Page 45 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. IV #7

“Oh sure, sorry. It wasn’t your clothes. You just seem on edge. Is everything ok back home?”
“I haven’t been home in a long time.” What am I saying? Stick to the script, you dumb woman. And yet, being here, the urge to see Joe is so strong, it’s almost unbearable. I could call. He could catch a plane. We could walk those steps together at last. Surely they wouldn’t be hunting me still, after all this time?
How would I know? I haven’t seen my husband in five years. Five years tomorrow. He could be at the bottom of Hell Creek for all I know, or romancing that pretty waitress from Old Town Grill in Wolf Point. I don’t say it. Of course, I’m hoping he’s just sitting on that doorstep, waiting for me to drive up the valley and through that ranch gate like I’ve never been away, with Mom hollering from the back bedroom that she’d never doubted I’d come home.
The FBI got most of them, the day I ratted them out. Most, but not all, and therein lies the prob- lem. We knew only too well that their poisoned web spread far and wide. The SWAT team caught the Upper Council–but only those who were in town–at their weekly Confessional. Highlight of the week for the superiors of The Gentle Fam-
ily, watching some poor wretch spilling out all
the petty rules he’s broken since Sunday, getting thrashed with a horsewhip (and five hundred dol- lars down) for his trouble.
“I hope so,” I say. There’s a bright green flash of coriander between Cathy’s uneven teeth, and I try not to catch my eye on it.
Laughter bursts from the other end of the table, a great splurge of it. Roger is comparing Peter’s manicured nails with his own work-ragged claws. Heather’s smiling grimly, the chipped remnants of her vacation-treat manicure tucked right into her palms.
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Art on a Plate
fabric, plate and spray paint 12” x 12” by Miabo Enyadike