Chapter Five

Time dragged forward for Clyde. The spring breeze that warmed the air when they arrived in Chicago had yielded to the dog hot days of summer. He ignored the heads turning toward him, watching him shuffling through the train yard, eyes lowering to search the floor in front of them, avoiding his. The weight of disappointment bore him closer to the ground as he remembered those days when his life brimmed with hope and promise.

Some days, he successfully widened his stance and kept his posture erect. But as the day wore on, the stress and burden on his muscles weakened his legs, pulling his knees together and forcing him into the familiar lopsided gait that was the rhythm of his youth. His blood burned under his skin as people stared. Elbows poked ribs, hands covered mouths, failing to conceal the snickering behind them. He would force his hands into his pockets to keep his arms from swinging as he walked.

Now, with the late-July sun beating down through the high glass windows, he let Mae’s words repeat in his head. “It don’t matter about them folks. You a damned good mechanic, and your work make room for you.” From across the room, Charles lifted his chin in his direction, a look of discomfort flitting across his face. Clyde swallowed his hope.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead and swallowed his anxiety, determined to put Mae’s advice into practice. He focused on Charles. He wasn’t overtly friendly, but his voice was silent when the hazing and ridicule began. It would be a start.

Clyde let the hood of the service Jeep fall shut, watching from beneath lowered eyelids as the other mechanics scattered away from him. He pushed the darkness back into its cage, the words he planned to say resting heavily in his mouth. He watched Charles’s broad back as he walked away trailing the others, forcing himself to push his gait a little faster to close the gap between them.

He imagined the words coming unglued as he shared them with Charles, envisioning how he would laugh with him, not at him, when he caught up with him. However, the distance expanded, and Clyde damned his limbs, cursing his tongue for being too slow and tangled to tell Charles to wait, let alone bring forth the joke he had been practicing inside his head.

He blew air noisily through his thick lips, disappointment collapsing his shoulders as another plan burned to ash in his heart. Reaching upward to grab the tarnished silver handle above his head, he opened his locker, then jumped back awkwardly, arms pinwheeling as something tumbled out, landing at his feet. He looked down at it, and his jaw tightened. A vein in his forehead bulged.

Clyde stared up into his open locker, then down at the long, yellow banana lying at his feet, the skin spotted brown, the air thick with the overripe smell from sitting in the closed locker. On the other side of the lockers, he heard snatches of laughter and loud hoots as footsteps receded, moving toward the exit.

Snatching the banana from the floor, Clyde grabbed his lunch bag from the shelf and shoved the offending fruit into it before smashing the whole thing into the pocket of his overalls. The sound of their laughter echoed in his head, chasing him from the room in a storm of hurt and shame, the darkness throbbing behind his eyes.

It thrived on his pain and pulled at him, draining his strength, the humiliation feeding it. Since his first sighting—the day they’d moved to this wretched hellhole, and he’d seen that woman—it had beat him down while he had grown weaker to his reawakened needs. The darkness smothered his desire for Mae, replacing it with a longing for that woman, Eva, leading him toward her. His dreams of a new life here with Mae crumbled and dissolved with his disappointment.

He stalked the streets, unaware of his destination, led by the darkness. He found himself walking past her apartment building like he did many days, slinking in the shadows, concealing himself in the darkness. He followed her smell, his mind a swirl of continuous fantasies of time and place. As he walked, he listened to the raucous sound of men hooting her name, their desire pulled by the sway of her hips as she passed them. Every day, she stopped at the storefront grocery below her apartment, picking up milk or bread and laughing with the pimply-faced clerk. He watched her hand pressing his arm, her head tilted back, dark lashes fluttering, unaware of Clyde seething in the alley, his eyes brimming with hatred.

The darkness shredded his mind relentlessly, tearing at his will, begging to be quenched. Dormant desires returning, gnawing and nibbling at him with promises of the power and greatness he had lost. From within the vortex of his thoughts, Fannie’s voice resumed and overrode Mae’s. “She gon’ be the ruination of you, baby boy.”

Six days a week, eight hours a day, Eva labored washing clothes in the laundry where she worked. Clyde grunted in disgust at her attempts to make herself look respectable. As if all the washing in the world could hide the fact that she made most of her money lying flat on her back with her legs spread for anybody with the cash.

From his hiding place, he’d seen her johns creeping into the small, sweltering space where she waited behind the counter, clutching their crumpled bags of clothes. He’d seen their eyes sliding from side to side as they pressed a wad of balled-up dollar bills into her hand, a look passing between them. She would wait a few minutes, slipping out the back door of the laundry and walking ahead of her john, sometimes only as far as their car, other times, to her apartment.

Clyde imagined those men staring down at the small gold cross she wore, nestled between her breasts, as they plowed between her thighs. He would stand there in the shadows, his hands rubbing and tightening on his crotch, waiting for her to return. And she did, the reek of sex lingering in the air long after she passed him, his seed exploding inside his underwear.

Thoughts and memories of Eva cycloned through his mind, weaving in and out with the images of his coworkers as he forced his feet to move forward. He desperately wished that he could see her now. The darkness had marked her. It wanted her.

Minutes later, he was rewarded by her arrival as he lurked in the alley, almost crowing out loud for having remained vigilant and not giving up. There was Eva, framed in the early-evening light, pinpricks of darkness dancing around her. She stopped suddenly, alert, looking over her shoulder, prey scenting the predator. Clyde pressed his back against the wall and held his breath, his body tensing while he waited for her footsteps to begin again. Sweat poured from his brow, stinging his eyes.

Wiping it with the back of his hand, willing her not to see him, he looked around. He studied the depth of the passage he stood in, draped in black shadows. To his right, a large dumpster took up the back wall. Above him, he noticed the closest windows six feet over his head had been bricked up. Sweet silence encircled him, and he gasped aloud, then quickly covered his mouth. It was perfect.

He closed his eyes and visualized Eva with him, her body pulled tight against his chest, rubbing against his manhood as she struggled to escape. She would plead with him, beg him, and finally surrender to him. Then he would be benevolent and grant her a quick end. He would be merciful as he rendered justice. Then he would bury her in the dumpster, like the trash she was. Afterward, he would go home to Mae. He would drink from her body, leech the light from her, allowing her sex to quell the craving that would not stop.

Clyde wrung his hands in front of him, his head bobbing up and down, and yielded. He felt the darkness quivering in anticipation, then hesitated. A new idea formed and pushed its way to the forefront before being whispered into his eager mind. He listened intently while the darkness fermented its own plan. Take her to your special place and bury her there. Bury her deep.

He pictured his place, deep in Jackson Park, like the woods back home. The grass was wild and green, untouched by blades or man, tree branches hanging low to the ground and shielding him from the world. A place where he was able to forget the city that lay beyond it, shrouded by the leaves and breathing in the scent of earth and trees. A place he was alone by choice.

Yes, yes, he answered the dark. There would be no reason to rush. He would prolong it, hear her beg for mercy only he could grant her after she confessed her sins. Pleasure radiated through him, and he smiled, willing his aching legs to dance, and failed.

A small, persistent voice wormed at the back of his brain, boring into the darkness and trying to interject itself. Cocking his head to the left, straining to catch the sound again, his body trembled. It was Mae’s voice—he was sure of it—a prayer pulling him back from his backslide into the pits of darkness.

The sound of Eva’s retreating footsteps diminished and disappeared. He had lost her while vacillating, wrestling between the pull of the darkness and Mae. Clyde wrapped his arms around his torso, rocking violently as ragged sobs tore from his throat. Moving again to lean against the wall, he lifted his rough hands to his face, scrubbing away the tears.

He hated this city . . . the constant stink of the garbage and press of strangers against him. He hated that Mae had brought him here. Standing still, he let the darkness amplify his hearing and listened again to determine where the sound came from.

Behind the dumpster, the skittering sounds of rats filled the space. He straightened his body, attendant to a visceral desire demanding immediate satisfaction. Clyde moved silently on the balls of his feet, balancing awkwardly on his bent legs. He was upon the rats in a flash, his large hands grabbing one and locking around the struggling body. The sharp teeth snapped at his hand, the claws digging into flesh.

Clyde squeezed, the craving for the woman engorging his muscles as he twisted, grinding bone and fur as the rat squealed hideously, convulsed, and then went still. Reaching into the large pocket of his overalls, he pulled out the brown paper bag that had held his lunch. Opening it, he saw the banana lying across the bottom. The snickering sounds of his coworkers’ laughter flooded his ears again, and he grimaced, rubbing his face in his hands.

Taking several deep breaths, he dropped the rat inside, blocking the sight of the banana, and folded the top shut. He forced himself to think of Mae, listening for her voice.

Mae, Mae, Mae. He thought her name repeatedly, clutching at the thread of salvation. He pictured her face, imagined her slight frame molded against him, her soft voice whispering close to his ear. He imagined her touch against his face, allowing it to soothe and calm him.

Moving to the mouth of the alley, he looked to the left and the right, assuring himself that no one noticed him. He retraced his footsteps until he was headed south again. He had to get home to Mae.

His legs windmilled slowly, propelling him forward. The rhythm of his heart slowed, calming him as each step brought him closer. If he could make it home, Mae would make it all right. He just needed to get there.

The darkness intruded, slipping stealthily across his mind, igniting the embers of doubt the day had placed in him. Look how weak she done made you, it whispered, its laugh raw and grating against his soul. She ain’t no different than the rest of them. She probably getting some more bananas for you. Tilting his head to the side, Clyde pounded his palm against his ear, attempting to force the thoughts to roll free. You know she don’t loves you, it chided.

“Her do loves me,” he shouted into the air, startling a man walking near enough to hear him. He stared at Clyde until Clyde glared at him, causing him to pick up his speed and hurry past without looking back.

Twenty minutes later, his body shaking with rage and uncertainty, Clyde stood on the patch of dirt and weeds that passed for a yard at the rear of their apartment building. He stepped behind the stairs, stuffing the bloodstained brown paper bag beneath the bottom step. Contentment played across his features for a few brief seconds. Tomorrow, it would be his turn to have some laughs.

Climbing the back stairs to the wide first-floor porch, he listened as the wood creaked under the weight of his bulk. He let out a whoosh of relief, Mae’s face drifting before him. He was safe, close enough to feel the strength of her presence. She would have a hot meal waiting for him one floor up. She would push the darkness back, and it would relinquish its claim on him. Mae would make it stop like she always did.

Ahead of him, a man stood on the first-floor landing. His face bent forward, his hand rapidly rising to his mouth, stuffing portions of bread into it from a bag clutched in his other hand. Clyde hesitated, one foot lifted in midair, blinking rapidly. Looking down at Clyde, the man grinned around the food in his mouth, interrupting his feast.

“Hey, how you, Clyde?” he asked, the words muffled by his chewing.

Clyde waited a few steps below the taller man, trying to place his face. He didn’t respond, waiting for him to move so he could get to Mae.

“You probably don’t remembers me, but I seen you before with that sweet little gal of yours.” The man grinned, sticking his hand out toward Clyde. “My name be Jimmie. I lives down the hall, on the other side of Miss Ruby.”

Clyde stiffened, not liking the fox-sly look on his sharp features when he mentioned Mae. Leaving Jimmie’s hand hanging in the air, his eyes darted rapidly from side to side, impatient to be past him. He studied the look of the man, taking in the sharp crease of his tan slacks, cuffed and resting neatly over brown and white leather shoes. A yellow shirt with a wide collar was tucked neatly into the belted waist of his slacks. He brought his eyes back to the slick, conked hair shining on the man’s head—city boy.

“I’m gon’ needs you to move on out the way,” Clyde said, moving sideways to get around Jimmie and casting his face into shadow, his body tense and coiled to spring.

Looking up at the taller man, Clyde watched darkness slide over Jimmie’s features, clouding them.

“Man, I tell you, that wife of yours, Mae, she some woman!” Jimmie exclaimed, sucking his fingers and slapping the bag lightly against his thigh. Later, when he replayed the scene in his mind, asking himself what made him say it, he wouldn’t have an answer. He leaned his head to the side as if listening to a distant voice, overcome by the need to provoke Clyde, something aggravating his spirit to “poke the bear.”

Clyde froze in place, hearing his wife’s name fouled on the man’s lips. Moving up one step, he glowered up at him. “What you mean?” he growled low in his throat.

Jimmie stopped grinning, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed Clyde, sliding past his grease-splattered overalls and the black brogans on his feet, then back up to the squashed features of his face. He lifted the bag, twisted it open, and pulled another chunk of bread free, continuing to take great gulping bites and talking as he chewed.

“You best watch it, boy. Woman cook like she do and look that good, somebody be done stole her away from you.”

Jimmie winked and stepped back, turning sideways so Clyde could advance past him, continuing to slowly lick the fingers of his now-empty hand, a deep laugh rumbling from his throat.

Clyde saw the darkness swimming around him before it slammed around his brain, a vice squeezing reason away, blinding him with visions of Mae and this man. He saw her leaning close to Jimmie, her face tilted back, her lips waiting for his kiss, and her hands stroking his long, straight limbs.

Clyde lurched up the last two steps, his bulk completely blocking Jimmie from moving around him. Bunching the material of Jimmie’s shirt in his fists, he shook him, forcing the man backward as he glared into his face.

“Who the fuck you say you is?” he yelled, the city having made words that had once been foreign on his tongue,normalized. “And what you knows about my Mae?”

The smile slid from Jimmie’s face, his mouth going dry, leaving him unable to swallow the last small piece of bread now stuck in his throat.

He choked, his throat working to bring the bread back up into his mouth, simultaneously clutching and pulling at Clyde’s hands. Struggling, he finally managed to spit out the wad, where it landed with a heavy thump on the porch.

Jimmie stared into Clyde’s face, his muscles flexing and straining as he pushed back against the bigger man, feeling his shirt ripping. Backpedaling, he two-stepped to remove himself from striking distance, checking how Clyde leaned forward with his fists balled at his side.

“What the fuck wrong with you, man?” Jimmy stared at Clyde, confusion wild in his eyes, and panted loudly. “This shirt costed me two dollars, Negro,” he ranted indignantly, one hand pulling at the tear in the material, his other hand dropping the bag he carried. He rolled his shoulders and moved his neck from side to side, stretching the tendons. “Is you gon’ pay for it?” he demanded, balling his hands tightly into fists, and bringing them up in front of him as he dropped into a fighter’s crouch.

“I say, what you knows about my Mae?” Clyde ground the words out through clenched teeth, readying his body for the assault. The dark swam through him, swelling his muscles.

“You been with her?!” The question exploded between the two of them, hanging in the air.

Tendrils of fear crept into Jimmie’s wide eyes as understanding settled over him, an awareness of what lay behind the bulging red-rimmed eyes crazed with anger and contorting Clyde’s features. The taste of the sweet bread soured in his mouth, causing his stomach to clench and spasm. Jimmie tried to swallow again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The vein in Clyde’s forehead bulged purple, his hands clenching and unclenching into fists. Blood flushed and darkened his skin.

“Whoa, whoa, man, ain’t nothing like that going on,” Jimmie stammered, straightening and throwing both hands up in a surrendering motion, blinking away the dark that had clouded his vision. “I just got this banana bread she made this morning.” He waved toward the bag containing the half-eaten loaf on the porch between them, kicking it with his toe until the contents spilled out. “Man, I was just playing. You know she be cooking for folks in the building?”

Jimmie swallowed hard, backing up another step, reason returning to his thoughts. He felt his own muscles tighten. Clyde was thick through the shoulders but stood a head shorter than Jimmie, resting on his stunted legs.

Jimmie had been raised to fight. His mother had taught him hard, saying, “Boy, your ass better not never run from nobody. The streets ain’t got no time for pussies. You run, and I’m gon’ whop your ass myself when you gets back home. And you remembers,” she would always pause there, neck jutting forward, staring directly into his eyes, her bony finger poking him in his narrow chest. “No matter how big they is, they got to bring some ass to get some ass.”

“It just some banana bread!” he yelled as Clyde seemed to grow and expand, looming over Jimmie. His skin glistened with sweat, a murderous outrage darkening his eyes.

Jimmie’s eyes widened, sliding back and forth as he tried to circle away from Clyde, searching for escape. His heart pounded in his chest, his body trembling as he felt his bowels gurgling loosely, causing his face to flush with shame. Edging toward the steps, he prayed to his Mawmaw’s God, that never answered him. The God he’d abandoned when he still knelt on the side of the bed, parroting his grandmother’s prayers. He begged for intervention.

Banana was the only word Clyde heard as he shot forward, startling Jimmie with the speed of his movement. Jimmie sidestepped, creating a space between them, kicking away the remainder of the loaf of banana bread in his haste to put some distance between him and Clyde. He slammed his shoulder into Clyde’s chest, wincing at the pain flowing down his arm, and succeeded in knocking him off balance.

Seizing the opportunity the opening created, Jimmie whirled past Clyde and leaped down the first four stairs, just managing to duck a massive blow as Clyde’s fist flew through the space where his head had been. Jimmie felt panic plant itself firmly, obliterating his courage.

“Shit, man! You crazy,” he yelled over his shoulder as he stumbled forward, pounding down the remaining steps. Reaching the bottom, Jimmie turned to see Clyde—chest heaving—still standing at the top of the stairs but no longer moving in his direction.

“You out your country, pig-shit-eating mind!” Jimmie screamed, having reached the dead brown grass of the yard. Putting distance between them, his pride reasserted itself, demanding he make a show of resistance. Ignoring the foul trickle sliding between his buttocks into his shorts, he shouted, “And ain’t nobody scared of your big ass!”

Clyde flexed his body forward, causing Jimmie to bolt across the grass and down the narrow passageway formed by the wall of the adjacent building leading to the street.

“You best stay your slick ass the hell away from my wife,” Clyde bellowed, feeling the last of the darkness as it drew away from Jimmie’s retreating figure. Turning, he yanked open the screen door and hesitated as he looked down the long, dimly lit passage. A young woman stood in the doorway at the end of the hall, a baby riding her hip, gawking at him. The baby began to fuss loudly and, seeing Clyde, the woman jostled him, then ducked and hid behind her apartment door before easing it shut. The heads of the other tenants, drawn by the chaos outside, quickly withdrew as well. His own door was the only one that remained open, Mae standing there, framed by the light from inside and wiping her hands on her apron.

“Lord God Almighty, what in the world was going on out there, Clyde Henry?” she cried, startled by the fire of anger illuminating his eyes. “Folks in heaven could hear you hollering.”

“That what I wants to know,” he thundered, grabbing her by the arm and yanking her into their apartment, the door thudding shut behind them. “Who this Jimmy, and what he know about you?”

Mae stared up into Clyde’s face, stunned by the ferocity of his voice. She searched his face, her mind racing and heart stuttering.

“Clyde, baby, what wrong? Why you talking to me like that?”

Clyde felt her words tunneling through the darkness clamped around his mind, looking for an anchor. He breathed in her scent, allowing it to filter through his memories of her and him. But the darkness would not let go.

“Who Jimmie?!” he yelled, spittle flying between them as he shook her like a small rag doll. Mae whimpered, tears making splotches on her apron, her mind racing and trying to grasp what was wrong.

“Who Jimmie?” she echoed back at him, dismay forcing the tears to fall faster.

“Don’t act like you don’t know who that slick-head Negro be,” he spat out, pushing her backward and releasing her from his grasp,

The memory of Jimmie flashed through her, and she inhaled deeply, relief halting the tears immediately. She reached out to stroke Clyde’s face, startled when he slapped her hand away.

“Oh, he ain’t nothing, Clyde.” She tried to chuckle, hoping to ease the strain from her voice. “He ain’t got no wife or peoples here, and I made a little extra banana bread today and give him some. Miss Ruby say she feel sorry for him.”

She lied to Clyde more easily than she liked, a warning insinuating itself between them and reminding her of the need to keep the money she made a secret. She saw herself that morning giving Jimmie a fresh batch of banana bread. She charged him the usual twenty-five cents, the same price she had been selling it for since she found how popular it was among the workingmen in the building. A twinge of guilt pinged in her spirit, wedging itself between her and Clyde.

A voice attached itself to the memory. Verna, that cantankerous little tramp who lured her father away from her, had taught Mae by her example. “A woman needs to keep her something of her own because ain’t no man that good. He leave your ass high and dry if you be that kind of fool.” And she’d kept a stash hidden from Mae’s father that she probably kept to this day. Now, Verna’s guilty secret bound them both.

“He been fucking you?” Clyde demanded, grimacing as he reached out and shook Mae again, her head wobbling on her neck before it hit the wall behind her. Mae let out a little yelp of pain, alarmed as much by the viciousness of his language as the physical assault. She tried to wriggle free, tears welling up once more in her eyes.

“No, Clyde, I swear he ain’t been around me like that. Ain’t nothing like that going on. You knows me better than that,” Mae pleaded as the pressure increased on her arm, her fingers growing numb from the loss of blood flow.

“That why he say I gots to watch you because he gon’ takes you. You done got a taste for these pretty city boys?”

Clyde’s eyes rolled wildly, a black mist swirling in their depths. Wisps of fear crept through her.

“I don’t know what you talking about, Clyde. You hurting me,” she squeaked. He released one arm, still holding her firmly against the wall with the other. Mae watched, eyes rounding, her mouth hanging open, as his empty hand gathered into a fist.

“That goddamned Ruby.” He screamed in her face. “I should have knowed she was behind it.” His voice escalated, becoming impossibly loud as it boomed in her ears. “She pimping you out? Turning you into a whore?”

Shaking her head, she lifted her free arm, the one he no longer held, and used her hand to stroke his face. Her fingers began their familiar dance, trailing from his forehead to his cheek, moving softly down the length of his nose. She prayed silently.

Mae continued stroking. Her eyes squeezed shut, sensory memory guiding her movements. She waited for the blow, her breath held and making her light-headed until she heard Clyde’s breathing begin to slow.

Opening her eyes to slits, she saw Clyde’s eyes had returned to normal, muddy brown and calm. He released his grip on her other arm, leaving her able to use both hands to stroke his face. Slowly, her tremors ceased, and the dread drained from her.

“Clyde, you know it ain’t never been nobody but you for me,” she whispered, leaning into him. “You was my first and only. Cain’t nobody never takes me away from you.”

He inhaled her, the lavender smell of her hair from her shampoo, the rose scent of the soap she used, and his own musky smell still on her skin from their morning lovemaking. She felt him relax slightly, then tense again as he spoke over the top of her head.

“I kills him if I sees his narrow ass sniffing around you anymore,” he mumbled, his breath hot on her scalp. “And don’t be making no more goddamned banana bread.” His fist slammed into the wall beside her head, a dent appearing in the plaster.

Mae jumped, bewildered at his demand, and glided sideways to get away from the pressure of his body.

“OK, Clyde,” she stammered, nodding emphatically, desperate to reassure him of her love. “I be sorry, and I won’t makes no more if you don’t likes it. You knows I love you.”

His hand reached out and stopped her movement, sliding slowly from her arms and down her body. He pulled her closer to him, feeling her quake against him, and forced the darkness to retreat deeper, letting himself believe her. That glow lit beneath her skin, bathing him, pushing back the dark, calming the chaos of his mind. She was his Mae. His and his alone. He pushed Jimmie’s smug expression from his memory.

Looking up, she let him brush the remaining tears from her cheek. “Now, you gets ready for your supper. I be putting it on the table,” she finished, giving his chest a final pat with her hand before sighing and gently pushing him toward the sink.

Standing across the room, Clyde began scrubbing his hands, watching the water turn pink and then clear as he washed away the rat’s blood still visible beneath his nails. The darkness fell away in layers, and he felt the calm erase the residual bitterness as it always did with Mae. The dim spark of her light banished the last of the darkness to the furthest recesses of his soul . . . for now. He felt his loins tighten with raw desire.

Turning and looking at the bed, he inclined his head toward it and watched Mae move in that direction. Sitting on the edge, she scooted backward and waited, her legs spread wide, her eyes still wet. Unbuckling his belt, he allowed his pants and drawers to drop to the floor, then stepped out of them.

Crossing the few steps to reach Mae, he pushed up her dress until her breasts were free and yanked at her panties, ripping them in haste. Mae inhaled sharply as he invaded her body.

For the first time in their relationship, there was no tender loving between her and Clyde, just the harsh, abrasive rubbing of his manhood against her dryness, leaving her raw and aching. She turned her head to the side, trapping the tears behind her lids, accepting his brutality as no more than she deserved. Humiliated, she swallowed her remorse and waited, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above, until he was done.

Clyde heaved one final time, shuddered, rolled off her, and walked away. Mae stared at his buttocks clenching and relaxing. She reached to pull down her dress, wincing at the pain between her legs.

“What you got for my dinner?” he asked over his shoulder, bending to yank his underwear and pants back on. She cringed at the gruffness that remained in his voice. Be patient, she scolded herself. Clyde was struggling. He just needed more time. Rubbing her bruised arm as she limped to the hot plate, she picked up the spoon and stirred the contents of the pot on the single burner.