by Cat Bruno
“Over three feet. The vases themselves are at least two feet tall, and the white peonies will be stacked with dahlias for more depth and height. Throw in the crystal waterfalls that will hang from the vases uppermost edge to the tablecloth, and the visuals will be just spectacular.”
With lips tucked in and his forehead wrinkling in silent disapproval, Sebastian asked, “Will it not be too much?”
Toby and I both laughed, with relief and real enjoyment.
“This will be my only wedding, ever,” I playfully interjected. “And one that Columbus will not forget. Nothing will be too much. Although you might tire of seeing gold and silver before the night ends.”
In further explanation, Toby spun in an elegant pivot with his arms spread out and his fingers dancing as he said, “The room itself is quite simple. Immaculate and refined, for sure, but aside from the towering windows, there is little that stands out from a design perspective. Yes, I see the colonial-inspired touches, like the massively high ceilings and the arched windows and entryways. But, true to form, the room is not as gaudy as a Victorian-designed one. Which will work well against what Dandelion and I have come up with. Just wait, Sebastian, and have your own photographer on hand, for this room will shine with a light bright and divine. You will want to immortalize the night.”
I could have wept. Toby proved again how invaluable of a protector he was and how perfect this wedding would be with him guiding me along.
The Inn owner’s doubts did not fade from his sun-tanned face, but he shrugged in acceptance of our nontraditional excitement.
“Come, let us speak with the chef,” Sebastian commented.
After an hour of sampling some of Chef Tamara’s favorite options, we decided on an opening course of Caprese salad featuring locally grown tomatoes and basil. Mid-September tomatoes would be sweet and large, a perfect base for the thick strips of buffalo mozzarella and Tamara’s balsamic reduction. Next, corn chowder would be served, a personal favorite of mine and spiced strongly with jalapenos under Tamara’s watch. For the main entrée, guests would choose from a bone-in filet, lemon-zest salmon, or a pasta primavera for those who chose a non-meat option. In addition to the sit-down menu, there would be a cocktail hour highlighting Ohio cuisine and drinks, per William’s request. Appetizers would include: corned beef sliders, bacon and cheddar topped potato wedges, cups of pawpaw pudding, buckeyes (chocolate-dipped peanut butter balls), kielbasa and banana pepper kabobs, and three different types of pierogies. Along with the food would be an open bar featuring Columbus-created gin, a maple whiskey, Lake Erie-region wine, and several Ohio craft beers.
William had emailed Sebastian very specific instructions on the cocktail hour that very morning. Several of the featured local businesses had a connection with him or supported his upcoming campaign, I had learned. That mattered little to me, and I nodded when Toby chimed in his appreciation that my fiancé had finally taken an interest in some aspect of the wedding.
“He trusts me or you, or both of us,” I laughed. “But I do think this Ohio-centric touch is a perfect reflection of our future together.”
“What about the press, Ms. Jackman? I would not be surprised to have a few online or monthly publications here,” Sebastian mentioned.
By now you should know how little I enjoy attention. However, I realized that the more I was photographed smiling and joyous, the more the public (and the police) would believe that I played no part in William’s death. A terrible thought, I know, and one that I will have to atone. And I will, my friends, when all of this is over. Be assured that I have a long list of transgressions that I plan to read over when I get to the other side. Millennia ago, Nemesis held just such a list. Hers, of course, was stone and heavy; the names of those she must punish chiseled by hand upon her slab of granite. Whereas I kept track through my cell phone, emailing myself a coded list in case my memory fails. My pilgrimage to the shrine in Rhamnous will be my day of reckoning when all this has reached a conclusion.
I can hardly wait to tell you of that day, when I hiked the path to the highest point in the Attican city. There, staring down at the dark blue waters of the Euboean Strait, I wept. Tears of regret, tears of understanding, tears for what once was. Tears mostly for who I was once, I suppose.
The temple now lies in ruins, although I remember how it appeared so long ago. I mourned those days, when the Parian marble statue of me still stood tall and the walls of the fortress protected those who sought my justice. No photograph can capture the view from the top, or I would have shared it with you, my friends.
Just know this, if I had died there, as I had planned and had I not been interrupted, my soul would have been at peace. I would have been home.
“You act as if I am famous,” I softly chided Sebastian, making certain that he could hear the jest behind my words as I came back to the present.
“It’s Ohio, Ms. Jackman. William, if I hear correctly, will soon be running for office. Others have heard as much. There might be some interest in this wedding, I’m guessing. Not from national publications or anything of the sort; just some locals with an interest in the happenings of Columbus. Anyone with a cell phone think themselves a detective or photographer these days.”
“If someone comes with real credentials or a press pass, allow them entry. Just let me know so that I can make sure William and I are on our best behavior,” I laughed.
Shortly after that discussion, Toby and I walked toward our cars.
“Are you okay, Dandelion? You seem like you’re in another world at times.”
Subconsciously, beneath his white, fitted t-shirt and snug black pants, Toby realized who I was. The modern version, with his hair lightened and swept to one side in rolling waves of faded silk and his eyebrows trimmed and arched neatly, stared at me with unknowing eyes. Deeper, however, where the effects of technology and style did not define him, Toby remembered the past; the one that contemporary distractions attempted to erase. Which man asked about my well-being? The golden-helmed one, with winged and sparkling sandals of gold? Or this one, whose beauty burned as bright, despite the smog of modernity and a body to match?
What else could I do but embrace him? My fingers entwined and pressed against his back.
“You’re just the best, Toby. And I am fine, perfect, in fact,” I told him as I slowly pulled away. “We will be friends forever, I know it.”
For a moment, his eyes glowed dark with ichor and knowledge. And I knew that I hovered too close to Olympus and too far from Ohio. Mistakes like that could expose me, and I shook my head to come down.
“One of the women I covered for my feature died recently,” I admitted a bit later, to explain my behavior. “She reminded me of someone I once knew, and her death has shaken me more than I’d like to admit.”
“Oh, Dani, I’m sorry. It all makes sense now.”
To be honest, I hated that I had used Lizzie’s death to cover my mood. That moment reminded me that I needed to focus more on my earthly existence in the coming weeks. I could give no other hints as to who I really was.
“Have you seen the pictures of the lake house?” I asked in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “I’ll text you the link. It’s right in the lake, not on it. There’s a small strip of land between Sandusky Bay and Lake Erie, and the house is one of the few that are built upon it. There are six bedrooms, I think, a hot tub, even a small outdoor sauna. And it’s close to a few wineries so I’m sure the weekend will be a blast.”
My voice was nearly as high-pitched as a young girl’s, as I forced myself to pretend in that human skin once more. Toby no longer questioned me, accepting that we were only Dandelion and Toby here. Not long after, I drove home, forcing myself to forget the wings at my back.
For the next month, I am mortal.
35 Days until I Do
For weeks, I have been on my best behavior. An angel, if you will. Between responding to emails and requests for interviews about my photographs to getting my hair and makeup done,
I had little time to plan. My only concession to that other world was to allow myself to order Toby a gift for all of his help. While I waited at the salon for the dye to set on my hair, I shopped for what I hoped would be the perfect present. Despite my vow to stay focused, I had an idea already of what I wanted to find. What surprised me was how many choices existed.
After an hour, I settled on a pair of sneakers. You might be thinking, “A pair of sneakers?”
Do you not know me well, yet, my loves? Of course they were not ordinary or unremarkable. They were as spectacular as Toby himself: gold and shiny, with laces to match. Not a matte type of gold, keep in mind, but a shimmering, metallic one, with a luster as near to jewelry as I could find. From toe to heel, the patent leather had been dipped in gold, as if King Midas had crafted them himself. Only the soles were white, and, even then, they had been splattered with specks of gold dust. I spent far more than I expected (they were a collector’s item, like some sneakers tend to be), but I could not wait to see his delight when he opened the box.
How he will soar when he wears them!
William and I had dinner with his parents that night. They had driven in from Virginia to stay with us for a few days, and, after a few weeks of traveling, would return to help with any final arrangements and take up residency nearby to assist with William’s campaign. They were both quite kind to me, even if his father could not hide his disappointment that I was not moneyed or connected. That night, we discussed my feature, although neither could say the word heroin aloud. Instead, they tiptoed around it, asking what those months were like when I traveled and remarking about how afraid I must have been.
“She did come back bloodied,” William chirped, mostly to shock his parents, I knew. “But it was her own doing.”
“I passed out in the hotel bathroom and cracked my head off the vanity,” I lied as my fingers trailed along my hairline.
“Oh, my dear!” his mother had exclaimed as she leaned in closer to inspect the fading scar.
Some time later, while we shared a slice of blueberry cheesecake, she asked quietly, “Who will walk you down the aisle, Dandelion?”
When I paused, she added, “Teddy has offered, of course.”
“What a kind thing for him to do,” I told her sweetly. “But I have asked a very dear friend of my parents to do me the honor. In fact, it was Jakob who gave me my very first camera. I just love the idea that the man who set me on the path to photo-journalism, which is why I met William, you know, will be the one to hand me off.”
That reply was no deception. I had wavered between asking Toby, even more so after his intervention with Medusa, and Jakob, but decided that only Jakob could replace my father. A loop would be closed when he offered me to William, tying off with a crisp bow my connection to the modern world.
“That is simply darling,” his mother had chimed.
Have you ever wondered if the gods feel remorse? If they watch what befalls mortals and think regretfully that they should have intervened? Millions die, from war and disease, from accidents and from crimes. From illness and mistake. And still the gods just watch, sipping at nectar as blood spills across the lands that they created.
To be heartless and merciless was not my goal, my friends, and I ached with grief as I chatted with Susanne. I recall having to refill my wine glass to ease the rising crests of sorrow.
But do not forget that it was not my decision to kill William. Justice was mine to enforce, I admit, but they were not my laws and were written thousands of years before that dinner with Teddy and Susanne.
By now, I do not expect you to like me much. Even those of you looking for guidance as you walk your own paths toward divinity or crime might hate me some. I am not perfect, and I am not immutable. There are mortal flaws in me, I think. The books and philosophers, clerics and priests who tell you that god is perfect are simply not correct. All-knowing and good; that is not me, my friends.
I am contradictory and hypocritical, terrible, yet just. All-powerful? Hardly, or William would have never cheated on me. Even the Christian god understands the imperfection of an immortal existence.
When asked by Moses to share his real name, he answered, “I will be what I will be.”
One who shifts and evolves, as any of us might.
What I do know for certain is that I drank too much wine that night and woke the next morning with a pounding head and a lecture from William.
“My parents do not want to hear about your junkie friends,” he had begun.
“It was not my planned line of conversation,” I half-heartedly rebutted as I rolled onto my side to avoid the morning sun slinking through the curtains.
“You realize the line you will have to walk once my campaign begins, right? We will be under constant scrutiny, Dani, and will need to operate as if there are eyes watching us at each moment.”
All this from the man who was sleeping with another woman. But that didn’t matter, I guess, since it happened behind closed doors. In private quarters, he could kiss the lips of his whore, run his fingers through her naturally blond tresses, undress her as if her body had been sculpted of marble. Oh yes, William could spend hours in her embrace, with his charmingly mussed hair prettily out of place and his cheeks flushed from their lovemaking. But I must not mention the months I spent following those his parents pretended did not exist.
More was said that morning, of how I must present myself and how I must look, but I have forgotten most of it, as I knew it would not matter. Later, after he had gone to the gym (or so he said), I dressed in running clothes and retrieved the burner phone from where I had last hidden it, before tucking it into the elastic waistband of my pants. My real phone I left at home as I jogged about a mile to a nearby park. It was nearly eleven by then, and the summer sun bright and round. My sweat smelled of alcohol as it dripped down my forehead and cheeks. Helios drove his chariot of four, winged stallions across the sky; atop his dazzling locks, he wore a seven-rayed crown of sunlight. Even his purple robe shined, for it had been spun from the finest and rarest of silks.
How brilliant and intimidating the tribute to him must have been when it towered over the Greek island of Rhodes. The Colossus, it was named, had once stood at the highest point on the island and not in the harbor as many incorrectly believed. Created by the smote bronze of the fallen enemies of Rhodes, Helios watched over the lands and sea from his vantage point, with his gaze to the rising east. A cloak hung across his left arm, while a torch was lifted in his right. None could doubt whom he was as the diadem of sunrays burned bright across his brow. A marble base lifted him higher still, until Colossus’s height spanned over 100 feet. Such was his beauty and magnitude that it was placed as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
He has fallen now, downed by an earthquake within a century of his erection. But I remember his glory and smiled as his heat cleansed my body of the previous night’s revelry.
By the time I reached the park, my tank top was damp, despite the relatively short distance. I jogged for another five minutes or so, circling the park and enjoying the evenness of the paved sidewalks. Toward the backside of the city oasis, I discovered a bench and slowed my pace until my breathing had returned to normal. That’s when I sat cross-legged on the black-iron seat and searched for information on automobile air bags and brake lines, safety recalls and road dangers. Weeks before, and rather by chance, I had come across an article about a newly married couple whom had been killed as they drove to their honeymoon.
After I read of their wedding and the years they had spent traveling to various adventures, tears of great mourning dropped along the smooth edges of my phone. How dare the gods take them, while William and I yet lived? I longed, with a passion deeply coated in bitterness, to trade places with the newlyweds, even though I knew the exchange to be too late. If I had decided to abandon my plans to shoot William earlier, would they have survived? Perhaps, I had concluded, with a growing sense of how unfair the wheels of time spin.
/> Who else to blame but Chronus, the Titan king and ruler of the cosmos? The one who had swallowed his own children, except for Zeus and only because Rhea tricked him into swallowing a swaddled stone instead. Chronus had been first among the deathless gods and reigned over the Golden Age, one that saw peace and prosperity abound. In fact, his mortals, the Golden Race, knew no strife or hardship, only love and wealth. When they were replaced by mortal men – the ones you and I are descended from, my friends – the Pure Spirits, as they were originally named, covered themselves in mist. Now, they roam about, keeping watch on us and granting us fortunes and bounties. Angels? That is the name we have given them now, one that they have earned for they do not wish us harm.
You might be wondering why I share this lesson from our history of the Daimones and of their maker Chronus. The answer is simple: had one such Spirit come upon me as I sat sweaty and stinking on that bench and told me to abandon my plans, I would have. If one had promised me that justice would come, and I need not be the reckoner, I would have wept with relief.
But that did not occur. None, not even the Titan god or his chosen rulers of mortals, could wear these wings or carry this tablet etched with William’s name and his sins. None could carry this lash, the infinite whip of justice.
I take no joy in what must come and only do what I must.
---
Twice I thought of cutting my hair in the weeks prior to the wedding. Just chopping it off until the waves of gold fell to their death on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor. I am not a blond, I had told William once, but he insisted the shade looked stunning on me, so I agreed to its maintenance. Now, however, I stared at myself in the oversized oval mirror and could not identify whom it was that stared back. She was pretty, in the way that any with money can be. But her eyes were nearly colorless now, as if they blinded themselves with clouds to avoid seeing what would come.
For days I walked around in a fog, calling off work and barely leaving my bed. Blaming it on the flu meant William stayed far from me; he even slept in the spare bedroom. I was not faking or imagining myself sick. Some sort of malaise had taken over my body until it ached with a fatigue that I could not make sense of. Despite hot baths and morning yoga sessions, my lower back would not loosen and stiffened with pain near the waistband of my leggings. Over the counter pain medicine offered some relief, however I could not move about the house with ease. Instead, I hunched over, unable to stand upright without rivulets of pain streaking through my lower half.