The Fortune of Harry Rogers

Julian,

Is Harold Rogers still alive? I don’t know anybody still living in Dreary Foggs, and even if I did, I doubt they’d care much about Rogers. He was (perhaps still is) nobody’s favorite person.

I don’t have a personal vendetta against the man, unlike some people in town. My family and I just found him to be generally detestable, as you’ll probably agree. He always acted like he was too good for this town - a sentiment I could have agreed with if he didn’t justify it by saying we were too small, too broke, too brown now. I don’t see how Aadhi’s family put up with him.

There was nothing unusual about the man. People like him can be found anywhere. Privileged from the moment he was born, he saw every obstacle in his way as a personal offense put there by someone else. Most people held their prejudices close to their chest, but he never thought he had to. Why should he? He was right to blame all of the town's issues on the ever-growing inflow of the metaphorical “other”.

I can’t think of anyone who’d have been able to get away with such detestable views, even in such a small, relatively narrow-minded town. He was, however, essential to the survival of Dreary. A quaint little town in the middle of nowhere could only take us so far, I suppose. Tourism was scarce until Rogers opened his little shop in the remains of the restaurant that had once been his greatest failure. His fine textiles would bring in people all over Canada. Silks of the finest quality, handmade carpets, scarfs that were as bright and colorful as a field of flowers.

Yes, we all hated him, but there isn’t a person in Dreary who doesn’t own at least one article of clothing that came from his shop. It was affordable, too. Finery like that wasn't cheap, but his was priced just high enough that most families in town could afford - at least until the tourist season started and extra zeros were added to the tags.

I think I have an explanation for why his prices were so low, but it’s going to sound like an accusation. It’s been long enough that I don’t think it will matter, but the legal implications are still… complicated.

This happened just before I turned ten. I remember because Rogers had displayed the most stunning white dress in the window. It was made of delicate lace and there was a white, satin sash on the waist. My first communion would be that year and I wanted that dress with all of my heart.

I didn’t dare ask my mother because money was always tight in those days. She’d have had to work extra shifts just to afford a sleeve, let alone the whole dress. Still, I couldn’t help but stare at it adoringly whenever I walked by the shop. I don’t think I’ve ever desired something so very much.

One evening, I was walking home from a friend’s house. It was only a few blocks and you know that nothing bad happens in Dreary Foggs, so mom never thought it was a problem for me to walk alone as long as it wasn’t too dark outside.

The sun was just starting to set and there were still a few people on the streets. I could have been home in ten minutes, but I had to take a detour. I wanted to look at the dress again. Just for a few minutes. Just so I could remember it in my dreams.

The shop was closed already. Rogers only opened in the morning during the school year to discourage students from coming in and trying on his precious merchandise without purchasing anything. If he caught you skipping class, he’d immediately report you. The shop windows, however, were brightly illuminated so that everyone could see the treasures inside, and my white dress was front and center. I couldn’t stop staring.

I was so enthralled by it that I almost didn’t see the light, but it caught my eye nonetheless. There was a shimmer coming from the side of the building, a green tint that reflected on the side of the building next door. It flickered, though, like the light of a torch in the wind.

I gave the dress a final, longing gaze, and moved towards the space between Rogers’ shop and the store next to it. It was relatively clean since this was right in the heart of downtown and the city wouldn’t tolerate Main Street to be littered with trash. What if a tourist spotted it?

The alley was dark, but I could see the green light flickering. It was coming from a window near the ground. Just above it, I could see Rogers’ slender silhouette on his apartment window. The curtains were drawn and he seemed oblivious to whatever was happening in his basement.

I left the safety of the streetlights behind and came closer. The basement window was dirty, but I could see something inside. It danced like a flame right next to the glass, but it was a bright, emerald color that shone blindly through the dust. In the dark alley, it was almost like a beacon.

I placed my hand on the glass and stared at it intently. There was something there. Or some things. They were thin and they bent in the flames like they were dancing to a song I couldn’t hear.

It reminded me of a picture I’d seen in a book of a fairy ball. In it, a dozen winged beings danced on the tips of their toes, their wings fluttering as they waltz. Whatever it was that danced in the flame, it had the same elusive nature.

It was mesmerizing.

They came closer to the glass and my heart thumped loudly in my chest. I brought my nose closer too, eager to see the fairies.

The fire died.

It wasn’t fairies that were pressed to the window; it was long, slender fingers. And right behind it, in space between the thumb and forefinger, I saw an eye blink at me. Disheveled hair fell around it and there was dirt on his cheeks.

The creature spoke. Its voice was loud and hoarse like it’d just learned to speak. It said something in a language that I didn’t know. I could hear it clearly, but the sound was foreign and angry.

It moved even closer like it wanted to shatter the glass and swallow me.

It huffed louder and more ferocious than before.

I screamed. That wasn’t a fairy. It wasn’t anything I had ever seen. The only thing I knew was that it meant me harm. So I ran.

Right before me, I think Rogers opened the window and peeked outside, shouting for me, but I ignored him. I didn’t stop running until I slammed into a stranger a couple of blocks later.

I think it was Ms. Sophia. Yes, I remember that she had her son walking by her side. Jessie? Jason? Either way, he was in his late teens back then, so you might be able to ask either of them to confirm this. They must remember how scared I was.

I said there was something in the basement. Some sort of strange creature that wanted to eat me.

Ms. Sophia and her son walked me back to the alley. Rogers was already at the front of the shop, asking what the commotion was all about. He was not happy to be disturbed. The wrinkles on his face, usually disguised by the youthfulness of his blue eyes, were all showing. He looked like he wanted to blame someone.

While Sophia called my mom, Jessie accompanied him into the basement. I was holding on to Sophia’s hand and I TKlounged into my mother when she showed up, burying my face in her belly and not daring to speak.

Only a few minutes later, Rogers and Jessie came back. He had a garbage bag in his hand.

“It was only a possum,” Jessie said. “I’ve killed it.”

He indicated the garbage bag where something large was no longer moving.

Sophia shushed her son, indicating me with her head. She probably didn’t want me to think of a dead possum in my dreams. I didn’t care about that, though.

It was a monster, I insisted. It was hairy and dirty and I remembered the way its eye glowed green in the dark. And it had fire on its hands! What if it decided to burn down the entire town?

Rogers’ face went red and I thought he was going to snap at me and tell me to stop wasting his time. Instead, he rubbed his face for a moment and, when he emerged from behind his hand, there was a smile on his face.

“Sweetheart, you’ve prevented a lot of damage tonight. If that thing had soiled my stock, I’d be in trouble.”

He motioned for us to follow him inside. Without saying a word, he undressed the mannequin in the window, packed it in a pretty white box, and handed it over to my mother.

"For being such a brave little girl," he said.

All thoughts of the creature were gone from my mind.

I thanked him profusely and he smiled at me. It was almost genuine.

On the day of my first communion, I was radiant.

That was our last year in Dreary. After that, mom got into a nursing program she and we moved to Ottawa. I held on to that dress for years and even got it tailored so I could keep wearing it as I grew up. When I got to college, I gifted it to my cousin Marisa in El Salvador.

As for the creature, I must have thought of it once or twice over the years, but it was always with some fondness. Children have a big imagination, don’t they? Monsters aren’t real. An angry possum made more sense. As for the green light, I must be misremembering it.

Last week, though, something happened to jog my memory.

I’m an immigration consultant and the firm I work for handles some truly complicated cases. Right now, I’m working with a refuge from Egypt. It’s been a very traumatic situation for her and her wife. Last week, I think it became too much for her because she broke down crying in my office.

Her English is perfect, but at that moment, she couldn’t say a word. Through her hands, I could hear her mumbling something to me. Pleading.

I froze.

“What is she saying?” I asked her wife.

“It’s nothing,” she told me, rubbing her back comfortingly. “She’s just overwhelmed-“

“No, please, I- what is it? Please?”

I must have sounded as scared as I felt because she stared at me for a moment before translating.”

“She’s saying ‘help me’.”

I was wrong.

God, I was wrong about everything.

There was no fire. There were no magical fairies. There definitely no monster. But by God, I swear there was a man. He didn’t want to attack me. He wanted me to help him.

I’ve been thinking about it for days now. Rogers has always been an asshole, but there was no way he could have kept another human being in his basement.

Could he?

So many things he sold in his shop. Dresses, scarfs, carpets, skirts… so many beautiful things that he imported from all over the world. What if… it wasn’t textiles that he was importing? What if it was the makers?

It’s quite the accusation. I have no proof, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Then you sent your email, asking for stories about Dreary… I had to write this.

No, this isn’t enough.

I’m coming back to Dreary.

I need to make sure.

I hope to find nothing, but if I do, well, then I hope I can count on you, Julian.

Best regards,

Lucia