Poison Flowers by Nat Burns

open and closed a few times, like he was getting ready to say something. After much effort, words came out.
    “What I want to know is how y’all kept it secret for so long. Didn’t anyone put two and two together?”
    I noticed how dirty and disorganized the cellar had become. The man’s water cup had toppled. I fetched a cloth from a nearby shelf and started mopping up.
    “Just no sense in anybody being such a slob,” I muttered. “I just don’t understand why people can’t do things the right way.”
    He leaned forward, wrapping his fingers through the crossbars of the cage. His knuckles were white from the force of his fingers pressing against the diamond-shaped holes in the wire. “Which means your way, right?”
    I studied him, twisting the cloth in my hands. “Maybe. What’s it to you?”
    “So what’s your name, anyway? The one you go by.”
    “Puddintane. Ask me again and I’ll tell you the same.” The old rhyme made me smile.
    “Bat shit crazy,” he muttered.
    I had tried to be nice, but I had had just about enough of his mouth. I moved as fast as I could and slammed my palms against his fingers, pinning them to the metal with my body weight.
    He screamed as much in fear as in pain, it seemed, and exhilaration raced through me. I’d show him crazy.
    Inserting my own fingers through the holes of the metal fencing, I grasped his middle finger and pulled it as far through the fencing as possible then pressed backward. The clean snap of the broken bone was immensely satisfying, and I closed my eyes to better savor it. Opening them seconds later, I watched his eyes, saw him struggle not to scream again. Hatred flared in his eyes for a brief moment, and I studied it, pleased that I had caused such an emotional response.
    I cooed at him as I let his hand go. He cradled the hand to his chest, and I saw beads of sweat pool on his broad forehead. One pool overflowed, and droplets scurried along his cheeks.
    I stood and strolled away from his cage and began straightening the cellar. I ignored him a long time until he started to speak.
    “You’re not going to let me live, are you?” he whispered.
    I turned and looked at him. His hand must be hurting like a son-of-a-bitch, but he wasn’t letting on.
    “No, I don’t think so,” I answered. I folded the cloth I’d used earlier and placed it on the worktable. “Mama says you know too much. That you’ve been snooping in the computer. What did you find, anyway?”
    He watched me, his eyes glazing over some. I guess he was realizing that he was going to die here in this cellar. I didn’t expect him to answer so I was surprised when he did.
    “Your birth certificate.”
    “Ahh, that explains a lot,” I said, snapping my fingers. “Making that public sure would stir up a tempest in a teapot.”
    He nodded and scooted toward the back of the crate. He pulled his knees to his chest and continued to hold his wounded hand like it was an infant and he its mother.
    “I’m sorry I had to hurt you,” I said softly. “Why couldn’t you have just ignored that stupid piece of paper? You think I like being bad?”
    With his head down, I had a hard time hearing his response. “Because I am a good person and, unlike you and your mother, I know right from wrong. I just wanted to do the right thing.”
    Angered anew, I decided I’d let him stew for a while.
    “Enjoy your pain,” I told him as I mounted the wooden steps. I switched off the light and waited a minute. There was no sound from below. He didn’t even cry.

Chapter Nineteen
     
    Two nights later Marya was back at The Way of Hand and Foot. The class worked out for a good hour. Marya worked steadily to coax soreness from each of the muscles she had reawakened during the first class. Dorry was a hard taskmaster, but Marya knew the harsh input was improving her form. Dorry’s first reprimand—“Spaghetti arms, Brock!”—hadn’t set all that well, but, though she had bristled at the correction, Marya