The ring, held between white satin lips in the black velvet box, was shoved deep into the left-side of his hiking pants pocket. He repeatedly reached inside to touch it, making sure it was still there, even when on level ground where it was unlikely to fall out. Mal did not have much feeling in his left hand because burns had eradicated his finger tips. People still stared at his leathery facial scars, now twelve years old, but they no longer stopped while staring.

            Still, it was a wonder to him that a woman as attractive as Becca would date him. They had been exclusive for several months, from the time they met at the university in Indiana, where Mal had enrolled as an MFA student in Poetry and Becca worked as the English Department administrative assistant. She helped him figure out his class schedule. When he asked her out for coffee, they talked for hours. She gave him the low-down on the faculty—who was generous with time, who was a secret drinker, who was in the closet.

            Moreover, she was Jewish in a town with a synagogue of barely two hundred members, even if she wasn’t a member herself. This increased her appeal. It was important to his Jewish grandparents that he find a Jewish woman, especially after losing their daughter—Mal’s mother—to the fire.

            Mal took solace in poetry, he explained to Becca.

            “It helps me cope with pain and grief. Without poetry, I would probably be severely depressed. If I write about the darkness inside me, I don’t have to feel it.”

            “But aren’t most poets depressive sorts?” She had been an English major and could discuss literature, another compelling attribute for Mal. She was perfect for him. He knew it fifteen minutes into their coffee date.

            Becca was older than Mal. Although her thick bangs and eyebrows gave her a more youthful look, she was more worldly than he. She only moved to the Midwest from New York so her husband could pursue a degree in Economics. Their son, Andy, was six years old. The dark cloud hanging over him descended when he learned she was married,

            “We separated months ago. It’s amicable. When then time is right, one of us will file.” She reached across the table to put a comforting hand on Mal’s arm. The dark cloud rose again.

            Coffee led to dinners and many weekends together. When they weren’t together, he sent her a torrent of texts. She only answered a few, claiming she was too busy at work to reply more often. She also limited the number of their meetings, begging off spending every spare minute with Mal, which was what he desired. Even if they both had work to do—his poetry assignments, her grant writing for her volunteer work for the Women’s Shelter—they could be in the same room. Couldn’t they?

            Mal knew the real reason why Becca was sometimes standoffish. It was because of Andy. He tried to like the kid, knowing that’s what Becca expected, but the child was a pest.

            “What happened to your face?” This was a repeated question. Either the boy couldn’t remember his answer or he wanted a different answer.

            “I was burned in a fire when I was a little older than you.”

            Andy stopped his usual animated movements and stood stock still. He stared with his mouth partly open, trying to process Mal’s answer.

            “Why were you in a fire?” Finally, he was able to ask, as if something had been re-set.

            “My friend and I were playing with matches. We started a fire by accident.”

            “That’s why children should never play with matches,” Becca added, not stopping the boy from asking what seemed to Mal like rude questions. Mal answered like a good sport for Becca’s sake.

            Becca’s devotion to Andy was understandable, yet Mal resented it. The boy accompanied them on most of their outings. If only his father had full custody.     

            Why doesn’t she just divorce him? Maybe she still has secret feelings for him.

            Despite Becca’s many assurances, Mal was insecure, scared of losing her, although he was careful to keep most of his thoughts to himself.             He met her husband during visitation transfers. He noted with unease that his rival was taller and more muscular than he was, not to mention unscarred.

            Mal was consumed with fantasies about Becca. He imagined undressing her, touching her, entering her. But after meeting her husband, his obsessions changed. Now, he imagined fighting the bigger man, being knocked down, with the taller man straddling him and beating him. This thought was strangely exciting, especially following the fantasies about Becca that seemed increasingly like a prelude to the more compelling fantasies about her husband. It reminded him of his boyish wishes that his father, who he never knew, would turn out to be a domineering superhero.

            One day, he happened to see her husband walking across the campus towards the Economics building. He watched the man walk with a brisk, confident stride. Although Mal wished to intercept him and strike him, he didn’t dare. Becca would be furious.

            At age twenty-five, he could still take the stairs three at a time. But the strength and endurance of his late teens and earlier twenties was beginning to diminish. He could no longer pull all-nighters or chug large quantities of alcohol in record time. He was out of shape. His arm muscles were shrinking, and his abs were obscured by a thick swatch of fat. Still, he dreamed of attacking Becca’s husband.

            His poetry began to change in a way that interested his creative writing professors. He was writing “fight” poetry, referencing Muhammad Ali and wrestling stars like Mr. Perfect and Dusty Rhodes. Using words to lash out at unspecified male figures, documenting their bruises and wounds with colorful adjectives, and hinting at fatal outcomes brought him the admiration of his classmates as well as of audiences at readings at local bars.

            During the times he was with Becca, he no longer discussed literature. Instead, all topics invariably turned to their relationship or with her husband.

            “What did you see in him?”

            “I can hardly remember anymore. He was handsome. He could be funny. I don’t know. I think he was just…available when I wanted a boyfriend.”

            “Is that why you are dating me? Because I am available.”

            Becca’s eyebrows raised. “I certainly hope you are available! I wouldn’t want to share you.”

            “Seriously.”

            “Okay. Well…” She turned to look straight at him. “There’s something deep about you, mysterious, hidden, even violent, maybe. Sometimes it scares me, but it also attracts me. “

            “Scares you? I would never hurt you, Becca. I would give my life for you.”

            “I know.”

            “My scars may give me a ferocious look.”

            “It’s not that.”

            The only thing Mal could think of was that Becca detected his jealousy of Andy, although he was careful not to reveal it. It secretly aggravated him when she planned to spend time with the boy instead of him.

            “Just want you to know. I’m taking Andy to the balloon festival on Sunday.”

            “Am I invited?”

            “Sorry. I promised Andy it would just be him and me. He needs to have me for himself once in awhile.”

            “How about if I just join you for a half-hour? I won’t interrupt.”

            “No, Mal. Come over at nine. After I put Andy to sleep. We can have an hour before my bedtime.”

            He hid his irritation. Becca wouldn’t let him stay overnight when she had Andy there. That might change down the road when Andy was used to him. Becca wanted Mal and Andy to have their own relationship. He should take Andy to the zoo or skating without her. Mal agreed but procrastinated. It was hard to endure the kid’s stream of questions about his scars.

            “Why did you and your friend play with matches?”

            “We were doing something we weren’t supposed to do.”

            “How were you playing with them?”

            “We took turns lighting them and throwing them at each other.”

            “How old were you?”

            “Thirteen.”

            Mal had an impulse to to scare the boy with gruesome details of the fire that resulted from the game. But he didn’t quite remember the fire. He recalled being in the hospital, covered with bandages, as if it were a blurred photograph, with no sound or movement. His next memory was of going to high school and of the kids making fun of his scars, of being alone, of wishing he could die or that his classmates would die.

            Sometimes, he wished Andy would die, so he could have Becca for himself. He made up for this awful thought by buying Andy a toy or a candy bar. At least he didn’t have to feel guilty for his fantasies of attacking Andy’s father. These he displaced into his “fight” poetry. His writing was increasing in viciousness. In his classes, there was a heavy silence after he read his latest work. He wanted his words to wound the reader. Using repeated, percussive onomatopoeia as well as violent language, he attacked both the subject of the poetry and its audience. After class, he would hurry away from campus, unwilling to discuss his work with the MFA students who lingered in the hallway of the Humanities Building or who lunched together in the cafeteria.

            All he wanted to was go to Becca’s house and bury his hammering head in her soft lap. He had to wait for her to get off work and pick up Andy from school, if it wasn’t the child’s day to be with his father. If it was, he would have to wait until Andy was in bed. The waiting was insufferable. He would have to convince Becca to get a divorce and marry him. With the money left from his small stipend for teaching Freshman English, he bought a ring with a tiny stone.

            He planned to take Becca and Andy on a hike to a beautiful vista in a state park a few minutes drive from the university. When they reached the vista, he would get down on his knee and propose in the traditional way, putting the ring on her finger, securing her commitment to him. In this fantasy, her husband appeared unexpectedly, only to wind up slinking off defeated when Mal delivered a surprise blow.

            The hike was arranged for the next weekend. On the drive to the trail head, Andy asked annoying questions from the back seat.

            “Did the fire from the matches burn down your house?”

            “Yes, it did.”

            “Did anyone die in the fire?”

            “The boy I was playing with and my mother died.”

            “What was the boy’s name?”

            “Andy.”

            Becca looked at him sharply. He had never mentioned the other boy’s name. Clearly, he had said the wrong thing. Because of the kid’s questions, things were off to a rocky start.

            Once on the trail, however, all three were in a good mood. It was a beautiful, warm day. The lush, cedar tree canopy, the green undergrowth, the connecting creeks, the ravines, the wildflowers and birds delighted Becca. Andy ran a few feet ahead, jumping over creeks, sure-footedly climbing steep ridges, reminding Mal of the fluid agility of Andy’s father. Watching the boy scamper awakened something in Mal, an admiration that conflicted with his annoyance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad having the boy around, if Becca married him and if he wasn’t around all the time.

            He could take the boy caving, one of his favorite activities as a child. He remembered visiting the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky with his mother’s boyfriend Aaron, after her death. It was a trip that had sealed his bond with Aaron, although he still wished his real father would show up. He thought his real father might take him to caves more spectacular than the Mammoth Cave, secret caves only known to his real father. Perhaps he could relive his childhood dream by replaying it with Andy.

            “Would you like me to take you to see a cave?” He asked the boy.

            “Uh-huh.Yeah!”

            They were approaching the vista where he intended to propose. The tree-lined trail was ending at the top the hill and opening to a clearing. From there, it was possible to see miles of forest in every direction. The velvet box was still in his pocket. The limestone outcroppings were becoming more magnificent. Becca was thrilled, out of breath, laughing, holding his arm for balance. Andy was already at the vista, a few feet away.

            “I beat you!” He grinned down at them as they climbed the steep path.

            That was when the sink-hole suddenly opened. There was no warning. Andy vanished, as if a rope tied to his feet yanked him downward. The ground gave way, obliterating the hilltop. Boulders toppled into the newly formed cavern with a great crashing noise. It was over in seconds. The change in the landscape was obscured by thick limestone dust. Hikers on the trail below coughed and choked, wiping at their tearing eyes, unsure of what happened.

            Mal, who remained at the edge of the precipice, managed to grab Becca’s ankle as he fell on the ground. He seized a stout branch with his stronger right hand. Becca’s hiking shoe dropped off as his left hand slid against it, exposing the clean white sock covering her helpless foot.

            Mal had seconds to marvel at the daintiness of her ankle, so small that his left hand easily circled it, although with no sensation in his scarred finger tips he could not tell the tightness of his grip. The corner of the ring box, still unopened in his pocket, cut into his thigh. He tried to maintain a grip on Becca’s foot even as his hand slid over her sock while his right shoulder was being pulled from its socket.

            Overhead, the indifferent sky was a cloudless blue, and the sun continued to shine undaunted. Birds chirped across the vastness to others of the same species. Deer ate the greenery without concern. Only the bats whose dwelling had been disrupted flew about, disoriented, crazed by the light and the absence of a landing place.

– Carolyn Geduld

Author’s Note: “Who By Stoning,” inspired by the Jewish poem about fate, “Unetaneh Tokef” (Let Us Speak Of the Awesomeness), is a 21st Century imagining of this ancient fate. It is one of a cycle of stories about characters faced with both fortunate and unfortunate destinies.