Wildflowers Press

Snakeroot and Cohosh

Helton, Kentucky – Year 1968

Sometimes you don’t see a thing for what it is til later. 

There’s a group assembled, waiting for me to begin the tour.  Deep breath in. I look out at the faces assembled.  He’s standing at the back, leaning ‘gainst a hickory, long and lean. Eyes shaded. My heart thunders in my chest as an electric tingle shoots up the back of my legs. 

Tamp down my nerves and jolt off the jitters.  It’s show time. 

“Anyone know this shrub?” I point to the soft, heart-shaped leafy plant.  The group of men follow my finger, shaking their heads, frowning.

“Black Snakeroot.” Heads turn, eyebrows rise.  

“You might know it as Canada Wild Ginger.” Smiles and nods.  They’re none too spirited, but they’re into plants.  Me too.

“Good for gas.” I rub my belly. More smiles.

I show them Barberry (Dragon Grape). “Another plant for treating diarrhea and the janders.”  They think I’m a healer.  I’m not.  I know plants – learnt from my momma, but never doctored no one. 

“Son?  Umm, Mr. Corbett?”  A man in thick glasses raises a hand.

“Name’s Enos, please.”  Not used to being called Mr. Corbett, even now.  My neck hair tickles. Needs cutting again.  Least these boots fit proper now.

“What’s that large, white flowering tree yonder?”

“Graybeard. Boil down the bark to make a salve for skin troubles.”  Makes me scratch my own self-inflicted rash, running up my arms and neck.  

Three Months Earlier: Gilley, Kentucky

I run down the hillside, bare feet slapping in the mud.  Hard to keep my balance, slipping and sliding but I make it to the old, blue truck.  Soaked head to toe, my cotton dress sticks to me like wet newspaper. 

Can’t go to Grammy’s or Sadie’s – he’ll look for me there.  Wasn’t always like this. Used to be sweet and liked to hold me. Felt safe then. Meanness has a way of sneaking in, like a cottonmouth looking for warmth.  

I check my face in the steamy, cracked rearview.  There’ll be a nice shiner tomorrow. Everything hurts.  Not sure what set him off this time.  Griped his supper was cold after coming home, late again. Something had him spun up.  Maybe the liquor… maybe long days in the dark, breathing poison. 

I doctored his flask with sleeping herbs.  Midwife gave ‘em to me after losing my last one. Worked good but only slowed him down some. Now he’s snoring to high heaven, pesterin’ God with that racket.

I drive away, hoping the wheezing muffler won’t wake him.  Been drinking a tonic of Queen Anne’s lace to keep another from takin’.  Won’t raise a child in this place. In the back seat I see his work boots and sack of clothes he keeps for visiting Anabel.  Bet he was with her last night. Don’t think he knocks her around. She can have him.

I drive up North Folk behind the grocery – a rutted, single lane.  Old Blue can do it. She has to. Cabin’s a good hike aways.

These backroads are the embroidered threads of my childhood, twisting and quilted with wildflowers. One summer I stumbled on an empty miner’s shack some miles past the feed store.  Showed my lil’ sister and we spent long days there – heads on fire with tales of specters and haints.  Closed in by crying willows and elderberry bushes, it was our secret hideout. Hope it’s still standing. 

It takes hours to hike there.  Lightness in childhood expands time and space. Or maybe my broken body just don’t move so easy.

Sloped and drooping but upright, it needs a good cleaning.  I sweep out a family of mice.  I’ve brung a bit of food but it won’t last long.  Least the elderberries are in fruit.  I’ve snuck cuttings from our vegetable garden with me. Gotta watch for whistle pigs as they destroyed our crop two years ago.  Luther gave it to me good that time. 

I recall Mrs. Hinton talking the other day. Luther brung me to the Cutshin General for chicken feed.  I wished for a stick of horehound.  ‘Stead I listened to old Mrs. Hinton yammerin’ on about some War on Poverty and the president’s promise to make more jobs, especially for poor folk.  My ears pricked at that.  I got skills.  Momma was a healer and midwife. I learned plants from her.  I’d go on housecalls and help out here and there. I know black snakeroot’s good for bellyaches and blue cohosh helps bring a baby on.  

But Luther’s paranoia don’t let me mess with plants much.  He says I cast witchy spells when I make something for his hangovers or bumpy skin.  Never thanks me when he feels better. Mrs. Hinton talked and talked.  Woulda liked to have stayed, but Luther grabbed my arm and steered me outta there. Told me not to get any big ideas.

Days after finding the cabin, with a grumblin’ belly, I wander down the hillside ‘bout a mile.  There’s a blinding white clapboard church.  Paint still looks wet with a sign, Creech Community Church of Christ.  I knowed some Creeches a ways back.  I’ll visit Sunday and hope a kindly minister – better yet, his wife, might take pity on me.  Just pray they know nothing ‘bout Luther Hoskins of Gilley missing a wife.

I wash in the creek the following day and chop my long, tangled hair, hiding my head under Luther’s tweed cap.  Bruises are fading and I move better.  I cinch Luther’s pants with a piece of rope and roll up the legs.  I catch my reflection in the pond.  I look like a scraggly teenage boy. I rub nettles into my skin – what’s a little burning if it deters unwanted attention?  Don’t pay to be a pretty girl in these parts.  

I set off for the church, blisters rubbing into my heels from Luther’s boots. Bet he’s mad as a yellowjacket for losing ‘em.  The little church’s busting – people everywhere, dressed in their finest.  I watch from the woods before going in.  I settle on a hard bench against a back wall.

I stare at the back of blonde heads trying to understand the preacher’s words.  He’s leading a prayer for a sick member of his flock.  I imagine sick sheep rolling in the mud, baahing in pain.  Makes me snicker.  Preacher’s eagle eyes find mine.  Wish I could melt into the wall, like wet paint.  I nod and utter Amens.  After prayers and songs and more prayers, the service ends and everyone trudges out.  I keep my eyes down, feeling stares and questions.  Maybe it’s cuz I’m wearing Luther’s cap in God’s house.

I startle when a hand lands on my shoulder. Preacher’s taller than expected, slick as a butterbean in his tan suit, smelling like tobacco and sweat.

“Don’t believe we’ve met son. Welcome.  I’m Preacher Powell.  Glad you could attend this fine morning.”

He talks fancy. It takes a moment to understand what he’s saying.  I stand, shaking his hand and mumble a thank you, my whole hand lost in his grip.

“It’s good to see a new face here. Join us out back for refreshments.”

I follow as he leads me to a massive table shaded in the trees, buckling under enormous platters of food.  I nearly faint at the sight of so much, after living on scraps and raw plants the last few days.  There’s ham, fried chicken, rainbow-colored jellos, casseroles, and pies.  I tear my eyes from the food and look around.  They all must be kin. Same blue-gray eyes; same high cheekbones; same downy, blonde hair and pale skin, though the kids are more sun-soaked than their elders.

“Welcome to the Fitch Family Church of Christ of Creech,” he says, without a stutter.  “Where you from, young man?  You part of the Fitch clan over in Leslie County?”  I’m tempted to lie but I don’t look a thing like these Fitches.  Luther claims I’m part squaw.  

“Just a traveler, passing through.  I’m Enos – Enos Corbett… from Pike,” I say, keeping my voice low.

“Enos of Pike, it’s nice to meet you. You in the area on business?” I nearly laugh. Business? My business is finding a job.  Better say things I can keep straight.

“I’m looking for work. Heard the government’s hiring for their War on Poverty.” My cheeks burn.  I stare at his shiny black shoes in the red clay dirt.

“That so?  What kind of work you do?”

“Herbs and plants – healing,” I stumble.  I know there’s another word but can’t remember.  “I learned from my momma before she died.”

“That’s an honorable endeavor, Enos.  We need healers ‘round here.  Lots of sufferin’ in these hills.  I wish you well.”

“Thank you, sir.” I pause. “I’ve hit some bad luck.  Lost everything when the creek washed it away… nearly swept me away too.” Can’t believe I’m lying to a man of God. Shouldn’t be this easy. But here I am – making up tall tales.

“Powell, there you are.”  Goldilocks in a bright yellow dress covered in sunflowers joins us.  Flushed cheeks like cherries and long blond hair, braided into a flaxen plait down her back.  Feel like I’m staring into the sun.  

“Mary, dear, come meet our guest, Mr. Corbett – Enos. Family name?”  I try not to stare at her bulging belly.

“Yes sir, named for my daddy.  He died in the mines.” It’s out before I can stop it.  Need to remember all these lies I’m telling.  I look skyward, waiting on God’s thunderbolt.

“Bless your heart,” she says. “Powell, offer him something to eat.  Looks like he might float away on the breeze.”  The sunny missus grabs a plate and hands it to me.  I take slices of ham and orange jelly sauce and two biscuits, trying not to be greedy.  She eyes my meager takin’s and adds to the plate.

“You need more than that.  One mustn’t leave a Fitch Family Reunion hungry.” I’ve meddled a family reunion?  Hellfire.  Thankful Luther ain’t a churchgoer. Only place he finds salvation is at Smokey’s Truckstop, lapping too much from the communal cup … or Anabel’s bed.  Hope this incident don’t get back to him.  Instead of worrying, I dive into the food: mashed potatoes, gravy, shucky beans, biscuits, and peach pie.  I eat way too much, way too fast.  Pray I don’t make a splatterment in the bright green grass.  Mary leads me to a chair as I struggle to squash a rumbling belch. 

Mary and Preacher Powell pull up chairs, none bothered.  They introduce members of their family. I can’t keep anyone straight as things go hazy from all the food.  Don’t think I’ve eaten that much ever.  Powell’s summoned away by a harried member of his flock.  Mary smiles, as he walks off.  She asks where I’m staying.

“I’m making my way to Hazard, ma’am. How much farther?”  Her bright blue eyes get big.  

“That’s a long ways, Enos.  You walking there?”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s where they’s hiring.  I need a job since losin’ everything to the creek.” My shoulders slump, tear falling.  These aren’t fake.

“Oh honey…” She hands me a flowered napkin. “They’re not just hiring in Hazard. President Johnson sent delegates all over.  They’re looking for people in Helton too. We might could drive you over tomorrow.”  I want to hug her.  Can’t do that.  Luther’s extra large clothes can hide certain things, but if I hug Mary Sunshine, she’ll realize I’m not who I say I am.

“Thank you, ma’am – that’d be awfully kind.”

“Tis no trouble. Helping our brethren’s our life’s calling.  Stay with us tonight.  Thunderstorms threatening later.  We have a guest room – soon to be a nursery.” She pats her belly with a contented smile.

“Congratulations,” I add quickly. “Didn’t wanna presume.”  She laughs at my expression and pats my hand.  

“Enos, you’re a funny one.  We don’t get many handsome young men with ambition such as you.  I’d set you up with my cousin’s girl, Clara, if you were staying.  You’re ‘bout her age.”

I choke on my lemonade.  “I’m sure she’s very nice but without a job, I’m not worth much.” Mary’s eyes wander the whole of me. I wonder if she’s figured me out.  She says nothing.

I help her clean the dishes and stow folding tables in the basement of the church. She leads me up to their home – a large, rustic lodge surrounded by smaller cottages. 

“Powell’s sisters and parents live in those.  He likes his family close.  His brothers live ‘round the bend.”

“Must be nice to have so much family nearby,” I say, checking out the tidy cabins, each with a vegetable garden. These folks don’t have dark secrets needin’ to hide.  Maybe husbands here don’t beat their wives for coal dirt in their clothes.  

Mary brings me into the spacious, open living room. Framed photos of look-alike Fitch family members cover the walls.  Luther and I don’t even have a wedding picture in our trailer.  Not one.  I stare at the faces.  I want to see their happiness…their contentment.  Is it real?

Mary hands me a tube of ointment.  “For that rash, hon.”

The next day I’m driven into Helton where I meet Mr. Clyde Asher of the Government Works Program.  I’m offered a job as a guide to visiting plant researchers on tour of East Kentucky’s medicine plants.  Mr. Asher introduces me as Helton’s Bo-tan-i-cal expert.  Not sure what that means. Just relieved to be finding my own way in the world – plant doctor, witch doctor – don’t matter.  Snakeroot and Cohosh…these I know. 

These last couple months have emboldened me.  I live in a boarding house with others looking to make an honest living.  Mrs. Hayes looks after me.  Think she’s aware of my predicament. When a room with a private bath opens, she gives it to me. And she’s brung me clothes her eldest son’s grown out of, lending me the house sewing machine, so I can make my clothes fit proper-like. 

I’s so nervous that first day. I slipped up and told her my name’s Eva.  It’s not easy pretending to be something you ain’t.   She took a hard look at me, then turned away to tend to the beans cookin’ on the stovetop.  I’s sure she’d kick me out or worse, make me move to the women’s boarding house down the road.  

“E,” she calls me now.  “We get all kinds here.  All’s welcome as long as they follow the rules.”  She likes me cuz I don’t drink or swear and keep to myself.  I pay each week when board’s due and I give her some of my homespun remedies.  When the rowdier fellas come in at night, I make a quick exit.  It’s been a peaceable arrangement.  

The tour group’s assembled, waiting for me to begin the tour. Deep breath in. I look out at the faces assembled.

That’s when I see him, standing in the back, leaning on a hickory.  Eyes shaded.

My heart thunders in my chest a moment. He’s got a new cap, pulled low, over the eyes that once captivated me. I’d know that body anywhere – slouching, hint of a smile and old Blue sagging on the street, behind him.  

Took him three months to find me.  There was news of a stranger in town a couple weeks ago.  New faces in Helton get noticed.  I was once that new face.  Thankfully I’ve had time to blend in.  Need to think.  

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a patch of dogbane.  I recognize its large elliptical leaves on short stalks with whitish-green flowers.  

I’m tired of running.  Tired of having no control.  Why’d he have to follow me? 

Hemp dogbane here? It’s a trash plant – grows in ditches and thickets by roadsides.  Makes sense.  It grows in Gilley too.  I tear my eyes from the plant, daring a glance at Luther.

He watches me, head cocked and a smirk, and takes off his cap.  His hair’s longer.  He looks thinner too, but relaxed, aside from the vein pulsing over his right eye.  He’s wearing a new shirt – bright blue logo’s familiar.  

Dogbane’s good for dropsy in tiny quantities.  Luther needed it once after bingeing too many nights.  Swollen feet and legs from too much corn liquor.  Didn’t thank me then neither.

Bledsoe Works – that’s the blue logo. That’s only a few miles from here.  

Heart hammers harder in my chest. Bet he can hear it. 

Tired of being so damn afeared.

His lips press into a smile that never reaches his ice-blue eyes.  I know that smile… and what comes after. The back of my legs tingle, recalling the bite of his belt.

With the right dosage, dogbane’s good for dropping other things too, like a sack of rocks.

I lift my head, narrow my eyes at him, holding his gaze til he looks away.  I turn back to the visiting researchers and continue the tour. 

Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin

Postscript: This piece was published at http://www.halfwaydownthestairs.com online literary journal in Fall of 2023. I’m currently working on a novel length continuation of this story, taking the next chapter from Luther’s point of view. Stay tuned… there’s more to come with Eva and Luther.

Kestral in Waiting

Artwork Inspired Story Submitted to Vocal Media

Part I.

Wyatt:

Perched on the woodpile, resting or waiting?  I’m not sure.  She’s here most afternoons, as I haul firewood for the coming winter.  She eyes me before flapping away.  Disgust?  Those eyes tell me I’m an interloper, not a friend.  Each night the pile shrinks as I struggle to heat the cabin.  Thick bark on the trees and early squirrelin’ of forest critters tells me we’re headed into deep winter. Need to chop another cord soon.  

Back door opens.  Hazel, heavy with twins totters out, sweeping pine needles and coal dirt from inside.  I feel the ache in her lower back, as she moves slowly, favoring her left side.  Naked arms, despite the chill, sinewy from long hours scrubbing pans and punching down mounds of bread dough.  A hint of yeast follows her.  She glances to me, smile lighting the forest around her, at the edge of dark.  She leans against the rough-hewed beams of the porch, resting work -tired hands atop her belly.  Hard to imagine the changes we’ve seen this past year… and more to come as her time gets closer.  

Seems only yesterday I worked the mines – stinkdamp and crow black.  No place a man to be.  Done what my daddy did and his daddy done before him.  Money was good but left me hollow. Drove me to the lightnin’ at Red’s.  Thanks to Hazel, pulled myself outta that rut before it could bury me.  Too many have sunk in the red clay, no hope of escaping.   Now I work the bakery with her.  She learnt me breadmaking and it don’t matter none that some might think it woman’s work.  Keeps me from the dank darkness and killin’ mines.  We make do.  Just fret that the needs of bitty twins might force me back into the abyss.  

I help Hazel load fresh loaves into the wagon.  I want her to stay behind and rest while she can.  I can tend the store on my own.  She insists on coming. Think she prefers the cozy confines of the bakery to being alone out here, with a suspicious kestrel for company.  

“I forgot the last loaves cooling in the back room.  Mind grabbin’ them?” she asks, smiling.

I hop out and follow the trail of flour to the back sunroom where we keep the overflow loaves.  I wrap them in parchment and find Hazel atop the wagon, holding the reins to keep Rusty quiet.  

“You sure you wanna come in today?  You look plum wore out.  Know you’re not sleeping well.” Laying a hand across her belly, I feel the squirming motion of babies wrestlin’.  She smiles, putting her hands over mine.

“I’ll be fine.  These two prefer the commotion of the shop to the quiet out here.”  I kiss her hand.  

“Take it easy today.  When’s the midwife due?”  Her eyes narrow, shaking her head. 

She don’t like my fussin’, but I can’t help it.  We lost our last one. Her pressure went high and she had a stillborn.  Nearly lost her when the midwife couldn’t stop the bleeding.  I prayed like I never prayed before.  When she came through it, I started back to church, sure God heard my pleas.  Took months before she wanted to try again.  Couldn’t blame her – almost didn’t want to take that chance again.  

Now twins.  Anna May, the midwife wants her to deliver at the clinic instead of at home.  Hazel don’t like that notion.  She’s afeared of hospitals – says it makes her heart jumpy.  Good news is her pressures been good these last few months.  She’s in good form for being so far along.

“Wyatt, I’m fine.  I ‘preciate your concern.  I’ll be careful and won’t overdo it.  Just like being at the shop, seeing the customers.   Pretty soon I’ll be stuck home with babies.  Want to be out while I can.”  I hold her warm hand, not wanting to let go. I take the reins and urge Rusty into a slow walk.

Part II.

Anna May

I dig my heels into Penny’s flank, riding the Upper Creek, saddlebags flapping.  Hazel had a rough delivery two nights ago.  Twins. Bitty things.  They were suckling when I left.  Not any more.  Wyatt sent a neighbor’s boy to find me.  

He grabs Penny as I rush inside, to caterwauling.  The babies fuss, screaming themselves purple.  Lucy’s soaked. I change nappies, then glance at Hazel. Pale, eyes drooping, metallic tang… scarlet bleeds through the sheet.  

“Wyatt, get that wagon hitched!”  He stands, staring, at her as the blood drains from his face.

“Come on Wyatt…  Gotta get her to Hyden.”  I fear it’s too late, from the blueish tint of her lips, but need to try.  

We gallop to the clinic.  I’ve swaddled the babies and tucked them into my saddlebags to keep them from bouncing too much. I keep pressure on Hazel’s lower belly, trying to staunch the bleeding.  Wyatt drives the old horse near to breaking.   He glances back, terror carved in the weathered planes of his face, as he takes in his wife’s grey, lifeless form.

I return to the cabin weeks later, babies in tow.  They’re thriving and tolerate formula. Sorry Hazel isn’t here to see them.  

The cabin sags, forsaken. 

Just a kestrel sitting atop a woodpile.  I call out for Wyatt.

Part III.

Wyatt:

My fists sink into the warm dough, kneading, like a prayer. 

A shimmer of white, floats in the dusty rays of morning sun.  Lucy, skipping from the henhouse, night clothes mud spattered with a basket of eggs. Looks just like her mama – golden haired and lithe.  A flash of rust and indigo wings follow her to the woodpile. 

Lucy chatters to the bird, like a friend.  I’m too far to hear her words.  That bird’s never left… she bird flits from branch to branch in the jack pines, seeming to listen.  It comes to rest just outside the window where I’m standing, an unnerving gaze on me.   I have to look away.  

Heart heavy, I pummel the gooey mass, craving a salve to numb the nettles pricking my memories.  

Wish Hazel were here. She loved my spoonbread. We’d sit on the porch watching fireflies dance in the dying light, taking bites, butter dripping down our chins. 

Kestrel’s at the window, pecks the sill.

Oh Hazel…

Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin

Postscript: I combined two micro flash fiction pieces for the last two parts of this story and created the first part to tell Hazel and Wyatt’s beginning. The painting of the kestrel is in our farmhouse, Clifford, given to us by my in-laws. I’ve always loved the painting and enjoyed creating a story to go with it.

The CHO-sen

Short Story Romance for NYC Midnight Contest

They assemble at the Oriental – Bangkok’s ritzy five-star hotel, nestled on the banks of the Chao Phraya River.  Claire believes she’s stepped onto the set of Crazy Rich Asians.  Except they’re Crazy Rich Americans: loud and tackily clad in vibrant kimonos and silk safari shirts. Their host is Dr. Cho – Thai Kidney Transplant Surgeon to the stars. The assembled guests have made it off the infamous Cho-sen Wait List.  Hundreds still malinger, hoping for a chance to visit Cho’s Center of Most Excellent Surgical Skills – where miracles can happen.  

Claire walks to the registration table where a rotund gentleman is filling out a name tag.  Lester Loveless of Amarillo. 

“Hi, I’m Claire – Claire Sanders of New Orleans,” she reaches out a hand. He grins, until she quips, “Any relation to Lucy Loveless?” 

“No, ma’am.  That’s Lucy Lawless of Xena Warrior Princess fame,” he says flatly, unamused.

Claire covers her mouth, hiding her laugh, “So sorry.” She reaches past him, grabbing a pen to make her own nametag.   The Texan nods, making his way to the buffet line. 

Dr. Cho waltzes into the opening night banquet.  He is trim, wearing traditional Chut Thai – a white Nehru style jacket over cropped short black pants.  Claire thinks he looks comical.

“Greetings and welcome to Thailand.  I’m so pleased you could join us at the beautiful Oriental…” 

 “HELP ME! He’s collapsed,” a woman shrieks.

The crowd parts as Dr. Cho reaches the woman whose husband is slumped on the floor.  Dr. Cho whips out a stethoscope, listening, “He’s had a heart attack.  Please make room.” A team is summoned with the snap of a finger and the man is carted away.  Claire stands in shock at the tragic turn of events.  She recognizes the man as Lester Loveless, who she’d only just met.

People twitter about, pondering their own fate.  Claire is surprised Lester became ill so quickly.  In fact, he appeared to be one of the healthier people in the room.  She overhears bits of conversation.

“Oh poor Sheila – what’ll she do?  Lester was her world.”

“Don’t tag his toe yet.  I’m sure he’s being stabilized.” 

Eavesdropping, she learns Sheila is the kidney transplant patient.  She assumed it was Lester.  

As Claire stands apart, observing and listening, a voice behind her says, “Intriguing turn of events.” Claire turns.  

She looks up into the striking green eyes of a man, roughly her age.  “Excuse me?”

“Pardon me, but you don’t fit in with this transplant crowd.  Jack Philips, pleased to meet you Miss…” he raises a hand to take hers.  

“Claire…” she lingers, unsure what to say next.  She stares into his eyes a hair too long. She pulls her hand back to tuck an unruly curl behind her ear.  “And you, Mr. Philips …what’s your business here?”

“Touche, …Claire. Doing a bit of investigating. No, I’m not taking part in Dr. Cho’s Medical tourism.  And you? Don’t see you in need of a kidney or other transplantable part? Why are you here?” he appraises her.

Claire gets lost in his gaze again. Shaking her head, she pulls herself from the magnetism of his smile. “My interest in Dr. Cho’s work is personal.” She’s reluctant to reveal her reason for being here. 

She looks about as attendees disperse for the evening. Seem’s the show is over.  Dr. Cho comes back to announce they’ll begin their tour of facilities at 9 a.m. sharp the following morning.  He makes no mention of Mr. Loveless’ condition.  

“Dr. Cho,” Claire’s voice rings out, “How is Mr. Loveless?” The room of people turn to her. She feels their curious gazes.  Why is no one else asking this question, she wonders.  

“Ah Miss Sanders… thank you for asking.  He’s much better. Heart attack, thankfully a mild one. Our cardiologists expect him to make a full recovery. Thank you for asking.” Dr. Cho’s voice icy. Claire nods, her face burning under the scrutiny of Jack Philips.

Jack leans in, fine whiskey breath in her ear, “Nicely done, Claire Sanders.  Any relation to Lina Sanders – former patient of Dr. Cho’s?”

At the mention of her great aunt, Claire nearly tumbles.  Jack steadies her.  “Join me for a nightcap, Ms. Sanders. I believe we share a mutual interest in Dr. Cho’s work.” 

Claire allows Jack to lead her to a waiting tuk tuk on the corner.  She’s surprised to find herself walking into the posh Bamboo Bar moments later.  

Jack finds a cozy corner and deposits her as he motions for the server. “Claire, what would you like?”

“Ice water, please.” She’s still stunned by his knowledge of her great aunt.  

“I think we can do better than that. They have a refreshing array of tonics.  May I suggest Fentiman’s Pink Rhubarb – it’ll bring color back to your cheeks.” His gaze settles on her.

“Fine, how do you know about my great aunt?  Who are you?” She shivers, despite the sultry warmth of a Bangkok evening. 

“As I said before, I’m investigating Dr. Cho’s work and his entire gimmick. Your great aunt isn’t his first victim and I suspect Mr. Loveless may also have something to lose.”

“What do you mean?“ He watches as she twists a copper curl around her finger as she glances around the sumptuous 1950’s inspired décor.  

“Sorry for being mysterious,” he says after placing their order. “Hungry? The Deconstructed Ploughman’s and Veggie rolls are quite nice.” 

“No thank you. Please tell me why I’m here.” 

“Claire, I think Dr. Cho has a side gig – a very lucrative side gig.  Are you familiar with a Dr. Walker?”

“He was the physician my great aunt saw in New Orleans prior to her surgery. Why?”

“Did she say anything to you about why she’d want to travel all the way here for a seemingly simple procedure?”

“My great aunt Lina was a bit eccentric.  She wanted to see Bangkok and Dr. Cho’s fame and location were appealing.  Lina had money, so the cost didn’t dissuade her.  She spent three months on dialysis and swore if she could get a kidney, she’d do things differently. When Dr. Walker suggested she consider Dr. Cho’s Center, she jumped at the chance.” Claire sips her fancy tonic water.  It’s delicious.  

“Claire, are you sure your aunt was even in need of a kidney?”

“What do you mean? She’d been sick over the past year – nausea, vomiting, weakness…They tested her and determined her kidneys were failing.  What are you suggesting?” His green eyes have lost their luster.  

“Did she ever get a second opinion?” he asks, holding her gaze.

“No.  I don’t believe so. She never questioned the doctors and did as she was told.  If she didn’t need a kidney, why would she have been put on dialysis? How could they fake that?” Her mind begins to click into high gear, the fog lifting. She likes this tonic.

“Did she go to Freeman’s Dialysis on Claiborne?” Claire glares at Jack.

“What aren’t you telling me? So far, I’m doing the talking and you’ve not told me your part in all this.  Spill or I leave.” She grabs her purse, rifling through her wallet to find some baht.

Jack takes her hand, “Sorry, this is on me.  Please stay.” She feels her resolve melt when he touches her.

“I live in New Orleans too,” he admits.  “Dr. Walker’s been on my radar for years.  I’m a journalist and believe he’s Dr. Cho’s accomplice in identifying potential kidney transplant candidates.”

Claire and Jack spend the next hour comparing notes.  Dr. Walker is a nephrologist who got caught up in a nasty divorce, crippling him financially.  Since his partnership with Cho, he’s rebounded remarkably as evidenced by his new wheels – a Maseratti Levante. He’s been seen cruising St. Charles Avenue on Sunday afternoons with new platinum girlfriend. 

Claire is stunned by Jack’s belief Cho is dealing in Chinese black market kidneys.  Jack doesn’t reveal his deeper concern, as what he’s told her is enough to keep her seated. She’s nibbling a Vegetarian Spring roll and orders a more adventurous cocktail from the extensive menu.  He settles in with a 12 year highland scotch, enjoying the show as candlelight flickers across her auburn waves.  

“What’s our next move?  Does Cho think you’re here for a new kidney?” Claire asks, emboldened by her Dublin Minstral – a sublime mix of Irish whiskey, chartreuse, maraschino and lime.  

Jack laughs, deep and sonorous. “No, I’m writing a story on his successful transplant business for marketing purposes. He’s arrogant and can’t imagine anyone digging into his business.  What about you? He knows exactly who you are – Ms. Sanders,” winking at her.

She laughs, throwing her head back, revealing a throat that begs to be kissed.  “Cho is arrogant.  He personally invited me to attend this tour so I could experience the quality of care my great aunt received. He paid my way here.  I’m his guest, staying in one of the nicest rooms at the Oriental.  I wrote him some pointed emails after my aunt’s death.” Claire sighs as she thinks about her Great Aunt Lina.

“Mr. Philips, I’m afraid I need to get back.  Jet lag, you know.  I want to be alert for our morning tour.  Thank you for an illuminating evening.” She rises, swaying a little.  

“My pleasure but I intend to see you back to the hotel.”

The next morning Claire wakes with a crushing headache and dry mouth.  Again, she wonders if she were drugged. But she’s alone in her magnificent suite, tangled in silk and linen sheets.  She thinks about Jack, his smile and those eyes.  She stumbles from the bed and finds a bottle of water by her bedside with note.

Drink this.  It’ll help with the hangover. See you soon. J

Wait, did he come here last night? She shakes her head to remember.   Fog and fuzz – hazy images but not much else.  She’s in her silk chemise. Did she and Jack …?  She goes to the mirror.  Her hair is a wild tangle of penny-colored curls. Her lips are swollen.  Shit, did she kiss him or something else?  No hickeys evident – although as she pulls off her chemise, she finds a purple bruise just above her right nipple.  Why can’t she remember?

She hops in the shower, realizing she has 45 minutes before they’re to meet for breakfast and grand tour.  

The tour is uneventful.  The facility is immaculate, gleaming white with the delicate scent of frangiapani.  She hopes her aunt got to experience this level of luxury before her death.

“Good morning. Didn’t see you at breakfast,” she says mildly as Jack comes up to her.  “And by the way, did you put something in my drink last night?” 

 “What? Uh no.” He’s ruffled, stepping back. “Why would you say that?”

Claire stands taller. “I don’t seem to remember much about our return to the hotel. Did you come to my room?”

“No, you know that.  I left you at the elevator.”  Claire stares at him, disbelieving.

“Then how was water left by my bed with a note… from you? Not to mention…” she pauses, “physical evidence we did more than just talk?”

Jack takes her arm, leading her away.  “What are you talking about?  I left you at the elevator and returned to my room.  I wanted to join you, but knew that would be a bad idea,” he whispers, eyes flashing. 

“Something fishy’s going on.  Why does Cho wants us to hook up?”  

Jack coughs as he realizes she’s onto something.  “You’re right. God, he’s brilliant. Wait…physical evidence?”

She blushes, “A hickey… here.” She points.  “We didn’t kiss or …?”

“No, but God, I wanted to.  Look Claire, I don’t know what’s going on.  I have a meeting tonight that’ll prove Cho is more than just hawking kidneys. We gotta play the part.” 

“What do you suggest?”  

Jack grabs her hand and she realizes he’s already executing the plan, as they exit the elevator.  

He holds her close, “I’m guessing your room is bugged. Play along while I scope things out.”  He runs his hand down her arm as she unlocks the door.  

He pulls her in, kissing her neck, and leans her up against the wall.  “Stay here, I’m going to check the bathroom.”  Glancing around she notices a camera on the desk, attached to the lamp.  It’s well camouflaged, pointed at the bed.  She makes her way around the room looking for other devices.  She finds one other near the sofa.  

Jack returns from the bathroom. Claire grabs him, pushing him to the far end of the room she believes there aren’t any cameras.

“Two cameras – by bed and sofa.  Bathroom?”

Jack is out of breath, trying to remember this is play-acting. “No cameras, but audio in toilet tank.”

“Mighty decent of him,” she quips.  “What’ll we do?  I can’t pretend to be having sex in here while you meet your contact.  I’m good, but not that good.”  

Jack chuckles. “Let’s rendez- vous in my room.  We’ll cut out of dinner early, two lusty youngsters.”

“I want to come with you.” 

“Claire, you can’t.  Cho has to think I’m with you. And for the record, I think we need to sit on that couch and do some making out, you know…” He whispers in her ear.  “Any objections?”

In response, she takes his hand.  

She dresses that evening in an alluring olive silk slip dress.  Jack, for his part, wears a deep blue silk suit.  They arrive together, holding hands.   Every eye is on them. Dr. Cho smiles as they enter, inviting them to his table.  

The dinner is a traditional multicourse affair. Later after flirting outrageously at the table, Jack leads her out.  Dr. Cho nearly stops them as he wants them to experience the fine Thai meal.  He knows by the look in their eyes, he’s no match for that kind of chemistry.

Scandal breaks the following morning. Dr. Cho is found guilty of buying black market kidneys from the Chinese.  But the more damning accusation is that he’s an accomplice in the underground Cannibal Dinner Club.  While performing kidney transplants, he’s been nipping off bits of livers from kidney patients.  He sells them to feed a growing trend in human foie gras.  Dr. Cho recognized the culinary potential and financial windfall in the fatty livers of men like Lester Lovelace. He doctored Lester’s gin cocktail, leading everyone to believe he suffered a heart attack.  Once on the operation table, Cho was able to extract a healthy piece of the man’s fatty, somewhat pickled liver.  

Jack and Claire discovered they had both been drugged the night before, resulting in their forgotten tryst.  Two years later Claire is awarded 50 million dollars for the wrongful death of her great aunt.  Dr. Walker loses his platinum blonde and fancy car. Dr. Cho is put on a wait list for a public defender.  Jack Philips wins a Pulitzer for his uncovering of Black-Market Kidneys and Cannibal Culinary Club Affair.

Copyright 2024 Cathy Schieffelin

Postscript: This piece did not make it to the next round. It was written at least two years ago when I first attempted writing contests. Instead of giving into my baser instincts and editing this into a better form, I’m going to leave it as I submitted it. Believe me, there’s a lot that needs fixing here, particularly nitpicky line edits. Would love for others to give feedback on how to improve the story and how to make it more coherent. Critique away. Thank you.

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