The gold in the sack in his hand, heavy brightness licked up from the confines of creased paper to sallow his smacked gob, “how,” he sputters, and “what,” and “I,” folding up the mouth of the sack again, crimping the wired tabs shut, looking about at the sparsely murmurous crowd stood about the tables, speaking in couples and clusters by this stall, or that, and none of any of them pays the least attention to these two stood before the unlit stage, him in check trousers, moleskin vest, broadcloth shirt without collar or tie, and her all in black, kimono, shorts, black hair sharply cut at a swoop of an angle, a bit of black lace about her throat. “What is it even supposed to be for,” he says, hoarsely.
“She said you’d think of something.”
He coughs, or perhaps it’s a gasp of a laugh, “Oh,” he says, “there’s uses a-plenty, and more besides. Who,” but then, his expression sharpening, “are you the one now who helps her?”
A moment, her head lowered, she nods, once. He sighs. “Is there more?”
Another nod, more definite, more quick.
“How much?” he says, but then, “No!” with a wince, looking away. “Don’t say. What of the checks.”
“She has them. She hasn’t signed them.” He looks away, sucking his teeth. “Last night,” she says, “she didn’t – there was, we,” a gesture, at the sack in his hands, “and this morning, it’s been chaotic. Marfisa had someone come by to look at the books, and then her attorney showed up, and now they’re – ”
“Not Anna?” he says, suddenly concerned. She shakes her head, “no, no, it wasn’t,” but, taken aback, he says, “Not Welund, surely.”
“No,” she says. “Somebody from the public defenders.”
“Public,” he says, with a frown.
“They went out, to go talk,” she’s pointing up, to the ceiling high above, the buzzing racks of fluorescents overwhelmed by daylight, but he’s tapping the sack in his hand, “I do wish she’d signed those checks.”
“As soon as they’re done,” she says, “I can,” and “Yes,” he’s saying, “as soon as you can. Then come find me. I will see to the disbursal of this,” tucking the sack away, under an arm, “but quietly – you understand, if it were to get out, that more of this, and more besides?” A shake of his head. “What’s been handed out for that blasted lift was trouble enough. If they were to find out, what herself has done,” and “I’ll,” says Petra, she starts to say, but “It were best,” he says, “to get those checks signed, and to me, as quick as possibility allows,” and he’s off, past the big overhead door halfway raised, past the table there, the big bowl of what’s left of a cold past salad, he’s on his industrious way up the skeletal staircase bolted to the wall, clang and up to the walkway over the unlit stage, the door at the one end freshly painted a mineral grey, OFFICE it says in tendrilled capitals on the pebbled glass, a muffled but emphatic voice within, “illusory divide,” as he opens the door, “between us, and them,” a tall man, halely slender, enormous beard lopping a loose white shirt, “when they see someone in the streets,” sat in the swivel chair before the escritoire, white cords of earbuds draped over that beard and down to the phone in his hand, “someone without a home,” he says, “well, their first instinct, it’s almost primal, is to deflect, deny, put some distance between themselves and the situation manifest before them.” He looks up as Bruno shuts the door, and a nod, “This could never happen to me,” he says, “I am too savvy, too proper, too good, I would never make the mistake this poor unfortunate soul must have made, it must’ve been terrible, for something so terrible to happen to them, get this bad person away from me. The thing of it is, they know it isn’t true. They know it has nothing to do with being moral, or upright, or good, it’s why they so vehemently insist it must. They know, deep down, in their hearts, it’s just one bad day. That’s all it takes. That’s all there is, between them, and us. One of those days when just enough breaks bad, when God’s grace is suddenly nowhere to be found, and they will find themselves with us. Which is why you have tio,” sitting forward, an elbow on the writing surface of the escritoire, “allow for, in your words, room enough to acknowledge that terror, accept it, address it, before you attempt to move past it, to begin to discuss all the things we can – we must – do for us all. Does that make sense?” Sitting back, and a nod for Bruno, patient by the door. “So when is this coming out?” A hand up to an earbud. “No, I understand. Yes. Of course. No, no. Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” Yanking the buds out, one-two, hastening up out of the chair as Bruno steps away from the door, sack still tucked in the crook of his arm, and pushes the chair away from them both. “Interview?” he says, crouching before the kneehole of the escritoire.
“Portland Tribune,” says the tall, thin man. “Wanted a comment on the sit-lie proposal. What is that, a secret, ah, compartment? a safe? I had no idea that was there.”
“You didn’t supply the furniture,” says Bruno.
“Neither did you,” says the tall man. “Unless you’re Swedish.”
“Neither,” says Bruno, pushing something unseen, “is this.” Something clunks, he sits up and out, unburdened.
“Must be some damn fine coffee,” says the tall man.
“Something like that,” says Bruno.
The detrital crumbs of dead leaves, a fallen few yet freshly green, loosened bark, snapped and splintered twigs, storm-wrack to litter the long porch, drifted against the molding there, along the balustrade, piled in corners that resist an angled broom’s entreaties, press and twist, dig in and twist and push what can be pushed out away from those edges, drag across the rough unvarnished floor toward a wide aluminum dustpan, press that pan laid flat against the floor to meet the shoveling brush of the broom, scoop and drag and again, to catch up what can be caught of the draggled line of dust and chaff left by the lip of the pan, angle and brace for a third attempt, but twist the broom once more with an impatient swoop to banish that last sketchy limen back to the verges with a puff. Stand, then, careful with the pan, a step to the balustrade and lift and tip it over, all that swept-up dirt become a clatterfall cloud to drift and settle and fall to the steep slope below, below, the two of them broom and dustpan leaned against the balustrade, watching it all of it dissipate as it falls, a thinning, vanishing curtain that reveals even as it hides for a moment the wreck yet cloaked in the shadow of the house, the broken wooden frame, whatever original shape long since lost, tatters and shreds of remaining upholstery rain-raddled, sun-faded, and all the lush green grass grown up about it. Laughing they turn away, the one out toward the burgeoning evening, just a tad more blue, a smidgeon darker than hereabouts, the other toward the dimming bulk of the house above and, having happened to have looked up, and up, cranes back her head to see there, behind the light-glazed darkness of that high great curving wall of glass, a suggestion of a figure, gowned in shadowy purple, looking out, away.
Deal out the dinner plates, set salad plates atop them, bread plates and saucers in orbit just so, all of a pristine white rimmed about with clusters of gold-limned roses pink and red against a ring of midnight blue, rustle and flutter-whip fold and twist and knot the napkins, each a simple bouquet on the salad plate, salad fork and dinner fork and dainty fork for dessert, dinner knife and teaspoon and soup spoon, butter knife there, teacup on the saucer, and the glasses, wine and water on delicate stems set a-glitter by candles lit even as they’re placed, in pleasingly irregular islands along the middle of that long table, alternating with ovoid chargers lipped with the same roses against rings of the same midnight blue, but stoop, there, in the corner, lay the dustpan flat for one last shoveling sweep of the broom, and drag it back, leaving a negative space defined by what dust is left. Press the laden pan more firmly against the rough boards of the porch, the better to minimize whatever edge might impede the uptake of that unrelenting thread, but the next sweep doesn’t come, the dust unmoved, the broom is gone, and with it hands, arms, blouse, smile, gone, all gone. Slowly push to her feet, careful with the pan, looking down the table set and lit against deepening shadows, the high-backed chairs all empty, waiting, the aisles behind them, balustrades to either side, the joists and girders of the subflooring half-unseen above, the long flight of stairs at the other end and the movement descending, step by elegantly silent step, a purple gown the hem of it brushing the treads, an arm out, fingertips slipping lightly along the rail, the other arm held close, shoulders draped in the pink yoke of a hijab, and the face it frames, those dark eyes looking out over the readied, empty porch.
Her majesty makes her way down the left side of the table, down and down to the chair already pulled out, there at the right hand of the chair at the head. Sits herself, hiking and spreading the skirts of her gown, settling the drape of her hijab, smoothing the front of her bodice. “Kibbet batata,” she says, “just a bit, and a pita, if they’re fresh. Iced water, to drink,” and there, before her, her salad plate removed, dinner plate laden with a low flat mound of mashed potato dark with bulgur and spices and ground nuts, gleaming with olive oil pooled in serried dimples, specked with crumbled chilies, and the charger at this end of the table’s gone, to make room for a wire stand upholding the enormous cloud of a single golden pita. She lifts up her brimming water glass with both hands for a single decorous sip, then reaches across to the pita, tearing off the smallest pinch of it, with a wince for the puff of steam as the cloud of it slowly, sighingly deflates.
Repp silk in stripes of navy and burgundy and the thinnest, whitest silver, he loops it around and over, up and through, around and over again, and up and through and back and down, tucked into itself, he yanks, tightens, pinching to set a dimple there beneath the thickly offset knot that he tugs home against his buttoned collar, checking his reflection in the mirror that’s been hung up over that mantel swept clean, and the empty grate beneath it, ruthlessly bereft of ash. Leans close to himself in the glass, looks down, to his hands, on the tie, the dried plop of ink there, bluing the corner and nail of his index finger. Rubs at it with his thumb to no effect. Picks at it with his thumbnail as he steps away from the wide brick fireplace past a couple-three crowded armchairs of varying styles toward a plain desk, all flat dark veneer and chromium trim, too large by half, the top of it empty but for an unmarked blotter calendar and a squat black box on a corner, with a great lever angled up to one side. He opens a drawer and plucks out a small set of nail clippers, unfolds the file from it, starts in on scraping and picking at the spot. Winces, shaking his finger out, holds it up to peer at the tip indistinct in the indirect light from the soffits all about. The splot still there, but glistening pale where the skin’s been abraded. He pops it into his mouth with a hiss.
The door opens on an appalling din, clank of chains and whir of motors, erratic chunks of stamps and staplers, under it all the grinding whine of an enormous shredder, growling with every sheaf of paper fed to its gaping maw. He takes his finger from his mouth to gesture irritatedly, and the door’s swung shut, restoring silence, the man stood there, trousers rumpled, sleeves gaitered, apron stained, thinned hair stood nonetheless up, holding forth a manila folder fat with paper, “Every extant agreement,” he says, “the most recent statements of every account, the forms required for what you’ve asked, which, Illicuddy,” he sets it on the desk between them, “will require far more than your mere signature to enact.”
He sighs, and returns the clippers to the drawer, drawing forth instead a large envelope of taupe vinyl, floppily empty. “Grawltham,” he says, “we’ve discussed this. Given my new responsibilities, I am to be addressed as Director, as is only appropriate,” taking up the ungainly folder to begin to work it into that envelope, “being my office,” he says, “and my title.”
“As you say, Director.” And then, “Do you mean to do it?”
“Do you ask,” says Illicuddy, fastening the envelope with a click of its latch, “whether I mean to carry out the orders of our principal, and liege?”
“She was our queen.”
“But is no more.”
“And so we take whatever she has left.”
Director Illicuddy says, loudly, certainly, “We do what is asked of us,” and steps to the coat tree in the corner, taking up a bright blue jacket, the same shade as his trousers. “It is not given to us to deliberate, or debate, or decide, but to do as we are bid.”
“No matter the cost to our lady,” says Grawltham, thick arms folded, there before the door.
“Tell me, Documentalist,” says Director Illicuddy, “were you not the one who assembled this dossier?” Hefting the envelope. “Pulled copies from the master file of every contract, amendment, affixment, addendum, scholium, sequela, postfix, codicil, statement, entailment, stipulation, summation, and memorandum pertaining to the accounts? Selected the forms, slips, notes, and receipts required to effect the transfer? Flagged where each is to be initialed, signed, or notarized, as required, and color-coded as is your practice to indicate the parties? Though, in this particular instance, both parties are peculiarly, if conveniently, represented by the selfsame agent – did you not do all these things?”
Grawltham nods. “I did, Director. Yes.”
“Why?”
“Pardon?” says Grawltham, after a moment. “Sir?”
“Why did you do it? Knowing, as you did so, what would become of it when you were done,” lifting that envelope, “and it was turned over to me?”
The Director, without waiting for an answer, opens the door on all that din and ruckus without, steps through, is gone.
An empty hall, brightly lit, windows set high across from a couple of angled alcoves, each with double doors, and beside each of the doorways, hung on the wall, three-ring binders filled with tables of information that might be perused. Faint music floats from somewhere, a cheerful bubbling beat under a busy band, a woman’s voice, all too quiet to make out the words, and the doors of the closer alcove burst open, she swans out, rustle and bustle of full wide skirts brushing the flung-open doors, dragging the floor, a fall of rumpled saffron hemmed with whitely tasseled fringe that parts like curtains over the full white gown, and a white bustle about the hips, the bodice a ruched corset of saffron tightly fitted, her arms and shoulders bare, and her long and artful tangle of black curls hung loose. Those doors swing shut behind her, but one’s halted, pushed back open, a woman in a baggy taupe suit, an oversized tapestry bag hung from one shoulder, her long dark hair tightly wound in a topknot, “Ysabel!” she’s calling, hustling after, “Ysabel!” until herself in her gown turns about, skirts a-sway, eyes ablaze, “That was supposed to be a trial,” she snaps, quiet, clipped, controlled, but Sam is shaking her head, “That was just an appearance? The first, with counsel?” Shrugging to resettle the precarious bundled of papers in her arms. “Trial is set for September twenty-fifth – ”
“September!” cries Ysabel, control fraying.
“We may push that out? Depending? On our investigation, and theirs, the court’s calendar, as the date approaches? But,” she says, shrugging again, “it might not happen at all? There might be a motions hearing?” tipping to one side, balancing the bulk of her load against one arm so the other might support a heavy manila jacket about to slip free, “an evidentiary hearing? but what’s next is we find out what sort of deal they’ll offer?”
“Deal,” says Ysabel, and the shape of her mouth attests to the word’s bitter taste.
“It’s a misdemeanor? and I know Chris, he’s not going to come out swinging? so – ”
“Chris?”
“Chris Haverford? The DDA? He’s reasonable, and I have to tell you, right now, there’s zero chance of jail time?” The snap and squeak of someone’s footsteps, coming up the staircase from the lobby below, and Sam heads sidelong over beneath the high green windows, lets her tapestry bag slip from her shoulder to settle on the bench there, careful of her burden, but not careful enough, as in about three different directions the loose papers and folders she’s been holding tumble and flapple and slop to the bench, the floor, “Goddammit!” she snaps, lurched up and back from the mess of it all. Whoever it is has reached the top of the stairs and stopped there, sagging sleeveless T-shirt and satiny shorts, white socks and shower slippers, taken aback by the sight of herself in that extravagant gown of saffron and white, stood watching as Sam sets to picking it all back up again, stuffing papers and folders into that capacious bag. “Unless they dig up something else?” she’s saying, “and we don’t want to give them time to go digging? So whatever deal he comes to us with is worth some serious consideration?”
Ysabel stoops of a sudden, those skirts collapsing as she sinks to her knees by Sam, and at that the man in the slippers shakes his head and sets off toward the service desk at the end of the hall, the whick and flap of his slippers receding. “Give me some paper,” says Ysabel.
“What?”
“I should like to borrow a pad of paper, or a notebook. And a pen.”
The two of them, knelt by the bench beneath those high cool windows, and Sam’s bag an abstract welter of color, blues and reds and oranges roughly woven together, the crumpled sheen of Ysabel’s gown, spread over the scuffed tile floor. Reaching into the papers scattered between them, Ysabel tugs out a canary legal pad, crowded with meticulous notes, “I need those?” says Sam, “Let me find you something,” but with a sudden loud rip Ysabel’s torn the first few scribbled-over pages free, offering them up, and after a moment Sam takes them. “And a pen?” says Ysabel. “I’ll return it when next we meet.”
That gown, those skirts, sweep the treads all the way down the steps, and quickly past the security checkpoint, the one officer there by the X-ray machine not even looking up from his book, out through shadowed glass front doors onto a narrow hall of a porch, closed off by great sheets of plywood nailed up over the spaces between columns, painted a dull bluish grey, strung with trouble lights to tinnily approximate the daylight at either end. She heads away left toward an opening hacked in the plywood there, out onto the sidewalk, the corner there, fire hydrant, crosswalk sign a flashing red hand she ignores, her wide belling gown of saffron bright, bustle and skirts whitely dazzle as she sets off, marching diagonally across the intersection to an angry screech of brakes and a ragged chorus of horns.
Into a small park enclosed by trees along the sidewalks, low brick steps leading up from the corner through a perfunctory grove, slender head-high freshly planted trees in brick-ringed planters, a sunken, brick-lined amphitheater beyond, the full round of it triparted by low, wide steps, and just one other, no, two other people, a woman on the grassy slope beyond the amphitheater, speaking animatedly to the phone in her hand, and the man in the dark suit sat on the top ring, making a meal of a sushi burrito. He looks up, the woman’s monologue falters, they watch as gown a-sway Ysabel steps serenely down to sit herself on the bottommost ring, skirts pillowing fluff a moment to reveal her bare feet, crossed at the ankles, soles of them grimily dark with trampled filth. She sets the pad on her saffron-draped knee, clicks the pen once, twice, with a swoop she starts to write, words coming quickly, becoming jagged, forceful, nib grinding page until, she lifts it away, a trembling, calming breath. Tears the page from the pad and crumples it in a fist she opens on nothing at all.
“The twenty-ninth,” she says, to herself, “of June, June the twenty-ninth,” sets pen to paper, and begins, once more, to write.
The Portland Tribune, founded by the Pamplin Media Group, was purchased by the Carpenter Media Group in 2024, which then reduced staff to two reporters and no editor and ceased print publication as of 2025. “Young, Gifted, and White,” written by August Darnell and Peter Schott, ©199-something.
