the fee is neither hair nor father’s bones, not feather or a kiss or a firstborn promised. what he takes is money. he who deals in this kind of curse is frugal, pragmatic, and gods help you if you think it might be funny to ring his bell and run. a couple of kids from my block tried it, once, and since that day they’ve been [p]allergic to the shining of the sun. they could walk out free today; i climb the stoop under skies slate-grey.
he opens at third knock, appraises, sits me in the tiny kitchen. globs of blood or oil on linoleum, half-wet, glisten; dirty dishes and dirtier dishrags sprawl out of the sink. i smell burnt grease, count crusts and crumbs on counters, think: so much for that bit about brooms. i notice the knives then, hanging racked against the wall: they’re spotless, gleaming, the only clean things in the room.
he looks as tall today as when i glimpsed him as a child, watching how the older boys paled before his scowl. he folds a towel on the table, fills a bowl with water from the tap. i hand him the photo: the man in the bright blue baseball cap, navy sportcoat, white shirt, red tie; insufferable smile, manic eye.
he dips it in the water, then lets it float. i make a mental note: avoid cameras. he takes down his smallest knife, draws it ‘cross his tongue, spits blood into the bowl. the water bubbles, boils, smokes. he pulls the picture out, somehow still whole, and slaps it on the table, upside-right.
“he will see no color, he will know no color, he will find the world flat and grey, all the day, and all the night. he’ll see and be in black and white.” the snapshot’s shades have washed out to match.
“of course, there’s a catch.” my stomach knotwists tight. “look at your leaders. look at men of might. how many of them ever speak of [contact c]aught between the dark and light? the powerful deal in absolutes. anemic is not neutral. ashen is not ashamed. you’ve made your agonist more aggressive with this punishment you’ve named.”
“but less happy, less whole, less able to feel. more livid, yes, but less living, less real.”
he had no response to that, no counterpoints or quips. looking back as i swung the door closed, i saw him lift the bowl, still steaming, to his lips.