Long Black Curl by Alex Bledsoe

the old, intact Doric columns.
    Nigel frowned at the dilapidated house, two stories tall, with gables on the roof. Several windows were boarded up; the remaining ones were dark.
    An rust-rimmed pickup and a gigantic, ancient Ford sedan were parked next to each other, and on the porch rested a worn, battered refrigerator and stove. As they parked, two nondescript dogs, one bigger than the other, appeared and barked warnings.
    â€œHush up, you two,” Bo-Kate said as she climbed out. “Don’t make me put a boot to your asses.”
    The smaller dog yelped once at the sight of her and ran off into the darkness. The bigger one lowered its head submissively and skulked forward until she could pet it. It whined, and eventually its big tail thumped the ground.
    â€œMissed me, huh?” Bo-Kate said.
    â€œYou know this dog?” Nigel asked.
    â€œOf course I do. This is Stinkerbelle. Known her since she was a pup. That little one that ran off is Cheeto-Bear.”
    â€œI thought you said you’d been gone from here for twenty-some years?”
    Bo-Kate patted Nigel’s smooth cheek. “Nigel, there’s something you’ve got to realize about the Tufa, and I haven’t told you about it, because there was no way you’d believe it sitting in Boscos on Twenty-first Avenue.”
    â€œAnd that’s what?”
    â€œTime doesn’t work the same for everybody. And it works real different for us.”
    â€œAh. So not only have you broken the laws of your country once today, you’ve now broken the laws of physics?”
    â€œI just don’t want you to be any more blindsided than you have to be.”
    There was something new in her voice, a kindness he’d seldom heard before. He bowed his head slightly and said, “Well. Thank you, then.”
    She turned to face the house. The SUV’s headlights were still on, illuminating the faded wood. It might have been painted once, but the color had long since leached down to a slate-toned neutral gray. Except for the dogs, there was no sign of life. Then the headlights automatically clicked off, leaving them in almost-darkness.
    â€œChez Wisby,” Bo-Kate sighed.
    â€œThis is where you grew up?” Nigel said. “I know you said it was poverty, but somehow I imagined something less … poor.”
    â€œNo, this is it. Looks about the same, too.”
    â€œDid you play in that refrigerator, then?”
    â€œDaddy keeps his beer in there. And his venison in the freezer.”
    â€œVenison is … Wait, don’t tell me.…”
    â€œDeer meat.”
    â€œDear me.”
    â€œHa.”
    â€œAnd the stove? Does it work, too?”
    â€œWhat, you’ve never heard of a cook-out?” He couldn’t see if she was smiling, but he felt her humor.
    â€œAnd we’re supposed to stay here,” he continued. “Despite the, ah, rustic portico kitchenette, I hope we do get to sleep indoors.”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œThat was a perfectly pleasant-looking motel back in town, bobcat or no.”
    â€œIt is perfectly pleasant, but I’ll never stay there. It belongs to one of the others.”
    â€œAh. The great schism you mentioned.”
    The humor left her voice, replaced by the hard steel he knew so well. “It’s not a ‘schism,’ you pretentious jerk. It’s a separation, one that’s been around since the Tufa first came here.”
    â€œAnd you’re here to heal it.”
    â€œI’m here to end it, smart-ass. That’s different.” She pointed to one of the gables. “That was my room. I’d crawl out the window and jump to that tree to go see my boyfriend, Jeff. He was one of … the others. I tried not to like him, and he tried not to like me. But it was no use.”
    â€œYour parents didn’t approve of him?”
    â€œThat’s putting it mildly.”
    â€œHow very Romeo and