The Singing Bone by Beth Hahn

hole for an eye, an open gash for a mouth.
    She remembers Mr. Wyck’s house, the broad wooden staircase, the latched window in her room banging against its frame. The wind will come. The window will open. Oh, the wind, the wind and the rain, he sang as he worked. Jack Wyck. His name is tattooed on the inside of her left thigh. When she goes to the beach or makes love, she puts concealer on it—the kind one uses for a birthmark. Dense, opaque.
    Now you belong to me , he said, kissing her thigh.
    She could have removed it, but she never did. It was her scar. Her punishment.
    I always belonged to you , she said. I always will.
    Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â 
    A man walks towards her. Hans, she sees, when he gives her a wave. He’s wearing a heavy wool coat, gray and frayed. She sees him notice the kids on the pier and pick up his pace. She’s surprised. She would have expected him to look different, to have the sheen of California, of movie lights. She expected someone who looks expensive. But Hans must keep a low profile. She read about the premiere of Death Christ online. He knows, after all, what it’s like to be followed, to be exposed.
    His eyes are gray, like the coat, like the sky behind him. He smiles at her. “Alice Wood,” he says. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She understands immediately why people tell him things—strangers—he reminds her of an illustration from a fairy tale: the woodsman, the hunter who refused to kill Snow White. He looks suspiciously at the group of kids on the rocks, and one of them stands to look back at him.
    â€œHello,” Alice says simply, taking his hand. She looks over at the boy, too.
    â€œI brought you something,” he says. He reaches into his bag. For a moment she thinks he’s going to pull out a gun, but of course he doesn’t. It’s a box from the bakery near her house. She recognizes the pink and white stripes.
    â€œOh,” she says. “You’ve discovered the bakery.”
    â€œI waited there for a while until it was time to meet you.” He hands her the box and they sit down.
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œMacaroons,” he says.
    â€œThank you,” she repeats. She holds the small box in her lap, playing with the prettily tied string. She looks back at the teenagers. It seems there are more of them than before. “I think I’d like to walk,” she says, rising.
    â€œYes, yes.” He offers to take the macaroons and put them back in his bag so she doesn’t have to carry them, and Alice hands them back.
    â€œThat bakery is wonderful. I haven’t tried the macaroons.”
    He laughs. “I find that as I get older I like sweets more than I did when I was a boy.”
    He’s older than Alice by at least ten years she guesses—maybe more. For a few minutes they walk without talking, but there’s no strain in the silence. The path along the water is wide and unpaved.
    â€œThis is my favorite time of year,” Hans says. She doesn’t answer. She looks out over the water and remembers that it used to be hers, too. A long time ago. It doesn’t seem to matter that she doesn’t respond. “Alice,” he continues. “On the phone, you said someone’s following you?”
    This time she does answer. “Yes,” she says. “A boy. Maybe eighteen. Maybe twentysomething. I can’t tell. Young.”
    â€œI wonder if it’s a Wyckian.”
    â€œI read about them online.”
    â€œThere’s a boy who calls himself Doug Ramsey—though I don’t think that’s his real name—”
    â€œDid you talk to him?”
    â€œNot yet, but I’ve seen him. I’m trying to set something up with him, but I have the feeling Jack Wyck pulls all the strings.”
    â€œHow did you find me?”
    â€œAriel. She’s here. She’s filming, but she’s excellent at