A shiver ran through her. Better to stand in the rain.
She put on a white summer dress and a pair of slip-on sneakers; the hardwood floor at Dabble’s Books was no place for heels, and Dr. Kohler needed no additional encouragement. The dress would be sufficiently distracting. Not that there was anything obvious about Dr. Kohler—no lingering stare at her breasts, or the accidental brush of the knee—but the impression remained; there was something about Dr. Kohler that simply wasn’t right.
Paranoia is a sign of mental illness.
Her freedom had three conditions: maintain gainful employment, stay within the city limits, and meet twice a week with the court-appointed therapist, Dr. Frederick Kohler. Kohler also reported to her father; Daddy’s means of assuring Ellen stayed safely out of the way and under control. She was free so long as she remained a prisoner; therapy twice a week out here in the real world, or Thorazine twice a day in an asylum. Daddy loved offering choices.
But how do I know this is the real world? she wondered, standing in the middle of her kitchen, a piece of toast in one hand and a half-empty glass of juice in the other. Dreams seem real until you wake up, and realize you can’t do in reality what you can in dreams. So how do you know you won’t wake up at some moment and discover that all of this is just a dream?
Yeah, she thought dryly, finishing her breakfast. And maybe I’m really just a rabbit dreaming she’s a human.
She placed the glass in the sink, threw her bag over her shoulder—checking first to make sure that The Sanity’s Edge Saloon was safely stowed in the bottom—and left, locking the door behind her.
“Jasper? That you?”
Ellen turned as the door across the hall opened, a squat, black woman shuffling out upon the landing, her hair as coarse as steel wool. She squinted through thick-framed glasses, pulling together the sides of a faded gray sweater.
“Oh, Ellen, I’m sorry. I thought you were Jasper.”
Rose Marie Desmond lived with her grandson in the apartment across from hers. They shared the landing, and sometimes exchanged mail when the postman became confused, or simply indifferent. She was a pleasant enough neighbor, somewhere in her sixties though Ellen thought she looked closer to seventy.
“No, I’m sorry. I haven’t seen him.” They only ever spoke to one another on the landing, the picket fence of urbanites, a neighborly relationship where none would exist otherwise. They did not exchange recipes or news or the occasional cup of sugar or any of the things that neighbors supposedly did in that black-and-white fabrication of society’s collective, a vicarious past gleaned from forty years of semi-literate television. They had no common ground save the landing. “I was just on my way to work.”
“Tha’s alright. I just worry ‘bout him, is all. He slipped out after breakfast while I was takin’ care of bidness, ya know.”
Ellen didn’t need to ask what “bidness” Rose Marie was talking about; she’d grown accustom to the old woman’s frank references. Rose could comfortably discuss her bodily functions and dysfunctions with a perfect stranger in the supermarket then cluck indignantly at any forthright and shameless discussions of sex carried out by the young. Ellen chalked it up to a generational thing.
“And when I was finished, he was gone. Just phhhht! Gone.” She shook her head. “He’s a handful, that boy is.”
“Rose, isn’t there anything that…” Ellen halted. The most obvious question regarding Rose Marie’s situation was also the most idiotically tactless. “I mean … well, has a doctor ever said if there was anything they could do for him?”
Jasper was special; that was what Rose Marie Desmond always said. Like her “bidness,” special was a euphemism. Ellen was given to understand that Jasper was the equivalent of a six-year-old; a six-year-old wearing the gangly body of a young man of seventeen. But Jasper was more complicated then that. There were times when he was fairly lucid and other times when he simply blabbered non-stop to anyone or no one for hours. And there were still other times when he said nothing at all, sometimes for days. Some form of autism or schizophrenia, Ellen guessed, though hardly an expert. Her field was escapism … by any means available.
Rose Marie’s head leaned to one side, the look of someone who has answered a tactless question so many times that it can no longer offend, only amuse by the embarrassment of the one who asks. “Oh, I ‘spect one has. In fact, I’m quite sure there’s a treatment of some nature out there for him. I think I saw it once on 20/20. Or maybe it was Primetime. Well, it was one of ‘em nighttime news shows; you know the ones I mean?”
Ellen nodded.
“But doctors cost money, and it’s just me now. I got my Social Security and some money Norris and I saved up before he passed on, bless him, but tha’s it. The boy’s mother gone and run off. Livin’ like a whore, she is. A whore.”
Ellen chewed at the inside of her lip regretfully.
“She got herself knocked up with some no-good drug dealer she was hanging around with, and when that boy came out, all screwed up from her being a drunk and a whore, she just left him with me. I think to myself, well, why not? I look after him for a while, then, when she’s dried out and better, we can look after the boy together. Only that ain’t what happened. She jus’ up an’ left. I understand she’s living in Fort Lauderdale, or some such place. She don’t call nor write, and don’t give a shit.”
Rose Marie looked up apologetically. “Oh, Ellen, I’m sorry. Please excuse my language. I start to ramble on about Maggie, an’ I can get myself so worked up. But it ain’t no concern of yours, and I’m sorry I made it so.”
“It’s okay, Rose, really,” Ellen said, aware it was already too late to gracefully exit the conversation.
“I just can’t imagine leaving someone like Jasper behind?” Rose Marie pressed. “He’s such a good boy.” Then she was shaking her head and waving off the protest that was not coming. “I know, I know. He’s a handful. Quiet as a church mouse for days, then, for no reason at all, he starts to babblin’ and he won’t never shut up. But he’s a good boy. He’s polite and he’s clean. He minds me, mostly.” To that last part, she sounded a little rueful. “I wish I could afford the therapy or the doctors what would make him better. I know there’s smarts locked in there somewhere. I can see it in the things he does. He’s very clever with his hands, did you know that?” Ellen shook her head automatically, and Rose Marie pressed on without paying any attention. “I buy him models and he assembles them just perfectly; doesn’t even use the instructions half the time. He just looks at it, and his fingers understand how to put it together. And they’re fine, too. Smooth and tight and seamless. Like art. He’s clever with his hands. Re-worked the pieces o’ one kit into some kind of plane once. Just amazing. Not sure why, though. There weren’t nothin’ wrong with the ‘65 Mustang it was supposed to be. But that plane sure looked fine.” Rose Marie beamed. “He’s got no head for inventin’, but his hands can do just fantastic things when you set them to it. Like that Rainman fella. You know the one I mean?”
Ellen nodded, not the first time she’d heard Mrs. Desmond’s lament. But she also knew there was nothing she could do, nothing she could even suggest. And the fact was Jasper’s condition scared her—not him, per se, but the simple fact that you never knew. Jasper was a reminder of the madness that lurked just behind the shadows of her own thoughts, inescapable and clever, stalking her, ready to take her unaware and rip all normalcy asunder. Seeing Jasper tightened her nerves like piano wire. Not for fear of him, but of being like him, of losing control, losing her mind, going crazy …
… again.
She shook her head, realizing the older woman was talking and that she hadn’t been listening; too deep in her own thoughts and insecurities. Reason number one not to dispense advice, Ellen thought reproachfully: Anyone as fucked up as you is wholly unqualified. “Rose, I’m sorry, but I need to get to work. I really can’t be late.” That was a lie, but it was the only excuse Ellen could think up. “I’m sure Jasper will show
up. I don’t think he would run off or—”
She was interrupted mid-sentence by a paper airplane circling down from the stairs above. A broad-winged construction, the tips craftily angled, it smoothly descended the spiral switchbacks of the stairwell, gliding between them and down the stairs; not skipping upon the banister or whisking against the walls, but flying as if guided by some invisible pilot determined to navigate the four stories with neither a hitch or wobble.
“Jasper!” Rose Marie shouted up the narrow stairwell. “Are you on the roof again?”
Ellen risked a glance, light spilling upon the shadowy stairwell where the stairs opened to the roof. More than that, she could not see.
“It’s raining out there, you silly goose,” Rose Marie persisted. “You’ll get all wet and catch a cold. Now you come down here right now. Least put on a coat.”
Ellen took the opportunity to leave while Rose Marie shouted up the steps. “Jasper, are you listening to me? Jasper?”
At the bottom of the well, Ellen saw the paper airplane lying upon the small shag mat inside of the door. Had it been open, the plane might have sailed right out into the street. And from there, who knew how far it would go?
She nudged the plane aside with her toe and stepped out. It was only a block and a half to Dabble’s Books. She started off, walking briskly through the drizzle.
* * *
The man in the gray coat stared after Ellen Monroe as she left. He knew where she was going; he knew her routine intimately. She was a couple minutes late, he knew, just as he knew she wouldn’t wear a jacket or carry an umbrella, though the rain was only just tapering off and would certainly return. He could feel the coming storm in his knotted hands.
Silly goose. Pride will be your undoing, though you probably don’t know it. You hardly know yourself at all.
He, on the other hand, did not wear a raincoat because he did not own one. And he did not carry an umbrella because he did not own one of those either. He had only a staff, and it would not keep the rain from his head.
At least, not here, not now.
But once…
Well, no use crying over things lost … or maybe things that never were at all. For therein was the rub. What was real? And how long had it been real? And, more to the point, what was the reality before, and when was the next one coming along, that next reality that would be better than this … or at least different? And how could anything different not be better? The only question was when the magic bus would arrive? When would he climb aboard the cosmic carpet ride, give his token to the transit authority jinni, and punch out of this dead universe for good?
He pondered these questions as he watched Ellen walk off to her nice normal job with her nice normal boss in the middle of her nice normal life.
Only not so normal, and not so nice.
He was about to follow, just as he had done every day since this began—would do every day from now until God called Ellen Monroe home—when he saw something and stopped.
There on the apartment building steps was a folded paper airplane. Sucked through the doorway when Ellen left, it sat on the stoop like a loyal and lovesick dog awaiting her return. He picked it up, unfolded it. The airplane was made from a historical society flyer celebrating a new exhibit: Flights of Fancy: The History of Aviation, an intricate diagram of Da Vinci’s ornithopter etched in gray behind the words, words like the picture that captured his attention, seized his heart, rolled over and over in his mind. He glanced up, searching for secrets, but saw only the light rain from the dappled sky, the paper flyer turning damp in his hand.
“I knew you would come for her,” he whispered, clutching the paper to his chest, sheltering it from the rain. The empty staff clacked softly against the sidewalk and his legs and hands pained him greatly, but he listened to neither, head filled only with the penitent praises of a man found wondering lost in the desert, and is at last called home. He did not follow Ellen that morning as he had every other morning for the last two months. He did not need to.
He had at last received a sign.
TEA & COFFEE
Chimes announced her as she stepped inside Serena’s Coffee Shoppe, dress speckled with rain. Behind the counter, a woman in a dark green apron turned her gaze just enough to glimpse her before returning to the frothing pitcher of milk. “Good morning, Ellen.”
“Good morning, Serena.”
A quick turn of the knob ended the steamer’s churring, and Serena whisked the steaming pitcher over to a paper cup of espresso, filling it up with foam. She set the cappuccino on the counter and reached for a plastic lid. “Cinnamon, Herbert?”
“Thank you, Serena. Don’t mind if I do.”
She had already placed the tin shaker of cinnamon on the counter, not bothering to offer whipped cream or shaved chocolate; she had both, but knew Herbert Patterson would have only a sprinkle of cinnamon on his cappuccino. It was all he ever had. She knew he was trying to cut down on sweets, fretful that as fifty grew closer than forty, the spare tire was becoming bigger and harder to get rid of, and he didn’t like to believe he was over the hill. She also knew that Herbert’s wife had recently taken up step-aerobics, and was looking slimmer and fitter then she had in fifteen years, while Herbert was only looking more worn for time spent. Serena knew this from his daily visits, comments and remarks and half-suggested topics he would not broach openly, but which his face gave away.
Everyone betrayed themselves. Like books left open on a tabletop, all one had to do was glance and discover. And Serena read them all. But her insights she kept to herself; anyone who wanted was welcome to read for himself. Then they would know, too. And if they didn’t, well, so what. Ignorance was the comfortable blanket most covered their heads with at night while trying to convince themselves that the persistent creak of floorboards downstairs was not an intruder, but just the house settling. Information kept her from wasting time, from pursuing trivialities that distracted from the big picture, the overall scheme, the grand design. Why offer whipped cream or chocolate for cappuccino when the answer would always be no? At least, until Herbert learned of his wife’s affair with her trainer from the gym. Serena expected that when that happened, Herbert would not be in for his usual cappuccino; cinnamon, no sugar.
But that was a while away yet.
“Have a good morning, Herbert.”
“You too, Serena.” He carefully wrapped the hot cup in a paper napkin before he left, secure in his ignorance.
Serena shook her head.
“What kind of coffee do you have this morning?” Ellen asked, preoccupied with her own thoughts.
“Cinnamon-Hazelnut,” Serena answered.
“That sounds good. Can I get an extra-large to go?”
“Absolutely,” Serena said, already filling a cup. She did not mention the dark Colombian roast, or the decaffeinated French Vanilla. After only a week of morning and afternoon visits for coffee, Serena knew Ellen Monroe well enough to know that she didn’t drink decaf and that she liked flavored coffees. After the first hesitant week of meekly entering and ordering and leaving, Ellen had grown bold enough to actually have a seat at the narrow bar that stared out the large front window. She would read until 9:30, the same book every day, then go across the street and knock on the door of Dabble’s Books for Nicholas to let her in. Serena knew about Nicholas too, but that was quite a long story, and Ellen would eventually learn enough of it on her own to know to stay on her guard around him.
If not … well, she was neither mother nor guardian to the girl. Ellen was nice enough; she had a kind heart and a good soul; a good soul and a bad life. It was an interesting combination, if only because it threw all predictions to the wind.
Chaos could be very entertaining … and often very tragic.
Like most, Ellen assumed that everyone else in the world mostly minded their own problems: not enough time to wonder or care about others. Some part of her knew that this belief was false on some level, but more than that, she did not let herse
lf imagine. It never occurred to her that the postman might read through her mail, that cashiers snickered to one another about what she purchased, or that the garbage man might rummage through her trash, picking out pieces of old sales receipts, discarded junk-mail, and maybe the odd personal item: hair from her brush or a sanitary napkin. Ellen lived in a tower of self-involvement, and tried not to imagine anyone living otherwise. The idea was too frightening for any sane person to dwell on. Ellen Monroe was an escape artist, slipping out of reality the way other tradesmen slipped out of handcuffs or straitjackets. Denial, as she saw it, was hard-wired into the survival instinct of the human species.
Unsuspecting, Ellen dazedly followed Serena’s effortless activities, every movement a wasteless action, everything existing not for its own sake, but for hers. Serena did not fumble for lids or search for stir sticks that always seemed to mysteriously run out when needed most. If she reached for something, it was at her fingertips. If she looked for something, it was where she looked first. It did not even seem to be a matter of meticulous organization, so much as a sense that reality tended to bend for the proprietor of Serena’s Coffee Shoppe. Like a spider in the middle of a web, appendages delicately holding the lines, Serena was aware, intimately tuned in to its intricate harmonics. She knew everything that was going on around her, and was not empowered by it so much as accustomed to it.
Ellen, who more often felt like a moth tangled in that same web, envied her.
“Is everything alright?” Serena asked quietly.
Ellen shook her head, forcibly clearing her thoughts. “I’m sorry. I guess my mind wandered.” She reached into her pocket for some money, passing it across the counter and taking the tall coffee cup and its plastic lid over to a small counter that served as a condiment station. She started pouring in sugar and whole cream.
“That’s all right,” Serena said, turning back to the register to ring up the sale. But she knew it wasn’t. Ellen was in deep. How deep, Serena was not yet sure. She wasn’t even certain if she should care.
The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) Page 2
