The table is long, to stretch the unlit length of that long porch, suspended beneath the enormity of the house above, propped out over the steepening slope below. That table’s long, and scrubbed so meticulously clean it might catch even the faintest hint of what light’s available down here and hold it, a reflection, suspended, so it seems, a fraction of an inch or so above that ruthlessly polished surface. A thick orange cord’s been laid along the top of it in a mostly straight and unkinked line until about halfway down, where it ends in a plug, and the line’s taken up by a thin brown cord, continuing on until it in turn ends in a plug joined by a smooth white cord, this one relaxed, looped in a couple-three lazy coils to fetch up at the base of a small white desk lamp, set here at the very head of the table to thinly shine on a lone white saucer laden with three unbitten slices of pressed meat, rectangularly pink. A figure’s sat in a chair, turned away from table, lamp, and plate, a silhouette wrapped in a blanket, arms and legs presumably tucked away, head tipped forward, chin pressed to sunken chest, sharp shoulders rising slowly and settling, slowly, with sleepingly regular breaths, gently stirring a wild crown of loose thin hair.
Agravante’s stood to one side, a hand on the balustrade, a tiny knife in that hand, the wickedly pointed blade maybe half the length of its handle. The collar of his shirt’s undone, the knot of his tie loosened, the both of the same dull color, uncertain in the darkness. He lifts the knife up to balance on its point, held in place by a fingertip, lets it topple to catch it, quick. Lays it gently, clink, on the railing.
“Trumpets,” croaks the other, and Agravante looks to see that head lifted, woozily a-wobble, but those tiny dark eyes are fixed on something far away, over and past the glower of downtown that rusts the bellies of the clouds hung low above, something away out past the unseen horizon. “Blow,” says the other. “Horns. For that is the law, on this day, when the moon has risen,” something of a struggle, then, wriggling weakly in that chair, to free, perhaps, an arm, to point, but those blankets, it seems, are tightly wrapped. “In half an hour, if even that, the sun will also rise, to give chase over the clouds, and down there,” those tiny eyes shift, that attention shifts, to fix on the city below, “they will cast about for me, but they will not find me,” that head turns, then, and those eyes find Agravante, “for you have done me this great wrong, and hidden me from sight.” A sigh, and that head tips precipitously back, the weight too much for such a frail neck. “The new moon has now risen that will swallow them whole.”
Agravante watches, waiting, tiny knife now tightly in his hand.
“The levain,” says the other. The words, no longer clear, struggle through a hoarse and rough-edged whisper. “Must be fed.” That head pulls itself upright, but tips slowly to one side, the weight as yet too much, and those black eyes jerk and dart. “A measure of Camas wheat, and good clean Bull Run water, but, but but, but,” the head struggling upright, and there, a small but definite smile of accomplishment, perhaps, even pride. Agravante steps away from the balustrade, toward the blanket-wrapped other in that chair. “The water must be left out, open to the air, an hour or so, or more,” the words clearing, strengthening, “there are reagents, that must dissipate, I brought it with us, the levain, when first we did come over, a crock tucked in my shirt, against the warmth of my breast, and every loaf that I’ve made since has started with a dollop of that levain, and is this,” that smile, sharpening, Agravante halting, the look on his face slipping, from one valence, to another, “what you want? Is this why you coddle me? Feed me? Keep me,” that tongue licking out, a slickery sheen in the darkness, “warm? Ah ah,” as Agravante steps close, presses close with that knife in his hand, “let’s not be rash, boy, boy, son, grandson, after all,” swallowing thickly, chin drawn back, those black eyes craned down to the wicked point, “there may yet be,” says the other, “a chance,” letting the word linger, stretch into a question, a possibility, those eyes squeezing shut as Agravante lifts the knife, high up above his head, and drives it down to thunk into the table, stuck upright, just out of reach.
“Would’ve been such a waste,” mutters the other, and then, calling after Agravante, who’s making his way back up the length of the porch, “Regret is a luxury! Much too expensive. Best to make peace, with what is, and fire up the grill! I’ll have six lambs, and a ram, without blemish, and a whole young bull, and none of your oxen, and no incense, do you hear me? None! It is a rancid stench, in my nostrils!”
Chuckling, at the creak of stairs behind, shaking that wild-crowned head. Out there the darkness has lightened, the horizon now a reddening jagged line to break apart earth and sky. The other looks down, to the meat on the plate in the puddle of lamplight, and leans toward it, a struggle again within those blankets tightly wrapped, too tight. Slumping in the chair, leaning over, mouth opening, straining, yearning, but still it’s just a bit too low, too far. Straightening, that head tipped back to blow out a defeated sigh.
“Shit,” hisses the other.
