Imaginary Friends

by John Marco

  Why would you do such a thing when I do not deserve your friendship, let alone your forgiveness?

  I am tired, Valdis. I am old and tired, and more than anything I want to rest. I hate what I have become, a man searching for forgiveness when none is deserved. I hate the Writer Voice that plagues me constantly, wanting me to write one last book about our friendship and how I killed you. Oh, how it promises to help me bleed, Valdis. It swears to me that I will bleed like never before, and the words will be both crimson and gold. But I have refused and will continue to do so.

  I do not know how to pierce the veil between us. I do not know how to answer your voice, and so . . . I wrote you this letter, and I will send it to you at the only address I have. I am also sending along the petals from the red orchid you wore in your hair the day that Sebastian painted your portrait. They have always reminded me of you, and I have kept them with me all these years. I could not explain how it is they have retained so much of their color.

  I do not believe this letter will reach you, not really, but maybe it will.

  I am glad that you were—and still are—my friend, Valdis. I do not know what the next life holds for me, but I hope to see you there. To be able to tell you in person how sorry I am for my mistakes.

  I no longer want to kiss you; I know now that some dreams must always remain dreams. But I would like to hold your hand and walk with you, and we can tell each other stories. And if there is a song, perhaps you will sing it, and I will feel like I have finally, at long last, come home. I suspect that it will be soon, and whatever truth or wisdom lies ahead, I will discover you waiting there for me.

  Love Always,

  Rhys Dylan

  Part VII: Mysteries Solved & Unsolved

  Jamie read the final lines of the letter several more times, feeling more than a little let down. Who had Sebastian been? Why did Rhys believe he could hear Valdis’ voice but not understand her? Why would he write to her as though she were truly going to read it? Did he really believe the accident was his fault?

  Sighing heavily, Jamie picked up the orchid petals and gently placed them back in the envelope. Then he took the pages of the letter and was carefully refolding them when he noticed something on the back of the last page. Flipping it over, he saw that there was more writing on the back.

  The light in the room was rapidly fading, so he switched on the desk lamp. The script was a woman’s handwriting, elegant and smooth. It read:

  My Dearest Rhys,

  You are right, my friend. I have been talking to you, calling for you in the only way I could. You may not have understood my words, but I believe you felt my intent.

  I was singing you home, my old friend. I was singing you home and telling you that it is time for you to take a rest. Friends don’t forget what has happened, but true friends always learn to forgive.

  Come home now, Rhys, and we will walk and talk and be together once more. Friends in the next world, holding hands, telling stories and sharing secrets.

  I read the book you wrote, Rhys. It was beautiful and moving and . . . and you are such a gifted liar. Who knows where your talents will bring you next?

  Love,

  Valdis

  Stunned, Jamie looked over the envelope once more. There was no sign that it had been opened, no touch besides his and the firm writing on the front saying return to sender. And that was when he noticed something else, something that caused a shudder to run through his body. There was no postmark on the letter. Wherever it had been sent, wherever it had gone, no mark had been made on the stamp.

  Outside, Damn Dog began to bark, and Jamie hurriedly put the letter back in the envelope and set it on the desk. Then he switched out the lamp and headed for the door. A battered old car was pulling up in the driveway, and a man in a rumpled white shirt and stained blue jeans, looking two parts determined and four parts lost, offered a feeble wave.

  “Are you Mr. Marsters?” he asked.

  Jamie shut the door carefully behind him, then stepped down off the little porch. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I am. How’d you know?”

  The man left his car door open and the engine running.He stepped forward and held out a hand. Jamie took it and noticed that it was stained in various shades and hues. “I’m Sebastian Gardner,” the man said. “Rhys told me you’d be here. I thought he was crazy, but I guess he was right.”

  “You’re Sebastian?” Jamie asked. “The painter?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Still at it after all these years. That’s part of the reason I’m here.”

  Jamie shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Can’t say as I do either,” Sebastian replied. “All I know is what Rhys told me to do, so I’m doing it.”

  “What did he tell you to do?” he asked. “Was he really famous?”

  Sebastian laughed, then turned and headed for his car again. He went around to the back and opened the trunk, then removed a package wrapped carefully in brown paper. “Famous?” the painter asked as he turned back. “No, not really. He wasn’t into the promotion side of things, though his book still sells pretty well. People still talk about it, teach it for memoir writing classes, that kind of thing. If he’d kept writing, I think he would have been huge.”

  Jamie gave a nod to the package. “What have you got there?” he asked.

  “A painting,” Sebastian said. “For you.”

  “For me?” Jamie asked. He shook his head. “I’m still a little lost.”

  “Rhys told me you would be, but he was my friend, so I figure this is the least I can do.” He unwrapped the painting and held it up in the dim evening light. “It will look better inside, but you can still see well enough, I suppose.”

  Jamie peered at the painting and saw that it was a portrait, too. Of the old man. In it, he wore a faint smile, as though he knew a secret and was keeping it from everyone else in the world. It was as striking as the portrait of Valdis had been, though the work was a little darker, the lines a little more heavy. In his lapel, the delicate petals of an orchid were visible. “When did you paint this?” he asked.

  “Last week,” Sebastian said. “Do you want me to take it inside? It’s yours now—along with everything here, including Damn Dog and Damn Horse.”

  “What?” Jamie asked. “Mine? What do you mean?”

  “I’m the executor of Rhys’ estate. Other than some money for his kids, he left everything to you. I figured you two were close or something.” Sebastian was already moving toward the trailer, holding the picture by its frame.

  Jamie followed. “No, no,” he said. “Not really. We talked once in a while is all. What am I going to do with a place like this? I don’t need a dog or a horse!” He was starting to feel panicked, as if the whole world were sliding out from beneath him.

  Sebastian pulled a plain white envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to him. “He told me to give you this. Said it would explain everything.” Then he turned and took the portrait into the trailer as Jamie followed along behind, still stunned at the turn of events.

  Once inside, he turned on the lamp again. It illuminated the painting of Valdis, but Jamie turned his attention to the envelope Sebastian had handed him. Inside was a short note:

  Mr. Marsters,

  In my life, I have learned much and, sadly, far too little. One of the things I have learned is that friendship is rare. Even though we were not close, you extended a hand in friendship to me, keeping a lonely old man brief but valuable company in his final years. For that, I am grateful.

  I have instructed Sebastian to leave most everything here to you. All I ask is that you hang my portrait next to the one of Valdis and take care of Damn Dog and Damn Horse. They make good company when all others fail. Beyond that, mostly they eat a lot.

  Thank you, Mr. Marsters, for your visits and your friendship, as short as it was.

  Best wishes,

  Rhys Dylan

  “I don’t understand,” Jamie muttered again. “We just weren’t that clo
se.”

  “I knew him for years,” Sebastian said, eyeing the wall where the portrait of Valdis was hung. “He didn’t let anyone get close.”

  “Not even Valdis?” Jamie asked.

  “Valdis?” Sebastian said. “What do you mean?”

  “Her,” he replied, pointing to the portrait. “You knew her, too, right? You painted her.”

  Sebastian laughed. “Sure, man, I painted her. But she’s not real. I made her up based on an old Scandinavian goddess of death or some damn thing. Rhys loved the painting, so I gave it to him. Why did you think she was real?”

  Jamie felt his legs grow weak, as the mysteries of Rhys and Valdis and the letter swirled about him.

  “You should sit down,” Sebastian said, sliding the desk chair around and helping him sit down. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost or something.”

  “I think,” Jamie gasped. “I think maybe I have.”

  “What are you talking about, man?” Sebastian said.

  His thoughts whirled as he tried to take it all in. Valdis was real. At least for Rhys she had been. His imaginary friend was a death goddess. Little wonder that his life had been plagued by so much darkness and depression, and yet . . . she wrote back. Or maybe the old man had done it all simply to be perverse.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sebastian said, leaning the portrait on the bookshelf. “I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” Jamie asked, dreading the idea of any more surprises.

  “Rhys told me to tell you something. He was real specific about it, too. Can’t believe it almost slipped my mind.”

  “What?”

  Sebastian’s face screwed up in concentration and thought lines crossed his forehead. “He said to tell you that some mysteries weren’t meant to be solved, just as some lies were meant to be told.” He shrugged his thin shoulders. “Got any idea what that means?”

  Jamie leaned back in the chair and looked once more at the portraits, then he nodded, slowly, as he realized that in some way, he did know what that meant. “Yes,” he said. “I think I do.”

  “Good deal,” Sebastian said. He sighed, then ran a hand through his dark thatch of hair and said, “I’ve got to get going, man. Still a long drive back to Reno. I’ll get you the paperwork on this place in the next week or two, okay?”

  Jamie looked around the tiny trailer and the hundreds of books. He looked at the portraits and the papers. From the doorway, Damn Dog peered inside, his eyes curious, his ear ragged. In his stall, Damn Horse nickered, wanting an apple or simply to have a talk.

  “Take your time,” Jamie finally said. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

  Sebastian nodded once, then left him to the trailer and the desert night. Somewhere outside a coyote barked and a rabbit screamed, and the stars appeared overhead. Jamie sat in the chair and thought about it all, knowing that whatever mysteries the old man had concocted, whatever lies he had told, most of them had been to himself.

  And that was not necessarily a bad thing at all.

  —for Ed Gorman

  THE BIG EXIT

  Bill Fawcett

  THE bullet whined off the sand colored wall, but I did not bother to duck. I did look around to make sure that it didn’t mean that Jeremy had been seen. But the shooter was already out of sight, so he was safe, for now. There were a lot of random shots being fired around Sadr City that day. A few were actually aimed at the American patrols, but most were what my Jeremy referred to as poor weapon control. I think he just meant that the Iraqis tend to waste a lot of ammunition by firing their AK-47s just to hear the bang. The stone dust that had been chipped away when the bullet hit high on the wall above him settled on my boy’s uniform. The dust passed right through me, of course, since I was not real.

  Once, a long time ago, we both had liked big noises. Even when little, he was never afraid of firecrackers or sirens. In those days we enjoyed just banging the garbage can lids together to hear them clang. They made a wonderfully silly sound that was almost music and all loud.

  Jeremy forced himself lower, staying where he was crouched down behind a large, full garbage container of the type you need a special truck to empty. It was pretty obvious that he did not like loud noises as much anymore. I wanted to tell him I was proud because he was afraid and he wasn’t crying. Jeremy was being a big boy. But about then I realized just how long it had been and that he really was all grown up.

  I had been gone a very long time. I know I was somewhere when I was not with Jeremy, but it’s a funny thing. It had always been this way. When you were with your child that other life seems far away and hard to remember. It had no meaning then, and it wasn’t that I could not remember it but that I didn’t care to bother. What mattered to me was that I was here, and that was because my special boy needed me again. And that felt right, because just maybe I still needed him as well. The important thing was that he had needed me and I came. Jeremy always called me Thumper, and so Thumper is who I was. If you could have seen me, you might have laughed. I had hoped Jeremy would when I first appeared again, but he didn’t. His laugh used to be such music. When I made him laugh, everything seemed right.

  You’d have laughed at me mostly because of the uniform. The metallic red coat and tricorn white and yellow hat are both garish and as silly as only the imagination of a two-year-old boy can conjure. I suspect, more than anything else from my red and white striped pants and thick gold lapels, that my image was deeply influenced by some cartoon version of George Washington or Uncle Sam. A picture on a cereal box seems the likely culprit. Though the First President was really kinda stiff necked and would likely neither have seen or approved of the resemblance. Under long white hair that curled at the end, just as Jeremy’s mother’s hair had way back then, was a wide, friendly face that was not really handsome, but so very safe and open. My eyes were brilliant blue, loving, and really did twinkle when we laughed. I always liked that twinkle.

  We used to laugh a lot a long time ago. But that was before he stopped wanting me. We laughed back when Jeremy trusted me with the naiveté and enthusiasm only a child can generate. Those were the good times that make being an imaginary friend worthwhile. I try to remember those and to forget those last days before I was sent away. Things were different at the end, and I could feel myself slipping away. He still needed me, but I no longer fit into his world. It was a terrible helpless feeling made worse because my boy hurt so bad, and I didn’t have any way to help him.

  But I am back now, and I make an effort to put that time out of my mind. A mortar round screams by overhead. I know, because Jeremy now knows, that it is still rising and is no real threat. Probably someone with an “Eighty” taking advantage of the chaos to throw a “round” at some place known colorfully as the “green zone.”

  There were lots of new words in Jeremy’s head, but not so many laughs. I paused and wondered if my silly dance could make him laugh again? It always did in the days before he sent me away. But this was not the time or place, and I was a little bit reluctant to find out the dance was gone with his youth.

  Seeing the fear in my boy’s eyes makes me remember those last horrible days. Jeremy cried a lot, but only I noticed. His parents were too wrapped up in learning to hate each other. We were under the blanket that last night, hoping the heavy wool would stop the sounds, or maybe just that the powerful demons that had been his parents would not notice us. They were yelling mean things at each other as had been almost always the case the last few months. Hurtful things about useless burdens and dark, evil secrets. I only understood what Jeremy did, and mostly he knew with certainty that whatever was wrong had to be his fault. He knew his father was big and strong and seemed to know just about everything. And the boy of four was just as aware that his mom was the most loving person in the world and the only one who knew how to make a skinned knee feel better. His parents were, well, his parents, the one thing he could depend on in a world that grew bigger, and more threatening, every day. He was the one who always seemed to do
things wrong. So if there was trouble, it had to be his fault too. Mom and Dad were just too special for it to be them. So he hid from the sounds, and the light, and even the air so that no one could see his guilt and despair.

  It was hot under the blanket and wet from his tears. I made the face that always made my boy laugh, but Jeremy just buried his head under his pillow and sobbed some more. I stayed there, but he was too deep inside himself to see me any more. Finally the front door slammed, and it got quiet.

  Some time later he was brave and came out from under the blanket. The air was cool, and with the quiet Jeremy let himself have just a little hope. Maybe he was forgiven and everything was okay again. But a while later we could hear his mother sobbing, deep wracking sobs that hurt to just listen to. So they both sobbed, Jeremy and his mom, she on the living room couch and Jeremy in his bed, until each had cried themselves to sleep.

  The last time Jeremy saw his dad was the next morning. He arrived with the crash of the door opening and a silent glare that froze all three of us over our breakfast.

  “Just gettin’ my stuff,” the man who controlled my boy’s world growled and brushed past. What hurt was that Jeremy never took his eyes off of his dad, but the big man never even looked at him.

  They were eating Cheerios in chocolate milk. His mother used to make that on some days to make breakfast a little special. This was the last time she ever did that. They ate without tasting the treat to the sounds of drawers opening and muttered curses. It seemed a long time before his father appeared again. The man had changed into his dark suit and carried the big, gray Samsonite bag that smelled of mothballs. They never traveled much and only had that one suitcase. From the way he walked, it must have been heavy. My boy’s mom stood up, but his dad gave her such a look that she took a step back and almost fell over her chair. He didn’t seem to care and hurried past them both, his head rigid and eyes empty.

  “Dad?” Jeremy risked just as his father opened the kitchen door.