The World Without Flags

I feel his cold, soapy skin against my fingers. It’s like touching waxy leather. Turning back to the bucket, I quickly rinse out the mop, keeping Eric at bay with one hand. Then I pull him back toward the middle of the cell and begin to mop at him again. He keeps his head up, waiting. With his crazy eyes wide open and his dark tongue searching the empty air, he reminds me of a baby bird squawking in the nest to be fed. I walk around, scrubbing him with the mop. When I see him from behind, my stomach clenches painfully. I gasp and take a step back. A black, scab-like material is encrusted all over his backside. I never realized that all this time, he’d been going to the bathroom in his pants. I’m sobbing and gagging as I wash his buttocks and legs with the mop. The black, sudsy water gathers at his feet, emptying out through a drain in the floor of the cell.

I keep washing him until there’s no more soapy water left in the bucket. Eric stands in the center of the cell, no longer stinking, but horribly clear to my eyes. His cold skin gleams wetly as he stands naked in front of me. I’m trembling so hard I can hardly take the robe when the Good Prince hands it to me through the bars of the cell.

“You did good, honey,” she says.

After I throw the robe back on Eric, I walk shakily to the table and sit down heavily on the chair. Good Prince Billy shuts the jail cell and then walks over to me, her cane tapping on the floor. “Come on, now,” she says gently. “Eric will be okay. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

It’s then that I look down at myself. I’m covered with dark gore and specks of worms. That’s when the Good Prince lights the lamp inside a second jail cell that I hadn’t seen in the darkness. Inside there’s a cot with wool blankets and a thick, white cotton robe. In the corner, there’s another bucket of soapy water sitting next to a washcloth and towel.

“Now the same for you,” she says. She turns her back to me as I strip out of my clothes and begin washing, trembling, my lower lip quivering. “He’s lucky to have you,” she tells me over her shoulder. “He’s lucky he made it this far. You’ve done a good job. A real fine job.” I keep scrubbing as I listen to her walk away and struggle up the steps.

When I’m done, I sit down on the floor and begin to cry. I’ve never cried as long or as hard in all my life.

120

In the fire, I hear screams. There is a darkness at the edges of the fire, waving, undulating. Like water. I move toward the fire. I’m so thirsty. Waving flames and shadows and undulating water. I move close. I am surrounded in flames, but I feel cold and dying of thirst.

Birdie.

I reach out for the flames and watch as they wrap around my hand. My flesh is burning. But I’m so cold.

Birdie.

So cold.

121

“Birdie,” I hear. I realize I fell asleep after I cleaned myself. I’m on the floor wearing the thick cotton robe. When I look up, I see Pest gazing down at me with his expressive, dark eyes. He gives me a small smile when he sees that I’m awake. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get breakfast.”

I groan as I rise. My stomach and throat hurts from the night before. “I don’t know if I can eat.”

Pest doesn’t say anything as he helps me to his feet. He’s brought clothes with him too, new, clean clothes. Nothing fancy, just a pair of jeans, a t-shirt that has LAS VEGAS written on it in gold letters, a long-sleeved plaid shirt, and a pair of fresh socks. I take them gratefully, and walk into the shadows to dress myself. When I walk out of the cell, Pest is standing in front of Eric’s cell, looking at him. Eric’s kneeling in the corner, leaning forward so that his face is smooshed into the corner. I go to stand next to Pest and for a while we say nothing.

“He looks different,” Pest says finally. “Smaller.” I look over at Eric, and I struggle not to cry. I’m tired of crying. “You cleaned him?”

“I did,” I say. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.” I swallow. “I don’t ever want to talk about it.”

Pest nods, and I see a flash of sympathy cross his face before he turns away. That’s all I need. Just that little sympathy. I couldn’t take more than that.

When we go upstairs, there’s a table with four chairs around it. It’s set at the head of the room, right where once the priest would’ve given his sermon, I guess. But there’s no sermon. There’s food! The table is practically groaning with the weight of all the plates. Although I said just a second I didn’t know if I could eat, just the sight of all that food banishes all the bad memories from my head. There’s eggs and fruit and pancakes and even…

“Is that bacon!” I cry, leaping toward the table.