The Rifter: Part I
An elderly matchmaker with a secret runs afoul of a mob boss.
This was my first ever published story and holds a special place in my heart. Since the lovely literary journal that originally published it is now defunct, I’m happy to be able to share “The Rifter” as a two-part miniseries on Substack.
For The Rifter: Part II, click here.→
The rules are clearly spelled out in the brochure. I am not to be held responsible, financially or otherwise, should the intended spouse misrepresent his or her income, temperament, or family history at any point throughout the courtship and engagement phases of the matchmaking process. New money, though, just can’t accept that. They need someone to compensate them for their poor judgment. Mix new money and mob boss, and that gets me into a pickle.
“He’s not fit to be walking the streets of this city, let alone married to my daughter!” Flecks of spit shoot out from Mayburn’s pudgy lips, his double chin wobbling in fury.
I shrug my wizened shoulders. “Your minimum income requirement was high. Not a lot of fish in that sea, but I gave you several options.”
“You got that right, there sure weren’t a lot of fish in that sea you gave us, and not a one that deserved my daughter.” He slams his meaty hands on my desk, rattling my coffee and sending a wave of it splashing onto my expense sheet. “You’re a scam, and I’m not about to be taken advantage of by some ninety-year-old hag.”
“Ninety-one.” I slap open my lighter and take a long drag from my cigarette.
My ancient, crackling radio blares in the corner.
Reports of increased activity surrounding the city’s Rift. Affected civilians alleged to exhibit dangerous and unnatural abilities. Officials continue to strongly advise citizens to avoid Blocks 28-33 near the site of the Rift and to report any unusual activities or abilities exhibited in their communities.
I can’t help chuckling to myself. Avoid blocks 28-33? Those policemen have no idea what they’re dealing with.
His face inches from mine, Mayburn snarls. “Turn that smut off.”
“That smut is the news.”
Mayburn yanks the cord of my radio from the wall.
I blow a puff of swirling smoke at him. “That’s an antique. You break it, you buy it.”
He narrows his eyes. “I think you’ll find it unwise to threaten me. That philandering low-life you set up with my daughter, he was out on the town with some blonde waitress within a week of the wedding.”
“It’s not my fault if some young bull misrepresents himself. Your daughter didn’t want that Mr. Dinh, who is sweet as they come, on account of his receding hairline, but she took to Mr. Mitty like a bee to honey. You might remember I advised against it.”
His voice gets suddenly low, which, I’m ashamed to admit, sends a shiver up my spine in a way that his blustering didn’t. “The only one misrepresenting themselves is you, Olga.” He spits out my name like bitter coffee. When my Leo – God rest his soul – said it, my name could have belonged to a princess. From Mayburn’s lips, it belongs to a saggy crone with spindly legs. Sad to say, Mayburn’s version is more accurate these days. “You took my money and made a fool of my daughter. And me.” He leans down low over my desk, till his round little eyes are even with mine. “I’m going to bury you.”
Without another word, he grabs his hat and storms out of my office. I don’t doubt that he means every word he says.
With a sigh, I reach down, my hands a bit shakier than I would like, and retrieve the radio cord. I reach to plug it in, and a chip cracks off the outlet cover as I bump it. With a second try, I slide the plug into its slot. The radio sputters to life.
Next up, we’ll hear a statement from Chief of Police Arthur Webbing.
A crackle follows as the recording flips on. Chief Webbing’s hoarse, gravelly voice fills my little office, still tingling with the tension left in Mayburn’s wake.
“Citizens of the People’s District of Manhattan, the Police Department has Blocks 28-33 quarantined and under strict surveillance. I urge you to go about your daily activities as much as possible and to remain vigilant. While the nature of the Rift is yet largely unknown, there is evidence to suggest that it has the potential to cause unusual behavior in citizens who stray too near the area. I must insist, therefore, that you avoid the affected area –”
“A whole lotta good that’ll do you.” I slurp down the last of my coffee, cold and grainy now.
“– and report anything out of the ordinary to your District authorities. It might be your neighbor. Your coworker. Your spouse. Report any suspicious behavior or phenomena to the District Police. As always, you have the full force and protection of the Police Department behind you.”
A click marks the end of the recording, and the newscaster’s tinny voice reemerges.
This has been a message from Chief of Police Arthur Webbing. And now, a word from our sponsors –”
I flip the switch, and the radio goes silent.
Shoveling my pack of cigarettes into my bag and wrapping my woolen scarf around my neck, I dim the lights and make for the door. Might as well call it a day.
My bangles tinkle on my wrists as I fiddle with the keys. I’ve always loved jewelry. In my youth I loved those little delicate things with just a touch of sparkle, the kind that illuminate a lovely face without distracting from it. But the older I get, the gaudier I want my jewelry. Big, shiny, blinding – anything to distract from my saggy skin and my liver spots.
My key slips from my fingers and clatters to the wooden floor. I grasp the doorknob, bracing myself as I lower my creaking limbs toward the ground to retrieve the key. With a few cracks and pops, I straighten my back again.
Beneath my grasp, the brass doorknob is crushed in indentations of my fingers.
I roll my eyes. I don’t have time for this, not today. I painstakingly twist my key in the lock, praying it doesn’t snap in my hand. The deadbolt clicks into place. I leave behind me the frosted glass door, with Fitsimon’s Matchmaking Services embossed in gold, and shuffle out of the office building.
That Arthur Webbing and those scientists he has working round the clock studying that Rift haven’t a clue what they’re getting into. I’ve lived in this city for going on ninety-two years and haven’t been near Blocks 28-33 since I was fourteen years old. And yet look at me. Whatever’s coming from that Rift, they can’t contain it. Doesn’t matter where you are. It can change you.
Three months ago, before the Rift appeared, swallowing a building and creating a ring of destruction a block wide, my bones creaked and my limbs ached, and I went about my days preparing to die, like any other ninety-one year old woman alone in the world would do. My husband gone, my son gone. I was ready to meet death every time I turned a corner, and I’d have greeted him like an old friend and bought him a drink before we headed on to the other world. I’d like to think I’ll see my Leo there, that I’ll see Henry again after all these years. That’s what I’d like to think. But then again, if Heaven has something against whiskey and cigarettes, I might be in trouble.
At my faded red brick apartment building half a block from my office, I fiddle with my key ring. Where is that old skeleton key? Ah, there.
I negotiate it into the lock, as worn and rusty as the key itself. The key turns easily, resigned to its job. But the door sticks. I give it a little push, gently as I can. Won’t budge. I try a little harder, nudge it a bit.
With a crack, the door splinters from its hinges and falls inward. It lands with a smack against the hallway banister and teeters back and forth with an aggrieved creak.
Oh well. It’s not as if the landlord will suspect me. He’ll probably just grumble about no-good neighborhood kids. Last week I overheard him negotiating a price for my apartment once I kick the bucket. No, he won’t suspect an old lady.
I sidestep the fallen door and make my way to my ground floor apartment.
My mother was spry at ninety. Went for a walk every day and tended her garden up until the week she died. This isn’t spryness, what I’ve got. A word from anyone, and Arthur Webbing will be on me in a moment with his scientists and his police force. Like that man who woke up one day and started jumping over buildings. Or that woman from the Bronx who could shoot electricity from her fingertips. I’ll disappear, just like they did.
Four and a half weeks ago, when I first noticed it, I shattered a mug while stirring whiskey into my coffee. Just bumped the spoon against the cup, and it shattered right in my hand. A waste of good coffee, and good whiskey too. Two days later I stomped on a spider and put a hole in my floor. Good thing I’m on the ground level.
Whatever’s happening to me is no second wind. My old body’s not going on a bender in preparation for death. No, I’m one of them. One of the Rifters.
The next morning dawns grey, like the city. No rain, just clouds. The endless drear that hangs over the city most February days. I prefer summer myself. Sunshine, beaches, fresh fruit when you can get it.
The landlord is at the front door, grumbling to himself as he stands the door back in its place.
“Morning, Wilbur.” I wrap my scarf closer around my face.
“Crazy kids. This neighborhood ain’t what it used to be.”
“Hang in there, Wilbur.”
Bundled up to stave off the cold, I hobble down the street to my office. My rheumatism still aches like you wouldn’t believe. Why can’t this Rift nonsense take care of my arthritis too? But no, I creak as much as ever, then I shatter my dishes when I drink my whiskey. Doesn’t make any sense.
I push my way into the office building, then totter my way up the narrow stairs. I stop in my tracks.
My window is gone.
My frosted glass, embossed in gold – it’s shattered, like my whiskey cup. Shards of broken glass stick in the hall carpet like icicles.
I pick my way through the glass shards and open the door. My desk is overturned, papers scattered everywhere. The lamp is smashed, picture frames cracked like someone took a baseball bat to them. Someone probably did.
On my wall, scarlet paint drips down my flowery white wallpaper. An M intersected by a cross-like T.
I know that sign. Anyone who’s ever brushed up against the wrong side of the law knows it. This is no threat; it’s a statement.
Mayburn said he’d bury me, and I guess he didn’t mean my business. He wants to speed up the process of getting my rusty old bones six feet under.
Might be a little harder than he expected.
Even so, it’s time to leave. I decided as a little girl that when I die, I want to go peacefully in my sleep, and nobody, not even Hector Mayburn and his gang of overpaid street thugs, is going to ruin that plan.
For The Rifter: Part II, click here.→