Dark Smoke Rose

Abstract

Dark Smoke Rose Zachary Frank (bio) I came back warm from a long winter run to find my daughter on the couch, feet raised, arm wrapped in a wet towel, a glass of chocolate milk on the end table where her father's ashes used to be. Part of our arrangement for her return, the mason jar of Frick's remains had been moved to my nightstand. Norah had turned off the TV when I entered and now tossed the remote onto the couch. She was wearing the pink sleepshirt and white linen shorts I'd handed down to her years before. "You can watch what you want," she said, then stood, holding the towel in place, and slid into her sandals. "Can you set me up?" she asked. "Can't you wait till after we eat?" "Set me up now and I'll be good when dinner's done." "It just needs reheating." She sighed at me. "Do you want me to withdraw? 'Cause that would not be good for you." Everything I wanted to say dissolved into dumb silence. My mind would fog back then at any hint of an argument, which made it impossible to form a clear thought. I didn't reply, just tried to look upset. It always bothered me not to eat the second dinner was ready. Knowing she'd won, that it had never been a contest, Norah finished her chocolate milk in one long sip then brought the empty cup to the kitchen, squeaking the soles of her sandals against the tile floor as I headed upstairs. I passed her room, which no longer had a lock, and pushed open the door. It almost upset me more, how clean it was, though there wasn't much to make a mess of. A year earlier, Norah had spent hours helping me search for the camera she'd pawned. On her return, I'd boxed away most of the things she could sell and drove them to self-storage. With such obvious, unfilled space, our house had the look of a family moving in or out. My bedroom had a reinforced lock on the door and a safe on my dresser where I kept Norah's dope kit, a black leather toiletry bag [End Page 525] with a gold zipper. I input the code and removed it, along with a fresh needle and a red balloon of white powder, all but weightless in my hand. I pinched it delicately at the stem, letting it dangle, and thought of Frick walking a used condom to the wicker wastebasket in our bathroom. From the nightstand, his ashes stared a jar-shaped hole into the small of my back. ________ Downstairs, I opened a bag of lettuce and fixed myself a bowl of leftover ziti. It was early for dinner but already dark. The glass of the sliding back door shone black, reflecting me in the kitchen as I waited at the microwave and recalculated my night. I'd take my food to the couch instead of the kitchen table and play games on my phone, with the TV for background noise and my daughter set up beside me. I wasn't sweating on my run, the temperature below freezing, but could feel the sweat running down my face now that I'd stopped and stepped inside. I removed my outer layer, would wait to shower till her high wore off. With two seconds remaining, I stopped the microwave so I wouldn't have to hear it beep. As I entered the living room, a bowl in each hand, Norah was preparing herself on the couch. She'd taken the towel off her arm and was tying the green tube of her tourniquet around her bicep. She used her mouth to pull it tight. I took the recliner. She'd placed her Narcan on the coffee table, another part of our agreement, and I slid it closer to me. "Fucking calm down," she said through her teeth. "The fuck's with those noodles?" "They're whole wheat," I said. She swabbed her arm with an alcohol wipe then unwrapped the needle. She mixed her heroin in...