PLEASE KILL MY HUSBAND!

  The Dame smiled wide. The metal studs winked in her jaw. Striker ran a finger over the red letters, the feet on the K bleeding down the—

  << A lantern throws shadows on a low ceiling rife with icicles, the whole world stabbed by shadows. Striker lies panting in the weak light. The pain is excruciating, a bright star burning between her thighs hungry to rip a path out. She can feel the hot fluids gush from her body, everywhere the smell of blood and the heat of it melting the ice.

  Striker runs a hand over her shorn head, scalp riddled with scabs, the other hand soothing her distended belly. Somehow she knows her silence is a matter of life and death. She must not cry out. These past two years she and Bernard have succeeded in keeping her sex hidden from the others, but before he died, even he didn’t know of the tiny sun slowing growing inside his beloved like the coming of spring. She had kept her condition from him, fearing how desperate the news would make him. She has seen enough of desperation.

  Another contraction hits. Striker’s body as if struck by lightning. She thinks of what Doctor says every time one of the men lies dying. Repent ye! Doctor in his terrible artificial face looming over the dying man with the ax raised in >>

  Striker took her finger off the page. In the cabin all hell had broken loose.

  “Original Position is just some academic’s wet dream,” scoffed Kevin.

  “But what is it?” asked the Baron. “More liberal tripe?”

  Anders grimaced. “It’s a thought experiment that says people would make just laws that benefit everyone if they believed there was a chance they might be reborn as a member of an underclass. Like, would politicians be so hungry to legislate where folks pee if they thought they might be reincarnated as a trans woman?” The kid sat chewing on a strip of pemmican. “And affirmative action benefits you too. When Harvard Med becomes one hundred percent Asian, being a legacy won’t help your grandkids get in.”

  “Would you accept longer wait times to see a doctor if it meant everyone had free healthcare?” said the Dame.

  “‘Land of the Free’ is a metaphor, not a sales price,” raged the Baron.

  “Could someone please teach me what microaggression is?” said Vadim.

  Striker heard herself chuckle. On the flight down to Buenos Aires, the middle-aged white guy next to her had assumed she’d been upgraded to business just because he had. The guy had been pretty innocuous otherwise, so who could say? Would he have made the same assumption about another white man? Or was the guy’s Id subtly telling her that in his world, Black people don’t fly business?

  “Microaggression are comments or actions that consciously or unconsciously imply the inferiority of members of a marginalized community,” said Bobbi Sue blankly as if reading from an HR pamphlet.

  “The word ‘micro’ is right there front and center,” muttered Kevin. “As in whatever you’re complaining about is small potatoes.”

  “Look, the real reason America’s falling apart isn’t immigration or the price of eggs or low information voters. It’s because we’ve never dealt with the country’s original sin,” Anders said. “1619.”

  “Is that some big celebrity’s tequila?” asked Vadim. He seemed to be serious.

  “1619: the first Africans were abducted and brought to A’nowara’ko:wa.”

  “Ano wawa what?”

  “A’nowara’ko:wa. Turtle Island. You know, America had a name before Columbus and the slavers showed up.”

  “Slavery slavery slavery,” said the Dame. She sat quietly twirling the gargantuan emerald on her finger. Already it seemed loose. “After two hundred years, don’t you little antifas have anything new?”

  “Dave Chappelle’s dad was raised by his grandmother, a woman born into slavery,” said Anders.

  Of course, thought Striker. It was Dave Chappelle on Saturday Night Live.

  “No way,” said Kevin.

  “Yes way,” said Anders.

  “Who?” said Vadim, but the kid was on fire.

  “Think about it. If you were born in the 1940s, you’d be in your eighties by now,” they explained. “Someone born in 1860 would be eighty when you were born. It means there are people alive right now whose grandparents were slaves.”

  “Dave Chappelle’s a comedian,” Kevin clarified. “I was at that concert down at the Hollywood Bowl where he got attacked.”

  “So don’t roll your eyes and moan ‘slavery slavery slavery’ like it’s yesterday’s news. Where do you think the filibuster came from?” Anders hissed. “Two hundred years later and we’re still apportioning seats in Congress based on some stupid compromise with slave states. Google it.”

  If Striker had wanted to eat overcooked holiday food and hear white people shriek at each other, she would’ve bought a ticket back to Zinnia Trace. Goddammit, she thought. I am not high enough for this.

  From the look of things, Anders was only just getting started. “Critical race theory just says you’ll never dismantle the master’s house with the master’s tools.”

  “What kind of commie high school do you go to?” the Baron demanded.

  “Like it or not, we are still living in the age of the transatlantic slave trade,” Anders said. The kid seemed to be enjoying themself.

  “What are you talking about?” said Kevin.

  “Americans fight about slave stuff a lot,” observed Vadim.

  “The purpose of the transatlantic slave trade was to commodify the Black body,” said Anders. “After 1865, this country kept making money off African Americans legally and culturally through Plessy versus Ferguson, separate but equal, Jim Crow, you name it. We never granted Black people full citizenship, thus creating a permanent underclass that white America could keep exploiting through things like sharecropping, or when that didn’t work, by literally blowing up Black wealth like we did during the Tulsa race riots.”

  “Well I, for one, didn’t register for this class.”

  “And how are we still—” The spittle flew from the Baron’s lips. “Commodifying the Black body?”

  “Look at the war on drugs,” said Anders, “not to mention the prison industrial complex. Private corporations make a profit off keeping as many people as possible locked up. Why do you think the prison sentences for crack were a hundred times worse than for cocaine?”

  “Russia is still worker’s paradise.”

  The teen continued. “There are schematics online showing the number of people you can fit in a prison block that look an awful lot like the drawings of Africans packed into ships for the Middle Passage.”

  “Can someone please turn up the Victrola?”

  “Nothing reeks of the transatlantic slave trade more than a handful of rich white men profiting off Black men pulverizing their own brains on national television every Sunday. Or what about the fact that Haiti had to pay France, their former colonial oppressor, millions of dollars in compensation for the revenue France lost when Haiti became free, yet no country has ever paid reparations to the descendants of slaves but Britain literally paid restitution to slave owners and their heirs up until 2015.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Kevin.

  “Exactly but it’s the truth.” The teen sighed, an exasperated teacher in charge of a classroom full of boneheads. “Listen. You can still watch footage from 1945 of everyday Germans being marched through the death camps. It ain’t pretty. American soldiers forced them to look at what was done in their name. Where are our truth commissions? What have we ever been forced to see?”

  “Why would we need to be marched through anything?” said a voice. “Slavery wasn’t a secret tucked away behind some walls. It was a way of life.”

  Striker closed the notebook. “Just like today.” She realized she was the one speaking. “All you gotta do is open your eyes. Employment discrimination. Underfunded inner-city schools. Black people murdered in the streets by cops. White landlords not renting to you because your name’s Quashida. What are we gonna march people through? A McDonald’s so they can ask themselves why it’s mostly Black and brown folks ringing up their Filet-O-Fish?”

  Silence. The group sat looking at her as if she had ten heads.

  “What’s that got to do with the difference between yams and sweet potatoes?” Kevin finally asked.

  “It doesn’t,” said the Dame. “She’s cracking up.” The Dame turned to Bobbi Sue. “Funny. I would’ve put money on you being the first one to lose it.”

  “Jane,” said the Baron. “Methinks perhaps the gentlewoman is not the heavy hitter she might think she is when it comes to herb.” He took another hit off the pipe.

  “Thanks for explanation, guys,” said Vadim. “Next time Yegorov cook bakes potato sweet pie, I will eat.”

  Striker realized she was inhabiting a totally different planet.

  It didn’t matter. Something was massing outside in the sunlight, tunneling up out of the ice. What had Billy Bob said a million years ago about the stories these islands had to tell if the planet ever saw fit to thaw them out?

  Someone had given birth out there in the grotto, deep down in the cold and the winter dark. The revolting disc like a loaf of crusty bread wasn’t a baby seal or a giant mushroom or even alien in origin.

  It was afterbirth, a human placenta.

  Striker could still taste the woman’s fear. She knew what the woman had been afraid of. She herself had eaten the egg of a partially formed penguin, then turned and asked for another. There was nothing a human being wouldn’t devour. We are a species capable of killing fifty thousand fur seals in a single week, she thought, of selling human beings to the highest bidder, of separating children from their mothers even now. Around the turn of the last century, some poor lovesick woman had shaved her head and swaddled herself in wool and canvas. But the interminable winter couldn’t hide what that woman was inevitably becoming.

  There was a sudden knock at the door. On the Victrola, the needle began skipping.

  “Look at that.” Vadim pointed to the walking stick. “It’s bleeding, da?”

  In the candlelight, the Stick did indeed appear wet and red.

  Kevin got up to investigate. He tapped his finger in the ooze running out of the dent, smelled it before putting the finger in his mouth.

  “Sap,” he said. “Tastes like an IPA.”

  The knock sounded again. On the table the water jumped in every glass. The windows began rattling.

  Nobody moved.

  Striker could feel the skin of her chest bruising as something beat its terrible fist on the wood. She thought of the long-ago philosophy class that had sent her into a panic, all of existence suddenly divided by zero, the other students quietly scribbling notes. Every head buried in the sand. Living as if they’d never die. The professor asking questions like who were you before you were born? His questions causing Striker’s mind to go blank.

  The door clattered in its frame. With one strong gust it blew open. Snow streamed into the room. Outside the night was white as bone. Striker had to shield her eyes.

  Something was standing on the threshold, the thing barely bigger than an infant. Awkwardly it hopped forward. A single red point burning like the tip of a lit cigarette.

  It was the one-eyed bird.

  Willkommen, shouted the Walking Stick.

  The Baron let out a great big belly laugh. “Did someone order takeout?”

  “Vadim, grab the net,” Kevin whispered, pointing to one hanging on the wall.

  The bird peered around the hut. Suddenly it shot into the room. Striker threw her arms up over her eyes. She was the one it had come for, the one with all the secrets. The bird tore past her face, a new rip glistening in her cheek as

  “Hey.”

  “Hey?” said Striker.

  “You wanna dance or not?” asked Anders.

  “Me?” said Striker. She looked around. The group was staring at her. Vadim standing in the middle of the room with his hand held out.

  “Yeah,” said Anders. “Don’t worry. He’ll lead. All you gotta do is follow.”

  “I think I need some sleep,” said Striker. She handed the teen the journal she’d been gifted and made her way to an empty hammock.

  It was only when she pulled the hammock wide so she could lie down that she found a sack of what looked like skin. It was the size of a person and mostly bald. During a talk onboard the Yegorov, a lecturer had mentioned that turn-of-the-century explorers were constantly battling to keep their reindeer sleeping bags dry. In bitterly cold conditions, warm air would get trapped inside the bag and form condensation, the men soaked in their own body heat.

  Delicately Striker pinched the thing between two fingers and tossed it on the floor. Sleeping in it would be like crawling inside someone else’s skin. She knew it had come from a reindeer, but the sleeping bag was eerily smooth. She curled up in the hammock and glanced one last time at her watch. 12:14 p.m. She was still high but at this point what could it matter?

  “Why is she so tired?” someone whispered. “We’ve only been here a few hours.”

  “Do the math,” someone else countered. “It’s been more like—”

  Striker tuned out the argument that was just getting going, letting the weed or fatigue or both carry her away

  to the Yegorov. Finally! She’s back on the boat and not a moment too soon.

  Odd footprints ramble over the deck. Some track in circles, others walk through walls. Each print perfect and flat and redly wet as if stamped by a child’s bleeding hand.

  Somewhere a church organ is playing. It’s a Christmas carol. Holy infant so tender and mild. Shizer, not that one. The description of the baby Jesus as though He were a basket of wings, a little sumthing sumthing to tide you over.

  Then she’s standing in front of the Yegorov’s sauna door. Slowly she pulls it open. Inside sits a tiny, forlorn pool filled with saltwater gleaming black as oil. A body bobs face down in the shadows, its back inked with a chain of lights. It’s Polaris, the North Star, the tattoo exactly like the six stars Striker has inked on her own back, an invisible compass steering her through time.

  Within the dreamscape she’s hungry to know what prolonged submersion in saltwater will do to a human face. Silently she approaches the edge of the pool and reaches out.

  In the water the corpse rolls easily onto its back. Suddenly the body opens its swollen eyes. Between the front teeth is a gap wide enough to fit a pencil.

  “Hello, Ronnie,” it gurgles. Something thick and wet bubbles from its peeling lips. “Merry Christmas!” An icy hand shoots up out of the water and latches onto her neck.

  Striker needs both hands to pry the spongy fingers off her throat. She can tell it is only a warning. If it had wanted to, the thing could have crushed her windpipe within seconds.

  The corpse flashes one last smile, then rolls over and resumes floating face down. This time Striker sees it loud and clear. Inked at the base of the creature’s neck, the mark she can’t seem to outrun.

  She feels the skin tingling on the back of her own neck just as a voice begins to shout—

  “Let him have it, young gun,” shrieked the Baron, the bloodlust peppering his words. “Give him a taste of his own medicine right in his manhood.”

  Wearily Striker opened her eyes. Vadim and la Grande Dame were standing on the other side of the room. From her hammock she couldn’t tell if the Russian was holding the Dame’s arm against her will or if the old girl was looking to accompany him somewhere, maybe dance one more song. Why can’t these people just let me sleep, she thought.

  “Your woman is liar,” said Vadim. “I am not man who needs to go where I am not invited.”

  “Let go of her,” repeated Anders, legs akimbo, both hands gripping the small black hole drawing all eyes to it. Striker knew it wasn’t a prop.

  “You not understand adult games, girly boy,” added Vadim, shaking his head. He was still holding the Dame’s arm. Slowly he brought it to his face, making as if to kiss her hand. At the last moment he torqued her wrist and licked the giant emerald nested on her finger, crudely dragging his tongue over the gem’s myriad facets.

  The Dame ripped her hand away. “Men are children,” she announced, then furiously rubbed the jewel on her thigh, polishing it back into perfection. The old gal showed zero interest in clarifying whatever had happened between her and the Russian. The titanium posts in her gums worrying her lip as she worked her magic.

  “See?” said Vadim. “Is all big act.” He winked and started clapping. “Brava. For wife, jealous husband easier to lead around by big rich nose.”

  Anders stood their ground, the little black hole quaking in their hand. If you thought about it, how could something so small inflict such carnage?

  Murder, sang the Walking Stick.

  “I mean it,” repeated Anders. “Leave.”

  Vadim laughed again. “And go where, little lamb?”

  “Christ,” said Kevin. “I kept both bags locked up.”

  “Anna,” said Bobbi Sue.

  “Mom, just because the school didn’t lift a finger when it happened to me doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

  “I believed you,” said Bobbi Sue. “It’s just—”

  “I saw.” The teen nodded at the Russian. “He put his hand down there without asking and then wouldn’t stop.”

  The Dame shook her head but remained silent. As Striker saw it the chick was in a bind. Attesting to the Russian’s innocence would mean admitting to being a player. If anything, her husband the Baron seemed strangely aroused.

  “What you don’t understand, little potato,” said Vadim. “Words ruin adult fun.”

  “Get out.”

  Vadim shrugged and did as Anders said. The group watched as he opened the cabin door. Striker stretched in her hammock before standing up. Sheesh. Can’t a body catch some shut-eye around here? She’d been having the weirdest dream, but in reality, the current drama was even weirder.