WHITE SMOKE ‘43

I’ve heard say the man who loses himself to smoke becomes the victim of his own demon, trapped under the skin of his soul. I am not a man, and I will not become trapped—not after the story they told.

High wind howls through the smoke between his teeth

 Nights of unnamed souls spew over his lips

Down the darkness of a muffled voice

Grasping at tarantula shadows-she spits out his dread

Of the white bird peering through the dark

Just the white bird swelling like a blister

Sucking up the spirit

Smoking up the night.

                                                                          ---Wichasha Witko

               World War II, and bomb factories sprang-up across the country invigorating rural communities with new jobs and new faces. Oliver Nunez left Council Bluffs and went to Grand Island, Nebraska to become one of those new faces.  Although it wasn't much to see, flat plains, few trees, streams, and everything a thirsty sage green.  He knew he could do it for a while because he didn’t have a choice.

               "Get the hell out of Council Bluffs." His Tia cautioned. "You smoke too much of the pinche marijuana. You gonna get in big trouble, you know?"

                Oliver was a fugitive. He arrived at his Tia's house red-eyed and out of breath. Officer McDermott had walked in on a backroom crap game behind the saloon. He was looking for the other backroom; the one he rendezvoused to once a week to hook-up with one of the girls, Pearlie Joy, that did her business out of the infamous TNT juke joint. But, this wasn't the usual game, and it wasn't the usual day, and Lalo, the new guy at the bar didn’t know the identity of McDermott. He sent the cop right into the crap game. All hell broke loose. All the cop wanted was a few minutes of Pearlie Joy, but the cat running the game recognized him and gave everyone the heads-up. Guys were jumping out windows and rushing for the door. Johnny, the guy running the game, snatched up the money and flipped the table over as the officer went to draw his gun. McDermott warned everyone to hit the floor. That's when Oliver pulled his revolver out and hit the constable in the head, knocking him out cold.

                 "Bad things coming to you, hijo." Tia warned. She burned candles, mumbled prayers, steeped her herbs and coaxed Oliver to drink. "I see the sick in your eyes." She placed a cup of tea into his hands. He drank with reluctance partly because he knew she was right and had the knowledge of the old medicine women, also because she took care of him, and he owed her his tolerance.

                 "I know I can't stay here no more, Reyna." He called his Auntie by her first name because to him she was a queen-and it was her name.

                 "Drink it up. I gonna pray for you so you don't want the marijuana no more." She picked up rosary beads from a small alter placed in the corner of the kitchen. Our Lady Guadalupe sat in a large, gilded frame propped up against the wall. A porcelain statue of St. Joseph stood beside the frame watching in silence over dusty trinkets, prayer cards, and a wooden cross nailed full of silver milagros and tiny bundles of plants.

                "They're going to come for you, Oliver. And when they catch you this time, they gonna send you up the river for a long time. Me entiendes?”

                Oliver nodded, drank the tea, and hoped it would help. Tia prayed for a long time before he left.

                For some men, fear can carry them far and fast. For others, panic can settle inside leaving them emotionally frozen. If a man is both fearful and blank, well, it’s hard to tell what they will or will not do. For Oliver, it compelled him across state lines into the emptiness of South Central Nebraska. There he knew he would breathe easy for a while. But he was a big-town boy as well as a mixed-blood. Mixed blood Seri Indian on his father’s side and Akimel O’odham and Spanish on his mother’s. Coming by way of Califas he found identity in Pachuco culture. Add that with the blood of gamblers and a mighty appetite for reefer. And, yes, Auntie Reyna was right when she told him he carried a sickness—too many contradictory things that burdened his soul. Susto, it is called. In his calmest moments when he was alone, Oliver would begin to shiver, scratching at the walls until his finger tips were bloody, hitting his forehead into the boards of the walls. Once the compulsion was complete, he would wash his hands, run their wetness through his jaguar black hair, and resume the illusion of cool.

                Settling into the slow-paced lifestyle of the small bomb-factory town was as easy as playing cards, which is what he continued to do. He gambled and he worked. In return for his work, he and other factory laborers were given small hovels spread out on the outskirts of town by the Platte creek under the pin oaks and cottonwoods. He made his bed each morning then went outside and made a fire under a large kettle of water. He washed his clothes then hung them up to dry. He prayed as he centered on the sun rise. Even gamblers pray.

                 The hovels were small shacks thrown up fast for the benefit of housing wartime workers. Oliver didn't need much more than a roof, a bed, and an occasional woman to warm it. That was the only thing he had to give some thought to: which one and when. Aside from that, he could almost say he was comfortable. Almost.

                 The bomb factory was large and full of both male and female workers. Young, brown-skinned women from Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska flocked to the citadel of war jobs. So long as the U.S. was at war, work abounded. A hell of a way to land a job, Oliver thought to himself. While guys like his older brother put themselves out there as a front-line sacrifice, he could stay at home and work to keep the ammo coming. Crazy, he thought. Something ain't right with this world.

                When contemplation became too much for Oliver, he'd score some reefer and chill like a real cool cat. Oliver was cool, and at twenty-three he was full of man scent—the stuff that just exudes from the pores of young bloods that can't walk straight for more than a few feet before they start getting the twitch deep down in the groin that calls up at them to rub it. Quick. Like an itch that needs to be scratched. Man scent. It sends out its need from across a room and penetrates the crowd until the right woman in the crowd catches it on the tip of her nose, raises her head, and looks straight across the room. She senses him. Smells him. Sees him and chooses to want, like no one else is there. That one woman will catch that man scent and know she's the one destined to calm the rumbling beast.

                She had promised herself to never again become involved with another zoot suit, chain hanging, fast talking slickster. She had her fill of the hep cats in Kansas City with all their swollen lines that never amounted to anything more than deflated dreams and dead petals worth of promises. She wasn't impressed with flowers. She had no taste for candy, and talk was nothing more that hot air put to sound. So, the rumor was. However, she possessed one weakness--music. Tapping toe, throw the hip, feet pounding music. The girl could stomp a Lindy Hop, making a man work overtime to just keep her from flying straight up into the air and disappearing out of sight. That girl could raise up some ancient time-gone warrior with the pounding of her feet. ¡Ajúa! She was an enigma. So they said. The woman not only knew how to move, but she had the face of a bronze angel, and the butt of a thorough bred mare. Strange how Oliver had never seen her around before.

                 It wasn't even a ranchero or country song that pulled the two together. No, it was something more American than that. It was a Cab Calloway cover. The pulse of the city and juke joint familiarity caught hold of both Oliver and the dancing girl at exactly the same time. The moment the orchestra kicked it off with Jumpin’ Jive, the young woman tipped into a dancing frenzy. She snatched-up Oliver before he had a chance to realize they opened the gate. The two tore-up the dance floor like there was no tomorrow. And, for all they knew, with wars and bombs, and a job that placed you in a small room isolated from the rest of the factory in the event you triggered-off an explosive device—there may not be a tomorrow. So, “dance like hell today.” Oliver spoke.

                 "What?" The woman shouted, barely audible under blaring horns.

                 She’s my warm bed tonight. Oliver silently decided as the last dance was about to play and people began to spill into the parking lot. A romantic take-me-home ballad left him on the dance floor alone. The young woman and a couple of odd girl friends, giddy and grinning, walked arm in arm right past him giggling about which guy was the cutest, and which one smelled the worst; who looked good enough to eat and who turned their stomach with a stale line. They had come for what they had wanted—a good time, but one that left Oliver feeling ironically used.

                  "Oye, chica." Oliver had run ahead of the girls, leaned up on someone's car and played it off like he was hanging out with some vatos having a smoke. Looking sharp with his jacket slung over his arm, his Fedora cocked to the side, he leaned up against the door of a '38 Pontiac, like some commercial for less chrome, more color. The girl read him like an old book and barely smiled at him when she stopped then began fiddling around in her purse.

                  "Ya no me vas hablar? Después de bailar toda la noche conmigo?" After an evening of wild moves on the dance floor, he could not believe she was just going to blow him off like a one-night stand dance partner. He slid directly in front of her.

                   "And your point?" She smiled too keen, too cool. She was supposed to giggle then blush and damn it; the girl didn't even look impressed with him as she continued to rummage through her handbag.

                   Oliver tried to stay calm not overly eager, but gentlemanly like a good sales person who reads the signs to try and discover the customers' weakness.  Unfortunately, she wouldn't have any of it. She just stood there head angled, hand on her hip, looking at him.

                   "Can you move a little please?" He did as she asked thinking maybe she wanted to cuddle up next to him.

                   "Segura. Just say it, girl.  I got a spot right here for you," and he tapped the car with his finger nails.

                   She grabbed his hand. He reciprocated with a squeeze and a smile.

                   "Watch the paint job, will you? It didn't come cheap!" She pulled her hand away from his, placed the car keys into the lock, pushing him aside. She cleared her throat. “You're in my way."

                    Well, cheet, he thought to himself. He felt hot inside, not with the ganas that filled him with desire moments before, but with the blood rushing to his face. He scooted away quickly so she could open her car door. Her friends stood there laughing at him as he felt himself sink into the dirt with the most unholy of shame. Just as the car was about to pull off she leaned out the window.

"Zoot Suiter, you don't have ride, do you?"

                     Oliver was sure he was on the verge of one of his secret attacks. "My car ain't running right now. I got a friend inside. He's going to give me... " He didn't get to finish the lie. She shook her head and half smiled; half snickered at him.

"Let’s go, two-feet." The girl in the back seat threw the door open for him.

                “What’s your name?” He had no idea how to address her. He couldn’t call her “chica” all night.

                “Don’t have one.” The girls giggled. The girl beside her in the front seat turned and stared at him. He noticed her eyes looked white. Turning around to see if there were headlights coming up from behind he assumed it was the glare.

                The white-eyed girl had turned around mumbling something about shúde.

                “Is that your name, Shu-day?” Oliver asked. She ignored his question.  "Hey, you dance real good. Too bad you don't drive," she chided as the back seat girl laughed. The white-eyed girl sat looking straight ahead in quiet.

                 Oliver felt the fingers of his sitting partner run themselves over his shoulder. "Better get your ride while you got one. Eh?"

                 His humiliation was beyond endurance. "Hey, uh, you can let me out. I got a buddy over there I think I'll ride with." But as he tried to open the door, it would not unlock.

                 "You don't got no-buddy, buddy. You better stick with us and enjoy the ride."

The girl beside him chuckled and vined her arm up around his. “You’ve been caught.”

                 They drove the highway south of town feeling the wind wipe dry the sweat of the evening, imagining they owned the night for as long as they pleased. Oliver began to relax and feel the joy in getting to kick-it with three very strange but pretty girls.

                 “We aren’t so bad, are we, Zoot?” Shúde hollered. The back seat girl had moved to her side of the car and held her head out the window making long whistling sounds into the wind.  Oliver decided if he was going to have to sit with this dizzy dame any longer, he might as well be hep.  From inside his shirt pocket, he pulled out a leño but before he could pull out the matches the whistle girl snatched it up.  

                  “Someone brought a reefer,” as she waved it in the air. Windows rolled up and white eyes tossed a small box of matches to the back seat. Oliver noticed she wouldn’t look at him. Whistle lit it and choked so hard he thought she was going to throw-up.

                  “Are you okay? You need a drink?”  She waved him off but not before he pulled a half pint from his waist and offered her a swig. 

                  “Give me that.” He watched the bottle almost empty. Before long, the reefer was gone and the car was a hilarious container of smoke on wheels, going no place in particular.

                  The car swerved to the right and stopped on the shoulder of the road. "Let's light somewhere," The driver suggested. I’m tired of driving.

                  Whistle was back up on Oliver rubbing against him. "Yea, let's go someplace. You have a place?”

Looking up at him she resembled a baby sparrow, like the ones that fall out of their nest when they become to brave, too foolish, and he blurted it out like the punch line of a great joke. She jerked her arm away and moved back to the window rolling it down. Oliver didn't care. It was tough holding a straight face each time he looked at the speck of a girl that sat beside him. He reached over and scratched the top of her hair to watch the ends stand up. The weed transformed her into an ostrich, and he broke out into more laughter.

                  “No vez, es una avestruz.” He smirked.  One by one the girls agreed their friend did resemble an ostrich and carried on about it until the poor thing became so offended, she hauled off and hit Oliver in the cheek. He grabbed her hand—glared at her. The car fell silent until he began whistling like a robin.

"Strong bird hands." He chided, and the car broke out into more hysteria.

                   "That's it!” The driver roared.  I can't drive and laugh this hard.  We have to call this a night. Besides, Pepita's going to kill you if you don't leave her alone."

                    Pepita, the whistling bird girl sat silently livid, her arms crossed, eyes red and squinty. "Llevame pa' mi casa." She demanded to be dropped off at the small hotel where most of the female bomb factory workers stayed.

                    It was late by the time the last girl waved good night. The moon had already begun its walk across the sky and the driver asked where Oliver lived, because she too had to go home. Oliver countered by asking the location of her house, and she told him it was none of his business. He laughed and reached into his pocket pulling out another leño.

                    "I’m not sure I even know your name."

                    "Do you really care?" She motioned him into the front seat.

                    "Quieres?" He waved the reefer around like a small wand and grinned with raised brows. "This, my nameless lady, is what I live for."

                    "You never hear what happens to marijuanos, like you?" She asked.

                    "Ni me importa.” He laid is hat on the seat between them as he lit the joint. So you going to tell me who you are, or am I supposed to just pretend I know you?"

                "You heard right earlier.” She stared at the road. “Names are sacred, you know.”

                Oliver nodded as he sucked in. "I got an Auntie. Her name is Reyna. Her last name, her first name." He chuckled. "She's real strong. You strong?" He passed her the reefer.

                "Listen. I don't want to keep driving and smoking. It takes all the fun out of it. I don't want to think that hard, you know?"

                "Then take me back to my place. Here, I’ll put it out. I can wait. We can smoke it together.” He

pinched the end of the joint and gave her a droll smile.

                "Where's that?" She asked.

                "At the door of paradise."

                She noticed his eyes were hardly red, and his smile was framed nicely with a thin black moustache. He had full lips, and dark wavy hair that smelled sweet and oily. He was sending out that man scent again. This time she noticed it, and Oliver knew she could smell him like roasted peppers crackling on a hot placa.

                "Paradise is where you go to when you die. You ready to die?" She grinned oddly. "Just tell me where to turm."

                I’m not ready to die tonight.  I’m ready to live!  You ready to live, Shuh-day?  Your name, right?  I said it right?”

                She ignored him. 

                They arrived just beyond the edge of town on a gravel road that faced nothing but fields of blue darkness. In the near distance, she could see the outline of about a dozen or so scattered shacks, all of them dark, but one. His shack had a dim light flickering in the window.

                "We're here." He said as he scanned the yard around his house.

                “You live with someone?” She asked as she parked the large car several yards from the shack. Everything was very still. Oliver leaned back against the passenger door staring at her; her profile a perfect shadow of mystery.  He liked the sight of the woman-mystery. It was unpredictable and soothing like the reefer, or maybe it was the reefer.

                "You want to come in?" He asked as he watched her from the comer of his own shadow.

​

                "I don't know." She looked at the shack through the windshield. "Who's in there?"

                "Better not be no one in there. I live alone." He boasted. "Pasa. I'm not going to eat you."

                She sat shrouded in the obscure quiet, and he thought he could smell her hair from where he sat. It fanned through the car on a light wind: hair oil, perfume, and sweat—the fragrance of a woman who has endured the full length of a hard day’s work. He inhaled. He closed his eyes and held tight to her scent, trying hard not to exhale lest it leave him forever.

                 "What are you doing?" She asked. "Why are you holding your breath?"

He opened his eyes slowly, as if coming out of a deep sleep. He said nothing for a long uncomfortable moment as he stared out across the field. She shifted in the seat, her hands still holding the steering wheel.

                 "You want to sit outside on the step?" He asked, although he didn't move, just sat there smiling. "Todo está bien. Estás a salvo. I’m not dangerous." He pulled the reefer from behind his ear, and held it up, twirling it between his fingers. "I don't want to smoke this by myself."

                  She watched him carefully, her head tilted with curiosity. “What part of Mexico do you come from?”

                  “I’m from here,” the leño twirling between his fingers watching out the window.

                  “No you aren’t.”

                  “I am. I was born in Arizona. Not long after it was a state.”

                  She cocked her head slowly from one side then to the other, sizing up every word.

                  His eyes glared at her. “I’m Indian. You know?”

                  She nodded her head. “Yes, I know. You’re one of them Mexican Indians.”

                  Oliver half laughed as he looked over his shoulder scanning the yard.

                  "What do you keep looking at? Why do you keep glancing over there?"

                  He shook his head as if trying to distract himself. "Want to know a secret?" he asked.

                  "Not really."

                  "Tell you one any way." He lifted his chin, as if taking on a dare. "I don't always like it out here." The moon disappeared under a blanket of clouds and for a moment Oliver vanished with it. "I’m telling you." He spoke softly.

                  "You lie." Shúde felt fear and intrigue as the aroma of man oil and brilliantine filled her nostrils.

                  "No. I mean it. I like it here. It's very private. No one bothers me. I got what I need—for now. Just sometimes, it gets kind of…," he sighed deeply,"... oh, I don't know... "

                  "You don't know what?" she prodded.

                  His fingernails scratched lightly against the fresh whiskers of his chin.

                  "You mean, lonely? You get lonely out here by yourself?” Her gaze changed directions. “I would too."

                  "That's not what I'm talking about."

                  "Then what? Come on Zoot. What are you talking about?" She scooted a little closer drawn by a weakness in him she wanted to explore.

                  "Ves chica, my Tia, she knows things. She has the medicine know-how. A healer, sabes? She took care of me for lots of years. Like when things weren't right, she knew what to do to make it better." He looked across the black field then back through the dark at the woman beside him. He decided she was not particularly beautiful; but rather, she was human and warm—there was something endearing and warm about this girl, and he longed for human warmth—something he didn't know much about. He wanted more than just the bulls-eye. He wanted the medicine of her compassion. "This place can give you susto, sabes?"

                   "Susto?" Her voice was concerned.

                   "You speak Spanish. Tu sabes. Things you can't see." He pointed out the window. He had never talked to anyone about how he felt living out here, away from all that was familiar. The girl not only attracted him, she settled him, and it suddenly made him uncomfortable. He shook his head, opened the door of the car, and stepped out. His head disappeared out of sight as he stood there, his back to her. His jacket still rested over his arm, he reached back in to retrieve his fedora, closed the door and walked toward the shack.

                    She watched him move toward the small cabin composed of four sides and a lid listening to the sound of pebbles rubbing against the smooth of his soles. He seemed so level, so city smart; she suddenly wished she was a more robust woman, more sophisticated about men like Oliver.

                    "Hey." She hopped out of the driver’s side. Oliver appeared a faceless shadow walking under a glint of moon light that tried to wiggle its way through moving clouds. His man scent was gone and, in its place, the barely perceptible fragrance of sage and rain. There was rain coming in from an unknown direction. “I’m Indian, too,” she let him know.

                     Oliver turned toward her, walking backward toward the house. "Que quieres?" His voice was changing, his thoughts were folding inward away from those of the hungry young man.

                     "Are you going to invite me over for that smoke, or you want me to go?" She hollered.

                     "Como quieres. Whatever you want to do." Flinging his jacket over his shoulder he continued without her. He pushed open the splintered door, his wing-tips clacking against the wood floor. He thought of the many times he stumbled through Tia's house at all hours of the night. She always left a candle burning for her Oliver, so he might see his way through the darkness.  She told him it was an ever burning prayer that he might make his way home from the wild life he lived. If she were here, she would know what to do about his susto. She would have a remedy to ease his lingering disquiet; but since she was not with him, he kept the candle lit for himself so that he knew at least the spirit of the flame would be waiting for him when he arrived each day from the bomb factory.

                      He looked around the empty room, shook his head with embarrassment. How could he just walk away from the angel outside his door? He dropped his jacket and hat on a chair and went back outside.

"Please, ven aquí. Come sit with me." He stood on the step, one hand in his pocket, the other extending itself to the young woman standing alone waiting. He did not invite her in at first. No, he just sat down on the whitewashed stoop, absorbed in her presence, watching gray clouds roll across the sky. Her presence beside him did not have the effect upon his senses that he might have anticipated earlier. No, she did not cause the nature deep inside to rise, or roll, or even rumble a little. The reefer tamed the hunger. The girl was pleasant company, sweet smelling. But there was something else in the way, something in the air that pricked his senses causing him to lift his nose to the wind. There was something near, like the damp sorrow of assailants lingering in the dark. He felt nervous as he scored the horizon with a choppy eye. Shúde watched him anxiously. She reached for the leño he had lodged behind his ear.

                       "Is this the way to your paradise?" She leaned in close.

He reached into his shirt pocket and handed her the matches, put his arm around her shoulders as if to protect her from some imagined cold. His eyes remained on the line of trees. Prairie grass and scraggly pin oak reached up from out of the ground beside the shack. The girl lit the joint, puffed a couple of times to keep the fire burning, then sucked in long and hard and held her breath. She felt the veins in her temples swell then constrict as she opened her mouth releasing some nameless specter into the night. A pale grey cloud meandered through the dark making shapes that melted into atmosphere. She handed the joint to Oliver and he, too, inhaled. The tip illuminated a macabre profile of bone and grief. The girl trembled.

                       "Are you cold?" He coughed the smoke.

​

                       She shook her head no, although he could see she was anxious and supposed it was for similar reasons; especially when the wind kicked-up small gusts of dirt, and distant lightening created undulating waves of light across the horizon. Oliver took her by the hand and led her inside. The printed candle image of Jesus glimmered creating a strange lightening of its own against the wood planked walls. Moving his jacket and fedora from the only armchair in the room, he tossed them on a table, cleared her a seat, and proceeded in lighting a second candle, this time with the image of El Niño Atocha in his wide-brimmed cap and white fluted collar.

                        “You’re a Catholic Indian?”

                        He smiled. “The missions bullied their way in everywhere. And you? What God do you pray to?”

                        She was not raised Catholic. The mortified body of Christ and forlorn face of the child Atocha sent a wave of uneasiness up her spine.

                        “I’m…I’m a bit of everything.”  She waited for a response.

                        “Everything is a lot, no?  So, you’re like . . .

                        “I’m wind.”  She stared at him.

                        Oliver ran his eyes down her arms, legs to her feet and back up to her face. She was almost a soft blur.

                        “My Tia said I am fire. Wind and fire together are strength. Please,” he motioned to the armchair, “Sit down.”

                        “You only have candles?”

                        He began to swell with embarrassment again and nodded his head.

"You don't have a bathroom either?" She scanned the space in search of a door.

                        "There's a wash closet." He motioned to the only other door in the room, pulled up an empty pickle barrel, and sat down beside her. "I know it's not much, but it's good enough for now.” He offered her the joint and she obliged. “So, your name…”

                        “Shudé,” she answered. “Shoo-day.” 

                        “Shudé. What does that mean?”

                        The smoke created cylindrical clouds against the lit candles. Oliver marvelled in the beauty of the smoke.

                        “Smoke,” she whispered.

                        “Bueno,” he reached for the reefer again.

                        “No. My name. You asked what it means.”

                        The rumble of thunder broke the stillness.

                        "You can hear things in the dark, can't you?" Oliver nodded in agreement as he unbuttoned his shirt.

                        “It’s humid. Rain is coming.” He opened the window beside the bed in hopes of a cool breeze.

The branches of an old oak bowed and scratched the screen with gnarled finger tips. Shudé jumped, took the joint from his hand and sucked it in, head turned back like a shot of calming whiskey sliding down her throat.

                        "This place is kind of creepy. I don't think I could live out here by myself."

                        "Living alone is pretty good—sometimes." He turned to her. "Sometimes it ain't the best."

She nodded in agreement' and he could see her eyes beading up into small bloodshot blisters. Either she was real high, or she wasn't used to smoking, he thought to himself. They sat there smiling, probably not about the same thing, but it didn't matter. He needed her energy, her scent, her presence. He needed her presence right then. If for no other reason than to fill the void in the room, make it warm. In some way he knew she needed his presence as well. Elements must have one another to be whole. He placed his hand upon hers. She was almost soft. He pondered the dryness of her hands. How maybe after she worked long hours pulling bomb parts from water and detergent, that perhaps after she soaked in a bath of oil and yerba buena, she might be softer, embraceable. He imagined as he stood up. His hands worked open the remainder of the buttons of his shirt as he pulled it from inside his pants. Then he dropped onto the bed, took another long drag, turned and smiled as she sat in the armchair watching.

She sat silent studying him to the descant of crickets and the approaching thunder.

                        "Quieres mas?" he offered her the remainder of the leño. She nodded. "Pues, toma." He held it out to her. She rose from the armchair and walked over to him. As she reached for the joint he took hold of her arm. He held it tenderly as she smoked, never moving his eyes from the window, a halfway smile patiently in place. She gagged, then giggled as the joint burned away from between her fingertips.

                        "What you looking at out there? What do you see?" Swimming in curiosity, glazed in fascination with the elements outside the window, she floated down slowly, a feather landing gently into his embrace, his man scent rich resting in her nostrils. In each other’s arms, they watched and waited for the storm they could not see, but only smell, only hear and taste in the air. Oliver kissed this woman who called herself wind gently on her cheek.  He drew his finger along the outline of her darkened face and guessed what she might look like in full light, after the moon surrenders to the honesty of the day. Although it didn't matter that much to him, because she smelled like a woman wrapped in make-up and sweat, and something he did not recognize; something beyond his perception. He licked the lobe of her ear to try and discover the flavor of her mystery. Perhaps she was part of the oncoming rain, maybe she was the soft roar of thunder that echoed to the north. The breeze rushed in, and the candles blew out.

                        She lay there defined by the shadows of night carved by a large half-moon. Poised and confident, she was the expression of open wings and fragile mist. She was not resistant, nor was she truly within reach. Warm, she felt warm, but she did not respond to him. Perhaps that is why he was nearly bemused when she raised her head and placed her hand on his face. Gazing deeply into his eyes she whispered something inaudible. He could not hear her. She was speaking, but only the full of her lips moved. There was no sound, just a glint of light bouncing off her lovely pupils, penetrating his want. His want. Suddenly, his want inverted into something he had not known before now; it became much greater, more desperate. It quaked his heart first, and then his beast. Earlier in the evening things were concrete; want was simple, clear, but now it was distorted by the black pools of her eyes creating a mirror in which he could see his own inconsolable solitude screaming to be mended. Inside her eyes he could see salvation, release…and something else.

                        Her eyes pierced him, pricked him like pine needles. Unable to hear, he could not understand what she wanted nor what she was saying. If he could, he would jump into her pools of raven and immerse himself completely. But he could not hear her, as if his perception of sound was inexplicably attached to his helplessness. Her lips continued to move, but now bigger. Her eyes widened like lakes of oil. Larger they grew despite her muted voice. She clutched his shirt and pulled him with such might that he felt himself dislodge from the mattress. The silence erupted with the crescendo of her rising scream and suddenly his ears roused. Shudé’s face filled with panic, her eyes fastened over his shoulder, out the window. He rolled over and sat up. On the branch of the decrepit oak sat a huge white bird. Brooding eyes, blanch, nearly translucent, it stared in at them through the window.

                        "What in the name of... ?" She shrieked.

                        The thing sat there motionless, unruffled by the rising wind.

                        "What the ... " Oliver tried to focus his eyes convinced they must be playing some smoked-up joke on him. An enormous eagle, or a large owl, he tried to visualize within reason. An albino vulture, anything that would make sense and put image into context. But some fiend with sunken eye-sockets that oozed with the distinction of death sat still, lurking—the ominous sign Oliver sensed in the wind.  Again, the silence convulsed in his ears like the rubbing together of train tracks and steel.

                        "Do something," he thought he heard Shúde hoarsely whisper.

                        The brittle window screen was all that separated them from the white bird. But even a wall as thick as the concrete tombs of the bomb factory could not distance them from the creature's fetid odor. Its head hung tilted, deviously observant, possessed of intent. The white bird appeared to grow larger as Oliver's heart pulsed with fear. His hunger dwindled into wilted grapes from a murdered vine.

He reached for Shudé’s arm but it was gone.

                        "Do-something." Her voice broke the silence from behind.

                        His fingers crept slowly toward the window, to the edge of the bed where there sat a small wood box. His fingers reached the lid.

                        "Get down," he gasped. His left arm shot out pushing Shudé to the floor. His right hand lifted a .38 special, barrel pointed out the window. Shudé peered up from the floor as Oliver lay there aiming like a block of stone-frozen in the mother of fear. She howled in bewilderment.

                        The creature edged along the branch, it's furious head pressing into the screen.

Impossible words ruptured into demonic vocables rising from its beak, or was it a human mouth? He could not tell. Whatever the origins of the ungodly sounds, it paralyzed the weapon in his hand, and he could not move his body.                              Shudé jumped back up on to the bed, wrapped her hands around his, hugged the trigger and squeezed with all her might. The jolt threw her against Oliver, knocking them both off the bed. They looked up to see the monster butt through the failing screen.  Transforming into jaws and teeth it salivated as incomprehensible sounds emitted from its mouth? Lips? It wobbled in piqued fury. No sign of wound or fear, it advanced with all the fervor of an executioner.

                        Oliver raised the gun again, aimed squarely, and emptied each chamber. One bullet after the other.

                        Again.

                        Again.

                        Again.  Until the thing was gone.

                        Rain never fell.

                        The clouds dissipated, and the winds grew as calm as ancient skulls settling in fields of some long-forgotten battlefield. The window was one large empty portal, no longer able to separate the man from the mystery. The gun dropped to the bed. The two stared in quiet. Waiting. Nothing.

                        Shudé leaned into Oliver. He held her shoulder and stared at the oak tree. He rose cautiously looking out, around, below the window.

                        "Is it there?" She asked.

                        Oliver said nothing, just stared a very long time. She crawled across the bed and peered out the window beside him. Down beneath the branch, on the ground below lay morning dew, the glitter of moonlight across the yard.

                        "It's gone." He pulled her to her feet and stared into her face—her softer face. He felt her softer hands placed upon his chest. Tenderly he stroked her disheveled hair away from her face. He put her arms around his waist and leaned her head close to his heart.

"Hold me." He said to her. "Hold me forever."

                        "I don't know where I will be forever, but I will hold you tonight," she whispered.

They stood beside the bed swaying, calming one another. Oliver held her close as they began to tum in slow soothing circles. He felt her waist grow lithe; her hair scented from the rain that never arrived. He reached for her hand, so weightless, growing smaller in the full of his grip. Around they turned. The last song they never danced. The nipples of her trembling breasts turned still buried into his chest until they became faint; her body weightless against his as she turned to smoke and dawn, until she was the touch of his own embrace wrapped tightly around himself.

                        In empty arms, he swayed in consolation. In the weeping mist, he embraced his pain, tenderly turning himself in circles.