by Alexie Aaron
Mr. Calcar ran his talon-like finger along the shelf, stopped and pulled out a book. “This is a strange poet. I’m not sure if it is only one man or many men. All I know is that his poems have been appearing for a long time, in various media. Someone recently captured quite a few of them in this book.”
Dieter took the book, looked at the cover, and read, “A Raven Types.” He flipped it over and read, “‘The raven has appeared at my window with typed pages for years now. I finally got permission to have them published together.’ Richard Longtree.”
“The raven may be a metaphor or a code name for the writer. Richard Longtree may be the raven or it can be exactly what he says, a raven typed these.”
Dieter opened the book to a random page and read:
A Table for Two
Words tumble from my mouth
Dying on breaths
Too weak to sustain them
Furtive glances breed
False hopes and uncertainty.
How did we get here
From a life filled with conversations and laughter
To the metal of harsh words and haunting silences?
Each of us holding on to the pain
Knowing it was better than feeling nothing at all.
Is our love merely a token now
Of a world we once cherished
Best left between tissue paper, pressed between pages?
Dead with only the faint scent of what once was
Can it be revived by the nourishing rains of April?
A hand reaches across the table
Like a bridge to a better world, a canoe to ford a river
I look at your palm, reading the lines
Is our future there?
Or it this just a wave goodbye?
“What do you think?” Mr. Calcar asked.
“That there is more here than two people breaking up,” Dieter answered.
“A lot more. How do you feel?”
“Initially, there is fear, then resignation, and finally hope,” Dieter answered.
“This poet speaks to you. I don’t think you need to go any further,” advised Mr. Calcar.
Dieter smiled. “I thought this was going to be harder.”
“Why?”
“Well, I thought I would have to read hundreds of poems to find the author who spoke to me. But you knew. You, sir, are great at your chosen profession.”
Mr. Calcar smiled. “I know. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Coffee makes me nervous.”
“Pity. I find it the elixir of life.”
Mia and Cid were studying their selection of books when Dieter appeared with the proprietor.
“Mom, I found the poet. Although, I sense that finding more about him may prove troublesome,” Dieter said.
“Maybe you should choose someone else,” Cid suggested.
“No! This is my guy. I think it’s a guy, but if it’s a lady, that’s alright too.”
Mia smiled. She looked at Mr. Calcar a moment. “Thank you for your help. I haven’t seen Dieter this inspired.”
“It’s a pleasure. Now what have the two of you been up to?”
“I’m trying to find a book for a two-year-old with an eight-year-old’s brain.”
“Mark Twain?” Mr. Calcar asked.
“Read him.”
“Lemony Snicket. Although the subject matter may be edgy, everything is explained very well in A Series of Unfortunate Events. Try The Bad Beginning. I’m sure you’ll be back for the rest.”
Cid walked over to the display of paperbacks. “Do you have a hardcover?”
“Am I amongst snobs?” Mr. Calcar asked, motioning to where the hardcovers were kept.
“Brian is still two. He’s a little hard on paperbacks,” Mia said. “It must be so difficult to be different inside than outside. Don’t you agree, Mr. Calcar?”
“Busted,” Dieter thought.
“One gets used to it. Excuse me, I see your friend needs some assistance.” The gargoyle picked up a box and headed to where Cid was piling up the numerous hardcovers.
“Cid can’t just have one like everyone else,” Mia said. “How about you? Is there anything else you desire to read?”
“I think I’m over my head as it is.”
“There are some authors from your homeland…”
“Mom, I’m not ready to return, even fictionally, yet.”
“K.”
“Thank you for understanding,” Dieter said. “You know about Mr. Calcar?”
“That’s he’s a gargoyle? Oh yes. The coffee breath was my first indication. You?”
“His aura is coffee brown.”
“What is it with gargoyles and coffee?” Mia asked aloud.
“Was Cid listening to our conversation, Mr. Calcar’s and mine?” Dieter clarified.
“No. He and I were conversing over in children’s books.”
Cid hefted the box to the counter. “Mia, I’d like to have some time to look for myself.”
“Tell you what, I’m going to go to Starbucks and get Mr. Calcar and myself a triple espresso while you look. Dieter?”
“No thank you, maybe a root beer?” he asked.
“Sure,” Mia said. “Mr. Calcar, do you want anything else in your coffee?”
“Espresso is fine. Thank you.”
Mia left the shop and walked two stores down to the Starbucks. While she waited in line, she tried to get rid of the feeling she had, the moment her foot tread inside the bookstore, that she was supposed to be there. It couldn’t be to unmask a gargoyle. Mr. Calcar was well-established in the community. The shops on either side thrived, as anyone would, being associated with the gargoyle community. They were generous souls, although a bit grumpy for her taste.
She grabbed a root beer from the cooler, picked a sugary coffee for Cid, and ordered the espressos. She felt an odd itch between her shoulder blades. It was as if a feather was tickling her spine. “I hope I’m not getting wings again,” she mumbled.
“Pardon?” the clerk asked.
“Put a few chocolate chip cookies in a bag for me too, please,” Mia said quickly to cover up.
~
Finally, there was light! Cindy pulled some energy from the fixture overhead. Now she was able to get an idea of where she had ended up. The room in which she initially found herself was off a kitchen. She moved into the kitchen and found only one familiar appliance, a toaster. She ran her hand through it, angry that she couldn’t see her reflection in its shiny surface.
“Jiminy Cricket! Cindy Kruger, what a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into,” she said. She moved her hand over the clean counter and stopped when she came to the sink.
Cindy looked for a place in this room to practice her cheers and was disappointed that the large room was full of stuff one would find in a kitchen. This wouldn’t do.
~
Mr. Calcar watched the odd way the human called Cid went about finding a book.
Dieter caught the interested expression that formed on the gargoyle’s face and followed his eyes to Cid. “He has to discover his books. He’s looking for an old book that didn’t make the bestseller list. One that was never a movie or went straight to video. He wants what you would call…”
“A forgotten treasure,” Mr. Calcar finished. “He’s been here before, and I ignored him. I put him in the hipster category.”
“Cid’s a hipster?” Dieter asked, not really sure what a hipster was, but not wanting to appear stupid.
“He’s definitely a detective.”
“He’s a paranormal investigator without any powers except great hearing.”
“Ah, but his hands are strong.”
“He’s also a finishing carpenter. He’s building his own house.”
“Admirable. I wonder if he would like Walter Moers?” Mr. Calcar asked himself, walking away from Dieter to where he kept fiction that didn’t fall into any one genre. “Cid, have you read The City of Dreaming Books by Walter Moers?”
> “No. Tell me about Moers.”
“He’s a German author, and his books are deceptive. Here, let me show you them,” Mr. Calcar waved Cid over to the brightly covered books.
Cid looked at the cartoon creature on the cover and his brow furrowed.
“Don’t let the cover fool you. Plus, I bet you’re a comic book man.”
“I collect them. Used to keep them in a lead-lined box, but the boxes keep getting used for other things.”
“Nasty things, I imagine,” Mr. Calcar said. “The City of Dreaming Books is not only an adventure, it’s also a commentary on the publishing industry. It’s written in German if you’d rather have the original…”
“No, wait. Yes, I would like both. My friend Ted, Mrs. Martin’s husband reads German. I’d love to give him something that would take him more than thirty minutes to read.”
“I take it the man isn’t normal?”
“Oh, Ted’s nowhere near normal.”
“I heard that,” Mia said, walking over, balancing a cup holder. “But he’s right. My husband is a genius. I suspect my adopted son is too. To be honest, I’m surrounded by smart men and boys, Mr. Calcar. It can be quite intimidating.”
“I’m sure you keep up,” the gargoyle said dryly.
“No. If it gets too far over my head, I walk away and pretend to fall asleep. No that’s a lie, I really fall asleep. I think it’s my brain protecting itself from nerd/geek invasion.”
Cid held back his retort. This wasn’t the place.
Mia handed Mr. Calcar the coffee with triple espresso shots.
“Thank you. What do I owe you?”
“It’s on me. Now, let’s see how much will fit on this credit card?” Mia said, opening her wallet. “If not, we’ll have to use this other one.”
“Oh, I’m sure this will be fine,” the gargoyle said. He rang up their purchases and watched as the two males carried the heavy boxes of books out to the van the group came in.
Mia stopped and walked back and gave him her business card. “If you ever need a friend, or ally, don’t hesitate to call.”
“Thank you. Now get out of here so I can enjoy my coffee in peace.”
Mia laughed and walked out the door.
Chapter Six
Susan wrapped her arms around herself, trying to starve the chill that had taken over her body. “What is wrong with the furnace now?” she asked, fiddling with the thermostat in the front foyer. She squinted at it and stepped back so she could make out the numbers. “Time to get some reading glasses, old girl. It’s set for seventy-four, but damn, it’s sixty.” She flung open the coat closet door and grabbed a Chicago Bears hoodie and pulled it over her head as she walked down the hall to the kitchen. There, she felt warmer. She looked at the large calendar on the wall and saw that she had the rest of the day free. “Time for a project,” she said, walking over to the sink. She stared at the casserole dish, acknowledging that it was there, but it still needed more time soaking. How Tom could burn a tuna casserole was beyond her. “He’s so distracted lately. And now I’m hot.”
Susan pulled off the hoodie and tossed it on the counter. “What was I doing? Oh yes.” She squatted and pulled open the cupboard under the sink and took out her brass polish and a rag from her rag bag. She hummed a tune she couldn’t get out of her head as she walked into the mudroom and picked up the tiny trophy she’d placed there and went back into the kitchen.
“Damn, I’m cold again! Crappy menopause!” Susan grabbed the hoodie and pulled it on again.
Cindy watched the woman from the corner of the kitchen. She didn’t like swear words. She had heard too much rough talk being around the football and basketball players. But that was a hazard of being a cheerleader.
Susan settled herself down at the table. She spread a few newspapers down and set the trophy on top. She poured some Brasso on the cloth and began working on the tarnish.
“Oh! Not that horrid thing!” Cindy shouted. She saw the tiny trophy she’d received as a participation award at the sports banquet. It was horribly embarrassing. She had hid it in the equipment room because she was too humiliated to bring it home. How could she, Cindy Kruger, captain of the Wyandot Wildcat cheer squad, have been given that demeaning chunk of brass! Her anger brewed. She pulled the heat and electricity out of the room in her rage.
Susan noticed she could see her breath right before the lights went out. The afternoon sun still kept the kitchen navigable. She abandoned her project, walked over, and picked up the large flashlight. She was going to go down to the basement to see what the hell was going on. First the heat, and now the electricity.
SLAP!
The sound of a cupboard door slamming open stopped Susan in her tracks.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
One after another, the cupboard doors banged opened and closed.
“Mr. Murphy, is that you?” Susan asked, barely able to vocalize in the freezing room.
The kitchen table started shaking before it bounced up and down, upsetting the trophy and the Brasso. The thick fluid oozed out onto the covered tabletop.
Susan picked up her phone. Her hands were shaking so badly that she kept entering the wrong numbers.
The refrigerator’s wheels screamed as it flew away from the wall. The cord stopped it from bashing into Susan. She dropped her phone and started running for the back door. She didn’t see the leg that swept her feet out from under her or hear the refrigerator as it toppled forward pinning her to the floor.
Susan lay splayed on the floor, her head sideways. She had protected her head, but the action had pinned her arms over her head, her left arm covering her ear. She couldn’t hear very well, but she had a clear view of the kitchen floor under the table and watched helplessly as the Brasso dripped off the table and pooled on the floor.
“You’re pretty quiet,” Mia said to Dieter.
“Sorry, Mom, I was reading. Listen to this, and tell me what you think.”
“K.”
It occurs to me that I’m neither free
nor chained to the humble ground.
I sit here pondering what it’s like not to be
A horse nor a rodeo clown.
“I like that. Read it again,” Mia said.
Dieter did and then waited for her response.
“For me, it seems the poet is in transition, possibly between jobs or wondering who he is and where he fits in. What do you think?”
“I’m thinking it’s about a balloon at a fair,” Dieter said.
“How did you get that?” Cid asked.
“It’s a riddle. He’s not free but doesn’t have his feet on the ground. He’s not a horse or a rodeo clown, so I was thinking a balloon.”
“How about a bird?” Mia asked. “When I had wings, I wasn’t free; I was consigned to Michael. Perhaps, it’s a falcon held captive by its trainer?” she asked.
“That’s the beauty of poetry, Dieter,” Cid said. “It is what you want it to be. So, it’s a balloon.”
“Yet, Mom’s argument has merit.”
“Of course it does, but that is because of her experience of being a caged bird. I was thinking, when you were reading, that it’s someone in love.”
“That you’re going to have to explain,” Dieter said.
Cid eased the van to a stop at the intersection and waited for the light to change. “When you’re in love, you aren’t chained to the person you’re in love with, but you’re not free either. You don’t want to be free. You are neither a horse, led by your lover, or a rodeo clown intercepting raging bulls - maybe, lovers’ quarrels?”
“I’ve not been in love, so I can’t relate,” Dieter complained.
“I have, and that’s good. Tell me, when did you become such a great romantic?” Mia teased Cid.
Cid blushed. “I read. Speaking of reading, read us another poem.”
“Okay.”
Her heart was a complicated
Maze of passageways,
But she drew arrows at every turn
For me to follow.
“Ah, a beguiling woman,” Cid said. “Leading the poet on a merry chase.”
“I was thinking she was shooting arrows at him,” Dieter said, frowning.
“What if you change the words to: but she left a trail of breadcrumbs for me to follow?” Mia asked.
“I’d think she was a bad housekeeper,” Dieter said. “No woman of mine is going to leave food everywhere. What about ants?”
“Think of it like this,” Cid said and recited:
I asked her to the prom,
she didn’t utter a word.
She just wrote a note
and passed it first to Fred
and then to John.
Finally, the note landed on my desk,
I opened it,
and it said yes.
“That’s good. Whose is it?” Mia asked.
“That’s a Cid Garrett original.”
“Here’s mine,” Dieter announced.
This girl, she’s a fox.
I’m not sure she’s crazy or not.
She leads me one way and then the other.
I went home and complained to my mother.
“Write it down,” Mia instructed. “Copy down the poem, and then write yours after it.”
Dieter peeled off the wrapper on the journal and did as he was told. He smiled as he was doing it. He liked being all grownup talking to his mother and Cid. Maybe the gargoyle had given him more than a poetry book. Maybe, it was a ticket to being an adult.
Tom breezed through the front door and was slammed to a stop with a heat wave. He looked at the thermostat. “Mom, why do you have the furnace on eighty-five?”
Silence greeted him.
He adjusted the temperature and took off his outer gear. It was still too hot. He started unbuttoning his uniform as he walked into the kitchen. It looked like a cyclone had hit it. Cupboard doors were open, some just hanging on one hinge. The refrigerator was face down on the floor.
