Tobias Robbins is a writer by nature, a reader by habit and a teacher by training. He is fortunate enough to be a middle school English teacher and is therefore surrounded by fantastic stories every day. His favorite stories are the ones with layers that force the audience to ask the most important question of all: “why?” Fool’s BluffThey could tell that one of them was about to die.
At least that's what Joe thought to himself as he tightened his grasp on the wooden handle of a slightly rusted hatchet. Their calm clamor seemed stressed and a touch more frenzied as Joe eyed his surroundings. The frantic hurried movements in the violet shade of very early morning. "Sorry little darlin, but we all have our roles to play and it looks like it's your turn,” Joe mumbled to no one that mattered as the almost sweet smell of excrement curled his nostrils. With a grip made strong from years of toiling in the earth, and melancholy set in his soul from the years of violence, Joe grabbed a delicate looking specimen by the neck. He squeezed tightly, and then dragged her kicking and flopping to an old mesquite stump. "You know, I don't relish this part, little thing, but what's doin needs to be done." There was no room for pity now, as Joe raised the hatchet, and brought it down with a dull thwack. The expected squirming. The usual blood. The common controlled commotion. The stillness. It was an awful stillness. "Well the easy parts over, now to pluck your damn feathers." Joe couldn't help but feel a bit guilty carrying the dead chicken past the others in the coup. Silly critters with no wits at all can't feel scared or anxious. Just brainless creatures… without any thoughts… like that of a man like Joe. He switched hands, carrying the chicken on the opposite side of his body, blocking it from the view of the other chickens. Silly or not, he still had a heart. It was precisely this balance of strength and sensitivity that eventually convinced Norma to marry him. During their courtship his letters emitted a proud kind of compassion, which not only demonstrated his romanticism, but also held a surprising elegance as well. Norma loved his writing so much, she gave him a blank book to write in as a wedding gift. Many nights thereafter, Joe struggled to find the words to capture on the pages, but they eluded him. The brown leather book sat mostly empty and unfinished on his dresser. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- After breakfast, Norma helped Wyatt and Winona put on their Sunday best while Joe hitched on the buckboard. Every Sunday, on the trip to church, Norma couldn't resist making a comment about the dirt road messing the children's clothes, but Joe just acknowledged it offhandedly. The church was a pleasant looking building. Huge double doors drew the eye naturally up the steeple and finally to the iron-cross high above all onlookers. Flanked by small gardens, it resembled a quaint Texas version of the Garden of Eden. Constructed during The War Between the States, Joe wasn't there to help build it, a fact that made him feel a slight twinge of guilt upon seeing it every week. Sweetwater was his home, war or not, and he should have been here to help with one of its most solemn endeavors. Of course, no one faulted him for doing his duty. He honored his town by going off to war when he was needed, but the war wasn't his home, and the army wasn't his family. He was born in Sweetwater, married in this church after the war, and someday he knew he would be buried in the cemetery on the hill behind the church. Being here was all he had ever wanted. Peace, calm, and the freedom to tend his own land. If any place signified peace to Joe, it was certainly the church. But not this day, however. The smiling faces of friends were replaced with worried scowls. The jovial greetings replaced with hushed concerns. "Joe honey what's going on? Why is everyone in such a state of commotion?" asked Norma. "Don't know yet," he said back. After tying off the wagon, Joe took Norma by the hand. In turn, Norma took Wyatt’s hand, and he, his sister's. As a train, they meandered their way through the crowd of people congesting the courtyard. Focused intently square on reaching the large doors of the church, Joe couldn't help overhearing fragments of conversations. "They been gone for far too long..." "Indians, no doubt in my mind..." "Has anyone checked the saloon? Haha!!" "It's fine. They will show up later today or the next." Finally, they reached the doors to the church. Joe could see the preacher talking to Sheriff Cooper in the doorway. They took turns folding their arms and shaking their heads, while whispering to one another. Before long, the bell rings and the rest of the town’s folk find their seats. Wyatt and Wynona were still too young to take in the subtle uncomfortabilaty of the congregation, but Norma had a nervous look in her eye. She squeezed Joe’s hand tightly. The crowd's whispers instantly silenced as the preacher took the podium. "Thank you all for coming today. It seems to be that we have a larger flock than normal, and I suspect that is due to some of the rumors floating around town. Well, it's not my place to speak on such worldly matters, so I will have Sheriff Cooper speak on this subject instead.” Will Cooper was a good man. The people originally voted him in as Sheriff eight years ago mainly due to this collective belief. He was born in this town and his family had done moderately well in leather tanning. Although he was not a very educated, or articulate for that matter, he still managed to command a modicum of respect due to his size, stern voice, and the overall fairness of his decisions. His fairness, however, diminished depending on the darkness of one’s skin. Yellow, red, brown, or black, Cooper felt most of the town’s problems could be rightly associated with at least one of those hues at any given occasion. Seeing as how the majority of townsfolk did not find themselves on that side of the color spectrum, most didn't mind. Brushing outward with his thumb and forefinger, Cooper smoothed his long mustache. The heat wasn't the only thing making him sweat. "Many of you know the Jennings boys didn't come back after fishing. That was three days ago. They meant to return that next morning, but haven't yet." The ‘yet’ was a surprisingly calculated word choice. It implied the possibility of return. He continued, "Most likely, they decided to stay a spell. Nothing to be concerned with. I'm heading out to Fool’s bluff today to fetch ‘em." Joe knew the Sheriff well enough to discern the slight hint of distress in his eyes. This was an ability he absorbed while taking questionable orders by commanding officers. After Cooper’s speech, the preacher took his place at the podium and instructed the audience to bow for prayer. Then, he had them open to their Bibles to Romans 6:23. Before the sheriff could disappear through the rear exit, Joe excused himself and followed. "Sheriff, hold up." "Oh hey Joe, you doing ok?" "I'm not the one with whom to be concerned with." "Listen Joe if this is about the missing boys I don't want-" "Missing? Hold on now, you said they were prolly still out fishing. You don't really think that, do you? Something else ain't setting right in you. Tell me Will… Maybe I can help." After a sigh and a glance over his shoulder, Cooper gestured for them to head under the shade of a peach tree near the back corner of the church. Inside, the muffled bellowing of the preacher’s sermon could be heard. "Do you remember deputy Davis? He was my deputy for a few months before he took the sheriff position in El Paso? He sent me a letter that arrived on last night’s stage. Got me worried. Says there's a gang of lunatics cutting up the countryside. Says they're religious fanatics. Says they're sick in ways the devil would envy.” Joe’s patriarchal instinct was of concern for his family. He immediately grew impatient; wishing Sheriff Cooper would skip to the simple yes or no condition of his family’s safety. Cooper continued with his story, unaware of Joes growing anxiety. “This lunatic cult, they don't just kill ya they take your soul, they say. They perform some twisted kinda witch burning at the stake to judge ya guilty, then they kill ya. They make ya walk the dessert floor barefooted, so the souls of yer feet get burnt like the souls of the wicked. From the looks of it, one fella they got up north must have walked plenty of miles cause most of his skin was gone, toes broke too. What could be so persuasive as to make a man do that to himself? To be made to keep walking despite that pain? Fear, a damn strong fear of the one that pushing you to do the walking, that’s all I can figure… desert turned his skin to strips of leather…” Joe said nothing. A quiet moment of morbid contemplation passed between the two men. After a sigh the Sheriff continued. “After they decide you walked far enough, they make you pick out the saguaro that they're goona tie you to tight. Hundreds of needles punching through your skin passed your meat and deep enough to hit the bone. They drip mesquite sap on your naked skin and let fire ants loose on ya. If they bite, then that means yer a sinner and then they flail ya with a horse strap. The fire ants always bite, you know that, even without the sap. My horse bucked me last summer cause she stepped in a hill of um. Imagine getting those littles bastards all over you. You’re helpless to do anything about it. After a while of this they slit your throat. I mean, what’s the point of all that effort if they just kill ya anyway? They leave ya there, to be picked at by coyotes and ravens and the like. Davis reckons there to be about five or so of these crazies. Says they killed in Sheep Springs, Buxton and last week they took a 20-year-old school teacher in Red Rock. Don't tell nobody Joe. No sense in panicking the town." With a silent nod, a blank faced Joe extrapolated the potential threat. With his hand, Joe wiped the sweat from his face across his hairline to his jaw and chin. "By the order of those towns, it seems they aim to be heading west," Joe said with a resilient undertone. "Ya that's what I was thinking, too. Now, it's all together likely these godless bastards head north a few days and pass through Lakota. Davis, already sent a letter warning their Sheriff." Part of Joe was wishing he didn't follow Sheriff Cooper out of the church. He could be singing hymns with his family at this very moment instead of considering the atrocities of what may come. Cooper could see the concern on Joe’s face and bluntly told him to forget about the conversation, that he could handle it, and the Jennings boys would turn up soon. Joe agreed reluctantly. After all, this was sheriff business, not his. Joe’s only concern was his family and his farm. Joe was tight lipped on the ride home, and he did his best to not arouse needless worry in Norma. He acted as concerned as he could about the town gossip that Norma prattled on about. Though the newly acquired dirty laundry seemed laughably unimportant considering the news Joe had just heard himself. Of course, he wasn't about to share that news. Not to anybody. His book, on the other hand, technically wasn't anybody. It was the perfect receptacle for the un-sharable information he could no longer contain in the confines of his skull. After supper when the kids were laid to bed, Joe sat on his porch. The wood from the armless chair squeaked as he adjusted his position to see the blank pages better under the yellow lamplight. As he softly scribbled his simple words down, he couldn't help but feel something strange under his skin. Something without reason or word to justify it. After each punctuation mark, Joe looked up from his book, out into the darkness. The cedar trees somehow seemed treasonous. Their roots seemed to be unfathomably inching towards the house whenever Joe was looking away. The crickets chirped in secret code to the other denizens of the night, inhuman messages of subterfuge. The sky was also a conspirator to the dark desserts plan, casting spotlights of moon light beams on some areas, while clouds darkened whole parcels of landscape in others, slowly swaying, without notice to another patch of duplicitous terrain. Amongst the mystery of the night, the leather cover of his journal gave no security from fear. The warm light of his lantern offered no reassurance of safety. The nameless worry was within him. His breath shortened. His muscles tight. His body, his life, his family and his soul; all forfeit to the primal darkness and the power at its command. Joe liked to consider himself a rational man, as most men assuredly do. Yet, he was an old friend of fear. It's talons found common grip on his mind during the long nights between battles. He knew the tricks it could play. There was no lurking villain sharpening its blade in the dark or just outside his field of vision. No macabre spectacle of archaic ritual awaited him or his family. Children fear the darkness due to their innocence; men fear it because they lack it. Evil, nor its ambassadors, were coming for him. The lunatic cult would not come to his home, and if they did, he was capable of defending what was his. The story Sheriff Cooper told him stirred up the deep seeded paranoia that all men instinctively feel when a threat is presented. Nothing more. Joe shut his journal, unfinished. Blew out the lantern and went inside. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Nothing lasts forever darlin. We all return to the dirt eventually." "That certainly is a dramatic representation of the situation, my dear husband. It's only a broken tool." "Huh, sorry but it's true. Just suppose I been thinking bout the Jennings boys. Missing a week now with out a track or trace. " "Joseph Everdean Goodman, do not prematurely cast a pessimistic outlook upon the fate of those young men. If you can't be hopeful for your own sake, then at least do it for the Jennings." "You're right darlin. My mind tends to wonder to the morbid when so many questions are left unanswered. I will be in better spirits when I return from town." Joe felt a touch of embarrassment as he put on his hat by the front door. He turned and managed a sheepish grin to Norma. Downright childish to let a simple thing like a busted ho rile up so many emotions. The ho was old and covered in rust. The wood of the handle was splintered and ready to fall apart at the next strike of a stone. Why does such a mundane occurrence lead thoughts to questions of one’s own mortality? Joe didn't know. Joe didn't care. He tried his best to exile such dark thoughts from his mind as he traveled alone in the midday heat. After tying off his horse in front of Olaf's General store, he stomped the dirt from his boots on the wooden planks of the walkway. This was sure to straighten out his mood. Olaf was writing up an order for Widow McCall. He smiled and nodded his head towards Joe in between scribbling on his notepad. Olaf was a large Dutch man who worked hard to hide is foreign accent. Together, he and his wife Brunhilda sired nine children together; several of which Joe caught glimpse of running passed the tables and shelves containing the stores wares. Pale skinned with large rounded facial features (just like their father), they chased each other and hid behind the legs of smiling customers. Joe sighed in silent contemplation at the miracle of patronage, then his smile turned sourly to a grimace at the thought of that parent losing their children, as the Jennings have. "Vat brings you by today my friend?" Olaf's voice boomed deep from within his barrel chest. Turning to see the dimpled smile of Olaf, Joe answered, "I find myself in need of a new trench digging implement, my good sir." Joe was hoping that the obvious irony of putting on airs when visiting such informal acquaintance might ease the tension in the back of his mind. The two soon selected another ho and Joe paid for it. The transaction itself became secondary to the conversation between them. All the familiar topics were brought up: farming, business, news of Indian raids, and politics. Joe knew he was hesitant to bring up the subject of the missing young men, and between talk of mundane life, he wondered if Olaf shared his reservations. As if the European semi giant could read Joe’s mind, he called him out on the topic, in hushed tones, as to not frighten the children if they managed to over hear. Joe was relieved to have an audience to express his concerns; Norma was a good wife, but he felt no need to agitate her nerves with ghastly speculation. Joe found an odd sort of comfort in hearing that Olaf also feared for the safety of his family, as is Joes own fears were validated. Despite the comfort of commiserating, Joe was reticent in keeping the Sheriff’s troubles secret. He was trusted with the news of the cult and it would be underhanded to spread a secret, even if it was to a friend. "It bothers me da most dat da kids know of it. Young ones must be whispering of it at school and letting dar imaginations git da better of dem. I'm up at all hours of da night, calming fears of da Unterkind," Olaf scowled and flapped his large hands down like he was waiving away a foul smell. "Sorry, you lost me. What's Unterkind?” Joe asked. Sometimes Olaf’s native tongue tripped up the lines of communication. "Da child's story. It's a dark spirt. A monster from dreams." Joe could tell Olaf was frustrated to translate the figurative concept. "Do you mean like a fairy tale?" Joe inquired patiently. "Yaw. Dat’s it. It's a nonsense child story from home. Hold on, I show you," Olaf called for one of his older boys, who was shelving cans, to run upstairs to their living quarters and fetch a book. The boy did as he was told without a word, but upon his return, asked his father in a language Joe was unfamiliar with. "Da Unterkind," replied Olaf coldly. As Olaf thumbed through the pages of a very large, very old looking book, the boy remained blankly staring at the floor. With a forlorn expression on his face, the gears of his adolescent mind turned backwards to years past. It seemed to Joe as Olaf’s son recalled some childish fear as it’s power took hold of him. The boy turned ever more pale than his regular ivory tone. Once Olaf found the page he wanted he raised his head, and with a mixture of surprise and disappointment, sternly rebuked the boy for still standing there dumbfounded. The boy shook his head and went back to his work. "Dis story is not for dem to hear. His mother and I made the mistake of reading it to him and his older sister years ago and have regretted it ever since. Some story's refuse to be forgotten, and I am ashamed to admit dis one even bothers me just a bit." Olaf turned the yellowed pages of the mighty tome for Joe to see. The words were not in English, but the accompanying illustrations spoke volumes. Whether it was an original hand drawn image, or a very good reproduction of an earlier engraving, Joe could not tell. The dark lines and deep shadows gave it an almost unreal depth. The edges of the page had immaculate filigree, made of vines, thorns, and roses in each corner, all crafted with the same tar black, as if they were drizzled on to the page. The central image was that of a ghoulish looking mongoloid anthropophagous. The dreaded beast was hunching over a small boy who was cowering in absolute terror. The Unterkind had long gangly limbs with clawed fingers and toes. Its stomach protruded immensely, and its hunched back was covered in boar like hair. The only thing it was wearing was a necklace of black feathers and bird skulls. The head of the creature was three times as large as a normal human’s, with pointed ears and a long beard. It showed a large grin full of teeth under a drooping, crooked nose. The image alone was disturbing enough for an adult audience. Joe wondered what was this doing in a book of children's tales. Olaf’s culture now seemed a step further from what Joe would call normal, but before any concrete judgments could be set in his mind, Olaf turned the book back round again and began to read it aloud. “Da story begins with a poor family that lived in a cottage in the middle of a great northern forest, near a mountain range, covered in ice. Three little boys were told by their father and stepmother dat the winter would be hard and they would need to ration their provisions to survive. Though the boys openly agreed to limit their consumption, they secretly plotted to sneak bread from the cupboard after their parents went to bed. For three nights, the boys stuck into the kitchen, and each time they each took a small loaf of bread. Each of da three mornings, the father would come out of his bedroom, clueless as to where the bread disappeared. Because he had complete loyalty and trust for his sons, he never suspected them. Their stepmother, however, was suspicious; she harshly accused the boys of being selfish thieves. The boys were warned that if they continued to steal bread from the cupboard, they would be abandoned out in the snow at the edge of the great mountain range. The children denied being gluttonous, but the next night, attempted their midnight raid upon the kitchen’s cupboard once more. “Dis night though they did not find bread, but instead, their very angry parents waiting in the kitchen to surprise them. True to her word, their stepmother convinced the father to take the girls boys to the foot of the mountain and leave them there to starve. That night, while sleeping, huddled next to a small fire, the boys were dragged off by the strands of their golden hair, as they screamed into the dead of night. They'd woke to find themselves without any clothes.” Joe grimaced slightly and looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was listening, luckily the store was empty, and chances of an awkward ease dropper were set aside. “Each were locked in a separate cage against the wall of a cave.” Olaf continued, “They could barely make out a few shapes in the dim light of a small fire. The first shape was a small pile of their clothes; without which, the boys were shivering from the intense cold. The next shape they could discern was a black cauldron large enough to boil a pig in. The last object was half the size of an elk and was covered partly in hair. As dare eyes adjusted to the firelight, the boys could see it was breathing at staring unblinkingly at them. “The creature stood to its full height and smiled. Its teeth were as long as a man’s finger and as thin as sewing needles. There were hundreds of such teeth it its large mouth, each shimmering in the fire light while the beast drew near the cage containing the first boy. It snatched the shivering boy, ripped off his arms and legs, and casually tossed all of his parts together into a stew cauldron. His two brothers, forced to helplessly watch.” The look on Joe’s face was that of someone who was smelling in an unbelievably foul odor, almost sick from it. “The next day, the second boy was made to eat the stew. The boy was starving, as well as freezing, and hot stew was tempting to him, but knowing it contained his beloved brother, he did not want to eat it just the same. Da beast grabbed the boy by Da back of his head the way a grown man would grab a gooses egg, and tilted the child's head back, forcing the stew to run down his throat. The next day, the second brother’s size had doubled from eating the stew. The hulking beast took the second child out of his cage, shredded him into small bits, and casually dumped him in the cauldron of stew, just as he had done to the first boy. The third boy was clever however and knew what was to come next. He tricked the beast by lying and claiming to be so hungry he did not have to be forced to eat the stew. The beast poured the stew into a bowl and slipped it between the bars of the cage. Once the best turned its back, the clever little boy buried the stew in the snowy gravel behind his cage. He den tricked the creature once more by asking for seconds, insisting he was still hungry. Da Unterkind left to fetch more unwanted children left for him at the foot of the mountain. The beast looked forward to fattening up this third boy to almost to bursting. He would make the best meal yet for the wicked beast. The boy quickly uncovered the remains of the stew buried behind his cage and found a tiny bone. He used the tiny bone to pick the lock of his cage and escaped while the beast was away; he was in such a hurry to escape, he didn't even bother to pick out his clothes from the tiny pile by the mouth of the cave. He just ran as far and as fast as his weary legs could take him. “Eventually he reached his cottage. He cried and cried apologizing to his parents for being so selfish and so deceitful, he promised he would never again lie or be greedy. Now that he learned his lesson, the father and stepmother welcomed him back with open arms.” Olaf closed the book. "I don't mean to disrespect you. ...You know I respect you Olaf ... But that's supposed to be a children's story where you’re from?!" "Vell it is a very old story, handed down by generations. It teaches young ones to share, and be honest. " "A bit dark though?" "Oh most certainly yes, dis is why we don't read it to the children any longer. In da mind of a child, the missing Jennings boys are da same as da boys from the story. It's da Unterkind. " A beast of legend. A monster of ancient origin. A far forgotten folk creature that drags off children by the hair, let's them freeze naked in a cage, and makes them eat each other before finally eating the last of them himself. Was this any more plausible than a cult of religious fanatics? Where these children's tales any less credible than the theory proposed by the sheriff? Silly that the Unterkind option should even be considered a remote possibility...still, these stories were centuries old. Believed by a whole race of people. Even if exaggerated over the years, the story could still be somehow based in reality, couldn't it? Silly. Foolish even. In the absence of plausibility, only the irrational mind turns inexplicably to the realm of the unreal. On the lone ride back to his farm Joe tells himself, "I am not a child. I no longer believe in childish things," Joe said it out loud, for if he didn’t, the concept would have lost traction. "The beasts of superstition are for lesser minds, like that of the innocent youth, or the heathen dirt worshipers." Another vocal claim to the ever-silent forces of logic reinforced this thought in Joe’s mind, "Monsters in the dark simply can't be real." His words were flagpoles, signifying his authority over base irrationality, "The tall man with needle teeth will stay locked in the realm of imagination where he belongs." As if simply saying it could make it true. As if the human voice alone had command over what ‘is’ or what ‘is not.’ As if a wall truly existed between the dreamscape of some nightmare realm and the physical world of man’s perception. As if Joe Goodman could really expel fear from his heart with only a few hollow words. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Deep down Joe was glad that the kids were tending to their outside chores. He was gentleman enough to know its unbecoming of a man to quarrel with his wife in plain sight of children. He paced the floor, gathering his thoughts in an attempt to put into coherent words his agitated feelings. Before he could organize a reasonable argument, Norma threw her apron on the ground and exclaimed once more with passion, "I still don't see how you thought it conceivable to say such a thing!" Once more Joe defended his actions, "I told you Norma, I was only trying to be nice. Was my delivery malformed? Yes. But was my intention noble? Yes, it was. I had no desire to embarrass you or offend Mrs. Jennings. You must believe me when I say that." Her cheeks were red. Her cheeks always got red when she was excited, or in this case, angry. She started at him again, "You knew better. Her boys have been missing for two weeks. The sheriff told us that he still has hope in finding them and you offer your condolences on her loss!? I just!... Really... You ought to have known better. Think of how she must feel, Joseph. She needs to hold on to that slim hope, we have to have faith enough for her, to help her through her tribulations and you openly assume the very worst for her? We should be lighting candles for her hope not cursing her unfortunate darkness." She was right. Joe made a mistake. To him it was fairly self-evident death fell on those boys over the past several days. Hadn’t the same realization have naturally occurred to Mrs. Jennings? Still, it was an inconsiderate thing to say, even if it was meant out of kindness. "I don't know how many other ways I can say it. I'm sorry. I did not want to upset anyone. Please darlin’, can we just drop this line of hostile discourse?" Joe attempted. With a cold glance, Norma walked past Joe and shut the door to their bedroom. Joe shook his head in disbelief at Norma's blatant disregard for his side of the situation. The sun was setting fast behind the mountains, and instead of dulling the colors of the desert, it magnified their vibrant hues. Wyatt scattered slop to the pigs when Joe approached. "I'm heading into town. Tell your ma," Joe called to his son. "Yes, sir,” Wyatt simply replied, without questioning or outward concern for the uncommon situation, and watched as his father rode towards town, silhouetted by the fading sunlight. The Diamond Dot Saloon was not normally a place Joe chose to frequent, but under the circumstances a luke-warm beer was better than a cold bed. The average night at the Diamond Dot saw many of the same faces as church on Sunday morning. The only difference was the absence of credible ladies, and heavy drinking. For the majority of men in town, this was the only place for them to speak freely, enjoy a cigar, play cards, or to do anything else most wives would not approve of. In this way it was the ideal sanctuary for Joe. The two-story structure was the last building on the edge of Main Street. It was the exact opposite side of town from the church. The twin polar opposites of the community were perfectly separated and therefore perfectly balanced. Even before approaching the double doors, Joe felt more relaxed. The piano music was soothing, the dull clatter of men's discourse was reassuring, and the smell of sweat mixed with whiskey somehow comforting. Joe took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. "Glad to see you Joe. You so seldom come in, a was beginning to believe we were at odds," Phil the barkeep smiled sarcastically as he handed Joe his drink. "Thanks Phil," Joe replied to receiving the beer, choosing not to acknowledge Phillis attempt at small talk. Phil was a good barkeep, he knew when to talk, when to listen, and when to shut up. He made no further attempt at conversation with Joe. Joe sipped down several watered down beers as he sat silently, glad to let his mind wonder freely to no particular topic. It was good to not worry. Good to be unconcerned with the farm and the family. Unconcerned with lunatics. Unconcerned with monsters. Unconcerned with anything expect the pressing conundrum of whether or not to switch from beer to bourbon with his next round. Turns out, the choice was made for him as Sheriff Cooper sat next to him and ordered them both a whiskey. The sweat under his arms had dried into salt lines and his hair was greasy from the day’s exertion. The Sheriff leaned his back against the bar and eyed the crowd, elbows behind him, resting on the bar. Feeling much better than earlier, Joe felt obligated to inquire on the Sheriff’s day. The Sheriff reply was placid and vague, more euphemisms than actual events. Fine by Joe. Keep it casual: weather, rumor, shared complaints, the usual. Neither of the men had the energy for anything heavier than the lightest of discussion. The Diamond Dot was not built for conversations of such lofty merit as one may find in a more refined establishment. No one present would be caught this night or any other, passing ideas of rhetoric or politics between them. Forgetting concerns was the objective, not examining them. Perhaps it was the breaking of this unsaid taboo that lit such a fire in Sheriff Cooper, or maybe it was just the sensitivity of the topic, brought up by a man of lesser stock. "You can shut your damn half breed mouth this instant, Gomez." "What I say is truths, senior." Joe was caught off guard by the Sheriff’s quick turn of attitude upon eavesdropping on the table playing poker next to them. The Mexican-Indian and the other cowboys where hardly noticed by Joe over the past few hours. Apparently, Cooper had one ear on them for a while, and after having his fill of their topic, he burst. "You don't know a damn thing about what's true. You ain't got all the facts. All the details. All you've been doing is spreadin fear with your heathen stories!" The rest of the bar got only slightly more quiet. Gomez turned in his chair to fully face the Sheriff and with a sincere tone said, "I'm sorry if my story bothers you. Me and mis amigos were just talking about de boys. They gone missing a long time. It's like a story from my mother’s people, the Life Thief." The bar became noticeably quieter at the mention of the Jennings boys. Joe starred back and forth between the two men. Would this come to violence? Could Joe hold off the other three at the table if it came to that? The Sheriff was the only person allowed to openly carry a gun, but these cowboys, fresh off the trail, were always known to carry a hideaway. Maybe Phil, the barkeep would intervene on the Sheriffs behalf, if need be. Standing ridged as a tree, Cooper spewed through his teeth, "Listen to me boy, I do not give a shit about your Red-Skinned ghost story. You aren't to be talking ‘bout things you know nothin’ of. Spreadin’ vile tales of childish nonsense ain't a fuckin crime it's just aggravatin. By doing so, you slander the Jennings family, the Christian church, and most Goddamn importantly, my ability as a lawman. You will close your spick mouth or leave!" That was it, thought Joe. That must be why Cooper got so mad so quick. The Sheriff’s ability, or in this case, inability to do his duty was now being put in the same league as a fantasy tale of heathen origin. Straight faced Gomez rose from his chair. The bar was now almost fully quiet. Without blinking, Gomez stared coldly into Sheriff Cooper’s eyes, put his cards face down on the table, and walked out. Joe took a deep breath and finished the last of the beer in his glass. Sheriff Cooper addressed not just the cowboys at the table, but all men in attendance when he shouted, "Do we all understand each other? There is to be no more conjecture about the Jennings, Fools Bluff, any magical damned spirits, or any combination of the sort." Most men just nodded in approval or mumbled "yes sir" before going about their business. Careful not to provoke him further Joe said, "you're doing your best, Will. I know it and you know it." "It's not just that, Joe.” Pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut Cooper sighed. “I found something today. I haven't told anyone yet cuz to be honest I don't know what to make of it. Don't tell a soul till I get it figured out. I musta checked every crack of that canyon, and the hillside, and the river, and just everywhere these last couple weeks. Hell, I've resorted to rechecking the same spots seeing if anything went overlooked on my first go through!” Fixated and focused, Joe stared at the Sheriff practically begging him to continue. “You know about that big cottonwood tree at the edge of the north cliff? This morning I found a pile of clothes there. Not bloody, not even really even dirty: just boots, pants, and a shirt all together. But it was just one set of clothes so where were the other two? In this heat, a body would surely burn up with out protection from the elements. Barefoot would be the worst of it. I haven't brought the clothes to the Jennings to get identified yet due to the smell.” “So the clothes may not even belong to the boys. Maybe they fell out of a prospector’s pack, or off a traveling wagon…” As quick as the though came, it left, Joe knew it was wishful thinking at its worst. “Its like… the sour smell of something dead. All around that damn cottonwood the air lingered thick with it. And I couldn’t get that smell out of the clothes no matter how hard I scrubbed. I couldn’t bring the smell of death to the Jennings. Not with out more of an answer anyway. That smell ... It was too strong. You smell it when you’re out in a field, and you always, without fail, see buzzards circling over it. No buzzards today. No way to see where they'd be pickin at. The smell only lingered around the tree, but I found nothing. No body. No blood. No buzzards. No critters at all, in fact, ‘xcept for a black bird perched on the cottonwood branch. It's the only clue I got and it brings more questions than answers. I don't know… What cha think Joe?" "I think you’re real tired. You have been pushin hard to find these young men and you’re frustrated. Best treatment is a long nights sleep. Come at it fresh again in the morning,” Joe sympathized. Sheriff Cooper looked at the floor and nodded his head in silent agreement. Joe wished him luck and shook his hand before heading out the door. Staying up late was a young mans game and Joe was tired, too. Untying his horse in the dim light from the saloon, Joe could see a shape shift in the darkness by the corner of it. Before Joe knew to be scared, he heard a voice. "Your friend, de Sheriff, I deed not mean to upset him." Gomez stepped from the shadows with a half empty bottle of rye. "I think he knows that. He is just all messed up about those boys being gone so long is all. And without any clues," Joe replied kindly. Gomez was drunk, but not too drunk. His words were not slurred and his steps towards Joe were not yet stumbles. Both men were now walled in on two sides by horses leashed to the hitching post. "The story I tell, it is from my mothers people..." Gomez began. Out of a mixture of kindness and curiosity Joe took the bait, "The story was about something called a Life Thief? Tell me." Joe listened intently as Gomez continued, "My mother’s people are de oldest people around here. They go back to the time de sun was not yet lit, and the rivers not yet filled. Before the Gringos came. And before us, this thing was there. The Life Thief. It was a spirit from the old days. Not a man, or a demon, but something out of this world. It has no body, like smoke you can't see. You can smell it. It waits in shadows." Gomez took a long pull off the bottle of rye. Joe’s horse gave a little tug at its reign. Somewhere far off a pack of coyotes yipped with excitement. "Waits in the shadows for what?" Joe asked. "For something innocent. It flies inside you and sees all your guilt. If you are clean of spirt it lets you go, but if you bad it takes you. My mother’s people say that the people that get taken over by it go loco. They get all crazy. Sick in the head. It makes you do things. Bad things." "When a person gets possessed by the evil spirit, what kind of bad things do they do?" Joe’s voice was hoarse. A light breeze passed between the two men, whirling Gomez's oily black hair that laid in tufts down to his chin. Dark clouds from the east were drawing nearer in the star light canvas of the sky. "The Life Thief make you hurt everything around you. Hurt it and kill it. No life can be left. Most creatures know to stay away because they can smell the death it brings in the air. And if there is no life around it, it hurts itself. “What do you mean?” Joe asked. “My mother told me when she was a girl, her tribe stayed in the mountains in the north for a summer. Well, the hunting was good there, and no warring tribes were near. It was perfect ‘till a man from her tribe had de Life Thief in him. “He killed his family with a rock in the night. They could smell the Life Thief through his teepee, and in the morning, he was found sitting, smiling in the mess he made of his wife and children. The men tied him to a tree until the elders could decide what to do. Dis man… he took off his own skins. Bit little holes in his skins, den pulled it off like a snake or something. All day alone at his tree, he ripped of strips of his skins, and laid them out to dry. By sundown he was dead, and a crow carried Life Thief off to find more to hurt." “That’s horrible” Joe said with earnest contempt. Offering his bottle of rye to Joe, Gomez sighed and shook his head in agreement. Joe took a long pull of the burning liquid, it seared his throat on the way down and gave him the shivers, but it helped too, it took just a small amount of the situation’s gravity away. Gomez continued, “As a kid I was scared of de blood in the story, its real gruesome eh? But now when I think of it as a man; its just the idea dat bothers me. Something filling me up and taking me over. You get no control of what’s happening to you. Like when a bad man forces himself on a lady, its got to be like that. Just helpless. You cant fight the Life Thief like a person, you can’t shoot at smoke, or stab air. The Life Thief can do what it wants and you cant do nothin to stop it.” Joe knew not to question such old stories. He knew they are only stories, and they did not have to make any kind of real sense. This story wasn't real and pointing that out would do no one any good he reassured himself. Still, Joe needed to feel truly validated in the knowledge of this story’s falsity. "But if it kills all things around it, why would it have the crow carry it around?" Joe realized as he said it how immature it was to attempt to justify the points of a myth as old as time. Truth was, he just wanted this story to be outwardly proven wrong. To be seen as the fantasy that it truly was. Even if Gomez believed it, Joe could not be settled. Gomez replied with, "The Life Thief, he hides in the shadows under the dark wings of the bird. The crow is a part of death because it goes in between this world and the spirt world so often. It is the servant to de Life Thief." Convenient. Myths always have a convenient answer to speculative interrogations. No doubt the story was very old, and if so, it would have countless generations of people to fill in the holes left by logics absence. Not wanting to offend Gomez, Joe told him it was an interesting tale and he was thankful to hear it. Joe climbed onto his horse and headed for home. The coyotes where silent. The clouds froze in the sky. “The story was not real,” he repeated to himself. Dreams were pointless, Joe thought as he splashed water on his face from the washbowl in his room. The nonsense that takes place between a man’s ears during his slumbering hours is nothing of genuine concern during the waking hours. Joe stared sternly at his own reflection, then down to his outstretched fingers. His hand was trembling ever so slightly. Norma was in the kitchen making breakfast and the kids were still in bed. He let his arms fall limp at his sides and shook out the cramp while stretching his neck from side to side. Dreams. What purpose did they serve? The ball of conflicting feelings rolled around inside Joe as scenes from last night’s unconscious escapade flashed in and out of his mind’s eye. The needles: yellowish, white with hints of brown… He cupped his hands and they filled with warm water then spread it across his face. The thin branches braided together, studded with thorns…He stretched his arms up over his head and breathed in deep. The smile so large it cleaves the head back as far as the ear, turns, whispers a laugh… He put on his britches, his boots and shirt. The back of a beast, hunched over, breathing heavy and fast; feathers mixed with skin… He stepped out of the room, boots echoing on the floorboards in the still of the morning. The ground cracks open, steam shooting upward, searing. He made a fist as hard as he could, forcing his heart to beat harder. Norma turned to see him enter the kitchen area and sit at the table. She watched as Joe poured himself a cup of coffee. "Biscuits smell good darlin’," Joe praised. Norma smiled and set a warm biscuit on his plate before returning to the stove. They did not discuss the argument of the previous night. They also did not discuss the nightmare that followed. Joe laid out his plan for the day; Norma did the same for him. Both planned goals that needed to be completed by sundown. The first thing on his list was to mend the fence at the far north end of the farm. The barbed wire had come undone from one of the posts and needed to be reattached. Norma suggested bringing Wyatt along, claiming the boy needed to learn how to do such things. True, Wyatt was almost ten and should be expected to do more of the work on the farm since he was older. Joe hesitated to bring the boy, because despite his good intentions, he would still take up more time to accomplish this simple task due to the necessity of teaching the skill. Joe ultimately acquiesced, knowing Norma to be in the right. Once the boy was ready, they to set out for the far end of the farm. The heat of the day had not yet taken hold over the land so the ride was quite pleasant. By the North end of the Goodman parcel, the landscape became rocky with small gullies and ditches. The ground was far too thick with stone to be good for growing anything except dessert shrubs, and the occasional mesquite or juniper. A half mile past the edge of Joe’s fence were the hills that ran along side a gorge until it opened into the lake. The log posts that supported the barbed wire were as tall as Wyatt and set three paces apart. With two lines running along them, livestock would have to work to get out unless one of the wires became unattached, as was the case this very morning. "Now hold up your end while I hammer it in over here. Mind the ‘bards." Joe directed Wyatt. Wyatt was still cloudy-eyed from sleep. As Joe tacked in the wire, young Wyatt spied the area, always on the lookout for a ground hog or maybe a rabbit. To Wyatt’s surprise, something stirred under the twisted low hanging branches of a mesquite. The dark green leaves created a bell shape of the branches. "Pa..." Wyatt whispered as loud as he dared and motioned with his head to the direction of the tree. Joe stopped hammering and looked. The tree was almost twenty feet on the other side of the fence. The lowered branches rustled a bit. Joe caught Wyatt's eye and motioned for the boy to get the rifle that was slung to the side of his horse. Wyatt cocked the riffle as soon as he slid it out of its confines. Joe had taught him this; better to make the clacking noise while farther away, so as not to spook the critter. Keeping his eye fixed on the tree Joe reached out for the gun and Wyatt cautiously placed it in his hand. The pair crept slowly forward, padding their steps as they went. Ten feet from the tree, Joe noticed the outline of a shadowed figure under the branches directly behind the leaves. Bigger than a rabbit, maybe the size a coyote or a boar, Joe assessed. Overhead, a large black bird cawed defiantly and soared calmly towards the horizon. In an instant, all the blood in Joe's body turned to ice. His eyes shot wide-open and he gasped for missing breath. Just then, a soft whimper slipped out from under the tree, and it was not the kind made by an animal. Shock, like lighting, struck Joe and in the space of a heartbeat he lunged; holding the riffle on target with his left hand, Joe shoved Wyatt back with his right. Before the boy's backside hit the dirt, Joe barked out "Who's there! Come out damn you or I'll shoot!" Getting up from the ground Wyatt’s confused eyes, and Joe's angry eyes, simultaneously fell on the motion of something slowly extending from the branches. A hand, with blood and dirt mingled together covered its skin almost entirely. It grasped outward at the air before falling limp to the ground. The appendage made no more motion and the whimper was heard no more. For a short time, that could have lasted infinitely, Joe and Wyatt starred gasping at the right hand and forearm of what was once apparently a man. After a breath of realization, Wyatt ran back to the fence and grabbed the hammer; he stopped and slid a few inches in the gravel behind Joe. In the short moment that Wyatt took to get the hammer, Joe turned his attitude to that of the soldier he once was. He had his rifle. His comrade behind him. An enemy to his front… But what were his orders to be? Shoot? Retreat? Charge in? Squeezing the butt of his riffle tight to his shoulder, Joe ran through each possibility in quick succession. The least likely scenarios got disregarded first. The possible threat level was minimal; Joe knew what he had to do. Slowly he moved forward. Keeping the riffle pointed, he lifted away the branches with his front hand. The rays of white sun split starkly with the deep shadows. They made a calico patchwork over the skin of a young man. Naked and filthy from head to toe, the boy could not have been older than thirteen. He was curled up tight into a ball with only his scrawny arm perturbing from the frail mass of flesh. The boy looked dead. Not recently dead, but he looked as if he died a while ago, and this spot under the tree was his grave. What Joe found under that tree was no threat, only pity. Pity personified. Joe knelt down and shook the boy’s shoulder gently. From a few steps to his rear, Joe heard Wyatt mumble something under his breath. "What's that, Wyatt?" Joe asked over his shoulder. With a voice no bigger than a mouse, Wyatt lets fall from his lips the name Mathew Jennings. Joe squinted and could barely make out the face of the young man he knew to be Mathew Jennings. Wyatt was right. Here lay one of the missing Jennings boys. "Mathew? Mathew, it's me Mr. Goodman. Are you still with us son?" Turning halfway around and laying his gun down, Joe told Wyatt to fetch the canteen from the horse. "You're goona be fine now Mathew. We gotcha now. We're goona get ya home and all fixed up. Mathew, can you hear me?" Joe said as he turned back to Mathew. Still clutching the hammer in his one hand, Wyatt passed the canteen to his father. Mathew’s face laid flat in the dirt with his mouth slightly parted. Joe placed Mathew’s head back as softly as he could and half cradled the boy in his lap. He began to pour the slightest amount of water down the young man's throat when he convulsed, and with a spasm, spat back the water. Terrified, his huge white eyes sat strangely in the dark recesses of his filth covered face. With a ragged protest Mathew pleaded, "No more! No more!" As his fit subsided, Mathew's eyes darted around him, not blinking. Joe did his best to soothe the wild young man, and in doing so, noticed cuts of various depths covering his body. Groups of three and four parallel lines running down for several inches everywhere. Some, scabbed over… some, green with infection…. Some, still oozing with what little blood he had left in him. "Mathew, you got to tell us what happened. Where are your brothers? Who did this? Mathew come on, talk to me please I want to help,” Joe urged gently. A pathetic moan was the only answer Mathew gave, as he flung his skinny arms and legs about, kicking at branches and clawing at the dirt. "Wyatt, ride back to the house. Tell your ma what transpires here, go quickly. Go on!" Joe frantically directed. Wyatt had only ridden at a slow pace before, so Joe knew he might be frightened to go at full speed; however, if they couldn't get help quickly then Mathew was sure to die. "Hush now son, you’re safe. You are going to pull through this. Can you tell me anything? Tell me anything about where you been?" Joe kept faith that Mathew would be fine. But Mathew had stopped his struggling. His breath was shallow. His eyes becoming placid. His entire body became limp and melted downward into Joes arms. With what must have been the last of the boy's will power, he tilted his head to look up at Joe, and whispered something. His voice was barely more than breath. Joe had trouble making sense of what Mathew whispered. In the shade of a mesquite tree, Mathew Jennings lay lifeless in Joe's lap. His hands sticky with dried blood, Joe cradled the boy's body. It felt as light as it if he were really the pile of sticks he resembled. Knowing his question would go unanswered, Joe droned out with a trembling voice, "Mathew what did you say son?" No answer. A tear rolled down Joe’s cheek. "What did you try to tell me? I couldn't make it out." Joe’s bottom lip was shaking as he asked, "Can you forgive me for not hearing your last words?" No answer. More tears. Joe replayed the young man's final words over in his mind, but his efforts only ended with more failed attempts to distinguish between each syllable. The final words of young Mathew were one of two options: "It's sin," or "It's in." Neither of the two choices offered any comfort. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The next several days became a convoluted blur of frayed nerves and frustrated tears. The county Sheriffs came to Sweetwater wanting to hear every detail. Newsmen appeared randomly throughout town and scribbled in notebooks. Sheriff Cooper couldn't walk down the street without being bombarded by questions. Mathew's funeral was held in the church and he was laid to rest at the cemetery on the hill behind it. Norma was gone most of the time, counseling Mrs. Jennings and helping with the funeral. Wyatt got into a fight with a boy over accusations of his father's involvement. To survive this whirlwind of calamity, Joe had to become rooted like a tree, solid and strong. He had to let the current commotion wash on over him while keeping his calm intact. Nonetheless, Joe's frustrations where merely tiny cracks compared to the canyon of despair that had become the lives of the Jennings family. One son killed, two more missing. Sheriff Cooper did his best to placate their woes. He could offer vague platitudes about his ongoing search, but the truth was he was done with it before the first body was found. He did all he could, and he failed, he once confided in Joe. Even so, he stubbornly kept up the parade of gallantry that his station demanded. A halfhearted attempt to track Mathew’s hovel under the mesquite tree by Fool’s Bluff, but his efforts once again, turned up fruitless. The other two Jennings brothers were never to been seen again by a living soul. The official story was how a bear attacked the Jennings boys. Mathew survived and crawled his way to Joe's farm. For the most part, that was enough to calm the nerves and silence the rumors. After all, no better solution had presented itself, and a bear attack seemed more believable than any other theory. The plausibility of a scenario increases exponentially, as long as key details are not accounted for. Most people in town didn't have all of the facts. They took the basis for what was openly known and filled in the rest with whatever makeshift sequence of events suited them best. For some folks, it was clear that a wild beast had done the boys grieves bodily harm. Others were more inclined toward believing the supernatural elements of the case held the most weight. Sheriff Cooper had discussed the occurrence with his former deputy and together the pieced together a story which featured the lunatic cult of religious fanatics to explain the mystery. After a week had gone by, the initial rush of the events had simmered down. Life in Sweetwater began to resemble its previously established state of equilibrium. Joe was so busy he hadn't taken the time to mentally process much of the oddities that had befallen his life as of late. The setting sun turned the sky gold and the land a grayish shade of purple. With a combination of a grunt and a sigh, Joe sat down in the chair on his front porch. The chair creaked its own complaint under the weight of the hard-working farmer. Joe ran his index finger down the spine of his journal. The leather was smooth and cool to the touch. The majority of its pages were still empty. What right did he have to fill them in, to make a permanent mark of his thoughts, as if he had a monopoly on facts? A feeling of limitation hovered around Joe's mind. He didn't know what to write. He never really did. His stream of consciousness ran straight off the unfinished tracks and over the cliff of conclusion. He had no answers. His questions only birthed more questions. The Jennings incident was a quagmire of mysterious variables. Without a fact to cement in his mind, without a solution set down, without any kind of firm finality to this riddle, how could a man be expected to rest assured in his beliefs? No one knew what happened to the Jennings boys at Fool’s Bluff. The fear that was rooted in the soil of uncertainty grew to be the bitterest fruit of all. Was a lunatic cult loose in the desert around his home? Possibly. Was a monster ravaging people in the outskirts of his town? Possibly. Was a dark spirit taking hold of human souls in the shadows that surrounded him? Possibly. Was a man-eating bear stalking human prey a stone’s throw from his front door? Possibly. Joe would not know the truth for the rest of his days, and it would gnaw at him with every beat of his heart. He would not return to his journal. It sat, unfinished on his dresser for the rest of his life. Its pages were left blank.
1 Comment
The Honeymoon Hotel |
Cheryl Peña graduated cum laude as a fine arts major in May 2000 from the University of Texas – San Antonio. She worked as a professional photographer and eventually obtained work as a legal assistant. She enjoys knitting, weaving, and photography. Cheryl still lives in San Antonio, Texas. “The House of Wynne Lift” is her first novella. |
The House of Wynne Lift
“Who is this mysterious Wynne Lift?” the reporter asked.
“Ah, Mr. Wylie! What we know is that he was a wealthy recluse living in London, but he left society to live here. No one has ever been inside and it has been nearly twenty years.”
Wylie let out his breath in exhaustion, and perhaps a little from frustration at not getting his question answered completely. Silence was around them, but he sensed the drama of the moment as his eyes focused on the top of the Tower. It was amazing. He couldn’t imagine a person wanting to live in a cave for twenty years. “How do we know anyone is still up there? No one has ever seen him. How do we know he’s not dead?”
“Oh, no. Wynne Lift is alive. These are not rumors. This is not folklore. We know he was a very wealthy, private man, but it shocked the city to learn of his plan to leave Civilization. ‘Why would a man of his stature want to live like a savage?’ was the question everyone asked. But travelers in this area all claim to hear violins play when they pass the mountains…and Wynne Lift was an exceptional violinist. Do not tell me you think he is dead.”
“These are stories…people who have been trekking for days in the wilderness. They’re weary…they’re hearing things. It could all be just overactive imaginations.”
The researcher was perturbed by Wylie’s skepticism. “I’ve heard them. Don’t tell me I have an overactive imagination. I know what I heard is real. Believe me, you have not wasted your trip. We will meet Wynne Lift.”
The very name sent shivers over Wylie’s body as he looked up at the sky and then at their destination: The Castle Tower.
* * * *
The rocks were rough on their feet and they had nearly become faint from exertion as they neared the top of the mountain. Wylie felt his foot slide on a loose rock, but he was too slow in reacting. He grabbed the first thing his hands touched as he went down, finally able to grasp what was happening in his tired mind. He didn’t even have the strength to call out, but his traveling companion had heard him and was there immediately to pull him up. Wylie was disoriented for a couple of minutes before he gestured that he was alright and they continued to climb.
Slowly, they neared the outcropping and sidestepped until they could finally walk out onto it. The “battlements” on the tower now resembled the points on a crown. Somehow, Wylie knew this discovery would be nothing like he expected. The sky seemed to almost yellow with the redness of the rock. Wylie was surprised at how the color was not apparent from the ground as it was silhouetted, even against a clouded sky. He knew this wouldn’t be the only surprise. Watching in his nervousness, he observed the researcher examining the stone formations in front of them. Wylie took this opportunity to take a few photographs. Then it occurred to him what the researcher was doing. “Professor Livingston? You looking for the entrance?”
“Yes. Yes, indeed, I am. I know he would have hidden it. Wouldn’t want others to bother him, you know?”
“I know.” He thought a moment. “Wouldn’t he try to put it where it would be difficult to get to? Maybe on the side or out front?”
The professor agreed. Both of them walked around to one side, passing one large mass of rock and then slipping into a crevice between it and the next battlement. A shiny object caught Livingston’s eye. “Well, that was hidden well at all!”
“What?” Wylie spun around. Before him was a door with an entrance carved out of the rock. “A door?” He took a photograph out of habit.
“I rather expected a boulder to push in. A door to a cave! Extraordinary! This is going to be a spectacular visit. I told you that you wouldn’t be disappointed.” Livingston seemed overjoyed. “Now remember what I told you. Don’t seem too excited. Remain calm and quiet. This man hasn’t seen civilization or another human being in twenty years. No sudden movements. We don’t want to frighten him, just have a chat.”
“I got it. I’ll be careful.” Wylie was getting more than just a little annoyed. He tried to attribute it to fatigue and took a deep breath to relax.
“Right. Well, let’s cut to the chase. No formalities, eh?” Livingston raised his hand and gave a knock on the door.
There were a few moments of silence before he knocked again. Wylie regained his skepticism. “He’s not there. We’ve wasted our time. Let’s set up a camp or something and rest before heading home.”
Livingston grabbed the arm of the retreating man. “Wait a moment--”
“No, he’s not there. Give it up. You were wrong. It happens.”
Livingston knocked again. “Please. It can’t hurt to try, even if no one answers.”
“No, just knocking on an abandoned house gives me the creeps. Let’s go!”
Suddenly, the doorknob turned and the door moved slowly and cautiously open. “Who’s there?” a quiet voice asked from the other side. The speaker did not make himself visible.
Both Livingston and Wylie were astonished. “Wynne Lift?”
“Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m Professor Foster Livingston and this is Peter Wylie, a reporter from New York. We were hoping you’d allow us to chat with you for a few moments.”
“Do you want to write an article about me?”
Wylie answered. “With your permission, of course, sir.”
“Well, I’m not sure I want to be in the news anymore. I’ll be glad to let you in for a visit, since you’ve gone through all the trouble to get here. I know you need to rest. We can chat all you like, but I’m afraid I’d have to consider the issue of an article for a while before making a decision. I’m just not too excited about that prospect at the moment. But, please come in.” The door opened wider and the two strangers walked inside, finding themselves atop a narrow stairway, where Wynne Lift was already heading down. “Close the door behind you.”
All Wylie could see following their mysterious host was a velvety smoking jacket worn by a man with silvery-gray hair. His dark pants blended into the darkness of the corridor.
Soon, they came to another door, and when it opened, light filled the stairwell and Wynne Lift disappeared into another room. As both men reached the bottom of the stairs, they saw a Persian rug lying near the door on what was otherwise a marble tile floor. It was almost a contradiction as they entered. The tile floor, the expensive furniture, the gold, the works of art…everything a civilized home would have, set off by rock walls and ceiling. It wasn’t the “cave” they imagined.
“Here, have a seat. You must be exhausted.”
Both men sat on a lovely Queen Anne sofa, getting their first glimpse of Lift’s face. It was perfectly shaved and the skin looked very healthy, although pale. He had a very kind smile and kind blue eyes that sparkled in the dim light. “Thank you, sir. We really appreciate your generosity. We would have given you prior notice instead of dropping in uninvited like this, but we didn’t really know how to contact you, and we didn’t think you’d let us in if you knew we were coming, either.” Wylie gave an unsure laugh.
“Probably not. You’re very wise.” The smile still hadn’t faded.
“Well, you’re being very polite to us after we did this, came unexpectedly. I know you’d probably rather be alone, but…”
“No, don’t bother. It’s quite alright. It’s rather nice to speak to someone after so long a time. I should think it a chance to explain everything and to hear what’s been happening on the outside.”
Livingston remarked, “You haven’t seen sunlight in twenty years? I can’t imagine!”
“No, no. I don’t stay locked up. This isn’t a dungeon. This is my home. I sometimes go out and play my violin in the moonlight. Sometimes I stay until sunrise or go out at sunset. But, otherwise the light is much too bright for me.”
“I’m really anxious to hear your story, Mr. Lift.”
“Later. First you need to rest. Enjoy yourselves. I’ll show you to your rooms.” They stood to follow Lift. “You know, when I first started building this place, I intended on taking my family with me.” His laugh showed a little resentment. “But when I was finally ready to go, none of them wanted to come. Now, I finally have use for those extra rooms! They’re furnished, of course. I suppose I was waiting for one of them to change their minds…Foolish, isn’t it?”
“No, sir…” Wylie was interrupted by an elbow to his side from Livingston. When he looked back at Lift, he noticed the man was paying no attention to them. Both stood respectfully silent.
“Anyway,” Lift burst out suddenly, “I need to show you where you’ll be staying. I’m sorry, gentlemen.”
“Perfectly alright, sir,” Wylie acknowledged politely, taking a second to glare back at Livingston before falling in step behind Lift toward an arched doorway leading into a corridor with built-in light fixtures. The hall was just to the right of the door from which they’d entered, yet somehow Wylie could not imagine going back up that flight of stairs into the sun again.
* * * *
When Wylie opened his eyes, he was unsure of whether it was night or morning. He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been asleep. The past few days had been particularly draining and left him feeling completely bewildered. All he could remember were the many nights he’d spent under the stars in the wilderness, and now here he was lying on a mattress with feather pillows. Their brief encounter with the elusive figure of Wynne Lift made little of an impression on him except that, even after seeing and speaking with the man, he still did not know one thing about him. The details slowly came back to him…the treacherous climb, the not-so-hidden door, the smoking jacket and silver hair, the marble tile and plush décor. What would he discover today? He was reluctant to leave the room, feeling extremely uncomfortable in a stranger’s place of residence. Suddenly his natural desire for knowledge was stilled, and he could understand sincerely why so many people disliked reporters. He felt their presence was an intrusion, and that Livingston and he were an unnecessary burden on their more-than-gracious host.
A knock came unexpectedly at the door, and he was completely unprepared for it. “Just a minute,” he said, before hastily dressing in the robe provided by Lift and quickly running his fingers through his hair a few times. “I’m coming,” he reiterated upon hearing another knock and reached the door a little out of breath. “Yes?”
The gentleman’s face beamed in the opening. “Good morning, Mr. Wylie. I’m serving breakfast in a few minutes if you and your friend would like to join me. You have time to shave, wash, dress, and whatever else you need to do. I hope you like lots of French food!”
“Of course, sir. Thank you, sir. That’s very generous of you, sir,” he overcompensated.
“Yes, yes, well…I’ll see you in a few minutes, then. Cheerio!” The man smiled broadly before retreating down the hallway, back in the direction of the kitchen--or so Wylie supposed. He really had no idea where the breakfast room was, or even if one existed. Maybe they would eat in the living room by the coffee table? Maybe Professor Livingston would come to knock on his door first, and he’d use the excuse that he was just following the professor should they get lost. Or, maybe he should just make an educated guess.
* * * *
Wynne Lift had cleared the table and served a light fruit salad for dessert, along with the stereotypical glass of juice. Livingston ate quickly with a voracious appetite and was sipping at the juices left at the bottom with his spoon, while Wylie, seated across from the professor, picked at it delicately with a fork.
“Quite amusing,” Lift observed. “I would have thought the professor to have better manners than a New York reporter, but it’s the other way ‘round!”
Both men looked up, startled. “Excuse me, sir?” Wylie ventured.
Lift sat up abruptly. “I’m sorry. I apologize for my poor etiquette. You remember gentlemen, I haven’t had much chance to practice!”
“Of course, sir. I understand.”
“You just don’t match my expectations.”
Wylie wasn’t sure how to proceed, but became somewhat brave. “Well, I can’t speak for the professor, but I have lots of lunch meetings with people for business. I don’t think I’m exceptionally polite, I just have to conduct myself in a certain manner in the circles I’m in. I’m led to believe the professor is unconventional anyway, so he’s eccentric even when he’s teaching. I don’t know him personally, however. We met a few weeks ago.”
Lift nodded. “I suppose I hadn’t thought of that…it’s been a while.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wylie, also for your flattering description of my life,” Livingston grunted.
“Sorry.”
“Nonsense. He cleared up a misconception. It wasn’t taken to be derogatory,” Lift defended.
Wylie felt bad anyway. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I only intended on making a point. I hadn’t meant it that way.”
Livingston still sulked and his face twisted into a mass of wrinkles as he frowned.
“Let it go, Mr. Wylie. Really, I am interested in hearing about things. Have you…do you know about…my family…my…wife?”
“Uh…well, I…I don’t really…You lived in England still, didn’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. Are they still there?” Lift sounded impatient.
Wylie felt uneasy, yet not sure why he was so afraid of upsetting the old man who’d shown nothing but kindness since they’d arrived. “Yes, sir. All I know is what Professor Livingston told me. I wasn’t familiar with you, but I was intrigued by your story. If you do the interview, I would contact them to get their side of the story. I didn’t want to bother them for no reason, so I thought I’d wait until after I’d talked to you.”
The man looked as though he were hiding anger or trying not to let on that he felt insulted. “What stories are going ‘round? You heard those?”
Wylie shifted self-consciously and cleared his throat nervously. “Um…well, not much. They’re…no one knew much about you, sir. You were well-known as being wealthy. They wondered why you left…why you’d come here. There were speculations, but nothing out of the ordinary, I don’t think. Then there were stories of travelers hearing violins out in this area and it all came back from a twenty-year hiatus.”
“Professor, what did you hear? I’m sure you know more about occurrences in England than this American!”
Livingston was slightly perplexed at the sudden change in behavior. “Not much more on this story, I’m afraid.” he answered anyway, trying to be somewhat diplomatic despite his previous insult from the reporter. “They thought you were anti-social or had a troubled relationship. Others thought you were tired of civilization. But after a time, the talk stopped…until the travelers began to speak up. Some called the tales rumors…and everyone speculated on whether you were alive or dead and what state you’d be in if you were alive. No one would have expected this.”
Lift laughed at once. “Wonderful! It’s such a funny thing! What else would they think? Why would I just go and live in a primitive cave with no conveniences at all? I hadn’t gone mad!” His laughter reduced to chuckling and he took a deep breath. “Is that what brought you two here?”
Wylie interrupted Livingston. “We wanted to know if the stories were true…what was the real truth. Rumors become extremely distorted along the way. I couldn’t believe a story about a man who’d been away from human contact for twenty years. It was intriguing.”
“Not to mention all the newspapers to be sold, right Mr. Wylie?” Luckily, a grin accompanied the comment.
“Yes, to be honest, Mr. Lift. You are correct,” Wylie said, without mentioning that there really weren’t many newspapers anymore. “But, I didn’t really expect to find anything, so if I don’t get the interview, sir, I won’t be disappointed.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Also, under the circumstances, I know you value your privacy, so I won’t attempt to get anything published without your consent, as I’d said earlier.”
“Splendid. But I really haven’t decided for or against the interview yet. It’s still early. Why don’t you gentlemen stay for a while? I’ll give you a tour! There’s no rush, is there? I haven’t even had time to think!”
The two guests looked at each other, contemplating, wondering what the other was thinking. But upon seeing each of their facial expressions, it was obvious they both agreed. “Offer accepted!” and “Why not?” resounded simultaneously.
“Wonderful!” Lift exclaimed.
* * * *
The house was actually a subterranean mansion worthy of the most extravagant movie star. There were crystal chandeliers in the main rooms along with rich carpeting everywhere but those larger rooms. There were aeroponics bays with herbs and vegetables, a gym and a jogging track, a heated pool, a generator room (they still hadn’t figure out what type of fuel was used)…the list went on. Lift seemed extraordinarily proud of his achievement, as if he himself had built it instead of designing it. He seemed to have thought of everything, except how to get his family to come along. However, he was doing his best to make Livingston and Wylie feel welcome. He even offered to let them use all of the facilities at their leisure. Then, he excused himself without explanation and gestured for them to continue exploring as he turned around. He seemed typically jovial as he left them, using a small monorail car he’d neglected to tell them about. Surprisingly, neither guest had even noticed the track that ran along the corridors.
“Either he doesn’t want us using that, or there was so much to say that he forgot some things,” Wylie proposed.
Livingston was perpetually criticizing his companion, and now was no exception. “I’m sure some things would slip his mind. If you used the car every day and got used to it, you wouldn’t think to mention it either. What’s the matter with you? You switch places. You pretend to be friendly when he’s around and then you make rude comments behind his back. I’d hate to think what you’d say about me if I weren’t here. Don’t you have any friends?”
“Yes, I do. I don’t think that was necessary, Professor. I wasn’t trying to be rude. I only wondered why he didn’t bring it up. You don’t have to be so…rude just because I’m from New York and you’re from London. It doesn’t make you a better person or anything. You’ve been on my case since this trip began, treating me like an uncultured slob. Maybe my culture’s different than yours, but that doesn’t make me any less refined. Our standards are different because our background is different. Different. That’s all. You misunderstood.”
“Whoever said I didn’t like Americans? I said you were rude.”
“Shouldn’t come from someone Wynne Lift himself criticized.”
Livingston’s lips pursed together. “And when did he do that?”
Wylie shrugged. “When you made a fool of yourself acting like I was rude…talking about eating habits or something.”
Again, the researcher’s lips pressed hard against each other in his anger. He couldn’t immediately think of a response, but he definitely had plenty of things to say. It took a few seconds as his jaw shifted from side to side, grinding his teeth, then he let out his breath. “I don’t know why I could have thought to bring you along with me. You have absolutely no manners and I don’t care what Wynne Lift said. Your statement was unflattering…Lift even considers himself a poor judge of etiquette. How would he know you were really a savage? He’s had no practice whatsoever.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Wylie retorted calmly. But that was what he said. Inside, his feelings were much less friendly towards their host. His flattery and polite “thank yous” and “sirs” were a mask for his discomfort. He didn’t quite know the reason for his mistrust--there was no concrete answer. But his intuition told him something was wrong. It wasn’t like Lift was hiding something, but more like there was something he should know. Only this time, his reporter’s instinct told him to go home…no questions asked.
* * * *
A small desk lamp burned brightly in the otherwise dark room. An e-book lay in front of him, but his heart was not into reading it. Instead, he stared at the rock wall against which the desk was positioned and imagined a window where he could see the stars. He never realized how much windows contributed to the lighting of a place. His sense of timing was completely lost, but he was sure it had to be nighttime because, although his watch was still set to New York time, he could still determine the hour through simple mathematics. He wondered how Lift could live like that. The atmosphere was becoming increasingly more oppressive the longer he stayed. Claustrophobia had never plagued him before, but he felt confined and cramped, as if in a cage. Yet still Livingston wanted his research, interview, or whatever.
He had to admit, he had been very interested prior to their arrival, but now all he could think of was what it would be like to see the sky again. How Livingston could stand it and keep sight of his objective was beyond him. He was about to climb the walls. Still, another question that troubled him was how Lift could control them without ever placing restrictions on either of them. Was it just his own paranoia that prevented him from asking questions, walking around freely, using the facilities, or just walking out the door? Did Livingston feel similarly, or was he alone? He was even afraid to write down his concerns for fear that Lift would find the papers and read them. He was afraid to speak quietly to himself about it for fear that Lift could somehow hear him through some sort of Orwell-esque surveillance. What then? Did he really believe Lift had authority over them now? What could possibly happen? Lift had as yet to show them his real angry side.
Wylie turned in his chair to look around the room. The feeble light from the desk was barely enough to highlight the edges of the furniture. His own shadow fell across the floor in an oddly-shaped manner from the obstacles of the bed, nightstand, and other clutter. Every movement he made created an echoing sensation, but he was cut-off from all outside noise. It was a serene setting, one he would have enjoyed had he been into his reading, working on an important report or story for work, or even finishing his income tax forms. But, at that moment, he wanted noise. He wanted contact with someone else. He wanted to hear crickets and traffic and the neighbors arguing next door. He sighed. Even the silence seemed to echo. He felt as though a radio had been on since the day he was born and had only just been switched off for the first time. He had never been anywhere that quiet in all his life. It was definitely a new experience.
A sudden knock reverberated through the rock chamber, disturbing his thoughts. He abruptly realized that perhaps he did want to be left alone with his silly preoccupations, but stood anyway. Wynne Lift didn’t have to know about his worries, did he? Wylie took a deep breath before reluctantly going to the door and opening it. But, instead of the sparkling blue eyes and silver hair he’d expected to see, the professor’s face awaited him from the hall. “Professor?” he said, surprised.
“May I speak with you for a few moments?” The man actually looked troubled.
“Sure.” He stepped aside to allow his visitor to pass, then closed the door. “What’s the matter?”
Livingston looked around a little, noting the similarities between Wylie’s room and his own. Finally seeming satisfied, he sat on the edge of the bed and watched Wylie take the chair at the desk before he felt settled enough to attempt a discussion. “I, er, don’t know how to say this…” He looked around again, hoping a distraction could give him a change of topic. None came. He cleared his throat nervously. “I feel strange…” He glanced around, as if someone would suddenly be there watching. “I can’t sleep. Last night was easy enough; I was exhausted. But we’ve rested and now I keep thinking. I feel all the kilos of the earth on top of us. It feels like it’ll all collapse and we’ll all be crushed.”
“You’re claustrophobic?” He was genuinely surprised and felt true sympathy. It was bad enough for him, but he couldn’t imagine the discomfort of a true claustrophobic. After all, it wasn’t a natural cave; it was man-made. He tended to trust nature to create things that would last thousands of years rather than a human being (although humans did have nuclear waste to their credit).
The professor shrugged. “I didn’t think so before, but I’ve had episodes in the past.”
“It’s not just you,” Wylie confided, still fearing the microphones he’d created in his mind. “I have been a bit nervous, actually. I guess that’s why we never decided to do something like this, eh? Move out to the wilderness.” He tried to make it a joke, but didn’t succeed.
“This is very different for me. Ordinarily, I’d love this whole thing. This is the kind of experience I usually thrive on…the unexpected, discovering places and learning about people…but even though I’m finding this very interesting, I can’t help feeling uneasy.” He sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s just because this is the first chance I’ve had to think about all of this. I may, in a day or so, feel more relaxed…right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe I will, too.” He gave a smile that showed obvious doubt. “I hope so.” He also hoped there were no cameras, but then he didn’t know how advanced technology was twenty years ago…Candid Camera could do it, though…
“Maybe it’s nothing. I should just go and try to get some sleep. Sorry to trouble you.” He stood, suddenly resolving to be his usual assertive self.
“No trouble. I don’t mind. Good night.”
“Right. See you in the morning, then. Good night.” He walked briskly to the door and almost let himself out, but stopped, thinking it could be taken rudely and waited for Wylie.
“Good night,” Wylie repeated, receiving a nod from the professor to reciprocate, and he was alone once more, wanting very much to be a brave man but feeling more than anything else like he was only a child.
* * * *
Wylie sauntered through the house, quietly noting to himself how big everything was, the amount of space. Only a few small lights were on, casting many shadows in the semi-darkness. But, it would be a couple of hours before anyone else awoke, and he could not sleep. He knew something was wrong. He was never one plagued by Insomnia, even after reporting a story that was particularly troubling. He was a hard worker and always fell asleep within minutes of reaching his bed, wherever that may be. He’d slept through scandals, mass murders, terrorist attacks, and civil unrest. But this was different. Nothing had happened. As yet, he had no story and only paranoid jitters after spending too long down in a dark cave. What was he so afraid of? Was it fear? He wasn’t even sure of that.
Instinctively, he was drawn to the Queen Anne where the professor and he had sat upon their arrival and started for it, but stopped. There were many things he hadn’t even looked at, details not gone over in the tour. On the wall to the right of the door was a set of shelves with crystal ornaments on it, some frosted glass, and some cobalt blue decorative glasses also. They sparkled like diamonds in the dim light, a temptation he could not resist. Curiosity pulled him closer, slowly, until he was only inches away and gazing upon the pieces as if he had never seen such works before. But he had, and it seemed like years ago.
He picked up a perfect blue sphere and turned it over in his hands, then placed it carefully back in its designated spot. The figures were each unique, in flowing, abstract forms. He didn’t know why, but it seemed somehow that they were all related, conveying some sort of vague message, but he couldn’t figure it out and he felt troubled. Water. That was the only connection he could see, and it was only an emotional reaction. They all reminded him of the sea. But was there a connection? I’m being paranoid again, he rationalized, and turned himself away from the shelves. But as he walked away along the wall, he became engrossed in the rock itself.
He could see where people had worked at it, carving it roughly and quickly and leaving edges, as if done in a hurry, which didn’t surprise him, considering how much work was to be done. He rubbed his hand along it as he walked, almost feeling the pain of the men who must have put in long hard days and nights to complete the project on schedule. How long must it have taken? How long had Lift planned his retreat? How long, before the work began, did it take to visualize something of this proportion?
As he came to the door, he took his hand from the wall and crossed to the other side…and stopped. He froze for what seemed like a minute or two, not even aware if he was even thinking, but he went back to the door. He felt electrified and breathed heavily. Now was his chance. Everyone was asleep. Briefly he felt a twinge as if he had started to get Livingston, but changed his mind. An argument would ensue and the professor didn’t want to leave empty-handed. At that moment, Wylie didn’t care. He took a deep breath and turned the knob…and nearly collapsed. It was locked.
* * * *
After an already sleepless night, Wylie now found himself on a jogging track, contemplating. It was still early in the morning, but he could not go to sleep. The rhythmic motion of his legs and his regular breathing calmed him enough to release him from panic and clear his mind. His thoughts had become jumbled and he tried to sort them out, trying not to jump to conclusions. Every lesson he’d ever learned in his life had come to that, and that was why he was a reporter. He could not publish what he could not back up. There could be any number of reasons why the door had been locked. Perhaps Lift was paranoid, also, and just felt safer that way. Perhaps it was just a quirk and the door wouldn’t stay closed if it wasn’t locked. Perhaps it was just a habit, and Lift hadn’t given it a second thought. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. The only thing he knew was that a locked door really told him nothing.
There was a way to find out, but that posed other questions. Should he risk upsetting Lift by asking? Was there some rule of etiquette that would help him now? He thought, probably so. It would be odd to explain why he had tried to open the door in the first place. “Yes, Mr. Lift, I was going to run for my life and I was hoping you could give me the key to the door.” There was another thing. Why did it seem like an attempted escape to him? Escape from what? I’m being too hard on the old man, he thought to himself. It’s a fault with me. Then, he wondered why he was being so paranoid. But, he was a reporter. Surely, after all he’d seen in his life, this assignment was not dangerous or even threatening at all, and he shouldn’t be worrying.
The fact remained, however, that he was. He tried to relax, but the attempts were unsuccessful. What made this trip different than the others? Maybe it would tell him what his one true fear was. Psychology…that might best be answered by the professor, who might or might not help him. No, no. Now was not the time to let the doctor discover his weaknesses (and perhaps later use them against him). He’d have to be alone on this one. So…why?
He slowed his pace, trying to cool down. As he continued to ponder the door, he felt guilty for thinking he shouldn’t tell Livingston. After all, he really did not know what his reaction would be, and he shouldn’t assume anything. Perhaps he’d have an early private conversation, and Livingston could put some logic to his ramblings and he’d feel much better. He didn’t think Lift was yet awake. Livingston might be.
* * * *
It didn’t take long for Livingston to answer the door and Wylie thought he must have been anxious for company. He sat on the edge of the bed while the professor walked over to the desk and sat in the chair. Wylie tried to think of a way to begin. It seemed forever as he sat there in silence, but the professor was being unusually patient.
“Okay, this might be stupid,” he started, hoping that if Lift were asleep the microphones would be off, and that he didn’t record these conversations for later, if the mics existed at all. “I was just out wandering and exploring the house. There’s no reason for this, but I tried to open the door and it was locked.” It sounded trivial even as he spoke.
“What?” Livingston seemed confused. “Why did you try the door?”
“Like I said, there’s probably no reason. I really don’t know. Something just pulled me to it.”
“I really don’t think that was necessary.”
Wylie realized that the professor thought it was insulting to Lift to try to leave in the middle of the night. “Look, I don’t know why I tried the door. I don’t know what I would have done if it had opened, either. I just…” He didn’t know what he really hoped to gain from talking to Livingston, and now began to regret his decision.
“It didn’t open?”
He guessed that it had just sunk in that the door had been locked. “No, it was locked. That was what bothered me. I know there are several possible explanations, and I don’t know why this is so disturbing. I know it shouldn’t be. I just don’t want to jump to conclusions and I can’t sleep.”
The professor wasn’t listening and appeared to be concentrating. “Why would he have locked the door? There aren’t people out here. Surely, after twenty years he would realize this is unnecessary. Why would he even need a lock on the door, for that matter?”
“Well, I thought maybe it was habit or something like that. Maybe he just feels better that way, after all of those years in the city.”
The professor still pondered. “Perhaps, perhaps. You are right. There are too many possibilities and we shouldn’t blow this out-of-proportion.”
“Yes, yes. I know. I really don’t know why it bothers me. It’s not as if Mr. Lift doesn’t have other quirks, and I suppose they’re all completely understandable. No one watching. He could do whatever he wanted, however he wanted. I mean, what would you do if you were alone for twenty years?”
“Go mad.”
* * * *
The knock sounded like thunder in the silence of his room and seemed to come in the middle of the night. He had lost all sense of time and felt completely disoriented. It took him a while to get out of bed, and he wasn’t quite sure if he’d actually made it to sleep or not. He could barely walk in a straight line in his fatigue, but managed to get to the door without significant injury. He cracked the door, expecting Livingston, but it was Wynne Lift, bright and energetic. “Breakfast is being served, if you would like to join me.” He had a wide smile that made his eyes twinkle in their typical way.
“Yes, thank you.” He tried to smile and not appear too groggy, but was unsuccessful.
“Did you sleep alright?” Lift asked, his concern obvious and genuine.
Wylie couldn’t think of a lie quickly, but decided the truth was best anyway…well, maybe a half-truth. “No, not really. I think the absence of a day and night for me is throwing my circadian rhythms off.”
“Oh, yes. That does take some adjustment. You should get used to it soon.”
How long are we going to be here? Wylie wondered, then shook it off. “Yes, I hope so.”
“If you’d like, you could have another hour or two and we’ll make it a brunch.”
“That’s very nice of you, but I’ll be okay. I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”
Lift acknowledged and walked away with a slight spring in his step. Wylie assumed Livingston had already been awakened, but wanted to check on him personally. He dressed as quickly as he could, and tried to slip down the hall without being seen. The phantom microphones surely caught him, but he hoped no one was watching.
Livingston answered his door with a puzzled expression on his face until he saw that it was Wylie in front of him and not Lift. “Is everything alright?”
Wylie pushed himself inside the room and closed the door. “I just wanted to make sure you wouldn’t mention the door thing until we’ve had a chance to really discuss it between you and me. I feel like we’re being paranoid here, and I don’t want to offend Lift by asking him about it.”
“Of course. I hadn’t intended to, but we should talk later.”
“I’m sorry, by the way.”
“For what?”
“For the eating habits comment. I guess I had a little too much bravado and wanted to show off or something. It came out differently than I intended and I took some of my frustrations out on you. I’m sorry about it all.”
Livingston listened and seemed genuinely relieved and perplexed at the same time. “I think you and I have started out at odds and some of it was me. I can’t say it was all you. I wanted to control the assignment as I’ve been working on this for some time, and I didn’t want anyone else taking it away. Let’s just attribute it to fatigue and move on.”
Wylie nodded in agreement and smiled. “Good idea. I also think we should ask a few questions and see about getting even a partial interview today. Lift said something like we’d be adjusted to the time soon, but I’m really not anxious to stay long enough to get adjusted.”
“How soon is ‘soon’?”
Wylie shrugged. “Want to find out?”
A definite, “No”. Livingston shook his head with enthusiasm.
* * * *
Lift was bubbly all through breakfast. Wylie didn’t want to interrupt, but he felt like he was receiving a university lecture. Lift bragged about his creation and all the time put into it, without specifying how much time that might have been. He gave them overviews of all the facilities without getting into the science of how they were done, like the still nagging fuel question that Wylie wanted to ask, but couldn’t think of how to bring up without sounding rude. He talked about human history and all the errors of the human race, without saying whether this had anything to do with this major decision. Otherwise, the atmosphere was relatively casual and the breakfast was very simple, just fruit after the heavy dinner the night before.
At last, Lift seemed to be winding down, and then he took a deep breath and smiled broadly. “Well, I’m sure I’ve talked your ears off! How about you? How are you doing this morning?”
Wylie, for once, waited for the professor to answer. Livingston smiled awkwardly, then admitted, “Well, I just wish I was sleeping better. Probably the circadian rhythms and all that. Just not adjusted to the lack of light. Perhaps we could go out for a while later on. It might help me adjust.”
“Oh, we’ll have time for plenty of that, don’t you worry. Don’t you worry. I feel like I’m just getting to know you fellows. I’d love to hear more about the outside world. What’s been going on that I should know about?”
Livingston waited to be interrupted, but Wylie remained silent. Livingston wondered if he was brooding or thinking about last night. “Well, I suppose, I could tell you what I’d learned about your family.” He cleared his throat briefly and then took a deep breath. How to begin? He feared how Lift would take this news, but knew that the man was chiefly interested in this particular topic, and they had yet to discuss it. “Your wife first. She never remarried. She lived in London for another five years to make sure you weren’t coming back. Then, she moved out to the country, nearer to her brother and his wife and children. Sadly, she committed suicide another five years later. No one knows why. She never left a note or discussed your leaving. Everyone assumes it was loneliness, but we’ll never know for sure. Your daughter lives in New York, like Mr. Wylie. She has yet to marry, however. But she’s working as a psychologist. Went to Harvard, as I understand it. She’s very bright, but they say she has few friends. She seems the introspective type. I have yet to meet her, but I’d like to, if you’d allow it.”
“Oh, I can’t stop what she’ll do or not do. She’s her own person, obviously. I’d have preferred she stay with me, of course, but I suppose it was unrealistic to think she might not want her own family or career.”
“I would assume it was a difficult decision for her. If I speak to her, I can try to get word to you of what she said,” Livingston proposed.
“Let’s not worry about that, for now, shall we? We still have so much to discuss. What of politics? What of the world at large? Any major events I should be aware of?”
“I’m not sure any of it is relevant to your life right now.”
Lift’s face colored and his eyes darkened. “Who are you to decide what is relevant to me and what isn’t?” he shouted. “I think I’ll make that determination for myself, if you don’t mind!”
Both Livingston and Wylie were shocked into silence. Livingston stuttered after a while, then tried to regain his composure. “I’m sorry. I meant no offence. I just thought it might be disturbing to hear of the world’s disasters when you’re so far away from them.”
“Oh. Well…quite right. Quite right. I imagine it might be a shock, but I can’t say I’d like the truth to be hidden from me. Just the major events. Perhaps, just the New York news, since it isn’t as sentimental to me as London might be.”
Wylie took a breath, nervous to continue. He explained the terrorist attacks in more detail, especially the 9/11 attacks. Lift’s face registered genuine horror at the thought of so many lives lost. Wylie mentioned the election of the nation’s first African-American President, as well as other events he thought might be interesting in any way. However, he was uncomfortable at discussing things that were obviously personal, such as his reactions or feelings regarding the events that took place. “At least there was some progress despite the setbacks,” he concluded.
“That’s good to hear, although I’m very sorry to hear about your people being killed. Horrible. Just horrible.”
“We watched it on TV, even in the U.K. Everyone was following it, including the election later,” Livingston added.
“Perhaps I don’t want to hear the London news, after all. I don’t think I could take it if something happened like that to my city.” Wylie noted the use of the words “my city” by Lift.
“I’ll keep it from you, if you like. If you change your mind, I can always tell you later.”
Lift brightened. “Oh, of course, of course. Fantastic.”
Livingston shifted in his seat. “There is a subject I’d like to discuss with you, if it’s alright?” He waited, and got a nod in response. “The interview. I know you may not have decided just yet, but I am curious if you’ve considered it.”
“Yes, of course, I’ve considered it. But, I still haven’t decided. I suppose you could still write the story or article based on what I’ve already said, but I don’t want to do a formal interview just yet. I’m not sure how I feel about baring my soul, as it were.” He gave a disarming smile.
Livingston couldn’t help but smile in response.
* * * *
Another day, Lift showed them the library. It was as large as any large library in a large city, with thousands of books and other forms of literature. The professor and reporter started to wonder just how large this place really was. It must have been an enormous effort to construct it and the rest of the house, more than they had previously imagined. It must have taken years simply to collect all of the books. The library was built on several levels, with arches and columns around a large open space, with a reading room below on the bottom floor. A desk existed all on its own in a quiet corner, obviously there for writing and other such occupations. The other tables were of the coffee table type, with a few end tables sprinkled around with lamps resting on them. Like the other rooms, this one was lavishly furnished, although less formal than the rest of the (what? House? Cave?). Wylie immediately wondered how many of the volumes Lift had gone through by now. Surely the man must read a lot, being alone the last couple of decades. Perhaps Livingston wanted the article done now because it was a nice round number of years since Lift moved here. Perhaps it was simply the mysterious violin stories.
Livingston immediately began scanning the spines, looking for something to occupy his sleepless nights. Wylie had brought novels along with him in his baggage in an e-reader. Livingston had brought a couple of reports and a laptop, but few books. There was no internet, so he’d simply been writing up notes. He assumed Wylie had been doing the same. Lift happily bragged about his collection and what it contained. He particularly focused on science, art, and history in his non-fiction sections. He’d brought many different genres of fiction, knowing he’d want to change them as he got older, and he didn’t want to tire of any one of them. He asked about current fiction and about what types of books the two others normally read. He wanted to know about their favorite books and what they were about. It was very obvious he was passionate about literature and could talk for hours on the subject.
Today, Lift was all smiles, as usual. He listened with obvious interest about the plots and subplots of the various books both Wylie and Livingston discussed. He was a brilliant conversationalist and again they wondered why he’d left England to come here. The time flew by, and Wylie and Livingston almost forgot any of their previous discomforts.
At last, Lift sighed deeply, grinning like a little child, then abruptly became the adult and assumed his host role. “Well, gentlemen, I suppose I’d better get started on a late lunch for all of us. I’ve neglected you both in the past couple of days, knowing you would be exhausted. I hope you don’t think the worst of me!”
“No, sir. You’ve been more than gracious. I’ve enjoyed the time to think and relax a little.” Livingston smiled, hoping Lift couldn’t guess how anxious he’d been since he and Wylie had arrived.
“Excellent!” Lift responded with obvious delight, completely oblivious to the other two men’s discomfort. They were both relieved by that.
Lift stood, thanked them both for their conversation, then proceeded to the kitchen (or wherever he prepared their meals). Livingston then relaxed a little, still smiling slightly after their discussion. “He’s really an excellent cook. I really had no idea he had an interest in it at all. I suppose he had to develop an interest in it after moving here, though. I assume he had a personal chef in England, considering his busy lifestyle there.”
Wylie pondered a moment. “Do you think his wife taught him, or his daughter?”
“Hmm. Don’t know. Perhaps we can ask him. I don’t suppose that’s too personal a subject, don’t you think?”
“No, I’m sure that’s safe.”
Livingston sighed, then stood. “Perhaps I’ll pick up a novel or two to pass the time.”
Wylie decided he might as well browse, as well, despite the fact that he still had many books that he hadn’t yet read. The two men went off to explore in the time they had. After a time, Lift returned, saying that lunch was ready and apologizing for taking so long. Wylie frowned a little, thinking. He was still hidden by a large bookshelf, so he knew Lift hadn’t seen the expression. However, the expression was only because he hadn’t realized he’d been looking that long. He knew it might be misconstrued. He made his way downstairs, meeting Livingston on his way down the corridor and seeing, from the man’s similar expression, that he’d been thinking the same thing.
“Time flies,” he said under his breath to Livingston.
Livingston only grinned a little in response, following Lift and unwilling to be overheard.
* * * *
As much as Wylie enjoyed the meals he’d had with Lift, he couldn’t wait to be back in New York with a simple steak and baked potato. So far, everything was vegan, or a certain type of vegan. Without sunshine, there were certain foods that couldn’t be grown, and Lift didn’t have the resources to feed livestock. His facilities accommodated a lot more than Wylie had imagined and produced plenty of food for all three of the men. Apparently, this part of the plan had been in place before Lift knew his family wouldn’t be joining him. However, there was not as much of a variety of foods that Wylie was used to. He missed his friends and family back home. He missed the theaters, museums, restaurants, and even the traffic sounds that he was used to. He even missed seeing the water, something he’d hardly noticed when he was at home. Lift obviously had a water source of some kind tapped, but it wasn’t the same as seeing the river or the sea, even if he never stepped in it. Here, he’d never have his toes in beach sand. Back home, he’d had to make a special trip to the beach, but he still managed a few times a year. He didn’t think he could live somewhere without seeing water like that. He was already missing it, and it had only been a few days. Perhaps it was just not knowing when he’d see it again that made it seem so distant. Like it or not, he’d have to press the interview question some more, something he wasn’t comfortable with. He had never been the high-pressure type and didn’t want to become it, either. But, at this point, he wanted to know whether he had a chance at all, or if it would be better to cut his losses and head home.
He tried to bring his attention back to the book he’d been reading. He’d picked out a volume from Lift’s library, but didn’t want to become too involved in it. He wanted to be able to put it down at a moment’s notice and be able to walk away. He knew he’d be there long enough to read a little of it, and possibly even to finish it. It was just the idea that he was going to be there long enough to finish it that was disturbing to him. He didn’t want to become involved in anything at all.
He’d taken some notes on his laptop, even though the outlets in the room were designed for British appliances. Just this previous trip to England meant he had a couple of adapters in his luggage. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have even had that to keep him occupied. He’d be relying way too much on Lift if not for them. Eventually, he’d have to bring up the question of laundry, since he’d only brought a couple of changes of clothing to save space. He thought of the long journey to get back home and missed his dog, waiting for him back in his apartment. He knew Lauren would be taking good care of him. She’d done this for him plenty of times before. He knew he owed her a lot for everything. She and her husband were good friends of his now, and no longer just his landlords. However, he knew he’d have to make other arrangements soon. The old couple didn’t have the energy to keep up with the walks as much anymore, especially Lauren’s husband.
Sighing, he tried again to focus on the book. At home, he always liked to have paper books. It was a small comfort, then, to have one in his hands instead of the e-reader he usually traveled with. It felt good simply to have to turn real pages, to see the light pass through the paper as he lifted it. Still, he couldn’t get into the story. He felt very distracted. Abruptly, he closed it and stood. He might as well do a little more exploring or go back to the jogging track, anything to clear his head and help him sleep.
He wandered the corridors in the semi-darkness, remembering what some rooms were for and not others. The ones he didn’t know, he’d enter briefly and try to create a mental map of the whole place. He could only estimate the dimensions, but the place was simply too immense to keep track of it all. He’d been mapping small parts a bit at a time. Tonight, he wandered until he arrived back at the library. Before he’d even reached the doorway, however, he heard music. He inched forward, curious, but not wanting to be seen himself. Dim light emanated from the room, but he couldn’t make out any shadows that might tell him whom the occupant was or where he was situated. Slowly, he crept along the wall, peering cautiously around the doorframe, but remaining in shadow. Lift was seated on one of the sofas, listening to a stereo system that was playing classical music. Wylie came a little closer, scarcely daring to breathe. Lift was sifting through papers of some sort and humming quietly. Wylie stood on tiptoe to see over the man’s shoulder without moving any closer, and saw that it was all sheet music. The violin was nowhere to be seen, but Lift was sorting through all of it and laying some of them aside for future use. Wylie backed off slowly, trying not to make a sound. The music was not very loud and would not provide much cover. He made his way slowly back down the corridor until he was alone in another part of the house, then found his way back to the bedroom he’d been using. He’d learned an important lesson, however. Apparently, he and Livingston weren’t the only ones up at night.
* * * *
Morning found Livingston in Wylie’s bedroom again, looking as if he’d neglected to shave, despite the en-suites for each room. “Are you alright?” asked Wylie, concerned.
“Yes, yes, yes. I’m fine,” came the reply, a little impatiently. “I’ve just been thinking. I know I’m not sleeping well, and I’m assuming you aren’t either. I believe I slept better out in the open than I’m doing here. What if we just camp outside tonight? Perhaps it would reset my clock to the right time. I feel like I’m in a casino or something.”
Wylie laughed despite himself. “I hope it can’t hurt to ask. I’m getting cabin fever in here so many nights. I hardly know what to do to relax. Maybe both of us just need to see the sky.”
At breakfast, Livingston was anxious and afraid to spoil the pleasant mood by broaching the subject. However, his desire to be outside was stronger than his fear of being shouted at. Eventually, he asked simply, “Would it be alright to go out for a bit later on? We can watch the sunset or something. I know I’d like to watch the stars come out.”
Lift seemed a little perplexed and simply stared at him. When Livingston didn’t get an answer, he began to wonder if Lift had understood him or even heard him. He was about to repeat himself when Lift regained his color and stammered, “W-w-well, of course we can. I don’t see why not.” He smiled then, and it seemed genuine, but Livingston was disconcerted. Can we, now?
Wylie said, “Well, we appreciate that. Just a little change of scenery might do wonders.”
Lift had a strange expression on his face just then, and Wylie’s smile died. Before he had a chance to do or say anything, Livingston stood, stretching.
“Great breakfast. Thank you so much. I believe I’ll have a try at the jogging track today.” He was newly invigorated by the idea of going outside, and he didn’t know what to do with his energy.
Lift recovered his expression. “If you don’t mind, gentlemen, I’d like to have a small performance tonight in the library. I do love to play the violin, but, it’s been years since I’ve performed for an audience. Would you mind?”
“No, sir. We don’t mind. We could just as well do it out of doors, however.” Livingston’s smile was still there, but the invigorated feeling was gone.
“Well, the acoustics are much better in the library. There will be plenty of time for sunsets, Mr. Livingston. Pardon, Dr. Livingston.” He smiled broadly recalling the famous explorer by the same name. “Perfect.”
Livingston looked at Wylie, who was trying not to feel deflated and disappointed. Worry was transferred between them telepathically.
* * * *
Left to themselves, the researcher and the reporter both decided to go to the jogging track after all. “We tried. What do we do now?” Wylie asked as he rounded a corner. He had to slow down a bit to allow the older man to keep up.
Livingston was already breathing heavily and did not speak for a moment. He did not slow down, however, and kept up his pace even as he pondered the question. “Well, he did say he goes out himself. How often do you think he does so?”
“Not often enough, I’d say.”
Livingston thought again. “Well, surely the man gets tired of being in a place with re-circulated air. He’s got to go out sometimes. I haven’t seen him go out personally, but I’ll admit that I haven’t spent much time in view of the door.”
Wylie sighed as much as his breathing allowed. “I’ll admit that I haven’t either. I’ve been more interested in trying to figure out how this was done. He had to have had a team of people working on this, possibly even a very large workforce. What happened to them? Surely we can talk to them and get what Lift hasn’t explained. At least one person would want to talk to us, I’d think.”
“Hmm.”
He didn’t have to say what they were both thinking. If we get out of here.
Definitively, Wylie declared, “We’re going to have to ask about the interview, you know? Yes or no, and that’s it. We can’t stay here forever. I’ve got loads of other things to do, and I’m sure you have to get back to your classes. He can’t keep us here if we want to go, right? That’s just our paranoia. It’s just this house, or whatever you want to call it.”
Livingston seemed doubtful. “Perhaps.”
“Either way, we need to either get what we came for, or leave with nothing. I don’t want to wait until he makes up his mind on his own. Do you?”
“No. Absolutely not. You’re right. I’ve got too many other projects to dally on only this one. I’ll admit this would be better if Lift did the interview, but there are many other people we could speak with to get this story. We’ll have to ask how this was all done. He seems proud of his achievement. I’d bet that he wants to talk about it.”
“Perhaps.”
Both were silent except for a moment, except for their breathing. They turned another corner in thought, then continued on the straightaway. “Have you tried the door again?” Livingston wondered.
Wylie couldn’t tell if it was a criticism or a genuine inquiry. “No. Why?”
“Maybe he’s been out and we didn’t see him. Maybe he unlocked it or forgot to lock it. We could check.”
Wylie hated to bring it up, but felt he had to. “Look, I was up one night wandering and looking around. Lift was up, too. I don’t know if he sleeps well at night either. We really need to find a way to do it without him seeing us. I don’t want to have to answer his questions, you know? Besides, with our baggage, I don’t think we could slip out unnoticed.”
Livingston let out a ragged breath. “There has to be a way. There has to be. We’ve asked politely. Perhaps we should be less polite.”
* * * *
Lift’s playing was beautiful. Despite any other feelings, they were genuinely impressed. Lift obviously had had a lot of time to practice and improve. One of the few things that anyone knew about Lift was that he was a great violinist, although somewhat reclusive. But, the two men in the audience had no idea that he was as brilliant as he was. He could have been famous, such was his talent. Although they had wanted to go outdoors, Lift had been correct about the acoustics in the library. They applauded politely between selections, and Lift glowed in their praise.
Eventually, however, they were all exhausted and Lift put away his violin and set aside the music to be filed away the next day. Wylie decided to ask again, “May we go outside for a while?”
“It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? I’m off to bed.”
“Well, you don’t have to come with us. We thought we’d spend a night under the stars, camping. I think it would do us some good to see the sky again.”
Lift’s good mood was gone. “Well, I don’t know why you’d want to do that. The beds I’ve provided are more than comfortable.”
“No, it’s not that. They are. Of course, they are. It’s just that we haven’t seen the sky in a long time—“
“It can wait for another time, Mr. Wylie. Right now, I just want to go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Exasperated, he stopped Lift with his arm. “Please. I don’t think it’s a lot to ask. We’re not leaving, just spending the night outside. You know I want to interview you, so I won’t leave just yet. But I think it’s only a small thing and, surely, you can see, since you yourself go out sometimes, why we’d want to do such a thing.”
“Remove your hand, Mr. Wylie, and go to bed. We can discuss this at another time.” His expression was murderous.
Wylie backed down, still exasperated and looked over to Livingston, who looked horrified. “Please, Mr. Lift. We’ll be back for breakfast. We’ve been polite, but you really can’t keep us here indefinitely.”
“Who said I was keeping you here? That’s a strange way of saying ‘thank you for your hospitality’ to someone who took you in when you came here unannounced. I think I’ve gone out of my way to make you both comfortable. If you want further favors, then perhaps you should let me get to know you better. That will have to wait. I’m going to bed. Good night.” And, then he was gone, turning the lights out behind him without waiting for the others to depart.
* * * *
They met in Livingston’s room after they were sure Lift was gone. They had no idea where his room was to be completely sure he was asleep, but they knew he was no longer in that part of the house. “We have to ask again in the morning. He can’t have the excuse of being tired then. We can ask about the interview and get a definite answer, or else leave it and go home. Let him know we want to leave for good. He has to see reason eventually,” Wylie suggested.
“How do we know he can be reasonable? It’s been twenty years, and he hasn’t had to be reasonable. He hasn’t had to compromise or deal with others’ feelings. Here, he always gets his own way.” Livingston was gritting his teeth in his frustration.
“He seems rational. A little odd, but somewhat rational, I think. We should be able to convince him. Either that, or we need to find his room and the key to the door.”
“Sneak out? I want to go home, but I also want to do it the right way. I think you were right when you said we have to convince him. I don’t know how, but there has to be some way or other. Maybe we can just be unpleasant and he’ll ask us to leave, eh?”
Wylie sighed. “Do you really want to wait until he gets that annoyed? Besides, I’m sure we haven’t really seen his real angry side. Do you want to see it?”
Livingston sighed now. “No, not really. Well, what do you think we should do? The key could be anywhere.”
Wylie thought a moment. “Well,” he said, “there are two of us. We should be able to get out that door, key or no key.”
“It’s built into rock, Mr. Wylie. The jamb is made of rock. We can’t just bust it down.”
“Well, what do you suggest then, Livingston? I’m open,” Wylie growled.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Perhaps we should spend a little more time going around the house in a more directed manner. Instead of just trying to pass time and learn more about the man, why don’t we look for something to work the door with? There has to be something here. This place is enormous and I know we haven’t seen it all. We’ve been going through it without prying too deeply, being that we are only guests. We can be a little more thorough now.”
Wylie calmed slightly. “Sure. I don’t know how to pick a lock, but perhaps we can figure it out. Or were you thinking along the lines of a crowbar or something?”
“Oh, the crowbar, Mr. Wylie. The crowbar. Definitely.”
* * * *
Wylie was still too anxious to sleep, despite his conversation with Livingston. He didn’t want to wait until the old man was awake. Instead of trying to read or going to the jogging track as before, he went from room to room looking for metal pieces sturdy enough to chip away at the rock, or perhaps through the door. He hadn’t paid attention to what the door might have been made of when they first entered the house, but it felt heavy and he was certain it would be difficult, even if they had an axe, to cut through it. The rock wasn’t granite. It had to be soft enough to work quickly, given the scale of the place they had carved out of it. With the right tools, it had to be possible to work the stone or the place could never have been.
He didn’t think there was any point in searching the other bedrooms. They were all very similar to each other, and he’d searched his own and Livingston’s before Livingston decided to go to bed. He’d thought of the bed frames themselves, but they were of very sturdy wood and would have needed a tool of the type they were looking for just to take them apart. He’d been hoping for the cheap metal kind he had at home. The lamps were somewhat fragile and wouldn’t take much pressure to break. The rest of the furniture was very heavy and too impractical to drag out to the door. He decided that perhaps his best chance of finding metal tools might be in the kitchen, which he’d never seen, but he assumed it could not be far from the dining room. Quietly, he made his way there, then went into an adjoining room, thinking to start there. It wasn’t the kitchen, but he dutifully searched through every cabinet. It was obviously storage, but not where the utensils were. It was basically a large china cabinet, with various sets of casual and formal dinner ware stored in a display of sorts. There were more plates in each set than would be required by Lift’s own family. There were more bedrooms than would have been required, as well, he reflected. Had Lift intended his staff to move there? Had he even asked them before he’d begun building?
Putting the puzzle aside, he moved on. There was a short corridor that also branched off of the dining room, and he went down that next. It ended in what was obviously a kitchen, but a large restaurant-style kitchen. Immediately he opened the cabinets nearest the stove, thinking the pans would be close by. He found a few cast-iron pans that would be heavy enough, but would not work to actually chisel the rock. They might work as a hammer, however. So, he continued searching, hoping to find a makeshift chisel.
Suddenly, there was a shuffling at the doorway and Wylie spun around to see Lift standing there. “What are you doing, going through my things?” he demanded.
Wylie stammered, “W-w-well, I…I just…I just got a little hungry, that’s all. I was going to make a snack.”
Lift smiled then. “Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll make you something. Go back to your room and I’ll bring it out to you.”
“I don’t want to trouble you, sir. I don’t mind. I actually like to cook at home, so I have no problem—“
“No, no, it’s no trouble. I wouldn’t be a very good host if I made you do your own cooking, now would I?”
“Really, I don’t mind,” Wylie tried to insist.
“Nonsense. Go on to your room. I’ll just prepare something simple, so don’t worry about me feeling troubled.”
Unsure, Wylie put the pan away that he’d had in his hand. He decided to feign gratefulness and explore more, later that night, or if it must be, the next night. “Thank you so much, sir. I appreciate it.” Then, he did as he was told and went back to his room, still trying to come up with a plan that did not involve violence against the old man.
* * * *
After dealing with the meal that he hadn’t really wanted and speaking for a short time with Mr. Lift, Wylie was too tired to continue exploring. He fell asleep not long after, but slept restlessly and had disturbing dreams. Sometimes, he was running through dark corridors, pursued by unseen foes. Sometimes, he was in crowded rooms with light fixtures that were hardly working and he had a sensation of being watched. They always ended with a feeling like he was falling from a great height, and he’d awake in a cold sweat. The knock was not completely unexpected this time, but he felt ill-prepared to deal with it in his present state.
He tossed a little, trying to get up, but unable to get his limbs working properly for a moment. He groaned, finally able to sit up. The knock was more insistent this time. “Coming,” he called, not sure whether he could be heard or not. He shuffled his way to the door, stubbing his toe on the desk chair on his way. Hopping for a few steps and trying not to curse, he opened the door with a grimace, which was not how he wanted to greet his visitor.
It was Livingston, looking uneasy and anxious to get out of the hallway. Wylie stepped aside to allow him to enter, then closed the door, still not very alert, but trying to wake up fully.
“What’s the matter?”
Livingston smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, I haven’t been sleeping. I’m still feeling quite closed-in.” He paused a moment, thinking. “I did do a little exploring last night, but I heard Lift at your door and I had to wait until he’d gone to continue.”
“He caught me in the kitchen. I had to pretend I was hungry, so he made me a snack. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, so I chatted with him for a few minutes.”
“Well, I wasn’t really going to talk about that. Anyway, I hid a few moments, then decided to check the door. I’m afraid it’s still locked. I’m at a loss, really.”
Wylie had expected this, so wasn’t as disturbed as he’d expected to be. “He has to have tools. He has a lot of equipment here that has to be maintained. It’s been twenty years. It has to have broken down at some point. He’s got to have screwdrivers and hammers, you’d think.”
“Oh, I agree. I was also wondering how he kept this place up. Some rooms are fairly dusty, but everything looks fairly well-kept. Is that all he does all day, just taking care of the house?”
Wylie had wondered the same thing, but really hadn’t thought much about it recently. “It’s not impossible. I just wonder how so many people have kept quiet about all of this. There’s also a large amount of space that’s not being used, I noticed. I wondered if he’d meant his staff to join him, along with his family.”
Livingston thought this sounded plausible and said so. “So, he’s somewhat reclusive, but not completely solitary. I wonder why he went through with it, in the end. He knew he’d be alone. It can’t just have been the expense. He had enough money to do it twenty times over. I just find it hard to believe he’d choose to be alone.”
Wylie just said, “I really don’t know. I wish he’d tell us.”
Livingston sighed. “I don’t know if we’ll ever find out. I can ask about the interview again, but I’m starting to wonder if he ever intended to go through with it at all.”
“I’m not sure.”
Sighing again, Livingston suggested, “Why don’t we try the equipment rooms next? The generator room, perhaps, or something of that sort?”
Wylie didn’t have any other ideas, so nodded. He was still tired and trying to ignore his throbbing foot.
Another knock sounded at the door. There was no doubt about whom it could be. Wylie limped to the door and answered it, forcing a smile. “How are you this morning?” he asked.
Lift was not smiling and looked a little concerned, but in an annoyed sort of way. “Have you seen your friend? He’s not in his room.”
Wylie looked back at the professor, then back at Lift. “Well, he’s here in my room. We were discussing our plans for the day. Would you like to join us?” Might as well pretend nothing suspicious was going on.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Wylie. Perhaps another time. I was just coming to let you know that breakfast will be a little late this morning. I slept a little later than I’d meant to. You’re welcome to leftovers from last night.”
“Oh, no. We’ll be fine. Thank you. I can wait. We’ll be with you whenever you’re ready.”
Lift left a little reluctantly, it seemed, a look of mistrust on his face as he turned away.
* * * *
Livingston was obviously uncomfortable. Wylie knew his claustrophobia hadn’t gotten any better, but Livingston was very determined and was facing it with a great deal of bravery. He couldn’t hide his occasional glances at the ceiling or the walls, but the fear was not evident on his face. He still hadn’t shaved, and his already wild grey curls were even wilder since they’d arrived. Wylie could picture him tearing his hair out at night in his distress. Despite this, Livingston had asked again about getting an interview, even if it was only a partial one.
Lift looked a little as if Livingston had asked about his sexual habits or something equally as private. “If that’s all you’re interested in, I’m a bit disappointed. I’d hoped we could spend some time getting to know each other before I’d answered that question.”
Livingston took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “I’m sorry, sir, but that is the main reason we came. I suppose we just want to know whether it will happen at some point, or if we’re better off looking for this story elsewhere, or giving up on the story altogether.”
“Well, I don’t think you need to rush things. I think things are moving along nicely, and I don’t see any reason to change something that’s already going very well.”
Livingston swallowed his fear again. “They may be going nicely for you, but we’ve really got to be going. I have other obligations in the outside world. I can’t leave them forever.”
Lift didn’t say a word for a while, but his complexion reddened in his anger, and his eyes went wide. “I’m very sorry to hear you aren’t enjoying yourself, but I don’t see how you expect me to decide on something that may give away my location or other such information in only a few days. I need more time. It’s obvious that you don’t understand me, so you really should take more time to do so.”
“What if we just spoke of the house and how it was built? Surely that’s a safe subject. You don’t have to give away anything personal. Just an overview of the technology required. If you can’t do that, could you please refer us to the people actually responsible for executing the project? You can do that without giving away geological details that might identify the location,” Livingston persisted.
“Any information you need is available in the library.”
Livingston looked dismayed. “But it’s a very large library!”
“Well, all the technology is in there, if you take the time to look.”
“That could take years, sir. I just don’t have that kind of time.”
Lift ground his teeth a little, trying not to lose his temper, but doing a poor job of it. “And you think I can give you all of that information off the top of my head? You think I know about engineering and can give you formulas and diagrams? Or, do you think I know every volume that’s in there, where it’s located, and what information is in each one?”
“Okay, just one question. We’ll start there. Where does the water come from?” There. How hard can this be?
“There’s an aquifer below us. Can I tell you how we engineered everything around it, though? No.”
“What about power? You have a lot of generators, but I don’t see any fuel stored.”
“The water, Mr. Livingston.”
Livingston ignored the slight. “Yes, but how?”
“Look in the library. It’s all there. You expect me to do all the work researching for you?”
“Well, no, sir. But I’m not an engineer. It would all be above my head. What if we could speak with the people who built this place? Such a unique place. Surely some of them would remember it?”
“I’m really not comfortable with that now. I don’t know what they’d say about me or the house.”
“I’ll edit anything out that gives it away.”
“No, Mr. Livingston. Figure it out on your own.” And with that, he rose, fuming, still red in the face, but now breathing heavily and his hands were balled into fists. He left the dishes and disappeared.
Wylie spoke for the first time. “Well, he’s got to be getting annoyed by now.”
* * * *
Lift was so furious he didn’t reappear for the usual lunch hour. Plates were left at their bedroom doors, as a courtesy, but Lift did not apparently want to have the usual conversations along with the meal. This suited the two just fine. They ate quickly, both in Livingston’s room this time, and planned a little more exploration for the afternoon. They agreed that, if they ran into Lift, they would pretend to be doing something completely benign until such a time as they could go back to it unobserved. They hadn’t been downstairs much, and decided to start there since that was where the equipment rooms were most likely located. The stairs were still marble, as in the rest of the house, but were scored at the edges to prevent slipping. By now, some of this had worn down, but was not so much that it was hazardous. This part of the house wasn’t as frequently used.
They decided, previously, that they would split at this point in order for the search to go more quickly. Wylie headed for the generator room, or what he thought was the generator room, Livingston for the water heater and other plumbing fixtures. The generator room, on its own, was probably best explored by both men and not just one as it was immense, but Wylie did his best to be thorough, wincing at every sound as he explored the equipment cabinets. A tool chest became visible as Wylie neared the back of the room, skipping over the generators themselves since it was unlikely that there would be tools left there. He tried not to get his hopes up, preparing himself for disappointment, but hope sprung up in him nonetheless. Drawer after drawer he opened, finding wrenches of varying sizes mostly, along with pliers and a rather large socket wrench set. Disappointment started to rear its ugly head when, suddenly, he opened the last drawer and was rewarded with a large assortment of screwdrivers, and happily, a few hammers. He could hardly contain his joy, but tried to think clearly and not act rashly. Would Lift find these items missing if he took them now? What would happen, in that case? Still, he took one screwdriver that seemed sturdiest, although they all seemed to be top quality, with spares of each one. He sifted through the hammers carefully, testing a few of them on the tops of the screwdriver for size without actually striking anything. Finally, he decided on the best one, and set out to find Livingston.
The professor was carrying a selection of pliers with a smile on his face, although Wylie couldn’t think of what he meant to do with them. Wylie presented the tools he’d found in an almost formal manner, then broke out into a childish grin. The usually dour professor smiled back with obvious enthusiasm. Wylie couldn’t help but voice his curiosity by asking, “What are the pliers for?” He was amused rather than criticizing.
Livingston didn’t take offence and laughed a little. “Well, I thought we might work the door nails, but those might work better!”
Despite their obvious success, they decided to keep searching the house, knowing an escape attempt would have to be made in whatever they deduced to be nighttime. As they went along, finding nothing else of interest or usefulness, Livingston came to a locked door. At first he didn’t seem to recognize the significance of that and continued to go down the corridor. Realization hit him abruptly, and he rushed back, pulling Wylie with him. “This door is locked!” he exclaimed.
Wylie seemed uninterested, then realized what Livingston was trying to say. Why would Lift lock a door inside his own house? Was this the time to find out? No, not yet. “We’d need to muffle the sound,” he said. “Let’s get some towels from the bathrooms or something.”
“What? Now?”
“Do you want to wait until tonight?” Wylie was still trying to think of whether this was something he preferred, as well.
“What do you think? I think we should wait. I don’t know how long this will take and Lift might find us. I’m sure there’s a secret here he wouldn’t want us discovering.”
“Why would he lock this door? The only person here is himself. He can’t be thinking to keep himself out of a room in his own house.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps your question will be answered tonight.”
* * * *
They went back to their rooms to while away the time and appear as normal and non-threatening as possible. Wylie’s internal clock was so screwed up that he realized he’d gotten up without shaving. He went and did so, then paced around, making up notes in his head and trying to organize his thoughts. He hadn’t been to the jogging track in a couple of days. Perhaps he should do that, he pondered, just to help him relax.
Livingston took some notes and did some writing, trying to compose a paper that might never be completed. When this didn’t go satisfactorily, he picked out one of the books he’d chosen from the library and tried to focus on it. He’d purposely chosen a mystery, a genre he read only occasionally at home. Most of the time, he spent his reading doing research, but since he’d come here, he felt like he wanted some sort of escape from his own ordinary life.
The knock reverberated through the room, causing Livingston to jump from his chair suddenly. He answered, expecting Wylie, but got Lift instead. The man was smiling from ear to ear, acting as if nothing had happened. “Yes?” Livingston asked nervously.
“Dinner will be ready shortly! I hope you’re hungry.” He was beaming.
“Of course. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Thank you.” He was perplexed, but trying not to show it. Lift nodded in response and walked away, humming a tune.
The knock was equally unexpected at Wylie’s door, and a similar conversation ensued. Wylie wandered to Livingston’s room afterward, a little unsure of himself, then knocked on Livingston’s door.
“I’m coming,” the professor said as he answered it, then saw who he was addressing. “Oh, sorry. How are you?”
“What just happened? I’m sure he invited you to dinner, too.”
Livingston thought a moment, but couldn’t come up with an answer. “I have no idea. He’s pretty unpredictable. Who knows?”
Both men made their way to the dining room, where the formal china was laid out, with silverware for several courses laid out. They each exchanged glances, afraid to comment.
Lift entered, wearing somewhat formal attire, despite the fact that he was the only one available to serve the dishes. “Ah. There you are. I’ll bring out the appetizers for you gentlemen. Please be seated.” He departed instantly.
The two sat, still not speaking. The meal was laid out, course by course, as if in a fine restaurant. The only incongruity was that Lift joined them at the table while they ate. He behaved in a somewhat different manner than before, but he seemed to be partly playing a role. He never mentioned the argument from earlier in the day, nor did he refer to any of the concerns that had been mentioned in that conversation. The other two men avoided the subject, as well, preferring to keep everything limited to small talk, drawing Lift out into memories of his family before the split. They also avoided letting this get too personal. They also shared their own memories, hoping Lift would sympathize with their desire to see their families again. He seemed oblivious, however, treating these stories as he did their discussion of literature, which seemed like ages ago. They didn’t press the issue, and let Lift determine the course of the conversation, keeping it light and pleasant. Everyone was doing a little playacting that evening.
Eventually, they’d grown exhausted, especially the professor and reporter, who were having the most trouble with their roles, and trying desperately to keep Lift from noticing. Lift wished them goodnight, then began to clear the dishes. The excused themselves, saying they were going to the jogging track, which was actually true. They felt like burning off some of the calories they’d consumed, and they knew it was another way of killing time and helping them keep their minds on something else. They didn’t know what to make of their strange dinner.
Both men went back to their rooms afterward to shower. However, neither could nap, having just exercised and, also, being apprehensive about their late-night snooping. Livingston was especially impatient, and eventually so much so that he went off, searching the house, and finally satisfied himself that Wynne Lift had gone to bed. Anxiously, he rushed Wylie out of his room and back downstairs to the locked door. He now noticed that the door was locked from the outside, where Lift could easily just use the key. Surely the man had one. A sense of foreboding came over him, and he almost talked himself out of trying to open the door. But, no, he had to know. Wylie was already covering the screwdriver with a towel and angling it so that it was under the doornail’s head. He began striking it with the hammer, panicking that the sound was still terrifyingly loud without any carpeting to muffle the sound. Livingston went back upstairs to act as a lookout. The sound wasn’t as loud up there, due to the angle in the corridor that didn’t allow sound to travel as easily in that direction.
Finally, Wylie came to get him. He had the door off the hinges, and then began to work it from side to side, with help from the older man. Eventually, they managed to pull it free, and a black space yawned in front of them. Livingston swallowed his anxiety and felt along the wall for a light switch. Finding it, he turned on the light, then both men saw that there was another stairway leading downward. Livingston turned to look back once at Wylie, then took a deep breath and started down. When he reached the bottom, he froze and Wylie tumbled into him. “What is it?” Wylie asked before seeing the terrible story for himself.
The room itself was cavernous, and lit by several crystal chandeliers. There were many long dining tables lined with fine linens, crystal, china, and what may have once been a meal. After all the years that had passed, there was no longer any odor, although each table was ringed by raggedly-dressed human skeletons. Wylie was breathless for a moment, then asked, “Who are they?” He didn’t necessarily expect a response.
He didn’t get one for a long moment as Livingston began to look for details. He was afraid to approach any of the skeletons, but he noticed that their clothes, although partly disintegrated through time, were not the clothes of the wealthy or, even of Lift’s previous servants. There were so many skeletons around so many tables, each in coveralls, that he could hardly grasp the scope of it. “They’re the workers,” he whispered.
“Why?” came Wylie’s next question.
“You saw how private the man is and how desperate he was to conceal his location. He didn’t want them talking!”
“How did they die? What about his servants? Where are they?”
Livingston thought briefly, then answered, “Poison. Gas. Don’t know. Don’t care.”
Wylie pondered this a moment, then grabbed Livingston’s arm. “We’ve got to get out of here now!”
* * * *
They snatched up their tools and the towel at the top of the stairs as they fled, running without regard to safety on the marble tiles. Livingston slipped once and nearly fell, turning a corner toward the main stairway. They both scrambled up the stairs two or three at a time, and turned to head toward the door. Too late, Wylie saw a shadow on the Queen Anne sofa that he had first noticed upon entering the house of Wynne Lift. He stopped, and Livingston slid into him from behind.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” came a voice from the shadow. It was obvious who was there. Wylie knew they were all alone and the voice was only too familiar.
Wylie decided that it was too late for etiquette. He’d seen what the man was capable of. “The game is up, Lift. We’ve seen your secret room downstairs.”
“And what room would that be?” Lift stood from the sofa and came into the soft light of the sconce on the wall. He was holding a gun in his right hand, aimed right at Wylie and the professor.
Both Livingston and Wylie were edging toward the door, knowing they’d be stopped if they tried to escape, but angling toward their only goal. Livingston answered Lift’s question. “The banquet room downstairs with your other guests in it!”
“What did they ever do to you, Lift?” continued Wylie. “Surely they would have kept your secret. They didn’t have to die, you know?”
“Oh, no, they didn’t. But they didn’t want to stay.” Lift’s voice was far away and almost child-like as he replied.
It was that moment that Livingston and Wylie both knew Lift had gone insane. He’d been irrational and unpredictable, but that could have been explained away before. They knew Lift would have no qualms about keeping them here, one way or another. Wylie wanted to keep Lift distracted, to keep talking to him. “But they’re gone now, Lift. They can’t speak to you or keep you company. Surely you can see that you should have just let them go.”
“No. I visit them. I keep the food and wine coming, and they are grateful for every moment. I could spend hours there, you know. They love it when I play the violin.”
Wylie couldn’t tell if Lift really meant what he was saying, or was trying to appear more insane than he had already seemed. “No. No. They don’t. They’re gone. They’re beyond caring if they have food or wine or entertainment.”
“But, that’s where you’re wrong. They talk to me. They do. Surely you see that, if you would just talk to them.”
No, Lift really was that mad, Wylie now knew. Livingston slipped the screwdriver out of Wylie’s hand behind his back and tried to move away, slowly making his way backward and behind Lift. Keep talking, Wylie, he thought.
“You don’t hear the silence coming from that room?”
“Well,” Lift said, “they’re not as lively as the two of you. I really enjoy our conversations much, much more. You’re both well-read and appreciate the arts. I feel like I can speak to you on my own level, you know? With them, it’s almost as a teacher to a group of students.”
Wylie became aware of another thing. Lift wasn’t going to let them go. There was no pleading or rationalizing with him. He wanted them alive, but he’d take them dead.
“Why didn’t you let them go? What was so important about keeping them here?”
“I…I just wanted company.”
Wylie was confused. “You wanted to leave London to live in this kind of isolation, but you still wanted company?”
“Well, I…I thought I wouldn’t be completely alone. I thought I would have opportunities for conversation when I wanted them. I thought my family would join me. When they didn’t want to, I was willing to try on my own, but I got lonely. Surely you can understand that.”
“But, why didn’t you ask them before you built this place? Why didn’t you make sure you were going to have company?”
“Well, someone would want to stay, wouldn’t they? Who wouldn’t? It’s a beautiful house, and I would take good care of them.”
“Like the workers?”
Lift nodded enthusiastically. “Yes. Like the workers.”
“How did you do it?” Wylie asked. “Poison? Gas?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t do something like that.” Lift actually seemed confused.
“The workers! How did you do it?” Wylie shouted. He could see Livingston quietly inching away, no longer in sight of Lift, but trying not to draw his attention. The urgency in his voice must have given something away, because Lift turned, and gestured with the gun for Livingston to go back to where Wylie was standing.
“Why do you assume I did anything? I just convinced them to stay is all.”
“No! No. That’s not it. That’s not it. I know you remember. You put something in the food, right?”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re becoming tiresome tonight. Just go back to bed, if that’s where you really were, and we’ll discuss this in the morning when I’ve had time to rest.” He pointed toward the hallway with the expression of a father disciplining his naughty children.
The reporter and professor saw their chances of escape dwindling away. If they went back to bed, they’d never leave. Lift would find a way of keeping them there. He’d poison their breakfast or shoot them in their sleep. Desperation crept into Livingston’s voice, despite his intention to remain calm. “You can’t keep us here! We have obligations and family out there! You are being very selfish! Surely, you want us to be happy. You know we want to leave. Just let us leave!”
“No. Not tonight. Go back to bed. Everything will be better in the morning. It always is. You’ll see. You’ll be past these childish emotions. Now, if you don’t go quietly, I will use the gun. I am a doctor of sorts. I had to keep myself healthy all of these years on my own. I can treat you, as well. I promise you’ll recover. But, it will be painful in the meantime.”
Livingston was growing more desperate. “You can’t do that! This life isn’t for everyone. You did it to yourself, but that was your own choice. You can’t expect everyone to want to do the same thing. Your wife and daughter didn’t even come.” That was the wrong thing to say. Livingston heard the pop of the gun as if from a long distance. It seemed to take ages for the bullet to reach him. He leapt to the side just in time to avoid a serious leg wound, and then he tumbled to the floor, lying where he had fallen and praying there would be no more shots.
Wylie leapt toward the gun as the rebound kicked it upward. He held Lift’s hands and the gun in both of his hands as they struggled, trying to gain control of their only weapon. Wylie was younger, but not as tall or broad-chested as Lift. They kicked and fought, knowing it would be to the death. Wylie tried to throw punches, but would end up loosening his grip on the gun. Wylie was not anxious to kill, but was desperate to escape and didn’t want to die there. He didn’t know if the bullet had grazed Livingston or had planted directly into his leg, but he knew the next shot would not be a warning shot. He knew the leg wound might as well have been a kill shot, as the desert would kill Livingston even if the bullet didn’t. A wounded man stood little chance against the hazards of the return journey.
Lift knew this was it for him. He’d keep his prizes or he’d be dead. He fought with a strength Wylie never knew he had. Lift should have been overpowered by now, Wylie thought, grunting with effort as he tried to wrest the gun from Lift’s hands. Wylie’s knee came up, aiming for Lift’s groin, but he missed as Lift brought his own leg up to block and almost tripped Wylie as his leg came back down. He lost precious inches, however, and the taller Lift began slowly turning the gun downward. Suddenly, a hot expulsion of breath came from Lift and a look of shock came over his face. He went limp and crumpled on top of a confused Wylie, who was pinned beneath him. Wylie shoved Lift to one side, and saw that blood dribbled from a head wound. The screwdriver was embedded in the base of Lift’s scull, and Livingston looked devastated, but triumphant at the same time.
“Are you all right?” he said, offering his hand to Wylie.
Wylie could hardly believe it was over. He reached out to take Livingston’s hand. “Yeah. Yeah.“ But, he was thinking no, no. I’ll never be alright.
The professor bent to take the gun from Lift’s hand. He wanted the screwdriver to force the lock or the doornails, not wanting to fire a gun, but didn’t think he could make himself touch it again. He walked slowly and dazedly over to the door, then fired a couple of bullets into the lock. It wasn’t a deadbolt, and came apart easily. If only it had been simpler, he thought. If only the old man could have lived. He sighed. He was thinking, then, that if he’d known how this trip was going to go, he’d never have attempted it. But, that was pointless to consider. He couldn’t undo any of it.
“After you, my good friend.” Livingston gestured toward the door. He found that the simple phrase really did describe how he felt. Yes, this man was now a good friend. After everything they had just been through, Livingston knew that Wylie was the only person who would understand the emotions and consequences completely from their shared experiences.
Wylie managed a weak smile. “Thanks.” For some reason, he was hesitant. He walked slowly up the stairs and up to the front door, then opened it, gazing for the first time in days at the night sky above. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it, and was overcome with emotion. Livingston came up behind him and patted the man on his back. The two of them would be bonded for life after this experience, lifelong friends, and he knew it. Seeing the outside world wasn’t as joyful as he’d wanted it to be, however. He felt as if they’d failed somehow. They didn’t get the interview or their greatest questions answered, and the man would never be able to give answers again. Despite his madness, Lift was just an old man who decided, when it was too late, that he didn’t want to be alone. It all evoked a sense of pity in Livingston, who knew he’d be seeing Lift in his nightmares for years to come.
Wylie looked over at Livingston, not knowing what to say to signal his gratefulness to be alive, his thanks to Livingston for saving his life. Livingston was sad and happy at the same time, and he sighed again, gazing at the stars.
“Let’s go home,” Wylie said. “I’m ready to camp out under the stars tonight.” He hadn’t enjoyed the journey there, but he wanted to enjoy the journey home. He hoped Livingston wasn’t injured too badly, and he looked at the man’s leg. “Is that okay?”
Livingston nodded. “Just a flesh wound.”
“We’ll need to bandage it later. But now, let’s get going.”
Livingston felt tears beginning in the corners of his eyes as he felt his claustrophobia drift away. He felt a few come down his face, like a shock of disbelief that it was over. “Yes. Let’s get going.” He was too frightened to go back down to collect the camping gear and their belongings, so Wylie had to go back down and bring it up in a few trips, saving the professor from facing his fears again. Then, the two men began edging their way around the tower and around the cliff, facing a world of challenges ahead of them, but feeling that the horrors of the past few days were behind them.
They set up a camp near the Tower, and Wylie bandaged Livingston’s leg, hoping he had done an adequate job. Then, both men tried to sleep, still having nightmares that they were trapped. However, when they awoke, they could see the sky and clouds and heard birds overhead. They stood, breaking camp, and packed their belongings once again. Wylie stood near the edge of the cliff, looking out toward the horizon. And the sun shone brightly on the plain, like someplace midnight never knew.
John Harvey was born and raised in Wood River, Illinois, a refinery town along the Mississippi River northeast of St. Louis, Missouri. He changed majors 5 times as an undergraduate and 3 times as a graduate student. Writing--when he's not resisting doing it--brings him a deep love of process and a glimpse into the depths of the power of meaning. He is retired, and loving and hating the fluid turbulence of these times. |
From the Top Looking Down
We thought it was more of a mountain than a hill—not a young, craggy mountain like the Matterhorn, but more rounded and tame, like a great-grandfather hanging around, mostly sleeping. It was like a miniature mountain, rising up from the flats. That was our neighborhood’s nickname, The Flats. Actually there was a big line of hills in the distance all along the horizon, and close in to our neighborhood the ground was even and flat except for the grandfatherly hill that rose up in the middle of the even ground.
I counted once that I had been in over seventy-one different houses in the Flats, going with different kids in and out of houses on Peachtree Street, Ginger Lane, Elderberry Way, and Wild Plum, Prairie, and Juniper Courts. Although we climbed up the side of the hill behind the lower end of Wild Plum, up the overgrown side of the mountain, we never went past the winding road that disappeared through a gate and up into cow pastures. It was one big farm up there, as far as we knew, and some woods in the upper reaches. You could only see the farm house—big and brick, with tall white pillars and a very dark roof—from the other side of the mountain, not from the part where the Flats came right up to it.
We lived on Wild Plum, along the curve that makes a rounded dent in the mountain, the place our Dad called ‘our own private holler’. He had cousins and an aunt from down in the Ozark hills, and they lived in hollers tucked in among the wooded hills there. Our backyard ended right up against the steepest part of the hillside, where flat rock was exposed, and no sumac or brambles or saplings grew. By the afternoon the morning sun would warm the rock, and when you laid against a crevice in the rock and tilted your head to look up at the hill above and behind, you could feel like you were being held a secret prisoner in a big living thing. You could imagine the rock your back touched sliding open like a trick panel, so that you could slip into a vast cavern inside the mountain, and be alone in an immensely quiet place. Perhaps a little water trickled deep inside there.
One evening when I was ten I went out into the backyard, right after supper, to be by myself for a little while. It was lucky that no one followed me, and no Wilsons were out in their yard and the Maguires on the other side were not home. I heard a little tinkling; it was coming from the mountain. What, some kind of goat, like in Heidi, I thought? Except you could see only cows, up a ways there across the road, never goats.
So I walked right over to the edge of the hill, and, sure enough, a few feet above my head was a tiny bell, almost like a silver drooping flower, dangling from a very thin wire, and it was dancing up and down. That was the little tinkling sound, and it seemed to sing in a tiny voice just for me.
The thin wire was hard to make out as it threaded its way up the hillside. I traced it, or tried to, because I wanted to see the hand so gently tugging it. I backed up and backed up, even smashed against the twins’ swingset, squinting up and down and back up the face of the hillside. Maybe, I thought, there was a little hillside cave opening I’d never noticed, mostly covered with vines and wild trees, and an arm is jutting out, a hand reaching to pluck the wire and ring the bell. A gnome or a hermit or a native hillside spirit, I thought, maybe, just maybe. We had an old encyclopedia at home, and one of the volumes had pictures of gnomes and mischievous spirits from the North country or somewhere. That must have been where I got the idea of who might be up there pulling that wire.
###
The tinkling bell thing got old fast, and after a few times of hearing it out there, and going out and looking for someone or something on the hillside, I stopped caring very much. Just a little bell, I was thinking, so what. I started to tell one of the twins, Denise, about it, but then it seemed too stupid. Apparently it never rang when they were out in the yard. Then one day after supper I was taking the trash out back of the house—we kept the cans in the back even though we, I, had to drag them all the way around the side of the house to the end of the driveway in front for trash day—and when I was throwing a paper bag full of gunk into one of the cans I heard a weird kind of scraping at the back of the yard. The sun had set and it was getting pretty dark. Oh great, I thought, what now? I remember that I slammed the lid on the can really loud, thinking maybe the scraping would stop. But it didn’t. It almost sounded like someone clearing the throat, hacking a little, really trying to get my attention. Maybe even a woman, I couldn’t tell.
So I went to the back of the yard where the sound was coming from. It had been I don’t know how long since I’d heard the tinkling or seen the bell just dangling back there. It was getting dark and my eyes took awhile to adjust to the shadows near the mountain, away from the light that spilled out of the kitchen window of our house. As got close to the back of our yard, very near the side of the mountain, I looked back toward the house, and looked at the backs of the houses on either side of ours, at the Wilson’s and the Maguire’s. I could see nobody. Lights were on, but I could see nobody. For a fleeting moment—I remember this so clearly—I understood how alone everything is. For that moment, no one was there. Even I wasn’t there; that’s what I remember sensing. There is no one here. I felt it.
It wasn’t a particularly frightening thing to think that no one was there. I do remember a slight worry that maybe I would not be able to forget thinking that way, that I would somehow become stuck. I knew getting stuck like that wouldn’t be a good thing. But I didn’t get stuck like I imagined then.
The scraping sound started up again, very nearby. It was gentler, close up, than it had seemed from where I had been by the garbage cans. In the dark I could just barely see something moving slightly on the rock face just above my head. As I squinted to make it out, and wondered whether I should run in and get the flashlight, the thing, about the size of a hand, dropped a few feet down the side of the mountain. I thought about running in, not to get the flashlight but to get away and be done with whatever was happening out in the back of the dark yard. But I stayed.
It was made of metal, whatever this thing was that bumped against the mountain over my head, and was suspended no doubt by a thin wire I couldn’t see in the shadows. It dropped again with a scraping sound as it bumped against the rock, and was just over my head. I pressed against the rock and stretched up on my tip toes and reached for it, and the thing shot past my outstretched hand and dangled just beside my face. It scared me until I saw it was something like a banged up metal ashtray from a car, the kind that you could pull out from under the dashboard to empty.
I touched it, and nothing happened. I tried to move it a little, to see what it was like, but it was suspended in a kind of wire harness, so I couldn’t really move it without tugging the wire that was attached to it. Then I saw a white piece of paper tucked down into it. I pulled out the paper, which was neatly folded, and pushed away from the mountain to stand on my feet and open it. Just as I stood up, the dangling ashtray flopped and bumped as it was yanked upward, and soon I couldn’t see it, even though I heard scraping for some time. I ran inside with the folded paper stuffed in my pocket.
Later, in my room, I made myself open the paper. It had been tightly folded, and when it was fully opened there were 16 neat squares marked off by the creases where it had been folded. Centered in the top right square there was writing, in black ink and very neat square letters that said
YOU
HAVE
A
GOOD
DAY.
Now I laugh to think of that first message, but then I believe that I was shocked. Who knew who I was, and who wanted me to have a good day? No one had ever said that to me. This was before people who worked in stores said things like “Have a nice day,” and before those yellow cartoon smiling faces appeared. You have a good day? I wondered if it were some kind of a command, like Moses coming down from the mountain (I had seen the movie on television), or maybe a prophecy, meaning that I would have a particularly good day some time in the future.
I puzzled about the message for a long time, then something got into me, and I did laugh out loud when I thought of it. Answer back, I thought. Send an answer back, why not?
It took me two days to think of something to write that I could be satisfied with, and even then I didn’t understand what I was doing. About the same time of day, sundown, two days after I got the message, I unfolded the paper and in the best block printing I could manage wrote in the bottom left square
IS THE
AIR GOOD
WAY UP
THERE?
Now there were fourteen blank squares on the paper. I had the feeling, or maybe the hope, that the writing—my writing and the writing of whoever it was who sent me the first message— would meet in the middle. And that would be that. Maybe I should not send this paper back, I thought, maybe it would be too much to expect, this back and forth at the edge of the mountain.
But I did it, I folded the paper up carefully and ran out into the shadowy yard. Just as I got to the back, the thought came to me: what if the little metal thing in its wire harness isn’t there, what if it never comes back? Should I turn away, go back, forget it?
Sure enough, there was a scrape, like a hello, and a dropping movement I could hear, and the metal thing—I decided it really was an ashtray from a car—was there before me. I tiptoed up, popped in the folded paper, and away the ashtray went.
Later, when I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth before bed, my Mom asked me what I was doing out in the yard. She was standing in the hallway, with one hand on the handle of the open door, leaning her head into the room. I watched her in the mirror, to the side of my reflection, without turning around. Even though I wasn’t in junior high until the fall, I was taller than her then. I remember my smile in the mirror, and remember how small and sort of far away she looked in the mirror.
What did I tell her? I can’t remember. I told her nothing of what really happened; I said something about hearing noise up on the side of the hill. And she told me again I should never climb up there, and then she left.
OK, I thought, so I don’t climb. I’m still going to hang around back there to see what happens.
The next evening at supper I asked my Dad if he ever saw the hawk that sometimes floated off the edge of the mountain, far over the back yard.
“Yeah. A red-tail,” he said. “Good-sized one.”
I started talking about how I liked to just stand back in the yard and watch the hawk, and look at other birds flying around back there. No one else spoke, except Dennis asked Denise to pass the margarine. I said I liked to just watch how the mountain changes. I didn’t expect anyone to say much, but I knew I wanted my Mom to hear me tell my Dad that whatever I was doing back there was something I was interested in doing. It was me doing it. I was back there, on my own, just hanging around because I wanted to.
My Dad was tired from work, and he liked his beer after supper. I could have maybe told him about the message coming down, maybe by trying to get him to talk about the code on the ship during the war, and the mistake they make. He told us about it, once, about being in the water for a long time, and how that was why he wouldn’t go swimming in Hansen’s Lake when we went there with the Maguires.
I thought maybe I could have talked more about codes and messages, and then asked him what he would do if he got a message, say a surprise one that just appeared. How would he know if it was meant for him?
I went into the den and sat in the chair next to his favorite chair. He was watching a show about some guy trying to get a very nice girl he liked to go out on a date with him. My Dad looked sleepy, but like maybe he couldn’t sleep.
“Dad?” I said. He looked at me, and I wondered why he wouldn’t say anything. He looked back at the television, and cleared his throat. I waited.
Then he asked: “Did you ever see a hawk drop down out of the sky and grab some speck on the ground?”
I had not.
“You’ll never forget it,” he said. He got up from his chair, walked over the television set, and turned it off. I stood up, and he said: “Good night, old Buddy,” and left the room.
I stayed there in the den by myself, until very late that night, waiting for I don’t know what. Maybe for him to come back. I am positive of this much: that night was the last time, until I left the house after high school, that I was alone with him in that room. From then on, if someone else was in there with him, fine, I might go in. If he was there by himself, I left him there, alone.
How did I know to do that?
###
I don’t remember how many days and nights passed before the first reply came, early in the morning, when I was out with Lucky trying to get him to take a pee and a crap. I had him on a leash because he wouldn’t always come back for a day or more if you just let him out, and if he went to the pound we could not pay to get him back. And I would not tie him up all day.
The dog was barking at the hill before I ever heard the thing drop. There was a scraggly red ribbon hanging from the ashtray part, maybe there to make sure I saw the thing coming. Had I missed it before?
I told Lucky to calm down—I could get him to calm down by just talking to him—and went over to the thing, reached up, and plucked out a white piece of paper, the same piece as before. I think I waited until that evening to unfold the paper. In the upper square to the left of the first message, in the same block letters it said
THE AIR
YOU
BREATHE
IS
FREE.
It took me a minute to realize that breathe is not breath, because having the e at the end changes everything. It may seem like too much to believe now, but when I read those words and felt and heard myself breathe as I did, I thought I must be as happy as I ever had been. It was true, the air was free, it was a gift, and I was happy to take my share.
I kept thinking of the air as flowing down from above, as many streams coming from all around the mountain and streaming down into the yard, the house, right into my room and into me. Of course, I knew that everyone around me—Mom, Dad, Denise, Dennis, Lucky, the turtles, the people in the houses next door and all around the Flats—everyone breathed. Of course I knew that. But were they thinking of the free air, of their share?
I was thankful for breathing for maybe a day or two before I started to want more, before I started to feel a kind of pain in my heart area, the loneliness of breathing. In out in out, over and over, by myself. I began to sigh, and was afraid I would cry.
I must have heard the word, lonely, of course, in my life by then, and the pain in my heart area felt like mine alone, but I don’t remember any way of saying: “Oh, Dennis, it feels like maybe I’m lonely.”
But there was a song I’d heard, and it came and went and came back to me. It wasn’t in and out, like breathing, but more like the train whistles that you could hear better at night, when the air was cooler and more people were breathing slower. So that song, the beginning that came in over and over, that song was what I sent back:
HOW MANY
ROADS
MUST A
MAN
WALK DOWN?
I knew I wasn’t a man, and could scarcely imagine becoming one. How could I ever wait like my Dad was always waiting, for something that might be so far away, when there was the pain in my heart area?
It didn’t feel right to send that piece of song up the mountain, and when I wrote the words next to my first message on the paper I thought for sure there would be no answer, just silence. I would go on breathing, but it would be worse because what was free could also hurt. This was my thinking. Still, I carefully folded the paper up, waited until just before sundown, and walked slowly to the back of the yard, watching the little message box fall down into place as I got close to the back.
I sigh—then and now—and slip the paper into the carrier. I turned and left in a hurry.
The next morning an answer came, and it took days and even most of one night for me to begin to get something out of the reply, written on two squares, one over the other. The reply started on the second square from the left on the top row and was in bigger letters than the other messages and said
HOW MANY
TIMES
MUST YOU
TURN THAT
HEAD,
PRETENDING
A MOUNTAIN
YOU
DON’T SEE?
The words were familiar but made no sense to me. How could this be an answer—it was another question, and it was making fun of me, I thought. So I shouldn’t have sent that part of the song up the hill; I was right.
I wasn’t aware of turning my head. What did that mean? Did I turn my head too much, in the wrong direction, for a not very good reason? None of these questions had answers, and it made me mad, to the point of aching, to wonder about turning my head. If the air is free, why can’t I just turn my head the way I want to, or the way it just turns, without worrying about it?
I read the message maybe one hundred times that day and maybe fifty or more times for the next few days. Then I noticed the word “must”, the words “why must you”, and I really began to think about what I must do. I must breathe, even if the air is free. I might have a good day, even though I didn’t know how the air up on the mountain was, no one answered when I asked the question. And now this—my question brought back another question, and this feeling that I had to do something, or maybe stop doing something.
So what did this mean: pretending a mountain you don’t see? I even almost asked my Mom, who did not like to hear questions, how someone could pretend something and then not see it. Not see it! Mom, I imagined asking, when you pretend something, doesn’t that automatically mean you see it in your mind? And then something happened that I could feel, like a rumbling coming back to me after shouting at the mountain: If I pretended to ask my Mom something, and I couldn’t see her answer me in my mind, then my imagination was working well enough. Even if she could not climb into it. I jumped and shouted some more, and didn’t read the note for almost a whole day.
Waiting that long was a good thing to do, I had lots of time to breathe and I think the air I took in without trying to figure out the reply, all that air I got for free somehow made me smarter. The reply I’d gotten was a question, I decided, and a reminder—and a message. The question part was simple, and I could have answered it if I knew how many times were in the word “must”. But the song said the answer was blowin’ in the wind, and so that’s the answer to my own question, even though I had to think hard to see it. And I know it’s true because I felt the wind blow around me: I actually felt the answer.
The reminder was about pretending, because I decided that to pretend something was to turn toward something so far that you went inside it and went away from where you started, and then I started remembering to be careful. I started being afraid that my Mom would start asking me every day what I was thinking about. And I remember that this was the first time I knew I had to get away—although the feeling was like someone grabbing me in the throat, in my mind it said “Get away”. Mainly I sat and breathed slowly for a long time after that. I knew I had to get away, but I didn’t yet know that I would get away.
After that long afternoon of slow breathing I went into the backyard, walked along the edges of the yard by the Maguires and the Wilsons, and thought some more about what I figured might be the message in the reply. I was left with the words “a mountain you don’t see”. As I walked around the big rectangle of the yard—straight lines except of course for the curve where our yard dipped into the hill—my steps were pretty even, so I was saying to myself first “a mountain” and then “you don’t see”, over and over.
I ended up with “you don’t see”, and that seemed to be the message. I don’t see, I don’t see. I stood in the middle of the yard, facing the hill, and stared at the side that went up and up. I closed my eyes and it disappeared, after a bit of lingering light. I looked again, and closed my eyes, and it came and it went, and it came and went again. So I don’t see, and I do see. But what?
I saw the brambles, and the sumac, climbing the hill up above the rock face, and the small trees, and the wild grasses that crept up and out of the big rock crack. I can still see the gravelly part, up a ways where the hill goes flat before there’s another patch of rock, whitish gray and stained yellowish from water seeping out sometimes when it’s been raining for a few days.
Then I noticed that I was not seeing—there, on the hillside, with my eyes—the leaking water or the rainy days. And I stopped breathing, I heard myself stop, when I saw that I couldn’t see the mountain. Not really. I couldn’t see it, all of it, the main thing. I saw just all the stuff.
Before I started to cry or yell, I kept looking at the one big old tree, tilting out of a steep slope, with the branches that hang almost down past where the trunk juts out of the hillside. I kept looking at that tree, and breathing nice and slow.
I had a pencil with me, and I reached in my pocket and pulled it and the note out, and walked up to the rock face and turned and laid back into the crack in the rock. I had to put the pencil back in my pocket to unfold the note—already I’d torn a little bit of one crease at the side, and I didn’t want to tear any more. When the note was all the way open, I took out the pencil again, and turned and flattened the paper over a smooth part of the rock, and in the bottom row of squares, second one from the right wrote the words
TELL ME
ABOUT
THE MOUNTAIN
and put the pencil in my pocket and carefully, carefully folded up the paper. Should I wait there, even though the twins could come out and bug me, or my Mom ask questions? My breathing was even when I heard the scrape above me. The worst that could happen would be to get smashed in the face with a beat up old car ashtray. That made me laugh. It stopped just above my head, and a few seconds after I popped the note in, the thing rose as slowly as I’d ever seen it move. I went back into the house; I was very tired.
Things got slower for me, after I saw that I could be there by the hillside in the Flats around my house with all the other breathers, I could be there—I was there—and I could be all worried about what was up on the hill, and wonder about what it was doing, and that would be that. The breathing and the worrying and the wondering went on. The pain in my heart area now felt like it was some kind of rough quartz rock, with a lot of shiny flecks, and I could see it sitting in a creaky, polished old wooden box. There was no lid on the box; it fell off or got pulled off, probably by accident. The closer you got to the top of the box, close enough to see into it, the better you could catch a little glow, like maybe some light got trapped in a fleck of crystal in the rock, and was still shining, pulsing like a heartbeat.
The thing about having a rock there was just that a rock—now I would say it was inert—just sits there and does what it does without trying to think or worry about it. If a rock has flecks that come alive and look like they hold the light, then there you see the light moving; the rock lets you do that just by being itself.
It was very satisfying to think about a rock just being itself.
So those were easier days, and it was easier for me to hang around, do the chores, hide out from my Mom, ride to the end of Wild Plum with Chuck Wilson and his cousin. We even rode our bikes up the hill to the gate. I got them to park the bikes and walk all the way down the road, along the fence, down to where Wild Plum flattens out and runs into Juniper, and back up to the bikes.
“You’re nuts,” Chuck said.
“I just want to look for stuff on the ground,” I said. “Why? What stuff?”
I couldn’t tell him—I mean, I didn’t know. Maybe one of them could see something that I wouldn’t catch, a piece of wire, some of that red ribbon I saw once, some other part from a car’s dashboard. Although they didn’t like it, he and Andy followed me all the way down and back up. I would even have to say that, where the road curves around a rocky gully, we had to climb along the edge of the gully to stay close to the fence. So I did do some climbing; I did.
No one found anything suspicious, only two soda bottles, a smashed ink pen, some wet dirty envelopes. And piles of dried cow crap on the other side of the fence. I talked about us climbing over the gate and heading on the road up the hill, maybe visiting the house at the top. Chuck thought that was stupid, but Andy was interested.
“We could bring them those envelopes back there, say we thought maybe they lost them,” he said. When I heard him say it, I figured no one would believe kids, three kids nobody knew coming up to your house from down in the Flats.
“Forget it, let’s go back. I’m thirsty,” I said, and began walking my bike down the hill. They followed me down, and we all started riding our bikes when we got close to where Wild Plum flattens out, past the big hedge where we always see the rabbits run and hide.
When I got home, I dropped my bike in the back and started to get a drink out of the hose. My Dad must have used it to wash the car or hose down the garage floor—it was pretty neatly looped around the metal hook he had there on the side of the garage. I splattered water on my face, shook the hose over my head, and started drinking. I almost didn’t but I did look back over at the rockface of the hill. I remember how fast I wound the hose back around the hook, I was doing that at the same time I was turning the water off and shaking my hair dry. For once I didn’t care if everybody on Wild Plum, or Prairie or Juniper or anywhere saw me. I walked back to the ashtray, tiptoed up, reached in, and pulled out the paper. It was still the same sheet of paper, but it felt a little damp.
By the time I got inside, I decided to wait one whole day before checking to see what the reply was. I actually ended up waiting two days, because every time I looked back at the hillside, the little ashtray in the harness was still there, waiting patiently, it seemed.
Even after I opened the note, the ashtray stayed in place. The reply wasn’t really a reply. Written in the square farthest to the left, completing the top row, was the sentence
SAY WHAT
YOU
MOST WANT
TO KNOW.
OK, I thought, we’re back to the beginning. The first message told me to have a good day. This one is telling me to say what I most want to know. I expected more, expected something more, but somehow I also figured this must be the right reply. So I was disappointed about something I really didn’t have to be disappointed about. Then I remembered: I had sent the same kind of message up the will. It wasn’t really a question to say “Tell me about the mountain,” I was telling someone what to do. And now it had come back to me, the message that came back was like an echo.
OK, I will, I decided: I’ll tell you what I most what to know.
The little flashing of lights in a quartz rock on the hillside could show a bird talking off and flying up and over the side of the hill, resting a minute on a tilted branch of the old tree up there, and flying on up to see what he could see. Not a hawk dropping to the ground, but a bird smaller, lighter, flapping up and kind of tilting all around in the air.
In the bottom row of the paper, in the last square all the way to the right I wrote
WHAT
IT
FEELS LIKE
TO
ROAM FREE.
After I popped the note back into the tray, it took over a day for the thing to disappear. Don’t rain, I thought, and fill the thing with water: please don’t melt the note.
# # #
Before I even read the reply that came, I decided to do what I could to preserve the note—I remember now how much I wanted it to last forever, as long as the mountain lasted. Carefully, without looking at the new message, I unfolded the paper. It was still damp, and tearing a little along the seam where the bottom row of squares connected to the top three rows. So the first thing I did was lay a towel flat under my bed and rest the paper on it, knowing that Dennis would never look under my bed and my Mom always cleaned the bedrooms on Thursday, and it was Friday, so I had time.
In the garage I found two pieces of plywood, one about the same size as the paper and one a bigger triangular shaped piece. My Dad liked to save wood scraps. One night when he got home from work and went into the garage before supper I stood in the doorway that goes into the garage from the kitchen.
“Dad, do you care if I use some of your wood pieces?” “Building something?” he asked.
“Not really. It’s…just something I’m messing around with.”
“Take what you need, that’s fine.” He was rummaging around in the little drawers underneath his workbench in the back of the garage, just picking things up and looking at them and then dropping them back in.
“I can put them back when I’m done.” “That’s fine.”
I walked over to the big crate where he kept the wood scraps, and pulled out the two pieces I had decided on earlier. I felt naked, standing there holding the pieces, but my Dad didn’t seem to notice, so I went back inside the kitchen, down the hallway, and into my room—just as my Mom was coming into the hallway from the living room. I knew she was going into the kitchen to work on supper, so why did she come into the hallway instead of going right from the living room into the kitchen?
We never closed doors in our house, so even though I wanted to shut her and everyone else out until I had the paper thing straightened out, I didn’t. But you better believe I only worked on it when Dennis was over at someone’s house and I was pretty sure my Mom was busy. And I had a bunch of clothes and an encyclopedia book handy to throw on top of the paper if someone came close while I was working on it.
For some reason, I thought if I could get the paper very dry and flat, and then fix the creases where it was tearing, that it would be even stronger than when it was new. It was a very nice, thick, rich piece of paper, better than any I’d seen. When it was completely dry, I laid the writing side down—including the mysterious reply I hadn’t read yet—on top of the triangle piece of wood. I took a small paint brush I borrowed from the work bench, dipped it in water, and then wiped some of the water off the brush with a towel. I very slowly spread the brush back and forth across the blank side of the paper, wanting to get it damp again. Maybe one corner got a little too wet, but mostly it happened like I wanted it to. Then I laid the other piece of wood over the paper, stacked four encyclopedias on it, and carried it to my closet. I put the whole stack in the back corner and covered it with some junk that was always on the floor of our closet, junk that Dennis would never touch.
After about a week—I remember it was the night before junior high started—I took it out. Mom and the twins were at some thing at the new grade school, and Dad was in the den. When I uncovered the paper, it was maybe a little less wiggly than it was before, but it didn’t look anything like a new piece of paper. But I went ahead to finish it, because I didn’t know what else to do. All along the edges of the back, and along every crease, I put strips of the wide clear tape my Mom had in a drawer in the kitchen, trying not to use any more than I needed to cover over every crease with tape.
Then I turned the paper over. It was hard, but I figured out how to cut strips of the tape in halves, so that I put tape on the front creases without taking away very much of the space in the squares left for writing. I first I tried not to cover up any of the writing already there with tape, then I thought maybe doing that would stop the smudging. But I decided not to do that in the end.
I was so busy laying down the strips in the front that I didn’t think about the new message until I read it by accident, there in the right half of the second row, written in the middle of two squares side by side
THERE ARE
NO BUFFALO
HERE NOW.
IT FEELS
FINE HERE.
LIKE
WHERE
YOU ARE.
Mom and the little kids came home, and I pushed all the junk under my bed and put the note in the back of the new binder I was planning to take to school the next day. In the morning, though, I took it out and stashed it on the closet shelf for later.
That day at school, during arithmetic class, instead of thinking about what the teacher would be like—she had a hairdo like some kind of poodle—or about the kids there I didn’t know, I was shaking my head about something stupid in the note. There are no buffalo here, it said. What the hell did that mean, and how stupid was I supposed to be?
Yes, we had a Prairie Court in the Flats, and yes, the buffalo roamed out West on the real prairie, and yes, I’d heard the song about the home on the range. But did I think, did the note think that I believed there were buffalo roaming free up on the hill behind my house?
I remember later in the day in P.E. class almost shouting out loud: How stupid am I supposed to be?
Already on the first day of P.E. we had to dress, and the gym smelled like a raw onion dipped in shit. I ran with the class around the inside of the gym and then out and along the edge of the football bleachers and all the way around and behind the school, and I ran faster than I thought I could, and took all the breath I wanted.
On the way home from school I stopped at the library, which I was not supposed to do. Come home, straight home, don’t talk to anyone you don’t know and do not fart around: the rules of my mother. Plus, do all the crap you’re supposed to do when you get home and then maybe you can play if you don’t have homework.
I wasn’t thinking about playing, and I didn’t have homework the first day; I was thinking about buffalo. Were the cows we could see, mostly around the other side of the mountain, were they the descendants of buffalo? No, obviously, they didn’t look anything like buffalo and the message was: There are no buffalo here now. But maybe the “here now” was the Flats, where I could guarantee there were no buffalo, except on TV screens and in our encyclopedia. Maybe the note wasn’t talking about the mountain—how did I know? I imagined a little fenced-in pen, way up at the top of hill where the breezes blow, the pen hidden inside a grove of old trees, branches waving in the breeze, where there was one massive buffalo, snorting and stamping and munching and shitting. But not free to roam.
The whole time I was at the library, maybe two hours, I was forgetting what my message had been, the last one I sent up, forgetting that I had said what I most wanted to know is what it feels like to roam free. Again the slowing down was what helped, slowing down to say: Maybe this is an answer, at least the part about no buffalo. I walked through the kid’s part of the library, past the place where they keep the new books for the adults, and went to the reference section, where I found the ‘Atlas of the Old West’, a book on mammals of North America, and some books about Indians. I read fast, and pretty soon I knew some things about the buffalo I never dreamed of. I made it home fast, plenty mad by the time I got there, and Dad was just pulling up in the driveway when I crossed the front yard. I ran over to pull up the garage door, and after I did he said “Get in,” which seemed stupid, but I got in. He pulled into the garage very slowly.
“What’s going on,” he asked. “Nothing.”
“Been out?” He looked at me while he put his arm on the seat behind me. I thought for a second he was going to pat me on the shoulder or something but he didn’t.
“What do you mean?”
“You just getting home?” He smiled, a big smile. “Yeah—I went to the library on the way home.”
“Oh.” He scratched the side of his face, barely moving the fingertips. “That’s good.”
I watched him close his eyes and tilt his head back and yawn. “Well,” he said, “I sure hope we have something besides meatloaf covered with ketchup for supper.”
I didn’t like it either, it turns out. We got out of the car, and I pulled the garage door closed and followed him into the kitchen.
“Where have you been?” My Mom shouted out from the living room.
“Library,” I said, walking down the hall to my room. Dennis was in there and said “You are in big trouble.”
Later at the table my Mom was very mad, and when she told me for the third time that I was supposed to come straight home from school my Dad said “That’s enough. The boy’s in junior high now. He can take his time coming home from school.”
I almost laughed out loud, and I certainly wanted to punch Dennis hard. Mom was ready to leave the table, I could tell by the way she kept pushing the edge in front of her with her hands. Why she didn’t I don’t know. I think she started to but my Dad was looking at her hard and said something about how if I knew I was going to be home later than 4 o’clock I should try to let her know—if I could do that, it would show respect, he said. Showing respect, he said, was a good thing.
It was pretty quiet until dessert, pudding with sugar cookies, when I spoke up:
“I’m wondering why no one ever told me that buffalo used to live around here, on this side of the Mississippi?” I asked. “They weren’t just on the prairie and the plains out West. They were all over in the East a long time ago. Some of them were the smaller type, but they were here.”
“Didn’t know that,” Dad said.
“They could have been right here where we are sitting, in our yard,” I said.
And Dennis piped up: “Nope they couldn’t, there’s no skulls around here anywhere.”
“Well the skulls are gone too, rotted into dust by now,” I said, and Mom started stacking the dishes and I thought she was pretty much banging them loud to shut me up. Dad left, heading for the den.
“You mean the American bison,” Denise said, as I was leaving myself, heading to my room, and I said “Yes, I mean bison, also called the buffalo.” I think she was just showing that she knew something too.
I slammed the door to my room and figured I would take my sweet time messing with the note. It feels fine here, it said, like where you are. This is fine, I thought? Dirty dishes, meatloaf ketchup pudding skulls and long times when no one talks but it feels like shouting anyway? Then—of course—I saw the last, real part of the message: Like where you are.
When will I ever learn? Like where you are. Go ahead, just like it. Like it enough, right where you are, like it right now.
It was hard to handle the note, to get it folded right, because if I didn’t fold along the exact middle of where the tape strips were laid out, it wouldn’t fold up as tight as it had been. Finally I had it all ready to go, folded as tight as I could get it, when I realized I forgot to put my own reply down. It was getting dark out the window of my room, looking out the side of the house, facing east toward the Maguires, and I was trying to decide if I should even put anything down. If I went in the back and scrunched the thing into some kind of weird paper and tape ball, how far up the hillside could I throw it? Throwing it up the hill—my Dad could throw it as far as the flat place with gravel up above the rock wall at the back of our yard—throwing it up the hillside was a reply, I decided. But was that the reply I wanted to make?
It got darker and I didn’t turn the lamp on. Dennis knocked once on the door to the room, actually knocked, and I said “Wait two minutes” and unfolded the note and wrote in the middle of the far right square in the second row from the bottom
TOO MUCH
SHADOW
FROM THE
MOUNTAIN.
I could tell that Dennis was waiting in the hallway, so I sat on my bed with my back to the door, said “Come on in,” and began folding the note. I wasn’t sure when I would send the paper back, so I stood up, put it in my pants pocket, and pulled out the two pieces of wood I’d stuck under the bed. As he came into the room I said “Hey Dennis, would you put these back in the garage where Dad keeps the pieces of wood?”
“Sure,” he said, and took them out of my hands and left.
# # #
The next morning at breakfast I told my Mom I might be home after four. I wasn’t sure, I said, and she said nothing. I went out back before I left for school to see if the ashtray was there, and it wasn’t. I stood in the middle of the yard and scanned the hillside: nothing. There was no time to wait, so I went to school with the paper bulging in my pocket.
The second day of school was just a regular, long day. One class after another, peanut butter and jelly for a sandwich, more running in P.E. I talked to a kid in social studies who knew a lot about buffalo, and he said the settlers almost wiped them all out in the West. I asked him why and he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. “Stupid, I guess,” he said. “They didn’t care.”
That was right after lunch, and I thought about not caring very much whether you wiped something out or not. I knew that the dinosaurs were gone, wiped out somehow, and that last year Mr. Albrecht told us that the whole area we live in was once a huge inland sea. And that was now wiped out. And of course I knew that all the missiles would wipe out the refineries and the chemical plant and all the people between the Flats and the river, if they were ever fired off.
I really did not want everything wiped out, and I decided to stop thinking about it. Looking around in science class I saw plenty of things to notice. The way kids scratched hard and sighed out loud, how some looked down at the desk in front of them or up at the teacher or out the window. How some of the stuff on the walls looked old and some of the posters very new. Miss Hays would stop talking once in a while and look down at something on her desk, and then when she started talking again her voice would be louder for a while, then get quieter.
I imagined the sound of waves coming in through the windows, what it would be like to be in a classroom by an inland sea. It was good. I wondered: did an inland sea have salt water like the regular sea?
I ran home after school and the ashtray was hanging in place and my Mom was not home. So far so good. I put the note in, pushing carefully to get it all the way inside the ashtray. How many times could you get the note folded up, fit it inside, take it out, and do it all over again? I waited around for a couple of minutes, but then something made me feel like getting out. And I did get out—I ended up going all the way to the top of the mountain.
I ran all the way up Wild Plum to where it turns into the old country road, ran up to the gate, and climbed over it. Right there I was in new territory, probably above where the inland seashore was lapping against the ground. I could see the roofs of houses farther out in the Flats, all of Elderberry and beyond. But that was all back there, and the road was curving out of sight ahead of me. I didn’t see any cows, or the big bull you could sometimes see on the other side. I didn’t want to see the bull; Chuck said it will try to run you down, pin you against the fence, dig in and poke you with his horns. If I paid attention, I thought, I’d hear the sound of stampeding and see a dust cloud coming toward me. There was only a quiet breeze, the sun going behind the clouds high up, some crows squawking, then leaves glittering over on the west side of the road when the sun came out again.
The road got a little bit steeper around the curve and then a lot steeper when it turned to the right. It was at the top of that next hill, where I didn’t know how cows could climb up it, that the road must lead to the house you could see at the top, from the other of the mountain. Right then I really did want to be a bird flying high enough to see the whole thing, the Flats and the road as it wound to the top, the house, the cow pastures, the woods.
# # #
In front of the house at the top—two stories and many windows but not at big as I thought it would be—there was a small yard with tall bushes and a sidewalk made out of flat stones the same color as the rock along the hillside by my back yard. There was an old garage to the right of the house, and it leaned a little bit away from the side of the house. The door of the garage was open and there was no car in it or sitting near the house. By the side door of the house was a pole with a wooden bird feeder hanging off it. A little gray bird was hopping on the ground under the feeder.
Nobody home. Go ahead and walk around the place, and if somebody comes, run away. Could I get back down to the Flats without going on the road at all? If I couldn’t, I could hide out until dark, and sneak down the road, and then get in trouble just at home.
You couldn’t really see it from the front, or from the garage side, but there—closing off the yard on the left side of the house—was a high fence made out of bricks and stones mixed together. It must have been there a long time, because there was a tall tree, even taller than the house, sticking up in the very back corner of the area inside the fence.
I couldn’t believe it—there were quartz-type rocks cemented into the fence, some of them high up off the ground, higher than my head. You could probably step up and hold onto the round parts of the rocks jutting out of the wall, and climb up to the top, maybe twelve feet up off the ground. I was sure that looking west you could see the river from up there.
I laid back against the wall, and it felt nothing like the nice warm rock at the back of our yard. There was a rock bumping the middle of my back, and another one right at the side of my face. I moved down the wall a couple of feet, found a spot where I could fit better, and stood there and listened to birds singing, the top of the tree waving, even something like a cow moaning far away. Nobody home.
Was there a swingset or a sandbox behind the wall, did kids ever play there? Did a lonely grownup hang out there, waiting for kids to come and play? Without climbing up and looking, I had no way of knowing, but it was so quiet right behind the wall that if somebody was behind there I knew that whatever they were doing was no bigger than the birds, the breeze, and maybe a cow. There was no way, when it was so quiet, that I was ever going behind the wall.
It was not even supper yet when I got back home, although I felt like I was away for at least one whole day. Coming into the house I even thought: what if I skipped a day? If I did, I decided, it would be fine; one day away from home, school, the Flats would not matter.
The ashtray was hanging in the back, and I knew it hadn’t moved since I last put in the note. It stayed there through days of school and homework and eventually talking to Denise, because I knew she would not repeat it, about how I went all the way to the top of the mountain and now knew where the house was.
“Did you think it was haunted?” she asked, and that surprised me. “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked her.
She didn’t know whether she did or not. I told her how quiet it was up there, once you subtracted the sounds in the air. I lied a little bit. “It wasn’t scary at all,” I told her.
# # #
On the weekend, by Saturday afternoon, I was ready to get going with the message thing, ready to know what was coming next. The night before was the first time Mom did the shaking thing, where she sat on the couch and chattered her teeth and hugged herself like she was too cold. I told Denise to sit by her, and she did, and Mom told her in a few minutes to go feed Lucky and sweep the kitchen, but Denise stayed on the couch until Mom finally got up and went into their bedroom where my Dad was.
“Not now,” we heard Dad say in a quiet voice, and I know I went to sleep that night thinking “Not now” over and over, and when I woke up in the morning the first thing I thought was “Now is a good time.” So later, out in the back yard, I kept thinking “Now, now, now, now.” Now what?
I went looking for Denise and found her sitting on the front porch, hunched over with her hands holding her ankles. “You’re pretty quiet,” I said, and sat next to her.
We watched a kid ride down the street, heading toward Juniper Court. I noticed how easy it was to breathe along with Denise, like we were both dreaming.
“Would you draw me a map of the top of the mountain?” she asked. I said yes, I would draw her a map in the mud by the doghouse in the back, if she would do one thing for me.
“Maybe,” she said. “What?”
I said: “Tell me the place you most want to visit on the whole earth.”
It took her a long time; nothing came. “You don’t have to tell me why or anything,” I said.
“OK,” she said. “It’s Paris France.”
I tried to think if it was a movie she saw taking place there, or that song about the place in France where the women wear no pants, or the book she had of the little girls in the orphanage with vines. But I didn’t ask her, like I promised. Out back I broke a dead branch off the lilac and drew lines for Wild Plum and the old road, the gate, the steep hill where the road turned, the patch of woods, the rocky part near the top, the driveway, the house and garage and front yard. And after I marked off where the tall brick and stone fence was, I put a heart shape there in the secret hidden place I never got to.
Lucky laid in his house and panted the whole time I was poking in the dirt. When Denise came to the back, I just pointed to the various squiggly lines and said “the gate back there” and “this part is very steep” and “there are tall bushes along here”, but it was almost like she could read my mind, and already knew what the lines were saying. After I was finished with all the explaining I thought I had to do, I watched her walk slowly around the mud patch, looking and looking. She crouched down and circled the map with her eyes for a long time. I guess I didn’t know she was such a thinker that she could be figuring something out that long.
She pointed to the stick I was holding. “Can I use that?” she asked. I gave it to her and she very carefully drew a fine curvy line around the whole thing, and then used the stick to poke at a clump of grass at the edge of the muddy area. The tip of the stick broke off and she used her foot to kick at the grass until a flap of dirty roots and grass flew up into the air. She dropped to her knees, broke off another piece of stick, and used it like a pencil to make the outline of a box, with little sections marked off, in the fresh spot of dirt outside the curvy circle.
After Denise stood up, she dropped the piece of stick and wiped her hands on her pants, and looked at me like she was waiting for me to say something. I didn’t know what it was. I walked around the map and then saw that what she drew outside the wavy circle was our house, over there by itself. I looked at her, the little sister still in fifth grade, still short, and I was ready to do what she told me to do.
“You can get rid of it all now,” she said, and I did. I wiped the whole thing out, and I stamped so hard and so fast after she went back into the house that Lucky ran out jumping and barking. He must have thought I was dancing.
Later that afternoon when the ashtray still hadn’t moved I went out back, pulled the note out and opened it, and to the left of where I’d written “Too Much Shadow From The Mountain” I wrote
HAVE YOU
BEEN TO
PARIS
FRANCE?
and folded the note up as best I could and put it back. Nothing happened then, but later, after my Dad made popcorn and we watched the Western show we always watched on Saturday night, I was putting the empty popcorn bowl on the kitchen counter when I heard a familiar scrape outside in the back. I know I didn’t care much what kind of reply came, I was tired of the game. Except in the secret place behind the wall, the top of the mountain was pretty boring. I mean, it was fine to look around but I did not like feeling like a trespasser—it made me mad. I wanted to take a walk with Chuck, or maybe Andy, who would be easier to talk to, or even Denise. Just walk around, look out over the Flats for the river, climb the trees on the west side. We knew there are some deer up there because we’ve seen them crossing the country road.
# # #
When the reply came I was more or less ready, I was getting the hang of the message thing, and before it came I figured out several things: it would be stupid and mysterious, it would be trying to cheer things up, and it might work again. I was not as smart as I wanted to be.
My English teacher Mr. Stanley liked to talk about how people in the stories we read were always so affected by everything, how they couldn’t get away from the things that held them in place. He would do weird things, like tell us to write about what would happen if gravity stopped working in one of the rooms of our house, and would say “Try not to think of a big smelly mastodon,” and then ask someone “Quick—what were you just thinking about?”
So of course I was trying not to think of the reply, trying not to wonder about what would come, or hope that there would be an actual answer, not too complicated. And it wasn’t that complicated or weird, but it also wasn’t any kind of answer that I could see, just a let-down:
YOU LIVE
IN THE
VERY HEART
OF THE LAND.
Oh great, geography, a subject I actually always liked. Tell me about the whole land, when I just discovered a very little part of it, and I can’t really do anything about what I did discover. Now what?
After awhile, it actually did help me to think about living in the heart of the land. We were not in the exact middle of the country, but then the heart of the body isn’t either—it’s above the center like we’re east of the center. But we’re far enough inland to be protected by all the land around us, sort of. I mean, we can have tornadoes and floods, but no hurricanes, and only little earthquakes. And the heart isn’t where everything happens, but what does happen there has to happen for the whole thing to work. So all the freight trains, the barges on the river, the stink of the refineries and so much corn and wheat in the country surrounding—all of it matters. It can be no big deal to live in the heart, a slow drag, but it’s still the heart of the land.
More than the heart, the note said, it’s the very heart. Is this just a fancy, old-fashioned way of talking? “This is the very thing I’ve been looking for,” was what a character in a mystery book might say. Or was it some kind of a joke, maybe a way of being funny. If my house, where I was sure I lived, was the very heart of the land, then what could that mean? Though nobody there goes to church, are the people in my house some kind of prophets, the talking heart of the wild land? What do we know—what is the very truth we know?
I thought maybe the note really was meant to be funny, and I remembered back in the beginning how much fun it was for me to think about answering back the first time. As much as I hate waiting for the answer, and do not like having to figure out the hard way what the answer is trying to tell me, the whole note thing was fun at the beginning.
So I started thinking about the whole mountain-note thing, about the things I’ve done. When I went all the way to the gate it was fun, even though I didn’t like having to listen to Chuck gripe, I actually enjoyed looking all along the side of the road with those guys. It was good to get to the house at the top. It was lonely, and I didn’t want to get caught, but I remembered noticing that bird feeder like it was the only one in the world, and even thinking about what it would be like to be standing at the window on the second floor and looking out at the river like some lost Indian trapped in a strange place—thinking about that makes me smile.
The explorers must have had fun, even though they were lost a lot of the time and maybe didn’t even know it, or had to spend their days in the doldrums or their nights on the stormy seas.
I decided to go with an easier way, to give something easy back, and not ask for an answer. It made me feel a little weird to decide that, but I knew I’d better wait until my reply just came to me. No trying, worrying, yelling behind the house.
Let’s say we were some unusual kind of prophets in our house—then maybe the next reply I would give would be just lying around in the house, and I’d glance over and see it, or be walking down the hall and hear just a part of what someone was saying. I went around the place for maybe a week, watching, listening, doing the same old things, waiting.
Denise was doing more of the things that Mom always did, and she was the one who kept the list of stuff to get from the grocery store, taped to the side of the refrigerator until she went to the store with Dad, usually on Saturday morning.
So there, on the side of the refrigerator, next to a really old picture of the twins on the swing set when they were little, was the very next message. Why not send a grocery list? Thinking that I could just do that made me laugh. I thought at first that I would add a couple of choice items, like buffalo meat, bird seed, deer horns, cow pies, a car ash tray. I went along like that for awhile, with a list growing in my head, until I imagined the wire harness with the actual car ash tray breaking from the weight of all the things I ordered, and the stuff flying down into the backyard from above, where I would have to explain everything. No, no, not funny.
So I took the list like it was, and copied it all onto one of the two rectangles left, adding only two more things for a joke:
BREAD
MILK
EGGS
CELERY
PEANUT BUTTER
SODA
BEER
HA HA
I put the shopping list back on the fridge, and then folded the note and put it in my pocket. That evening I sat out in the back with Lucky and waited for the telltale scrape. Nothing.
The third night I went out I heard the scrape right after I sat down by Lucky, and I walked back and put the note in the tray and waited for it to be whisked away. I waited for maybe an hour, thinking of nothing much, lying against the rock and looking up at the sky. As it started to get dark, half of it was pinkish and half blue, like some huge blanket you could put over a twin boy and girl. When I heard the tray start moving, I went inside, full of the sky and still warm from where my back was touching the rock of the mountain.
The next morning was chilly, the first time you could tell that fall was coming, and the ashtray was back. I wasn’t too ready to get the note, because I was pretty sure the whole thing would be over with this new message on it, in what was the last open space. I figured there would be a long time to think about that last message.
I was beginning to enjoy the idea that we were a family of prophets, in this house by the edge of the hill where the notes kept coming back, and I wasn’t ready to give it up. I don’t know how many raw feelings went through me and over me before I made myself look at the reply to my grocery list. Looking back I’d describe all those feelings as what it must feel like to be scraped along the surface of the earth by a massive sheet of glacial ice, making contact with all that rocky debris that scours and flattens and rearranges what came before the ice.
The day or days—I can’t remember which—I waited before approaching the ashtray had an endless quality, like the time that passed while waiting for my Dad to say something to us about my Mom, anything that would give us some clue about what to do, where in the house to go when she wouldn’t turn her head to look at us.
The one time I am sure he did think about saying something was after I asked him whether he thought he should maybe call Aunt Marge his sister or Uncle Ted Mom’s brother. He got down on one knee, like he was going to pet Lucky, who was in the backyard and not in the kitchen, and put his hand over his mouth and closed his eyes.
“Dad?” I said, after waiting a long time.
He shook his head and stood up without opening his eyes. He walked over to me, blinking his eyes, and stopped in front of where I was standing. He put a hand on my shoulder and leaned in a little, until I felt like I was holding him up somehow. He looked at me, at my forehead I think, somewhere above my eyes.
“You’re going to be tall,” he said, “taller than me,” and stepped back. “Ted, Marge, everyone’s pretty busy already, I imagine.”
“OK,” I said, and moved to get out of there, out of the kitchen, out of the house. As I was leaving through the back door he said “Be as good as you can to your mother.”
Later in the garage I found the wire-cutters I used to snip the harness that held the ashtray, so that I could take it and the note away and be done with the messages. After I slipped the note into my pocket I used the biggest hammer my Dad had to smash the ashtray into a crumpled mass of metal. I got it smaller than a deck of cards, but I cut my finger when I tried to bend back one flap that I couldn’t get to fold over onto the rest.
I sat on my bed a long time after I finally read the note, sat and watched Dennis mess around with a slingshot that he was trying to fix, watched him change into his pj’s and get into bed and toss and turn while I kept watching him without talking, until it gave him the creeps and he said “I wish I lived in Idaho or Colorado, far from this place for sure.”
What the last message said:
ABUNDANCE,
FLEETING AND
REAL.
THIS IS
ENOUGH.
Send a grocery list, get a message about abundance—easy enough. The ‘fleeting and real’ part went way over my head. And the ‘this is enough’, that part attached to the end of it did seem like the end of something, like a very dark farewell. Nothing there to tell me what ‘this’ was, what it pointed to. Isn’t ‘this’ something you were close enough to touch, to see, to call out to, to bring even closer?
This is enough, it said? Not ‘you are enough’, or ‘that family’ is enough, or the house or Lucky or some tree halfway up the side of the mountain. ‘This’ is nothing you could just get a name for, so I would know what it is. I figured—it was the only way I could see to end the message thing—I figured that the ‘this’ was something that someone else, someone who could not be me, was touching. ‘This is enough’ was someone else telling someone else about a good and satisfying something that I could not touch. ‘Abundance, fleeting and real’ was what someone else who could touch the dark end of something could say to me, a mystery of saying something without feeling it.
I buried the ashtray lump right at the edge of the rock face in back, about a foot below where it would have entered the earth if it had been pulled down the mountain from deep under, instead of dangled down from above. And I let the whole message thing go, mostly.
# # #
It’s been almost thirty years since the last message, and I struggled mightily with what it means to be alive, until my junior year in college, when I began to discover geologic time. Now I teach earth science at Great Rivers Community College, and lead pleasant little expeditions on the karst topography and exposed Mississippian-era limestone bedrock on the edge of the bluff escarpment that ends where the Flats still touch the old mountain I used to yell at.
A developer who apparently never heard of karst typography or sinkholes bought a good half of the top of the bluff overlooking our old house, and managed to build two houses and most of a third one before a deck and one corner of a house collapsed into a classic sinkhole. There went the development—the land no longer being attractive to the average mega-home buyer—and so my wife Jan and I are now the proud owners of what was the hilltop farm of my boyhood dreams.
The old house I visited that one time is gone, burned to the ground the year I went away to get my Master’s. Now it’s a ruin, a monument to what went before. Most of that funky garden wall I leaned against is still there, embedded with lumps of quartz and the odd chunk of fossilized rock. We built a smallish log cabin at the edge of what is probably the largest remnant of dry upland woods for miles around. Denise built an even smaller cabin, across the lane and down a gravelly slope, and next to the cabin she has a sculpture studio, a lean-to affair she uses most of the year. Watching her work I’ve learned over time that sculpture, if done well, has a living presence for those who welcome it.
I’ve never told Denise—or anyone, for that matter—about the note. A dirty fragment is all I have left of it, words that read: ‘Very heart of the land You don’t see? Bread have you been.’ If I didn’t have the thing imprinted like a glowing brand just inside my eyes, the words would not matter.
I left one square of the note back in the den when I moved out of the house right after I graduated from high school. I cut out the part that read “The air you breathe is free” and stuck it behind the cushion at the back of the chair my Dad fell asleep in every night. Why not try it?, I remember thinking, in a kind of magical moment, why not let him in on the secret freedom of breathing?
He died in that chair, a year or so later, and I like to think that maybe he drew one big, fuck-it-all breath, shuddering and settling in before his heart twisted into death. Eventually Denise moved Mom into an apartment with her, and that lasted as long as it could, until we ended up putting her in a small and very expensive group home run by a psychiatric nurse and her daughter. They called us in enough time so that we were there with her when she went, and she let Denise wipe her forehead and even smiled at me.
Dennis struggles a lot. Right now he has a summer job for the County, mowing all along the levees. I figure if he can keep his speed even, and not take the turns with the big tractor too fast, he could make it through the season without a major incident. He’s actually very funny, and we all like it when he comes up for a barbecue.
We have big barbecues at least once a month—they’re really an excuse for me to lead people around and show them the remnants of the ancient shallow inland sea, the limestone deposits and fossilized crinoids and corals and brachiopods. Jan thinks I’m a storyteller at heart because I can’t shut up until it’s pretty clear that the people following along have at least an inkling of all that went into making this place. I want them to know—in some little, even comfortable way— the long, long time it took to lay in this rock, to bury some of it and crack and erode and expose what we see through the overlay of European grasses and brambles and stands of hackberry and persimmon and black walnut.
It won’t hurt a bit for them to know that they drove up the bluff to our house on a road laid down over a zone of colluvial veneers and alluvial fans, that they are here in a place big enough to host an inland sea, glaciers, continental drift and erosion, ultimately the meandering of the great rivers that converge just north of us, for now, to form an even greater river we can see to the west.
They need to know that all this went on and on, long before the paleo wanderers arrived on the scene, before the mound builders, the European grain farmers, the factory lovers, before any family moved in down at the base of this place.
It won’t hurt a bit for them to know that where we stand, if we could have stood here, was south of the equator for the longest time, before it migrated north, joined the mass of Pangea, and moved on, still moving, slowly. I will tell you that not everyone is interested in hearing and seeing every layer of this long view, but if you want to join us where you can look down on the Flats as if you were taking the whole place in, you will have to learn to humor me somewhat.
---end---
Anna Lindwasser a freelance writer and teacher living in Brooklyn, New York Her work has been published in Black Heart Magazine, Adelaide Magazine, and The Charles Carter, among others. She can be found at annalindwasser.com. |
Flower Sickness
It doesn’t occur to you that this is actual, physical plant matter. It also doesn’t occur to you that you should tell your aunt that you’re hallucinating. You ignore it as best as you can, covering the growths with long sleeves so you don’t have to look at them. You figure you’ll stop seeing them within a couple of days.
They don’t go away. Instead you start seeing them in other parts of your body—green ropey things busting holes through your legs and torso. Your skin stings and screams like it’s supposed to, and you don’t think that’s a hallucination. You wonder if this is some new symptom of one of your bullshit diseases. Maybe these aren’t flowers, but your bones turning to pulp in a thyroid storm. That’s not how that works. It’s not your bones. It’s plant matter, laid out along your veins.
Four days into this floral hell you’re in the locker room with the rest of your track team. Your entire body is lit up with itching. Diego Gonzalez is leaning against the lockers, laughing at something Jeremy McDaniel said about a gameshow you don’t watch. One of the contestants trains hamsters to detect whether or not someone is in love. This is stupid and you’re glad you think it’s stupid because if you thought it was funny, you’d end up laughing in front of Diego. You can laugh, but not because you’re actually amused. Your laughter is for shaming your teammates into running faster, not expressing joy. If you ever felt joy — which you don’t — you’d never show it to anyone.
You take off your Doc Martens to swap them for your running shoes. Thorny plant flesh is visible through your threadbare socks. You shove your feet into your shoes, heart pounding at the thought that Diego might see the leafy carnage. You don’t care about Jeremy, but you guess it would probably be better if he didn’t see it, either.
“Everyone else is already running in Fort Greene Park,” you say with a sneer. Diego is holding his gym shirt and not putting it on - showing off abs that you consider a public nuisance. You say, “you’d better hurry up and get over there — unless you’re trying to ruin our chances at winning our next race. Are you?”
“No sir! I’ll get changed and go to the park now, sir!” Jeremy says with a rigid salute. You are the fastest runner on your team, so you expect and cultivate this level of obedience, but it’s exhausting to watch it actually happen.
Diego sweeps a hand through his gelled back hair and thanks you for reminding him to get going. “There’s no excuse for the team captain to be late,” he says.
You scowl at him and crack your neck to set him on edge. As you walk toward the park where you’ll be running for the next hour, you try not to think about how annoyingly reasonable Diego is being. What’s his deal, responding to your intimidation tactics with pleasantries and smiles? It makes you feel like garbage. You don’t deserve to have someone like that speak to you.
Once you hit the pavement, the flower stalks start screaming at you for daring to try and use your body when they’re trying to consume it. You grit your teeth, bear with it as long as you can, but after twenty minutes your muscles are twitching and sparking with pain.
You don’t remember sitting down and putting your head between your knees, but there you are with your breath scraping through your lungs and cold sweat slithering down your neck. You feel someone looming over you and you want to swing your fist straight up and clock them in the face.
“You okay, Naoki?” It’s Diego, bending down to check you over. You flash to standing over your unconscious mother, no idea who to call or how to help her. Diego’s features are relaxed; he thinks he can help you. He’s an idiot.
You lift yourself up, wincing at what feels like thorns digging into your bones. “Fine,” you say, brushing unidentified yellow debris from your bike shorts. “Stop staring at me like you want to fuck me.”
Diego laughs and your cheeks flame. You don’t actually blush because you’ve trained yourself not to, but you feel a million little pulsing suns in your cheeks.
You bare your teeth and hiss. Diego asks if you think you need to see the school nurse, or if you need help getting home. “Of course not,” you say. “Don’t you have better things to do than hover over me like an idiot?”
“It’s my responsibility to make sure everyone on my team is okay.” Diego is still, impossibly, smiling.
You tell him to get out of your way so you can get back to training. Diego asks if you’re sure you’re up for it, and you tell him that you are. He says fine, you can keep running, but he’s going to keep an eye on you to make sure you’re alright.
The idea of anyone being this concerned about you, even on a professional level, is literally nauseating. When Diego leaves you alone, you find yourself spitting up onto the side of the road. Mixed in with the bile and drool you find rose petals. Deep pink, like you think the flesh in your throat must be.
You don’t remember eating flowers.
You have never eaten flowers in your life.
You bury the evidence under a pile of leaves, leave the park and catch the bus without telling anyone. Your legs are still hollering at you but you are great at ignoring pain. Halfway home, you have to stop to spit up another explosion of petals—this time, it’s enough to curl a fist around. No one’s on the street so you don’t bother hiding it.
At home, you whip out your phone and google coughing up flowers, and flower stalks in leg. You think you’re going to come up with aesthetic art blogs and maybe an article or two about psychosis or LSD use.
Instead you find an entry from the World Health Organization explaining Hanahaki Disease, also known as Flower Sickness.
Symptoms vary, but in the first stages they generally include plant material growing from the limbs and digits. In later stages, plant matter begins growing in the organs, or even the brain. Organ function can be impeded by plant matter obstruction, and all body parts can be damaged by the growths.
The true cause is unknown, but according to folklore, it occurs as a result of unrequited love, and can be cured when said love is requited. Some studies suggest that the stress of unrequited love lowers the immune system, leaving the victim open to infection. Many scientists believe that this is not a full explanation—unrequited love is not the only thing to cause lowered immunity, and lowered immunity should result in a variety of infections, not just this one.
There are a range of treatments, including surgery, chemotherapy and radiation in severe cases. Because they’re uncontrolled growths. Which is cancer. Your mother had cancer.
There’s also therapy to help encourage the sufferer to either declare their love or come to terms with the fact that it won’t happen.
Folklore says the second thing won’t work, but folklore is questionable. This whole thing is questionable. The only thing that isn’t questionable is that you are literally and physically barfing up flowers.
Oh, and one more thing. You are not in love.
~`~`~
“Do we want to cover The Smiths or Morrissey’s solo music?” Diego asks.
“We should do one of each,” you say, flicking a bit of pollen fluff from your sweater. “That way I can show the progression of his musical career when I write the biography.”
You and Diego have music together. The groups aren’t determined by grade, but by musical experience. You got in because of your encyclopedic knowledge of musical history. Diego got in because he can sing and play guitar. You have no musical abilities whatsoever, but you could talk about Morrissey for an hour if you had someone to listen to you.
You’re paired with Diego on a project. The teacher doesn’t say why, but you’re pretty sure it’s because no one else can tolerate you. You’re quiet in class, but your menacing track team reputation, combined with your hulking body and bulging eyes, make you a pariah.
So it’s Diego who has to endure your Morrissey obsession. You’re doing the easy part—writing about your favorite topic other than running. Diego is the one actually playing and recording the songs, something you’re incapable of.
You don’t like having to rely on another person. You’re glad that Diego asks you what you want him to play and doesn’t try to take over. You tell him that your favorite song is November Spawned a Monster, and Diego says he likes that song too, and he’ll play it.
His agreeableness is annoying. You don’t want him to just do what you say. Mindless obedience is the same as ignoring you. You don’t want him to ignore you. You don’t know why, because you hate him.
The flower stalks in your legs shift angrily. You feel something bust through the skin in your knees, and you hiss, biting down on your lip to stop yourself from screaming.
“Are you okay?” asks Diego. The fact that he cares is absurd. You tell him to shut up and you hate how predictable you are, but you don’t know what else to say besides no, and you’re not going to do that. Diego lifts an eyebrow, shakes his head and change the subject.
“Do we want to do a faithful cover, or change the genre?” he asks. “I found this album called Mexrissey that does Spanish covers of Morrisey’s work that are influenced by mariachi and other Mexican music. I’ve been wanting to do something like that for a while now, but with Puerto Rican music instead. Maybe salsa, or reggaetón, or something older like bomba y plena. I don’t know. How does that sound to you?”
You hadn’t considered doing anything like that, but you have to admit, it sounds cool as hell. “I don’t know,” you say. “How creative do you think Miss Nguyen will let us be?”
“I’m sure she’d love it if we put our own spin on it. Plus, it’d make my mom happy - she thinks everything should have a salsa cover.”
You are all about making moms happy. It’s the only thing you care about more than running and Morrissey. Most teenagers don't give a damn about their mothers. Don't appreciate that they’re alive and putting up with them. You feel something else burst through your kneecap, and this time it’s pushing visibly against your pant leg. Diego doesn’t look down, and you tamp it down easily. It looks soft, puffy and pretty, but your whole leg is alight with pain.
“Are you sure you're okay?” asks Diego, frowning. “You look like you have a headache or something. Do you need to go to the nurse?”
You're fine. You need him to shut up because his caring about you is making it worse. He doesn’t actually care about you, of course, he just cares about people, as a general category. He wants everyone happy and fed and not hurting. It’s not you. You are not special. You are nothing.
Your knee is killing you.
Diego digs a bottle of pills out of his bag. “Here’s some painkillers if you need them,” he says. “I take them for migraines and I’m not sure if they’ll work on regular headaches, but they’re probably fine?”
You snatch them, wanting to drown what you’re feeling in literally anything that’s offered to you. You need Diego to stop being nice, to stop making you like him, to stop making you hurt.
You need to say something to make him be mean to you, but your knee hurts too much to let your mind work. Besides, now you’re thinking about your mother and thinking about how she thought you were good. She wouldn’t approve of you desperately scanning your brain for the best way to hurt Diego. She’d be ashamed of you, and you’re ashamed of yourself and holy shit your fucking knee.
“You’re a worthless piece of shit and everyone hates you,” you whisper. Knowing it lacks your usual acidity, that it’s pointless to say and he doesn’t even hear you. It makes you feel better, a little.
Diego asks what you said. You don’t repeat yourself. Instead you say, “thanks for the pills.”
#
Later, in the bathroom, you roll down your pants and see that your knee is bright with blood. The plant matter busting through your knees has torn the flesh apart. Thank god the blood is seeping onto black pants or you’d have to worry about someone noticing. Diego noticing. The stalks have erupted into flowers. You clean up the blood and rip the petals off, biting your lip to keep yourself from screaming.
You power through the rest of the day, then walk home wincing with every limping step. You skip track practice because you know seeing Diego will just make it worse.
You don’t know why it’ll make it worse, just that it will. You are not in love with him.
#
In your bedroom, you’re checking the reblogs on the video you posted of yourself lurching around to Sorry by Justin Beiber in your bedroom, when you get a text from Diego. It says:
missed you at practice today. hope everything’s ok. let me know if ur having any problems.
You shudder, your stomach knotting up because you know he has to say this to you. He doesn’t actually care about how you are, nobody does. He just has to account for everyone because until the school year ends, he’s the captain. Most likely, he had a much better time without you there.
All Diego wants is to have fun with his friends, and you ruin that. What you want is to win, and you don’t give a shit if it’s fun or not.
You text him back:
I’m fine. I’ll be back tomorrow. Hope you didn’t slack off with me being gone.
Diego says,
we kinda did lol. without any races coming up in the next few weeks it’s kinda hard to keep focused. we ran for like an hour then went to get cheesecake at juniors. you should come next time!
You say,
I don't want to hanging out with the pathetic losers on our team. Half of them will be gone next year anyway, including you.
He says,
k. ur always welcome if u change ur mind!
You want to throw your phone across the room. You are deliberately being an asshole, while doesn’t he react as if you’re an asshole? Why is he just spewing endless streams of nice nice nice?
You have to make him stop. It’s killing you, literally. You feel flowers plugging your throat.
Don’t hold your breath. I’d rather set myself on fire and get stabbed in the chest with a rusty knife than spend even one minute hanging out with you.
Diego responds with a crying cat emoji, and you really do throw your phone across the room.
#
In the kitchen chopping cabbage for okonomiyaki, you ask your uncle Nobuo how a person knows when they’re in love. Your voice is flattened with congestion—your body has elected to be allergic to the pollen it’s creating. Your uncle doesn’t want to answer the question. He looks into the pan of half-cooked bacon instead of at your face. He never looks at your face.
You twist your neck, vertebrae creaking. Your uncle sighs. He knows he has no rational basis for fearing you. Your creepy face and your looming body and your jacked-up smile aren’t your fault. You are a child. Your eyes bulge because you have Grave’s Disease, and you move like a contortionist because you have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. You are a sick child and your mother is dead. He should be sorry for you. He is. He’s a good uncle, a good man, who gives pity where pity is due.
“Is there a girl you like?” He flips the bacon to keep it from burning.
“No. I don’t like girls.”
This statement is the best you can do. You don’t want to say you’re gay because that implies that you feel attraction of any kind, to anyone, and you don’t. You won’t. But if you did, you’d probably feel it for a boy.
Not for any particular reason, not because of Diego. Possibly because you’re so disgusted by the concept of love that you could only ever feel it for a being as repulsive as yourself. Possibly because you’re just gay and you don’t need to overanalyze it.
Your uncle is blinking at you as he pats the bacon dry of grease. He is wondering at the contortions of your lips as you work this bullshit out in your head.
“You don’t like girls? I don’t know if that means you like boys or you’re just a late bloomer, but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. Pass me the bonito flakes?”
You do, and he accepts them, nodding. You snarl with irritation because your question isn’t getting answered, but you can’t bring yourself to actually ask it again.
After scratching the back of his balding head for a few minutes your uncle says, “how do you know you’re in love? That’s a hard question. One that requires a lot of thought.”
“Does it? Aren’t you in love with Aunt Haruka? Why would this question be difficult for a married man? Don’t you love your wife? What’s wrong with you? You disgust—”
You slam your mouth closed with such force that it rattles your teeth. You’re not supposed to do this to your uncle. He isn’t your track minion, he isn’t someone you can defeat with aggression. To beat your uncle, you need to make sure he isn’t afraid of you. Otherwise he’ll throw you out with the other garbage.
“Wow, Naoki, that’s…harsh? Are you feeling okay, kiddo?” He laughs and strokes the back of his neck. “Of course I love my wife. It’s just that we’ve been together for so long, it’s hard to remember the moment when I knew I loved her. I’m not sure there was ever one specific moment. Love is more gradual. You start getting to know someone, you start finding things you have in common.” He grins, blush creeping across his face. He slops some oil into a newly heated pan.
“Can you love someone you have nothing in common with?” you ask, scratching the roots buried in the back of your knee.
“Absolutely. Your aunt is the kind of person who sets a goal and achieves it. She doesn’t worry about what might go wrong. I can’t make decisions without writing a pro/con list and asking everyone I know what they think. When I get stuck, she helps me move forward - and when she needs to slow down and think something through, I’m her guide. I guess you could say we complete each other.”
Your uncle lets the cabbage patties slide into the sizzling oil. You say you’re going to your room for a while. You have homework.
“I thought you said you’d finished?”
“There’s something I forgot.”
You scuttle off to your bedroom, deep sea dive under your covers, and convulse with what would be sobs if you were capable of crying. You don’t even know what the hell you’re half-crying about. Maybe it’s that you’re beginning to realize why your heart thuds at the thought of Diego. Maybe it’s that the thudding is painful. Maybe it’s that you know that you will never complete anyone, and that no one will ever complete you.
You feel another bloom burst through your thigh and have to muffle a howl into your pillow. You don’t love Diego. You can’t. If you do, this floral parasite will strangle you from the inside, and your only protection — your cruelty — will be gone.
But when Diego calls you during dinner, you tell your aunt and uncle that you have to take the call. They have no objections; in fact, they smile at each other as you lurch toward your bedroom.
“What do you want?” you say. “Why are you calling me? Haven’t you ever heard of texting? What is this, the 1980’s?”
“I’m pretty sure people were still calling each other long after the 80’s.” Diego laughs, a high, bright sound that sets your teeth on edge. “I tried texting you, but you didn’t answer.”
“What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until Monday?”
“We have to work on our project over the weekend, don't we? It’s due next week, so if we wait until Monday, we won’t have time.”
“We’ve already divided up our duties. You’re not helping me write, and I’m not helping you perform, so what else is there to talk about?”
“I want you to hear the cover I’m working on! Plus it’s easier for me to work when other people are around. If I’m on my own I get distracted. You’re always really focused and determined, so I think it’ll help me out if you’re around.”
“What, so now I’m stuck with babysitting duties? Take an Adderall and do your work.”
“I’m good with my Intuniv, thanks. Can you come over tomorrow?”
“No.” You dig your fingernails into the bloody hell scape that used to be your knee. “Why would I waste my time helping a loser like you? All I have to do is get my own work done.”
“That’s not true. If half the project is missing, so is half of your grade. I’m not saying I won’t do it if you won’t come over. I’m not trying to manipulate you. Stay home if that’s what you want. But you are very much responsible for the work I do, and vice versa.”
“Why would you want me over at your gross house anyway? If I were you, I’d want to stay as far away from me as possible. I mean, am I nice to you? Am I at all pleasant to be around?”
You hear Diego’s throat clearing, as if he’s about to speak.
“No,” you say. “I’m not. You’d be much happier if I got cancer and died a slow, painful death. Actually, you’d love that. I bet when you go to church on Sundays that’s what you pray for. I’m right, aren’t I?”
Diego’s eyes widen. “I don’t know why you’d say that. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you. I’ll admit that sometimes talking to you can be challenging, but I like you. Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t wish that you had cancer. My mom had cancer. I know how awful it is.”
This news hits you like a punch in the throat. Your face crumples, and you press your fists into your eyes to stave off tears. This is your something in common. This is your love. Your mothers had cancer. Your mother and his.
You find yourself saying, “I’m sorry that happened to your family.” You don’t know how you managed to choke out something kind, and you aren’t glad you did, but Diego is.
“Thank you,” he says. You picture his hand over his heart, though this likely does not describe his body language at all. “Really, that means a lot.”
“Whatever,” you say. You consider hanging up on him, then flushing your phone down the toilet to make sure that he can’t ever contact you again.
“So,” says Diego. “Can you come over this weekend?”
You find yourself agreeing to go there Saturday at 2 PM. You are an idiot.
#
Diego is waiting for you with a plate of homemade cookies.
“My mom helped me make them,” he says. “I’m still learning, so I’m not sure how they turned out. Hopefully my mom’s advice saved them from being inedible.”
You don’t want to eat Diego’s cookies, you want to eat his mother’s cookies. His mother had cancer and so his mother is your mother and you want to eat your mother’s cookies even though your mother rarely baked. But also, you do want to eat Diego’s cookies. Despite yourself, you like that he did something nice for you.
You inhale two cookies in one bite, then proclaim them disgusting. Diego laughs, as if what you said was somehow funny and not the same stupid thing you always say.
“Your mom survived cancer?” you ask, sitting on the couch and wondering how you can take up both more and less space simultaneously.
“Oh, yeah. She had it before I was born. It was uterine cancer. She had to have a hysterectomy. She was pretty sad about it.”
“Wait, what? She had a hysterectomy, and then she had you? How does that make any sense? Are you sure you’re not mixing up your timeline?”
You hope that he is. You want him to have endured watching his mother suffer, like you did. You’d thought you had that in common. Your guts twist. You want shared pain, connection, this is severance and it hurts.
“Oh, no. My other mom is the one who actually gave birth to me. I definitely remember the timeline.”
All right. Gay parents. That indicates, at least, that he wouldn’t be repulsed by the idea of a boy lusting after him. Disinterested maybe, but not enraged, not violent. You don’t care. You have nothing in common now that you know his life is not infused with suffering the way that yours is. You don’t love him and you don’t want him to love you.
You ask Diego what he’s thinking for the project while wolfing down another fistful of cookies.
“Well, you said your favorite song was November Spawned a Monster, right? Should we work with that one?”
Holy shit of course not. You hadn’t thought it through when you suggested it, but you can’t handle those lyrics spilling from Diego’s mouth. Not when the song is about you.
Without kindness Aunt Haruka and Uncle Nobuo would have thrown you out on the street when your mother died. They didn’t have to take you in, but they did. Out of kindness. Without kindness you’d have nothing to eat after track meets, no medicine to control your wild thyroid, no bed to hide in when existing proves too hard. You are handcuffed by kindness and you can't live without it and for this you are shivering with shame.
Like the poor twisted child in the song you will never know love. You are a hideous monster. Nobody can bear you, and nobody should try.
If Diego sings these words you will know that he agrees.
“Not that song,” you say, shaking your head, swallowing the bile bubbling in the back of your throat. “Something else.”
“Okay, sure. How about Bigmouth Strikes Again?”
Laughing while nauseous is difficult, but you pull it off.
This song suits every word you’ve ever said to Diego. The only thing that’s different is you’d never call him sweetness, and when you insult him you aren’t joking, you’re lying. Like the narrator, your emotions are cruel, small, and self-centered, but unlike him you aren’t beautiful about it.
But what’s more beautiful than flowers laid out along your bones, waiting to burst from your flesh? Isn’t that some gorgeous Victorian bullshit? You once read that Victorians thought tuberculosis was sexy, despite the fact that it’s a bacterial lung infection that chews up your lungs like aphids chewing a leaf. You have leaves chewing you now, and supposedly it’s because you’re in love.
So when a handful of crushed wet flower pushes through the small of your back, making your eyes water with pain, ripping through blood and muscle and fat and skin, you wonder if Diego would think it was beautiful past all that blood.
Your shirt is black because you knew this might happen, so Diego doesn’t notice any blood. He’s used to you making weird faces and hissing, and so he doesn’t ask you if something’s wrong.
He says, “so how about a reggaetón version of Bigmouth Strikes Again?”
You tell him you don’t know much about the genre. This is not true. You say that you can’t imagine what such a mashup would sound like. This is true.
“Okay…well, if you’ve heard anything, you’ve probably heard Daddy Yankee. He did Gasolina—let me play it for you, I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”
If you did, you came across it randomly - coming out of someone’s car, or on the Internet. You definitely did not look up reggaetón the first time Diego mentioned it, and listen to the first twenty songs that you found. Gasolina is most certainly not on your workout playlist.
Diego pulls out his phone and turns on the song. Once the chorus hits, he starts jerking harshly from side to side, pointing at the invisible viewer for emphasis.
After he sings the first line, you spout the backup lines while gyrating your nonexistent hips, arms thrust into the air. You don’t mean to, but it still happens.
When Diego looks at you you’re expecting mockery, but he just grins and continues singing, all while rhythmically loping from side to side. At some point he puts on a white snapback that would look like Daddy Yankee’s if it didn’t have a Badtz Maru embroidered on the front.
“I think I’m getting the dance wrong,” he says, laughing. He sits on his bed, swings his hat to the side. “So yeah, that’s an example of reggaetón. Want to go for it?”
“Again, I’m just writing the bio. But sure.” You shrug, sitting down next to him because your knees are objecting big time to your impromptu dance. You edge away, the closeness makes your flora swell and shake. You say, “do you have all the instruments you’re going to need? Can you play them on your own?”
“Not exactly, but I have a guitar, and I can borrow a keyboard from the school. I can program the keyboard to simulate the drums. It’s not going to be perfect but it’ll be good enough.”
He starts talking about the arrangement he wants to do on the guitar and this time you really have no idea what he’s talking about, but you like listening to him speak. You like seeing his ability to be enthusiastic about something he can’t do perfectly.
This trait, applied to running, makes you furious, but in this context it seems appropriately joyful.
You love him. He will never love you because he loves everything. He is light and he is kindness and you should be living on your own underground. He will love you because you exist, but not because you are you.
At first, you feel this in the tightness of your throat, the plugging of your nose, the pressure behind your eyes that isn’t thyroxine but tears.
The feeling shifts to your chest — your ribs crack under the pressure of some noxious bloom. Your lips part against your will in a strangled shriek. Now Diego notices a problem. He hops off his bed and hunches down so you’re looking down at him.
“Are you okay?” he asks, eyes wide with fear. He grabs your shoulders, then pulls back, apologizing for hurting you. You reach for his hand and then pull back too.
Your flesh gives way to flowers, and you hear the crunching of bone. You watch bug-eyed with horror as thorny roses unfold from the gaping wounds in your chest. You see their outline through your T-shirt. Diego sees it too.
“What is that?” he asks, pointing at the growth with a shaky finger.
You try to answer but when you open your mouth you vomit bloody petals, thorns that scrape your tongue, and spitty congealed pollen. Diego backs up to avoid being hit, stands up straight and says he’s going to go get his mother. “Just hang on — you’ll be okay.”
You throw off your shirt because it no longer fits, and lay back on Diego’s pillows, panting and dribbling blood onto his sheets. You try rolling over to see if it’ll hurt less, but all you do is shake loose a cloud of petals and pollen. You sneeze, shaking your broken ribs and forcing another scream.
Diego’s mother appears. She is a chubby Puerto Rican woman with her wavy, graying hair pulled into a ponytail. You wonder if this is the mom who had cancer. You hope she is. You want help from the one whose body betrayed her by seeding growths it wasn’t supposed to.
She puts her hands on her hips and surveys your destroyed body. She asks her son what’s going on.
“I don’t know Mom, should we call an ambulance?”
“Of course — we need to call his parents, too.”
“Naoki, could you give me your phone? I can probably find your parents in there. Or you can call them, if you can talk.”
How stupid is it that you’ve broken your ribs and lacerated your chest over someone who doesn’t know that you don’t have parents? Your mother died of cancer and whoever your dad was left before you were born. You never told Diego this. He doesn’t know the most basic things about you, and yet you love him, you’re going to the hospital over him?
Diego’s mother calls an ambulance while Diego calls your aunt. They speculate about what’s happening, their theories ranging from you being a weirdo who dug holes in your chest and planted flowers, to your body being taken over by freaky space tumors. Neither one of them mention flower sickness. Probably, they’ve never heard of it.
You don’t want an ambulance—money is tight, and you don’t want to spend another night laying awake listening to your aunt and uncle wondering why you cost so much money and why they decided to take you in in the first place and why didn’t they just put you in foster care like everybody said they should?
You’re fine. It’s just a couple of broken ribs. You could run like this, once you pop an ibuprofen and ice your chest. But you can’t speak without groaning, and the ambulance arrives before you pull yourself together.
Diego asks to ride with you to the hospital. His mother agrees, and says that she’ll go too. You have no idea why this is necessary. You can take care of yourself. Who cares if you hurt so bad that you can barely speak, who cares that your breaths are crackling and rustling with new blooms in your lungs?
Apparently, the paramedics do, because they load you into the ambulance without question. The movement jostles your limbs, dislocates something, but just now you’re struggling too much with breathing to care.
You hear Diego’s mother talking to your aunt on the phone. You feel fuzzy and disconnected from your senses, so you're not sure what either of them are saying. You think that you hear fear in your aunt’s voice, maybe anger, but you could be wrong. You feel the ambulance stop and jolt through traffic, you feel Diego’s hand closing over yours, but you see nothing, hear nothing, and soon you feel nothing, too.
#
When you wake up, you focus your aching, twitching eyes on the most gruesome goddamn thing you’ve ever seen.
On the table next to your hospital bed is a clear, glass vase. In that vase you see flowers. The bottoms of the stems are clipped clean. You can’t smell the blood because you’re still congested from the pollen hurricane, but you can see it. Those flowers aren’t a well-meaning yet useless get-well gift. Those flowers were plucked from your body. Roses, rhododendrons, daffodils and peonies, and as the final fuck-you, a bundle of bloodstained chrysanthemums. Your mother knew what every flower symbolized. If she wanted you to hand over a bad report card, admit to breaking a cereal bowl, or tell her how you felt about her impending death, she’d say “chrysanthemum” and you’d speak the truth.
If these flowers have some kind of message for you, you aren’t prepared to listen.
You’re not surprised by the macabre vase, but you’re not exactly happy about it either. You try to force yourself upright to get rid of them, but your progress is halted by the presence of a heavy bandage. You wince at the pain of movement, squeeze your eyes shut and try to breathe. After two more attempts, you give up and fall back onto the mound of white pillows behind you. All energy has left your body, and you’re in no mood to pretend you’re okay.
Some distant part of you had hoped to find Diego at your bedside, but no one is there and you're not surprised. Diego and his mother probably went home once they’d done their civic duty and made sure you didn’t die. Your aunt or your uncle probably showed up to take care of insurance stuff and then bailed. Despite the fact that you sat by your mother’s bed for hours while she slept off surgery, you don’t expect that kind of dedication directed toward you. Especially not from Diego. This is reasonable and you’re not crying about it. Your eyes are just watering because of the pollen.
After forty minutes of breathing through pain, you get bored enough to jab the call button. You remember pressing it to summon a nurse when your mom coughed up blood onto the silk scarf you bought her for her birthday. Not the same button, you aren’t in your mother’s old room, but the same set-up.
Minutes late you’re greeted by a woman with a wide, leering grin. You distrust her immediately. A clipboard is pressed against her lavender cardigan, and her bone-straight brown hair is held back by a chipped, rhinestone coated hair clip. Shadowing her is a nurse dressed in hospital scrubs. Her ears are enormous and her eyes are too far apart. You don’t trust her, either.
“Hello there, Naoki,” says Lavender Cardigan. She pronounces it Nay-oh-key, and when you offer a correction she ignores you. You want to head butt her in the chest, but you’re too weak to sit up.
She asks you how you’re feeling while the nurse is adjusting your IV and popping a thermometer into your mouth. You’re not sure how they expect you to answer the question.
Once the nurse has her numbers, your mouth is free. When you speak, you hack up a cloud of pollen. Lavender Cardigan steps back, and the nurse offers you a cloth to wipe your mouth with.
“I’m here to talk with you about your condition.” Lavender Cardigan sits on the side of your bed. You scowl, twist your head to the side. You didn’t give her permission to touch your bed. She smiles harder, looks down at her clipboard. “Do you know what your official diagnosis is?” she asks.
“I’d have to be the world’s stupidest asshole not to know what I have,” you say with a snort. “Pretty sure there’s only one disease that makes you grow flowers out of your chest. Also, stop calling me Nay-oh-key or I will jump out the fucking window.”
“Language!” she says, placing a hand to her heart in mock shock. “What you say is true — but do you know what causes it?” Her leering grin turns simpering. Her downturned eyes crinkle with sympathy.
You shrink back, take a deep crackling breath and try to face the conversation like a human instead of a panicking dog. You say that, as far as you know, there isn’t a definitive cause.
“There actually is. While science hasn’t confirmed it completely, there’s a lot of evidence to support the idea that it’s caused by unrequited love.”
“So you’re telling me that I’m supposed to believe this? That because of some disgusting hormone-induced emotion I allegedly have, I magically became some kind of plant monster?” You sigh, fling your head back, ignoring the pain that slams through your neck when you do. “Sure Doc, that makes perfect sense.”
“Oh, I’m not a doctor,” says Lavender Cardigan.
“Of course you’re not.”
“I’m actually a licensed therapist. My name is Miriam Crowley, but you can call me Mimi.” She tries to make eye contact as she says this, so you shut your eyes.
“I’d rather call you Ms. Crowley, if that’s all right with you.”
“Whatever makes you feel comfortable.” You bare your teeth and she responds with a stretched-out smile. “I’d like to discuss the cause of your condition. Who are you feeling unrequited love for?”
“How is that any of your business?” You look up at the nurse, who nods vaguely in agreement, but doesn’t do anything to help you. You say, “I’m sure you can help me without me having to tell you who it is. You wouldn’t even know who they are anyway, unless you spend a lot of time lurking around my high school. You probably do, you’ve got a real creepy vibe to you.”
You stop talking, cough up a lump of congealed pollen. Thankfully, this time you catch it in the cloth the nurse gave you.
“I don’t need personal information about them, I just need you to acknowledge who they are, so we can take steps to move forward.”
“We’re not doing anything. It’s me who has to ‘move forward’, not you. Assuming of course I’m actually in love or whatever, which I’m not.”
“Things will progress a lot more smoothly if you can be honest about your feelings.”
Ms. Crowley’s grin is so obnoxious that looking at it makes your stomach lurch. Her teeth are stained with frosted lipstick, and there’s a popcorn hull stuck in her gums.
“All right. You need to brush your goddamn teeth. How’s that for honest feelings?”
“You know that isn't what I mean.”
“What do I have to say to get you to leave me alone?”
“For now, you simply need to acknowledge that you’re in love with someone. You don’t have to tell me who they are, or anything else that you don’t want to tell me, but you have to admit that this is how you feel.” She pats your hand, and you snatch it away from her. “Otherwise,” she says, “there’s no hope of healing your condition.”
“Well, then, I guess I’m just going to have to die of flowers exploding out of my asshole, because I’m not in love with anyone.” You shrug, shaking loose a few rose petals from behind your ears.
“I wish you could be more in touch with your emotions,” she says, shoulders slumped in an exaggerated sigh. “It would help you so much.”
Finally, the nurse steps in and says the first reasonable thing anyone other than you has said so far.
“Naoki did just wake up from major surgery. I think it might be a bit unreasonable to expect a teenage boy to suddenly get in touch with his emotions in that state. He’s got enough painkillers in his system that I’m surprised he’s forming sentences.” She jerks a thumb toward your IV pole. “How about we let him get some sleep, and you can pick back up on your interrogation later?”
“I’d hardly call it an interrogation.” She blows a loose strand of hair away from her face. “I don’t think that’s fair at all. But fine, you’re the nurse. Nay-oh-key, we’ll revisit this once you’ve had some rest.”
“Eat my entire ass,” you say. The nurse throws back her oversized head and laughs.
#
“Naoki?”
You try opening your eyes, but they’re gummed up with what feels like tree sap. You have to scrape off the gunk and pry your eyes open with your fingers. Once you finally do, it takes a while to force your vision into focus.
Your focus lands on Diego, who is sitting in a grey plastic chair near your bedside. His hair is, for once, not gelled into submission. He’s wearing a color block t-shirt with an ice cream cone on it. The rings under his eyes are crow-dark, and though he is smiling, it looks forced. He looks like he’s been up all night worrying. About you? Was he worrying about you?
“Good, you’re awake.” Now his smile looks genuine. You almost smile back, but you restrain yourself. You know your smile is terrifying. You don’t want your genuine attempt at connection met with fear.
“How long have I been asleep for?”
“I don’t know if you woke up while I was gone, but you got to the hospital three days ago. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
You say this because it’s what your mother always said post-surgery. She was fine, even though they’d just removed a former kidney that was now mostly tumor. She’d have to be on dialysis for the rest of her life, but she was fine. She’d been sliced open, literally, but she was fine. For you, she was fine. You don’t know if she wanted to protect you, or if she, like you, simply couldn’t admit to weakness.
“I doubt that,” says Diego. “That was an intense surgery. I think it took almost a whole day for them to get everything out. I can’t imagine you’re not exhausted.”
“Obviously I am. I had a lot of shit wrong with me before this though, so it’s not a big deal.”
“I don’t know what you had going on before this, but this is major, Naoki. You could have died.”
“People die all the time. An air conditioner could have fallen on you on your way here. You could have gotten hit by a car. I don’t know what your point is.”
Diego laughs. Picks up your hand, which is tinged green from chlorophyll. You almost snatch your hand back, and then you don’t.
“They’re saying you’re going to need chemotherapy. Basically, they’re treating the flowers like tumors. That seems strange to me, because they’re actually beautiful. Not like tumors at all. I asked the doctors to save them. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, so that grotesque mockery of my pain is your fault.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you’d see it that way. I just thought they were beautiful.” Diego scratches the back of his neck. “Flower Sickness is romantic. I’m not saying it’s good, but there’s something beautiful about suffering for love, isn’t there?”
“Of course there isn’t.”
You hate that he said this, and you also love it. Your mother used to say that about giving birth to you. It hurt like hell, but wasn’t there something wonderful about sacrificing your body to meet the love of your life, your child? You’d had no idea what she was talking about, so you just said that you wished she hadn’t been in pain.
And you? You’ve always secretly cherished your pain. Running hurt you badly—your knees would dislocate themselves because your joints were incompetent bastards, and your muscles would get torn to shreds because they were weak. You paid for victories with agony, and you were proud to do that.
But love, romantic love? For someone who sees beauty in your nearly dying for his sake? Screw that.
You’re about to tell him to get out of your room, but before you can speak his head is down, and he’s spitting out an apology.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he tells you. “I was just trying to put a positive spin on the whole ordeal, but I shouldn’t have. And I shouldn’t have put the flowers in your room without asking how you felt about it. That was weird. It just made me happy to think about you being in love. You’re so closed off emotionally, so alone all the time. It makes me sad.”
“Cool, so you pity me!” You laugh, dislodging another clump of pollen. “I feel totally respected by you right now. Thank you so much.”
“I don’t pity you. Actually, I admire you a lot. If not for you, our team never have beaten Helen Keller H.S. or Photographic Arts. None of us knew how to push ourselves to do our best, before you. You changed my life.”
“Your life seems pretty much the same to me.”
“It’s totally changed! My grades went up. I go running every day now when I used to do it three times a week. I’m killing it on guitar - I’m even writing my own songs. They’re good, too. I’m not bragging, just telling you the truth.”
“Great. What does any of that have to do with me? I didn’t tell you to do any of that. I didn’t care what you did as long as as you stopped being lazy long enough to let me win races.”
“Before you, I was okay with being mediocre. I just wanted to hang out with my friends and have fun. You take track seriously - you really want to win. That makes me want to try harder, too.”
“So I terrified you into being a joyless drone with no friends like me. What a great influence I’ve been.”
“I have friends. That’s part of my point. You might not have Flower Sickness, if you had just allowed yourself a little more human connection.”
You groan, grinding your aching head back into your pillow. “You think that’s easy? You know human connection is a two-way street, right? Have you seen me? Have you spoken to me? Have you experienced me in any way? What kind of human connection could a freak like me possibly make?”
“You’ve made one with me.” Diego takes your hand, rubs the lines on your palm with his sweaty thumb. You shrink back, reflexively call him nasty. He tells you he’s serious. “Really. I’ve seen you. I’ve spoken to you. I’ve experienced you in several ways, and I want more. Honestly, I—” He shakes his head. “No, I can’t get in the way.”
“Of what?” you ask, scraping pollen out of your collar bone. “Right now I’m either going to learn to shoot vines out of my hands like a knock-off superhero, or I’m going to die. There’s nothing to get in the way of.”
“You’re in love with someone, right? You don’t have to settle for dying. You could actually ask them out and see what they say. If you tell me who it is, I might even be able to help you.”
You roll your eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You really don’t know?”
“Is it Jeremy?” There’s no irony in Diego’s expression — he’s serious. You burst out laughing, which makes your surgical wounds howl. Your eyes cross with pain, and you end up gasping for breath instead of cackling. Diego reaches over and rubs your back until you get your air back. You have no idea how he ever worked up the nerve to touch you without knowing if you’d like it, or if you’d bite.
“No,” you say. “It’s not Jeremy. Who says I’m in love with anyone? You know that there’s no proof that that’s the cause, right? A lot of doctors think it’s a parasite. Not that that’s entirely dissimilar from love.”
“Maybe it isn’t caused by love. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. But if you are in love, it doesn’t hurt to do something about it, right? Even if it’s a parasite, and you’re going to die no matter what, don’t you want to make what’s left of your life more enjoyable?”
“With Jeremy?”
“Not unless you’re in love with him!”
“Are you in love with Jeremy?”
“No! I just thought it might be him since he’s the person on our team that you talk to most besides—”
“Besides you?”
“Besides me.” Diego crosses his arms, and purses his lips. After a long pause he finally asks, “is it me?”
“Of course it’s you!” Shouting this triggers a coughing fit, which hurts your lungs. Mucus-sticky petals attach to your chin, so you wipe them off with the cloth the nurse gave you earlier. “God, you really are stupid.”
The instant the words leave your mouth you start looking for a way to take it back. Before you can figure out how, Diego stuffs the words back in with his lips. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and kisses you carelessly enough to risk dislodging your IVs. You kiss back, praying you won’t puke flower viscera into his trusting mouth. Then you elbow him off of you.
“You’re just doing this because you think if you don’t I’ll die. It isn’t real.”
“That’s not true,” he says, wiping his lips on the back of his wrist. “Why would I do that? It wouldn’t help you—doesn’t the other person have to love you back for real?”
“I doubt it. This isn’t magic. It’s my body’s response to what’s probably a parasite, but if it is love, it’s my body responding to me feeling unloved. If you somehow tricked me into thinking it were real, do you think my cells are going to know the difference?”
“So, conversely, if it’s real but you don’t believe me, you won’t get any better?” Diego sighs. “I guess I’m going to have to think harder about how to convince you that I’m serious. I love you, Naoki. I really do.”
“We’ve spent what, two or three hours together outside of music class and the track team? You don’t love me. You don’t know me.”
“If that’s the criteria, then you don’t love me either. You’ve spent exactly as much time with me as I’ve spent with you. You don’t know me. I have a cousin named Epiphanio who lives in Los Angeles and self-identifies as a brony, did you know that? The first time I played Pokemon, I accidentally used my Master Ball on a Raticate and I cried.”
He puts his hands on his thighs, and leans forward in his chair.
“And I’m intersex! Did you know that? I’m intersex and I can probably get pregnant and it’s a huge part my life and personal history, but you didn’t know that because we don’t know each other well enough. Yet. But you love me so much it nearly killed you. So why can’t I love you, too?”
You don’t know what to say. His outburst underscores just how ridiculous your feelings are. He’s right — you know nothing about him and therefore you have no basis for loving him. But you do. You do. You love him and it hurts worse than anything you’ve ever felt before.
Diego wraps his arms around your shoulders again, this time taking greater care to avoid the IVs. He kisses you, left hand cupping your cheek. Tilting your neck to meet him hurts, but you kiss him back.
You picture vines shooting out of your arms and binding him to you, but nothing like that happens. Instead you just cling to him. You kiss each other in tiny spurts for several reasons—you can’t believe he’s willing to kiss you, you’re too exhausted and in too much pain for anything intense, you’ve never kissed anyone before and don’t know how, and finally, your plant monster status is still stopping you from breathing through your nose.
There are more problems. You bump noses and his teeth get caught on your lower lip. You don’t know what you’re supposed to be feeling, or if what you do feel is enough to lift your flower sickness. You do know that you want to keep kissing him, that your chest feels warm and his hands are warm, and that that’s a good thing.
“Are you cured?” asks Diego, eyes shining like they’re being lit up by the moon. It’s hospital halogen, but you find it beautiful nonetheless.
“I don’t know,” you say. You don’t feel flowers stirring in your lungs, but you refuse to indulge in optimism.
“Okay,” says Diego, face pressed into the curve of your neck. “I hope it worked. Even if it didn’t, I still love you.”
You shut your eyes, tilt your head so your ear is pressed against his temple. Your mouth says, “you’re stupid” but your mind and heart are saying “I love you too” and you’re pretty sure that Diego hears the translation.
#
You are not cured. Not exactly. This isn’t a fairytale.
You do not magically regain your strength the instant you accept that Diego loves you. Your broken ribs and your surgical wounds are unaffected by your feelings. The pollen trapped in your sinuses will take weeks to flush away. You have plant cancer and you have to go through chemo and radiation treatment. Diego thinks this is overkill, but you don’t. Anecdotal evidence isn’t enough to prove that Flower Sickness is actually caused by unrequited love, and you’re not about to forgo treatment for some pseudoscientific bullshit. You already know that love can’t cure disease. If it could, your mother would have survived.
So you get your treatment. You lose your hair and you vomit furiously and you lose twenty pounds you can’t afford. You take the rest of the school year off, get pneumonia twice thanks to your chemo-trashed immune system. You scream, you cry, you suffer and feel closer to your mother. Your aunt won’t look at you because this is, sort of, what it looked like when she lost her sister.
Sometimes you let Diego help you, other times you tell him to go away. He lugs his guitar and the keyboard from school to your bedside, and he plays that reggaetón version of Big Mouth Strikes Again. He also plays a salsa version of Girlfriend in a Coma too, and you like it because you like the darker humor of this Diego. He is sweetness and he is light, but he’s also someone who would play a song about wanting to kill a comatose girlfriend to you as you lay helpless in your hospital bed.
You stop producing plant matter. You gain the weight back, and grow back your hair. You cut it into a mohawk. Diego gets a mohawk, too. You’re on five different medications, on a schedule, careful about interactions with caffeine. You avoid triggering new growths by staying out of the sun. Lavender Cardigan says that your treatment plan should include regular make-out sessions with Diego. You call her an idiot but you do make out with him, a lot. She tells you to be more open with your feelings, and you don’t tell her that you will, but you do try, just a little, with Diego.
You are not cured. Flower Sickness is a chronic illness. You could relapse, easily. But you’re not sprouting flowers anymore, except in the window boxes you and Diego buy together to grow in his bedroom. You grow chrysanthemums, and daffodils, and roses. You hope your new relationship lasts. If it doesn’t, you’d like to think that you’d fall in love again and tell the person before you explode in floral fanfare. You also have the option of never falling in love again, and that is a comfort in its own way.
But, you think, things will probably work out with Diego. Long enough, at least, for your body to forget how to generate plant cells.
Nice
I mean my mother Lucy, she’s never been. I asked her before I left and she told me no. If she were to lie, she would have lied in the other direction. Made up some extravagant story. But when I left, she was in one of her blue periods, she likes to call them, when she never changes out of her striped blue pajamas and she doesn’t turn on the lights or the heat or the fans or anything. So she didn’t bother.
I’m here with my friend Christine and her family for two weeks. Her parents invited me because I always make Christine a little calmer, they say. Easier to handle. We’re staying in one of her uncle’s houses. It’s real close to the water and it has three guest rooms so Christine and I wouldn’t even have to share a room if we didn’t want to, like if we got in a fight or something. But for now, we’re together in this room on the back side of the house with two twin pink beds and a little mirror in the bathroom that’s got a frame made out of seashells.
Christine and her family have been here before. They’ve been everywhere in Europe before. They’ve even been to a country in Africa. And Thailand too. I don’t think they’ve ever been to the Dominican Republic though. At least they’ve never mentioned it. That’s the only place I had been to out of the country before this, and I’ve been there three times but I was so young that I can’t really remember it.
Christine’s parents like talking about all their travels, making comparisons about the hotels and the different foods and the types of people. Her mom even has this little notebook she calls her “travel diary” and I swear to God I saw Venn diagrams in there. That’s the way she is, though. She’s dubbed herself the “List Queen” and whenever she brings up the nickname Christine turns bright red and she rolls her blue eyes behind her head so I can’t see the pupil.
Christine’s dad is a little looser. Not so stiff. He used to be a hippie, he tells me a lot. Now he looks nothing like one – he has short, blond-grey hair, he’s always clean-shaven and he mostly wears blue button-downs and khakis. But I can make out the leftover piercing holes in his ears and it makes me smile. He’s the one who thought it might be a good idea for Christine and I to take the train on our own and spend two nights in a youth hostel in Nice, which isn’t too far away from here.
When he suggested it, I watched Christine’s mother’s face squish into wrinkles of disgust. A youth hostel? She sneered. But Christine’s dad insisted it would be good for us. Good for our “spirits,” whatever that means. Besides, he reasoned, we’re sixteen. We’ll be going off to college soon. Her mother had grown so tired of hearing Christine complain about being bored that she finally said whatever. Whatever!
My mother Lucy would never use that word. “Whatever.” Even in her blue period she’d never say it. You can’t even perfectly translate the word into Spanish. Whatever. I love the word. It’s the word Christine’s parents use when they finally give in and buy us matching sunglasses, what they say when Christine begs for dessert after a fancy dinner. And now this “whatever” has bought us two seats on the train that whizzes along the most breathtaking coast I’ve ever seen.
The train is half-empty and Christine and I have a cabin of six seats to ourselves. We stretch out our legs and rest our feet on the seats across from us. My left leg runs along Christine’s right one, mine stretching out far beyond hers because I’m too tall for my age. She leans forward and runs the palm of her hand along the crease in between our shins.
“I wish I were as tan as you,” she whines.
“But you’re blond,” I say flatly. I look out through the graffitied window, studying the white caps of the waves. We’ve already had this conversation.
“But my cousin Jeanette is blond and she gets almost as tan as you,” Christine says in an even higher pitched voice, leaning her head on my shoulder.
I have to fight the instinct to shrug her off my shoulder. Instead, I bring my hand to her hair and I comb it with my fingers.
“Jeanette’s the cousin with the boyfriend?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
“Yeah,” Christine says sleepily. “He is H-O-T.”
I laugh. Christine sits up again and she pulls her feet close towards her chest. Wraps her arms around her knees. Suddenly the side of my leg feels cold and unprotected.
There’s a horizontal mirror above the seats, I guess to make the cabin feel more expansive. I look up at the one across from us and I can get a view that hits us at our foreheads. Christine likes to take photographs of us from that angle because she thinks it’s most flattering. I always have to be the one to hold the camera because I have the longer arms, she tells me.
I study our un-posed reflections now. My forehead isn’t so tall and narrow like Christine’s. It’s shorter and a little wide. Christine already has these three lines that run across her forehead because she worries too much. But the lines are so faint that only someone like me, her best friend, can really see them.
My hair is long and dark, combed-out curls that are soft from over-washing. I still have that extra-soft baby hair at the crown of my head. Christine’s hair is straight-stiff-shiny and thin blond. That’s pretty much how all our differences go: I’m curly and rolly all over and she’s all sharp and straight with lots of right angles. Her nose, for example, is pinched and it points up. Mine rolls down like a faraway wave that never breaks.
All the girls at school talk nonstop about how lucky Christine is that she’s so skinny and more than half the boys at school think that she’s beautiful. But she tells me she hates how she looks. And she says she’d feel better if she had a boyfriend – but not just any boyfriend; she wants the best. And the “best,” according to her, is Evan Michaels. Who already has a girlfriend, I have to remind her, rolling my eyes. Sometimes I really don’t get Christine. I really don’t.
I’d never tell anyone, but I haven’t even been kissed for real. The only time was when my old neighbor Brewster kissed me, but that was just to experiment. To see what it would feel like. And the only guy that I know of who’s actually liked me is this kid named Oskar, who’s from Germany and a year ahead of us at Lawn Woods. He always wears green socks and these goofy looking clear-rimmed glasses and he carries his trig book everywhere he goes. He does weird shit like color all his nails with black sharpie. And bring his pet lizard to school. Ugh. I cringe when I think about it. I met him in ceramics class and since there weren’t enough throwing wheels for everyone, Oskar and I were assigned to share one. I guess he and I got to talking a little. He has a real knack for the whole wheel-throwing thing, and it annoyed me that he could make a perfect vase so easily, one that went higher than even his elbow. And I couldn’t seem to construct a tiny cylinder. Every piece of clay I’d touch would just wobble like it was doing the hula, until finally it’d dance right off the wheel.
So Oskar let me have some extra time to practice and once he even helped me to make a mug, bringing his fingers over mine, pressing them down where they needed to go. I was grateful and I told him that, slapping him on the back, proud of my first creation. But after that Oskar started leaving chocolates in my locker. On Valentines Day he gave me a pot of flowers and his hand was shaking so hard that the flowers were all jiggling, and I knew I had to take it fast or else it would fall on the floor, crashing into pieces and making even more of a scene. I stuffed it in my backpack and all the dirt got in between the pages in my schoolbooks. Christine still likes to tease me about him.
She turns to me now. She’s drumming her hands on her thighs and she starts to talk fast. “I’m excited,” she says. “I wonder what the hostel will be like. Do you think it will be dirty? Do you think there will be cute boys?”
I shrug. Christine looks at me for a moment and then laughs. “You haven’t even thought about it, have you, Naelle?” She shakes her head, still staring at me. “God. It seems like you’re never thinking about what’s going to happen next. Not even the next minute. You know you’re the only one of my friends that doesn’t ask every five minutes what do you think college will be like? It’s like you don’t even wonder about the future.”
I can’t tell if she’s complimenting me or making fun of me. But then she smiles and leans forward to kiss me on the cheek. She makes a “muah” sound as she does it. “That’s why I love you best,” she says.
I never say “I love you” to anyone, not even Lucy or my stuffed octopus I call Noodle, and Christine knows that so she doesn’t get offended anymore. I just squeeze her shoulder a little and keep combing through her untangled hair.
“My dad told me that Nice is beautiful,” she goes on. “That it’s the most romantic city. But he also said to be careful, because it’s a ‘city full of liars.’ Isn’t that the strangest thing to say? He never says stuff like that.”
“Maybe there are a lot of pick-pocketers?” I guess. One of Lucy’s old boyfriends, Alfred, used to talk all the time about the ‘damn gypsy pickpockets’ that roamed the streets in his hometown. I forget where that was.
“Nah, I don’t think so. You know what I think? I think he fell in love when he was traveling through Nice,” she says with a smile.
I snort without meaning to. “Yeah, okay,” I say.
“I’m serious! One time I was looking through his old boxes that are in the third-floor-closet, and I found all these photographs of him. He had his arms wrapped around this dark-skinned girl who had thick black curls like yours. Definitely not my mother. Maybe that was in Nice. Maybe that woman broke his heart or something. And that’s why he told me that.”
“You’re crazy, ‘Tine,” I say, pretending I don’t want to hear anymore. But really I’m just jealous that she can make up stories like these, making her parents seem wilder than they really are.
“It’s strange,” she keeps going. “I’ve been thinking about that stuff a lot lately… people who lie. People who live a lie. You know?”
I swallow and I can feel the bones in my body start to stiffen. Christine says the word “lie” like it has sharp razor edges and she has to spit it out quick so it doesn’t cut her throat. She looks past me through the window, and I look outside too. I watch the cliffs blur with the sky and the water.
“It fascinates me,” she says, starting to twirl her hair, pulling it away from my fingers. “Like there was this guy, Marty. Marty Dunbar. He used to live in Lawn Woods. He was two grades ahead of us. I guess he moved out before you moved in.”
As I listen, my eyes start to dart around the cabin. I take in the details quickly, without thought. Like I’m preparing for something. An escape, maybe, but I don’t quite know from what: metal handle, crack in door, dark spot from gum on the ground, the green mesh in Christine’s tennis shoes. Blue pillows on red velvet seats … everything a little grey from too much use.
“He used to be this town celebrity,” she goes on. “The first time I heard anything about him was when the police officer came to my fourth-grade classroom for one of those safety-information sessions. You know, those D.A.R.E. things?”
Yeah, I nod.
“Well, he told us about Marty Dunbar. How one day Marty was waiting alone in his family’s car in the parking lot while his mom was grocery-shopping, and he was listening to music in there. And a stranger came and tapped on the window.” Christine leans close towards me and she taps on my shoulder. Slowly. Tap, tap, tap. Her voice gets lower.
“The officer told us how Marty looked back at the stranger and he was like ‘what?’ you know? And the stranger pointed to his wrist like he was wondering about the time. So Marty yelled it out loud, but the stranger pointed to his ear. He was like ‘What? What? I can’t hear you!’ So little Marty he rolled down the window to tell him more clearly that the time was 5:17 or whatever it was, and then the stranger reached in through the open window and he put his hands around Marty’s throat like this, and he got into the car with Marty and everything and he started to drive. Fast. Fast out of Lawn Woods, across Brookline Ave and into the ghetto.”
I can feel my heart beating faster, but Christine looks calm. I look at her eyes that are like light blue seas. It looks like there’s a little silver fish swimming in them. I watch her blink.
“Marty had no idea where he was. I mean he was just a little kid and he was crying and the guy threw him out of the car in the middle of some bad part of the city. And the man drove off, leaving Marty alone just as it was getting dark. So Marty, he went to a payphone and he called his mother to pick him up, and he called 911 too, and they lost the car but they saved him. From then on he became a D.A.R.E. example, our own small-town hero.”
“So he was okay?” I ask. I can feel my eyes are wide.
“Oh, he was okay. But then it came out a few years later that he had invented the entire thing. He was only thirteen but he was the one who drove out of the parking lot. Who drove way into the ghetto and crashed the car somewhere, then walked to find a payphone on his own. Marty made up the whole goddamn story.”
Somehow I start to feel hollow and heavy at the same time. I look back out the window and try to imagine that thirteen-year-old kid. Driving his mom’s SUV through the grid that connected different towns, his eyes open and terrified, probably, as he kept on going, not even knowing how to stop. Not even able to reach the brake, I bet.
Lucy won’t teach me how to drive. She said I’d have to learn on my own; that’s what she had done. But the thing is, she won’t let me touch her car. A few months ago I snuck out in it to practice a little. It’s a little red jeep that’s automatic. My stops were jerky and I drove in little zigzags, I remember, because I couldn’t help shaking like crazy. I was so nervous that she’d catch me. She never noticed, of course.
Now our train slows to a stop and the sun falls into the cabin in these thin strips of pale yellow that looks like dying skin. I look out the window again and standing on the platform just below me is a small girl, holding the hand of an older woman. Her mother, I guess. Or maybe an aunt. They look like one another, the two of them. They both have the same thick black hair with bangs that brush their eyebrows. Olive colored skin. I watch as the little girl begins to jump. She hop, hop, hops, pulling down on the older woman’s wrist. But the woman stays still, her body frozen stiff, only her eyes smiling, bouncing with the girl. I feel jealous of that little girl, I want to tell Christine. But she is already standing up, her back to me, and she’s pulling her bag out from the storage space above us.
***
The hostel is run down but its old furniture makes me feel comfortable, and we hear English everywhere instead of French. There are a few Americans sitting in the lobby.
The first thing I ask: where can I shower?
It’s at the end of the hallway, one of the employees with plain grey eyes tells me. He’s chewing gum and he smiles at me for too long when he says it. It seems strange that he’s looking at me instead of in the direction that he’s pointing, and I wonder if there is something distracting on my cheek. A pimple? A piece of food?
I hesitate, looking away from his eyes because I can see a dim outline of my reflection in them. And for some reason, instead of saying thanks like a normal person, I curtsey. Awkwardly, instinctively, I bend my knees just slightly and I bow my head – as if I’m some hidden member of some stupid royalty.
He just laughs, though, and I turn around fast and start walking down the hall, suddenly conscious of how I’m bending my knees, how I’m carrying my arms, the whole walk down.
I reach the shower room, which is a big open room and there is no sign or anything. But the door is open and the room is empty and I can see that someone has left behind a pink hairbrush beside one of the sinks. So I go in.
I choose a shower stall on the left side of the room because the right side’s all flooded. There is hair everywhere; I find long strands stuck to the brown tile wall in my shower, in crowded chaotic lines like it’s an interstate road map, and it gathers in the drain in between my feet. I turn the faucet to hot and close my eyes.
A bathroom should never be brown, Lucy told me once when we were apartment-shopping in New York. She was happy then and feeling rich, I remember. Special. Important. Carrying this oversized gold purse she used to have, and wearing her big sunglasses. Her lips all lush and shiny with her reddish-orange lipstick.
“It should be white,” she had said to me, looking back over her shoulder. She used a voice that almost erased her accent.
Of course, our bathroom at home isn’t white either. It’s got wallpaper that’s blue with these little white clouds, and it’s peeling at the edges so that you can see the yellow underneath. And all our towels are all toothpaste-stained and they never seem to match. Not at all like Lucy’s ideal white, minimalist bathroom. Nor is it like the bathrooms in Christine’s house – with the gold trims, the bowls of dried flowers, the lavender soap.
The water gets hot and it starts to pound hard against my back and I imagine that I am getting a massage. I shut my eyes and pretend that I am in a different shower instead of in here. In the perfect bathroom. I pretend that the shower is all glass, fogged up from the heat so that I could draw palm trees on it if I wanted. The faucet handles are soft as ivory. There is a mint green, monogrammed towel waiting just for me outside the door, folded neatly on top of a mahogany-covered toilet seat.
Is this strange that I am fantasizing about a bathroom? I wonder. And then all of sudden, there’s deep low masculine hum coming from the shower next to mine. And the hot water beating against my back grows a little cooler. I look down at the swirls of hair wrestling between my feet, and I notice there are feet in the stall next to mine. And they are big and hairy, and they are feet of – I am certain – of a man’s.
My heart begins to race more quickly and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m excited or afraid, but without thinking, I hold my breath. Not even bothering to inhale through my nose. The guy starts humming more loudly, almost violently, and then – just as I run out of breath and have to take a big, swooping exhale – he sings. Heavily, unashamed. Full-throated and off-key. Some folk song I’ve never heard of, in a strange, foreign accent. I can’t help but laugh.
And when he stops all of a sudden, I lose control. I’m giggling without stopping, without breathing, my body bent forward, trapped underneath the now lukewarm, almost cold water that’s trickling down my spine. I can’t help it. I can’t help it, I can’t help it.
“Hey,” the voice calls out. “I didn’t realize I had an audience.” There is a pause, and slowly, I breathe. In and out, in and out. “And a critical audience, at that!” He adds.
I’m smiling to myself as I open my mouth to say sorry but it comes out soft I know he can’t hear me. I turn off the shower and wrap my old beach towel around my body and I hobble out of there, shampoo suds still gathered along the crown of my head.
Christine is sitting on the bottom bunk, reading a guidebook when I come in our room. We’ve got a shared room with two bunk beds and lockers to put our stuff in. No windows. The lights seem dim. A guy with shoulder-length brown hair and round glasses is napping on the top bunk across the room.
“You have the bottom?” I ask Christine in a whisper. She doesn’t answer. I swallow. “Tine, you know I’m afraid of heights.”
“You snooze you lose,” she says in a bored voice, not bothering to look up from the book.
I sigh and start to get dressed. I have to crouch and cover the back of my body with my towel so that this guy across the room – this stranger – doesn’t see me. The floor is freezing from too much air-conditioning. I shudder. This is even worse than some of the places me and Lucy used to live in.
“That’s Bruce,” Christine says then, nodding her head towards the guy on the other bunk. I turn to smile, still hunched over in my towel, but he doesn’t wake up. “He’s cool,” she adds. “He’s twenty. From Australia. Traveling with his buddy Mark.”
Once I pull on my blue summer dress, I sit down next to Christine. “Where is Mark?” I ask.
“Shower,” she smiles.
His friend Mark comes in a minute later, loud and dripping wet. I see that he also has long hair like Bruce, but it’s lighter – a mixture of tawny blond and red, and he has the same color freckles all over his body and his face. He turns on the lights so that they flicker and then he looks straight at me with his bright green eyes and he points, and I can feel the aim of his finger burning right at that little birth mark I have in between my eyes. He’s staring hard. Hard so that I can’t just laugh it off and look away, focusing instead on the floor, or on the orange locker beside me. No, I’m forced to look right back at him.
“So!” he shouts, starting to walk towards me. “It’s the giggling culprit.”
And he comes closer, keeping his green eyes intense and focused on mine, until he’s practically on top of me now and when he reaches our bunk bed he kneels down so that his face is level with mine. My throat feels dry and his presence is so big and overwhelming that it feels like he could swallow me whole right there. He’s smiling, though, and I see that he is sunburned. I notice that his teeth on top are all straight but the ones on bottom are all crooked and messed up like they’re at war with one another. His lips are colorless and chapped and I can feel the warmth of his breath hit my nose, my lips, my chin.
“Your wet hair is the giveaway,” he says then.
I smile back a little weakly. “Sorry,” I whisper. His eyes finally blink.
He raises an eyebrow. I can’t tell what he thinks about me. Whether he’s casting me off as a shy loser or as something else all together. He grabs onto the bar on the top bunk and he pulls his body up, turning towards his side of the room. I watch him more freely as he walks away. He shakes Bruce, trying to wake him up.
“Brucey-Wucey!” he is yelling.
“He likes you,” Christine whispers in my ear then.
I roll my eyes and feel my cheeks grow hot. But instead of protesting like I always do when Christine tells me that stuff, I say nothing.
Mark’s got a blue tattoo on his left shoulder. It’s the face of somebody, somebody that has a big open mouth and no teeth, somebody that’s screaming. When he tightens his muscle, the blue man’s face stretches out, and his mouth opens even wider. The blue man’s eyes grow more and more terrified, turning almost yellow.
I clear my throat. “My mom has a tattoo that’s kind of similar.”
I can feel Christine turn to face me, looking a little surprised. She’s only been to our apartment twice, and she’s never met Lucy.
“Oh yeah?” Mark asks, settling down on his bed. “It can’t be too similar,” he warns. “This one is pretty unique.”
I swallow. The thing is, Lucy’s is similar. Really freaking similar. She has this blue angel that dances with the skin on her hips, moving as she breathes in and out, peering out over her underwear and her bikini bottoms. Almost looks like it’s the female counterpart to his.
“Yeah, I guess it isn’t,” I lie.
“You got any?” he asks.
I shake my head too quickly.
“You want any?”
I shrug, more casually this time. Christine’s still watching me. “Maybe I’d like one of those Picasso doves,” I say. “On my ankle.” I’m surprised at how quickly I come up with this idea, and part of me knows that I heard it somewhere before. The truth is I’ve never wanted a tattoo. It would be something that would make me a little more like Lucy. A little more like her daughter.
“Right on,” he smiles. “I study art history in uni.”
I can feel Christine’s gaze remain heavy on my face, on my shoulders, and I can’t tell if she’s admiring me or annoyed with me.
“So you girls going out with us tonight?” Bruce asks, still horizontal.
“Absolutely,” Christin says with her teeth showing.
I stare down at the tiled floor. Going out. Does that mean a nightclub? Or a bar? I haven’t been to either. Christine has – she went out all the time last summer when she went on the high school trip to Spain.
When I don’t say anything she brings her hands to my shoulders, and whispers in my ear, “Come on, Naelle. Loosen up.”
I nod. Try to roll my eyes. And Mark turns off the lights then and he tells us that we are all going to take a nap before we party tonight. So I climb up into the top bunk, closing my eyes as I do it, and I pull the thin itchy blanket over my body. I’m still shivering because I’m wet and the air-conditioning is set too high, and I can’t fall asleep. So I keep my eyes open and listen to everyone else snore. And slowly, my eyes get accustomed to the darkness.
We don’t leave the hostel until it’s almost midnight and the four of us take the cable car down together. It’s filled with kids and I stare at them. Everyone young and alone. Girls my age or a little older wearing deep red lipstick and all black, carrying long brown leather purses. Boys with ties. Boys wearing hats that once belonged to their grandfathers. Their pant legs rolled up. The French are beautiful, I think.
We stop in the old part of the city and walk down a few cobblestone streets. Christine and Bruce lead the way and behind them Mark grabs my hand quickly so that I’m startled when I feel the calluses on his palms, the thin layer of sweat. We walk like that for a little bit and I imagine that he is my boyfriend; that we live here just the two of us, in a small apartment on one of these quaint streets in southern France.
We come to a bar on one of the side streets and a girl wearing a tight, short dress, smoking a cigarette alone, glares at me as we enter. I look down and let go of Mark’s hand as we go down a few steps and enter through another door, where American pop music engulfs us. It seems bright and dark all at the same time and there is hardly any room to move forward; the front room is swarming with people who are standing and laughing, mostly, some leaning forward to order drinks at the bar, and in the room to the right people are dancing, moving close to one another, kissing one another, holding their bottles of beer high up in the air.
“Let’s get drinks,” Christine shouts, moving her hips back and forth just slightly. She pulls out her green credit card and waves it in the air like she’s a movie star, then uses it to buy four beers. The green card is the one her father pays – the blue one is her mother’s, she explained to me once.
I bring the cold bottle to my lips and let the beer sit in a pool in my mouth before I swallow. I try to like the sour, acrid taste. Try to get used to it. I hold my nose in and take a second sip and I feel the cool liquid travel down my throat, down into what feels like my heart.
I keep taking bigger and bigger sips as I scan the room. Everyone around us looks like fellow travelers; I hear some French, but mostly English and some German, I think. No Spanish. Everyone belts out the lyrics to pop songs in off key-voices. But I don’t care that the music is bad, and I don’t even care about the faint smell of vomit, or the little bit of beer someone spills on my back. I look up at Mark and smile the way Lucy does, only one corner of my lips raised to make it look like I’m not impressed when really, I am. I take another sip, and we make our way to the room where people are dancing.
Christine sees it before I do. She opens her mouth like she’s about to scream, but instead she just keeps it open like that, like it’s stuck in time, and she pulls down on my arm.
“Look,” she murmurs, pointing to the corner of the room.
I look over to where she points, and behind all the people dancing, in that dark, shadowy corner I see a woman, wavering uneasily beside the wall, her body rocking back and forth violently until she collapses. She becomes a crumpled ball of flesh on the floor. Her body just a heap of limbs.
We run towards her. I see that the woman is older than the rest of the crowd here. She wears all black and she has pale skin and she is covered in sweat that sits in the wrinkles that are beside her eyes and in her forehead. I lean forward and I touch the woman’s shoulder, afraid that it will be cold and hard. That it will feel like a corpse. But it’s warm, and her shirt is damp with sweat.
“Are you alright?” I yell, panicked, over the music.
She opens her eyes halfway but her head just hangs and she doesn’t look up from the floor.
“C’est moi, c’est moi,” she’s mumbling. We don’t move but it seems like everything is dancing in fast motion around us.
Then Mark bends over and pulls the woman’s body up so that she can sit with her back along the wall. Once he lets go of her, she slowly slides down again, a lifeless doll. My heart pounds faster and I look up at Mark. He makes a long, hollow whistle.
“Damn, she’s out,” he says more casually than I expect. “I’ll get her some water.” He starts to walk towards the bar and I follow him.
“Mark!” I call out, quickening my pace to catch up. “Why is that woman like that?”
“She’s just really drunk,” he sighs.
I look down at the stained wood floor. Someone behind me swings her elbow into my back, pushing me towards Mark. But he turns around, then, smiling, with a cup of water in one hand and a beer in the other.
“Now. Here’s a water for her, and another beer for you. You relax a little,” he says, putting his hand on my lower back once I take it. “Just don’t go and drink as much as that old woman,” he jokes in a low voice, close to my ear.
I take a sip then and he squats down next to the woman, pouring the whole cup into her mouth; some of it dribbling down her chin at first. But slowly, she starts to swallow. She sits up a little.
“Should we ask for help?” Christine wonders, looking up at Bruce.
“Nah. Mark’s got it. She’ll be okay. Let’s just get her a cab home.”
He lifts her body up and leads her through the crowd and we follow. Outside, it’s cold and the streets are empty and I can hear this whistling sound. From the ocean, maybe.
The woman sits down on the curb, her limbs folding together, and she begins to cry. I’m talking these great, big, heaving sobs. Christine and I sit beside her, and Christine puts her hand on the woman’s back. She smells like vomit.
She speaks in French in between her sobs. “Vignt ans et il triche,” she keeps saying. “Vingt ans et il triche!”
She’s poor, I can tell. Poorer than me and Lucy, like she can’t even bother to pretend. It’s not just her clothes: she’s got on these old grey pants and her shirt is plain and thin and worn. It’s something else. I don’t know what.
“It’s okay,” Christine is saying over and over and over again, even though neither of us know what the woman is saying.
The woman turns to face her and I can’t see the expression on the woman’s face anymore. But I can imagine it’s angry. Fierce eyes, maybe. Bitter. Like who is this girl who doesn’t understand anything about my life?
I take another sip of my beer. A long, big, gulp, because the taste doesn’t seem so strong anymore, and I can feel the bubbles stay in my body, floating up to the tip of my head, where Lucy used to put the palm of her hand back when I was still short enough and she was still tall enough.
“He cheats on me,” the woman suddenly says, surprising us with her English. Her accent is thick. She starts to cry some more. Her nose running. Her body shaking. She looks so old. Is she as old as Lucy? “I have twenty years with him and he cheats,” she cries.
I look past the woman and I study Christine, who has this face that’s all crumpled. She looks a little pathetic: her features are all mashed together and her lip is even quivering a little and I can tell that she really cares. She’s crushed; she actually feels bad for this woman. Can’t believe a man would do something like that. Can’t believe this could happen in real life.
I turn away so Christine can’t study my face, and I keep drinking quickly until my bottle is almost empty.
Mark helps the woman into a taxi then and she’s gone. Out of our minds. We turn back into the bar, and I feel so good all of a sudden. I feel so good because everything is bubbling and light and I can laugh so easily.
Mark looks even taller, now, and I want to tell him that he is the hero of the day. That he saved that woman. And he was so calm. So cool. I know he’s one of the “good guys” Lucy always tells me about; I know it. She says there are only a handful of them in the whole world but if you manage to really find one – actually find one – then you better hold on tight and never let go no matter what he does or how he acts or who he’s with. That was the whole reason Lucy came to the States: for a man like that. A man named Ralph, who could see inside of people, she once told me. I always thought that all that stuff was bullshit, but now I want to believe her. Now I want to think: that’s Mark.
A song comes on and it’s a song in Spanish and I don’t know the words or the name of it or anything but it’s familiar – I recognize it and it’s a dancing song and suddenly I am swinging my hips, back and forth, back and forth like my cousin Yehidi taught me to do in her living room the last time I was in Santo Domingo. I close my eyes and listen to the beat like she told me to, and I dance; I really dance for the first time since I left eight years ago. And it’s like I can feel my cousin’s hands still on my hips and I can hear her still giggling, making fun of me for how gringa I’ve become.
I close my eyes and I just become loose, really loose, and in here, in this place so far away, I let myself remember everything about Santo Domingo that I’ve been trying to forget. I can smell the damp clothes and the onions and cilantro and yucca mixed with that strong perfume that would hang heavy in the air in my godmother’s apartment. I can feel my palms wrapping around the square-shaped window bars that are covered in chipped green paint. I can feel myself looking outside the window past those bars and feeling like an animal in a cage. And I can hear my mother Lucy’s muffled sobs seeping out from underneath the door in the bathroom, the bathroom she kept herself locked in for so many days.
I can hear my family members muttering in low voices words like chiflada y mental y demente y loca.
I can see the old Haitian women who came because my godmother asked them to. I can hear their chants and I can make out their trembling, wrinkling eyelids that they mostly kept closed, and their sticks and their jars and their medicines.
I can feel Lucy’s hand grabbing mine tight in the airport on our way back, and I can hear her explaining to me that we don’t need any other family because they’re all traitors, she says, and we’ve got each other.
“Besides,” she tells me, just in front of the doors to the gate – bending down in her tight white pants so that she can be at eye-level with me and so that the men behind her can stop to admire – “we’re Americans,” she says. “That’s the best thing you can be in the whole entire world. What they’re all trying to be. So come on,” she says, grabbing my hand too tightly, pulling me down the skyway towards our plane that heads back home. “Let’s forget all this.”
And I remember holding her hand and walking with her, pulling my little-kid suitcase in the other hand, and trying to believe her, trying to forget everything and most of all, trying to forget that my mother was crazy. That she was chiflada.
I open my eyes and I’m still dancing dancing dancing. I’m remembering everything and not trying to hide it, not even trying to hide the little bits of Lucy that are inside of me.
And I look up and I notice that Mark sees me dancing. And like that, I can tell. I can just tell that he really does like me. He does. I know, and not because Christine was just saying it. He does, he does, he really does. And I know because he’s looking at me the way every man looks at my mother Lucy. Like he sees a little bit of her sparkle inside of me.
He comes towards me and he picks me up, then, by the waist so that my feet are dangling in the air and he pulls me in close to his body and he spins me, around and around so that I start laughing as hard as I did in the shower this morning. Laughing and closing my eyes and spinning.
Then he puts me down and he looks at me. I am so close to his smile. So close to his mix-matched teeth and the stubble on his sunburned chin. I am so close to his green eyes that he is all I see. I can’t hear what Christine and Bruce are saying next to me, and I can’t hear the music anymore.
“Hey,” he whispers.
“What?” I smile.
“You’re sexy,” he says.
And I feel an ocean roll up inside of me, flooding my body, reaching my toes and my fingertips and then, yes, then: he kisses me.
I grab his hand and I say, “Come on.” Come on, Come on. I lead him and he follows, and I take another sip from my cup on the way, because my head is feeling dizzy and I am light and I love it. We walk to where it’s quieter, to a little hallway that leads to the bathrooms, and I lean against the wall.
“I want to tell you something,” I say, looking way up at him because he seems so tall. I start to laugh because I can’t help it. “I want to tell you something I’ve never told anyone.” I bring my hand to my mouth to stop myself from laughing.
He’s got his arm on the wall above me and I feel caged in but it’s a good cage because it feels comfortable and warm. He’s smiling with his mouth stretched out wide and he’s laughing too.
“What?” He asks. I watch him bring his drink to his lips. I take the last sip of mine.
I just want to say it. I don’t want advice, I don’t want someone to tell me what to do and I don’t want concern. For the first time in my life, I want to tell someone because I never have, and I only want to tell Mark.
“My mother. She is crazy. I have a mother who is crazy.”
I start to laugh again, and it comes slowly out of the corners of my mouth and my heart is beating so fast and my face is so hot and my throat feels all closed-up, but soon my laughter starts to die out because Mark isn’t laughing with me. He just looks at me kind of funny with an eyebrow half-raised because he believes me, I think. He really believes me. I don’t even have to use the words I’ve picked up over the years to make him believe: borderline personality disorder. Mentally unstable. Chiflada.
He leans down and kisses me on the forehead and says, “How about we call a cab for ourselves, huh? Let’s find Bruce and your friend.”
I look up at him and suddenly I want to cry. I want to curl into a ball like that woman did and sob. But I just nod and I clench my teeth, letting the muscles in my stomach tighten, become stone.
***
Two mornings later, Christine and I are running late for the train. We have to race with our bags and we just manage to jump on as it’s starting to leave. We get on at the first-class cabin but we only have regular tickets, so we have to make our way to the back. The first class is luxurious, with plush red seats and gold arm rests.
“This is bullshit,” Christine is huffing.
“Oh, come on,” I say from behind her.
There is only one couple in first class. They’re sitting together and facing backwards, the direction we’re walking in. Their pile of big leather bags takes over the seats in front of them and across the aisle. I turn to look at them as we pass by. The man has this big dark beard and a full mustache and he is a little fat. Wearing a business suit. And the woman beside him is wearing all black and a red little hat, and she’s looking out the window so I can’t see her face. I keep on walking but just before we open the door to leave, I turn back again. And now the woman is looking at me, her face lifeless and worn and familiar.
I become still. But it’s like she’s looking past me. Like she doesn’t even recognize me from the bar, from the concrete curb we sat on together outside. Our knees touching. Did she even see me that night through all her tears? She turns to look out the window again, and I have to keep following Christine until we find two empty seats on the other side of the train.
It’s her, it’s her, it’s her, I keep thinking, and it plays as a chant in my head. But I don’t say it out loud. Christine and I barely say a word; we don’t feel like talking about Mark or Bruce right now, or about the bar that night or about how sick and sleepy we felt the day after. We don’t talk about the over-air-conditioned hostel room or the old quarter in Nice. We just look out the window and watch the landscape pass by. I gaze at the white rocks and the turquoise water that reminds me of someplace else.
Joanna Acevedo received her BA in Literary Studies from the New School in 2019. She currently studies Fiction at New York University, where she is working on her MFA. Her work has been seen in Seventh Wave Magazine, Flying Island Literary Journal, Bridge: The Bluffton University Literary Journal, and others. She is a Hospitalfield 2020 Interdisciplinary Resident, Goldwater Fellow, Prose Editor at Inklette Magazine and teaches creative writing at NYU. |
What Would Happen
Amanda was sentimental by nature, likely to dwell on the past, rather than look forward. Although she was an obsessive planner, and a list-maker, with a five-year plan, and a ten-year plan, which always made Jay laugh when she told him. “You can’t predict the future,” he had told her, over drinks a few weeks prior. “So don’t even try.”
“I can plan ahead,” she had replied, and taken a long drag from her beer can. She had been drinking Tecates, leaving the limes untouched on the napkins in front of her. They piled up; three, four, five limes, as she got progressively more drunk. “Let me have this, okay?”
He had laughed again. His glasses were dark; she couldn’t see his eyes, but she knew what they looked like when he laughed. They crinkled at the edges. He was drinking white wine. Every forty minutes or so, he rolled a cigarette, and they went outside to smoke. She sucked on Marlboro Lights.
They had fallen into a sickly rhythm, that night. So when the topic came up: a rampage, a true honest-to-God hedonistic burn-down-the-city rampage, they had both jumped at the idea. They had known each other four years. They were only just becoming drinking buddies, but it had happened naturally, as if it had always been there, dwelling under the surface. He was her old writing professor; she a student turned graduate student turned professor herself. She was twenty-three. They had always gotten along. Now they rehashed the past, but made plans for the future.
“We’d have to make a contract, of course, to protect ourselves,” she had said, when the topic came up. And so they had written it up, on napkins: Jay and Amanda’s Rampage Contract.
This contract (“Contract”) is entered into by Jay Gaines and Amanda Gonzalez (“Parties”) in the event of a rampage in which they burn down New York City or otherwise cause unspecified mayhem. The terms and conditions stated below are created to maintain the relative health and well-being of both parties during aforementioned rampage, as well as minimize far-reaching consequences that may extend beyond the reach of the rampage.
Terms and Conditions
- Parties will always maintain respect for one another, and will not engage in activity that would cause them to lose respect for the other.
- There should not be any far-reaching consequences from the rampage. If there are, they should be addressed by both parties to make equal the burden placed on both parties, as both are likely partially responsible.
- Parties will remain friends both before and after the rampage. Parties will not engage in activity that would ruin their friendship.
- The official drink of choice of the rampage is tequila. Limes are acceptable.
- No regrets.
“It has been decreed,” Amanda trilled, slamming her beer can down on the bar. She was laughing. She was still dressed for teaching, in a blazer and low heeled boots. Jay had been stunned when he had seen her.
“What happened to the punk rock nineteen-year-old in my Intro Fiction class?” he had asked her. “Last time I checked, you wouldn’t be caught dead in a blazer.”
“I have to dress the part,” she told him. “My students can’t know I’m twenty-three and out drinking on a Tuesday night.”
“I guess you’re right,” he had said, but he seemed disappointed, as if she had somehow failed him, by growing up.
Stomping down Houston Street, Modest Mouse turned into Hockey Dad, “I Wanna Be Everybody.” Amanda felt her heart leap into her stomach. They were meeting at the Double Down Saloon, her pick. If she was going to burn down New York City, this was where she thought it should begin. They would zig-zag across the city, she figured, ending up somewhere in Brooklyn. Or not. Who knew? She couldn’t stop thinking about the conversation they had had, when they were first writing up the contract.
“If we were to go on a rampage,” Jay had said, taking serious sips from his wine glass, “you know what would happen.”
A chill had run up Amanda’s spine. She had never thought of Jay that way. He was in his late forties, and her professor besides. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.
“Well, you know,” he said, making meaningful eye contact with her. “You know what would happen. But I don’t want that to happen,” he said. “Because I respect you too much. We’re friends, and I want us to stay friends. If something were to happen, we wouldn’t be able to stay friends.”
“We’re friends?” Amanda had said.
“Yes,” Jay said. “ Of course we are. Look, now I’ve upset you. You won’t even look at me.”
“I’m not upset,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She didn’t know why she was apologizing. She hadn’t done anything wrong.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said. They were both silent for a while.
She was slightly worried, she had to admit. They had had fun that night, drinking beer and wine at some bar in Crown Heights, his pick. It was near his home, he had made time for her in between his packed schedule of teaching and writing and taking care of his two children, ages two and six. They had been trying to see each other for months, but it had never worked out. She had had so much to tell him. About teaching, about graduate school, which he had pushed her to apply for and even written her a recommendation for, about writing, about life.
“I got broken up with this week,” she had told him, when he sat down on the barstool at the end of the bar.
“Are you grading papers?” he had said. “Is that what you’re doing right now?”
“Yes,” she had said, sweeping her student’s work into a folder and sticking it into her backpack. “I do most of my grading in bars. I expect you can relate.”
“Hey, something about the lighting, it really helps,” he had said.
She knew he would never judge her. So she told him about her breakup, about her graduate school classes, about the way her new professors were pushing her to do the best writing of her life.
“I don’t want to be pushed,” she had laughed. “I want to be told I’m perfect.”
“I never even told you that,” he said. “I pushed you, didn’t I?”
“Of course you did,” she said. “But you also always told me I was great. I’m great, aren’t I?”
“You are,” he said. And he smiled.
But then things had taken that turn. She hadn’t been expecting it; never in a million years had she ever thought that he could potentially be attracted to her. There was the gap in their ages; twenty years, at least, and the fact that he had been her professor, besides. She had never been attracted to him. Their relationship had never had a whiff of that, even though they had always been close. She told him about the petty disturbances in her life: the breakups, the professors who slighted her, the academic advisor who bullied her, the parents who were having a hard time grappling with her ambition. He had shared some things with her as well: a difficult moment in his career, a problem with his editor, issues with his tenure. But there had always been a professional distance, or so she had thought. Now that she thought back, they had always been closer than a typical student-teacher relationship, but that was what the mentor-student relationship was all about, wasn’t it? Especially in writing, where the subject matter was so personal, so intimate?
He had been there for her during some of the most difficult times in her life. Some crippling depressions, some stunning manias. He was the first one to say, “you seem a little off today, are you okay? Are you taking your meds?” He was the one who had made her pinky-promise that she would stay alive to see her first book come out. However long it takes, he had said.
And he had always pushed her to do her best work. She felt safe with him. Or she had. Now, walking down Houston Street, she didn’t know what to expect. It had started off as a joke: “Let’s burn down the city.” He had always had a streak of anarchism in him, maybe more than a streak. They had always had fun, drinking together, the few times they had done it. Maybe that’s all it would be, she thought hopefully to herself, as she turned on Avenue A. The double doors of Double Down Saloon loomed in front of her.
Jay was sitting at the bar in the front, drinking a whiskey. “I said tequila,” Amanda said, already glad that they had something to talk about. “Why aren’t you listening to me? It’s literally written into the rules. If we break one rule we’ll end up breaking them all.”
“This rule we’re going to bend,” he said. As usual, her old professor had his sunglasses on inside. He wore the kind of lenses that transitioned from dark to light when you came inside, but his evidently had not transitioned back to regular glasses yet. “I submit to the committee that we can change this one rule.”
Amanda pretended to think about it. She had a copy of the rules in her backpack, and she took them out, along with a pen, and made an addendum. “Fine,” she said. “But everything else stays.
“Okay,” he said. They stuck out their hands and shook on it. Then they signed the contract. Jay’s signature had a flourish to it that Amanda wasn’t expecting.
Double Down was a large bar, with a backyard that was closed even though it was almost summer. The front was cavernous, with a pool table and a collection of booths, and in the back it was tighter, closer, with tables and chairs for large groups to cluster. The walls were covered in graffiti, and pornographic movies played on the various screens mounted on the walls. Signs advertising $4 “Ass Juice” hung over the bar itself, a mystery liquor Amanda herself had never tried. She ordered a tequila shot and a Miller High Life and drank the shot and bit down into the lime, letting the juice fill her mouth.
“So what were you thinking?” Jay said. “Did you have a plan, or were you just going to see how things went?”
“Well, I had a few ideas,” Amanda said. “But really, I was just going to see how the night went.”
“Night?” Jay said. “I’ve cleared my whole weekend.”
Amanda laughed nervously. She remembered the night they had made this plan, several weeks ago. “We’ll have to plan it for May, when I’m crazy again,” she had said. But she didn’t feel crazy at all. She felt frighteningly sane. The craziness came in waves, weeks where she didn’t sleep and drank like a fish and smoked like a chimney. Her doctor had a word for it. And he had meds for it, too, which she didn’t always take. But lately she had been taking them, and she didn’t feel quite unhinged enough for this particular excursion.
Jay seemed on edge, nervy, paranoid, too excited. “I have to tell you,” he said conspiratorially, “I started before you got here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said, and tapped the side of his nose, knowingly. It took Amanda a moment to catch on.
“Oh. Oh. Oh.”
“If I seem a little edgy, that’s why. Do you want some?” He reached into a pocket, palmed something.
“Sure. I mean, why not?”
Amanda found herself in the tiny Double Down bathroom a few minutes later, pulling key bumps from Jay’s baggie of cocaine. This was not how she imagined her life to be going, when she had walked into Jay Gaines’ Intro to Fiction class four years ago. God, had it been four years? It seemed like so long ago. She had walked in, thinking herself a big shot, and he had knocked her down a few pegs.
But first, they had bonded. Over what? She couldn’t remember. What she remembered was him asking her to stay after class. “I need to speak to you about your first assignment,” he had said.
“Was there something wrong?” she had said. She knew she wasn’t a bad writer. She hadn’t been serious about writing, back then. She was a political science major. Wanted to go to law school.
“Nothing’s wrong. Hang on a second.” He was waiting for the classroom to clear out, until it was just the two of them, and the TA, who was hanging back, presumably to meet with him, too. She had liked the TA, they had become friends later. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just—you’re exceptional.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your work. It’s exceptional.”
“What?”
She had been so flustered she had left the room, without saying thank you, or goodbye. She had called her mother and told her what he had said. She had been elated—someone, and not just anyone, but a professor, thought her writing was good. She carried the feeling around with her all week, buoyant.
She had apologized, the next week. Stayed after class again, hung back. “I’m sorry,” she had said. For being rude, she had said. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” he said. “You said you’re a politics major? Well, you should be a writer. Fuck politics.”
“What?”
“Be a writer,” he said.
And four years later, she was in an MFA program, teaching her own creative writing class. She didn’t know how it had happened. She had put her nose to the grindstone. With his support, with the support of her parents and her peers, but mostly with that voice in her head: “you’re exceptional,” to motivate her.
Their relationship had expanded. To talks after class and during breaks. He had asked her to be his TA. She had, the next year, been his TA. She had ended up taking a lot of responsibility in the class, teaching mini-lessons, making rules for the students. He told her she was the best TA he ever had. They had ended up getting close. He had told her about some things from his past, about his mother. She had told him, well, everything. About her ups and downs. About the bad thoughts, the ones that came at night. About the panics and manias. About what the doctor said. About the diagnosis.
He had been there for her. Through everything. He had been steady, unwavering. He had known what to say, what to do. She could never repay him for his kindness.
“You don’t get less crazy as you get older,” he had warned her. “I’m just as crazy as you are.”
Now, she felt, as she did his cocaine in the bathroom of the Double Down saloon at five pm on a Friday afternoon, she was taking him up on his challenge.
The world was alive. Abuzz. She drank some of the bourbon from her water bottle and winced as it went down. They smashed their beer cans together. They had been drinking steadily at Double Down for the last hour, three beers down the hatch, vodka shots for Jay, tequila for Amanda, lime clinchers. She had been drinking water. They had both made several trips to the bathroom with that plastic baggie and Amanda’s house keys.
Amanda felt strong, invincible. She wouldn’t let her mind drift. Jay was rambling about something, and she focused on his words: the sound of his words, not what he was actually saying. He was lecturing, falling into teacher-speak the way he always did if you left him alone for too long, and Amanda could feel him slipping away from her. “Do you see what I mean?” he was saying.
“No,” she said, and burst out laughing. “I don’t.”
They had been making a list of writers with mental health issues. Sylvia Plath, David Foster Wallace, Ernest Hemingway. She had an idea that she wanted to only teach bipolar writers in her next class, and he was helping her come up with more material. They were laughing. She felt refreshingly normal, even though she was high, on her way to drunk. It felt good to be sitting here, with someone she most certainly adored, talking about her favorite subject.
She felt some of the old mania welling up again, the old excitement. She had had some startling experiences, and Jay had seen her at her best and also at her worst, he had seen her flying and falling, hungover on a Friday morning and puking in the single-user bathroom on the third floor outside of their classroom, but also elated and writing pages and pages of nonsense, which she would email him for corrections. She had written some incredible stories for him, which she now read in wonder, late at night when she had writer’s block, astounded that such stories had come out of her nineteen and twenty-year old self.
“A student like you only comes along every four or five years,” Jay was saying.
“But I’m your favorite, right?”
“You’re my favorite of this generation,” he said. “There have been others.”
Amanda wondered suddenly if their relationship would be any different if she was a man. “I’ll accept that,” she said, and took a long drink from her High Life.
“You basically pushed yourself on me,” Jay said, laughing. “You sat down next to me on the last day of classes and made sure that we would keep in touch.”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” Amanda said. “I knew you were important to me. And look. Here we are.”
“I’m glad you did,” he said.
“So you’re officially claiming me, as a protege?”
“I am,” he said, and laughed again. Then he made a dismissive gesture. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asked.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. The movies. The circus. I don’t know. Let’s walk up to Tompkins Square Park.”
She could tell he was itching for a cigarette. She had a full pack in her backpack, and she took one out. “Let’s go.”
They walked out into the darkness. It had gotten dark while they had been inside; Amanda blinked in the light of the street lamps. They walked up Avenue A, dodging masses of summer people swarming in and out of bars on the Avenue; the Library, Berlin, Niagara, Sidewalk. Jay lit his cigarette, Amanda followed suit. They talked about nothing, about Amanda’s classes at NYU, about Jay’s students at Columbia. They were just scratching the surface, Amanda could feel it. There was more that bubbled underneath, unsaid.
“I have something,” Amanda said, when they sat down on a bench in the park. “For us. If you want.”
“What do you mean, you have something?”
They were passing her bottle of bourbon back and forth. Quickly, the bottle was getting lighter and lighter. The city was simmering, the May heat of the day dissipating. It was getting cool. Amanda pulled the sleeves of her hoodie closer around her. She had dressed down for this, a t-shirt and old jeans, given the reaction that Jay had had to her in her teaching clothes. She hadn’t wanted to scare him again. She had seen the look on his face when he had seen her, dressed up like an adult: disappointment. “People change,” she had told him.
“I know, but don’t change too much,” he had said.
She was trying not to change too much. She wanted to hold his image of her in her head and stay that girl, that nineteen year old with wide eyes and so much promise, forever. Already she felt washed out, and she was only twenty-three. She felt like she wasn’t living up to her potential. She didn’t have a book deal yet. She hadn’t published enough. She wasn’t doing interviews or editing magazines or any of the other things that other people in her cohort were doing. She wasn’t good enough.
“I’m so proud of you,” Jay said suddenly.
“Right now?” she said. “Right now, you’re proud of me?”
“Yes,” he said, and didn’t explain himself further. “What do you have?”
She rummaged around in her backpack for a while and eventually pulled out the bag. Mushrooms, in a plastic sandwich baggie. “Shrooms. Have you done these?”
“Jesus,” he said. “Not since—well. Not for a while.”
“I thought it might be fun. Just take one, you won’t really trip that hard. And the alcohol will counteract the effects.”
His face flickered—a series of emotions she didn’t recognize. “Give me one.” She reached into the bag, pulled a mushroom out, and handed it to him. His fingers closed around hers.
“You have to really chew it, otherwise they don’t work. And they taste terrible.”
They sat on the park bench, chewing furiously, for a few moments. Then they both swallowed.
“How long?”
“About an hour.”
“What do we do, for the next hour?”
“I say we find another bar.”
They found themselves at a hole-in-the-wall, drinking tequila(for her) and vodka(for him), limes for both, talking to the bartender. He was interested to hear that they were both writers. “We’re on a trip right now,” Amanda informed the bartender. “We’re doing a trip, and we’re going to write about it.”
“What are you going to write about?”
“Well, we’re going to burn down the city of New York, and write from the ashes.”
The bartender laughed. “Don’t start at this bar,” he said. “I really need this job.”
When they had agreed to go on this rampage, this trip, whatever it was, whatever it was turning into, all those weeks ago, Jay had told Amanda he was proud of her. “You do know how proud I am of you, right?” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Of course I know that. And you know what you mean to me, don’t you?”
“Oh, don’t say that,” he had said. “I just did what any decent person would have done.”
“No, you didn’t,” she said. “You checked up on me. You told me to stay alive, to keep fighting, when I was tired of fighting. You saved my life. I owe you everything.”
“I just did what anyone would have done,” he said again, looking down into his glass of wine. “I saw promise in you. And I’m so proud of what you’ve become. Even if you do look ridiculous right now.”
“What can I say?” she said. “I grew up. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You had to, at some point. Just promise me you won’t sell out.”
“I promise you,” she said, holding out her pinky, for a pinky promise, “that I will never, ever, sell out.”
“Good.” Jay nodded his head like he was making a proclamation. “Now let’s go for another cigarette.”
In about an hour, colors started to look brighter. Then they started to shift and change. “Are you seeing this?” Amanda said. Her pupils were like disks. She couldn’t see Jay’s eyes, behind his sunglasses. The neon signs behind the bar were moving and changing. The music was alive. “Look at this.”
“I see it,” Jay said. He looked slightly green, like he might throw up, but he also looked astounded. “I see everything.”
Amanda sat back in her chair. Her whole body was vibrating. She could feel everything acutely; the wood grain of the bar was moving underneath her hands, and the stool underneath her legs was wobbling. Sounds were louder, but also softer. They had a quality to them that she couldn’t quite describe, a kind of newness, a kind of being that seemed more real than anything she had ever heard before. Her whole body flooded with endorphins. In the center of the bar, there were a few scattered people, dancing.
“Dance with me,” she said.
“Oh, definitely not,” Jay was saying, but she was already up and out of her chair, marveling at how everything glowed. Her hips swayed and moved to the music. Jay stayed awkwardly on the sidelines, quieter now, out of lecture mode. Amanda could feel him watching her. She wondered how lucid he was, and how the mushrooms and music were affecting him. She gestured to the bartender for two more shots and slammed her shot, the taste of which was now marvelous and complex and almost overwhelming. The lime exploded on her tongue.
Magenta and cyan offshoots pingponged from the edges of objects. Neon looked magical. Wood grain swirled and flowed. Her pack of cigarettes looked friendly. The walls were breathing, but it was a gentle kind of breath, and she wasn’t worried about it. She wasn’t worried about anything at all. Tears came to her eyes, and she found herself crying, although she didn’t know why. “Why are you crying?” Jay asked.
“I’m just so happy,” she said.
“I am, too,” he said. And took her hand.
And they danced together, for what could have been three minutes, but could have been three hours, moving close together and then further apart, because distance didn’t seem to be something that mattered anymore. They became one being, with arms and legs that found each other and then moved apart again, and his hands were on her waist and then not, and his hands were in her hair and then not, and floods of what must have been euphoria(for there was not another word for it) went through her body, and she thought of everything that had ever happened to her, she thought of walking into his class for the first time when she was nineteen years old, she thought of teaching her own class on Monday morning, she thought of sitting in that bar with him as he said, “Well, you know what would happen,” and thought to herself, is this it?
They would not kiss, not until much later. But she reveled in the knowledge that it would happen, that everything that would happen after was an inevitability, that it was bound to happen, that there was nothing she could do but lie back and let it go forth. She reveled in the power that she now held over him, and he reveled in the power that he now held over her, and they knew that they had broken the rules of the contract but they didn’t care, and they went to the bathroom together and did the last of the cocaine together, and then everything was clear, and then everything went black.
They wandered the city for a long time, or at least it felt like a long time, stopping in at bars and then leaving again, drinking and at some point, Jay bought more cocaine from someone they met somewhere, and Amanda was taking Adderall she had found in an inside pocket of her backpack, and everything had taken on a strange and blurry edge to it, things were not as they appeared, but he did not let go of her hand. Their fingers grew sweaty and slipped around, but neither of them let go.
This was the part of the night in which everything seemed sayable, in which Amanda could tell Jay how much he meant to her and he was open like an oyster to receive it, and he told her how much she meant to him and she finally heard him, and they held each other in one of what felt like a hundred bars and told each other every secret that they had ever known. The streets seemed endless and the streetlights blurred and changed into blood and water and smoke. They smoked a thousand cigarettes, out in front of these bars that they stumbled in and out of, and Amanda felt that she was becoming the smoke, that she was floating in and out and away, out into space.
At some point she was sick in the gutter, but even that felt somehow hilarious, and they laughed and bought a bottle of water at a convenience store, and she gargled with it, and then they kept going, the chemical taste of the cocaine at the back of her throat, the smoke making her voice throaty and hoarse but also more serious and vague, and when Jay coughed it sounded like trumpets. She was not, anymore, a person who had a job and a life and bills to pay and classes to teach and stories to write, someone who cared about things like narrative structure and sentences and objective reality. She was simply a body, floating through time and space, holding onto Jay for dear life.
All of the drugs in her system were counteracting each other and eventually it became clear that they would have to crash somewhere. They had wandered up from the East Village up into Midtown. “I’ll get a hotel room,” Jay said, holding her hand once again, and that answered that question.
The last thing Amanda remembered was stumbling drunk and high on mushrooms and cocaine into the hotel room, which Jay had put on his credit card, laughing that his wife never checked the statements anyhow. And it was a sobering thought, his wife and his two children, ages two and six, but she pushed them out of her mind, and tried to keep from laughing as the hotel clerk(slicked back hair, maroon blazer) asked them questions about how long they would be staying and if they had any baggage, which of course they didn’t except for the backpack and the half empty bottle of bourbon.
Jay broke into the hotel minibar as soon as they were in the room, and made them both a drink, which Amanda drank greedily, sucking down the tequila and ice as if it were her last meal, which perhaps it was. She was suddenly awkward, suddenly shy as she sat on the bed. “Should I turn off the lights?” she said, stupidly. Of course not.
“Leave them,” Jay said. “We’re just drinking.”
It was a non-smoking room, but Jay lit a cigarette anyway, dropping ash into a paper cup. Amanda lit one too, but the taste of it made her sick; she had smoked too many already, they clogged her lungs. She put it out in her empty drink cup. Jay came over and sat next to her on the bed. Then, everything else is a blur. She remembered that he put his hand on her thigh.
“You’re my mentor,” she remembered saying, later.
“I know,” he said. “You have to say you want it, or else I won’t do anything at all.”
Later, she couldn’t remember what she said.
She dreamed that she was back in Jay’s Intro Fiction class. She had been slow to warm up to him, the way she was always slow to warm up to teachers. They had to earn her respect. Nothing was a given. She hadn’t taken a writing class since high school, and worked hard on the assignments, which was exactly why Jay had told her, “you’re exceptional.” But in those first few weeks, she had been mystified by this man, who seemed so sure of himself, so confident, so secure of his place in the world.
Later she would find out it was all an act, and Jay was a mess of insecurities, paranoias, and needs just like she was. He could never sit in a room with his back to the door, for example. His mother was a paranoid schizophrenic, and he had certain tics, certain tendencies, that made her think that he had inherited some of that disorder as well. But this gave him a complete and total sympathy to mental health issues. Jay was an obsessive, just like she was. He was an empath, too. He cared about each and every one of his students, and tried to reach each one on their own terms.
Amanda had been resistant to this technique. She talked back in class, made jokes, but also flexed her academic brain, answered questions in her loudmouthed way, making sure that he knew she was the smartest person in the room. But he had broken her down, slowly but surely. She remembered the moment when she had realized, he was someone worth knowing.
He had been teaching a lesson about character. They had talked about what makes a well-rounded character, what makes a strong character, details, everything. They had built their own character on the board. As usual, she was hungover, barely taking notes. But then he had asked a question to the class. “What do people talk about?” he asked.
Everyone had been stumped. What do people talk about? She had thought about it. She didn’t know.
“People talk about themselves,” he crowed. He seemed very pleased with himself.
She laughed out loud. Yes, they do. He was right. This professor might know something, she remembered thinking to herself. He was breaking down the barriers she had worked so hard to build between herself and other people.
In the dream, though, the classroom was melted and twisted. He was speaking about narrative structure. Jay was larger than life, in full lecture-mode, saying, “do you see what I’m saying?” the way he always did. She didn’t catch his meaning. His words were garbled and strange. She kept trying to tell him, “No, I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
Then she was running through a hallway, or a set of hallways. He was ahead of her. “You have to keep going,” he was saying. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not going to stop,” she was saying back. “I promise I won’t ever stop.”
“You have to stay alive,” he said. “That’s the only way you can keep writing.”
“I promise,” she said. “I promise.”
Suddenly he was in front of her, in all of his awful glory. His pinky was out, pinky promise style. “Promise me,” he said. “That you’ll stay alive.”
“I promise,” she said again. “I promise.”
He was the only thing that had kept her alive for so long. She owed him everything. How do you thank a person for that?
You don’t. You can’t. She realized that immediately.
He had said something to her, that night when they had decided to go on their rampage. They had been sloppy drunk, falling over each other, laughing at jokes that no longer made sense,
“Kill your heroes,” he had said.
“I’m trying,” she told him in the dream, tossing and turning. “I’m trying.”
She awoke to Jay cutting up lines of coke with her student ID, which he had taken from her wallet when she was asleep. “I bought more last night,” he said, when she asked where it had come from. “Don’t you remember?”
“No, I don’t,” she said. “I don’t remember anything.”
She was half-dressed, wearing her t-shirt and bra and underwear, but no pants. “Did we?” she asked.
“You were too drunk,” he told her. “Way too drunk. I might be crazy, but I’m not a degenerate.”
“Well, thanks. What are you doing?”
“Keeping the party going. Didn’t I tell you? I have the whole weekend.”
“I’m tired,” she said.
“You just slept for like, four hours.”
“Jay.”
He bent down, did two of the lines, snapped his head back. “If you can’t deal with it, then you can’t. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “Here, let me have at that.”
The cocaine made her feel instantly better, more awake. Her head was bleary from the alcohol, and there were still strange shimmers around certain objects, like the light fixture—from the mushrooms, she guessed. Her body felt strange and stretched out. Jay was drinking from one of the paper cups that the hotel left for people to make coffee, but she could smell from where she was standing that he was drinking whiskey, whiskey mixed with something, ginger ale maybe. She went to the coffee maker and started making herself a cup.
“Make me some of that, would you?”
She got another cup of water from the bathroom and made two cups, and they sat in silence, drinking the black coffee. It seemed as if everything that had needed to be said had already been said, and she wondered if they could find a bar that was open this early, to keep the party going, as he said, or if they would just sit and get wasted in this hotel room, which seemed to her to be sort of sad. Suddenly she wanted to be moving, walking, and she put on her jeans and shoes and told Jay she was going out for a cigarette.
“Let’s talk a walk. It’s beautiful out.”
She was coked out of her mind, she knew it. And still a little drunk, maybe. Jay hadn’t slept, she realized; he had been up all night doing lines, and his face looked drawn and tired, older than he was. He was awkward around her, unsure, and she felt odd around him as well, because something had almost happened, but it hadn’t. And now she didn’t want it to happen at all. He was her professor. Well, not anymore, but he had been, and she respected him in that way, respected him immensely. She had looked up to him for years. It was a disappointment, that he looked at her just as another body, another thing to be had.
Had he always seen her that way? Had everything he had ever said to her been a lie, just to get her into this hotel room? Had he been planning this? She didn’t think he was devious enough. But the thought was planted in her head, and now she couldn’t stop thinking about it. She had changed her whole life, for this man. She had gone to graduate school at his urging. She had become a writer, because of him. She had changed her major in college, worked on her writing for hours and hours, spent time obsessing about sentence structure and a hundred other things that didn’t matter, all because this one man had told her she was “exceptional.”
What if she wasn’t?
They walked in silence to the elevators. She remembered something from when they had agreed that they were going to go on this adventure together. It had been her idea. “Let’s go on a rampage and burn down the city,” she had said.
He had laughed. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he had said.
He had been right. His reluctance, though—had it been calculated?
“I need to go home,” she said suddenly. They were standing in the hotel lobby.
“Oh, Amanda,” Jay said. “Come on. We still have two more days.”
“This is stupid. We’re just getting wasted and yelling at each other. We’re acting like children. For me, maybe, but you’re an adult. You’re forty-seven fucking years old. You told me that no one gets wiser with age, but I should hope that you have learned by now that maybe, this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“Look,” Jay said. “We’re just two people, having fun. That’s all.”
“I’m not having fun anymore,” she said. She could feel the cocaine buzzing in her veins, making her words come out harsher than she meant them to. “I’m not having fun anymore.”
He grabbed her roughly by the upper arm, pulled her out into the street. Around them, people surged. The sun shone brightly. They were somewhere in Midtown, Amanda couldn’t remember where, or how they had even ended up there.
“You don’t want to sleep with me,” Jay said slowly. “That’s fine. I’m not asking you to.” he looked confused, tired, old. Amanda thought back to the night before—flashes of color, euphoria, love. She didn’t know what she had been thinking. She loved him, of course she did. But she didn’t want to do this. She had never wanted to do this. She had thought that love was enough, that it was the answer, but it wasn’t. There are different kinds of love, she realized sharply. This isn’t what I need.
“It’s not about that,” Amanda said, although it was. “It’s about everything. You’re my mentor. You’re supposed to be taking care of me.”
“I never agreed to that,” he said cruelly. “You’re an adult. You take care of yourself. We all do.”
“You took care of me when I needed to be taken care of!” Amanda said, practically shouting. “When I was losing it. When I needed you. Well, I need you, now. Why can’t you just be there for me?”
“Because I’m not—” he broke off. “I”m not whatever it is you think I am. I’m not a hero. I’m just a person. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yes, I understand, I just thought—”
“You thought, what? That I was going to save you from something? That I was going to take you away from whatever if it you’re running from?”
“I don’t know.” Amanda looked at her shoes. “Yes.”
“I’ve told you this before,” he said. “It doesn’t get easier as you get older. I don’t know any more than you do. I’m just a man, and yes, I want things, and that doesn’t make anything that I’ve ever told you any less true. I’m still proud of you, and I still care about you. We’re two people who care about each other.”
“It makes everything different,” Amanda said, and all the air deflated out of her like a balloon. “Don’t you see that?”
“I don’t know what to tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Can we still be friends?” Amanda said, even though she wanted nothing less. The words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She didn’t want to lose Jay. She wanted things to go back to the way they were, before they had ever gotten drinks together, before they had decided to go on this adventure together, before anything. She wanted to go back to being nineteen and take a different Intro to Fiction class.
Jay opened his arms. “What do you think?”
Amanda fitted herself into his arms. They hugged for a long time, as people ducked and dodged around them.
They sat in the coffee shop. Amanda felt like it was a first date; they were nervous around each other, awkward. They had emailed a few times, it was impossible not to talk to Jay. She always had things she needed to tell him. Stories from teaching, triumphs and trials from her graduate school workshops, advice she needed to solicit. He had been a part of her writing life, of her life, for so long, it was impossible to cut him out.
But she didn’t forgive him. And she needed to tell him that.
“I wanted to get together,” she said, once they had settled in, “because I thought we should talk.”
“I know,” he said. He looked tired. Amanda could see in the slump of his shoulders, the way his skin sagged around his eyes, that whatever it was that he was fighting, it was wearing on him. She had once wanted to know what his individual demons were, but now she found herself strangely cold. “I know that,” he said. “Look.”
“No,” she said. “Let me talk.”
He looked surprised. “Okay,” he said, sitting back in his chair.
“You told me once,” she began, “that we don’t get less crazy as we get older. That we don’t learn from our mistakes. That we don’t get any wiser.”
“Yes,” he said. “I think that’s true. I don’t know any more than you do.”
“Well, I don’t agree with that,” she said. “You’re the adult here. You were supposed to be taking care of me, and you didn’t. You broke that trust.”
“Amanda,” Jay said. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry,” she said. “I know that. But that doesn’t change the fact that I don’t forgive you.”
“We can’t forgive each other,” he said slowly. “Or ourselves.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“What?”
“I said that I don’t forgive you,” she said. “I don’t care if you forgive yourself.” She took a sip from her coffee, trying to steady her hands. “I don’t forgive you. You broke my trust.”
“I can see how you would feel that way,” he said, speaking slowly again. His hands were clenched into fists. “But I want you to know, that I do care about you, very much.”
“I know you do,” she said. “That doesn’t change anything. What’s done is done. And I can admit my part in it, but this happened. And now it’s over.”
“You’re saying—what? What are you saying?”
“It’s over,” she said, and got up, and walked out of the coffee shop.
On the street, she felt shaky. Her legs wobbled underneath her. She took a deep breath, trying to make her legs and lungs and limbs work in unison. She could hear Jay behind her, calling her name, but she ignored him. She kept walking.
She walked for a long time. She wasn’t sure how long she walked for. The streets blurred around her into a paroxysm of lights, wind, and rain. The street names stopped making sense to her. She walked and walked, making turns when it felt right, letting her hair get soaked by the water.
When she stopped she was in a part of the city she didn’t recognize. That was alright, though. She knew that she could find her way back on her own.
Deer tale
Chapter 1
(meeting the guide)
“Here”, Adam said to Lisa.
“Well, looks like the pub has nothing to eat, only chips.”
“It’s not a big deal”, Lisa said indifferently. She was tired of Adam and showing of being not interested in him anymore by her whole appearance.
‘You said your parents are originally from Hertfordshire?”, Adam never stoped talking trying to smooth over the awkward silence.
“Exactly.”
“Well, what it’s like over there now, does the weather much different from ours?”
Looking the other way Lisa did give any answers on his question. Adam was sitting with the polite and ridiculous smile of a well-brought up boy on his face, though he has no sympathy for this lady.
“I have to go, thanks for the drink”, said drily Lisa and got up without even looking at Adam. Adam stayed behind the desk, his facial expression changed to his normal, everyday face and he wondered, as he slowly drank his cider, why he was doing all this - everything. It didn’t make any sense. He got up and went up the stairs to the bathroom. Adam washed his face with ice-cold water and depressing thoughts came inside his head.
“Bad day, buddy?”, Asked someone from the cabin
“Excuse me?”
Suddenly a man of African descent and sunny smile got out the cabin and said,
“Well, Adam, how long are you going to burn the time I gave you for a one-day girls?”
“How do you know my name? What the hell is going on here?”
“I know you very well, Adam. I know what you are dreaming about, you long for meeting a romantic person like you are. You dream to meet an adventuress”.
A hundred images crossed Adam's mind. It couldn’t possible, he thought - he was in a movie. What should I say to this phreak? How did he know my name? Perhaps I just should turn around and walk away. But he had hit the nail on the head!
“Who are you?”, Adam asked with a wabble in his voice.
“Never mind. What’s important is how you are going to meet your anima in this hick town? Why does a man looking for his soul mate at the place he was born, when the whole world is open to him?! It is not enough just to vibrate at the same frequency with your dream, but you have to make the efforts and do what your soul craves to find it”.
“Easy to say.”
“What’s stopping you? Is it money? It’s not a big deal. Epic love helps those who are at risk”.
“I don’t believe my soul mate exists. That only happens in movies or books and I made my peace with that long time ago”.
“Don't lie to me. You still believe but you are afraid to be disappointed and fail again.
“Back off, man”, Adam tried to get out of the bathroom, but the door wouldn't open.
“Adam, you were looking in the wrong place. Tried the wrong women. And you know it”.
“What sort of trick is this?!”, Adam shouted aggressive.
“No tricks. I'm offering you a chance to change your life entirely. So, I came in person because this is your last chance”.
“And there were many others?”, Adam gave a hum of sarcasm.
“Naturally. I have given you the signs and hints, but alas, you are just too die-hard”.
“Why have you come here now? Why do you care about me and my happiness?”
“You are so complicated man”.
Then the odious man of African descent snapped his fingers and Adam passed out.
Chapter 2
(Adam’s adventure begins)
I was on my way to Bonnybridge, a godforsaken town in Scotland, and perhaps I was crazy or tired of this downcast routine that I haven’t get off at the first stop. There is a lot of dullness in the world and it’s very boring, I guess this was the only reason that psycho had getting what he wanted. Moreover, my semester ended, the holidays have begun, and I still have nothing to do. My relationship with my parents was really awful, I have no friends and no plans for the summer.
It was drizzling outside, and our bus was moving slowly deeper into the country.
I slept for six hours, waking near the entrance to Edinburgh, because I had to get from the capital of the Scott by myself.
My stomach was crudely empyty, and only dubious kebab houses were opened at night, so I decided to fill the stomach with the old banana left in my backpack. Why did I decide to go to Bonnybridge at night? Perhaps the reason was that I wasn’t sleepy. But that didn't matter because ten minutes later I was in a taxi.
Chapter 3
(Adam goes to the other world)
I went through all the houses exuberant titled motels. Everything was closed.
It wouldn't be surprised for me that town have ever worked after four p.m, ha.
So, I would have to sleep in this well-managed wheat field, this would even be romantic if I had my anima near me... I decided to go this crazy adventure just to find her.
Adam fell into a deep asleep, never noticing the bright outrage in the night sky with millions of stars.
Chapter 4
(Adam spits on everything and returns to Birmingham)
“Excuse me sir, is it your field?”
“Yes, you are right, but you have nothing to worry, what are you doing here, son? You are definitely not from around here”.
“That’s pretty much to the point, sir! I'm a tourist came from Birmingham”.
“A tourist? What are you going to see here, son?”, the old man asked laughing heartily.
Adam felt embarrassed, but the silence was broken by his companion:
“You know what? Come to my house for breakfast, Margaret will be glad to a visitor from her native land. Although it's noon, and as the Americans say, let's have brunch!”
“With pleasure, sir”. Adam got this stick feeling in the pit of his stomach in full.
At lunch John and Margaret told a few stories about the city: they say there was a secret alien base nearby. Their goats gone missing all the time, according to John. And Margaret added about the weird outrage all around.
Was there anything else that can entertain a man in the middle of nowhere, I thought. Just sit here and listen such stories. And probably that African, more likely, was a mentally sick man. And who was I, a low-grade defective man who listened to the psycho?
“Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I think I should go”.
“Where are you going, son?”, Margaret asked.
“Further to the North”.
I didn't want to say I was going back. This would made me look ridiculous.
“We are always glad to travelers, you can come and pick for a cup of tea on the way back”, John said.
“Very well, of course. Thank you again.”
At the bus stop I moved in circles like a lion in a cage. Why the hell did I come here? Why, Adam, what for?! If you were hungry for the troubles you'd rather stay in Edinburgh. But no, you listened to the crazy “chocolate bunny” and what for?! The arrived bus interrupted the process of self-reproach.
Chapter 5
(Adam was quite shocked by the whole thing)
“Jesus Christ!”, exclaimed Adam. Suddenly the African appeared behind him and grabbed him by the shoulders.
“Calm down, Adam, calm down.”
“Don't touch me!”, Adam pushed him away.
“Calm down, please.
“Who the hell are you?! What kind of a joke is that?!Am I crazy?!”
“Adam, it's you, or rather, it's your counterpart from the tangent universe I knocked him out, so he can't see and perceive us.”
“Who are you, damn it?”
“But don't use the foul language and don’t talk about my dead mother. My name is Fos, and I am a traveler between the worlds, you know, some kind of guardian.”
“Do you mean I'm in the tangent universe? Madness!”
“Yes, from the moment you fell asleep in Bonnybridge yesterday, my Outrage transported you into this world. Which, by the way, you didn't even notice, and she was very offended. You have to work with her together, so I strongly advise you to extend to her every courtesy.”
“Work?! With her, with you?! Over what?! “
“We will send you on an adventure through the worlds so that you can find your soul mate. Not all of the people are given the chance to do this, Adam.”
“Why should I listen to some psycho?”
“Look at your apartment.”
Adam went inside and saw dirt everywhere, slices of pizza on the floor. The stench was all over the room. And the alternative Adam himself was overgrown, unkempt, fat and smelly.
“Oh my God, is that me?!”
“Yes, Adam. This world is identical to ours and the reason you look like that is your refusal to go on my adventure. Your adventure.”
Adam stood in silence for a long time, breathing in the miasma of his possible life, then said,
“I agree. What should I do?”
Chapter 6
(Adams goes to the other world)
Adam had walked so long that it was already dark. But suddenly he saw the lights in the middle of the forest, he ran to meet them and took quick blow to the back of the head.
Once he came to, he found that strange half-naked people surrounded him. Their dress looked like Hawaiian national dress. My God, the women were dresses only in Tapa skirts and their breast were undressed! The men wore loincloths and rectangular capes that fell over one shoulder and were knotted on the back side. Instead of shoes, these people used sandals made of leaves. It looked like I left Queen's land.
“Excuse me, do you speak English? My name is Adam.”
Suddenly all the local looky-loos made way for the man in the raincoat. I guess this man was their chief. But as soon as I looked at him, I was in shock as I had been than the first time. There was just me in front of me but from the parallel universe. Fos sure has well developed sense of humour.
“Who are you?”, said the other me smiling.
“My name is Adam and I'm from the parallel universe.”
“You're me?”
“Yes and no. It is difficult to explain. Please, tell me, where am I?”
“You're with the Halligan tribe. I am the chief of the tribe – Adam.”
“Why does Britain look different? Where is the progress and technology, where is the castles and huts at least?”
“I have no idea, what do you mean, my brother. We live by the spiritual principles. There is no any buildings or constructions. We live in harmony with Mother Earth.”
Adam was getting nervous and, in his head, he called for the Outrage to take him from here. I didn’t seem to be able to find my anima here. It was crazy world, the Outrage, where are you!
“The great gods sent you to us, Adam. Now, you're my brother. All mine is yours. Halligan tribe can you hear me?! The gods have sent to you the second chief!”
Everyone around me began to cheer, shouting strange and odd impressions the meaning I haven’t understood yet. But there was a girl I noticed. She was standing opposite Adam. She was so perfect. She just was watching me from the sidelines and smiling playful. The Outrage, I guess there is a sense to look for my anima here.
Chapter 7
(Adam takes the decision does he like this world or not)
Every Halligan enjoyed life, the whole meaning of their existence consisted in dancing and chants, they slept around the fires at night and the chief's entourage-warriors whom he hunted the game was guarded the perimeter.
Adam remembered that one of those warriors had knocked him out at the first day. But suddenly the girl of the alternate Adam came to the fire and took the traveler by the hand. She led him into the depths of the grove, the place the light of the fires didn’t not penetrate.
"Hey, where are we going?"
"Have some fun," she said, with mischievous smile.
"What about the other Adam?"
"It's all yours, remember?"
Adam was all sweaty, and her undress breast... she was a kind of women that there were no forces to resist - a leggy goddess with a beautiful, ideal form of the goddess Aphrodite, unbelievable elegant tournure and a tiny waist. And her face –was magical: delicate features, large eyes looked like a sapphire. It looked like the universe looking at him through them. He got turned on.
“What is your name?”
“Meadow”
“What’s a wonderful name!”
“My parents gave me that mane. I was maned after the emerald field they coupled for the first time.
“It sounds romantic…”
“Why are you wearing so many clothes? Take it off. And she began kiss his neck gently, simultaneously caressing his private place by hand. Adam had indescribable rapture, but he managed.
"Meadow, I don't know you at all, I can't…”
“Here, in our world, people get to know each other through by the union of the bodies, what about yours?”
“No ... the process of communication takes long time, at first, we tell each other some unimportant things and only then we are sharing our deepest feeling.”
"We always can try your way, but now let me try mine."
Meadow pulled off his pants rapidly and went down on her knees. Adam shivered.
After a while, blushed and smiley Meadow, ran out of the tousles. Adam was angry, like a dark cloud, followed her. He clearly didn't like this world, the world of hedonism and lustful desires.
In the evening, Adam was lying near the fire, called the Outrage: “Take me away from here, please. I hope to be at a place more like my world.”
Chapter 8
(Adam finds himself in the parallel Bournemouth town)
Suddenly he heard the voices of the guardians:
“It’s another drunk man. Call the cops, Anthony”, Rick said.
“No, please, I don't remember how I got here.”
"What do you remember, young man?” Anthony asked.
"I remember that we have celebrated my birthday, Silas got me drunk all night. Damn Silas! Sorry, guys, I even haven’t any money in my pocket.”
“Can we let him go, Rick? The guy had a birthday yesterday. He's doing well if still trying to have fun and looks cheerful.”
Rick made some sound but opened the front door.
“Thank you, a lot!”
Adam was sitting on the beach running as far away as possible from the Museum. A pleasant sea breeze freshened his face.
The water was still cold, it should not go for a swim. “What should I do in this world, where should I go? People are only interested in money, money and debauch. Why are all the people of my home world so mercantilistic and boring? Most of the people are blank. The hight point of happiness, for some one, is to buy an expensive car and a huge house. How can I find my anima among that women?”
But suddenly someone called him:
“Hello, Adam”, Fos said
“What’s wrong?”
Fos sat down beside him on the sand:
"Oh, no, I just have a spare moment. And I went to check, how are you? The Outrage said you didn't like the world of spiritual Britain?”
“I hadn’t seen anything spiritual over there”
“What are you going to do now?”
“You tell me, Fos. This is all part of your plan. What should I do next?”
“Hey, Hey. Slow down, buddy. I just have led you, but only you can make a decision which of the world you are going to look for the anima, that’s why you work directly with the Outrage.
"What kind of world is this?"
“There is no independent Britain. The country is a part of the Confederation of Western countries and leading by the all-American States of Americas.
"Excuse me?!”
“After World war II, in this world, China, North Korea, Vietnam and Cuba had joined the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Not to mention some countries such as Africa, Latin America and Eastern Europe. In turn, America created the Confederation of free world countries, and Britain, Western Europe, Scandinavia, Canada, Australia and other countries had joined to this.”
Adam stared at him completely confused.
"Oh, Adam, this dimension is the most logical among the others.”
“Why the Soviet Union did not break up in 1991 as it happened in our world?”
“A young and full of initiative Kazakh man supported Gorbachev's reforms and he became the second President of the USSR after Gorbachev. Plus, this incarnation of the Soviet Union did not have the problems that were in your world.”
"Tell me, is there a cold war on in this world?"
"No, it's hot war on.”
And then the flew military fighters flew right over their heads in the direction of the English Channel. Only then Adam noticed the hundreds of naval warships far away on the horizon.
"Fos, let the Outrage take me out of this world for good...!”
But the African was gone, leaving Adam alone on the beach. And Adam noticed emptiness everything around.
Chapter 9
(Adam meets Phoebe)
“Excuse me, are you watching the ships?"
“Yes," she said dryly, without taking her eyes off the ships.
"How long has the war going on? And what was the reason the war began?”
“Young man, this is not the best way to meet ladies. I'm engaged, " she said while looking in the binocular glasses.
Adam actually noticed the neat wedding ring on her finger. Somehow Adam wasn’t backing down. He wanted to get the answers.
“Miss, I ‘m serious. I do know nothing.
Finally, she lowered the binoculars and looked at Adam, unable to hide her disgust.
Oh, you are treacherous cunt. And you dare still following me?! I see your leg's fine now!”
And then she suddenly kicked Adam in the cods. He doubled over the pain.
“Crazy! What the hell for? What did I do or say to you?”
"Don't even pretend, Adam.”
"Do you know me?"
“Unfortunately, I do.”
The girl walked away from Adam faster. Adam sat down on the road, still holding his tender bits. “It seemed to me people don’t like me in this world.... But I want to know what's going on.” Adam ran after the girl.
“I'm sorry, miss, I'm not the man you think I am!”
"Leave me alone, Adam!"
"Yes, I am Adam, but not the Adam you knew. Stop for a second! Let me explain everything to you!”
"There's nothing to explain. People don't change, especially so bastards like you!”
Adam grabbed her for elbow, thereby stopping her:
“Listen, I do not know what is your name and what’s bad the alternative me could do to you, but that was not me. Have you ever known about the parallel university?”
“Poor Adam, you lost your mind,” she said pointedly.
"I’m serious. I can prove it.”
"Let me go!"
The Outrage, can you transfer us to this world but to another place? For example, in Plymouth, please.
A bright outrage of light covered the sea front. Adam and the girl found themselves on the same sea front, but in Plymouth. Adam fell on his back and the girl on top of him.
“What happened?!! Where are we?!!”, the girl shouted.
“Calm down, I a traveler through the worlds. We were transferred to Plymouth; you are still in your world.”
“Oh, my God! It’s impossible!”
The girl was getting hysterical. Adam decided to bring her back here and now by slapping her butt. “She does dislike me, I hope she won’t be angry.” The girl wasn’t slow and went at Adam with her fists.
“You are bastard! Scoundrel!”
"Please, calm down. I just want to talk.”
After a little brawl, in which Adam mostly pulled away. They were finally able to sit up and catch their breath.
"So, there are the other worlds?”, she asked softly.
“Yes. And I came from one of those word. By the way what's your name?"
“Phoebe. And you, obviously, Adam?”
“Yeah.”
“You look less sporty than my Adam.”
“Tell me more about him.”
“He's my brother.”
“Oh my God! Are you Harry and Janet's daughter?”
“Yes", Phoebe said sadly.
Suddenly she began sobbing and then just carrying on.
“They died, and my older brother Adam left me all alone, he just gone. He didn’t even join the army, kicked out by pleading his bad leg. He even took away my best friend by sleeping with her and cheating on her. She got pregnant and he dumped her. I hate this asshole.”
“Oh ...”
“Exactly, Oh.”
“I don't have a sister in my world.”
“Tell me, are you an asshole, Adam?”
“"I hope I’m not”, Adam murmured.
“It’s good. Please, be good.”
“How old are you Phoebe, that you're already married?”
“Nineteen. He left to fight, so we decided that it may be our last chance to get engage.”
“You agreed to this knowing he might never come back to you?”
“I do love him.”
“So, I'm looking for my soul mate…”
Adam nodded. They were talking about everything for a long time.
Phoebe finally got the brother of her dreams and Adam got a little sister.
He wanted to take her with him, but she refused. She was in love. She was waiting for her beloved one.
Chapter 10
(Adam talks to Fos)
“Why do you want to see me?”
“I need answers, Fos.”
Fos sat down silently next to Adam holding a cup of Americano.
“What kind of answers?”
“which has influence for the difference between the worlds, why are they all so different? Why isn’t Phoebe in my world? And if there are so many parallel universities how would I know which one my anima is in? It’s impossible running all these thousands of dimensions, I don't have that much time for it. What principle the Outrage does choose the world for me?”
“You’ve asked so many questions, Adam, but I'll try to explain. You know, I don't remember the exact number of the worlds currently existing. Look, every decision you make creates an alternate reality for you, a new branch of the events. You are able to create about a hundred or three hundred worlds for your entire life. In turn, the reality you live in is only one of the offshoots of your parents. For example, in one of the offshoots your parents did meet, get married and decide to have children. Yes, Adam, somewhere in the world you don’t exist, somewhere your father loves men more that women. There are so many options.”
“Ok, I got the idea.”
“Now, can you imagine that great men make any decisions. Each of the decision creates something new, a completely new parallel world. And the history took different course. It can be something crazy and doesn’t seem like the world you live in.”
“And how can you get to the bottom of the multiverse, explain it, from a scientific point of view?”
“Ha, your commoners haven't come near to that yet. Although “string theory” carried a grain of knowledge, but you are still far from understanding the laws of the Universe. Your laws of physics are absurd. I say one thing: The Outrage can manipulate electromagnetic waves, completely controlling the space and time around. Reality itself is available to me.”
“What about my anima? You still haven’t given me the answer.”
"Everything takes their course. Trust me, Adam.”
After finishing his coffee, Fos was gone. Adam continued to finish his burger but without appetite.
Chapter 11
(London)
While Adam was in the subway nobody paid attention to him. But as soon as he walked around Camden, people around him started to pester: "Excuse sir, selfie please. I'm a huge fan of you." someone brazenly tried to shoot without Adam's permission, someone even tried to touch him. Adam got in the nearest Steakhouse to avoid all this mess, he thought that the security personnel just simply wouldn’t allow to harass him. He ordered a deep-fried ribeye and vegetables, Chinese green tea and a bottle of water. Adam had a habit, his mother helped to for, drink a glass of water half an hour before a meal and drinking only hot tea afterwards. During the meal, a beautiful girl with a short-cropped hair sat down to him. He was going to say no selfie, but she started first:
“I don't want anything to do with you, Mr. Newton. I'm a devoted fan of yours your arrival is secret. You are currently busy in full shooting the movie in New Zealand”
“Yes” Adam said angry, he always was angry when somebody prevented him eating.
“Let me help you to conceal you from these looky-loos", she said smiling.
“How will you do it?”
“I live one block away.”
Here, we were going to her apartment. Why did I go with her? Maybe she’s my anima. But I haven’t felt anything.
We went up to her and she went to make tea. The apartment was cozy, tastefully furnished. A huge statue of Buddha stands right next to the door. She had a smell of something charming, something like verbena. She had a smell sweet!
“Here you go, Mr. Newton” she said, extending the cup.
“Just Adam," I said smiling.
She stared into my eyes.
“What's your name?”
“Alice”
“What a beautiful name.”
Alice blushed and sat down on the couch, inviting me to do the same.
“I dreamed to meet you all my life. I owed you only for "Brave brothers". This movie saved my life, literally. Let me thank you…”
Adam was speechless. That moments he just got paralyzed, not knowing what to do. How could I stop it? Here, have it?
Alice had already taken off her shirt and jeans, pulling off her long socks she looked at Adam coquettishly. Having noticed that Adam was nervous she leaned and whispered, “Don't be afraid, I'll do it myself. Just enjoy it.”
Chapter 12
(at Alice’s house)
“Good morning”, Alice whispered softly.
“Hi”, Adam said embarrassed.
“What are we going to do today?”
What are we going to do? I don't even know her. And all that have happened yesterday...
While Adam was too busy with his thought, Alice got up, washed her face, and went to make breakfast. Adam laid and staring at the ceiling. After a while, Alice came, wore him panties and said tender:
“Let's go eat.”
We had eggs with bacon, beans and granola.
“Thank you very much, Alice. It was tasty”
“I'm glad,” she said sweetly.
Adam was going to wash his face, but Alice stopped him.
“I know you're alone, Adam, I will be only yours ... I will do everything you want. I'm a man of my word. Just help me to be a movie star. This is my cherished dream, but no one ever believed and does not believe in me. I will take any role and spank you in the interval between my shooting. We can live together, I'll take care of you, Adam. I'm not a shallow or mediocrity, Adam, I was studying theatre department for three years.”
“I can see that. You performed perfectly”, Adam said sadly.
“What can I say?”, Alice asked smiling.
Adam took a breath and went to get dressed. Alice stood up quickly and followed him:
“What's wrong, Adam? Pagged wrong, didn’t it? I just had a hard day.”
“Alice, you did great. But I can’t help you with the best my will. I can’t explain it, but it’s impossible. And if I can help I would do it without all your pretended vulgarity.”
“I gave myself to you, Adam. Are you turning your back off me?”, she cried.
“I'm sorry...”
The Outrage took Adam, and an angry Alice stayed where she was.
Chapter 13
(fairyland)
“I don’t believe my anima exists. May be she died before I was born, or she will be born in eighty years. And nobody knows where.
Adam plucked a yellow dandelion and lay down on narcissus carpet. The clearing smelled so wonderful that you could smell thyme and clover, lilac and mint. How was that possible, Adam wondered? They can't grow around all at once. Suddenly a young girl came up to him holding a cast-iron teapot with a little man nest to her holding the small cups.
“Hello, Adam”, said the girl apparently looks like a fox.
“Hi. Who are you?”
“The Outrage sent us, she said you feel sad”
“Does the Outrage have friends?”
“She was a small girl before Mr. Fos took her from here. You're in our home world.”
“What kind of world is this?”
Unusual birds flew over his head and the sky seemed bluer than usual.
“The writers of your dimension often came here for inspiration. Everything that was going here they call “magic” but Mr. Fos thinks there is an explanation for all of it.”
“Is it the world Fos’s native world?”
“Oh, no, dear Adam. Mr. Fosse's dimension is a big mystery. It's better not to talk about it” she whispered.
Adam was curious, but he did not contradict the good girl, who had already poured the tea.
“Did you like the tea?’ the girl asked timidly.
“It’s very delicious”, Adam smiled.
She smiled in response. It was so beautiful and sincere smile Adam have ever seen.
“Tell me, what's your name?”, Adam asked.
“Chantrel”
“I haven’t heard this name before”
“Is that bad?”, she asked with genuine concern.
“No, it's so nice”, Adam said and blushed.
Chantrel was embarrassed too. Suddenly the little man being invisible all this time, muttered something to himself and left.
“Did I hurt him?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“He just worried about me.”
“Worried, why?”
“That you shall break my heart.”
There was really awkward silence and Adam decided to brighten it up with a completely innocuous question that he was going to hear a negative answer:
“Tell me, can you fly here?”
The girl smiled:
“Not at all. Come on I’ll show you.”
Chapter 14
(anima)
But then the Outrage threw Adam into another world, this time he woke up in the middle of a football field, warm summer night. The mighty oaks and weeping willows were surrounded the field. A rivulet was running through there and it seemed that there was no better place for children to play and have fun.
“Is it some kind of fairy-tale world that has a sharp contrast to the stinking reality?”, Adam asked sarcastically, but as always, he did receive the answer. answer.
He wandered to into the light of the city lights, finding that this world was an identical copy of his home dimension. Or almost identical.
The time been like a chewing gum – slowly and boring, no one else transferred or even contacted Adam. He was abandoned in the world where he wasn't even born. Without documents, without money and without any plan to live. He had to get a job as a Barista in a coffee shop.
“Good afternoon”, Adam said for the hundredth time to the client.
“Hi”, said the beautiful redhead smiling.
Something clicked for Adam's chest and he froze, staring at her. She laughed. Adam was embarrassed and asked what she want to order. "Matcha-latte, please” - an unusual order of real connoisseurs. Adam fell in love.
When the order was ready, Adam asked his coworker to replace him and went after his new love.
“Here it is, Fos! You were right!” he thought.
“Excuse me!", Adam said.
“Yes?”, she said, taking out her ear pod.
“Do you believe in parallel universities?”
“What?”, she giggled.
“I'm quite serious, do you know how many worlds I've traveled just to meet you? I was long journey and it was worth it!”
“Is that the way you want to ask for my phone number? You may say “you.”
“Yes, I ask... and Yes, of course!”
“"Zero, seventy-seven…”
Adam returned to his rented room happy, truly happy. This was he was looking for! Life started shining with new colors, the little things began to bring joy to Adam: the breeze, the sun, and even his sagging soft bed which he plopped down from a jump.
Chapter 15
(Lily)
Chapter 16
(just Lily)
Walking across the field, he saw shadow of two people sitting in the middle of it, at the place where they usually sat with Lily, looking at the stars. He was interested who shared their place and he began screeching to the couple.
Suddenly, he heard Lily's voice. It was definitely she. Adam knew him very well.
“Lily is that you?”, Adam called.
The laughter and conversation died away.
“Adam?”, Lily asked softly.
“What's going on here? Who are you talking to?”
Nobody answered him.
“Lily, shall I take care of him?”, a bass voice asked.
“No, I can do it myself”
“Take care? Who the hell are you?!”, Adam shouted.
“Calm down, Adam, calm down. You're a very big boy. Didn't you realize that your stories about parallel universities can hold a girl?”
Adam's chest was heaving. He wanted to scream and cry and throw punch at the same time.
“Lily, I thought there were something special between you and me...”
“I’m sorry Adam”
How could she show their place to someone different? The place I had shown to her?! Or maybe it didn't mean anything to her...
“The Outrage, please, take me back home, I've had enough of traveling!”, Adam shouted sadly.
Chapter 17
(Adam talks to his neighbor)
Once he heard indecent sounds coming from the neighbor's apartment. Adam was curious and went to the stairwell, he saw two half-naked girls of model appearance come out of a neighbor's apartment, giggling. Adam's neighbor was the Manager of a Turkish restaurant nearby. Not a bad career for a recent university graduate.
“Oh, Adam, are you alive!’, the neighbor said sarcastic.
“I don't think so” Adam said sadly.
“Come in and have a drink. We are neighbors, after all.”
After the second shot of whiskey he told the neighbor his story with Lily, how did it hurt and the neighbor said simply: "True love does not exist, brother, everything is temporary, Adam. Everything you believed in was just a bunch of vanilla books wrote the same romantic slobs. There are no animas, old boy. Everything is much easier and more honest using the service of the hookers. I know exactly how much and how long their "love “for me will last.”
And so, this talk had struck Adam. He was right. Any sympathy passes. Some of them runs faster, and some stretchs but the result is one.
“I don't need a soul mate, I can live alone, damn it!”, Adam thought.
Chapter 18
(awakening)
“Fos?”, Adam was annoyed and surprised.
“Hey, Adam.”
“Look, I don't need your help anymore. Thank you for everything, but I...”
“Hold on”, Fos interrupted
Fos patted Adam's shoulder, smiling.
“Finally, you made that up, buddy.”
“What are you talking about?”, Adam asked confused.
“There are no animas. That it was all nonsense. I couldn't tell you because you wouldn't have listened to me. That’s why I had to show and explain everything using your “mangina” language.
Adam and Fos laughed and talked for a long time then they went together to a strip bar and got the most luxurious dancers.
THE END
The Celestial Realm and
The 3 Kingdoms.
Celestial Kingdom: OMNIA/ High Gard - Heavenly realm of which all life flows in the universe. Also home of the All-Father and his royal celestial family and guard and various different Mythical Creatures.
1st Kingdom: SATARA home to the race of celestials and the Noldeshian Dragons
2nd Kingdom: ORAYKA Home to all full blooded mythical creatures.
Elves Dwarves Ogres Goblins etc. With very few half bloods and Blood Lords.
3rd Kingdom: HELEXUS Home to all Mythical Humanoids or Half bloods and Blood Lords. Plus an array of magical creatures.
Stone Attributes:
Soul Drain: Each stone has this ability.
Once the target has been assigned damage from any stone's elemental blasts the stone drains the target's soul until it's captured into the stone. The soul's life force is then absorbed and can be used as a elemental weapon or as a power source. The void
Soul is then delivered to either Heaven or Hell depending on its nature.
Converts Dark to Light and visa versa.
Charm: W.O.P
Possessed: Magic Spell.
Exorcism: dark spirits from possessed souls.
Possession: sends dark spirits into innocent souls
Cast freeze w.o.p/spell freezes opponent for 1 minute for 1 charge.
Element: Water
Requires: level 2 dark spirit, gives 2 charges
1 charge 100 ice blasts.
100 charges cast Blizzard
❖ Blood/Soul Stone:
Soul lock: blood ritual locks items into dimensional rift.
Element: Fire.
Requires: level 2 dark spirit and up for 2 charges/ level 3 gives 3 charges...etc
One charge gives 100 fire blasts.
Cast Fire Storm with 100 charges.
Exorcism: W.O.P(Word of Power)/Spell
❖ Spirit/Conduit Stone:
Element: Lightning
Requires: level 2 soul gives 2 charges.
Each charge gives 100 lightning blasts. The higher the dark spirits level the more charges.
Cast lightning storm with 100 charges.
Exorcism.
And The Fallen Kingdom
Chapter 1
Heldon Adreanis.
Right at the slopes of the first peak facing from the east about a stone throw away from the small village which is called Sulain Valley was a small cottage where the Adreanis family resided. Now there was Mr. and Mrs. Adreanis and their young boy Heldon.
One cold winters night young 7yr old Heldon was having the most beautiful dream whilst tucked away under his warm and cosy blankets.
At once after he had the dream he leaped up out of his bed and ran straight to mommy and daddies room with tremendous excitement and a twinkle in his eye, Mommy Daddy wake up wake up quickly he ranted...young Heldon Adreanis!!! His mother complained what is it with you boy do you even know what time it is?
Mommy, Daddy I had the most beautiful dream, I dreamt I was walking through a big forest and right in the middle of the forest was a beautiful stream of shining water.
Then as I looked down at it I saw these shining objects in the stream and at once I jumped into it and started collecting them.
Now now, young Heldon sounds like you are talking about the stream of life that comes from the All Father but that stream is not to be found in our Kingdom my boy only in the first realm and it runs straight up to his majesty’s private chambers where the Omnia stone is hidden...
Wow daddy one day i would like to see the Omnia stone.
Heldon young man you shall not speak of such things for we are merely peasants in the fallen realm and it is highly forbidden for us to even think about such things, father what are you teaching the youngster in the wee hours of the morning Mommy replied???
Nothing to be bothered about dear he’s just a small boy and he’s going to find out about these things sooner or later. If you say so dear Mrs. Adreanis said with a slight acknowledgement in her eyes, “off to bed with you young man its very late and me and your father has allot of work waiting for us early in the morning. Come on young Heldon Mr. Adreanis said let me tuck you into bed.
Eleven years past by and the young boy has grown up to become quite the young man.
Heldon...Heldon, where are you young man Mrs. Adreanis calls out early in the morning standing on the front porch of the cottage. I’m here mother the young light Brown haired green eyed man replied gently.
Don’t forget to go down to the market today we need to sell the donkey for supplies for winter my boy.
Yes mother. And have you seen your father anywhere...?
His down at the barn mother, busy with the horses.
Ok dear don’t forget to see him before you go to the market he said he wants to have a word with you.
Yes mother Heldon replied.
It was early day with the sun barely revealing its head in between the two peaks as young Heldon made his way across the farm to go see his dad in the barn.
Morning father... Morning young man and happy birthday to you today my boy.
Today i can truly call you a man as you have just turned 18.
Thank you father Heldon replied.
Now what was it you wanted to speak to me about father.
Heldon my boy i need you to take the extra mule we have to Barabbas at the market and sell it for 3 mint pieces, and now i want you to listen to me very carefully as what I’m about to say is very important.
Yes Father im listening...?
As you return back home from the market instead of taking the second turn left on the old dirt road i want you to turn right. As you continue down the road you will come across a old wind mill to your right, follow straight down that road until you meet the edge of the waterfall.
When you reach it look to your left and you will see a large rock that looks like a Celestial(Angel).
I want you to pay attention to the chest part of the rock as you are to place your hand on the heart of the stone and thereafter speak to the messenger.
Messenger??? Heldon replied curiosly.
Now father what is this all about and why not rather have me come straight back home, why am I to go through all this and for what reason you know how mom feels about me talking to strangers?
Heldon it's your birthday today and if i were to tell you anymore it would ruin the surprise my son.
Now hush hush and be on your way to the market that mule isn’t going to sell itself now is it.
As the early afternoon settled in, young Heldon finds himself on the way back from the market.
He follows his father's instructions and can hardly wait to find out who this mysterious messenger might be and what exactly his message will be about.
Almost there just a few more steps Heldon thinks aloud to himself as he sees the celestial shaped rock. Wonder how it naturally came to be that way he pondered in awe.
Now we’ll see what the fuss is all about he says. Only one or two steps and I'm on the rock, now father said to touch the heart segment of the stone with my right hand opened...What the...!!?? As our hero finds himself thrust backwards on to the ground after a very loud bang!!!, and a flash of light, Heldon finds himself laying on the ground in a fetal position, frightened and confused.
Hello, Hello is anyone out there...? What just happened he thought to himself but all that comes out is quiet and everything is still and calm as if nothing happened at all.
This must be a trick he says to himself, darn I should of known my dad would be up to this sort of thing by now...wait a second, as he hears a slight chuckle coming from behind the huge Rock. Halt!!! Who goes there! Heldon shouts out loudly, Dad if that’s you then i hope you're satisfied because you....wait a second who are you because you're definitely not my...? The name you're looking for is ‘Ruagh' young man. A shady character replies to our young hero. Stepping towards him from behind the big Rock wearing a dark coat and with platinum and golden gauntlets around his forearms.
Wait a second who are you exactly or are you the messenger my father had told me about?
Messenger yes but more importantly (and as he was still speaking suddenly his appearance transformed with a flash of light and a great bang into that of a celestial right before Heldon's very eyes. His 6 wings outstretched far and seeming like that of the invisible energy found around fire with a blurring effect right up unto the first joints if each wing shinning like crystallite as if on fire, his appearance like that of flame and lightning. I have been sent here to grant you your first pair of wings and the scroll of wisdom that you have to take to your father for you have been chosen from on high for a quest unlike any other. Only question is will you be willing and able to perform what is expected of you Heldon Adreanis.
At once Heldon fell face down to the ground scared and confounded by what he is witnessing, but how can this be a celestial right here in the nether realm what does this all mean, and what have you my High Lord to do with your servant if anything I'm not even supposed to see someone of your stature why me i mean..., hush now young hero. It has long been foretold that a young hero shall arise out of the nether realm and embark on this royal quest for our Lord supreme.
You are the next in line out of the three families chosen from the most high and you are to lead the other two hero’s chosen and they are to aid you in your quest.
Now receive the scroll for within it lies this wisdom and power needed for you to unlock your first pair of wings.
Take it to your father's house and only open it in his presence. And with another thunderous bang!!! He was gone!
Dumbfounded Heldon got up to his feet and started running as fast as he could back home.
As Heldon was running he suddenly noticed something in his hand, it was the scroll of wisdom, he stopped dead in his tracks as he took a good look at it. I wonder what’s inside he thought to himself, as he was looking at the gold and platinum exterior he noticed a symbol a seal of sorts. It had a six winged figure with a shield in the middle and a sword penetrating a serpent wrapped around it. He also noticed a trinity symbol with 3 stones engraved into the shield. Strange I wonder what that means.
Anyways best take it to dad maybe he will know more about this as he was the one that sent me on this task.
It started getting darker and he reached their cottage at dawn no sooner.
Still in haste and exited what he saw he ran straight into the house right past his mother in the kitchen straight through to the study where his father sat and waited for him anxiously.
Dad, dad I'm back and boy do I have a tale to tell you,
Heldon my boy welcome back now I know you must be very excited but first did you bring back the scroll with you son.
Yes the scroll, I have it right here. Great Mr. Adreanis says as he opens up his desk drawer and brings out an odd looking box. That’s strange father, look, that box you have there has exactly the same seal on it as does the scroll...?
Yes my Son, this is the myoptrix, a rare and very powerful amulet that corresponds only to the scroll of wisdom. Now I want you to take a seat as what I'm about to tell you is going to be a very serious matter?
Yeah sure dad go ahead.
Heldon the reason you had those dreams about the objects and the stream of life was no coincidence.
When I was your age the very same occurred to me and later as I turned the same age as you are right now I was given a secret Mission a quest of sorts and a very dangerous one.
Father is that, before he could finish Mr. Adreanis interceded yes my son that’s why I have kept the truth from you until you have become of age for it is now your turn to stand against the forces of darkness and fight the good fight my son.
But wait dad I don’t understand what happened when you were chosen as I have been chosen today didn't you succeed in your quest?
Heldon I did not succeed and here’s why.
See at the time I was chosen I was given a great power but with that power also came great responsibility.
You see where I have failed you my son will succeed.
Let me walk you through it all, 6990 years ago to this very day the All Father created Omnia and the three kingdoms. Along with it he gave instructions to he’s three highly beloved sons Lucius Micheal and Gabrial to safeguard and protect the realms with three stones known as the trinity stones.
Now these weren’t just any random stones they possessed great great power.
The first Artifact was the Heart or Essence stone. This stone had power over all light and darkness creating perfect balance in the universe.
The second stone was the Blood or Soul stone that could harness the power of any beings soul and fuelled all life forms in the universe, it had power over all DNA and Physical Matter.
And the third stone was called the conduit or spirit stone. It had power over all the Energy Space and Time in the universe.
Now when all three of these ancient Artifacts were placed together in sequence and the right Word of Power where to be uttered they would summon the fourth and greatest Artifact the Omni Stone.
This stone had the power to recreate and duplicate any Force Spiritual and Physical in the universe. Along with it all Matter.
It also gave whoever wielded it the power to be omnipotent.
Now because of its greatness the wise All-Father hid the Omni stone and locked it away using a Secret Scroll.
And it is that very same scroll you are holding in your hand right at this moment son.
Furthermore the oldest of the three brothers Lucius had grown Jealous of his father and greed for the power of the Omni stone lingered in his heart.
As it stands till this day he has become obsessed with finding and wielding its power so much so that he even managed to convince his two brothers to entrust upon him both the Heart and Spirit stones.
As they gave him the two artifacts they suddenly came to realise, unfortunately after it was too late that he has been corrupted with a lust for power and right before telling him the Words of Power spoken in order to activate each stone they simultaneously teleported each to his own unknown secret location.
Are you still with me young man? Yes father only thing I don’t understand is why Lucius would become so corrupt in the first place.
Heldon Replied.
That my son is a mystery untold to this very day...
Now what I'm about to share with you next is crucial to your understanding.
After all of this happened Lucius took the three stones although he could only use the 1 and hid the other 2.
Now because our family bears the trinity seal and have celestial blood running through our vaines even though we are more humanlike or as some call us halfbloods we have been tasked with the responsibility of finding the two hidden stones and use them to overpower Lucius in his mad quest to gain power over the universe and furthermore spawn his own twisted universe by combining the stones and manipulating them with his dark magic.
There is not alot of time left for us to perform our duty and stop him.
But father why didn’t his brothers sort him out when they had the chance?
Lucius is no small foe and I think both his brothers chose love over vengeance.
Besides who are we to judge the nature of the God's.
So now there is only 10 years left before the realms align and the All-Father again creates a new and perfect universe so we have to find all three stones and deliver them to the All-Father.
But Dad one thing I don’t understand is why not just do it himself, i mean the All-Father.
I mean his all powerful why leave it to us puny underlings to do all this for him if he can simply snap his fingers to set things straight.
Heldon's Father stared at him for a few seconds and sighed saying; You see in his benevolence the All-Father gave us the task to prove exactly how non-puny his creation really is.
He didn’t create a faulty creation.
Our Father is proud of his creation and we are a part of that creation.
Besides it has long been told that Lucius sharply ridiculed the lower lifeforms as a waste of time and space and that if he had the power he would of never created lower lifeforms.
This is how he deceived his brothers into believing him and giving him the Spirit and Heart stone in the first place. By letting them believe that all celestial life forms are equal and that the All Father was a controlling dictator that is blinded by power and selfish gain. He told them that if this was not the case then why didn’t the All Father want to distribute his power equally amongst all celestial life forms. Luckily they saw through is cunning schemes and pulled out at the last second although he did manage to corrupt a third of the Celestial army before they came to fully understand what was happening.
So now that you know about the root of evil lets get to your quest. As soon as I speak the Word of Power and open this box you will understand everything I have just mentioned for you will have the spirit guide communicating with you and at the same time receive the power needed to complete your missions and in so doing ultimately your main quest. So are you ready Heldon?
Yes Father im scared but I'll try my best.
You can cast the W.O.P and open it I'm ready.
And with that Heldons Father Spoke the W.O.P.
“Lumanum Extratus”
And immediately the box began to open slowly.
And while opening a strange blueish white light shined out of it.
There before their very eyes the Amulet which was round and had the 3 stones and the trinity symbol engraved on it started levitating towards the scroll which did the same.
As the Amulet touched the symbol on the scroll it suddenly started to open up with a great flash of blueish white electrifying light.
Heldon starts to slowly lift up from the ground as a celestial infusional mixture of wisdom and supernatural power engulfs his very soul in the forms of magnificent light fire and lightning.
In the middle of the transformation Heldon’s shirt gets ripped to shreds and low and behold 2 outlines of platinum and gold wing sockets appear on his upper back under the edge of each shoulder blade.
And at once as he slowly starts to find the ground again two glorious and magnificent white wings appear locked instantly into each of the wing sockets from his back. After he stretched out his wings the two lightning elemental wings suddenly vanished into the dimensional Rift in the wink of an eye.
Wow dad this is amazing i can feel the power flowing through my veins and did you see those huge wings were did they disappear to?
Magnificent, reminds me all too much of when i first received my own set.
I'll explain later son but now I want you to listen carefully as I'm about to tell you where I failed in my final quest.
Dad what happened?
Firstly let me explain to you differences between the main and side quests.
As you will find that you have officially succeeded in completing your first mission you are then automatically levelled up. Each main quest has an array of missions or side quests that ultimately helps you succeed in your main quest.
After each mission you will receive one resurrection for every level you progress.
So you are at level 2 now for completing your first mission in your main quest and for doing so you have been granted an extra life.
Be aware though, just as you will level up the Blood Lords and all other unholy incarnations that follow them also has the ability to level up simply by killing or possessing the innocent so be very careful.
Wow so I have more then one life.
Yes but guard each life as if it's your last because once you fall down to level one you die permanently.
Now let me tell you my story. I was a level 60 Light Rider Mage and went up against Lucius himself in his fortified Castle at Mount Avalon. We slayed each other multiple times until we where both down to level one. I had almost killed him and received the Soul stone when he suddenly cast a time freeze and told me that he had your mother pregnant with you at the time, kidnapped and threatened to have her and the baby killed if I don’t hand over the other two stones.
There was nothing I could do I had no choice so I gave up the two stones in return for you and your mother.
After I failed the All-Father decommissioned me to a life of peace and solitude with my family.
Im really sorry to hear that dad.
Its fine really and im grateful in a way because i got to spend the rest of my life with the ones i loved.
Now lets go outside and see what you can do with your new wings.
As they went outside Heldon asked his father, I dont know how I summoned my wings in the first place they just magically appeared out of no were dad how am i going to do it again this time round?
AlRight so Heldon I want you to close your eyes and visualize your 2 wings in front of you as if they where magically activated already..., Ok here goes nothing! and with an flash of electrifying light they suddenly appeared again attached to the sockets that glowed round is back.
Wow this is sooo amazing dad. So what you saying is i just have to imagine them there and they automatically appear, that’s brilliant.
Yes son we call it activate and deactivate.
Now I want you to deactivate just imagine they are gone son. And boof his wings were gone again in a another flash of radiant light.
'Sweet Grace had a wheel barow' that was so cool dad did you see that, Wow!!!
Yes son, now your wings are not only there for flight they are powerful weapons, if you will look at that oak tree over there. Yes I see it. Now picture your wings again but this time point one wing straight at the tree as fast as you can. Ok here we go. “Whish” and with one swoop out of the front of the wing came 3 razor sharp blades straight into the old oak tree. What the...Heldon stared shocked at what just happened..!?
Pretty great hey son bet you didn’t see that one coming did you Mr Adreanis Chuckled. Now all good and well lets look at some other options, i want you to visualize a enemy attacking you full force then i want you to block with your wings on my say so. And go!!!
As Heldon focused and pulled his wings Infront of him he suddenly to his amazement saw both wings fully covered with a strange platinum and gold metal like substance similar to that of armour.
Wow holy goats cheese thats amazing...
As he was still marvelling at the sight Mrs Adreanis came out to the porch and yelled boy's supper is ready.
Mr Adreanis looked at her and winked as she went back inside as if nothing was going on.
Mom wait, come and look what I've got.
Now Zachary you know I don’t like all this business with you boys playing with weapons in the back yard come inside and eat!
Ok Hun we will be in in just a few almost done for the day.
With that Mrs Adreanis gave a slight grin and shook her head as she went back into the kitchen. Now Heldon your armour is made out of the strongest of steel which is called ethereal steel as is the armour that will go around your body but we will get to that tomorrow young man you heard the lady, supper is ready. Wow dad so there's armour too it just keeps getting better now doesn’t it.
Don’t get to exited yet young man you still have lots to learn.
So now before we go inside there is one last thing i want you to do. I want you to spread your wings horizontally alligned parallel with your shoulders. Now flap your wings against each other above your head as hard as you can on my go ahead. And you might as well reach out with your right hand to where you think the joints of your wings will meet, now are you ready. Yes sir!
Go!!!
“Swoosh!!!”, and with a huge bang, his wings struck as hard and as fast as lightning and were the two joints met formed a double bladed steel sword which converged together from the Ethereal steel armour around his wings.
When he saw it he grabbed the sword by the hilt in his right hand and took it down slowly.
In pure amazement the boy wondered at the magnificent double bladed sword speechlessly.
Ok son now that you know what your wings are capable of I want you to deactivate so we can carry on tomorrow ok it's dark outside and time to retire and go to bed tomorrow you have a big day ahead of you.
Heldon deactivated and everything vanished into thin air.
Still speechless the boy and his father went inside and had supper.
Later that night as Heldon was laying in bed trying to fall asleep he couldn’t stop thinking about all that happened during the day.
He saw himself standing with the sword in his hand and remembered the marble hilt, the 3 sockets one on the back of the hilt the other where the blade met the hilt and the last in the middle of the blade splitting it into 2 separate frontal blades that was formed in the same shape as his platinum and golden wings.
I wonder what the sockets are for what if they are for some sort of artifact or stone? Wait a second I bet you they are for the creation stones.
Heldon found it very hard to fall asleep that night as he could still feel the power of the Scroll of Wisdom surging through his body.
He wrestled a bit and started feeling his eyes grow weary. After laying still for atleast 3 hours pondering about the days events he heard a still small voice speak out his name: “Heldon, follow me” at once the boy was wide awake and sprang up to his feet. Who’s there he asked frighteningly?
Once again the small voice uttered “Heldon follow me”
This time he went upstairs to his parents bedroom. Dad, did you just call me? What! No Heldon we sleeping boy go back to bed and with that he rolled onto his side and slept further.
Now Heldon was confused and even more scared.
What’s happening am I losing my mind in the wee hours of the morning, I could of sworn I heard a voice call out my name. And I can't be dreaming this I really heard it. He thought to himself on his way down the stairs back to bed. This time he didn’t hear the voice again for atleast another hour and thought it to of been hes imagination.
And just as he nearly fell asleep “Heldon will you follow Me?”
The boy pulled the blankets over his head. Maybe it's the All Father. Yes i will Follow you my Lord! He said.
And as he was still speaking he suddenly felt a great joy and immense peace flowing over him like that of waves rushing through his whole being, and with that he was able to sleep sound as a baby.
Early the next morning Mr and Mrs Adreanis was busy preparing breakfast in the kitchen as Heldon woke up from bed. The sun was barely peaking through the cottage window as the scroll of wisdom laying on the window table started to emminate a blueish white aura around it. “Pick up the Scroll Heldon Adreanis” The still small voice commanded. Heldon rose up from bed and walked over to the window. As he stretched out his hand to pick up the scroll a flash of light shimmered past his gaze revealing flashes of the not so distant future mission he was to embark on. A glance of the majestical east peak not so far from their cottage and a cave with Goblins inside then another flash at another goblin but this one was wearing robes like a mage of some sort. Heldon opened the blank scroll to see the words appear on the scroll with a slight delay as of being written right in front of his very eyes. After reading it he went inside into the kitchen area where his dad was already enjoying breakfast, morning folks he said with a smile.
Morning son Mrs. Adreanis replied, your plate is ready on the table dear. Top of the morning young man Mr. Adreanis replied so did you at least have a good night's rest. Yes dad so much happened from then till now I heard our Lord's voice for the first time and the scroll...., Hold your horses young man first let's finish breakfast then you can tell me all about it. Ok dad. Heldon pass me the pepper will you dear Mrs. Adreanis said. Sure Mom here you go. After throwing just a tad of pepper on her eggs Mrs. Adreanis looked at Heldon as he was digging into his breakfast. Young man im going to miss you so so much but i know you have been blessed with favour from on high and that our mighty Lord will take good care of you my boy. Said Mrs. Adreanis. I'm just so worried, its like you grew up so fast and now that you're a man i stand to loose you the same way i lost your father many years ago when he first got chosen. Now now dear Mr Adreanis interrupted. There's nothing to worry about our boy is in good hands.
Chapter 2
The Gauntlets of Faith.
Steady...Steady...stay back Heldon this Eagle might be dangerous!? No dad it probably just got hurt somehow and is taking a rest in our back yard i cant see any danger from where I'm standing. Ok easy boy... easy now... Mr Adreanis said as he slowly approached the glorious and great big bird. Hey Dad look it's got something on one of its claws it looks like a piece of paper of some sort. Yes i see that Heldon just one more step gotcha!!! With one big leap Mr Adreanis jumped into action catching the magnificent bird with a net he managed to pick up that was laying around in the yard. Slowly he started petting the wild animal which gave him quit the wrestle before it started to calm down. There we go...Easy boy Mr Adreanis said calmly to the beautiful bird.
Now let's see what you've got there wrapped around you leg Mr Eagle?
Heldon was still busy admiring the majestic bird and started walking closer slowly but surely. Wow what a huge Bird she is dad I've never seen one this close before Heldon said as Mr Adreanis got hold of the small message wrapped around the huge birds leg.
Once he got it he slowly removed the net and let the Eagle back to into the wild. And with one great flap of its wings the great big bird was off.
What does it say Dad?
Hold on now boy Mr Adreanis opened it and it read the following:
From the Soltari Clan.
The following is a message to the Light Rider called Heldon Adreanis from the Adreanis Clan.
My name is Velentia Soltari i am daughter to the only King known to our region.
I have been assigned by the Celestial known as 'Ruagh'.
I am to be commissioned on the Quest for the search and procurement of the 3 creation stones and that I am to aid and assist the Light Rider known as Heldon Adreanis with this monumental quest.
I have agreed to render my services and will be arriving at you destination via spacecraft with my personal aid and pilot Mr Dozer before nightfall.
Regards Velentia."
That sounds like the Help 'Ruagh' was talking about. Heldon said.
Yes son although I have never witnessed a eagle being sent as a messenger from the Clans before strange way of Communicating but efficient non the less.
Come on dad she is a princess after all isn't she so i wouldn't expect any less from royalty if you know what i mean.
I can imagine my boy.
Now we still have the rest of the day to finish up with the basics as you will need the help of a master to teach you everything you need to know about being a light Rider son and as I've said before i haven't been commissioned for a very long time so my lack of knowledge is limited.
Sure thing Dad I understand.
Now what did you read on the Scroll?
Oh yes dad my first mission and I don't know whether i must be scared or happy but here goes.
Heldon took out the Scroll and opened it.
It Read as Follows:
To Heldon Adreanis of the Adreanis Clan.
Do not fear and do not be dismayed, for the Lord of Light and truth is with you and have granted you all that is needed to be victorious!
Young Light Rider following in your father's footsteps i have assigned you on this wonderful and yet dangerous mission of which I have full confidence in your successful return.
You are to find the fourth piece of my holy armour the Guantlets of Faith i have assigned to you within the Goblins den in the East peak of the twin peaks.
Beware as the notoriouse leader of the Goblins is a mage leveled 4 and had a duplicity enchantment that allows him to split his soul into four different parts and posesing his fellow Goblins 4 at a time.
His weakness lies in the fact that he can't teleport to a safe destination once the enchantment has been activated after his been slain. So best would be to destroy his original body simultaneously along with whomever he has possessed with his enchantment and his soul will be delivered straight to the hell from where it has come from.
In achieving your mission you will break the soul lock which will in turn teleport the Gauntlets safely into your hands.
With all 4 pieces of Armour you will achieve greatness beyond measure and be more than able to take on Lucius' Bloodlords in search of the Creations stones.
Remember I am on your side and with you every step of the way my son so take heart and be very courageous.
With Love and Light
The All Father."
After reading it out loud to his father Heldon sighed and seemed somewhat dismayed by it all.
Now then son I know you very well and I know when you're troubled young man tell me what's eating at you?
Dad i have never killed anyone or anything before in my Life what if i fail…?
Son the fate of the universe is at stake and i know that doesn't really help i get it but just remember that the All father chose you for a reason and just the same way he was with me he will be with you also so now it's just a matter of allowing yourself to trust in him and fully surrender yourself to his will in blind faith and trust me son you will see the miraculous happen, just have faith.
Ok dad I feel a bit better now that you put it like that thank you.
Just remember son it is both a great honour and responsibility to serve our Lord the All Father King of Light and Truth. He will surely not send you if he didn't think you won't succeed.
Yes dad I do believe and know I'll succeed, now I want to ask you about the myoptrix amulet what does it do exactly? The myoptrix is a telepathic ruine stone devised by the ancient nepheline druids as a tool to enter into either foe or friends mind. Ever hear the ancient celestial proverb that says "One can only ever truly win the battle firstly in the mind and then on the battlefield!" Well this device will ensure both.
See what it does is it gives you the ability to telepathically create battle scenarios in your enemies mind giving you the upper hand as you will be able to sense and anticipate his every move before he even makes it next and in so doing you can the block or counter-attack at the same time. This method will immediately discourage your opponent demoralising him and allowing you to strike deadly fear into your adversary before you have even engaged them in battle. Using this devise give you a 100% success rate in any battle against any foe unless they have any similar magical Artifacts or enchantments that will counter your spell. That is such a cheat dad so ill basically be battling my enemies telepathically instead of in reality but what happens if the enemy is more cunning then me or at a higher level then me will i still win the fight? That depends son entirely up to you just remember you will have full access to all his thoughts memories and emotions without him being able to intercept you so creativity is you biggest weapon to use against you opponent as this will most like subdue them way quicker and easier. Lets take for example you use it against the Goblins and their shaman the lover level Goblins will give in way more easily but the level 4 shaman will most likely have some kind of resistance against your telepathic attack. So instead or going ahead and continuing the attack use his weakness' and biggest fears against him in a scenario created to your favor. And if he still finds a way of overcoming your battle prediction mentally then swoop in with a surprise physical attack. That normally melts them down despite of their resistance or power levels. Oh all right i can see where you going with this dad so is there anything else i need to know about the myoptrix? Yes you will also be able to inflict either pain to your opponents or healing to your allies depending on their individual levels. For instance you can stun and paralyze your enemies as long as the are the same level or on a lessor level then you but not higher. The same principle applies to the healing of your foes. But dad you sharing all of this with me is supposed to help me right but instead i still feel fear and doubt but why? I mean these are incredible weapons such as i could of never dreamed of or imagined how come i still find myself in doubt?
Son just remember this is all still very new to you and sudden so nobody is expecting you to succeed at your first try but you felt the power of the most high coursing through your veins yesterday know let me ask you wouldnt' you think that our Great All Father wont only give you his almighty power but at the same time give you all the ways necessary to achieve his will. And i say again this is where blind faith steps in you have to establish trust with the all father and unfortunately trial by error is the only way you will be able to do this my son. The very same emotions flooded me when i went on my first battle mission but learning from my mistakes and allowing the All Father the room needed to display his Mighty Power transformed my fear into courage son.
I hear you dad i guess im going to have to fake it till i make it right? chuckles'
Yes my son you are. Now we are almost done with the myoptrix, the last great power the ancient Amulet will provide you with is Level Cloning. What!? Heldon asked surprised...whats Level Cloning dad. Well depending on your level you will have the ability to subdue more then one opponent for each level you are at and at the moment you are at level 2 right? Yeah i guess so Heldon replied. Well my advise will be to use this to your advantage by subduing two of his possessed lower level minions with pain will focusing on the big fish in order to even the playing field a but.
Ok wait a second dad i think i get what your trying to tell me but just one thing though how on earth will i be able to focus on more then one opponent at the sane time i mean isn't that humanly impossible?
Indeed it is son but not for the myoptrix its not, see what will happen is the myoptrix will create a virtual memory bank and metal capacitor for each life you have by means of drawing the extra power needed from each life's life force. In other words it will clone and split your mental capacity for each and every life you have corresponding to your current level.
Oooh Kkkk' that sounds pretty far fetched if you ask me but ill buy it; "chuckles…¿"
Mr Adreanis laughs out loud for a bit then continues. Trust me son this can all happen as i have not only used the myoptrix in countless battles but achieved great success with it or how do you think i was able to locate and retrieve both the creation stones that Lucius had hid and heavily guarded for the past 6k years…? Uhm not really sure i can answer that Dad but i guess your right and i trust your word its just so unbelievable isn't it all i mean just about a week ago I was still milking cows and tending sheep and know im about to go full on sci fi on a Goblin shaman for crying out loud. Forgive me for the sarcastic humour guess its just my way of making sense of it all. No need to apologize son its all understandable.
TO BE CONTINUED...
THE ARRANGEMENT OF THE ELEMENTS
The first to mention it was a friend of a friend. Lucy was skeptical, to say the least. Truly, it sounded almost shameful, almost sordid. She must have grimaced, for the friend of a friend added quickly,
“I know how strange it sounds. But I’ve heard that their…” She handpicked her words carefully. “System is one of the healthiest for the bereaved. And, I mean, you know, you have to do what works for you.”
“Right, right.” Lucy nodded, but slunk away feeling nauseous.
Two weeks later, the company’s ad materialized at the edge of her computer screen, the text bold and unmistakable against swaths of pastel blue and yellow. The following week, the op-ed in her favorite magazine was authored by a proud user of the service. At last, unable to resist the pull of fate, or luck, or desperation, Lucy hunted out the website. Like the ads, the website was a patchwork of softened shades, comfort colors, as if the platform ought, really, to belong to a greeting card company or publisher of Christian fiction. But no— “Ross & Co. Living Memorials” marched across the top of the page, the text black as a mourning ribbon. She would return to the website dozens of times over the next few days, meticulously clicking through the pages. The success stories riveted her. Those families, those parents and spouses and siblings, smiling stiffly for the camera, riveted her. She recognized the numbness, the dullness in their eyes. But, then too, she saw an unfamiliar kind of hope or, at the very least, unexpected relief. And she lusted after that relief.
She brought it up at dinner.
“Stephen,” she began, her voice barely audible over the hiss of forks against their plates. They never raised their voices now, as if afraid to break the silence, their last defense. Stephen looked up from his plate. “Have you… heard about these new, um, living memorials?”
“Uh, yeah.” His eyes dropped back to his meal. “I’ve heard a little.”
“And? What do you think?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean what do you think.”
“For us?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“What good would it do?” His voice was hollow.
“I… I don’t know. I was just thinking about it. I just feel like we need to try something, you know?” Stephen shrugged.
“I think it just takes time.”
“That’s what everyone says,” she countered.
“I know.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know, Lucy.” Stephen let his fork clatter, then rest, against his plate. He raked his fingers through the coarse hair at his temples. Lucy nodded, though he was no longer looking at her. She took a bite of potato, tasting nothing. Stephen cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he added, picking up his fork again, “I wouldn’t feel right letting some stranger… well, that would make me sick.” He shook his head, hating even to think of such a horrific intrusion.
“I’m sure it’s not the way you’re imagining,” Lucy said softly.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either. I just know— well, I don’t know anything.” Bracing her palms against the edge of the table, Lucy pushed herself to her feet. She moved into the kitchen. Without turning on the light, she piled her uneaten food in the same shallow Tupperware container she’d retrieved it from an hour ago. She still wasn’t used to cooking for two.
Part 2
Even Stephen could not be sure of the turning point. Perhaps it was the silent, crushing passage of the four-month mark. Perhaps it was the afternoon his school pictures came in. Laura— she had never disappeared, even after the breakup— dropped them off at the house, her cheeks shining with tears. Perhaps, like Lucy, it was the incessant echo of his own grief in the cathedral of his chest. In any case, he slipped into bed beside Lucy one night with a new feeling of determination or, if not quite that, then resignation. They are not, in the end, dissimilar. He looked over at his wife in the soft lamplight.
“I think you’re right,” he said simply, “I think we should try. Ross & Co.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re sure. You know how much it costs and— “
“I know. I checked the website. We should try.”
“Okay.” Lucy squeezed the familiar shape of his hand under the quilt.
They sat down together the next afternoon, Lucy’s laptop between them on the kitchen counter, and completed the initial form. It was long— longer than they had anticipated— but they waded through it dutifully, weighing each question. They uploaded a photo— his school picture.
“He took a good one this year,” Stephen noted, his voice catching in the back of his throat.
“Yes. Yes.” Lucy swept tears from her eyes. No one will be able to get the smile right, she thought. She gripped the sides of the bar stool to keep her hands from shaking. Stephen brushed her whitening knuckles with his, then wordlessly sent off the form. Lucy received the email that evening, including a confirmation of their registration and deposit, along with a PDF instruction packet. They were to write a script and choose a template outfit for their audition.
“Oh, Jesus,” Stephen groaned, rubbing his eyes.
“We won’t do this tonight,” Lucy assured, easing her laptop shut. Stephen nodded.
“Do we have anything to eat?”
“Shit. No,” Lucy sighed. They ate cereal. Lucy let hers fade to mush in the bowl, all the while silently loathing the horrible crunch, crunch as Stephen ate. It reminded her only of cracking dishes or bones.
In the morning, Lucy slept until long after Stephen left for work. In the quiet of the house, she carried her coffee up to Jay’s room. She had work to do, of course, but it would wait. Cupping her mug between her palms, she eased herself down to sit on the carpet in the exact place the sunlight would have pooled had she opened the heavy curtains. She was intuitively familiar with this room. She understood the ways in which each object occupied space. She caught his smell, present but fading. She knew almost by heart which books stood in formation along the shelves, and which towered in vaguely ordered stacks near the bed. These were reminiscent, she had always thought, of a kind of fortress. We find protection where we can. Lucy gazed around the room, bewildered and unutterably alone. She closed her eyes for a moment against everything, then pushed herself off the floor. She slipped across the worn carpet to his desk. It was chaos— they hadn’t touched it. Papers, books, pens lay scattered across the desk, mysterious markers of his trains of thought. How could they write a script? How could they give him a voice again? She was out of practice; he hadn’t needed her to speak for him in years, not since he had finally forced himself to order his own meals at restaurants. That threshold hurdled, he had proved unalterably independent. As she had always told him, he was a Force all his own. She wasn’t sure exactly what she meant by that, nor exactly how she had dreamed up the phrase. Its origins could be traced back to the depths of his Star Wars obsession, she guessed. Regardless of clarity or origin, the phrase remained one of the few truths she clung to. He was a Force all his own. Perhaps it would be best to use some of his own writing— a poem, a story, an essay, even. That would mean rifling through his notebooks, of course. The notebooks he protected with such ferocity. But she could not think of another honest way.
When Stephen returned home, she proposed her idea.
“He didn’t share his writing enough,” she insisted. “And he was just such an artist! You know?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stephen agreed, rubbing absentmindedly at the beginnings of his beard. “That sounds good.”
“Okay. Do you want to go look now?” Lucy gestured up towards the room.
“No— let’s wait a bit.” Stephen fell back into the couch, pulled down as if by a physical weight. Lucy’s fingers drummed against her knee. She was tempted to feed him cereal again, just for this, just for forcing her to wait. But, instead, she heated up a can of soup and split it between them. Stephen added nearly-stale crackers to his bowl— again, the obscene crunch, crunch, crunch.
They slipped up to Jay’s room after their makeshift dinner. Lucy wordlessly moved toward the desk. Stephen hesitated in the doorway, his hands gripping the frame. Unlike Lucy, he had avoided this room. Sometimes, ghosts take the forms of empty beds, desk chairs, closed doors. Lucy glanced over her shoulder, then nodded in the direction of the closet.
“Do you want to start on the outfit?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Stephen choked out. He cleared his throat, then crept timidly to the closed closet. Lucy returned her attention to the desk. On the far corner stood a short stack of notebooks, leather bound. He had collected them over years of birthdays, holidays, garage sales. Lucy let her fingertips graze the parallel spines. Those near the top were worn, discolored, even cracking at the edges. Those buried at the bottom were pristine. Untouched. She blinked back tears before gently scooping up the well-used notebooks from the peak. She cradled them against her chest. The mingling sweet and sharp scents of leather, paper, ink would always belong to him, she was sure. Lucy lowered herself to the carpet, balancing the books in her lap. The first opened easily— practically burst open at her touch. She had almost forgotten how beautiful his handwriting was, the way is danced and writhed across the page, too lovely to be fully legible. She traced the path of the letters with her fingertip, mapping where his pen had wandered down the page. The lines were rarely straight. Instead, they flowed, up and down, back and forth, ubiquitous as water, as memory.
“Lucy?” Stephen interrupted quietly. Lucy turned her head. He held a pair of dark jeans in one hand, an old Nirvana t-shirt, the logo fading and wrinkled, in the other. He held the clothes so gently— fearful or reverent. Lucy bit her lip.
“The jeans are fine. But he stopped wearing that shirt a while ago.”
“Oh.” Stephen laid the jeans on the unmade— always unmade— bed, then returned to the closet.
“Look near the front,” Lucy suggested, “On the shelf.” A minute later, Stephen emerged with the soft gray t-shirt, a spattering of flowers or perhaps stars (even Jay had never quite decided which) across one shoulder.
“He wore this one all the time,” Stephen noted, half defensive, half tender. His voice was rough with emotion. Even touching the fabric, he felt that Jay must be close— at school, in the next room, even. Lucy swallowed hard.
“Yes.” She nodded gently. Stephen laid the shirt across the jeans and moved over to Lucy. She tapped the space on the carpet beside her. Stephen gripped her shoulder for support and jolted down to the ground with effort. The last few months had aged him in a way neither of them had expected. Lucy and Stephen flipped through the notebooks, occasionally pointing out a passage or a line. Both were shocked, even hurt; so much of it was dark, colored by the loneliness and anger they had only glimpsed while he was alive. Sometimes, teenaged angst is not teenaged angst, but a kind of addiction— to loneliness, to fear, to the unknown. Sometimes. Lucy’s entire body trembled. Stephen laid a hand on her arm.
“Should we take a break?” he whispered. Lucy shook her head, steadied herself against Stephen’s shoulder.
“I won’t be able to come back if I walk away now,” she said.
It was Stephen who finally found the poem, nestled in the center of a full book.
“Lucy, look at this one.” His face glowed with a kind of pride, of awe. Lucy read through it once, twice.
“It’s perfect,” she breathed, “It’s perfect, Stephen.”
“Yeah? I think so, too.”
“Alright— so we’re ready,” Lucy said quietly, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. They carried the clothes and notebook downstairs, left them, lovingly arranged, in the center of the kitchen table. Lucy called the next morning to schedule the audition.
Part 3
The first audition, Lucy was sure, almost broke them, almost ended everything. The boy was too young, too thin. His lips moved clumsily around Jay’s words— it was so like blasphemy. Stephen felt a similar sense of horror. His gaze swiveled back and forth between the actor and their facilitator, introduced simply as Linda, as if he would identify the traitor.
The boy finished, bobbed his head in acknowledgement, and slipped out of the room like smoke.
“So,” Linda turned towards them, eagerness carefully masked by a practiced, professional gravity, “Thoughts? Critiques?” Lucy and Stephen looked at one another, helpless.
“He just didn’t have the right… energy,” Lucy fumbled.
“Jay was so passionate. He really— really filled a room,” Stephen added. “I hope that’s helpful.”
“Yes, yes. Thank you for your feedback.” Linda scratched out a few notes. “Next, please,” she called toward the closed door. Lucy and Stephen endured the next four auditions in near silence. Stephen leaned back into the couch cushions, rigid and still. This was a mistake, he thought. I was right the first time, to say no. Lucy has to know, now. Lucy was restless, always shifting the position of her legs, adjusting her clothes, as if in physical discomfort. And all the while, her hands shook. She wanted to reach for Stephen, to steady herself against the curve of his ribcage. But she knew that look, that set of his jaw. She dug her fingers into the arm of the couch and waited quietly.
“Nearing the end, now,” Linda intoned. “Just a few more. Next, please.” He entered with a stride more like a swagger. Lucy met his eye, and her breath caught in her throat. Beside her, she felt Stephen stir, lean forward. Yes, he saw it, too. It was in the eyes, the almost fragile slope of the jaw. The actor looked down at them with a smile they could easily forget was constructed, rehearsed. He cleared his throat before turning his attention to the script in his hand. Neither Lucy nor Stephen had thought it possible. They were overwhelmed by it— the simplicity and perfection of it. Both sat riveted, feeling each word and gesture. Stephen’s jaw trembled, softened. He hadn’t thought it possible. Lucy’s hands lay nestled, perfectly still, in her lap. She hadn’t thought it possible.
He reached the end of the script too soon— they could have listened for hours, unconsciously imagining the voice belonged to Jay— and, with another smile, strode out.
“So?” Linda queried. Stephen glanced at Lucy.
“The eyes…” he murmured, gesturing vaguely at his own.
“Yes, yes. And so much passion,” Lucy added, her voice soft and serious. “It was… it was wonderful.”
“Yes, he is one of our most promising additions.” Linda smiled, almost as relieved as Lucy and Stephen. “So, would you like to see more, or do you feel like… he’s the one?”
“I think…” Lucy began. She glanced at Stephen. His eyes were crystalline with tears.
“I think this is it. I think we have to do it,” he finished, nodding.
“Yes, it’s best to be decisive about these things,” Linda agreed. “It’s just a feeling. So, should I go ahead and draw up a contract and payment plan?”
“Yes, please,” Lucy urged, her chest tight with the excitement and fear of the thing.
“Perfect! Our premium package is a bi-monthly payment of $3,600. That package includes complete control over wardrobe and scripting, along with the allotted 75 hours of face-to-face interaction per month. Those details will be handled entirely through our online system— I’m sure you’ll find it simple enough, once you get the hang of it.”
“I’m sorry,” Lucy jumped in, “But I thought I read about a different— uh, package on your website. Something… simpler.” She was hesitant to say cheaper.
“We don’t necessarily need to be in charge of scripting and all that,” Stephen added. Just constructing the audition script had left he and Lucy battered and drained, like two survivors of the same shipwreck.
“Ah, that must have been our standard package,” Linda responded calmly. “I really don’t recommend it to any of my clients. To be perfectly honest, we’ll likely phase out the standard option in the coming months. Our premium just allows the families so much more autonomy, as well as more one-on-one time. We find the premium far more conducive to real healing.” She appeared to have given this speech before. “And I should mention that scripting can be delegated to our staff, if you so choose. We’re proud to have top- notch writers available 24/7. With the premium package, you’ll have the option to proofread and edit all scripts and preparatory notes. I think you’ll find the whole process quite straightforward. You’ll complete edits at the beginning of every month, along with your normal scheduling.” Linda looked at them brightly, expectantly. Lucy glanced over at Stephen again.
“Yes, alright,” she said uncertainly. “That sounds good to me.” Stephen nodded, almost grimly, in agreement.
“I know it can be overwhelming.” Linda deftly rearranged her papers. “But, believe me, my staff and I will be with you every step of the way. You can expect an email within the next day or two.” She rose smoothly to her feet. Extending her hand to Stephen, then Lucy, she added, “I’m so glad to be working with you. Thank you for including Ross & Co. in your healing process.” Evidently, grieving was excluded from the corporate vocabulary. Too grim, perhaps.
“Thank you for your time. I’ll show you out,” Stephen offered. The two exited, and Lucy collapsed onto the couch. The room was soft with afternoon light. It had been days since the sun had shown itself— or perhaps just days since she had noticed it. She tended to miss such things these days. Grief, after all, is not the loss of one thing, but the temporary loss of all things. Grief is empathy for the dead themselves— or for the nonexistent, for the never, for the nothing.
“Lucy?” Stephen stood in the doorway, observing her now familiar expression. He knew that, tonight, she would crawl into bed early, but would not fall asleep until the first morning hours. Lucy looked up, startled.
“I’m so glad,” she assured him, gesturing to the place the actor had stood.
“Yes, I am, too.” Stephen moved across the room to sit beside her. “I think this is the best thing for us.” Lucy nodded, her eyes soft.
“I think it’s the only thing for us.”
“Yes. You’re probably right.” At the very least, there would be something to interrupt the quiet. Anything would be better than this silent, sunlit house.
Part 4
As Stephen had predicted, Lucy slept poorly. She was restless, too, the following morning. Once alone in the house, she wandered from room to room like one of the phantoms in the stories she and Jay used to pass back and forth across the table, under the armor of his quilt. That, of course, was when he was young. When Lucy could still be his shelter. Before he had ghosts of his own.
She decided, as she moved from room to room, that the house could stand a thorough cleaning. Maybe she would enlist Stephen’s help this weekend. Maybe. But, probably, she wouldn’t mention it— and neither would he. Both had proven adept at living with and within discomfort, indignity, petty miseries. Grief, after all, is not the loss of one thing, but the temporary loss of all things.
At ten-thirty, she found herself curled up in one corner of the couch. She balanced her laptop on the plump arm, honestly intending to work. Instead, she composed a mass email. Her family would have to be told, one way or another, and the occasion warranted the heft and finality of an email.
“If anyone wishes to schedule a visit, we’d be more than happy to have you,” she concluded. “Love, Lucy.” She included a link to the Ross & Co. website, then sent it off. She sent the same email to Laura— though she wasn’t sure Laura would actually check her email. The moment she closed her laptop, her phone chirped. She glanced at it hesitantly, the way one would watch the gut-wrenching progress of a snake across the yard. Beth had started a group text, and, characteristically, included every member of the family she could recall— some of whom Lucy didn’t even have in her contacts.
“This is a big step, Lucy,” Beth’s message read. A flock of messages soon joined hers.
“Jesus, Beth,” Lucy muttered. She flipped her phone to silent and tossed it to the other end of the couch. Now, at least, its buzzing was faint, sporadic. Feeling safe— or simply invisible— Lucy turned her face toward the soft, slightly musty fabric of the couch cushion. She was asleep in minutes.
Part 5
According to the schedule they’d arranged, he would begin on July 1. Lucy and Stephen sat up together the night before, obsessively scrolling through the script.
“Seems straightforward enough,” Stephen noted, more to reassure himself than anything else. “He’s got some guiding notes, some key lines. We just say… whatever— and he just runs with it.”
“Looks like it,” Lucy agreed, clutching the sides of the laptop with the desperation of the newly dead.
“What clothes did we give them, again?” Stephen asked. That seemed, to Lucy, irrelevant. But he always chattered when he was nervous. He had done so just before the funeral, too, droning endlessly about the weather and the flowers.
“We boxed up almost everything, remember? We decided to just let their wardrobe people handle everything.”
“Right, right. They just needed a template to go off of, I guess. We get the clothes back,” Stephen mumbled, vaguely trailing his own thoughts. He had read, once, the story of Russian monks fleeing their ancient monasteries, crazed with their fear of Napoleon’s approaching forces. They had piled their beloved relics into donkey carts, as they had seen farmers pile vegetables, still dark with soil. Stephen imagined that his pain, sending off his son’s clothes, could not have been dissimilar from that of the Russian monks. He knew what it meant to perform sacrilege for the sake of a greater devotion.
“You’re right,” Lucy said, her eyes still on the laptop screen.
“Hmm. Should we get some sleep?”
“Uh… I’m just going to read through the script one more time. But, yeah, you should sleep.” Lucy flipped off the light. Stephen rolled every so slightly away from her, pulling the quilt taught across her lap. Lucy maintained her grip on the laptop. Her thin fingers looked almost ghostly in the brittle light of the screen.
The next afternoon, Stephen left work early. It was not as if the machinery of the run-of-the-mill insurance company would crumble without him. Even more than that, Stephen’s boss proved malleable— or, more correctly, helpless— in the face of Stephen’s overwhelming loss. He granted Stephen any reckless kindness he could. Consequently, Stephen slipped out of the office almost two hours early. He came home to find Lucy in a fragile state of near-panic. She stood in the kitchen, decisively pulling the various components of that night’s dinner from the cabinets and fridge. Boxes and jars slowly collected on the spotless countertop.
“Woah, Lucy,” Stephen interjected gently, “Aren’t we just doing spaghetti?”
“Yep,” she said, her eyes relentlessly scanning the kitchen. She refused to forget the smallest detail. She had cleaned every visible surface twice— even scrubbed down the interior of the fridge, nearly wild with disuse. “You know,” she added, “We should un-set the table. I would never set the table this early.” She was slowly, painstakingly recalling how to fulfill her role, how to inhabit the shell of her life. Lucy and Stephen moved to the kitchen table, stacked the plates and forks, and returned them to their nests in the drawers. “Yes. Better,” Lucy said, her face stiff with concentration.
“You look nice,” Stephen slipped in, noticing for the first time the jeans and purple sweater he hadn’t seen in months.
“Thank you.” Lucy jerked her hair back into a low knot, as she would have done— no, as she did— when cooking.
“What time is he coming?”
“Jay gets home at four,” Lucy tested tentatively, wondering if the words would hold the weight of all their hope and hopelessness. “So, I was thinking an early dinner— around five— then maybe a movie.”
“Sounds good to me. I’m gonna change.” Stephen slipped out of the room. Lucy completed a second inventory of her ingredients, then her cooking utensils. As with any miracle, the presence and placement of the elements is quintessential. A minute later, Stephen returned, softened by a t-shirt and loose jeans. He paused in the doorway, gazed around the room, mystified.
“What should I be doing?” he said, as if to himself. Lucy understood instantly.
“Well, you were usually in your study…” Stephen looked up at her, his eyes steely. He intuitively understood the accusation.
“I didn’t spend that much time in my study, Lucy. Besides, I want to be here to see him.” He turned, scanning the living room, too. “Family time,” he added vaguely.
“Sit on the couch, then,” Lucy suggested. “Grab a book.” She turned away, searching for her own task. Her eyes slid to the sink. Dishes. She could envision herself washing dishes, could imagine the precise and sure movements of her hands as she dressed and undressed dishes with sheets of downy suds. Yes, dishes.
As the hands of the clock slunk towards four o’ clock, Lucy and Stephen arranged themselves in their chosen positions. Stephen stumbled over the choice of book. He, too, felt the necessity of arranging the elements mindfully. Lucy pulled clean dishes from her shelves and stacked them carefully beside the sink to wash again. She would have plenty to occupy her hands. They heard the scrape of the newly-made key in the lock at the same moment. Two hearts tripped, then beat with fresh ferocity. Stephen, impossibly rigid, jerked open his hardback novel. Lucy plunged a plate beneath the ribbon of water. She felt truly sick with fear and longing. The front door opened, closed. She imagined she could hear each measured step in the front hall. She heard him, first, in the living room.
“Hey, Dad. Was work okay?” Tears rushed to her eyes.
“Hey. Yeah… work was good,” Stephen’s voice was rough, raw. “How was school?”
“Fine.” Lucy blinked back her tears and quickly cleared her throat. “Hey, Mom.” She whirled around. He stood in the doorway, smiling like they had an infinity of private jokes between them.
“Hi,” Lucy quavered. He glanced at the counter, raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve been busy,” he teased gently. “Is there a banquet or food bank I should know about?” Lucy coughed out a laugh. That did truly sound like him.
“We’re… we’re having pasta,” was all she could think to say.
“Nice. Can I make the sauce?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Yours is the best.” That was true, too. All of it, in a way, was true. He slipped around the counter, carefully pulled out the ingredients he needed.
“Can I use this pot, Mom?”
“Yep. Sure.” Stephen wandered into the kitchen, looking a little stunned.
“Uh… anything I can do to help?” he offered.
“Um, yeah. Could you grab the basil?” Stephen nodded. He fumbled through the spice drawer for a moment, then slid the little bottle of basil across the counter. “Thanks, Dad.”
“No problem.” Stephen glanced around for another job. Finding none, he hung awkwardly at the far end of the counter. Lucy remained rooted in place, the small of her back against the sink. Stephen and Lucy studied Jay— what else were they to call him? — mesmerized. Lucy watched the way he sliced vegetables, gently, tenderly, as if a blade had never been used for anything but this art form. Stephen caught her eye and shook his head almost imperceptibly, warning her. Yes, don’t get greedy, she thought. She forced herself to turn back to the dishes.
“Should I set the table?” Stephen asked, still eager for something to occupy his hands.
“Sure,” Lucy answered. “We’ll use the blue and white plates.”
They sat down to dinner a little later than Lucy had anticipated, with steaming plates of spaghetti.
“So, tell us about school,” Lucy prompted, spinning her fork slowly through the thick strands of pasta.
“It was good. Laura is trying to organize this student literary event thing. She wants a few of us to read something of our own. I think I’ll do it.”
“That sounds great!” Stephen chimed in, his voice unnaturally loud. He ground his teeth, almost angry with himself.
“Really, it does,” Lucy agreed, forcing a smile, “I think it’s so important that you share your writing. You’re very talented.” He shrugged.
“Thanks, Mom. We’ll see.” That was so like him, too, desperate for the spotlight until he had it. Lucy fought to remember the other talking points from the script. Stephen jumped in first, asking,
“So, do you still like that global affairs class?”
“Oh, yeah. Best class by far. We’re talking about the war in Iraq right now.”
“Heavy stuff,” Stephen commented. Jay nodded.
“Hegemony, am I right?” He hid a half-smile behind a bite of spaghetti.
“Well, now,” Stephen began, unable to hold back, even now.
“Stephen,” Lucy warned gently. He looked across the table at her, nodded, and swallowed his commentary.
“Sorry, Dad,” Jay offered. Lucy and Stephen started; neither had ever heard those two words side by side.
“You don’t have to apologize,” Stephen assured him, his face suddenly so deeply earnest he appeared scared. Lucy wanted to reach for his hand but resisted for reasons she didn’t fully understand.
“Are you thinking you’ll try out for basketball next season?” she asked, more as an act of generosity toward Stephen than anything else. He had been heartbroken to the point of ferocity when Jay quit the team.
“You should really consider it,” Stephen pushed in. “Senior year and all.” He knew he was still stiff, still unsure. But he could also feel the pull of the words, the rhythm of the day-to-day. Lucy let Stephen and Jay jabber back and forth about basketball. She gazed down at her nearly untouched plate. The sauce, she realized, was just barely short of complete. What was it? Oregano. Jay always used oregano. She bit down on her bottom lip.
“Mom?”
“Yes?” she said, looking up quickly. “Sorry.”
“You’re fine. I just asked how work was going.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I’m just doing a basic re-design for this baby food company’s website. It’s really… really atrocious.” She forced a short laugh. Jay and Stephen smiled. The absence of oregano, she reflected, was such a small price to pay. To weigh one absence against the other left no question.
Part 6
They gradually lost themselves in the rhythm. Lucy and Stephen allowed their lives to be reshaped, remolded, around Jay’s arrivals and furtive departures. (He was generous; he always slipped out just after they had settled into bed. He was quiet, too— so quiet that Lucy could almost persuade herself that he hadn’t left at all. (No, she didn’t hear the gentle groan of the front door. No, she didn’t hear the car pull away.) During his absences— sometimes a day, sometimes a handful of days— Stephen and Lucy lived like imposters in their own home. Without thinking of it, they passed the days in near silence, as if hoping to omit the empty days completely. Lucy found herself reluctant to cook, to clean, to disturb the stillness of the house in any way. Stephen was the same. He would elect to wear the slightly oversized or undersized clothes that hadn’t crossed his mind in years rather than rouse the washing machine. Had they paused to reflect, both would have recognized their neurosis— or, at the very least, the neurosis of the other. But they didn’t think, let alone speak, of these omissions, these petty humiliations.
It was on one such day that Lucy received Laura’s text. Even the chirp of her phone was jarring.
“Stephen,” Lucy said, her voice unnecessarily low. Stephen looked up, bewildered to hear his wife’s voice. “Laura wants to have dinner with us and Jay.”
“Oh.” Stephen nodded slowly. He had all but forgotten that the life they’d constructed could be in any way touched by the outside world. “I don’t see why not. Check the calendar.” Lucy clicked through her email, scrolled through the scrupulously neat September schedule. The thought of sharing their allotted hours sent a bolt of panic through Lucy’s chest. But, she reminded herself, this was Laura. Jay’s Laura. Laura, whose flesh, in the weeks following the death, had melted from her bones, as if her grief were physically crushing her. Laura, who was only now beginning to gain back the weight she had lost.
“Next Thursday?”
“Sure.”
“Jay and I can make stir fry,” Lucy offered. The arrangement of the elements…
“Nice. It’s been a while.”
The following Thursday, as promised, Jay and Lucy hunted out the broad pan and cooked stir fry over an ecstatic flame. They hovered, side by side, marveling together at the harmony of colors and textures.
“It looks fantastic, Mom,” Jay said through a smile.
“Smells good, too.” Lucy wiped her hands on a towel, squeezing the rough cloth tightly. She hoped she was hiding her nerves well. The doorbell chimed.
“Want me to get it?” Jay offered.
“I got it,” Stephen called from the living room. “Don’t want to distract the master chefs.” He carefully arranged his smile as he moved to the front door. “Hey, Laura.”
“Hi. How are you?” Laura managed. She stepped into the hall. She was sure that her terror was written across her face— eyes wide, jaw tight.
“Good,” Stephen said gently. “You?” He touched the rigid peak of her shoulder lightly, unsure how to calm her.
“I’m fine.” Stephen nodded, then turned and led the way to the kitchen. He stepped ever so slightly to one side— and Laura caught sight of Jay behind a silk curtain of steam. Her breath tangled in the back of her throat, burst out of her mouth in audible gusts.
“Hey, Laur,” Jay greeted her, his smile steady.
“He— hey.”
“Have a seat,” he waved his arm in the direction of the table. Laura stumbled to the closest chair. She turned her head away from Jay, unspeakably afraid to look too closely or too long. The eyes…
“We’re having stir fry,” Lucy announced with a gusto foreign to her. She carried a full and steaming plate across the room and laid it in front of Laura. The girl’s cheek was the ashy white of clouded glass. Lucy gripped Laura’s shoulder briefly, but with surprising strength. Neither could decide if the gesture was one of comfort or of warning. Stephen and Jay, too, made their way to the table. Jay slipped into the chair on Laura’s right.
“Would you say grace, Lucy?” Stephen invited, bowing his head. From under his eyebrows, Stephen studied the other three faces around the table. Laura’s face appeared somehow unsteady, fractured— like a building just before it crumbles.
“Lord, thank you for allowing us to enjoy this meal together tonight,” Lucy began. Her voice shook slightly. Give me strength, Laura pleaded. She wondered what the boy on her right prayed for, if he prayed at all. She used to wonder the same about Jay. Well— despite all the things that had pulled them together— she’d never gotten an answer. “Amen,” Lucy finished. A pause. Jay, then Stephen, began on their mounds of stir fry.
“We did good, Mom,” Jay offered.
“Really good,” Stephen echoed faintly. Laura nodded half-heartedly. She prodded unconvincingly at her plate, focusing instead on Jay’s face, his every word and gesture. Similarly, Lucy studied Laura. She could reconstruct only a flimsy silhouette of the compassion that had previously moved her. She understood now: it was too soon, even for Laura. Their world was too young, too pliable, too breakable, even for Laura. “So,” Stephen continued determinedly, “Jay, have you thought any more about basketball?”
“Uh, yeah. I think I’ll go for it.” Jay’s eyes roved about the table, his expression impressively placid.
“Yeah? That’s great!”
“Proud of you already,” Lucy added, forcing a smile.
“I don’t…” Laura began, horrified that the words slipped off her tongue. Jay met her eyes. Laura’s hand flew to her mouth, as if to physically crush her protest. Jay had hated basketball. She couldn’t count the number of times he’d cursed, with illogical vehemence, the team, the coach, the whole sport. She had her own theories about the true roots of his malice— but, regardless, Jay had hated basketball.
“What’s up, Laur?” Jay prodded. Laura shook her head faintly. She even closed her eyes, for a moment, against the madness around her. Watching her, Lucy felt a flutter of panic in her stomach.
“So, Laura,” she interjected with almost violent cheerfulness, “We heard about your student reading. How did it go?” Laura blinked rapidly, pulled herself back to the present.
“Um… sorry,” she breathed. “It was good. Good.”
“Well, good,” Lucy said. “Jay, did you read something? I don’t remember.” Jay nodded.
“Hm-mm. It was a really great experience.”
“Sound like it,” Stephen added, his voice still tight. “Young people need those chances for self-expression, you know? I think it’s one of the best things you can do to challenge yourself, improve yourself.” He and Lucy glanced at one another. Lucy smiled, soothed by the rhythm of seemingly safe conversation.
“Yeah, absolutely,” Jay agreed. There was a pause. Stephen forged ahead,
“So, prom is coming up. You two still going together?” He meant it as an appeasement for Laura. A gift, as it were, to soften the harshness of this new reality. But, when he turned to her, Laura’s eyes sparkled with tears. She bit down on her lip.
“That’s the plan,” Jay responded calmly, not yet looking at Laura. “I mean, I think I asked her to prom in like eighth grade! You remember that, Laur?” Laura’s fork struck the side of her plate with a harsh crack. This was the twist of the knife— unpredictable, impossibly treacherous. Her eyes darted between Lucy and Stephen.
“You told him that story…” Her voice was soft, colorless. Her arms intertwined over her chest as if she were ready to collapse into herself.
“Laura…” Lucy said.
“How?” Laura demanded, her face contorting. “How could you do that?”
“Laura!” Lucy’s voice sharpened. Under the table, her hands shook like scraps of paper in the wind.
“No, no!” Laura pushed back from the table and pulled herself out of the chair. “How could you do that? How can you do this? This…”
“Laura, please.” It was Jay this time, his eyes wide. For the first time, he seemed uncertain. He reached out towards her. Laura reeled back.
“Don’t touch me, you son of a bitch!”
“Laura, get out!” Lucy commanded. What else could she do? Laura’s grief, clearly, could not exist in tandem with their serenity. “I will not allow— just go.” This, this was self-defense.
“Laura, please. I can walk you out,” Stephen said, his voice mournful, but carefully measured. “I’m sorry this happened.” He rose clumsily from the table.
“No!” Laura repeated. “No! Jay would hate this. He would hate this.” Her arms were raised as if she were expecting an assault. Her heart pounded with the thrill of either the traitor or the truthteller. She could not tell which. “Jay…” She let her voice die, then, helpless, she turned and darted out. As the front door slammed, Jay leapt to his feet.
“Jay, don’t,” Lucy pleaded, tears rushing to her eyes, now. “Let her go.”
“I’ll be right back,” he promised before pursuing her. Stephen fell back into his chair, wanting nothing more than to sleep.
“She will never come back here,” Lucy swore in a trembling voice. She gripped the edge of the kitchen table. Stephen nodded.
“I’m sorry this happened,” he repeated. Lucy shrugged.
“My own fault.” Stephen nodded once more. Then the two sat in silence, listening for Jay.
Part 7
Neither Stephen nor Lucy ever learned what passed between Jay and Laura. Still, they blamed Laura for the new sense of disquiet. There was a new, intangible distance between them and Jay. Lucy noticed it in small things— his tendency to pause in doorways, to glance around the room as if unsure what or who to expect, his lengthening silences at the dinner table, his awkward stiffness after even short absences. She was numb with a quiet terror. Near the end, Jay, too, had been moody, quiet. But she hadn’t recognized such things for what they were, hadn’t fully seen. Now, she saw— and understood— everything.
Between her and Stephen, too, there was an incommunicable sense of fragility. Or, more correctly, she supposed, there grew an increasingly precarious mountain of things they did not talk about, of silences and omissions. When the first late payment notice appeared among their otherwise benign mail, for example, Stephen let it pass without comment. Lucy was shocked; under normal circumstances, such a violation of his doxological frugality would have sparked an argument. But, throughout September and October, as bills collected on the kitchen counter like dead and dying leaves, he said nothing. Almost nothing. When the bills arrived from Ross & Co., he would say simply,
“We’d better pay this.” An observation heavy with the desperation of the psalmist. Lucy would nod, reach for her checkbook.
Still, Lucy had faith in this one thing: life revolves around rhythm. Not Jay’s frigidity, not her and Stephen’s silences, could interrupt the rhythm of their three harmonizing griefs and healings. They could still lose themselves in repetition, float in it, as one does in water. This, certainly, was something akin to love. Something akin to joy.
Part 8
Beth called on a sleepy Sunday afternoon. The clanging of the phone was horrible against the deliberate and holistic silence of the house.
“Hello,” Lucy answered, not even realizing she was whispering.
“Hello? Lucy?” Beth squawked on the other end of the line.
“Hi, Beth,” Lucy said, raising her voice.
“Hey, hon. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Good, good. We’re doing good. So… did you get my text about Thanksgiving?” Lucy gritted her teeth. What an idiotic way to ask, Why are you ignoring me? But it was just like Beth to choose those words.
“Yeah,” Lucy sighed. “I just don’t know, Beth. I’m not sure we’re up for traveling this year.”
“I think it’s really important that you be with your family this year,” Beth pushed.
“I just— we really want to be with Jay and— “ Lucy bit down on her tongue in her haste to cut short her sentence. Beth sighed heavily.
“Oh, hon, I know. I’m sure the house holds a lot of memories for you two.” Of course she would misunderstand, overcomplicate. There was a beat of silence. “Hey, why don’t we drive down and stay with you? I’ll bring a bunch of food, you can spend some time with the kids— it’ll be great!” Beth’s voice shone with an eagerness that, by now, felt foreign to Lucy.
“I don’t know, Beth,” she jumped in, her heart pounding viciously. She would not let their delicate world be breached this time. Not again. “I’m just… worn out.”
“Right. I’m sure. You know I wish I could make this easier for you.”
“I know.”
“Well… just think about it, okay?”
“I will.”
“Alright. Love you.”
“Love you, too.” Lucy hung up and pushed her phone away from her. She should talk to Stephen. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.
In the end, it was Ross & Co. that determined their holiday plans. “We pride ourselves,” the email read, “On respecting the personal lives of each and every member of our staff. For this reason, services carried out during the holiday season, including scheduling, scripting, and in-home interaction, will incur a cost increase of…”
“Well, that’s that,” Lucy sighed, letting her hands fall into her lap.
“It’s just impossible right now,” Stephen agreed, nodding mournfully. “We… we really need to get our finances straightened out.” He stared down at the counter, his face impassive.
“Yes.” Lucy pushed a lock of hair behind one ear. “Well… we’ll do a small Thanksgiving and Christmas. Then we’ll get everything worked out in the New Year.” Such a soft and pliant answer, though only vaguely comforting, was the easiest to swallow. Stephen nodded, still avoiding her eyes. “So, should we have Beth, then?” Lucy continued. She felt clumsy. She and Stephen were out of practice managing a conversation on their own. What, she suddenly wondered, were things like before Jay was born? She couldn’t seem to remember. But, then too, that wasn’t a fair question. They’d been two completely different people then, incomparable to their present selves.
“It’s up to you. She’s your sister.”
“Alright. Um… let’s do it, then.” Stephen, again, nodded, as if resigned to an unpleasant but concrete fact. “It’s been a while since we’ve done anything with family. And, if I know Beth, we’ll save a fortune on food.”
“You’re right. We will.” Lucy couldn’t guess what passed through Stephen’s mind. Did he feel the weight of their silences, too? Did the thought of two holidays passed in solitude sicken him, too? Surely. Yet, he let the silences grow, consume them, surround them like water.
“It’s settled, then,” Lucy said softly, “I’ll go call Beth.” She left him sitting alone at the kitchen table.
Part 9
It was unusually warm for November, for the week of Thanksgiving. Lucy opened every window she passed, letting the wind slip through the house like bolts of silk. It steadied her— the smell of sunshine and an earth in transition. It seemed to steady Stephen too; he pushed himself off the couch and helped Lucy prepare for Beth’s arrival. Fresh sheets on the spare beds, soap in all the accompanying bathrooms. Unpaid bills entombed in the deepest catacombs of Stephen’s desk.
“Stephen?” Lucy looked up from the soft envelopes of laundry she had been folding. “Do you think we could lock Jay’s door?” He studied her face for a moment.
“Um… yeah. I’ll grab the master key.” Stephen stepped out to the garage and returned a minute later. “Do you want me to do it?” he asked, fidgeting with the stolid, unwieldy key.
“No, no. I’ve got it. Thank you.” Stephen passed off the master key, then took Lucy’s position behind the stack of laundry as she rushed upstairs. Throughout the day, Lucy continually slipped upstairs to check the lock, test the handle. Even after Stephen noticed and wordlessly reclaimed the key, she returned again and again. It comforted her to feel for herself the barrier of wood and metal between his world and theirs, to know that each was safe from the reaches of the other.
Beth and her family pulled into the driveway just past four. They surged through the doorway, a writhing mass of suitcases, coats too heavy for the mild evening, sticky lips exchanging kisses.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Lucy!” Beth cried over the untamed symphony of her children’s voices. “So good to see you!” She kissed Lucy’s cheek, leaving— Lucy was sure— a silhouette of lipstick vaguely reminiscent of a rose beginning to wilt.
“Hey, Beth.” Lucy admired, envied, loathed her sister for her role as nucleus of this raucous, joyous entity.
“Thanks for having us, Lucy,” added Paul, her brother-in-law. He hugged her gingerly.
“Of course.” Lucy returned his hug, the wool of his sweater rough against her skin. Lucy and Stephen corralled the family into their two rooms. Lucy distributed extra towels— how was it possible that she always underestimated the size of Beth’s brood? — as Stephen blew up two ancient air mattresses.
“You guys might want to be kind of gentle with these,” Stephen advised nervously. The damn things will probably pop, Lucy thought, slinking out of the room.
Lucy’s father and youngest sister, Erin, arrived as the sun sank behind the jagged horizon. As the two climbed out of the car, Lucy was immediately reminded of two birds— two fundamentally solitary creatures temporarily joined in flight from some unknown and unknowable place. This was more easily weathered than Beth’s uproar. She embraced her father first, shocked by the new ridges protruding under his skin. She was certain she could distinguish every vertebrae and rib beneath his sweater.
“Good of you to have us, Lucy,” he said. His smile was the same, at least. Jay had had a smile akin to this one. She blinked tears away as she turned to Erin.
“Hi, little one,” Lucy greeted her, using the old nickname.
“I’m as tall as you, now,” Erin admonished, laughing so softly that it was little more than a bounce of her chest.
“Yes, but still stick-thin.” Erin shrugged. Lucy could see Jay in her face, too— something in the harmony between nose and mouth. She wanted to reach out, to trace the curves and angles of Erin’s face with her fingertips. And her father’s, for that matter. And Beth’s. She would rediscover each trait, every marker of the lineage that connected Jay to them, past to present.
“Beth inside?” Erin asked, stooping to pick up her suitcase.
“Oh, yes. The hen and her chicks.”
“Of course. Of course.” Erin laughed again. She and Lucy walked into the house together, trailing behind their father and Stephen.
Lucy and Stephen lived through the week in a permanent state of shock. The noise, the unceasing movement— such a vivid display of life— was simply unfathomable to two people who had come to inhabit the gray space between life and death. Neither could grasp how to live fully in one world, not after months of straddling two. Their bewilderment was obvious. Stephen drew further and further into himself as the week aged. Even at their staunchly cheerful Thanksgiving dinner, Lucy could count the number of words he uttered on her fingers. Not that she was much better. Several times a day, she caught herself staring off at a blank wall or a floorboard, as if waiting for the house to crack like an eggshell with the pressure of this much happiness, this much certainty.
The only person she could talk to with some imitation of normalcy was Erin. They hadn’t been extraordinarily close in childhood— Erin was so much younger, always, it seemed to Lucy, lagging behind her and Beth— but, now, Lucy felt an immense gratitude for her baby sister’s quiet, steady presence. She hid behind Erin, almost— hid from the others. Beth was so unashamedly vivid, exuberant with the triumph of her family, her food, her wholeness. Lucy was almost afraid of her. And she almost despised her. Beth’s children, too, felt volatile. They studied her face so intensely, as if her grief were inked across her skin, clearly visible, engrossing. Lucy was sure that, at any minute, one of her nieces or nephews would ask about Jay. And she was sure, too, that, even after all these months, she would break down in front of everyone. Lucy avoided even their father. His new frailty nauseated her. She was struck with guilt, of course. But still, she could not speak to him, could not stand near him without choking on her own fear. His thwarted thinness reminded her only of the proximity of death— his own, hers, everyone’s. And his deeply wrinkled, puckered face seemed to her the physical manifestation of their shared brokenness. And so, Lucy hid from him along with the others. If he noticed, he said nothing. It is possible he was afraid of her, too— this daughter who, in many ways, was closer to death than he. And so, this is how the visit passed: a lengthy, morbid game of hide-and-seek in which only two or three players fully grasped the rules.
Part 10
Erin and their father slipped away the Saturday after Thanksgiving, once again joining forces in their migration.
“He really hates leaving Mom alone,” Erin explained as she and Lucy packed leftovers for her to take home. “She just doesn’t understand when he doesn’t go to visit. You know? Besides, on Sundays, they watch a sermon on TV.” Lucy nodded. She swallowed hard, realizing that she hadn’t asked Erin or Beth about their mother even once. Well, it was too late, now. She sent Erin and their father off with gentle hugs and whispered comforts, then simply waited for Beth’s departure, planned for the following morning.
“Saturday traffic, you know…” Beth explained. Lucy had no idea what she meant, but she nodded before retreating to strip down the newly vacated beds. She supposed that her plan, now, was to hide from Beth behind laundry and leftovers.
She might have guessed at the plan’s futility. Within hours of Erin’s desertion, Beth caught Lucy alone in the kitchen. She stationed herself on one side of the island, directly opposite Lucy.
“Lucy, can we talk?” Her voice was calm, but as solid as the granite against which she drummed her fingers.
“Of course,” Lucy relented. “What’s up?” She didn’t look at her sister, but busied her hands folding and refolding a damp kitchen towel.
“I wanted to save this until the end….” Beth continued. She pulled in a deep breath. “Well… I got a notice of late payment from Acorn Ridge.” Acorn Ridge. Beth was the only member of the family who refused to call it “the home.” As she explained when asked, things have names, and names are meant to be used.
“Hm-mm,” Lucy acknowledged. She had received the same notice, printed, as she recalled, on mint-green paper.
“Lucy… it was your turn to pay.”
“Yes.” Lucy kept her voice low. “It’s just… not possible at the moment.” She glanced up at Beth to study the effect of her half-explanation. Beth’s eyebrows rose into two ferocious arcs.
“What does that mean? This is our system— the system we agreed on!”
“I know, Beth. I’m sorry. We just can’t.”
“I don’t understand.” Lucy sighed.
“There’s not much to understand. We don’t have the money right now.”
“Lucy, you’re not some college kid, not some newlywed. You’re forty-four years old. Old enough to take some res— “
“Okay, that’s enough. I don’t need to hear it, Beth.”
“So where’s all your money going?”
“You… that’s none of your concern. As you said, I’m forty-four years old. I don’t— “
“When your money problems keep us from taking care of our own mother, it is my concern. You have responsibilities, Lucy. Life doesn’t just stop. I know you’ve had a rough time, but… but I need your help.” Lucy looked down at the counter.
“Listen, I’m sorry. I know I dropped the ball. But I really don’t have the money right now. I just don’t.” She let her hands fall to her sides, as helpless as she. Beth sighed, massaged the patch of skin between her eyebrows.
“I can kick in this quarter. But I’ve got kids of my own and money’s tight enough as it is. I’ll talk to Erin, too. But she doesn’t even have a solid job, yet. She’s too young to worry about this shit. We really need you.” Lucy wanted to scream, if only to drown out Beth’s voice for two minutes. But she could only mutter,
“I’ll talk to Stephen. See what I can do.”
“Thank you.” Beth slid around the island and coiled her arms around Lucy’s shoulders. “Love you, Lucy.”
“Love you, too.” Lucy whispered into the fabric of Beth’s shirt.
Beth’s family swept away on time, and Sunday afternoon brought the return of Lucy and Stephen’s cultivated silence. Lucy never thought she would miss it. She stretched herself out along the length of the couch, inched upwards to find the pool of warmth where sunlight fell across her chest.
“Tired?” Stephen queried, lowering himself to sit on the ottoman opposite her.
“A little,” she admitted, twisting to face him. “Everything okay?” Stephen nodded slowly, but let his chin sink towards his chest. “What is it?” Lucy demanded. “What’s wrong?” Stephen sighed, his shoulders falling under some intangible weight.
“Beth… talked to me about…” Lucy struggled to a seated position, her heart flipping wildly in her chest.
“Stephen…” she began, without knowing, even, what she meant to say.
“We have to make a change, Lucy. Our finances are out of control. We can’t even afford your mother’s nursing home bills. What’s wrong with us?” His hands clenched into fists.
“Stephen, we’ll figure it out.” Her voice was feeble beside his.
“Lucy, come on! We still have a mortgage. We have debts. We have bills. We have retirement to think about.”
“Stephen…”
“I think…” Lucy felt tears behind her eyes even before Stephen forged ahead. “I think we should consider cancelling our Ross & Co. service.” Lucy immediately felt herself recoil from him. She was shocked by the revulsion she felt— revulsion so pure it rose like a tidal wave in her stomach.
“No! No!”
“It’s one of our biggest expenses. We just can’t do it right now.”
“I will not do it!” Lucy swore through gritted teeth. “I will not go back to the way things were. I won’t.”
“Lucy…” Lucy resisted the temptation to cover her ears like a stubborn child.
“I won’t go back. Can you? Can you?” Tears cut down her cheeks. And, yes, there were tears in Stephen’s eyes, too.
“Do we have a choice?” Now it was Stephen’s voice that had softened, faded. “I don’t think so.”
“We can’t go back to the way things were.” Lucy repeated. “I’ll put in more hours. We’ll figure it out.” She pushed herself to her feet. Stephen looked up at her, his face ravaged, as if by tornado, hurricane, wildfire.
“No, Lucy, we really need to talk this through.”
“There’s nothing to talk about. We’ve decided. A few more months at least.” Lucy tried to move past him, but he caught her wrist.
“Lucy, you’re being ridiculous. We need to make an informed, adult decision here.” Every word seemed to drain him.
“I’m tired, Stephen. Leave it alone.” She pulled her wrist away, avoiding his eyes. “We’ll figure it out.” She took precise, measured steps until the living room was behind her. It took every ounce of her strength to keep from running.
Part 11
And, so, their argument, their minute betrayal of one another, became one of the many things they did not speak of. Both, isolated in their silence, watched their ruin with maddening helplessness.
Two observers, watching the train crash from opposite sides of the tracks.
Jay returned to their home in the new year, bringing with him their shared, miotic rhythm. As promised, Lucy worked more hours. They paid their Ross & Co. bills in both January and February— albeit a little late both times.
The first week of March.
Even the Ross & Co. bill slipped through their fingers. They would pay it, of course, as soon as possible. Before the end of the month.
The third week of March.
Stephen was at work, so Lucy found herself left to open the letter alone. “As of March 15, your record shows three late or missed payments. Due to your recurring failure to meet your obligations, per your contract (dated June 7, 2018), we regret to inform you that your Ross & Co. services have been terminated. Effective immediately…” Lucy gripped the counter to steady herself.
“No, no, no…” she gasped. With shaking hands, she grappled with her phone, dialed their facilitator.
“Good morning. This is Linda Williams, with Ross & Co. Living Memorials. How can I help you?”
“Linda, this is Lucy Dawd. I just received a notice that our services have been terminated.” Lucy clutched the letter in one hand, holding it away from her body as if it were a snake on the verge of attack.
“I see…” Linda paused. There was a staccato of key strokes. “That’s Dawd, D-A…”
“D-A-W-D, yes.” Another pause.
“Yes, Mrs. Dawd. I’m so sorry to inform you, but your record shows three late or missed payments. As a result— “
“So that’s it? No extension? No payment plans?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawd. We have a very strict system here at Ross & Co. Our staff are constantly in high demand. We feel that it’s unfair to rob families of the chance to heal simply because— “
“We can’t pay,” Lucy finished bitterly. She closed her eyes against a wave of physical nausea.
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Dawd. If circumstances change, we’ll be happy to draw up another contract.” Lucy hung up without another word. She sank to the floor, leaned back against the counter. For a moment, all she felt was the urge to fill the house with her screams. She wanted God Himself to hear her. Death was meant to bring, at the very least, finality, some iteration of completion. But here she was, watching Jay’s second death. Her entire body trembled. Surely, her bones would splinter under this weight. Surely, this would kill her.
When Stephen arrived home, he found the letter where Lucy had left it on the linoleum floor, one corner so deeply crumpled it was nearly torn. He read it, then folded it into an immaculate square and stuffed it into the trashcan. He found Lucy in their bed. She lay still under the heft of the perfect dark. Stephen peeled off his coat, eased out of his shoes, and crawled across the bed to lay beside Lucy. She didn’t respond to his touch, to the curve of his arm over her waist. The two bodies still completed one another’s shape, like the light and dark of a crescent moon. She hadn’t cried that day— not even after the letter. But Stephen’s warmth against her back loosed her tears. She wept silently, allowing each tear to drop onto the pillowcase.
“I’m so sorry, Lucy,” Stephen whispered, perhaps crying, too. His voice was so soft— his breath hardly disturbed her hair where it lay over her ear. Lucy said nothing. “Are you asleep?” Lucy’s jaw tightened as she suppressed a sob. The tiniest flutter of a sigh escaped Stephen’s lips. After that, they lay still and silent in the dark.
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