Victor 2

Pastor Bean, Josiah Fry is several things, but he is not a coward or a fool. I didn't call off the fire because I'm scared of that Negro, and I didn't do it because he seduced me with lies. I called it off because you were wrong. I don't know if you lied or if you just didn't know better, but you were wrong. He ain't normal but he ain't dangerous either.

I did exactly as you told me. I called Graham and Kellogg, had us meet in my cobbler's shop. We got the oil and the matches, snuck out to the doctor's after dusk. But right when Graham lit the match and Kellogg started pouring the oil, there was this low screech by the door, like some damn beast out of hell. We all got spooked, Kellogg spilled the jug of oil all over me, Graham dropped the light, and I slipped. I went out like a light, and when I woke up, I was inside the doctor's office.

I ain't never seen anything like it and I don't want to ever again. Every wall was lined with a knife or a hammer or some other fancy tool. It looked more like a butcher's than a doctor's...or a coffinmaker's. And like a butcher's, blood was everywhere. On the floor. On the long slab that took up most of the room. On some of the tools. And body parts, Pastor! Arms on tables, organs in jars, a skinned torso on a hook hanging from the ceiling! All wired up with copper, sparks flying between them every few seconds.

Of course I hollered for help, but the only person who showed up was the Negro, with a bloody apron and rolled-up sleeves.

"Oh, you're awake," he went. Never seen that colored boy frown before. "Careful, you're going to break something."

I won't repeat what I said exactly. I've already repented for my words, but you don't send swears to a man of God. But I cussed and I spat and I demanded that he let me go or I'd slug him one. He didn't even flinch. He just looked at me and said: "Okay. Do it. Close your hand into a fist."

Pastor, you know violence has always come easy to me. That's probably why you picked me in the first place. So I balled up my fist and tried to swing at him, and the damndest thing happened. One of the arms just started twitching, before it curled up into a fist.

"The delay is because of how far your arm is from your head right now. You can't hit me until your brain tells your arm to make a fist."

He took a mirror and put it in front of me. Pastor...it was just my head. Only half of it; the only thing protecting my brain was a metal tin over it. Below me was this sparking, shuddering thing with a sheep's bladder that kept blowing up and blowing out.

"The rest of your skull's currently drying in in the front room. You cracked it pretty bad, so I had to use gypsum to even it out. Most of your skin's drying too; you got burned pretty badly. I'm about to put your ribcage back together, and I'm trying to see if I can salvage your liver. No point in fixing you up if you're going to drink yourself to death in a year." He pulled down the torso - my torso - from the rack and put it on the slab. Two of my ribs had caved in, sticking into some organ I couldn't name.

"If you let me finish, I can put you back together good as new. You're my patient, after all. But if you struggle too much and remove yourself from the device keeping your brain alive...I can't fix that. I don't have time to etherize you again, so I'll need you to stay calm. Do we have an understanding?"

I stayed quiet and still after that. Spent a dog's age watching him fix those ribs. My daddy used to be a wheelwright, and he works the same way my dad used to. Always double and triple checking, never leaving tools around where they might cause a mess. I don't know what a voodoo's supposed to look like, but he wasn't doing no chanting or waving bones in the air. It got so still that I asked him how he could do all this.

"Same way Dr. Birch did his thing. Practice, expertise, and passion. Some men like adventure. I like fixing up broken things."

A few minutes after, he put my torso back on the hook, the ribs fixed over with gypsum paste. He left and then came back with a shriveled yellow thing; I suppose that was my liver. He took a bowl of water, wet it, and sat on the edge of the slab, kneading it like dough.

"I hope you don't mind me asking you a few questions, Mr. Fry. Since most people in this town avoid me, I've been missing some information that has been perplexing me. And frankly, I've been desperate for a good conversation."

"If I says no, are you going to keep me here?"

"You're getting fixed either way. I'm just seeing if you'd be willing to lend a hand."

Now I wasn't happy to help out that freak, but I saw what he did to me. I got curious.

"Well, hows about I ask questions and you ask questions? Then it'll be a real conversation."

"Fair enough. Though you already asked a question of me, so I'll start. How is Charlie Bean doing?"

That raised an eyebrow.

"Pastor brought him over for new shoes just the other day. Couple of odd marks by his ankles, but seemed well enough."

He sighed. First time I saw him smile since I woke up.

"Excellent. Not every day I save a child from lockjaw. Was worried there might be complications afterward. Your go."

"Wait, you cured him of lockjaw? You tore up the pastor's kid like this??"

"Not like this. Diseases are easier to treat than broken bones. A *lot* less cutting."

I remember when you brought him up in front of the church and said that your prayers for healing had finally been answered.

"Next question. Who sent you to burn me out?"

I remembered what you said. "Nobody sent me; I came on my own. Did Old Birch really pick you to be doctor?"

He smirked at some private joke.

"Well I wasn't his *first* pick, but we respect each other's talents and he trusted me to take care of this town." The smile dropped from his face as he continued, gently rubbing his fingers over my liver. "If I send you out good as new, do you think they'll try to burn this place down again? I'd rather not rely on my frog's warning screech to protect me."

I was about to say yes. I knew what you said, that it *had* to be done. But I couldn't.

"I...no, they won't. I'll make sure they won't."

He blinked, reared back. I don't think he expected that answer any more than I did. Then he smiled, small and nervous.

"That's a mighty kindness, Mr. Fry. I'd shake your hand if the logistics allowed for it."

If he's not human, then he's spent a long time learning to act like one. There was something tired and grateful in his eyes. That's when I realized how scared he was when we showed up.

Eventually, he coughed politely. "I believe it's your go."

"Why did you heal me if you didn't know if I'd help you?"

"You're a churchgoing man, correct? Ask Pastor Bean about Luke's Samaritan." He took his time with the next one, looking into my eyes. "Why burning? I thought you lot preferred a hanging."

"He said, I mean, we thought that another Negro might replace you if we just killed you or ran you out. Or that you might have done something to the building itself. Better to let it all burn."

He shut his eyes for a long while. He rubbed his face on his arm when he opened them again, but that just meant there was tears *and* blood on his face.

"That'll be all. Thank you. I'll continue this in the front room."

He got up and started walking out of the room. But I had one more question.

"What are you?"

He stopped.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Half the town hates you for being a nigger; the other half hates you because they think you're gonna curse their kids or steal their souls. I ain't ever heard or seen anybody do what you did to me, but you're not some sort of evil sorcerer or voodoo shaman. You ain't trying to hurt us; you're scared of us. So what are you?"

He picked one of the hooks hanging from the ceiling and pricked his finger on it. He brought it in front of me, a bubble of blood forming on the surface.

"I'm human. Same as you. Same blood, heart and lungs. I know. I checked."

That's where we left off. Five hours later, I walked out of that place with a new appreciation for how everything's put together. Took me a while to recuperate, but it's like I'm a new man. Bones are strong, I can drink more again, and my memory's better than ever! I remembered that entire conversation exactly! Three months ago, I couldn't remember one of your sermons come Monday. You can say it's devilish lies all you want, but Victor Freestone has helped me and he's helped your son. And I ain't going to be running anybody out of town until you reckon with that.

Josiah Fry