Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet 30

by eds. Kelly Link

  But where was the little man? Not in the shaving cup—not crushed on the coverlet, thank God! He could not very well go looking for the homunculus with Harris in the room, so he sent him downstairs to insist, again, on kidneys for supper.

  After searching the room fruitlessly, Mr. Crumley discovered the homunculus in the watch pocket of his waistcoat. You mustn’t, he told the little man (thinking this at him, as if that would do any good), and he took off his waistcoat and tried to shake the homunculus back into the shaving cup. He clung. “Dear me,” Mr. Crumley said aloud, and put on waistcoat and frockcoat in a hurry, for Harris was at the door.

  I hope you will not find it strange that Mr. Crumley quite forgot the homunculus by the time he had finished supping on what were supposed to be calves kidneys but did not much resemble them. He succumbed to a day of sun and sea air and exertion, and an evening of rich food taken with a bottle of Rhenish wine in a courtyard spangled by lanterns of amber glass. He became sleepy. Climbed the steep stairs, dropped his frockcoat and waistcoat on the chair for Harris to brush and press, and lay down and slept—to awaken all of a sudden, remembering the homunculus. Suppose Harris pressed the waistcoat and squashed the little man in the pocket! But the waistcoat hung neatly in the wardrobe: no little man.

  Mr. Crumley lay down again, disquieted. He could not forever be hunting for the homunculus. If little fellow wasn’t going to stay put—he must simply return him, first thing in the morning. He fell asleep again, though he’d planned not to.

  Upon arising, Mr. Crumley looked in the mirror, rubbed his cheeks and chin, which were as smooth as—as a lady’s—instead of rough as a rasp. He shuddered to think the homunculus had been grazing on his face like a cow in a pasture. He went down to breakfast, vehemently thinking that he could not be bothered searching for the little fellow before breakfast—found him anyway, snugged away under the lapel of his frockcoat. At which point he lost his appetite for the kippers, poached eggs, rolls, and grilled mushrooms Harris had arranged for him.

  Up and down the steep streets and stairs of Lyslee and into every darkish alley he went, looking for the purveyor of homunculi. At every turn there was something picturesque that Mr. Crumley did not observe. His feet were sore, his thighs burned, and his skin crawled. He had taken a good look at the homunculus before setting out, and had seen, to his dismay, how the little man’s features had altered overnight. His nose was now aquiline rather than infantile, his upper lip was long, his chin slightly receding, and his brow was high and wide. His physiognomy had taken on features familiar to Mr. Crumley, for they were his own. Yet the fellow was still indecently hairless, not to mention naked. And now he rode in the watch pocket of Mr. Crumley’s waistcoat.

  “Take him back! Certainly not! Impossible!” the shopkeeper said. “You are his master, the first man he saw, no? He can serve no other.”

  “I don’t want him,” Mr. Crumley said. “You must take him back.”

  The shopkeeper pointed at Mr. Crumley’s face. “He is not satisfactory? He does not do his duty?”

  “That is not the point! I’ve changed my mind. I must insist that you take him back. You needn’t return my money, I quite understand if you cannot sell him again.” Mr. Crumley could see that the shopkeeper knew he was squeamish, a coward—frightened of a creature the size of his middle finger (already the homunculus had reached his full growth). Mr. Crumley could see the shopkeeper’s contempt. But he was more afraid of the little man than the contempt, and he argued, though he never argued with shopkeepers. Eventually he begged.

  But the shopkeeper refused to take back the homunculus, saying it would be the death of the fellow (garçon, he called him, as if he were a lad or a waiter). He would not be responsible for such an atrocity! Let it be on the Englishman’s head! If he wanted to do murder, he must do it himself! And for emphasis the shopkeeper pulled a chain and lowered the shutter over his counter with a bang, and Mr. Crumley had to jump backward or be brained.

  Everyone was staring, passersby and merchants. Mr. Crumley hoped they could not speak French. He hurried away, climbing the steep streets to the hotel. He would take ship immediately, as soon as one could be found, no matter where it was going. He sent Harris scurrying to purchase tickets or hire a boat, anything to get him off this infernal Isle of Abigomas, which he heartily regretted visiting. He would leave the homunculus behind. Let him languish, let him starve!

  Mr. Crumley peeked inside the waistcoat pocket. The little man appeared to be asleep. Evidently the ticking of the watch did not disturb him. Mr. Crumley drew out the watch and eased off the waistcoat. He tiptoed down the stairs—left the waistcoat in a linen cupboard—tiptoed upstairs. Put on another waistcoat, inspected his grooming kit to make sure the homunculus had not slipped between his brushes or stowed himself inside the nearly empty bottle of eau de cologne. Mr. Crumley packed his own trunk and threw Harris’s garments into his satchel. Sat on the bed waiting for Harris to return.

  With a great deal of commotion, they caught a ferry. Mr. Crumley leaned on the rail and watched with vindictive glee as the Isle of Abigomas dwindled in the distance. He was rid of the creature!

  Properly this tale should end here, for when Mr. Crumley left the island, surely he passed beyond the knowledge of its inhabitants. Nevertheless someone on Abigomas purported to know what became of Mr. Crumley, for the story goes on:

  I daresay you won’t be surprised to learn that Mr. Crumley found it hard to dismiss his new servant. The persistent little fellow turned up again that very night, hiding in the curling hair behind Mr. Crumley’s left ear.

  As Mr. Crumley made his way west toward England, he tried to leave the homunculus behind everywhere he went. The trouble was that he could not bring himself to squash him or drop him into the sea or throw him out of a window. Or shroud him in a handkerchief and bury him, or drown him in a washbasin or toast him on the coals or do any of the other horrible things Mr. Crumley contemplated daily. In short, he couldn’t bear to do violence to him directly, though he gladly would have let him perish elsewhere, out of sight.

  For years Mr. Crumley did not sleep well. He woke frequently, trying to catch the little man at work, yet he never succeeded. He dismissed Harris and told the next valet he preferred to shave himself. He didn’t dare marry—he could not contemplate sharing a bed with a bride and the homunculus. For that reason he ended his travels in Paris rather than London, and there remained, accounted one of many young English gentlemen corrupted by the Grand Tour.

  He grew a mustache. The little fellow knew just what he wanted; he had only to show him a picture in Costume Parisien.

  Homunculi are not as long-lived as human beings. The fellow aged more rapidly than his master, and when he died Mr. Crumley found himself—to his surprise, for he was in the habit of thinking the little man loathsome—more sorrowful than rejoicing. Mr. Crumley had quite got used to the homunculus. Missed him, in fact, nestling behind his left ear at night.

  * * * *

  Ten Feet Tall and Bulletproof at the Potluck

  Nicole Kimberling

  If in your lifetime you ever make any friends, join any organizations, or have any children, chances are you will be required to attend a potluck. Part minefield, part gladiatorial arena, this bring-a-dish event is a place where home cooks test their recipes against the heartless democracy of fellow eaters. At the end of the meal, you do not want the leaden and congealed uneaten casserole that you brought sitting there as evidence of your culinary failure.

  But if this has happened to you, console yourself—not all shunned offerings are the result of bad cooking. Even chefs fail when they forget to consider where they are and what they are supposed to be doing. Here are some guidelines that may help.

  First, ponder the event you will be attending and who you are trying to impress.

  The most common forms of potluck are friendly gatherings and institutional events. When hosts want food at an event without actually paying for it, the potluck springs to mind as
a natural solution. Each form of potluck has its own pitfalls. Invitations to large events are often accompanied by commands like “bring a dessert or salad” that terrify One Dish Wonders whose specialty lies in neither course.

  Understanding for whom you cook is paramount. When events involve children’s organizations you are ingratiating yourself to whichever coach, teacher, nurse or mentor is in charge of the child you care about. In this case, just pick an easy recipe that follows all instructions regarding forbidden content, such as peanuts, chocolate or vodka and then label whatever dish you make as though you were attempting to avoid a lawsuit: This dish contains tree nuts, wheat, eggs, honey, corn, and shellfish.

  For those attending a work gathering, the target is the boss. Cater to her tastes. Remember, this party is about demonstrating that you understand hierarchy. My only advice is to do some research and then don’t fuck it up by attempting self-expression. You will fail the moment you start thinking of the dish as yours. Believe me.

  Whereas the institutional event is a pass/fail test of competence, the friendly potluck is a battle, fraught with competition and sexual tension. Every day reputations are made and egos shattered on the laminate-encased particleboard of crappy kitchen counters everywhere.

  I don’t know what sort of friends you like to make, but chances are if you are reading this now, at least part of your social circle includes either indie hipsters or nerds.

  No two groups of humans are harder to feed. Skinny, hungry, self-conscious people who not only have no fear of impolitely refusing food—but seem to genuinely thrive on the act of food refusal. Vegans, the gluten-sensitive, recovering alcoholics, foodies with unrealistically high standards, over-thinking geeks . . . the list of potential dissatisfaction goes on and on.

  The bad news is you can’t please them all. No mortal can. At every potluck there will be those guests who would ask Jesus for gluten-free loaves and Chinese vegan fish steak. Now for the good news: you may feel free to ignore the burden of sating these outliers. They’ll be happier not eating anyway.

  For the rest of the guests I suggest my friend Justin’s Chipotle Yam Enchiladas.

  Gluten-free*, alcohol-free and vegetarian, this dish has sustained hundreds of partygoers through countless hours of drinking, toddler-wrangling and detailed conversation about the relevance of fixed-gear bikes.

  Figure out how large to make your food. Find a baking pan and take a look at it. How many yams will fit in there in a single layer? Buy that many. If necessary, take baking pan to store and put yams in it to measure volume. While at the store buy corn tortillas, an onion, chiptole sauce, garlic, at least a pint of heavy cream, mild white cheese, such as Jack and a bunch of cilantro.

  Roast Yams. Stab raw yams with fork, then wrap in foil and cook in 400° oven till soft. Check at 30 mins, then every 10 mins thereafter. Slip yams from skin into bowl. Add splash of cream. Mash pulp with utensil of choice. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

  Reduce heat in oven to 350°.

  Chop onion and 1–2 cloves of garlic and sautee in whatever fat you prefer. Onions should be brown at the end. Add sautee to yams.

  Chop and add cilantro to yams as well—about a handful per 9 x 12 baking area.

  Thoroughly lubricate baking dish with fat of choice.

  Fill tortillas with about ¼ cup yam mixture. Roll into cigar shape and place snugly into baking dish. Really cram them in.

  Make sauce. Sautee one more clove of sliced garlic in fat of choice, add at least 1 cup heavy cream. Add chipotle, salt and pepper to taste. If sauce is too spicy, add sugar to cut heat.

  Pour sauce over enchiladas. Sauce should cover them completely by about ¼ of an inch. At this point the dish should look soupy. If sauce looks skimpy, pour more cream over the top.

  Bake, uncovered for 20–30 minutes until sauce is reduced and bubbling throughout. While this is happening, grate cheese.

  Sprinkle enchiladas with scant amount of cheese, then switch oven to broil to brown the top of the dish. Under no circumstances should you walk, or even look away from the dish as it is broiling. The transformation from beige to brown will take seconds once it begins.

  Remove enchiladas from oven, cover and transport to potluck venue. Be careful driving.

  Present dish and claim you invented recipe yourself. Justin won’t mind. He’s on your side.

  * Remember for this dish to be gluten-free the chipotle sauce must be gluten-free. Check the label. Also bring the bottle with you. This will allow adventurous eaters to add more spice, while also allowing paranoid diners to authenticate your claims.

  * * * *

  Five Poems

  A. B. Robinson

  Speculative Fiction

  BUSINESS ELLIPSES IN THE AFTERNOON, LIKE A LIGHT RAIN . . . OR A CLOUD PASSING OVER A PASTE MOON . . .

  TONES BLUSH, NUDE, BONE, CORAL . . . TEXTURE HERRINGBONE . . . FROM A DISTANT LAND . . . NEW JERSEY . . .

  MUSIC . . . SPOOKY . . . ORGAN . . . YOUR BOSS’S BOSS . . . WATCH OUT FOR THE BOOM MIC! HERE HE COMES, IN HIS BLACK PLAID SHIRT! THE DILBERT HAIR-HORNS HAVE AT LAST LITERALIZED THEMSELVES IN A SHOWER OF GOLD! NOBODY GETS OVERTIME!

  So we have heard . . .

  Over at corporate, they have catered lunches every day . . . and the accountants flutter their capes merrily . . .

  I am less angry than previously this week, and more exhausted . . . everything proceeds

  according to plan . . . BUT WHOSE???

  Please light your cigars and wait for the APPLAUSE sign, which is fire and air . . . and for a figure to materialize in your expensively purchased crystal . . . if it isn’t too much to ask, smear a little dirt on yourself from a famous place . . . throw some trash into the wind . . .

  Jonathan Frid flosses with precision, punctuality and excellence!

  Intermittently . . .

  . . . I receive these messages from THE VAMPIRE as he ruminates, digesting a series of faulty SKUs . . .

  . . . I could forward you a report, which I have compiled from my many authenticated sources . . .

  THE VAMPIRE smells like chemical watermelons . . .

  In a windowless office lit by Christmas lights, he raises the dead . . .

  Noises of the factory around us . . . where is the sunlight, which I have heard is like butterflies? THE VAMPIRE quotes himself:

  VAMPIRE: O YES . . .

  VAMPIRE: I AM A VAMPIRE . . .

  THE VAMPIRE smells like real peaches . . .

  WOULD A JAR FACILITATOR PLEASE REPORT TO

  WOULD AJAR FACILITATOR PLEASE REPORT TO

  THE VAMPIRE is a whiz at Microsoft Access . . . and his six times table . . .

  THE VAMPIRE won’t leave off quoting me in Latin, then Old French, then Italian, then Latin, then Greek, then ellipsis, then . . . the roof stoves in . . . everyone is allowed to go home!

  This is a dream I had in America, you know . . . among the hosts of angels and then some poets . . . my Gothic machinery sliding into the peripheries of the frame . . . slightly used . . .

  THE VAMPIRE is indistinguishable from AM radio . . .

  Joan Bennett is letting down her hair!

  THE TELEPHONE RINGS . . . IT IS THE CITY OF TWENTYNINE PALMS CALLING . . . THEY WOULD LIKE THEIR TYPEWRITER AND ESCAPIST FANTASY BACK! ONE LONG SWOOP! NO FULL STOPS! IN AN INGENUE-COLORED CALIFORNIA . . .

  (TULIP PINK . . . BEST REGARDS . . .)

  (FOUR DAYS TO SHIP BY GROUND)

  Everybody can read about THE VAMPIRE, but nobody can find him in the building . . . this is all very romantic, but . . . in case of a drill . . .

  When I am cornered, I resort to summoning THE VAMPIRE from his dirty crypt . . . but he never does my bidding . . .

  He wears a green visor . . .

  VAMPIRE: WHAT DO MORTALS REQUIRE?

  THE VAMPIRE smells like Margarita Time . . .

  THE VAMPIRE is not serious enough to get published in the real Communist magazines . . . there are not enough pesticides . . . or missiles . . . nominall
y THE VAMPIRE’S performance has been lacking . . . me too, O VAMPIRE . . .

  VAMPIRE: AY ME, SAD HOURS SEEM LONG!

  I have serious demands, but I go Cosmic Bowling with THE VAMPIRE . . .

  THE VAMPIRE swam in the Deerfield River once and thought that got pretty close . . . to what is desired . . . will it feed us? what’s the policy? the noise of the conveyor belts lulls THE VAMPIRE to sleep . . . nevertheless, morale is fair, for a Tuesday . . .