“Candi’s okay,” Bridgette told me. “I left her in India.” “Really? So, are you going back there?” “Yeah. I just came home to take care of some long overdue business.” “I see.” I looked at her palm. The incense had burned to spent ash and I detected a whiff of scorched skin. Both her hands were spotted with burn scars.
The dog did not stir. Now that the incense had died out, the smell of decay had grown stronger and something hideous suddenly occurred to me. With mounting fear and disgust, I bent down and looked under the table. The dog had been dead for awhile. It was crawling with flies and surrounded by a squirming nimbus of maggots. I don’t know how I kept from throwing up. I jumped away from the table and backed into the sink, causing a stack of dirty dishes to topple and shatter on the tile floor. Bridgette stared at me through stoned, bloodshot eyes and said, “What’s the matter?” And then I remembered her family in the cellar and realized I hadn’t heard so much as a murmur or a cough since I’d entered the house. The basement was directly beneath the kitchen. “I have to go,” I told her, already halfway across the room. “I don’t feel well...”
She picked up the joint and offered it to me again. “Sure you don’t want some?” she said. “It’s dynamite reefer, grown in the mountains of Nepal.” I raised my hands and said, “No, thanks. I actually have to get going.” And I stretched my legs, accidentally kicking the sleeping German shepherd under the table. I’d forgotten it was there.
I heard her say, “Well, you want some aspirin or something?” And then I was outside and back in the clean fresh air. I drove home with all the windows down, trying to get the smell of smoke and decay out of my nose, out of my clothes. About Bridgette Blake: Bridgette may have endured the madness and moral corruption of her family with an amazing degree of self-
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