The scent of the lilies was repellent; Matthew vomited twice on the way home.
Melissa came to see him in the morning, outside of his regular office hours, when he was sitting at his desk with his head in his heads. He dragged himself up at the knock, paused, and sat heavily back down.
Thirty seconds later, the locked door clicked open. It swung on the hinges, and Melissa stepped inside, holding up her student ID like a talisman. “The lock slips,” she said. “Gina showed me how. I heard, I heard your chair.”
Gina’s name came out a stammer too.
“Come in,” Matthew said, and gestured her to a dusty orange arm chair. She locked the door behind her before she fell into it. “Coffee?”
There was a pot made, but he hadn’t actually gotten up and fetched any. He waved at it vaguely, and Melissa shook her head.
He wanted to shout at her—What were you thinking? What were you doing there?—and made himself look down at his hands instead. He picked up a letter opener and ran his thumb along the dull edge. “I am,” he said, when he had control of his voice again, “so terribly sorry.”
She took two sharp breaths, shallow and he could hear the edge of the giggle under them. Hysteria, not humor. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know what happened.” She held up her hand, and his words died in his open mouth. “I don’t … I don’t want to know. But it wasn’t your fault.”
He stood up. He got himself a cup of coffee and poured one for her, added cream and sugar without asking. She needed it. Her eyes were pink-red around the irises, the lower lids swollen until he could see the mucous membrane behind the lashes. She took it, zombie-placid.
“I was safe inside the circle,” he said. “I was supposed to be the bait. Gina and Katie were unlucky. They were close enough to being what it wanted that it took them, instead. As well. Whatever.”
“What did … it want?”
“Things feed on death.” He withdrew on the excuse of adding more sugar to his coffee. “Some like a certain flavor. It might even. … ”
He couldn’t say it. It might even have been trying to lure Matthew out. That would explain why it had left its safe haven at the north end of the island, and gone where Prometheus would notice it. Matthew cringed. If his organization had some wardens in the bad neighborhoods, it might have been taken care of years ago. If Matthew himself had gone into its court unglamoured that first time, it might just have eaten him and left the girls alone.
A long time, staring at the skim of fat on the surface of her coffee. She gulped, then blew through scorched lips, but did not lift her eyes. “Doctor S.—”
“Matthew,” he said. He took a breath, and made the worst professional decision of his life. “Go home, Ms. Martinchek. Concentrate on your other classes; as long as you show up for the mid-term and the final in mine, I will keep your current grade for the semester.”
Cowardice. Unethical. He didn’t want to see her there.
He put his hand on her shoulder. She leaned her cheek against it, and he let her for a moment. Her skin was moist and hot. Her breath was, too.
Before he got away, he felt her whisper, “Why not me?”
“Because you put out,” he said, and then wished he’d just cut his tongue out when she jerked, slopping coffee across her knuckles. He retreated behind the desk and his own cup, and settled his elbows on the blotter. Her survivor guilt was his fault, too. “It only wanted virgins,” he said, more gently. “Send your boyfriend a thank-you card.”
She swallowed, swallowed again. She looked him in the eyes, so she wouldn’t have to look past him, at the memory of her friends. Thank God, she didn’t ask. But she drank the rest of her too-hot coffee, nerved herself, licked her lips, and said, “But Gina—Gina was … ”
“People,” he replied, as kindly as he could manage with blood on his hands, “are not always what they want you to think. Or always what you think they ought to be.”
When she thanked him and left, he retrieved the flask from his coat pocket and dumped half of it into his half-empty coffee mug. Later, a TA told him it was his best lecture ever. He couldn’t refute her; he didn’t remember.
Melissa Martinchek showed up for his next Monday lecture. She sat in the third row, in the middle of two empty desks. No one sat beside her.
Both Matthew and she survived it, somehow.
The Brooklyn Bridge was dubbed “The Eighth Wonder of the World” when it opened in 1883. It is made of more than granite, steel, and concrete. The men who built it sacrificed sweat, blood, health, and even lives to build it. But perhaps one builder gained something very special indeed.
CAISSON
KKARL BUNKER
The first time I saw Mischke was in the winter of 1871, and he was on his knees making cooing noises at a baby. The baby was on the lap of its mother, a plump young woman whose expression made it clear she didn’t know quite what to make of the oversized bear of a man who was tickling her infant’s cheek with a calloused finger. The woman had entered the noisy tavern a few moments prior, and had sat at one of the tables after speaking a few sharp words to the barkeep. Her presence had attracted some attention, as it was a rare thing to see a woman in one of these New York taverns. But the man on his knees hardly seemed to notice her; he was only interested in the baby. For its part, the infant seemed quite happy with his new friend, laughing and flailing a fat little arm as he tried to catch the finger tickling his face. After a few attempts he succeeded, his hand clamping down on a great log of a forefinger it could only half encircle. At this the man’s enthusiasm redoubled, and he launched into an excited monologue that included a few phrases of Polish along with the clucking nonsense syllables. I recognized the eastern drawl of Kresy dialect, close enough to the Mazovian Polish I grew up with to give me a sudden ache of homesickness. Then another man approached. He looked down at the Pole with disapproval, but immediately the woman launched into a tirade at him, snapping out a string of angry words in Irish-accented English that was too fast for me to follow. The couple left, and the big Pole got to his feet.