Rose remained quiet as she rummaged through the papers stacked on her desk, scouring the photographs of paintings where the artists had added reading glasses of the famous to lend an air of scholarship and intelligence.
“Damned military.” Roddy was making those grumbling sounds of his. “What could he have been thinking to have surrendered anything to them? He should have taken the BrainPort® and fallen down a hole somewhere. Gotten lost. Or given copies to the Ungatosonrisas. Leveled the playing field. Imagine that.”
Rose perched two papers directly in front of her eyes and squinted at the images. One was a copy of Tommaso da Modena’s painting of Cardinal Hugh of Provence seated at his desk, scribing away with rivet spectacles. At another desk on the other page by another artist sat a bespectacled St. Jerome. The latter was the patron saint of scholars and, in some quarters, the patron of glasses. Hadn’t Roddy had her convinced that lying to the masses had been invented by the Bachyritas? Yet both the church men had lived and died before spectacles had come into use, and both works of art had been created a long time before Dr. Paul Bach-y-Rita had lived.
Rose tossed the papers back on her own desk and laughed. It was just a small chuckle, really, but enough to shake Roddy from his familial conundrum.
“You think this is all a joke, don’t you?” Roddy’s puffing face told Rose that no matter what she said right now, it would be the wrong thing. Roddy threw up his hands and lowered them in fists on her desk. “Dammit, Rose, you have no idea what it’s like being a Bach-y-Rita.”
“I’m one of the faithful, Roddy.”
“Faithful? Faithful? What the hell does that mean?”
Rose backed against the nearest wall. When Roddy flew into one of his rants, it was useless to attempt reason; all she could do was try to avoid “accidentally” getting in the way of his flying hands.
He must have seen her fear, because Roddy chuffed and ha-rumped and then fed his explosion into his private office. It seemed the entire wall shook as he slammed the heavy wooden door. On the other side a few loud noises arose-books being thrown about, no doubt, or a chair in the way of his foot-and then there was quiet again.
Rose compressed herself against the wall a little harder until the familiar click of his lock broke the silence. It was only when she heard herself exhale that she realized she hadn’t been breathing at all.
A month ago, when a bundle of historic spectacles had arrived, Roddy had gone ballistic over the haphazard way the specimens had been bundled. His airborne fist struck a bullseye on Rose’s face.
She tried to contain the bleeding, but he’d broken her nose. Blood shot everywhere, drenching the papers on her desk and splattering several of the newly arrived spectacles she was to catalog and archive. The incident also caused her own brass frames to snap in the middle. Nobody fixed glasses. Few even wore them. If people had sight problems, they were either fitted with pleasure goggles for occasional use, left to squint, or offered a miracle surgery that gave them instant 20/20 vision. Only the perfect vision eventually dwindled to a horrible, painful blindness.
She’d managed to put off the required medical follow-up visits for her nose, returning to work just two days ago without a clearance. She was afraid the doctor might have strayed from her nose injury and decided to toss in a vision exam. That she couldn’t risk. If anyone else found out her eyes were beginning to show their age, she’d be reassigned.
When Roddy had first caught her struggling to read a report, he seemed angry. He’d grabbed the box-cutting knife and aimed it at her only to slam it down at the last second, hacking into a newly arrived box, plucking out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and placing them gently on her nose.
“Scared you at first, huh?” Roddy said.
“I hadn’t cataloged those yet,” Rose said.
“I know. I’m a bad boy, huh?” Roddy’ s playful grins were nearly as magical as those eyes of his.
“But…”
“It doesn’t matter, Rose. No one will ever know but us.”
“But they’re numbered. And they belonged to somebody famous.”
“Ha! Famous? Who cares?” Then Roddy took the remainder of the box of glasses and tossed them all into the trash. “For some reason we catalog these spectacles. For some reason our jobs matter just now. But once we do all the research, checking the facts, comparing notes, examining the specimens, and entering it all down in our journals, then what?” Roddy’s glower along with his fists set firmly on his hips told Rose he was truly expecting an answer from her.
“We… rebox the specimens, attaching the catalog number, and send them to the archives.”
“Which are where?”
Rose gave that some thought. Was she supposed to know that? She’d never thought to ask.
Roddy removed her glasses, gusted a breath of fog on the lenses, then wiped them clean with the tail of his shirt. “My dear Rose…” He replaced the glasses on her face, adjusting them carefully. “There are no archives. Everything is destroyed once we finish with them. They think I don’t know, but I do.” His sarcastic laugh followed him all the way into his office.
Despite Roddy’s unchecked brutality, he loved her. She knew he did. That’s why he’d given her the glasses and hadn’t told anyone about her failing eyesight. That’s why she hadn’t lost her job when the accident happened.
Roddy loved her. He was just afraid to let anyone into his miserable life. He was ashamed of what his family had done to society. If only he’d drop his own fear of truly sharing himself with her. Not inside some bag, but in one of the windows. Then people would know Roddy Bach-y-Rita and Rose MacGregor were making love and not war.
To the side of the stack of copies of artists’ renderings of people wearing spectacles lay an official-looking paper. “From the Office of Rodman J. Bach-y-Rita,” it said across the top. The page was a blanket woven with words, tiny words. The type he’d used for the single-page directive-whatever it was-had to have been no larger than nine points.
Straining to see, Rose made out: “Assistant Researcher Nancy Fleishman.”
There had never been any other assistant as far as Rose knew.
Rose held the paper closer to the window, hoping to better discern the other words, only they were too small to make out. Holding the message directly under the lamp on her desk proved no better.
“Fleishman.” Rose whispered the name as she sat down hard in the chair behind her desk. She knew that name well, but not a Nancy. Dr. David Fleishman was the most recognizable name in the study of spectacles. An esteemed former ophthalmologist, Fleishman had done the most exhaustive and extensive research and cataloging of eyewear ever. The stacks of papers on Rose’s desk were copies of his work. Roddy nearly bowed every time the man’s name was mentioned.
Rose’s scrutiny of the paper blurred as her eyes refocused on the box of exhibits that had arrived the day of her accident. It sat wedged between several other boxes beneath one of the windows. Rose recognized it because of the dark stains left from her splattered blood.
Nancy, if she was some new assistant, obviously had not cataloged its contents.
Without moving her head, Rose flashed a look at Roddy’s closed door and listened intently. Once he went inside his little sanctuary, he rarely popped out without her first being able to hear the click from his unlocking the door.
She kept her back to the door as she opened the box. Inside were the pitifully wrapped specimens. Several cases were marked with numbers only or had documents wrapped around them and secured with rubber bands. Just one had an aged and curling label attached to it, though a large #9 had been painted in red on the end of the case.
Rose shoved aside the rest and opened #9. They weren’t metal-rimmed as she had expected. So many glasses that had survived from the era marked on the outside of the box-the 1970s and 80s-were like that. Styles had always varied through the ages, but some were more readily recognizable than others. The ancient Trig Lane and Swan Stairs with frames of bone, wood, met
al and leather.
Roddy taught her all about the historical significance along with the minute details. He’d told her how spectacles evolved with class needs. The invention of the printing press begat books and newspapers and nudged the entrepreneurial elements as more people jumped on the bus, and the use of spectacles grew so common that baskets of them would be available at merchants, and people would simply rummage through them until they found what suited them best.
In the latter part of the Twentieth Century, glasses shifted from signaling the brainy people to recognizing the trendy. Though the well-known image of John Lennon from the peeling posters did depict him wearing glasses, it was Roddy who had made Rose truly understand that Lennon’s “granny” style of wire frames had began its own revolution. Simply put, Lennon made it cool to wear glasses.
Though he didn’t rant while talking about spectacles, he could go on and on. It was his first love, his passion.
Standing with the case in her hand and wearing the round-lens glasses that had been inside, Rose was able to make out the name on the faded label on exhibit #9: John Lennon.
She wasn’t sure whether the tingles she felt all over her body were more fear or awe, but tingle she did. Unlike the pleasure goggles, which flashed “For the protection of all,” what zipped through Rose’s mind were the words from the ragged Lennon-Ono posters: “Think Different.”
Think different. Think different.
Think… Nancy Fleishman.
John Lennon’s old glasses were hardly perfect for Rose. His vision was obviously much worse than hers, but when she adjusted them a bit, the words on Roddy’s official paper became very clear: Nancy Fleishman would be replacing Rose. Not because of Rose’s failing eyesight or the accident or anything else.
“Due to the horrible accidental death of Rose Gregory, I am in need of another assistant. It was quite a moment of good fortune when I discovered Dr. David Fleishman’s great-great-granddaughter had also been working in this field. I have arranged for her to begin as soon as she can make arrangements.
“The committee should also be advised that the archived spectacles are now ready to be auctioned to highest bidders.”
Rose collapsed in a heap in the soft chair near the window in shock, the paper’s words so hot in her hand that she dropped it to the floor.
She was dead, and Roddy hadn’t even gotten her last name right. But she wasn’t dead…
During her down time, she’d tried to wrestle with what her life meant. She’d walked the boulevards, noting the neatly trimmed lawns and thoughtfully planted trees. Yes, there was a pattern to the streets. And an eerie emptiness she hadn’t had time or opportunity to notice before. Where were the children playing unabashedly in the yards? And bicycling gaggles of boys, fishing poles perched under scabbed arms with faithful tongue-dangling mutts running beside? And where were the young women with painted faces, strolling the boulevard as they shopped, sharing their banter about burgeoning careers and hopeful suitors? And the babbling and dowdy old men scraping their canes against the dry concrete sidewalks… where had they all disappeared to?
There were people on the streets and in the parks, mostly men and women in various uniforms, each keeping to himself or herself, making notes on handheld units or engaged in some bagism ritual, which didn’t always involve a second party in the bag.
The small light from her desk was the sole illumination when the lock finally clicked. Roddy’s entrance into the room was his usual bold advance until he saw Rose wasn’t at her desk. The hand behind his back clutched a box-cutter.
“It’s MacGregor, Roddy. Rose MacGregor.” When Roddy turned to face her, his amazing blue eyes opened almost as wide as his mouth. “What the…”
Rose didn’t know how many times she stabbed Roddy with the knife they also used to slit open the boxes, but she did note his blood splattered just like hers over the boxes, papers, and desk. “Give piece a chance, Roddy. Think different.”
After a few gurgling gasps, Roddy’s deep blue eyes froze in a stare at something far away, past Rose, past Roddy’s terrible burdens.
A heady whiff of meat roasting and the crackling of a campfire confused Rose when she opened her eyes. “Ellie Bug?”
“Buenos días, Señorita.” The man’s face seemed to be more large white teeth than anything else, though his dark eyes actually glowed, reflecting the nearby fire. “Tu hables Español?”
Behind the man stood more people, all with darker skin than Rose’s and all with straight black hair. Their garb was rough and simple, but of sturdy, coarse fabric.
“If you do not speak our language, we do speak yours.” Strange how he could continue smiling even when he spoke.
“Are you the Ungatosonrisas?”
“You are Bachyrita, no? But one the serpientes seek.”
Rose nodded.
“What have you done that the serpientes would chase you with antorchas? We could see them coming for a long time.”
When Rose sat up quickly, her head boomed its disagreement with being upright.
“You jumped, Señorita. Did you mean to do that? The water here is not that deep. This is not Acapulco.” This time when the man laughed, several others joined him.
As Rose rubbed her head, she fought to remember everything that had happened and why she had wanted to find the Ungatosonrisas. Roddy’s last look flitted through her mind just before she remembered her precious cargo. She reached inside her shirt for the case with John Lennon’s glasses. It wasn’t there.
“This is what you now search for?” The man held out the case, which, though wet, looked no worse for its moonlight bath in the river.
Though the man’s smile remained, his eyes were less friendly. Gently he handed her the case. No tricks, no resistance.
“Why are you still fighting the Bachyritas?” Rose asked.
“Who said we were?”
“Everybody knows you are.”
“Everybody?” The man sat down hard on the ground neat to Rose. He sighed deeply as though he were exhaling a breath for thousands of decades.
“Why would the pit vipers, the serpientes, need to continue to exist if there weren’t still resistance to the Bachyrita way? You’re the resistance.”
“They were not hunting any of us with BrainPorts® and antorchas.”
Boldly, Rose foisted the glasses case out to the man. “This. They want this.”
The man opened the case, unfolded the glasses as he examined them closely. “A pair of glasses? It has come to this where espectáculos are forbidden?”
“No, but not everyone can afford them. These aren’t ordinary glasses, though. They’re special.”
“Mágico?” The man’s Cheshire Cat grin had faded into a puzzled look.
“No, not magical. Real. Before I looked through them, I believed the lies of the Bachyritas. I believed my life was happy and full. I believed peace was the absence of war. But after I put these on, I saw the truth.”
“Verdad?”
“Yes.”
All of the others handled John Lennon’s glasses, holding them every which way, getting a better look near the fire. Rose, still a bit disconcerted from all that had happened, retrieved the glasses, blew a puff of steam on the lenses, and then set them on the man’s nose. “See for yourself, Señor. See the truth. Think different.”
After all of the Ungatosonrisas tried wearing John Lennon’s spectacles, the man returned them to the case. He handed it back to Rose. “We did not see this mágico, Señorita. Maybe it works for you only.” His smile had faded fully away.
“Then you were trying to see through them. Lennon never did that. He imagined peace despite what he saw through his eyes, through his glasses.” Rose handed the man the glasses again. “Look again. Imagine peace. Real peace. The Bachyritas can see with their eyes and their tongues, and yet they see nothing.”
Once more the man sat down, facing the open space just beyond the camp where the sky had begun turning a hopeful blue. Soon the sun
would rise again. Soon it would be another day with all its possibilities.
“Imagine…” Rose whispered in his ear. “Imagine.”
CURSORY REVIEW by Donald J. Bingle
Kim Wasserman’s eyes scanned the neatly hung and folded clothes in the master bedroom closet. Two months of Jenny Craig® meals, and she was about to show off the sizzling results at the DeMarco’s annual Fourth of July barbecue.
“C’mon, Kimbo, we’re going to be late,” called her husband, Ken, who, as usual, was twitching to leave when she had barely even started getting ready.
She rolled her eyes and smiled. “You know, you’re going to call me Kimbo in public some day, and then I will have to kill you.” She headed toward the back of the closet, where she had hidden all of her favorite outfits that had no longer fit back when her weight had started creeping up. “Just because you don’t care about your appearance doesn’t mean I don’t have to take a few minutes to get ready.”
Ahh, there were those cute jeans she had gotten at that adorable little shop in San Juan on their honeymoon. They’d been a bit snug, but she had bought them anyway. She’d never worn them. She had gotten them when she was at her wedding weight, fifteen pounds below her high-weight mark. Now she was twenty-two and a half pounds lighter than her high, thanks to Jenny. Seven and a half pounds below her wedding weight. The jeans, with their colorful, intricately embroidered pockets and cuffs, would be perfect for the barbecue.
She grabbed the jeans and headed out into the bedroom. Ken was waiting with arms crossed, his head tilted to the right, chin down, eyebrows raised. He unfolded his arms and tapped his watch. “No, still working,” he mumbled.
Kim tried to give him a stern look, but a mischievous grin crept through. “I’ll be ready before you are,” she declared, continuing before he could protest, “because there is no way in Hell you are wearing that Hawaiian shirt.”
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