"Um…Heaven’s Kiss."
"Is that a romance?" he asked, and she nodded. "Oh, I’m sorry, that doesn’t count. You see, romance novels are shit. You could probably write one. Go to college by chance?"
"No."
"Finish high school?"
"Yes."
"Whew. Scared me there for a minute, Shirley."
"Take me back," she begged. "I want my husband."
"Stop whining," he said, and tears trickled down her face again, but Orson let them go. "My brother’s here tonight," he said, "and that’s a lucky coincidence for you. He’s gonna ask you five questions on anything — philosophy, history, literature, geography, whatever. You have to answer at least three correctly. Do that and I’ll take you back to the bowling alley. That’s why you’re blindfolded. Can’t see my face if I’m gonna let you go, now can you?" Timidly, she shook her head. Orson’s voice dropped to a whisper, and leaning in, he spoke into her ear just loudly enough for me to hear also: "But if you answer less than three questions correctly, I’m gonna cut your heart out."
Shirley moaned. Clumsily dismounting the stool, she tried to run, but the chain jerked her to the floor.
"Get up!" Orson screamed, stepping down from his stool. "If you aren’t sitting on that stool in five seconds, I’ll consider it a forfeiture of the test." Shirley stood up immediately, and Orson helped her back onto the stool. "Calm down, sweetheart," he said, his voice recovering its sweetness. "Take a breath, answer the questions, and you’ll be back with your husband and — do you have kids?"
"Three," she said, weeping.
"With your husband and your three beautiful children before morning."
"I can’t do it," she whined.
"Then you’ll experience an agonizing death. It’s all up to you, Shirley."
The single bare lightbulb that illuminated the room flickered, throwing the shed into bursts of darkness. Orson sighed and stood up on his stool. He tightened the bulb, climbed down, and walked to my chair. Putting his hand on my shoulder, he said, "Fire away, Andy."
"But…" I swallowed. "Please, Orson. Don’t do —"
Leaning down, he whispered into my ear so the woman couldn’t hear: "Ask the questions or I’ll do her in front of you. It won’t be pleasant. You might close your eyes, but you’ll hear her. The whole desert’ll hear her. But if she gets them right, I will let her go. I won’t rescind that promise. It’s all in her hands. That’s what makes this so much fun."
I looked at the woman, still quivering on the stool, felt my brother’s hand gripping my shoulder. Orson was in control, so I asked the first question.
"Name three plays by William Shakespeare," I said woodenly.
"That’s good," Orson said. "That’s a fair question. Shirley?"
"Romeo and Juliet," she blurted. "Um…Hamlet."
"Excellent," Orson mocked. "One more, please."
She was silent for a moment and then exclaimed, "Othello! Othello!"
"Yes!" Orson clapped his hands. "One for one. Next question."
"Who’s the president of the United States?"
Orson slapped the back of my head. "Too easy, so now I’m gonna ask one. Shirley, which philosopher’s theory is encapsulated in this quote: ‘Act only on that maxim through which you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law’?"
"I don’t know! How the hell should I know that?"
"If you knew anything about philosophy, you’d know it was Kant. One for two. Andy?" Hesitating, I glanced up at Orson. "Ask the question, Andy!"
I deliberated. "On what hill was Jesus Christ crucified?" I looked up at Orson, and he nodded approvingly.
"Golgotha," she said weakly.
"Two for three," Orson said, but he didn’t sound as happy this time.
"Fourth question. When —"
"I’ve got one," said Orson, interrupting. "You can ask the last one, Andy. Shirley, on what continent is the country of Gabon?"
She answered quickly, as if she knew. "Europe."
"Oh, no, I’m sorry. Africa. Western coast."
"Don’t do this anymore," she begged. "I’ll give you money. I have credit cards. I have —"
"Shut up," Orson said. "Play fair. I am." His face reddening, he gritted his teeth. When it passed, he said, "It all comes down to this. Andy, hope you’ve got a good one, ’cause if it isn’t, I have a perfect question in mind."
"The subject is history," I said. "In what year did we sign the Declaration of Independence?" Closing my eyes, I prayed Orson would let the question fly.
"Shirley?" he said after ten seconds. "I’m gonna have to ask for your answer."
When I opened my eyes, my stomach turned. Tears had begun to glide down her cheeks. "1896?" she asked. "Oh God, 1896?"
"EEEEEHHHHH! I’m sorry, that is incorrect. The year was 1776." She collapsed onto the concrete. "Two for five doesn’t cut it," he said, walking across the floor to Shirley. He bent down and untied the blindfold. Wadding it up, he threw it at me. Shirley refused to look up.
"That’s a shame, Shirley," he said, circling her as she remained balled up on the floor. "That last one was a gimme. I didn’t want my brother to have to see what I’m gonna do to you."
"I’m sorry," she cried, trying to catch her breath as she lifted her bruised face from the floor. Her eyes met Orson’s for the first time, and it struck me that they were exceptionally kind. "Don’t hurt me, sir."
"You are sorry," he said. He walked to a row of three long metal shelves stacked piggyback against the wall beside the back door. From the middle shelf he took a leather sheath and a gray sharpening stone. Then he strolled back across the room and pulled his stool against the wall, out of my reach and Shirley’s. Sitting down, he unsheathed the knife and winked at me. "Shirley," he coaxed. "Look here, honey. I want to ask you something." Again, she lifted her head to Orson, taking long, asthmatic breaths.
"Do you appreciate fine craftsmanship?" he asked. "Let me tell you about this knife."
She disintegrated into hysteria, but Orson paid her sobs and pleadings no attention. For the moment, he’d forgotten me, alone with his victim.
"I acquired this tool from a custom knife maker in Montana. His work is incredible." Orson slid the blade methodically up and down the sharpening stone. "It’s a five-and-a-half-inch blade, carbon steel, three millimeters thick. Had a helluva time trying to explain to this knife maker the uses to which I’d be putting this thing. ’Cause, you know, you’ve got to tell them exactly what you need it for, so they’ll fashion the appropriate blade. Finally, I ended up saying to the guy, ‘Look, I’ll be cleaning a lot of big game.’ And I think that’s accurate. I mean, I’m gonna clean you, Shirley. Wouldn’t you consider yourself big game?"
Shirley hunched over on her knees, her face pressed into the floor, praying to God. I prayed with her, and I don’t even believe.
Orson went on, "Well, I’ve got to say, I’ve been thrilled with its performance. As you can see, the blade is slightly serrated, so it can slice through that tough pectoral muscle, but it’s thick enough to hack through the rib cage, too. Now that’s a rare combination in a blade. It’s why I paid three hundred and seventy-five dollars for it. See the hilt? Black-market ivory." He shook his head. "An utterly exquisite tool.
"Hey, I want your opinion on something, Shirley. Look up here." She obeyed him. "See the discoloration on the blade? That comes from the acids in the meat when I’m carving, and I was wondering if it’s scarier for you, knowing I’m getting ready to butcher you, to see those stains on the blade and realize that your meat will soon be staining this blade, too? Or, would it be more frightening if this blade was as bright and shiny as the day I first got it? ’Cause if that’s the case, I’ll get a crocus cloth and polish it up right now for you."