by Tim Lebbon
FORT LAUDERDALE
RIO YOUERS
HIS SISTER’S EYES WERE THE BROWN of worked leather. She found his gaze for a moment, then glanced at her sneaker tops. It wasn’t dismissive, exactly, but it felt that way, as if all this were his fault. He was about to say something to her—hey, sis, that color looks good on you; that sweater; the way you wear your hair. Something to break the tension. He was distracted by his brother-in-law’s watch, though. It wasn’t large, or showy, but he heard the second hand distinctly and above everything else. Four ticks, each as powerful, yet fragile, as the last. It was followed by the sound of the heart monitor flatlining. The monophonic note of so much and so little.
A doctor John had never seen before recorded the time of death. His watch was silent. ‘We’ll give you a moment,’ he said, but John didn’t need a moment. He looked at the man in the bed with an antipodal mix of contempt and admiration. You could have tried harder, he thought. And that was all he had. A life summarized in five words.
His sister, Gail, wept. Her husband looped an arm around her shoulders. ‘Let it out.’
‘It was just so sudden.’
‘I know. It doesn’t seem fair.’
John rose to his feet. Gail looked at him. There was a question in her eyes, or maybe an objection.
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, I—’
‘You’re just going to leave me, John?’
‘I have to go.’
He left the room and followed corridors of insipid mint tile, the light like a cold sheet and the exit signs too distantly placed. Unlike the people, the staff, patients, and visitors, who were packed throughout, all of them trapped in a purgatory of waiting.
John stepped out into the day. It was as clean as a seashell and free.
Seth Lincoln had lived his thirty-nine years a dreamer. An unpublished poet, an unaccomplished musician, always with a six-string strapped to his body and a notebook in his pocket. ‘The next Donovan,’ he said of himself, perhaps acknowledging, for all his romance, that Dylan was beyond reach. John often wondered if his big brother had viewed life through a brighter filter, one that softened the edges.
He’d died like a poet, though, tragically, and too young—a brain tumor that consumed whatever part of his mind had remained grounded. His final days were lived in absolute reverie.
‘Where am I?’
‘Home, Seth. Rockville.’ John held his brother’s hand. There were calluses on his fingertips from so often practicing the guitar, trying to find the right arrangement of notes, the arrangement that would make him, or at the very least define him. ‘You’re home.’
‘Florida.’
‘No,’ John replied. ‘Connecticut.’
‘It looks like Fort Lauderdale.’
Their father had been an angry, stubborn man who’d said only as much as he needed to. His parenting, such as it was, came by way of the Hartford Courant, usually rolled into a firm tube, which hummed when he swatted them, always when they least expected it, the way he would swat a fly. Very occasionally, their father would open the newspaper and invite them to do the crossword with him, or point out stories of bravery or achievement, and remind them to work hard at school. John had wanted to be a firefighter for as long as he could remember.
Seth was content to dream.
‘I see pelicans.’
There were no pelicans in Rockville, or none that John had ever seen.
‘Okay, Seth.’
‘So ungainly, on the ground. A cumbersome bird. But in flight…beautiful. A beautiful bird, John.’
‘I never thought of it that way.’
‘There’s more to us than meets the eye. Am I right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘More to everything.’
Their mother had died when John, the youngest of three, was still in diapers. He had an unreliable memory of a woman with a sweetly open face and a shower of dark hair. There was some question as to the cause of her death. Until he was thirteen years old, John fully believed that she’d been killed by a great white while scuba diving in Mexico. Then the story changed: an airplane crash in Upstate New York. Other stories included, but were not limited to: a mine shaft collapse, yellow fever, trampled by horses, Hurricane Audrey. It didn’t help that these outlandish obituaries came by way of Seth, who’d been old enough to remember their mother well. Their father never spoke of her, and Gail was also too young. The one scrap of information that remained consistent—and was therefore believable—was that their mom would always snap her fingers when asking for something to be done. Hey, Seth—snap—clean your room; Come on, kiddo—snap—time for homework; Brush your teeth first, then—snap—maybe the radio. There were only a few blurry, black and white photos of her in the family album, but studying these John could see that he’d inherited her olive skin, the shape of her eyes. He used his imagination to sketch the many missing pieces. He drew her cool, taller than him, always with a quip and a lovely, mysterious tilt to her mouth.
Shark attack or mine collapse. What did it matter? Like her firstborn son, she’d died too young.
‘Fort Lauderdale. Must be.’
‘Sure, Seth. Whatever you say.’
‘The waves are so high.’
Seth’s young heart and fanciful mind had slipped away but the calluses on his fingertips remained.
But what of it? Theirs was no different from any other family. The watch was always ticking, louder than everything else.
He walked for a long time, wanting the clean air to blow the hospital smell from his skin. It did. Moreover, it swept the daze from his mind and the heaviness from his lungs. John felt real for the first time in years. The streets were unfamiliar, but his being a stranger was invigorating. Maybe he’d get lost.
And it appeared, for all the world, as if the environment had conspired to lift him. The streets were each touched by the right amount of light and shadow, as if staged for photography. The traffic was minimal, not loud, and he never had to wait to cross a road. When he smiled at people, they always smiled back.
His favorite song, ‘To Live is to Fly,’ by Townes Van Zandt, fluttered from a yacht moored on the river. An elderly couple in splendid evening dress danced unabashedly on the deck. When they noticed John they waved, danced harder.
He continued walking without direction, relishing the warm air and light. At some point, he realized he was crying. Not as heavily as Gail, and not for the same reason.
The bar was called Sunset. It was Happy Hour. Of course it was. Two-for-one beers and three-dollar cocktails. John sat at the bar, where a pyramid of bottles blocked his reflection in the mirror. He ordered a mojito, which was served crisp and cold. The bartender had loose, dark curls, not unlike Donovan, although he actually reminded John of a kid he hadn’t saved: an apartment fire in Hartford, one of John’s first nights on the job. The kid had been unconscious when John carried him from the building. Still alive, but the damage had been done. He died in the ambulance. Nineteen years old.
All this mortality, John thought to himself. Come on, man. It’s Happy Hour.
He remembered the old couple dancing on the yacht. To live is to fly. John sipped his drink and recalled moments when the altitude robbed him of breath and the wind stroked his feathers. In junior high he’d been in love with Rebeka Gál and he’d kissed her, finally, on prom night, when they were seventeen. It had been their only kiss but it lasted forever. He’d run a marathon when he was thirty and collapsed on mile sixteen, his feet blistered and throbbing, his chest a wild drum. He’d picked himself up, though, and finished two hours later. He’d crawled across the line, but at the same time he’d flown. His marriage had been a disaster—it lasted twenty months—but he’d fathered an amazing daughter, and taught her with every strain of his heart. She’d grown into a paragon, traveling the world, establishing education centers in underdeveloped countries, treating the sick, the homeless. Rose was his world. A woman of limitless distinction and dignity. And no, he hadn’t saved the
nineteen-year-old in the apartment fire, but there were many—hundreds—he had saved. Too many to remember them all.
‘Another drink?’ the bartender asked. Kid had a beautiful smile.
‘No, I…’ John reached for his wallet. ‘I should really get going.’ But his wallet wasn’t in his jeans pocket. Maybe in his jacket, which, in his haste, he’d left at the hospital. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t have any money.’
‘I guess it’s on the house, then,’ the kid said, still smiling. ‘Really, what’s three dollars in the scheme of things?’
John left the bar. The sky had dimmed to amber. Out of Sunset, into sunset. Christmas lights shimmered everywhere. The street was alive with them. White and blue. Green and red. They trimmed the storefronts and circled the narrow boles of the many palm trees. More decorations than at home.
John walked from the sidewalk to a cuff of white rock and then onto sand, soft and warmed by the day’s sun. He took his shoes and socks off. Who didn’t love to walk barefoot on the beach? There were aromas of barbecue and seafood. Bars and restaurants lined the boardwalk, each bustling, music coloring the air. A man selling glow sticks paraded nearby, displaying his wares like a strangely feathered bird.
A young woman wearing a tie-dyed sarong and a chrysanthemum in her hair approached him. ‘This starts soon,’ she said, handing him a flyer. It was bright pink, a single word stamped across it: CELEBRATION. ‘Right here on the beach. We dance all night.’ She pointed to where a small stage had been set up, speakers directed at the horizon. A modest crowd had gathered.
John smiled and said, ‘I doubt they’ll play the kind of music I like.’
‘You might be surprised.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah. I think.’ She puckered her mouth in the most delightful way. ‘Besides, attendance, and dancing, are compulsory. By order of the Fort Lauderdale Celebration Police.’
‘Is that so?’
She twirled away from him, floated into the crowd. He watched her flower until it melted from view, then turned to face the ocean, a shade of purple in the fading light.
The beach filled with people, silhouettes in the dusk, nothing to distinguish one from the next. John found a quiet spot and sat down with his legs crossed.
Criss-cross applesauce, he thought, remembering story time in first grade, his teacher, Miss Lutka, clapping her hands. ‘All right, children. Criss-cross applesauce. Spoons in the bowl.’ And he, five years old, with grubby kneecaps and mirth in his heart, drawn to every happy ever after. How long ago had that been?
‘Fifty-nine years,’ he said, and frowned as if there’d been some miscalculation. But there hadn’t. ‘Fifty-nine years. My God.’
The waves climbed and folded. Behind him, techs checked sound levels and the crowd warmed in anticipation. It was going to be a loud night.
‘I should head back,’ he muttered, thinking of Gail—You’re just going to leave me, John?—and the distinct, finite ticking of her husband’s watch.
‘But you just got here.’
He hadn’t seen the woman until she spoke, sitting to his left, another silhouette. Her hair was lifted back. She had her knees drawn to her chest, forearms linked across her shins.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘But it’s getting late. And I’m old.’
‘Not anymore.’
A wave broke and ran to his feet, cold and white. She had hit on something, he thought. Maybe it was the clean air, the palm trees swaying, the crowd’s sweet and perfect energy…but he felt renewed, aligned with the night and every part of it.
‘Are you here for the party?’ he asked.
‘We’re all here for the party.’
‘I haven’t danced for many years.’ John shook his head. Another wave ran to his toes. ‘I only stepped out to clear my head, take a moment for myself. I came from the hospital.’
‘And why were you there?’
It wasn’t the question, but the way she asked it. Patient. Compassionate. John looked at her, realization dawning at the exact moment the stage lights came on. A fresh white glow stretched across the beach. She turned from the silhouette of a woman into one exquisitely detailed, the same eyes and skin as him, but taller than him, and with a lovely, mysterious tilt to her mouth.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah.’ He blinked slowly. ‘I think so.’
She reached with her right hand, and he reached with his left. They joined their fingers as the waves boomed and the crowd murmured. When his tears had dried, he noticed the shapes in the sky, graceful and swooping.
‘They really are beautiful fliers,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t think it, watching them waddle along the ground. But yeah…beautiful.’
‘There’s more to us than meets the eye.’ She let go of his hand and got to her feet, brushing sand from the back of her skirt. Then she spread her arms. ‘More to everything.’
The crowd swelled behind her, expanding from north to south. It rumbled and surged, mirroring the ocean.
‘Come on, Johnny.’—Snap—’It’s time to go.’
John followed her through the crowd, which parted respectfully, allowing a clear run to the front. He took in their faces, recognizing most of them: friends, neighbors, teachers (Miss Lutka, with a storybook tucked beneath one arm), acquaintances, lovers. He saw his father, who caught his gaze somewhere between the brim of his fedora and the top of his newspaper. John nodded once, firmly. The corners of his father’s eyes creased. Almost a smile.
The ovation started then, a ripple of applause somewhere to his right, which escalated in volume and intensity. There were cheers, people calling his name, shaking his hand as he neared the stage.
Where Seth stood, of course, in a hazy shaft of light, his guitar high on his chest, the way he liked it. He strummed once, stepped forward, spoke into the mike. The crowd was already dancing.
‘In celebration of flight,’ he said, and started singing. His voice was fragile, but matched with the words.
His callused fingertips had found the arrangement at last.
BROKEN FOR YOU
ALYSON NOEL
I’m just looking for an angel with a broken wing.
—Jimmy Page
THE TRAIN STATION HUMMED WITH EXCITEMENT as Mary picked her way across the crowded platform. After a year of waiting, August had finally arrived. Thirty-one long and lazy days with no borders, no rules, nothing to fear. She was determined to not take a single second for granted.
The trick was to never forget how the view from the start was always distorted—bending toward an elusive, seemingly infinite horizon. But Mary had been around long enough to know just how quickly the hours would race and fade and fall away until she was back on the platform, back in her old life, beginning the countdown again.
‘Miss, sorry. Excuse us.’
Behind her, a smartly dressed young woman struggled to maneuver a stroller with twins.
‘Identical.’ The mother grinned proudly when Mary commented on their matching yellow sundresses.
Mary was quick to return the smile, but her gaze felt tight, her lips stretched too thin. The sight of those happy girls with their rosy cheeks, bright blue eyes, and blonde curls reminded her of her own twin, Becky, who she hadn’t seen in a very long while.
‘I was a twin,’ Mary found herself saying.
The woman gazed at her with mild interest. ‘Identical?’
Mary started to nod, but then quickly reversed, remembering how Becky loved to point out their miniscule differences. Becky’s nose was a tad slimmer, her legs a few millimeters longer. No one else ever seemed to notice, but Becky liked to remind Mary she was the taller of the two.
Becky had always wanted to be different. Go somewhere else. Be someone else. Mary supposed her wish must’ve come true because one day, when Mary wasn’t looking, Becky had simply vanished, as though she’d been snatched from the world, and Mary hadn’t seen or heard from her since.
The woman shifted in polite agitation, s
ubtly bumping the stroller back and forth. Mary flushed in embarrassment. It’d been years since she’d mentioned her twin, and yet, here she was blabbing to a stranger and delaying her departure. Like everyone else, the young mom was eager to leave. Already, the clock was winding down. You could feel the urgency.
Mary rose to her feet and smoothed a hand over the front of her dress. It felt stiff, painted on, desperately in need of a refresh. ‘Where you off to?’ she asked, thinking if their destination was the same they could sit together. Might be nice to have company.
‘Plymouth Rock,’ the woman replied. ‘I’ve always wanted to see it.’
Mary hid her disappointment. She was headed to the Enchanted Forest. ‘So, you’ll need another train then.’ She nodded, remembering the postcard Becky had sent one long ago August. The front bore a picture of a large ship with white sails. According to Becky, the boat was named the Mayflower.
‘Did you see the ocean?’ Mary had eyed her sister warily. The thought of her twin seeing such a sight filled her with envy.
Becky had scoffed and rolled her eyes. ‘The ship was in a museum. Still, it was cool. And the living quarters were so tiny, the people must’ve been very small back then—probably no bigger than you!’ She’d poked her in the ribs, laughing as though it was all a big joke. But her biting tone and the shrewd gleam in her eyes signaled it wasn’t.
The woman sounded an impatient cough. Embarrassed, Mary quickly stepped out of the way. ‘Enjoy your journey,’ she said. ‘I hear it’s beautiful this time of year.’
She watched the woman’s retreating form and felt a familiar tug of concern. Despite the polite courtesies they all showed one another, the world was a dangerous place. Many went missing without notice.
