Rorie's Locket

“Rorie’s Locket”

by Stan L. Prager

I noticed Rorie limping again because I was watching her step around the scattered stones and rotting trunks at the banks of the little stream. I wasn’t looking for her feet or her limp but rather for snakes. She was terrified of snakes but still she rarely watched her feet when she was down here with the filter pump, crouched at the edge of the water. I also liked to watch her ass. Rorie had a fine ass. It was dark and cool here, out of the sun, and I watched Rorie’s ass while she used steady, rhythmic strokes on the pump until we had two liters of reasonably safe drinking water.

I inhaled a bug and coughed suddenly. The pumping paused.

Are you staring at my ass?

Yup.

Are you thinking of what you’d like to do with it?

No . . . Yes.

Well . . . maybe I will let you have it when I’m done …

When I didn’t answer she returned to the pump. Of course I could have her ass anytime if that’s what I wanted. That was the way with her.

Later I asked her about her ankle.

It’s fine, she said.

I saw you limping.

I always limp.

It looks like it was worse . . . down by the water.

I thought you were looking at my ass . . .

I was. But I saw you limp too.

She didn’t want me to look at it, but I insisted.

OK doctor, she said. Her eyes, unusually wet and luminous, flashed at me playfully. Perhaps nursie can help you with some other procedure after all of your . . . hard . . . work?

Shut up and let me see your ankle. I smirked but I felt my dick twitch in my pants when she said that. Rorie had that effect on me.

I washed my hands with the water we boiled for tea, then felt her tense up when I peeled the bandages back. Despite my efforts to hide it I knew she saw me recoil at the smell. She sucked her breath in hard when I cleaned the pus out and slathered on what was left of the antibiotic ointment. Her face was wet with quiet tears when I re-bandaged it.

I got the flask out of the pack and handed it to her. She drank a little, gagged a bit, then drank more. I took it from her and took two long swallows before I capped it. A warm rush went through me and I sat back. I took one of her hands in both of mine and squeezed it.

You can leave me if you have to.

Fuck you.

I let go of her hand. I hated when she said that. I wanted to slap her. But I could never hurt her. Enough people had hurt her.

Okay, she said.

What?

You can fuck me now if you want to. But I thought I should clean up first …

I didn’t laugh. We were both uncomfortable with the silence. What was left of the last glow of the sun fell away and the red dapples on the edge of the switchback fell to the grayish black that was the hint of evening.

Rorie, you need antibiotics. Soon. Very soon.

But you still have the cream.

Not much. And anyway that’s not enough. You need pills. I have to get to a settlement.

That’s impossible. You know that. You’ll just end up dead …

Rorie, I don’t want to scare you but …

All of a sudden she laughed out loud. It made me jump because the odd mirth was so sudden, so out of place.

You don’t want to scare me … that’s a laugh! I’ve been scared for a long time. You have no idea how scared. How much more fucking scared can I get?

Rorie … listen … your ankle is bad. Very bad. Pretty soon, you won’t be able to walk. And soon after that measures will have to be taken or you’ll die.

Measures? What kinds of measures?

Rorie …

You mean cut my foot off? Or my leg?

Twilight fell on us along with the hush of no more questions, no more answers.

In the zippered tent she put her face between my legs.

You don’t have to.

If it goes bad, I want you to remember the good I brought to you.

In the night I rolled over and grazed her ankle. She cried out in her sleep and I held her.

At first light, when I got up to take a leak, I noticed she was sleeping with her thumb in her mouth, like a small child seeking whatever comfort she could find and that thumb was all she had.

---------------------------------------------------

I found Rorie by accident, a couple of weeks before. The ground fell away dramatically coming off a rise on a trail that had not looked well-defined but suddenly had a sense of wear, of recent activity. I slowed, wary, gripping my pack with one hand to control the noise of it shifting on my back, the other hand busy with the thumb on the front holster of the knife. I was face-to-face with him with a suddenness that shocked me. He could have killed me before I reacted. It was lazy and sloppy of me and I would deserve to be dead if that was what befell me.

Do you have any whisky?

He had a face like a burned potato, with a flat nose and pronounced hairy bones over his sunken eyes that looked like primitive brow ridges and no real neck to speak of. He looked as if he had been rolled in filth. He was shorter than me but much more powerfully built. His hair was receded and there was a deep, mangled scar that had healed badly along one temple. He could have been thirty, he could have been fifty. He held a machete at just the right angle to open my neck up if he chose to do it. The knife was useless against the machete, and I couldn’t run with the pack on. I was alive only because he had decided not to kill me.

Yes, I said after a long pause. In the pack. Be glad to share some with you.

He snorted and showed a mouth full of black and broken teeth. You’re fucking right you’ll share it with me! Then he let out an uncomfortable laugh and clapped my shoulder, hard, and pointed with the machete to a side trail that led to his camp. I could see why he had selected it. Water ran down over a great glacial boulder on one side, and on the other there was an overhang that protruded just enough to take cover when needed.

She’ll get you something to eat, he said, gesturing with a mangled hand to a tall girl who was chained by her ankle to a rock. She was dirty, even dirtier than he was, and her long dark hair was matted. She was wearing a soiled tee shirt and ragged shorts. She didn’t look up but went to a pot warming on hot stones near a smoldering fire and ladled some kind of meat and gravy into a bowl and handed it over along with a bent spoon. She never made eye contact.

I took the bowl from her slowly, looking at him, not her, and placed it near my feet. Then I slipped the pack off. With deliberation that imparted caution, I unzipped one of the side pockets and removed the flask, uncapped it, and held it out to him. He gripped the machete with the good hand and reached out with the mangled one to take the flask. With one eye still on me he took a sip, then a great gulp, then another.

I dropped to a crouch in slow motion, picked up the bowl, and began to eat. It was squirrel. Tough but tasty. And I was very hungry.

Girl! You want some?

He held out the flask but she ignored him. He smirked and took another pull, then smiled that scary broken smile.

Did you wonder why I didn’t cut your fucking brains out and take your shit for myself?

I leaned to the right in my crouch, so I could get to the knife if I needed to without shifting position.

I suppose.

Well, I’m pretty settled in here. You can see I’ve got a nice spot here right? And I got this hot little bitch over here to do my bidding, right?

She looked up when he said that. I couldn’t tell if she was hot or even pretty because she was so dirty. She had a black eye that looked recent. Scabby blood trails smeared one ankle where the chain was attached. On her calf, just above that, was a tattoo of a heart-shaped locket.

He grunted to make sure I was paying attention.

I’m looking to get supplies up here without having to make the trip. Are you interested? I’m looking for someone to hit the settlements, get me some whisky, carrots, potatoes, shirts, pants—the fuck-all shit that is part and parcel of civilization in these sad fucking times. I’ve got some gold coin stashed away so you could get your own taste of whatever suits your fancy—and I’ll throw in a piece of that little bitch over there. She doesn’t look her best right now, that’s for sure, but she cleans up nicely. I can guarantee you that. And she has talents. Talents I tell you …

The black, broken teeth turned into a grin. I did not break eye contact, but continued to eat, slowing the meal down, studying him.

What kind of talents?

What is it they used to say? She can suck a bowling ball through a garden hose! Of course where the fuck would you get a bowling ball these days?

He let out a raucous laugh and threw his head back, ready to take another swallow off my flask. I smiled, my eyes never off of him, then pivoted forward. I felt the knife in my fist before he could shift and I slashed with everything I could muster. I went off balance and my face smeared the dirt. I tensed for the slice of the machete but instead there was a thump and a gurgling sound that sucked at air just out of reach. When I flipped back onto my elbows, one of his heels was kicking. I got up and looked at his face, his damaged hand clutching at the blood that ran between his fingers at his neck, his mouth moving. I kept my gaze upon him until the last wheeze and his eyes went glassy.

When I glanced at her I noticed her watching us. There was no reaction, no emotion. She was waiting for what was to come next.

---------------------------------------------------

Of course the limp got worse. I had packed everything out from that camp that I could carry, including that machete, which I knew I could trade for penicillin at a settlement. She wouldn’t kiss me goodbye. She said I would never see her again and she turned out to be right: I got picked up by the patrols, robbed and beaten, and by the time I got the pills and made it back she was gone without a trace. Who knows who took her? She couldn’t have gone far on her own like that. It’s been five years and she’s probably dead but I still ask around whenever there’s somebody to ask if they ever saw a girl with a heart-shaped locket tattoo.