Art by Ewan Clarke-McIntyre
“What happened at the house?” the doctor asked.
“The house was named Cooinda, which means, happy place,” I said.
I arrived at night. I dragged my luggage on a boarded path lit by blue strung lights. Inside, a wood stove warmed and Maria waited on the back deck. Nothing but the sprawling windows stood between us. Her nightgown a gossamer wing beneath the fluorescent light. That evening, we lounged on low couches and drank rum. I urged her to drink more. Our thighs entwined like climbing vines—we slept like babies dreaming of sunrise.
“So you’re telling me,” the doctor said, “the husbands knew nothing?”
“That’s right,” I said. The doctor scribbled in his notebook, his eyes crawling on the page. “So you were having problems?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“He said it was business… but I knew it was love.”
It was a brutal winter without my husband. The snow poured in and the mountain slid. Vehicles too cold to start were left abandoned. Bound to a mournful house, I haunted the window, waiting. Staring out at the frosted woodlands, watching for spring. The sun a bitter bloom behind the guesthouse. And that’s when I saw her, a black shadow across the bleakness, slipping out of my guesthouse door. Like a stretched bat under a blinding moon. The bed was empty when I got there, but it held animal heat. Familiar and unfamiliar scents lingered in the air. I considered holding back, but instead, I wept into the damp sheets and lit the divine white candles on our bedside table. I couldn’t deny that the wax was hot and dripping and the wicks had recently been blown. I crawled into the bed and inhaled the pillows. And like a cat lapping milk, I licked at the wet spots. Then I laid back in the supine position, palms upward, fingers spread—ready to receive. Folding in on myself like a blue lotus flower in afternoon light. My mind placid as an undisturbed pond my heart a raging hurricane. I opened up my spiritual eye and crossed over, searching the astral planes, but it wasn’t for guidance.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the doctor asked.
“I believe I did,” I said.
“You must understand, doctor, my husband took everything from me.”
Drawn like a snake to the heat, I left the mountain behind and followed. For her and I, it all began at the Lazy Bones Lounge. She was a barefaced beauty under red globed chandeliers, she sat at the bar with her drink unattended. Among the leather sofas and sad faced portraits we danced, our bodies rising like cobras entrancing the onlookers. Our stilettos flashing like crystals in the strobe lights. My husband had good taste and I discovered she was the poet’s honey—but it was my turn to take something from him.
“What do you mean by take?” the doctor questioned. “Did you know they found drugs in her system?”
I thought of my cupboard stocked with medicinal herbs and hid the joy from my face. The doctor shifted in his seat, disgust flickered through his eyes—his energy so heavy I could barely breathe. At that moment, I hated him, this creep of a doctor. What did he know of pain? I would like to show him. “Take me back to the holiday house,” he said. “Take me back to Cooinda.” I continued my confession but I was distant. As if gazing from a second story window into the yard below. My words misting on the barricading glass, unheard – like trapped echoes. It had all been said before, his mind was made up—he wasn’t on my team.
That morning the cold pressed in but the blue skies were brilliant. Bamboo fences veiled in spider lace glinted in sunlight. Gulls skimmed the inland and rosellas swooped through ancient trees—red and blue snatches between gum leaves.
While I sipped my coffee among the potted plants and cascading wisteria, Maria slumbered in the bed like a stillborn. She would not be waking to a happy place. Her bleeding wrists bound with torn white towels, her face smeared across the pillow like smashed fruit.
“So you killed her,” the doctor said.
“The fire killed her,” I corrected. The doctor shook his head. His lips a quivering mess, fear sketched on his brow—I smiled. Performing his duty, he peered into my storming eyes like an invasive torch, his white coat a blinding slice like being on the surgeon’s table. Was he searching for insanity? He would not find it, my dangerous heart wrapped like a spider in its leaf. “Did you set the house on fire?” the doctor asked. I struggled against my restraints, my arms numb from the bind.
“Maria wanted to be cradled in the fire’s hands,” I said. “Warm like my husband’s hands!” I leapt at the doctor, upturning his chair, scattering his papers and pen. The straight jacket was unable to contain me. I came at him with my teeth, my shoulder smashing his cowardly figure against the lime-washed wall. His knees snapped beneath my power, my breath brewed on his cheek. “Now please, doctor,” I said. “No more interrupting.”
That night the house burned behind me, it was so close. I laughed and danced through blady grasses to the sound of bloodcurdling screams. I glided into the basin like a smooth fish; crimson ripples fanning shoreside on the epeiric sea. River mangroves shuddered under moonlight and salt crystals sparkled on dark green leaves. I watched the fire splutter and climb—then take the neighbors houses with it.
About the author
Khalilah Okeke is a Nigerian, Indian, European, who was born and raised in the Pacific Northwest. She now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in Crack the Spine, CafeLit, The Drabble, The Plum Tree Tavern, Down in the Dirt, The Red Eft Review, The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal, 50 - Word Stories, Scarlet Leaf Review and Meow Meow Pow Pow. She has upcoming work in Palooka magazine.