Gail hates being outside when it rains vinegar. She doubts the hags’ assurances that it clears the skin and removes warts; as a child, she put chicken bones in vinegar to discover days later they would be all rubbery. She wipes the wet hair from her face, grimacing at the sour trickle that slips past her lips. Her hands move to the pocket of her jeans, checking again for the plastic bottle of aspirin from the shelter.
She stumbles down the block, her sneakers sodden and her feet cold as she steps in puddles. The weak light coming from the sky with its brown clouds makes the street look unfamiliar, and for a moment, before hearing the recorded saxophone, she thinks she might be lost.
Then she spots the faded awning up ahead and the white stonework. The doors to the dilapidated hotel are left open until nightfall.
Bulbs sputter in the old crystal chandeliers in the lobby. A quiet line of people stands waiting to reach the front desk. Each holds something they think has value. Layers of wet clothing drip and saturate the frayed Persian rug. From hidden speakers comes more wailing brass.
She feels feverish inside the stifling-warm lobby. Gail’s soaked sweater hangs about her like a lead vest. Through the line of people, she catches sight of Brennan. The little girl sits atop the front desk, her small legs hanging over the side. The hags have dressed her in the lemony-yellow sundress with lace trim, her blonde hair held back with a white scrunchie. One of the Grace sisters stands beside her, and, as Gail watches, the old woman grins and pinches Brennan’s cheeks with both hands. Not fondly, but hard enough to turn the little girl’s face red and the hag’s knuckles bone-white. Brennan begins crying, and the Grace sister strokes her chin. “There, there, well done, dear,” she coos, before lifting a porcelain teacup to catch the tears. “That will do nicely.”
The hags wear brightly colored flannel nightgowns with slippers. Their weak, watery eyes resemble a hound dog’s.
Next to the first Grace is her twin, holding aloft a vintage hypodermic, the sort that Gail has seen in black-and-white movies, all glass and shiny chrome. The hag’s lips form a small “o” as she focuses on refilling the needle from the teacup.
Gail tries not to stare as the needle slips into the next in line. The smell of those waiting makes her want to retch. Being a tearfreak is no excuse for poor hygiene. Once she is back working for the hags, she’ll draw the addicts’ baths. She can scrounge for salts and scented soaps. Everyone will appreciate her.
She climbs up the grand staircase, trying not to catch her feet on the ripped runner. A middle-aged man in denim overalls plods up the steps. One hand trails along the wallpaper; he has not rolled down his sleeve after receiving the injection.
The tearfreaks don’t always reach their rooms, and some collapse on the landing or a hallway. The hags hate when that happens and have told Gail how slovenly it leaves the hotel. They order her to put the addicts to bed.
Gail will come back later to see if the man needs help; she wants one last conversation with Alexander. He needs the aspirin.
All the rooms on the hotel’s third floor (the stairs skipped the second floor, and no matter how many times she tries, Gail couldn’t find her way there) were numbered 83. The hags forbade her from venturing onto the fourth or fifth floors. The elevators don’t work, haven’t since reality fell away last year, and the only way to reach the upper levels is by gloomy passages along the servant’s stairwell. Ever since she began working for the hags months ago, Gail thought of herself as a servant girl and explored the hotel whenever possible.
That was how she came upon Alexander on the fourth floor in room 450. Or maybe the fifth floor, room 540. Sometimes the numbers changed when she wasn’t looking.
She had been scooping out deviled ham from a jaw with her fingers and roaming the dim hallway of doors when she overhead a Grace sister speaking.
“There once was an old woman who lived in a vinegar bottle? Not a very believable beginning to my story.”
Gail peered around the door. The hag sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs found in many of the rooms. She leaned over a young man laying on top of the sheets, one of her gnarled hands lifting up the front of his bathrobe. Underneath, he was naked, though someone had written in red ink all over his skin. Even the soles of his feet had words: I shall be so happy living here up the right foot and down the right.
“I think you could at least come up with a better ending for me,” said the hag. “Ungrateful.”
The young man grunted. Maybe groaned.
When the hag stood, Gail slipped away into the next room’s welcome darkness. She licked her fingers clean, then slipped the empty jar into her pocket. She heard the creak of the floorboards as the Grace sister passed by. They always creaked, and Gail wondered if their footfalls aged the hotel step by step.
She counted to a hundred before entering the young man’s room. Under the white terrycloth robe, his chest rose and fell. The writing had vanished from his skin, which looked pale and drawn to the bone. He might have been handsome if someone hadn’t shaved off all his hair—not just scalped him but plucked clean his eyebrows and lashes as well.
He opened his eyes. Who is there? Bled onto his forehead.
His marred body marked him as Afflicted, one of the caste changed for the worse by the Fall. She had never been so close to one before. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
He nodded. She felt better knowing it pained him. That made sense. Too many things about the hotel, about the Fallen Area, never did.
“I wonder why the sisters never mentioned you.” She sat down beside him on the bed.
I am their keepsake. Alexander.
“I’m Gail. I do all the dull stuff for the hags. It looks like they are doing a very poor job of keeping you.” She doubted he weighed more than a hundred pounds.
Truly. Scrolled across his chin and neck.
“I don’t mind reading you, but it’s hard to have a long conversation. I’d have to peek and we only just met.” She nearly giggled.
Alexander opened his mouth. He had very white teeth but no tongue. She could not see any scar tissue.
“Sorry.”
Could you bring me something to eat?
“Sure.” She regretted finishing off the deviled ham. Real food could be hard to come by Inside. She had taken the jar late last night from behind the front desk; one of the tearfreaks must have brought it as payment for a fix. The tangy paste would have been easy for Alexander to swallow without a tongue. She wondered if he could still chew.
The power didn’t work in the hotel’s vast kitchen, but the hags had bartered with an anthvoke to fix the refrigerator, a massive bone-white relic that lurked in the corner of the kitchen like a dusty fossil. While it worked without electricity, shaking and humming, they must have connived the Talented out of his payment, for the refrigerator conjured only chilled condiments. The hags did not seem to mind, and their breath was always a miasma of sweet and sour.
Gail never trusted any of the Talented. They cheated at surviving with their unfair gifts. Awakening dead household appliances might seem pathetic, but it gave anthvokes an edge over the normals like her, who had to contend with life in the Fallen Area. She regretted not leaving Philly before the immense concrete walls had been erected, quarantining what the rest of the country considered a “reality infection.” The early days of the Fall had seemed exciting, but the novelty had been worn away by constant uncertainty—streets could misdirect from one day to the next, what had once been a safe spot to crash might become risky to walk past. The Talented frightened her, too. The Afflicteds’ bodies no longer worked as they once did, but the Talented could work the chaos Inside as they pleased, like selfish magic.
The rules of life changed constantly. She could only persevere. The hags paid little, but the hotel’s quirks didn’t threaten. She helped herself whenever possible.
Gail tugged hard on the refrigerator’s cool metal handle. Jars and bottles crammed the shelves. She started rooting through them. Colman’s Mustard. Alaga Pickle Syrup. Mack’s Cider Vinegar. Anything an anthvoke awoke had to be vintage. She found Bengal Club Chutney and a can of chocolate sauce.
“Snick-snacking so early, dear?” One of the sisters stood in the doorway.
Gail shrugged. She had never mastered the quick lie.
“We need you to clean the last 83. Poor Mr. Theo’s constitution isn’t what it used to be. We may have to water the tears down next time.”
Gail nodded, hiding her annoyance. Mr. Theo should be the last one taking tears. The old man couldn’t move without a litany of groans. “I’ll take care of it.”
When she stripped the bed of the soiled sheets, a tiny gilded case slipped to the floor. She picked it up, listening to its rattle and fingering the scratched enameled terrier on the top. Her thumb flicked the latch and she counted seven tiny pills. What do old men have? Hardened arteries? High blood pressure? Gail promised under her breath to give the case back to Mr. Theo when she saw him later in the week.
She felt guilty it took so long to return to Alexander and apologized several times. He needed help eating. Gail had to tip the chutney, allowing small chunks and liquid into his mouth, then water brought from the sink in the deviled ham jar. Like a ventriloquist dummy, he could “talk” while swallowing.
I was the sisters’ first attraction. My stories filled the lobby.
“Before they found Brennan?” Gail wiped his lips and chin clean.
Yes. The little woebegone.
“I once sneaked a sip from her tea cup. It tasted so sweet, made me choke. I fell asleep and dreamed.” Gail remembered the sensation on her tongue, how it made her shiver all over.
What of?
“Snowglass Night. Sitting in front of my television set, eager for news on what happened to the neighborhood. Some cable network. The announcer spoke to me. Not like normal, he actually answered my questions. Told me how bad the rain would be the next day and I should wear galoshes. Do they still make yellow rubber boots? Anyways, the announcer had an overbite and a bad toupee, and he had finished telling me that people were disappearing in Philly, and then static interrupted him. The screen had the black and white confetti snow, like all the plugs had been pulled but the power. I went to my window and knew that sets for blocks around were snowed in and always would be.
Sometimes I think I overhear the dreams of the addicts. Alexander grimaced as the words rose. I remember how contented they were listening to my stories read aloud. So quiet, so still, with smiles.
Gail normally slept well, especially if she visited Brennan before bed. But finding Alexander provoked her thoughts, leaving her restless on the mattress in the grand ballroom. She turned over, and one foot slipped out beneath the blanket. The marble tile sent a chill through her.
Why would the hags keep Alexander? They had always seemed disgusted with Afflicteds, turning away any that entered the lobby. Gail never minded them, not the ones with minor deformities, such as the girl with glass hair Gail once glimpsed waiting outside the stalls of the Food Auction.
She closed her eyes and tried to drift off while envisioning crimson writing covering the insides of her own eyelids. She thought of him stranded in that bed. Were they punishing him? The thought made her anxious about what might one day happen to her.
The sisters had instructed that Gail hand wash all of Brennan’s clothes. They made her add rainwater to each rinse, so the colors wouldn’t fade. On dry weeks, she took vinegar from the refrigerator.
When not shedding a tear, Brennan was kept in her room. Brennan sat on the floor in pink pajamas and fuzzy slippers, not far from where the metal secured her leash. She looked up when Gail brought the clean laundry. “Hello.”
“Hey, kid.” She began putting away the clothes in the closet.
“You’ve seen the Bookman.” Brennan’s tone blended whine and accusation perfectly.
Gail stopped. “You know about him?”
Brennan nodded. “Yep. He’s ugly.”
“Aren’t you the sweetheart?” Not for the first time did Gail wonder what the girl really was. Not truly Afflicted, as she seemed normal except for her tears.
“Why don’t you like me?” Tiny lips pouted.
Gail sighed. “But I do.” Practiced lies came naturally to her. She left the laundry and took Brennan into her arms. “Now do I get my taste?” Her mouth grew wet with anticipation.
Brennan shook her head, tickling Gail’s face with blonde hair.
Gail did not raise her voice. That hadn’t worked in the past. Brennan might hide under the bed, and then Gail would have to drag her out by the tether. “Mean little girls grow up ugly.”
“Like the sisters?”
“Like the sisters.” Gail hugged Brennan. “So?”
Brennan bit down on her lower lip. She had an overbite. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes. When they traveled down her puffy cheek, Gail eagerly licked them away.
The cloying taste made her tongue feel lacquered, and she fought a coughing spell. She let go of Brennan and grabbed the laundry basket. By the time she reached the hallway, she could feel her insides glowing. She took a few more steps, and then dawdled under a sputtering wall sconce. Her skin tingled, and she stared at her arms, wondering if words lurked just under the surface, the serifs scratching to be set free.
Visits with Alexander became as necessary as treats from Brennan. Gail listened as he told marvelous things, secrets taken from the Grace sisters. They had been beautiful once, with dancers’ legs, swinging their hips in simpatico with jazz from the hotel speakers. She read that pariah dogs patrolled the Fallen Area, meeting in a cabal of mutts. That one of the tearfreaks spied for the outside world, but his reports rambled with lachrymose dreams. Alexander seemed eager for attention even when it pained him to write. When she left, he could stir a little and lifted an arm to take the water glass.
She decided to spend the following night with Alexander until her eyes became blurry. Perhaps he would offer her a lullaby. She held tight to the banister as she climbed to the fourth floor. Creaking sounds came from up ahead. Half-illuminated by the light of Alexander’s room, the hags drifted down the pale in pale, quilted housecoats.
Gail hoped they would walk past his room on their way to bed. She never knew where they slept. But they stopped outside of 450. Each sister reached for the other’s satin belt, loosening it. Their coats fell with a velvety sigh to the worn carpet. Bare breasts sagged, but the skin on their thighs looked taut, the buttocks firm. They held hands and walked inside.
Gail ran back to the ballroom. She lay on her back and stared at the ceiling all night and shuddered whenever she thought she heard a sound. She told herself that forgetting Alexander would be best.
She busied herself with her chores and visits to Brennan. When Mr. Theo came to the lobby empty-handed, begging for tears, she watched the hags level a revolver at his chest and threaten to ruin the rugs unless he left the hotel. She never offered to return his little case, still in her pocket.
When that afternoon’s line of tearfreaks dwindled away, Gail swept the floor. With the broom she maneuvered the trail of dirt into arcs, reminiscent of Alexander’s handwriting. By the time she had finished with the lobby, she had to sit down on the bottom step and catch her breath. Her hands trembled, and when she rubbed them, they felt bony and worn.
Brennan ran up to her. She lacked her leash. “They want to see you.” Brennan looked back over her shoulder in the direction of the hotel bar. “Trouble double.” She curtsied once and then giggled while running up the staircase.
The mahogany-paneled walls of the bar might have once suggested a warm opulence, but now the room seemed restrictive and stuffy. Normally it was kept padlocked, as the hags did not want anyone to steal what little liquor remained. Gail had discovered the combination soon after she started working. She discovered she enjoyed single malts around then as well.
Sitting together on a burgundy leather chaise, the sisters cupped crystal tumblers of scotch in their laps.
“We heard you were a thief.” The left Grace slurred her words.
Gail had never seen either drunk before; the sight of their wet lips bothered her more than the accusation.
The twin dipped a finger into her glass and swirled the drink around the rim, creating a brief chime. “You think being young and pretty masks cleverness.”
What did they know? She tried to recall everything she had taken.
“You’ve been feeding our Book.”
“He has a name.”
Both made an odd sound of derision, almost a wheeze.
“I’m not the one keeping a man prisoner.”
Another chuff. “Who’s locked and who’s the locket?” The left Grace stabbed towards Gail and spilt her drink. “His stories have left us old.”
“Sister, you’re still beautiful.” The right Grace stroked the other’s face.
“I’m taking him away.” But her words sounded hollow to her own ears. She had no idea where she could take him. Yet the thought of sharing Alexander with the hags—and the memory of seeing them disrobe and sauntering into his room—pained her.
“Did he fuck you?”
The right Grace smirked while threading her fingers through her sister’s gray hair. “His dick is shaped like a fountain pen.”
“Horrible nib.”
“Hurts like hell.”
As Gail ran from the bar to the lobby, she heard one of them call out, “We’re the only ones that never tire of his stories. We kept him. Kept him safe.”
When the wind struck her bare arms, Gail regretted being so quick to leave the warmth of the hotel. She wandered aimlessly down the next two blocks, telling herself that in the morning the hags would be sober and reasonable. They’d take her back if she promised to avoid Alexander.
She could see her breath rising in front of her. The closest doorway led into a liquor store. Shards of glass covered much of the floor. The shelves had been ransacked, probably ages ago. Down one aisle, she found and shook clean a banner for Pennsylvania wineries. Wrapped with it, she lay on some old wooden pallets and tried to sleep.
She stirred well after morning. Whatever soured wine remaining at the bottom of some broken bottles seemed to have coated the inside of her throat. Her head ached with something akin to a hangover.
The hags wore cheerful floral nighties in the morning. They scowled when she walked into the lobby.
“We thought of you like a daughter.”
“Now you’re far too wayward for our liking,” said the other and motioned with the revolver at the door. The gunmetal gleamed as if oiled.
“My stuff—” Gail had one foot on the staircase when she heard the safety’s click. The sisters tsk-ed, and Brennan muffled giggles behind a small hand. The unkempt line of addicts broke apart when they noticed Gail crying, and she had to struggle through hands grasping to reach her face.
She wandered the neighborhood. A place that sold tea looked inviting until she remembered they had thrown her out after catching her stealing from a woman’s open purse. She napped briefly in a deep doorway until nudged.
The couple standing over he had kind faces, which worried her while she blinked away sleep, but they insisted she would be safer at the shelter. She wondered how she could not have known such a place existed, but then she had never dared explore every twisted street Inside.
The shelter had once been a posh Cuban restaurant she could have never afforded before the Fall. The walls remained a warm orange stucco decorated with framed vintage prints of buxom women leaning or stretching with cigars nearby. But now they looked down upon a dingy cots and blankets and tables cluttered with pots and trays. Ashtrays of polished, cloudy marble were stacked in spots and held the remains of candles.
There, the nurse, a pudgy short woman with close-cropped hair, offered Gail warm clothes from a donation box and a couch to rest on. The wool sweater smelled musty and hung like a tent on her frame. The others staying at the shelter eyed her warily. She drank salty soup and considered asking if the workers were volunteers or were they paid.
When the nurse was distracted helping a scrawny goth boy delivering packages, Gail snooped around, finding the infirmary behind a hastily hung curtain. She picked up a lighter that weighed down some letters. Her thumb traced over the engraving—Aroma—then flicked the wheel and created a tiny flame. It had to be worth something. She palmed it before the nurse could come back.
“I think I need some air,” she told the woman.
Gail carried on a long conversation with the hags as she retraced her steps to the hotel. They told her how sorry they felt over casting her out and offered treats. Brennan would be so relieved to have her back; the sweet tears would flow down that round face. Tears just for her.
When Gail walked through the doors, the hags, waved at her, beckoning towards the front desk. She held up her offering, sparking the lighter’s flame. “Here, a present.”
“Aww, dear, we thought you might come back for a dose.” One of the hags rubbed Gail’s arm warmly, while the other filled the needle from the cup.
“You look so haggard. Have you not been sleeping well?”
Gail slid up the sweater’s sleeve as the sister came closer with the needle. But the point dipped before it broke skin and the tears squirted out to land on the floor.
Gail yelped, as if she had been jabbed to the bone, and fell to her knees. She barely stopped herself from clutching the damp rug.
“Maybe you need to curl up with a good book, dear.”
She wrapped her arms around her torso as proof against their cackles, but still they stung. With nowhere else to go, she returned to the shelter. She needed a bit of care before figuring out what she might do. Normals who have no role in the Fallen Area end up lost and hungry. Roaming Inside was dangerous. More than people had been altered. She had overheard too many rumors of carnivorous alleys and debris.
That evening, she woke soaked in sweat. Her fingers twitched, her body burned as if the acid in her stomach had spilled. Gail could not recall where she was, and panic filled her for several minutes until her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she remembered. She shouted out for the nurse. Groans and curses of disturbed sleepers echoed. The syrupy medicine the nurse brought slowly soothed her.
Stabbing pain heralded each motion the next day. Even breathing took effort. She found a hand mirror and stared long at her reflection. Had the skin around her eyes always looked crinkled? The other woman staying at the shelter laughed at what they must think was vanity, but Gail knew what had happened. The hags had warned her about Alexander too late. She felt ancient.
The nurse hassled her with questions about drugs. Gail screamed to be left alone. She knew the sisters would never let her see Brennan again. She wanted nothing more than to hold the girl close, to nuzzle and kiss that soft face. Then everything would be right again.
The rain fell, and her pain worsened. Arthritis, she was sure. Her trembling fingers went to the faux gold case in her pocket. Bent low to hide the contents from the others, she considered taking one of Mr. Theo’s mystery pills. By staring hard, letters gradually appeared on their surface, as if she palmed tiny bits of Alexander’s weird flesh.
“What is Lanoxin?” Gail asked the nurse, when the woman came to check on her. She kept her treasure hidden underneath the blanket.
Suspicion narrowed the nurse’s eyes. “Digitalis. Foxglove. You’re too young to worry about such things.”
“I thought I heard one of the others asking for it.”
“I hope not. It’s for people with weak hearts.” The nurse leaned forward and whispered, “How’s the withdrawal?”
Gail shook her head. The woman didn’t understand. Gail didn’t crave Alexander’s words anymore. She needed to stop reading him. The hags, too. Maybe without their Book they’d all become young again. He must have a terrible heart to hurt them all so. Maybe she wouldn’t have to feed him all the little pills. “Do you have an aspirin?” she asked.
The hags never see her climb the staircase. Or maybe they approve of her plan. Yes, Gail is sure they must. Maybe Brennan, too.
Gail raps her sore hands on Alexander’s open door. He stares at her from the bed. She offers her best smile.
“Let’s talk.” She jiggles the bottle. The Lanoxin rattles along with the aspirin.
The sisters told me you left.
“It hurts, I know.” She gritted teeth while prying off the cap. It takes three attempts, and she struggles not to gasp by the end. “Here.” She brings the pills to his lips. He opens his mouth, and she makes sure to place them on his molars. He grinds his teeth.
“Now tell me a story.” She sits down on the chair. As the letters flourish over his skin, she tries not to shiver in anticipation of reading his ending.
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Steve Berman’s queer and strange writing has earned him a nod as a finalist for the Andre Norton Award. He has sold articles, essays and stories to The Coyote Road (Viking Childrens Press), Japanese Dreams (Prime Books), and Strange Horizons. He resides in southern New Jersey. Tearjerker was originally published in the Paper Cities anthology and will be included in his forthcoming Second Thoughts.
