A Razor in an Apple
Philip never thought his hands were beautiful before. Sitting in the parking garage, though, they amazed him–the way his fingers curled into pink snail shells, how the palm formed a waiting hollow, how the tiny muscles and bones worked together perfectly.
He was stalling. He was losing his nerve. Climbing out of his car and activating the alarm, Philip took the stairwell down to the street. Outside, the winter sky was marbled pink like raw steak.
Restaurants and clubs prepared for the weekend. Doors stood propped open, leaking music and chatter. At the corner, some boys from the college rushed past. In his tie and rumpled shirt, Philip was background to them. But one boy had glossy black hair tumbling over his ears, and Philip let his gaze linger. Running through the glare of headlights, the boy’s skin flashed white hot like a struck match.
Philip turned up Williamson Avenue, the pulse in his little finger twitching.
He’d run into J.D. at Best Buy, paunchy and balding now. Once, J.D. had been gorgeous and crazy, the two intertwined in some mysterious way. When he was stoned, he’d go on for hours about government mind-control programs and the Tibetan monasteries in contact with trans-dimensional beings. Seeing him poke through a bin of discount DVDs felt sad, almost shameful.
When Philip went to say hi, he noticed J.D. had lost his left pinky.
They started catching up, talking about Will and Chase and the day Jeremy’s brother came to visit, about April and . . . Whatizname . . . her boyfriend, and that time they went out to that little church to pick up that piano. J.D. was still funny as hell. He could still tell a story like nobody else. Even when Philip knew he was making half of it up, he didn’t bother correcting him.
When Philip finally asked about his finger, J.D. said he had to get it amputated because of circulation problems. He slipped his hand in his pocket, still a little vain, still a little like the old J.D.
There was a friendly bar across from Best Buy where Philip took clients sometimes. He offered to buy, and so they sat at a corner table, talking about that house April and Whatizname–Mark, Mike, something all-American like that–had rented with the leaky roof and the tangle of wires sticking out of the bedroom ceiling. They laughed until their sides hurt. They spent hours going over those thrift store days, all the ramen noodles and huge plans.
And they talked about the flashing ambulance-light night. They talked about the paramedics heaving Jeremy onto the stretcher like a sack of potatoes, rushing him out of the apartment. Jeremy had tugged at the plastic oxygen mask. He’d stared around, looking for Philip, but couldn’t find him even though Philip kept shouting his name, promising everything would be okay. That was the last time they saw him until the funeral.
“Those medics tracked mud all the way to the bedroom,” Philip said, swirling the last foamy swig of beer around the bottom of his bottle. “I remember, all the next morning, trying to get the boot-prints out of the carpet. Just easier than dealing with it, you know?”
“Sure, yeah.” J.D. flicked ash into the ashtray. “Still, don’t you miss it? Not that night, I mean, but that whole time with the old gang.”
“Sure,” Philip shrugged, glancing his watch.
“I miss it. Before you went back to school, and everybody else sort of drifted apart, those were the best days of my life.” J.D. slumped into himself like a collapsing birthday cake.
Philip made himself smile. “Come on, man. You can’t spend your life looking over your shoulder. At the good stuff or the bad stuff. You have to keep looking ahead, or else you miss everything that’s still coming.”
J.D. snorted. His voice had a hard edge. “Easy for you to say. Got a Volvo parked out there, got the job you always talked about.”
“Don’t be like that, come on. I’m doing okay, yeah, but it’s not about that. It’s just . . . Yeah, those were great days with Jeremy and everybody, but life goes on whether we want it to or not. Those were great days, but they’re gone.”
J.D. studied the stump of his pinky. After awhile, he licked his lips and spoke slowly. “They’re not, actually. At least, you can get them back. If you want to bad enough.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s this apothecary shop downtown. Supposedly, it sells botanicals, homeopathic shit. Really, though, it sells memories.”
“Huh?”
“It sells– It’s run by this exile who knows a type of magic–”
“Exile from . . . ?”
“Where do you think? The fairie-lands.”
“Jesus Christ, J.D., what have you gotten into?” Occasionally, a prince of the cobwebs and foxglove came to the human world. Nobody really understood why Oberon banished them from his court. Or why, after a century or two, he’d have a change of heart and summon them back. While they were here, the exiles kept to the edges and the old places. They were beautiful but unpredictable–like J.D. in his prime, actually–and it was smart to leave them alone.
J.D. shook his head. “He’s not bad, Philip. He can give you back old memories.” He rubbed the nub of his missing finger. “Well, he doesn’t give anything. It’s a trade.”
Philip’s stomach twisted into a hard knot. “Jesus Christ, J.D.”
One finger for one day–a day from his childhood, from his grandmother’s backyard garden. J.D. spent ten minutes trying to explain why that day was worth so much, but it was something past words. Finally he gave up, saying, “Anyway, I figured if, you know, if you really missed that time with Jason and everybody . . .”
“No. That’s just . . . I mean . . .” Philip couldn’t look at him. “Thanks, I guess, for the offer. But really, I need to get going.”
“What? You think I’m full of shit?”
“No, no, I’ve just got work tomorrow. Got an early meeting tomorrow.”
“The shop’s down on Williamson. The sign’s got, like, ivy painted around it. Go see for yourself if you think I’m full of shit.”
But Philip finally saw how broken down J.D. had become, and it scared him. Paying the bill, he got out of there.
It was already too late. Driving home, Philip already knew–not that he’d ever cut off a finger at all–just if he ever did–exactly which memory he’d trade for.
The apothecary shop stood down from the square, with ivy painted on the sign like J.D. had said.
You can’t spend your life looking over your shoulder. You have to keep looking ahead. Philip believed that. Really. But in the week since he’d run into J.D., a familiar sadness had settled in again. He still wanted Jason, still carried the dull ache of something missing. Usually he could ignore it, bury it under paperwork at the office or just drown it out with the nerve-sizzling sensations of a fresh relationship. Sixteen years later, he was still scrubbing boot-prints out of the carpet. Once the new boyfriend wasn’t new, though, Jason’s ghost always reappeared, hovering on the edge of sight. Philip would stop returning phone calls, grow bored and sullen, keep to himself.
Now a small hope crouched on his chest at night like an incubus. It whispered, One finger for one day. Is that really such a terrible price? Not if it’s the right day. And just a pinky too. Not if having that day finally lets me move forward.
Half a lifetime spent wanting Jason. How could one quick cut be worse than that?
When he pulled the brass door handle, brown glass jars rattled together, giggling like Japanese school girls. The place didn’t smell like Philip thought it should. He expected the shop’s air to bloom with exotic spices, like a Turkish bazar. Instead, it was damp and full of winter. Also a faint stink of . . . sour milk, maybe?
“May I help you?”
Philip turned, and his heart gave a hard thump. “Jason?”
Jason stepped out from around an antique cabinet, still impossibly young. A sob rose from Philip’s throat. But Jason shook his head, saying, “Afraid not, sir. I just have one of those too-familiar faces.”
Philip remembered where he was. “You’re the exile.” <
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“Some call us that, yes. May I help you?”
“I . . . Yeah, I . . .” He’d forgotten how blue Jason’s eyes were.
“Sir?”
“Sor . . . sorry. You sell . . .” Philip forced his focus onto some cork-stoppered bottles lining the counter. The man even sounded like Jason.
“You’re looking for grass. Am I right?”
“Grass?”
Turning, he took down a jar. “A field of grass and corn poppy. Pollen. And . . .” He inhaled the dank air of the shop. “Everything’s so dry. It’s late summer, right? The grass is dying. The flowers have started to wilt.”
“Yeah,” Philip whispered. “That’s it.”
“Hot tar, just a pinch. The ozone sizzle of power lines. The smell of the edge of the city.” He selected more jars from the shelves, talking more to himself than Philip. “The edge of life, the edge of possibility. Not too difficult.”
The exile set a glass bowl on the counter. He chose ingredients and tapped out a tiny amount of each. One was ground-up leaves. Another, a fine red powder, wafted like smoke when he opened the jar.
The apothecary looked like Jason at first glance. The longer Philip stared, though, the easier he could tell it was somebody else underneath. The apothecary didn’t smile like Jason, wide and slightly lop-sided. He didn’t move like him either. He moved precisely, every step smooth but measured.
And he smelled foul. Standing close, Philip was pretty sure the bad smell was coming from this almost-Jason. He wondered what he looked like underneath the glamor. Could he pass for human at all? Did everybody see someone they desperately wanted when they came in his shop? Had J.D. watched his grandmother gathering eye of newt and toe of frog?
For now, though, the exile was beautiful. He wore a crisp green shirt, grey slacks, and Jason’s blonde hair combed back. There was nothing fairie-like about him except the signet ring. Tarnished with age and crowned with a blood red stone, it belonged to the noble prince of some long ago and far away land.
The ring clacked against the bowl as the exile stirred the ingredients with his finger. Then, lifting it to thin lips, he blew the powder toward Philip.
A hot August breeze swept away the shop’s miasma. Philip stood in the field of grass scorched by the sun, tickled by the wind. The bouquet faded quickly, but for an instant he’d been there again, on the edge of the city, on the edge of everything he wanted.
“Yes, yes. That’s . . .” The rush of memories had left a lump in his throat.
The creature wearing Jason’s face said, “The boy himself, that’s harder. The scent of his hands. His soap and sweat and underneath . . .” He closed his eyes, inhaled gently again. “Underneath almost a sweetness. Like not-quite-ripe fruit.”
“You can do all that?”
He smiled his careful smile. “You know the price?”
Philip dug fingernails into the palm of his hand, but he nodded.
The antique cabinet sat on carved lion’s feet, rising several inches above the apothecary’s head. He opened it, revealing hundreds of jars stacked on shelves and crammed several rows deep. Every jar held a single finger in yellowing preservative. Philip’s heart pounded so fast he felt dizzy.
Ordinary pruning shears with green plastic handles hung from a nail inside. The apothecary tossed them into the air. Offering them to Philip, the apothecary snickered, “Your scalpel, doctor.”
Philip took them. The blades were short and curved like a sparrow’s beak. “Just one, right?”
“Just one.”
“My little finger and that’s it. No tricks?”
“No tricks.”
Just one finger, and he’d have that perfect day in his pocket. The aching hunger would be sated.
The shears opened with oiled, silent expectancy.
And just his pinky. Philip still had half a bottle of antibiotics left over from his knee surgery. He’d keep the stump from getting infected, and after a few weeks, he’d barely notice it was gone.
But when the cutting edge touched his finger, Philip’s hand spasmed into a trembling fist. He tried to spread his fingers again, but the tiny muscles had cramped up. “Listen, what if I paid you? With money, I mean.”
“No.”
“Well, isn’t there anything–”
“You said you understood the price,” the apothecary said. He was annoyed, but it was a very polite sort of annoyed.
Philip forced his hand open. The pulse in his finger fluttered like a moth. As the steel beak opened to snatch it, his fist clenched again, pressing itself against his chest.
Jason, I’m sorry. I’ve gotten old, he whimpered inside his head. Old and gutless, and I’m sorry.
The Jason-thing sighed. “Sir, if you can’t–”
“Just listen, okay? Just name a price, okay? Five thousand? Screw it, ten thousand. That’s nothing if you can give me what I want.”
“I know it would be nothing. That’s why I don’t want it.”
Philip blinked at him. His gaze drifted to the exile’s trophy cabinet, and he let out a bile-bitter laugh. “So . . . what? This is just a game? There’s no reason for it, you just like watching people mutilate themselves?” He slammed the shears down onto the counter. “Sick fucker. Sick motherfucker.”
The light seemed to shift around the exile’s face. Jason’s sharp features grew too sharp, almost insectile. “Spoiled, squalling children,” he hissed. Grabbing the bowl he’d mixed his magic in, the apothecary showed Philip its emptiness. “You had it. You had this day for real. Did you savor it then? Or were you thinking about all the things you didn’t have? All the other places you were desperate to go?”
“That wasn’t–” Philip’s anger congealed into a cold lump in his stomach. “It wasn’t–”
“That day didn’t mean a thing until its loss hurt, did it? Until that sweet memory cut like a razor hidden in an apple.” The bowl clattered back to the counter. “If I gave it back to you for free–from the goodness of my heart–you’d grow bored within a month, throw it away just like you did the first time.”
”No–”
“Nothing matters until it hurts.”
No, no, no! Philip wasn’t a kid anymore. He was older but wiser. At least wise enough to know how precious his time with Jason had been.
Wasn’t he?
“Come into my shop and call me sick? You need this pain, not me. I only want to help you. You should be kissing my hand.” Taking the shears, the apothecary offered them to Philip again. “So close you eyes and think of your boy on the edge of the city. Otherwise, leave.”
Philip took the shears. He spread his fingers. He whispered, “Jason, Jason . . .” until he could almost hear Jason’s laughter, almost feel the sunshine on his shoulders. Then just pain.
Pain exploded into a color. It was a roar in his ears, a taste in his mouth. Raw pain swallowed the shop. The shears bit through skin and muscle, then snagged on bone. Philip’s scream drooped to belly-heaving pants. He twisted the shears hard, and the blades cinched shut.
Pain swept out of his brain like a red tide. He opened his eyes just long enough to check. His pinkie was a clean stump and jagged burr of bone. Blood spurted out in rhythm with his pulse, and Philip wanted to puke.
“Oh God, oh shit, oh God.” He cradled his bleeding hand against his belly. “Oh God, oh shit.”
The apothecary picked something off the floor. Philip couldn’t look, but he heard the soft plink of his finger being dropped into a jar and the glu-glug of alcohol being added. Setting his freshest trophy in the cabinet, the exile started thinking out loud again. “Now what was it? A field in late summer . . . soap, sweat . . .”
Philip wished there was somewhere for him to sit. He stood on trembling legs and risked another glance at his hand. Blood glued it to his shirt. It looked so weird, the empty space where his finger had always been. Philip clamped his good hand over it again.
The exile’s ring clacked against the glass bowl. H
e poured the contents into a sachet, then handed the precious day to Philip tied with a green ribbon.
The sachet was smaller than a ping pong ball, but Philip held under to his nose, and the shop’s stink faded again. It was replaced by a field hazy with pollen and the sappy, sticky sweetness of skin.
“You even got the . . . I’d forgotten the beer-taste when he kissed me.”
“A simple enough thing.” The exile gave a slight shake of his head, but pride tinted his voice.
Philip inhaled the day until his lungs burned with it. The pain from his missing finger felt distant and unimportant. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Oh God, thank you.”
The exile just smiled, nodded.
Stuffing the satchet in his coat pocket, Philip said, “You were right, you know. I never loved him like I should have. Not when he was alive, at least.”
“You wouldn’t have come here if you had.”
That long ago, summer-scorched day lingered in Philip’s nostrils. He knew the apothecary wasn’t Jason, but he had Jason’s voice. Philip wanted to touch him, cry in his lap and tell him how sorry he was.
Philip reached out, and brushed a fingertip across the exile’s jaw. The exile took his hand, fingers weaving together. He leaned close, inhaling Philip’s scent. Then he whispered, “Oil and sizzling beef. Celery and fat tomatoes he let ripen on the windowsill. He loved to cook. The smells would cling to his shirt the rest of the evening.”
“Stop.”
The exile squeezed Philip’s hand in a tight grip. “Don’t you remember? Don’t you want to? You can have this memory too, same price as the last.”
“Stop it, please. I’m done. I’m–” Philip twisted free and something metal struck the floor. Forgetting him, the apothecary chased his ring as it bounced behind the counter. He caught it and stood up, and Philip saw where the foul smell was coming from. It wasn’t sour milk, it was burned flesh.
A band of charred skin around the exile’s finger had split open across the side, oozing fluid and revealing angry red muscle. The iron ring burned him. Philip glanced around at glass jars with cork stopper and the plastic-handled shears. Even the doorknob was tarnished brass. But even though the fairie avoided iron everywhere else in his shop, he slipped the finger back on his finger, gritting his teeth as he did.
He looked at Philip and saw that he’d seen. “We can’t ever be done,” the exile said–and nobody could say exactly why he’d been exiled or who he’d left behind. “Nothing matters unless it hurts. We can’t ever let it stop hurting, ever, ever.”
“What– What are you doing this for?”
Jason’s blue eyes showed no pity, not for himself or anybody else. “I want to help.”
Philip couldn’t answer. Fighting a second wave of nausea, he turned and stumbled outside. Philip kept glancing over his shoulder, but the apothecary wasn’t following him. He probably knew he didn’t have to. He knew a part of Philip already wanted to turn around and pay for the other memory. And the next. And the next. After decades or centuries running his shop, the exile already knew Philip craved both the sweetness and punishment hidden inside those squandered days, a razor in an apple. The taste he’d gotten tonight only whet his appetite.
J.D. had sent him there for revenge. Philip had pretended he was happy, and J.D., with a Cheshire cat grin, had baited the trap beautifully. Maybe he thought Philip had disrespected Jason’s memory by moving on. Maybe he was jealous. Maybe he was just crazy. But he’d sent Philip to the shop to look into the exile’s eyes and see himself reflected there and see how broken he really was.
Clutching the memory in one hand, clutching the other hand to his belly, Philip dodged the music and laughing knots of bar-hoppers. In the lights of passing cars, the boys flashed like stuck matches.
Quiet Haunts and Other Stories Page 2
