Cindy Rosmus

Toil and Trouble

Cindy Rosmus

It was senior year, back in ‘74, with teens high on Boone’s Farm, one kid streaking outside the pizza place, and the whole class erupting in applause the Monday morning after.

For me, senior year was being obsessed with Mr. C., my English teacher. That tall, lean, strange-looking guy with the sideburns and unibrow. Always in bell-bottoms and tight sweaters, so you saw his cadaverous chest, and nipples.

God, I loved him.

“’Bubble, bubble. . .’” he quoted, stirring an imaginary giant pot. “’Toil and trouble.” The three witches from Macbeth.

“Maggie,” he called me. Not Margaret, like bitchy Mrs. Meyer, the chemistry teacher, used to. I hated science.

I knew Claudius poured mercury into Hamlet’s father’s ear and killed him. But Hamlet was junior English, not science.

“Maggie,” Mr. C. said, “Why do you think Macbeth let his wife call the shots?”

Of all the kids, he asked me. Like I knew what love was about. Like, instead of a frizzy-haired creep, I was some skinny blonde who guys dug.

“I . . . I . . .” What could I say? I was just so thrilled that he’d asked me.

Behind me, someone snickered. “You asking her?” More snickers. The whole class thought it was hysterical that this hot teacher saw me as a woman.

We all knew about him and Mrs. Meyer. Looks they snuck at each other. How his eyes were usually glued to her butt. Like he was wondering if she wore panties.

But clearly, he knew.

Poems I wrote him, late at night. More, after that “toil and trouble” day. Scrawled in purple ink in a purple spiral notebook that I hid under my bed. Real dirty ones, though I knew even less about sex than chemistry.

But I got so hot writing them, they would make him hot, too.

Freshman year, we did Romeo and Juliet. Love, and turmoil, and death. Above all, death! “’Thus,’” Romeo said, “With a kiss I die!”

I saw Mr. C. as a grown-up Romeo, straddling my Juliet’s corpse. But I wasn’t dead! Like in West Side Story, it was all about revenge. Like the snickering bullies in his Macbeth class, who didn’t want us to be happy! Like Mrs. Meyer, who had failed me, for spite.

But my poems would make him want me.

As surreptitiously as Macbeth snuck into Duncan’s room, I snuck that purple notebook under a pile of term papers on his desk.

As I followed the other kids out of the classroom, I was soaked with sweat. Are you crazy? Witch #1 asked me.

I almost ran back.

What if he fails you? Witch #2 was right behind. Then: What if you can’t graduate? Witch #3 smirked away.

As the bell rang, it tolled for my sanity.

I ran back. But not fast enough.

From behind the door, I peered inside, my heart pounding.

Behind his desk Mr. C. stood, reading my poems. With Mrs. Meyer right there!

He turned to her, murmured something that I couldn’t hear.

That look: Was it embarrassment? How, he might be thinking, had I never realized this? He flipped a page. Oh, Maggie!

With Witches #1, 2, and 3 right there.

I thought he was going to cry. How he bit his lip, like he couldn’t take it anymore.

He showed Mrs. Meyer the last poem he’d read.

And they laughed.

I don’t remember leaving the building. Or if he had seen, or called, after me. I don’t remember much.

But later, I recalled how in sophomore year, Mrs. Meyer had poured mercury on the table . . .

And let the lucky kids play in it.

THE GREAT WATCH

Cindy Rosmus

At 3 ^PM, Cherie walked the streets, wild-eyed. Like she used to, most nights, when Danny was drinking.

Tol’ja, he’d said, I gave that shit up . . .

For Lent.

It was Good Friday. In three days, Lent would be over. But she bet he’d already slipped.

Once again, he stood her up. But not at her house, or her dad’s pizzeria. This date was at church.

From 12:30 to 2:30 ^PM, both were scheduled for “The Great Watch.”

“ ‘During ‘The Great Watch,’ ” Father Shaver had explained, “a church member sits and guards the Blessed Sacrament so no one comes in and desecrates it.”

Desecrate . . . Who would be that sick?

Moira . . .

Danny’s ex. That redhead biker bitch who feared nothing. Believed in nothing. Cherie feared he was back with her.

In church, Cherie sat alone with the veiled crucifix and statues. Blindly, she stared at the altar, where the Sacrament sat. Where is he? she wondered, about Danny. Is he dead? She fought back tears.

The old Danny might be drunk, somewhere. With . . .

Cherie couldn’t even think that name.

But the sober, gentle Danny she’d met here at St. Mark’s . . .

Might be dead.

She started to get up.

“You need to be serious about this,” Father Shaver had said, “You can’t leave, no matter what.”

But if Danny’s sick . . . or . . .

Cherie imagined Father’s smile. He was a realist, a Desert Storm vet. A real badass, he’d been, back then.

He’ll still be dead when your “Watch” is over.

An hour crept by. Please, God, Cherie prayed, send Danny. Sweat dripped down her back. During “The Great Watch,” Father had said church members were welcome to come in and pray or meditate.

Please, Cherie prayed, send . . . somebody.

When the heavy door opened, she felt a chill. Jangling jewelry and the clip-CLOP of high-heeled boots told her who had come in.

As she passed Cherie, Moira smiled smugly, then strolled to the front of the church.

A blade, she’s got, Danny had warned Cherie. She’d kill you, to get back at me!

And he wasn’t here to protect her.

In the first pew, Moira turned slowly to face Cherie.

Like a demon from hell, Moira looked, with that ghoulish makeup. Hair spiked in all directions. So many earrings and bangles, she might’ve robbed a gypsy’s grave.

How did she know, Cherie wondered, I was here?

I loved her once, Danny had told Cherie.

When Moira smiled, Cherie’s chest tightened.

Did he set me up?

For what felt like hours, Cherie stared back. By the time Moira got up and strolled out past her, Cherie was a sweaty mess. God, she thought, wildly, have you forsaken me? She’d lost track of time. Forgot why she was even here.

Had Moira hypnotized her?

“Cherie?” someone finally whispered. Old Lynn Baker, the vestry’s junior warden. Her hand on Cherie’s arm felt clawlike.

If he’s back with her, Cherie thought, suddenly, I’ll kill him.

She smiled.

“Are you all right?” Lynn asked her, as she rushed out of the church.

As Cherie searched for Danny, that chill she’d felt in Moira’s presence crept up into her brain.

I’ll kill them both.

An oppressive gloom followed her, like lightning would strike, in March. On Danny’s block were patches of blackened snow.

For a few moments Cherie stood on his porch, listening, waiting.

The jingling was muted, might’ve been silverware, or bells. But to Cherie, it was clanging gypsy bangles.

She burst into the house.

“The Great Watch” originally appeared in Shotgun Honey on July 15, 2013.

SHIRLEY TEMPLEVILLE

Cindy Rosmus

What’s weird is, you don’t remember getting here.

And where are you, anyway?

A bar, but not your usual “inside-of-a-workboot” dump. It’s airy and bright, like the sun had just burst through, after rain. But not dirty, city rain. This rain smells sweet, like it came down from heaven.

You creep in, peering around. There’s just the bartender and one customer—a chunky girl, whose face you can’t see.

The bartender looks familiar. Arms folded, leaning against the register. An older guy, maybe fifty-five, with a rust-colored rug and frizzy gray sideburns. And the silliest grin ever.

Harvey, you realize. As you race towards him, the past blasts back to you: sweltering summer nights, sneaking drinks at his bar, in pre-casino Atlantic City. His son Artie and you feeling each other up under the damp, dark boardwalk. Kids, both of you. If Harvey only knew…

You stop short. That was thirty years ago. How could he look the same?

Wait…

Your back feels ice-cold. Didn’t Harvey…isn’t…he…

Dead?

When he sees you, his smile widens. “Hi, doll!” he says, just like way back.

Last time you saw Harvey, he was shrunken. Dwarf-like. Torso devoured by cancer, so he hopped around like a frog. That silly grin ghoulish in that too-big head. You were so scared he’d…touch you. Before that, you loved his hugs. Now he looked…monstrous.

“Harvey?” You’re too shocked to say more.

He’s still grinning. Like none of it had happened—his illness and agonizing death, Artie’s mysterious drowning—and he was behind the bar, concocting exciting new drinks while you and Artie plotted your getaways.

The chunky girl is hunched over, sipping what looks like fruit punch. “I can’t taste the liquor!” she grumbles.

That voice…

How many times did it warn you, ruin your fool’s paradise? He used you, it said, then told those fuckers at the bar. About you on the pool table.

You gasp.

Becky.

But isn’t she . . .

A closed casket. ‘Cos she had no face left. Her new slimeball had blown it off. Only her ear was recognizable, with tiny hoops from top to bottom….

Somehow her face is back: cheeky, with that little pug nose. A missing tooth, from doing too much blow.

“Here.” She shoves her drink toward you. “Tell me there’s no booze in there.”

“There’s not,” Harvey says.

“What?”

“It’s not allowed,” Harvey says. “There’s no liquor in any of these bottles.”

A dirty trick, you think. Instead of sloe gin or peach schnapps, there’s Kool-Aid. Worse, colored water. Like on a movie set. Your favorite bartender and drinking buddy in this class-act bar with no booze! A barfly’s worst nightmare.

“Well, that sucks!” Becky says.

As you sink down onto the stool, it dawns on you. Where you really are.

But with no sneering devil. It’s not even hot. Very comfortable in here, with that sweet, after-rain smell. There’s just no booze.

“Welcome to Shirley Templeville.” Harvey winks.

Like Margaritaville, but with no Margaritas.

Jimmy Buffet, you think foolishly, where are you?

Outside, someone’s coming. When Harvey turns his back, you tell Becky, “I’ve got to get out of here!”

“Get a real drink, somewhere.” Same old Becky.

When the new guest comes in, you have to look twice. It’s Artie.

Teenaged Artie. Long, blond curls in that 70s do. Wire-framed glasses, like you wore yourself, back then. Cut-off jeans shorts and no shirt. Even dead, you’re hot for his hairless chest.

Last time you saw him, was under that boardwalk. The sky so black, the sea-smell surrounding you. After your juvenile gropings, you both ran nude into the ocean. Way out. You wouldn’t believe that he couldn’t swim….

You laughed at him.

Days later, they dragged him out, like a blond, bloated fish. His glasses still down there, somewhere. Maybe a mermaid found them….

These same glasses Artie’s cleaning, now, as Harvey lectures him. The one-sided heart-to-heart, like the old days. When Harvey looks your way, Artie’s supposed to roll his eyes. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he eyes you with hate. Like it’s your fault he’s here, getting lectured.

Your fault he’s dead.

I am, too! you want to scream. But if you start screaming, you might not stop.

“How’d you get here?” Becky asks, but you have no clue. Then, “Still with that asshole?”

Which one?

Not this drowned teen, who still eyes you like you’re the scum of the earth…or wherever you are. He knows what happened. Why you’re here…

You wouldn’t stop laughing. You were his first…and last. He wasn’t sure how to please you. It was so new to him…Finding the right spot on a girl. But…“It tickles!” you said.

So you’d stop laughing, he raced into the sea….

Again, you see that anguished face. Baby tears on fifteen-year-old cheeks. Him scrambling to his feet before he changed his mind.

He was determined to do it. You made him do it! Thanks to you…

He drowned himself.

You gasp.

Now Artie is swollen, seaweed stuck to wet, gray skin. Like when they found him. The stench of stagnant water makes you reel. “Dad,” he says, in this waterlogged voice, “Give Pam a drink.”

“No, I got this round.” Becky’s voice sounds strange, too.

But Harvey is gone.

“I’ll make it a double,” comes from beneath the bar. Then that too-big face.

His dwarf’s leer makes you scream. “You killed my son,” he says. “And that killed me.”

You scream till you’re hoarse. Till there’s no breath left.

Becky’s facial cavity is inches from you. Just bloody muscle, brain matter, part of one eye. And that totally pierced ear. “Why’d you tell Butchie where I was?” she gurgles. “So you could have him?” As she grips your wrist, you pee your pants. Even dead, you have pants to pee. “Thanks to you …”

He blew her face off.

Outside, the sky has darkened, like a hellish storm is brewing. An act of God, just for you. For the lives you ruined…

Suddenly, you remember.

“She’s with this guy!” you told the last stupid husband. “Puerto Rican, chunky. Mofongo, they call him.” Lightning flashed, but nothing could stop you. Hurrying down that storm-darkened street. “Sucking face. At this bar, Scratch’s, at City Line.”

He didn’t believe you. He loved his wife, poor guy! But you kept at him. ‘Cos you wanted him. Thunder cracked.

“Meet me there,” you said. “In ten minutes.”

You never made it.

Lightning struck your phone.

From beneath the bar comes a rotted hand, clutching your drink: blood-red punch, with wormy things wiggling in it. And a cocktail cherry.

Giggling, the dwarf drops in an extra cherry. “‘Cos I like you.”

“Be glad somebody does,” Becky says.

THE END

“Shirley Templeville” first appeared in Black Petals Issue #53, Autumn, 2010.

The Taste of Blood

by Cindy Rosmus

Up ahead were a huge trailer, and an old-fashioned stagecoach. A Wild West exhibit for kids. April had always been Field Trip Month.

Danny stopped short. Would he live through college?

Did he have AIDS?

That cheating bitch, he thought, shaking.

Nobody asked him for a ticket. A chaperone, they must’ve thought. He almost laughed. This curly-haired dude, clad all in denim, like one of those cowboys outside, showing off saddles and buffalo horns.

But did they have AIDS?

The stagecoach was crawling with screeching kids. Two had climbed up on the canopy. “Get down!” some lady yelled.

Call early, Danny thought. Get the results now. He reached in his jacket for his phone but stopped.

Inside the trailer was the last exhibit. Somehow, he felt drawn to it.

On his way in, he bumped into a guard. “Chaperone’s missing,” he told Danny. “Like, who cares? S’not one of the kids.” The guard wandered off.

This exhibit. An animal smell, but Danny couldn’t see any animals. The trailer was long, and narrow, and by the time he reached the end, the smell was overpowering.

A big cage, they were in. Before he saw them, he saw her. Scrunched up against the back wall like she was hiding.

He stopped dead.

Whoever she was, he knew it was she who had drawn him in here.

She was older. Forties? Thirties, if she lived a rough life. Her features looked raped: runny eye makeup from crying, smeared lipstick.

Inside the cage were two big cats. Cougars. Their fur was gray-gold, spotted. Eyes deep blue. Half-grown, and awkward-looking, but still beautiful. Like teenagers, he realized.

She edged toward the cage.

At first, they just looked at her. In silent communion, like kids in class, knowing the teacher was watching.

“Pssst-pssst,” she said. “Psst-psst! Pssssttt!”

A pause. Then, both cats whistled. In this fretful way.

Danny’s heart raced. He edged closer.

So did the cats.

Through the cage, went her tiny hand. Danny cringed, as she stroked one cat’s muzzle, then the other’s. Playfully toyed with one’s whiskers. The other nuzzled her hand, wanting its turn.

Then she backed away.

He found his voice. “Y—you shouldn’t do that!”

She jumped. “You scared me.”

“I scared you?” His voice trembled. “Lady! Whatta you, got a death wish?”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t look sick, not physically. Plenty of meat on her, in the right places. If she washed her face, she’d look pretty good.

“Don’t you care?” he said. “Aren’t you a mom?”

She nodded, sadly.

He turned away. “You’re crazy!”

When she grabbed him, he gasped, like one of those cougars had jumped him. But her hand was gentle. That animal smell stayed with her. “Don’t leave,” she said. She kept stroking his face, then his hair. “What’s your name?”

“D-Danny.”

“Danny? Could you…” she said softly, “bring me back to life?”

He froze. Her eyes were wide, sincere. She wasn’t drunk or stoned. Maybe she just needed love.

And help. She had to be crazy.

When he heard voices, he knew it. That guard, maybe the cops, were coming. But there was still time. There was something special about her. Right now, he needed her love, too.

That’s why they were here.

His test results . . . would be the same. With, or without her.

They’d both be brought back to life.

“Oh, God,” he said. “Maybe I can!”

The cats whistled. They paced restlessly, watching as she squeezed him tight.

Wildly, he pawed her breasts, crotch, ass. Through their clothes, they rubbed hard against each other. Made out, like it was the last hour of their lives . . .

Their very last chance.