the countess of shadow pointe
by Beth Sherman
We heard she was a Russian countess married to an oligarch, with a fortune in rubies seized by the KGB. We heard she used to be movie star glamorous, thin as a rubber band with a face men died fighting for in duels. We heard that before she joined us she lived in a grand dacha outside St. Petersburg. Or a yacht on the Volga River. Or a cave in the mountains where icicles guarded the entrance and you could only get there by dog sled. We heard she was an Olympic ice skater, knew how to bone a fish, how to hide between shadows. We heard she strangled a man. We watched her in the dining hall, sitting alone, bringing spoonfuls of vegetable soup to her lips, never speaking English – its sneaky consonants and laughing vowels – although supposedly she knew how. We watched her set herself apart. Did she think she was better than us, that her bladder didn’t leak, that her joints never ached? Still, we made an effort. We invited her to Scrabble night, garden club, chair yoga, trips to the mall where we stepped out of the van into the harsh lights of the atrium, conspicuous and out of place amid all those young people, those stores with nothing we needed. We made an effort. We tried our best. But all we got for our trouble was an icy stare, her lip curled in derision. How dare she think herself superior? We snuck into her room while she was at breakfast, rummaged through her underwear drawer, pawed the dresses in her closet smelling of rosewater and money. We were searching for a clue, an advantage. And we found it: a black and white photo wrapped in a handkerchief. A letter. Recriminations. Accusations. The man movie star handsome in his uniform. An address on the back. We wrote to him —an angry letter, hurling threats and demands, questioning his character, placing blame. We waited. Watched her revel in her solitude, hoping it wouldn’t last. Anticipating the arrival of someone who could crack her implacable façade. Finally, he showed up. We hovered around the edges of the day room, anticipating the worst. But theirs was a tender reunion. Oh, the tearful embraces, the proclamations, their love declared in words we couldn’t understand. Three days later she moved out. Now, we watch the goldfish, swimming from one end of the tank to another. Back and forth. Back and forth. As if their lives depended on it.
Photo of Beth Sherman
BIO: Beth Sherman has had more than 150 stories published in literary journals, including Flash Frog, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres and Smokelong Quarterly. Her work is featured in Best Microfiction 2024 and the upcoming Best Small Fictions 2025. She’s also a multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee. She can be reached on social media @bsherm36.