Rose didn’t know how many times she stabbed Roddy with the knife they also used to slit open the boxes, but she did note his blood splattered just like hers over the boxes, papers, and desk. “Give piece a chance, Roddy. Think different.”
After a few gurgling gasps, Roddy’s deep blue eyes froze in a stare at something far away, past Rose, past Roddy’s terrible burdens.
A heady whiff of meat roasting and the crackling of a campfire confused Rose when she opened her eyes. “Ellie Bug?”
“Buenos días, Señorita.” The man’s face seemed to be more large white teeth than anything else, though his dark eyes actually glowed, reflecting the nearby fire. “Tu hables Español?”
Behind the man stood more people, all with darker skin than Rose’s and all with straight black hair. Their garb was rough and simple, but of sturdy, coarse fabric.
“If you do not speak our language, we do speak yours.” Strange how he could continue smiling even when he spoke.
“Are you the Ungatosonrisas?”
“You are Bachyrita, no? But one the serpientes seek.”
Rose nodded.
“What have you done that the serpientes would chase you with antorchas? We could see them coming for a long time.”
When Rose sat up quickly, her head boomed its disagreement with being upright.
“You jumped, Señorita. Did you mean to do that? The water here is not that deep. This is not Acapulco.” This time when the man laughed, several others joined him.
As Rose rubbed her head, she fought to remember everything that had happened and why she had wanted to find the Ungatosonrisas. Roddy’s last look flitted through her mind just before she remembered her precious cargo. She reached inside her shirt for the case with John Lennon’s glasses. It wasn’t there.
“This is what you now search for?” The man held out the case, which, though wet, looked no worse for its moonlight bath in the river.
Though the man’s smile remained, his eyes were less friendly. Gently he handed her the case. No tricks, no resistance.
“Why are you still fighting the Bachyritas?” Rose asked.
“Who said we were?”
“Everybody knows you are.”
“Everybody?” The man sat down hard on the ground neat to Rose. He sighed deeply as though he were exhaling a breath for thousands of decades.
“Why would the pit vipers, the serpientes, need to continue to exist if there weren’t still resistance to the Bachyrita way? You’re the resistance.”
“They were not hunting any of us with BrainPorts® and antorchas.”
Boldly, Rose foisted the glasses case out to the man. “This. They want this.”
The man opened the case, unfolded the glasses as he examined them closely. “A pair of glasses? It has come to this where espectáculos are forbidden?”
“No, but not everyone can afford them. These aren’t ordinary glasses, though. They’re special.”
“Mágico?” The man’s Cheshire Cat grin had faded into a puzzled look.
“No, not magical. Real. Before I looked through them, I believed the lies of the Bachyritas. I believed my life was happy and full. I believed peace was the absence of war. But after I put these on, I saw the truth.”
“Verdad?”
“Yes.”
All of the others handled John Lennon’s glasses, holding them every which way, getting a better look near the fire. Rose, still a bit disconcerted from all that had happened, retrieved the glasses, blew a puff of steam on the lenses, and then set them on the man’s nose. “See for yourself, Señor. See the truth. Think different.”
After all of the Ungatosonrisas tried wearing John Lennon’s spectacles, the man returned them to the case. He handed it back to Rose. “We did not see this mágico, Señorita. Maybe it works for you only.” His smile had faded fully away.
“Then you were trying to see through them. Lennon never did that. He imagined peace despite what he saw through his eyes, through his glasses.” Rose handed the man the glasses again. “Look again. Imagine peace. Real peace. The Bachyritas can see with their eyes and their tongues, and yet they see nothing.”
Once more the man sat down, facing the open space just beyond the camp where the sky had begun turning a hopeful blue. Soon the sun would rise again. Soon it would be another day with all its possibilities.
“Imagine…” Rose whispered in his ear. “Imagine.”
CURSORY REVIEW by Donald J. Bingle
Kim Wasserman’s eyes scanned the neatly hung and folded clothes in the master bedroom closet. Two months of Jenny Craig® meals, and she was about to show off the sizzling results at the DeMarco’s annual Fourth of July barbecue.
“C’mon, Kimbo, we’re going to be late,” called her husband, Ken, who, as usual, was twitching to leave when she had barely even started getting ready.
She rolled her eyes and smiled. “You know, you’re going to call me Kimbo in public some day, and then I will have to kill you.” She headed toward the back of the closet, where she had hidden all of her favorite outfits that had no longer fit back when her weight had started creeping up. “Just because you don’t care about your appearance doesn’t mean I don’t have to take a few minutes to get ready.”
Ahh, there were those cute jeans she had gotten at that adorable little shop in San Juan on their honeymoon. They’d been a bit snug, but she had bought them anyway. She’d never worn them. She had gotten them when she was at her wedding weight, fifteen pounds below her high-weight mark. Now she was twenty-two and a half pounds lighter than her high, thanks to Jenny. Seven and a half pounds below her wedding weight. The jeans, with their colorful, intricately embroidered pockets and cuffs, would be perfect for the barbecue.
She grabbed the jeans and headed out into the bedroom. Ken was waiting with arms crossed, his head tilted to the right, chin down, eyebrows raised. He unfolded his arms and tapped his watch. “No, still working,” he mumbled.
Kim tried to give him a stern look, but a mischievous grin crept through. “I’ll be ready before you are,” she declared, continuing before he could protest, “because there is no way in Hell you are wearing that Hawaiian shirt.”
Ken dropped his arms and sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”
Kim quickly slipped on a white, peasant-style blouse and stepped into her jeans. They didn’t slip on as easily as she had expected. She tugged at the waistband and sucked in her now smaller tummy, not that it really made a difference for the hip-huggers. Finally, she got the pants pulled up and the zipper closed. Tight jeans were fashionable, but she felt like a boa constrictor was swallowing her.
Ken stepped out of the closet with a clean rugby shirt on. “Do these jeans look too tight to you?” Kim asked, her mouth in a frown.
Ken froze, his eyes darting down and up her figure and then up and to the right, searching the heavens for the right answer, if there possibly could be a right answer to such spousal inquiries.
“Uh… er… m-m-my wife is right,” he stammered.
She pursed her lips and gave him an icy glare. “Nice try, bucko. Now, what’s the real answer?” She folded her arms and thrust her hip to one side to await his answer, when the button holding the jeans closed popped, bouncing along the floor and under the bed.
Damn it. She was down twenty-two and a half pounds. How could the jeans not fit? Ken better not have been monkeying with the bathroom scale…
Grznarb snarled, his yellowed fangs dripping sulphuric saliva onto the institutional, metal desktop.
“I transfer you in from another department to head up the Cursed Clothing and Frivolous Fashion Accessories Division and this is what I get? Something that could be accomplished with a 3-for-1 sale on Häagen Dazs or accidentally washing the jeans in hot water?”