Flash Point by James W. Huston

showing through the wispy cloud cover. The chop in the canal had settled down and the cold biting wind began to grow quiet. They arrived at the edge of the water, which was nearly level with the square. “How do they keep the water from flooding?” Vialli asked.
    “It does flood,” Irit replied. “The city is slowly sinking and it gets worse every year.”
    “Nothing like sinking and being surrounded by water.”
    “How about this one?” Irit said, pointing to a large black gondola.
    Vialli shrugged. She spoke rapid Italian to the man and they stepped in at the middle of the boat while the driver held it steady with his oar. They walked carefully to the back of the gondola and were about to sit down when a wave from a passing motorboat rocked the boat roughly. Irit stumbled, catching herself with her hand on the seat. Vialli grabbed the side of the gondola and steadied himself. He had begun to move aft again to sit down when he noticed Irit’s right hand. She had only her thumb and middle finger. It looked like a claw. The rest of her hand was gone. He felt a cold knot in his stomach as he stared at it, unable to avert his eyes. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed before — he had been with her for hours over several days in Naples and had never noticed her right hand. Vialli looked at Woods. He had seen it.
    Irit quickly withdrew her hand and turned to sit facing forward. She looked into his face as he avoided her look. He sat to her left and leaned into the red padded seat back. Irit spoke again in Italian and their gondolier moved them quickly away from the landing.
    They sat in silence as the boat moved quickly down the canal. Vialli found himself breathing harder than usual. He watched the passing buildings, feigning interest, to avoid looking at Irit. After several minutes passed awkwardly, she spoke to him softly. “Does it make that much difference?”
    “What?” he replied.
    “My hand.” She looked at her feet. “I guess you hadn’t seen it before.” She hesitated, then studied his face. “I’m very good at hiding it. I’ve had time to practice. Some people who consider themselves my friends don’t know, or at least don’t show that they know. But most people are so shocked when they notice that they can’t help reacting.” She leaned forward slightly to look into his eyes. “Like you did. Will it matter? Do you think less of me?”
    “Of course not,” he said quickly. “How could it matter?”
    “People react. They can’t help how they feel, and it makes a difference. Will it make a difference with you?”
    “No. I just thought you were left-handed.”
    “I am.”
    “No, I mean naturally left han . . . never mind.” He looked at a house they were passing. The main door faced the canal, and there were steps leading down to the water directly in front of them. The door was three feet above the water level. “Do you have to take a boat to get to that house? I mean, when the guy goes to work every morning, does he have to take a boat?”
    “Some of them do, but most either walk, or some have cars. Many of the houses have streets or alleys behind them in which they can walk or drive. Most cars aren’t allowed in Venice, but some can have them. I haven’t quite understood that yet.”
    Vialli sat quietly and watched the houses go by. “I’m sorry I reacted. I thought I was bigger than that.”
    Irit smiled at him. “Don’t feel bad, it’s natural. Most people wonder what happened to me. They think I was involved in some horrible accident, and want to pity me. But I was born like this. Nothing I can do about it. I won’t hold it against you. But you mustn’t hold it against me either.”
    “How could I hold it against you?”
    “Some boys, men, that I’ve dated, cool on me very quickly after they notice. I think they believe I am somehow defective, or worthless . . .”
    “No way—”
    “Let me finish.” She sighed. “I know they don’t mean to, but they do.