Jacob the Fatherless removed his boots, stepped out of his calico pants, and tossed off his shirt. He dropped his vest on the metal floor; the key tinkled in the pocket. The light shone through his naked body. Rebekah’s heart gave a joyous leap. She had learned the workings of his mind. He would face fire like a warrior, with nothing between him and the flames. He shifted. Hesitated. Did he sense her presence? She stood motionless. Silent.

He whirled around. Met her gaze. The fire galvanized his stare. Two opaque marbles locked with her eyes. His tiny pupils were dark pinheads.

“Don’t become immortal. Please. Don’t leave us. We need you.” Approaching the bowl of mint, she unbuttoned her blouse. She flung the herbs into the flames. “Think of us, your children.”

His nostrils flared and the lines on his face hardened with his resolution to oppose her.

She advanced, her breasts almost brushing against his chest. The odor of mint saturated the room. He was virile, invincible. Would he garner the courage to forever preserve this moment?

She tossed off her blouse. Her nipples stood erect.

He started back, alarmed at the glow between her breasts, the outer ring pulsating. He pressed his palms to his eyes.

Jacob the Fatherless raised one foot, then the other, and climbed over the ledge that separated the kiln from the room.

He stepped into the flames.

His back caught fire. The hiss of searing hair, skin, and flesh filled the room. In a slow-moving nightmare, the flames enveloped him. He turned around to confront her. Behind the blazing screen, his mouth opened into a smile, then melted into a grimace. The fire smothered his scream. His distorted face began to dissolve.

“You were not gold after all,” Rebekah murmured to the heap of fat at the bottom of the kiln.

She picked a sprig of mint and stuck it behind her ear to stave off the stink of the Devil.

4

The next day was hot. Even the sun could not find refuge behind the sweltering clouds. Rebekah ran out into the alleys. Clutching her daughter’s hand and tearing strands of her own hair from their roots, she wailed that the black plague had consumed her husband. He had shivered and sweated and vomited until his feet had turned blue. He couldn’t control his bowels; his skull had shrunk; his eyes wouldn’t shut. He couldn’t even drink a drop of water, she screamed. What an agonizing death! She addressed the populace as if her words were meant as a benediction. “May this never happen to you.”

Mothers snatched their children into the safety of their arms; men sneaked away, women slipped behind tree trunks.

“Jacob wanted to be buried in the privacy of his backyard,” Rebekah sobbed. “I need strong hands to wash the corpse and dig a grave.”