Cathy Ulrich
The Hitman in the Roar of the World
The hitman in the morning
has been seeing ghosts. As his tea steeps in his cracked mug (I Don’t Do Mondays, its face declares), they rise up before him, like steam. When he drinks his tea, he likes the feel of the mug crack under his third and fourth fingers. He holds it, always, in the same spot. The lip of the mug is getting thinner where his mouth touches.
His apartment is crowded with ghosts in the faint glow of sunrise. He assumes they are the ghosts of his victims (he calls them hits when asked; he is rarely asked), though they all wear the same face. The ghosts, watching him drink his tea, all watch him with his younger brother’s eyes.
The hitman puts his hand on his mug so his third and fourth fingers lie over the crack. He apologizes to the ghosts in his kitchen.
I’m sorry, he says, that I have forgotten your faces.
The hitman on vacation
meets the daughter of one of his hits. She drinks strawberry daquiris and speaks of revenge in vague terms, dragging her fingertip around the rim of her glass. The bar band has a saxophonist. They play Slow Ride, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, Born on the Fourth of July. The daughter sways at the bar, offers a lopsided smile to the hitman.
They dance together in the hotel bar, the daughter leaning her head up against the hitman’s shoulder. There is something about him that reminds her of her father, she thinks, something about his posture or maybe the way he smells.
The hitman in elementary school
didn’t have many friends, scored well on exams. Tapped his pencil against the rim of his desk, rat-a-tat.
Good at spatial awareness, the phys ed teacher writes in the comments on his report card.
The hitman at the movies
likes rom-coms with miscommunications and meet-cutes, over-the-top romantic gestures. He eats unbuttered popcorn and sits alone in the back row. Sometimes he buys Milk Duds. Sometimes he saves his ticket stubs.
Sometimes he leaves before the final confession, before the breathless kiss. A bundle of napkins clasped in his tightened hand.
The hitman at the cemetery
plucks flowers from the gas-station bouquet, lays them one by one on random graves. His hands are empty when he reaches the flat granite stone that marks his brother’s grave. He wipes at it with the side of his hand.
There is something about it, he thinks, that never comes quite clean.
The hitman in retirement
will fall in love with a blind woman. She will tell him the world is so much louder than you realize.
She will have him close his eyes and listen for the roar of the world.
Do you hear it? she will say.
He will answer: I’ve heard it all along.
has been seeing ghosts. As his tea steeps in his cracked mug (I Don’t Do Mondays, its face declares), they rise up before him, like steam. When he drinks his tea, he likes the feel of the mug crack under his third and fourth fingers. He holds it, always, in the same spot. The lip of the mug is getting thinner where his mouth touches.
His apartment is crowded with ghosts in the faint glow of sunrise. He assumes they are the ghosts of his victims (he calls them hits when asked; he is rarely asked), though they all wear the same face. The ghosts, watching him drink his tea, all watch him with his younger brother’s eyes.
The hitman puts his hand on his mug so his third and fourth fingers lie over the crack. He apologizes to the ghosts in his kitchen.
I’m sorry, he says, that I have forgotten your faces.
The hitman on vacation
meets the daughter of one of his hits. She drinks strawberry daquiris and speaks of revenge in vague terms, dragging her fingertip around the rim of her glass. The bar band has a saxophonist. They play Slow Ride, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida, Born on the Fourth of July. The daughter sways at the bar, offers a lopsided smile to the hitman.
They dance together in the hotel bar, the daughter leaning her head up against the hitman’s shoulder. There is something about him that reminds her of her father, she thinks, something about his posture or maybe the way he smells.
The hitman in elementary school
didn’t have many friends, scored well on exams. Tapped his pencil against the rim of his desk, rat-a-tat.
Good at spatial awareness, the phys ed teacher writes in the comments on his report card.
The hitman at the movies
likes rom-coms with miscommunications and meet-cutes, over-the-top romantic gestures. He eats unbuttered popcorn and sits alone in the back row. Sometimes he buys Milk Duds. Sometimes he saves his ticket stubs.
Sometimes he leaves before the final confession, before the breathless kiss. A bundle of napkins clasped in his tightened hand.
The hitman at the cemetery
plucks flowers from the gas-station bouquet, lays them one by one on random graves. His hands are empty when he reaches the flat granite stone that marks his brother’s grave. He wipes at it with the side of his hand.
There is something about it, he thinks, that never comes quite clean.
The hitman in retirement
will fall in love with a blind woman. She will tell him the world is so much louder than you realize.
She will have him close his eyes and listen for the roar of the world.
Do you hear it? she will say.
He will answer: I’ve heard it all along.
Cathy Ulrich's favorite mug has Lon Cheney on it. Her work has been published in various journals, including Yuzu Press, Five South and Exposition Review.