The stone saw it hide, too. It strained in her hand, pulling her toward the stain.

  She knelt next to the coffee table. Andrew and she had found it at an antique show.

  She fell in love with that table right off. It was just like the one she and Grams had built jigsaw puzzles on. Wide and maple and shining, it had generations of loving use in it.

  Andrew hadn’t liked the look of it, but he had let her buy it.

  Once, after she had it home and accessorized, he had even said it looked nice, that it was “right in the groove.” That meant when people visited, they would compliment him on his trendy, retro taste.

  She lifted the doily.

  The spot tried to be small. The smaller it tried to be, the darker it got.

  She touched one corner of the stone to the spot.

  The spot stretched, tried to get away, but it was too late. The swirling whiteness of the stone slipped out, surrounded the black blemish, and dragged it back into the stone.

  Elma stood. She held the stone in her gloved hand. It quivered and warmed, joyful to have served. The white swirl in the stone mixed with the dark of the grease spot—a twirling, swirling pattern of soapy iridescence and fading brown. After a moment, the coffee stain swirl gave way to white again. A moment later, the stone went black and cold in her hand.

  Grams had been something special. Elma thanked her for her love then checked the clock. She had plenty of time.

  She returned to the kitchen and carefully returned her weapons to the armory behind the disposal.

  The front door opened. Andrew’s loud, ‘I’m entertaining’ laugh rolled into the house.

  Elma smiled. He was in a good mood. Things must be going well with the new manager. She pulled a rack of muffins from the oven and put them on the top of the stove. Elma knew how to please, so she left the oven open so the smell of fresh-baked blueberry muffins filled the house.

  Andrew said, “Smells like she’s had a Betty Baker day.”

  A woman laughed—a sharp, cruel laugh.

  Surprised, and not prepared for three, Elma removed her apron from the little black tea dress she’d made for herself for days like these. She smoothed the dress, checked her faux pearls in the spotless, reflective surface of the microwave, then headed out to meet her guests.

  Entering the living room, Elma froze.

  Not guests. No. Andrew’s guest.

  Even if the woman with Andrew had taken off her heels, she’d have been taller than Elma. Andrew’s manager gracefully stripped off her long, leather coat, revealing a sleek LBD that made Elma feel underdressed in her own dress and in her own home. The manager’s black hair was brittle from too much time at salons, but it was perfectly behaved, curving around high-cheeks and slightly Asian eyes, as if to yell to the world, look at this perfect face.

  Elma tried to like the woman. She gave her points for respecting Elma enough to reapply her lipstick and makeup after a long day at the office. Elma understood that the woman had to project power. That was probably why she wore glossy, Lagrange Lap Dance Red lipstick. It projected expensive, feminine power.

  Andrew stood behind her, receiving her coat as the woman stripped it away.

  Elma pretended not to notice that he let his hand linger a little too long at the nape of her neck. Since they were a little late, she assumed they had stopped for drinks.

  The woman made eye contact with Elma.

  Elma couldn’t ignore those cold, flint-brown eyes.

  The new manager knew that Andrew’s hand lingered. She smiled at Elma, savoring Andrew’s touch and daring Elma to say anything and turning slightly to show off her fitted, Yves Saint Laurent LBD complimented by matching calf-strapped heels.

  Elma tried hard to keep her desire to like the woman. For Andrew, she forced a smile and said, “You must be the new manager.”

  “You must be the little woman Andrew has told me so much about.”

  Elma’s heart chilled a few more degrees.

  Andrew stepped forward and handed Elma the woman’s coat. “Come on in, Jen,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

  Jen nodded. Her cold eyes never left Elma’s. “Thanks, Andy. I will.”

  Jen and Andy, God, he hated when Elma called him Andy, pressed past Elma in the foyer. As Andrew passed, Elma’s spot-sensitive eyes caught the Lap Dance red embedded in the pores under his lower lip. It wasn’t enough to catch anyone else’s attention. Clearly, he had worked to rub it away, but Elma’s day had honed her eye for evasive spots.

  The red spots in Andrew’s pores taunted her. The woman’s eyes, dress, and heels combined with Andrew’s casual hand-off of the leather coat dissolved Elma’s desire to like Jen, replacing it with full acceptance that Andrew had brought a predator into her home.

  When she focused on them, the Lap Dance spots slipped deeper into Andrew’s skin, teasing her, telling her she’d never get them out, not as long as she lived, not as long as she was married to Andrew.

  By the time Elma served canapés and drinks, Andrew and Jen had soft music playing, and Andy was showing Jen his collection of antique glass.

  Elma served the new boss first, “A dry chardonnay,” she said. “Last year was a good year for chardonnay in Nampa Valley.”

  Jen reached for the offered glass. “Domestic wine?” She touched her strand of real pearls and laughed lightly. “I guess I could try it.”

  Elma pressed the glass into her hand. A drop splashed out and fell on the thigh of Jen’s LBD. “Oh, dear,” Elma said.

  “Shit.” Jen said.

  Andrew snapped at her. “Dammit, Elma.” He turned to Jen and spoke in soothing tones Elma hadn’t heard from him in a couple of years. “We’ll have it cleaned for you, Jen.”

  The woman smiled, but her icy eyes accused Elma. “I have others.”

  Elma handed Andrew his glass. Unable to restrain herself, she set her thumb to the skin where Lap Dance red hid in his pores.

  Carefully kind, she said, “I’m sorry. You have a smudge under your lip.”

  He shied away from her touch. “What?” His hand came up too quickly, slapped her hand away, and wiped at exactly the right spot.

  In superior, ironic tones, Jen said, “I don’t see anything.”

  Elma’s switch flipped. Her inner dispose-all started to spin up. She locked eyes with Jen and said, “I can get that wine out,” she said. “I have something that will make things right.”

  “You’ll only make it worse,” Andrew said.

  Elma turned her full attention to her husband. “And bright,” she said, “to start anew.”

  Elma headed for the kitchen. She could already smell the pure, sweet almond-and-onion peace that was about to fill her home.

  Dinner, Overlooking the Sea

  ~ Devan Barlow

  When this town seethed with haughty human life

  I was merely spinster sister to the woman

  whose parties were the most envied invitation

  Enough to drive would-be guests

  to backstabbing, bribery

  even to the summoning

  of things better left alone

  When the sea monsters first emerged

  bearing seaweed and malice

  the house was full of guests

  Full of prey, yet when the monsters found me

  doing dishes (my sister preferred me out of sight)

  abyssal eyes met mine

  and I was gripped by inexpressible fealty

  for all my innermost soul

  thrashed against their compulsion

  Now, the town’s houses are empty

  emptier still after my pillaging

  I delight in secret stores of unusual oils

  threads of saffron, decadent vintages,

  but most of all in the cookbooks

  so many barely opened,

  their sorceries unlearned

  before me

  Now I cook better than my sister ever did

  She relied on the luster of her pearls

  and the sharpness of her gossip

  to overcome faults in flavor or texture

  I cannot leave, but the sea monsters are kind to me

  bring me treasures from ships they sink

  I’ve learn to recognize the specifics

  of their individual fins and frills

  One in particular

  sometimes sits with me

  flesh-shreds still hanging

  from his needlelike teeth

  as I sauté, poach, deglaze

  crafting delicacies for my own nourishment

  He refuses the bites I offer

  though occasionally accepts a sip of wine

  Tonight, lightning flares

  the sky shreds, revealing the truth beyond

  I sprinkle dill, grate truffle-curls

  upon a plump pilchard

  I fill a goblet of ecru bone

  from a pilfered jeroboam

  and sit upon the balcony

  of my sister’s house, now mine

  To watch the sea

  churning

  boiling

  thrashing

  Wondering if tonight

  my finned friend will join me again

  A Little God in Their Hands

  ~ Scotty Milder

  Marian Magleby was one of the new ones.

  She and her family—husband John, son Ben, daughter Wendy—came down from Salt Lake only a year ago. This was after John took a job as vice-president-of-something-or-other at the boot factory on the way out toward Minersville. The kids started school at Black Mountain Middle and Bradshaw High, respectively, and Marian got on as a part-time bookkeeper at old Dr. Whent’s dental practice.

  They didn’t live in town proper. Vice-president-of-something-or-other meant decent money. Everything in town was double-wides and small Craftsman-style bungalows. If you wanted space to stretch your legs, you had to get out on the old highway and county roads. So that’s where the Maglebys went. After a couple weeks of searching, they scooped up the old Brigham place on CR-19.

  And they seemed to settle in just fine. The Maglebys were said to be Presbyterians, which was odd for the area but maybe not so odd for folks from up the city, where word was you might even find a Jew or a Muslim if you knew just where to look. There was nowhere in town for them to worship, but they didn’t seem to mind overmuch. Everyone agreed that—city folks or no—they were a perfectly nice family.

  No one saw much of John Magleby, with his long hours at the factory and all, but he was friendly enough to say hello to if you happened to pass by him at the grocery store. Ben was only twelve, but he was tall and strapping, easy to smile and quick to laugh, always handy with his “yessirs” and his “yes ma’ams.” Girls even two years older couldn’t seem to keep the blush out of their cheeks when he turned his big brown eyes their way. And he’d already earned a reputation as a power slugger for the Black Mountain Auto Diamondbacks.

  Wendy was seventeen, big-breasted and what in the ‘70s you’d have called “Farrah-Fawcett blond.” Rumor had it she ran a little wild. Nothing for the mothers to worry on too deeply. But with her easy, flirtatious manner and all those low-cut tops, they’d just as soon their boys look elsewhere for dates. They needn’t have worried, because Wendy right away attached herself to Ron Baskin’s youngest son Chet: a rough leather-jacketed dropout with a permanent glower and a restored 1976 Triumph Bonneville T140. The two of them hung out afternoons and nights at the old Texaco on 130. Chet’s brother Nick worked there, and he happily provided them cans of Black Label and hundred-milliliter bottles of Jack Daniels, so long as Doodle Price wasn’t around to hassle him.

  Wendy might have raised a few eyebrows amongst the pearl clutchers, but everyone liked Marian. She could generally be found most mornings jogging along CR-19’s dirt shoulder, waving at cars as they lumbered past. She volunteered with the library’s summer BookMobile, a couple afternoons a month at the county no-kill shelter, and taught weekend yoga at the senior center. At Dr. Whent’s she mostly stuck with the books, but sometimes—if things were busy or one of the other girls was home sick—she’d go up front and handle the phones. Her smile brightened the office considerably and (while the husbands would never admit this to their wives) she wasn’t hard to look at, either. Beauty seemed to run in the Magleby family.

  Yep. The Maglebys had settled in fine. Just fine. Everyone liked them. Even (for the most part) Wendy. They were new folks, sure. But sometimes change is good, even in a little frontier town like this.

  So it came as a big surprise to everyone when it happened.

  It happened the last weekend in May.

  The Diamondbacks were out at Brigham’s Field putting a solid hurt on the Gene’s Roadhouse Tigers. It was bottom of the sixth, and the ‘Backs were up five to three. Petey Dodds was pitching for the Tigers, and his day’s work was just about done. His elbow screamed and his shoulder felt like someone had been working the joint with a framing hammer. He’d given up three of those five runs in the last inning alone.

  The ‘Backs weren’t letting up. Right up at the top of the inning, Will Parson clipped a worm burner right into the pocket between first and second. It should have been an easy grab for the shortstop, Ray Smart. If things had gone his way, the Tigers would have started the sixth with an out. But Ray got his feet all tangled up beneath him and he stumbled, letting the ball bounce off the end of his glove. It spun into center field, where big Tommy Dunn was asleep at the switch. By the time Tommy managed to stop blinking at the ball long enough to pick it up and lob it back in, Will had stretched a single out to a triple.

  Sam Mapplethorpe flew out to right, and—after nine ugly pitches—Petey finally managed to sit Chris Clarke down. It seemed like maybe he was gonna wiggle out of this jam and end his day—if not on a high—with at least a shred of his dignity intact. But then Cooper Platte caught a piece of the very first pitch and sent a one-hopper right back into Petey’s glove. That should have been the easiest throw possible, but Petey was tired and his arm was a boneless pool noodle. He sent the ball sailing over Mack Lunderson’s head at first. Mack jumped off the bag and almost caught it—but “almost” is the hardest word to swallow, as Petey’s granddad used to say. The ball bounced off the dugout wall and skated up the foul line, where right-fielder Joey Davidson scooped it up. Will Parson scored and Cooper Platte found himself safe at second.

  Someone up in the stands made a sharp whooping sound. Petey’s stomach sink into his knees. Because that would be Ben Magleby’s mom, which meant Ben was stepping up to the plate.

  Mr. Colter, the Tigers’ coach and younger brother to Gene Colter—whose roadhouse out on 129 gave the team its name—thought for half-a-second about yanking Petey right then. But why bother? The game was pretty much lost, so pulling Petey would only serve two purposes: humiliating his best pitcher unnecessarily, and adding water to the rapid-growing legend of Ben Fucking Magleby.

  Petey knew he couldn’t out-muscle Ben. If he tried to fire the ball past him, Ben would take him to school. So he tried to outsmart him instead. He’d been cannoning fastballs all day, which was why his arm was pretty much shot. He wasn’t confident enough yet in his curveball or his slider to lean on them in any significant way. But desperate times called for desperate measures.

  He shook his arm out as best he could and started with another fastball, just a bit high and off the plate. The idea was to (hopefully) lull Ben into a rhythm. Ben watched it go by, looked out at the mound, raised an eyebrow and gave Petey a cocky little smile. The ump was Dr. Whent himself. He croaked “ball!” in his wheezy old-man voice.

  Petey put another one in roughly the same place, this time kissing the corner of the plate. Ben almost swung at that one, but checked at the last second.

  “Strike one!”

  Okay, Petey thought. Got you buttered, fella. Take the bait.

  Petey knew he didn’t have another fastball in him. If he’d gone for his curve or his slider, things might have worked out. But he tried a changeup instead. The idea was to make it look like the ball was heading to the same general area as the first two pitches, but at three-quarters the speed. If all went well, Ben would swing early and hit nothing but air. But Petey calibrated wrong. Either that, or his arm decided that was the moment to give up the ghost entirely. Instead of shaving off a few miles-per-hour, the ball ambled toward the plate at a much-too leisurely stroll. He might as well have walked it up to Ben and held it there.

  Petey knew he was sunk when he heard the thwock. The ball was there one second, then seemed to vanish into thin air. Petey watched the arc of Ben’s gaze—along with those of Dr. Whent and the catcher, Sean Mooney—as the ball went up, up, up. Petey didn’t even turn to look. He knew he’d be lucky if it didn’t make it all the way to the street.

  The crowd screamed Ben’s name. Someone shouted “bye bye! Bye bye!” at full volume. That would be Ben’s mom again. Her voice could shatter glass. Ben jogged the bases, punching the air as he went. Petey sat on the mound and hung his head between his knees. Damnit, he thought. This is gonna follow me FOREVER.

  He only looked up when he realized the crowd wasn’t screaming Ben’s name anymore.

  They were just screaming.

  Marian Magleby didn’t make it to all of Ben’s games, but she made it to most. Truth was, she found baseball deadly boring, with its long waits punctuated by flurries of incomprehensible activity. She groused about this occasionally to John, wondering why Ben couldn’t have taken to hockey or basketball or something that, you know, moved.

  John laughed. “You’re looking at it all wrong,” he said.

  “How?”

  “You played soccer in high school, so to you sports are supposed to be an action movie—all running and gunning and big explosions,” he said. “Baseball’s a Hitchcock movie. Those moments where you think nothing’s happening . . . that’s when EVERYTHING is happening.”