Interfictions 2

by Delia Sherman

  * * * *

  "Berry Moon” is an attempt to give the always working, never resting creative part of the writer's mind a voice and a personality of its own. It's a peculiar thing, often even to the writer, how his or her brain can take everyday occurrences, gobble them up, and transform them into shiny castles—how everything is inspiration, nothing is plain ... As a writer (or artist, for that matter), a part of you is always detached from the real world, busy looking for food for the creative “magic.” This, in my opinion, makes the writer somewhat interstitial by nature—walking in between the worlds.

  This constant internal dialogue is, in many ways, far more intimate (and important) than a relationship with another human being can ever be, which makes the writer more or less self-sufficient when it comes to intimacy: no one can know you like you know yourself, even if you don't always quite understand exactly what it is that triggers and feeds your imagination. And nothing can satisfy you as completely as your creative work; to fill those pages and tell that story, to experience the sweetness of a creative “high"...

  The relationship with the “muse,” or creative self, is like a lifelong marriage: you fight, you love, you feed each other. Sometimes you want the stream of creative impulses to cease, other times you wish for it to flow—but then, of course, it won't ... “Berry Moon” was written at a time when I had some doubts about this relationship between me and my “other self.” We worked it out, though—we always do, as walking away isn't really an option. We both live here, after all.

  Camilla Bruce

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  Morton Goes to the Hospital

  Amelia Beamer

  Most of Morton's weight landed on his left forearm. After he'd caught his breath, he flexed the fingers to check that nothing was broken. His hip hurt where it had hit the sidewalk, and his ribs. Still, he would not be put off his weekly lunch out. Since Marie had passed, it was the only time he ate anything other than what he'd heated from a can. More than that, he was a creature of routine. He was expected at Happy Family.

  The street was empty, save his parked car, and a few others. He was relieved that no one was around to have witnessed his fall, and then he was bemused that no one was around to help him stand. What the hell had he tripped on, anyway?

  Probably just your feet, Marie said.

  He acknowledged the possibility with a nod. Morton had rules about speaking to Marie in public. It wasn't that he was crazy; he'd heard her voice in his head since before the cancer took her. Always coming up with some smart or insightful comment.

  With some effort, Morton stood and dusted himself off with his good hand. His cane was nowhere to be found.

  In the gutter, Marie said. You know, you should really go to the hospital.

  Sure enough, it had landed in a puddle that was slick with something that might be soap. Who knew what was in this water?

  Marie didn't offer an opinion. Morton liked that from time to time. Anyone who's been married can understand.

  He had to bend over, bracing against a parked car, to retrieve the cane. Already there was some blood coming through his sleeve. He bled so easily these days, from the Coumadin. Sometimes he had nosebleeds that lasted for hours.

  He walked the painful half block to Happy Family. Their normal table was still empty. Good, he wasn't late, not that Alice would notice. Morton used the time to check his wounds in the bathroom. His forearm was scratched up pretty badly. He'd ruin his shirt, at this rate. There were several welts on his side, and he took shallow breaths to minimize the pain when he breathed. He'd be OK for a while, he decided.

  Morton used the toilet, which he often did these days, washed his hands, and went to wait. He read the menu as if he hadn't already memorized it, as if he ever ordered anything other than Orange Chicken, and wished—as he did every week—that he'd brought the newspaper. He watched the door instead.

  Twenty minutes later, Alice came through, pushing a walker and shepherded by the young Hispanic driver. The kid had once told Morton that he locked the van every time he got out, so that the old folks didn't wander off. Morton was both grateful and a little resentful. The way it worked at Alice's home, you had to be on a list to check out a resident, as if the old folks were library books. It was a liability thing, for insurance. And Alice's daughter didn't like Morton; that was a liability thing, too. Alice had to ask for a ride just to get out and see Morton. She had a standing order.

  Morton waved with his good hand. Alice saw him, he knew by the look of puzzlement that passed over her face. The look that said she knew him from somewhere. He stood despite the pain and kissed her dry cheek as she approached. Her helper sat her down, then left.

  "Well, here we are,” Alice said.

  "It's Morton,” Morton said. “Your old friend. Getting older every day. Alice, how are you?"

  "Fine, thanks, and you?” She picked up the menu with her delicate hands and read it as if she'd never read a menu before. “They spelled dinner wrong,” she said. “It's missing an n. And there's periods after some of the items and not after others.” Her eyes were watery through thick glasses. Alice kept a packed suitcase in her room, for when she was to go home.

  "You're proofing the menu again, dear,” Morton said. He reached out to hold Alice's hand. She pulled away.

  I do feel sorry for the poor dear, Marie said. I don't know why you keep doing this to her, dragging her out.

  If she doesn't remember, what difference does it make? Morton thought. Maybe it was selfish of him, but she seemed to enjoy the food and the outing. Look, there she was, flirting with a baby in a nearby booth. The baby dropped a fistful of rice on the floor and smiled. It had tiny teeth poking up from its bottom gum.

  * * * *

  I should tell you now, if you haven't figured it out already: Morton and Alice had a thing, back in the day. It lasted three years, from Christmas to Christmas exactly.

  And I should tell you that it nearly destroyed him, Marie adds. Morton's dead wife wants to show you something, and though you wouldn't expect a disembodied form to have photographs, she does.

  See?

  She wants me to tell you about them. I have to be polite, plus I'm curious. Who'd take photos of a love affair they were trying to keep secret? So I look.

  Our families were friends, Marie explains. The photos are Kodachrome, like the Paul Simon song, although I personally think everything looks better in black and white. They're curling around the edges, as if from repeated handling, although of course they're not actually real. The first shot is of a younger Morton in a Santa suit, with a thick tuggable beard. He's too skinny, and the red velvet is thin, also, but other than that he looks good.

  This was taken before, Marie says. He got stuck in Alice's chimbly. They had to call the fire department.

  Maybe this is what Marie had meant with it nearly destroyed him.

  If a spot of dust could give you a look like your mother discovering you'd tracked mud all over her kitchen, Marie does this. I'm not used to having my mind read. You and I had better watch out. I'm doing this for your benefit, you know.

  The next photo is a blur of a child running. What's most impressive is the green grass, the blue sky. There's a blanket under a tree in the corner of the photo, almost as an afterthought. A woman lies on the blanket, or at least I think it's a woman.

  Morton is a fool to think I wouldn't find out, Marie says, but there is kindness in the ghost's voice. Poor woman. After all, she's dead, and that has to be hard on her.

  That's not the story we're here for, Marie, dear, I tell her. We're here because something is about to happen.

  * * * *

  Neither he nor Alice can eat much these days, so Morton ordered Orange Chicken and white rice. They'd share. On second thought, he added an order of Crab Rangoon for a starter. He was starting to feel woozy. Already he had bled through his sleeve, and the white cloth napkin he was using for a compress was showing spots. He'd have to tip extra. The food came, and the
y ate, and he paid, and that was that.

  "Would you like to go for a drive?” Morton asked. He wasn't supposed to take her from the restaurant, but Alice liked to look at the big houses in the suburbs. As her memory receded, she had forgotten that she'd moved to California. She thought she was still in Chicago and would comment on the drive back about how the neighborhood had changed over the years. The brick was gone, for example. You don't see a lot of brick in earthquake country.

  Alice assented, and Morton brought the car back half a block. He hurried despite the pain, conscious of their time limit.

  Once they were on the freeway, Morton said, “You may remove your stuff."

  "Thank God,” Alice said. She took off her glasses, kicked off her sensible shoes, and stretched. They used to go through the litany from the Roald Dahl book (gloves, wigs, shoes), but it took too long, and Alice wasn't actually a witch. She just got better when she was going west. And worse when she was going east.

  "I missed you,” Morton said. Usually he would ruffle her hair, but he had to keep both hands on the wheel.

  "Jesus, hon, you're bleeding,” Alice said. “What happened?"

  "No bother, just a fall. Stupid, my fault,” Morton said. They had maybe fifteen minutes before he'd have to turn around or risk being late. After that was the eight-and-a-half-mile Bay Bridge, and then about ten miles of San Francisco before the ocean. “Alice, honey, do you remember what we did the last time we had a drive?"

  She undid her seat belt and slid closer to him. “Just drove, and looked out at everything.” Though she was lucid, Alice didn't seem to remember from week to week.

  Morton took a breath. There was something he had to say, and he didn't care if Marie heard. Maybe she deserved to hear it.

  "Alice, why'd we never do it, back in the day?” he asked.

  "We probably should have,” Alice said. “It would have been good. Just multiply the mistletoe.” She sat in the middle seat of his old Buick, leaning her head against his shoulder. She should have been wearing a seatbelt.

  Morton wanted to kiss her. He wanted to say something loving and charming and smart, something memorable. It tore at him. He wanted Alice to do something, say something, write her thoughts in a notebook while she still could. Whatever she should have been doing with this borrowed time, she wasn't doing it.

  "I thought about you, though,” he said. “I had conversations in my head with you every day. I still do."

  "As did I. That's almost as good, right?"

  * * * *

  It wasn't. All of us knew it, Marie and me and you, too, and not one of us said anything.

  * * * *

  "I think it must be a polarization thing,” Morton said to break the silence. “Because it's only when we're going west that you come back. Maybe there's something to do with the magnetic fields, the North Pole. If we could just figure out how it works—"

  Alice interrupted. “When you only feel like yourself once a week for a few minutes, like waking up out of a dream, you—OK, well. I want it, of course I do. I miss being myself. When I'm coherent enough to notice.” She put a warm hand on Morton's thigh. “The rest of the time, I don't care. I sit in the sunny spot, and it's enough."

  "I can't believe that,” he managed to say. Her hand on his thigh commanded his attention.

  She teased his penis erect, through his khakis. He gasped, as much surprised at her action as his reaction. He hadn't had a willie since he started taking the blood thinners.

  "Morton,” Alice said. “I wasn't going to tell you this, but every time you take me out, I have to go back through it again. Losing everything."

  Morton's hands tightened on the wheel. He was ashamed. Selfish, that's what he was, taking advantage of her. Marie was right, and she wasn't even going to say so.

  Alice undid his zipper, and the feeling of her fingers on him, so dearly wanted for so long, made him forget what he had been thinking.

  They were nearly to the bridge. Morton would have to turn around. If he didn't have Alice back to the restaurant in time, if the driver saw him pull up with Alice, he'd get in trouble; Alice's daughter would find out, and Alice wouldn't be able to meet him anymore.

  He kept driving. Of course he kept driving.

  * * * *

  OK, pause, Marie says. I figure dead people know everything, but it's clear she's as surprised as me. Maybe she thinks narrators know everything.

  You're going to make them drive off the bridge, she says, upset. Or they'll get in an accident, or they'll drive into the ocean.

  I'm not the one driving, I say. Plus, you told me they'd had a thing.

  They did. That's obvious.

  So you knew they never, ah, I say.

  Marie's ghost seems to pulse. You know how it feels, when you're having sex with your husband and you know he's thinking about someone else? He never said anything, but I could tell.

  Still mad? I hazard.

  "Shut up, you two,” Morton said under his breath.

  "What, hon?” Alice, with her Western-going magic and her hand in Morton's trousers, didn't seem to hear us at all.

  No, Marie says. I love him.

  "Oh, sweetheart. Just wishing I could pull over. Oh,” Morton said. It was suicidal, what they were doing. He was going forty-five in the left lane, still on the bridge. He was trying to remember how to get to UCSF, the medical hospital where he'd taken Marie so many times. If the doctors could see Alice, the change in her behavior, they could investigate. Maybe fix her. He didn't know what else to do.

  You're going to betray her like that? Marie and I both want to know.

  "What am I supposed to do?” Morton said. With regret, he gently grasped Alice's hand, trying to move it away from his penis. She moved faster.

  "Just come, my love,” Alice said. The skin of her palm was so smooth.

  You try stopping the girl you're in love with from touching you. He groaned, realizing what she was doing, and his hand tightened on hers.

  His weakened left hand wasn't enough to hold the wheel. The car eased itself into the embankment. They were hit from the back, and the car twirled and twisted. The airbags deployed, breaking Morton's nose, but it was the windshield that stopped Alice.

  I can't believe you let that happen, you jerk, Marie says. You know as well as I do that you're gone, just the same as them, once this story is over.

  Marie is right. Also, this is embarrassing for them as well as tragic. I'd wanted to end the story in the restaurant. After the meal, and after Alice's driver had picked her up, Morton would have stood with some effort, found his cane hanging on the back of the chair, and walked toward his car, with every intention of going to the hospital. How about that?

  Ain't going to work, Marie says. We may as well get comfortable.

  We sit on the curb inasmuch as two spectral beings can, waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Morton and Alice are both passed out; I can't feel anything from them. Which is probably good, because if they were dead already, they'd be with us. And we'd have some talking to do, for sure.

  Somehow this is all my fault. It's terrible. But I did it for you.

  * * * *

  The thing you don't know about dreams is the thing Marie teaches me as we follow the ambulance. When you fly in dreams, it's just like being dead. Being dead is just like flying. The trick is to keep going. Stay away from other people. They're just so interesting, it's hard to leave them be.

  That was my problem, thinking their story is mine, but it's not. It's like quantum mechanics. If we hadn't been watching, I want to think that Morton and Alice would have had their boring normal lunch, and gone about their boring normal lives without really talking or touching, and finally died quiet, peaceful deaths. Comforting, but dull. Maybe we had to have the ghost of the wife, and the hand job, and the car accident, just to hold our interest.

  On the other side of the bridge, Marie heads south with the ambulance and the freeway. I keep going west, towards the ocean and the sun.

  And
you. You stop here.

  * * * *

  There is a trail along a creek bed near where I live. Exercise, and walking, in particular, is often useful for writing, so I took a hike one late Saturday afternoon and came up with this story. At one point, early on, my brain felt full, and I nearly turned back home to write it down before it all fell out; but I realized that I'd only found my characters and hadn't figured out what they would do. So I kept walking. By the time I'd completed the trail, I had all of the elements, so I went home and wrote the story. That's one version of its origins.

  The other involves a long paper I wrote with Gary K. Wolfe, “21st Century Stories,” in the British scholarly journal Foundation 103, for which we analyzed a number of stories associated with interstitiality, by authors such as M. Rickert, Jeffrey Ford, and Kelly Link. My fiction often ends up occupying interstitial territory—I get regular rejection letters from genre editors, saying that the speculative element isn't central enough, and have stories bounced from literary markets because genre work isn't serious enough—so it was neat to see how other writers used a combination of fantastic, postmodern, and what we in the genre call “mainstream” techniques. I kept this alchemical mix in mind while writing, and the story that resulted is a combination of my discovery of the characters and events, and a conscious dialogue with other writers. Though interstitial art is often defined as work that crosses borders or falls between cracks, it's also a way to describe works that bridge the intuitive and the intentional.

  Amelia Beamer

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  After Verona

  William Alexander

  The news is getting everything wrong. Her name was Verona, and not Veronica. She was not a teenager, and would not have been flattered to be mistaken for one. She was not an edgy performance artist. She painted. She also sculpted.