In Cloudkey Town I Met A Girl

“I am a Princess.” She stared at him in shocked incredulity, as if his failure to recognize her station and act accordingly was entirely without precedent. “My father is your King.”

“I have no King. Down below…” He turned, gestured to the ascent balloon tethered at the edge of the floating city. “Down there we choose our rulers from amongst ourselves by a vote.”

“Barbaric.” She shook her head as if to dislodge an unwelcome thought from her mind; then she paused, regarding him, and continued with a more welcoming if haughty tone. “But you may approach.”

He grinned. “Gladly.”

You Can Hold A Moment In Your Hand

“Jean?”

“Mmm.” She didn’t look up from her dog-eared paperback.

“How long have we been here?”

“What? Oh, dunno. Two hours?”

“No, how long have we been on vacation?”

“We left the day after Bridget’s wedding. You wanted to—”

“Yes, yes, but how long ago was that?” He shook his head. “I don’t know what day it is anymore. Maybe a month? Have we been here a month?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I think it’s been at least a month. Maybe more. No phones allowed, no internet. They were supposed to tell us when it was check-out day…”

“You’re being ridiculous, it hasn’t been a month.”

“You don’t think so?” He grabbed the novel from her. “How many times have you read this? How many? What’s on page—” He flipped the book open to a later page than she’d been on “—page 342?”

“Emmeline kisses Randall, and then runs up the stairs just as the train comes. He doesn’t know whether to follow because—”

“What about page 76?”

“…It’s a description of Randall’s garage, and then the car, the blue Packard he rebuilt with his father. Then—”

“Page 402?”

“Emmeline and… Peter, what are you on about? Honestly. Can I have my book back?”

He tossed it to her. “You’ve got it memorized. You’ve got the restaurant menu memorized. I know all the waiters’ names—”

“You know all the waitresses’ names.”

“Fine, but I know them all.  I know their boyfriends’ names, or their husbands’. I know their kids’ names. I know Mei doesn’t like pineapple, she just pretends to in front of the customers. I know Cora is a dance teacher on the side. I know all the porters, too. Jean, we were only supposed to be here five days, and then back. What’s going on?”

“Do you really want to go?”

“No, but—”

“Then leave it. Look at the sunset over the water, isn’t that beautiful? Now let me read my book.” It was a different book, suddenly, with a different girl with differently-colored flowing hair and a different man wearing a police uniform instead of a bomber jacket. She opened it to the first pristine page.

He felt a cold chill. “Jean, are we not supposed to go home? You can tell me. I won’t say anything.”

“Peter, drop it. I’m not getting back on that plane and neither are you.”

“Jean… did something happen with the plane?”

Rc2#

“It’s almost Milton time,” says Gracie, and she’s already pulling on her shoes and her coat and looking in vain for her mittens; Paul is watching cartoons, and seems unconcerned, and has to be coaxed away.

It costs $5 plus the four-block walk, but Daddy pays. Most of the others won’t play kids, but Milton will play anyone of any age once, calls it ‘fishing’; he plays Paul once a week, and usually wins. Usually.

“I didn’t play well as him, maybe ‘til I was twenty-five, maybe thirty. And I ain’t gettin’ no better. He’ll beat me often as not, he gets to driving age.”

Daddy asked Milton once if he’d like to come for dinner. Milton looked at him like he was crazy. Paul shakes Milton’s hand after every game, very grown-up, because that’s what you do when you’re part of that club and Paul is part of that club. Gracie watches the game, sometimes, especially if Paul is winning, but is sometimes distracted away by pigeons or dog-walkers. Daddy watches the game always.

On the walk back, Paul will talk about the game, if it’s close; if he wins, it’s a breathless torrent of excited recapitulation. If he loses badly, he doesn’t talk about it until bed-time, and then only in low, humble whispers from the under safety of his comforter, as Daddy listens and nods and pats him on the shoulder.

Sunday afternoons, spring, through summer and fall, and to the first snowfall at least, maybe longer.

Returned Unopened

My Dear Harry,

I hope this letter finds you well. I have heard from Etheline — her young man is in Cairo with Alexander’s staff — that the fighting around Tobruk is heavy. Please don’t take unnecessary risks and remember that you have people waiting for you at home, chief among them Stewart who is certain that you shall marry me and thus finally provide the big brother he clearly deserves instead of merely the terribly disappointing sister who can’t even manage to throw a ball properly.

I have been moved up to shift lead at the plant, so I am even busier than before. Your mother brings me cakes at least once a week, and Penny comes across from the shop to have lunch most days unless they are too busy. She is becoming a good friend and I cannot wait to have her for a sister.

Please do tell me if there is anything more I can send. I am knitting more heavy socks and a smart blue cap which is almost done. Penny has some things for you too, and Stewart has with great gravitas — and, I think, selflessness — donated some of his hard candy.

I must go as my break is over, so this short letter will have to do for today. I will sit under the crooked Alder at the bottom of the hill tomorrow and write you a longer one, so long as the air-raid sirens cooperate.

Love always and waiting patiently,
Your Annabelle.

Artist’s Model Needed

Phone numbers typed on little slips of paper torn from the bottom of flyers thumbtacked to bulletin boards have never once, in all my life, failed me.

Things I did not say to Gloria: “You have a grandma name, what’s that about?”; “You remind me of Katy Perry, especially in the chest.”; “Is this whole art class thing just a way to get people naked so you can get laid without going to frat parties?”; “Can I bring my boyfriend next time, this whole thing is weirding him out?”

She painted me four times over the course of two months. She didn’t take reference pictures and then paint from that. I sat for her, long afternoons bathed in light spilling in through the high-set studio windows. She introduced me to her teacher while I was wrapped in a sheet, which he affected not to notice.

After the third time, she took me for coffee. “I have to stop painting you. I’m attracted sexually and it’s distracting me from the work.”

We agreed that it was best to stop the sessions. We made small talk and finished our coffee and went our separate ways. She showed up at my dorm room five hours later and knocked on it and when I let her in, she kissed me without saying anything.

We dated for six months. She painted me one more time, after that night, but it wasn’t the same; she wasn’t painting me anymore, she was painting this version of me that she loved and fucked and argued and made up with.

I’ve shown my husband those paintings. The last one, the fourth one, is his favorite, I think because that’s the wife in his head. I can’t stand it, myself; I like the third one, because it’s all about unrealized longing.

An Uneasy Peace

It doesn’t fear the harpoon, not physically. It’s the symbolism of it. It’s a totem, like a cross to a vampire, a reminder of power that could be brought to bear again, if needed.

The misshapen head will rise out of the swells and your heart will scream, one lurch and I am in its maw. But it will keep its distance, waves breaking against its back, waiting, listening.

If you sing, if you sing well and loud and true, it will return to the depths having had its fill, and our ships will pass in safety for another year.

Manchester United

It was a filthy city, squalid and cramped, too thoroughly caked with soot to ever be washed clean by only the rain; but if the downpour ever did last long enough to do the job, the buildings would likely fall apart as the grime was all that held them together. This was the town into which I was birthed.

She was, on the other hand, to the manor most definitely born. The closest she likely came to hardship was waiting a bit too long for a servant to appear after the bell was rung.

And yet here we are, together.

A View To A Kill

“What do you see?”

Her voice was strained. “I see a girl. I see… she’s dancing, she’s wearing a formal dress like she’s at the prom.”

“Wrong time of year for—”

“I can’t tell when this is happening yet.” Her head tilted, her eyes crinkled as if she was listening for a distant sound. “It’s too warped to be the past. I think… I think she’s still alive. It feels like this is future.”

“Where?” If she was still alive, they could still do something. “See if you—”

“Oh God… he’s there; she just saw him. John, it’s happening now.”

A Matter Of Tastes

She looked over her shoulder, straining to see her own back in mirror. “Are there any marks? Any redness left at all?”

“No, Mistress.”

She turned her head away from the reflection, was silent for a time. The air was cool against her bare skin, replacing the vague warmth that had itself replaced the sharp sting. Eventually she reached around to slowly zip up the dress.

“May I ask…”

“What, Sophie?”

“Why do you let him whip you like that? Even though he leaves no marks? Why do—”

“I don’t let him do it, Sophie; I make him do it.”

Zora’s Friend

“You’ll come for the weekend?”

He collapsed the newspaper onto a plate specked with bits of egg and bacon and crumbs from burned toast. “Oh, God, Perry, this again? You know I don’t like those people.”

“My friends,” she corrected, “They’re my friends. Jeanie and Red and Bundy and Zora—”

“Oh, she’s the worst of all of them. ‘Zora’. The woman’s name is Wendy. Wendy. But that’s too ‘bourgeois’ for her, so she picked a new name off the side of a carnival wagon.”

“She did no such thing.”

“I have work.” He raised the paper, shook it out, snapped it tight, found his place.

She sipped her tea, glared at the wall of newsprint. “You used to like them. You used to like our weekends. You used to come out at night and close bars with me and dance in the street and make too much noise. You used to pick up the check without making everyone feel bad.”

“Listen…” He put down the paper, neatly this time.

“You used to let me come before you did. You used to—”

“Hey!”

“—be a boyfriend. Then I let you become a husband, and now you’re just a big fucking drag.”

The Honeymoon

“Catch me!” She ran, shoes slapping on the wet pavement, sending up fountains of water from puddles not avoided. I followed, trying to stay dry under an umbrella protesting against the wind, counting in my head my remaining dry pairs of socks, apologizing with my eyes to those sensible commuters our noisy spectacle passed on the sidewalk.

On an emptier street, she paused under an awning, pulled me close, stole a kiss. I would have lectured her, before, about catching cold; but not now, not anymore.

I followed her through the rain towards our waiting hotel and a nervous bed.

Home For The Holidays

The boarding announcement crackled over the loudspeaker, telling her it was time to get in line, time to go through security, time to take the Xanax.

He'd been more silent than usual, but while staring over her shoulder at something undefined in the middle distance he managed, "So I guess I'll miss you."

"Oh?" She hadn't really heard it, not while concentrating on searching the bottom of her bag for tissues. But then it sunk in, and she looked up, and caught his eye and smiled. "I'll miss you too." She felt as if, suddenly, she didn't need the Xanax.

Bloomsbury, 1936

"Now, let's see," She said, holding the photo at arm's length, then closer, then back out again. "That's me with my fist up, there on the top. The boy beside me is your Great Uncle Robert; he died in Korea."

"Why in Korea?"

"During the war, dear, the Korean War. He went into the service because our father had been. Now pay attention. "

"Yes, Gran."

"The others, they're just the other children in our class. But there in the black coat, with his hands behind his back? The handsome one?"

"Yes?"

"That's your Grandfather. Only, I hated him then."

The Kitchen Scene

"So who's this guy, now?"

"Not sure, some Rabbi from out of town."

"They're really losing it over him. It's embarrassing."

"Right? And all this food… you know they won't eat half of it, and will we get the leftovers? We will not."

"Of course not. She'll tell you to toss it to the dogs out back and she'll watch to make sure you do it, too, you just wait."

"Oh, I know she will. I know she will."

"Oh, hey, draw a pitcher of water and take it in."

"Just water? Not wine?"

"Just water. For some magic trick."

Pica And Sensibility

Oh, do come in.

It's such an honor, and we are delighted to make your acquaintance, of course. Were your travels easy? Have you come from Calais? Is it beautiful this time of year? Is absolutely everyone there? Are all the ladies festooned with the latest fashions from Paris? Are all the gentlemen dapper and smart? We would have been in attendance but for Father's gout…

But I do go on. Have a sherry, and some cakes. Perhaps we'll walk the garden later, or I can play you something pretty on the piano. You will stay the week, won't you?

The Cat Who Walks Through Walls

He was in the kitchen again this morning.

I locked both doors, front and back, before going to bed, and they're still locked. Windows have been painted shut since Thursday. The clothes dryer vent is hooked to the dryer, and the fireplace flue is closed. I even took a flashlight into the basement and checked for holes in the foundation, anything. There's simply no way to get into this house, but there he was. Still is. He's watching me right now.

I called animal control and they don't know how he escaped their holding room much less got all the way back here. They also said he acted normally while he was there, no cold unblinking stare, no claws out, ate their regular food, even purred. They actually suggested that I think about keeping him.

If I went to stay at my brother's place in Memphis, would he still be here when I got back? Or would he find me there? It's a three-hour flight, so I suppose if he appeared there that same day, then at least I'd know to be scared and stop feeling so foolish.

What does he want from me?

Maybe I should buy a gun.

Comrades-In-Arms

I wonder what  became of them all, the little army men from my childhood; I don't recall their fate. They're not to be found in any of the boxes containing the rest of my childhood. Did they end up in a musty shoebox in the attic, were they spilled across the floor of the garage and eventually swept out with the dust and leaves, were they left in the backyard between the blades of grass to eventually sink into rain-softened soil?

We won so many wars together, victories snatched from the jaws of ignominious defeat. I could use them, now.

Having Come Back From Barbados

There was a week and a half there, maybe two, where we were perfectly happy. The reality that love doesn't fix everything else wrong with the world hadn't yet shouldered its way through the door of that first cheap apartment. We ate Chinese food, naked together in that bed that hadn't started to seem overly small. We talked, not having run out of mysteries. Our peculiarities were adorable, our human frailties endearing.

She's cut her hair; I have a bit of a paunch. We're naked only in the shower with the door locked. It's work, now. But it's still love.

Rorschach

"Tell me what you see."

He peered at it, squinted, cocked his head to one side like a listening dog. Finally: "A cave. A dark cave, like down an abandoned mine where the tracks run out and there's no lights yet."

That card slipped up and away, revealing another one. "And this one?"

Again he regarded the picture for a long time, until he was nervous the doctor would think it overlong. "A… a dog?"

"Is that what you see, or is that what you think I want you to say?"

"Aw, Doc, I just want to get out of here, to go home. Can't you please just sign the paper to tell them I'm fixed?"

"It doesn't work like that, Robert."

"But why not?"

The first card reappeared. "What did you say this looked like to you, Robert?"

"A cave."

"What kind of cave did you say, though, specifically?"

"…like down in an abandoned mine. You know. And this, here, this square bit…" He pointed out something on the card, "This is a minecart, at the end of the tracks, where they run out."

"And where did you leave little Florence Gregory, Robert? Where did they find her body?"

The Scientist

With the shell held to my ear, I can hear the entire ocean. I hear the darting fish and the gliding whales and the bottom-feeders skittering through the cloudy dust. I hear them as if they were one great creature writhing and thrashing and eating itself, dying and sinking and being reborn.

I have petitioned the King for a ship, so that I may take it to sea. I believe he thinks me mad, but he may grant my request nevertheless, to be rid of me. She may already have a name, but I am resolved to call her Eurybia.