“I need you, Wand,” Whitey says, and his eyes were fierce and strong again though there were flecks of blood on his lips. “You know I do.”
“I cant do nothin,” I told him.
“Cant do nothin if you say you cant. Your a young boy, and I think youve got some sense.” He gave a sly smile. “Maybe not much sense, but its in there. You let me teach you what I know, and you can be Yellachile’s cage. I can show you how to fix the gears and keep em oiled. I can show you how to hold Yellachile so wont nobody know he aint real. I can teach you things about the world, boy. Show you them books, and if you cant read em you can look at the pictures til they come alive in your head. I can teach you to listen and hear a mans life story in a sentence. You can keep Yellachile alive… and if you do, hes gone take you places you always dreamed were true.”
“No,” I said. “I couldnt do none of that.”
“Why not?” he asked me, and he let it hang.
It was up to me. Now I wont lie and tell you I said yes. I didnt. I got up and left, cause what he was talkin was way beyond me. I wasnt no voodoo man. Didnt particularly care to be, neither. But at night I had trouble sleepin. When I did, I dreamed about Yellachile flyin in the dark, lookin for a place to come down. Just flyin and flyin and no rest in sight, and gettin so tired and weak that the wind shoved it any old direction. Soon Yellachile would be so far from the Brickyard that he couldnt come back, not ever. Then those stone walls and those barbed wire fences would be our world, and that would be the end of it.
I missed Yellachile so bad. I yearned, and I needed.
Whitey worked on the Brickyard’s clocks. Thats why they kept such good time. He told the Cap’n he needed a helper. Lots of clocks in the Brickyard, lots of chances to watch time crawlin past.
It wasnt no easy thing. Whitey tried to give me a lifetime of learnin in eight months. Some of it sank in, some of it I had to do my own way.
I dont show Yellachile so much as he did cause my hands aint as quick. Well, Im learnin. Gonna take time, and Ive sure enough got a lot of that.
I never said I was a voodoo man, but the word gets round. Whitey left Yellachile to me when he passed on, and people want to believe and so thats all right too. Ive had to get glasses, and readin’s easier. Still a lot to learn, though, but I feel alive in a way I aint never known before. Feel like I used to be a dead man just walkin around in skin.
Oh, them faces when they see Yellachile! They want to know where Yellachile went last night. They want to hear did Yellachile fly over the turrets and drop a spot on the stones for good measure? Did Yellachile go south, or north, or east or west? Did he see mountains, rivers, orchards, fields, and hometowns? Did he fly over baseball fields and jukejoints, and did he hear hot jazz music and the silver laughter of women? I say yes, all of those and more. And then I tell them. Not so good as Whitey, but Yellachile’s cage is in me now, and I do the best I can.
Somethin in me has been set free from a cage I never knew was there. It flies with Yellachile at night, and we go together on the wind. Sometimes we pass over Masonville, over that park with the golden lamps, on and on and into the world of many worlds that lies before us. It is a mighty big land, and it makes the Brickyard’s walls seem like little threads of nothin.
Im gone stop writin now. Gone put these papers away in a safe place. Like I say, Mister Wheeler’s helpin me to read and write better, and Im curious bout that old typewriter over there. Maybe I ought to write down some of where Yellachile flies to. Maybe I will.
I aint no voodoo man. Im Yellachile’s cage, and thats plenty magic enough.
****
Remembrance by Robert R. McCammon
I counted Dave Silva as a friend and someone who was honest and “real.” I’m sorry I didn’t get more chances to see him and talk, but the times I did are very memorable to me. I will miss him very much, but in myself and in the people he knew and touched Dave lives on as a true gentleman and a great guy.
Robert R. McCammon
ZACHARY’S GLASS SHOPPE
Yvonne Navarro
He found the place in a lousy neighborhood on the south side, a place Miranda would never go on her own. That’s what he wanted–if she returned one more gift he thought he might strangle her outright and fuck the consequences.
Zachary’s Glass Shoppe.
The store looked seedy, but peering through the crisscross of metal bars over the dirty windows gave Channing a glimpse of colors and crystal that hinted at unique treasures. He glanced at the Mercedes; even parking directly in front was no comfort. Dark, sullen faces watched him silently from doorways and front steps along a street gone unnaturally quiet. Like stepping late into a full class in grade school– he was surrounded by the feeling of eyes. His stomach twisted just a bit.
The thought of another returned present made him grind his teeth and he stepped to the door, running a nervous hand through his thick hair. A tall, heavily-built teenager walked by and made a kissing sound; Channing ignored it.
“Hey, man,” the guy said. “That’s some hair you got. Let me touch it. We can party down.”
Channing turned and glared at him with the door half open and the teenager glanced up at the sign as if in sudden realization. Before Channing could reply, the man was gone; twenty feet down the sidewalk he slipped into an alley and disappeared.
It doesn’t matter, Channing told himself. Let them think he was gay; he knew better and that’s what counted. The ebony mass of curls that spilled down to his shoulder blades had been the initial bait that had landed him marriage three years ago to Miranda Cuyler, one of the richest women in the state.
A woman who had everything.
Inside, the small shop gave him used bookstore memories from his college days: the aged smells of mildew and dust swirled lazily on the currents pushed from an old ceiling fan. Channing stood uncertainly for a moment, taking in the shelves of colored glass and crystal, all of the would-be sparkle covered with a thin coating of fine, white powder. Apparently the owner didn’t believe in housekeeping.
There wasn’t much to see and he covered it all in about thirty seconds: a few vases and some period glass to his left with a standard run of statues in the window, not much else–certainly nothing special. There was a grimy display case supporting an ancient-looking cash register, but Channing had no intention of trying to clean it so he could see inside.
He’d hoped for better. Wandering around unsupervised for another two or three minutes did little to stall his disappointment and he turned to go, not understanding how the owner didn’t get robbed. There was a rustling behind him as he reached for the doorknob and he looked back to see a tall, thin man with wide shoulders step from behind a curtained doorway that Channing hadn’t noticed in back of the display case. Of all the things that might be extraordinary, Channing’s eyes fell on the man’s hair–thick, dark waves much like his own fell from a side part to well past the man’s ears, partially obscuring almost colorless eyes.
“How may I help you?”
Channing started at the sound; in the short time he’d been inside, the silence had become… comfortable. Although the shopkeeper’s voice was low and carefully modulated, it seemed to intrude on the atmosphere.
“Uh–no, I suppose not.” Channing thrust his hands into his pockets. The proprietor said nothing, but raised a questioning eyebrow. Oddly, Channing felt obliged to explain. “I was looking for something different for my wife. It’s our third anniversary.” He gave the man a small apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t see anything.”
The man gazed at Channing solemnly, taking in the custom-sewn leather jacket and the four hundred dollar Gucci shoes. In the space of two pulses Channing felt thoroughly probed.
“I have something you may be interested in, Mister…?”
“Mandell, Channing Mandell.”
“Mister Mandell. I am Zachary.” He bent with such quick grace that for a moment Channing thought the man had vanished. Then there was a glimmer of movement
behind the filthy case and Zachary reappeared with a mirrored tray. Channing saw with surprise that not a speck of dust showed on the fragile objects d’art resting on the mirror’s surface.
He stared in fascination. Each was unique, a different color, a different shape, a different pose, if such a word could be used to describe abstract glass. Fragile filaments of stretched glass twined and twisted, curving over and upon itself, treating his amazed eyes to a constantly changing and glittering surface. His fingers itched to touch and he bent closer, then reached out a tentative finger–
“Be very careful, Mr. Mandell.”
Channing glanced up to see the man watching him intently and stopped before actually touching the small golden shape that had caught his attention. Instead, he ran a hand along his collar to free his hair and brushed a few loose strands from his jacket. They fell to the grubby countertop and before Channing could blink the shopkeeper had swept them away.
“What are they?” he asked.
Zachary smiled. He had full, womanly lips that seemed a trifle too red; Channing realized in embarrassment that he was staring at the man’s mouth and forced his gaze back to the tray.
“I call them… frames.”
“Frames?” Channing asked in puzzlement. “But that’s such a–a plain description. It hardly describes them.” Channing knew that any hope of price bargaining was gone; gazing at the multi-colored pieces filled him with a sense of childlike awe that he made no attempt to disguise.
“Ah, but it does!” Zachary reached out, his overlong fingers going unerringly to the one that had attracted Channing the most. He plucked it from the tray and held it up daintily between his thumb and middle finger, turning it this way and that, like a jeweler testing a diamond for clarity. “Do you see?”
Zachary thrust the piece under Channing’s nose and he squinted to bring it into focus. It was even more beautiful at close range–not a crack or ragged edge showed anywhere among the myriad strands of glass. But wait–there was something there, in the middle, a flaw of some type.
“What’s that?” he asked, peering hard at the piece. It would be a shame if it weren’t perfect, although Miranda’s myopic eyesight would never notice. “What’s in there?”
Zachary gave him a guileless smile. It reminded him of a documentary he’d once watched on jungle cats; a lioness had stretched in the sun with that same sense of deadly unconcern. The memory left him uneasy; perhaps it was time to tell the shopkeeper that the things were pretty but he wasn’t interested.
“A life, Mr. Mandell.” Zachary reached for Channing’s palm and turned it up, then dropped the golden frame into it. The glass wobbled there and warmth seeped into his skin. “You are holding someone’s life in your hand.”
Channing’s fingers closed protectively around the warm glass.
“I think I’d like to hear about this,” he said.
****
The darkness outside made him nervous. Channing sensed the sly gazes of the same people as when he’d arrived, as though they’d done nothing besides sit and watch, waiting for him to come out. He’d been in the shop for almost an hour, listening to the tale, half-believing it, all thoughts of the seventy thousand dollar convertible forgotten. Yet nothing had happened, no missing wheels or stereo, though he’d left the door unlocked. His father, a race car driver in his youth, had always told him: “Never lock the door on a convertible, Channing. Why lose the stereo and have to replace the top?” But there were no rips in the top or spray-painted obscenities across the hood. The odds of this automobile surviving for an hour in this section of the city were astronomical, but Channing remembered the man who had propositioned him and the way the guy had hoofed it when he’d realized where he was.
He got in and started the engine, letting it warm for a few minutes while he held the small box and looked around at the interior, wondering where he could put it to be sure the contents would not be harmed. The most obvious place was on the passenger seat, where the heavy upholstery would absorb any road shock.
But what if he had a wreck?
He shuddered deliciously. It was bullshit, but he couldn’t help believing Zachary’s story and it sure as hell would make a gift Miranda could never say was a duplicate. Zachary would tell him only that the tiny golden frame contained the life–in the form of some minute personal object–of a woman with the initials W.S. There was a piece of parchment only an inch square in the bottom of the box with those same initials written on it in a thick script.
If the frame were broken, he’d said, the woman would die.
Channing had asked the obvious questions: What was the woman’s name? And what kind of personal object?
Zachary wouldn’t say. The lives were chosen by the personal “objects”–he would not be specific–themselves obtained purely by chance. The sense of unreality grew when Zachary claimed to know nothing but the person’s name, and that only due to his so-called second sight.
What a tale! Channing smiled wistfully. It was Miranda’s gift, sure, but the person he longed most to share it with was his twin sister Adrienne. He closed his eyes and remembered the way she’d looked earlier, when he’d left; the sleep-tousled hair from their short nap, her swollen lips and creamy skin…
“Jesus! Get up, you filthy animal! Get out–and you! Slut! Your own brother!”
The voice was a vicious memory from the past and he pushed it from his mind. So what, he thought bitterly. The parents hadn’t understood the twins, the closeness, the love. When two people shared so much–even the womb–no one else could ever truly substitute. He supposed it was a form of double narcissism, him loving himself in female form, her loving herself in male form. But for the eyes–hers gray, his green, they were mirror images. Personalities were different, of course, the result of being shipped to separate boarding schools at sixteen. It must have been the teen bitches that had nurtured the streak of petty cruelty in Adrienne, and he freely admitted to being able to out-connive almost anyone to get what he wanted. But still, in every other way they fit together like the pieces of one of those silly-looking broken heart necklaces. Someday it’d be just the two of them.
Channing buckled his seatbelt and started the car, glancing at the box once more before pulling away. A small gilded sticker that said Zachary’s Glass Shoppe secured the top flap. There was no address and Zachary had told him he didn’t believe in telephones.
Maybe someday soon.
****
Miranda was captivated by the gift. She played with it and poked at it and at one point Channing thought she might pry the piece apart to see what was inside. His stomach knotted a little as he watched her fingernails picking at the glass filaments; it was embarrassing to realize he worried about the well-being of some unknown person, but there was a definite draining of tenseness when she finally found a place of honor for the frame in one of the oak display cabinets. Although she’d listened with interest to its history, the parchment had gone in the garbage along with the box. At least, he thought as he watched one of the maids empty the trash, that means she wasn’t going to return it.
****
Channing couldn’t bear to be alone in the dark–it was his phobia, a sickness that had been seeded the night in his sixteenth year when his father had caught he and Adrienne together in the poolside sauna. His naked sister had been dragged out and flung at his mother, who was already on her way to hysterics, but he had been locked in. His father had shut down the head and the lights– thoroughly disgusted, he still had no desire to bake his son alive– and left him in the sauna for seventeen hours, a period of time he believed would be long enough to instill in Channing the proper amount of remorse. Ten years later, however, the only thing Channing regretted was not being able to sleep alone without a light.
But darkness could also be his friend.
“Channing, honey, hold me,” Miranda said. She snuggled against him and ran her nails up the silk of his pajama leg. Blinking her lashes, she pushed her face close for a kiss; at h
er hairline he could see the faintest hint of gray. Time for a touch-up, he thought. All things considered, he’d know what he was getting and for her age–somewhere around fifty, she’d say vaguely–she was actually in damn fine shape. His body responded to her searching fingers and he closed his eyes and reached for her.
No good. The light was an intruder, prying at his lids and forcing them open, washing out his fantasy in the rainbow-colored glow from the Tiffany lamp on the nightstand. He rolled away and fumbled for the switch.
“Can’t we leave it on?” Miranda pouted. “I do love to look at you.”
Channing found the switch and darkness swallowed the bedroom, broken only by a hint of moon through the heavy sheers at the window. “But the darkness is so much more… intimate, don’t you think?” he whispered. His hands cupped her breasts and she sighed.
“Yes,” she breathed.
In the blackness, Channing could make out only a shadow on the bed with him. His mind obligingly supplied the details as he moved closer to his wife: shoulder-length platinum hair became long and dark, the age-softened skin became young and supple. He searched her body, remembering another form touched by no one but him.
In his heart, Channing lowered his lips to Adrienne’s.
****
Breakfast, scalding Spanish coffee and bacon croissants served on the patio, would have been perfect if the wrong woman hadn’t sat across the table. Ah, well, Channing thought and smiled as the butler brought him the paper, I suppose you take the good with the bad.
“What are you smiling about, dear?” Miranda asked. She had on those damnable granny glasses again, perched on the tip of her nose as she flipped through a copy of Self. Someday he hoped to see them fall into her coffee. And he hated it when she called him dear.
Better Weird: A Tribute to David B. Silva Page 13