evelyn’s hand

delaney s. saul

Joan was walking on a trail in the woods when she found the hand. The woods covered the distance between her house and the 7/11 where she worked. That day, the deciduous trees were wintertime bare, and the sky above was blank and gray. A sad imitation of snow fell in wet chunks around her, more of a slushy drizzle. It made the path sloppy. Joan trudged through the mud and was just kicking herself for forgetting her coat when she saw it. The hand.

          It was small. Not as small as a child’s hand, but perhaps a petite woman. It lay clean and unassuming on the leaf-strewn path as though forgotten, like it had fallen out of someone’s shallow pocket as they walked. The stump where the wrist ended was gummy and clotted, but there was no blood surrounding it. Joan poked around the area, wondering if the hand’s body was anywhere nearby. It wasn’t. 
          She returned to the spot where the hand lay. It sat there, getting slopped with icy splatter from the sky. She checked her watch. She was tempted to continue investigating the mystery of the hand, but she was already late for work so she kept walking. There was a time in her life when she may have called the police, but after multiple instances of violence against her by her late husband Omar she had witnessed the uselessness of cops and no longer had faith in them. She resolved to check on the hand herself later. She hustled the rest of the way to the 7/11 even though Ian always covered for her when she was late.
          The convenience store’s florescent lights were blazing compared to the gray, overcast light outside. They illuminated the sterile rows of ultra-processed snacks, giving them a harsh, artificial glow. Joan shrugged off her damp cardigan as she approached the counter where her perpetually unkempt and shaggy coworker Ian stood, thumbing his phone with one veiny, tattooed hand. Ian’s vice was smoking weed out back behind the filthy dumpster, leaving the counter unattended. He always covered for Joan when she was late in an unspoken exchange for her keeping quiet about this habit.
          “Yo,” he said, not looking up from his phone.
          Joan imagined throwing herself over the counter and grabbing him by his lank hair. She thought of smashing her lips against his and tasting marijuana on his tongue. It had been over a year since anyone had touched her. Before that the only physical contact she had gotten was violent, culminating in the night of Omar’s death. 
          Yes, Ian wasn’t a prime specimen, but he would suffice. If she ever worked up the nerve. Which she wouldn’t.
          Joan plodded to the back office and hung her sweater on one of the hooks lining the wall. The back office was a musty, cramped room with an ancient desktop computer that no one used and a few lockers for the employees. She made solemn eye contact with herself in the mirror. Her long, dark hair hung limply down her flat chest. It was damp from the sleet when she ran her hands through it. She pressed her fingertips against her cheeks. She looked fat. Did loneliness make people fat? She shivered a little and put her sweater back on before returning to the front counter. Ian was already halfway to the door.
          “Cheetos need restocking,” he said.
          “Okay,” Joan said. But he was already gone.
          Joan walked home the same way through the woods, retracing her steps to find the hand. The spiny trees cast long, spiky shadows, darkness upon darkness that confused the eye and cast illusions on the ground. Joan took her time, searching carefully until she came to the right spot. The hand was still there, resting in a pool of moonlight. Joan knelt closer. It lay palm-side down and gleamed gray on the dark, leafy trail. Joan reached into her large purse and found the plastic bag that had held her lunch—a ham sandwich that she had eaten furtively behind the counter. She turned the small bag inside out and used it to pluck the hand off the ground. It was quite stiff and petrified in a half-open position. Joan sealed the bag around the severed hand and secured it in her purse. She glanced around, but the dark woods were deserted. No one was there to see the transgression. She hurried away from the spot and didn’t stop until she reached home.
          Joan extracted the hand from its bag, feeling its skin against hers for the first time, and placed it on a yellow tea towel on the dining room table. She surveyed every inch of it, trying to form an idea of the woman it belonged to. 
          It was a right hand. Its long fingernails were painted a sultry red, a fresh manicure with no chips or grow-out. The woman must have just gotten her nails done before losing her hand. The fingers were svelte with slender, well-moisturized knuckles. The index finger and ring finger were adorned with two simple gold rings, which proved impossible to remove. There were no visible veins on the back of the hand, likely because all the blood had been shed from it, which also explained the skin’s gray hue. The hand had no liver spots, no scars, not even a blemish. The only flaw, if one could call it a flaw, was a small brown mole at the base of the thumb. Joan touched that mole before flipping the hand over to observe the palm side, where she found nothing notable beyond a rather deep heart line. 
          The hand had been severed right at the wrist, and the stump end was meaty, red, and gelatinous with no protruding bone fragments. Overall, the hand was stiff, gray, and strangely elegant. Joan recorded her observations in a notebook. She couldn’t help but compare this hand to her own right hand, a comparison that proved unfavorable when she considered her thick and twisted veins, her wrinkles, her dry, dehydrated skin. And, of course, the small puncture scar on her palm. She banished these ruminations before they led to more sinister feelings of self-hatred.
          Joan left the hand on the table while she went to the kitchen and made lentil curry for dinner, but she poked her head around the corner to steal glimpses of the hand as she cooked. It sat there, unmoving, of course. Joan did not expect to catch it twitching or running around on its fingers, but still, something made her want to keep an eye on it.
          She stirred the pot and its thick, brown contents bubbled around her wooden spoon. Omar had hated her lentil curry so much that he’d thrown a bowl of it at her. Thankfully, he had missed, and the ceramic bowl had shatte¬red against the dining room wall, splattering its contents and leaving a yellowy turmeric stain that persisted to this day despite Joan’s fervent scrubbing. 
          Presently, Joan filled her bowl and went back to the table. She thought of all the times she had yearned to be free of Omar. Yet, now that she had gotten her wish, it was unsettling. How strange it was to finally be alone after fifteen years.
          Well, less alone now. She regarded the hand as she spooned lentils into her mouth. The hand seemed to regard her, too. It was good company. It gave her something to look at besides the yellow stain on the opposite wall.
          Joan decided that the woman whose hand she possessed was named Evelyn. Evelyn was a tall, chic woman with lips as red as her fingernails. She took fancy vacations to luxurious places Joan knew nothing about, like Dubrovnik and Verona. She often had her many high-class friends over for dinner parties where she showed off her cooking expertise by making elaborate meals, using wine as an ingredient, but also drinking it while laughing as she and her friends sat around an artisan-crafted table and ate pimento olives and gouda and roasted almonds. Evelyn wasn’t married because she was happy on her own and she loved herself, which was enough. Joan had Evelyn’s right hand on her table, which was lucky because Evelyn was left-handed, so losing her right hand was the lesser of two evils. Joan recorded these findings in her notebook, then reached out and caressed the hand with one finger. Evelyn was everything Joan was not.
          Joan’s bedroom was sparse, with no decorations. She had a lumpy queen-sized bed with a white, featureless bedside table on either side. One of the bedside tables was occupied, with a small lamp, a hardcover book, and a boxy alarm clock. The other bedside table stood empty. Joan rested Evelyn’s hand next to her alarm clock that night, on the yellow tea towel. The wrist stump left a small, pinkish wet patch on the towel that soaked through onto the wood of the table, but that didn’t bother Joan. She liked having Evelyn’s hand close to her.
          The following day, Joan rose in the morning and tenderly moved the hand from her bedside table into her purse in preparation for the day’s errands. When Joan took Evelyn’s hand out later, it was covered with crumbs, especially on the gooey part of the stump. Joan decided that it would be smart to get a box to transport the hand and keep it clean. She resolved to check a nearby antique shop while she was out and about. She drummed a happy little beat on her steering wheel as she drove.
          A bell jangled when Joan opened the door of the antique shop. She was immediately assaulted by a wave of stale smell, the smell of ancient furs and dusty furniture, of motheaten clothing and rusty gardening equipment. It was not an antique shop so much as a junk shop, what Joan imagined the inside of a hoarder’s garage might look like. The crusty shopkeeper grinned at her from behind the counter, like she was the first person to enter in a long time.
          “Is there anything specific you’re looking for today, Ma’am?” he asked. He was a spindly man with a bulbous nose and deep-set eyes. Joan assumed he would not understand her needs, so she kept her request vague.
          “I’m looking for a box. Wooden, with a hinged lid that clasps.”
          “What’s it for?”
          She had to think fast. “A gun. A small one.”
          The man nodded and groaned as he slid off his battered stool. He disappeared amidst the clutter. After a moment, he came back holding a small box. 
          “This is mahogany,” the man said, wiping dust from the lid with his shirtsleeve. “It has a sterling silver latch.” He opened it. “The inside is trimmed with blue velvet. Perfect for your gun. What type of gun did you say—?”
          Joan cut him off. “This is exactly what I need, I’ll take it.”
          The shopkeeper grinned again. “That’ll run you forty-six dollars.”
          Joan thought for a moment. “Do you take credit?” 
          She clutched the box tight under her elbow as she hurried back to her car. In the semi-privacy of the driver’s seat, she removed Evelyn’s hand from her purse. As she expected, it was speckled with crumbs and lint from the bottom of the bag, so Joan cleaned the fingers, palm, and stump with a disinfecting wipe before placing the hand in the mahogany box. It fit perfectly. Joan closed the lid, and the latch made a satisfying click. She felt pleased knowing Evelyn’s hand would be much safer. Now, she could take it with her on her errands without it tumbling around loose in her purse.
          At the grocery store, Joan picked through the Styrofoam containers of meat. She prodded a cellophane-wrapped porkchop with the tip of her index finger and wondered when Evelyn’s hand had last been in a grocery store. The mahogany box weighed heavy in her purse, but she couldn’t risk unboxing Evelyn’s hand there at the store. This social standard was a shame, really, because she wanted to give the hand a full and varied experience, show it a good time. But it was not appropriate to reveal a severed hand in the grocery store. Joan was meditating on this bit of etiquette when someone interrupted her train of thought.
          “Joan?” 
          She looked up. She recognized the tall, hirsute man standing beside her, but she couldn’t immediately place him. “Oh, hello,” she said, feeling a bit disconcerted.
          The man placed a hand on his chest. “Martin, remember? Charlotte’s husband. Well, ex-husband.”
          Realization dawned on Joan. Charlotte had been Omar’s personal assistant at his real estate firm. Joan and Omar had gone out to dinner at a steakhouse with Charlotte and Martin several years prior, and Joan had discreetly admired Martin. She had left feeling embarrassed that she had married a man like Omar instead of a man like Martin. There was nothing aggressive or underhanded about his love for Charlotte. Joan wondered what was wrong with Charlotte, divorcing Martin when a loving man was so hard to find.
          “Oh, of course,” Joan said. “It’s nice to see you, Martin.”
          “I was so sad to hear of Omar’s passing,” Martin said. “He was a good man.”
          Only people who didn’t really know Omar said things like that. “Thank you.”
          “What are you up to these days?” Martin asked, leaning against the grocery store’s refrigerated meat display.
          “I’ve been getting by,” she said, which wasn’t technically a lie.
          “Well, you have my sincerest condolences.” He paused. “Would it be completely inappropriate to ask you out for a drink tonight?”
          Joan smiled. “No, that’s not inappropriate.”
          Martin smiled too. “Let’s meet at Jack’s at eight.” He handed her a business card from his wallet. “In case you can’t find me.”
          Joan tucked the card in her purse next to the mahogany box. 
          That evening, Joan stared into the bathroom mirror as she penciled in her eyebrows. The mahogany box sat next to the sink with the lid propped open, so Evelyn’s hand could get some air. Joan so rarely applied makeup anymore that when she opened her mascara, she found it completely crusted and dried out. She tossed it in the trash, opting instead for a trace amount of brown eyeliner. 
          She kept glancing at her watch, worried she would lose track of time and be late to meet Martin. It was a gold-plated watch that she had bought as a present to herself several years prior, after Omar had forgotten her birthday. She thought about what Evelyn would do if her lover forgot her birthday. Probably rage at him or even leave him. Evelyn would do something to assert herself, let him know he was in the wrong and she wouldn’t tolerate that kind of disrespect. Joan wished she could be more like Evelyn. She smeared nude lipstick onto her dry lips and smacked them.
          “Wish me luck,” she said to Evelyn’s hand. Then she tucked the box in her purse.
          Jack’s was a swanky, 1930s art-deco-inspired bar on the affluent side of town. The bar was one long, narrow room, only allowing for a handful of people at a time. Joan found Martin sitting at a table pushed into an alcove at the very back. The table was lit by a little green banker’s lamp, which illuminated Martin’s hands as they rested there. They were hairy with thick fingers and calloused palms.
          Martin rose when he saw her and offered her one of those hands. Joan gripped it with her own, but cringed when she felt his rough, sandpapery palm. They broke apart and Joan slid into the booth. She shifted her purse protectively, situating it snugly under her elbow. Martin lifted one meaty finger toward the waiter, who hastened to their table.
          “What would you like?” Martin asked.
          Joan tried to picture what a charismatic woman on a first date would order. It had been so long since she had done this. She tried to channel Evelyn. “A French 75.”
          “Excellent choice,” Martin said. “I’ll have a Macallan. Rocks.” 
          Joan shuddered inwardly. Omar had also drunk whiskey on ice.
          After the waiter left, Martin leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “So, catch me up. Tell me everything.” He was being playful, flirty. This was banter. He was ignoring the Omar-sized elephant in the room.
          Joan tried to match his energy. “Well, I grew up in Seattle and moved here when I turned eighteen, for college. I dropped out when I met Omar, and we got married pretty quickly after that. He didn’t like me to work, so I mostly just kept up the house and—” She stopped herself. This was not light, flirty, or playful. This was the sad account of a battered housewife turned widow. The waiter brought their drinks and Joan stalled by taking a sip, taking inventory of her life up to that point, reminded that she had almost nothing at all. She clutched her purse tighter. “I work at a convenience store now. I’m still getting back on my feet.”
          “I know it’s not the same,” Martin said, “but after Charlotte left me, my life was thrown into chaos. I almost lost myself, really. What saved me was my music. I play the bass, and it was helpful to have something to focus on. I also have some great friends. It’s okay to lean on people when life is hard.”
          Joan thought of Evelyn. “Yes,” she said, “I have someone who is helping me get through it.”
          “Well, count me in too, Joan, I’m always around if you need someone to talk to.” He reached out and patted her hand. 
          He was kind, but there was a roughness to him, something masculine that she didn’t want to touch. She snaked her other hand down into her purse and touched the mahogany box. If Evelyn was there, she would advise Joan not to bother with Martin, because she, Evelyn, wanted all of Joan’s attention. They could be together, just the two of them, if only Joan could find the rest of her.
          After their drink, Martin asked if she’d like to stay out and go to a second bar. “I’d love to show you The Orion. It has constellations on the ceiling,” he said.
          But Joan declined and fabricated an early morning the next day. Martin looked disappointed and asked if she’d like to go out again another time. She said maybe.
          That was the first night Joan pulled Evelyn’s hand from the bedside table into the bed with her.
          Joan’s inclination toward Evelyn’s hand developed to a point where she could not leave the house without it. She sat in the corner of the welcoming, sunlit waiting room at the gynecologist’s office, keeping to herself and trying to ignore the excited conversations between the glowing pregnant women and their partners. Joan had never been the type to force conversation with strangers, and she was feeling particularly antisocial that day, due to her location and the nature of her appointment. A pap smear. Horrible.
          When the willowy nurse called her name, Joan rose, grabbed her purse, and strode past all the happy women into the examination room. The nurse weighed Joan and, in a sterile voice, pointed out that she was overweight. Joan ignored her.
          “The doctor will be here in a moment,” the nurse said, handing her a starchy, folded sheet. “Please disrobe from the waist down and cover yourself with this.”
          Joan sat on the exam table and untied her shoelaces, leaving her shoes and socks in a neat pile on the floor. She stood and removed her jeans, noting the brown blood that had collected in the crotch of her underwear. This had been happening often lately.
          There was a soft tap on the door and a woman holding a clipboard entered. She was short with a blonde bob and freckles dotting her nose. “Hi, Joan,” she said. Her voice was smooth and professional. “I’m Dr. Patterson, I’ll be performing your pap smear today. Before we start, do you have any concerns you want to address?”
          “I’m fine,” Joan said. “I’d like to get this over with.”
          Dr. Patterson chuckled. “Of course, I can’t think of anyone who likes a pap smear. If you don’t have anything to tell me, we can get you in and out. First, I’ll have you lie back on the exam table. I’ll guide your feet into the stirrups.”
          Joan lay back and Dr. Patterson helped get her bare feet into place. “I’m going to lift up the sheet now, with your permission,” Dr. Patterson said. Joan nodded, her legs splayed open in front of the doctor. Joan couldn’t see what the doctor was doing under the sheet, but she could feel it.
          “Okay Joan, you’ll feel my hand on your thigh, now on your labia. There’s going to be some pressure as I insert the speculum.” Joan winced, then heard the cranking of the cold speculum and felt herself being opened wide. 
          “Alright,” Dr. Patterson continued, “now a quick brush of the cervix.” Joan felt a tickle deep inside. The doctor’s brush touched a place that didn’t usually experience sensation. Joan found it disturbing. Then, it was done. Dr. Patterson loosened and removed the now-warm speculum.
          Joan pulled her feet off the stirrups and sat up. When she saw Dr. Patterson’s face, the doctor’s eyebrows were knit together in a look of concern. 
          “Joan,” she said, her calm, professional tone tinged with worry, “I want you to know that anything you tell me is one hundred percent confidential.” She paused. “During your exam, I saw several deep scratches in your vaginal canal and some red flakes that looked like paint. I feel the need to ask, do you feel safe with your sexual partner?”
          Joan wanted to laugh. She felt giddy at the implication that Evelyn was her sexual partner. She had never considered herself anything except heterosexual, but this doctor’s words had just confirmed it. Joan and Evelyn were sexual partners.
          “Yes,” Joan said, bursting, “yes, I’m very safe.”
          “Okay,” Dr. Patterson said, “just make sure you’re being careful. I recommend refraining from inserting anything for a week. Let your body heal.”
          In the car, Joan pulled Evelyn’s hand out of its box. “Did you hear that? Did you hear the doctor, Evelyn?” She hugged the hand tight to her breast.
          For the first time in a long while, Joan enjoyed being alive. Getting out of bed was easy. Eating was a joy. Doing the dishes was fun. Exercising was not a chore. Evelyn’s hand was the best part of Joan’s life, and the beauty of it was that Joan could take it with her everywhere she went. She lived in this blissful state for weeks, believing her dark night of the soul was coming to an end and that she was finally healed. She trusted that fate would eventually lead her to Evelyn herself. Soon, their life together would truly begin.
          Joan walked against the stormy wind that rushed through the barren trees and tried to prevent her from getting to the 7/11 for her shift. Ian was there when she finally blew in, ringing up a customer’s purchase of menthol cigarettes and taquitos. His hair was in a ponytail, and he wore a baggy black t-shirt which bore the ugly insignia of some noisy band. Normally, this would be the time when Joan would start fantasizing about him, but her needs were more sated than usual. 
          He greeted her with his usual surliness, but Joan no longer gave him the time of day. Whether he could detect her change in affect she did not know, but these days she felt lighter than a cloud. They switched out once Ian was done with the customer.
          It was all she could do not to hum as she worked. She sold lighters, cases of beer, donuts, cups of coffee, and potato chips, all while willing her shift to go by faster so she could spend time with Evelyn’s hand. In the past, Joan had kept her purse in the back office during her shifts, but lately she had been keeping it at the register with her, to have Evelyn’s hand as close as possible. 
          The door swung open, and a woman came into the 7/11. She was stocky and a little lumbering. Her frizzy hair was tied up in a greasy bun on the top of her head. She wore a rubbery green raincoat over threadbare sweatpants that were several sizes too big for her. Her sopping wet Ugg boots had heels so smashed and tread upon that they dragged across the floor as the woman shuffled toward the rack of Nutter Butters. Omar would have sneered and called her an ogre or some other degrading name, but Joan was more forgiving than that. She dealt with many similar customers while working at the 7/11, so she didn’t pay the woman any mind.
          The woman slouched across the store to the slushie machine where she plucked a waxy cardboard cup from the stack marked “Extra Large.” When she pulled the lever of the old machine, it growled and clanked before belching out its icy blue contents. The woman filled her cup to the brim then licked a speck of blue off the side.
          In Joan’s opinion, the magic of the modern convenience store was its absence of complication. Customers grabbed what they needed, paid, and left. Joan had come to expect this apathetic dynamic. She waited, bored, until it was time to play her part.
          The woman strolled around the store, sucking down her slushie and assessing the rest of the snacks, before ambling up to the counter. She held the slushie cup in her left hand and had her purse looped over her right arm. The woman set the cup and her purse on the counter and Joan caught an idle glimpse of her hand. It was small, and strangely elegant compared to the rest of her. It had long, red fingernails and there were several dainty gold rings around the fingers. Joan froze as she was ringing up the slushie. The woman reached up with her other wrist, which ended in a hardened pink stump, and used it to brush several stray hairs out of her eyes.
          Joan was in a state of shock too great to speak. She felt dizzy. Not only did she possess the woman’s severed hand in a mahogany box not two feet from them, but, worse yet, this woman who had produced Evelyn’s hand was most certainly not Evelyn at all, not even close. Joan broke into a nervous sweat.
          “Can I pay, or what?” the woman asked, unaware.
          “Uh, yes,” Joan said. Her fingers, clumsy with adrenaline, scrabbled over the cash register’s keys. “Four dollars and forty-nine cents.” She was reeling, her pulse thumping like a drum. Could the woman hear her heartbeat? Joan wiped her slick forehead with her shirtsleeve. 
          The woman used her stump to steady her purse as she dug through it with her remaining hand. She paid in change and shuffled out, sneaking a wary glance back at Joan before she ventured out into the storm with her slushie.
          Joan allowed her weak knees to buckle, and she slid down the counter to the floor. It was dusty down there and the mat she sat on was covered with years of grime from countless shoes. Her purse was in the cupboard underneath the counter, and she grabbed the mahogany box from it, desperate. 
          Inside, Evelyn’s hand rested on the blue velvet lining. It felt like a stranger now. The hand had grown dryer over the weeks, more shriveled. The wrist was no longer damp and gelatinous, it had turned crusty. The whole hand was wrinkly, as though it had been submerged in water. Joan pressed Evelyn’s hand against her cheek and wept bitter tears as she faced the horrifying reality that Evelyn wasn’t real and never had been. Her tears dotted the hand, but Joan’s pain did not bring it to life. It was c¬¬old, stiff, and forever dead. The imprint of a woman that Joan had never known, someone who had never even existed. And then the old pain sliced through her. It came all at once, like Joan had never healed at all.
          Omar had been the type of man to break things. He would become infuriated by her small, perceived transgressions and react with explosive rage. Lamps, mirrors, pictures that hung on the walls, and the locket Joan’s mother had given her were all objects of his destruction. Nothing was sacred to Omar.
          He had quite a large frame. This was something that Joan had originally liked about him. Before they were married, he had seemed reliable with the burly, old-fashioned body of a provider. His demeanor changed after they were married, and she quickly came to realize that his mass was what made him dangerous. He attacked her, and when he did, there was little she could do to protect herself. Whether it was a too-hard slap on the ass, or a slap across the face, she had no way to defend herself, as he outranked her physically by a large margin. On the night of his death, he was sprawled on the living room sofa when the doorbell rang.
          “Who is that? Did you invite someone over?” he asked Joan, who was sitting in her purple armchair next to the couch, knitting and listening to an audiobook. It was more of an accusation than a question. Joan could tell his irritation was already beginning to pique. He rattled the ice in his empty rocks glass before setting it on the side table.
          “No,” Joan said, taking out her earbuds. “No, I didn’t.”
          On that infamous night, the night that sent shockwaves throughout the rest of Joan’s life, reverberating trauma that leached into the fabric of her reality and permanently poisoned her future, Omar heaved himself up from the couch and stalked to the door. The person on the other side knocked a second time. It was a jaunty, upbeat rhythm.
          Omar threw open the door. “What do you want?” 
          Joan craned her neck from her chair in the living room to hazard a glimpse of the man standing on their front porch. He was redheaded and skinny, at least a head shorter than Omar, who towered over him. Joan could only see Omar’s back, but she knew he must be wearing a horrifying look of anger. She could see it reflected in the fear on the stranger’s face.
          “I’m sorry,” the man said, holding up his hands and stepping backward, “I think I have the wrong house.” He fled down the porch steps to his yellow Subaru. The wheels screeched and kicked up gravel as he pulled out of their driveway. Omar slammed the front door and turned to Joan.
          “Who was that?” he asked, casually walking back into the living room. He had perfected his deliberate mask of calm, and he used it to torment Joan, but that night his anger was given away by the pulse ticking in the knotted vein on his temple.
          “I don’t know,” Joan said, taking a deep breath. “He was probably lost.”
          “How convenient,” Omar said, pacing across the living room and looming over her in her chair. “Because it seemed like he took off pretty quickly for someone who was just lost.”
          “I think you were scaring him,” Joan said, carefully.
          Omar leaned down low in front of Joan until his big, red face was inches from hers. She could smell the alcohol wafting off him as she stared into his eyes. She knew every ridge, every line of his skin, every pore. She knew him inside and out, all the way down to his black heart. And she knew what was coming.
          “You know what I think?” he said, narrowing his eyes. “I think you’re fucking him.” He turned, grabbed his rocks glass off the side table, and hurled it into the cold fireplace, where it exploded into shards. He got in her face again. “Whore!”
          His voice was so loud that Joan felt her eardrums pulse. She clutched her ears and shut her eyes, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing her by the shoulders and throwing her to the floor. Her spine hit the brick hearth, sending a spasm of pain up her neck and she curled up, covering her head with her hands, doing all she could to protect herself. 
          “Admit it!”
          “It’s not true,” Joan said, her voice muffled from her curled-up position. Omar kicked her hard on the shoulder and the sudden, unexpected pain made her howl. She heard him walking away and she uncurled for a moment to see where he was going. He disappeared into the kitchen and Joan seized the opportunity to scramble to her feet. Omar reappeared with a chef’s knife, its razor edge gleaming in the lamp light. He had never gotten a weapon before. She put her hands up in front of herself, much like the man at the door had, and backed up several steps toward the dark fireplace as Omar advanced closer.
          “Admit it, or I’ll cut it out of you,” he said. A bead of sweat gleamed on his forehead. The point of the knife was very close to her right hand. Then, he pressed the tip lightly, almost gently, against her palm, breaking the skin just enough for a drop of blood to trickle down her hand onto her wrist.
          “Wait, wait,” she said, franticly. “Wait. I … I have proof I’ve never cheated on you. But I need to go to the bedroom.”
          Caught off guard, Omar paused and squinted at her. She couldn’t tell if he really believed that the man was her lover or if he was simply looking for an excuse to brutalize her. She didn’t have any proof—how could she prove something had never happened?—but maybe, if she could get a door between them, she could hide until he calmed down. And then she would leave. Yes, this time she would finally leave him for good.
          “Go get the proof,” he said, pushing her toward the stairs with his free hand. He always had to control her body, even when he was showing her mercy.
          Joan escaped into the bedroom. The door was thick and solid, and she slammed it shut. The lock sounded like hope when she latched it and she sat with her back against the heavy wood, arms around her knees. It didn’t take Omar long to realize her plan. He thundered up the stairs and pounded his fist against the door, cruel, incessant blows that he sustained for many minutes. He shouted threats, coerced her, whined apologies, but Joan remained silent, curled against the door.
          Omar ravaged the house after realizing he couldn’t get to her. She heard him going from room to room, destroying everything she loved. Joan rested her head on her knees and wished she was dead. She had fallen into a stupor when she heard the gunshot, but she knew what had happened before opening her eyes.
          Joan’s life had been a walking shadow since that night. She cleaned up the wreckage. The kitchen, where the contents of every drawer had been flung on the floor, hamburger meat ground into the wall, cranberry juice spilled over every surface. The living room, where the pieces of the rocks glass were still scattered in the fireplace, her mother’s ashes strewn on the carpet, the urn in pieces on the hearth. The knife lay on the floor, forgotten. She spent full days cleaning, but she was numb to it all. Nothing felt real.
          She hired a service to clean up the viscera in the bathroom, a specialized cleaning crew that arrived after the police were finished with their pointless investigation. The whole room smelled of death. Quarts of blood covered the walls and bone fragments littered the linoleum. Omar’s body lay jawless and obscene in the middle of it all. Joan saw it every time she closed her eyes.
          Now, on the dusty floor of the 7/11, Joan sobbed, not only over the excruciating memory, but also over the confusing complexity of her grief. Grief over Omar’s death went hand-in-hand with her grief over the life she could have had if she had never met him at all. She had wished death upon Omar countless times over the years. The guilt of this haunted her. 
          Joan sniffed and wiped her nose on her shirtsleeve. Now her heart was broken all over again, over the cruel logic of Evelyn’s hand. She looked at the hand, sitting there in her palm, which still bore the poignant puncture scar from Omar’s knife. She was sick of being a victim of grief. 
          Somewhere, deep inside, she felt a switch begin to flip. Her response to pain was always to curl up, but no, this time would be different. This time, she would take control. After the encounter with the slushie woman, as much as Joan wanted to go home and decay in her lumpy queen-sized bed, she wouldn’t. There was an ache of wanting in her chest, in the spot where her heart met her throat. Finally, Joan would get what she wanted. 
          She started her project immediately upon returning home. She chose the dining room as her studio and propped Evelyn’s hand on the table so she could see it from where she worked. She maneuvered an old mannequin down from the attic, its feet bumping a rhythm as she dragged it down the stairs. The mannequin was covered with layers of grime, and cobwebs clung to the armpits and the backs of the knees, so the first thing Joan did after propping it up was wipe the yellowing plastic with a wet cloth. As the dirt came away on her rag, she could feel the figure breathe with new life.
          There was a thread that connected Joan to Evelyn, and it was attached to each of their souls. It was Joan’s destiny to be with her. She thought this as she wrestled the mannequin into an old velvet dress. Blue, like the lining of the mahogany box. She wanted to ease Evelyn into existence. How better than to dress her in familiar material?
          When Joan stepped back to admire her work, something didn’t feel right. Before her stood only a mannequin crammed into an ill-fitting velvet dress. Joan plucked at the fabric, twisting it idly in her fingers, thinking. It was then that Joan knew, to make Evelyn real, she had to be made of flesh.
          Joan drove over the speed limit as she barreled toward the grocery store. Other customers stared as she stacked her shopping cart high with dozens of containers of meat. A child in overalls pointed at her, turning toward her mother, but the mother smacked the child’s hand and pulled her down another aisle. 
          The towers of Styrofoam containers wobbled as Joan rushed to the check-out counter, where she ignored the cashier’s nervous joke about a late-night barbeque. Joan caught a look at herself in the security camera as she raced out the door with her purchases. The monitor showed a disheveled woman with staticky hair, bitten lips, and a frenzied look in her eyes. A woman on the verge of something sublime.
          She hauled the meat home and spread the bloody Styrofoam containers on the dining room table, crowding Evelyn’s hand but making sure to keep it comfortable. She had every type of meat imaginable, and then some.
          Using the mannequin as an armature, Joan started with flank steak for Evelyn’s arms and legs, wrapping the meat around the plastic and sewing it in place. Next were organ meats for her torso. She used liver, kidneys, and a tender, raw heart, supporting it all with sutured flank steak pinned around the mannequin. 
          Joan cast the mannequin’s head onto the table where it rolled off the edge and struck the floor, causing a crack to appear down the center of its forehead. She replaced the plastic head with a ten-pound pork shoulder. She carved two holes in the pork with a melon baller and used her thumbs to press in shiny marbles for Evelyn’s eyes. 
          She wove long strands of fat through her fingers and pinned the gristle in place. Thick lumps of filet mignon became Evelyn’s breasts, her buttocks. She sliced thin sheets of asada and arranged them just so, layering her lover’s nerves, her skin. Joan affixed it all to the mannequin. She toiled over her work for hours, deep into the night.
          Her final touch was removing the mannequin’s plastic hand and attaching Evelyn’s hand to Evelyn’s new body. It fit seamlessly. Finally, Evelyn stood there, in the flesh. She was just as Joan had always imagined her, standing tall and graceful, with a playful look in her eyes.
          “I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Joan said to the beautiful woman before her. 
          Evelyn caressed Joan’s face with her divine hand. Her eyes were shining with joy. 
          The meat of Evelyn’s body called to Joan, and she wrapped herself in Evelyn’s arms. How lucky Joan was to have found her soulmate, how blessed. She finally heard Evelyn’s voice, like a tender melody in her ears.
          I’ve been longing for your touch.
 

Saul is a regular, normal person. She is a writer, editor, and library worker living in the Pacific Northwest. Her fiction has been featured in Barrelhouse, HAD, Gone Lawn, The Molotov Cocktail, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA in fiction writing from the Stonecoast MFA Program. Her Instagram is @delaneyssaul and her website is www.delaneyssaul.com.​