Dumb House

Andrea Hairston

 

 

“WHAT THE HELL would I do in a smart house but lose my mind?”

Cinnamon Jones shook a mop of salt and pepper braids at the sweaty characters panting on the side steps to her dumb house. She had to boost her farm’s horror rep. This was the third time traveling salesmen had braved the path to her door in a week. The two slicksters in fluorescent suits and stingy-brim fedoras fumbled through bulky bags of samples, fronting like throwbacks from the 1950s.

Cinnamon waved them away. “You’re wasting your time.” Her hands were covered in dirt and grease from trying to fix a ventilator in the porch-greenhouse. Spider plants were trailing through the windows, enjoying an afternoon breeze. Daffodils busted out in yellow glory, scenting the air inside and out. “You’re lucky.” Doing Carnival this morning to welcome new leaves and first fruits had put Cinnamon in a decent mood. Otherwise, she’d have been cussing.

“We got just the smart house you need!” one fellow boomed. “Smart and sassy!”

“How’d you get up here?” The main road was blocked off—Co-op security for all the farms. The old African must have left the bike path gate open again, probably even invited the suits in. Cinnamon would have to talk to Taiwo. What good was a monster patrolling the farm perimeter if they didn’t scare folks away? Carnival had sucked up Cinnamon’s people-energy. She didn’t want to see anybody. “I’m not buying. Nothing. I told you guys that online.” Opening the heavy greenhouse door had been a bad idea. It was too hard to close.

“We came a long way on foot, sugar, to see you. In person.” The talker had devilish dimples and misty green eyes—a tall drink of water with a broad chest and a faint accent. Very pale. Northern European? “That path meanders all over hell and back.”

“Evil need a straight line.” Cinnamon chuckled. “That’s elder wisdom from Japan.”

“Word.” The salesmen exchanged glances. The talker cocked his head. “Good don’t get lost in the twists and turns.” He looked back at the maple, birch, and white oak trees hugging the hills. “And everything’s better live, know what I’m saying?” A jewel-encrusted sword pin held his silk tie in place. Wispy white hair was tucked under the fedora. In the last century, maybe, he was a glamorous silver fox who hung out with black folks. Course everybody talked black these days. Twenty-first century English was a child of rap. “I know you been hip-hopping and show-stopping your whole life. And forward thinking too.”

“Not any more, though.” Cinnamon missed the wild person she used to be.

“A dumb house ain’t you.” The fox grinned and spun around, dipped low and jumped high, a dancer. A really sly algorithm had sicced this fellow on her. “Why get stuck in the old school now, girl?”

“Girl?” Cinnamon wasn’t fooled by the hip masquerade. These were poor men—laid off, downsized, hedged out—pushing junk on other poor folks. Desperate, they’d walked two muddy miles to con an old black lady—live, since the online swindles failed. Rescuing her from her retro self was the script. Cinnamon muttered curses at Taiwo for too much African hospitality at the gate and not enough scary juju. “I’m glad I’m old.”

“Me too. You have enough wisdom to appreciate our offer.” The silver fox babbled on about the wonders of the new age. Cinnamon shook her head at his scam-speak and squinted at the short, silent one. He was thin, tan, and eight inches shorter than Cinnamon. He had features from all over the map. Or maybe that was make-up. Sensuous, quivering lips made Cinnamon nervous. Black opal eyes tracked her every move. He was mirroring her, like a theatre game. Slick. Folks moving and breathing with you made you let down your guard.

This was an altogether intriguing pair.

Cinnamon had to stay frosty. Salesmen could be spies, sussing out hackers and digital renegades for Consolidated Corp. She was two payments behind and owed several thousand dollars plus interest for basic access. Consolidated’s profit-algorithm might cut her loose any minute or mess up her credit and bully the local bank. But sending out a live posse, two salesmen on this mission—in purple patent leather loafers and paisley ties? What deep correlation had she bumped up against?

The smooth-talking fox dropped his voice, rumbling and growling at her. “Upgrade for the people who love you, girl.”

“Who you calling girl again?”

The fox stepped back, looked her up and down, and tap danced around the fieldstone terrace. “Still looking fine.” The accent was faint, maybe imagined. The gleam in his eye was definite.

“Lines like that never work on me.” Cinnamon wiped dirt and grease from her hands onto a gardening apron. Well, almost never.

“Come join us in the twenty-first century.” He laughed good-naturedly, not a put-down and just shy of a come-on. He was good, a real showman. “You won’t regret it.”

Both salesmen broke out inflatables that whistled and squealed as they blew up. In two minutes Cinnamon’s fieldstone terrace was the bouncy inside of a model smart house. “Stuff just fixes itself, before you even notice it’s broke. Everything is hooked into everything else, a learning machine, a coordinated network, voice-activated and taking the cues from you.”

“Right. Me, only better.” Cinnamon sucked her teeth like her Gullah grandmother and ignored the giant balloons. “You sure you got the right ZIP Code? I can’t afford this. Down in the Valley, rich folks in Electric Paradise just love this kinda—”

“Carlos Witkiewicz here.” The talker bowed. His breath had gotten shallow. A vein throbbed at his temples. “My partner, Barbett Blues.” Barbett Blues’ lips quivered. His breath was ragged too. He shot a worried glance at Carlos. These guys were more desperate than the last fellow.

“Blues? Witkiewicz? Like that Polish playwright?” Cinnamon pursed her lips and scowled. Barbett followed suit, snarkier than Cinnamon could manage. “Are those your real names or company handles?”

“Company names, for security,” Carlos sounded embarrassed or apologetic.

People tracked salesmen, even came after them, as if salesmen were responsible for the broke-down, planned-obsolescence crap they sold, as if salesmen were jacking the prices into the stratosphere. Barbett’s and Carlos’s names probably changed every day, maybe even a couple times a day. With makeup, contact lenses, hats—salesmen were ghosts, nothing to connect facial recognition to.

“You don’t have a car, darling, just bikes, and living way out here, growing oats and rye for the Co-op.” Carlos pointed at her sugar shack spouting smoke, and purred, “Maple sugaring all alone.”

“Not alone,” Cinnamon corrected him. She carefully curated her digital persona and backed it up during live encounters. Hiding in plain sight.

“I know a monster’s got your back, a witch-dog too—Bruja?” Carlos grinned. “What about the people who love you? I mean, they’re worried. An unenhanced house, at your age, that’s flirting with disaster. You feel me?”

Cinnamon snorted. “How old are you?”

“Well, I’m—” Barbett slugged Carlos before he finished. They reminded her of folks she knew a long time ago, when she was full of beans and not so much salt-and-vinegar.

Cinnamon chuckled. “Sixty is on my horizon, but I got a ways to go.” The salesmen could have been her age or close to it. Mostly younger folks out there hoofing it for Consolidated and other big corps—so what was their story? “We old farts are the ones who still know how to survive in the outback or when the power gets cut or when the rivers chase us up into the hills! My grandparents and great-aunt made sure of that for me. I can survive on weeds, use roots to heal what ails you, and make a fire in the rain.”

“A root worker? Fire in rain?” Barbett Blues spoke! A throaty blues-singer rasp and a strange accent. He was another smooth character underneath the snark. He leaned close. “Still?”

“So much, just washed away.” Carlos surveyed the hills again, stricken. “Up high is lucky.”

“Oh. You were in the water wars. Sorry,” Cinnamon said.

Carlos nodded, then cleared the storm from his face. He and Barbett were probably living out of a beat-up dumb car, driving themselves along the digital divide. The faint tang of hand sanitizer and rancid grease wafted from their clothes. Yeah, they were sleeping on the road and taking showers in the rain. It was work hard-sales or starve. The sly algorithm wanted her to feel sorry for the fallen middle class and spend big, like shopping would help save the world from itself.

Sleazy data miners were working her last nerve.

Cinnamon sighed and took off the greasy apron. No more repairs today; her concentration was shot. She needed imagination flow to solve a glitch and fix what was broken. The salesmen gaped at her snakeskin demon costume. Feathers and feelers reached toward them. Jewel eyes on her thighs broke the sun into rainbows and peered through the spaces between things. Carlos was dazzled, obvious desire on his breath. Acting unimpressed, Barbett slugged Carlos again, but took careful note of Taiwo’s juju-tech.

“You should’ve seen Carnival this morning. We put on a show for the whole Valley.” Cinnamon cringed. Did salesmen have time for Carnival? “You both water-war refugees?”

“Yeah, so?” Carlos snapped at her. “The past is not important.”

Who else their age would be desperate enough to take this ridiculous job? Risky too—angry bad boys in the hill towns regularly went out hunting somebody to blame.Salesmen were low-hanging fruit.

Carlos gritted his teeth. “I’m living tomorrow now. So should you. Buy on credit.”

“I like today just fine. Yesterday give me a good feeling too.” Cinnamon let self-righteousness flow for a second. “Progress is an illusion. A marketing ploy.”

Dirt kicked up behind Carlos. One of the inflatables had refused to blow up. Gas was hissing through the spring herb garden instead of doing its job on a wad of limp plastic. Carlos dropped to the ground, fussing and cussing at valves and tiny pumps.

Barbett Blues whispered sweetly to Cinnamon who didn’t understand much except, “Old lady, alone, bad.” He was talk-singing—an astral-bop riff in that unfamiliar accent. “Scared? You?” Barbett chanted.

“Should I be? You planning an ambush?” Cinnamon put her hands on hefty hips. The feathers on her shoulders curled into thin blades. Barbett’s eyes got wide. “Some folks are more cloud than storm. Not me,” Cinnamon sounded as country and throwback as possible. Not an act—she had Georgia roots by way of Chicago and Pittsburgh, transplanted to Massachusetts.

“Here come future.” Barbett pointed at the inflatables. “Start small, lonely no more.”

“I told you. I’m not alone,” Cinnamon said.

“They pay us not to listen.” Carlos pulled a tiny tool kit from his bag.

“Well, look.” Cinnamon nodded at the spirit garden surrounding the fieldstone terrace. Coming up to the house, the salesmen had walked through a half circle of wooden statues—West African deities: Shango, Yemaya, Oshun, Obatala, and Eshu. Granddaddy Aidan carved these spirit figures for Taiwo. Barbett stood near Mami Wata, African queen mother of the waters, who soaked up sun for her ocean spray of LED lights. Cinnamon had built Mami Wata from a hunk of recycling junk.

“Voodoo-hoodoo.” Barbett hopped from one foot to the other. Miz Redwood, Cinnamon’s grandmother, had done hoodoo hot-foot spells all around the house.

“Nobody believes in that.” Carlos checked valves and hoses on the pumps. “People be hoodooing their own selves.” He sounded like Miz Redwood was talking through him for a moment. “Stop.”

Barbett stepped out of the loafers into the crabgrass to cool his feet. The maple trees rustled in a private breeze. Everything else was still. Tiny red flowers and leaf buds glistened with late afternoon fog. Granddaddy Aidan and Miz Redwood built the dumb house in a warm hollow, near Great Aunt Iris’s favorite spot to collect roots. A foggy clump of shade looked like Aunt Iris, hunched in dead weeds and talking wind words. Barbett and Klaus gasped. The elders had promised to haunt Cinnamon, and she let them. They haunted desperadoes and other fools trying to mess with her too.

“You’d be surprised who all keeps me company,” Cinnamon said.

“I don’t think so.” Carlos tightened one last valve. Barbett stepped back in his shoes.

“You two met Taiwo at the gate.” Cinnamon enjoyed telling this story. “Almost a hundred fifty years on this Earth. How long in other dimensions is an open question.” Taiwo was out there, somewhere, doing who knows what, yet the old African and a brigade of warrior-women haints were never far when danger lurked. “Monster always on the case,” Cinnamon whispered.

Carlos spritzed a tiny hose with sealant. “Word on the road is that Taiwo has totaled trucks, sent armed thugs packing, and brought comatose bad boys back from the dead. He? She? uses alien tech from another dimension and juju learned in West Africa from the Yoruba, Fon, and Igbo—tribes over there.”

“You’re well-informed.” Cinnamon rubbed her nose. Too well-informed, really. Maybe these intrepid salesmen had come to check up on the wild stories. “Why did Taiwo let you through?”

“Green. No waste water.” Barbett waved a flyer of stats for a smart toilet, talk-singing. “Why flush good data?”

“Fixed!” Carlos jumped up in front of a three-dimensional print shop bouncing close to the herbs now. “A home factory where you might make a doll of yourself or, or anybody you love.”

“No way!”

Carlos clutched his chest and got paler. He looked like he might fall over.

“You guys got the wrong ZIP Code or the wrong sales pitch or both. I’m not your target audience.” She shook her head at the inflatables bobbing in the breeze: a food processor, climate system, virtual shopping mall, game and entertainment center, med unit, and a sex suite with vibrators, massage slings, and purple dragon dildos. Mobile cameras, mics, and dust angels floated everywhere, sweeping up allergens, dead skin, and intimate data. The toilet was talking to the fridge and the microwave, and set to broadcast—Big Data laws be damned. Cinnamon groaned. They were selling ancient tech, from before 2020. This might be warehouse stock that never sold and cost too much to take apart and throw out. Or maybe it was toxic shit that got recalled. Cinnamon glared at a purple dragon dildo. It made her feel like a prude and a little horny, or actually lonely.

Carlos wagged a finger at her. “See anything you like?”

“No.” Cinnamon folded her arms across her breasts, feelers flailing and feathers bristling. Barbett reached across Carlos, touched a sharp edge, and sliced a finger. Cinnamon jumped back. “Pack that crap up. Walk on back to the gate. Tell Taiwo I don’t need company.” She stomped up the stairs to the greenhouse. Taiwo would be up all night, sweeping the whole area for spy tech left behind, not Cinnamon.

“Leave. Now!” Cinnamon shouted over her shoulder. She’d wasted enough time and most of her decent mood. Feeling good was too precious, too rare. “Trust me. I do have a monster on call.” She shoved the greenhouse door toward the sill.

Carlos stuck his foot in the crack and got up in her face. “What about a special offer tailored just for you?” He and Cinnamon were about the same height and he was as muscled and strong as she was. Fine wrinkles around his eyes and lips looked like he used to laugh a lot. No lips to speak of but they curved into a foolish grin. Cinnamon smashed the door against his purple shoe. Carlos yelped, and the door bounced back, almost knocking her down.

Cinnamon rubbed her forehead and smacked the door. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours. Look.” Carlos unfolded an array of tiny gadgets on a sheet of flexible plastic: beady little camera eyes on everything, ladybug speakers and mics, storage chips as thin as a strand of hair, or maybe those were sensors. State-of-the-art gear. A Wi-Fi virtual-reality rig had sleek silver goggles and plush ear cups on a sparkly tiara. A row of crystal data cubes made rainbows like the jewel-eyes on her demon thighs. These cubes were Cinnamon’s design. Consolidated was still getting rich off her whimsy.

“Fifty percent off.” Carlos was relentless. “This afternoon only.” They were trying to sell her own tech to her. Irony was a killer. “You can’t beat that.”

Cinnamon shook her head.

Carlos was breathless. “Free installation plus we can waive the cable connection fee.”

“No cable out here. It’s the ancient phone line, a satellite, or that cell tower.” She pointed to the nearby mountain range. A metal tree with antennae, receivers, and processors was camouflaged as a strapping elm giant. A ghost tree. “Consolidated owns the sky, the airways…” She scanned above them for drones. “I have nothing worth stealing. What’s your game? Who are you really?”

Carlos clamped a hand over the sword pin on his paisley tie. “Even the algorithm doesn’t know who the fuck I am.” He dropped his hand and got back on script, back on charm. “We can start installation immediately. Let us make your today great.”

“I love my dumb house. My grandparents built it—straw bales, solar power, and hoodoo conjure. I don’t let just every pushy body inside.” Rage flared. “I’m the guardian of this gate.” She shoved Carlos and Barbett down the steps. They scrambled to protect their newfangled electric delights. Bruja, border collie witch-dog, barged through the inflatables snarling and snapping at the bouncing wonders. She was late to the party. Some watchdog.

“Dog bite?” Barbette exchanged desperate looks with Carlos. “Witch-dog worse than ghost-dog.”

“You know Spook?” Ghost-dog was Taiwo’s eyes, ears, and nose on the prowl. Hardly anybody ever saw Spook. He was a creature of myth and legend. They’d done deep research. Cinnamon whistled. Bruja trotted over and looked her brown eye and blue eye at Cinnamon, ready to bust big balloons if given the command, ready to do worse too. “Bruja doesn’t like strangers any better than I do.” The salesmen didn’t start packing up like they had any kind of sense. Whatever algorithm was running their mission had made unreasonable demands.

“Sixty percent off.” Carlos let irritation leak. The mask was cracking. “Free upgrades for four months. No rate hikes for six months. No payments for twelve. A totally discount future!”

“I don’t care if you’re giving it away.” Cinnamon offered a sweet smile. “You guys are worse than chewing gum and super glue.”

Carlos clutched the sword tiepin again. “Just let us in. We’ll explain everything.” The accent came back. German. “Please.”

Barbett clutched his tie-pin too. “Good story.”

“You think I’m a fool?” Cinnamon was curious despite her suspicions. They dropped their hands. “You recording this right now and streaming it to home base?”

Carlos waved a hand in the air. “Quality control, to help improve service.”

Barbett spit strange words in his ear.

“Why does he talk so weird? Tell me that at least.”

“Not he. Gender free.” Barbett was defiant. “Identity hard to hold in English.”

Carlos talked over Barbett. “No payments for a year. Use all this gear, free. How can you refuse?”

“Nothing’s free.” Cinnamon shook her head. Why keep arguing with them? She did have a soft spot for old thespians and there was something else about them, something she should remember.

“Paranoia prevents you from enjoying progress.” Carlos ventured too close. Bruja nipped at his heels. He danced away from her growl and tripped into the inflatable sex suite. The VR-tiara punctured a dragon dildo and the exhibit hissed and shriveled around him. Cinnamon gripped Bruja before she lunged. Carlos scrambled for balance. “They’re firing us today, if we don’t get a sale—” He clutched his heart and crumpled. His splotchy face landed in a cluster of bluebells.

Barbett crouched down quickly and turned Carlos over. The stingy brim fedora rolled into the forsythia bushes. Barbett brushed flowers and dirt from Carlos’s face, put a pill under his tongue and an ear to his chest. The feathers and feelers on Cinnamon’s demon costume softened, fluttering in the breeze. Bruja whined and struggled.

“So you like him now.” Cinnamon let her go. The witch-dog ran to Carlos and licked blotchy cheeks. Cinnamon stepped close. Carlos’s eyes rolled up in his head. Fear streaked across her nerves. This was real. “Is he having a heart attack or something?”

“Or something.” Barbette ground gleaming teeth. “Dumb car blows out at gate.”

“Ah, can’t fix itself.” Cinnamon squatted down and touched a clammy neck. She barely felt a pulse. “I don’t have a car up here. You should call somebody.”

“Cell wrecked.” Barbett held up a mangled phone. “His too.”

“Damn.” Cinnamon’s cell was in the microwave, dead to the world. The nearest Co-op neighbor with a car was a few miles away. This stupid scenario was the heart of their sales pitch. Cinnamon hated irony. “I’ll call for help.”

She sprinted to the garage. The landline and computer lived on a table among her pedal-people bikes and trailers. She’d haul Carlos to the gate if need be. Unblocking the main road would take forever. The dial tone was a relief. Bill paid, service yet to be phased out. She punched the emergency number then argued with a dispatcher half way round the world or maybe in Arizona. Consolidated never paid health expenses for salesmen. So Cinnamon lied and offered an Electric Paradise account. She still had an expense line from debugging the Valley security system last week. She slammed the phone down. An ambulance was going to cost a fortune and take forever to get there.

Carlos could die in the meantime.

Cinnamon raced back from the garage, smacking the inflatables out of her way. She needed a defibrillator, not a sex suite. The sun was still blasting heat, even at a low angle. Sweat collected in her hollows, curves, and creases. Bruja curled close to Carlos, panting to stay cool. Treading on Miz Redwood’s spells, Cinnamon’s feet burned. She was hoodooing herself.

“They’re coming,” she said. “Taiwo will let us know when they reach the gate.”

“We can’t pay,” Barbett said.

“I paid for the wheels. The Co-ops set up a free clinic at the Ghost Mall. There’s a bed for you in the shelter. You’ll be fine.” Cinnamon fought nasty suspicion with logic. Salesmen were amateur spies, dirt-cheap labor collecting random data. Salesmen wouldn’t stage a heart attack on her steps. Live-action melodrama was for pros—corporate espionage. No reason to spend so many live minutes on Cinnamon.

“He is breath,” Barbett talk-sang and patted Carlos’s chest tenderly, as if they were more than colleagues. “All heart. Good heart.”

“Uh huh.” Cinnamon’s heart pounded.

Carlos gulped a raggedy breath through bloodless lips.

“Oh, all right.” Cinnamon relented. “The garage is an oven. We take him into the house to wait. It’s cool.”

She undid Carlos’s tie and tossed it in a can of storm water and fertilizer dung. She snatched Barbett’s tie too. “You look a little peaked yourself.” She threw the spy gear into the birdbath. Barbette shook off the fedora. A mane of black and grey skinny braids tumbled free. A familiar smirk lurked behind an excellent make-up job. Recognition smacked Cinnamon so hard, she almost fell down next to Carlos. Name aphasia made her want to scream, but they were lifting Carlos and stumbling toward the greenhouse. He was heavy and hot and familiar too. Older yes, but how had she missed who they were? They recognized her for sure.

Cinnamon halted at the steps to the greenhouse. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Inside. Sun too hot. Too heavy for talking.”

Bruja herded them up the steps and into the greenhouse. When they reached the irises, the witch-dog raced back and jumped against the door. The hinges creaked and hollered, then the damn thing closed easily behind them.

 

 

IT WAS TWENTY degrees cooler in the open room at the center of the dumb house—always temperate, thanks to straw bale walls. Pots of lavender and jasmine cleaned and soothed the air. Spider plants cascaded out of hanging bowls and snake plants crowded the corners, clearing toxins too. Creature and demon costumes hung from the mantle and molding hooks. Masks peeked from the shelves. Half-finished props were scattered across the dining table: birds, shields, wands, boulders, staffs, and a flying-carpet drone that broke more often than it flew. Photos and otherworldly paintings from Cinnamon’s old life, her good life, graced the walls. Rag rugs from Aunt Iris cushioned tired feet. Granddaddy Aidan had crafted chairs, tables, and a big sofa. Miz Redwood stuffed the pillows. Cinnamon’s demon mask perched on the back of the sofa, grinning as they deposited Carlos on the firm cushions.

Cinnamon sucked a deep breath and grabbed the mask. The hair was a scratchy thicket of brambles and thorns. Lightning bolts on the cheeks sparked and fiber optic eyes smoldered. She set the mask on the dining table and shut the hallway doors, revealing Taiwo’s altar to Eshu, crossroads deity, trickster always messing in people’s lives. Taiwo’s chant still echoed through the house:

 

Who do you mean to be?

I am Guardian at the Gates

Master of uncertainty

The cat that be dead and not dead

The electron, the pulse, everywhere at once

And nowhere too

 

“What is that?” Barbett who wasn’t Barbett said. “What am I hearing?”

“Taiwo.” Cinnamon was about to burst.

The old African wouldn’t waste words on just anybody.

“Taiwo, talking all the way from the gate?”

Cinnamon closed the sky light. “This morning’s prayer. Lingering. Till there’s another prayer.” A constellation of LED lights on the ceiling and walls glowed softly and banished the sudden dark. “Inside here is a Faraday fortress. No signals in or out. We can say anything.” But she didn’t know what to say or think or feel. “Marie? Marie Masuda? Is that you?”

“Of course.” Marie spat wads of cotton from her cheeks and mopped goop from her face onto a once-white handkerchief. “Damn! Who else would I be?” Marie was still snarky.

“So why the masquerade?”

“Salesmen can’t reveal true identities. You lose your commissions and get fired.”

“Oh.” Cinnamon held out a recycling basket for make-up refuse. “Are you really genderqueer?”

Marie shrugged. “Probably, but I don’t mind she. Too old for new pronouns.”

“Not if you rehearse. Too lazy, maybe…”

Marie smirked and stuck out her tongue. Bruja plopped in front of Thunderbird and Dragon as they powered up between the sofa and the bookshelves—her favorite spot. Marie gawked. “Are those winged heaps of junk robotic lights?”

“Circus-bots,” Cinnamon sputtered. “Carnival took all their juice.”

Marie nodded. “Tin-can dragon and cellophane wonder-bird. Still putting on shows? I thought you were some big engineer.”

Cinnamon wasn’t going there. “Is that Klaus Beckenbauer with you?”

“Who else? He should come around soon.” Marie peeled derma-wax from Klaus’s nose and chin. “The pass-out heart-thing looks worse than it is. That’s what Klaus says. I don’t know if I believe him. Maybe dancing in this heat was a bad idea. He can still kick it, though.”

“No, no.” Cinnamon gripped a sweetgrass broom leaning against the sofa and let her theatre voice boom. “You two can’t just sneak back into somebody’s life in fucking disguises and then do idle chit-chat about pronouns and sexy dance moves.”

“You looked right through us!” Marie yelled too. Bruja sat up and whined. “How could you not recognize us?” Marie was mad that their disguises worked so well. This was unreasonable, but Cinnamon swallowed an angry retort. Marie sniffled and stroked Klaus’s chest again. “The air is better in here. Look at him breathe.” She blinked contacts lenses into a plastic case. Familiar brown eyes glared at Cinnamon. “I’m still not nice, you know. I’ve never been nice.”

“I remember.” Cinnamon always liked how snarky Marie was. “You two are like, ghosts come to haunt me. Spooky.”

Marie rolled her eyes, still a hardcore realist. “Is it spooky and nice at least?”

Klaus, Marie, and Cinnamon had been tight friends back in Pittsburgh, more than friends actually, teenagers in love, doing plays, dancing, and carrying on. Klaus and Marie were Cinnamon’s first loves. She’d lost track of them. Her heart ached to see them again, on her sofa. The passion they’d professed for each other at sixteen and seventeen was stored deep in her heart—part of her algorithm for love. How could they be real?

“We were so sullen, ardent, and clueless.” Loneliness crashed into Cinnamon, crushed her chest, made her gasp.

Marie eyed her. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Out there quoting Japanese wisdom from the old country—really?” Marie snorted.

“From Granddaddy Aidan’s journal, not about you being Japanese-American.”

“But you talk that crap to strangers? Jesus.”

“I can’t believe you’re fussing over nothing, and after all this time.”

Marie softened. “I was joking.”

“Ha, ha.” Cinnamon’s costume itched prickly skin. “What is it, thirty years?”

“Forty years and some change. And I recognized you right off.” Marie pouted.

“Well, I’m not trying to hide my face, am I?”

“But you are hiding out here all alone! Taiwo is mad at you for that and for going country and throwback on us. Anti-technology, you?”

“Yeah. I’ve killed three AI assistants—Willy, Milly, and Geraldine—fussbudget spies, collecting my data, talking so sweet, and the bitches were steady using me against me.” Cinnamon balled her fists. “How could you come as salesmen?”

Marie flipped her braids from side to side. “Hiding in the outback is no way better than masquerading on the road.” Marie was always good on nailing her.

Cinnamon bent over Klaus. “What can I do?” She stroked his head. He loved that when they were young.

Marie clutched his hand. “He didn’t really explain. He said don’t worry unless it takes more than thirty minutes for him to come ’round.”

“That’s bullshit if I ever heard it.”

“You know how he is.”

“Still?”

Marie almost burst into tears. “Sorry. It is so good to see you. I can’t tell you how good.” She stood up and moved in for a hug.

Cinnamon backed away. She bumped into Taiwo’s altar. A picture of Cinnamon, Klaus, and Marie as teenagers fell over, and the glass in the frame shattered. A thousand pieces sprayed across the floor. Marie dropped down, plucked the old photo from the shards, and shook it gently. Their teenage selves wore goofy smiles and colorful regalia from Africa and Georgia swamp Indians. They were hanging all over each other, love on public display. Cinnamon had forgotten the title of that play—a monster-with-a-golden-heart gig. Marie touched their eager, sweet faces. They were fearless, staring out at a grand future. She held it against her chest and swallowed a sob. Cinnamon grabbed the sweetgrass broom again and swept up the glass, letting Marie collect herself. Marie hated public display. Cinnamon dampened a cloth in a water can and wiped up the tiny fragments.

Marie hovered over her. “So what are you doing?”

“What? Oh, you mean with my life.” An awful question. “What are you two doing? Salesmen?” Cinnamon was disappointed and jealous. At least Klaus and Marie were in the muck together. She dumped the glass in bottle recycling. “Couldn’t you find anything better to do?”

“You haven’t been out on the road.” Marie was ready to cry again. She set the photo back in the altar among cowry shells, red feathers, and giant acorns. “I like who I used to be. I miss her, and every day takes me further away, to, to—”

“To some cranky stranger with bad teeth and a foul temper.” Cinnamon and Marie laughed and fell into a hug. It was awkward and itchy at first.

“What’s this fabric?” Marie marveled as the demon feathers and feelers turned soft and silky.

“Second skin. Taiwo’s juju-tech.” Cinnamon pecked Marie’s cheek, chaste and reserved suddenly. There was no protocol for old teenage lovers sneaking back in your life—gray, crinkled, and tough as nails. She bent over Klaus again. His eyes fluttered.

“A kiss would wake me right up.” He grinned at her, cheeks pale and cool again.

“I guess you’ll have to go on dreaming then.” Cinnamon didn’t resist as he tugged her close and kissed her forehead. He sat up slowly. She kissed his rough cheek and touched the pulse on his neck. It was steady, strong.

“I was listening to you two. It felt like a dream.” He laid his cheek in the palm of Cinnamon’s hand.

Marie poked his shoulder. “So what, you’re fine now?”

“Almost. A little hungry, but otherwise fine.” Neither Cinnamon nor Marie challenged him. “Dancing in the sun, I worked up an appetite.”

“Uh huh.” Cinnamon gave him the stink eye.

“My condition looks worse than it is.” He raised his voice. “I’m a doctor. Trust me.”

“Where’s the potty?” Marie asked, scowling. Cinnamon pointed.

“Where’s the kitchen?” Klaus jumped up, acting fit and frisky. “You got any food?”

Cinnamon jumped up beside him. “I’ll get you something.”

Of course Klaus had to come around the corner with her. A screen and a wall of DVDs hung opposite the refrigerator over a breakfast nook. Klaus stroked a row of old-fashioned jewel cases.

“You don’t stream movies, I take it.” He pulled out Brother from Another Planet and The Shape of Water. “Do you have Black Panther?”

“No streaming.” Cinnamon fought a wave of self-righteousness. “Remember Aunt Iris busting up the TV?”

“During commercials.” He pushed the films back in.

“Why hand your enemies the keys to the kingdom?”

He laughed as she smeared a fortune in cashew butter on a thick slice of three-seed rye. She added fresh strawberries from her greenhouse. Klaus scarfed the food down and chugged a mug of lukewarm green tea.

“So what’s your story?” She tried to sound casual.

“I’m jealous. Marie didn’t talk to me like to you and no snark. As if I don’t have all the cups in my cupboard.”

“Cups in the cupboard is a German thing; we say all the lights aren’t on, or something.”

“I didn’t recognize Marie either. She was standing under my nose, grinning.” He spooned the last of the cashew butter onto another hunk of bread. “We weren’t expecting each other, not like walking up to your dumb house, knowing you’d try to kick our predatory capitalist asses.” Delighted at this image of Cinnamon, he popped whole strawberries into his mouth and swallowed without chewing.

“You can’t blame Marie. It’s not like you talk unless we beat it out of you.” Cinnamon passed him a hunk of soy cheese.

“Marie’s as sad as you.” Klaus ran his finger over Cinnamon’s creased forehead.

She stroked his sparse hair. “Is Marie as sad as you?”

“I hear you all talking about me!” Marie yelled from the bathroom.

Klaus crammed cheese in his mouth and crept back toward the center room. Balance was elusive. He steadied himself against the wall and smiled at the props and sweetgrass baskets and fans. Bruja thumped her tail, encouraging him.

“You’re a charmer,” Cinnamon said. “Witch-dog prefers circus-bots to most people.”

“What about you, you been good? You got yourself a magic haven, not a dumb house.” He was on the sofa again, shivering. “Sit down so we can all talk, tell each other everything.” He winked at her. “I got a chill in my bones. Warm me up.”

Cinnamon wanted to let her heart go, let it fly to him and Marie, but folks dropping out of nowhere was a bad sign. Cinnamon was on somebody’s radar. Marie swooped in from the bathroom and pulled Cinnamon down on the sofa with Klaus. After a few awkward moments, they squished close together and giggled like teenagers and old farts. Klaus popped out the misty green contacts. His silvery blue eyes were sad, tired. Cinnamon clutched their hands and looked across the room to the photo. It felt like looking across the years.

Klaus had been a Doctor Without Borders and Marie a Singer Without a Stage until the water wars. They stuttered, talking around the present, vague and protective. But stories about old times, magic times, tumbled out of everybody’s mouths. Cinnamon wanted to hug them close and never let them leave. She also wanted to chase them out the house.

“So tell me, people.” Cinnamon shook off a suspicious funk that could have paralyzed her and pulled them close. “You did deep research and ambushed me. I know zip about recent history. How long have you been hooked up?” Jealousy was better than depression.

Klaus and Marie pulled away from her. “We just met this morning.” They spoke in unison as if they’d rehearsed this. “Nobody else—”

“Wanted to come out to my hoodoo-voodoo farm.” Cinnamon chuckled. Forty years and they still finished each other’s sentences, and she was still jealous for nothing.

Marie flipped her braids around. “Taiwo and haints, come on.”

“A ghost-dog and a witch-dog.” Klaus poked her demon second skin. “And this costume.”

“A good horror-rep is the best protection against desperadoes.” Corporate spies were another matter.

“Can we trust you?” Marie squinted, looking for signs of betrayal.

“Of course we can,” Klaus blinked at Cinnamon. “Can’t we?”

Marie reached over Cinnamon and slugged him. “Naïve people get killed.”

“You all in some kind of trouble?” Cinnamon sucked her teeth. “Is that why you—”

“Came to see you? No.” Klaus looked wounded.

“We’re Whistleblowers,” Marie whispered, proud and devilish, “not real salesmen.”

“You told her, not me.” Klaus held his breath.

Bold Marie stroked Cinnamon’s braids. Klaus pulled one that curled tight at her forehead down to her chin. They were saying just what Cinnamon wanted to hear. “So you’re warning folks about toxins, scams, and hostile takeovers.”

Klaus nodded. “Any straight up evil mess.”

Cinnamon licked dry lips. “People say the Whistleblower thing is an urban legend. Wishful thinking.”

“Scheiße!” Klaus cursed in German.

“Yeah, shit,” Marie groaned. “That’s exactly what the big corps want you to think.”

“Die Arschgeigen!” Klaus muttered.

“Ass-violins? Ass-fiddles? Really?” Cinnamon was laughing.

“People should believe, even if we are secret.” Klaus hissed. “We should be possible.”

“Join us. You’d be a great Whistleblower.” Marie sounded excited.

“You’re here to recruit me?”

“For a traveling show.” Klaus was smooth. “We got inside info, sugar. Double agents gotta know what’s what.”

Consolidated or some other mega-corp was after Cinnamon’s farm and the other Co-op farms nearby. A slick algorithm expected her to jump at fancy rigs, bug drones, and hair-thin sensors. Eighty percent chance that curiosity might bankrupt her, and a mega-corp could scoop up the entire region. One farm failing would start a cascade.

Cinnamon was flabbergasted. “My land, not information?”

“Co-ops are a threat.” Marie shrugged like it was obvious. “Dumb houses are a nuisance, a gateway drug.”

“To what? Revolution? You’re kidding.” Cinnamon had to get out more.

“Food, social resources, water,” Klaus said.

“One system to rule them all.” Marie did a wicked monster laugh.

“Shh,” Klaus looked around. “Do you hear that?”

 

I am Guardian at the Gates

I have many plenty heads! You do not know me

I ask:

Which direction you goin’ take?

Who you mean to be?

 

“Taiwo’s morning chant, second verse,” Cinnamon said.

“It echoes through the house all day.” Marie shook Klaus. “Is that cool or what?”

Color painted Klaus’s cheeks. “How does that work?

Cinnamon pointed. “Speak your heart to the Eshu altar that guards the house.”

Marie tugged Cinnamon’s arm. “So, you want to be a Whistleblower? Do guerilla traveling theatre?”

Cinnamon slumped. She wasn’t ready for them or for all that. “I can’t leave the farm or ditch the Co-ops.”

Klaus and Marie looked crushed at this plausible excuse, then Marie spoke. “We thought you’d say that.”

“The farm, the Co-op, that’s good work,” Klaus added.

A bell rang. It was like being wrenched out of a dream. Taiwo called them to the gate. Cinnamon was relieved. She shouldn’t trust anybody too quickly, not even Klaus and Marie. “I’m sorry about getting you fired. The Ghost Mall infirmary is great. They’ll patch you up, patch up your dumb car. Nobody will suspect you’re Whistleblowers.”

“We still got jobs.” Klaus stood up. “Getting fired is part of the pitch.”

“Can we leave a chant for you?” Marie asked.

“Why not?” Cinnamon went to the garage to get wheels for Marie and to hook up a trailer to her bike for Klaus. She’d hear the chant later, a surprise to come home to. Marie packed up the inflatables, Bruja nipping at her heels. Klaus insisted on walking to the garage. He took precise steps, not a joule of energy wasted. Cinnamon stuffed the flatbed trailer with Miz Redwood’s pillows.

He sank into them, stretched out his legs and sighed. “I’ll be fine.”

 

 

THE BIKE PATH wandered two miles through the woods. The pink-orange rays of the setting sun got tangled in stark black boughs and branches. The air close to the ground was blue-green and hazy. Cinnamon’s pedal-people bike lumbered along like a tank. Klaus was no heavier than other gear she’d hauled. Cinnamon tried not to worry. Nobody’s cover was blown. Maybe she’d have her old friends in her life or they’d disappear again. For sure she’d pay off Consolidated with the last of her savings.

Loud bangs and angry voices jolted her. She pumped the pedals harder. Bruja ran ahead, a silver streak vanishing beyond the trees. Cinnamon squeezed the brakes just before they slammed into the gate. Klaus groaned at the abrupt halt. She jumped from the saddle, peering at the road. Marie pulled up beside them. Klaus stepped out of the trailer. They pressed their faces against the iron latticework.

A short way down the road, a car exploded in flames, an old jalopy, what salesmen drove. Cinnamon shuddered and looked around for Bruja. Witch-dog had a secret passage to the main road. Cinnamon whistled for her.

“Not our car,” Marie said, calm. “We wheeled if off the road and covered it in bushes.”

A mob of men taunted each other beyond the burning vehicle. Their blood-smeared suits, raggedy jeans, and denim jackets could have been rival team jerseys. “Bad boys, desperadoes, and salesmen,” Klaus sucked his teeth like Cinnamon. “The ambulance won’t drive into this.”

Taiwo jumped through the stringy yellow flowers and red leaf-buds of a white oak onto the blazing car. Muscled, scarred, and fierce, Taiwo looked like a buff African Amazon. A little more gray in the crown of braids these days, but not much change since Cinnamon was sixteen. Taiwo wore a black and red top hat from Carnival decorated with cowry shells and plumes. Lightning streaked across the storm-cloud cape as it fluttered around a cutlass. The men missed this grand entrance, banging and slashing at one another. Bruja barked and got their attention. They swallowed whatever they’d been yelling and froze.

Taiwo drew the fire from the car, sucking down blue and orange licks of flame. The mob was ready to pee themselves as Taiwo spit the blaze toward the orange ball of sun at the end of the road. Flames winked out or merged into the bright light. The blackened jalopy shifted under Taiwo’s weight and belched ashes out broken windows. The mob was backing away. Bruja ran to Taiwo, who cut a fine figure backlit by the sun, storm-cape snapping in the wind: badass monster on the case.

“You must be willing to die in order to live.” Klaus, Marie, and Cinnamon shouted a line from their old monster play in sync. “The lightning eater!”

Mangy desperadoes were the first to bolt, followed by hill town bad boys. Four salesmen gawked at Taiwo on the jalopy, uncertain. Bruja growled, and they jumped into a beat-up SUV and sped off.

“This spectacle should keep folks away for a month.” Cinnamon opened the gate and ran to Taiwo. The old African stumbled off the car roof and leaned on her.

“Good day today, you three together. Fire, easier than lightning, only a night to recover.” Taiwo enveloped Marie, Klaus, and Cinnamon in the storm-cape, holding them close until a driverless ambulance pulled up. Cinnamon had paid for a medic, but why fuss? Klaus and Marie waved from the back window. Cinnamon decided to visit them at the infirmary. Taiwo was right. It was good having folks tugging at her heartstrings.

“Don’t scold me; I won’t scold you,” Taiwo said, and disappeared into a tree house.

 

 

BACK HOME, CINNAMON swept the grounds for spy-bots. Exhausted, she stumbled through the greenhouse into the dumb house. Klaus and Marie had left their prayer to Eshu behind:

 

I say:

Wrong road lead you to nowhere

Wrong road take your name, your face

Turn you downside up and outside in

Wrong road leave you heartless

I don’t say

Which RoadWrong Road

You the one know who you mean to be