Strange Hungers: Love, Bombs and Cannibals
Short Stories By: Tirzah L. Goodwin

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Copyright 2005-2010 Tirzah L. Goodwin
License: All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. 

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LOVE FROM THE SLAUGHTERHOUSE
He smoothed his hand over her buttocks, rubbing out the inequalities of her meaty flesh. His large palm slid up the beautiful line of her back, warming the coolness with his body heat. Reaching in the large plastic tub next to the table, he grabbed another handful of ground sirloin. He rolled it into a perfect patty and slowly worked it into the flesh of her torso, giving her a more womanly look. 

Lyle stepped back, wiping his hands on his bloody apron. Taking a critical look at his work, he nodded to himself. His statue still wasn't as lovely a Madeline herself. Something about the beautiful oval of her face wasn't quite perfect. The expression seemed almost yearning but that expression was wrong for Madeline's face. A red light blinked over the freezer door, Lyle sighed. Time to get back to work.

Leaving the bitter cold of the freezer, the warmth of his shop seeped into his frosty flesh. Ms. Frangle stood in front of the meat case. Her over-sized black purse obscured half of her diminutive plaid figure. The buzzer rang again and two yuppies in khakis and pullovers came in sipping their ten dollar coffees from Starbucks.

He nodded to Ms. Frangle, "The usual?"

"Yes, Mr. Beuter," came her murmured reply.

Lyle counted out four hamburger patties, placing a layer of wax paper between each so that Ms. Frangle could freeze them separately. Weighing her patties, he deducted the usual ten percent discount. He bagged the burgers. Just as he pulled out the turkey to make her sandwich meat, one of the yuppies sighed impatiently. Ignoring them, he sliced the low-sodium turkey super thin. 

More angry grumbles came from the two khaki idiots. Lyle straightened to his full six foot seven height and leveled his pale white-blue eyes on the men. The same level, burning gaze that made women back away from him and men decide that they'd rather buy him a drink than fight. The grumbles ended abruptly.

Lowering his eyes, he sliced the turkey again. He bagged up a pound but only charged her for half a pound. He pushed the bags across the counter to her. She counted out her worn one-dollar bills.

"Have a nice day Mr. Bueter," she whispered as she bundled her packages under her arm and scurried past the two men lingering at the doorway.

Lyle leveled his stare at them again, "Yes?"

The blond one puffed his chest out belligerently, "I don't suppose a place like this would even carry organic chicken?"

Sliding open the far refrigerated display case door, he took out a whole chicken.

"You want it quartered or whole?"

"It's organic?" sneered the blond.

"Yes."

"Are you sure? I don't want to use any hormone treated meat."

"Yes, I know what organic means. I run a butcher shop. Quartered or whole?"

"Quartered, I guess..."

Lyle stopped listening as he caught the flash of bright auburn hair out the wall of window. He found himself holding his breath as she stepped out of the tattoo parlor down the street. It was her. Dressed in brown leather pants and an electric blue halter blouse, she captivated him like lighting in the night sky. Madeline. Her curvy hips swung like a hypnotist's watch, she swung one leg over her sleek motorcycle, tucked her dark red hair into her blue helmet. Kick starting her bike, the muscles of her ass flexed under the tight leather. 

His own pants became uncomfortable watching the display. He felt his face flush. Madeline was so lovely. She roared away, his leather goddess. 

"Hey, are you going to get our order or not?" a rude voice interrupted his daydream. 
Grunting, he grabbed the chicken in one hand and the meat cleaver in the other. Lyle caught the blonde’s eye and then deftly quartered the chicken with two swings of the clever. The man swallowed nervously and looked away while the dark-haired one quickly paid with a credit card.

Franco rushed in as they hurried out. Lyle gave his assistant a grim smile, "You're late."

"Oh jeez, Lyle, what did you do to the preppies?"

"Nothing. I just quartered their chicken, just like they asked."

"Yeah and I'm the Pope," Franco shook his head, laughing; "I know you own the shop but, really, Lyle, you shouldn't work with the customers. You scare the crap out of everyone but Ms. Frangle."

Lyle shrugged, "That's why I hired you."

Franco laughed as he wiped down the counter, his curly brown hair pressed down by the hair net. In his mid-thirties, Franco could pass for years younger. His cheery good attitude and people skills made him the perfect foil for Lyle's dark presence. Lyle ordered and cut the meat, Franco sold it. 

But even if Franco had been the biggest dick in the world, Lyle would have adored him for the sheer fact that because of him, he met Madeline. It was during Franco's barbeque last summer; Lyle had been lurking in the shadows by the far fence, as usual, nursing a brew. 

He had sipped it slowly; waiting for the right moment to sneak out and go home. The cool liquid eased some of the dryness of his throat but did nothing to ease the tension knotting his shoulders. How he hated being surrounded by strangers. It was only ten minutes later that his life changed forever. 

Sighing, he had just chugged the last of the can and tossed it in the trash can when he heard a woman yell, "Asshole!"

Lyle jumped as the angry female voice screamed obscenities behind him again. He turned just as a leather-clad woman backed through the side gate, her plump arm in the air with the middle finger extended. Swearing violently, she kicked the wooden fence with her black boots. 

"You suck, Chris! I put up with all your crap and you screw Misty behind my back? In my bed? Where your lazy ass was staying for free! Plus, you're a bad lay. Any man would be better than you." 

A male voice sneered from behind the fence, "You're lucky any man would bother with your fat ass."

The woman turned on him, her auburn hair sparkling in the sunlight. Her eyes glinted green and gold, she grabbed Lyle's arm, and his breath left his chest.  Most women flinched unconsciously when he loomed over them. Her short nails dug into his muscled arms, dragging him to the open side gate. She yanked his head down and kissed Lyle hard. Her tongue took advantage of his surprised gasp and stroked the inside of his mouth. 

His arms tightened around her, tucking her curvy body into the muscled frame of his. Bliss. She broke away from him, and yelled out to a grungy guy packing guitars in an old Impala. A floppy-eared hound hung his head out the open window of the car, his mouth pink and open, his tail started wagging at Madeline’s voice, “See, anyone is better than you.”

The sweet strawberry taste of her still tingled on his lips. Lyle dreamed of her, of her muscled thighs, her voluptuous curves. 

Ever since last summer, he had pried every bit of information about her from Franco. She was his next-door neighbor, she worked in the tattoo parlor down the street from the shop. She was single, drove a motorcycle, and didn’t like dogs especially hounds. Something to do with her ex-boyfriend‘s dog pissing on everything. Yet, it wasn’t enough. He wanted to know everything.

Lyle wanted to show her how gorgeous he found her. Stepping back into his small freezer, he stared at his sculpture of Madeline. She stood nearly six feet tall, fashioned out of top sirloin. The Meat Fair held a contest each year for best meat sculpture. In only two days, he had to have his goddess ready for the world.

The morning of the contest dawned sunny and bright. Lyle rolled his display table out into the heavily air-conditioned hall. He locked the wheels but kept his refrigerated case closed. No one needed to see her until the judging. Meat sandcastles, meat dogs leaping for Frisbees, he was surrounded by beefy beauty in every kind of meat. 

A panel of three judges approached an old man with a cane and a limp, a chubby lady with three chins and pink polyester pantsuit, and a lean young man in a cardigan and baggy chinos. Lyle knew they were the judges because of the officious clipboards and the slight sneers of superiority. 

Lyle nodded as they neared his table. He unlatched his refrigerated case, and slid it back, exposing his masterpiece to the room. Shocked gasps filled the frosty air. Miss Three-Chin’s face turned scarlet. The cardigan stood there, stunned like a cow at the slaughterhouse, his mouth hanging open. Only the old man seemed undisturbed. His milky eyes slid down her from her upturned face, to her jutting chest down to the delicate shape of her thighs. 

Three-Chins huffed, her face still pink, “Sir! This is a family contest. You can’t display this...this...this NUDE!”

Lyle shrugged his massive shoulders, “Not in the rules.”

Clearly agitated, she put her dimpled fingers to her throat and mumbled under her breath, “A nude...a nude.”

The cardigan followed her, murmuring comforting sounds. However, the old man stayed there, still looking at his Madeline. Turning to Lyle, his voice rang, deep and mellow, “Top sirloin?”

“Yes, nothing but the best.”

“Oh my, yes,” nodding, then the elderly gentleman turned and followed the other two. 

Several groups had gathered close around his table, gawking, whispering. Lyle saw the pink pantsuit coming back, dragging two security guards. She pointed at his work of art, “This obscenity must go. It must go now.”

As the two burly guards reached for his table wheel locks, Lyle uttered one word, “No.”

He stepped forward, protecting her. It was then he spotted a flash of red hair in the crowd. The living Madeline shouldered her way through the people, her eyes flashing green as they took him, his representation of her nude body in the background. Franco was only two steps behind her and Lyle knew the moment he saw the table. Franco went white then red. 

A blush colored Lyle’s face, “Ah Franco, what are you doing here?”

Franco blinked stupidly for a few more seconds, “I...uh...I thought I’d bring my neighbor to see the contest. You seemed to like her from the barbeque. I thought I‘d introduce you again.”

Hesitantly, Lyle met Madeline’s eyes. No horror, no repulsion lit her expression. She took in his work.

“My tits are smaller.”

Lyle held his breath, afraid to say anything.

“And I’m a vegetarian. I’m not sure how I feel about being displayed in meat.”

Air rushed out of his lungs, he struggled to get in another lungful. She smiled at him, a toothy come-hither smile.

“How about tofurky?” Lyle blurted.

Startled, her smile slipped, “Tofurky?”

“Yeah, I could do it again in vegetarian Tofurkey.”

She laughed, the sound as pure as Sunday church bells, “Sure but on one condition.”

Not believing his luck, Lyle whispered, “What?”

“That I get to model this time.”

Then she kissed him for the second time and Lyle knew that love stories did happen, even to people like him.

CHICKEN SOUP

My breath kept frosting in the morning air so I huddled closer to the cooking stove with Mikey and Kate. The heat from the burners would warm the place up soon—well a little anyway. Mikey and Kate pressed as close as they could to me, their cold, red noses seeking warmth in the side of my heavy brown coat. They didn’t whine and cry anymore, they didn’t smile, they just waited. I guess they’d lost the energy. I couldn’t cry anymore either. 

It was quiet, just the sound of our breathing and the rustle of our clothing as we tried to move closer to the stove, to the stolen warmth. It was getting a little warmer, soon they’d ask. They’d ask and I wouldn’t have an answer.

“Mama, I’m hungry,” Kate whispered, afraid to ask, hoping but accepting. I didn’t answer. I was hungry too. My stomach didn’t growl anymore, it just rested in a tight, heavy ache. Louder this time, more insistent, “Mama, I’m hungry.” Her small voice followed my Mikey’s demand, “Eat, eat!” I stroked Kate’s tangled hair with one trembling hand and tried to soothe Mikey with senseless soothing words.

There wasn’t anything left, nothing. It was too bitterly cold, even the trash cans had been picked clean. Before, I had pulled food from the garbage cans outside the protected city to feed us. Then, it had gotten colder and even the soldiers stopped coming out. 

Two days ago, I had caught a half-grown gray rat under the sink. It was pure luck. The trap wasn’t even baited. I was about to toss the rat out into the snow when I saw those small, thin faces. Starving eyes always watching hungrily, always wanting, always needing. Uncertain-sick, I carried the rat back into the worn kitchen with its peeling wallpaper and cracked yellow linoleum and got out the pans. 

Cooked, the rat didn’t look that bad; I stewed it in a kettle of melted snow and used the last gnarled potato. It was a thin stew; I poured it into three small bowls. There wasn’t much. The children had already climbed into the worn kitchen chairs, face and hands washed. They were never allowed to eat dirty and they weren’t going to be late for their first warm meal in days. I set the bowls down in front of them. Kate slurped hers down quickly while Mikey struggled with his spoon. Frustrated, he finally picked up the orange plastic bowl and sucked greedily from it.

I hadn’t touched my soup yet. Rat, I didn’t know if I could eat it but I wanted to. My stomach seized with small painful cramps at the smell steaming up from the bowl. It was no different from eating chicken, I told myself. Chicken. I lifted the first spoonful slowly; afraid of it, afraid I’d spill it. I tasted it, the spoon clicked against my teeth. It tasted like warm meat, like food. Chicken? It tasted like chicken. 

After that first bite, I ate quickly, gulping the warm liquid, turning my bowl up and licking the rim to get the last drops. Glancing over, I saw the look of wolfish happiness on the faces of my children. I knew the same look was on my face. Chicken soup. It tasted like chicken.

The few ounces of sustenance had only reawakened our shrunken stomachs and now they were empty again. Maybe the trashcans would have something today. I told Mikey and Kate to stay in the house, I knew I didn’t need to worry; they wouldn’t leave the heat from the stove. The city only provided enough natural gas to keep stoves going in derelict houses of the refugee camps but it was enough.

The first two dented cans outside the city gates were empty, the third frozen shut. The US stamp barely visible under the frost. Hugging my battered coat closer, my face felt stretch wide with aching cold, my fingers burned and throbbed, my feet stiff and numb, I moved forward to the next set of cans, knowing, without looking, they would be empty. The well fed men of the city wouldn’t risk frostbite to provide the camp with enough refuse to feed our children.

It was then that I saw it, a small patch of bright blue in the snow. Hopeful, I shoved it lightly with my foot and nearly toppled over onto the ground. Whatever it was, it didn’t move. With one heavily gloved hand, I scraped off a layer of snow. It was a man.

A dead man. His bright blue coat was tattered and stained, his body stiff, his lips nearly as blue as his coat. Frozen, coated with a thin layer of frozen powder, he seemed to stare back at my scarf wrapped face. Not food, just a man. Disappointed, I left him there and started to move off to the next set of cans. Three freezing steps and I stopped and looked back. I knew the other cans would be empty and soon we’d starve.

He was dead. He was meat.

Part of me shook at the thought, was nearly ill from it, but the wolfish part of me delighted in it. He was food. He was salvation. I turned back, hesitant at first, then with more confidence. With work, I could get him onto the children’s wagon and into the kitchen. 

Chicken, I thought, it would be just liked eating chicken. Maybe it would even taste like chicken too. A startled laughed crawled up my throat and echoed out into the chilly air. If you thought about, it all tasted like chicken if you were hungry enough.


GLAZED
Glass rained down in a sparkling cloudburst. Slivers of light, like live things speared into the passers-by. I could barely hear the people screaming from inside my bakery but I could see it in dazzling techno-color.

People, smeared with bright streaks of blood, were scattered over the street. Some still, some running, and the worst, just hugging the ground, crying. The large glass windows in the county clerk's office were shattered all over the road.  I shook my head at the noise and mess.  
I took one last bite of the chocolate éclair, deliciously sweet, licked the dark streaks from my fingers, and went about straightening the shelves and wiping down the counters. The police weren't long in coming, followed closely by the ambulances. I counted the personnel gathering at the scene and started mixing another batch of batter.  
Both coffee pots were brewing, I put out the fresh glazed donuts and popped another batch of snicker doodles in the oven. Some song was playing over and over in my head; I hummed a little piece of the melody, trying to catch the title. I liked things to be orderly. What was the name of that song?  I nibbled on a cinnamon roll, pinching off little bites, savoring the glaze. I hummed a few more notes.

The bell jingled over the door and two uniformed police officers came in. One sported a paunch over his belt and wore tinted sunglasses. The other was shorter, thin, and dark.

"Morning Officers, would you like to try some of the glazed? They're still warm. Mmmm...all gooey." I washed my hands at the back sink and turned back to the officers, "So, what will it be?"

The heavy one took off his sunglasses and tucked them in his front pocket, "I'm Officer Mulroy and this is Deets, we wanted to ask you a few questions about the trouble this morning."

"What trouble?" I opened up the back of the display and took out two crème horns.

"Sir, surely you heard the explosion this morning?" Mulroy stepped closer, the plastic buttons of his shirt scraping against the counter.

"Oh that. I saw the window blow out. Is that what happened? An explosion? Well, isn't that interesting. How about a crème horn, fresh baked this morning?"

"No thank you. Are you the Derry on the sign outside?"

"Yes, that's me. Derry Dean of Derry's Delights. How about some of my lemon cookies? I mix lemon zest into the batter and it really makes the taste pop." I held out a small display tray, I had developed the recipe myself. They looked good, crisp and not to sweet. I tossed one into my mouth, mmm...good.

"Sorry, I have a weakness for sweets. Are you sure you don't want any? They are terribly good, if I do say so myself." I helped myself to another. Heavenly.

The dark one cleared his throat, "Sir, about this morning, what exactly did you see?" He pulled out a small black notebook and cheap ballpoint pen.  

"Hmm...this morning. Yes, I was just trying one of my new éclairs, the dark chocolate, when the windows blew out. Would you like one? Coffee?"

"No. The windows?"

"Oh yes, the windows." I checked the batch of snicker doodles in the oven, not quite ready yet, "Mmm, the windows. Well, about nine-fifteen the windows shattered and hit all those people on the street. The coffee's a special blend, hazelnut and vanilla. Are you sure you don't want any?"

"No coffee. Mr. Derry, we're trying to run an investigation here, do you think you could just give us the specifics? The explosion was at 9:15am?"

"Well...there was an explosion, the windows blew out. Oh, I was so fortunate that I wasn't baking cakes this morning. Yes, where was I, yes, the glass went everywhere and all the people started running and yelling. I don't suppose you want to try a piece of peanut butter fudge?" I slid a smooth, sinful portion into my mouth. I closed my eyes on the rich, delicious taste. I opened my eyes to Mulroy's red, irritated face.

"Was it 9:15 or not?" Deets spoke this time, his words bitten off and spit out like a mouth full of unsweetened baker's chocolate.

"Isn't that what I just said?" I poured a small cup of coffee, sipped. Ugh, the taste was off. 
I poured out what was in my cup and poured another cup. Oh my, the taste was overpowering, almost bitter. Tsking to myself, I carried the pot over to the sink and drained the remainder of the pot down the sink. Thank goodness they had not wanted coffee, I would have been ashamed to serve this tainted concoction. It was the last time Andree would sell me...I heard a slapping sound. The heavy police office was slapping his notebook against his hand, his face flushed red.

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry if you wanted coffee but that sludge wasn't fit to serve to pigeons. If you have the time to wait, I'm going to put on a new pot. perhaps Sweet Georgia Brown...nice robust flavor..." Already, I had turned to get the beans from the sealed canister when I heard a muffled question. 
"What?"

Speaking slowly through clenched teeth, the gypsy cop, darker than ever, leaned over the counter, "Did you see anyone strange around the area earlier this morning?"

"Stranger? No...no one strange. Nobody but the regulars but I was pretty busy. I guess business will be pretty bad until they fix up the street. I hope the repairs won't take long. Are you sure you don't want something? A piece of coffee cake?...danish?" At the sharp shake of their heads, I sighed. No one really appreciated the art of dessert anymore. I picked up a lemon tart and bit into its perfect sugared brown crust, God on earth.

"Well, I guess that's it, Mr. Derry. We're going to be leaving now. If you remember anything else, you can contact us at this number." Aggravated, Mulroy tossed his card on the counter. The two men then turned and headed back out to the carnage outside.

I shook my head. They hadn't even had a cup of coffee.  I took another succulent bite of tart. A riot of taste assaulted my taste buds.

Glorious. Hearing the bell, I glanced up to see Mr. Pearly ease his way through the door. Wizened with age, hair whitened by the years, Mr. Pearly was my favorite customer. Often, he would come in and sit at the counter, trying my newest confections, sipping coffee and looking out the window. Poor fellow, retirement had been hard for him. I knew money was tight so often I would let him critique my experiments and not charge him for his order.

"Morning Dee, quite a bit of excitement you had this morning," his voice was warm and heavy like molasses.

"Yes, but I'm afraid that no one seems hungry. Do you want to try my new chocolate strawberry crème?" At his nod, I pulled open the display door, and extracted a perfect dark chocolate cup filled with strawberry crème and placed it in front of the elderly gentleman. 
Distracted, I looked around my spotless kitchen. I checked the fridge for the second time. Sigh. Something felt out of place but I couldn't quite place what it was.  I turned my attention back to my customer.
Mr. Pearly raised his fork and broke the surface, slicing deeply into the soft center. He lifted the sweet morsel of pink and chocolate mixture to his mouth and tasted. He held the bite for a moment, chewed, and swallowed delicately.

"Nice presentation but the filling is just a bit tart, don't you think?" he held a second forkful up to my mouth. I scooped it up in my mouth, held it, absorbing the flavor. True, I had noticed it before; the strawberries were a bit overbearing to the chocolate. Perhaps, the strawberries weren't ripe enough...maybe milk chocolate.

I nodded to him, smiling with relief.  That's was it.  The filling was off. Mr. Pearly had helped me perfect quite a few of my recipes in the last year. I retrieved three of the white chocolate truffles from the back case, his favorites, and set them beside his plate. He smiled and finished the strawberry crème.

"I thought you'd be in earlier, Mr. Pearly."

"I would have been but I had a little retirement business to take care of. Some goodbyes that needed to be said," his brown eyes were momentarily sad.

"Yes, I saw you go into work this morning. It must be hard to be denied doing the thing you love. Mandatory retirement is a terrible thing. Thank goodness, I own my own shop." I blushed, realizing what I had just said to poor Mr. Pearly. Losing his job last year had been hard but I didn't need to rub his nose in his misfortune. "Forgive me if I said anything..."

He waved off my apology, "What they did to me was a terrible blow but I finally feel I made a little peace with myself."

His dark nut brown eyes looked out my front window and stared at the glass covered street, sheet covered bodies, and crying victims huddled in front of the gutted building. Mr. Pearly pointed to a middle aged woman in a blood stained pink suit, "That was my supervisor."

Blood still streamed from her head and left leg, her eyes open but unseeing. Poor, poor woman. Those that had survived would be out on the street, living hand to mouth just like my friend, Mr. Pearly. I vowed to send each family a gift basket, it was the least I could do. Something niggled at the back of my mind, I was forgetting something. 
I started to mentally check of the supplies I would need to finish the baskets. 
"Do you want me to send your regrets with the care baskets that I'm sending?" What was bothering me? Nutmeg? I'm sure I had nutmeg.
"No, that's all right. I'm sure they all know how I feel."

Digging through the cabinets, I found the nutmeg. Placing it on the counter, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. I nibbled on a butter cookie. Anxiety made me so hungry. What was it?
I mentally ran through my morning, Mr. Pearly had entered the building across the street about nine this morning just as I put the second batch of cookies in. The bombing just had me all rattled. Oh, I was missing something so important. What was it? 

"Oh well, as long as you're sure." Aggravated, I refreshed our half-full cups. Business was going to be so slow today. Sigh. No use letting good food go to waste, I selected a perfect glazed donut from the covered glass platter and bit into its sugar flaked outside...delicious. 
Then, I smelled the acrid smell of burning cookies. Darn it, I forgot the snicker doodles. I always miss the important things.  I found myself humming...what was that song?

A GOOD VEGETARIAN
Anazi’s heart trembled with fear. After ten years with the Americans, she was afraid her Mama would only see the differences now. When Mama had sent her away with the missionaries, it was so she could bring back knowledge to the village about the ways of the outsiders. Yet, after ten years, Anazi had left many of the old ways of her people behind.

The heat of the island lay across her body like a sweaty blanket. She welcomed the weight of it. It seemed like she had been cold forever. In the four days since the boat had brought her from the mainland, she had been moving steadily toward the center of the island, toward home. Years ago, the Methodists had started clearing a road through the island. When they left, the Baptists had worked on it, then the Lutherans, or had the Lutherans come before the Baptists? What did it matter? Missionaries came and went like the rains. 

The dirt road only went about two miles in, then there was only a small overgrown footpath. Anazi had forgotten the beauty of the jungle. The trees grew closely together, mossy and thick with vines. The monkeys shook the leaves overhead with their wild antics. She ignored their squalling, instead watched for snakes. Teluha was home to many varieties of poisonous snakes and at least two types of constrictors. She had a strong walking stick of buru wood to clear her path but still it paid to be careful. 

Nearing her village, she could smell the sweet scent of spicy meat roasting in the air and the squeal of children as they played. She stopped several hundred feet away and called out her greeting in swalli language. Two lean, tanned adolescents dropped from the trees with their blow guns in their hands. Anazi didn’t recognize either of them at first. But the taller one had a jagged scar down his jaw line.

Smiling, she called to him, “Beni, it is me, Anazi. I have come home.”

They paused, squinted harder at her, then Beni gave a happy little trill and ran up and shoved her hard in the shoulder.  She shoved him back with great affection

“Little brother, you have grown large. Where is Mama, is she well?” 

He snorted through his nose, “Mama is like the jungle. Beautiful and eternal. I did not recognize you Anazi, you look funny with long hair. Are you a boy now?” 

He shook his own long hair, “Any why do you cover your breasts?” 

His calloused, quick fingers pulled at the edge of her pink t-shirt, “You look like the missionaries. Did you bring some chocolate? I like chocolate.”

“Beni, I don’t have any chocolate.” 

Anazi smacked his fingers as they started to rifle through her bag. He laughed and pulled her bag off her shoulder and pulled himself back up the tree with an effortless one armed swing. Her belongings started raining down to the forest floor, “Beni, you’re as stupid as a tree sloth. Bring my things back.”

All she heard was giggling in the branches above, a gaggle of small half-naked children swarmed the ground around her, picking through the litter of her stuff. She heard a squeal of delight as one ragged little girl held up a shiny silver bottle cap. Several other bottle caps were tied in a dirty string around her neck. Another larger girl jumped on the smaller one and smacked the cap out of her hand. Yet another grubby hand grabbed it and ran before it hit the ground.

Anazi started to laugh, remembering her own childish raids on the missionary's possessions. She had put the shiny caps in her purse, thinking that the children would like to make jewelry out of them. With one last withering glance at Beni’s hiding place, she left the children to gather her things. Anazi wasn’t so stupid to think she could take them away from the children. It would be easier to get pantyhose on a spider monkey.

She knew other guards were in the trees watching her walk into the village with her strange jeans and rubber bottomed shoes. She was very strange looking by Tanzanian standards. Anazi stopped at the woven mat covering the doorway to her mother’s hut. She took a deep breath and was startled as the mat was pushed open and she stood face to face with her mother, leader of her tribe. 

Mama looked the same as when she had left. The same short straight black hair cut exactly at cheek level, bare white bone protruding from the piercing in her left nostril. She was the same warm earthy brown, her breasts bare in the heat. Anazi, all at once, felt the stickiness of her cotton shirt, the chafe of her jeans on her shaved legs, but mostly the tangle of hair hanging past her shoulders. 

“Mama…,” she asked and was met only with her Mama’s knowing eyes flowing over her like a flame. Unlike the American’s eyes, Mama’s eyes had no rim of white around the edges. They were black like the night without stars, seeing all and they were looking at her. 

“Mama.” 

Slowly, her mother nodded once. 

“Anazi, my daughter, you have returned. You are late. Come with me, I must get water to cook the stomi roots.” 

She handed Anazi the rough wooden bucket and began to walk quickly toward the rear of the village, past the carcass cooking on the spit in the clearing, walking away from the others toward the distant pounding of rushing water. She seemed as strong as when Anazi had left. Her flesh was just as plump, her loin cloth slapping the muscled backs of her bare thighs. 

As they turned the corner, Anazi stood at the waterfall, the source of clean water for the whole village. It was more beautiful than ever, gushing like the waters of life from a high outcroppings of rock. Anazi dipped the bucket into the water as her mother dug into the soft ground near the back of the waterfall. Mama pulled out a large black knee sock from her loin cloth. 

She started exhuming small white roots from the dirt and stuffing them into the sock. When it was full, she dipped the sock into the water for a minute then swung it over her head and smashed the roots against the rocky ground then she dipped it again. Her arm and back flexed with muscle until finally her knowing fingers tested the consistency of the root in the sock. Nodding to herself, she knotted the sock and slipped the knot under tie of her loin cloth. It hung at her waist like a bloated black leech. She motioned for Anazi to follow. 

Following obediently, Anazi’s arm ached from the pull of the heavy bucket and she was sloshing water down her pants, leaving a sticky mess. Mama soon outdistanced her and by the time she reached the clearing, Mama was dumping the crushed roots out of the sock into a rusting cook pan over the fire. 

“Daughter, hurry with the water. I do not want the stomi to scorch.” 

Hurrying, she tried to turn the bucket up to dump the remaining water in the pan but she couldn’t lift it without shaking. Her mother took the bucket away from her easily and tipped the water into the pan. It steamed and sizzled, the tinny smell of the root mixing with roasting meat on the spit to make an appetizing odor. Her stomach growling, Anazi tried not to think about the carcass turning over the fire. Instead, she concentrated on old Malbo. 

Malbo, the oldest of the oldest, was layered with mounds of flesh, her eyes two small punch holes, and her chubby sausage fingers tended the meat. Years ago, a young Christian man with glass eyes had brought something called a Schwinn to the village. The bicycle had been a great source of amusement to the men and women of the village. The paths were too rough for him to ride it but he seemed determined to try. When his ministry called him back, he couldn’t carry the bicycle. 

Malbo who was getting too weak to turn the meat by hand asked if she could have it. Everyone shook their heads at crazy old Malbo until she turned it into a motor to power the spit. Now, Malbo could sit comfortably and hand-pedal the bike, slowly turning the meat over the fire for hours. The chain glinted in the firelight and Malbo glistened with sweat. She smiled, the bristles of her pale mustache wrinkling over her toothless mouth and Anazi smiled back.

“Daughter?”

The words drug her back to her mother’s impassive face. She was hot in her clothes, baking actually. 

“You were gone a very long time daughter. I was beginning to think your name had been given to the wind.”

“I was trying to see everything, Mama. The world outside is very different than home.” 

“Why do have no children with you? No man? You are not young anymore, Anazi. You should have many children by now.”

“I am only twenty four, Mama.”

“I had five children by that age and had buried two husbands,” she shook her head sadly, “Perhaps, I was wrong to send you into the world with the white eyes but I needed to know about them.”

Pulling off her sweat soaked shirt, Anazi enjoyed the feel of air on her skin, but at the same time felt a strange sense of nakedness. Shrugging off her uneasiness, she scrubbed her skin with the shirt, wiping away the sweat from under her breasts and tossing shirt into the cooking fire. 

“Mama, you were not wrong. I saw such strange things while I was gone. I understand so many things now, things that I can share with everyone.”

Malbo handed Mama a bone knife and she cut a chunk of meat off the roast. She blew on it and popped it into her mouth, smacking her lips. She cut off another chunk of flesh and held it out to Anazi. Blushing, Anazi took the meat but did not eat it.

“Does the meat not please you daughter? It is fresh and well-cooked. Malbo is a good cook.” 

“I...I’m…we’ll I’m a vegetarian, Mama.”

There was no word in swalli for vegetarian. Mama looked puzzled, “Vege...tor...ee...an, what is that?”

“Vegetarians don’t eat meat, Mama. Only vegetables.”

“No meat. Everyone likes a juicy piece of meat.” 

“No meat. Vegetables. “

“You like this?” Puzzled, she took the meat from Anazi hand and chewed it slowly then swallowed, “Meat is good.”

“Mama, what kind of meat is this? It’s an animal, yes?” Anazi was looking at the large carcass and wondering if a missionary was missing. 

“Large pig. Good, tender. Like a fat white eye better, but there aren’t that many anymore.”

“Mama, you mustn’t cook people anymore. If outsiders found out, they would be very angry and cause much trouble for everyone.”

“Why? We don’t eat a lot of people. Maybe two, three a year. Its tradition and the meat is very tender, good flavor. Makes us strong.”

“Mama, the white eyes, they will come and destroy us all if they found out about the eating of people. They made a law against it.”

“So that is their law, this is our law. You have been too long among the outsiders, daughter. You have forgotten how good a missionary can be in the cook pot.”

“I don’t meat anymore. I’m a vegetarian, remember?” 

Cutting another chunk of meat from the pig, Mama slowly chewed it, savoring the flavor, “I have damaged you, my daughter. I should not have sent you alone among the enemy.”

“Mama, you didn’t damage me. I learned much about medicine, law, and politics. I can help us keep our way of life here safe.” Anazi squeezed her mother’s shoulder. 

“Mama, no more eating the missionaries.”

“Veg...etor.un?” 

“Yes, I’m a vegetarian but you can eat meat, just not people meat.” 

“Vegetable meat?” 

“Yes,” Anazi smiled. Finally, her mother understood.

“I will think on it, daughter.” 

Months went by and Anazi drifted back into her old life. She enjoyed the freedom of bare skin and a simple life style. She worked hard, slept well, but the weirdness between her mother and herself stayed between them. Mama didn’t understand her reluctance to eat meat and Anazi couldn’t make her understand. Anazi had helped the village make more sanitary toilet facilities and she convinced them of the usefulness of aspirin and antibiotic cream. 

Then, the new missionaries showed up. Sweating in layers of clothes and carrying boxes of bibles. The children hit them first, like a swarm of dung beetles, picking them clean. Anazi snickered behind her hand as they chased the kids, trying to grab their belongings. Anazi dreaded their meeting with Mama. In the past, Mama sometimes had chased them away. Sometimes, she allowed them to stay a day or a few weeks until the heat chased them away, but, occasionally, Mama made missionary stew. 

Mama had listened silently as Anazi told her of the outside lands but she had not acknowledged that she had heard. Anxiety mounted as the missionaries were brought before Mama. Anazi breathed a sigh of relief as Mama welcomed them to a late dinner. She sent Beni out to kill some fresh meat. Anazi saw Mama pull Beni aside and whisper in his ear. Beni grinned and nodded. Big knot head. 

Anazi entertained the newcomers, keeping them from bothering the more hot-headed members of the tribe. She talked to them about America, politics, and philosophy but Anazi found herself bored with their pretensions, with their embarrassed looks at her chest and bare thighs. She found herself wishing they would go back own world and leave her family alone. 

She saw Beni in the distance, playing with the children, pretending to be an animal while the children hunted him. They crawled all over him, slapping him with their hands and jumping on him. She watched him die dramatically and the little heathens screamed with triumph. She smelled meat cooking in the air; Beni must have had a good hunt. 

Suddenly, Anazi had a feeling of unease creep up her spine. Beni’s hunt had been really short. She started to go investigate the cooking meat when Mama entered the hut, her bearing regal. She dismissed the missionaries and approached Anazi with purpose. For the first time since she had returned, Mama smiled at Anazi.

“Daughter, tonight’s meal will be in your honor. I had it made just for you.”

“But Mama, you know I don’t eat meat. Beni brought meat.”

“Yes, he brought a Vegetor..ian. It was hard to find one.”

“Vegetables?” Anazi said uncertainly.

“Beni killed a fat vegetarian. It was hard to find one but he was careful. The man did not eat meat. It’s good. You can eat it. Roasted Vegetarian.”

One of the missionaries looked up from the cooking pots he was playing with, “Vegetables?”

Anazi stood, unsure of what to do for a moment.

“Mama had vegetable fed meat cooked for the night.”

“Oh like a corn-fed pig?” asked the bony one with the warts on his hands.

Hesitating for a moment, she looked at Mama, and then nodded, “Exactly, vegetarian meat.”

“Oh, organic. That’s cool.”

Anazi couldn’t stop a strangled giggle, “Yes, organic.”

“Oh, organic. That’s cool but I don’t eat meat. I’m a vegetarian.”

Mama heard the magic word and examined the skinny one named Burt more closely, she pointed at him, “You vegootarean, yes?”

Mildly puzzled, he replied, “Yes, I’m a vegetarian.”

“Good. Good.” 

Mama’s English was limited but Anazi could see the calculating gleam in her eye. The skinny one would be invited to dinner again someday, invited alone. Anazi started to warn him away but then she noticed for the first time that his upper arms were very plump for such a small body. Then, she noticed his eyes staring with undisguised lust at her upper thighs. She sighed and looked at Mama. Mama waited. Making her decision, she nodded. 

Yes, he must come to dinner sometime soon.