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**CURRENT PRINT: 318: Installment 25 features "318," by Birmingham's Nadria Tucker, the story of a stripper's daughter in prep for a beauty pageant and so much more. Also: "Big Doug Rides Torch," a short from Chicago's Jonathan Messinger's new Hiding Out collection.
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WHY SHE DIDN'T TELL HIM ABOUT DEATH
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J. Marcus Weekley
Born in Chattanooga, Tennessee, J. Marcus Weekley currently lives in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. He is the maker of twelve books, some of which incorporate poetry, stories, photography, drawings, and quilting. Marcus's photographs accompany the creative nonfiction of Gail Folkins in Texas Dance Halls: A Two-Step Circuit
Miranda picked up her needle, pointed it at the white silk, and plunged it through the three layers -- top, batting, and back. Blood seeped out of the hole, like a finger-wound that's been squeezed. She paid no mind to the trickle, instead shifted the fabric on her lap so that the blood would drip down onto the floor. She began to hum.
It wasn't long before Daniel asked, "Mommy, what are you humming?" He lay rolling a small toy truck across the rug next to the dying fire. His hair was brown. He wore overalls and his bare feet were only a little chilly.
"It's a song I made up when your brother went away." Daniel was six at the time.
The blood had begun to form a puddle at her feet. She rocked the needle back and forth, back and forth, as her uncle had taught her.
Daniel looked at her, but over the truck. "He's not coming back, is he? He's dead, right?" He said this straight, like talking about baseball.
Miranda shifted in her chair -- it creaked -- and breathed in before she answered. "Who told you about that?" Not angry, but a little impatient.
After a second, he answered. "Miss Gloria." He seemed to think about something for a minute, and added, "But she only said that he was dead."
The noise of the truck and the fire wheezing and Daniel's question made Miranda want to stand and walk outside into the snow. She kept up with the needle. The blood began to form a mirror and she knew if she looked down between her feet she would see herself, possibly the light shaking from the fire, her son, her only remaining son.
"I want you to look at me for a second." She stopped quilting.
He looked at her.
"Do you know why I didn't tell you that Zimmie was dead?"
He could hear her starting to cry, in her voice. He sat up.
"I didn't tell you because--"
The blood from the quilt ignited. She covered it with her dress so the flames spread, soaking her legs and her arms and torso, spilling over her hair like warm oil. The entire living room was soon aflame.
Daniel screamed and tried to put out the fire, but Miranda motioned for him to come close, like a hug. She held him and Daniel was surprised the fire didn't burn him, them, their clothes. The red flames felt good, like a cup of soup on a cold day, but on the outside, and Daniel didn't know what to do.
Miranda spoke words Daniel didn't know, beneath the sound of the fire, and before long, the entire house went up. The place smelled like evergreen.
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When Miranda's husband came home, the house was silent. He put a hand near the fireplace -- still a little warm -- and called out, "Miranda? Daniel?" Daniel's toy truck lay on the rug, and an unfinished piece she'd been working on sat on her favorite chair. And one small red spot on the floor. But, no answer. No Miranda or Daniel.