Wraiths of the Broken Land (26 page)

“I cannot allow my wife to work in such an establishment,” said I to Gris.

“You owe me two thousand dollars that you do not have. You are not empowered to allow or disallow anything.” Gris opened his ruined eye, and I saw that a gray rock was lodged deep within the socket. “Mrs. Upfield shall be taken to my establishment, treated fairly and returned to you whenever she has cancelled the family deficit. If you raise an alarm or in any way attempt to thwart me, you shall be murdered, and she shall be taken to the exact same place for the remainder of her life.”

I began to weep. I swallowed the glass of bourbon that I had previously neglected and pleaded, “Might I have one last chance to win back my debt?”

“With what collateral?”

“My wife’s sister is in town for the holidays.”

Horrified, Yvette turned to Dolores. “I—I…I can’t believe he…that he…I’m…I’m so, so sorry.”

“You have nothin’ to apologize for.”

“But my husband—”

“Finish the goddamn letter.”

“My wife’s sister is in town for the holidays. She is at our apartment.”*

“You are proposing a double or nothing wager?”

I nodded, but was unable to speak.

“If you lose,” Gris clarified, “both sisters shall work for me until they have earned a sum of four thousand dollars.”

I nodded.

“Is the sibling comparably attractive?”

I nodded and eventually found my voice. “She is a redheaded cancan dancer.”

“I accept,” replied Gris. “Which game would you like to play?”

I knew that the Spaniard’s gaming skills were superior to my own, and so I wanted to keep things simple and place the outcome directly into His hands. “I would like for us to draw cards.”

“Agreed.”

I selected a nine of clubs.

Gris withdrew a queen of diamonds.

I fainted.

Outdoors, I was roused by a slap across the face. Gloved hands pressed me against a wall of coarse brick. Six unfamiliar men, all dressed in dark overcoats, stood close around me, and cold wind whistled up the empty avenues, past their shoulders and pale ears. In the fists of five of these wraiths were clutched the handles of revolvers and knives.

The sixth man, a fellow with silver hair, withdrew his left hand from his coat pocket and displayed to me a small vial. “This is a sleeping draught,” said he.

I took the vial from the man and asked how I was to administer the sedative.

“If they are asleep, put a small amount directly into their mouths.”

I asked if a milligram would be a sufficient dosage.

“Yes. And if they are awake, install twice that amount into whatever fluids they are drinking.”

As I trod upon the drear gray avenue,
assaulted by harsh winds and the hissing flames of gas lanterns,
I contemplated engaging my adversaries as would a gunfighter, but these hideous men were all armed murderers, and I was an unarmed elixir salesman. My body fearfully continued along the familiar route toward our home,
and I loathed myself.

I neared Deever’s Butcher Shoppe, which was closed like every other establishment at that late hour, and I smelled a powerfully pungent odor that I am unable to accurately describe. Suddenly and violently, I collapsed upon the avenue and became convulsive. The wraiths monitored my paroxysms from an alleyway and smoked cigars that smelled of anise.

Presently, I regained myself, continued my journey and unhappily arrived at the building on the corner of Clarkes and Hughley in which we lived. My prayer for it to be removed and shuttled to some safe place had gone unanswered.

I climbed the familiar stairwell,
and it seemed to me as if an entire year had passed since I had descended the steps with David.
I arrived at our apartment, shadowed by two of the six wraiths. “Do not lock the door,” one of them whispered, and his accomplice displayed his weapon to me in a threatening manner. I walked through the threshold, and the hideous pair remained in the hallway, while their peers monitored both the front and the rear of the building from outside.

You and Dolores were asleep.

Perhaps you will recall that the damp San Francisco winter had given your sister a modicum of nasal congestion, and that these clogged sinuses had caused her to sleep with her mouth agape, displaying her tonsils to the unfinished ceiling of the guest room.

I sneaked beside Dolores and drizzled a gram of the draught into her exposed throat.*

Unable to see through her tears, Yvette set down the letter, flung the segmented sticks that were her arms around Dolores and squeezed. “I…I can’t read anymore of this. I just can’t.”

“You need to finish it.”

Shaking her head, Yvette said, “It’s horrible.”

Dolores raised the remaining six pages and said, “I can read it out loud if you want.”

Yvette wiped tears from her eyes and reclaimed the odious confessional essay.

I crept into our room and saw you, asleep beneath the maroon wool blanket that your father’s house negro had given us, and I was forced to look away. Upon the nightstand beside you laid sheet music for choir hymns, marked by your late night marginalia, and I was compelled to turn the papers facedown. My rustling roused you.

“Samuel…?”

“Yes, my most beloved treasure?” said I, replacing the vial within my shirt pocket.

“Why were you gone for such a long time?” you enquired, as you may recall.

I had not planned to converse with you and was unable to extemporize anything particularly imaginative. “David is troubled,” said I.

“What happened to him?” you enquired.

“The poor fellow invested all of his savings in a prospecting venture that collapsed, suddenly and utterly. He is ruined and filled with despair.”

You sat up and drew the front of your nightgown close to your bosom. “Why didn’t he talk about this at dinner? We’re his closest friends in all of San Francisco.”

“I do not know why he remained silent,” said I.

“Why’re you crying?” you asked.

You may recall that I was unable to answer your enquiry.

“Should I go warm up some milk?” you offered.

“I shall do it,” said the vermin to whom you were married.

I retreated to the kitchen, put a saucer atop the stove and heated a small quantity of milk for the two of us. I returned to our room and gave you the glass into which I had poured the prescribed dosage of the sleeping draught.*

You drank the tarnished milk, and afterwards, yawned ponderously.

I said, “Lower the drapes.”

You shut your eyes and I kissed your splendid eyelids. You fell into a deep sleep.

The wraiths came inside our apartment and claimed both you and your sister.*

I collapsed and was unconscious for many hours. At dusk the following day, I awakened and drank the remainder of the sleeping draught, but I disgorged the serum, violently, and my suicidal endeavor proved to be no more successful than my business ventures and marriage.

The morning after my failed suicide attempt—this was two days before His birthday—an unexpected visitor knocked upon the door of our apartment. I ignored the individual’s solicitations, and he departed after a short while. I drank the champagne that you and I were to share with your sister when we celebrated the New Year, but was unable to do anything with the food in the icebox but watch it decompose.

At ten o’clock that same evening, the visitor returned and vigorously applied his fist to our front door. The Lauders were disturbed by the caller’s inexorable rapping, and emerged from their apartment to comment upon his clamor. He announced himself as Brent Plugford, the brother of the woman who dwelled within 3B, and our neighbors recalled him from his visit the previous winter.

“The Upfields have entrusted us with a spare key,” said Jill Lauder. “Allow me to fetch it.”

“Thank you very much ma’am,” said Brent.

At this point, I knew that I could either admit your brother into our apartment or defenestrate myself to the pavement below. I pulled a plaid robe over my disheveled garments and walked toward the front door, concocting lies that could explain your absence, your sister’s absence, my sorry condition and the dismal state of disrepair that had befallen our home.

I pulled the door wide. “Good evening, Mr. Plugford,” said I.

“It’s Brent.” Your brother surveyed me for a moment and enquired, “How come you didn’t answer?”

“I was asleep.”

Jill Lauder emerged from her apartment with our spare key, and I dismissed her.

“Please come in,” said I to Brent. Then I affected a terrible cough that did not seem to concern him whatsoever.

Brent entered our apartment and looked at the liquor bottles upon the floor, the stains upon the Oriental rug, and the sodden bedclothes that I had dragged to the couch because I was unable to sleep in our room. “What’s goin’ on here?” he asked. “And where’re the girls?”

“I contracted a dread malady, and so your sisters retreated to my Great Uncle’s home in the country, where—”

“When did you get sick?” Your brother did not say this as if he believed I was actually suffering from any illness.

“Insalubrious conditions began four days ago.”

“Why didn’t I hear ‘bout that in the telegram?”

“Of what telegram do you speak?” I anxiously enquired.

“The one Yvette sent me in Portland—three days ago—askin’ if I’d come down for the holidays.”

“Perhaps she had hoped that I would make a hasty recovery? She is an optimist.”

It was clear that Brent did not believe any of what I told him, and he marched directly into the guest room—where he had stayed during his previous visits—and presently returned with the lavender valise that belonged to Dolores. I stared at the luggage in his right hand for a long time.

“What’s the explanation for this bein’ here?” enquired Brent.

“Dolores forgot it.”

The hurled valise struck my face and knocked me over. I concussed the apartment floor so loudly that our downstairs neighbor thumped an angry complaint upon her ceiling with the handle of her broom.

More violence occurred.

I was too ashamed to confess aloud my vile deeds, and in my delirious state, I proffered weak and inconsistent tales of burglars and missionary work and European sojourns, and all of these preposterous fabrications earned me more beatings. I will not detail my agonies, because they are deserved and compared to whatever ordeals you have suffered, insignificant.*

Thereafter, I was enjoined by your brother to take up residence within the pantry.

I was removed at some later time—the day after Christmas, I believe—to greet the unpaid cowboys who had arrived from Montana to collect their due and dispatch hard fists. As a matter of coincidence, your brother knew two of them from previous cattle work, and dealt with them agreeably.

More violence occurred.

The cowboys left, taking several of my teeth and every item of value from our home, excepting the phonograph given to us by your father on our wedding day.

Shortly after the New Year had been celebrated by revelers above and below the pantry, your father arrived, accompanied by your younger brother and the house negro. Without delay, Brent sat me opposite them
at the table where I devised my petty elixir recipes and worthless inventions.

“Samuel C. Upfield IV,” your father said, “I gave you my permission, before God, when you asked for Yvette’s hand. I walked her down the aisle and gave her over to you. Honor that trust and tell me what happened to her and Dolores, so we can find them quick.”

I confessed.

John Lawrence Plugford seized my neck, pulled me across the table and would have ripped my head from my shoulders had not Brent, Stevie and the negro interceded. They hastily returned me to the pantry, where I was hidden from your father, who had wholly transformed into an unrecognizable angel of wrath.

Later that night, or perhaps some other evening—it is not easy to mark time in the pantry—I awakened and heard your father, your brothers and the negro in conversation. Your father said, “Send a wire to Long Clay, and tell him to get Deep Lakes and meet us back in Shoulderstone. Let him know this is goin’ all the way dark.”

I was relocated to smaller accommodations and taken to Texas.

The terrifying individual named Long Clay informed your family that I might possess some value in a barter situation, and thus I have been kept alive as a corporeal bargaining chip. The hope that I might somehow assist or facilitate your rescue is why I have not again attempted suicide.

Your family searches the country for you and your sister, tirelessly, inexorably, with a loving devotion that shames me greatly.

Several times during the period of my captivity, I have had an unsettling dream that I believe to be a religious vision, and I wanted to share it with you, even though the Editors will likely draw a line through its description.

Upon my bent back and across a vast riven plain, I bear a large black trunk. Beneath a red sky that continuously rains ashes, I carry this heavy burden and inhale mephitic vapors. I wander for years and years, until I chance upon a tall and narrow man, dressed in a black robe, who has rocks instead of eyes. I ask him if he has seen Yvette Upfield, and he nods his head in affirmation. He withdraws the stones from his sockets and thrusts them deeply and violently into my face, bursting my eyeballs, and for a moment I am blind.

The stones grow warm and gradually I regain the power of sight. I find that I am on the cold gray avenue that is immediately outside our apartment in San Francisco.

I carry the trunk up the stairs and through the threshold and find you asleep in bed. The sheet music with your late night marginalia is facedown upon the nightstand, and when I reach out to turn it over, I see that I am a shadow, a wraith, and not of living flesh.

I drop my burden, and its concussion rouses you from your slumber. You descry the black trunk, raise its lid and see the man who lies within it. “Who are you?” you ask the battered body of Samuel C. Upfield IV. “Who are you?”

You do not recognize me, and I am thankful.

Undeserving of salvation or forgiveness,

The Man who was Samuel C. Upfield IV