The Furious Spinner

This is a short story originally published in SciFi Age, May, 1993. Anytime I feel as though I don't belong or understand this world, or my country, I think about this story.

Another Country

I awake with a headache. My head pounding out a message I cannot comprehend. I lie still, the sun across my face, spilling onto the sheets and making them yellow gold. Waiting. For sounds of Emil. I smile and the headache begins to fade. I close my eyes and imagine Emil leaning down to kiss me, taking me into his arms, my ear against his chest listening to his heart.

“Emil,” I whisper.

Where is he? The shower isn’t running. I don’t smell coffee. He isn’t
working. We aren’t working. We’ll run out of money soon.

My head throbs again, and I push myself up and out of bed.

I pause. The house is so silent. Emil usually sings, mutters, cooks. Where are his sounds? Perhaps he is waiting in the shower for me.

I walk into the bathroom. Silence. I look around. Something is different. His things are gone. His razor, toothbrush, aftershave. My heart starts pounding in my ear. What’s going on? Is this some kind of joke?

“Emil?”

I go back into the bedroom. The same difference rules this room. My clothes are scattered about. But Emil’s are not. He is neat, but not this neat. I open his side of the closet and sigh with relief. His clothes hang as they always have.

My heart still beats too quickly. What is wrong? What is wrong? Something.

“Emil?”

My head hurts. There is something I don’t know. Where is my husband? Where is the man I adore? The man I have been with since I was a teenager watching the hills behind our village for signs of the soldiers. A flash of steel. A wisp of smoke. With Emil beside me. Until the village burned and we ran to another. And another. Finally we came to the city, where we were anonymous, where no one could tell who we were.

I sit on the bed. We came to the city because the soldier took my child.Took her from my arms, threw her down. Her tiny face in the dust, whimpering, even as I took her back, even as I screamed and pushed her against my breasts, I knew she was dying. Dying. And Emil killed so many of them. For months. Years? Until we came here.

My stomach hurts. Remembering. The taste of the dirt on my baby’s face. The laughter of the soldiers. How do men become such animals?

I have to throw up. I run to the bathroom and fall to the floor. I heave but there is nothing in my stomach. I cry.

“Emil!” Now I am angry. Why would he leave without telling me? Making me remember why we are here. Forgetting the new life we have.

I wash my face and go into the kitchen. The day is so beautiful. We will go for a walk to the park. We will hold hands and pretend that all is well with the world.

The kitchen is empty. When Emil gets home.

I shudder. This house feels so empty. As if no one lives here. I am just a ghost floating from one room to the next.

A book sits on the counter. I pull out a stool and sit and open the book. I have not seen it before. But inside is my handwriting.

“July 6. Do you remember yet? Has it been long enough>? Has it sunk in? Or are you still this half person, this person who cannot remember? Should I break it to you gently? You’ve had an accident. You were driving home. Fog, or a stupid driver, no one knows and you cannot remember. “I” cannot remember. You were in the hospital for two months. They tried but something is wrong with your memory. Short term memory, I think. I can’t remember. You remember the past. You will forever remember Lottie’s murder. You will forever remember the blood on Emil’s hands, his soul, as he avenged her murder, as he went on his blood feast. But you will not remember what happened yesterday. Or the day before. Maybe after a few months, things will sink in. For instance what I tell you next. You need it to sink in so that you do not go through this every morning.

“Emil is dead.”

No.

I am frozen in place, in time. I cannot move. No

“Emil is dead,” my handwriting says. “You must believe it. We must believe it so that you don’t go through this every morning.”

No. I stop breathing. This cannot be.

“Turn the page.”

I do. Taped to the page is a newspaper clipping. An obituary. “Emil Sanchez has joined his daughter, Lottie, in our Lord’s heaven. He is survived by his wife. . . .”

No! I scream and scream. The sound vibrates all around me, shaking the walls. The walls undulate. I cannot see. I cannot stop moving. Running in circles.

No. My stomach heaves again. My circles take me to the kitchen sink and I vomit again and again. If I vomit long enough, the information will be thrown up too; it will all be gone. This is not right. Is not right. I cannot think. Can not t h i n k.

The blackness does not last. I open my eyes and remember. My eyes are swollen. My stomach hurts. My heart and soul are dying. This cannot be. Tears stream uncontrollably down my cheeks. Slowly I push myself off of the floor and go to the counter and read my words again.

“Emil is dead.”

I turn past the obituary.

“He was killed in a deserted warehouse. They say he was making a bomb. Who knows? Maybe you heard it on the radio as you were driving. Is that how we smashed our brain into oblivion? Please remember. I cannot go through this every morning. The horror so fresh.”

They’re both gone? My husband and child. Why? Why? Because men will kill men. And children. They squabble over pieces of land like ravens over sheep carcasses.

I shake my head. Can all of this be true? Maybe if I go back to sleep, I
will wake up and none of it will be real. I look at my handwriting again.

“When you go to sleep each night, you forget. And it is not wonderful. Because then the wound must be opened, anew, each morning, like Prometheus’ side ripped open each morning so the vulture can again devour his new liver. Of course you didn’t steal fire. You are only a wife and mother.”

No longer. No longer.

I look around the apartment. Why? Why?

Tears cloud my vision. There are no answers to such questions.

I am shaking and cold. I remember from my time in he mountains, my life in the mountains, that I am going into shock. I force myself to dress and then I pull food out of the cupboards. There isn’t much. I wonder how I shop. How I live. If I go to the grocery store, do I forget where I live? Do I have a job I’ve forgotten about? How can I survive like this?

I glance at the book again.

“Mrs. Harris next door brings you groceries. On Wednesdays you go to the hospital for therapy. For now, the government is giving you compensation. We’ll see how long that lasts. You are, after all, the widow of a famous terrorist, aren’t you?”

Widow? I feel as though I’ve been slugged. I cannot take this. Why am I all alone? I need to mourn with someone. I need to hear the wailing of my mother, Emil’s mother. Sisters, brothers.

But most of them are dead, or hidden in the mountains, unable to come down without being killed. Did they have a ceremony in the mountains for Emil? Where is he buried? Next to Lottie?

I eat a sandwich and a wilted salad. The food sticks in my throat.

And then I throw up again. I open the medicine cabinet and see a bottle of pills. Sleeping pills? I remember the nurse handing them to me, saying, “If it ever gets to be too much for you.” I can remember a bottle of pills but not the death of my own husband. I do not understand. I stumble into the bedroom and lie down.

When will this end? Now. Can I die and join my husband and child? I close my eyes and sleep.

I awaken and dusk is coming. I feel so sick. I remember what I read in the diary and know Emil is dead. Emil. He will never touch my hair. Never hold me in his arms. Never make love to me again.

I push myself to a sitting position. This is too much. Too much.

Suddenly, a shadow moves into the room. I know I should be frightened, but I do not care. If it is a burglar, I have nothing for him. Perhaps he will kill me. The graying dusk covers his body, his face. He moves toward me. Maybe it is a hallucination. I am not frightened. Perhaps he will mourn with me.

He reaches for the lamp next to the bed and switches it on. The dusk is washed from his face.

“Emil,” I whisper.

I have died. I went to sleep and died. Thank you, God.

I put my arms around him, he puts his around me and pulls me onto his lap as he sits on the bed. A perfect fit. He is flesh and blood. I feel his heart beating close to mine. His smell. My Emil.

I am dead or insane. Either way, I don’t care because I have my husband back.

“Where’s Lottie?” I whisper. If I can have my husband, why not my daughter?

Emil pulls away slightly.

“Lottie is dead, my love. Have you forgotten?” It is his voice, whispered. He looks at me fearfully, afraid I have lost my mind.

“No, of course I haven’t forgotten.” I hold him close again. I will never
let him go.

His hand reaches under my shirt and gently caresses my breasts. I sigh, and the horror I have felt all day, for months, falls away. Without talking, we take off our clothes and he is inside me and I am close against him, trying to get closer, deeper, I will never lose this, never, he kisses me, my mouth brushes, kisses, touches his body. We hold each other tightly and cry into the evening.

I am not dead.

I rest my head on Emil’s chest and listen to him breathe.

“They told me you remember nothing?” Emil says. It is a question.

“Nothing? No. I remember a great deal. I didn’t remember you died.”

I must be insane then.

“You don’t remember that we planned my disappearance?”

“What do you mean?”

“We heard they were going to arrest me,” Emil says. “We knew they’d be watching us. Waiting for us to escape together. So we planned my death. You were supposed to meet me in the mountains after a couple of months. You never came.”

I raise myself onto my elbow.

“Why didn’t someone let me know you were still alive?”

Emil’s hand brushes my cheek. “When I found out about your accident, I was in the mountains and couldn’t come down. Of course, I wanted someone to tell you, but the others thought it better if you didn’t know. That way the government would be certain I was dead. Mrs. Harris is a spy, you know, and seeing your grief each day would convince her I was dead.”

I shiver. Is this my husband talking? The man who had been a boy of fifteen, chasing me through the forest until we tumbled to the ground, the pine needles our bed when we made love for the first time. The boy who promised never to hurt me? Never to let harm come to me or our daughter.

This was the wrong world for such promises.

“You let me believe you were dead.”

“I couldn’t come myself,” he said. “What if they’d caught me? You would have gone through all that agony and I’d really be dead.”

Who were these people who would let me suffer so?

“They need me,” Emil says. “I am important to the cause. We must give the country back to the people.”

“Which people?” I asked. “Those who would let a woman believe her husband is dead when he isn’t only to further their cause?”

I feel anger. I want to strike my husband. No. I want to hurt the people who have made him like this. Into a killer. I sigh. No. I just want to close my eyes and sleep, wake up in another place, with my child beside me as we rest in Emil’s arms.

“It is the fault of the government,” Emil says, pulling me down next to him. “We have become animals to fight them.”

Emil has killed so many. Including the boy Emil I fell in love with so many years ago?

“So your friends thought my accident was a good thing?”

“They said it was better for you, too. You wouldn’t have to pretend grief.”

“Ah, yes. It was certainly better for me to really feel the grief! To
believe you were dead! Why are you here now?”

He is silent. And then he says, “I kept dreaming of you. Hearing your cries. I could not stand it. I had to come.”

Finally. This is my husband.

“We will have to leave,” Emil said.

“Tonight?” Please tonight so that I don’t have to wake up one more morning and learn again that he is dead.

Emil sits up. We face on another.

“No. One more day. I have some things to do tonight.”

Raids no doubt. Killing.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow at the airport.”

“Meet you? Can’t you come get me? I have this memory problem, remember? I won’t remember where to go.”

“It’s too risky for me to come back here,” he says. None of this makes sense to me. “I’ll leave you directions and rendezvous time. Don’t worry.” He kisses my forehead. “Trust me. It’ll be all right.”

We make love again, and I think of the despair I had felt earlier, upon
learning of Emil’s “death.” I would go through it one more time. Could I do it? One more time. I remember looking at the bottle of pills. Perhaps tomorrow would be the day I could no longer stand it,and I would take the pills.

Emil leaves our bed, disappearing into the darkness momentarily. My heart races. Will he return? Or was he just an apparition?

“Emil?” I whisper.

“I’m right here,” he says. He comes into the room and puts on his clothes. He is a shadow putting on shadow clothes.

“I left a note on the counter, where you’ll see it first thing in the
morning. It has directions to the airport in case you’ve forgotten how to get there and the time we’ll meet. You must be there on time, my love. They will make me leave whether you’re there or not. They are quite angry with me. Saying no man or woman is more important than the cause and I am too valuable to lose to stupidity.”

“Is that what they call love? Stupidity?”

“Many of them have been through so much,” he says. “They have forgotten about love.”

”And we have been through so little?”

I feel him wince. I know he carries the death of our daughter with him. Her death. And all the others he killed to avenge her death. To assuage the grief. I wonder. Does he feel better because of their deaths? No. Not the boy I loved on the forest floor.

We embrace. I do not want to let him go. I cry.

“Please don’t go,” I whisper.

“I will be back,” he says. “I promise.”

He pulls away from me, kisses me on the lips, and then is gone.

I try to stay wake. If I stay awake, I won’t forget that Emil is alive. I
say it to myself, again and again. A chant. “Emil is alive. Emil is alive.”

I sleep.


I awaken with a headache that feels centuries old. I close my eyes and will it away. Emil. He can make it go away. Massage it away. Make love to it.

I smile. “Emil,” I call. He does not answer.

Perhaps he has gone out to get breakfast. Surprise me. The house is so quiet.

“Emil!” I call again.

I get up and go into the kitchen.

Something is wrong. Something is wrong. My heart races. I feel as I felt when Lottie died. Knowing. Knowing.

“Emil!” I am angry. He should not have left without telling me. He knows how I worry.

A book sits on the counter. I have not seen it before. I go to it and open it.

It is a journal of some kind. My handwriting. I frown. I don’t remember.

“July 6. Do you remember yet? Has it been long enough? Has it sunk in?”

I flip the page.

“You need it to sink in so that you do not go through this every morning.

“Emil is dead.”

The room spins. What?

I turn the page. His obituary.

I scream. I throw up all over myself. What is this? What is this? Wake me up from this nightmare. Wake me up. It’s not real. Not real.

“Emil!” I scream. Over and over.

Please somebody help me. Wake me up.

A hand touches my shoulder. I whirl around. A man in black. I do not
recognize him. I move away.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sanchez,” he says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I heard you screaming.”

I back away. Emil is dead. Emil is dead.

“I’m from the police.”

Someone complained about my screaming?

“We just wanted to check on you,” he says. “See how you’re doing.”

Have they come to arrest me? Emil is dead. Emil is dead.

“Are you all right?”

I stutter, “My husband is dead.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry.” He looks genuinely concerned. I do not believe it. They are all animals. No. An insult to animals.

“How is your memory?”

“My memory? I don’t know. I cant remember.” I laugh. Hysterical. He better not touch me. Slap me. Help me. Emil is dead.

“I have visited you before,” he says. “You don’t need to fear me. We are just concerned about you. Living alone. Are you getting enough to eat?”

He is looking around the room. His gaze momentarily rests on the book, and then he looks away from it. He has seen it before. Read it before. He sits on one of the stools, his arm brushes the countertop, and a piece of yellow paper flutters to the floor. He reaches for it.

My stomach twists. Something about that yellow paper. Something I should know.

He stares at it and then folds it up and puts in in his pocket.

“What is it?” I ask. It is mine. Give it back. Give it back!

He smiles. “Nothing. It fell out of my pocket. A grocery list. I must be
going now.” He stands. “Please let us know if you need anything. If you can remember that. Good day.”

He smiles and nods. Like a cat who has swallowed a canary.

A vulture.

He is gone, and I am alone. I almost want him to come back, so I can think about something else. Emil dead. Emil is dead.

I clean up the vomit and make myself eat. I am exhausted. I have no
strength. My body tells me I go through this every morning. Some evil
torture designed by the fates. I cannot go on. I cannot. My daughter killed by the government. My husband dead trying to kill as many of the government soldiers as possible. Building a bomb? He had once been such a gentle boy. Dreaming of going to the city. Dreaming of a country without war. We had many dreams. Some land. A house. Children. A fairy tale of a fairy land. Now the dreams are all gone. I am a childless widow.

Something about that yellow paper. I close my eyes and try to remember.

The sun turns. I cry until I can’t. Then I sit. Wondering.

Mrs. Harris brings me groceries.

“I heard the police have surrounded the airport,” she says, watching me as she puts away the food. “They are going to arrest many of the guerrillas. This is what I hear.”

“What do I care? My husband is dead.”

I want her to leave. She is gone. I can hardly remember her being there. Or the police. Is it all fading away? Will I go through this every day for an eternity? What kind of punishment is this? What have I done? Given birth to a child and loved a man? What have I done?

I cannot do this.

I go into the bathroom and open the medicine cabinet. I take out the pills.

It is over.

Dusk is covering the city again. Another day. Soon I will sleep and forget it all. Only this time, I will not wake up. At least not in this world. I will find another country. I fill a glass with water and then go into the bedroom. I sit on the bed.

Lottie is dead. Emil is dead. Now me. It is my turn. They have killed us
all. Hope is dead. Why were we given hope? It causes so much grief. The hope that the world will get better. The hope that we can change things. The hope that this reality isn’t the only one; Lottie is alive and well, unbattered, unbloodied, someplace else. The hope that Emil is alive in some other place, alive as he was. A boy full of life, the boy who was gentle and loved his wife and child. The boy who did not kill. Would not kill. Would not manipulate.

The yellow paper. Something about the paper.

Who would not manipulate. Would not let his wife live in agony for a cause.

“Emil is dead. Emil is dead.”

A piece of memory pops into my brain for an instant like a flashbulb going off.

No. Emil is alive. Emil is alive. And he let me believe day after day that
he was dead. Because he is one of them. One of the chosen many, lost in their blood feast. Ripping out their own livers, day after day.

I stand.

The yellow paper. The rendezvous information. Time. Place. The police have him. Now. He is dead now. I stare at the pills. He was alive. He was alive.

Now. He. Is. Dead.

I swallow the pills. And wait. For the fog to come in on little cat feet.
Everything is cottony.

I hear voices from faraway, but I cannot move.

“My God.” Emil’s voice. “She’s taken the whole bottle. How could I have let you talk me into doing this to her!”

“It was a good diversion.” I do not know this voice. “They found the note; now they’re all at the airport, thinking they’ve trapped us and instead, they’re being blown apart.”

The fog is thicker. I will leave this place.

“I promised you I would come back,” Emil says to me. “Don’t leave me! What are you saying? Where are you going?”

“To a place where there is no killing,” I say. Is he laughing? “There is no such place.”

I touch my chest. “There is. Here.”

“Don’t go!” Is he screaming?

“She’s out of it.” The other voice. “Dead or crazy, she’s useless to us
now.”

“I will not leave her!” Emil cries. “She’s coming with us.”

The fog rolls over me, meows, and licks me good-bye forever.



I awake with a headache. My head pounding out a message I cannot comprehend, as if someone is tugging on my sleeve, trying to tell me something. I lie still, waiting. For sounds of Emil. I smile, and the headache fades.

“Emil,” I whisper.

Where is he? The house is so quiet. My head throbs again. I push myself up.

“Emil!” I cry. What is this panic that is rising in me? “Emil!” It is almost
a scream.

“What?” Emil stands in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

I smile. He is so beautiful. The boy I fell in love with. “Nothing. I’m
sorry. It was so quiet. I have this stupid headache.”

He comes and sits next to me and rubs my temples. “Again? You have it every morning. We’re going to have to figure out what’s going on.”

“Everything is fine as long as you’re here,” I say leaning against him.

“We were quiet on purpose,” he says. “We have a surprise for you.”

I sit up. “Oh?”

Suddenly, my daughter is coming through the doorway, carrying a breakfast tray that is way too big for her. She frowns with great concentration, trying to keep the orange juice from spilling. Her father finally takes the tray from her and puts it on my lap. Lottie scrambles up next to me, spilling the juice as she leans over and places a wet kiss on my cheek.

“Sorry, Mom,” she says, noticing the spilled orange juice.

I kiss her back. “No, thank you for this wonderful breakfast. What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing special except that we’re here together,” Emil says.

“We’re going to have a picnic down by the river later on,” Lottie says,
bouncing on the bed.

“Just like yesterday?” I ask.

“And like all the days before,” Emil says. “And all the days to come.”

I embrace them both. I have never been so happy. My head throbs momentarily. I think I hear someone calling my name. Someone touching me. Someone weeping.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Emil asks. “Are you remembering something?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Just something from another country, another place. I’ll forget it in a moment.”


copyright © 1993 by Kim Antieau 0 comments

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