Foxfire
Foxfire carried her drink in its long, narrow-throated glass while Meyer led the way out of the
dance hall and onto its patio. Behind them, a canvas roof rolled with the gusty breeze like an
orange-colored lagoon, but out here, the night felt good. Looks good, too. Stars gathered thickly
overhead as though they too wanted to dance. But the band wouldn't start for a little while. They
hadn't even ascended yet to the bandstand in a corner between covered and uncovered dance floor.
She'd have time to talk to Meyer. He doesn't look so good, ndito, ever since The Bluffs.
Glory in the Lord, no one had died in that attack. Glory in Life, she had been able to help the
injured, and the anshin had arrived very quickly.
Personally, having seen what had happened to others, she felt lucky with her few injuries, some
burns, some bruises, some sprains, nothing med-tek didn't leave to her body's own healing
abilities.
Meyer, however —
He waited for her by a bench. He tilted up his stein and poured a slug of beer into his mouth.
Then he settled the mug, already half empty, on the bench's arm and plopped down.
Walking toward him, Foxfire studied the active-cast molded over his cheekbone. He'd picked a
flaring-red color for it. Makes it look more like a wound than a healing device. Why? Too much
of The Son/ghost-within, of course. But there were signs ... that night ... of him purging that
from his soul, giving it up for me. Such instincts don't yield so easily. He hasn't talked about
it in our will-sees, or on our way over here. There, you see.
Next to the bench, Foxfire waited with a smile until he put down his stein again. "How're you
feeling?" She reached out to the spots where she knew he'd been cut.
Meyer slipped away from her hand and stood up. "Fine," he said. "I'll be right back." He
sauntered toward a beer stand at the base of the band's platform.
Foxfire settled onto the bench. All the wounds she could see were well on their way to healing.
How is The Son/ghost-within churning inside him? He'd never done this before. A beer or two over
an evening while she stayed with fruit drinks. Tonight, though, he'd already downed three.
She watched carefully as he wound back through the thickening crowd. He walked straight, and the
stein was still mostly full. A dash of relief hissed through her. He settled himself on the bench
next to her. Maybe he'd be O.K.
I do like the smell of beer on a man, she admitted, then added, on Meyer anyway. Not like there've
been a lot of others. When he sat back, he laid an arm along the bench and brushed her hair.
Goosebumps prickled her neck.
"How are you feeling? How's your cheek?"
He grinned lopsidedly. "'S okay." The words came out long and thick from the back of his throat.
Suspicion gripped her. "Let me taste," she said sweetly. The beer carried a strange bite.
"What's in this?"
"Ethanol, natchurly. That's why I wanted to come to this neighborhood. They putsh out the real
shtuff."
"Is that legal?"
"Ashkelon Neighborhood spun off its own version of the Alter-Your-Own-Moods Pattern. Theirs allows
some natural help. Want shome?"
"No."
"Shuit yourshelf." He knocked back half the stein in two gulps.
Foxfire sat back, her pulse throbbing in her throat, a sour taste cutting through her mouth. Lord,
can You help him? Lord, can I help him? Lord, should we help him? All rhetorical
questions, she knew. The Lord didn't actually speak to people; Se worked through their unconscious
minds.
Meyer noticed her silence, hefted his stein, and said, "Actually, my cheek does hurt."
Foxfire examined the bright-red cast. "That's odd, Meyer. An active-cast should block the pain
while it works."
He twisted his face away from her fingers, drained his beer, and turned toward the bar.
Foxfire snared his free hand. "Don't get another, Meyer. It hurts me to see you like this."
He cocked his head around, a scowl creasing his forehead, those tender eyes dark with emotion, and
said to her, "And my proposal, did that hurt you too?"
Oh! Well, you did want to address that subject tonight, didn't you, girl? Yea, but slowly, in the
middle of laughter and closeness, not like this. Do it anyway.
"Meyer ..."
"Yea?"
"I have been thinking a lot about that, about your proposal ..."
"Yea?"
Foxfire closed her eyes. Words seemed to wander out of her mind and into the dark she found
there. Maybe they'll get to him by themselves. Don't think so; say something.
"I want to wait, Meyer," she said and pinched her lips together. Stop there. See what he says.
"I thought so." The words sounded like they could dig a trench through the pavement.
Foxfire opened her eyes. She clutched his hand, stroked its palm, divided his fingers between her
two hands, two and two, and held on.
Slowly, his eyes slid back to her like fei-yang seeking a pond after a long flight.
Hold on, hold on. "I didn't say 'no'," she said again.
He tried to nod and sigh at the same time. His mouth emitted a plaintive shudder, and his head
wavered to a downcast stop.
Oh, Meyer, I didn't mean for this to go this way. She said, "I have to earn my Nurse's
certificate, Meyer, then settle in with a combine. Nurse Poplar —" Not her again! Can't you
blame someone else? "— doesn't give me much time for anything more serious than the occasional
outing, even less so with this special project I'm on. As you very well know."
His head was nodding more assuredly now.
"Can't we just wait? Keep seeing each other and, well, see how it goes?"
"I — I guess so." He set down his stein and covered her hands with his. He gave her a weak
grin. His eyes lightened with his usual kindness. "At least you didn't say 'no.'"
"We've got time, Meyer. There'll be another Roshashonah next year."
His smile wavered.
"And the year after that," she added. Careful, girl!
His eyes narrowed. He sat back and pulled one hand away. Foxfire clung to the other.
"Zhee-tely," an amplified voice began across the way.
Lord, such rotten timing.
"The Confluence Café is pleased to introduce a new group in town. They call themselves
'Diili Yirrgaalga' — I hope I got that right. They say it means 'speaking sideways' in the
mother-in-law tongue of the Aborigines from-Australia. Let's give a warm Ganj Dareh welcome to
these folks!" Amplified applause followed, echoed by people on the patio around them. Someone
drove a fierce tune out of an acoustic guitar, then yielded to a moaning didgeridoo.
Meyer flung a look at the bandstand, then wrenched at his hand. Foxfire hung on tightly to the two
pair of fingers.
"Die Gastarbeiter!" he hissed. "They're all over the place." He snatched up his stein and
cocked his arm to throw it.
Foxfire tweaked his fingers. Meyer came back around with a snarl. "They aren't the ones who hurt
us," she said.
"How do you know?" he demanded.
"What?"
"Did you get a good look at the treyf who hurt you?"
"No!" Hurt me? Oh, Meyer, is that the problem? You couldn't protect me? The
Son/ghost-within, remember.
"Then you don't know these guys — or any of the ones flooding our town, taking over our positive
outdoor spaces, intruding on our jobs — are not them. Still here, still ready to strike again.
Do you? Let go of me!" He hoisted the stein again.
"No!" Hang on, girl!
Meyer's eyes bored in on her, more angry and bleak than she'd ever seen them. He pulled on his
hand; she worked to keep the hold. He twitched his other arm back, started a throw — with her as
target this time.
Foxfire flinched, but held onto his fingers.
Meyer caught himself and slumped. His face opened up with a spasm of despair.
She stood up, pulled his hand to her, drew him reluctantly to his feet, slipped his arm under hers,
softened her grip, but didn't let go, led him out of the café and onto a qi-che. He didn't look at
her the whole way home, even when the minibus broke down and they changed to its slow-arriving
replacement. At the stop nearest his house-hill, she released his hand at last, kissed his cheek,
and nudged him off the vehicle. He walked away with a morose slump to his shoulders.
I was so close to him, I thought, there at The Bluffs, before the attack and after. Only thought I
was, I guess. Empathy is difficult, ndito. It takes practice. At least, I started. At least, I
tried. I did get somewhere inside him, didn't I? Somewhere, yes, but obviously not everywhere.
Her ride home, under the indifferent glory of the stars, was slow, bumpy, and very unhappy.
