I Don't Believe Dinah, My Slippers Are Ruined

“How droll,” I say to myself as I look out through the bay window before my desk, “More crumblies.” 

I’ve just been consulting the cards, more out of boredom than out of real curiosity, and I’ve drawn the Wish Card again — a confounding card to draw in this day and age. ‘One of the most positive cards in the deck,’ my witchy little tarot psalter reads, a gift from my mother who told me to guard it with my life, though she’d become a bit of a drama queen ever since the war had started. ‘Anything your heart desires shall be yours.’ Positive, pshaw. 

“A positive development,” I say aloud again, “would be a day without the crumblies.”

Dinah enters the parlor where I’ve been sipping my morning coffee — a rare luxury these days, but why deprive ourselves? — she’s shivering of course. She’s such a door mouse. I examine my nails. They could use a good filing. 

Before she can even begin, I say, “Yes, Dinah,” and roll my eyes toward her, “I see them.”

“Shall I fetch the swords then, Miss Penny, ma’am?”

“I’m surprised you haven’t already, darling.”

“Off I go, then.” And off she goes. 

I suppose I should do some stretches before the rigamarole begins; I’m certainly not getting any younger. I’m not really dressed for it today, but then when am I, really? I suppose the silk kimono I’m wearing (a treasured discovery in the closets of this estate) can move pretty easily, and it’s not as if I need to protect my modesty anyway, though I’d rather Dinah didn’t see my undergarments in the cold light of day. She tends to spectate from the window seat in the sitting room with her hands cupped at her mouth. She never ceases to be surprised to see me return alive and she’s always quick to dab the blood from my face should there be any, and to launder whatever garment has been sullied by the morning’s kerfuffle, then help me get into some proper clothes as she used to before all this nonsense began. I keep an eye on her. I’m forced to wonder if she’d rather I didn’t return in one piece, but then who would protect her? It’s good not to be totally alone, anyway, though I would love it if we had a lively hound about or even a little cat to keep us company, not to mention to hunt the mice that are always startling the two of us halfway out of our wits.

We came to this abandoned plantation after the war reached the city and forced us to flee — though I’m not sure we’re in a war anymore, and I’m not sure that’s what reached the city. The manor keepers are probably crumblies somewhere, off roaming in pursuit of human flesh or whatever their endgame is (do they appreciate art and literature, one wonders?). It suits me fine. In fact, I sometimes feel I’ve been here all my life, ordering the help around and picking out dresses for debutante balls, or whatever it is they do on this side of the Mason Dixon. Not entirely different from my life in the North, but still it’s nice to see the trees and the grass and all the green bits that city folk were always going on about. It was my personal policy to roll my eyes and begin extolling schools of architecture when people began to talk this way back then, but now I must admit I see the draw. Despite the state of the world, I feel the vigor of the country air. I sigh when I think of the day I will have to really learn to work the land. My poor nails.

Dinah returns with the swords. They were gifts from my childhood fencing teacher, Mr. Glasgow. “Real swords?” I’d said, my pubescent eyes wide with wonder. “Yes, Penny,” he’d said with a nod, “all the way from the Orient. They’re meant to be used as a pair.” I’d been his star pupil for many years, and had shared his curiosity about the Japanese samurai; with relish, we’d both consumed a very rare book he’d somehow obtained on the subject, the two of us determined to absorb the beautiful skills demonstrated by the hand-inked illustrations. I’d taken to the sword like a duck to water, and I needed something to do with my time as a young girl; fencing was as good a hobby as any. When my family would visit the country to go horseback riding, I’d feign sickness and sneak off to practice with my two new swords, slashing at tree stumps and imaginary foes: rapists and murderers and sadists which became, as I continued my occasional training into my adulthood and spinsterhood, Confederate troops swarming the avenues of my terrifyingly bored imagination. “And you wonder,” my mother would often say, glaring at me over her needlework by the fire and glancing at the swords hanging over the mantle, “why you can’t find a husband.” She’d always been afraid of me.

Dinah looks on as I remove the swords from their hilts one by one, the sweet scraping sound reverberating through the room like a gong, the glint of their polished steel twinkling in the fresh morning light. Dinah’s dark eyes always widen and quiver in her deep ebony face, and they meet mine briefly, with a nod and a darting glance at the window, where the stumbling crumblies have crept uncomfortably close. She escorts me to the front door — by God, they’ve almost made it to the veranda today! — and we exchange one last silent glance before she jolts it open and I step outside. 

Most of them are in the gray Confederate uniforms, but then we are in Virginia, after all, though that fact still manages to sometimes escape Dinah and I. The crumblies move with such gracelessness, animals searching for an opiate, or like something from the lesser orders even — worms nudging along out of a mindless sense of survival. What a disease! And a mere scratch will transform you into one of them, I’ve seen it happen! Poor Dinah lost her Trevor that way, I had to lob his head clean off, as I’m about to do with my pair of battle swords to this crowd of desperate crumblies. I tighten the sash of my dressing gown.

The first to attack is (was?) a black man in rags, probably a slave from a nearby plantation. I’d heard, early on, that the disease had spread worst among the slaves, such tight quarters, you know. He’d been a handsome man during his human life, which is a shame, but then half his face is in the process of falling off — crumbling. A few quick slashes and he’s in pieces.

Slaves and Confederates fall at the brush of my blade as I dance among them. They move so slowly, you know, even an old woman like me can outrun and outmaneuver them, though they tend to have numbers on their side. My mind becomes clear during the performance (I’ll admit that it helps that Dinah watches from the window, I do love an audience). Soon they’ve all fallen — a nice crop for the day. We’ll have to clear the bodies and add them to the pile in the field, though we usually do that after afternoon tea. I’ve managed to break a sweat today, though it’s quite hot, swampy even. I gaze around at the carnage, heads and arms and clothing in various stages of deterioration. What a mess. The birds, however, have not begun chirping again, as they usually do at this juncture, and the great lawn is uncommonly silent. Ah, what’s this? Are the crumblies learning evasive maneuvers? If my eyes do not deceive me, I’ve spotted one crouching in the trees at the edge of the great lawn. I whisk the malodorous scarlet blood from my swords with a chop through the air and approach through the dewey grass, hoping against hope that I haven’t ruined my slippers.

He’s dressed in the Confederate uniform, gray and tattered, and when he sees me coming, he bolts up with his hands above his head in surrender — odd behavior for a crumbly, and I’m stopped in my tracks. 

“Morning ma’am!” he shouts. Ah, so not a crumbly then. He’s not terrible looking, just shy of a little older than myself, a salt and pepper beard gone wolfy at the edges, a bit of a belly but taller than me, a red nose and sharp eyes with bushy eyebrows, covered in various dirt from head to toe, like a soldier, or a crumbly. I touch my still blond hair pulled into the high, stately chignon Dinah has perfected over these many years we’ve been together and pull my dressing gown around myself.

“I’ve n-not ever seen fighting like that, man or woman,” he manages to say, our eyes locked in disbelief, apprehension, perhaps a whiff of attraction. Rare to meet another human these days, at least one that isn’t trying to murderously consume your vital organs, anyway.

“No,” I say, “I suppose you haven’t.”

He smiles crookedly, which causes me, against my better judgment, and quite unwillingly, to smile as well. I can feel myself blushing ever so slightly. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a man I didn’t have to immediately kill, though he is a Confederate soldier by the looks of it, so I can’t speak too soon.

“Would you oblige me a bit of shelter for the evening?” he says, flirting now. He approaches tentatively, and I, like a doe in the woods, instinctively retreat.

“Let’s see if we can make it through the morning, cadet,” I say with more malice than I intend to, hissing the t on ‘cadet’ in that way that is always effective at parties when you need to get rid of a man without openly insulting him. He looks down at his uniform and chuckles, still moving toward me, and me still retreating backward. 

“What, this?” he plucks at his jacket. “Clothing, merely, ma’am, The war is child’s play compared to this madness,” he gestures at the strewn bodies.

“Has either side won?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t believe anyone is fighting it any longer, or if there's anyone left to fight, frankly.”

He has an honest face, but as a rule I am distrustful of honest faces. War does strange things to a man. Even among a sea of crumblies, when Dinah and I were fleeing the city and roaming the land in search of safe lodging, just as this mysterious stranger is now, I still saw men take each other down before defending their own lives against the diseased, Union men attacking Confederate, Confederate attacking Union, stabbing and shooting at each other even as the undead tore at their throats and initiated them into their legion. All malice was forgotten between sides once they became a crumbly, and those you could still call human were sometimes more dangerous than the diseased animals I had to slay every morning. 

I hear the front door open and a rifle cock behind me. I turn and see Dinah holding the decorative firearm from above the mantle, her arms steady and her eye taking aim, but the rest of her shaking like a leaf. I’m proud of Dinah in this moment — who knew she knew how to handle a gun? 

The Confederate’s hands are in the air again and he has ceased his advance onto the lawn. Dinah says nothing as she comes to stand next to me, and the Confederate’s jaw stumbles as he attempts to form words. His expression has changed several times in the past few seconds — blunt surprise and fear, yes, but also curiosity and apprehension, as well as a distaste for a woman of the nightly complexion. Southerners.

“Well, Dinah, I’m surprised to see you join in the fun today.”

“Yes, Miss Penny, ma’am.”

“Ladies, I beg pardon,” the man makes a courtly bow, “for my intrusion. But I am in rather desperate straits, and you both look remarkably clean and healthy considering the times we’re living in. Mightn’t you find it in your feminine hearts to spare this old timer? Allow him to avail himself of your lovely manor house and be on his way?”

Dinah and I consider. 

“What do you think?” I say softly enough to Dinah that the man cannot hear.

“He doesn’t look that old.”

“It couldn’t hurt to have a bit of company. Perhaps he’s harmless.”

Dinah scoffs. “Confederates are never harmless.”

I nod. “True. But we’re in Confederate territory. And we’re merely women, with no uniform to signify which side we may have taken. Perhaps he can provide us information, and help with clearing the bodies from the lawn.”

Dinah shrugs and curls her nose at the thought of moving the bodies in that funny way she does when she thinks I’m not looking, a rare moment for the two of us, though this is a unique situation. “I suppose…” she says, “that another pair of hands couldn’t hurt.”

“It’s decided then,” I say. “Let’s just keep our wits about us. No need to let our guard down, darling.” She nods.

I return my gaze to the man, who has lowered his hands into a supplicating gesture at the level of his chest. Dinah lowers her gun, and I my swords. 

“We’ve just poured the morning coffee,” I say to him with a distrustful smile, “You may join us if you help clear the bodies and collect firewood.”

“Coffee!” His eyes nearly pop out of his head. “I’d sell my soul for a cup of coffee! Name’s McHenry — Henry McHenry.”

“That’s quite the name,” I reply, “I’m Penelope Saint Clair, but you may call me Miss Penny. And this is Dinah, Dinah Washington.”

“What a lovely name, Miss Penny,” Henry McHenry removes his hat and bows, and when he lifts his head, I have moved aside, and he meets Dinah’s gaze where he thought he’d meet mine. There is a beat of awkward entreaty. “And… Miss Dinah,” he mumbles with a nod. Dinah scoffs and steps aside.

“After you, Mr. McHenry,” Dinah says. He looks to me and I gesture him toward the house. We’ve created ample breadth between the two of us, Dinah and I, and he walks with a slight limp between us and through the high green grass, looking from one of us to the other, and we watching him like a pair of hawks intent on determining whether he is predator or prey. We follow him up to the manor’s sweeping white veranda. 

“What do you think, Dinah?” I say after we’ve crossed the lawn through the path of crumbly bodies swallowed by the grass, raising my right foot and wiggling my toes in the muddied slipper, “Are my slippers beyond hope?”

She looks down at my raised foot and gives me a rare smile. Something about this stranger has bonded us together, even though we’d been toughing it out alongside one another for quite some time now. Henry McHenry pauses at the small staircase that leads up to the veranda, and, hearing my question, glances back and down at my raised foot, all our gazes meeting on that sullied silk shoe. 

Dinah shakes her head, the smile falling away. 

“Not at all, Miss Penny,” she says. “Not at all.”