Lucky Hands

She cleaned off the top of her desk till he was out the door and watched him drive away. "I got to go home," she said to the empty office. She went down the hall for her coat. "Though Lord knows why." She drove past the cafe. The trooper's car was parked in front. She could see a few people seated at the tables, all men. She wanted to go in there right now, this very minute, show them. But she guessed she wouldn't eat in there for a few weeks. She'd bring her lunch from home. At the end of the block, she turned right and then right again. She stopped by the back entrance to the cafe. Wood chips lay scattered all across the ground, the wood now divided into two piles. She studied the bottom logs, the dark recesses between them. She got out of the car and walked to the stacks. She shivered. She bent down. "You under there?" she whispered. "I bet you are. Well let me tell you something." She raised up, rested her weight on her heels. She spoke more firmly, toward the woodpile and toward the restaurant beyond . "I'll tell you what. If you ever do come out, I'm going to kill you myself." Lucky Hands Hers are lucky hands; spirit touched. They pull placental threads from their trap and spin out lives that circle her and collapse with asthmatic gasps and alveolar expansions, filled with her air, passed by her blood. She creates with unornamented fingers that peck out like the beak of a trembling bird. She is the magic shoes that a blind man wears. Her breasts rest like pound cakes on the table. Her apple peels are single strands she holds between her lucky thumb and the knife like a trophy. With a sulfurous smile she chops onions into a teacup and adds Tabasco to her beans. These are quick healing hands that bleed beneath bike chains. They beat flames out of two sticks. There is a miracle in their moving. —Rosemary Pitman-Redmon 63 ...