Black Glass by Karen Joy Fowler Read Free Book Online Page A

engines failed, and that time when his wife was supposed to be home by seven and didn’t arrive until after ten because the class discussion had been so interesting they’d taken it to a bar to continue it and the bar phone had been out of order, and that time he was on bufotoxins.
    â€œThe problem is not here in the States with the consumers. The problem is down there with the suppliers.”
    â€œYou’re sending me on a suicide mission.”
    â€œWe want your loa in Colombia,” Harris’s superior said.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    HARRIS PACKED HIS CLOTHES for Richmond. He had no red underwear, but he had boxers with red valentines on them. They were a gift from his wife. He put them on, making a mental list of the other items he needed. Eggs dyed yellow, fresh eggs, so he would have to pick them up after he arrived. Salt. Red and white candles. The black toad, for luck. Feathers. Harris pulled his Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and reached for his pillow.
    â€œPatrick?” Harris’s wife called him from the kitchen. “Patrick, would you come here a moment?” Harris put the knife away.
    His wife stood in front of the refrigerator. In one hand she had the picture of Carry and her hatchet, torn from
The Girl’s Life.
The edges were dipped in red candle wax. “I found this under the Tater Tots,” Harris’s wife said. “What is it and how did it get in my freezer?”
    Harris had no answer. He had to stall and think of one. He opened the refrigerator and got himself a beer. “My freezer?” he said pointedly, popping the flip-top. “Isn’t it our freezer?”
    â€œHow did this get in our freezer?”
    â€œI don’t think I would ever have referred to the freezer as my freezer,” Harris said sadly. He drank his beer, for timing rather than thirst, an extra moment to let his point sink in. Then he amplified. “I don’t think you’ll find me doing that. But with you it’s always my kitchen. My Sunday paper. My bed.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” said his wife. She held out the picture. Harris spoke again before she could.
    â€œIt signifies,” he said. “It certainly signifies.”
    His wife had the tenacity of a hound. “What’s with the picture?”
    â€œI spilled wax on it. Accidentally.” Harris had not survived in the Latin American drug theater without some ability to think on his feet. He took the photograph from her. “Naturally I wanted to remove the wax in such a way as to do as little damage to the picture as possible. This picture came out of a library book, after all. I thought I could remove the wax easier if the wax was hard. So I put it in the freezer.”
    â€œWhy were you reading by candlelight?” his wife asked. “You tore the picture out of a library book? That doesn’t sound like you.”
    â€œThe book was due back. It had to be returned.” His wife was staring at him. “It was overdue,” Harris said.
    He missed the loa in Richmond. A few hours after his wife took the picture out of the freezer and before he’d hidden it under the bed, pinned beneath a glass of salt water to force the loa across an ocean, she struck. Harris’s superior caught him on the car phone on the way to the airport. In addition to Richmond, there’d been a copycat incident in Chicago at a cocaine sale. The sale had been to the DEA. They had worked on it for months, and then some grandmother with a hatchet sent it all south. “I want her on the plane to Colombia yesterday,” Harris’s superior said.
    Harris canceled his reservation and drove to Alexandria. She was coming so fast. For the first time, he asked himself why. Was she coming for him?
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    â€œSTRAYING TONIGHT, straying tonight, leaving the pathway of honor and right. . . .” The song came from inside the