by Mark Carver
Bel-dorien was suspended horizontally above the mantle. Cameron had to admit that it looked better that way, since the blade was curved and didn’t hang down symmetrically. He couldn’t hold back the smile that crept across his face. It was certainly unique among the well-worn antiques and fine lace, but for some reason, it also seemed to fit in with the rest of the decor. Even dominate.
Cameron looked back at Mindy, who was busy extracting a hot glass plate from the oven. Her eyes met his and his heart jumped.
“Did you see it?” she asked.
Cameron nodded. “I don’t know if your aunt would have approved.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Mindy chuckled. “I found what I think is a pirate pistol in the attic.”
“What?”
“Yeah. My aunt, the buccaneer.”
Cameron laughed loudly, even though it wasn’t funny. Mindy seemed pleasantly startled by his amusement, and she joined in. Then she gestured with her mitted hands towards the assortment of food spread across the counter.
“Hungry?”
Cameron licked his lips.
Oh yes…
****
“Wow,” he half-spoke, half-groaned, leaning back and rubbing his full stomach.
Mindy beamed with pride. “Oh, this is nothing. You should see me during the holidays. I’m a machine. All the women in my family know a thing or two about making happy stomachs.”
Cameron smiled. “A lot of people out here would call that backwards thinking.”
“I know!” Mindy lamented, her shoulders falling. “There is nothing wrong with a woman that enjoys feeding her friends and family. Sometimes you west coast folks take your progressiveness a bit too far.”
“Hey, my stomach is definitely on your side.”
Mindy’s face brightened again. “Well I hope you saved room for pie. It’s my mother’s secret recipe.”
Cameron looked down at his stomach, which was pressing almost painfully on his belt.
“Bring it on.”
Mindy flitted into the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a dinner plate. On it was the largest slice of pie that Cameron had ever seen. Something inside him groaned with excitement and reluctance, like a guy being forced to down too many shots at his birthday party.
Mindy set the plate in front of him and stood over his shoulder like a mother waiting for her son to finish his vegetables. Cameron looked up at her with eyes that begged for mercy. She beckoned towards the pie slice with a nod of her head. Cameron exhaled, then dug his fork into the slice and took a bite.
One word flashed through his mind: magic.
He devoured the pie as if he hadn’t eaten a thing all day. Even Mindy was a bit surprised.
“Another?” she asked cautiously.
Cameron nodded, his mouth too full to speak.
When the second slice had disappeared and the plate was scraped clean of every delicious particle, Mindy leaned forward from across the table.
“I said it was my mother’s secret recipe, didn’t I?”
Cameron nodded. He was on the verge of vomiting but his head was swimming with ecstasy.
“You want to know the secret?”
Cameron nodded, not really listening.
“Marijuana.”
Cameron jerked as if he had just woken up. Then he saw Mindy’s poorly-suppressed smile.
“Come on, don’t do that,” he said with a playful wag of his finger.
Mindy let the smile conquer her face and she sat back in her chair. “I thought you’d be excited. This is California.”
“Hey, not everyone in California smokes weed.”
“You mean you don’t?”
Cameron shrugged. “I used to, but I found it slowed down my creativity. I like a beer at night and I’ll have a hard drink every now and then, but I like to keep my mind clear.”
Mindy nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I have this buddy at the gym who has the hook-up to the best stuff in town, so he says. It’s definitely better than the bud back home.”
She glanced around, as if she were afraid of eavesdroppers. Then she smiled sheepishly at herself and looked again at Cameron.
“You can come over sometime if you feel, you know, stressed or something.”
Cameron nodded politely. “Thanks.”
Mindy slapped the table lightly with her hands. “So, would you like anything else?”
Cameron adamantly shook his head. “Oh no, please. I think I’m going to have to roll home.”
“Oh, do you want to go so soon?”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant when I have to go, I’ll need to roll out because I ate so much and I feel like a ball…”
His words died away as he realized how stupid he sounded.
Mindy’s face brightened again. “Well, how about some coffee in the living room?”
“That sounds great,” Cameron answered, relieved that his error hadn’t done any damage.
They migrated to the living room and Mindy set a saucer with a delicate coffee cup on the small table in front of Cameron. He regarded the cup with an artist’s eye. It was finely crafted and probably quite expensive. A “pinky-in-the-air cup” as Chucky once said.
Mindy took a sip from her coffee and regarded him with soft yet intent eyes.
“So what’s your story?” she asked casually as she set the cup down and crossed her legs.
Cameron cocked his head. “My story?”
“Mm-hmm. I know where you live, I know what you do for a living, I know you have a dog, but I don’t know who you are.”
There was a strange glimmer in her eyes. Cameron could tell that all of her attention was focused on him, and that made him nervous. He didn’t know why; he should have been glad. She was certainly very attractive, even beautiful, and the evening was heading down a very desirable road.
So why did he feel like the room temperature had just jumped ten degrees? And why did the sofa suddenly feel so hard and lumpy? And why did his cheeks feel so warm?
“My story…” he said, his tongue feeling like lead. “Well, I…I was born in Maryland, near D.C. My parents were from Scotland, but I made sure I didn’t pick up their accent. I didn’t want to get made fun of at school. I played football in junior high but I wasn’t really into it. I loved drawing so my folks sent me to art school in New York.”
He stopped. Mindy was nodding and watching him with keen interest, even though he knew that what he was saying wasn’t interesting at all. He felt self-conscious, exposed.
Dude, you’re on the five-yard line. A touchdown is almost guaranteed. What are you waiting for?
Cameron looked down at his coffee.
Mindy noticed his silence. “Would you like some more coffee?”
Cameron shook his head, still keeping his head bowed.
“Are you okay?” Mindy asked, leaning forward and placing her hand on his knee.
Cameron would never know why he said the next words.
“When I was in New York, going to art school, my…my dad died.”
Mindy gasped. Her hand moved to his arm.
“Oh Cameron, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…we don’t have to talk about your life if you don’t want to.”
“No, it’s okay,” Cameron said, his voice quivering slightly. “I just don’t think about it too much, that’s all.”
“Oh, gosh, Cameron,” Mindy said with genuine sympathy, “I am so sorry.”
Cameron nodded and smiled gratefully. He was also strangely relieved that she seemed to have lost the hungry gleam in her eyes.
Dude, don’t kid yourself. Chicks always dig wounded guys.
As if on cue, Mindy leaned forward and hugged him. It was a light embrace separated by the coffee table between them, but it made Cameron stiffen instinctively. Mindy didn’t seem to notice though, and she rubbed his back comfortingly. She pulled away after a few moments but her face lingered close to his. She stared deep into his eyes and her hand touched the side of his face.
She was waiting for him.
Cameron knew this was that crucial moment, and he deliberately killed it by looking down and hanging his head, as if overcome by a fresh wave of grief. Mindy swallowed and clasped his hand in hers. Her face flushed with a slight twinge of embarrassment.
“I feel so terrible,” she sighed. “I ruined the whole evening.”
“No, no,” Cameron said quickly, feeling a little bit of regret for letting the chance pass by. “Our stories are woven with threads of sadness and happiness, and it’s the sorrow that makes the fabric strong.”
The contents of his stomach lurched. Are you kidding me? Did you really just say that?
Mindy’s eyes sparkled again. “Wow. That’s beautiful.”
“I…read it in a book somewhere,” Cameron lied.
Mindy’s smile diminished slightly with disappointment. “Well it’s very true. And I’m glad you told me about your father, even if it put a damper on the evening. Like you said, our happiness and sadness makes us who we are. We would be lying to ourselves if we only focused on the good times.”
Cameron nodded, but he didn’t say anything.
Mindy eased back into her chair and looked at him for a moment. “Would you like another cup of coffee? I’m afraid that one might be cold.”
Cameron glanced down at the cup. “No thanks. I think I should probably be heading back. I’ve got to get up early in the morning.”
Another lie, but he really did want to leave. He felt something inside him cursing him for being such a sissy, but he ignored it.
Mindy smiled, though her eyes were still sad.
“Sure.” She rose from her seat and smoothed her dress. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”
“No, of course not. We’re friends, and friends tell each other these things.”
She glowed. “Really? We’re friends?”
Cameron glanced sideways at her. “Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t we be?”
Mindy reached out and gave him another hug, a full body embrace. It wasn’t sexual, just warm and grateful.
“Thanks,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Cameron answered. He was feeling a lot better.
Mindy led him to the door. “Next time I’ll break out the key lime pie. You think the pecan pie was good – wait till you try my key lime pie.”
“I’m looking forward to that.”
He reached for the door handle, but he stopped. She looking like she wanted to ask him a question.
“What is it?” he asked.
She glanced at her feet for a moment. “Could I maybe come by and watch you work sometime? I promise I won’t be a distraction.”
Oh, you certainly would be.
“Of course. Anytime.”
“Thanks,” she said with a warm smile.
Cameron opened the door and stepped out onto the porch.
“Good night. Thanks for dinner. It was awesome.”
“I’m glad you think so. We’ll do it again soon.”
Cameron nodded and headed down the walkway towards the street. He didn’t turn around but he knew that she was still watching him. When he made it to his house, he glanced to his left. Her door was closed and the light was out.
He exhaled heavily and opened the door to his house. Conan was waiting for him in the foyer. The dog stared up at him with a disappointed expression.
Cameron tossed his keys into the lobotomized metal skull and raised his hands.
“What?”
Conan turned and shuffled towards the kitchen.
CHAPTER 6
The alarm clock only shrieked once before Cameron slapped it silent. He rolled over and gazed up at the ceiling for a long time.
The voice in his head was as loud as the clock.
You blew it, man. Big time.
He knew the voice was right. And not because he had blown an opportunity to hook up with a sexy chick. He had sabotaged the evening on purpose.
And for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.
There were several reasons swimming in his mind. Relationships with a neighbor were never a good idea; it was too soon; she might be too clingy considering her recent separation; she might actually be a man…
Cameron shook his head as he threw back the blanket.
Whatever.
He had work to do.
****
The voice in his head would not shut up for the whole day, like a needle in his brain.
You wimped out, man. And you deliberately backed away.
Cameron gritted his teeth as he slid the dull steel bar in and out of the power hammer.
What are you afraid of? She’s a girl. There have been many like her before, and she’ll probably not be the last. She was ready for you, man.
“I know!” he growled, whipping the unfinished blade out and throwing it to the ground.
Conan stared at him from the doorway.
Cameron squeezed his eyes shut and leaned on the work bench. What was wrong with him?
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He flipped it open and saw a text message from Chucky asking him if he wanted to grab some wings and beer later that night. His fingers flew over the keypad.
Sorry cant, too busy.
He sent the message and slapped the phone closed. He glanced around the shop, staring at all the beautiful instruments of death.
You made these, he told himself. With your own hands. Look at this stuff. You’re a badass, not a wimp. That guy last night, that wasn’t you. That was some leftover high school hormonal confusion just working its way to the surface, like a bubble floating in oil. The real Cameron McConnell makes weapons with his bare hands. The real Cameron McConnell is a badass.
He caught his warped reflection on the chrome surface of a large broadsword. He stared at his compressed face, studying it like an artist studies a block of marble.
Like a flash of lightning, an image blazed through his brain. He nearly gasped, it was so shocking. His hand moved like a mechanical device, sliding a dirty piece of paper and a pencil in front of him. He quickly sketched a rough depiction of his face. He had done it so many times in art school, it was almost as easy as folding a paper airplane.
He stared down at himself for a moment, then raised the pencil again. With fine, delicate strokes that contrasted with the hastily-drawn face, he drew three sharp lines like claw marks trailing down his left cheek. Then he drew a swooping crescent that arced around his eye and came to a point above his eyebrow. He paused for a moment, and then drew several small triangles rimming the outer edge of the crescent.
Cameron stared down at the drawing for a long time. He glanced up again at his reflection in the sword blade, then snatched up the paper and started to crumple it.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said out loud.
But for some reason, he stopped. He remained still for several moments, then gently unfolded the paper and smoothed it out on the workbench. His eyes gazed down at the simple sketch, and he could feel something growing in his mind. A seed taking root.
Something inside him whispered with awe.
Now that’s badass.
Cameron’s eyes didn’t move from the paper. The gears and pistons in his mind were churning and whirling like they do when he hammers crude steel into art. After several long moments, he had to admit it was pretty sweet.
Like someone tapped him on the shoulder, his mind snapped back to reality.
Okay, fantasy time is over. As if you’re really going to tattoo your face like that guy at the tattoo shop.
He felt embarrassed, even though he was alone.
His reflection stared at him from the broadsword.
No. No way…
****
Cameron didn’t know how or why, but all day long, he could feel the seed taking root in his mind. Maybe it was the artistic spirit inside him, seeking a new outlet. Or maybe his subconscious was trying to redefine his appearance and, by extension, who he was inside.
Wha
tever it was, it wouldn’t let go. He had pushed the scrap of paper aside and finished his work for the day, but he kept glancing at it, as if it were a tempting morsel of food. When he had wearily shuffled inside to fix a highly-processed microwave dinner for himself, he kept glancing at his reflection in the windows, which acted as mirrors against the darkness outside. He considered himself to be neither handsome nor ugly, but he knew that he wasn’t unpleasant to look at. Throughout his life, he was usually thankful for his nondescript, though at least symmetrical, face and expression. He had never entertained the idea of changing his face, despite being in American’s most cosmetic surgery-obsessed state.
But now, he didn’t see completeness. He saw a vacancy. It was the same feeling after he had gotten his first tattoo. He had come home wearing the ink as a badge of honor, and he had marched into the bathroom to behold its splendor. And he did, for a couple of seconds. Then his eye gravitated towards the rest of his unadorned flesh. It was like a yawning white room with only one picture; the rest of the walls were naked.
So he went out and got more pictures. But with every picture he hung on his dermal walls, there were so many more that remained empty. He had always been attracted to “busyness” in art: compositions where every nook and cranny was filled with intricate, though necessary, details. He remembered being in awe of photos of the Taj Mahal, with every square inch of its pristine interior carved and painted with incredible detail. He knew his body was no Taj Mahal, but the principle was the same.
This penchant for adornment carried over into his work. He was quite well-known in the fantasy weapons world for the delicate engravings he etched into his sword blades, and it was one of his signature gimmicks to sign his name on each weapon in a place that was nearly impossible to find. It was always a race among the collectors to locate his John Hancock and crow their triumph on the Internet forums. To date, no one had yet found his name on the Kahl Dath’i’ienen.
As he stared across the table at himself in the window, he felt that same familiar uneasiness, the compelling feeling that something was missing. Askew. He had always shaken his head as his mother had marched around their house when he was a child, meticulously straightening every picture that was even a millimeter crooked. He didn’t even know how she could see such tiny imbalances in the first place.
But he felt it now. There it was, staring back at him. A blank canvas thirsty for paint, an empty blade waiting to be engraved.
