“Dad’s going to be furious when he gets back,” he explained.
“Your dad’s not coming back, Phillip,” she answered coldly.
Phillip cocked his head slightly to the left. “What are you saying?”
“He’s gone, Phillip.”
“Where did he go?”
“To the stars and galaxies that he loved so much,” she sneered, tugging on the trunk. “Let go.”
“Wait,” Phillip begged.
For a moment, his mother hesitated.
“What happened to him? Is he dead? Is that what you meant by him going up into the stars and galaxies? Because, surely, he didn’t join any astronauts on any space shuttle visits!”
His mother tugged at the trunk again. Seeing that Phillip wasn’t going to let go without a straight answer, she dropped her end and charged at him. As she fought to pry his fingers off the handle, Phillip shouted.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?”
“For the past thirty years it’s all he’s cared about: those damned stars! Do you think out of those thirty years that he’s loved me as much as he’s loved those stars? Do you?”
“Dad’s been here for us, mom. He’s been a wonderful father!”
“To you, Phillip! A wonderful father to you! Ever since you were born, he’s taken such a liking to you. When you visited the planetarium and started taking an interest in his obsession, he pampered you, showering you with love and attention as if you were as important as the stars above him! But where does that leave me, Phillip? Where does that leave me? Who sleeps in an empty bed every night while he’s off staring up at the stars? I, who have asked him time and time again to be a normal father, being home for dinners and reading you bedtime stories, and to love . . . to love me more than his own beloved galaxies?”
His mother collapsed on the ground, sobbing.
Phillip, sensing that his trunk was safe, let go of the handle and held his mother, rubbing her back soothingly as his father had done for him in his toddler years.
“I had to do it, Phillip,” his mother was choked with tears. “I had to. I couldn’t let it go on any longer. I couldn’t . . .”
“Where is he?” Phillip asked. He brought his eyes to the blaze. “Please tell me he isn’t in there with all of the rest of his belongings, mom. Please!”
“No, Phillip!” He mother gasped at the audacity. “Are you kidding? I would never do that to your father, no matter how little he loved me.”
“Then where is he?”
“At the planetarium, I’d wager, where I told him to go. So that he could continue his love affair with the ‘other woman’ he truly adored. He packed a few bags this morning asking that I send him the rest. Being his faithful wife, I’m sending him his things! As ash and dust through the air!”
Phillip surrendered the trunk to his mother. What he treasured most wasn’t the books, glow-in-the-dark stars or the mobile; it was his father who had brought it into his life.
Running through the planetarium he asked if anyone had seen his father. When he came to his father’s desk, he noticed that a new owner had taken residence: a thirty-something man with horn-rimmed glasses named Melvin. Phillip felt it surreal that his father had abandoned the planetarium. Baffling him more was that no one knew where his father had gone! There were no leads, no clues or any footprints for him to trail.
Phillip grew into a middle-aged adult who gradually stopped focusing on the stars. He worked in a warehouse during the evening hours, enslaved to a schedule that ushered him through the starlit nights. As the years extended, Phillip, miserable and alone, forgot his father’s significant cosmic anomalies.
He was in his late thirties when his mother, and her belongings, were moved into a retirement community. Phillip made it his responsibility to settle the affairs of his childhood estate during the day. During the afternoon hours, before he left for work at the warehouse, Phillip held showings so that the home might find a future owner.
Time slowed on a bright, sunny spring day. Phillip looked out of his boyhood bedroom window vaguely remembering the day of his mother’s fire. He wore a black polo shirt, fitted jeans and freshly-shined black loafers. He appeared as he had when he was eighteen, except for a few extra wrinkles that spotted his face. His hairstyle was the same from his youth, as was his facial hair.
The doorbell rang.
Phillip met a charming married couple scouting for a home. He showed them the four bedrooms, family room, kitchen, garage, and basement that had been made up into an extra recreational area. As he accompanied the couple on the main floor discussing price he heard a scuffling in the attic. The couple heard it too. The scuffling only lasted for a second more before falling silent.
“Squirrels or perhaps the settling of the house,” Phillip explained with a smile.
“But that’s not right,” Annette told Nathaniel. “We were in the attic at night. There were stars outside of the window. It was dark outside.”
Daylight decreased considerably, blanketed by thick storm clouds. The married couple poked their heads out the front door to see the oncoming storm and excused themselves. As the couple drove off, the clouds were so darkly ominous it was as if a windy mouth of a cave was closing in. Once by himself, Phillip returned to the house closing the front door and windows. Street lamps began to flicker a pale yellow.
As before, there came a shuffling in the attic.
Phillip could hear a woman and a man talking along with the scraping of objects along the attic floor. They were voices that Nathaniel recognized as their own as they had first been brought to inspire Annette’s client.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Annette told Nathaniel. “There were stars outside of the window. Not streetlamps.”
“Perception can be a powerful thing,” Nathaniel told her. “Perhaps they really were streetlamps outside the window, flecking the blackout in the midst of the neighborhood and city.”
“Oh come on, Mr. Cauliflower,” Annette scoffed. “Also, there was frost on the window when we were up there.”
Nathaniel motioned toward the windows which had fogged due to the drastic temperature change.
“That’s us in the attic,” Nathaniel told Annette. “That’s our client, listening to us move his trunk around, positioning the contents about on display.”
While Phillip hesitantly reached for the pull string of the closed attic door, his story concluded, depositing Nathaniel and Annette back into her cathedral office. They were once again surrounded by stone walls, great arches and a garden of yellow flowers.
“So his mother saved the trunk,” Annette pondered.
“It appears she did, and to our benefit.” Nathaniel hurriedly left Annette’s office.
“Wait!” Annette called. “We have to turn the third one!”
“The other muses are finishing the last of their envelopes,” Nathaniel answered “so should you.”
“But what about the other colored pegs?” She asked. “When are they set to arrive? Also, there was a thunderstorm on that peg when we left. We have to see if Phillip was taken during it!”
Nathaniel closed himself inside his quiet office. He shut his eyes taking several deep breaths. After he gathered himself, he spotted Fiona at his desk.
“Forgive the intrusion, Mr. Cauliflower, but I’ve completed the envelopes you’ve assigned. I was hoping we can discuss the arrangements for the upcoming retirement party.”
“Yes, of course,” Nathaniel waned a smile.
“Before we get started, this arrived for you through your oculus ceiling.” Fiona handed him a blue envelope from Management.
Nathaniel opened the envelope. It was regarding to the colored pegs he had requested from Heaven’s library, those belonging to Annette’s victims. Inside were index cards. On each had been printed a single message from Management that read: “Inquiry not found.”
“All of them?” Nathaniel asked out loud.
“I’m sorry?” Fiona asked.
> “Nothing,” Nathaniel pocketed the pegs and cards. “It’s nothing.” He approached his desk.
“You’ve been rotating pegs with Mrs. Slocum, haven’t you?” Fiona put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I could see it when you walked in here a moment ago, a look in your eyes of such tragedy.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Does she know yet?” Fiona asked. Nathaniel looked at her with a furrowed brow. “Does she know how Luanne and Phillip are connected?”
“No,” Nathaniel said sullenly. “And she’s not going to.”
“Why are you so determined to get her home, Mr. Cauliflower?” Fiona asked.
Nathaniel sat in his swivel chair opposite his Head Muse. He adjusted the three Lite-Brite boards just-so. “Obviously we can’t settle on a meteor shower and cherry blossoms for this retirement party, Fiona. We have to be more creative and foreswear any decorative reservations.”
Fiona sat in the swivel chair opposite him awaiting him to say more.
Nathaniel took in a deep breath. “She was my muse when I was a little boy in my seventh life. I want to keep her safe. The longer she stays here, she’s in danger. It’s better for everyone if, after she inspires her envelopes, I take away her memories and send her back to her esteemed fiancé.”
“Before I set out to retrieve her,” Fiona reiterated, “I had asked if you had known what it would have meant having brought her back here.”
He shifted the conversation by saying, “So . . . about the retirement party . . . where shall we start?”
*
Phillip reached for the pull string on the attic door. As his fingers clasped around it he heard a knock on the front door accented by band of lightning. He abandoned the attic and opened the front door. Standing on the porch, shaking the rain off of his umbrella, was Jonas and his partner in the black hoodie.
“Are we late for the open house?” Jonas asked. “This is as good a time as any to stop in where it’s dry, take a look around.”
“Why not?” Phillip invited Jonas and the hooded individual through the door.
“Oh, this is nice!” Jonas chimed to his friend as they surveyed the foyer. The front door was ajar framing the ferocious storm. “Perfect little haven for our humble home, isn’t it, my friend?” He turned to Phillip. “We’ll take it.”
“Take it?” Phillip raised an eyebrow. “You’ve only seen the foyer.”
“Believe it or not, I used to live in this house, a very long time ago.”
“Did you?”
“Oh yes,” Jonas told him “with my wife and son before she kicked me out. I suppose you could say I’ve returned to reconnect with old memories. To see if I can shake these walls for some answers.”
Phillip measured Jonas who looked well beyond his years in the storm’s light.
“Like I said,” Jonas smiled, teasing off his suit jacket. His sleeves were unbuttoned showing a convincing, albeit bogus, tattoo of stars, which had been drawn on his forearm by a water-proof ink-pen. He offered a Faustian handshake to Phillip. “We’ll take it. Today. At any asking price.”
CHAPTER 12: YURI ABRAMOVICH’S FORETOLD FUTURE
After Nathaniel had fallen from his attic loft in 1808, he was greeted by Fiona, and given orientation for the department procedures.
“You’re no doubt wondering what this place is, Mr. Cauliflower,” Fiona, wearing a cream-colored pants suit, told him as they walked the hallway past the other offices to the conference room. At this point in the department’s history, the offices were nothing more than barren rooms with egg-shell white walls, a simple desk, swivel chairs and strange, horn-shaped devices with turntables. The department had an aroma of freshly applied paint: a pleasant bouquet of fresh-picked roses which cloaked the smell of the lacquer. Above their heads were impressive hanging crystal chandeliers with flickering candles. As Nathaniel inspected these details, Fiona went on in saying: “It’s a very special office, for a very special function. You, Mr. Cauliflower. I’ve been instructed, due to the unexpected circumstances, to train you.”
“Train me to do what?” Nathaniel had asked.
Fiona had showed him the vestibule which led to the conference room and its table.
Nathaniel stepped inside and found that the conference room walls, like the walls of the offices they had passed, were bare. There was a single chandelier which hung from the ceiling. The only other decoration was a single, horn-shaped device with a spinning turntable. There was also a large, square-shaped unmarked sleeve. He looked at Fiona questioningly.
Fiona explained about the original muses and how Management had, not long after the initial muses had departed, orchestrated an alternative plan.
“A muse in training,” Fiona described, “is given a Victrola Gramophone record player. A muse is also given specific sleeves. Inside each sleeve,” Fiona picked up the sleeve from the table extracting a shiny, thin black disc with a hole in the middle, “is a record. Upon its center is a label which has a name of a corresponding original muse. The record goes onto the turntable like so. The record player is activated by the crank on the side here. Wind it to the right until you feel a slight resistance then release this brake lever to begin the turntable spinning. Once the record starts to spin, there’s a steel needle at the end of the reproducer.” Fiona showed him the arm with the needle motioning that it be placed on the almost invisible ridges of the record. “A needle which, when touched to the record in this groove here, provides a certain song, which is the exclusive melody of a person’s life. The sound comes from the funnel-shaped horn, which stretches upward, spreading the sound outward for all to hear. When the initial song plays, the muse is taken to a specific person, place and time. Once there, a muse is given an imperative task: to provide a catalyst of inspiration to the living.”
“To the living,” Nathaniel repeated.
“Would you like to try?”
“Will it take me to Evangeline?”
“Truthfully, this may or may not,” Fiona told him sympathetically. “You see, Mr. Cauliflower, time is circular. This record could take you backwards or forwards through time which means that there are no guarantees as to where its music will transport.”
“Then what’s the point? If it won’t take me to her, why show me this?”
“Even if this record, or any record, were to take you back to Evangeline,” Fiona calmly explained, “you would have a handful of seconds with her. Even then, she may not see or recognize you. Management has informed me, and what I’ve seen for myself, catalysts come in different forms. They may, or may not, constitute face-to-face contact.”
“A few seconds isn’t enough time,” he shook his head.
“There’s a way to spend more time with her if her record is found and played.” Fiona reassured, trying to sell him on the idea. “After a catalyst has been executed, a record can be rotated backwards and forwards. When the melody plays backwards, you can review a client’s life from the moment of birth to the moment of the inspiration. When the melody is played the right way, you can review a client’s life from the inspiration to their death. Be aware, you will be viewing the life as a spectator. You cannot touch, or speak to, a client when reviewing a life. They cannot touch, see, or speak to you.”
Nathaniel slowly reached for the crank and steel needle. His eyes were moist with a thin layer of tears. He stopped.
“No,” Nathaniel whispered. “No, it’s not enough.”
“Management has placed you here for a specific purpose, Mr. Cauliflower. You have to believe that everything happens for a reason. Your death is only the beginning, my friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Nathaniel recoiled from her and the record player. “I want to see Evangeline again.”
“It’s too late for that,” Fiona told him, smothered in empathy. “I’m sorry.”
“You said time was circular.” Nathaniel reiterated. “Management brought me here to the afterlife. If Management can do that they can permanently bring me to her.”
“Mr. Cauliflower, please,” Fiona consoled.
“Stop calling me that,” Nathaniel ordered. “I feel as if ever since the Sisters in that circus tent have called me that, I’ve been cheated!”
“The Sisters?”
“You say you’ve done this once before? How many other people have come into this office? How many other muses have listened to this ridiculousness?”
“Aside from me, Mr. Cauliflower?” Fiona took a breath and said, “No one else.”
“It’s not fair, Fiona.” Nathaniel shook his head incredulously. “I feel as if I’m being chastised for something that isn’t my fault; it’s as if I’ve stepped into a corner of Hell.”
“This isn’t Hell,” Fiona told him. “Nor is it Heaven. No, I’d rather be here than Heaven any day.”
“Send me to her,” Nathaniel begged. “Please, Fiona. Send me to my Evangeline.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Cauliflower.”
Nathaniel took the record in his hands, hoisted it, demanding like a snappish adolescent: “Do it I say.” He brought the record down to the ground, shattering it. “Now!”
Fiona was unaffected by his actions. “You don’t know what you are asking, Mr. Cauliflower. There are consequences that could arise from prematurely sending you through reincarnation. You may never find her. You may wander aimlessly through your next life without any contact with her. You won’t remember anything from your previous life wherever, and whenever, Management might send you.”
“I don’t care,” Nathaniel looked at Fiona with burning bravery. “No matter where and when I go, I’ll find her.”
A blinding white light erupted from the hallway.
“Very well,” Fiona sighed.
There came a sound of fluttering envelopes above them as Nathaniel headed toward the conference room door. In response to the noise above, Fiona stopped him. “Before you go, Mr. Cauliflower, I must warn you. You’ve shattered a record that corresponds to a person’s life. Records are delicate things and cannot be perfectly restored. Following your death in your second life, you’ll be brought back here to finish your term as a muse. Management will then present you with a new task as penance for your breaking of a record and, thusly, the severing of a bond between a muse and a client. Do you truly want to be in that kind of position?”
Asphodel: The Second Volume of the Muse Chronicles Page 17
