remembered the three piece bathing 
                        suit but he didn't laugh. Her skin frightened him. 
                        "Well, you're wrong," she said. "I don't get many 
                        requests and the ones that do ask are always perverts." 
                        She released three metal clips and the harness unwrapped 
                        itself and fell to the floor. 
                        The hump on her back unfolded with a sound like hands 
                        rubbing together. Celeste grunted and twisted her head 
                        back and forth as if she had a crick. "No, it's all 
                        right," she said. "They just get a little stiff after 
                        being cooped up all day." She shook herself and two 
                        pointed masses of flesh dropped low behind her back and 
                        then slowly rose up past her shoulder. 
                        She smiled shyly at him and beat her wings; he could 
                        feel air on his face. They were double-jointed; he could 
                        see outlines of bones that reminded him of posters of 
                        starving children. 
                        "Oh my God," he said. 
                        The skin stretched between the needle digits was the 
                        same color as her face, flushed an embarrassed red. He 
                        could see a filagree of arteries. She had a span of 
                        about four feet. 
                        "Can you fly?" 
                        She shook her head. "I'm afraid they're pretty useless." 
                        She giggled. "Except maybe as fans." 
                        "I don't ... this is ... my God, Celeste." He shivered. 
                        "Can I touch them?" 
                        "Mister, you can touch anything you want." 
                        It was as if he was swimming across the room toward her. 
                        The wine burned in his belly like a pool of fire. She 
                        turned her back to him and held her wings still. They 
                        were covered with downy black hair and were hot as her 
                        lips. 
                        "Hey you, I'm standing here in my underwear and you're 
                        still dressed." She faced him. "Time to catch up." Her 
                        fingers tickled his chest as she took off his white 
                        shirt. She laughed drunkenly as she fumbled at his belt. 
                        
                        His legs went out beneath him and he sank to his knees. 
                        "Thank you, God." Now he knew he could beat the monster. 
                        "You've sent me an angel." 
                        She grabbed a fistful of his hair and hauled him up. 
                        "Listen, Henry." He had never seen her angry before. "I 
                        walked in here on my own two feet because you're the 
                        only man who never stared at me. Nobody pushed me in 
                        here, especially not God. There is no fucking God! Or if 
                        there is, he's got to be the most heartless asshole in 
                        the universe." Her wings were flapped like pennants. 
                        "You look at me. Go ahead. I'm a freak, a monster. I 
                        didn't ask to be one and I had to learn to live with 
                        these damn things. And nobody helped -- my mother gave 
                        me this dumb name -- I still haven't got any god damn 
                        help. So if you want to thank somebody, you can thank 
                        Celeste Sloboda for staying sane despite the way most 
                        everyone stares." She was crying. "So that's the way it 
                        is, okay? I've pissed you off, you pissed me off and now 
                        we can go home and hate each other." 
                        "Celeste." She could think whatever she wanted. He knew 
                        God's work when he saw it. She was full of a kind of 
                        pain the monster couldn't use. Only he could. He knew 
                        that as long as he believed in this miracle, nobody, 
                        nothing could stop him from being himself. "Let go of my 
                        hair?" 
                        She released him and immediately stroked the back of his 
                        head. "I didn't mean to hurt you." Her gaze softened. 
                        "I'm sorry. I didn't want it like this." 
                        He could feel the monster slipping away. "I want you," 
                        he said. Her face kept getting bigger until it was the 
                        only thing Henry could see. They kissed forever and 
                        amen. Henry wasn't sure how he got naked. As he led her 
                        to the bedroom he couldn't remember if any woman had 
                        ever seen him naked before. 
                        She paused by the bathroom, traced the line of his chin, 
                        and smiled. "Henry," she said, "Do you think you might 
                        shave?" 
                         
                        Much later, he eased out from under the covers so as not 
                        to wake her. He realized where the monster had gone when 
                        it left him. He pulled on his jeans, padded into the 
                        living room and felt under the cushion. It was in the 
                        Beretta. He stared at the gun without comprehension. 
                        Even though it was still as hard and black and cold as 
                        ever, it didn't seem real to him anymore. His first 
                        thought was to lose it in the dumpster behind his 
                        apartment, but he was barefoot and it had set him back 
                        five hundred and thirty-eight dollars. Tomorrow after 
                        work he could pawn it and buy some nice woman thing for 
                        Celeste. 
                        He stripped the magazine, picked the shells out and 
                        wrapped everything in a green garbage bag. Or maybe he 
                        should keep the gun for protection -- God knows there 
                        were monsters loose in the city. He hid it under the 
                        sink and snuck back to bed with his angel. 
                        			                      
                         
            
             

