Corona of Blue

by Berntson, Brandon

  “I want to kiss you,” he said, looking at me. “I know that sounds stupid, but I do. Would you let me kiss you before I go, Rayleigh?”

  I smiled again, my heart beating fast. Kiss? Yeah? Really? Sure. A kiss would be nice.

  I nodded, and he leaned in. I closed my eyes. I suddenly put a hand to my mouth and opened my eyes wide. I burped, and he opened his eyes wide, blushed, then laughed.

  “You okay?”

  I tasted my lunch.

  “What?” he asked.

  I shook my head, embarrassed.

  “What?” he said, laughing.

  “I had a hamburger for lunch,” I said, my hand over my mouth. I could still taste the mustard. I needed a stick of Doublemint gum, a cinnamon bear, something.

  “I had a hamburger, too. I can still taste the mustard and pickles,” he said.

  I laughed. It was perfect. I took my hand from my mouth, and he moved in, taking the opportunity. It caught me by surprise, and I almost fell over, losing my balance in the wet grass and mud. Explain that to Mother!

  Stupid girl sees too much in a moment like this. This was the element of danger and surprise I’d been looking for! This was my heart revving in my chest, soft lips pressed against my own!

  I regained my composure somewhat and leaned into him. My arms went up behind his head.

  The surprise of all beautiful surprises—the moment—as if you’d jumped the highest hurdle in your life. Chalk up experience! I felt I’d lost my virginity!

  His mouth opened, and I wondered how many girls Ricky had kissed before me. But I wanted it. I felt his tongue, warm and moist, and I played little circles around it.

  Mommy, Mommy! Guess what? I just had my first French kiss! Isn’t that magical! Isn’t that just divine? “Of course, Ray. We all knew you would in time. You are turning into a woman! Now put on your sexiest dress and go take him!”

  After several long seconds (Minutes? It was hard to tell), Ricky pulled away and smiled.

  “You taste like a hamburger,” he said. I laughed and swatted his arm. He took my hand and led me home, and we promised to do the same thing tomorrow. I gave him my phone number, and he beamed, putting it in his pocket.

  “Call me,” I said.

  “I will,” he said. “Here’s your books.”

  I took them, smiled, and turned to my house, a small, red brick structure on Roosevelt Street. In Louisville, every street seemed named after a president. My mom met me at the door, thinner, younger then.

  “Who was that?” she asked, suspiciously.

  “That was Ricky Bradford,” I said. “He’s gonna be a rock-and-roll star. We’re going on tour together.”

  ~

  “Rayleigh?”

  It was a good memory. Obviously, I never went on tour, and I have no idea what happened to Ricky Bradford.

  Sure you do. You know.

  I never saw him on MTV, so who knows? Maybe he went on to bigger and better things.

  “Rayleigh?”

  My mom hounded me, of course, like she always did. “You’re too young to have boys walk you home!”

  “Would you rather girls walked me home?” Putting some emphasis into it, so she’d know what I was talking about. Yes, I was a pain in the ass even then.

  “Rayleigh!”

  I stumble back and almost split my head on the shelves behind me. I had been leaning on the counter a moment before. Junky, the black cat and sole proprietor of The Broken Spine, startled, leaps to the floor and disappears around a stack of books I haven’t organized yet. I blink my eyes, and everything comes into focus: the shelves and shelves of fiction, Broadway and the cars going by out the window to my right, fliers on the window posting readings and upcoming events and classes in literature.

  Pug is standing in front of me, one of my sixteen-year-old regulars. He’s a nice kid, but he’s a little creepy. He reminds me of Uriah Heap with his slippery hands and unctuous skin. He’s a shorter and darker version of Uriah Heap. But he is a good kid. He is dressed in baggy black jeans, a silver chain for a belt, and shredded, disintegrating tennis shoes. I wonder how he keeps from getting lost in his clothes. His T-shirt is four sizes too big for him, white, with some bright red, orange, fiery, dragon-like Chinese thing on the front. Rows of silver hoop earrings adorn each ear. He is wearing black eyeliner with the black horned–rimmed glasses which are back in fashion. Looking like a Gothic dweeb is cool. His forearms are covered in black leather and silver bracelets. A silver cross (he isn’t religious), dangles from a chain, resting in the V of his throat. His hair is a mat of greasy, spiky black, and he is oozing some odor strangely like perfume, bacon, and cigarettes.

  I look at him, blink, blink again, and the world is suddenly around me. I have focus. The memory of Ricky Bradford is now a distant dream. What was I thinking about that for anyway?

  “Jesus, Ray,” he says, somewhat offended. His voice is indignant and squeaky. I try not to make fun of him. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for over an hour.”

  I know this isn’t so, no more than several minutes, but he likes to exaggerate, and he likes me to let him.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I was thinking.”

  “Must have been something fierce,” he says. “Where did you go, Never-Land?”

  “Something like that,” I say. “What do you want, Pug?”

  “I’m looking for some H.P. Lovecraft. I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Guy came in yesterday and bought me out.”

  “What?”

  I raise my eyebrows and cross my arms. Pug is a good kid, but he can be pushy and irritating sometimes.

  “Yes-ter-day,” I say, explaining it to him. “That would be the day before today. A tall guy came in, probably late thirties, very quiet, very polite, walked over to the horror section. That’s right over there, just on the other side of science fiction.” I point in the appropriate direction. “He walked right over there, no lie. Just marched right over—” I paused. “Should I tell you what he was wearing?”

  Pug is burning. His face is bright red, and he is looking at me as if he wants to shave my head.

  “He was wearing—” I go on.

  “Okay okay! Christ!”

  But I couldn’t resist: “—and he grabbed every Lovecraft on the shelf. My kind of buyer.”

  “Okay Rayleigh! Okay! Christ! Jesus! Ask a girl a question, you get her life story!”

  “Remember that when you sign for the check,” I say.

  He looks at me, confused. “What?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “If you need some help finding some other stuff, Pug, let me know.”

  “Okay. Damnit. I’d been waiting for the money to buy those Lovecrafts, and when I finally get it, some big shot lawyer comes in and takes every one. What a bastard!”

  I can’t help but laugh because the impatience of youth is always funny to me. They think the world should cater to them. Entitlement like a neon sign. They think everything should be right there lined up pretty and proper, and when it isn’t, ‘Well, goddamnit, that tall sonofabitching lawyer knew I was coming in, and he did it just to spite me, didn’t he? If I didn’t know any better, I’d tie his shoelaces to a garbage truck and stuff his mouth with Crisco! So, there!’

  Yeah, they’re a lot of fun. Lawyer? Where had that come from anyway?

  But part of me felt sorry for Pug. I knew his parents were brutal and indifferent to him. He was a cool kid, if a bit ill-tempered. I guess he had a right to be.

  “Hey, you got some Ramsey Campbell I don’t have. Kick a dog’s ass!”

  He said this from the horror section. He only talks that way when we’re alone. I told him I wouldn’t put up with that fucking shit when other people were in the store, so he’d better watch his goddamn mouth.

  “Incarnate; The Count of Eleven; Ancient Images. Here’s Cold Print, I don’t believe it!”

  “Close enough to Lovecraft,” I say from the counter, talking about Cold Print. “Mommy’s allowance pays off!
”

  He ignores me, probably doesn’t appreciate what I just said, and suddenly I feel bad.

  Pug told me a story once when I was closing the store. He liked to walk me home sometimes. (Hmmm.) He had been out with a girl, he said, no lie. His father repeatedly tore into him about him doing drugs. Pug (I honestly believe him) said he was out with a girl, Annette Something-or-Other. ‘Drugs,’ his dad said over and over. ‘I know you were out doing drugs. Your little stoner friends have been calling here all night! So, don’t lie!’ Pug said, over and over, that he had been out with Annette Something-or-Other. He and his father were standing at the head of the stairs leading to the basement and Pug’s obviously dark, fantastic bedroom. Pug told his father he could call Annette’s house if he didn’t believe him. His father backhanded him. All Pug remembers is a lightening blast of pain across his face, colliding into the walls, the steps, and the banister along the way as good old Dad sends Pug sailing down the stairs. Then darkness. Pug said he was lucky. He’d suffered a fat lip and a sprained wrist for only a week.

  What a pal. The father, that is. I wonder if that’s who Pug imagines every time he says the word ‘bastard.’

  It is a nice day outside in the early spring. I don’t need to turn the heat on in the store as much now. It’s still cool enough outside to be enjoyable. The trees are beginning to bud, but signs of winter linger.

  Pug comes out from the horror section, holding a stack of used paperbacks sauntering, sauntering, as they do in their small world of the universe. I’m thinking about the spring and the flowers and the birth of things and how warm it’ll be soon. I like all seasons, winter being my favorite. It gets damn hot in the city as everyone knows, but the spring is welcome. Dark woman thrives on spring. What do you think of that, Carmilla? Carmilla is my alter ego. She knows me better than anyone, and she is actually a joke among family and friends. But we’ll get to her later.

  “So, how is Annette?” I ask.

  Pug looks at me, the eyeliner on his face making him look creepier and more pissed off than usual. “We broke up. I told you that.”

  “You did?”

  He sets the books on the counter. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry, Pug. I didn’t…couldn’t…sorry.”

  He smiles and waves his hand, letting me know it’s okay, but he seems put out.

  I look through the books. My prices are reasonable, and my trade is fair. Bring in ten, you get five. Bring in five, I’ll give you three. All used paperbacks are no more than three-dollars. I’m trying to make a statement about the ridiculous systems some bookstores have by trying to ‘rip-you-off-with-books.’ Books? That must be a joke. I walked into a place once where I had to wait two days before they could tell me what they were worth. Another said they accepted trade, but when you went to the register, they said, ‘That will be five-fifty.’ ‘But I just brought you the books. You’re asking me for money, too?’

  Hmmm is right. My system is the honorary one, allowing people to read whatever I can get at reasonable prices. I may not have as much money as the other stores, but I have a better reputation.

  Pug has three Ramsey Campbell’s, two by John Farris, and one by Thomas Tessier. Normally, twelve dollars, but not today.

  “What’s the damage, Ray?”

  “Make it eight-fifty,” I say.

  “But there’s six books there.”

  “So, enjoy them and buy a pack of smokes,” I tell him, grabbing a plastic bag.

  “Thanks, Ray,” he says. “You’re pretty cool sometimes.”

  I can tell it’s difficult for him accepting charity. I suddenly hope he doesn’t think me a pompous little bitch because I can picture him saying that on his way out, and I will find myself looking at him, seeing, watching for him to mouth the words, ‘What a pompous little bitch,’ as he walks out the door and down the street.

  I want to say something else, but I can’t think of anything. Some business correspondent I am.

  He takes the bag, and on his way out, I watch him go. He opens the door, the bell sounds, and I manage a simple, “Thanks, Pug.”

  He looks at me and smiles, and the door closes behind him. I watch him as he swings the bag of books. He starts whistling to himself. Pompous little bitch is saved ’til later when I am out of sight, perhaps.

  ~

  The day is as normal, I suppose, as any other. I want to expand the store, put in an espresso shop. I want more customers, a bigger chain. I want to accomplish feats and miracles. I want to find a man who makes me laugh and lets me be my stupid, pouty girl self. Isn’t that right, Daddy?

  You’re pathetic, Carmilla says. You don’t understand anything.

  I ignore her.

  At eight o’clock, when the sun goes go down, I close up shop, change the sign, and turn out the lights. I leave one on in the window, just enough where you can see inside, especially if the police happen to drive by. I’m comforted knowing my store is being looked after while I’m away.

  It is dark, and I put on my jacket over a red sweater. I hold my purse close to my side. I’m a girl who will put up a fight. I have mace in my purse because it is the city after all. Luckily, my apartment is only three blocks away. People are taking out their garbage, drinking on their front porches, and making quick jaunts to their friends’ houses, the grocery and liquor stores. People look, someone says, “Hi,” and I nod and walk with my head up, confident in the coming night of Denver, Colorado. I like it here. It’s a ‘hick-city,’ I’ve heard people call it, not the wildest, but not the tamest, either. I have a late dinner of leftover Chinese waiting for me when I get home. I have left Junky at work. There is a litter box in the back and plenty of food, and he doesn’t mess things up.

  I climb the steps of the Denver Lounge Apartments to number 37. I insert my key into the lock, step inside, and lock the door behind me.

  Inside is my lair, my home of homes, my delectable shanty of quaint oddities and feminine paradise. My apartment is similar to the store. Books and books and odd collectibles line the place. I have a thing for the Renaissance. A picture of a warrior knighted by a beautiful woman adorns the wall across from the kitchen. I can’t remember the artist. I have a skull with a candle in the corner by itself on its own stand. A werewolf picture by Michael Whelan is on the wall above the couch. It shows the beast perched in the middle of Stonehenge in the snow. The werewolf has the body of a man slung over its shoulder. I had to have it! An antique candelabrum sits dead center on a round, dining-room table. I like my visitors to know a little something about me when they walk inside. I’m thinking of asking Janice Plashenko, my landlord, if she’ll let me paint the doors a deep, ruby red. Probably not.

  On my way to the kitchen, I notice three messages on the machine by the red, blinking number. I grab a bottle of Ste. Chapel from the fridge. I pull out a glass from the cupboard and take a drink. I pull out a cigarette (I haven’t had one since five o’clock.) and light it. I take a deep drag, go the phone, and play the messages:

  “You have three. New. Messages (meeep!):”

  “Hi, Ray, it’s Lacey. Do you remember me talking to you about Dave? Because he doesn’t know our little secret still? It’s driving him crazy, Ray. I wish you could come to work with me and watch it. Anyway, I’ll be over tomorrow. We’re still on for a movie, right? Talk to you later, love. Bye.”

  (meeep!):

  “Rayleigh,” (Mom) “Hi, dear. Your father and I wanted to know if you’d like to come over for a barbecue this weekend since it’s getting so warm. Call me when you get in, ’kay? Love you. Bye.”

  (meeep!):

  “Hi, uh, Ray. This is Jeff. I, uh, know I should come over and tell you this, but I’m just gonna let it go, okay? Look, I know I’m a pansy for not doing this face to face—” You’re damn right you are because I am giving the phone all my attention now. I met Jeff at the bookstore, and he has not been in for several weeks. I knew it was over anyway, but he never called, and I tried to call, heard he was seeing someone else, and
that was two months ago now, and here I am now listening to this spineless bastard on my answering machine, and I’m wondering why he has even bothered to call after all this time. All it’s done is ruin my day. “I’ve been seeing someone else. I just think we both know it would never work anyway, right? So no big deal. No hard feelings. I’m sorry I never bothered to call until now. I’m sorry.” Long pause. Click.

  I turn to the wine, drink the glass, and pour another. Now, I am furious. I wish Junky were here so I could kick him across the floor. I don’t actually mean that. I love Junky. But I would love to strangle him. Jeff that is, not Junky.

  It happened to me once while in junior high. Guy just up and started dating another girl. Never even said anything. Never said, ‘We’re finished, we’re through, see you, nice knowing you,’ nothing. What the hell was I mad for anyway? I was actually surprised he’d called, surprised to hear from him. I just thought it funny he hadn’t the guts to look me in the face to do it. He called while he knew I was at work. He deliberately avoided me while he pranced off with some Cinderella Sunshine and her overnight bag of braziers. God, I could have killed him!

  But what was I getting so mad about? Why did I care, just because he was spineless, or because I’d allowed myself to get involved with someone spineless?

  I drink another glass, look for more booze, and find some vodka. Good night, sweet prince. I look to the Renaissance picture on the wall and suddenly want to break it.

  Jeff was an egghead, Carmilla says. My alter ego has a way of soothing the traveled, chaotic road. Your day will come. Spend some time fishing.

  Always the jokester. I shake my head, smile, and toast Carmilla’s wit, forgetting about Jeff already. What was the guy’s name who bought the Lovecraft novels, I wonder?

  Trying not to think about it, I go to warm up my Chinese food, but I realize another message is waiting to come through the answering machine. For some reason, a long pause follows, and I hear this: