I pried his hands away from my own. “But you’ve only asked me two questions. How do you know it’s me?”
His eyes crossed and uncrossed. I winced when he hit himself on the side of the head three times.
“Yes. Yes. Of course. The third question. You must forgive. I’ve been searching everywhere since Our Lord’s birthday. Searching everywhere but finding nothing except hatred and apathy. Now I have found someone who understands. I have found you and must ask you the third question. I am ready to make you mine. As The Shrove said, ready to be shriven.” Excitement, fear and determination pulsed through the permanence of the man’s sorrow. He sat straighter, then asked the third question. “What is the sound of flesh burning?”
I jerked as a thousand nightmares carried me back to the original event. I knew the answer— had relived that sound a thousand sleepless times.
The snaps as the fatty juices burst through skin. The pops. The sound of skin blistering, before it boils to liquid.
“It sounds like popcorn,” I said.
And it all came back in a rush.
***
I was ten. The day was cold and crisp, but the sun was shining. Only the edges of the lawn and a few hidden spots beneath the azalea bushes still had snow from yesterday. This was the South, after all, and snow rarely lasted.
I had been stuck in the house all morning while my mother made me a new suit. Every year it was the same fight, with me fidgeting and wanting to run with my best friend Big Red, my mom pinning me in place as she adjusted and readjusted the woolen fabric.
Finally, it was to the motorized lull of the sewing machine that I shot out the door and into the yard. The ground rattled as I ran through a thickness of dead leaves— their hues orange and yellow and brown, each crisp in its death. I called out to my dog to join me.
I called for ten minutes. Fifteen. Worried, I ran to the window of my mother’s sewing room, but she hadn’t heard me. Across the street Mr. Jenks stared at me. He tended to a burning pile of leaves, only occasionally stirring with a long rake.
I wasn’t allowed to cross the street or to speak with Mr. Jenks, especially since he’d shot Big Red with a .22 rifle last year, claiming my Irish Setter had gotten into his chickens. As my mother was fond of saying, Mr. Jenks was bad news all around.
I walked to the edge of our property, my toes touching the road. I looked back and could still see mom through the window, busy.
“You seen my dog, Mr. Jenks? You seen Big Red?”
Instead of answering, he grinned.
“Mr. Jenks, did you hear me?”
He wouldn’t answer, so I looked both ways and took one long step into the road. I asked him again, and he still ignored me. It was then that I noticed the peculiar redness in the pile of orange and yellow leaves, the odd contour of the pile. I let my feet propel me closer until I could hear a noise, like the sound of a steak on a grill when the fat drops onto the coals. I smelled a sweetness that was at once strange and well-known. I got close enough to see the last of the red hair spark off the skin of my best friend and to watch the flesh bubble beneath. The sounds increased as the flames became higher.
Snap. Pop. Snap snap.
Yes, just like popcorn.
***
“They call themselves The Shrove. They came to me in my dreams and told me, explained that I could be shriven, freed from my guilt. I had to follow the way of the apostles, they said. I had to be as Jesus, they said. I had to save the world."
We’d left the café on Dauphine and turned left. He was hard to follow in the crowds already gathering for the parades. The masked and unmasked bumped and jostled me as I struggled to make my way through the throng. At St. Ann we turned left and moved into the mass of humanity that had taken over Bourbon Street. I grabbed the back of his jacket and allowed him to tug me through. The noise and the smells were nearly overwhelming and I found myself wishing for the quiet comfort of the small café, but it wasn’t until we hit Jackson Square that we finally