Orpheus and the Pearl & Nevermore

by Kim Paffenroth;David Dunwoody

  He stood next to her. "Victoria, when you became ill, all I wanted to do was cure you, so that I could be better to you, so that I could make it up to you, so that I could be as good as you are, and as good as you deserve. I have to have that chance, Victoria, or I can't live with myself. All I wanted was to be your Orpheus, only I wouldn't doubt, I wouldn't fear, I wouldn't look back. I've never looked back at my wretched past since I resolved to serve you and only you."

  She turned slightly, and her colorless lips curled just slightly. "A literary allusion, Percy? Now that took real sacrifice." She looked back out the window. "But really, how can I ever feel secure or joyful with you? You found me inadequate when I was as young and beautiful as I ever will be. Now look at me!" She held her arms out, palms up, then turned them over. "I'm hideous! I imagine a ghost would be preferable, all airy and ethereal. But as it is, all your horrible, physical science has animated only the grossest, densest, ugliest parts of me. If I couldn't satisfy you before, I certainly will always fall far short now."

  He slid his hand into hers and took it up and kissed it. "You never fell short, and you won't now, for it is your soul that is alive now. Your beautiful, fragile, pure soul. And as for your body, you are still beautiful to me, more than ever, and you will always look as you do today. It is I who will grow old and feeble, while you remain a young and strong and beautiful woman. Let me win you back. Let me always be by your side. Please. I'll do anything." He bowed his head as his voice trailed off, and Catherine had to look away. It had been voyeuristic enough, watching as long as she had. It would be downright indecent to watch him actually cry.

  "No need, no need," she could hear Mrs. Wallston whisper behind her, as Catherine silently slipped from the room.

  A few days later, as Romwald loaded Catherine's bags into the car, she walked out to the beautiful gardens behind the house. There was a fountain there that spilled out into a little stream that ran down the hillside to the lake below. Dr. and Mrs. Wallston were sitting on a bench by the fountain, surrounded by flowers. Drooping over them were roses as big as cabbages, while around their legs grew daisies whose blooms were as wide across as a saucer. Catherine walked over to them. In the days since their most painful and successful session, she had been helping Mrs. Wallston practice laughing, and as Catherine walked up, she could hear that she almost had it down.

  They stood as she approached. Catherine smiled. "I take it some of the revivification compound needs to be disposed of, after it's been used? Is that quite safe, doctor, letting it spill out here?"

  He smiled back at her as he shook her hand. "It goes through several filters and treatments first, but it does seem to have some rather pleasant effects here, doesn't it?"

  Catherine watched a normal-sized bee disappear into the cavernous folds of one of the roses. "So long as I don't see any bees the size of pigeons, Dr. Wallston."

  He laughed. "No, I've been watching quite closely. Just the plants right here are affected. Nothing that feeds from them, and not the plants further downstream, so the monstrosities should all be of an enjoyable nature. I also made some calls, Dr. MacGuire, and I believe when you get back to Boston, you should have much less trouble with other, less enjoyable monstrosities that live in the city, especially in the university."

  "Thank you very much, Dr. Wallston. I will look forward to it."

  "You're quite welcome. But it is I who must thank you. It was I who was the wretch when you arrived, not my dear wife."

  "Not a wretch, doctor, but certainly wretched. You needed to see what were the 'incidentals' of life, and what was essential. So did I, for that matter, and I could not have imagined before how beautiful and complicated they were."

  "Quite so." He looked at Mrs. Wallston, whose dead eyes returned the loving gaze as best they could -- imperfectly, but steadfastly and unhesitatingly. If she had been like a pearl that afternoon in the sitting room, today she looked more like one of the small, white flowers on a gnarled old dogwood, after many cold and deadly winters. "As beautiful and complicated as my wife's soul." He turned to Catherine. "Goodbye, doctor. I do believe Romwald needs some help, so I'll leave you two alone."

  Catherine turned to Mrs. Wallston. She had known this would happen, but she still wished she could stop or at least slow the tears flowing down her cheeks. It was just unseemly, not to mention painful. Mrs. Wallston reached up and touched the moist skin, right on the one scar she had made weeks before, and very gently took one of the drops off Catherine's cheek, balancing it on her fingertip. She held it up to the sunlight, then placed it on her own eye. She blinked, and for the first time, Catherine saw her eye sparkle, the way it must have in life.

  "Catherine? May I finally call you that?" Catherine nodded. "You healed my soul, while my husband's science could only fix my body. Your skill, and most of all, your love finished what he could not. Please don't ever cry again when you think of me. I couldn't bear for my memory to bring you anything but joy, for that is what you have brought me."

  "Perhaps his science was inadequate, but it was he who healed your soul as well, for it was he who had hurt it. I only helped you realize it, and gave you the strength to move on. You were the first person I ever helped heal, and that memory can only bring me the greatest joy, for the rest of my life."

  They embraced, Catherine's heart again beating against Mrs. Wallston, who pressed her face into Catherine's curls and breathed her in, slowly and deliberately, sharing a love that surpassed not only sexuality, but any bodily form or limit whatsoever.

  The End

  * * *

  Nevermore

  Acknowledgments

  David Dunwoody

  Thanks to Jodi Lee and Belfire: for bringing this story to un-life, and for making un-life look so damn good.

  * * *

  Nevermore

  Malcolm Witt died in his sleep at 11:07 PM. Four minutes later, his body rose and walked from the room. Malcolm watched it happen.

  6:25 PM

  He was nervous enough as it was, and it showed---in his flinching countenance, in the way his fingers danced restlessly on the steering wheel, in the way his tightly-wound gut pulled him forward in his seat and the way he kept his upper arms pressed to his sides, fearing sweat. His mood was evident enough already, and the cloying dampness in the air was making it worse. Regardless of his composure, a sheen was forming on his brow. Maybe, he thought, the air will have the same effect on everyone else.

  He was sure he'd be the only one under scrutiny. His stomach made another quarter-turn, and he was nearly hunched over the wheel.

  It had been threatening to rain all day. The slate-gray sky was now mottled with black bruises, and Malcolm knew it would be pouring by nightfall. "So there's that to look forward to."

  "I'll drive home," his brother told him. "Relax."

  "I know there's nothing to be upset about. Not now. What's the point? I know that, but I'm ready to come apart."

  "He won't even be there." Ray patted him on the shoulder. "You know, you didn't let on how worked up you were over this."

  "I didn't think I was," Malcolm sighed. "And by the way, I'm sorry we're going straight from the airport to dinner. It's just not as easy as it used to be to get people together."

  "No worries," Ray said. "It'll be a nice time. I'm looking forward to it. I want you to have a drink and mellow out. Or two. I'm driving home. Okay?"

  Big brother never failed to come through. Malcolm's tension eased, if only a little.

  Malcolm's circle of friends was modest, and it had been over a month since he'd seen most of them. There had been e-mails and phone calls offering their encouragement, of course, but it was increasingly difficult to get more than a couple of them together at once, even on a Friday night. He knew that was just due to work schedules, but it had been eating at him nonetheless---especially because Leo made his own hours, and could see anyone anytime he wanted---and so Malcolm had become determined to have an evening out.

  And Leo won't be there,
he reminded himself. Leo didn't even know, according to Bonnie. Being part of such subterfuge at thirty-five years of age felt a bit ridiculous, but he told himself it was only temporary. They'd speak eventually, awkward overtures would be made, and mea culpas accepted. They'd find something stupid to laugh about and then these awful boundaries could be dissolved. That's what we both really want, I'm sure. Maybe he'll even make the first move.

  Malcolm pulled into the parking lot of the Arthur Arms. "They have an Arms in Portland," Ray said, "and it sucks. Have I told you that before?"

  "Probably." Malcolm killed the engine. He straightened his jacket and appraised himself in the mirror. He wanted them to tell Leo he'd looked good. He'd knock back a couple of drinks and tell some jokes. God, he hadn't felt so much as a pang of grief in five weeks, and now this. He supposed he hadn't thought about how the breakup might affect other relationships.

  "I think we go inside the restaurant," said Ray.

  "All right, all right." Malcolm threw open his door. Cool air kissed his face and, for just a second, he thought of the thin blue lips of a corpse. At their mother's viewing, he and Ray had both noticed that she was wearing the wrong shade of lipstick. It had looked cakey and absurd, like chalk on the mouth of a mannequin.

  Bonnie was the only one there so far, and she rose to hug both men as they approached the booth. It was set into an oak-paneled alcove with mood lighting, far from the boisterous activity at the bar. "Thank you," Malcolm told her.

  Bonnie slipped back into the rear of the circular booth. Giving them a look of mock reproach, she said, "Well, at least you're not the last to arrive."

  "My fault," Ray told her. "It was my flight. But you got us a great spot."

  "Did you put it under my name?" Malcolm asked. Bonnie shook her head. "Oh. I don't think either Jean or Saul know your last name," he said. "I'd better---"

  "I got it," Ray slid out of the booth.

  Bonnie's eyes flitted from him to Malcolm. "Does he age at all?"

  "Hey." He pointed at her. "I need you to focus."

  "I'm still here for you," she said. "I can multitask."

  "Seriously. Ray's not doing anything until Monday. Ask him out tomorrow."

  "Very well." She folded her hands and gave him her full attention. "So, what've you been doing with yourself?"

  "Not much," he said, apologetically, but she was listening. "I go to work, I come home and do lesson plans, I go to bed. I go crazy. I call you."

  "You could call me more often," she said.

  "It's just been weird."

  "I know."

  Ray returned to the table. "Put it under Witt. So Bon, what's new?"

  "Business as usual," she told him. Casting a glance at Malcolm, she said softly, "I'm not allowed to talk about it."

  "Oh, stop." Malcolm waved in at the bar, trying to catch a server's eye.

  Ray laughed. "Maybe we could get into it later," he said to Bonnie.

  "Guys---" Malcolm began.

  "It's fine." Ray gave him a reassuring smile.

  Someone bumped against Malcolm's arm, and he looked up, expecting a waitress; but it was a thin man with shoulder-length blond hair. He set a tumbler of Scotch before Malcolm. "I made it a double."

  "How long have you been here?" Malcolm asked with a wry smile.

  The man seated himself beside Malcolm with his own drink in hand, saying nothing. The short-haired man who'd accompanied him to the booth said, "Forgive Jean, he assumes everyone already knows who he is." The man extended his hand to Ray. "Jordan Saul."

  "Ray Witt. Nice to make your acquaintance." Ray moved closer to Bonnie so that Saul could join them. Jean, perched on the edge of the seat next to Malcolm, raised his glass in an unknown toast and drained its contents.

  "Jean Haniver," Malcolm finally told Ray. "Let's not interrupt his entrance. It should be over by the third drink." Jean didn't respond even to that. Swallowing a mouthful of Scotch, Malcolm elbowed him. "Ray's my brother."

  Jean thrust his hand across the table. "Ray Witt. Two years Colmy's senior, single, and a lawyer. You're here for the Old Valley hearing. Representing the tree-huggers."

  Ray grinned. "Close. Very close. 'Colmy' and I are three years apart."

  Jean raised an eyebrow and turned to Malcolm. "So you really are thirty-five." He flagged down a passing waitress and held up his glass. "This is a vodka tonic." To the booth he said, "Sorry about the rudeness of my 'entrance.' I was getting a read on Ray. Didn't even know Malcolm had a brother. Could have skipped the routine if he'd simply told me---and introduced me as Jean Haniver, psychic."

  It was true, Jean had pulled every fact he knew about Ray from thin air, though they were all adults seated at the table, and he must have deduced it from simple observation. Jean could have made an honest living in some science instead of the Sylvia Browne shtick, but then he probably wouldn't have had the books or the TV appearances or the seminars.

  It was hard to believe Saul had mentored him. The two had never been lovers, as far as Malcolm knew, but had worked closely for years. Saul had been a nightclub magician at the height of his career; now semi-retired and managing Jean, he still pulled a bit of sleight-of-hand at parties, but stayed away from interpreting messages from the Great Spirit World. True magic is far too grim for me, Saul was fond of saying. I much prefer card tricks.

  Malcolm caught his eye and smiled. When Saul smiled back, Malcolm could see the silver in his beard. He knew Saul had to be much older than he looked. Malcolm supposed that was a bit of real-world magic at work.

  When the waitress returned with Jean's refill, they ordered their entrees. "I thought you would've already known about Ray," Bonnie said to Jean with jovial sarcasm.

  "I never go where I'm not invited," Jean said, and tapped his forefinger against Malcolm's temple. He swayed, just slightly, and again Malcolm wondered how long he and Saul had been seated at the bar.

  "I am an attorney, though," Ray said. "You nailed that. Knowing that much, you could have guessed I flew in for Old Valley, but how did you get attorney in the first place?"

  "A magician never...well, you know." Jean waved off the question.

  Saul crossed his arms with his typical bemused expression.

  Malcolm's belly was warm with Scotch, and the muscles in his stomach and chest had relaxed. He went through another Scotch and most of his manicotti without thought. Things were going just as he'd hoped.

  Ray went on a little spiel about Old Valley, the storm-water treatment plant that the city had shut down and sold off. The developer was allegedly using it for illegal dumping. "It hasn't been processed at all like it was supposed to be, and there are still lines that haven't been sealed. That toxic swamp is already backing up into the new system, I guarantee it."

  Bonnie set her fork down beside a half-finished steak. "Delightful."

  "Sorry," Ray said, "I know it's not dinner conversation." He leaned over to her. "Let's pick it up tomorrow at lunch. I've got a whole rap on raw sewage."

  "Yummy." But the invitation had clearly made her night. Having come down from his anxiety, Malcolm was able to appreciate the moment.

  "Bonnie and I graduated from Gibson together," Ray told Saul and Jean. "Never really dated. Well, we kinda did. Whatever happened?"

  "Your rotten little brother wouldn't leave us alone," Bonnie shot back. Malcolm laughed hardest of all.

  "You two are in love," Jean said abruptly. The laughter in the booth died. "Well," he shrugged, "you are."

  Malcolm was surprised Jean hadn't really leapt for the brass ring, and offered to divine the identity of the man Leo had slept with; then again, he probably already knew. And with that, Malcolm's emotions bottomed out and his mind left the room.

  "Hey," Ray said, then again. "Hey---you still with us?"

  Malcolm threw the rest of his drink down his gullet. "I'll be back," he said, and motioned for Jean to move out of the booth so he could get up. The psychic huffed at having his performance interrupted, but Malcolm heard h
im go right back into character the moment he walked away. So much for friends. But he'd wanted things to go on as they always had, right? He was the one being fickle. He pushed through the men's room door and situated himself before the urinal. Another drink, maybe, when he got back.

  When he walked out of the restroom, Jean was waiting in the Arms' entryway. "You're clearly a mess."

  "You've done it again." Malcolm gave him a thumbs-up.

  "Really. You've tried to go on like Leo just stopped existing, but no one's buying it. Have you talked to him at all?"

  It sounded like there might be genuine concern in Jean's voice. Malcolm softened a bit. "Not since he told me." He raised his eyebrows. "I don't want to know anything, Jean. Not from you."

  "Who says I know?" Jean shrugged. "Leo hasn't said a thing. And I don't think he will."

  Malcolm really didn't want to know who it had been. But he'd always known it might have been a mutual acquaintance, and upon hearing that Leo still hadn't disclosed the name, Malcolm's heart sank. Had to be a friend. Perhaps even someone who had offered their sympathies over the past five weeks.

  It had been two months after it happened before Leo told Malcolm. In hindsight, he had spent those months building up to it---making confessions in the form of what-ifs or would-yous. All the hypotheticals, even accusations, but Malcolm hadn't wanted to see it. More so, perhaps, he hadn't believed it was possible.

  Yes, things had cooled between them, and both had acknowledged that, but he hadn't known it was over. That was just it---it hadn't been over, not until Leo's drunken call. He'd been in a tearful panic, and Malcolm had at first been concerned, but Leo's insistence on coming over before he explained what was wrong had been what did it.