Xana awoke in the hospital at 1:37 p.m. She had missed Boraro. Panic came in staccato stabs to her heart. He would not like to be stood up. He would not like to be made the fool. People would pay. Because of her.
Xana darted out of bed over the objections of the nurses. She reeked of smoke and made for the showers. She had to find him. She had to make things right. But as soon as she lowered her head under the water, her mind slowed. She felt stunned. The explosions played over and over. She’d never seen anything like it. She’d never felt an invisible concussion hit her like that, like a punch to her whole body. And the heat . . .
The nurses said the police had brought her in. Everyone thought she was under arrest, but some time earlier that morning, the uniformed men had left without a word. Xana figured they had orders. Clement Feathers was probably already filing a report with the judge. It was just like when she flipped the jalopy. Somewhere in the city wheels were already turning against her.
Xana turned off the water and sat on a bench. It groaned under her weight. She ran a towel over her head. Her wet curls hung around her face. The afternoon sun would have to do the rest.
She had to fix it somehow. Somehow.
How had it all gotten so bad?
She stood and dressed and caught herself in the mirror at the end of the hall. She avoided mirrors. It had been awhile.
She was bigger than she remembered. Her shoulders. Her face. She touched her jaw. It was all so grotesque, like staring into a fun house reflection. There was little that was feminine anymore, little to show she was a woman. Except her hair. Her chest had swollen and nearly swallowed her breasts. Her cycle had all but disappeared. She ate more than any man she knew. She was always ducking or apologizing. Nothing fit. The last time Xana had gone dress shopping, several years and seven inches ago, everything was too skinny or, if large enough around, too short. She remembered squeezing into a yellow sun dress and staring at herself in the mirror. She looked like an ape in a tutu. She spent the next twenty minutes crying in the dressing room. She’d only stopped because the shopkeeper demanded she leave. She hadn’t been back. She never had the money anyway.
Xana grabbed the heavy gloves Abby had given her and walked into the hall by the front door. An injured man was being helped down the hall. It was Morin, Oja’s husband. He wore the same striped tank top from the day before. It stretched across his sagging belly. His skinny legs jutted from his shorts and ended at a pair of worn sandals. Xana could see tiny smears of blood on his clothes. He held his left arm. His shoulder had been cut. A pair of nurses guided him gingerly toward the hall of beds while two of his friends followed.
“YOU!” Morin saw Xana out of the corner of his eye and launched at her. One of the nurses grabbed his shirt. It stretched. A doctor rushed over.
“Isn’t it enough that you ruined your own family? Huh?” Morin’s lower lip quivered. The rims of his eyes were swollen. His blunt nose ran. His face was twisted metal. He struggled one-armed against his captors. The other hung loose from a shoulder sliced clean open. “You ruin everything! You’re a curse.” He spat. His bloodshot eyes throbbed in their sockets.
Xana didn’t move. She had never seen him like this. His bravado was stripped. He was stripped. The nurses asked him to calm down.
“They took her! Do you understand?” Morin’s voice broke. His entire body quivered in time with his lips—his fingers, his knees, the tips of his hair. They shook in shock and desperation. His face was pale.
Maisie. Xana covered her mouth.
“They took my little girl . . . She’s out there, alone with that monster. Because of you! Because you weren’t there. I told you! I told you to go. But you don’t care about anyone but yourself.”
“Morin, I—”
“Shut up! Shut up, you stupid whore!” The pitch of his voice echoed off the far walls of the hospital. Everything went quiet. Heads turned.
Morin raised a finger to Xana as the staff pushed him back. “He gave you until tomorrow, woman! He said you were clever to hurt yourself and hide in a hospital. Then he took her. Since you don’t care about people’s homes! Their belongings! Their lives! He took my little girl. He took her!”
A doctor turned and raised his arms to Xana. “I think you should go.” He was calm but resolute. “Please take your friend with you. He is scaring the patients.”
Xana didn’t understand, but everyone was looking, the staff and the patients. Morin’s friends. They were staring at the giant. The monster. She turned to leave.
“Noon!” Morin screamed. “At noon you will get what you deserve, you selfish whore!”
Xana ducked under the door frame and lumbered across the entryway. She put her hand to her mouth. “Maisie . . .” Oh God. Was it true? Had she been a burden? Had she been selfish?
Xana ducked through the front doors and stopped.
The mastiff from the night before sat up and looked at her, panting.
“Oh no. No no no no.” Xana kept walking. “Stay away from me.”
The big woman strode across the gravel lot and the dog trotted behind. “Go on!” She yelled.
But the dog followed. Xana stopped. It stopped. She took a step, and so did he.
Xana waved her arms. “Go on!” But the animal didn’t move.
The dog sat and panted in the sun, looking at her.
Xana charged forward and yelled and flapped her tongue back and forth. The dog ran. It put thirty yards between them. Then it stopped. It sat and waited.
Xana ran at it again, but this time it stayed put.
“Whatever!” She turned. She didn’t have time for some dumb animal. There were strays all over Guyana. When they weren’t watching you eat and begging for a scrap, they were scavenging with the gulls on the beach. Eventually it would get hungry and wander off. Xana had bigger problems.
Like Maisie. She must be terrified. Who knew what Mama would do? Xana didn’t understand what they wanted. How had things gotten so bad? And so quickly?
She swallowed hard and picked up the pace. She wouldn’t wait until tomorrow. She would find the man Boraro. She would face him. Today. This afternoon. Right now. It was just some kind of misunderstanding. Someone had probably blamed her for something. It had happened before. She was a big target. She would just have to explain. She would just have to find them and explain.
Xana turned down a dirt road and cut across a field. Every few hundred yards she stopped and turned. The dog stopped and sat. Xana sighed and kept walking.
Her stomach growled. She reached into her pocket and pulled out all of her money. It fit neatly in her palm with plenty of room to spare.
That was it. That was all she had. It wouldn’t last until payday. She had no idea where she was going to stay. If she didn’t show up for work that night, she would be fired.
Xana came upon the houses of her old neighborhood and forgotten memories surfaced. She wondered how her dad had done it. They’d gone hungry a few nights here and there, but there was always something on the horizon. There was always a roof. There was even an education.
By Western standards, the Catholic school was cheap, less than what most Americans spent on their cars. But even a modest expense was a burden in Guyana. And yet it had always been paid.
Xana could remember playing on the floor of their cramped living space, one of only four rooms in the house, and casting her father sideways glances as he watched TV and drank his dinner. It made her so angry. Her father would drink and curse her mother for dying and leaving him stuck in Guyana with a little girl. He forbade Xana to go out alone. He screened all her friends. He yelled at her for being ungrateful. But her schooling was always paid. And it was never spoken of.
Xana walked by a small child playing in a yard. The boy stood and stared. Xana smiled but the child’s mother scooped him up and took him into the house before the big woman could speak. She took a deep breath and caught the dog out of the corner of her eye. It was keeping its distance, but it hadn’t given up.
Xana cut down a foot-worn path between streets and used a tree to hop over a tall wood fence. The planks were buckled with wire. She peered over the top as the dog came up behind. It stared at the barrier, then up at her. It seemed confused.
“This is for your own good,” she explained. “I can’t even take care of myself right now.” Then she cut through the yard and ran around the block.
Werm had left the rest of his crew in front of The Fountain and met Xana in the street, down the road and out of earshot. He was Afro-Guyanese playing American. His pants hung loose around his thighs. A ball cap covered his dark curls. She knew the type. So many young men in Guyana imagined themselves on the streets of New York or London. Anywhere but Georgetown.
“Word is, you stood up Mama Enecio. You stupid or something?”
“Where is she?”
“Naw.” Werm waved her off. He looked back. His boys stood on the sidewalk or sat on old lawn furniture. The shop’s windows were completely covered in sun-bleached advertisements. “I got what you need, but not here.”
He had a sharp nose and dark eyes. He pointed and swaggered past a squat chain link fence that ran along the back of the store. Trees lined the road and swayed in the breeze. “Gotta be careful, man. Used to be we could sell on the corner, small time stuff. Then, few years back, Mama takes over. She says we owe twenty percent, then thirty, then half. When we said no, she sent the man in the mask.”
Werm led her down a dirt drive behind the shop, no more than a pair of worn tracks in the grass. She could tell from the foliage that there was a gully, a tributary of the river, somewhere to her right. Everything around her probably flooded regularly. Werm turned and looked back down the path.
Xana saw it. “Where are we going?”
He motioned. A tiny white building, dirt-stained and leaning, stood on a rise just down the track, a shed or workshop dug into the ground. Two stairs led to a torn door. “I told the guys you was here to buy. You got any money?”
“I don’t do drugs.”
“I can’t go back empty-handed.” Werm snorted. “Step into my office.” He walked in.
Xana looked back down the dirt drive. The shed was out of the way, a good place to hide drugs. She followed. It was dark, and the door was old and small and Xana had to duck under it. The ceiling was low and she had to hunch her back and twist her neck.
Werm held out his hand. “Fifty.”
Broken, empty shelves lined the walls. The corners were knotted in dried leaves and spider webs. It smelled like rot. Xana couldn’t see any drugs, just a bundle of used twine on one of the shelves.
“The American said—”
“Fifty,” he repeated.
Xana sighed and dug out her money again. It was a big dent. Hunched in the cramped space, she could barely move and she struggled with the pockets of her work pants. When she looked up to hand over the bills, she saw the revolver.
Werm motioned. “Walk to the back.”
Xana glanced at the twine and the scuff marks on the ground. She didn’t move. Her heart beat faster.
Werm cocked the gun. “Bitch, I ain’t foolin’.” He motioned toward a dirty window. “Go on.”
Xana shuffled sideways toward the back. Her neck was already hurting. She felt caged. She felt stupid. She thought about the jalopy.
“Drop the money.”
Xana complied. It fell to the ground.
“Turn around.”
Xana’s legs twitched as if ready to move with the rest of her, but her feet stayed still. She didn’t budge.
Werm lifted the gun higher. “I said turn around.”
Xana stared at it. She’d seen plenty of guns, but none this close. She’d never seen down a barrel. Once upon a time she would have been terrified. Before. She didn’t know what to do, but she didn’t move.
“Get down on your knees.”
She was still.
Werm looked her up and down. “I like a big ol’ booty. You can give it up or get shot for it. Bitch, I don’t care.”
Xana stared.
He put the gun to her stooping forehead. He pressed the barrel into the skin of her heavy brow right between her eyes. Her hair was still damp. “Freak, I ain’t afraid a’ you. I will shoot you in the head.”
Her neck was strained, pinched, and Xana had to clear her throat before speaking. “If I were you, I’d be more afraid of him.” She tilted her head toward the door.
Werm turned just in time to see the big dog leap at him. The animal growled like the rolling of deep rapids. The weapon flew free as two-inch canines ripped into Werm’s arm. He could feel the dog’s teeth pressing into bone. His own bone!
He screamed as the dog tore at his arm. The animal’s powerful jaws ripped back and forth. He stumbled and tripped backward and the beast went for the throat.
But it wasn’t a killer. It was merely well-trained. It had the man’s throat, it had broken skin, but it hadn’t killed him. It growled and held and waited for an order.
Werm was on the ground, wide-eyed. His irises darted back and forth from the dog to the giant. He took short, shallow gasps through a pinched-closed throat. His forearm was split by long, irregular cuts. Flaps of skin hung like the upholstery of discarded furniture.
Xana picked up the revolver. She had no idea how to use it, so she wrapped her fingers around and held it at her side.
“Hel—” Werm tried to speak. He swallowed. He couldn’t turn his neck. He looked up at Xana. His eyes were fonts of fear.
The dog growled continuously, teeth bared, and held fast. It breathed hard through its nose. Werm’s neck was wet from the mix of blood and saliva that dripped from the animal’s jowls.
Xana squatted down. “Good dog,” she whispered. Her voice trembled with the pounding of her heart. Her hands were shaking.
Werm was panting, trying to catch his breath, trying not to suffocate.
“Where is the man Boraro?”
The man was terrified. His eyes were wide and ghost-white. He blinked hard and gave a tiny shake of his head.
“Where?”
“Don’t—” he gave another tiny shake as if to say he didn’t know.
Xana opened her mouth to call him a liar, but she saw his eyes. He wasn’t lying. The back of her neck tingled in epiphany.
“The—” his voice was weak. “The—”
“American,” Xana finished.
Werm gave a slight nod. “P—paid me.”
“Paid you? For what?”
“S—sc . . .” He swallowed hard. Then again. “Scareyouoff.” He pushed the words fast.
Xana closed her eyes. She opened them and looked at the terrified boy on the ground, throat squeezed shut. She looked at the wet stain in the crotch of his baggy pants and the cap that had fallen free. He was nobody, just another street corner hustler. And Xana was the mark.
She took a long, deep breath and exhaled.
Abby.
Xana picked up her money and walked out of the shed, her fingers still wrapped around the gun. She whistled, and the dog let go. Werm coughed and jumped to his feet. As soon as he had his balance, he ran down the path holding his arm to his chest.
Xana walked into the foliage towards the sound of running water. She plopped down onto the dead leaves and dirt. She felt the gun in her hand. It was heavy, more so than she would have expected. It felt like a true weapon. Her stomach rolled and released a wave of nausea. Her skin flushed and went hot. She threw the revolver into the water and watched it disappear with a splash.
Abby had lied. From the very beginning. She’d made it all up. And Xana was so desperate for help, from anyone, that she was ready to believe.
After a moment, the dog came through the bushes. Xana smiled at him. He sat down and she rubbed his head.
“Come here.” She moved closer to the stream and sat Indian-style. She cupped water in her hand and washed the blood from the animal’s muzzle. She rinsed his jowls and ran her finger along his gums. The dog sat patiently. It didn’t fuss like a child would. Like AJ had.
Xana rubbed its ears with her big hands. There was no hate in its eyes, no violence or blood lust. It hadn’t fought to hurt or to kill. Just to defend. It looked at her without judgment. It didn’t care what she looked like, and it was ready to believe a single act of kindness could bind them together.
Xana smiled. She stood. “Come,” she called.
As she walked down the path toward The Fountain, her heart started beating in her ears. Her hands got clammy. She’d never done anything like this before. Ever. But there wasn’t another way.
Xana saw the street and rounded the corner as her nausea gave way to anger. Her stomach hardened into a knot. The boys had gathered around Werm, who sat on the ground, probably waiting for a ride to the hospital. They saw her and pointed. That’s how it always began. They yelled. They ran for her, just like just like Morin and his friends. The first kid had a knife. Others probably had guns.
Xana stopped. She raised her arms and made fists. As soon as the first young man was in reach, she threw a punch. Her very first.
It was awkward, like her first time at bat and the first time she’d been alone with a boy. It was tentative. It was wild. She lifted one foot off the ground for no reason. She barely connected. But then it was hard to miss with hands like hers.
The young man hit the ground. Something in him broke—audibly—and he crumpled like wet cardboard. He didn’t get up. He didn’t even lift his head.
The others heard it and stopped dead. They stared at the giant.
“Where can I find the American?”