Abandon

The child turned and watched her approach, trembling with cold. Lana stopped several feet away.

She gestured toward the woods, trying to ask where her horse was, but the girl didn’t catch her meaning.

“You wasn’t supposed to leave.”

Lana mouthed, “What?”

Parting the manga, reaching into her cloak, the girl said, “God put you and all the other wickeds in it. Papa told me all about it. And he says I gotta send you back.”

Staring down the bore of a large revolver, the child thumbing the hammer, Lana lunged, seizing the slender wrist with half-frozen fingers, the gun shoved up at the sky, the concussive shock of the report rattling her eardrums.

The gun disappeared in the snow and Lana pushed the child down, thinking, He’s coming, and as if the thought itself held the power of incantation, he appeared, wrapped in a lambskin lap robe and moving at a single-foot rack out of the woods on a starred blood bay, the full-stamped saddle groaning in the cold.

He checked the horse by the strap and dismounted, limping toward her and grasping his leg where she’d stabbed him, his face wrenched up in some brand of agony.

The child sat up, crying, “She pushed me, Papa. She pushed me.”

Lana knelt down in the snow, hands digging through powder, searching for the revolver.

Her mittened fingers grazed something hard. She grasped it.

The preacher five feet away.

She pulled on nothing but a root as his weight came down on her, the snow and the subzero cold biting every square inch of exposed skin. He turned her over, his eyes slitted mad, gums the color of blued steel, and he worked to pry her hands away from her face, his fingers wrapping around her neck, Lana staring up at the preacher and the purple sky and the child’s inquisitive face.

“Go over by the horse, Harriet,” he said. “I wanna watch.”

“Now.”

As the child moved away, he began to squeeze.

What kind of turn?

Her husband smiles, his fingers pattering on the last two keys, right foot tapping the damper pedal.

You remember Mr. Sakey?

Yes.

I hear y’all swapped words two days ago.

Lana brushes a wisp of blond hair behind her right ear.

He bumped into me at the market.

And you called him a fucking capper, took him to task for—

He isn’t your friend. He dragged you into all this, John. Crying now. It’s ’cause of him. You aren’t the same man you were before you made his—

You own a razor tongue, Lana. Ought to know better than to set it loose on a man like Sakey.

I have a truthful tongue. You lost our house.

I’ll get it back.

He reaches into his jacket, pulls out a razor, sets it on the piano.

How? With what money? Think they’re just gonna let you back in the game on credit? They’re probably all laughing at you as we—

I told you. I still got one chip left, and it’s better than any hard chink or banknote.

He shuts his eyes, and she thinks he’s on the verge of losing consciousness, hoping he is, his arm reaching for the top of the Steinway, between candles, fingers closing on a fist-size geode, halved and inlaid with amethyst, a prehistoric egg with purple crystals that flash in the candlelight as he swings it at her head.

The world graying, purple and black spots blooming like supernovas, blotting out the sky, the preacher’s face, Lana thinking, I’m dying in this glade, her hands tearing open his duster, his frock coat.

“It’ll be over in a minute.”

Her left hand caught in an inner pocket, fingers grasping a piece of metal.

John squeezing her throat, the world graying, purple and black spots blooming like supernovas, blotting out the ceiling, her husband’s face, Lana thinking, I’m dying, clawing at his eyes.

I’m sorry, Lana. I have to get back in the game.

The murder of color, gray fading toward black, the preacher apologizing, his tears speckling her face, salting her eyes, and on the edge of perception, a distant woomph, trailed by mounting thunder.

I love you, Lana.

Oxygen-deprived panic.

Unconsciousness.

Dreaming, John, you need help.

.   .   .

The pressure on her throat subsided.