J. Paul Ross
The Chorus of Furies

<< continued from Part 2

"Thank you," Cricket sniffled as the old woman took her hand and her papa began to shout the National Anthem.

She then found herself being tugged through the crowd, watching her papa until his tall frame was lost amid the other adults. And after they had made their way to the bus stop and Mrs. De Luca had taken the sign out of her mismatched mittens and dropped it to the ground, she looked at her neighbor. She wanted to tell the old woman that her papa wouldn't be home for dinner, wanted to warn her that the other man would be there instead. But she couldn't, all she could do was squeeze the old woman's hand, tears filling her dark-green eyes.

"Goddamn it! Where's my keys?"

The echoes of strange voices and the clump of her papa's boots woke Cricket long before his shouts could and with his curses filling the air outside, she curled up and wrapped her arms around her legs. She'd lain on Mrs. De Luca's couch for most of the night before closing her eyes, hoping that the shiny flask had remained in the gray-haired man's pocket. She'd hoped she'd be wrong about her papa drinking from that flask but when his slurred voice crashed down the hall, she knew that she hadn't. She knew he would be in a bad mood now and she would have to be quiet and maybe even hide. She would have to be invisible for the rest of the night and tomorrow, all he would do is glare out the window, a cup of coffee in his shaking hands.

"Goddamn it! Christina Hantz, get yer skinny ass outta bed and open this door!"

"You stay right there," Mrs. De Luca ordered. "I'll let him know you're staying here tonight, okay?"

"But . . ."

"You go back to sleep and don't worry about your father." Then, with a sigh, the old woman opened the door and said, "Hello, Mr. Hantz. I-"

"Have ya heard?" her papa asked. "The wetbacks rioted."

"Yeah," shouted another voice. "They tried burning the courthouse! We're all meeting outside to-"

"That's too bad, Mr. Murphy," the old woman interrupted. "But I was trying to tell Mr. Hantz that his daughter-"

"The courthouse?" came another voice from down the hall. "I thought it was the mayor's office!"

"No. It was the police station," someone new said. "Fact, I heard-"

Mrs. De Luca snorted. "Really? The police station? I didn't see anything on the news. Not to mention the fact that I haven't smelled smoke and we've been listening to Mr. Jansson's snores through the wall all night. He's a volunteer fireman, you know. And-"

"That don't mean shit," spat someone else.

"Yeah, he coulda left when you-"

"No, I saw him tear outta here awhile back. He-"

"I saw that too!"

More voices joined in and Cricket barely heard the click of their apartment's lock and the sound of her papa's boots going inside. She didn't know what he was doing in there but she wanted to tell her neighbors to go away. She wanted to tell them to leave her and her papa alone but with the people in the hall talking louder and louder, none of her words could come out; they merely caught in her chest and stayed there like someone was sitting in her throat and holding them down.

"Did ya notice how they're not all out partying to their goddamn mariachi music tonight? When was the last time ya saw that on a Saturday?"

"Probably all hiding. Scared the cops are gonna do another raid."

"Aw, the cops ain't gonna do shit."

"He's right. With the holidays coming, the plant can't afford to lose anyone. Hell, I heard they're going to Honduras for workers."

"Jesus Christ, I ain't worked in a year and they're hiring-"

"Why do you sound so surprised? It's like the governor says; freedom doesn't-"

"Calm down, Mr. Holender," Mrs. De Luca finally put in. "I'm no fan of the Mexicans either but-"

"But what?" another man growled. "You were doing okay before the plant broke the union and cut Artie's pension. Hell, they couldn't have gotten away with that if it wasn't for the wetback scabs."

"Don't tell me what-"

"He's right, Mrs. De Luca. Artie was the first one they let go. I mean, of all people, you should be . . . Hey, John, whatcha got in the gas can?"

"Whadda ya think I got?" Cricket's papa muttered.

A cheer went up and Cricket heard the men start to move down the hallway, the sounds of their footsteps marching toward the stairs in a heavy, syncopated thump.

"And where do you think you're going with that?" Mrs. De Luca cried. "You bring-Mr. Hantz! John! Come back here!"

The old woman's voice faded down the hall and Cricket sat up on the couch, rubbing her arms and trying to stay warm in that airless room that smelled heavy and sour like an old chimney. She sat there watching the cockroaches roam the corners and listening to more people either joining their neighbors or shutting their doors and turning the locks. Soon, she could hear a crowd gathering outside and she quietly fastened the two buttons on her green coat and pulled on her rubber boots and mittens. She then walked cautiously out into the hall, taking her hat from her pocket and pulling it over her head, her ears warm for the first time since she'd taken it off.

She was glad she had her hat because the air outside had become a hard cold. The nighttime's chill made her nose run and she caught her breath as she tried to find her papa in the group of men standing around in baseball caps and denim coats. Their collars turned up and their faces hidden by the darkness, she could tell they were waiting for something, shuffling about on their feet and sometimes cupping their hands together to light a cigarette. She couldn't see her papa at first but then she noticed him next to one of the many parked cars that never seemed to move. He was holding the red plastic jug he used to fill up their stinky space heater and talking to some other men, a few either pointing or nodding to the Coughlin Apartments across the street. Cricket tried to make her way through all those murmuring people. And though she tried not to look up, she saw that most of their eyes were narrow and every time one of them spoke, their voice was sharp and gravelly and echoed as if it were uttered through gritted teeth.

"And I saw on TV that they was bringing diseases across the border with 'em. Leprosy and shit. I'll be damned if I let-"

"It's all the drugs that get me. Hell, some nights-"

"And where there's drugs, you know there's gangs. I coulda swore that was gunfire I-"

"You know, I'd move outta here in a heartbeat if I could afford-"

"We shouldn't have to move. This is our country, not-"

"And next month, there's gonna be an extra 'maintenance fee' all because of them defaulting on their-"

"I can't afford that! Not with food being so expens-"

"I heard that we got the highest food prices in the whole state 'cause of the theft and-"

"Ten-to-one the beans are still cheap though! Betcha the-"

"God, I'm so tired of this crap! Somebody should do something."

"Yeah, it's like the governor said last night; patriots can never-"

"Fuck the governor! She won't do nothing!"

"No shit! She don't live here! She can't-"

"Yeah! That bitch is no different from the rest! Hell, for all we know, she might try ta protect 'em!"

"That's right! The goddamn wetbacks! They-"

"Fuck 'em all! The only good wetback is a-"

Suddenly, there was the sound of breaking glass from across the street and Cricket jumped and for a few seconds everything was quiet. Nothing moved in that moment and no one spoke until a small cheer erupted from the crowd around her. It scared the little girl and she tried to find her papa again, seeing him just as a rock flew from his hand. Another crash echoed, another cheer rose and instantly, the building's curtains began to shut and all of the lights flickered off one-by-one until every window was dark.

"You can't do this!" she heard Mrs. De Luca shout from somewhere. "You have to-"

The old woman kept ordering and pleading and crying but no one paid her any attention. And by the time another rock was thrown and another cheer broke out-this one loud and shrill-her neighbor had been pushed aside and forgotten. Everyone was shifting on their feet, moving right and left while their hands trembled anxiously as if they needed something to do. Many said horrible things under their breath and then Cricket saw a burning stick arc through the air. It was small and narrow and it glowed in the sky almost like a neon sign before it smacked against the building's liver-colored bricks and bounced to the ground. A moan went up and then another glowing form-this time made up of nothing more than a tiny flame-hit the side of the Coughlin Apartments. It was a bottle and it smashed against the wall with a tiny crack then exploded in a blanket of fire that swept down and over the building's front doors.

Yet another cheer went up and the crowd scampered to break concrete from the curbs and pull up the red, white and blue signs that read, "DEFEND YOUR FAMILY, REELECT BREWSTER" and "PROTECT YOUR JOB, SUPPORT PROP 23." More windows were broken and with each pane that tumbled, the cheers grew. They scared Cricket and while her papa drenched the signs in the liquid from his red plastic jug, the little girl started to back away. Her chest felt heavy and tight again and it hurt to breathe. She wanted to run but she couldn't turn away because the men were tossing up the burning signs like parade batons and hurling them at the three-story building. Most bounced off but a few soared into the broken windows and soon, the bare walls inside were flickering in a golden halo.

They threw anything that could burn and it wasn't long until narrow flames were peeking above windowsills and smoke was rising in silken, charcoal plumes that drifted across the road and made Cricket gag. The fire climbed through the shattered openings and it turned everything dirty. It stuck to her clothes and her skin and it even changed the salty flavor of the tears rolling down her cheeks.

And though her entire world blurred from within those tears, she could still see the people inside the apartments, searching frantically for a way out while the flames continued to spread. They spread until they lit up the entire street and Cricket could see her papa's face as he danced in a rain of embers. Waving his arms, he was patting people on their backs and joining in the laughter that rose until it became a howl. It was a sound she'd never heard before, wild and raw, and she tried to plug her ears but the celebration was too loud; it drowned the crackling snap of flames, it muffled the distant wail of sirens and it smothered any cry of protest. It seemed to have become part of the fire and its smoke, part of the night and its trembling shadows, and as Cricket watched desperate parents drop their children from smoldering windows, its sound only grew.

>> click to read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

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J. Paul Ross is a graduate of the Metropolitan State University of Denver, and a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominee. His fiction has appeared in Border Crossing, The Central American Literary Review, The MacGuffin and Serving House Journal. Currently, he is working on a novel set along the Pan-American Highway.

>> Back to Issue 20, 2017