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The Edger Collection

Page 70

by David Beem

I grab a package of Hanes boxer briefs and Mary resumes rifling through her pile. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, something I’ve seen her do a zillion times when she knows I’m watching. I rip the package open and separate the boxers, then let my towel fall. Her eyes flit up to meet mine, lower to the man zucchini, her expression neutral, and then lower again to her shirt pile. I pull on the boxers, a little snug in front at the moment, and force myself to relax. Maybe I shouldn’t rush it. I mean, we’ve seen each other naked. This is our new normal, right? Oh, man. I’m gonna totally wreck this by being weird.

  You got that right, lover boy, says Marion. Here lies the grave of romance. R.I.P.

  Oh, be quiet.

  “Am I being weird?” asks Mary, looking up, her cheeks reddening. I shift my weight, go for the casually half-naked look, and then chuck the shorts and slacks aside to snatch the first pair of jeans I can lay my hands on. I get a leg in, then the next. Pull them up over my butt, tuck myself in, button the fly.

  “Not at all,” I say. “Why?”

  “I mean, boyfriends and girlfriends can be naked around each other. That’s normal, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like it’s anything I haven’t seen.”

  “I know.”

  “Not that we have to parade around nude all the time, ha-ha.”

  “Of course not. I mean, unless you want to.”

  “All I’m saying is you don’t have to be self-conscious. Even if you’re…you know.” She gestures to the rod in my jeans. Shit, I’m really bulging out. My gaze springs up, and her cheeks go from pink to brick red. “In fact,” she says. “I’m just gonna… You know what? I’m just gonna do it.”

  She drops her towel and—whoa-ho—the Promised Land!

  My brain sputters and stalls in a myriad of SFX sound samples, beginning with the Wilhelm scream, careening past the Back to the Future flux capacitor reaching eighty-eight miles per hour, and finishing with the Millennium Falcon’s failing hyperdrive engine—all in point zero-zero-zero-zero-one of a second.

  Hello! cries Nigel. Are we doing the sex, then?

  God, I hope so, says Marion. It seems the rumors of romance’s untimely death have been greatly exaggerated.

  Nancy! calls President Reagan. Better get down here. Those two whippersnappers are finally gonna do it.

  It has been said, begins Herodotus, the sex isn’t good unless the neighbors know your name—

  Go away! I cry. All of you! Shoo! Shoo!

  Mary’s nose wrinkles. “Ew! It’s Nigel, isn’t it?” She snatches a Slayer T-shirt and pulls it over her head. She tugs it below her waist and crosses her legs. “Tell Nigel to fuck off!”

  “Fuck off, Nigel!” I say, my hands trembling as I undo the buttons on my jeans. “We can be naked! I can totally be naked with you right now. This is absolutely not a problem whatsoever.”

  Too effing right it isn’t! says Nigel.

  Don’t seem too eager, though, says Marion. There’s an art to it.

  Win this one for the Gipper, says Reagan.

  “Fuck off, Nigel!” says Mary, reading my face again and shifting her crossed legs.

  I pull my jeans down around my ankles, my heart drumming like syncopated thunder. She cranes her neck forward. Her stare drills through to the back of my head.

  “Are we…alone?”

  Nobody here but us chickens, says the president, and the entire Collective Unconscious seems to hold its breath.

  I close my eyes and enter a kind of concentration tunnel vision, where the only thing that exists is the sound of my breathing. No. Not the only thing. What’s that squeaking sound? Oh no. It’s one of Nigel’s balloon creations taking shape.

  A mental image of a naked woman balloon creation surfaces.

  Nigel… So help me God, if you screw this up for me…

  You’ll what? he replies.

  Scram, Nigel, says Marion.

  I’ll…I stammer. I’ll…

  Go on, then, says Nigel. Let me have it. I’m shaking in my incorporeal boots.

  Get lost, Nigel, says Dad.

  Dad?!

  Hold on, says Nigel. Let me grab the popcorn.

  “He’s still in there, isn’t he?” says Mary.

  I open my eyes. She’s pulled on a pair of jeans. I plop down on the bed, not even caring my jeans are still around my ankles.

  Don’t mind me, says Nigel. Go on, then. You want some music? I can call Elvis up, if you like.

  Well, uh-huh, says Elvis, his voice ringing through a microphone in my brain.

  Oh, are we having a concert? asks Nancy Reagan.

  No, no, no! I say.

  Testing, testing, says Elvis, tapping the microphone.

  Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me, I say.

  This is a little ditty written by Hugo Peretti, Luigi Creatore, and George David Weiss, says Elvis.

  Oh, I love this one! says the first lady.

  “Edger?”

  …called ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love,’ Elvis finishes, and a concert hall chock-full of screaming Collective Unconscious girls erupts in my head as a guitar is strummed.

  Wise men say, he croons.

  “Edger?”

  The bed dips as she sits next to me.

  …fools rush in…

  Her hand on my thigh shoots a thrill down to my toes and up through my scalp. The screaming girls in the concert hall chitter and swoon.

  …but I can’t help…

  “It’s Elvis,” I say.

  …falling in love…

  She lays her hand on my cheek and turns my head to face her round, steady gaze.

  …with…

  She closes her eyes and leans in.

  …you…

  I close my eyes, and our lips meet.

  The soul-stars erupt in our faces, forcing us apart, lifting our hair as they swirl around us and whisk us away with a crack like splitting lumber. The dream world grows dark. The temperature drops. Our feet touch down in freezing slush.

  There are stars in the sky. Real stars. The soul-lights are gone, and a vague chattering resolves into focus—wait—that’s my teeth. Jeans still around my ankles, I’m grabbing my elbows as fat snowflakes melt on every inch of my hot skin.

  Okay, that’s cold.

  Mary works her arm through mine and pulls me close. Her concentration puts my jeans back on. Trapper hat, scarf, boots, gloves, and a flannel Sherpa. I eye her askance.

  “I look like a Hallmark Christmas special,” I say, my breath rising in the winter air. She casts a crooked smile, and I let it go. We’re standing outside a church. Torches are lit. Children are singing.

  “Oh, come on,” I moan.

  I pull my arm free and face Bruce Lee, whose soul-star is materializing into physical form in a ski jacket and snow pants. He raises a finger to silence me and cocks his head to the side. I hold my breath. An icy wind cuts through the narrow streets, whooshing over our heads and cutting to the bone.

  “Let me guess,” I say. “Sixteenth-century France. Yippee.”

  Mary faces Bruce. “You can’t do this to us forever. If kissing is what triggers it, next time we’ll skip the foreplay.”

  “Yeah.” I nod. “Next time we’ll just—wait, what?”

  She winks—so gorgeous—and literal fireworks erupt over my subconscious projection of the church. Mary startles and ducks, then slaps my arm.

  “We’re not here for that,” says Bruce, his consciousness focusing me. Us, I mean. I can sense her focus also. The fireworks disappear, and I make my peace with the small victories where I can get them. If we can’t be making love in the real world, at least we can flirt here.

  You’re taking it rather better than I would, a disembodied Nigel voice says.

  Mary’s eyebrows lower. “Nigel, fuck off.”

  Yeah, fuck off, comes a chorus of other disembodied voices in unison.

  Church! Church! cries Nigel.

  Mary’s gloved fingers work into mine. Bruce clears his
throat and together we face the stark fortresslike façade. Almost no ornamentation. Nothing like what I usually think of when I think of European cathedrals, although the singing coming from inside feels suitably Christmasy.

  “This isn’t baroque architecture. Shh.” Bruce raises his forefinger to indicate he’s listening to the Christmas carol.

  I listen too. It’s familiar, but I can’t place it. Or maybe it’s Mary who knows it and can’t place it. Our thoughts are so intertwined, it’s hard to tell who’s who. Her arm squeezes mine, not so much to get warm, but because these powers are still new to her too. It’s a lot to get used to.

  “‘The Friendly Beasts,’” whispers Bruce. “It’s not a song either of you knows. It’s familiar to you both through the Collective Unconscious.”

  Comprehension settles into me. “It’s in French.”

  “Yes.” Bruce regards Mary with a smug smile. “That is because we are in France.”

  “Obviously,” I reply, using a tone I’m hoping makes it look like he’s the one who needed it spelled out. Mary eases her grip on my arm and leans away, scrutinizing me, one eyebrow slanted.

  “I love you,” I say, since I’m already broadcasting it loud enough to be heard on Venus.

  “I know,” she deadpans, plucking the Han Solo line from the recesses of my brain.

  “I realize this is all new and miraculous and everything,” says Bruce, making eye contact with each of us in turn, then clapping his hand on my shoulder. “But there are prisoners in the conscious world who are relying on you.”

  “Yes,” Mary and I answer, share an embarrassed glance, then refocus on Bruce.

  “Good. Edger, we are here because you must learn all you can about your opponent. Mary, you must learn also, but your value is in keeping Edger alive. Do you understand?”

  “Her value!” I exclaim, and the sky rumbles.

  Mary glances at the dark clouds rolling in, then refocuses on Bruce. “I’ll die for him.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “You won’t.”

  “If it means rescuing every living person on the planet, yes, Edger, I will.”

  Bruce wags a finger at us. “Not only the living. But also the dead.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Also the dead,” I repeat, raising my arms in frustration. “Because the stakes aren’t high enough. I liked you better when you did fortune cookies.” Doing my best fortune cookie voice: “Wise man say: pigeon poop burn eyes seventeen hour. You will learn hard way.”

  “This isn’t a game, Edger.”

  “Then maybe stop saying crap like ‘Mary’s only value,’ and we don’t need to do this every time.”

  Bruce’s head tilts back, and he peers down his nose at me, despite the fact I’m much taller. And as fascinating as it is how he can do that, there’s something in his head that’s different. I can…sense it.

  He nods. “We’ve lost Shakespeare. And then we lost Killmaster.”

  “What?” I exclaim, my wind knocked out. “What do you mean, lost?”

  “One minute they were with us, the next…gone.”

  “Gone how?” asks Mary.

  “We don’t know. Their souls could’ve been annihilated, but for what reason, I cannot say.”

  “Annihilated…” A boiling dread percolates inside me. “Wait. You said Shakespeare disappeared first and then Killmaster,” I say, extrapolating from his thoughts. “What? Like he was trying to save him?”

  “Exactly like that.”

  My stomach knots.

  “Could they have been taken behind the curtain?” asks Mary. “Kidnapped?”

  Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Possibly.”

  I stand straighter, my pulse ratcheting. “But that’d mean Nostradamus knows where we are, right? We should probably find another island hideout.”

  “Time works differently in the Collective Unconscious,” he replies. “Hours here can be seconds in the real world. But if Shakespeare and Killmaster are indeed behind the curtain, we have reason for haste.” His gaze weighs each of us in turn before facing the church. “The people we seek are inside.”

  Mary and Bruce set off for the church through the falling snow. I screw down my anxiety and hurry to catch up, my crunching boots drowning out the Christmas carol.

  “Are you in danger?” I ask, catching up and addressing Bruce. “If someone can take down Killmaster—wait. Is the Collective Unconscious itself in danger?”

  “Yes,” he replies over his shoulder, not slowing. “I said the living and the dead. And then you said pigeon poop.”

  Mary and I exchange a glance.

  “You must not fail,” says Bruce.

  Mary meets his gaze. “We won’t.”

  Bruce holds the door open, and torchlight floods over the snow-covered cobblestone. Mary enters first. I stop in the doorway and loom. “Is Dad safe?”

  “For now.” Two spiral galaxies swirl in his dark eyes as he stands half inside the church and half out.

  “Okay, listen,” I whisper. “Quick. I’m freaking out, okay? I know what you want from me. Whether I can go through with it is another question. But I need you to leave Mary out of it.”

  “Out of what?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever your big plan is for her. I can already tell I don’t like it.”

  “My only plan for her is she helps you make it to the end of your journey,” he replies. “Which she has pledged herself to do.”

  “Yeah, well… We’ll see about that.”

  He meets my gaze with indifference, and I leave him at the door.

  The light and warmth of the blazing torches inside the sanctuary seep into my bones. My Hallmark Christmas outfit disappears, replaced for some reason by my Über Dork uniform: black pants, sneakers, a white, short-sleeve button-down, and black tie. I’ve even got the ID badge pinned to my breast pocket. Is Mary seeing this? I turn to face her and find she’s changed too. She’s in the tan leather jacket and tight-fitting jeans she wore the first time she came into the Über Dork. The day she called me up to Mikey’s office. She holds her arms out, inspecting herself, then lowers them and turns her clear blue eyes on me.

  “Guess I took a cue from your subconscious.”

  “Or I did from yours.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Bruce teleports into the space between us like Captain Kirk. “Neither of you are the same as you were. The future is now.”

  “Says the guy who keeps dragging us into the past,” I reply.

  Singing voices carry high into the vaulted ceilings and seem to carry a part of my brain up there with them. A light-headed spell washes through me. The air is woody and thick. Worming into my subconscious is Mary cataloging the complex mixture of fragrances in the burning incense. Pine, lemon, cypress oil, caramel…

  No sermons this time. Nigel phases into existence in a threadbare suit, gleaming black shoes, and a balloon creation of a naked woman tucked under his arm.

  Mary gasps.

  “Er, hello.” The naked woman balloon disappears. “Nice to meet you.”

  Mary scowls. “Nigel…”

  Shackles materialize around his wrists and ankles, and heavy chains pull him to the floor. My gaze whips to Mary. Her power-drill gaze is set to highest torque.

  “It’s the same as Bruce did,” she says, her attention remaining on Nigel. “I’m a fast learner.”

  “Yes, well,” says Nigel from the stone floor as the chains tighten. “Er, I feel we’ve rather gotten off on the wrong foot.” His gaze takes in the chains on each hand. His eyebrows rise. “Or perhaps this is getting off properly?”

  She shakes her head. “You little troll.”

  A dagger materializes out of thin air beneath his chin. He lengthens his neck and releases a nervous laugh.

  “Wow. That’s just… You’re rather talented at all this, aren’t you?” He looks at Bruce. “She’s rather talented, wouldn’t you say?”

  Bruce checks his watch, folds his arms, and leans on a pew back.

&nb
sp; Nigel slumps on the floor. It’s strange to put features to him, his beak-like nose, sunken eyes, and weak chin. It’s the first time we’ve had more than a psychic interaction. Kind of like meeting an online acquaintance, if that online acquaintance posted no pictures of himself and clicked “like” on every beach picture you posted.

  “I don’t have a weak chin!” he exclaims, his face turning pale, then translucent. The chains tighten into knots as he vanishes completely, only to rematerialize in front of Mary. A frog-like grin spreads across his face as he peers up at her. “Willianbottom!” he cries, reaching out and pulling back with his arms as he thrusts his pelvis forward. “Get it? Willy in bot—”

  “Come on, is that even necessary?” I ask. “We’re in a church, for God’s sake.”

  “Most of them are,” Nigel replies.

  Mary arches an eyebrow. “No better place to pray your soul doesn’t get annihilated.”

  “Is that a threat?” Nigel straightens, then wheels around to face Bruce. “She just threatened me!”

  “Quiet, all of you,” says Bruce. “You’ve forgotten we’re on a schedule.”

  “You’re the one who said time works differently here,” says Nigel.

  We turn as one to face the front where the choir has finished rehearsing. Parents are rising from their seats, their arms full of gift-wrapped packages. Children rush out from the choir pews to meet them. A pair of three musketeers-looking guys in puffy jackets, berets, and tights cross the transepts to meet a third on the far side.

  “All for one and one for all,” I mutter.

  “What’s that?” asks Nigel. “Ah, yes. Three musketeers. Nice one.”

  “That’s where we need to be,” says Bruce.

  “Too right! Detective work, then. I’ve got just the thing.” Nigel’s clothes phase into a period Sherlock Holmes tweed cape coat, a double-brimmed deerstalker hat materializes on his head, and a magnifying glass in one hand and pipe in the other. Soap bubbles rise from the pipe as the church brightens to whiteout, then darkens again to normal lighting. We’ve phased across the church, inches from the three men now huddled in their colorful outfits. Backs to us, one is tall, one is average, and one is short.

  “Rather convenient.” Nigel raises his magnifying glass and peers into the short one’s ear as his pipe releases another soap bubble. “I detect this one likes his porridge hot. I further detect that one likes his porridge cold. And—” He screws up his face. “Ew. You don’t want to know what that one likes.”

 

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