Last Rites by Kim Paffenroth Page A

them.
    “Smart—for a little jigaboo,” Bart said in a lower tone, with a smirk.
    “Shhh,” Terry replied. “She’ll hear you.”
    “It’s okay,” Bart laughed. “They’re used to it. It’s no big deal.”
    The girl stopped at a lopsided building decorated with red and green stripes. Glittery white paint decorated the roof with fake snow. “Santa’s Workshop” was painted above the doorway, which had a canvas flap across it.
    “I help Doctor Jack sometimes,” the girl said. “You want to see the ones I helped train?”
    “Sure,” said Terry.
    The girl pulled aside the canvas and Truman looked in. His eyes had to adjust to the dim red light before he could see.
    The back part of the building was separated from the entrance by a barrier of chicken wire and metal bars. Behind it, a dozen dead children sat at a table. Three had been African American when they were alive; a couple of the others might’ve been Hispanic, but it was hard to tell in the odd light. They were all dressed in absurd green and red outfits—though, of course, they didn’t seem to notice or mind. The children looked up and, if it were possible, showed some recognition of the girl, even some happiness to see her—and not as a prospective meal, Truman thought.
    “See? They even look nicer now,” the girl said. “Doctor Jack let me help with them and now they know me.”
    Truman strained to see what the dead children were up to; they seemed to be fumbling with small objects on the table. The girl noticed his gaze, and she took a step inside the building. She came back out holding a small, wooden box in her hand.
    “Can I show him?” she asked, looking from Truman to Bart.
    Bart stepped back. “Sure,” he said. “Just don’t get too close.”
    “I won’t.” She held the box closer. The pieces were dovetailed, with excess glue seeping out between the cracks; the children probably could fit them together like puzzle pieces, if they had enough time to work with them. “They make these! I know it’s just a box, but it’s so cute how they can do that now.” She turned the box over. “One of them puts this sticker on when they’re done.”
    Truman squinted to read the small black letters on the gold foil, even as he wondered why the girl would show it to him, as though she knew he could read. The label read, “MADE IN THE USA—BY ELVES!”
    The girl turned and they started forward again. “Doctor Jack says everything used to be made in China. Do you know where that is?”
    “Yeah,” Bart said as he pushed Truman ahead. “I used to go there all the time.”
    The girl faced them, her eyes wide. “You did?”
    Bart laughed. “No, I’m teasing you. Who’d want to go there anyway? Just a bunch of gooks and rice.”
    “Well, I don’t know. But I think it’s nice dead people make stuff here now.”
    “I guess. Are you sure you know where this guy is?”
    “Yeah. He’s sometimes here.” The girl turned toward another odd building. This one was painted with lots of white and gold, and the tops of its plywood walls were notched, like the parapet of a castle or palace. Above the doorway here the sign read, “Las Vegas,” while banners on the right and left said, “El Dorado” and “Taj Mahal.”
    The girl led them inside. It was much darker than the other building. A middle-aged man in a grey suit sat at a table there, separated by a wire barrier from a dead man in a black suit. The living man was pretty big—taller than Truman and much heavier. His head was bare about two-thirds of the way back; what hair remained was partly grey. He had a mustache and goatee, both trimmed neatly. Everything about him was clipped and well-groomed, though right now he appeared to be quite agitated and red-faced. He slapped the table with his open hand, then pointed to two cards lying there—an ace and a six.
    “See?” he shouted. “Seventeen! But it’s ‘soft’! You can count the ace as one or eleven! So if you get something