The Hand That Feeds You / Joshua Vigil

After the psychic told her to visit the place where it all started, Fiorella booked us a trip to Madagascar, where she’d first gotten the worms. 

Wanna see the pictures? Fio asked on the taxi ride to the beachfront hotel. Misty looked away, pressing her forehead to the glass with a sigh—out the window, the usual sights: barefoot children with distended bellies streaming towards the taxi as nearby women balanced baskets over their colorfully-wrapped heads—while I accepted Fio’s phone. The worms were long and thin, and totally translucent. More like something you’d fish out of the recycling than something you’d take home with you from Madagascar. Though I wasn’t totally convinced I wouldn’t be leaving the island without them. 

From the passenger seat Fio pointed out the various spots she recalled from her previous trip with her husband: And that’s where I bought my beautiful green lamba, she said. Though Richard says I can’t wear it at home, not in the US. And that’s where we tried some street food. Which we’re not doing this time. Though Richard fared fine. No worms for Richard.

Misty cleared her throat. Should we talk about Richard less? 

And that’s where we saw a dead body on the side of the road. Richard tried covering my eyes, but I still saw it. The man wasn’t wearing any shoes. 

Fio said all this, ignoring Misty’s comment about Richard, the husband who had left her amidst her health crisis nearly a year back. Despite this, Fiorella was doing better. I thought of the months she’d spent posting about her condition online. The close-ups of her face, Fiorella certain something squiggled below the surface. Somehow, she’d found a doctor—board certified, not some quack—who, through physical extractions and a cocktail of powerful dewormers, had been able to restore some semblance of health. 

It’s absolutely revolting, and yes I can’t look away, she said, once again staring at the pictures off her phone. A whole grid of them, and when she scrolled down, she revealed countless additional rows of pictures. I watched her thumb hover over one photo before settling on another. A neat cluster of worms webbed with blood. My little babies, she said, zooming in and stroking. My evil little babies. 

While she was better, the trauma of those years had left its mark: mentally, Fiorella was far from healed. She had grown obsessed, and I wasn’t so sure there was any way back from that. And it was because of this obsession, and her never ending pursuit for betterment, that she’d befriended a French psychic named Hélène who suggested—no, demanded—she go back to Madagascar. A trip would prove most healing, she’d said. Better than anything a doctor could ever do.

In our suite, Fio reminded us not to drink from the tap. She had a tiny, puckered face, no bigger than a man’s balled up fist. Dry bangs she’d kept cut for decades now—she was making some sort of statement with them, but what kind of statement I had no idea. And don’t ever accept ice with your drink, she said. Okay? Especially you, Misty. You can’t have worms and breast cancer.

Misty frowned. My blood is so toxic it’d just zap the worms dead, she said. She sounded wooden—several rounds of chemo later and the doctors were firm in their belief that Misty’s days were numbered. This trip was, in some sense, a final farewell for Misty as well. Bad luck affixed itself to her like a ball and chain, it always had. An activist dyke whose cancer briefly went into remission several years back, Misty had rewarded herself with new breasts to only have the implants recalled weeks later. Now she hobbled around flat-chested, miserable and in pain, the cancer back with a vengeance. 

Walking the perimeter of the hotel suite, Misty now talked on and on. A wave of energy that would subside any minute. Like a stroke, fatigue came on suddenly. She spoke about Marxism. About new courtrooms and old norms. Abolitionism, and Narcan too. These were how conversations went with her. They were circuitous in that all I needed to do was nod and nod to goad her into continuing, always landing back to topics previously covered. She was, after all, a public defender who also taught at the university. I did admire her. I often wished, listening to her, that I could be similarly zealous about something, anything. But, more often than not, her phone calls were interrupting me doing something mundane, like taking out the trash, or cleaning after my cat, or flipping through the TV. 

The kids have no idea of what abolitionism actually means, she was saying. Not in the context of the courtroom. Not outside academia, and texts. I mean, no one in academia is paying attention to us. And none of us are paying attention to any of the new scholarship.

No matter how this trip goes, I said to Fio, I hope you know that what is most important is that you tried. 

Fio scrunched up her face and asked what I meant. 

I mean, if you don’t find exactly what you’re looking for. It’s okay to let this go unresolved. Not everything needs a perfect conclusion. You’re doing better, that’s what matters.

Misty sidled up beside me—blue eyes and pale skin slapped by light—and said the trip would be healing anyway. Her hair was patchy still, gray bristles sprouting between blonde ones from the sides shorn close to the skin. Lips perpetually cracked, as if drained from life, the toxic Taxotere hurtling past Misty’s port, chemicals that would remain burrowed forever inside her, not so different from Fio’s worms. 

We could use some healing, Fio said, reaching for Misty’s hand. All of us could, she added, looking at me. When a silence fell over the living room, I said I agreed, and I told them about my most recent hemorrhoid. I said it had prolapsed, though this wasn’t the case—smaller than a pea, it was hardly an inconvenience. They nodded with little sympathy to their expressions. 

Misty began another perimeter of the suite, and I followed her lead, finally taking it all in. The living room had bright terracotta walls that were rough to the touch, tiled floors cool on our feet, and a balcony that overlooked the colorful but compact houses shelved into the oceanside hills. Though there was a view of the water from the hotel, this was a fishing town with little in terms of beach. The coast was craggy and gave way to sharp cliffs. The bellhop, who had remained to the side of the room all this time, waiting for his tip, said we could rent a boat to go swimming in the open sea or at one of the smaller, uninhabited islands, if that’s what we wanted. There was a Greek restaurant in town too that he recommended, if we didn’t mind smashing plates. A gust of warm wind blew the curtains until they clipped the bed. Outside, a man pinned his forehead to a tree’s bark, eyes closed as if in prayer. The bellhop said he did it every day. 

A local custom? I asked.

No, he said, he’s just crazy.

The town fool, Misty said.

When the bellhop finally cleared his throat, I shoved a crumpled bill into his hands and smiled. If you need anything at all during your stay, he said, just ring for me in the hotel lobby. You can ask for Friday.

Your name is Friday? I said, my attention focusing on a nametag that confirmed this. 

Misty hummed with amusement. I leaned into my armpit, smelled the scent of a day of traveling. Stale and fetid. The ceiling fan spun, the wind from earlier having retreated. Fio slapped her neck. Mosquitoes? She examined her palm and pretzeled her face. 

It’s so hot, I said.

Better get used to it, Misty said. I don’t think they’re much for air conditioners out here.

/

I was the first to arrive at the hotel restaurant for a late afternoon lunch. Scattered across the patio were people bandaged in the face. When I asked the server—his nametag read Emmanuel, a small disappointment—about this, he said there were many cheap plastic surgeons on the island. That Madagascar was becoming the next destination for affordable surgery. We’ll be the next Turkey, he said. Only better.

My attention drifted across the guests wrapped in gauze. Rhinoplasties, face lifts, chin shavings, hair transplants, neck procedures. When Fio and Misty arrived, they seemed less fascinated by the guests. I’m glad I don’t have breasts, Misty said. 

Fio, didn’t you used to get Botox all the time? I asked. She twisted her face, then looked at the menu, then said she had to go to the bathroom. 

What if she doesn’t eat or drink a thing during our entire trip? I said to Misty. 

She has a whole box of Luna bars in her suitcase, Misty said. She’ll be fine. 

A mother and son were sitting a few tables away. She was thin and blonde, with eyes bruised from a procedure and staples around her ears, and he was plumped up with baby fat still. No more than twelve. The woman drank from a wine glass. After she swallowed, she pushed the glass towards her kid. He took a gulp, then passed the glass back to his mother. Despite this bad behavior, their faces remained the same, something cool and indefinite to their mouths set in flat lines. The mother drank, and when she was done, she did it again, she pushed her glass towards her son. He took another large gulpful while I chewed into my grilled cheese. 

When the glass was empty, the woman ordered a second, and she cooed at her son. A low, soft sound. Do you see this? I said to Misty.

I could use a drink, Misty said. Tonight, will you help me? You know how Fiorella is.

Prior to her cancer, Misty was, for all intents and purposes, a full-fledged alcoholic, something that had once brought us together. She’d been a functional one for her entire adult life, but since she’d retired, it had grown into something that affected her daily life. It was all she did. 

And Fiorella, the health nut that she was now, wouldn’t allow Misty a drop. Even if death skulked just around the corner.

What do we do now? Misty asked when Fiorella returned with a smidge of chocolate below her lip and her phone clutched tight. From the screen, the grid of pictures. Worm pictures. Did you even think this far? Misty asked. I mean, we’ve come all this way, isn’t there something we’re meant to do?

Then: We should go to that bar Friday was talking about, Misty said. The Greek one, where they let you smash the plates.

Why would we go to a Greek bar when we’re in Madagascar? Fio said. Shouldn’t we go to a Madagascarian one?

Tell me, Misty said, what does a Madagascarian bar look like? Besides, it’s not like you’ll eat a thing anyway.

It’s Madagascan, I said.

You know what I mean, Fio said as Misty arranged a pile of cash on the table. Past her, I watched the woman order a third drink. The son looked sleepy. But I knew he’d continue to indulge her, the lengths we go to satisfy the ones we love.

Town was quiet, with sandy roads lit sporadically by mellow lamplights as the sun began its slow sink. At the bar, porcelain crunched beneath our feet. We ordered tapas and when Fio left for the restroom, her phone to her chest, Misty reached for my rum punch. She chugged and chugged. Then she reached for Fiorella’s glass and did the same. Should you be drinking so much? I said.

Do you know it hurts for me to drive now? she asked, her eyes taking in the swirling colors dipping into the horizon. It’s beyond chronic pain. It’s arthritis now too. All from my treatments. 

I thought of the bandages that stuck to her chest the days after her procedure. The tubes from which fluids spilled. The stench. She winced so often now I’d grown accustomed to it; I hardly saw it anymore. I said, I can drive you. Whenever you need a ride. We’ll figure it out.

You’re not my keeper, she said, reaching once more for my glass, then Fio’s glass. She went from one to the other, double-fisting each glass, until both our drinks were nearly drained, and when Fio returned, the server told us to not be so shy. Smash some plates!

Misty gave the server a sidelong glance before reaching for a plate, heaving it over her back then flinging it to the ground. The plate shattered. Porcelain shards winged across the room. Tables clapped and cheered. Misty’s face was red and bore a childish smile. I hadn’t seen her so happy in so long. I reached for a plate and tossed it to the floor. It broke cleanly in half. A straight line down the middle. 

At midnight, throngs of swaying tourists poured through town. We floated down the unpaved blocks, each stretch of road either upward-sloping or downward-sloping, the whole town was hilly. It’s not fair that you’re the healthiest from the group, Fio said, the tiny bit of alcohol she’d drank—an imported bottle of white she’d forced the server to open in front of us—loosening her tongue.

I know, I said, believe me.

You were so out of control, she said, before. 

You don’t think this trip isn’t killing me? You don’t think that’s constantly on my mind? Neither of you deserve to be sick like this. I’m the one who deserves it.

We were drifting down another slope when we came across a crowd that had formed at the end of a block. We’d stopped walking, watching the scene unfold at a distance, hidden somewhat in the shadows between lamplights. We should keep going, Fio said before the sound of thudding rocks reached us. A cluster of bodies dissolving before reforming, all of them around a single woman. 

She might need our help, I said, taking a step closer.

It doesn’t involve us, Fio said. This isn’t our violence.

Violence? Misty slurred. Abolish… it…

I left them behind to get a better look. The men in the crowd threw rocks at the woman on the ground. Then, Fio’s grip on my arm, and she pulled me away with a force that had me spinning. 

It was a woman, I said when we rounded the corner. They were throwing rocks at her.

It’s dark, Fio said, how can you be so sure?

How can you be so sure? I asked, rubbing the point on my arm where the heat of Fio’s grip remained. I looked at Misty, who stared at the ground, bleary-eyed, and she hugged herself. I felt sober now, clear-headed, and I told them I didn’t like what had just happened. I didn’t like any of it. She needed our help, I said. 

It wasn’t your business, Fio said. 

We should have called the cops.

You don’t understand anything, Fio said. You never have.

/

At breakfast the following morning we ate our food quietly. We didn’t speak of the night before, and a strangeness hung between us. All we discussed were the plans for the day. The open-air market we’d go to, a spot Fio had visited on her last trip, then a whole afternoon we had free. I agreed with Misty—now that we were here, Fiorella seemed at a loss with what to do. Besides retracing her steps from her last trip, a trip she’d spent mostly in bed, sick, with her husband, she had few suggestions on how to spend the remainder of our week here. 

At the market, the sellers came close, too close. The air was loaded with a humidity that turned my skin damp and sticky. There was no cover, the sun pricking our neck and shoulders. I don’t think I can do this for much longer, Misty said—if a slap of fatigue was around the corner, Misty would be flat on her back any second.

Should we do the hotel beach instead? I asked.

Fio rolled her eyes before agreeing. At the tiny belt of sand beside the hotel’s rocky coast, the sun kept rising, red splotches blossoming across our skin. Fio picked up her phone, screwed up her body, tossed her phone, then picked it up again, repeating the same three movements. Sweat purged from her chest. Between her movements, Fio scratched her arm until a deeper red showed. Mosquitoes. Though they only seemed to be bothering her, which I felt bad about—she’d had enough contact with bugs to last a lifetime already.

Misty gave her abolitionism and courtroom spiel, then began telling us a story about a protest she’d gone to, which led to her arrest, and how she spent a wretched night in jail without her pain meds, before giving into the heat. It was intolerable. She excused herself for a nap, and Fio said she’d do the same. Under the sun, I caught the glimmer of one of her many scars. This one was long and white and at the edge of her cheek. Fio met my eyes, then turned away, the scar all gone, and from my towel, I watched my two sick friends wobble away. 

Tanned men with tufts of hair sprouting from their torsos dipped in and out of the pool. On beach chairs, with floppy sun hats covering their faces, bandaged bodies stretched out, blinking with tanning oil. Friday walked the pool’s edge without his uniform and, when he spotted me, came over. And your friends? he said. Tired so soon?

He was boyish in the face, with unsettlingly smooth skin. Beneath the uniform, an athletic build disproportionate to these features. Heavy pectorals and wide shoulders. Are you coming or going? I asked.

I am working soon, he said, giving his watch a glance. Did you have fun smashing plates? 

It’s good to let out all that pent up anger, isn’t it?

What makes you so angry? Friday asked.

I’m not angry, I said. This is the happiest I’ve ever been. 

I can’t tell if this is a joke, Friday said. American humor is hard for me to understand. Is that a Bloody Mary? They’re not so good at the hotel. I know a better place. I will take you.

Are you happy?

Friday thought about this. I have a job where I meet interesting people from all over the world, he said. This is my island. My family lives here. My friends. I will live a happy and long life here.

That’s very Mediterranean of you. 

Mediterranean?

Will you take advantage of it, the gift of a long life?

I’m happy, isn’t that enough? I see no reason to take more advantage of it. That’s where our people differ. You always want more. I’m happy with what I have.

When Friday asked if I wanted that Bloody Mary before he started his shift, I told him maybe some other time. His gaze lingered over me, and I was familiar with that look of hunger. It could be so dangerous.

Misty and Fio were both in bed when I returned to the suite. Beside Fio’s hand was her phone; she’d probably gone to sleep looking at the same worm photos, an unhealthy habit that made my stomach turn. I stared at their snoring frames, chests rising and falling, soft drones out their mouths. They needed the rest in a way I didn’t. 

I drifted around the rooms, the cold tile beneath my feet, and felt seized by a restlessness I hadn’t felt in so long. If I don’t leave this room, I thought, I will die. I will become sick like my friends and die. 

I scooped up Fio’s phone and left. 

At the hotel lobby, I found the mother and son from the afternoon before standing by the front desk. I hovered, deciding whether to ask the attendant for suggestions on where to go or to venture out on my own. When the mother noticed me, she told me to be careful with the cliffs.

I don’t think I’m much of a cliff diver, I said, flipping through a brochure. Spots of oil marked the front.

I worked for a luxury travel agency once, the mother said. Not here, of course, but so often people would do something careless on vacations, young kids just having fun, jumping off cliffs or bridges or into caves, and I’d be the one stuck calling their families. Telling them the news that their kid had died, or was in the hospital with a broken back. Do you know how expensive it is to repatriate a body? 

I’m guessing you didn’t get that jumping off a cliff, I said, gesturing at the bruises and staples.

She smiled something vague but playful. Years of saving up every penny, she said. I didn’t get to enjoy my youth. I was too busy working, then being a young mom. But, now, my life is just starting. I feel stable, for once. I’d like to have fun. I feel hotter than ever, already. 

The mother gave me a strange look. You’re very beautiful, she said. I hope you don’t take this the wrong way. But for your age, you’re quite striking, and I don’t think you see it. Am I right? You don’t see it?

I laughed, somewhat taken aback.

I’m a stranger, she said. It’s helpful when someone you don’t know tells you the truth. I sometimes wish others were more forthright with me. 

No, I said, I appreciate it.

The woman smiled. Like I said, stay away from the cliffs.

/

After taking many turns, I found a small spot lit by the warm, flickering glow of dozens of candles. Piano played from a teeny old radio. I took a seat at the bar beside a man whose eyes were glassy and unfocused.

I ordered a brandy and when the man saw me, he scooted close. We were practically alone at the bar, I wasn’t surprised by this. 

What are you getting done? he asked in perfect English. 

I’m not here for any surgeries.

Everyone comes for the surgeries.

The man had a sharp and messy mustache, his skin oily and red in the cheeks. I twirled the brandy in my glass before draining it half down. I said, My friend is here for healing purposes. But not the kind of healing you're imagining. 

What kind of healing then?

She got worms here once, a long time ago. 

The man laughed. No, he said, no worms. She has a weak stomach. We have iron stomachs. He banged his belly then laughed again.

I didn’t respond—while I sometimes doubted the severity of what Fio had, I did believe that she believed something was genuinely the matter. 

Where is your friend then? the man asked. Why are you all alone on a special healing trip?

I reached for one of the bread baskets that lined the bar and said, The friends I’m with get tired.

You, he said, I can tell, you’re not as weak. You’ve done some living. The man picked up a tiny bowl he flooded with olive oil. The bartender was off to the side, scrolling on his phone, a glass of brown liquor resting beside his empty hand.

Those years are behind me, I said. 

I wouldn’t be so sure.

I tipped my goblet of brandy back, heat sliding down my gullet. I do have so much to offer still, I said. The words fell from my mouth quietly, my tongue running along the backs of my teeth, and I swallowed some more.

Then: I’m not as bad as I was before, I said. But, sometimes, this feeling takes over. An anxious hunger. I’ve never felt pride or triumph for having gotten better. I mean, I’m not even sober, for one. But I know that’s how I should feel. Instead… I feel flat and empty. As if I failed all along. I didn’t win. I didn’t beat it. 

I said all this and turned to the man. He wasn’t listening. He was speaking. I died once, he said. Flatlined. For nearly a minute I was dead. The man dunked a piece of bread into his bowl and twisted. I asked what he saw when he died.

He stopped stirring. Who said I saw anything?

So you didn’t?

He tossed back the soggy piece of bread, chewed, swallowed. No, he said, I did. I saw the rest of my life. And one thing I saw was this woman. She’s out to get me, I sense it. I mean, I know it for certain. 

Do you know this woman? I asked. 

Like many women, she bit the hand that feeds her, he said.

The man sucked down his glass. In the bar the air had changed. The man, who had once seemed mild, if a bit outwardly coarse, now seemed unpredictable and threatening. 

A silence had fallen over us when Friday came in. He didn’t immediately acknowledge me but said something into the man’s ear before maneuvering him outside. When Friday returned, I said, What did you say to him?

The surgeon is family. It wasn’t so hard.

That’s one of the surgeons? 

I think we should get drunk, he said, waving his finger at the bartender. He smiled then slid a small shot glass of clear liquor in my direction.

At the town square, people danced. Friday and I watched from afar. He said, I’d like to dance with you, but it would be improper. I know so many people here. You understand? But we can go somewhere quieter, if you’d like?

Friday slipped his hands into mine, and we dipped into the shadows of another trim street. The ocean twinkled, water lapping at the rocks below the cliff Friday had taken us to. He rubbed my arm. I told him about the woman the night before. 

We handle things on our own here, he said. It’s not so unusual.

I should have done something, I said.

Do you always try to save people?

No, I said. I’ve never tried before. 

You will have other chances. 

I haven’t been with someone in so long, I said. 

That’s okay, he said.

It was so dark now, I could no longer see Friday’s face. He held my wrist, and the feeling was unexpected, and infinitely constricting. Fear had taken hold of me, something strange but familiar, as if my life was suddenly in danger. I said, Are you going to push me off the cliff?

Friday laughed. And when he saw I was being serious, there was a crack to his face I saw through the darkness, through the moonshine that shone off his fine features. His disappointment flashed into anger. You’re just like every other American, he said, and left.

I stayed where I was, a little glad to be safe, a little stupid for having assumed the worst. Waves smashed the coast and clapped. I fingered Fio’s phone before letting it slip from my grip and into the wet darkness below. 

/

In the morning, I dropped in bed beside Misty and collected her into my arms. She felt normal to the touch, not as sick as I knew she was. When she stirred, I asked if she was doing alright. Yes, she said, I needed a trip like this so badly. 

She turned to face me. What did you get up to last night? 

I found a bar, I drank too much. Nothing so unusual. 

Misty crinkled her nose. She said, You have blood on your face. Are you bleeding?

What?

Not so much. I can clear it away, she said, licking her thumb and swiping at the corner of my face. It’s dry, she said. Maybe a bug bite you scratched.

Could it be? The person from two nights ago?

That’s not possible, Misty said with a frown. You went in the water. Besides, we were sweating all day.

I didn’t go into the water, I said. Did I have this woman’s blood on my face all day yesterday?

I rose from bed. In the bathroom, I saw the faintest smear Misty had rubbed at. It was the woman’s blood, I was sure of it, I’d gotten close enough, and I washed my face until it burned. Misty stayed stretched in bed, drifting back to sleep, and when Fio woke up, she stormed through the suite in a frenzy. Have you guys seen my phone? Her face was red with panic. But I knew this was for the better. She couldn’t ever say I never helped her, neither of them could. 

But all my photos, Fio said, eyes moist with the threat of tears. Angry bumps ran beside scratch marks down her neck—the mosquito bites, whether real or not, that she’d spent the evening molesting. I  told her we were in Madagascar, what did she expect? Of course someone stole her phone. She crumpled into a corner of the couch and cried.

I thought again of the women from two nights before, and the blood on my cheek, and Misty’s dwindling days, and Fio’s current, pitiful condition, her little evil babies, and the hungry anxiety that could stop me on my tracks, and the before times, when I was happier, so much happier, I was always more content when my depth perception was shot, and I thought of Friday, finally, and I stood beside the balcony, wondering where to begin, if I could even begin at all. On the crumbling chaise floated an orange prescription bottle. Misty’s or Fio’s, I had no idea. Beyond the chaise, the town fool bowed at the tree. He prayed.

/

JOSHUA VIGIL is a writer and educator living in New York. His writing has appeared in the Cleveland Review of Books, Joyland, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. His story collection, Bastardland, is out now.