by Alex Bell
‘Feeling even more relaxed?’ she says.
He just smiles.
When they get back, they are standing on the gravel drive when a familiar scream rips open the now vivid blue stillness of the morning.
He turns and looks at her and pulls a sad face, then looks away at the line of empty bottles standing against the wall of the gîte. A bee investigates the neck of one bottle after another, then seems to have a better idea and veers off towards the garden.
He walks around to stand behind her and threads his arms through hers, around her waist, then allows his hands to settle on her wide hips. She leans her head back against his shoulder.
‘I think I need a lie down,’ he says, taking her hand.
He’s undressed her before they reach the bed. He kneels down and kisses the gentle swell of her tummy, tasting salt, chlorine, sun cream. He runs his hand down over her leg, almost but not quite making contact. She makes a low sound that tells him she likes what he’s doing. He stands up and steps out of his shorts, feeling the weight of his phone in the pocket as he throws them the short distance to the armchair. She lies down on the bed and he goes to lie down next to her and he asks himself if he will be able to lose himself in the moment, or the next series of moments, or if he will be visited by thoughts of his children, if he’ll be interrupted by the buzz of his phone’s text alert, if he’ll be assailed by worries about the hopelessness of the situation in which they find themselves, if he’ll be distracted by images, which he realises just at that moment have begun to crowd in on him in the last few days, of dead ends. But, in spite of these thoughts and worries and images, he finds he can actually lose himself in the moment, because, from the first moment he touched her, from the first moment they kissed, he has known there is something unprecedented and different and unique about that touch and that kiss. What he feels for her is overpowering and he senses it’s the same for her and she has told him it’s the same for her and together they seem to have found something that means something profound to each of them, to both of them, and this meaning appears to be communicable by touch. They want each other, they desire each other, and when he is making love to her – which he is doing right now, right this very moment, and even his being aware of it is not enough to break the spell – it feels, it really feels as if he is doing something, going somewhere, feeling something he has never done before or been before or felt before. He knows it’s the oldest feeling in the world, or one of them certainly, but to him, and to her, he thinks, it feels brand-new, it feels like nothing they’ve ever felt before, like something they’ve never done before, it feels like somewhere neither of them has ever been before. Above all it feels like they are going to this place, performing this act and experiencing this feeling together and at the same time and even as he experiences it he thinks it feels like an out-of-body experience, despite the fact it’s all about his body and her body and their two bodies coming together and even this awareness does not impinge on the sensation or adulterate his happiness and even that word somehow does not have the undesired effect he so feared, when really you would expect it might, and he thinks to himself that it’s a little bit like climbing a mountain, as you keep climbing and you see the summit disappearing ahead of you, a series of false summits, and then you see the real summit just a short way ahead and you know there’s no way you’re not going to make it and you do make it and you stop and look beyond and the view is the most amazing view you have ever seen and it’s the first time you have seen it, this particular view, and it is in no way disappointing or predictable, but is breathtakingly beautiful and bathed in some impossible golden light and even as you think this, even as you think it’s the most banal cliché ever to have entered your head, even as you think this, the vision doesn’t darken or start to break up or become unstable, but persists, and a new feeling comes over him, one of great calmness, a feeling he can’t remember experiencing for a long time, a calmness that fills him like the tide fills an estuary. And while they lie together on the bed and the sweat dries on their skin and they slowly become unstuck, he doesn’t worry about his children or even about his wife, he doesn’t worry that he and Isabel might be heading down a dead end, he doesn’t worry about the screams of the donkey or the premonitory dream of the siren or the close-up of the terrified driver’s eyes in the film he would for some reason always be reminded of when he went to the dentist as a child, he doesn’t worry about the bee that will return to the empty bottles lined up outside the gîte and, attracted by the sticky residue inside one of them, probably one of his empty beer bottles, stumble inside and perhaps become stuck in that residue, and he doesn’t worry that later when he loads up the car with the recycling he will fail to notice the bee inside the bottle and he doesn’t think for a moment that when he releases his seat belt only a short way into the journey into town and Isabel raises her eyebrow at him that he might be about to need his seatbelt when the bee becomes unstuck at the bottom of the bottle and bumbles out of the bottle into the car and barges about, a bee in a car seeming so much bigger than normal, the size of a bat or a bird, and the interior of the car seeming so much smaller than normal, like the interior of a car after a horrific accident rather than before.
If I Were You
by
Amelia Mangan
She always wore the same houndstooth coat, and she always crossed against the lights. Dangerous, Edwin thought. It’d been raining for weeks, and the roads were slick. Drivers rushing to get home, get to work, get out, get in. No one paying attention. She could get hit so easily. But then, she’d always been lucky.
He adjusted the telescope’s sights and squinted into the eyepiece. Closer now. He could see the weave of the coat’s fabric, the thick mesh of grey and white wool; the thin sheen of rain on her black boots, her red umbrella. Her hair. Bright as bronze. Threads of red and gold. Never tousled, never lank. Rain and wind never touched her. Edwin trailed a fingertip down a strand of his own hair; it was limp and greasy, hadn’t been washed in days, but the color was the same as hers. Exactly the same. Something they shared.
Out of the street and safe now, under an awning. She put down her umbrella and dug into her pocket. Produced a thin tube, yellow and black. Edwin zoomed in but couldn’t make out the label. Never mind; he’d find it by sight.
She unscrewed the lid and traced the tube’s end across her lips. Over, under, all around. The curve of her lower lip, the thin red cracks, the chafed and flaking skin. She pressed upper lip to lower and smacked them out again. Blowing a kiss. Swept her tongue across the upper lip, bit the lower, put the chapstick back in her pocket and picked up the umbrella and walked up the street, past the deli where she always bought food and the cafe where she always had breakfast and the boutique where she always shopped, and into the rain, and gone.
That afternoon he went to the drugstore. Scanned the shelves until he found it: thin tube, yellow and black. Tropicana Lip Balm. $1.99. Pineapple flavor.
He tore open the paper bag as soon as he got outside. Glanced around. Seeing that no one cared, he sank his teeth into the chapstick, biting down on the tip, swallowing. Thick and viscous, waxy. Candy-sweet.
You are tasting this, he thought. You are tasting this, and this is exactly the same thing that she tastes. This is what she tastes like.
She was the reason he’d moved here. To the apartment, the neighborhood. To the city itself.
Her name was Carla Mitchell and she was his sister. They had never met.
*
He found her when he found his birth parents. Went back to the children’s home, got hold of his file. Fred and Alice Mitchell, 212 Hachlin Street, Michigan. He went there and found they’d died. Years ago. Nothing but names now. But, the neighbor told him, there had been a girl; born thirty years ago, one year after Edwin, almost to the day Fred and Alice had given him up. They’d given him up, but kept her. She had their name. She had a good, strong name: Carla. Forceful, tough. Almost masculine. You could do anything, have anythin
g, with a name like that.
Not, he thought, with a name like his. Edwin. Edwin Hull. A weak name, a limp and sickly name: a Victorian orphan left out in the cold.
He was thinking about names the first time the real estate agent showed him the apartment. A huge and empty loft. A wall of windows. The agent was trying very hard to sell him on it without knowing that Edwin had already made up his mind: he was going to live here, because Carla lived over there. Her building faced this one. Six windows across and one floor down.
Her place was bigger. Even without the telescope, Edwin could see that much. Bigger, and crammed with objects. Plants and posters and tables and chairs. Proof of life.
Edwin had his telescope. He had his charts and printouts, and a laptop, and a mattress.
‘What kind of work you in?’ asked the agent, eyeing the telescope.
‘Astronomy,’ Edwin said, which was the truth. Then: ‘I work for the Observatory,’ he added, which was a lie. Edwin had worked for the Observatory for four years. From home. In Ann Arbor. Scanning the skies, typing up data, sending it back. When he’d found out about Carla he’d stopped scanning, stopped typing, stopped sending. They’d stopped employing him. That’s when he’d moved.
‘You see many stars in Manhattan?’ asked the agent, smiling, like it was funny.
‘Only one,’ said Edwin. ‘But I hear it’s the brightest one there is.’
*
Three weeks now, and it’d taken him that long just to gather his courage. Tomorrow was Saturday. On Saturdays, at noon, she had lunch at the café with her friend, a blonde. Sometimes the blonde met Carla at her apartment and they drank coffee and talked for hours before going out. He tried to imagine what those conversations could possibly be about; watched their movements, their gestures, tried to piece together a workable story. Carla would roll her eyes and say something and laugh; across the street, Edwin would move his lips, trying to capture her words. Sometimes he thought he had it; an ‘I don’t know’ here, a ‘whatever’ there. He was no lipreader; their conversation escaped him, too far beyond his grasp.
But tomorrow was Saturday, and she would be at the café. At noon. With the blonde.
Tomorrow, he would be there too.
*
Steam and wood and thick dark coffee. Cakes under glass. Specials scrawled in yellow chalk on a faded blackboard. Mucha prints on the walls. Lots of people, lots of talk, and everything cost too much. You’d have to be well-paid to eat here every day.
Edwin had a table in the middle of the cafe. Dead center. No matter where Carla sat, she would never be too far from him.
He leaned back, pretended to read the paper. His eyes scanned the same headline five times, absorbing nothing. He wondered if his hands were sweating, if they’d soak through the paper. Even if they did, Carla wouldn’t notice. Carla had too much to think about. Too full a life.
A waiter approached and asked if he’d like to order anything. He declined. He’d wait and see what Carla was having first.
He thrust a hand into his coat pocket. Fished out his notebook and pen. Dropped them on the table and waited.
A jangle of bells and a rush of cool air. Edwin turned and there she was. Houndstooth coat. Black boots. Cream silk blouse and black skirt and all that hair, that burned-bronze hair. He sank down behind his paper and tried to stare without seeming to. If she sensed him staring she might turn and see him, and if she saw him she might see his hair, that his hair was like hers. She couldn’t see that his hair was like hers. Might jeopardize things. Make him conspicuous.
He wanted her to see that his hair was like hers.
She passed him by. Of course, she passed him by. A sweet drift of scent, fresh flowers and hazelnut. Edwin slid the notebook closer and picked up his pen.
Flowers + hazelnut, he wrote. Perfume? Shampoo? Ask drugstore clerk.
Carla sat down, pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Pierced, he saw. A teardrop ruby, set in gold. He wrote it down. That one might be tough. The earrings looked expensive. His credit cards were almost maxed out. But those were the earrings Carla had, and if she had them, so would he.
He wished she’d order something. He was starving.
Another jangle and the blonde appeared. Edwin looked her over, looked through her. Nothing of interest.
The women spotted each other and waved. The blonde slid past Edwin, made it to Carla; they hugged and chattered and sat. Edwin turned to a fresh page. Kept his pen at the ready.
So much talk in here, too much. They were close to him but not close enough. He lifted his chin, strained to hear.
‘... Don’t think I’m what they’re looking for,’ Carla was saying. Her voice was low and deep, serious, well-modulated: the voice of someone used to being heard. ‘Sure, the money’s nice, but... ’
‘Oh, like you’d turn it down,’ said the blonde.
‘No,’ Carla allowed. ‘I wouldn’t. If they do want to give me the assignment I’ll take it. I just wonder... ’
‘Sir,’ said Edwin’s waiter, ‘are you ready to order?’
Head down. Voice neutral. Be polite. Be polite.
‘No,’ said Edwin. ‘No. Not just yet. Thank you.’
The waiter vanished.
‘... Suppose so,’ said Carla. ‘I don’t know. Guess I’ll have to think about it. Maybe talk it over with Lucas, see what he thinks.’
‘So Lucas is still happening?’ asked the blonde.
Edwin jotted: LUCAS.
‘Oh, yeah,’ Carla said. ‘Yeah. Still a going concern.’
‘Gee, you sound enthused.’
‘Oh, well... ’ Carla folded her hands on the tabletop, started playing with her napkin. ‘We’re sort of in the middle of our own thing right now...’
Cutlery clattering at the next table over. Metal on china.
‘... Move in.’
The blonde raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, hey. That’s good, right? Congratulations?’
‘Um.’ Carla shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s been long enough, I guess. I should, shouldn’t I? It’s just, I like how things are right now. He comes over, we spend time together, we stay in, go out. Then he goes home and I go home, and it’s... I don’t know, relaxing? A relief? I don’t know.’
Edwin underlined LUCAS. Three times.
‘But you love him, right?’ said the blonde.
‘What I’d love right now,’ said Carla, ‘is some food. Yes, hi,’ she said to the orbiting waitress. ‘Could I have some green tea and a croissant? Thanks.’
Edwin motioned to his waiter. ‘Green tea,’ he said, ‘and a croissant. Thanks.’
‘Oh, good,’ said the waiter. ‘You made up your mind.’
It was an insult, but Edwin, distracted, failed to hear it.
*
Lucas.
Edwin turned the name over in his brain, examined it from every angle. Lucas. Who was Lucas? Boyfriend. Fiance? But Carla never brought any men home. Carla slept alone. Just like Edwin.
Lucas.
‘Mr. Hull?’
The boutique salesgirl. Short. Redheaded. Calling his name. Telling him something.
‘Mr. Hull,’ she told him, ‘I’m afraid your card’s been declined.’
Edwin blinked. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Sorry,’ and fished inside his wallet.
The salesgirl glanced down at the earrings. Teardrop rubies. Set in gold. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she said.
‘Hm?’ Edwin didn’t look up.
‘The earrings. Really beautiful. For your wife?’
‘Oh, no.’
‘Oh. Girlfriend?’
‘No. My sister, actually.’ Found the card. Slapped it down.
‘Oh, that’s sweet,’ said the salesgirl. ‘Is it her birthday?’
‘No,’ said Edwin. Carla’s birthday was December 17th. ‘No special occasion. Just thinking of her.’
‘Oh,’ said the salesgirl. A sigh in her voice. ‘That’s so sweet.’ She dropped her gaze back down to the jewels, ran a polished nail over the filigr
ee. ‘She’s very lucky. To have a brother like you.’
‘Now, if only she knew that,’ said Edwin.
The salesgirl laughed. He forced himself to do the same.
*
Carla didn’t sleep well.
That suited Edwin fine. Four years of night work had trained him for this. Four years of open eyes and black coffee and ink-stained fingers clutching chewed pens; of perching at an eyepiece and waiting for a sign. Edwin did not feel he knew the stars any better than he ever had, but at least he could see them all, see them and name them and recite their vital statistics down to the smallest detail. Their light, dead for aeons, flickered behind his eyes, lit the landscape of his dreams.
If Carla ever dreamed, her dreams would be bright and clear and very, very clean. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have dreams like that.
But if Carla ever dreamed, it wasn’t often, and it wasn’t for long. Around three AM, a light would go on in her room, muzzled by thick curtains, and her small figure would pad into the kitchen. Stove on. Two cracked eggs, slithering into a pan. Eggs on a plate and into the living room, awash in static shadow. Whatever movie was on. Tonight, The African Queen.
Edwin turned on his own TV, and watched the movie with her.
When it was done and they had turned off their TVs and Carla was back in bed, out of his sight, Edwin went into the bathroom, switched on the light and sat down on the edge of the tub. The tiles were off-white and thick with grout. Edwin stared at them, at his bare feet on them, toes curling and uncurling. He took the earrings from his pocket, set them down beside him. From the other pocket, he removed the compass, the one he’d held over the stove burner for a half-hour before Carla had gotten up.
Edwin weighed the compass in his hand, pressed a finger to the point. Bright blood sprang up in its wake. He grimaced and looked at the earrings. Took a breath, let it out. Took another and stabbed the point into his earlobe, working it deeper, deeper, pushing hard, feeling the flesh stretch and give and he was through, out on the other side. The breath came out in a gasp. Wet warmth all down his neck, dripping from his shoulder-blade. Thick red drops curdling in the tub.
