The Collection

Comes the Bad Time

'Comes the Bad Time' was inspired by a shape I thought I saw in a slice of tomato. It was not a face, as in the story. It was more like an object. A vase, per­haps. I was certain that I had seen this shape before, although I could not remember where or when, and over the next few days, I found myself not only look­ing for the object itself but searching for its form and outline elsewhere. 'Comes the Bad Time' grew from there.

I never noticed it before, but now that I think about it, quite a few of my stories seem to involve a fear of vegetables. I'm not sure why that is.

When I cut open the tomato and saw Elena's face, I knew it was starting again. Jenny was out in the garden, feeding her plants, and I quickly sliced the tomato into little pieces, put the pieces in a baggie, and dumped the whole thing into the garbage sack. She would find out soon enough, but I wanted to stave off the inevitable as long as possible.

On an impulse, I opened the refrigerator and took out our last two tomatoes. I sliced the first one in half and it was fine. I pushed the two pieces aside.

Both of the second halves had formed into a frighteningly accurate caricature of Elena's face.

I felt the fear rise within me. I looked down at the tomato halves and saw the unnatural convergence of red spokes and clear gelatin and seeds. Elena's features, down to her crooked smile, stared back at me, doubled. I cut the pieces into tiny bits, mashed them with the palm of my hand, and dumped them into the garbage sack as well. The bits of tomato that were clinging to the serrated edge of the knife resembled Elena's lips.

I wiped the knife with a paper towel and threw the towel away just as Jenny walked through the door, She was hot and sweaty but happy. In her hand was a small green zuc­chini. 'Look,' she said. 'Our first harvest of the year.'

I tried to smile, but the gesture felt forced and stilted on my face. I watched with horror as she picked the knife up from the sideboard. 'Let's wait,' I said, attempting to keep my voice light. 'You can't eat zucchini raw anyway.'

'I just want to see what it looks like.'

She cut it open, and she began to scream.

When Elena walked up to our door and asked if she could sleep in the barn, we thought nothing of it. Times were dif­ferent then, people more open, and we immediately recog­nized her as one of our own. Her hair was long and blond and stringy, her tie-dyed dress dirty. She was barefoot and alone, and she obviously had no money. It looked as though she'd been walking for days.

I looked at Jenny and she looked at me, and an unspoken understanding passed between us. We would help this girl.

My gaze returned to Elena. She seemed nervous and scared, and I thought she was probably running away from something. Her parents, perhaps. A relationship. It was hard to tell. A lot of people were running in those days.

She stood on the porch, looking around at the farm, afraid to meet our eyes. She said she was just looking for a place to crash for the night. She didn't need any food or any spe­cial treatment. She simply wanted a place to lie down and sleep. Of course we said she could stay. Instead of the barn, we told her she could have the couch in the living room, and for that she seemed grateful.

She smiled her crooked smile, and I felt good. The dinner that evening was pleasant but average. Elena was net a brilliant conversationalist, and we had to ask all the questions. She would respond with monosyllabic an­ swers. Though she looked older, she was only seventeen, and perhaps that was part of the reason.

We could tell that she was tired, so after dinner we set up the bedding on the couch and retired to the bedroom. We heard no sounds from the living room after the first few min­utes and assumed she had fallen instantly asleep.

I was awakened hours later by the screaming. I sat im­mediately upright and felt Jenny do the same next to me. The screams-loud, piercing, and impossibly high-pitched- came in short staccato bursts. I ran into the living room, pulling on a robe, Jenny following.

Elena was having convulsions on the floor. She had fallen off the couch and in the process had knocked over the coffee table and everything on it. Her body was jerking crazily on the floor, her spastically twitching arms running over the broken pieces of a vase, blood flowing from the en­suing cuts. She screamed painfully with each spasm, short harsh cries of unbearable agony, and the expression on her face was one of senseless dementia.

I didn't know what to do. I stood there motionless as Jenny rushed forward and put a pillow under the convulsing girl's head. 'Call the ambulance!' Jenny yelled frantically. 'Now!'

I ran for the phone and picked it up. Not knowing the number for the ambulance or police, I dialed the operator.

'Wait!' Jenny screamed.

I turned around. Elena's body was floating in the air, mov­ing upward. She was still having convulsions, and the sight of her spastically flailing body floating above the ground, blood pouring from her wounded arms, made me feel very afraid.

Jenny was stepping back, away from Elena, not sure what to do. I grabbed her, held her tight as the girl's body lowered once again and the convulsions stopped. Her bulging eyes closed, then opened again, normal. She licked her lips and winced as her conscious mind felt the pain in her arms. 'I'm okay,' she said, her voice weak and cracking. 'I'm all right.'

'You're not all right,' Jenny said firmly. 'I'm calling a doctor. And you're not leaving this house until you're com­pletely well.'

She stayed with us for a month.

Until she died.

I cut up the zucchini and threw it away while Jenny sat in the living room. When I went in to see her, she was sitting straight-backed on the couch, her hands in her lap, afraid to move. 'It's here again,' she said.

I nodded.

'What does she want with us? What the hell does she want with us?' She burst into tears, her hands trembling fists of frustration in her lap. I rushed over to comfort her and put my arms around her. She rested her head on my shoulder.

'Maybe this is it,' I said. 'Maybe it'll stop now.'

She looked at me, her expression furious. 'You know it won't stop now!'

I said nothing, holding her, and we sat like that for a long time.

Around us, we heard noises in the house.

Elena died suddenly. She had been getting steadily better and she had had no subsequent episodes. She'd been help­ing Jenny around the house: doing dishes, cleaning, working in the garden. Though she was by no means talkative, she had opened up somewhat and we had gotten to know her. She was a kind, fairly intelligent girl with lots of potential. Both Jenny and I liked her a lot.

That's why her death was such a shock. We had driven into town for groceries, and Elena had gone along. We'd picked up everything we needed and were almost home when, from the backseat, I heard a low growl. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Jenny turning around. 'Elena?' she asked.

'I'm fine,' the girl said. 'It was nothing.' Her voice seemed weak and strained, and I thought of the night she had had the fit.

And floated in the air.

We had never told the doctor about the floating. I wasn't sure why. We had not even discussed it between ourselves, and I thought Jenny was probably trying to pretend to her­self that it had not really happened. I knew better, and I felt myself grow suddenly afraid.

I pulled into the long dirt driveway that led to our farm and heard the back door of the car open.

'Stop the car!' Jenny screamed.

I braked to a halt, slammed the car into park, and jumped out. Elena was lying on the dirt. Both Jenny and I ran over to where she lay. 'Elena!' I said. I bent over her.

Her eyes widened crazily and that look of blank demen­tia passed over her features. 'I'll get you, you bastard,' she said, and her voice was little more than a hiss. 'I'll get all of you assholes!'