The Puppet Maker's Bones

by Alisa Tangredi

“I see,” said Robert.

  Pavel saw the horror on his friend’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Pavel you know you cannot marry. We cannot marry. How many times must it be repeated to you? Our kind cannot marry. It is not done. You know the consequences, or do you not care?” A lone tear meandered down Robert’s cheek. Pavel stared at him.

  “Cheidu, what’s wrong?”

  “Let me ask you a question. The whipping scars on my back. Do they not serve as an example to you? We cannot run off and do whatever we want when other people are involved.”

  Robert shook his head, stood up and paced around the room, disgusted.

  “Your parents. Prochazka and Nina. Were they affectionate with you?”

  “Of course they were. They were very affectionate people.”

  “How did they express it? Did they hug you? Kiss your forehead? Pinch your cheeks? Smother you in kisses when you were a good boy?”

  “No, nothing like that, we had a thing we did as a family. As a puppet family. We played a game Prochazka made up when I was very small.”

  “Did it involve touching you in any way?”

  Pavel remembered the day in Trope’s office when he realized that they had avoided touching their son his entire life. He did not share the memory with his friend.

  “No, but I didn’t like to be touched when I was a boy.”

  “So they told you this was for you? Because you did not like to be touched?”

  “Well, I outgrew that. But the game kept on.”

  “Because they could not touch you.”

  “Perhaps this dinner needs to be over.”

  “Pavel, you cannot marry that girl!”

  “You’re jealous. That’s what it is.”

  Robert looked like a man who had been slapped. He rose from the table, his chair scraping on the floor behind him.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. And do not flatter yourself. If you decided you wanted to up and move to America, yes. I would miss you. We have barely met in terms of our years. And America is not a good place for me to visit, so it would be many years before we could see each other again. So, yes, I would miss you very much. But this is not about that. This is about people like us. We cannot get close to others. We cannot touch, we cannot hold, we cannot kiss, we cannot love.”

  “I refuse to believe that. Your scars happened as a punishment for acting out of anger. Not out of love. We know that from every great playwright and play: Shakespeare, the Greek plays, Faust, and Moliere. When there is anger or jealousy or rage or plotting or greed, then nothing good comes at the end of any of those stories. But when people act out of love, nothing bad can happen and everyone is blessed. I am in love. Nothing bad can come from love. I won’t believe it. Love gives everyone hope, and isn’t that what we are supposed to do? Bring hope, not destruction? What is more hopeful than love?”

  “Pavel, this is not a play, though you are playing a very dangerous game. I refuse to believe you intend to go through with this. Are you that selfish, or completely insane? Which is it? Be Žophie’s friend. Be her confidante, be that wonderful man that makes her laugh with his puppetry. But Pavel, please. Do not try to be her lover. For her sake.”

  “I don’t wish to talk to you any more about this. I mean to leave you in charge of the artistic aspects of the theatre and will have Mr. Trope take care of having the property transferred to you upon my leaving for America. I do not wish to be interfered with beyond that.”

  “Pavel, please do not do this thing.”

  “You cannot tell me that I cannot love. How can you tell someone that they are not allowed to love? You? You of all people.” Pavel got up from the table and left the house.

  Robert sat at the table and wept.

  1884

  Pavel and Žophie landed in a heap on the floor of the foyer, Žophie laughing as Pavel slammed the door behind them with his foot. Her laughing was smothered by his mouth, kissing, searching, tongues meeting, tasting, exploring. His fingers shook as they struggled with the fasteners on the back of her dress. Her hands, inexperienced and eager, tugged at his shirt, pulling it out of the waist of his pants, running over his bare torso underneath and around to his back. Pavel moved his mouth to her neck, over her collarbone and chest, moving closer to her breasts as he continued to work his way through her dress fastenings. Žophie laughed again and Pavel joined her, the two of them tangled together upon the floor in an unceremonious heap. Months of travel in separate berths, bunks and cabins that kept them apart made their longing for one another an ever growing and intense ache that was finally seeing relief now that the two could finally come together as husband and wife.

  “We stink,” said Žophie.

  “Isn’t it wonderful,” said Pavel, his mouth over hers again as he kissed her. His hand moved down and pulled up the fabric on her dress. He moved his hand up her leg and over her thigh. He stopped kissing her and looked in her eyes as his hand made contact with the moist area between her legs. Žophie placed her hand on his to keep it there as she matched his gaze. She guided his hand over her, rubbing, caressing. He pulled down her undergarments until his naked hand was upon her, unimpeded by fabric. He moved his mouth down her body, over her breasts still bound by her dress and corset, down her bodice, then pushed her dress up and over her hips and put his mouth full upon her sex, inhaling her, kissing her. Žophie cried out, and he tasted her, caressed her with his tongue. While their longing for each other had raged for months the two remained chaste, but the longing Pavel experienced in the foyer encompassed one hundred fifty years and involved more than the final consummation of the marriage to this woman he adored. Rather, what he was experiencing was the letting go of a lifetime of forced loneliness and avoidance of other people. He felt as if he had been freed from a prison. Consumed by passion, Pavel felt as if his entire person might burst into flame at that very moment and if it did, he would not care. Žophie worked her hands over his trousers until she got them almost off of him, enough that they could find each other. He entered her, and she cried out again as the two of them moved together as one, newlyweds who had travelled a very long way by ship, by cart, then on foot, filthy and stinking, in a pile of partially removed clothing, the hard floor beneath them bruising them as they rolled and moved as one for the first time.

  ***

  He rolled onto his side and laughed, tracing her face with his finger. “I had no idea,” said Žophie who joined his laughter.

  “Nor did I,” Pavel said.

  “You have never?”

  “Never. Only you.”

  “Well, Pavel Trusnik.”

  “Yes, Žophie Trusnik?”

  “I think we should do this some more, don’t you?”

  Pavel laughed again. How Žophie made him laugh.

  “Shall we have a bath, first?”

  “Is there a bath?”

  “Every modern convenience for my bride. No expense spared. I did, after all, promise your father.”

  Later in the bath, finally naked, they bathed each other, each staring at the other as they explored and touched and admired each other’s bodies.

  “I think the corset is a horrible invention,” said Pavel.

  “You are not alone in that thought,” she said, and seemed pensive. “You never went to those houses in town—”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t believe you. How do you know what to do, to do that—”

  “I do not spend all my time carving the faces of marionettes or putting on puppet theatre, you know. I have read a book or two.”

  “There are books about—”

  “Everything. Why do you think this theatre rat is so good at drawing up plumbing design plans for the construction of your new bath? What do you think of your bath, by the way?”

  “It is beautiful. I plan on spending my entire life in here.”

  “I hope not!” He pulled her to him and kissed her again.

  “What day were you born?” she asked.

  “What?�
��

  “What day of the week were you born?”

  “Wednesday, I think. I don’t know.”

  “Wednesday’s child is full of woe. Are you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Pavel.

  “The poem! Monday’s child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is loving and giving, Saturday’s child works hard for a living, But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day is bonny and blithe and good and gay.”

  “So if you’re born on Church Sunday, all is well?”

  Žophie snuggled into him. “It’s a poem. But you do sometimes appear sad to me. Are you sad now?”

  “I think sad and woe might be different, but no, I am not sad now. I am the happiest I have ever been in my entire life. And that is saying something.” He laughed.

  They made love again, facing each other in the tub, the water splashing over them. Pavel had never been so happy. He looked into her eyes.

  “I love you.”

  At that moment, Žophie’s nose started to bleed.

  Kevin: Present Day

  Kevin examined the contents of a cigar box he’d found when looking through the backpack he’d stolen from the generic boy from the bike shop. The backpack would serve as a souvenir of his day, slumming in Reseda. He did not go there very often. A blighted area. Very neglected. Graffiti sprayed not only on fences and walls, but on trees. What kind of person tags a tree? It had been raining when he left Reseda, and when he returned to Pasadena, the sun was shining and there was no sign of a storm.

  He studied the cigar box, which was old and more than likely, had belonged to someone else before the generic boy got ahold of it, a grandparent, perhaps. He lifted the lid and found a rolled up length of red embroidery thread, and an expired passport. Generic boy must have gone somewhere with his family? He turned the pages to look for stamps. Guatemala, Peru, Mexico. Guess the family had a thing for South America. He read the name. Josh Aloyan. Armenian. He found a stack of post-it notes with words scrawled on them. They appeared to be random quotes from children’s stories by authors such as Lemony Snicket and Hans Christian Andersen, for the authors were credited next to the quotes on the post-it. They meant nothing to him.

  “Honestly,” Kevin said aloud. “Why do people save this shit?”

  Kevin used his sleeve to wipe down the cigar box and tossed it into the garbage can near the cafe by the bus stop. Enough food would be thrown away in the garbage can that the cigar box, and its contents, could be destroyed within a day. He had second thoughts about keeping the backpack and went around to the dumpster located in the parking lot behind the cafe. He wiped down the pack with his sleeve while wearing his skater gloves, then tossed it in the dumpster, along with the gloves.

  He skated home and ascended the stairs. He took a moment to look at the Victorian across the street. No flutter of drapes. As usual.

  “You’re just in time for dinner!” called his mother.

  “Great! What are we having?” he responded, ever the dutiful and perfect son.

  “Turkey meatloaf.”

  “‘Meatloaf, smeatloaf, double-beatloaf. I hate meatloaf,’” Kevin quoted from A Christmas Story as he walked into the spacious kitchen. Unlike the perfectly preserved Victorian across the street, Kevin’s parents had done a remodel on their kitchen that included the requisite Sub-Zero refrigerator drawers, glass-fronted cabinets, and granite countertops, the latest suburban remodel trends.

  Kevin’s mom, a young-looking woman in her mid-forties, playfully swatted him with the spatula. “You love meatloaf,” she said.

  “I know. I just like saying that. It’s funny,” he said. “Dad home yet?”

  “He has to work late. It’s just us. Can you handle it?” His mother set down the plates, added a large bowl of salad to the center of the table and poured herself a glass of Pinot Noir.

  “Can I have a glass?”

  “Don’t push it. Get yourself some water.” Kevin poured himself a glass from the filter in the door of the refrigerator.

  “How was soccer practice?” his mother asked.

  “Oh. You know. Same old.” Kevin had not played soccer in months, but his parents had no idea. Their schedules did not allow them to attend games, so Kevin’s entire extracurricular schedule was free to do as he pleased during those times they thought he was at practice or at a game. No one at the school had reason to contact them regarding his withdrawal from the team.

  “I so totally nailed one guy in the face,” Kevin said.

  “Kevin! Is he all right?”

  “You mean, will he live?” Kevin burst out laughing and didn’t answer the question. He stuffed meatloaf in his mouth and watched his mother drink her wine. On the nights his father worked late, he could count on her finishing the bottle and going to bed early.

  It was turning out to be a perfect and wonderful day. “Hey, Mom, so, have you ever met the old guy across the street?”

  “Mr. Trusnik?” his mother said.

  “You have met him? You know his name? I never knew that.”

  “I know his name, not him. I can’t remember who told me. One of the neighbors. He’s been here longer than anyone on the street, though how long that is, I don’t know. He inherited the house from his family, according to neighborhood talk. He has family members who are supposedly the original owners. They go back several generations to when Pasadena was not even Pasadena yet.”

  “They said something about that at school. Iowa Colony, Indiana, something like that?”

  “Something like that—that’s all you got? Listen harder.”

  “Whatevs.”

  Kevin chewed his meatloaf. He looked expectantly at his mother for more information.

  “In answer to your question, no, I’ve never met him. I hear he’s a shut-in since his wife died.”

  “Oh. When did she die?”

  “Not sure. Before our time here.”

  That confirmed to Kevin that there was only one person in the house.

  “So nobody has ever seen him? How can that be?”

  His mother became impatient. “Why all the questions about an old man? I thought your generation didn’t care about old people.”

  “Our generation. What is that?”

  “I don’t know. Why do you want to know about him?”

  Kevin answered, nonchalant. “Well, he’s our neighbor, isn’t he? I mean is he okay over there by himself? Does he need anything?”

  “I’m sure his family or someone takes care of him.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone go over there?”

  “Kevin, I really haven’t given it much attention. I don’t spend my time staring at the neighbors’ houses. Nor should you. It’s rude.”

  “Whatevs.”

  “‘Whatevs?’ What is that? You can’t finish words already dismissive enough? You’re dismissing the dismissive word. Boggles the mind. Whatever, yourself. Eat your dinner.”

  Kevin considered the new information supplied by his mother. Mr. Trusnik. He had a name. Kevin could use that when he let himself in.

  “Speaking of the neighbors,” said Kevin’s mother, “did you hear the Hague’s cat got killed by a coyote last week? And the Nelsens lost their dachshund as well. Terrible.”

  “Good thing we don’t have a pet,” said Kevin.

  His mother poured another glass of wine. “It’s terrible. You never know. I hear they travel in packs. One will approach and then the others come from out of nowhere and surround the animal before they tear it apart. I heard that a man was walking his dog in Hollywood and was approached by a coyote and then another came out from under a parked car right there on the street. They tore his dog right off the leash in front of him.”

  “That’s kinda cool,” said Kevin.

  “Okay, no it’s not.”

  Kevin thought about Sprinkles, the Hague’s cat, that had been so stupid and trusting when it came
up to him and rubbed against his leg. He had snapped Sprinkle’s neck without thinking about it. He took it behind his house and started on the carcass with his scalpel, then used the butcher scissors from his mother’s knife block to do the rest of the job. He wanted to make it look like a coyote had been lurking in the neighborhood. He kept the eviscerated and decaying body in a plastic bag behind the gardening shed for a couple days before going out at night and dumping it in the Hague’s yard—a little something horrible for the kids to see when they left for school the next day. Kevin used to play soccer with the youngest Hague boy, Lance. Kevin didn’t like Lance.

  As far as the Nelsen’s dog, Fred, that was not Kevin, but probably a coyote. Coyotes got credit for a lot of things Kevin did, but they did do a fair amount of damage on their own. Kevin smiled at the thought.

  “What are you smiling about?” asked his mother.

  “Nothing. I was thinking about something. What’s for dessert?”

  “Nothing. Eat a banana or something. There might be some cookies in a drawer. Go help yourself.” Kevin’s mom was starting to get a bit snarky, something she did after a few glasses of wine. It was time for Kevin to make his exit. He would wait after darkness had descended for a few hours before crossing the street.

  1884

  Žofie lay in the hospital bed, her wasted body pale and thin, blood drying in the cracks of her lips which could no longer be kissed without causing excruciating pain. Pavel, a young man appearing to be all of eighteen, stood in the waiting area, watching her ravaged form through the filter offered by the distance of the waiting room to her hospital bed. He could see her hospital bed and her wasting body through a sliver of an opening in the doorway. Everything was off. The interior walls were an industrial off-white, the octagonal tile also off-white and scarred with scratches and gouges. The lights flickered from overhead oil lamps giving everything a mottled and distorted appearance, and the air was thick with the smell of human frailty in all its forms: blood, urine, sweat, vomit, disappointment, impatience, and grief. None of this should be happening. Pavel stood, powerless. He focused on a section of Žofie’s arm to shut out the smells and the despair, the anguish masked by alcohol baths and powdered cleansers.