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Authors: Brad Whittington
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into silence. The gloom of the courtyard deepened into twilight. I waited.
“Well, Vic didn’t have the wherewithal to get his own trailer and tent. We moved to Chicago, and he went back to construction work. He had a hard time keepin’ a job; never met a boss he didn’t like to hate. Lost all the religion he had, just like that. And he got mean.” Her voice sank to just above a whisper. “He would hit me. With his fists. Told me I had the Mark of Cain. Said the only reason he didn’t kill me was he would suffer the vengeance of God seven times over if he did.”
She coughed and spat out of the box at my feet. “Yer don’t have so much as a fiver on yer, do ye?” I shook my head, but she couldn’t see it in the twilight. “I got me a powerful thirst sometimes. Got any change, Mark, boy?”
“No,” I croaked. I cleared my throat and repeated, “No.”
“Shame.” She moved inside the box, changing positions, moving deeper into the shadow.
“That’s why I didn’t tell him when my time come. Didn’t know what he would do. So he didn’t know, when he beat me, when he kicked me in the stomach, that he killed his own son. Never knew it. The first time.” Her voice was turning raspy, like the first time I met her. “But he found out the second time because the neighbors heard and called the cops. So I was in the hospital when it came.”
“Dead,” she croaked from the blackness of the box. “He said it was the Mark.” She coughed again. “It was the Mark,” she whispered.
I regretted the curiosity that had caused me to pursue this woman’s story. Nothing in my meager eleven years had prepared me for such a tale of horror. The fascination that had driven me was turned to revulsion, not for Pauline, but for the darkness she had clawed her way through. I felt nauseated.
“While I was in the hospital, he got a job and started preachin’ at a storefront mission. The third one made it. Vic named him Enoch. And left.” She fell into a coughing fit, leaned out of the box, and spat on the ground.
“He showed up six months later and stayed the night. The next mornin’ they was both gone.” She breathed heavily, as if she were climbing stairs. “A long time ago,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. It seemed a waste of breath, inadequate and pointless.
“But I found ’im,” she said in a voice of triumph and vindication. “I found the creature what stole my boy.”
“What?” I said, startled not only by the news but also by the word she had used.
“I looked fer years and I found ’im.”
“How? Where?”
“The Mark showed me,” she rasped. I heard a clinking sound. I figured she had pulled out the chain and the strange pendant, but I couldn’t see it. The sun had set. A streetlight cast a feeble, silvery light but not into the box.
“Is that where you went? Is that why you disappeared?” I was suddenly filled with fear, not for myself, but for whomever she had found. “What did you do?” I demanded.
“The Mark follered me,” she whispered. I heard a rustling, and she crawled out of the box, kicking the soup can aside. “I have the Mark!” she said with fierce passion as she stood up. The murky gloom of the streetlight reduced the scene to a black-and-white movie. The blade of a large butcher knife glinted in her left hand.
I jumped up and backed away behind the oil drum, ready to jump the fence if she made the slightest move in my direction. Pauline paid me no mind but instead shuffled into the shadow and through the gap into the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN I took the other way out of the courtyard and watched for ambushes by deranged box-ladies. My return home was a jumble of black-and-white images and disturbing conjectures. Where had she gone during the winter? Had she found Vic and Enoch? What had she done? Why did she still have that knife? Where was she going now?
The last question was the only one I could have answered, but I
“Well, Vic didn’t have the wherewithal to get his own trailer and tent. We moved to Chicago, and he went back to construction work. He had a hard time keepin’ a job; never met a boss he didn’t like to hate. Lost all the religion he had, just like that. And he got mean.” Her voice sank to just above a whisper. “He would hit me. With his fists. Told me I had the Mark of Cain. Said the only reason he didn’t kill me was he would suffer the vengeance of God seven times over if he did.”
She coughed and spat out of the box at my feet. “Yer don’t have so much as a fiver on yer, do ye?” I shook my head, but she couldn’t see it in the twilight. “I got me a powerful thirst sometimes. Got any change, Mark, boy?”
“No,” I croaked. I cleared my throat and repeated, “No.”
“Shame.” She moved inside the box, changing positions, moving deeper into the shadow.
“That’s why I didn’t tell him when my time come. Didn’t know what he would do. So he didn’t know, when he beat me, when he kicked me in the stomach, that he killed his own son. Never knew it. The first time.” Her voice was turning raspy, like the first time I met her. “But he found out the second time because the neighbors heard and called the cops. So I was in the hospital when it came.”
“Dead,” she croaked from the blackness of the box. “He said it was the Mark.” She coughed again. “It was the Mark,” she whispered.
I regretted the curiosity that had caused me to pursue this woman’s story. Nothing in my meager eleven years had prepared me for such a tale of horror. The fascination that had driven me was turned to revulsion, not for Pauline, but for the darkness she had clawed her way through. I felt nauseated.
“While I was in the hospital, he got a job and started preachin’ at a storefront mission. The third one made it. Vic named him Enoch. And left.” She fell into a coughing fit, leaned out of the box, and spat on the ground.
“He showed up six months later and stayed the night. The next mornin’ they was both gone.” She breathed heavily, as if she were climbing stairs. “A long time ago,” she whispered.
“I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say. It seemed a waste of breath, inadequate and pointless.
“But I found ’im,” she said in a voice of triumph and vindication. “I found the creature what stole my boy.”
“What?” I said, startled not only by the news but also by the word she had used.
“I looked fer years and I found ’im.”
“How? Where?”
“The Mark showed me,” she rasped. I heard a clinking sound. I figured she had pulled out the chain and the strange pendant, but I couldn’t see it. The sun had set. A streetlight cast a feeble, silvery light but not into the box.
“Is that where you went? Is that why you disappeared?” I was suddenly filled with fear, not for myself, but for whomever she had found. “What did you do?” I demanded.
“The Mark follered me,” she whispered. I heard a rustling, and she crawled out of the box, kicking the soup can aside. “I have the Mark!” she said with fierce passion as she stood up. The murky gloom of the streetlight reduced the scene to a black-and-white movie. The blade of a large butcher knife glinted in her left hand.
I jumped up and backed away behind the oil drum, ready to jump the fence if she made the slightest move in my direction. Pauline paid me no mind but instead shuffled into the shadow and through the gap into the street.
CHAPTER SEVEN I took the other way out of the courtyard and watched for ambushes by deranged box-ladies. My return home was a jumble of black-and-white images and disturbing conjectures. Where had she gone during the winter? Had she found Vic and Enoch? What had she done? Why did she still have that knife? Where was she going now?
The last question was the only one I could have answered, but I
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