Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 27

by Gavin J. Grant Kelly Link

  Now that I’m close to the cliff, I dream they’re pretending not to know how to fly. No doubt because of me being there. They climb around with ropes and flimsy ladders. They don’t want me to know about their flying. That probably has some deep meaning that I won’t be able to figure out until I wake up.

  His arms around me, he helps me climb the steep rope ladder to one of those holes in the cliff. Inside, he helps me to a sort of air mattress on the floor. I shut my eyes and try hard to fall into a deeper sleep because I hope, when I wake up, I’ll be back in the real world and won’t feel pain anymore.

  Try as I might, I don’t sleep a deeper sleep. In a way I’m glad because I can experience this place and this man for a bit longer, though I wish I’d stop dreaming pain. Perhaps I’m actually in pain in real life.

  I give up and pay attention to where I am. It’s as red on the inside as it is on the outside. The man in black sits on a red lump, silhouetted against the red walls. He hums an odd buzzing hum. I wonder that I’m dreaming such a sound. Perhaps I’m already home and the refrigerator is acting funny. Or is a bee flying around me as I sleep somewhere out on the ground in the mountains?

  Perhaps this dream is all about that man I’m trying to find myself for in the first place… not about me at all.

  I look at the man through half closed eyes so he won’t notice. A handsome profile with a nose worthy of consideration. A bird of some importance. A bird to be reckoned with.

  He says…I think he says, “Relax,” but how does one relax when all banged up? To avoid the pain and get back into the real world, I tell him,“Wake me up.”

  I’ve always liked sad skinny men with brooding dangerous looks. Even so I say again, louder, “Wake me up.”

  But he doesn’t understand. Or maybe he knows he’d disappear right out of my life if he did.

  I ask him, “Bird or man?” And when he looks puzzled, I ask, “Crow? Caw, caw?”

  That makes the sad man laugh.

  If it’s my dream, why can’t I have what I want in it? Well, I do have the right man for once. That’s one way I know it’s all a dream.

  Though I guess I know who I am now…. The one with the swollen and scratched nose, lump on forehead, a limp, though I still have blue eyes and naturally curly hair. But maybe that doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll have to act a whole different way. Like bring the coffee kind of thing. But I’d do it for this man anyway. Except sometimes the more you do for them, the less they notice you.

  But he’s getting something for me now. Broth with what looks like worms in it. Tastes of the earth but not bad. I sip all the dream broth and dream that I feel better afterwards.

  He looks at me—those glittery black crow eyes—and says what could be, “Are you feeling better?”

  If he had leaned any closer I’d have kissed him. After all, it’s my dream, I can do as I want. And yet, even in my dream, I was too shy. I looked away. I pretended not to notice though I felt his warm breath on my cheek.

  Maybe I should tell him not to wake me up yet.

  He has moved away and sits on his red lump. On the wall behind him I can see the shadow of huge black wings. Wings to lift a person have to be enormous. I hadn’t thought they’d need to be so huge. If he wanted to, he could fly me to wherever it is I’m sleeping back in the real world.

  He says something again in Ks and caws. Goes to the doorway and raises his arms exactly like a cormorant drying his wings. Of course he can fly.

  But what if I’m a prisoner now that I’ve discovered them? If, that is, it’s not all a dream. Though why wouldn’t it be a dream? People living in holes in red cliffs pretending they can’t fly when they can?

  I move to the doorway, too. There’s a steep drop off. Even though there’s a rope, there’s no way I’m going to be able to leave here by myself and I already know this isn’t a good dream for flying.

  Outside, the crow people are all over the place, up and down the cliff, but nobody is flying. They’re still pretending not to be able to.

  He holds my arm to make sure I don’t fall. Then brings me back to his lump of a chair.

  They always say not to fall in love at first sight, but if this is my dream, it’s all right. I have dreamt his solicitousness. I have dreamt the look in his crow eyes.

  And there’s that odd buzzing sound again. Does he think that’s singing?

  Then, “Nay, nay,” he says, and those words are clear. The rest I have to guess. He says that nobody must know about them. That they’re here to wait until it’s the proper time to attack. “Clack,” he says, and “Quack.”

  It all makes sense. And I’ll bet you can hypnotize people with that humming and buzzing. Or put them to sleep. (Not me, though, since I’m already asleep.) They’ll put the whole world to sleep when they decide it’s time to take over, but I’ll save us.

  Would I really dream that? I must be full of thoughts of revenge. Probably it all started in the way nobody takes me seriously. You can’t have blue eyes and curly blond hair, be barely five feet tall and have people listen to what you say.

  Or is he telling me I’m beautiful in spite of scratches and bruises? Is he asking me to stay? But can I make him worm soup?

  Not even in my dream.

  But on the other hand, how to save the world? And can I do it all by myself? Bring down the whole cliff for instance? Find the pillar that holds everything up and find a way to undermine it.

  Or could I bring them smallpox or some similar disease they would have no immunity to? Maybe a kiss would be enough to do it. I should have kissed him back when I had the chance. How many people would I have to kiss to start an epidemic?

  Assuming, that is, that this isn’t a dream.

  Whether it is or not, I’ll start kissing people. Of course I might make myself sick instead of them. Some sort of bird flu. But I’ll risk it for my country.

  Now isn’t this strange? A. I’m so resentful I dream aliens are taking over the world and, B. I dream that the way to save the world is that I have to kiss them all. I’m having a hard time figuring out what this dream means.

  I come close and put my hand on his arm. Nothing but bone and muscle. Just like a flying man would be.

  Should I ask?...or just do it?

  I look up at him and purse my lips.

  (I’d never do such a thing in real life.)

  He doesn’t get the point or doesn’t want to get it.

  To start an avalanche would be a lot harder. I’d have to get up on top of the cliff and find boulders I can pry out and launch over the side and it might not work anyway.

  But then, and lucky for the world as we know it: A whole bunch of them crowd into the cave to get a look at me. I kiss them all Hello. I say, “This is how we do it with my people.” And they say coo and caw and then let me kiss them again, though I never do get the chance to kiss the man I really want to kiss. Lots of dreams are frustrating like that.

  I don’t wait to see them sicken. I climb down the cliff on those scary ladders and knotted ropes, and hurry towards home.

  I know who I am now, though I still don’t know who I used to be. I don’t know if that matters anymore.

  Finally I’m tired enough to fall into a deep dreamless sleep, and then I wake up into the real world.

  Odd, though, I still hurt all over.

  So, to summarize my waking up and my returning to the civilized world: Bruises, scratches, a limp, tangled hair (when you have naturally curly hair and don’t comb it every day it gets into tangles that are impossible to comb out), maybe bird flu (I do have the sniffles). Lets see how that man I was out trying to find myself for likes me now that I’ve found me.

  Except after meeting the man of my dreams how will this one measure up? He’ll probably talk too much. I prefer coos.

  And we do meet. A nice restaurant. I’m sunburned and freckled, bruised and scratched. I limp. I’ve cut the knots out of my hair. It does look funny. But he isn’t the best looking man in the world. Except when have I eve
r liked good looking guys.

  And here he is, all in black. Again as up in those cliffs, I think I see the shadow of huge wings on the wall behind him, though that can’t be.

  I sit down across from him. I say, “I could learn to make worm soup.”

  Music Box

  David Rowinski

  Patrick Sutton pushed the last trash bag through the basement window. Reaching out, he grasped the rotting casing, stepped onto a countertop, and just managed to squeeze out the way he had entered. He was about to stand when a car’s headlights swept across the lawn. Patrick froze as if immobility would render him invisible. The car continued up the quiet suburban street. Still on hands and knees, heart racing, Patrick turned around and pulled open the window.

  Sticking in his head, he hissed, “What the hell are you doing?”

  As if in response a black, lacquered box emerged, followed by two gloved hands then a shaved head. Patrick wanted to shove John Ferris back into the basement to put back the box but feared Janice’s imminent return. Grasping he friend’s wrists, he dragged him out through the window. John’s sleeve caught on the point of the latch Patrick had popped out of an eye hook with a putty knife to gain access to the house.

  As John stood, brushing soil from his clothes, Patrick pointed at the box, “What is that? Did I not explicitly say just the bags of my things?”

  “If you took just your things,” John explained, “She’ll know it was you that broke in. Now, if other things are missing then…”

  “What else did you take?” Patrick’s voice rose as stealth gave way to anger.

  “Nothing,” John answered, “And you owe me a shirt.”

  “Fine,” Patrick grumbled as he gathered up the bags. John picked up the box. Both men bolted for the back of the property. They slipped through a narrow gap in the green wall of hedges Patrick noticed were neatly trimmed despite his absence. Emerging in the neighbors’ backyard they hesitated. Though he knew them, he would be hard pressed to explain his presence. Not seeing anyone at the windows they cut down the driveway like fugitives, slowing when they reached the sidewalk. Beneath the street lights there was no way to pass inconspicuously as they crossed the street to enter the apartment complex where Patrick had parked to prevent Janice from happening upon the truck. Relief broke as laughter as Patrick tossed the bags into the bed.

  “You are so screwed,” John said.

  After getting into the cab, Patrick rolled down the windows. He started the truck and backed out. John sat turning the box about as if examining an archeological find.

  “It’s a music box,” Patrick explained, “I gave it to her for her birthday a few years ago.”

  “Oh,” John said, a vein of disappointment running through the word.

  “What did you think it was?”

  “I was hoping it was her stash.”

  “You’re an idiot,” Patrick remarked shaking his head. Though irritated, he was not angry recognizing that John had agreed to accompany him. At the first traffic light, Patrick took a left through the center of town. He drove with hunched shoulders, hands tightly gripping the wheel, certain each set of approaching lights belonged to Janice’s car. As the truck passed beneath a banner announcing a county fair, Patrick heard the first notes ringing out from the music box. John had wound the small golden key and opened the lid. Thin metal tongs were set reverberating by raised points on a silver cylinder. A tune he had managed to forget took shape.

  The air began to resonate.

  Wind swirled about them, drawing up fast food wrappers, parking citations, and lottery tickets and swept them out the window, up into a sky suddenly void of stars. A sharp note seared lightning. Thunder rolled out from the truck causing the ground to tremble. Thick drops of rain splattered over the windshield accumulating to form a shroud. Barely able to see, Patrick pulled over and quickly rolled up the widows, his left arm already soaked. After shifting into park, he shot out his hand slamming shut the lid.

  Music ceased.

  Rain stopped.

  Moonlight poured from between parting clouds.

  Snapping on the directional, Patrick eased the truck back into the flow of Saturday night traffic.

  “Can I have this?” John asked.

  “What?”

  “Can I have this?” John repeated, “Instead of the beer?”

  “No,” Patrick answered, his voice conveying how stupid he believed the question to be, “Because of you I have to go over there to return it.”

  “Why?” John asked, “I mean, it isn’t like she appreciated it or it wouldn’t be collecting dust in the basement.”

  Patrick said nothing. John had articulated what he had been thinking from the moment he had seen the music box being pushed out the basement window. The angry disappointment that had consumed his days after the break-up caught once more in his throat. He could neither swallow it down nor vomit it up. Though he could understand, if not accept, his belongings being bagged like corpses, he wondered if everything he had given her had also been banished to the basement. He feared he had broken into a morgue into which she had lain to rest anything containing a memory of their experiences together.

  A tiny, brilliant yellow bird shot past him, struck the driver’s side window and dropped fluttering into his lap. Patrick scooped up the fragile body, stroking the feathered head until the bird grew still in his palm.

  Distracted, he had not noticed that John had found and opened the box’s lower drawer, replacing the cylinder that had played with Janice’s favorite. Patrick heard the memory of her standing tall in the bedroom, the naked vortex of an avian tornado. He was surprised that, though sharp, this memory failed to cut.

  The music played out cool pastel tones of feathers. Birds perched atop the rear view mirror, upon the cup holder, along the back of the seat in vivid hues of red, green, blue, and orange. Recovered, the bird in his hand took flight, landing on the steering wheel. It promptly crapped on the column.

  “Would you stop fucking with that thing!” Patrick snapped.

  Every bird set off in a whirl of abstract expressionist color.

  “Sorry,” John mumbled, none too apologetic as he closed the lid and placed the box on the floor between his feet.

  Patrick rolled down the widows releasing the birds. They rose like sparks as moonlight struck their bodies. The men watched as the flock then swooped down to fade from sight like the cascade of dying embers after fireworks explode.

  “Play with it again,” Patrick warned, “And you’ll be walking home.”

  Nothing else was said until Patrick spotted a liquor store. He pulled in and parked.

  “Don’t even think about touching it,” he ordered as he got out of the truck, then walked over and opened John’s door, “On second thought, if you want payment, you can at least come in and carry it.”

  Reluctantly, John followed Patrick into the store. Proceeding straight to the back, they stood before the cooler.

  “Where did you get it?” John ventured.

  “I don’t know,” Patrick replied as he opened the glass door and grabbed a single bottle of IPA, “I acquire things. Yard sales. People getting rid of stuff on job sites. Actually, I think it was my aunt’s who left it to my mother,” then to change the topic, he asked, “What you are getting.”

  “Guinness. And not that stupid four pack. You promised a case.”

  “You’re an expensive accomplice,” Patrick commented as John pulled the beer off the rack.

  They joined the check out line. As Patrick reached into his pocket to get his wallet, John persisted, “Where did she get it?”

  “Who?”

  “Your aunt.”

  “How the hell should I know,” Patrick snarled, “You need to drop it. I don’t want to talk about it any more.”

  Back in the truck, John sat with arms folded over his chest. Patrick said nothing, preferring this petulant silence to incessant questions. Then, as he left the parking lot, the notion of Janice setting off the music b
ox without him took hold. The image of her standing before a waterfall formed, a rainbow hovering like a halo above her and the possibility of another man. The feeling in his throat asserted itself as the need to vomit which he suppressed with difficulty. As he pulled up at the curb before John’s house, he considered the taking of the box a blessing.

  Patrick left his foot on the brake, not bothering to shift into park, “I appreciate your coming with me,” he said.

  “No problem,” John answered. He opened the door then stopped, “You do realize you just shit on any chance of working things out with her.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not,” Patrick said, “Probably.”

  “Just don’t tell her I was involved.”

  “Who do you think I’ll blame.”

  John scowled as he slid out and closed the door. He grabbed the case from the bed of the truck, tucked it under his arm, and headed up the driveway.

  “Thanks again,” Patrick called through the window.

  John just raised his free hand in acknowledgment but never looked back.

  Reaching home, he grabbed the beer and box leaving the bags in the bed of the truck. Entering the efficiency apartment, he hit the light switch with his elbow. A fluorescent bulb sputtered to life over a small table. He placed the music box atop a pile of bills. Finding a bottle opener magnetically stuck to the fridge he popped open the beer and downed half in three gulps. He regretted not purchasing a six pack. Taking a seat at the table, he pulled open the box’s lower drawer and removed several cylinders. He ran his fingertips over the raised surfaces as if they were Braille texts, the way he once had over Janice’s skin. Yet he could no more decipher what was encoded than he had been able to read the subtle contours of her body.

  Picking through the pile he found the first cylinder he had ever played for her, replacing it for the one that had turned his car into an aviary. He recalled the look of disappointment when he handed her the music box change to elation when the crisp music washed a clean stream over her bare feet.