Two. Crap. “No, you won’t.” Annette yanked off the shoe and Washington yelped. “Sorry, but it just doesn’t fit.”
“It’s only a little snug.” Washington held onto the heel.
“Your feet are too big, ma’am, and I will not sell you a shoe that is missized.”
“But I like it.”
“I’m flattered. But you’re still not getting this.” Annette gathered up the shoe boxes.
“Doesn’t it come in my size?”
“They don’t make them that big.”
Leaving Washington’s apartment, Ramos angrily swung her bag down the fancy streets of Riverdale past stately, impeccably maintained buildings and into the downtown local green stop. Lost that customer, didn’t you, she muttered darkly on the bench. Directly across the tracks was a long, long, long advert with Grandma smiling and Puppy with his glove and the Whore singing and the damn FORGIVENESS.
Yeah, forgive the Miners and baseball but I’m not about to forgive you, Puppy.
Annette stomped up the steps over to the northbound side, glancing left and right for any meddling assholes. She drew a mascara moustache on Puppy and Mooshie’s faces and hurried back to the street, scowling a teenager off the last seat at the bus stop.
Need more sleep, she mumbled. Annette had waited up for Kenuda until nearly three in the morning when he finally collapsed on the bed, giving no reason to her simple “where the hell have you been” except “on business.”
“With who?” she snapped.
He’d grunted that dismissive “go design a shoe with buckles grunt” and turned over. They were in the pre-marriage phase. They should be having dinner every night and telling each other banal stories about their day and snuggling before vidmovies or having wild sex. They hadn’t had wild sex or lukewarm sex or even a quickie in twelve days. Leaving open the shower curtain and making extra suds, parading about the apartment, wet hair down to her shoulders, bathrobe flung open, her breasts bouncing off the SC scrambled eggs, begging him to lick the yolk off her nipples, what more could she do?
Kenuda was a virile man with an exceptionally large penis that made her giggle, firing off his cannon twice, three times a night back when they were having wild sex. You just don’t dump the gun powder into the gutter. It’s gotta go somewhere.
Business. Making that slut famous. Puppy and Dara. Dara and Puppy. America’s new darling couple. Star pitcher and star singer. Ooh, would they consider making a vidmovie together, one of those breathless women with bad makeup had asked on Wake Up My Darlings this morning. Oh sure, that got Kenuda’s attention over breakfast. No grunting I’m tired, Annette, and my gun powder is dry. Oh no, when he watched Dara his head lit up like bulbs had been screwed into his ears.
“Quite a little report,” he’d chuckled.
“What time will you be home tonight, dear?” she’d asked.
“Usual.”
Usual. Usual. Annette shoved aside the waiting passengers and hailed a cab.
• • • •
OTHER THAN THE faint rumbles of an occasional truck, the only noise in the apartment was the sound of their charcoal pencils scratching across the pad. Zelda would hold up a funny clown face, making Clary smile, then the child would furiously draw her own clown. After a while, Zelda realized that Clary was waiting to imitate whatever she drew.
They’d already drawn the boats; here, the child eagerly took over. One ship with a crescent moon and star flag and the other with a cross. Little children lying around covered in blood. A ‘copter with dashes indicating bullets. One larger figure dead.
Zelda hadn’t asked for the scene on the playa, but Clary had merrily pressed on, sketching a Diego figure, mouth downcast, charcoal smeared on his torso representing blood. A ring in his hand. Zelda bit her lip. The Clary figure had a big smile. Zelda wasn’t sure if that meant Diego died peacefully or whether she’d actually smiled.
The bearded man looking down in all the boat pictures and the beach death scene had a more genuine smile. Wide, warm, with sun rays shooting out of his ears and a crown floating over his head. Zelda wasn’t familiar with Allah mythology; maybe this was Mohammad, haunting the child. She pointed at the mysterious figure.
Clary rolled her eyes. “Jesus Christo.” Looking around warily, Clary grudgingly letting Zelda hold the silver cross. “Jesus Christo.”
“God?” Zelda tried.
“Si, si.” Clary chattered on about Catholicism for nearly five minutes, acting out Jesus on the cross and various devastating lightning storms. Zelda smiled politely, disappointing Clary, who shoved the cross deep into her pocket and moodily curled up on the couch.
Gimme a break, kid. I don’t speak Spanish and I don’t believe in God. Zelda made tea and cookies; eating always brightened the child’s mood and soon they were humming together while Zelda drew a house. Clary followed with an exact replica and waited for Zelda’s approval.
Shaking her head, Zelda drew a stick figure, pointing at her chest and gesturing for Clary to follow. After a few moments, the girl reluctantly drew herself, abruptly adding a cross on the figure’s face. Zelda reached for Clary’s pad; the girl reacted with a feral growl.
“Allahu Akbar,” Zelda said softly.
Clary glared at the pad.
“Allahu Akbar,” Zelda repeated.
The girl cradled the pad onto her knees, but that wasn’t enough privacy so she hopped onto the chair. She scribbled furiously, glaring at Zelda. She finally handed over her drawing.
Bearded men with hooked noses and long penises surrounded the Clary figure. The little girl calmly tapped the page.
“Allahu Akbar.” She laid on her back and spread her legs, panting, then flipped onto her stomach, wriggling with pathetic moans before rising onto her knees, mouth bobbing.
“Jesus Christo.” Clary’s mouth trembled, saying quietly, “Donde es Jesus Christo.”
Zelda tried hugging her, but Clary ran into the bedroom, slamming the door. No sobs; shortly came the sound of a screeching vidgame. Deep in thought, Zelda carried the pad to the ringing door; she’d already received two get-well-soon flower deliveries from Boar Face. Food would be nice,
