Page 64 of Claimed By Rage

It’s why she isn’t surprised to find me on her doorstep.

“Come in,” she says gruffly, not bothering to hold the door open for me. “Wipe your feet on the mat.”

Her home is average, too, with decor I’ve seen dozens of times in houses all across the city, arranged in exactly the same way, at the same height on the walls and paired with the same colored knick-knacks. I could tell her that she has a lovely home, but that would be a lie.

“Your son died.”

I don’t tell her that he died honorably, because he didn’t. She likely understands that, too. I leave out the part about him praying to God, though, and the part about him begging for forgiveness around what little remained of his cracked teeth. Most people don’t want to hear the details. They only need the most basic of truths.

“I figured when he didn’t come scurrying home, that he was gone for good this time.” She doesn’t sound too sad about it. Sitting in a rocking chair by the roaring fire, she eyes me from across the room. “You’re one of those brothers,” she murmurs. “Can’t say we haven’t met, because I recognize you from somewhere. Lord knows where, though, in this city. You must handle the tough jobs, on account of the mask.” She nods toward me like she understands, but this part, she’s faking.

No one knows the full extent of what I do, because it’s always changing. I float in and out of the spaces my brothers leave empty, removing body parts wherever I go because I can’t help it, while our clean up crew silently mops up the mess. They don’t complain, so neither do I. It’s not a bad life.

It’s just not a normal one.

“I brought you flowers.” I hold out the bouquet. The petals are all different shapes, some soft, some prickly, with varying colors from one flower to the next. People are like that too, on the inside. Some parts soft. Some hard. Different colors bathed in reds and blues and pinks, changing with every slant of light.

“Put them in a vase with some water. They’re in the lower left cabinet by the kitchen sink.”

There’s only one vase. Tall, blocky, bland. As white on the inside as the outside. I fill it with tap water and stare out into Mrs. Morrel’s backyard. It’s a tiny square with patches of dead grass sprinkled across bare earth, enclosed with a chainlink fence that’s seen better days. It’s rusted where the metal links cross one another—like my pliers.

The problem with Rage not being here is that he handles transitions best. There’s an easy way to move people from one room to the next, and it’s by using your words. He’s good at that. Talking.

“No dog?” I ask, staring out at the empty doghouse in the backyard. The paint chips off the sides, blanketing the ground like snow.

“He died shortly after my husband.”

I stick the bouquet inside the vase, the plastic wrap crinkling as it slides through the lip. “How did he die?”

Mrs. Morrel appears at the refrigerator door, refilling her glass of iced tea from a plastic pitcher. “Got run over in the road. That how my Jimmy die? Car crash?”

“No.”

She sips her tea. “Didn’t think so.”

Silence stretches between us. “They sure didn’t teach you anything about conversation, boy. Your mama run off?”

The scars crawling up my neck itch. “She died.”

“My condolences.”

I don’t think Mrs. Morrel means it.

I really wish that Rage were here. Then I wouldn’t have had to speak with Mrs. Morrel at all. Truthfully, I could have broken in through her back door or any of the bedroom windows, but Ezra told me to be polite. She lost her son recently. She might scare easily.

Nothing about the old woman in front of me looks scared.

Why would Rage be late? Why wouldn’t he call? The cell phone in my pocket feels heavy. I tap my fingers against my thigh. “Can I sit with you, Mrs. Morrel?”

She waves her hand toward the living room. “I’ll pour you some tea.”

The ice clinks in my glass, condensation dripping down the sides. The entire house is warm from the fire, making my palms sweat. The glass slides down my fingers. I set it on the coffee table and lean back on Mrs. Morrel’s couch. “I’ve never had iced tea.”

Her face twitches. “Why don’t you try some. Jimmy loves my tea.”

“Jimmy’s dead.”

“How did he die?”

---