“Your uncle will become ill, my dear,” she continued, and I noticed her lips twitching. Still a smile, albeit sad. “His convalescence will be long and demanding, and throughout that time you will grow and change. And yes, I’ll still be in your mind. I’ll always be there. But you will be in a different light: a strong, assured woman, and your life will not allow for the frivolities of youth. You will have moved on. But one day, dear Abigail, you will return, and I’ll be here. I’ll be waiting.”
I shook my head again, but knew that she was right. Lily would be a little girl forever, whereas I was growing older. Would I stop believing in her? Would I be able to see her, even? How strange, a woman in the bloom of her life with children of her own, talking to pretty little ghosts, standing hand-in-hand amongst the foxgloves.
Of course it would change.
My tears burned and fell. My breast hitched. Short, hard sobs were snatched from my lungs. I squeezed her hands tighter, feeling the impulse to pull her light body into mine and take her away forever.
The birds voiced their upset. Spiralling loops of song. The riffle of their wings as they burst from perch to perch. Beneath them, barely audible, I could hear my uncle calling my name.
“Time to go,” Lily said.
Again I shook my head, wanting so desperately to deny it. I think, at that moment, I could have stayed there forever, never moving, growing old as the foxgloves cycled through the seasons, looking always upon Lily’s infinite smile. Instead I scooped her into my arms and pulled her to my breast. My tears fell on her hair, as bright as the sunshine.
“I shall miss you, Lady Bliss,” I said again.
She kissed me tenderly and said, “I’ll be waiting.”
It was a hard walk from Foxglove Fields. Only twenty-or-so steps, but each one was heavy, as though the atmosphere were suddenly filled with damp, invisible drapes. I stopped at the perimeter and turned back. Lily waved. I could see the trees through her small body. The foxgloves through her legs. There were tears trickling down her cheeks, but she was still smiling.
“Fly away,” she said, and I did, and I haven’t seen her since.
* * *
I touch the walls. They are real. I am here. My window looks out on the gardens, beautiful in the summer, but now, on the cusp of winter, everything is brown and grey. I sit in my chair and remember the flowers I have planted. My own personal garden, amazing with colour.
Lily was right, of course. My uncle suffered a long illness, and I never returned to Wickington, although it—and Lily—remained always in my thoughts. I swore to return as soon as I was able, but by then I was occupied with planting flowers, surrounding myself with colour. I grew into a strong woman. Life happened, and it was dazzling.
Now, life is unhappening. This seems a vulgar way to put it, but a more accurate phrase is quite beyond me. I can feel the ends coming loose and the seams weakening. It will soon be undone, and I will be there, turning in my meadow, a place of happiness and colour, without walls. No matter how far I reach, the walls will be gone.
Sparrows chasing through the polished sky. The silver river chattering over small stones. The aviary alive with opera. Wickington Manor looking handsome and regal in the distance.
Foxglove Fields.
My precious friend, with her boundless energy, her hands held out to me, so like the little girl I used to be. And I will go to her, and hold her hands, and that’s where I’ll stay.
The petals will be full and purple, and they will never fall.
“Welcome to your garden,” she will say.
Our smiles will be eternal.
She is my light in the darkness.
Her name is Lady Bliss.
HOTLINE
By Jack Ketchum
He put the phone down in its cradle on the desk and sat back in the wooden armchair—its springs creaked. The springs annoyed him. If he held onto this job for any time at all he’d have to remember to bring in the 3-in-1 oil.
In his crossword puzzle he was stuck on a nine-letter word for shapeless. All he had was a final s.
Four calls, he thought, in a little over two hours, the first two hours of his very first solo shift. Damn! people were depressed these days. He’d taken the training and asked a few questions but obviously he hadn’t asked one of the important ones—just what was the volume anyway?
He hadn’t expected it to be this heavy.
If grief were cash he’d be looking at a windfall here.
Could be it was the storm outside. A heavy cold March rainfall. He could hear it pounding at the windows of the Y. The storm wanted in.
A low barometer was called a depression, wasn’t it?
He wondered if there was a connection.
Connection. Another interesting word, given what he was doing.
He was considering an expressly forbidden trip to the men’s room for a Winston when the phone rang again.
“Crisis Center Hotline,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve been...I’m thinking that....”
The voice was agitated, thin. Male.
“Yes?”
“I’m thinking that maybe I ought to kill myself.”
“Why would you want to do that, sir? Talk to me about it. That’s what I’m here for.”
He sighed. “Okay. All right. It’s been nine whole months since Barbara left and I still can’t put it behind me—that last conversation, those last couple of days, I still can’t stop thinking about her. Jesus, nine whole months! You’d think I’d be over it by now, wouldn’t you? What do you call it? Reconciled? I mean, people have babies in nine months! I get up in the morning, and the first thing I do is check my e-mail, thinking maybe there’ll be a message from her. Something. There never is. I’m constantly depressed. My sleep-pattern’s a goddamn wreck. I don’t eat enough, I drink too much. I can’t seem to decide what to do with myself, y’know?”
“You can’t get control of things.”
“That’s right. That’s it exactly. Everything’s out of control. You should see me. You really should. I’m a mess! I’ve gained weight, my immune system’s all shot to hell—I’ve had three colds already this year, herpes sores, the whole bit. Half the time I don’t even bother shaving. I can’t get into my work, god knows....”
“What do you do for a living, sir? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I’m a painter.”
“A housepainter?”
“No, I paint. I do magazine and book covers. And my own fine art. I’ve got a gallery here and there. But I can’t seem to give a damn about any of it anymore.”
“You’ve lost contact with a lot of your friends, am I right?”
“That’s right.”
“Are taking risks? I mean unnecessary risks?”
“Hell, yes. I had to drive into Portland last weekend to pick up some materials, some supplies, you know? Twice I walked into oncoming traffic! Then driving back here I had the Buick up to seventy and...well, do you know the area up north of there?”
“Yes, sir, I do, sir. Lived in this area all my life.”
“Well, then you know all these blind hills, all these hairpin turns along route 80. A dog, a cat, another car—any one of them could have sent me off the road. I’m not even that good a driver. Look, please don’t call me ‘sir,’ okay?”
“All right.”
“No offense.”
“None taken.”
“It reminds me of my father.”
“Your father?”
“He always wanted us to call him ‘sir.’ Know what I mean? So I’m supposed to be a painter, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, what I’m just trying to say here, it seems as though since Barbara left, everything’s completely drained of color. Everything’s grey. No color at all. It’s like the best of me, of my life, she took away with her. Like she took something I honestly can’t get back again. That I’ll never get back again. Like there’s no point. Like the best of me’s past and gon
e now. You see what I’m saying?”
“You can’t stop the pain. And you can’t see a future without it.”
“That’s right.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the desk. The chair creaked again. The rain pounded. They’d told him during the training sessions that just the act of talking to someone could temporarily change perspective, offer a reprieve, that simple human contact actually had the power to alter brain chemistry. He didn’t know if he believed that but it was time to get cracking.
“Can I ask you, have you given any thought to how you might do this?”
“Do what? Take my life?”
“Yes. You don’t have any guns in the house, do you?”
“No.”
“That’s good. How then?”
“I...I don’t know.”
“I bet you can’t guess what I used to do for a living.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m retired. You know what I used to do for a living?”
“What.”
“I was a cop.”
“A cop?”
“That’s right. Twenty-four years on the highway patrol.”
“Really?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t get it. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because over twenty-four years you see things. A lot of things you don’t necessarily want to see. You know in some states attempted suicide’s still against the law? It is. And there’s a reason for that. Do you know what you goddamn people put us through? You jump off a bridge, we find you grey and blue and bloated in the water. We pick you up, good chance you’re gonna explode in our faces or fall the hell apart in our hands. Blow your head off and we pick pieces of you out of the carpet or the grass or scrape what passes for your brains off the goddamn walls. Take a dive off a building you maybe kill a pedestrian, whoops, sorry! we got to figure out who the fuck’s who. We pack you in bags, wipe away your vomit and shit and your piss. You miserable sonovabitch. You make somebody else pick up your cold dead guts and you think you’re worth the trouble. You want to die? You piece of shit I ought to kill you! I’d at least be cleaning up my own mess! My mess! Oh, you’re such a nice guy, you’re hurting, my fucking heart goes out to you!”
He could almost hear the pulse racing on the other end of the line and then it went dead. Same as the last four—though the teenage kid had hung up on him halfway through when he told him to stop sucking at his mother’s tit. The little prick.
He replaced the receiver.
He knew this couldn’t last. How could it? Somewhere along the line somebody, one of these goddamn whiners, was going to decide complaining about him was worth living for and that would be the end of it.
Meantime he figured he was doing a lot of good here.
He suspected he was probably batting four out of five.
He doubted the kid would off himself but then he doubted he’d be the one to do any complaining either.
It was time for that smoke. Hell, he was a volunteer. Screw the rules. He got out of the chair and left the office and walked down the empty hall to the men’s room sat in a stall that still reeked of the janitor’s morning Lysol and lit up. He listened to the rain and wind outside. He got into a coughing fit, which served to remind him he had only one lung left which was why he’d left the HP in the first place. He wondered what he’d do with himself once they kicked him off this job.
Find another crisis center? They sure weren’t in short supply.
He flushed the butt and when he got back to the office the phone was ringing.
“Crisis center hotline. How can I help you?”
“I’m about to eat my weapon.”
“Excuse me? Say that again?”
“I said I’m about to eat my weapon. What are you, deaf? I just wanted somebody to know. Not that that makes any goddamn difference either.”
“Ralph?”
“Huh?”
“Ralph? Is that you?”
“What? Who the fuck is this?”
“Jesus Christ, Ralphy. It’s Joe. What the fuck are you talking about?”
He’d know his ex-partner’s voice over a screaming crowd at Fenway Park.
“Aw, shit, Joe. It fucking figures, you know? I call to tell some anonymous fuck he can shove life up his asshole and I get you of all people. I always said if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have none at all. Proves me out. What the fuck are you doing manning a crisis center? You fucking hate people!”
“Jesus, Ralphy. I don’t hate you! What the hell are you thinking of?”
“I’m takin’ the .45 caliber highway, Joe.”
“You can’t do that!”
“Sure I can. McNulty did, remember? Only his was a .38.”
“Wait. I’m coming right over.”
“Nah. That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t do anything until I get there. Promise me.”
“What? You want to watch? That’s my Joey. That’s my boy.”
“Come on, dammit! Listen to me. Don’t do anything to yourself! I want you to promise me.”
“’Bye, Joe.”
“Wait! For chrissake wait!”
“Amazing. Good old Joe Fitzpatrick, model compassionate citizen. Now I seen everything. Now I can fucking die happy.”
“Wait, goddammit! Ralph. Ralph!”
But the line was dead and by the time he made it through the goddamn storm so was Ralphy, all over the kitchen floor, so he had to call for cleanup.
He knew the number.
THE LIGHT OF ALL POSSIBLE WORLDS
By John Skipp
“She’ll be home in an hour,” he informs the room, “and then we’ll have to talk.” He’s aware, of course, that the room isn’t listening; that he is, in fact, talking only to himself. Things like that don’t generally slip past Gary Vasey. Gary Vasey is a very perceptive fellow, with a tendency toward seeing What Is from every possible perspective.
It occurs to him, and not for the first time, that he might be slightly “tetched” in the head. He observes it just as he’d note the fact that his eyes are blue, his ashtray is full, the walls of his apartment are white. He observes it with a hint of wry amusement, to be truthful; and a flicker of his typical wildass grin flashes down to the floor at his feet.
I’m supposed to be crazy, he tells himself. I’m a writer. It’s a prerequisite. But that doesn’t entirely explain away his talking to the walls. He steps beside himself, goes deeper.
It’s because she’s leaving. He strikes the lode. She’s leaving, and I love her, and I don’t want her to go, and I might be able to stop her but I don’t know if I’ll even try. Because she’s 19 years old, and the door to the world is wide open before her, and who the hell am I to say a word about how she’s to use it?
The problem, in a nutshell: she is going away to college. It’s a good school; knowing Jessica, she could learn a hell of a lot there. She wants to go. Her parents want her to go. The college, of course, wants her to go: she’d be one of the rare students who’s worth engaging. It could be great. No doubt about it.
But she wants to stay.
She wants to stay, because she loves him, too, and the simple fact of it is that neither one of them has ever been so comfortable, so happy, so thoroughly engrossed, so unhesitatingly head-over-heels in love….
And in a month, they’re supposed to say goodbye.
And Gary Vasey is losing his marbles.
“And in an hour, she’ll be home,” he informs their tiny apartment. The one they’ve shared together for two wonderful, maddening, measly little months. “And then we’ll…we’ll have to talk.”
Gary brings another cigarette to his lips with trembling fingers. The thought of having to talk about it makes his stomach churn greasily. He feels like crying; like smashing the window; like holding her in his arms and never letting go; like curling up and dying. He lets out a wet chuckle, laughter brimming with tears, and reaches down to the table for his lighter. It twinkles in the light
, just for a moment, and in the back of his mind he notes that it is beautiful.
He picks up the lighter: not twinkling now, just a fucking Bic Butane, about as homely as they come. He doesn’t even like the color much. Flat, tacky green: the color of swamp rot, as immortalized in plastic. He shifts it around in his fingers, brings it up. He flicks his Bic.
It doesn’t light. He flicks it again. It doesn’t light.
“C’mon, dammit!” he cries, flicking it again and again. It’s like one of those dreams when you’re trying to get away and your legs keep stretching like Plastic Man, going out of control. It’s the nightmare feeling that even the simplest tasks are beyond you now, that your body will no longer obey, that reality is one fat idiot face going nyah nyah nyah-nyah nyah with its tongue hanging out and you’re the Chump of the Ages.
He flicks it. It lights. He catches his breath for a second, just watching the flame, afraid to move because it might go out.
And I’d lose it, says a tiny voice. And I wouldn’t be able to get it back again.
Gary Vasey is a man with a very keen mind, with acute perception of his inside and out. He is staring into the light from a cheesy Bic lighter, and the flame dances before him, refusing to stand still. Like his life, dancing off in a million possible directions at once. Like his life, with or without his Jessica.
“Like the future,” he whispers. “Like the future.”
And he wishes, in that moment, that his crystal clear vision would focus, not on What Is, but on What Will Be.
And he wishes for the fire to stand still.
* * *
The telephone rings. He looks up from his typewriter, momentarily disoriented, and glances across the room. The telephone rings. He gets up and answers it before it can ring again.
“Hello,” he says.
“Hi, baby,” she answers, and his heart skips a beat. “Been so long since I heard your sweet voice.”
“God, don’t I know it!” he laughs, and she echoes it from three hundred miles away. “Three weeks is a long time without talkin’ to ya.”
“Did you get my letter?”
Mister October - Volume Two Page 28
