Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 14

by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant

  Brilliant ‘70s consumer satire. (Thanks, Ross.) [BBC] *

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  Projection

  Christoph Meyer

  I went to the new twenty-four-screen Cineplex and saw a movie by myself. It was a dull flick about a struggling actor who could find no work, so he spent his days watching movies and pretending he was in the starring role. It was called The Method. One scene made me feel uncomfortable; the actor stared directly into the camera so the audience could see the passion in his face as he watched the movie and imagined himself into the unseen, unfolding scenes. I just wasn't prepared to have the movie I was supposed to be watching stare at me. As the camera slowly crept in on the actor's eyes, making them fill the screen, I had to turn away.

  On the way home, I realized that someone was watching me but I couldn't catch even a glimpse of the person or persons. Footsteps echoed through my head, confusing my ears. I stopped and turned around to look several times but no one was there. Too frightened to continue walking home alone, I ducked into a Chinese restaurant and ordered a pint of deep-fried bean curd with mixed vegetables. The swivel stool at the end of the counter was backed up into a corner and from it I could see the entire dining room and out the window. I sat there, feeling safe and looking for anyone suspicious. My stalker never walked by the window so I finished my meal and rushed home, looking over my shoulder every few seconds. There was no sign of anyone but I still felt uneasy.

  When I arrived at my apartment, I heard a noise from inside but when I opened the door I discovered that I had just left my television set on. On the television was my face, staring into my living room. Behind my TV-self was the movie theater I had just been to. A movie of me watching the movie I had just watched was playing on my television.

  I walked over to the television, determined to stare my TV-self in the eye and not turn away. But when I stepped in front the television, the image disappeared. Strangely, I could still hear the sound. I turned around and saw a film projector on my couch. On my white sweatshirt was an image of myself staring back at the film projector. I looked uneasy and had to avert my eyes.

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  The Half-Fey House

  J. Cox

  The western shore of Scotland faded into the mist behind me, and a thick fog bank lay ahead. I slumped further into my seat and closed my eyes against the nauseating tilt of the ferry.

  The Carson Curse. That's what my mother called it. We became violently seasick the instant any of us set foot on a boat. How my ancestors got to America, I have no idea.

  Which made me wonder why I'd booked this trip, traveling halfway around the world to visit an island with a population less than my tiny hometown in Oregon.

  I pulled the plastic bag closer to me. It comforted me to think I wouldn't be ill on the floor. A white-haired man sitting a few seats away leaned over and offered me a mint.

  "On holiday?"

  "Yes,” I smiled wanly and closed my eyes again.

  "Have relatives on the island? Not many go that don't have relatives there. The whole damn place is overrun with sheep."

  "No, no relatives. I heard it was peaceful."

  He humphed and put his spurned mints in his coat pocket. I pulled myself unsteadily to my feet and like a drunken sailor, stepped out onto the deck.

  The ferry surged rhythmically through the water. I could see my rental car parked below when I leaned over the rail. Cold droplets mixed with the sweat on my brow. Then I threw up on my shoes.

  * * * *

  The man with the mints insisted on buying me a pint when we docked. He said it would “strengthen my will and settle my nerves.” I didn't know if drinking fell under the category of good ideas at the moment, but I felt weak and ill used. I gladly let him take my elbow and steer me into the closest pub. I gratefully slid into a chair that neither tossed nor dipped and rested my head on my arms.

  Dark, rippling storm clouds rapidly descended, obscuring my first glimpse of the island. The candles guttered in glass bottles, dripping wax down their slender necks, and Jonah of the mints wrapped my clammy hand around a cold mug of beer.

  I nursed it for over an hour as Jonah talked of his college-age daughter, his ex-wife who ran off with an Australian musician and almost endless rants about the “damned sheep."

  "So if you don't know anybody here, why did you come?” he asked.

  "I don't know,” I answered honestly. “I saw it on a map at the travel agent's office. It's hard to explain, but I felt compelled to come here, as if the island called to me. Like I'd been here before or heard of it, but I know I haven't."

  He stared skeptically at me and drained his glass. “I'm here because of the damned sheep,” he laughed. “I'm a wholesale wool buyer."

  Night dropped, and the locals started to crowd in. Jonah walked me to my car and slapped me on the back as if we were old seafaring buddies. A brisk wind tugged at my ears so I wrapped my scarf tighter around my neck. He wished me luck and told me if I expected to arrive at my lodgings in one piece I should drive like the natives—as mad and reckless as a demon escaping hell.

  "And pay no attention to the sheep,” he warned. “If you slow down for ‘em, they'll press their advantage."

  * * * *

  Rain streaked down my windows until the insides completely clouded over. I wiped them with my hands, which left finger trails like dark comets across the glass.

  With steering wheel in one fist and a map in the other, I wavered along the narrow, one-lane roads, which seemed to be the only way to get to Mrs. MacDonald's bed and breakfast inn. I squinted at the directions again and then slammed on my brakes, skidding into a pothole.

  The sheep scattered in surprise and disappeared into the darkness beyond my headlights. On the bridge that spanned a narrow gully gathered a yellow mob of construction vehicles groaning like middle-aged men after a Thanksgiving feast. There was no squeezing around so I stepped out of the car and walked over.

  "Is there any other way to get across?” I asked.

  "Nope,” one man rubbed his forehead with a handkerchief and glanced at me with apparent unconcern. “We'll be done here in about two hours."

  It seemed no use to argue, and the road rose beyond the bridge and curved away, fading to nothing. I considered hiking but went back to consult my map. Mrs. MacDonald lived miles past the bridge. In ink I scrawled, “there be monsters here,” labeling the unexplored territory of road.

  Then I challenged myself to a game of tic-tac-toe.

  * * * *

  A sharp rap at my window startled me out of my doze. A vehicle carrying two men had pulled up and parked behind me, but I hadn't noticed. I wondered if it had crept up without headlights or sprouted there like a speckled mushroom in the rain.

  The figure from the front seat stood a respectful distance away while the passenger knocked again. I cracked the glass and peered into a face partially hidden by a drooping mustache and a soggy tweed hat. “Hello there,” he said and leaned against my door. “You look familiar. Have we met before?"

  "I don't think so."

  "Well, you look like someone I would know, and I can usually tell who I should be knowing. Where did you come from?"

  "Oregon. It's in the United States."

  "Ah, yes. I've been there,” he said. “Briefly. I'd like to go again. You'll have to come over for tea tomorrow. We have much to talk about, you and I."

  The man looked towards the floodlit bridge and stuffed his hands into his trench coat pockets. “The fey always come here to die. It's a pity."

  He whirled away and returned to his vehicle. I stared after him. What a morbid thing to say, and how could he know? The secret I kept, the dire diagnosis that sent me running had never tripped across my tongue nor tainted my lips in all the months I'd known it. Even my mother sat in a nursing home in California oblivious to the fact that I was dying. No one knew.

  The chauffeur settled the mysterious gentleman in and tucked a blanket around
his thighs. I waved the driver over. “Who is that?” I pointed back to the car.

  "That's Sir Robyn Lockwell,” he said stiff and polite. “He's Laird of the island and a fine man."

  The machines rumbled off the bridge, and workers waved at me to continue on.

  Perhaps Sir Lockwell snuck past me or decided to turn around for the rearview mirror told me he was already gone when I thrust my own beast into gear. I frowned. There was something unnatural about the island—a warp in the very air, but then again, my eyes were exhausted and prone to mistakes.

  * * * *

  I and all my baggage piled on Mrs. MacDonald's concrete doorstep. She'd laid a snack out on a table by the fire, and I could have kissed her ruddy Gaelic face. “Welcome and come in,” she smiled. “Long journey, eh?"

  She took my boxes and cases from me as if they weighed slightly more than dandelion fluff. She tucked them under her arms and led me into a room where I flopped like a rag doll on the bed.

  She turned the light low and slipped out like my very own fairy godmother. I vowed to thank her in the morning. Then I slept.

  * * * *

  Eggs, bacon and oatmeal greeted me with the sunrise. Outside my window spectral shirts and towels danced on the clothesline. Across the peat bogs nondescript cement block houses stood like boulders.

  Some had lights shining in their windows, but some were empty with curtains torn to ribbons and reaching out broken panes—reaching for lost laughter, forgotten babes and hot suppers of the past.

  "I heard the Laird asked ye to tea. He doesn't often invite strangers to his home,” said my good innkeeper. “Ye must have impressed Robyn greatly."

  "I can't imagine how."

  "Oh, he can tell things about people,” she winked. “He has second sight."

  Robyn's driver and car waited for me by the front gate. He opened the door for me and settled a wool throw about my knees as gentle as if he were tucking antique chine into storage.

  "Sir Lockwell told me,” he explained. “About your condition. Cancer is a terrible thing, especially when it strikes one of our own."

  I cocked my eyebrows and let him shut the door. Inoperable tumor the doctors told me. Too late. Here's a scribble for pain pills. Take as many as you need. Get your affairs in order, they suggested.

  Instead I ran to the island for reasons I couldn't articulate.

  I'd escaped unpleasant realities in the past—my first marriage, my father's descent into Alzheimer's. Why should this time be any different? If I ran far enough and fast enough, perhaps I could outrun death itself. I sighed and closed my eyes.

  Robyn sat in a wing-backed chair with tea steaming in the pot, fingers steepled under his chin. “When?” he asked.

  "Anytime,” I answered.

  I knew what he referred to. I didn't bother to inquire how he gained his information. One doesn't care for trivialities when dropping dead is a real possibility.

  I sipped my Earl Grey, honey and milk. We spoke of seasickness, funerals and what not, and then he said, “Death may not be your only option."

  "Do you know something the doctors don't?” I laughed. “You do seem to be a miraculous fount of knowledge."

  He mused in his sunken chair and muttered at the painting of some ancestor in a ruffed collar who perched above the mantle. Or perhaps it was Robyn himself playing at history. Politely, I nibbled on my biscuit and patted my napkin to my lips.

  "You must go to a half-fey house."

  I choked. “I know. I know,” he dismissed me with a wave. “Everyone wants the isle's brooches or assigned to a stone circle, but I'm afraid the full-blooded fey claimed those first. We half-fey, part magic, part human, must make do with the abandoned croft houses."

  I hadn't the slightest clue what a fey or half-fey was, but sitting across from Robyn I saw the truth in his eyes. He grinned over the rim of his cup.

  "We were all dying once,” he said. “But the island takes care of its own, even when they don't know they belong here."

  For an instant, the world slipped and knocked itself aside. The light dimmed. The furniture lay broken and discarded on the dirty floor, and rubbish huddled in the corners. Then the flames jumped back, and the room, warm and cozy, flickered back into view.

  Robyn, imp-like, fingered a triangle of toast. “You see,” he said.

  * * * *

  "Oh, ma dear,” plump Mrs. MacDonald embraced me on the step of what Robyn promised would be my new home.

  It stood alone, stoic in the roaring ocean breath that whipped off the nearby beach.

  "Sea voyages are difficult for even those in the best of health, and many fey never make it this far. Ye are a courageous soul,” she said.

  She led me inside where guests drank goblets of hot honey wine and ate plates of unseasonable fruit. Light basked on the copper ornaments in the cheery kitchen. The tables were covered with lace cloths, and every room smelled like fresh baked apple tarts. Dreamy and hesitant, I followed Robyn past the well-wishers to a quiet nook.

  He selected a plate of ripe strawberries and balanced it on his knee. “What is this place, really?” I asked.

  "You mean under the glamour? It's a croft house like the others, lonely for its ghosts, but now you're here. It may waver a bit the first few years, but as you gain strength, it will, too. After that, short trips off the island may be possible, but I wouldn't recommend it,” he grimaced. “It takes months to recover, even if you stay away only a day or two."

  The housewarming party lingered on, strange and bright. I discovered that my good innkeeper, Mrs. MacDonald, was a true fey, and Jonah of the “damned sheep", who pumped my hand like a drowning man siphoning water from his boat was a native islander.

  "I grew up here,” he said. “And no doubt I'll go to my final rest here. Tried to leave a dozen times, but I keep coming back. I can't seem to help it. Glad to see you staying on, too. Knew you the minute I saw you, I did."

  He smiled.

  The rest, chatting at each other's elbows and slipping out the door, hugged and kissed me on the cheek like a gaggle of relatives. I wondered what we had truly eaten. Cabbage leaves? Ambrosia? Or leftover fish and chips, greasy and cold? Perhaps I didn't want to know.

  "Good night. Sleep well,” Robyn said and closed the door behind him.

  The house creaked in its disguise. I sat unmoving until five in the morning. Then I drew a sheet of thick paper and a pen out of my bag. I knew it would still be paper once it left the reach of the island for I'd bought it in London before driving north.

  "To Mrs. Bodwin, Director of the Garden Grove Nursing Home,” I wrote. “I am sending funds to have my mother, Lorraine Carson, transferred to my new home. Please see that a reliable escort is engaged. I will meet her at the boat dock indicated on the attached map."

  I pulled a shawl close about my shoulders and watched the sky pinken in the east. The light came creeping over the waves and the whipped grass blades and sucked the marrow from the scarred crescent moon.

  I shivered. Then I laughed wildly, high with something between disbelief and joy. And the walls of my half-fey house trembled with the sound as if it had not heard such a noise in its belly for more years than it cared to count.

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  Dear Aunt Gwenda Vol. 2

  (a Q & A production)

  Q: "Fore!” cries Archway. He has shanked, past the lake and the stream running into it and over the beach into the foaming sea. Underwater a vent sends up sulfur bubbles—encased in one, his small yellow ball rises to the surface.

  But in what activity is Archway engaged?

  (1) Golf

  (2) Writing a poem

  (3) Writing a song

  (4) Writing a check

  I look forward to your assistance in this matter.

  A: I thought shanking involved stabbing people in a prison with a cell-made shiv or possibly carving a nice spot of lamb with said shiv. But let's examine the options before us, SAT-takerlike. Golf? No, no. Poemtry? N
o, no again. Songetry? Paul is dead. Check writing? Some ways yes (sensory), some ways no (lack of ink). Based on these options, I would have to say Archway is hopelessly embroiled with the wrong word.

  * * * *

  Q: I've been watching those clean-out-your-life-and-clutter TV shows for a few months and decided it was time to hit my own clutter. My question to you is should I keep the stack of letters from my old boyfriend/first love or do I chuck them out since it's been years and I'm very happy with my current significant other? I haven't read them since we broke up, but I'm having a hard time parting with them.

  —Sentimental Fool

  A: Sentimental fools are the best kind. You should stow the letters in a cooking pot you never use in the deepest recesses of a kitchen cabinet. If you move, you must repeat this procedure. That way when you die, others will find them and have an enjoyable and possibly important afternoon reading them. Also, get your current significant other to write some letters for comparison and squirrel those away too.