Beheadable BarbieChapter 1: The Kingdom The Eternal Democratic Kingdom was in a state of terror, but hardly anyone noticed. The only thing that the citizens of the Kingdom were thinking about was the centennial celebration of Beheadable Barbie, which luckily coincided with the Christmas toy sale at The Orange Store. Ysabel and her daughter Anna Lucia were there smack between two shelves—one area had screaming pink pretty princesses, kiddie kitchen sets, mini dishwashing sets, and pink washing machines; and the other side had sullen gray and combat green mass-murderer-in-the-making toys, intellectually stimulating science adventure boxes, roaring cars, and train sets. With her itty-bitty dark somber dress, and her teensy-weensy ballerina bun, Anna Lucia was a startling carbon copy of her mother, but the little girl had none of mother’s patience. She was stomping her pink legs, while her hazel eyes gave the demonstrator a piercing look. The depressions at the corner of her eyes quivered with resentment. The wait was too long. She wanted the spectacle to begin. Her impatience was punctured when everyone’s heads turned, and the Eternal Democratic President walked in with his golden M16 assault riffle. When he scratched his beer belly, his black barong and undershirt went up, revealing a yellow chrysanthemum tattoo, his favorite flower except when he is asked to spell it. Although the Eternal President’s belly was itchy, he was more irritated by the hairy mole on his left cheek. The memory of the manghuhula who was an expert in mole interpretation was hard to forget. Ay yan, ibig-sabihin swerte sa lahat, malas sa pag-ibig. The next day the manghuhula was killed. The section of the airport where the crime scene took place was shut down for a week. Investigations were derailed as unidentified hands mysteriously blocked the CCTV cameras during the estimated time of the murder. Many passengers were irritated because flights got delayed. The Eternal President shook his head. Stop thinking about annoying things, he said to himself. He passed by a mirror and saw his favorite gray knitted bonnet, his glorious black shades, and his dark-blue checkered scarf. He smiled. He looked at his epic entourage and smiled again. His Eternal Democratic Party (EDP) associates followed his fashion sense, tailed him wherever he went, and acquiesced to his every command. “Okay guys! I’m finally ready,” the demonstrator said, internalizing her fake blond wig, lacy sweetheart top, and pink tutu miniskirt. “For those who still don’t know how to behead your Barbies properly, lil’ ol’ me’s gonnna help,” she made a pose, pouting her lips, one dainty finger pointing at her cheek. Two hi-tech battery operated Barbie and Ken dolls were beside her, waiting to be switched on. “To have a bloody time with Beheadable Barbie, push a red button on her chest,” the demonstrator said. The Barbie started singing a heartfelt “Let There Be Peace On Earth.” The voice that came out of the doll wasn’t so loud, but it was annoyingly shrill. Parents and their children covered their ears. Really young kids started to cry. “Don’t worry muscle man’s gonna rescue us,” she said, holding up a Ken doll, “Beheadable Barbie, comes with a free Terminator Ken! Isn’t that fab? Fab! Activate muscle man’s sensor by pushing a black button at the top of his hunky head. The sensor will pick up blondie’s sentimental cry. Sob. Sob. Whatevaah girl! Then muscle man will expertly track her down, with that sound, with that pound, pound, pound. His juicy biceps will help our hot terminator swing the plastic sword at her neck. Oooh! Hubba hubba! A switch with a twitch, that’s rich. I’m not a witch, but this plastic bi— Barbie must be beheaded like this. Oooh! Let’s watch! This is the good part.” Barbie’s head soared a good three inches high, a fountain of red liquid gushed out from her neck as she shrieked in horror. A ten-second interval elapsed and Barbie’s screams died down. Ken robotically said, Peacemaker— terminated. People were about to smile, but they smelled something wrong. “Sorry folks we didn’t use real blood for the demonstration, but you get the idea,” she said. Cheap bastards, somebody whispered. “And the fun doesn’t stop there!” the demonstrator continued. “Reattaching Barbie’s head is as easy as it is to behead her again! And again! And again! Thank you to everyone who watched! All our Barbies are on sale throughout the Christmas season, so buy one now!” The crowd gave the demonstrator a round of applause. The Eternal President and the EDP gave their applause in a different way with their assault riffles in the air, waving those big guns up and down. Ysabel followed the parental mad rush towards the Barbie display, her daughter, Anna Lucia, feverishly following her lead. Ysabel pretended that she was interested in the toy, but she just wanted to get away from the Eternal President. Other young parents were excited, up until they heard a plump woman gasp. Blood sold separately? she said, shaking her ginormous head in great disapproval, Free terminator without free blood? This is completely unacceptable! Damn capitalists! They are nothing but scum! Customers hate it, but they know it. Blood always comes with a price. 000 “I want a Beheadable Barbie! I want it! I want it! I want it!” said the little tantrum package, which took the form of an eight-year-old girl named Anna Lucia. Barbie’s little helpers made her irresistible. Advertisements and low prices can charm customers, but persistent naggers and expert tantrum throwers effectively coerce. “You can’t have a toy like that,” Ysabel said looking at her daughter. Two pairs of dark hazel eyes looked at each other, both emanating defiance. “Why? Why can’t I? Everyone has one! Why can’t I have one, mama?” “You can’t because…” Ysabel said, then she looked around. She saw that a bunch of parents were within earshot. She knew what she had to do. She had to think of an acceptable reason. “You can’t because…you’re not responsible enough to have a toy like that, Anna Lucia. You’ll just ruin all the furniture with blood stains.” “But I want Barbie! I want it! I want it! I want it!” “Stop crying, Anna Lucia. When I say no, I mean no.” Anna Lucia cried some more, but her mother wouldn’t give in. As they passed by the swords section, the little girl saw the Eternal President blessing the store with a bottle of holy water, while carefully ensuring that none of the liquid particles splattered on his precious EDP. Another EDP member who just arrived at the celebration almost got a sprinkle it, but the holy water missed him by inches. He didn’t even notice this near holy experience because he was preoccupied. Behind his big black sunglasses, and the scrawl of his excessive facial hair, he held an expression of a man burdened with secrets. This made him prone to a disproportionate amount of hushed conversations like the one he was now having with the thin man in a pink pinstripe suit. Anna Lucia ran to the EDP member, and tugged on his clothes. Ysabel ran after her daughter, but stopped and kept her distance when she saw the man in pink. He looked at her, his gaunt but white powdered face blotching up with contempt. The EDP member gave the man a let’s-talk-about-this-later look. The pink man nodded, and walked away with a satisfied expression on his face. Looking highly amused, the EDP member bent down and listened to the Anna Lucia’s whispered request. When she was finished, he looked at her through his big dark shades, smiled, took a Beheadable Barbie from the rack, and gave it to her. “Ben, you don’t have to give her that Barbie,” Ysabel said, “She has lots of toys already. You’re going to spoil her silly.” “She deserves the best,” Ben said. “Why are you so against this toy?” “Well, it’s messy,” Ysabel said. ”It can only bring trouble.” “She is already of age. She can handle the toy.” “She doesn’t act like her age.” “People don’t know that. They just know she’s eight.” Ysabel looked frightened; Anna Lucia looked hopeful. “Trust me. There will be more trouble if you don’t have one,” he said. He looked at her. Ysabel swallowed hard. Her whole body felt rigid, and she became painfully aware of her heartbeat. “Enjoying the celebration?” he said, breaking the silence. “I’m glad you came.” “When you invited me, let’s just say, I couldn’t say no.” “I’m glad you couldn’t say no,” he said, “to your dear brother.” Silence. “Don’t forget to buy her blood,” he said, and walked away. “So does that mean I can keep Barbie?” Anna Lucia asked her mother. “We can’t throw away your uncle’s gift. He’ll look for it. But you can’t play in my room. I don’t want you making a mess there. Is that understood?” “Yes, mommy.” “Now,” Ysabel said, noticing that Ben was watching them, mouthing Get—Some—Blood, “Let’s get you some blood.” Chapter 2: The Kids of the Blood Factory Workers in gray uniforms were like an outbreak of strangers who knew the same dance routine. Machines provided the rhythm as these metal giants munched, crunched, swiveled, and shook. The little boy was there looking at the factory. He couldn’t believe that his father finally brought him there. The factory was bloody brilliant. “Start over there, my dear son” the man said, as his outfit blushed a deep shade of red—red suit, red metallic tie, red sequined shirt. They were standing on a continuous balcony and the boy’s little eyes could see everything. He held on the sturdy railings and peeked downwards. Several metal vats were full of red liquid. “Those big critters hold the starch,” his father continued, pointing to transparent tubes that were gurgling out white powder into a vat filled with crimson, “A little bit of this and that will make the liquid good and lumpy. The other tube has the water. Then we add food coloring to make the liquid red.” “Is that blood, Papa?” “Not even close, my dear son,” he said, waving his finger knowingly, “But we get money from them because poor people don’t have enough to buy the real thing.” “That sucks.” “Yes it does. We don’t like it, you know, manufacturing crappy products, but we have to, forced more like, by the market, by those who can’t afford to buy better things,” the man sighed, “Well, we gotta do what we gotta do. Artificial blood is bad blood, but we get some benefits.” “Like what, Papa?” “Artificial blood hooks people. The hook is the bottom product or cheapest product that gets you into the blood craze,” he said, “You experience it once, then you want more, more, and more! Then, not just more, but better and better!” “What’s that one over there?” the boy said, his hungry gaze zeroed in on an assortment of bloody flesh being squeezed by workers in separate assembly lines. Jars came down the conveyor belts, and the liquid nestled into their lovely new homes. “That’s animal blood, my dear son. Workers squeeze out some of the blood, and collect them in jars.” Workers were extracting black or red veins sewing through a mesh of red bronchial tissue and others were strangling a dark purple and crimson tube that was vomiting blood like a faucet left open. “To the next one, my dear son, let’s go, go, go.” They walked to the end of the balcony where another door was waiting. Pushing the door with his hand, the door swung open. This time the boy had to press his face on a glass wall that separated the balcony from the rest of the factory. Like snow-white vultures searching for blood, nurses in winter coats were sticking needles into the arms of greasy individuals. In tattered clothes, these people shivered as they gave blood. “Human blood is a very tricky thing, but it’s the best. We add different anti-coagulators like sodium citrate phosphate, dextrose, and adenine, so that they don’t harden up when you first open your blood jar” the father said, “The jars go to the freezer room, or what we call the blood library. It’s hard, very hard to get human blood, my dear son. Not a lot of people would sell their blood for cheap, and with the demand for blood so high, we can’t rely on donors to the blood factory.” There was an arch doorway. They entered it. A stairway downwards. Another door. With a push, it swung open. They were at the ground floor of the factory. The frigid air was preserving the right amount of still. The glass shelves flashed before the little boy. He saw them all. Heads. They were nothing more than heads, sitting on plates, placed in square compartments of the glass shelves. They could have been hunting relics, like many a deer, struck on a wall, displayed in a living room. There were more of them. Frozen heads traveled through conveyor belts. One had frozen snot dripping like an iced stalactite. Heads went into a black box that was labeled “Thawing Machine.” Heads came out of the machine with necks leaking red. A claw picks them up, so they can drip nicely into a vat. Heads. His father had heads. Heads. Heads in the factory. “Of all the kinds of blood, the greatest of them all is the Peacemaker blood from Peacemaker heads. Do you like them factory, my dear son?” The boy did not answer. He didn’t know what to say. “Do you like it, my dear son, like it very much? Do you like it, Ben?” The boy looked at his father’s eyes. Smiled. It was a great day. 000 “Where are we going?” Ysabel was already in her favorite black and white umbrella patterned pajamas, but she was not snuggled in bed. She was running after her brother, teddy bear clutched in her hands. “Not that far. It’s great,” Ben said, excited. Ysabel could see the door of the passageway connecting the house to the family’s blood factory. “Papa said I’m not old enough to see the factory. I want papa to be the one to bring me inside. I don’t want you to spoil the tour,” Ysabel said. “But you got to see it, you got to.” “But...but...” “I’m your older brother, you know. I know better. You just have to follow.” “But...but...” “We’ll just go to one part of the factory. We won’t look at everything. It’ll be dark so you’ll hardly see anything except what I’ll show you. So you’ll still enjoy papa’s tour when he does it. Come on, it’ll be fun.” Ysabel didn’t want to, but she couldn’t tell her brother no. Ben rummaged through his pockets. A key was soon in his hands. “How did you get that, Ben?” “I have skills,” he said, giving her a wink. He opened the door. Ben knew the corridor was there, but he couldn’t see a thing. “Don’t worry, I have this,” Ben said, holding up a flashlight. They entered a dark passage, the flashlight guiding their step. They closed the door behind them. Ysabel heard a distinct click. She prayed that her parents were fast asleep, unable to hear sounds in the stillness of the night. “Last one’s a rotten egg,” Ben whispered. He broke into a run, flashlight held hostage. Ysabel yelped. She ran after her brother, concentrating on the bouncing light. She could not lose her brother, nor the light. A door swung open. She kept running. Her brother glanced back at her every now and then, holding the flashlight to his chin and making faces. With her hands balled up, she ran faster. Her grip on her teddy bear’s ear could have made the toy yelp in pain. Another door swung open. The corridor seemed endless. She was running faster, but she could not catch up. Her brother dropped out of sight. A moment of panic ensued before she realized that he ran down a stairway. She wished she had big legs, so she could take three steps at a time. She wanted to scream to her brother, to ask him to stop running. She didn’t know if her parents would hear them if she screamed inside the factory, but she didn’t want to take the risk. Another door swung open. Ben stopped. He switched off the flashlight. “Ben!” Ysabel said, frightened. “Shhh! I’m right here. Just walk straight to me. I’m right here.” Ysabel took some tentative steps. She felt like she was in one of those pirate movies, being asked to walk the plank. She put one foot right in front of the other to make sure that she walked a straight line. Something clogged up her sinuses. She coughed, hoping she could still breathe. She heard something. Blob. Blob. Blob. Small popping thick bubbles. Everything was cold. She finally bumped into her brother. “Whe...where a...are w...we?” Ysabel asked, her lips chattering. She hugged her bear for warmth. “Are you ready for the surprise?” Ben said. Ysabel nodded forgetting they were in the dark. Ben could not see her, but he knew it was time. Ben felt the wall and turned on the switch. With everything illuminated, Ysabel saw her. Ysabel was about to say “Hello,” but the face was frozen. Faces. Dark skinned with curly hair, shock and bewilderment etched on her face. A bright pink naked woman tattooed on her right earlobe. Faces. A flat nose stretched shamelessly across pimple-ridden flesh. Her mouth shrunk, failing to complete into a scream. The faces were encased in glass. Neck lined with frozen blood. Neck sitting on a wide silver basin, cushioned by packets of ice. Ysabel screamed. She screamed. She screamed. She screamed. Ysabel screamed till all the factory lights opened. Faces. There were more faces, and Ysabel’s screams threatened to shatter glass. Ben couldn’t calm her. She couldn’t hear her brother. All she could do was see. Faces. Brown skin and small eyes, squinting, contorted, as though he was squeezing out his last tear. Faces. Wrinkles of age gathered around his smoke-belched mouth. A frown, an expression of kind confusion, tired eyes, watering gray. More lights were turned on, and then Ben saw them. Two red running figures, a frantic woman in a blood red nightgown, and a half-asleep man in a white strawberry patterned red robe. They were running. They were running mad toward their children. Chapter 3: Buy Me Blood “Two artificial blood please,” Ysabel said to the saleslady. “Artificial blood?” she said, judgmentally eyeing the mother and the daughter who were both dressed in black, “We don’t usually carry a lot of unwanted products, but I’ll check the stocks,” she said, entering a door behind the counter. “Unwanted? You’re going to buy me something unwanted? Mommy, don’t do this! Don’t buy cheap blood! My playmates will laugh at me! They’ll think I’m poor!” “Well, we’re not.” “You should buy me Peacemaker blood! I want Peacemaker blood! I want it! I want it! I want it!” “Peacemaker blood smells bad.” “At least buy me some animal blood or human blood or else I’ll tell Uncle Ben.” “Don’t you dare,” Ysabel threatened, her eyes flashing a deep shade of contempt. She bent her knees, and now Ysabel and Anna Lucia’s identical dark hazel eyes were at the same level. “You should never—” Ysabel said, her lip quivering with anger. “You should never play with life.” Anna Lucia was frightened, but she didn’t understand why. “Here’s your artificial blood,” said the saleslady, as she returned from the back room. “Thank you,” Ysabel said. Chapter 4: The Bloody Playground It was recess time, and Anna Lucia was right outside the playground. Her hands were on the glass wall as though she was prisoner, but she was on the outside looking in. The children inside the playground glanced at each other and rolled their eyes as though saying here-she-goes-again-that-Anna-Lucia. They learned to ignore her, but were still irritated whenever she made appearance. They put up signs, two in exact, that plainly stated how unwelcome she was: BYOB (Bring your own blood), and No Blood, No Entry. Like all the kids her age, Anna Lucia was waiting for her eight birthday, so that she can finally enter the playground. Eight was a special age because this was the time toymakers figured that children were no longer prone to choking on detachable heads. Anna Lucia resented this age limit. She was seven, but she knew she wasn’t stupid enough to eat a detachable head. Being too young to be trusted with detachable heads meant that she was barred from knowing what it was like to play with blood, and that made all the difference. No one was allowed to play with blood outside the playground, and everyone washed their bloody hands before leaving the said area, so Anna Lucia couldn’t even get a whiff of her coveted liquid. Stealing blood at home was useless because, besides the fact that her mother kept them in a secret place, all they had was artificial blood. Her stomach grumbled, but she stayed there, and just kept looking at the ultimate slide. Encased in glass, it was everybody’s dream—a slide that ended in a guillotine. Protected by a moat, the slide was surrounded by waters that were reddening every now and then as little plastic blond heads bobbed up and down. Little Kens stood on the banks making mechanical declarations to the amusement of their young owners. Anna Lucia dreamt about climbing the slide’s ladder, and slipping her Barbie’s head into the tiny hole at the top of the slide’s glass encasement. The glass ensured that no one except Barbie could make a trip down the ultimate slide. The slide’s mouton and blade was designed as the head of a smiling Ken with razor sharp teeth. Once Barbie reaches the slide’s end, the tiny head will slip into the lunette, then Ken will drop down from above, and Barbie’s head will pop out as the little severed neck bleches out blood—lots and lots of blood. Chapter 5: The Christmas Visit A grown-up achoo and a mini achoo made the nearby flowers flutter. Candles flickered out of sight. Ysabel and Anna Lucia’s nasal concerto started when they bought red Poinsettias from the fat Santa Clause standing outside The Orange Store. Arranged in a wreath were little golden balls, evergreens, and blood red flowers. “Mama, I wanna hold it,” Anna Lucia said, eagerly reaching out for the wreath. “I wanna give it to daddy.” “Okay, Anna Lucia, here, take it,” Ysabel said, gently handing it over, but the little girl grabbed it. “Ouch,” Ysabel said, as a thorny twig from the wreath stung her finger. Blood dripped on the evergreens and on her black eyelet dress. “Sorry, mama. I did not mean to hurt you.” “Just be careful next time. Come on, let’s go visit your father.” The Carabao grass smoothened to Bermuda. Granite and marble stones littered the trimmed grass with images of doves and Jesus. A few paces more and they were at the black gate. “Good afternoon, madam,” said the toothless caretaker. “I cleaned the whole place this morning.” “Thank you,” Ysabel said, giving him a crisp P100 bill. “Come on, Anna Lucia. Let’s light some candles for your dad.” Anna Lucia passed the marble angels standing guard at the entrance. She settled the wreath on top of a stone coffin. She did not notice that a few leaves and twigs strayed onto her itty-bitty dark dress. “How long do we have to do this before we see daddy again?” Anna Lucia asked. “Say merry Christmas to your dad, Anna Lucia.” “Merry Christmas, dad. I miss you,” she said, resting her head on the stone coffin. “Merry Christmas, Carlos.” Chapter 6: The First Slide Down Swings and slides enveloped them. He was there, her father. He was there laughing. The village playground held Anna Lucia’s only clear memories of her father. The other “memories” were stories her mother told her about how this one time, and that one time, she and her father had this funny moment or so. Those stories did not feel real because she could not remember them. The playground was where her father would talk about his adventures as a young pirate. His laughing face was an easy give away that those stories were fake, but she loved hearing them anyway. Sometimes, she wanted the truth. She would ask him constantly, “Tell me a real story, daddy.” He would start with a believable scene: he was brushing his teeth, he was walking inside the mall, he was watching a movie, but the stories would always take a turn, and he would end up on an island searching for treasure. She would feel frustrated, but the stories would become so interesting that she’d forget that they weren’t what she wanted. She wonders why he never told her something true. “What’s wrong?” Carlos asked his five-year-old daughter. “Don’t you want to try the slide, little Annie? I know it’s your first time, but you can do it.” Little Annie, no one called her that. Even her mother didn’t. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “I’ll be here to catch you.” Anna Lucia looked up. The slide was so near the sky. “Do you want to try the slide?” “Yes, daddy,” she lied. She tried to skip and hop as they walked, but her heart kept thumping louder. The slide was getting bigger and bigger, or was she getting smaller? Was her heart thumping her to pieces? “This is it,” her father beamed. Gripping the slide’s metal ladder, her knees began to shake. “Little Annie’s special moment. Wait a second, let me get my camera,” he said, rummaging his backpack. He eventually found it, took it out, and hung its strap around his neck. “Daddy, please watch me while I climb. Stay here, just stay here,” Anna Lucia pleaded. “Okay, but once you’re seated on top, I’ll go in front, so I can take your picture, all right?” “Okay.” Anna Lucia climbed cautiously. It was a short climb, but it felt like forever. She reached the top and sat there. Her father scampered towards the front. He was ready to take her picture. She was holding on. She was afraid. “Okay, you can let go, little Annie.” He meant just loosen up her hold, but she obeyed the command all too well. With her hands in the air, she slid down so fast. Her knees hit the ground, and they bled. Carlos rushed to his daughter. He hated blood. He did not want to touch her, but she was his daughter, and she needed help. Then, Carlos accidentally hit the camera’s button. There was no flash, so Carlos did not realize that the camera had taken pictures of Anna Lucia and all the blood that came with her. Chapter 7: The Eternal Show The television screen flickered. Anna Lucia flew past it, her teensy-weensy ballerina bun bouncing up and down, her pink legs madly thumping on the stairs as though her new Barbie would vanish if she missed a second of play. Ben had won again. Ysabel tried hard to resist those toys, but now Anna Lucia had one. Sure they have some Barbies in the house for protection, but she never wanted Anna Lucia to start playing with them. When Carlos was on his deathbed, he told Ysabel a secret, and she never saw Barbie the same way again. She wished he hadn’t told her the truth. Ysabel sighed. She had broken her promise to Carlos. She felt guilty, but all she could do was hold the remote. Still in her black dress, she sat on the sofa and stared. A seal with a sun and eight rays ate up the television screen. Slow dramatic music played as the words A dramatization of true fact flashed. The screen turned black. Based on the investigations of our top agents. Darkness again. Back during the ancient times...Black. Half an actress came into view. Her torso was supported by bat-like wings with large indigo veins. Her long unruly hair was flying everywhere, and a few bugs were trying to desperately hold on. “I left the lower part of my body somewhere,” said the actress. “I will not tell you where because no one can defeat me unless they sprinkle salt or crush garlic on my lower half. Now to fly into the night and get my scrumptious fill.” Flying over huts, she ignored them all until she heard the right noise. Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump thump hump thump thump thum. She looked at the camera and flashed her evil smize. A loud score of snoring was heard as a man and a pregnant woman were shown sleeping inside the hut. The half-actress perched on the roof, opened her mouth, and a tongue much like a snake’s came out. As her tongue slid through the cracks of the roof, the music heightened, conveying that this was a very scary scene. The couple inside the hut snored some more. They were moving a bit, scratching their nose, mouth twitching, but their eyes remained closed. The snake tongue came back into focus. It was dripping with saliva. The anticipation was something she could not bear. The tongue moved slowly. She knew that if she extended her tongue too fast the slithering noise might wake the couple up, and they would bring out the garlic necklaces that she couldn’t stand. The tongue went inside the hut, inching towards the woman’s stomach. A scream pierced the night. The half-actress slurped her tongue back deliciously. Taking fill of the innocent made the stars shine until the light engulfed the screen. Another message flashed Beware of the ancient monster…The Eternal President came into view. He smiled. “Thank you for tuning into our program. We all know the history of the creatures of the night. The ancient monster used to plague our cities, our lives. But something worse took their place. They are...” the Eternal President said and looked to the right where another camera was stationed. He pointed to the screen. A big red word art flashed, The Peacemakers. A horror-film scream erupted from the studio audience. “Down with the Peacemakers! Down with the Peacemakers!” the Eternal President said. The audience followed suit. “And now the Peacemaker annihilation statistics,” he announced, and a drum roll was heard. The camera swerved to the right. A man in a boring suit was standing with a card in his hand. “I am pleased to announce that for the past month we have killed one thousand nine hundred and eighty four Peacemakers.” “And the expose continues,” The Eternal President said. The studio vanished. Another video was played. The actress was there. Her monstrous torso was securely attached to the rest of her slimy body. She knocked on a door of a hut. A young man opened the door. He looked shocked. The camera panned back to the girl, but she looked different now. She was a beauty. “Isabella!” said the man. “I thought you went to the other mountain to visit your sick grandfather.” “He isn’t sick anymore. I received a letter before I left,” she said, her deep sunken eyes looking sorrowful. “I'm sorry to hear that. Come in, come in.” She went inside. The door closed. The man’s mortifying howl was heard. Sounds ended in a hush. “Just like the ancient monster, the Peacemakers learned the devious art of shape shifting,” The Eternal President said. “After learning the ancient monster’s ways, the insurgents killed those creatures. They took over the monsters’ ancient lair and used it as a base for their operations.” The Eternal President said that the government was working hard to uncover the location of the lair, poring over books of myths and legends, and sending out spy missions to the mountains, but the problem never went away. Barbie helped the government’s fight against the Peacemakers. The Peacemakers absorbed the monster’s greatest weakness: the intolerance for things that are upside down. For the ancient monster, upside down broomsticks disturbed their sleep. Similarly, for Peacemakers, it was upside down bleeding beheaded Barbies. “Rest assured that Barbie will always hang around to frighten the Peacemakers,” The Eternal President said. Everyone laughed at how witty he was. “I am not forcing you to buy these products. We are a democracy after all. But these are our talismans against the Peacemakers. It is our duty to protect our nation.” The studio audience cheered and all the other audiences across the country cheered. Ysabel wondered whether she was the only one who wasn’t joining in the high. Ben kept telling her to just do it, but she couldn’t. She didn’t have the energy to pretend. She knew that even though the Eternal President boasted about these high numbers, Peacemaker bodies were never shown, and their names were never mentioned. Meanwhile, certain members of the population regularly and mysteriously disappeared. People weren’t troubled because everyone knew there was a simple explanation, and the Eternal President explained it all. He said that Peacemakers would emerge from the darkness, stealthily fly into the night using their no-noise helicopters, perch on the roof, and operate a long extension tube that was powerful enough to suck a sleeping human being. Peacemakers developed this technology from the ancient monsters. The insurgents learned the craft of sucking babies, and then they enhanced this strategy so that they can eat up whole adults. Don’t let her innocence get to you, Ysabel remembered the last words of her husband, as he bled his life out, they make the children that way, preying on their innocence, his tired sunken eyes fading into a stoic gray. Ysabel wanted to clear her mind, to follow what Ben said, but ever since her husband died, there it was, back again—doubt. The Eternal President once said that there is no room for doubt in this country. Everyone needed faith. The people cheered, waving their rosaries like mad. All the members of the EDP cheered waving their armalites up and down. There is no doubt in a perfect world, and ours is a perfect world. Once you start doubting, that’s when you start seeing deficiencies, and that’s when your world starts crashing down. Never doubt, so you will never see something that’s less than perfect. In this society, everyone slept easy. It was a world that was safe because it was silent. A world that was in order, that had peace. “If there is a person who develops trenches around their eyes, beware of that person,” said the Eternal Democratic President. “The trench is a mark of a traitor.” Ysabel looked outside the window. Light came in the form of stars. She didn’t realize that she was sitting there for so long. She went to her room and saw Anna Lucia sleeping in her bed. Her daughter’s tiny hands were covered with flakes of dried blood. Ken, Barbie’s plastic body, and Barbie’s plastic head were on the floor. The toys were coated crimson. Ysabel shook her head. Didn’t I tell her not to play in my room? Ysabel thought. She considered waking her daughter, but Anna Lucia looked so calm, like an angel, that Ysabel couldn’t bring herself to disturb the kid’s peaceful sleep. Ysabel sighed. She stumbled through the house as she carried Anna Lucia in her arms. She would scold the child in the morning, but now it was time to sleep. She struggled as she opened the door to Anna Lucia’s room. Gently, she placed Anna Lucia on the little pink bed, and then she covered her daughter with a warm blanket. As she went back to her room, she remembered that she should hang the Barbies. Chapter 8: Hanging Barbies “You better sleep now,” Ysabel said, “I’ll hang the Barbies.” She opened a book to a page with pink flowers that spelled How to Hang Your Beheadable Barbie. Ysabel knew what was on her husband’s mind. It was Camilla, but she was gone. She was definitely gone. Ysabel felt pity for Camilla’s father who cursed the Peacemakers for taking his daughter away. The bastards must have sucked her in the middle of the night, that’s why he heard strange noises, that’s why her body couldn’t be found. That’s what they all thought. Ysabel was glad that Ben was there to assure them that the government would do everything in their power to hunt and kill the Peacemakers. In the meantime, Ben advised everyone to tighten security measures. Hang every Barbie that you have, he said. “Hanging Barbie is a simple task,” Ysabel read the instructions. “First, behead your Barbie (for instructions turn to page 36), then fill her with blood. Press the red button on her chest three times, so that a strainer-like stopper will form on the surface of her neck. This stopper will allow a tiny amount of blood to drop from the hanged Barbie. The trickle pace is one drop per five minutes, which lasts for six to eight hours depending on the viscosity of the blood. Beheadable Barbies are especially equipped for hanging. Take Barbie by her pink high-heeled shoes, separate her thin plastic legs, place the legs on either side of a hook, and let Barbie’s shoes click together. Barbie will be securely hanged upside down because her high-heeled pink shoes are not made of plastic, but of magnets.” Ysabel looked up from her book. “That seems simple enough,” she said. “Do we have to do that, honey?” Carlos asked, while he was lying in bed. He closed a notebook with a cover that had a pattern of pictures. His four-year-old daughter had given it to him saying she found it once before under their sofa, and found it again when she was visiting her Uncle Ben. The little girl thought that it could cheer him up. “Carlos,” Ysabel said, surprised, “You of all people should know that we need to protect ourselves against the Peacemakers. Especially with what happened to Camilla.” There was a pause. “Of course, yes, the Peacemakers,” Carlos said, tired. “What are you reading?” asked Ysabel. He placed the notebook inside the drawer of his bedside table. Click. With a key, he locked it in. “Just something to make me sleep,” he said, “But I think it woke me up.” She looked at him. His eyes looked weary. A chill ran through her spine. “You have to sleep, honey,” Ysabel said, as she kissed her husband on the forehead. She was worried. She never saw her husband so…so…no. She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t think it. “For the sake of our child, sleep, and sleep very soundly,” she said, kissing his tired eyes. Chapter 9: The Pink Room Killing a Peacemaker was the reason why Ben was waiting for the man in the pink pinstripe suit. Barbie’s centennial celebration was so successful that the after party refused to die. He wanted to join it, but he couldn’t. Instead, Ben passed the time trying to come up with a plan, the guitar case at his foot remained untouched. He was in one of the back rooms of The Orange Store where defective Barbies were melted and recycled into new ones. It was a cold night so he decided to sit beside the pink incinerator’s roaring fire. He remembered his young days where he worked there. Nothing changed that much. The brick walls were still painted with vintage portraits of Barbie. The pink incinerator spilled flesh colored molten plastic into a huge pink crucible. An equally pink worktable looked like a Barbie dissection class-- Barbie heads, legs, arms, and torsos. Then there were boxes labeled Pink Innards (electronic compartments to be placed inside Beheadable Barbies), Pink Shoes, and Pink Dresses. “I’m sorry, sir, it took me so long to get here. There was an emergency in the make-up department. I hope you didn’t get too impatient,” said the man in the pink pinstripe suit, as he entered the room and closed the door behind him. “I didn’t, actually. Been pretty preoccupied.” “Yes, I know, the information I gave you is pretty disturbing.” “You think you know what I’ve been wondering about?” Ben said, standing up, towering over the pasty man. “I…I didn’t mean to be so—“ he gulped, confused as to what angered Ben. “I’ve been sitting here wondering. Wondering, how the fuck will you die, Mr. Pink Man?” “What?” his eyes flew open. “What do you mean, sir?” a tiny unsure smile played on his lips, hoping it was some bizarre joke. “You see, if you knew who she was, you’d realize, it would be inconvenient if she got into trouble.” “Why? Who is she? Why would it be inconvenient? It’s only right. She’s a Peacemaker! Look!” he said, holding up receipts with eye marks. Ben took the receipts and threw them into the incinerator. “Only your big mouth will make her a Peacemaker,” he said. “I…I…I…” he said, and fear spread like snow throughout the man’s skin, “I’d have to shut it then. Well, that’s understood. Goodbye now,” he said as he scampered towards the door. He easily twisted the doorknob, but the door wouldn’t open. He heard faint whispers. Ben’s men were outside, guarding the door. “You see, I don’t trust. Especially people who wear lots of make-up.” Sweat ran across the man’s white face, its path revealing uneven blotches of skin. “Which finger do you want to lose first?” Ben said as he opened the guitar case, bringing out his favorite beheading weapon, “Which leg? Or will I hold you down and try for an ear first?” “Sir…please…” “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you alive for as long as I can.” Ben took a step to the left. The roaring incinerator was in full view. Ben was waiting. He knew he didn’t have to lift a finger. “Please tell my wife I love her,” the man said. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, and all your children too.” The man started running. Running as fast as he could. Fast, so he need not feel. The fire was used to flesh, and it welcomed him. Ben was relieved. He never liked murdering people. “Smart boy,” Ben said, “Good choice.” Chapter 10: The Days of Red and Green The chandelier tried to brighten up the room full of dignitaries. The White Palace’s Christmas party had begun, and everyone was ready to bore each other silly. “Are you all right?” Ben said, as he took some caviar from the waiter. “Well, I love the apple martini,” Ysabel said, taking another sip. “You should be used to this by now.” She wanted to complain, so she kept her mouth engaged in a tuna pesto tart. She owed a lot to her brother as he took care of her when their parents died. It was a heart attack domino effect; their father went first, their mother discovered him and followed suit. She wanted Ben to leave, and he did so when he spotted an old friend. She rolled her eyes as Ben walked away. Why does he even force her to accompany him when he’d abandon her anyway? She was going to spiral into a bad mood when a man caught her eye. It was Carlos’ first time at The White Palace. He was supposed to be excited by his recent promotion, but he didn’t feel a thing. How did he know success could lead him down this very sad route of extreme boredom? That feeling ended when he saw a woman with dark hazel eyes. She was with one of the high-ranking EDP members, but they weren’t talking that much. This was dangerous territory, he thought, so he tried to keep her out of his mind. The man she was with walked away. Could it be that they weren’t together? She glanced toward his direction and their eyes met. He forced his eyes to look elsewhere and examined the carpet’s embroidery of beheaded Barbies and fountains of blood. He cannot be involved with someone’s girlfriend or wife, he said to himself, he couldn’t screw up his life. It started out as a clumsy encounter. Actually, Ysabel was not that clumsy. She was shy, so she needed a compelling reason to talk to him. She strolled casually toward him, changed the direction of her eyes, but made sure that her drink spilled on his suit. Carlos saw through her, but he waited for her to finish her act. She squealed so many ‘I’m sorry’ s,’ he almost burst out laughing. He smiled and said ‘Don’t worry about it.’ And there it was. The perfect excuse. The conversation started. The conversation went on, and the conversation went on and on and on. 000 It was Ysabel’s first time to spend Christmas with Carlos’ family. After years of being together, he finally suggested that it was time. Carlos was drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he hummed to the song on the radio. Ysabel was nervous. She kept glancing at the hem of her skirt, as though expecting to find some traitorous loose thread hanging there. Carlos took a left turn and honked at a white gate. Security guards opened it, he drove inside, and parked beside one of the many cars in the garage. He squeezed Ysabel’s hand before they got out of the car and made their way to the front door. “Are you okay?” Carlos asked. Ysabel tried to move her lips. The door burst open. A mob of doting relatives swept over Carlos, dragging him inside with hugs and kisses. They didn’t even hear his pitiful attempts to direct their attention to Ysabel. She was there, standing by the doorway, unsure if she should enter. “Come inside, and close the door. You’re letting the cold wind in.” Ysabel jumped. An old man sitting on a rocking chair was looking at her. “Thank you,” she said. She went inside and closed the door. “The chaos will die down soon enough, and they’ll realize there’s a stranger in the house,” the old man said, as though these were comforting words. Stranger. The word rang in Ysabel’s ears. She was going to talk to the man, but when she looked at him, he was already asleep. Maybe he was so old that he only had enough strength to utter a few words. The door burst open. A woman with blue and green painted nails was standing in the doorway. Ysabel thought she was the only non-family member to be invited, but she was wrong. She was relieved. Carlos’ best friend was there. She was sure it was his idea to bring a friendly face along. “Ysabel, nice to see you again,” the woman said. They hugged each other. “I didn’t know you were coming,” Ysabel said as she tried to beam as brightly as the woman did, but she failed. The woman effortlessly outshone her. “Oh, I come here all the time. I really don’t like my family." “Oh well, I’m glad you’re here, Camilla.” “Camilla!” a child shrieked, dropping a detachable head. Another mob went past Ysabel and engulfed Camilla. One blatant truth hit Ysabel. She was the only stranger there. Camilla was family. 000 “Hey! That’s the guy who asked me out,” Camilla said, pointing to the television, which was showing images of last night’s events. According to the reporter it was a prayer rally that was later broken up due to suspicions of Peacemaker infiltration. The specific image that caught Camilla’s attention was a guy who was sitting on a picnic mat. Sitting beside him was a woman. Her head was on his shoulder, a blanket wrapped around them both. They shivered as they prayed. “What? Who asked you out?” Carlos said, breaking away from his conversation with Ysabel. His relatives exchanged meaningful smiles. The kids tore their eyes from Ken who was a few seconds away from beheading Barbie. Carlos’ mother merrily hung another star on the Christmas tree. Ysabel shifted uncomfortably in her seat, rubbing her wedding ring, as though if she touched it, a genie will come out to rebuff all the negative wishes of Carlos’ relatives. Camilla sometimes gives her an encouraging smile, or was it a take-that-bitch-I’m-the-one-he-truly-wants smile? Ysabel wasn’t sure. Maybe when she gets pregnant they’ll finally accept that she is Carlos’ wife. “That guy, that guy right there,” Camilla said, pointing to the screen, “Oh no, he’s gone, the camera shifted to another area.” “So how was the date?” Carlos said, curious. “Don’t ask me. He stood me up.” “He stood you up?” “Yeah. And now I know why,” she said, pouting at the screen, “He probably continued flirting with this girl at the prayer rally. Probably had a heavenly time with her after, and I don’t mean more prayers. While I was there, in the restaurant, looking like a fool, waiting, being stood up. They were probably saying a lot of ‘Oh God’s’ together. That asshole. What a lovely evening that was. Right before Christmas. Isn’t that great? Never agree to go on a date with a stranger near the holidays. If I knew that he would chuck me out, I wouldn’t have said yes.” “I dunno. They look alike. Maybe the girl is his sister,” Ysabel said, helpfully. “You should call him.” Camilla looked at her in disbelief. “No way. Not after that,” Camilla said. “Sorry, dear, I’m not desperate.” “Accepting a date with someone you hardly know before Christmas?” Carlos said, teasing. “Yeah, you don’t sound desperate.” Camilla grabbed the nearest bowl of marshmallows and started pelting Carlos with these fluffy sweets. “Take that! And that!” Camilla said, giggling. He was trying his best to dodge the marshmallows, but Camilla was good. Carlos’ relatives were cheering them on. Some were for Camilla, others were for Carlos. “Guys, stop that,” Ysabel said. “You’re wasting the food.” No one paid attention to Ysabel. Everyone wanted to see what Carlos and Camilla were going to do next. 000 Camilla was about to light up when a bloody hand stopped her. She looked up. It was Carlos’ mother holding several little bleeding plastic heads. “Dear, will you ever learn?” the woman said, an amused smile playing on her lips. “No smoking in the house.” “Why do I have to learn? Can’t we just change the rules?” Camilla said, returning the smile. “We don’t do that here. Go outside. The garden is lovely,” she said, and returned to picking up the rest of the bleeding heads that the kids had abandoned for Christmas cookies. “All right, all right. I will,” Camilla said, giving up. She turned around and spotted Ysabel who was busy twiddling her thumbs. “Ysabel?” “Yes Camilla?” Ysabel said, feeling her throat muscles loosen. Those were the first words she had uttered since an hour ago. On the scale to one to ten of all the awkward Christmases with Carlos’ relatives, being addressed directly and responding by uttering two words seemed like a promising break in the streak of extreme misery. “Would you mind if you come with me to the garden to smoke? I can give you a stick.” “Oh, I don’t smoke, but I can accompany you.” “Are you sure you don’t mind? There will be fumes.” Ysabel laughed. “No, it’s ok. I’ll go with you.” Ysabel did not really like smokers, but she was just itching to get away from Carlos’ cold family. She wished she had a son or a daughter, so she could talk to somebody during these sad Christmases. Carlos was preoccupied with all his nephews and nieces that it was impossible to talk to him. Carlos’ aunts and uncles had been harassing Camilla, so it was hard to talk to her too. The curious aunts and uncles were asking Camilla about her love life, and they kept telling her to get a husband. Some aunts were even audacious enough to whisper something about how compatible she and Carlos were. Ysabel felt her heart sink into a bottomless pit. The family had already fallen in love with Camilla. For that family, Ysabel, who just happened to be Carlos’ wife, was the other woman, but Carlos had chosen her, and she loved him. It was not her fault they fell in love. She was ready to get away from this unwelcoming environment that she was willing to breathe in all the toxic smoke that she could take. “Want one?” Camilla said, offering the pack, as they sat down on the garden’s black wrought-iron bench. Ysabel saw Camilla’s nails. Each nail was painted alternately with a different color. Today was purple and dark blue. “No thank you,” Ysabel said. That is the thing about Camilla, she does not seem to hear your answers. She wants to do what she wants, and she will always try to do what she wants even if you already told her ‘no’ a hundred times, a million times. Either she is extremely forgetful, or she does not understand the word ‘no.’ “You know,” Camilla said, puffing a large amount of smoke into the air. Ysabel was almost hit full in the face. Camilla did not wave the smoke away. “Yes?” “Ysabel, you should not mind those people inside. They’re cold at first, but they’ll warm up to you. It will take a very long time, and I mean a very long time. Letting people in is hard for them.” “How long till they warmed up to you?” Ysabel said. She was on the edge of her seat, afraid of the answer. “Oh I was a special exemption. They liked me right away.” “Oh,” Ysabel said, as her face fell. “I’m kidding!” Camilla said, smiling, “It was like years. That’s the thing about this family. I mean they’re lovely once they like you, but when you are new, they hate you. No matter how charming you are; they hate you. They don’t like people outside the family. They feel threatened, infiltrated. They do not see you for who you are. They only see a stranger. They were so mean to me that little Jeffrey threw chocolate pudding on my favorite dress. He tried to pass it off as an accident, but I knew it wasn’t. When I became friends with the kids, that little boy admitted that he did pour that pudding on me on purpose.” “You’re kidding!” “No kidding!” Camilla said, smiling. Ysabel felt considerably better. If someone so loved like Camilla was once hated, there was still hope for her. She just had to wait. Was she patient enough? “I think this is the second most traumatic thing that has happened in my life.” Ysabel said. “Oh honey, it’s all right,” Camilla said, laughing. Ysabel laughed too. “So tell me,” Camilla said, curious, “What was the most traumatic?” Ysabel hesitated for a moment, but Camilla was such a comfort to her that she decided to trust her. Ysabel began telling her about the time her brother brought her to the family’s blood factory. She told her about the faces and how she screamed, and how she could not calm down. She told her how she could remember every face, every detail. Camilla gasped when Ysabel was describing a bright pink naked female tattoo on a woman’s right earlobe. Ysabel knew it was really scandalous, and she was glad that Camilla was equally mortified about the tattoo. Ysabel kept on talking. The words were crashing through like escaped convicts. She didn’t realize that Camilla was unusually silent. A darkness passed over Camilla’s face. There was something she remembered, something so raw and real. It finally all made sense. 000 Cleanliness wasn’t something that the kitchen had, but the little girl thought that it was beautiful. Little Camilla and her Beheadable Barbie were there in the kitchen watching her mother cook. “This is going to be my best yet,” her mother said, scratching the bright pink funny tattoo on her right earlobe. It was a tattoo that no decent mother would get at the age of twenty-eight, but Camilla’s mother was proud of it. She took a metal saucer, put some oil in it, broke an egg into it, and threw it in the toaster. This was her version of frying an egg. Although her mother was deficient in cooking, Camilla felt that she was the best mother in the whole wide world. She did not know that the days of happily observing her mother’s peculiar ways were coming to an end. Camilla remembered how screams filled the house. She was in her room, and she did not go out because she was scared. She cried and prayed that the screaming would stop. It did, with a loud thud. Camilla did not know what to make of it. The tears she shed acted like a potent sleeping pill, and everything went black. She was not woken up by her mother but by her father. He tried to cook, and he was as horrible as her mother. She complained about it. He said he had an excuse, a biological exemption against cooking well—he was a man. Camilla asked her father where her mother was. He told her to shut up. When people suddenly disappear from one’s life, there is always an explanation. Camilla tried to find it by asking her relatives. Whenever she would ask about her mother, they would either stare blankly at her as though it was the most stupid question anyone could ask, or they would say something mean so that she’d be cut up, crying, and too devastated to remember that she needed some answers. “You want to know something about your mother?” her father would say. He would pick up her newest Barbie and forcibly take off the little head, “Now you know!” She would start crying, confused as to what provoked him to destroy her toy. Didn’t he know that you had to make Ken do the beheading or else the head can’t be reattached? What made her stop asking was a letter. It came from her mother, and it said she ran off with another man, and she never wanted to see her daughter again. She cried so hard, and she stopped asking questions. That night made things different. The peculiar conversation with Ysabel made the questions resurface in Camilla’s mind. What if her father wrote that letter? She really did not remember what made her think that the letter was genuine. Heck, she was eight. She could have believed anything. If she wanted to start searching for answers, and there was only one place to start. 000 “Is it still far?” Camilla said, brushing away the thick cobwebs. Something squeaked. She stepped on a rubber duck. “Shh...please miss, don’t make such a racket,” whispered the caretaker who was holding a flashlight. “I am not allowed to let anyone inside. I only let you in because you made a special request.” Crisp bills that were once Camilla’s crunched in the caretaker’s back pocket as he took another careful step. They moved past several bedrooms and climbed the staircases until they reached the rooftop. At the end was a door. The caretaker fumbled with the keys until he found the right one. The opened door revealed darkness. “This is the corridor that connects the house to the factory,” he said, using the flashlight to lead the way. Camilla nodded. They walked, walked, and walked. They went through another door which swung open, and another door, a stairway downward, and then another door. A chill shot through her. “We’re here,” the guard cheerily announced. From the floor, he directed the flashlight upwards. The flashlight illuminated. A face. A face behind glass. It was the man who stood her up last night for the prayer rally. Camilla screamed. She screamed. She screamed. She screamed. She shouldn’t have. She should have been glad that for the last night of his life, he chose to pray. Chapter 11: Barbie Smiles The Barbies were smiling when Ysabel beheaded them and hung them up to bleed. The Christmas lights outside her window were supposed to be twinkling red and green, but the bulbs weren’t working anymore. Her window framed only darkness. That night, she was like a kid again—took a deep breath, flipped the switch of her bedroom lights, broke into a run toward her bed, got caught in her bed’s sheer curtains, fought her way through till the drapes parted, and, panting, dropped on her fluffy pillows. She turned around to lay on her back. The silhouettes of upside down beheaded Barbies were clearly outlined despite the veil of the curtains and the gloom of the night. She thought of her husband, then Camilla, how they were all dead, and how all of the awful Christmases have led to this cold and empty one. She looked up. The Barbies were there, headless, but Ysabel could still feel them smiling. There was something in the air that was different. She felt as though she was without gills inside a large fish tank. She touched her nose to try to understand what was wrong. She began breathing again. She took her hand away from her nose; she started heaving. She clutched her chest, frightened. She scampered out of bed. As she walked farther and farther, she felt that she could breathe freely again. She stopped. Carefully, she inched closer to her bed. She realized what it was. Blood. She always used artificial blood, but this time they smelled different. The blood factory came rushing back. She could remember them all. The bloody faces. Worse than that, she could smell them all. The bloody faces. Kneeling down, Ysabel took a towel and scrubbed the last flakes of dried blood until the floor glowered at how much it wasn’t bleeding. She took a deep breath. The coughing did not come back. It worked. Chapter 12: The Mosaic Covered Diary “What are you writing?” the little girl asked. Camilla was there sitting in Carlos’ living room, looking at a four-year-old mini version of Ysabel. She wanted to talk to Carlos, to tell him what she saw in the factory, to ask him how to get past these sleepless nights, to know whether she was losing her mind, but he was engaged in a phone call. She could see Ysabel through the large open window, busy attacking the weeds in her garden. “Oh, it’s nothing, Anna Lucia,” Camilla said, closing her diary. It was one of those diaries with a lock. Camilla was old fashioned that way, or, as Carlos interpreted, Camilla lacked trust. “Why does your notebook have a lock?” Anna Lucia said. “This is not just an ordinary notebook. This is a diary,” Camilla explained, showing it to Anna Lucia. The kid’s greedy fingers snatched it away. “What’s a diary?” Anna Lucia asked, meticulously examining the cover’s mosaic of different paintings, running her hands over the embossed words ‘Dear Diary.’ “A diary is a notebook that—” “See, I was right! It’s a notebook. You lied! You lied!” Anna Lucia said, pointing an accusing finger, her eyes squinted, her nose crinkled, her mouth bent into a frown. “Wait, you didn’t let me finish,” Camilla said, holding up her hand. “Okay, explain more! More!” Anna Lucia said, and she returned to examining the diary. “A diary is not just any ordinary notebook. It is a special kind.” “Why is it special?” Anna Lucia asked too quickly when Camilla made a slight pause. Camilla pursed her lips. She tried to stop herself from retorting ‘If you just shut up, I’ll probably get to that.’ She had to take a deep breath, reminding herself that Anna Lucia was a curious kid, and kids were sadly, extremely, overly impatient creatures who have not learned the art of shutting up. “Well?” Anna Lucia demanded. “Well, it’s special because it’s where the owner spills all of his or her secrets.” “Why do you need a lock?” “So that your secrets will be safe.” “So you hide your secrets?” “Yes.” “You hide these secrets from everyone?” Anna Lucia said, shaking the diary and listening to it as though the secrets would be heard if she just tried to jiggle them hard enough. “Ah…yes…that’s the plan.” “Is there something bad about your thoughts?” “What?” “When I hide things, I hide things from mommy because I know she will get mad at me if she found out. You’re not just hiding things from your mommy; you’re hiding things from everyone. I might be bad, but I do not hide things from everybody. You’re bad!” Camilla did not want to explain. She thought she could get away with a classic grown up line. “When you grow up, Anna Lucia—” “No, don’t say that. Don’t say I will understand when I grow up. Explain it now! I want to know now!” “You will not understand.” “I want! Now! Now! Now!” Anna Lucia said and started to cry. The little girl was becoming hysterical. Camilla tried to comfort her, but she was also reeling from shock. Anna Lucia was on the floor thumping her fists, and Camilla was starting to get nervous. “Oh my God! What happened?” Ysabel said, rushing in, her gardening gloves and her flowered apron covered in soil. “I...I...I don’t know...I just...” Camilla said. “Save it, Camilla. God, you spend one minute with a kid, and she is in a terrible fit,” Ysabel said, taking off her apron and gloves, and picking up Anna Lucia. The kid buried her head in her mother’s arms and sobbed. “I’m sorry...I...” Camilla said, feeling really awful. “What’s going on?” Carlos said, rushing out of the kitchen, cordless phone in hand. “Oh thank God, Carlos. Here,” Ysabel said, giving him Anna Lucia, “Take her to her room and try to calm her. I have to talk to Camilla.” Camilla gulped. Carlos looked at Camilla with an I-can’t-believe-you look on his face. Camilla’s cheeks burned. Carlos took Anna Lucia, and went out of the living room. This looks bad, Camilla knew it, but it was not her fault, the kid was such a whiny brat. “I know what you are going to say but—” Camilla said. “I can’t believe you!” “Yes, that was it, and you did not want to hear my side, did you?” Ysabel’s rant could not be stopped. “What are you doing, trying to bully a little girl?” “I was not bullying Anna Lucia.” “Oh please, Camilla, you’re terrible with children.” “I get along well with Carlos’ nephews and nieces.” “Don’t talk about Carlos’ family!” Ysabel snapped, her eyes livid. Camilla had struck a chord, the wrong chord. “Oh yeah. Carlos’ family, what a touchy subject. I wonder why? Oh yeah, it’s because they don’t like you.” “This is it, isn’t it?” “This is what?” “Is this some sort of revenge? Some proof to make me miserable even in my own house?” “What? Ysabel, listen to yourself.” “Look, I have put up with you because you are important to Carlos.” “Excuse me, put up with me? What do you mean by that?” “But let me make this clear,” Ysabel said, as she braced herself, she was going to say it, to make it finally clear, “Carlos is mine.” “What?” Camilla said, shocked. She was not trying to get Carlos from Ysabel. Ysabel won already. She won. She was his wife. She had his daughter. Camilla understood that. She wasn’t going to mess with that. “Yes, Carlos is mine,” Ysabel continued. “You might be shocked by that, but he is mine, and we are going to have a great family, and Anna Lucia will grow up to be a good person, and you will not torture her to become anything less than that. I will not let you! Do you hear me?” “Yes, I hear you, but like your daughter, you never seem to hear me,” Camilla said and stormed out of the room. The diary was forgotten. It lay on the floor and was eventually kicked under the sofa. It gathered dust, burying all of Camilla’s feelings. Chapter 13: Wake Up, Wake Up, Make-Up Dawn just broke and Ysabel wasn’t waking up; she was putting on make-up. A mirror was there to help her see her face, but her eyes were unfocused. Lining her lips, her mouth was soon dripping black. Her mistake was picking up the mascara as opposed to the lip liner. Numb and unable to tell the difference between a mascara’s ticklish brush and the smooth creamy surface of the lip liner, she just kept on lining her lips black. In focus. Back from her thoughts, she saw what she had done. Remedying the mistake, she washed off the mascara. She picked up the lip liner then dropped it. She remembered now. She had to concentrate on her eyes. Foundation, concealer, eyeliner, eyeliner again, mascara, concealer, eye shadow, concealer, eyeliner, concealer, eyeliner. Her eyes felt so heavy, she was afraid that they might droop under the weight of make-up. She had to make it look natural. She spent hours putting on make-up to make sure that no one will ever suspect that she has anything on. 000 Anna Lucia was in a classroom and each desk had a computer. A woman was sitting in one of the chairs facing the computer. The woman typed furiously as she glanced at a notebook that lay beside her keyboard. “Hello? Who are you?” Anna Lucia said, as she inched closer to the woman. The woman turned around. “Aunt Camilla!” Anna Lucia said, shocked. “Aren’t you dead? Weren’t you abducted by the Peacemakers?” “Of course not, Anna Lucia,” Camilla said. “What a silly thing to say. Peacemakers.” She chuckled. “I’m so happy you’re alive, Auntie,” Anna Lucia said. She ran to Camilla and hugged her. They both started to cry. “Anna Lucia, stop that!” said a mechanical girly voice that came out of nowhere. Anna Lucia and Camilla broke apart, but they were still holding hands. Anna Lucia looked around. No one was there. She looked at her aunt, confused. Camilla squeezed her tiny hand and gave her a weak smile. “Down here, little girl,” the voice said. Anna Lucia looked down and saw Barbie walking towards them. “Stay away from her, Anna Lucia,” said Barbie. “She’s a Peacemaker.” Anna Lucia looked at her hand. Camilla was holding her tightly, but her aunt was trembling. “Off with her head! Off with her head!” Barbie screamed. Anna Lucia didn’t know what to do. Camilla was crying silent tears, holding on to Anna Lucia as though her life depended on it. “Off with her head! Off with her head!” Barbie’s screams grew louder and louder. Cracks were starting to form around Barbie’s neck. Blood spewed out of the cracks as though Barbie had too much blood. “Off with her head! Off with her head!” Barbie said, her whole body shaking. The wait was eating her like someone watching a race, eager for the right horse to win. “Off with her head! Off with her head!” Barbie was growing bigger and bigger with each scream. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. She really wanted what she really wanted. Anna Lucia let go of Camilla’s hand. The little girl heard a tear drop. She heard it splash. Just a tiny tear, but she heard it. “Off with her head! Off with her head!” Everything went black and Anna Lucia entered into another dream. Chapter 14: The Dossier Two men were in the office. Harsh light. There were no strangers around. They could hear a struggling ferry chugging down the river and crashing through several mini plastic icebergs with wide-eyed red bees smiling from the floating heap. Carlos was shivering in his pajamas while pouring over papers. To think that just an hour ago he was nursing his insomnia with some balut. He was too lazy to change out of his pajamas when he decided he wanted a midnight snack, so he walked a few blocks to the subdivision’s gate, walked a bit more until the posh surroundings suddenly turned into gaudy houses and slums made of discarded yero. He reached a sari-sari store and looked for the balut vendor. He was walking back to the subdivision, sprinkling salt into a little crack he made on top of the egg when a group of men ambushed him and took him inside a white unmarked van. He immediately thought he was taken by the Peacemakers. Revenge was what they wanted. He served the government for many years, so he must pay for his loyal service. He knew that he should have felt proud. He was going to die for the country. Die a hero. He would never cooperate with those insurgents. But all he could think of was death. All he could feel was fear. How can heroes die so valiantly? Were they screaming their lungs out deep inside? Crying hysterically behind a courageous front? Wetting their pants in some secret alternate universe? His thoughts on heroes were cut short when he saw The White Palace—an ivory mansion gleaming across the polluted river. Ben was silent when he showed Carlos the papers. Carlos read through them as he shivered He was ever more silent; his pajamas ever more absurd. “This is a matter of national security,” Ben said. “Top secret. We know it is difficult to digest, but you have to. If you want to serve the country, you know what to do.” It was a simple command, but a harsh reality. The papers fell from his hands. Pictures—red lips, wide smiles, dark green and blue painted nails. Documents—black and white. Black and white. Black and white. Black and white. Why was he fooled? Who was this person? How could they look so alike yet be so different? “I think you understand what we’re asking,” Ben said, giving him a beheaded Barbie. “Again, it’s a matter of national security.” “Yes, Ben, I know,” Carlos said, taking the headless toy. “I appreciate this promotion. I won’t let you down.” 000 “Please,” Camilla begged, her eyes were swollen not because she was crying but from sleepless nights. Her visit to the old factory made the Barbies different. They haunted her in her sleep. “Please,” she screamed. She was hysterical. “Please, you don’t understand. How can you even think that I—” Carlos didn’t respond. This was the first time he’d get to kill a Peacemaker, and he was ready to prove that he could execute it efficiently. He was busy trying to get to her, swinging madly for her neck. It was a miracle that she could dodge his blows while she kept talking. They were dancing around the room—a determined beast and a whining victim. She was trapped. It was going to happen. Sooner or later. “Please,” she cried again, “There’s something I want you to know.” He was determined not to listen to her. He knew what she was. The dossier said so, and now, as he looked at her, he saw the markings. “Please,” she used the electric fan to shield her. Fled to another corner as though she could fly. Soon there will be no furniture, no shields. He wasn’t impatient. “Give me one moment, please. Please listen to me!” He put down his arms. He stopped. She stopped. “What I wanted to say was—” she said. Slash. Thump. Her head rolled on the floor, and stopped at his feet. Her sunken eyes started to deaden, but her lips fought to quiver. “I love you,” she said. He was afraid to look down, but her head rolled over, and he felt her lips pressing on the back of his shoe. He looked down. He was ready to kick the head away, but he saw her beautiful face. Blood flushed into his heart, and he couldn’t breathe. He knelt down. He cupped her face with his hands, closed his eyes, and realized that the only way to breathe was to kiss her cold cold lips. 000 “There are things that are brought about by fear, and we were no exception. There were two classes left for enlistment. We had different reasons to fear the first: Carlos, you feared the terror teacher who angrily showered his students with chalk and saliva; I feared the awkward moments with my ex-boyfriend which could range from angry spitting of saliva to relapsing into passionate exchanges of saliva. I thought I was safe. I did not know that I was falling into something more dangerous. “We took our diplomas, posing together as cameras flashed before our smiles, sharing that special moment, our years of friendship glowing with that happy ending. I thought it would be a matter of time before you realized. I waited for you to come around. Years were passing by. I didn’t lose my patience. But I lost you. You met her at a party that you used to think was dumb, that I refused to attend because I knew that it was dumb, that she also thought was dumb, but she attended anyway. If only I made that sacrifice, you would have been too busy talking to me, and you would have never met her. “There is no such thing as perfect, they say. They were wrong. They have not met Ysabel. Ysabel could stand there, and she would be perfect. Ms. Perfect, Ms. Little Perfect. Can I perfectly smile at you, then perfectly laugh at your joke, so you and I can perfectly stare into each other’s eyes perfectly mesmerized? No wonder you like her. You like her, that thought feels like a thousand bullets. I stopped and cried. I tried to stop crying. I took tissues. I soaked them all. I never thought I had it in me to be and feel this pathetic. I scolded myself. I was not a crybaby, and I will stop, but I did not. I kept crying till I could not scold myself anymore. I had no moral ascendancy to reprimand myself. I was pathetic. “Months passed and you guys were still together. You told me there was something important you had to say. You hesitated, knowing that it was something big. You said ‘I love…her.’ Why was your last word ‘her’? Why wasn’t it ‘you’? Meaning me? Deep within my hardened core, a lovesick woman was waiting to cry her heart out. I used to laugh at romantic comedies’ let’s-tear-the-airport-apart-so-we-can-be-together scenes, but now the joke was on me. “I was in the bathroom about to brush my teeth. I knew I had to calm down. I did, but in the middle of brushing, when my mouth was full of white toothpaste froth, I started crying. I cried so hard, I had to take in deep breaths, and so I choked on the froth. I had to spit out the rest of the toothpaste, coughing like someone who almost drowned. “You married her. To think this should be enough for me to stop hoping. This was like a big red sign screaming, ‘Stop! Stop! Stop!’ but my heart does not see the sign. Maybe I should have been kinder to those I rejected. They are people in love, and they hoped that I would fall in love with them. Sometimes I date them for pity. I wish you could pity me, for a day, for a second. No matter how much you show me that you do not love me, no matter how clear the signs are, some form of unusual kindness, a twinkle in your eye, or a perceived twinkle in your eye because I cannot know for sure that I did not imagine it, one touch of your hand even if it were unintentional, I would be overcome by a delusion that you meant to touch me, and that you want me in your life, that you desired me. It was not your intention to make me hope, but I am in such a predisposition to interpret every silly thing as something that can give me permission to hope. I wanted any excuse to validate my delusions, to live in a moment of happiness, to bask in fantasies of a happy ending. “For someone who is in love, the worst thing is hope. It is resilient in the face of all doubt. I realized that rejection doesn’t stop the lovesick from hoping; they stop hoping because they’ve stopped hoping, because they’ve moved on. I couldn’t. I was like a ghost who was cursed to follow, present but unseen, loving but unloved, wanting but unable to touch. Dead. Dead. Dead. “Every two years or so I would get over you, then fall in love again in a matter of weeks. I would fall again when I think you’re falling, but it always turns out that you’re not. My friends say that I should stop seeing you. Keeping you as a friend is slow, willful, self-inflicted torture. There have been many times that I wanted to leave you, to fade from your life, but I am here. I want you to know that I will always be here, and I will always be waiting. “Why am I so sure about you? Lots of women are unsure about the ones that they love. Why wasn’t I given the gift of uncertainty? There is only one way to cope. It was simple. I just need to, every now and then, to retreat and recuperate from being friends with you, because even if I know you don’t love me, I just can’t learn.” He closed the notebook with the mosaic cover. The secrets slipped from Carlos’ hands, and the Barbies around him turned dark. Chapter 15: The Bloody Questions “Who are these people, Ben?” Ysabel said. “Where is Carlos?” Ben said, surveying the house as though he thought that Carlos might slip away into the night. He also looked underneath the sofa to see if there were more treasures he could find, but there was nothing there except some empty jars of artificial blood. Maybe he should ask Anna Lucia. That five-year-old discovers everything. Four guys with assault riffles accompanied Ben. Their dumb faces gaped at Ysabel’s expensive furniture. Some of them were trying to think of ways to steal the porcelain figurines displayed on the table. “Why are you here, Ben?” Ysabel asked. “Where is he, Ysabel?” “He jogs at night.” “It’s midnight. Don’t be ridiculous.” “I know it’s midnight. He does not have a schedule for these things. He goes whenever he feels like it. There is no stopping him. There is no sense involved, just a feeling, a desire to be alone and to run.” “Are you sure he is not bringing flowers to a grave that you don’t want to see?” “What?” “You know what I mean. She is buried in the village cemetery, and it’s fairly near from your house.” “Why would he hide that from me? Why wouldn’t he tell me? It is not as if he can cheat with a dead woman.” “Just keep your eyes open, Ysabel. That’s all I’m saying.” “I told you where he is. Now answer my question. Why are you here?” “There is no easy way to say this, Ysabel, but we are relocating Carlos.” Ysabel clutched her chest, her heart tightened. There was only one place to relocate people. “We need to crush the insurgents. We need more competent people. We must have Carlos.” “Why Carlos? Can’t you send somebody else?” “We need the best. We need Carlos.” “Why can’t you be the one to go?” “I can’t. I am needed here.” “Don’t tell me you can’t. You can’t because you don’t want to. Everybody knows that people who are sent there die. It’s a dangerous place. How can you do this to me, Ben? How can you do this to Carlos?” “Carlos is part of the military. He knows what he signed up for. He is aware of the consequences. The consequences are knocking on his door.” They looked at each other. She felt helpless. “I am sorry, Ysabel. If there was a way to avoid this, I would have done it.” Ysabel looked at Ben. Was he being honest? He looked at her. His face was calm and stoic. Ben never had feelings to express. A blank expression was what he needed for his job. Ysabel shivered. She did not know what exactly Ben’s job was. He was in the government’s intelligence department, and he was tasked to find and capture the Peacemakers. How exactly he did this was something Ysabel did not know, but she had a feeling she did not want to. “Why do you have to come here in the middle of the night?” Ysabel said. “The task is very important. As soon as the military advisers devised a plan, and determined which individual needed to fill which post, we execute it. We cannot wait. Maybe we should start looking for him. Men,” Ben said, “Circle the area. Find him. Tell him what we want. Bring him here, and let’s go.” As fast as their brains were lethargically slow, the men moved out. “How long will he be there?” Ysabel said as she went to kitchen. “I can’t say. It all depends on the military advisers. Creating plans is not my job.” “Don’t you question the plans?” Ysabel said, absentmindedly as she returned to the living room with tea and cookies. “What?” Ben roared. Crash. Everything Ysabel was carrying hit the floor. “What did you say?” Ben said, edging closer to his sister, his aura ever more sinister, the skin on his face moved and curved to convey his anger, but the eyes under his sunglasses were hidden from view. They could have stayed lifeless, as though he was talking about the weather, and Ysabel would never know. Ysabel flew to the kitchen to get a towel. “Come back here, Ysabel,” Ben said, following her. “I’m going to clean up,” Ysabel said, avoiding his gaze. “What’s the big deal anyway? It was just a question.” “It was a dangerous question, Ysabel. You know, I have told you many times that you have to get rid of this habit.” “You see, Ben,” Ysabel said, locating the rag and walking back to the living room, “Unlike you, I don’t have this knack of knowing which question is dangerous.” “Stop asking questions all together. Just stop.” Ysabel was on the floor, rag in hand, trying to soak up all the tea. “You do not know what can happen to you. We live in dangerous times, Ysabel. We should know because we grew up in a family that dealt with the government all the time. We grew up knowing reality, but you chose to be blinded from it. You chose to preserve a facade of innocence.” “It is better to be innocent than to be covered in blood.” “You’re already covered in blood,” Ben said, noticing that one of the shards cut through Ysabel’s delicate hand. This was the last thing Ysabel remembered about that night. That night they took Carlos away. Everything after that was a blur. She just knew the feeling, the pain, the anxiety, the questions. Which one of them were dangerous? Chapter 16: The Concealers For the past week, Ysabel was able to scold Anna Lucia six times for bringing her new Beheadable Barbie inside the master’s bedroom. She hoped her daughter learned her lesson. She couldn’t blame Anna Lucia for not knowing. She remembered the government’s slogan, The innocent are the best traitors. She shook her head. She shouldn’t think about her daughter because she had more pressing concerns to attend to. When she was looking for her hairbrush, she saw her face in the mirror and realized that she needed a retouch. She rummaged through her cabinet, panicking and heart racing. They were all gone. She forgot to buy more. How could she be so stupid? There must be something here somewhere, Ysabel thought to herself as she opened every cabinet. She can’t let Ben know. She knows how it is when he gets angry. A chill ran through her spine, and to think there was a time her brother didn’t scare her. It was recess. At least there’s still time, Ben thought. He made up some excuse, and Big Boy bought it. Ben was allowed to skip the preparations, but he was told that he had to be back to witness the event. Ben, his heart racing, combed the school grounds searching for his sister. Finally, beside a broken swing in the school’s playground, he saw Ysabel comforting a girl with frizzy hair. “Don’t worry, Liz, those guys are a bunch of idiots,” Ysabel said. “Ysabel, let’s talk. Now.” Ben said, announcing his presence. “Okay, what is it?” “Scram, frizzy!” Ben said. The girl let out a frightened squeak and scampered away. “Hey, come back! My brother won’t hurt you,” Ysabel called out. “Oh yes I would.” “What’s the matter with you?” “You can’t be friends with Ms. Frizzy anymore. Big Boy is out to get her. You better step out of the way.” “If someone’s out to get my friend. I’ll stand by her.” “Don’t be an idiot. Listen to me. I’m older than you. I know better. Do you want to get into trouble?” “No…but…” “Then that’s settled. Stay away from that girl.” Time flew past, and the lunch bell rang. “What are you going to do to her?” Ysabel and Liz were at the brink of a pool of black mud and green water. Ysabel had followed Big Boy when she saw him going towards the back of the school grounds. Now she was standing in front of Liz, hands outstretched to protect her friend. “Get out of the way, Ysabel,” Ben said, emerging from the crowd. “They can’t do this to her. She didn’t bring extra clothes, even for gym class” “Get out of the way. Now.” “I can’t. She’s my friend.” “Maybe you should do the honors, Ben,” Big Boy said, scratching his belly absentmindedly, the little patch of skin that was revealed was a congealed yellow. Ben’s cheeks froze. Then he made a small, swift, mechanical nod. “What? You’re going to follow him? Ben, don’t do this, I’m your sister.” “If you didn’t do it my way,” Ben said, “you don’t have the right to make me feel bad.” SPLASH! Ysabel turned around. The door to her bedroom’s toilet creaked open and a muffled sound whispered through the night Peacemaker—terminated. She approached the door. Opened it and she saw. Saw a pool of blood in the bathtub, saw her daughter innocently playing with Barbie, saw her eyes in the bathroom mirror, and saw Anna Lucia’s mouth fly open as her daughter said, “Mama, what happened to your eyes? There are black puffy circles around them!” Barbie’s eyes flashed a deep shade of crimson. They heard, Ysabel knew, they heard. “What’s going on, mommy? Why are you so pale?” Anna Lucia hung her head, confused, but not in the least frightened. “We have to leave. Go to your room. Pack your bags. And don’t you dare bring that Barbie.” Chapter 17: Bloody Carlos “I’m six years old, daddy,” Anna Lucia said to her father, “How old are you?” “Oh that’s a very big secret,” Carlos said with a playful smile, as he was lying in a hospital bed. Ysabel just left the room to buy some food, and he could now spend some quality time with his daughter. “Why can’t I know?” “Because...” Carlos tried to think of a reason that would not upset her, “If you do, things will be boring. Do you want that?” “No, daddy.” “Then, I’ll do you a favor and not answer your question.” “Thanks, daddy,” Anna Lucia said, beaming, really happy. Carlos smiled. “Daddy, I want to have a Beheadable Barbie. Can I have one even if I’m not yet eight?” “No, and I don’t think you should have one at all.” “Why? Why can’t I?” “Don’t argue with me, Anna Lucia. I’m pretty tired.” Anna Lucia made a face, but her dad looked so exhausted, so she decided to not pick a fight. “Did you see them, daddy? The Peacemakers?” Carlos’ eyes were unfocused. He was staring at the ceiling. He looked like he didn’t know what to say. Carlos opened his mouth, but no sound came out, only a tongue that had given up to silence. “Daddy, did you see the them? Did you see the Peacemakers? Daddy, please answer me, please.” His love for his daughter brought him back. He was there. He was there with her. “I never saw them. I thought I’d finally see them. I thought maybe I’d find Camilla’s mother, or if they’ve already killed her, maybe take revenge. Maybe Camilla was there held hostage, maybe she’s not the one that I...I had to...Ben told me...I had to...It was a Peacemaker not her.” “What are you saying, daddy?” “I’m saying our car exploded even before we reached our destination.” “Oh no! Daddy you got hurt!" “Yes I did, but someone saved me.” “Uncle Ben saved you, daddy?” “Ben,” Carlos chuckled, “No. A farmer saved me. He called for help. Another military car came by. The general kept insisting I was dead. I couldn’t argue against him. I was weak, but I was breathing. The crowd was closing in. The general couldn’t make them leave. It had to be here, away from prying eyes, that he decided to finish the job.” “The general tried to hurt you, daddy? Why did he try to hurt you?” Because he was Ben, Carlos thought silently, because he was Ben. “Daddy, where are you going? Mommy says I might never see you again.” “I am going to a very nice place,” Carlos said, smiling at his daughter, and then he added ‘I hope’ in his mind. “Can I go with you?” “Eventually you and your mother will, but I have to go first.” “Why can’t we all go together?” “It’s not as fun if we all go together. Sometimes we need to miss each other, so that when we see each other again, it will be wonderful.” “But it is already wonderful with you here. I miss you every time I go to school.” “Do you remember what it feels like whenever you see me after school?” “Yes, I feel very happy, daddy.” “Imagine that feeling, but multiply it a hundred times. That’s what it will feel like when we see each other again. Won’t that be great?” “I don’t know, daddy.” “It will,” Carlos said, holding his daughter’s hand and squeezing it tight, “Trust me.” “I love you, daddy.” “I love you too, little Annie,” Carlos closed his eyes. His hand loosened its grip, and a long beeping sound filled the room. Carlos was still smiling. He was in a really nice place. 000 Goodbye, he said, goodbye to you. He was looking through a glass window and inside he could see the dead bodies of the morgue. He smiled goodbye. “Ben,” said a voice behind him, “A successful disposal task, I trust?” “Yes. That’s right,” Ben said, turning around, he saw an old man in an army suit. “Why, I haven’t seen you this satisfied. A personal favorite? Was it? Care to share?” “This man tortured my sister for such a long time. He loved another, but my sister couldn’t see it. I wanted to get rid of him. I wanted him to stop hurting my sister, but he was on our side, and I couldn’t do anything. I never thought he would develop the trenches, and that was my chance. Still, I had to go through a lot of trouble just so my sister won’t suspect that I let him die. Those trenches really do come out when you need to get rid of someone who deserves it. Like that girl with the lovely nails.” “Yes, the trenches are always right.” “Well, I have to attend to the body. It ain’t right if it’s not done properly.” “But he is already dead, son. What else can you do?” “He is dead, but he can’t keep his crown. He must be dethroned, if you know what I mean. Then, maybe I’ll also do a couple more.” “Ok, I guess protocol needs to be served.” Ben went inside the morgue. In an hour, heads of dead bodies were rolling on the floor. Ben smiled his widest smile. This was the right thing to do. Chapter 18: Peacemaker Blood Smells Bad Her mom was driving. Cars with horns that went Let there be peace on AAAHHHHH!!! started to lessen. Anna Lucia was bored to death. She didn’t know why they were there. The only thing that cheered her up was the thought that she was able to bring her Barbie despite her mother’s prohibitions. She wanted Barbie to come, and she wouldn’t let her mother stop her. She knew her mother would check her backpack, so she didn’t hide Barbie there. When her mother went to the kitchen, Anna Lucia decided to tape Barbie underneath the car. Their car stopped in front of a house with a wall of big rocks and coconut trees. At the gate, an old lady greeted them and ushered them into a room. “If you want to shine the floor, just use the floor wax and the coconut husk, and the floor will shine like crystal,” said the woman. “If you need to wash the dishes, use this leaf.” Ysabel remembered how she and her best friend Liz used to visit this place. Ysabel would tell her parents that she was in a grand hotel in Boracay, but in truth, she was running through the mud, playing in the rain, and singing about coconuts. “Mommy, why are we here?” Anna Lucia asked as they unpacked their bags, “Where are we anyway? What are you doing?” “Keep quiet!” Ysabel hissed as she surveyed the room, looking for hidden toys. Luckily there were none. What was good about this place was that the Manila government’s influence never fully reached it. A perfect refuge for insurgents, Ysabel shuddered at the thought. It’s not that she did anything wrong. Ben told her not to, but she kept thinking about her husband’s death, and when she did, everything turned into a nightmare. The Barbies that hung, upside down, beheaded, dripping with blood, did not make her feel safe anymore. Even without heads she could feel the bloody dolls staring at her. “Okay, we’re safe. What were you saying?” Ysabel asked her daughter. “Where are we mommy?” Ysabel motioned for her daughter to come nearer. She whispered the answer into Anna Lucia’s ear. Little did Ysabel know that later that night, Anna Lucia took her Barbie from underneath the car, and then she played pretend, talking to her beloved Barbie, excitedly telling her inanimate playmate about the new adventures that her mom planned. Three days later, Ben barged into their room. He even brought his friends with him, friends who also had guns, but he ordered them to stay outside. “Hello, Ysabel.” “Be…Ben…How…did…you know?” Ysabel trembled, her face ashen white. “Uncle Ben!” Anna Lucia said, as she ran to him and hugged him. Ben embraced his niece but only for a while. “We heard Anna Lucia tell her Barbie about the great vacation you guys were planning, and I just couldn’t resist to visit you before you go.” “You brought your Barbie? I told you not to bring it!” Ysabel screamed, her face red. “Why do you hate Barbie so much?” Anna Lucia said, her forehead wrinkling in deep confusion, angry tears spilled from her innocent eyes. “Now, now, Ysabel, don’t scold the little girl for playing. There, there, don’t feel upset, Anna Lucia,” Ben said, patting his niece on the back. “My dear child, let me talk to your mommy, so she won’t be so angry about this, okay? I’ll sort this out.” “Okay, Uncle Ben” Anna Lucia said, then she went to Ysabel, “Please don’t be mad at me, mommy. Barbie won’t hurt you. Barbie loves you.” Ysabel tried to fight back tears. “Yes, yes, I know,” she said. She kissed her daughter’s forehead and hugged her so tight. When they parted, Anna Lucia ran up to her room, closed the door, and started playing with her Barbie. “I guess you’re here to take me away.” “What were you thinking, Ysabel? Carelessly going to the Pink Lipsticks for concealers, attracting the suspicions of the man in the pink pinstripe suit—making my life so hard, and I thought I could, like always, to protect you. I never complained when I knew I had to destroy all the receipts and destroy more than that. But you just had to slip up again, and they heard! They heard! They heard Anna Lucia. I always knew there’d come a day when they will, but some foolish hope kept me deluded. They won’t hear as long as I tried to keep you right, but you weren’t trying to keep yourself right. You just kept thinking, and thinking, and thinking, when I told you, I told you, you shouldn’t! What was it going to take to make you obey the rules? I was running out of ideas. You just kept on being reckless. As reckless as your husband.” “Don’t you dare talk about my husband! If you cared, if you really cared, you could have saved him. You— let—him—die,” Ysabel said, her eyes filling with tears. “We didn’t kill your husband,” Ben said, suddenly mechanical. “He died of blood loss. It wasn’t our fault.” “Wasn’t your fault? Don’t give me that crap. I know what’s real. I pretend that I didn’t see it, but I do. I know everything. I tried to stop. I tried to stop for Anna Lucia because I knew it was dangerous.” “Carlos was one of them, Ysabel!” “One of what?” “He was a Peacemaker!” “How do you know? How do you know which one’s a Peacemaker? How do you know which one to kill?” “He developed Peacemaker symptoms, trenches around his eyes. The man we eliminated wasn’t your husband. The man we eliminated was a Peacemaker.” “He had trenches around his eyes? He was a Peacemaker? Look at my eyes,” she said, as she wiped off her make-up. “Am I not your sister? Ben, am I not your sister? Let me see your eyes, and I hope you’re not hiding something there,” Ysabel said, trying to take off Ben’s sunglasses. “You can’t do that,” Ben said, catching her hand in midair. “Why are you not allowed to show their eyes? Are you more disturbed than the Peacemakers are? More disturbed because you know more, see more, yet you choose to stay silent about whatever you have witnessed, whatever you have discovered. Or do your eyes not see anything under those shades? Does the Eternal President mandate you to not see anything at all?” Ben looked at her. There was nothing to say. “All you do is demonize,” Ysabel screamed, “Demonize wakefulness, creating mythical creatures, so that you can kill, kill, kill, and help other people kill.” “Stop shouting,” he said, calmly, with indifference. “Anna Lucia might hear you.” Anna Lucia did not hear. She was in her room busy playing with her Barbie. “There are things we cannot change, Ysabel,” Ben sneered. “You should have followed my lead. I’m not doing this to you. You did this to yourself. You didn’t follow the rules. Now I have to make you pay for it.” “I’m your sister! I’m your sister!” “I know that.” “Let me go, Ben. Let me go.” “How can you even ask that?” Ben said, his own hands shaking. “How can you even make me feel guilty when you’re the one who didn’t follow the rules? You should have followed me. You should have followed the rules. You did this to yourself, not me. You’re the one who went against the system. I’m going to give you time to say goodbye, Ysabel. Say goodbye to your daughter.” Ysabel went towards Ben until she was inches away from his face. Ben’s shades caught light. She could see withered skin, like a Martian road, tunneling and rising, a wall around his eyes—empty, dark, dark. Dark. 000 “I have a surprise for you,” Ben said. He returned the next day, bringing a container filled with blood. “That’s Peacemaker blood. I heard you always wanted some.” Anna Lucia gladly took it. She rummaged through her bag to look for her Barbie. “Would you like to have more Barbies and more blood?” Ben said. “Yes, Uncle Ben,” Anna Lucia said, “But mommy doesn’t want me to have more blood.” “If you lived with Uncle Ben, I’ll let you have all the blood that you want.” “Really?” Anna Lucia said, her eyes lighting up, “But…how about mommy?” “I sent your mommy to your daddy, so she’ll be happy.” “You know how to get to daddy? Mommy said we couldn’t see him anymore, but you saw him! Can I go see him?” “You can’t see him until you’re older. So what do you say? I’ll never buy you cheap blood.” “But…I’ll miss mommy.” “Your mommy will be happier if she’s with your daddy, and you’ll be happier if you have more blood. Do you want to go and see your new room? Come on, it will just be a peek. If you don’t like it, I’ll bring you to your mommy right away.” “I’ll only look at my room, okay? To see if it’s nice. If I don’t like it, you’ll send me to mommy?” “Yes, Anna Lucia. I will.” “Can I play with Barbie first before I look at the room?” Anna Lucia said. “I want to try the new blood.” “Okay. I guess we can stay. I’ll just watch some TV. You can call me when you’re done.” Anna Lucia ran to her room. She sat on the floor, unscrewed Barbie’s head, and opened the blood container. Anna Lucia poured the blood cautiously into Barbie’s neck, careful not to spill, but it was impossible. Soon the floor was covered in blood. She looked at the pool of blood and she saw her reflection, but something was different. Suddenly, she smelled the stench of blood—the smell of rope burning into skin and the metallic sheen of death severing one into silence. She looked closer until she could almost kiss the pool of blood. Then she saw it. She saw it in the red reflection. It was her mother staring disapprovingly at the mess she made.
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EclipsePHOTO TAKEN BY THE AUTHOR The city had stolen into a captive slumber under a blanket of black clouds. Prince Rian stood like a steeple on the tallest skyscraper, observing the skyline that cut into the night like jagged teeth in a monster’s mouth, silhouetted by the light of the vermillion moon. As it swung like a pendulum into midnight position, Rian relented to the lesser light and went to his knees, curling his fingertips around the ledge of cold concrete and furling his wings against his ribs.
Behind him, starlight threaded its way through the fog like fingers being run through hair, getting caught by a ringlet of mist, reminding Rian that the stars were once suns who had reigned the skies of faraway galaxies. Like the illuminants above, he too was a beacon; but it was for this city, and not to forgotten space. He was the sentinel it relied on to break the line between night and day. And the line was nearly drawn. The battle of the thunderclouds had broken Rian’s wings, but they had not yet taken his flame, had not rolled against each other loud enough or moved the wind hard enough to snuff it out like a candle. But it was the scarlet moon that commanded them, the same one that leered over the prince tonight, not letting him forget who ruled the darkness. It shivered in bitter anticipation for Rian’s grip to give, for him to fall headfirst in a rainstorm of golden feathers. Rian would not give up his right to reign so easily, even if his wings couldn’t carry him anymore. They still had a spark of strength and so he lifted them. The movement, only a sudden breath of air, tore away one of the last feathers that had been clinging to his spine by less than a sinew. But his breeze also shifted the haze, allowing the ancient suns to outstrip the moonlight. They lit upon a path in the distance, the trail that led to the crater lake where the skeleton tree stood guard over the decadent stars. From the shadows of its branches, Fallen stepped out. Her silver wings fluttered like the lining in an unfortunate situation. Rian loosened his hold on the edge of the roof, watching as the other stars haloed their sister. Fallen was a splash of color in the darkness, her hair as red as the dusk in a receding storm and her skin as pale as the dawn, except for in the places where the sun had once kissed her. Rian lifted his battered wings once, twice, even a third time, but if he could have raised them a hundred times, they still wouldn’t have been able to carry him to the zenith of the sky. But they could still send a trace of light, like the sun’s first ray in morning, to where Fallen stood. Even with the distance between them, their eyes met. And they understood. Fallen pulled out her bow and shot four arrows into each corner of the city. The fifth was for the orb that loomed above. Like a luminary clock hanging on the horizon, Rian ticked his skeletal wings. And counted. And waited. The arrow found its mark in the moon, breaking its center. The crimson crescent bled in and out like the tide. In retribution, it hurtled a blaze of revenge as fast as a comet straight at Rian. The prince lost his grip; his final feather fell, leaving a skeleton on his back to match the distant tree. Only the bones of angel wings remained, bones that shone like stars in the depth of night. The moon beamed as if it were the only prince of this sleeping city, as if it were emperor over all the seconds and minutes and hours. But. Fallen raised her wings, eclipsing the moon and blocking its rays, catching Rian in her arms. She placed him on the ground and cradled his wings in her sun-kissed arms. She plucked one of her silver feathers and stitched it onto his gold back bones so that he shimmered once again like the dawn. The moon, half of what it once was, slithered back into the fabric of the universe. Rian opened his eyes just as Fallen slipped behind the skeleton tree, underneath the currents of the crater lake. His eyes burned bright like the sun at the memory of her. And the city woke up. The End
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Tim Frank’s short stories have been published in journals many times including Bourbon Penn, Bartleby Snopes, Thrice Fiction, Foliate Oak and Able Muse. Tim Frank is an upcoming writer specialising in the comic, the dark and the surreal. He has written a semi-autobiographical novel, Devil in my Veins, and is currently writing a sci-fi thriller novel. |
UNSEEN
On the forty-first floor of the high rise building in the Lehmann Brothers offices, Matthew Brook's concentration was diverted from the accounts page on his Apple Mac computer to a stream of light cutting through the myriad of buildings outside and finally resting on the tower block opposite. The flare of sunshine brought to Mathew's attention the strangest thing. He saw a man in the bankers’ building, some two hundred yards across, on the same level as Mathew, struggling by the window as two men grappled with him, threw a bag over his head and dragged him out of sight. Mathew leapt to his feet and pressed his face against his office window to see more clearly but the light had changed and the building opposite was suddenly cast in darkness.
Mathew rushed to his secretary, Nia, who was seated outside his office and found her staring blankly into space, fiddling with a stress toy.
‘Nia,’ said Mathew breathlessly, ‘I saw something, a kidnapping maybe, or I don’t know what. Can you find out if anyone on this side of the building has seen anything while I call the police.’
Nia was snapped out of her trance and dutifully began making phone calls, while Mathew returned to his office and dialled the police. Finally, he was put through to a Detective Anderson after waiting for what seemed like hours on the line.
‘Mr Brook?’ Anderson said, ‘How can I help you? There's been a robbery is that right?’
‘No, no,’ said Mathew, ‘I mean maybe. I saw two men in the opposite building, on Bank Street, throw a bag over another man's head and take him away.’
‘Do you remember what the men looked like?’
‘I really don't know. I couldn’t see clearly.’
‘Think Mr Brook.’
‘I just remember the light. It was so strange. That's all.’
‘Did anyone else in your building see this?’
‘I'm not sure. I've asked my secretary to call everyone on this floor but it's more than possible that someone could have seen this too, yes.’
‘OK I'm going to investigate the building where you say this incident occurred and then I will come straight to you to follow up. I'm going to need you to rack your brains for more information though and I will need to speak to your secretary too.’
Mathew hung up and went to find Nia. She wasn't at her desk. He found her in the coffee room, sharing a laugh with a number of other secretaries from other offices whom Mathew barely recognised.
‘Nia,’ he said urgently, ‘have you found out anything?’
‘About what?’ she said, catching some crumbs from a biscuit that was falling out of her mouth.
‘About the man I saw, for God's sake.’
‘Oh right, yeah, no, no one knows what you're talking about.’
‘Come with me, Nia.’
In his office Mathew took a seat behind his desk and then swivelled it around to face the window that looked out onto the building where the crime had occurred earlier. He could see businessmen on many floors at their desks or moving around in their offices, unconcerned, as if nothing dramatic had just happened.
‘Why aren't you more bothered Nia? I've told you a man has been kidnapped and I find you laughing and joking.’
‘I did what you asked me. No one saw anything. And I was on my break. Maybe you were mistaken about this man.’
‘Mistaken? How dare you? You're skating on thin ice, Nia. Well the police are involved now and they'll get to the bottom of this, I'm sure. You’re excused.’
Just before 5pm Detective Anderson, a slight but formidable looking man with pock marks on his cheeks and slick hair, styled into a centre parting, was shown inside Mathew's office by Nia. The men shared a vigorous handshake and as Mathew took a seat Anderson unfurled his notebook and paced about.
‘Well,’ said Anderson, ‘I've checked out all fifty floors of the building on Bank Street and I've come up with nothing. Your secretary, Nia, tells me no one in this floor can corroborate your story either.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Mathew said.
‘Well Mr Brook, we have nothing to go on. We simply have a man, by that I mean you, who may or may not have seen something. Maybe the light reflected off Venus,’ Anderson said, chuckling to himself.
‘I said the light was strange, OK? That's all. And it was. Look, I'm not just some nut looking for attention. I know what I saw. Isn't there any other avenues you can explore?’
‘Frankly, there's no point in taking this matter any further. Mr Brook, banking is probably pretty boring, and I hear cocaine is the bankers' drug of choice. Maybe you should stick to vaping.’
Anderson revealed a set of yellow stained teeth.
‘Are you serious?’ Mathew said. ‘Get out, Detective Anderson. Get out of my office.’
As Anderson strolled out, Mathew called after him, ‘An innocent man has been attacked and you're just going to let whoever did it get away scot-free. I hope that doesn't weigh too heavily on your conscience, Detective.’
Anderson shook off Mathew's comment by giving a playful salute and then left.
Two days later Mathew was scouring online papers for reports about anyone who might have been assaulted in one of the buildings in the neighbourhood, but to no avail. Taking a break from his search, he stood and gazed out of his window. Storm clouds had gathered and thunder was rumbling around until he saw a bolt of lightning flash down from the sky. As a glint of light shifted between skyscrapers, Mathew caught sight of a man in the opposite block, on the floor below, slam his hand several times against his window, while screaming, only for a couple of men to seize hold of him and haul him away while he struggled in vain. Then there was silence. Nobody in the opposite building gave any indication of there being anything wrong. The incident had taken less than ten seconds but there was no doubt in Mathew's mind as to what he had seen.
Mathew threw on his overcoat, exited his high-rise and braved the storm to get to the adjacent building where the disturbing events had taken place. As he entered through the revolving doors, he noticed the front desk was abandoned and tinny muzak echoed through the empty hall. An elevator had just arrived and the doors glided open. The lift was vacant.
‘Huh,’ Mathew muttered to himself. He stepped inside the lift and pressed the button for the fortieth floor. As he ascended, he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Blood stained the cloth. The doors slid open and he saw a multitude of deserted cubicles and offices. Light poured into the floor from the giant windows on the far side. Tentatively Mathew called out, ‘Anyone there?’
There was no response, so he began to explore the area until he found the workplace of the man he saw kidnapped just minutes earlier. Mathew could see his own office through the glass, one floor up and across the way, so he knew he was in the right place. The room he was in displayed no evidence of a struggle, in fact everything in the office was neat and orderly - desktop computer gently humming, paperwork neatly stacked by the monitor and a few books of fiction lined up on the shelf by the door.
Mathew decided to check the floor above where he saw the first kidnapping. Surely he'd be able to find someone there who could help solve this conundrum. But when he arrived at the forty-first floor he was shocked to discover it was completely unoccupied too. He made his way to the scene of the first crime from where he could see clearly into his own office. Mathew looked around but the truth was he had given up any hope of finding anything. He decided to call Detective Anderson, who answered immediately, saying, ‘Somehow I thought this wasn't over. What is it now Mr Brook?’
‘I saw another kidnapping,’ said Mathew, ‘and I came to check out the building where the crime took place, just to see if anyone knew anything. I'm here now, and the place is deserted - both floors where each attack happened. I bet the whole building is vacant too. I'm convinced something big is going on.’
‘Maybe there was a fire drill.’
‘Maybe, I guess, but wouldn't I have seen the workers milling about outside? Look can you just come down here one last time? I won't bother you again.’
‘Fine, give me an hour. Go back to work Mr Brook, I'm sure there are many people who depend on you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I'll be in touch Mr Brook.’
As Mathew slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket he noticed some movement in his office in the opposite tower. It was Nia. She was fishing around in Mathew's wastebasket, digging deep inside. Then she seemed to sense someone was watching because she stood up sharply and darted out of the room.
When Mathew returned to his office he passed Nia without acknowledging her. He closed his door and rifled through his bin. There were a number of blood-stained tissues but other than that there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Mathew buzzed Nia and asked her to enter his office.
‘What have you been doing in my room, Nia?’
‘Nothing, Mr Brook, this is the first time I've been here all day.’
‘Now, we both know that isn't true. I saw you rummage through my wastebasket while I was in the opposite building. Tell me Nia, what do you know about these kidnappings?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing.’
‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘You smiled just then.’
‘Respectfully Mr Brook, I think you're wrong, I didn't react in any way at all.’
Mathew's phone rang and he said, ‘You can go Nia, I have to take this. Hello Detective, what have you come up with?’
‘As I predicted, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone is at work, the building is as it should be, a bunch of bankers fleecing the general public as usual.’
Mathew turned and looked out of the window and saw hordes of workers busy in the opposite block.
‘It can't be. Did they say it was a fire drill?’
‘No, they didn't, but as you can see everything is normal. Mr Brook do you have a wife? Children?’
‘Yes, I'm married and we have one girl.’
‘Well I suggest you take a holiday and spend some time with them. I think the stress is getting to you.’
Mathew hung up. He decided to check out the skyscraper opposite for a second time, despite the fact he was starting to feel like he was losing his mind.
As he moved through the revolving doors once again he was greeted with an overfriendly smile from a man in a blue pinstripe suit at reception. He said to Mathew, ‘Hello sir, how can I be of assistance?’
‘Where were you earlier?’
‘Excuse me sir?’
‘I came here about an hour ago. You weren't here.’
‘No, I have been here since 9am and I've yet to take my break.’
‘I know you weren't here because I was here. I would have seen you.’
‘Well I'm sorry sir, what can I say?’
‘Was there a fire drill today?’
‘No, no there wasn't.’
‘Maybe you were in the back there when I came, or using the toilet?’
‘I'm afraid not sir, I've been manning the desk continuously all day.’
‘OK just forget it. I'm going to check out the fortieth and forty-first floors. When I went to the see them before they were completely empty. I'm assuming you can't explain that either?’
‘I want to help you sir but, to be honest, I have no idea what you're talking about.’
‘Jesus, I can't get a straight answer from anyone today. I'm going upstairs.’
‘Wait sir, you have to sign in.’
But Mathew was already boarding the lift. He pressed the button for the forty-first floor and waited. When he reached his destination and the doors opened he was faced with a floor bustling with life. He tried to engage some of the workers in conversation but everyone he approached simply brushed past him. The people seemed to be minding their own business, but despite this Mathew had the strangest feeling that the people passing him weren’t quite there, as if they were in a half-world of some kind. Mathew couldn't understand why this was or how it was possible, but the impression was tangible. There was something in the eyes of the businessmen, their shade and texture, signifying they weren't truly real. Maybe they were in another realm, outside of this building, carrying out different more elusive activities. He couldn't tell. But the mystery nagged away at him like a fever gradually building. It was then Mathew noticed there was someone occupying the office where he witnessed the first abduction. When he reached the door, he could see a man with a balding crown sitting on an executive chair, facing the window. Mathew cleared his throat but the businessman either didn't hear or was ignoring him. So, Mathew knocked loudly until the man turned to face him. The man waved at him and then pointed at his mouth making jabbing motions. Mathew was confused until the man seated himself in front of his computer and began to type. He wrote, 'I've lost my voice. I apologise. But how can I help?'
‘OK, this may sound strange but I saw a man in this office being kidnapped by two men a couple of days ago and I was wondering if you knew anything about it?’
‘No,’ the man typed, ‘nothing like that happened here, I can assure you of that. Trust me, I'm the only person here who would truly know.’
It was then Mathew noticed something that made his hair stand on end. In the bin under the desk he saw a linen bag poking out amongst crumpled pieces of notepaper. Mathew pulled out the bag from the rubbish and held it aloft. It looked like one of the bags used in the kidnappings.
‘What's this? Mathew said.
The man froze and then blushed. He typed, 'Aren't you Mathew Brook?'
‘What? Yes, I am but that's irrelevant, I want you to tell me what's been going on and why this sack is in your bin.’
‘We went to college together, don't you remember? I'm Abdul Khan. We both studied finance.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do recall you. You're different, but I can't put my finger on exactly how.’ ‘Anyway, it was lovely to see you again, but if you'll excuse me, I am pushed for time. I don't have the answers to your questions and I have to put some things in order. And Mathew, I'd advise you, if you don't want to lose your voice like I did, don't shout so loud. You won't be heard anyway.’
Taken aback, Mathew dropped the sack back into the bin and retreated to his office in a daze as Abdul continued typing to some unseen audience. Mathew was confused. He couldn’t understand why this Abdul Kahn was speaking in such a strange way and how this man was part of the greater puzzle. He immediately sat down and continued trawling the internet for clues, but still found no leads. He went to the window and stared at Abdul in the opposite building. Abdul was staring back, motionless and inscrutable. Then everything went black as Mathew was bludgeoned over the head with a blunt object. He came to in a damp basement, seated beside his wife and daughter, all of them tied to chairs. Two men in garish costume masks and black velvet capes hovered above the family. Flickering halogen lights created a sickening turbulence in the room and the smell of gasoline seeped down through the ceiling. The men breathed heavily through their masks. Mathew's wife, Alice, and daughter, Katie, were crying inconsolably. When Mathew found his bearings he tried to take charge of the situation.
‘What is going on? Set us free immediately.’
One of the men, wearing a black and red mask, reached out to Katie, grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.
‘Stop, stop!’ Mathew said. ‘I'll do anything you say, just don't hurt my baby.’
The men in masks inhaled then exhaled.
‘What do you want?’ Mathew pleaded. ‘Is it about Abdul Khan? Really, I don't know him. Well, I guess I might have studied with him at some point when I was young but I haven't seen him in years. I have no connection with him now whatsoever.’
The men in capes spoke in unison, their gravelly voices interweaving like coiled snakes, ‘Your relationship to Mr Kahn is something you will have to come to terms with in due time because, whatever your denials, he is key. He can be weak, yes, but who isn't? The truth is he is a fine man who has carried out his role dutifully. In fact, he is someone you should aspire to emulate. Remember, from now on you will be unseen and unheard.’
And with that, everything went dark.
Mathew woke up in bed screaming. He felt like he'd been screaming for days, and his throat was sore from the exertion. He was dizzy and his head throbbed. He called out to his wife and daughter but there was no response. He shuffled into the kitchen and found his family seated by the countertop eating cereal.
‘Didn't you hear me calling you?’ Mathew said.
They ignored him and continued spooning rice crispies into their mouths.
‘Is everything OK, guys?’
Alice stood up and cleared the dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher. Mathew reached out to stroke Katie's hair but she blocked him and walked away.
‘Come on Katie,’ said Alice, ‘let's go to the library. We can get some fairy tales for you to read at bedtime.’
‘Do I get a kiss goodbye, then?’ Mathew asked. Reluctantly Katie gave him a peck on the cheek. Alice heaved her handbag over her shoulder and walked out of the room leaving Mathew alone with his troubled thoughts. But before Alice could start the car Mathew raced out to intercept her. He knocked on the window and she rolled it down.
‘Alice, we have to talk. Maybe you think this is all my fault but I assure you that I did everything I could to stop this. I had no idea what I was getting involved in. I was just carrying out my job like I have every other day and then it all just came tumbling down around me. And trust me I'm not the only one, it's everyone.’
‘We can't talk about this,’ said Alice.
‘I know.’
‘Go to work, forget about everything, and pretend like this never happened. It should be easy for you.’
Mathew watched as Alice accelerated away and then he went back into the house and got dressed for work. As he entered his tower block and stepped into the elevator he felt something trickle down from his nose. He dabbed his upper lip with his fingers and saw blood smeared across them. He raced into his office and tried to stem the flow of the bleeding. It was then that he heard Nia chatting to someone outside his door. It didn't take him long to recognise the voice. It was Detective Anderson and they were both laughing together flirtatiously. When Mathew poked his head out of his office he saw Anderson perched sideways on Nia's desk playing with her stress toy, juggling it from one hand to the other.
‘I have no further information Detective,’ said Mathew. ‘I don't need your help anymore.’
‘Oh that's alright Mr Brook,’ said Anderson, ‘I'm actually here to see Nia.’
‘Why, what has she done?’
‘Oh no, it's nothing like that. I've come to ask her to dinner. You don't mind, do you?’
‘Um, uh, of course not.’
‘Well I think I'll be off; I'll see you tomorrow night Nia,’ Anderson said, knocking on the desk twice. Mathew returned to his office and took a seat. He glanced at the picture of his wife and child that was resting by his phone. The light moved in a manner that illuminated their eyes. His family seemed to be staring right through him. It was then that he noticed a brown envelope on his keyboard. He picked it up and prised it open. Inside was a couple of grams worth of cocaine wrapped in a cellophane bag. He placed the drugs back in the envelope and ordered Nia into his room.
‘Yes, Mr Brook?’ she said.
‘What's this Nia?’ Mathew said, holding up the envelope.
‘I brought it for you.’
‘Yes, but why? I didn't ask for it and I don't want it.’
‘OK sir, I just thought...’
‘Well you thought wrong. Do you know what kind of position this puts me in? Nia, you've given me no option but to let you go.’
‘I wouldn't do that if I were you.’
‘What?’
‘I'm saying, it wouldn't be wise to do that. People like you think you get away with anything. Well you can't. I might not have your power but there are forces you simply can't challenge.’
‘Pack your things Nia.’
Just then a scuffle could be heard outside Mathew's door and both he and Nia were drawn to the noise. Two men were wrestling with a man across the hall. The victim had a bag over his head and he was shrieking for help. Everyone on the floor continued tapping away at their PCs seemingly unaware of the incident.
‘Do you see that, Nia?’ said Mathew.
‘See what?’ Nia said.
‘Forget it, and forget everything I just said to you. Get back to work,’ said Mathew, who returned to his office and stood by the window. He questioned whether he was the same person he always assumed himself to be. Although he felt similar in many aspects every time he searched for a memory inside himself or gazed at his reflection in the window - when the light struck at a particular angle - he felt lost, without a frame of reference to steady himself. And yet he didn't allow himself to follow these trains of thought for too long. He'd spent too many hours working at his current job, loving the same woman and bringing up a young girl for him to doubt himself now. Because who was he to question such things anyway? Why would anyone? And after all, he needed to get back to work.
Mathew rushed to his secretary, Nia, who was seated outside his office and found her staring blankly into space, fiddling with a stress toy.
‘Nia,’ said Mathew breathlessly, ‘I saw something, a kidnapping maybe, or I don’t know what. Can you find out if anyone on this side of the building has seen anything while I call the police.’
Nia was snapped out of her trance and dutifully began making phone calls, while Mathew returned to his office and dialled the police. Finally, he was put through to a Detective Anderson after waiting for what seemed like hours on the line.
‘Mr Brook?’ Anderson said, ‘How can I help you? There's been a robbery is that right?’
‘No, no,’ said Mathew, ‘I mean maybe. I saw two men in the opposite building, on Bank Street, throw a bag over another man's head and take him away.’
‘Do you remember what the men looked like?’
‘I really don't know. I couldn’t see clearly.’
‘Think Mr Brook.’
‘I just remember the light. It was so strange. That's all.’
‘Did anyone else in your building see this?’
‘I'm not sure. I've asked my secretary to call everyone on this floor but it's more than possible that someone could have seen this too, yes.’
‘OK I'm going to investigate the building where you say this incident occurred and then I will come straight to you to follow up. I'm going to need you to rack your brains for more information though and I will need to speak to your secretary too.’
Mathew hung up and went to find Nia. She wasn't at her desk. He found her in the coffee room, sharing a laugh with a number of other secretaries from other offices whom Mathew barely recognised.
‘Nia,’ he said urgently, ‘have you found out anything?’
‘About what?’ she said, catching some crumbs from a biscuit that was falling out of her mouth.
‘About the man I saw, for God's sake.’
‘Oh right, yeah, no, no one knows what you're talking about.’
‘Come with me, Nia.’
In his office Mathew took a seat behind his desk and then swivelled it around to face the window that looked out onto the building where the crime had occurred earlier. He could see businessmen on many floors at their desks or moving around in their offices, unconcerned, as if nothing dramatic had just happened.
‘Why aren't you more bothered Nia? I've told you a man has been kidnapped and I find you laughing and joking.’
‘I did what you asked me. No one saw anything. And I was on my break. Maybe you were mistaken about this man.’
‘Mistaken? How dare you? You're skating on thin ice, Nia. Well the police are involved now and they'll get to the bottom of this, I'm sure. You’re excused.’
Just before 5pm Detective Anderson, a slight but formidable looking man with pock marks on his cheeks and slick hair, styled into a centre parting, was shown inside Mathew's office by Nia. The men shared a vigorous handshake and as Mathew took a seat Anderson unfurled his notebook and paced about.
‘Well,’ said Anderson, ‘I've checked out all fifty floors of the building on Bank Street and I've come up with nothing. Your secretary, Nia, tells me no one in this floor can corroborate your story either.’
‘So what are you saying?’ Mathew said.
‘Well Mr Brook, we have nothing to go on. We simply have a man, by that I mean you, who may or may not have seen something. Maybe the light reflected off Venus,’ Anderson said, chuckling to himself.
‘I said the light was strange, OK? That's all. And it was. Look, I'm not just some nut looking for attention. I know what I saw. Isn't there any other avenues you can explore?’
‘Frankly, there's no point in taking this matter any further. Mr Brook, banking is probably pretty boring, and I hear cocaine is the bankers' drug of choice. Maybe you should stick to vaping.’
Anderson revealed a set of yellow stained teeth.
‘Are you serious?’ Mathew said. ‘Get out, Detective Anderson. Get out of my office.’
As Anderson strolled out, Mathew called after him, ‘An innocent man has been attacked and you're just going to let whoever did it get away scot-free. I hope that doesn't weigh too heavily on your conscience, Detective.’
Anderson shook off Mathew's comment by giving a playful salute and then left.
Two days later Mathew was scouring online papers for reports about anyone who might have been assaulted in one of the buildings in the neighbourhood, but to no avail. Taking a break from his search, he stood and gazed out of his window. Storm clouds had gathered and thunder was rumbling around until he saw a bolt of lightning flash down from the sky. As a glint of light shifted between skyscrapers, Mathew caught sight of a man in the opposite block, on the floor below, slam his hand several times against his window, while screaming, only for a couple of men to seize hold of him and haul him away while he struggled in vain. Then there was silence. Nobody in the opposite building gave any indication of there being anything wrong. The incident had taken less than ten seconds but there was no doubt in Mathew's mind as to what he had seen.
Mathew threw on his overcoat, exited his high-rise and braved the storm to get to the adjacent building where the disturbing events had taken place. As he entered through the revolving doors, he noticed the front desk was abandoned and tinny muzak echoed through the empty hall. An elevator had just arrived and the doors glided open. The lift was vacant.
‘Huh,’ Mathew muttered to himself. He stepped inside the lift and pressed the button for the fortieth floor. As he ascended, he pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. Blood stained the cloth. The doors slid open and he saw a multitude of deserted cubicles and offices. Light poured into the floor from the giant windows on the far side. Tentatively Mathew called out, ‘Anyone there?’
There was no response, so he began to explore the area until he found the workplace of the man he saw kidnapped just minutes earlier. Mathew could see his own office through the glass, one floor up and across the way, so he knew he was in the right place. The room he was in displayed no evidence of a struggle, in fact everything in the office was neat and orderly - desktop computer gently humming, paperwork neatly stacked by the monitor and a few books of fiction lined up on the shelf by the door.
Mathew decided to check the floor above where he saw the first kidnapping. Surely he'd be able to find someone there who could help solve this conundrum. But when he arrived at the forty-first floor he was shocked to discover it was completely unoccupied too. He made his way to the scene of the first crime from where he could see clearly into his own office. Mathew looked around but the truth was he had given up any hope of finding anything. He decided to call Detective Anderson, who answered immediately, saying, ‘Somehow I thought this wasn't over. What is it now Mr Brook?’
‘I saw another kidnapping,’ said Mathew, ‘and I came to check out the building where the crime took place, just to see if anyone knew anything. I'm here now, and the place is deserted - both floors where each attack happened. I bet the whole building is vacant too. I'm convinced something big is going on.’
‘Maybe there was a fire drill.’
‘Maybe, I guess, but wouldn't I have seen the workers milling about outside? Look can you just come down here one last time? I won't bother you again.’
‘Fine, give me an hour. Go back to work Mr Brook, I'm sure there are many people who depend on you.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I'll be in touch Mr Brook.’
As Mathew slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket he noticed some movement in his office in the opposite tower. It was Nia. She was fishing around in Mathew's wastebasket, digging deep inside. Then she seemed to sense someone was watching because she stood up sharply and darted out of the room.
When Mathew returned to his office he passed Nia without acknowledging her. He closed his door and rifled through his bin. There were a number of blood-stained tissues but other than that there was nothing out of the ordinary.
Mathew buzzed Nia and asked her to enter his office.
‘What have you been doing in my room, Nia?’
‘Nothing, Mr Brook, this is the first time I've been here all day.’
‘Now, we both know that isn't true. I saw you rummage through my wastebasket while I was in the opposite building. Tell me Nia, what do you know about these kidnappings?’
‘Nothing, absolutely nothing.’
‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘You smiled just then.’
‘Respectfully Mr Brook, I think you're wrong, I didn't react in any way at all.’
Mathew's phone rang and he said, ‘You can go Nia, I have to take this. Hello Detective, what have you come up with?’
‘As I predicted, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone is at work, the building is as it should be, a bunch of bankers fleecing the general public as usual.’
Mathew turned and looked out of the window and saw hordes of workers busy in the opposite block.
‘It can't be. Did they say it was a fire drill?’
‘No, they didn't, but as you can see everything is normal. Mr Brook do you have a wife? Children?’
‘Yes, I'm married and we have one girl.’
‘Well I suggest you take a holiday and spend some time with them. I think the stress is getting to you.’
Mathew hung up. He decided to check out the skyscraper opposite for a second time, despite the fact he was starting to feel like he was losing his mind.
As he moved through the revolving doors once again he was greeted with an overfriendly smile from a man in a blue pinstripe suit at reception. He said to Mathew, ‘Hello sir, how can I be of assistance?’
‘Where were you earlier?’
‘Excuse me sir?’
‘I came here about an hour ago. You weren't here.’
‘No, I have been here since 9am and I've yet to take my break.’
‘I know you weren't here because I was here. I would have seen you.’
‘Well I'm sorry sir, what can I say?’
‘Was there a fire drill today?’
‘No, no there wasn't.’
‘Maybe you were in the back there when I came, or using the toilet?’
‘I'm afraid not sir, I've been manning the desk continuously all day.’
‘OK just forget it. I'm going to check out the fortieth and forty-first floors. When I went to the see them before they were completely empty. I'm assuming you can't explain that either?’
‘I want to help you sir but, to be honest, I have no idea what you're talking about.’
‘Jesus, I can't get a straight answer from anyone today. I'm going upstairs.’
‘Wait sir, you have to sign in.’
But Mathew was already boarding the lift. He pressed the button for the forty-first floor and waited. When he reached his destination and the doors opened he was faced with a floor bustling with life. He tried to engage some of the workers in conversation but everyone he approached simply brushed past him. The people seemed to be minding their own business, but despite this Mathew had the strangest feeling that the people passing him weren’t quite there, as if they were in a half-world of some kind. Mathew couldn't understand why this was or how it was possible, but the impression was tangible. There was something in the eyes of the businessmen, their shade and texture, signifying they weren't truly real. Maybe they were in another realm, outside of this building, carrying out different more elusive activities. He couldn't tell. But the mystery nagged away at him like a fever gradually building. It was then Mathew noticed there was someone occupying the office where he witnessed the first abduction. When he reached the door, he could see a man with a balding crown sitting on an executive chair, facing the window. Mathew cleared his throat but the businessman either didn't hear or was ignoring him. So, Mathew knocked loudly until the man turned to face him. The man waved at him and then pointed at his mouth making jabbing motions. Mathew was confused until the man seated himself in front of his computer and began to type. He wrote, 'I've lost my voice. I apologise. But how can I help?'
‘OK, this may sound strange but I saw a man in this office being kidnapped by two men a couple of days ago and I was wondering if you knew anything about it?’
‘No,’ the man typed, ‘nothing like that happened here, I can assure you of that. Trust me, I'm the only person here who would truly know.’
It was then Mathew noticed something that made his hair stand on end. In the bin under the desk he saw a linen bag poking out amongst crumpled pieces of notepaper. Mathew pulled out the bag from the rubbish and held it aloft. It looked like one of the bags used in the kidnappings.
‘What's this? Mathew said.
The man froze and then blushed. He typed, 'Aren't you Mathew Brook?'
‘What? Yes, I am but that's irrelevant, I want you to tell me what's been going on and why this sack is in your bin.’
‘We went to college together, don't you remember? I'm Abdul Khan. We both studied finance.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do recall you. You're different, but I can't put my finger on exactly how.’ ‘Anyway, it was lovely to see you again, but if you'll excuse me, I am pushed for time. I don't have the answers to your questions and I have to put some things in order. And Mathew, I'd advise you, if you don't want to lose your voice like I did, don't shout so loud. You won't be heard anyway.’
Taken aback, Mathew dropped the sack back into the bin and retreated to his office in a daze as Abdul continued typing to some unseen audience. Mathew was confused. He couldn’t understand why this Abdul Kahn was speaking in such a strange way and how this man was part of the greater puzzle. He immediately sat down and continued trawling the internet for clues, but still found no leads. He went to the window and stared at Abdul in the opposite building. Abdul was staring back, motionless and inscrutable. Then everything went black as Mathew was bludgeoned over the head with a blunt object. He came to in a damp basement, seated beside his wife and daughter, all of them tied to chairs. Two men in garish costume masks and black velvet capes hovered above the family. Flickering halogen lights created a sickening turbulence in the room and the smell of gasoline seeped down through the ceiling. The men breathed heavily through their masks. Mathew's wife, Alice, and daughter, Katie, were crying inconsolably. When Mathew found his bearings he tried to take charge of the situation.
‘What is going on? Set us free immediately.’
One of the men, wearing a black and red mask, reached out to Katie, grabbed her by the throat and squeezed.
‘Stop, stop!’ Mathew said. ‘I'll do anything you say, just don't hurt my baby.’
The men in masks inhaled then exhaled.
‘What do you want?’ Mathew pleaded. ‘Is it about Abdul Khan? Really, I don't know him. Well, I guess I might have studied with him at some point when I was young but I haven't seen him in years. I have no connection with him now whatsoever.’
The men in capes spoke in unison, their gravelly voices interweaving like coiled snakes, ‘Your relationship to Mr Kahn is something you will have to come to terms with in due time because, whatever your denials, he is key. He can be weak, yes, but who isn't? The truth is he is a fine man who has carried out his role dutifully. In fact, he is someone you should aspire to emulate. Remember, from now on you will be unseen and unheard.’
And with that, everything went dark.
Mathew woke up in bed screaming. He felt like he'd been screaming for days, and his throat was sore from the exertion. He was dizzy and his head throbbed. He called out to his wife and daughter but there was no response. He shuffled into the kitchen and found his family seated by the countertop eating cereal.
‘Didn't you hear me calling you?’ Mathew said.
They ignored him and continued spooning rice crispies into their mouths.
‘Is everything OK, guys?’
Alice stood up and cleared the dishes, stacking them in the dishwasher. Mathew reached out to stroke Katie's hair but she blocked him and walked away.
‘Come on Katie,’ said Alice, ‘let's go to the library. We can get some fairy tales for you to read at bedtime.’
‘Do I get a kiss goodbye, then?’ Mathew asked. Reluctantly Katie gave him a peck on the cheek. Alice heaved her handbag over her shoulder and walked out of the room leaving Mathew alone with his troubled thoughts. But before Alice could start the car Mathew raced out to intercept her. He knocked on the window and she rolled it down.
‘Alice, we have to talk. Maybe you think this is all my fault but I assure you that I did everything I could to stop this. I had no idea what I was getting involved in. I was just carrying out my job like I have every other day and then it all just came tumbling down around me. And trust me I'm not the only one, it's everyone.’
‘We can't talk about this,’ said Alice.
‘I know.’
‘Go to work, forget about everything, and pretend like this never happened. It should be easy for you.’
Mathew watched as Alice accelerated away and then he went back into the house and got dressed for work. As he entered his tower block and stepped into the elevator he felt something trickle down from his nose. He dabbed his upper lip with his fingers and saw blood smeared across them. He raced into his office and tried to stem the flow of the bleeding. It was then that he heard Nia chatting to someone outside his door. It didn't take him long to recognise the voice. It was Detective Anderson and they were both laughing together flirtatiously. When Mathew poked his head out of his office he saw Anderson perched sideways on Nia's desk playing with her stress toy, juggling it from one hand to the other.
‘I have no further information Detective,’ said Mathew. ‘I don't need your help anymore.’
‘Oh that's alright Mr Brook,’ said Anderson, ‘I'm actually here to see Nia.’
‘Why, what has she done?’
‘Oh no, it's nothing like that. I've come to ask her to dinner. You don't mind, do you?’
‘Um, uh, of course not.’
‘Well I think I'll be off; I'll see you tomorrow night Nia,’ Anderson said, knocking on the desk twice. Mathew returned to his office and took a seat. He glanced at the picture of his wife and child that was resting by his phone. The light moved in a manner that illuminated their eyes. His family seemed to be staring right through him. It was then that he noticed a brown envelope on his keyboard. He picked it up and prised it open. Inside was a couple of grams worth of cocaine wrapped in a cellophane bag. He placed the drugs back in the envelope and ordered Nia into his room.
‘Yes, Mr Brook?’ she said.
‘What's this Nia?’ Mathew said, holding up the envelope.
‘I brought it for you.’
‘Yes, but why? I didn't ask for it and I don't want it.’
‘OK sir, I just thought...’
‘Well you thought wrong. Do you know what kind of position this puts me in? Nia, you've given me no option but to let you go.’
‘I wouldn't do that if I were you.’
‘What?’
‘I'm saying, it wouldn't be wise to do that. People like you think you get away with anything. Well you can't. I might not have your power but there are forces you simply can't challenge.’
‘Pack your things Nia.’
Just then a scuffle could be heard outside Mathew's door and both he and Nia were drawn to the noise. Two men were wrestling with a man across the hall. The victim had a bag over his head and he was shrieking for help. Everyone on the floor continued tapping away at their PCs seemingly unaware of the incident.
‘Do you see that, Nia?’ said Mathew.
‘See what?’ Nia said.
‘Forget it, and forget everything I just said to you. Get back to work,’ said Mathew, who returned to his office and stood by the window. He questioned whether he was the same person he always assumed himself to be. Although he felt similar in many aspects every time he searched for a memory inside himself or gazed at his reflection in the window - when the light struck at a particular angle - he felt lost, without a frame of reference to steady himself. And yet he didn't allow himself to follow these trains of thought for too long. He'd spent too many hours working at his current job, loving the same woman and bringing up a young girl for him to doubt himself now. Because who was he to question such things anyway? Why would anyone? And after all, he needed to get back to work.
Eleanor Lerman is the author of numerous award-winning collections of poetry, short stories and novels. She is a National Book Award finalist, the recipient of the 2006 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize from the Academy of American Poets, and was awarded a Guggenheim Fellowship as well as fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts for poetry and the New York Foundation for the Arts for fiction. In 2016, her novel, Radiomen (The Permanent Press), was awarded the John W. Campbell Prize for the Best Book of Science Fiction. In 2018, her next novel, The Stargazer’s Embassy (Mayapple Press), received an American Fiction Award from American Book Fest. Her most recent novel, Satellite Street, was published in 2019. www.eleanorlerman.com |
Why Us?
“Yes, it’s me,” says David Gold. “You don’t have to stare.”
Rita looks down at her hands, looks off towards the snow drifts piled up against the side of Miller’s Garage and Body Shop. The brownish snow, left over from an end-of-winter storm a week ago, is turning black around the edges and beginning to take on the look of a permanent addition to the landscape. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“You don’t have to be,” Gold tells her. “I didn’t say I minded it.”
He smiles, but with just a corner of his mouth, as if he’s only partly letting Rita off the hook for being rude. But she thinks that might be a practiced effect: she remembers that look—knowing, ironic—from his old album covers and the jackets of his books of poetry. In those pictures, he was dark haired, dark eyed: a man with a strong, memorable face. Though he must be in his seventies now, there is still a palpable sense of presence about him, and strength, still, in his long jaw, the sharp angles of his profile.
He’s wearing a watch cap and a pea coat, clothes that might be too retro cool for a man his age—if he wasn’t who he is. But being who he is, Rita can’t help wondering what he’s doing here, a few miles outside Woodstock, in Ulster County, New York, at a cold, rural crossroads that boasts only two stores: the repair shop and a bare-bones Rent-A-Center, frugally stocked with decrepit furniture and electrical appliances that look like they haven’t worked properly in years.
David Gold answers her question—at least in part—while she’s still puzzling over it. He and Rita are both sitting on a bench outside the garage, but Gold suddenly stands up and peers into a dusty window behind them.
“I see they’ve still got my car up on a lift,” he says. “Do you know when this place opens? They told me to be here at 8:30.”
“They’re late sometimes,” Rita tells him. “But someone usually gets here by nine.”
“When I saw you getting off the bus,” Gold tells her, sitting back down again. “I was hoping you worked here and could let me in. It’s getting damn cold sitting outside.”
“I only come for a few hours every week to do their books, send out bills. Things like that,” Rita tells him.
Gold turns to face her and with one look, seems to take her measure: he sees a thin woman in jeans and old, beat-up boots who’s also wearing a leather bomber jacket and a hand-knit wool hat with tasseled ear-flaps hanging down past her shoulders. Hmm, Rita can almost hear him think. This is the bookkeeper? I’ll bet there’s some story here.
But before he can ask any questions, if he’s inclined to, the mechanic who works at the shop pulls up in his truck, climbs out and unlocks the door of the garage. Gold asks him about the car while Rita heads towards the tiny office at the far end of the floor. She takes off her hat and jacket and settles herself at the ancient desk, which is topped by a computer that looks like it’s in much the same condition as the merchandise at the Rent-A-Center next door.
As she turns on the computer and waits for it to decide whether or not it wants to work today, David Gold appears at the office door. “The car’s not ready,” he tells her. Then, pointing at the phone on the desk, he asks, “Can I use that to call a taxi to take me home?” Rita says sure, and then listens to him ask the man who drives the one cab that serves the area to come pick him up at the same place he dropped him off about half an hour ago. When he’s finished, he says to Rita, “Would you do me a favor? If you have any juice with these people, see if they really can get the damn thing fixed today instead of just saying so?”
“I imagine they will,” Rita tells him. “It’s the only one in the shop.” Then, making an exaggerated show of craning her neck to peer out onto the garage floor, she says, “Maybe they just want to hang onto it an extra day because it’s so cute. It sort of looks like a snow globe.”
He turns around to regard the car up on the lift—some tiny, round European vehicle painted a jaunty shade of blue. It has two seats but hardly looks big enough to accommodate one adult. “I guess I should consider that some kind of insult to my manhood,” he says to Rita, “but you’re right. It does. And anyway, it really belongs to my son.”
And then he’s gone. Grudgingly, the computer finally displays some program icons on its screen, and Rita is able to begin entering information into the repair shop’s ledgers. Once she gets going, it’s pretty much mindless work, which leaves her free to think about other things, and what she thinks about is David Gold. He used to be called a bard—a word that she imagines no one would use anymore without snickering. He published several volumes of poetry, all of which Rita owns, and produced even more albums of songs, which he both wrote and sang in a distinctively dark, mournful voice. She doesn’t think he has produced any new work, though, in many years—or perhaps she just hasn’t been paying attention to things like that.
Eventually, her thoughts wander off to other subjects. She goes over the list in her mind of the collection of part-time jobs she has, mostly bookkeeping and data entry at various businesses and one big-box store at a regional mall, reminding herself about her schedule for the rest of the week. She doesn’t have a car—she can’t afford one—so she is bound by the schedule of buses that rattle around the roads from one small upstate town to another. She’s one of the brother—and sisterhood—of the bus; service workers and temporary typists and house cleaners and yard workers and babysitters and store clerks who wake up in the dead hours before dawn, board a bus at the edge of some rutted country road and then nod off as they are carried along, on fumes and snatches of music from the driver’s radio, from Ulster to Sullivan counties, through the hamlets of Woodstock, Shandanken, Bearsville, West Hurley, Shokan, Shady, Byrdcliffe, Zena, Phoenicia, Bethel, White Lake, Willow, Mt. Tremper, Boiceville, and Saugerties, some traveling as far as Kingston, a larger city, once the capital of New York State. They all know each other well—not by name, but by the stop they have to get off—and will wake each other if they are still dozing when they near their different destinations.
She’s done with her work at four o’clock, and leaves on the dot because otherwise, she will miss the next bus going in her direction. If she doesn’t catch that one, she’ll be waiting an hour in the cold for the one after that to come along. The clocks have already sprung forward, so a warmer season should be on its way, but not quite yet. Spring seems reluctant to makes its appearance this year in upstate New York.
She’s waiting at the crossroads, looking in the direction that the bus will come from, when she hears a car horn honking. It honks twice--squeaks, might be a better word—before it occurs to her that someone might be trying to get her attention. When she turns around, she sees David Gold’s little blue car stopped at the corner, behind her. Apparently, whatever was wrong with it has finally been repaired. As she walks towards the car, Gold rolls down the window.
“Listen,” he says, “if you’re not going too far, I could give you a lift.”
“I live in Woodstock,” she tells him. “On Mill Hill Road.”
“Right near me,” he says. “Hop in.” And then he smiles; a real smile this time. “I mean, if you aren’t embarrassed to be seen in this thing.”
He has Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes on the CD player, with the volume turned up high, so there isn’t a lot of opportunity for small talk. As they drive along, Rita watches the familiar scenery roll by—the snowy mountains, bare woodlands, icy creeks and patchy meadows—until they’re about half a mile from Woodstock. She’s about to give him directions to her house but he seems to know where he’s going. He turns down her road and drives her straight to the edge of the yard in front of her house. Not much bigger than a trailer, really, the house is gray-shingled and boxy, lonely on its quarter-acre, perhaps, with no trees or plantings around it, but Rita is always happy to see it, and she hopes that the house feels the same way about her. She is forty-two years old and has been paying the mortgage and taxes on this little house for tend years; she has twenty more to go before she owns it. That’s one of the purposes that her collection of jobs serves: they keep her in this house, a place that suits her. She sits on her back porch sometimes, looking off at the mountains and the gray-blue sky and feels okay. For a long time she didn’t, but she does now. Not great, but okay, and how much can you ask for, really? She also has good friends here; odd, humorous people who are struggling, just as she is, to stay afloat in an economy that mostly rolls along without them. But no one seems to have given up; no one lets things get too grim. On her kitchen table, for example, there’s an invitation to a party; a card with a silly drawing of a cat playing with a balloon, and balloony-looking words spelling out, “Come to My Birthday Party!” The birthday boy, a guitar maker with a small shop in town, has crossed out the word “Birthday,” and written in something else, so the card now reads, “Come to My Pot Party!” And he’s drawn quite a large joint extending from between the digits of one of the cat’s paws.
When he stops the car in front of Rita’s house, David Gold also turns off the music. “Did you know we’re neighbors?” he says to Rita. “If you follow the path that runs through the woods behind your house, you’ll end up in my backyard.”
“I thought that house was empty,” Rita tells him.
“I’m sneaky,” Gold tells her. “I can get in and out of town like the invisible man.”
“That’s a line from one of your poems.”
“Yes. It is. Everyone else would have said, from one of my songs.”
“How bad are you going to feel if I tell you I liked your poetry better?”
“You didn’t like my music?” Gold asks.
“I loved your music,” Rita tells him as she gets out of the car. “I still do.”
*****
A few days later, late on Saturday afternoon, just as she’s walking in the front door after spending six hours at the one job she has in town—part-time at the counter of the pet store—Rita’s phone rings. It’s David Gold, and he has a question. “Do you know how to cook an eggplant?” he asks.
“I don’t know how to cook much of anything, really,” Rita tells him.
“I thought all Jewish girls knew how to cook,” he replies.
She thinks it’s a nice touch that he’s calling her a girl. “How do you know I’m Jewish?” she asks him.
“A Gold knows a Levy,” he says. “Your name is on the mailbox. I took note when I dropped you off the other day.”
I took note. She likes that, too. “Are you absolutely in the mood for eggplant? Because I can’t help you there but I do know how to make spaghetti,” she tells him. “Not fancy, but tasty.”
“Come over then,” he says. “And I hope you can bring the spaghetti with you? I have cake here, and wine—and the eggplant, of course—but not much else.
Rita gets out a big tote bag and packs it with a pot, a strainer, spaghetti, olive oil, some garlic, some cheese and bread, and even throws in knives and forks, just in case. He’s an old man living in a house with just cake and wine. That also sounds like a poem he might have written, but it may not bode well for preparing dinner.
She takes the path that Gold had mentioned, which she has walked before. There is a pond in the woods, fed by a millstream, and as spring approaches, it’s a pretty spot, attracting the first robins and other migratory birds to its reedy shore. This evening, though, there is still some ice in the water and the air is cold, so Rita walks quickly, head down as she braves the westerly wind.
Arriving at Gold’s house, a dormered cape not that much larger than her own, Rita finds the back door open. She knocks, but then walks in, passing through the kitchen into the living room, which is lamp-lit and warmed by a wood stove. The room is lined with crowded bookshelves, but dominated by music: there are two guitars leaning against a wall and more shelves holding vinyl records and stacks of CDs. Something is playing on the stereo, though Rita can’t identify what it is: a stringed instrument perhaps, accompanied by echoing gongs, all sounding like their music is drifting into the house from someplace far away.
And to Rita’s surprise, there are actually two people in the room: David Gold is sitting on the couch, a comfortable-looking piece of furniture covered with a green and gray blanket stitched with a country motif of bears and pine trees. Near him, perched on a wooden stool, is a small, elderly Japanese man dressed in the saffron-colored robes of a Buddhist monk. Gold looks old and dreamy, as if he’s been lost in the music and is having a hard time finding his way back, but the monk is beaming. He has a smile on his face that looks like it makes regular appearances for no reason other than an overflow of some deep wellspring of pure joy.
When he finally focuses on Rita, Gold stands up, takes the tote bag from her hand and helps her off with her jacket. “This is my neighbor,” he says to the monk. “Miss Levy.”
“Rita, please,” Rita says.
The monk nods, still smiling. “That’s Eggo,” Gold tells Rita.
“Ha, ha!” The monk laughs heartily. “Egyō,” he says, pronouncing his name in a way that Rita knows she will never be able to repeat
“He showed up yesterday,” Gold says. “He insists that he walked here all the way from Mount Baldy.”
“In California?” Rita says. “Really?”
“Well, ‘really.’ Now there’s a word we have a little trouble with, Eggo and me,” says Gold. Then he corrects himself, since he is apparently finished joking for now. “Egyō.”
The monk has another good laugh but makes no further comment. Gold also seems to have nothing else to say on the subject—he simply heads off to the kitchen, gesturing for Rita to follow him. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s make dinner.”
Leaving the monk in the living room, Gold begins opening drawers and cabinets, producing the necessary pots and utensils for preparing a meal, which makes Rita feel a little embarrassed that she thought he’d be so ill-equipped. Gold, however, doesn’t appear to notice: he still seems to be in a kind of dreamy state, humming to himself, smiling at nothing.
Thinking to catch his attention, Rita says, “This is a nice house. How long have you had it?”
“Oh God,” says Gold. “Since the sixties, I guess. I wrote a lot of poetry here. A lot of songs. Though actually, I was in New York more than I was here.”
“At the Chelsea Hotel,” Rita guesses. Though it’s not a guess, really; he’s written about living at the hotel many times, over many years.
“Yes,” Gold agrees. “All roads lead to The Chelsea Hotel. Or led there, once.” The, unexpectedly, he reaches out pats Rita on the head, a fond gesture that he might have bestowed upon someone he’d known for years.
“Are you staying here now?” Rita asks. “I mean for good?” She’s surprising herself by asking so many questions, so boldly. At least, the questions feel bold to her, as if she were just talking to some old neighbor instead of David Gold. The David Gold. How many late nights, how gloomy mornings—because she always seemed to hear him when she was on some edge somewhere, in some pained state, desperately in need of soothing—did she find one of his songs playing on the radio and stop to listen? To feel kinship with the yearning in his voice, the sound of reckoning?
“I’m not sure,” Gold tells her. “I was staying with my son in Boston, but we had a bit of a falling out, so I decided to come home. I guess that must be here,” he says, “since I more or less made a bee-line for this place.”
He seems to be in a confessional mood, so as she moves around the kitchen, going about the tasks required to produce their meal, Rita ventures an admission of her own. “You won’t remember of course,” she tells Gold, “but I we met once before. Before the other day at the garage, I mean. A million years ago, in the city, when cable tv was first becoming a big thing. You were on a show called Hot Topics, and so was I.”
“Really?” Gold says. He’s taken the loaf of bread Rita brought with her and is fanning the slices out on a plate decorated with painted sunflowers. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“You sang some songs and then went to sit with the host of the show and talk to him for a while. Then, towards the end of the show, we came on—I mean, my band. I was in a band,” she says, and is surprised at how sad just saying those few words makes her feel. That’s why she tries never to say them to anyone, especially herself. But maybe “sad” isn’t exactly the right word anymore. It’s that yearning in his voice, Rita suggests to herself. That’s what I really mean. “It was my boyfriend’s band,” she continues. “I sang with them. After the show was over, I saw you backstage and I was so awestruck that I really had to force myself to go and say hello to you, but I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t. So I introduced myself and tried to tell you how much I loved your poetry and your music, and how wonderful I thought you were. You really weren’t all that interested though—you sort of nodded, told me that you were really tired and wanted to chill out at a movie and then asked me if I could recommend something that was playing in the city. You said you’d been on tour for so long you didn’t even know what movies were around.”
Gold laughs, shakes his head. “What a prick I was! You should go tell Egyō that. He’d make me walk a mile naked in the snow for that one.”
Rita shrugs. “I wasn’t hurt. It made me realize that no matter how famous you were, you were still just a guy. That sort of helped because as much as I loved you, I kind of resented you, too. Maybe not you personally—but what you represented. You came from a well-to-do family; they sent you to college, they helped support you when you first started out as a musician. Then you were successful on your own; you had your own money. Lots of it. You were doing what you wanted and nobody could take that away from you.” Rita is amazed by the things she is saying, which are unplanned; they are rushing out of her like prisoners crazed with their first taste of freedom. She knows that she should shut up, but she just can’t. “I was singing when I could,” she continues, “but I was also working every day in some office. I almost never had a day where I wasn’t trying to make something happen—work, money, the band; whatever. You could go off and live on some Greek island when you felt like kicking back.” The island is something else that Gold has often written about.
“Wowee,” Gold says. “You do know a lot about me.” Then, furrowing his brow a little, as if he’s trying to remember something he’s made an effort to forget, he says, “It was always very hot on Hydra. That was the island,” he adds, as if the disparaging things Rita has said about him are less important than getting the setting right. The whole context.
“But I’ll bet it was beautiful,” Rita says.
“Yes,” Gold replies. “It was beautiful. But listen, little sister, go easy on an old man, okay? Don’t give me that poor jealous artist thing, if that’s what you’re doing, with a little class hatred thrown in. I’m all for class hatred. You want to go storm the barricades, I’m right behind you.’
“Let’s have dinner first,” Rita says.
“That’s what always happens,” Gold says. “The revolution gets postponed and everybody forgets.” He picks up a slice of bread, begins munching on it. “This is good,” he tells Rita. And then goes back to the heart of their conversation. “So what happened to this band of yours?”
“Oh, what always happens to a band?” Rita says. “We broke up. I moved up here with my boyfriend because there was another bunch of musicians living over in Bearsville that he had connected with. They played together for a couple of years—they actually had a following around New England—but I gave it up after a while. Singing, I mean. One of us had to make a living and I was better at it. I actually ended up managing a van service for a long time that transported disabled people around the Catskill area. I liked it—I was helping people. And kids. But I got laid off about a year ago, so I started doing temp work. It’s kind of hard upstate—finding a steady job, I mean. It was hard for a long time, but with the economy the way it is now, it’s gotten a lot worse. Everybody who isn’t already rich enough is scrounging around for money.”
“So I hear,” Gold tells her. It sounds like a callous thing to say, but Rita has a feeling he’s being deliberately provocative for some reason. Or faking a surge of meanness. “So that’s what you’re going to keep on doing?” he continues. “Just take whatever work you can get? That’s your plan?”
“Oh,” Rita says, “there was a time in my life when I did a lot of planning but it doesn’t seem to have done me much good. So the only plan I have now is to hang around and see what happens. Woodstock is a good place to do that. As a matter of fact, I think it’s the main occupation around here. It’s celebrated.”
“In song and story,” comments Gold. Then he says, “Well, maybe one thing that will happen is you’ll find another boyfriend. I’m assuming, of course, that the original one is out of the picture?”
“Long ago,” Rita replies. “But I’m not looking for anymore boyfriends. I don’t think love and romance would be of any real help to me at this point.”
“It’s not supposed to help,” says Gold fiercely. “It’s supposed to make you crazy. What good is it if it can’t do that?” Then his mood softens again. He cocks his head and looks over at Rita with a genuine grin. “I’ll bet you were one of those girls: long hair, lots of action, lots of leather and lace. You’re still very pretty.”
“Thank you,” Rita says. “But I’ll keep you guessing about the rest. And now, I think dinner is ready. Are you sure your friend will be okay with spaghetti?”
“He’s actually my teacher,” says Gold. “Or was. The spiritual life didn’t quite take, which was a surprise, actually. I always thought that in my old age I’d make a great Zen Buddhist. Egyō keeps after me though, as you can see.”
They go back into the living room, where the elderly monk is still sitting serenely on his stool. There is no dining area to speak of, so they all hold their plates in their laps as they eat. David Gold pours wine and he and Rita proceed to get just a little bit drunk. Egyō seems to find this amusing.
And it is Egyō, once everyone has finished eating, who gets up, retrieves one of Gold’s guitars from its place in the corner and brings it to him. An old Martin, made of rich, yellowy brown rosewood and spruce, it seems to glow from within.
Gold plays a few chords, fiddles with the tuning pegs and then starts to sing one of his early songs—the one Rita often hears on the radio when the local Woodstock station is doing deep album cuts from the psychedelic days. He starts in English but switches to Yiddish for the refrain. Egyō sings along with him in both languages, and Rita gets the sense that this is some act they do, but for themselves, for their own pleasure, and out of friendship. It’s a nice thing to see, and anyway, Rita can translate the chorus for herself, so she sings along, in her mind:
Dance, darlings, hand in hand with the small soul
that lives behind the bone
It claims there is a light inside us, but some say
that there is none
So dance, darlings, before al the rivers
turn to rust
Before we have to ask ourselves, why here,
why now, why us?
If there is any discordant note in this scene it is that, listening to Gold sing—or try to—Rita realizes how ruined his voice is. The dark edges that gave it depth and tone have become ragged, so that he sounds not melodious but hollow, the notes almost grating on the ear.
Rita stays for a while longer, but she can see that Gold is getting tired. When she says she’s going to leave he offers to drive her but she says no, she’ll just go back the way she came. So she heads off into the woods, switching on the flashlight that she had also slipped into her tote bag before she left home. That’s one thing she has learned about living in the country: never go anywhere without a flashlight. Long ago, when she first moved to Woodstock, she was fearful of walking anywhere at night even if she was carrying a heavy-duty flashlight that lit up a country road like a stage. But she had finally convinced herself that her fear was rooted in having watched too many movies where lunatics come running out of some cornfield wielding an axe. There are no monsters in the woods around here, only a veritable Disneyland of small, nocturnal mammals and big-eyed deer. And occasionally, in the spring—but not yet—a sleepy bear.
*****
David Gold starts dropping by Rita’s house now and then, driving sometimes, sometimes walking the path through the woods. He borrows CDs and books, even asks to listen to old tapes of her band when Rita mentions that she has them. Since she works so much, he mostly shows up on weekends or in the evenings, when he stays for a while to watch tv. Rita is surprised by his regular visits, since she can’t imagine that he’s as alone as he appears to be. Egyō is still around, but also seems to spend a good deal of time at the Buddhist monastery just outside town, returning to Gold’s house to sleep—and to check on his former student, Rita suspects; to make sure he’s alright. Of course, Rita doesn’t know David Gold well enough to know, really, whether he is or he isn’t: he seems quiet, thoughtful, and still somewhat dreamy, as if the mood she found him in the night she made dinner has lingered. Is that “alright” for him? She does remember a different man from the time she watched him perform and then talked with him, briefly, many years ago—more intense, talkative—but then, he was a lot younger. And so was she, Rita reminds herself. So was everyone else she knows.
Some weeks after they first met at the garage, Gold calls Rita and asks if she can come with him to the city. There’s someone he has to see, he tells her, and he’d like company. He mentions that Egyō can’t go with him, and that he knows it’s an inconvenience, but asks if it’s possible for Rita to do him this favor.
It turns out that she can, though not entirely out of a volunteer spirit. Bud Miller, the owner of the garage, had called her just a few days before to tell her that he had to have his wife do the bookkeeping from here on out; not that he wanted to, because she was terrible at it, but he couldn’t afford to pay for even Rita’s occasional help. Rita wasn’t exactly surprised—she knew how slow business was—but it left her scrambling to find some extra work. She hadn’t come up with anything yet, so sure, she told David Gold, she could keep him company.
“We aren’t going to drive though, are we?” she asks him. “Not in the snow globe.”
“You’re right,” he tells her. “One wrong move on the highway and we’ll be crushed like bugs. We can take the bus.”
The next day, Rita meets Gold in town and they catch the bus to New York. It’s a brisk day, sunny but still cool. Clouds fly around in the windy sky. All Gold had told Rita was that he had some business to do, and once they’re settled on the bus he doesn’t elaborate: he makes some small talk, commiserating with her when she tells him about the garage and suggesting that she call the monastery because the monks do, sometimes, need help with their own business affairs; letters need to be typed, supplies need to be ordered, and so on. Egyō, he tells her, can even do Excel. But then, he adds, Egyō can do almost anything.
For the rest of the two-hour ride, Gold naps while Rita watches the highway roll by. The scenery outside the window could be a continuous loop of the same mile running over and over again: bare trees, just beginning to think about coming into leaf; gray road, cars, cars, cars. Her own thoughts wander from an image of herself perched on a stool in the monastery, breathing the incense-feathered air and typing on a laptop--Dear Sir, we need more chai tea and bolts of saffron-colored cloth—to the fact that she can’t remember the last time she was in New York. It must be years, she thinks. Years and years.
They arrive at the Port Authority Bus Terminal and have to navigate crowds and escalators to find their way outside, to the busy avenue. Gold hails a cab and tells the driver to take them downtown. They get out on lower Fifth Avenue, in front of a converted century-old factory building with a stone parapet marching across its façade. There’s a bank downstairs and smoky glass windows on every floor above, signaling that the offices on the higher floors have been renovated by modern enterprises much too cool to be housed any further uptown.
“Where are we?” Rita finally asks Gold.
“CAA,” he tells her, as if she should know, immediately, what the acronym stands for. “I want to see what they can do for me.”
Inside, as Gold signs in at the security desk, Rita reads the directory on the wall and realizes they’re going to Creative Artists Agency, which she has heard of. They’re a talent management firm, one of the most important, with what the tabloids she reads in the supermarket call “major stars” on their roster. Well, she thinks, at least she’s sort of dressed for this, having put on what she considers her office clothes: a skirt, a nice sweater, a spring coat. Gold is also more sharply dressed than usual. In fact, Rita decides, he looks almost handsome again—like an old photograph of himself come back to life—in the black suit he’s wearing and a soft fedora, so stylistically out of fashion that it is, of course, just on the edge of being back in again.
As they ride up in the elevator, Gold takes Rita’s hand. She looks over at him but he’s staring straight ahead; his face is impassive, unreadable. But his fingers are still entwined with hers as they step out of the elevator into a reception area of pale wood and stripped brick walls seemingly illuminated by more natural light than even brightened the streets outside.
Gold tells the receptionist who he is and in moments, they are ushered down a hallway to a large office, another bright space with brick walls, this one hung with vintage concert posters. There are two men in the office, both thirtyish, nice looking, wearing jeans and sports jackets—hip office casual, Rita decides, for men making big money. One of them is positioned behind a desk, the other lounging in a chair nearby. Both men stand when Gold and Rita come in and there’s a lot of vigorous hand shaking before everyone sits down.
Pleasantries are exchanged; there’s some conversation about seeing Tom Waites at a club in the Village a number of years ago, where Gold seems to have meet at least one of the men, whose name is Roger. He has a faint English accent.
“So,” Gold says finally. “As I said on the phone, I’d like to hear what ideas you have.”
“We have plenty of ideas,” Roger says. “But maybe the best context for this conversation is to frame it in these terms: simply put, we can do whatever you want. But since you’ve asked for our input, I’d venture to say that we should start with a window of six months—that’ll take us through the summer concert season. And we’ll work with the, uh, more intimate kind of places. Like the Beacon. And the Bethel Center for the Arts—you said you were living up in Woodstock, yeah? So that would be a great warm-up. And then we map out a few accommodating venues in, say, Chicago, Cleveland, maybe Kansas City, and then continue on to the West Coast.”
The other man, who seems to be named Anson, breaks in at that point and says, “Do you mind, David, if I ask you how the lawsuit is going? I was really shocked when I heard. Lila was always so…respected. And respectful of you. It just seemed impossible to everyone that she would…well.”
“It seemed impossible to me, too,” Gold replies. “I stayed at the retreat house on Mount Baldy for about two years, and then when I decided to come back East, that’s when I found out everything was gone. The lawsuit’s going along,” he continues, “but it’ll take years. And anyway, it doesn’t seem like any of the money is left. Apparently, she spent it having a high old time—in more ways that one—with some boyfriend. That’s what always does it,” he says, glancing over at Rita, who responds with rueful look. “You just lose your mind.”
After listening to a bit more of the conversation, which continues in this vein, Rita realizes that they are talking about Gold’s former manager, a woman named Lila Lindsey. She had apparently embezzled most of his money—the proceeds of a lifetime of work—while he was at a Zen retreat, deciding that maybe he wanted to be a monk, like Egyō. Eggo. But, the spiritual life didn’t quite take, he had said. Now, he doesn’t seem particularly angry at this Lila; in fact, he sounds almost admiring. What else had he said? About love: it’s not supposed to help. It’s supposed to make you crazy.
As the three men continue talking, Rita pieces together the reason for this meeting: Gold is exploring the possibility of going on tour again after more than fifteen years off the road because he needs the cash. But she also knows that it’s impossible for him to be planning concerts because—as was clear from the attempts at after-dinner harmonizing the night she was at his house—his voice is gone. It’s a broken instrument, beyond repair. She doesn’t believe he would be one to delude himself about that, so she’s not sure, then, why they’re here.
Still, they all go on chatting, discussing different venues that might suit Gold in this city and that. Bottles of sparkling water are brought in by a secretary, along with cheese, crackers and fruit. At one point, Gold picks up a tangerine, peels off the rind and pulls apart the sections. He eats a few of them but the others he hands to Rita, one by one, seemingly without thought. It’s what a lover would do, and as Rita accepts another piece of the fruit from David Gold she thinks, So that’s the answer: he just wanted to be here, to enjoy this conversation. And to have these young men see him with a woman on his arm.
They go on talking for another half hour or so, and then Gold tells Roger and Anson that he’ll think about everything they’ve suggested and get back to them. After another set of handshakes all around, Gold leads Rita out of the office.
Downstairs, in the street, he says, “Well, that was informative. But don’t be fooled by the nice manners and the free treats: they’re all chazzers, you know. In the old days, the concert promoters were just as wild as the rest of us; you’d smoke a couple of joints, rent an old bus with a couple of fold-down beds and a hotplate and boom—you were on tour. But now…it’s all big business. They all bleed you. Lila was just more direct about it than most.”
“I’ll try to remember all that if I ever think about going back into the music business,” Rita tells him.
“Me, too,” Gold says. “If I ever decide.”
Suddenly, as if he’s just realized where they are, Gold looks around, noting the street signs, seeming, almost, to sniff the air. “You know what I’d like to do now?” he says, to Rita, “I think I’d like to go say hello to some ghosts.”
Immediately, she picks up on what he means: they are just a manageable walk away from Gold’s old haunt—and right then, she can hear Egyō laughing in the back of her mind: ghosts, haunts, Ha ha!--t/he Chelsea Hotel where, in the psychedelic days, so many of the writers, rockers and folkies camped out, sometimes for months—even years—on end. It was the best place to be down and out or on top of the world. Tenants could rent a room or an apartment; cop acid in the hallway, play guitar naked on the fire escape. Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning. This was the place, the destination, at the center of everyone’s songs. Gold takes Rita’s hand again and they begin the short trek from the east side of the city to the west, heading toward the hotel.
It’s mid-week in Manhattan; most of the people on the crowded streets seem to be advancing toward some work-day destination, moving at a brisk pace, their faces masked by thoughts of inner concerns. In contrast, Rita feels as if she and Gold are wandering along the surface of a world that only they can see: it is turning backwards for them, rolling back time to allow them both a glimpse of what used to be—because the memories they are moving toward are not only David Gold’s, they are Rita’s, as well. Hers revolve more around railroad flats in the East Village, bars and clubs clustered around Sheridan Square, but this was her territory too, for a while, the streets and neighborhoods where she thought she was going to make her life, when she was younger. This is where she was younger; where she was a singer with the band.
Finally, there it is, across the street: a Victorian-style building, faced with red brick and black iron scrollwork, squatting on the southwest side of 23rd Street, beneath a huge sign rising vertically over the sidewalk that seems to be using every ounce of bright white electricity in New York to spell out HOTEL CHELSEA.
Gold and Rita stop for a moment to absorb the sight. Then Rita asks, “Do you want to go in?”
“No,” Gold says. “It was gutted a couple of years ago and they redid everything. They even tore apart Dylan’s room. It may look the same but it’s all fake, all done up for the tourists.”
But he does decide, suddenly, to walk across the street. Rita follows as he threads his way through the slow-moving traffic, gains the sidewalk again, and then watches as he walks up to the front door and puts his hand on the glass. Closing his eyes, he says, softly. “Hello, everybody. It’s David. Hello, hello.”
Softly, he says to Rita, “Put your hand on top of mine.” She does, and he murmurs, “That’s everything, right there. The energy of everybody. Of life.”
Of course they can’t stand in front of the door for more than a few moments, blocking the entrance. So they both move away, and Gold walks to the curb to hail another cab. He’s silent on the ride back to the bus terminal and naps again, most of the way back to Woodstock.
The bus climbs through the foothills of the Catskills, taking them home. The cold golden light of a chill spring afternoon in the mountains decorates the horizon, dazzles the eye. Gold suggests that Rita come back to his place since they haven’t eaten; it’s his turn to make something, he says. Egyō, he tells her, has gone shopping and the house is full of food.
And indeed, Egyō is home when they arrive, but so is someone else. The elderly monk is once again perched on the stool, but on the couch is a young man, handsome and serious looking. Rita knows immediately that this must be Gold’s son; he looks too much like his father to be anyone else. She can even guess more about him: he’s the product of a long, stormy love affair that began in Gold’s middle age and ended sadly. Gold had chronicled the relationship in the last album he’d ever released.
“Josh,” Gold says. “When did you get here?” He seems genuinely surprised to see his son.
“Oh, a little while ago. I called Yoshi yesterday and he said you might be willing to talk.”
“I’m always willing to talk,” Gold says. “That’s not the problem.”
The young man looks at Yoshi, seeming to appeal for help. “David,” the monk says, “I can’t stay much longer and I don’t want to leave you on your own.”
“I’ve always been on my own,” Gold says. “I’m fine.”
“Dad,” Josh says, “I just want you to come home. I miss you.”
“This is my home,” Gold says. “This is it, now.” For the first time since they’ve walked into the house, he looks over at Rita. She pictures him, again, with his eyes closed saying, This is David. Hello, hello.”
“But Dad, I told you, if you miss being here that much, I’ll come back with you more,” says Gold’s son. “Every weekend if you want. If I don’t have a class, we can be here, okay? Just let me help you out a little. I mean, you’ve had a major operation, you’re not finished with chemo yet…you just can’t disappear anymore. Not without telling anyone.”
“I told Yoshi,” Gold says.
“Well you need to tell me, too,” the son says emphatically. “How many times do you expect Yoshi to walk here from Mount Baldy just to keep an eye on you?”
Gold suddenly laughs out loud. “Is that what he told you? It’s what he told me, too.” He wags his finger at Yoshi. “You’re no spring chicken either,” he says. “Maybe we should both go live with Josh.”
“Too much,” says Yoshi. “A monk and a poet. Much too much for one nice boy to put up with.”
“He is a nice boy,” Gold says. “God knows how he turned out that way.”
Josh lets out a long, exasperated sigh, but it’s a kind of pantomime; Rita has the feeling that this is a scene father and son—perhaps along with the old monk—have played out many times before. She decides to use the moment to slip away, feeling that she’s accidentally intruded enough on this family drama, but before she reaches the front door, Gold calls out to her.
“Lovely Rita,” he says. “Meter maid.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Rita tells him.
“I’ll bet you have.” He walks over to her and kisses her on the cheek. “Thanks,” he says. “It was a good day.”
The following evening, returning home late from an overtime shift of doing data entry at the satellite office of a credit card company, she stops by Gold’s house, thinking she’ll just find out how everybody is. She assumes someone is home because the little snow-globe-shaped car is in the driveway, but the house is dark. It may be that the occupants have just gone out for a while but Rita doesn’t think so: the house has the feeling of having been locked up in preparation for a long absence.
Still, the son had mentioned coming back on weekends, so Rita calls the following Saturday, but the phone rings and rings. No one answers. She doesn’t try again but spends the weekend looking through help wanted ads, searching online job sites. She needs to find something to do to bring in the money she’s not earning because of losing the job at the garage.
It takes a few weeks and she has to go back to something she hasn’t done since she was in her early twenties—waitressing—but she does find a job at a barbeque restaurant in White Lake that’s opening for the season. The job may just last through the spring and summer, but there’s a possibility that, if they do well, they’ll stay open year round, and Rita will have a steady position. They want her to work weekends, which means that if she’s going to have even one day off a week she has to give up one of her data entry jobs, but she’s willing to take the risk because the tips at the restaurant give her a little extra money and she likes talking to the people who come in for lunch and dinner. They’re mostly locals, hardworking people who seem happy enough to be able to take a break from the daily grind to sit on the porch that wraps around the restaurant and watch spring come to upstate New York. There are boaters on the lake now and fishermen on the shore, but it’s still a haven for wildlife. Pairs of swans glide through the water and there are eagles in the air.
Sometimes, walking to the bus stop on her way to the restaurant, Rita first takes the path through the woods, just to see if David Gold has come back for a weekend, as his son suggested, but there’s never anyone home, though the odd little car remains parked in the driveway. One Saturday, however, late on a bright spring morning, Rita walks by the house and sees a young woman emerge from inside, carrying a box of books that she places on the passenger seat of the little car, which holds an assortment of what seem to be Gold’s belongings: Rita spies the Martin guitar, a large plastic tub full of records. The girl is gloriously pretty, and in the Indian-print shift she’s wearing, with her long blonde hair shining in the sunlight, she reminds Rita of the retro hippie posters that are hanging in almost every store in Woodstock. She waves to Rita, as if they know each other, but Rita can only speculate about who she is: the son’s girlfriend? Some new love of David Gold’s, still a ladies’ man even in old age, even ill, as apparently he is? Or perhaps another follower of the mysterious Yoshi? There’s no way to know, short of asking her, but even if Rita was inclined to do that, the opportunity slips away because after closing the passenger door, the girl settles herself into the driver’s seat and starts the car, which glides down the driveway and turns onto the street. It still looks like a snow globe, Rita thinks, as the car and the golden-haired girl inside disappear into a haze of sunlight and breezes.
All spring and into the summer, Rita still wanders by the house from time to time, and calls occasionally, but there’s never anyone there. Eventually, she stops trying because her reasons for doing so—just to say hello, to keep up the connection with someone she’s grown fond of—recede behind the more pressing concerns she has to deal with every day. She’s glad to have spent time with David Gold, glad to have had the chance to look back at things through his eyes, to put a little perspective on the big issues that she knows are probably lurking around her door somewhere, just waiting for their chance to wander in and demand some attention—success and failure; illness and aging; love in all its forms, lost, found, and abandoned; and home: where, really, is home?—but all that’s for later, for some less demanding and volatile future, if it ever comes. Right now, times are tough and getting tougher. Even, sometimes, scary bad. Despite the new job, Rita is still just scraping by. She gets up in the dark almost every morning and though she’d like to go on sleeping, to linger in her dreams, she knows she can’t. She checks the time on the clock, puts her feet on the floor and thinks, Okay. Now I have to get to work.
Rita looks down at her hands, looks off towards the snow drifts piled up against the side of Miller’s Garage and Body Shop. The brownish snow, left over from an end-of-winter storm a week ago, is turning black around the edges and beginning to take on the look of a permanent addition to the landscape. “I’m sorry,” she says.
“You don’t have to be,” Gold tells her. “I didn’t say I minded it.”
He smiles, but with just a corner of his mouth, as if he’s only partly letting Rita off the hook for being rude. But she thinks that might be a practiced effect: she remembers that look—knowing, ironic—from his old album covers and the jackets of his books of poetry. In those pictures, he was dark haired, dark eyed: a man with a strong, memorable face. Though he must be in his seventies now, there is still a palpable sense of presence about him, and strength, still, in his long jaw, the sharp angles of his profile.
He’s wearing a watch cap and a pea coat, clothes that might be too retro cool for a man his age—if he wasn’t who he is. But being who he is, Rita can’t help wondering what he’s doing here, a few miles outside Woodstock, in Ulster County, New York, at a cold, rural crossroads that boasts only two stores: the repair shop and a bare-bones Rent-A-Center, frugally stocked with decrepit furniture and electrical appliances that look like they haven’t worked properly in years.
David Gold answers her question—at least in part—while she’s still puzzling over it. He and Rita are both sitting on a bench outside the garage, but Gold suddenly stands up and peers into a dusty window behind them.
“I see they’ve still got my car up on a lift,” he says. “Do you know when this place opens? They told me to be here at 8:30.”
“They’re late sometimes,” Rita tells him. “But someone usually gets here by nine.”
“When I saw you getting off the bus,” Gold tells her, sitting back down again. “I was hoping you worked here and could let me in. It’s getting damn cold sitting outside.”
“I only come for a few hours every week to do their books, send out bills. Things like that,” Rita tells him.
Gold turns to face her and with one look, seems to take her measure: he sees a thin woman in jeans and old, beat-up boots who’s also wearing a leather bomber jacket and a hand-knit wool hat with tasseled ear-flaps hanging down past her shoulders. Hmm, Rita can almost hear him think. This is the bookkeeper? I’ll bet there’s some story here.
But before he can ask any questions, if he’s inclined to, the mechanic who works at the shop pulls up in his truck, climbs out and unlocks the door of the garage. Gold asks him about the car while Rita heads towards the tiny office at the far end of the floor. She takes off her hat and jacket and settles herself at the ancient desk, which is topped by a computer that looks like it’s in much the same condition as the merchandise at the Rent-A-Center next door.
As she turns on the computer and waits for it to decide whether or not it wants to work today, David Gold appears at the office door. “The car’s not ready,” he tells her. Then, pointing at the phone on the desk, he asks, “Can I use that to call a taxi to take me home?” Rita says sure, and then listens to him ask the man who drives the one cab that serves the area to come pick him up at the same place he dropped him off about half an hour ago. When he’s finished, he says to Rita, “Would you do me a favor? If you have any juice with these people, see if they really can get the damn thing fixed today instead of just saying so?”
“I imagine they will,” Rita tells him. “It’s the only one in the shop.” Then, making an exaggerated show of craning her neck to peer out onto the garage floor, she says, “Maybe they just want to hang onto it an extra day because it’s so cute. It sort of looks like a snow globe.”
He turns around to regard the car up on the lift—some tiny, round European vehicle painted a jaunty shade of blue. It has two seats but hardly looks big enough to accommodate one adult. “I guess I should consider that some kind of insult to my manhood,” he says to Rita, “but you’re right. It does. And anyway, it really belongs to my son.”
And then he’s gone. Grudgingly, the computer finally displays some program icons on its screen, and Rita is able to begin entering information into the repair shop’s ledgers. Once she gets going, it’s pretty much mindless work, which leaves her free to think about other things, and what she thinks about is David Gold. He used to be called a bard—a word that she imagines no one would use anymore without snickering. He published several volumes of poetry, all of which Rita owns, and produced even more albums of songs, which he both wrote and sang in a distinctively dark, mournful voice. She doesn’t think he has produced any new work, though, in many years—or perhaps she just hasn’t been paying attention to things like that.
Eventually, her thoughts wander off to other subjects. She goes over the list in her mind of the collection of part-time jobs she has, mostly bookkeeping and data entry at various businesses and one big-box store at a regional mall, reminding herself about her schedule for the rest of the week. She doesn’t have a car—she can’t afford one—so she is bound by the schedule of buses that rattle around the roads from one small upstate town to another. She’s one of the brother—and sisterhood—of the bus; service workers and temporary typists and house cleaners and yard workers and babysitters and store clerks who wake up in the dead hours before dawn, board a bus at the edge of some rutted country road and then nod off as they are carried along, on fumes and snatches of music from the driver’s radio, from Ulster to Sullivan counties, through the hamlets of Woodstock, Shandanken, Bearsville, West Hurley, Shokan, Shady, Byrdcliffe, Zena, Phoenicia, Bethel, White Lake, Willow, Mt. Tremper, Boiceville, and Saugerties, some traveling as far as Kingston, a larger city, once the capital of New York State. They all know each other well—not by name, but by the stop they have to get off—and will wake each other if they are still dozing when they near their different destinations.
She’s done with her work at four o’clock, and leaves on the dot because otherwise, she will miss the next bus going in her direction. If she doesn’t catch that one, she’ll be waiting an hour in the cold for the one after that to come along. The clocks have already sprung forward, so a warmer season should be on its way, but not quite yet. Spring seems reluctant to makes its appearance this year in upstate New York.
She’s waiting at the crossroads, looking in the direction that the bus will come from, when she hears a car horn honking. It honks twice--squeaks, might be a better word—before it occurs to her that someone might be trying to get her attention. When she turns around, she sees David Gold’s little blue car stopped at the corner, behind her. Apparently, whatever was wrong with it has finally been repaired. As she walks towards the car, Gold rolls down the window.
“Listen,” he says, “if you’re not going too far, I could give you a lift.”
“I live in Woodstock,” she tells him. “On Mill Hill Road.”
“Right near me,” he says. “Hop in.” And then he smiles; a real smile this time. “I mean, if you aren’t embarrassed to be seen in this thing.”
He has Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes on the CD player, with the volume turned up high, so there isn’t a lot of opportunity for small talk. As they drive along, Rita watches the familiar scenery roll by—the snowy mountains, bare woodlands, icy creeks and patchy meadows—until they’re about half a mile from Woodstock. She’s about to give him directions to her house but he seems to know where he’s going. He turns down her road and drives her straight to the edge of the yard in front of her house. Not much bigger than a trailer, really, the house is gray-shingled and boxy, lonely on its quarter-acre, perhaps, with no trees or plantings around it, but Rita is always happy to see it, and she hopes that the house feels the same way about her. She is forty-two years old and has been paying the mortgage and taxes on this little house for tend years; she has twenty more to go before she owns it. That’s one of the purposes that her collection of jobs serves: they keep her in this house, a place that suits her. She sits on her back porch sometimes, looking off at the mountains and the gray-blue sky and feels okay. For a long time she didn’t, but she does now. Not great, but okay, and how much can you ask for, really? She also has good friends here; odd, humorous people who are struggling, just as she is, to stay afloat in an economy that mostly rolls along without them. But no one seems to have given up; no one lets things get too grim. On her kitchen table, for example, there’s an invitation to a party; a card with a silly drawing of a cat playing with a balloon, and balloony-looking words spelling out, “Come to My Birthday Party!” The birthday boy, a guitar maker with a small shop in town, has crossed out the word “Birthday,” and written in something else, so the card now reads, “Come to My Pot Party!” And he’s drawn quite a large joint extending from between the digits of one of the cat’s paws.
When he stops the car in front of Rita’s house, David Gold also turns off the music. “Did you know we’re neighbors?” he says to Rita. “If you follow the path that runs through the woods behind your house, you’ll end up in my backyard.”
“I thought that house was empty,” Rita tells him.
“I’m sneaky,” Gold tells her. “I can get in and out of town like the invisible man.”
“That’s a line from one of your poems.”
“Yes. It is. Everyone else would have said, from one of my songs.”
“How bad are you going to feel if I tell you I liked your poetry better?”
“You didn’t like my music?” Gold asks.
“I loved your music,” Rita tells him as she gets out of the car. “I still do.”
*****
A few days later, late on Saturday afternoon, just as she’s walking in the front door after spending six hours at the one job she has in town—part-time at the counter of the pet store—Rita’s phone rings. It’s David Gold, and he has a question. “Do you know how to cook an eggplant?” he asks.
“I don’t know how to cook much of anything, really,” Rita tells him.
“I thought all Jewish girls knew how to cook,” he replies.
She thinks it’s a nice touch that he’s calling her a girl. “How do you know I’m Jewish?” she asks him.
“A Gold knows a Levy,” he says. “Your name is on the mailbox. I took note when I dropped you off the other day.”
I took note. She likes that, too. “Are you absolutely in the mood for eggplant? Because I can’t help you there but I do know how to make spaghetti,” she tells him. “Not fancy, but tasty.”
“Come over then,” he says. “And I hope you can bring the spaghetti with you? I have cake here, and wine—and the eggplant, of course—but not much else.
Rita gets out a big tote bag and packs it with a pot, a strainer, spaghetti, olive oil, some garlic, some cheese and bread, and even throws in knives and forks, just in case. He’s an old man living in a house with just cake and wine. That also sounds like a poem he might have written, but it may not bode well for preparing dinner.
She takes the path that Gold had mentioned, which she has walked before. There is a pond in the woods, fed by a millstream, and as spring approaches, it’s a pretty spot, attracting the first robins and other migratory birds to its reedy shore. This evening, though, there is still some ice in the water and the air is cold, so Rita walks quickly, head down as she braves the westerly wind.
Arriving at Gold’s house, a dormered cape not that much larger than her own, Rita finds the back door open. She knocks, but then walks in, passing through the kitchen into the living room, which is lamp-lit and warmed by a wood stove. The room is lined with crowded bookshelves, but dominated by music: there are two guitars leaning against a wall and more shelves holding vinyl records and stacks of CDs. Something is playing on the stereo, though Rita can’t identify what it is: a stringed instrument perhaps, accompanied by echoing gongs, all sounding like their music is drifting into the house from someplace far away.
And to Rita’s surprise, there are actually two people in the room: David Gold is sitting on the couch, a comfortable-looking piece of furniture covered with a green and gray blanket stitched with a country motif of bears and pine trees. Near him, perched on a wooden stool, is a small, elderly Japanese man dressed in the saffron-colored robes of a Buddhist monk. Gold looks old and dreamy, as if he’s been lost in the music and is having a hard time finding his way back, but the monk is beaming. He has a smile on his face that looks like it makes regular appearances for no reason other than an overflow of some deep wellspring of pure joy.
When he finally focuses on Rita, Gold stands up, takes the tote bag from her hand and helps her off with her jacket. “This is my neighbor,” he says to the monk. “Miss Levy.”
“Rita, please,” Rita says.
The monk nods, still smiling. “That’s Eggo,” Gold tells Rita.
“Ha, ha!” The monk laughs heartily. “Egyō,” he says, pronouncing his name in a way that Rita knows she will never be able to repeat
“He showed up yesterday,” Gold says. “He insists that he walked here all the way from Mount Baldy.”
“In California?” Rita says. “Really?”
“Well, ‘really.’ Now there’s a word we have a little trouble with, Eggo and me,” says Gold. Then he corrects himself, since he is apparently finished joking for now. “Egyō.”
The monk has another good laugh but makes no further comment. Gold also seems to have nothing else to say on the subject—he simply heads off to the kitchen, gesturing for Rita to follow him. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s make dinner.”
Leaving the monk in the living room, Gold begins opening drawers and cabinets, producing the necessary pots and utensils for preparing a meal, which makes Rita feel a little embarrassed that she thought he’d be so ill-equipped. Gold, however, doesn’t appear to notice: he still seems to be in a kind of dreamy state, humming to himself, smiling at nothing.
Thinking to catch his attention, Rita says, “This is a nice house. How long have you had it?”
“Oh God,” says Gold. “Since the sixties, I guess. I wrote a lot of poetry here. A lot of songs. Though actually, I was in New York more than I was here.”
“At the Chelsea Hotel,” Rita guesses. Though it’s not a guess, really; he’s written about living at the hotel many times, over many years.
“Yes,” Gold agrees. “All roads lead to The Chelsea Hotel. Or led there, once.” The, unexpectedly, he reaches out pats Rita on the head, a fond gesture that he might have bestowed upon someone he’d known for years.
“Are you staying here now?” Rita asks. “I mean for good?” She’s surprising herself by asking so many questions, so boldly. At least, the questions feel bold to her, as if she were just talking to some old neighbor instead of David Gold. The David Gold. How many late nights, how gloomy mornings—because she always seemed to hear him when she was on some edge somewhere, in some pained state, desperately in need of soothing—did she find one of his songs playing on the radio and stop to listen? To feel kinship with the yearning in his voice, the sound of reckoning?
“I’m not sure,” Gold tells her. “I was staying with my son in Boston, but we had a bit of a falling out, so I decided to come home. I guess that must be here,” he says, “since I more or less made a bee-line for this place.”
He seems to be in a confessional mood, so as she moves around the kitchen, going about the tasks required to produce their meal, Rita ventures an admission of her own. “You won’t remember of course,” she tells Gold, “but I we met once before. Before the other day at the garage, I mean. A million years ago, in the city, when cable tv was first becoming a big thing. You were on a show called Hot Topics, and so was I.”
“Really?” Gold says. He’s taken the loaf of bread Rita brought with her and is fanning the slices out on a plate decorated with painted sunflowers. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”
“You sang some songs and then went to sit with the host of the show and talk to him for a while. Then, towards the end of the show, we came on—I mean, my band. I was in a band,” she says, and is surprised at how sad just saying those few words makes her feel. That’s why she tries never to say them to anyone, especially herself. But maybe “sad” isn’t exactly the right word anymore. It’s that yearning in his voice, Rita suggests to herself. That’s what I really mean. “It was my boyfriend’s band,” she continues. “I sang with them. After the show was over, I saw you backstage and I was so awestruck that I really had to force myself to go and say hello to you, but I knew I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t. So I introduced myself and tried to tell you how much I loved your poetry and your music, and how wonderful I thought you were. You really weren’t all that interested though—you sort of nodded, told me that you were really tired and wanted to chill out at a movie and then asked me if I could recommend something that was playing in the city. You said you’d been on tour for so long you didn’t even know what movies were around.”
Gold laughs, shakes his head. “What a prick I was! You should go tell Egyō that. He’d make me walk a mile naked in the snow for that one.”
Rita shrugs. “I wasn’t hurt. It made me realize that no matter how famous you were, you were still just a guy. That sort of helped because as much as I loved you, I kind of resented you, too. Maybe not you personally—but what you represented. You came from a well-to-do family; they sent you to college, they helped support you when you first started out as a musician. Then you were successful on your own; you had your own money. Lots of it. You were doing what you wanted and nobody could take that away from you.” Rita is amazed by the things she is saying, which are unplanned; they are rushing out of her like prisoners crazed with their first taste of freedom. She knows that she should shut up, but she just can’t. “I was singing when I could,” she continues, “but I was also working every day in some office. I almost never had a day where I wasn’t trying to make something happen—work, money, the band; whatever. You could go off and live on some Greek island when you felt like kicking back.” The island is something else that Gold has often written about.
“Wowee,” Gold says. “You do know a lot about me.” Then, furrowing his brow a little, as if he’s trying to remember something he’s made an effort to forget, he says, “It was always very hot on Hydra. That was the island,” he adds, as if the disparaging things Rita has said about him are less important than getting the setting right. The whole context.
“But I’ll bet it was beautiful,” Rita says.
“Yes,” Gold replies. “It was beautiful. But listen, little sister, go easy on an old man, okay? Don’t give me that poor jealous artist thing, if that’s what you’re doing, with a little class hatred thrown in. I’m all for class hatred. You want to go storm the barricades, I’m right behind you.’
“Let’s have dinner first,” Rita says.
“That’s what always happens,” Gold says. “The revolution gets postponed and everybody forgets.” He picks up a slice of bread, begins munching on it. “This is good,” he tells Rita. And then goes back to the heart of their conversation. “So what happened to this band of yours?”
“Oh, what always happens to a band?” Rita says. “We broke up. I moved up here with my boyfriend because there was another bunch of musicians living over in Bearsville that he had connected with. They played together for a couple of years—they actually had a following around New England—but I gave it up after a while. Singing, I mean. One of us had to make a living and I was better at it. I actually ended up managing a van service for a long time that transported disabled people around the Catskill area. I liked it—I was helping people. And kids. But I got laid off about a year ago, so I started doing temp work. It’s kind of hard upstate—finding a steady job, I mean. It was hard for a long time, but with the economy the way it is now, it’s gotten a lot worse. Everybody who isn’t already rich enough is scrounging around for money.”
“So I hear,” Gold tells her. It sounds like a callous thing to say, but Rita has a feeling he’s being deliberately provocative for some reason. Or faking a surge of meanness. “So that’s what you’re going to keep on doing?” he continues. “Just take whatever work you can get? That’s your plan?”
“Oh,” Rita says, “there was a time in my life when I did a lot of planning but it doesn’t seem to have done me much good. So the only plan I have now is to hang around and see what happens. Woodstock is a good place to do that. As a matter of fact, I think it’s the main occupation around here. It’s celebrated.”
“In song and story,” comments Gold. Then he says, “Well, maybe one thing that will happen is you’ll find another boyfriend. I’m assuming, of course, that the original one is out of the picture?”
“Long ago,” Rita replies. “But I’m not looking for anymore boyfriends. I don’t think love and romance would be of any real help to me at this point.”
“It’s not supposed to help,” says Gold fiercely. “It’s supposed to make you crazy. What good is it if it can’t do that?” Then his mood softens again. He cocks his head and looks over at Rita with a genuine grin. “I’ll bet you were one of those girls: long hair, lots of action, lots of leather and lace. You’re still very pretty.”
“Thank you,” Rita says. “But I’ll keep you guessing about the rest. And now, I think dinner is ready. Are you sure your friend will be okay with spaghetti?”
“He’s actually my teacher,” says Gold. “Or was. The spiritual life didn’t quite take, which was a surprise, actually. I always thought that in my old age I’d make a great Zen Buddhist. Egyō keeps after me though, as you can see.”
They go back into the living room, where the elderly monk is still sitting serenely on his stool. There is no dining area to speak of, so they all hold their plates in their laps as they eat. David Gold pours wine and he and Rita proceed to get just a little bit drunk. Egyō seems to find this amusing.
And it is Egyō, once everyone has finished eating, who gets up, retrieves one of Gold’s guitars from its place in the corner and brings it to him. An old Martin, made of rich, yellowy brown rosewood and spruce, it seems to glow from within.
Gold plays a few chords, fiddles with the tuning pegs and then starts to sing one of his early songs—the one Rita often hears on the radio when the local Woodstock station is doing deep album cuts from the psychedelic days. He starts in English but switches to Yiddish for the refrain. Egyō sings along with him in both languages, and Rita gets the sense that this is some act they do, but for themselves, for their own pleasure, and out of friendship. It’s a nice thing to see, and anyway, Rita can translate the chorus for herself, so she sings along, in her mind:
Dance, darlings, hand in hand with the small soul
that lives behind the bone
It claims there is a light inside us, but some say
that there is none
So dance, darlings, before al the rivers
turn to rust
Before we have to ask ourselves, why here,
why now, why us?
If there is any discordant note in this scene it is that, listening to Gold sing—or try to—Rita realizes how ruined his voice is. The dark edges that gave it depth and tone have become ragged, so that he sounds not melodious but hollow, the notes almost grating on the ear.
Rita stays for a while longer, but she can see that Gold is getting tired. When she says she’s going to leave he offers to drive her but she says no, she’ll just go back the way she came. So she heads off into the woods, switching on the flashlight that she had also slipped into her tote bag before she left home. That’s one thing she has learned about living in the country: never go anywhere without a flashlight. Long ago, when she first moved to Woodstock, she was fearful of walking anywhere at night even if she was carrying a heavy-duty flashlight that lit up a country road like a stage. But she had finally convinced herself that her fear was rooted in having watched too many movies where lunatics come running out of some cornfield wielding an axe. There are no monsters in the woods around here, only a veritable Disneyland of small, nocturnal mammals and big-eyed deer. And occasionally, in the spring—but not yet—a sleepy bear.
*****
David Gold starts dropping by Rita’s house now and then, driving sometimes, sometimes walking the path through the woods. He borrows CDs and books, even asks to listen to old tapes of her band when Rita mentions that she has them. Since she works so much, he mostly shows up on weekends or in the evenings, when he stays for a while to watch tv. Rita is surprised by his regular visits, since she can’t imagine that he’s as alone as he appears to be. Egyō is still around, but also seems to spend a good deal of time at the Buddhist monastery just outside town, returning to Gold’s house to sleep—and to check on his former student, Rita suspects; to make sure he’s alright. Of course, Rita doesn’t know David Gold well enough to know, really, whether he is or he isn’t: he seems quiet, thoughtful, and still somewhat dreamy, as if the mood she found him in the night she made dinner has lingered. Is that “alright” for him? She does remember a different man from the time she watched him perform and then talked with him, briefly, many years ago—more intense, talkative—but then, he was a lot younger. And so was she, Rita reminds herself. So was everyone else she knows.
Some weeks after they first met at the garage, Gold calls Rita and asks if she can come with him to the city. There’s someone he has to see, he tells her, and he’d like company. He mentions that Egyō can’t go with him, and that he knows it’s an inconvenience, but asks if it’s possible for Rita to do him this favor.
It turns out that she can, though not entirely out of a volunteer spirit. Bud Miller, the owner of the garage, had called her just a few days before to tell her that he had to have his wife do the bookkeeping from here on out; not that he wanted to, because she was terrible at it, but he couldn’t afford to pay for even Rita’s occasional help. Rita wasn’t exactly surprised—she knew how slow business was—but it left her scrambling to find some extra work. She hadn’t come up with anything yet, so sure, she told David Gold, she could keep him company.
“We aren’t going to drive though, are we?” she asks him. “Not in the snow globe.”
“You’re right,” he tells her. “One wrong move on the highway and we’ll be crushed like bugs. We can take the bus.”
The next day, Rita meets Gold in town and they catch the bus to New York. It’s a brisk day, sunny but still cool. Clouds fly around in the windy sky. All Gold had told Rita was that he had some business to do, and once they’re settled on the bus he doesn’t elaborate: he makes some small talk, commiserating with her when she tells him about the garage and suggesting that she call the monastery because the monks do, sometimes, need help with their own business affairs; letters need to be typed, supplies need to be ordered, and so on. Egyō, he tells her, can even do Excel. But then, he adds, Egyō can do almost anything.
For the rest of the two-hour ride, Gold naps while Rita watches the highway roll by. The scenery outside the window could be a continuous loop of the same mile running over and over again: bare trees, just beginning to think about coming into leaf; gray road, cars, cars, cars. Her own thoughts wander from an image of herself perched on a stool in the monastery, breathing the incense-feathered air and typing on a laptop--Dear Sir, we need more chai tea and bolts of saffron-colored cloth—to the fact that she can’t remember the last time she was in New York. It must be years, she thinks. Years and years.
They arrive at the Port Authority Bus Terminal and have to navigate crowds and escalators to find their way outside, to the busy avenue. Gold hails a cab and tells the driver to take them downtown. They get out on lower Fifth Avenue, in front of a converted century-old factory building with a stone parapet marching across its façade. There’s a bank downstairs and smoky glass windows on every floor above, signaling that the offices on the higher floors have been renovated by modern enterprises much too cool to be housed any further uptown.
“Where are we?” Rita finally asks Gold.
“CAA,” he tells her, as if she should know, immediately, what the acronym stands for. “I want to see what they can do for me.”
Inside, as Gold signs in at the security desk, Rita reads the directory on the wall and realizes they’re going to Creative Artists Agency, which she has heard of. They’re a talent management firm, one of the most important, with what the tabloids she reads in the supermarket call “major stars” on their roster. Well, she thinks, at least she’s sort of dressed for this, having put on what she considers her office clothes: a skirt, a nice sweater, a spring coat. Gold is also more sharply dressed than usual. In fact, Rita decides, he looks almost handsome again—like an old photograph of himself come back to life—in the black suit he’s wearing and a soft fedora, so stylistically out of fashion that it is, of course, just on the edge of being back in again.
As they ride up in the elevator, Gold takes Rita’s hand. She looks over at him but he’s staring straight ahead; his face is impassive, unreadable. But his fingers are still entwined with hers as they step out of the elevator into a reception area of pale wood and stripped brick walls seemingly illuminated by more natural light than even brightened the streets outside.
Gold tells the receptionist who he is and in moments, they are ushered down a hallway to a large office, another bright space with brick walls, this one hung with vintage concert posters. There are two men in the office, both thirtyish, nice looking, wearing jeans and sports jackets—hip office casual, Rita decides, for men making big money. One of them is positioned behind a desk, the other lounging in a chair nearby. Both men stand when Gold and Rita come in and there’s a lot of vigorous hand shaking before everyone sits down.
Pleasantries are exchanged; there’s some conversation about seeing Tom Waites at a club in the Village a number of years ago, where Gold seems to have meet at least one of the men, whose name is Roger. He has a faint English accent.
“So,” Gold says finally. “As I said on the phone, I’d like to hear what ideas you have.”
“We have plenty of ideas,” Roger says. “But maybe the best context for this conversation is to frame it in these terms: simply put, we can do whatever you want. But since you’ve asked for our input, I’d venture to say that we should start with a window of six months—that’ll take us through the summer concert season. And we’ll work with the, uh, more intimate kind of places. Like the Beacon. And the Bethel Center for the Arts—you said you were living up in Woodstock, yeah? So that would be a great warm-up. And then we map out a few accommodating venues in, say, Chicago, Cleveland, maybe Kansas City, and then continue on to the West Coast.”
The other man, who seems to be named Anson, breaks in at that point and says, “Do you mind, David, if I ask you how the lawsuit is going? I was really shocked when I heard. Lila was always so…respected. And respectful of you. It just seemed impossible to everyone that she would…well.”
“It seemed impossible to me, too,” Gold replies. “I stayed at the retreat house on Mount Baldy for about two years, and then when I decided to come back East, that’s when I found out everything was gone. The lawsuit’s going along,” he continues, “but it’ll take years. And anyway, it doesn’t seem like any of the money is left. Apparently, she spent it having a high old time—in more ways that one—with some boyfriend. That’s what always does it,” he says, glancing over at Rita, who responds with rueful look. “You just lose your mind.”
After listening to a bit more of the conversation, which continues in this vein, Rita realizes that they are talking about Gold’s former manager, a woman named Lila Lindsey. She had apparently embezzled most of his money—the proceeds of a lifetime of work—while he was at a Zen retreat, deciding that maybe he wanted to be a monk, like Egyō. Eggo. But, the spiritual life didn’t quite take, he had said. Now, he doesn’t seem particularly angry at this Lila; in fact, he sounds almost admiring. What else had he said? About love: it’s not supposed to help. It’s supposed to make you crazy.
As the three men continue talking, Rita pieces together the reason for this meeting: Gold is exploring the possibility of going on tour again after more than fifteen years off the road because he needs the cash. But she also knows that it’s impossible for him to be planning concerts because—as was clear from the attempts at after-dinner harmonizing the night she was at his house—his voice is gone. It’s a broken instrument, beyond repair. She doesn’t believe he would be one to delude himself about that, so she’s not sure, then, why they’re here.
Still, they all go on chatting, discussing different venues that might suit Gold in this city and that. Bottles of sparkling water are brought in by a secretary, along with cheese, crackers and fruit. At one point, Gold picks up a tangerine, peels off the rind and pulls apart the sections. He eats a few of them but the others he hands to Rita, one by one, seemingly without thought. It’s what a lover would do, and as Rita accepts another piece of the fruit from David Gold she thinks, So that’s the answer: he just wanted to be here, to enjoy this conversation. And to have these young men see him with a woman on his arm.
They go on talking for another half hour or so, and then Gold tells Roger and Anson that he’ll think about everything they’ve suggested and get back to them. After another set of handshakes all around, Gold leads Rita out of the office.
Downstairs, in the street, he says, “Well, that was informative. But don’t be fooled by the nice manners and the free treats: they’re all chazzers, you know. In the old days, the concert promoters were just as wild as the rest of us; you’d smoke a couple of joints, rent an old bus with a couple of fold-down beds and a hotplate and boom—you were on tour. But now…it’s all big business. They all bleed you. Lila was just more direct about it than most.”
“I’ll try to remember all that if I ever think about going back into the music business,” Rita tells him.
“Me, too,” Gold says. “If I ever decide.”
Suddenly, as if he’s just realized where they are, Gold looks around, noting the street signs, seeming, almost, to sniff the air. “You know what I’d like to do now?” he says, to Rita, “I think I’d like to go say hello to some ghosts.”
Immediately, she picks up on what he means: they are just a manageable walk away from Gold’s old haunt—and right then, she can hear Egyō laughing in the back of her mind: ghosts, haunts, Ha ha!--t/he Chelsea Hotel where, in the psychedelic days, so many of the writers, rockers and folkies camped out, sometimes for months—even years—on end. It was the best place to be down and out or on top of the world. Tenants could rent a room or an apartment; cop acid in the hallway, play guitar naked on the fire escape. Woke up, it was a Chelsea morning. This was the place, the destination, at the center of everyone’s songs. Gold takes Rita’s hand again and they begin the short trek from the east side of the city to the west, heading toward the hotel.
It’s mid-week in Manhattan; most of the people on the crowded streets seem to be advancing toward some work-day destination, moving at a brisk pace, their faces masked by thoughts of inner concerns. In contrast, Rita feels as if she and Gold are wandering along the surface of a world that only they can see: it is turning backwards for them, rolling back time to allow them both a glimpse of what used to be—because the memories they are moving toward are not only David Gold’s, they are Rita’s, as well. Hers revolve more around railroad flats in the East Village, bars and clubs clustered around Sheridan Square, but this was her territory too, for a while, the streets and neighborhoods where she thought she was going to make her life, when she was younger. This is where she was younger; where she was a singer with the band.
Finally, there it is, across the street: a Victorian-style building, faced with red brick and black iron scrollwork, squatting on the southwest side of 23rd Street, beneath a huge sign rising vertically over the sidewalk that seems to be using every ounce of bright white electricity in New York to spell out HOTEL CHELSEA.
Gold and Rita stop for a moment to absorb the sight. Then Rita asks, “Do you want to go in?”
“No,” Gold says. “It was gutted a couple of years ago and they redid everything. They even tore apart Dylan’s room. It may look the same but it’s all fake, all done up for the tourists.”
But he does decide, suddenly, to walk across the street. Rita follows as he threads his way through the slow-moving traffic, gains the sidewalk again, and then watches as he walks up to the front door and puts his hand on the glass. Closing his eyes, he says, softly. “Hello, everybody. It’s David. Hello, hello.”
Softly, he says to Rita, “Put your hand on top of mine.” She does, and he murmurs, “That’s everything, right there. The energy of everybody. Of life.”
Of course they can’t stand in front of the door for more than a few moments, blocking the entrance. So they both move away, and Gold walks to the curb to hail another cab. He’s silent on the ride back to the bus terminal and naps again, most of the way back to Woodstock.
The bus climbs through the foothills of the Catskills, taking them home. The cold golden light of a chill spring afternoon in the mountains decorates the horizon, dazzles the eye. Gold suggests that Rita come back to his place since they haven’t eaten; it’s his turn to make something, he says. Egyō, he tells her, has gone shopping and the house is full of food.
And indeed, Egyō is home when they arrive, but so is someone else. The elderly monk is once again perched on the stool, but on the couch is a young man, handsome and serious looking. Rita knows immediately that this must be Gold’s son; he looks too much like his father to be anyone else. She can even guess more about him: he’s the product of a long, stormy love affair that began in Gold’s middle age and ended sadly. Gold had chronicled the relationship in the last album he’d ever released.
“Josh,” Gold says. “When did you get here?” He seems genuinely surprised to see his son.
“Oh, a little while ago. I called Yoshi yesterday and he said you might be willing to talk.”
“I’m always willing to talk,” Gold says. “That’s not the problem.”
The young man looks at Yoshi, seeming to appeal for help. “David,” the monk says, “I can’t stay much longer and I don’t want to leave you on your own.”
“I’ve always been on my own,” Gold says. “I’m fine.”
“Dad,” Josh says, “I just want you to come home. I miss you.”
“This is my home,” Gold says. “This is it, now.” For the first time since they’ve walked into the house, he looks over at Rita. She pictures him, again, with his eyes closed saying, This is David. Hello, hello.”
“But Dad, I told you, if you miss being here that much, I’ll come back with you more,” says Gold’s son. “Every weekend if you want. If I don’t have a class, we can be here, okay? Just let me help you out a little. I mean, you’ve had a major operation, you’re not finished with chemo yet…you just can’t disappear anymore. Not without telling anyone.”
“I told Yoshi,” Gold says.
“Well you need to tell me, too,” the son says emphatically. “How many times do you expect Yoshi to walk here from Mount Baldy just to keep an eye on you?”
Gold suddenly laughs out loud. “Is that what he told you? It’s what he told me, too.” He wags his finger at Yoshi. “You’re no spring chicken either,” he says. “Maybe we should both go live with Josh.”
“Too much,” says Yoshi. “A monk and a poet. Much too much for one nice boy to put up with.”
“He is a nice boy,” Gold says. “God knows how he turned out that way.”
Josh lets out a long, exasperated sigh, but it’s a kind of pantomime; Rita has the feeling that this is a scene father and son—perhaps along with the old monk—have played out many times before. She decides to use the moment to slip away, feeling that she’s accidentally intruded enough on this family drama, but before she reaches the front door, Gold calls out to her.
“Lovely Rita,” he says. “Meter maid.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” Rita tells him.
“I’ll bet you have.” He walks over to her and kisses her on the cheek. “Thanks,” he says. “It was a good day.”
The following evening, returning home late from an overtime shift of doing data entry at the satellite office of a credit card company, she stops by Gold’s house, thinking she’ll just find out how everybody is. She assumes someone is home because the little snow-globe-shaped car is in the driveway, but the house is dark. It may be that the occupants have just gone out for a while but Rita doesn’t think so: the house has the feeling of having been locked up in preparation for a long absence.
Still, the son had mentioned coming back on weekends, so Rita calls the following Saturday, but the phone rings and rings. No one answers. She doesn’t try again but spends the weekend looking through help wanted ads, searching online job sites. She needs to find something to do to bring in the money she’s not earning because of losing the job at the garage.
It takes a few weeks and she has to go back to something she hasn’t done since she was in her early twenties—waitressing—but she does find a job at a barbeque restaurant in White Lake that’s opening for the season. The job may just last through the spring and summer, but there’s a possibility that, if they do well, they’ll stay open year round, and Rita will have a steady position. They want her to work weekends, which means that if she’s going to have even one day off a week she has to give up one of her data entry jobs, but she’s willing to take the risk because the tips at the restaurant give her a little extra money and she likes talking to the people who come in for lunch and dinner. They’re mostly locals, hardworking people who seem happy enough to be able to take a break from the daily grind to sit on the porch that wraps around the restaurant and watch spring come to upstate New York. There are boaters on the lake now and fishermen on the shore, but it’s still a haven for wildlife. Pairs of swans glide through the water and there are eagles in the air.
Sometimes, walking to the bus stop on her way to the restaurant, Rita first takes the path through the woods, just to see if David Gold has come back for a weekend, as his son suggested, but there’s never anyone home, though the odd little car remains parked in the driveway. One Saturday, however, late on a bright spring morning, Rita walks by the house and sees a young woman emerge from inside, carrying a box of books that she places on the passenger seat of the little car, which holds an assortment of what seem to be Gold’s belongings: Rita spies the Martin guitar, a large plastic tub full of records. The girl is gloriously pretty, and in the Indian-print shift she’s wearing, with her long blonde hair shining in the sunlight, she reminds Rita of the retro hippie posters that are hanging in almost every store in Woodstock. She waves to Rita, as if they know each other, but Rita can only speculate about who she is: the son’s girlfriend? Some new love of David Gold’s, still a ladies’ man even in old age, even ill, as apparently he is? Or perhaps another follower of the mysterious Yoshi? There’s no way to know, short of asking her, but even if Rita was inclined to do that, the opportunity slips away because after closing the passenger door, the girl settles herself into the driver’s seat and starts the car, which glides down the driveway and turns onto the street. It still looks like a snow globe, Rita thinks, as the car and the golden-haired girl inside disappear into a haze of sunlight and breezes.
All spring and into the summer, Rita still wanders by the house from time to time, and calls occasionally, but there’s never anyone there. Eventually, she stops trying because her reasons for doing so—just to say hello, to keep up the connection with someone she’s grown fond of—recede behind the more pressing concerns she has to deal with every day. She’s glad to have spent time with David Gold, glad to have had the chance to look back at things through his eyes, to put a little perspective on the big issues that she knows are probably lurking around her door somewhere, just waiting for their chance to wander in and demand some attention—success and failure; illness and aging; love in all its forms, lost, found, and abandoned; and home: where, really, is home?—but all that’s for later, for some less demanding and volatile future, if it ever comes. Right now, times are tough and getting tougher. Even, sometimes, scary bad. Despite the new job, Rita is still just scraping by. She gets up in the dark almost every morning and though she’d like to go on sleeping, to linger in her dreams, she knows she can’t. She checks the time on the clock, puts her feet on the floor and thinks, Okay. Now I have to get to work.
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