The Green Man

by Michael Bedard

  She wandered into the back room, leaving O staring at the boy in the painting. He did look a little like the boy in the shop.

  That night, O took the collection of Poe’s poetry upstairs with her. She read the poem tucked inside it over again. If the poem was his, he would probably miss it sooner or later and come back to retrieve it. She decided to tuck it back in the book and reshelve it first thing in the morning.

  23

  On the morning of the reading, Emily repacked the carriage-house collection into smaller boxes for O to cart upstairs, where they would be out of the way. Then she phoned her friend Isaac Steiner and arranged for him to come over that weekend to take a look at several items of possible interest.

  O spent the morning sprucing up the reading room. She swept the floor, sneezed, dusted the shelves, sneezed, vacuumed Psycho’s fur off the old couch, sponged down the grungy spots, and strategically placed pillows to hide the tears in the upholstery. She unfolded a dozen chairs stacked against the wall and set them in two shallow rows. It would be the first poetry reading she’d ever attended, and she was excited.

  Her excitement helped to alleviate her disappointment that Rimbaud had not returned to retrieve his poem from the Poe collection. She wondered when she would see him again. This time, she was determined to talk to him.

  The weather threatened, and business was slow. There were ominous rumblings in the distance. They decided to close early. Suddenly, the sky opened and it poured. O rushed out to rescue the bargain books, turned the sign in the window, and locked the door.

  The meeting was scheduled for eight o’clock. That left them time to put together a quick supper and make any last-minute preparations. She was a bundle of nerves. Emily assured her it would just be a small affair – a few regulars O had seen around the shop and perhaps a couple of curious newcomers who’d seen the flyers she’d distributed around the neighborhood.

  After dinner she went up and changed, put a clip in her hair, and pinched some color into her cheeks. At seven she headed downstairs.

  Emily had brought out the large coffee percolator she used for the readings. O rinsed it and measured in the water and coffee. She sat it on a table covered with a clean cloth from upstairs. Alongside the coffeepot she set a carton of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, some spoons from the kitchen drawer, and two tall spires of overturned Styrofoam cups.

  She opened the pack of chocolate chip cookies she’d bought and put some on a plate. Then she made a sign suggesting a donation of fifty cents for a cup of coffee and a cookie, and leaned it against an empty jar on the table.

  The rain was still coming down fairly hard. She was beginning to worry that no one would show up and the whole thing would be a dismal failure, when the first arrivals came straggling through the door with dripping umbrellas.

  Over the next half hour, a steady trickle of people made their way through the shop and into the back room. They stood around talking and eating enough of the cookies that O finally spirited them away so there would be some left for the break.

  Poets, it appeared, came in all forms: young and old, made-up and rumpled, soft-voiced and loud, modern and traditional, stout and lean. The wonder of it was you could have passed almost any of them on the street and never have suspected they were poets. They made a virtue of invisibility.

  She recognized some as regulars at the shop, friends who would stop by to chat with Emily. Leonard Wellman and Miles were there. Tiny from the Mind Spider Tattoo Parlor came with a couple of his friends. Most people seemed to know one another. A couple of newcomers hung around the fringes, cradling their coffees and scanning the spines of the books on the shelves. Someone’s rose perfume wafted in the air.

  As O glanced around the room, she noticed someone leaning against a wall of books in the corner. He held a silver-handled cane in one hand and a black felt hat in the other. With his deep-set eyes and his little clipped goatee, he looked enough like Ezra Pound to be his twin. And a woman who sat with her cup on her lap and a large hat on her head reminded O of the portrait of Marianne Moore that hung near the poetry section. She was tempted to run to the front of the shop and see if some of the frames on the wall were empty, their subjects having quietly slipped out to attend the reading.

  At eight Emily rang a little brass bell, in the shape of a woman with a hoop skirt, and brought the meeting to order. The mutter of conversation died down as people took their seats. Considering the short notice and the stormy night, it was a decent turnout. Over a dozen people were in the room.

  “I’m so glad you took the trouble to come out in such nasty weather,” said Emily. “It’s nice to see some familiar faces and to renew acquaintances. And, as always, we welcome those who are here for the first time.

  “The Tuesdays have been an institution at the Green Man for a good many years, as most of you know. For the past few months, ill health has forced me to suspend our meetings. I have missed them, and especially the companionship of fellow poets. I would like to thank my niece, Ophelia Endicott, for helping to get them going again.” O could feel her face redden.

  “Writing poetry is a solitary profession. We work alone – alone with words. Sometimes those words are as warm and welcoming as lovers, at others as chill and remote as the moon. We come here like travelers returned from our solitary explorations, armed with the log of the journey and with an eagerness to share. That is the purpose of this meeting.

  “The rules, such as they are, are simple. There is no sign-up sheet, no drawing of lots. We rely on a combination of courage and inspiration. If you have something you would like to share, we invite you to come to the front, state your name, and read. Please speak slowly, but loud enough that those of us with aging ears can hear. We ask that you do not go on for more than ten minutes.

  “If you have written the next Paradise Lost, this is not the place to air that. You may, if you chose, share a small portion of your paradise – enough to whet our appetite. If you go on for too long, I will ring the little bell lady. Now, that’s quite enough from me. It’s your turn.”

  There was a warm round of applause as Emily returned to her seat. O found it remarkable to see her aunt in such a setting. Here was someone different from the woman who sat across the kitchen table from her each day, who ruled quietly over her domain of books from behind the cluttered desk in the shop. Here was Emily in an entirely new element, where she was strong and forceful and honored among fellow poets.

  Thin sheaves of paper had miraculously appeared from pockets and purses. As she panned the room to see who would be the first brave soul to fill the silence, O caught a fleeting glimpse of someone she hadn’t seen – a dark figure merged in the shadows on the far side of the room. There was something vaguely unsettling about him. But when she looked again a minute later, he was gone.

  A woman with short gray hair stood and made her way to the front. O had seen her talking to Emily before the reading began.

  “Hello, my name is Elizabeth Redshaw, and I am very pleased to be here. I think I echo everyone’s sentiments when I say how delighted I am that the Tuesdays have resumed. Tonight I would like to share with you a piece I have written. It’s called ‘A Scent of Eden.’ ” And she began to read.

  O had stationed herself on a chair at the entrance to the room, where she could keep an ear open for any latecomers. Before the meeting started, she had locked the door and switched off the lights out front so that people walking by wouldn’t think the shop was open for business. Suddenly, she heard a light rap on the door. She peered through the shadows but saw no sign of anyone out there in the dark. She imagined it must have been the wind and turned back to the room. Elizabeth Redshaw had finished reading her poem. The polite round of applause was cut short as she launched into another.

  Again, there came a faint rapping. This time O rose from her chair and walked through the darkened shop. The rain had started up again in earnest, pelting heavily against the plate-glass window. Perhaps that was what she’d heard.


  But as she peered past the PLEASE KNOCK FOR POETRY READING sign she’d hung in the door, she saw someone huddled under the overhang, with his back to her. She undid the latch and opened the door.

  The figure turned. It was the boy in black – the book borrower. He was soaked to the skin. His collar was turned up, and his hair ran with rainwater.

  “Oh my God!” she said. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Not long.”

  “I’m afraid we’re closed.”

  “Oh. I guess I have the wrong night.”

  “Oh, you’re here for the poetry reading? Of course you are. No, this is the right night. I’m sorry, come in, please. It’s just in the back there.”

  While she locked up again, the boy headed to the room. He stood dripping in the doorway.

  Elizabeth Redshaw was still reading. Emily’s hand kept reaching for the little brass lady, then dropping back to the arm of the chair. Finally, the reader finished. There was a round of applause as she returned to her seat.

  Again there was a rustling of papers, a panning of eyes around the room. The tall rumpled guy who had come with Tiny went up to the front. His kinky red hair fell to his shoulders, and he had tattoos up both arms.

  He pulled a sheaf of tattered papers from his pocket.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m Jasper Cook.” And, without further ado, he started to read. His poetry was full of extravagant noises, extended silences, chants and yowls. He clapped his hands, stamped his feet, shook his curly head. It was unlike anything O had ever seen.

  People weren’t quite sure how to respond. They turned to one another and smiled nervously. Finally, Tiny broke into a laugh. The crowd quickly relaxed and got into the swing of it.

  Through it all, Rimbaud stood dripping in the doorway. O noticed Emily looking over at her and raising an eyebrow. Her aunt scrawled something on a scrap of paper and passed it back.

  Get that boy a towel, it read.

  O raced upstairs and returned with a clean towel. “I thought you might like to dry yourself off a little,” she said.

  “Thanks.” He wiped his face and toweled his hair lightly, leaving the towel resting around his neck. There was a pool of water on the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He was completely enraptured by Jasper Cook’s performance. He closed his eyes, moved his head from side to side, and smiled to himself.

  As she stood there beside him, O had a chance to observe him – the fine delicate features, the almost ivory-like skin. When he smiled, there was a devilish edge to his grin, and something kindled in the depths of those dark eyes. She was glad he had her towel around his neck.

  A couple of others got up, read, sat down. She didn’t notice what they read. Finally, the group broke for coffee. People milled about. Make conversation, she told herself.

  “Have you been to a reading before?” she asked as she brought out the cookie plate.

  “No, I’m new to town.”

  “I’ve seen you in the shop,” she said. They traded glances. She offered him a cookie. He took two.

  “My aunt says you look like Rimbaud. Do you know Rimbaud?”

  “Yes, I know him. Now, if I could only write like him …”

  “I think you write very well.” The words were out before she realized what she’d said. “I think I’ll get a coffee.” And a knife to slit my throat, she thought.

  She poured two coffees, but by the time she got back, he was gone. The towel was draped over the back of a chair. She was sure he had fled, but then she heard a noise coming from the shop. He was standing in the shadows by the front window, looking out into the night.

  “I got a coffee for you.”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the cup from her. After a long silence, he asked, “How do you know that I write?”

  “You left a poem in the Poe collection.”

  “I see.”

  He followed her as she walked over to the poetry section and pulled the Poe off the shelf, opening it to reveal the folded piece of pale blue paper.

  “I left it in there for you,” she said. “I thought you might come back for it.” She handed it to him. “It is yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s mine. I hope I’m a better poet than I am a thief. Look, I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m new to town. And I’m … a little short of money.”

  “It’s okay. I mean, it could have been worse, right? You could actually have stolen the book.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I figured that.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “O.”

  “O. Like the letter?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I like that.”

  “Thanks. What’s yours?”

  He paused for a moment. “I kind of like ‘Rimbaud,’ actually.”

  “Fine. Look, I should get back. I’m supposed to be helping out.” She turned to go.

  “Wait,” he said, holding out the poem to her. “Please – take it. And thanks.”

  She escaped to the other room and gathered up the empty cups while her aunt held court. In a few minutes, the second half started. Every now and then, she would glance over at the patch of wetness on the floor. There was no other sign of him. He had slipped off quietly into the night.

  Before she climbed into bed, O took out the folded piece of pale blue paper and read the poem again:

  In dark of night, I spin this dream of flesh,

  Shape bone from woven branches,

  Draw blood from the sap of sleeping trees,

  Fashion skin from thick veined leaves.

  For eyes, I seek out fallen stars,

  For ears, scoop shells from the sounding sea,

  For mouth, I rout the squirrel from its hollow,

  For breath, snare the wind that whispers in the trees.

  Tucking the poem safely away in her journal, she switched off the light and fell asleep to the patter of rain on the roof.

  24

  The morning after the meeting, Emily left after breakfast to see Leonard Wellman. At ten, O went down to open the shop. She unlocked the front door and pulled out the bargain bins. The street was still damp from last night’s rain. She looked up and down it, hoping Rimbaud might be there.

  She spent most of her time these days thinking about him. Yet she didn’t even know his real name, only the one they’d given him – and he’d willingly taken. He said he was new to town and didn’t have much money. So where was he living? How did he eat? She remembered the figure rooting through the containers behind the bakery that night.

  It had been too late to do much cleaning up after the reading. Now she dumped the dregs of the coffee down the sink and rinsed out the percolator. She cleaned the table, folded the chairs, and returned them to their place against the wall.

  The visitors had taken down some books from the shelves, which she returned to their places. As she was putting a book on stage magic back in its spot, she noticed a folded sheet of paper tucked in the space where it was to go. She slid it out.

  The paper was yellow with age, and as she opened it, a small corner piece flaked off in her hand. It seemed to be an old playbill for a magic show:

  PROFESSOR MEPHISTO PRESENTS

  An Evening of Magic and Mystery

  Consisting of

  Wonderful Illusions, Startling Feats,

  And Astonishing Transformations

  NEVER BEFORE WITNESSED.

  Among the features will be found

  The following wondrous acts:

  THE MYSTERY OF THE

  CHARMED CHEST

  THE AMAZING AUTOMATON

  And his

  ENCHANTED CARDS

  The Seeming Miracle of

  THE MYSTIC MIRROR

  The Awe-Inspiring Phenomenon of

  THE SPHINX

  The Incomprehensible Marvel of

  THE INDIAN BASKET Not for the faint of heart.

  THE ETHEREAL SUSPENSION

&nbs
p; In which a child will sleep in the air.

  And concluding with the justly famous

  HUMAN SALAMANDER

  In which the Professor will master

  The might of fire.

  ONE NIGHT ONLY

  Saturday, August 8th

  The Professor’s book, revealing the secrets

  Of his Magic Art, will be presented

  To all volunteers from the audience.

  SHOW BEGINS AT EIGHT

  O was sure it must be valuable. She carefully flattened it and put it inside a plastic cover, as she had seen Emily do with other valuable paper ephemera that came across her desk. She set it aside to show her later.

  That night at dinner, she brought it out.

  “Emily, I found something today I thought you might be interested in.” She was sure her aunt would be surprised by it and hoped to be praised for protecting it properly. She handed it to her and waited for her reaction.

  Emily took it quite cheerfully and began to read. But, almost immediately, a change came over her. The color drained from her face. Her hands began to tremble, and the playbill fell to the table.

  “Emily, what’s the matter?”

  Her aunt stared through her as if she were not there. She had gone as rigid as stone. Through a fog of panic, O remembered the tiny pills her aunt always carried with her. She reached into Emily’s sweater pocket and found them. Taking one out, she forced it under her aunt’s tongue.

  “Don’t swallow it. Just keep it there,” she said.

  Within a minute, the color crept back into Emily’s face. The rigor that had gripped her began to relax. The distance in her eyes disappeared, and she was back in the room with her again, looking dazed. O had never been happier to see anyone in her life. She threw her arms around Emily’s neck and started to cry.

  “Oh my God, Emily. Do you want me to call your doctor?”

  “No. I just need to lie down for a minute.” Her voice was as brittle as the playbill.

  O cleared the couch in the living room and settled her on it, a pillow under her head. Emily assured her she was feeling all right and didn’t want to hear any talk about doctors. But she would like a cup of tea.