by Rich Horton
I said, “Nice to meet you,” and went back to work.
Sam doesn’t trust many people, for obvious reasons. But he apparently knew and trusted Aidan. Interesting.
Howard Real Estate deals mostly with very exclusive auction houses and the privileged rich who love dirty little secrets. The business has an untraceable phone number and no listed address. Even a search engine won’t find it. But the rich love to talk, and word travels in the right circles. Sam doesn’t have a secretary, doing as much of the work himself as possible. His couriers pitch in. He’s fine with the way we handle the paperwork, but sometimes shakes his head at our filing system. Sandrine ink-stamped her labels with the ace of spades. Matthew, an accountant, ink-stamps his with a buffalo nickel. I mark mine with a tiny silver butterfly sticker, from a package of a thousand I bought at a yard sale.
I watched Aidan as I worked, glancing at Sam now and then to see if he noticed. He didn’t. But Aidan did, and returned my smile.
He stayed all afternoon, though after the first couple of hours he didn’t seem as busy. He gave Sam the bill at closing time, and dropped a business card at each computer station in case we had any problems. I put mine in my pocket. Sam, chivalrous as always, walked us out to our cars and waited until I was safely in mine. I watched Aidan drive away.
At the first red light, I looked at his card. On the back he’d written, Call!
He was a business associate. He wore a wedding ring. It was a very bad idea.
We had dinner. I was buzzing before we’d even finished the appetizer, trembling from being near him. We talked about books and movies, and do-you-travel-a-lot, and what-do-you-like-to-do-on-Sunday? I told him about loving Charles Dickens and Hitchcock. He told me about liking Wallace Stegner and puzzle boxes.
Afterward, in the parking lot, I fished out my car keys and opened my mouth to say goodnight. What came out was, “Is there someplace we can go?”
I thought that night in the hotel room would be all there was, but we were together for two years. Aidan made me laugh, made me howl, made me breakfast. I gave him the book-safe, a hiding place that would remind him of me. I gave him a sweater that would hug him when I wasn’t around. He talked about his children now and then, but rarely about his wife. He said he stayed out of her workroom, she didn’t go into his office, and they gave each other space.
Probably not as much space as he was taking, I knew.
I came out of my shell with him, and realized that going unnoticed didn’t necessarily mean hiding. I laughed more easily, was more willing to try new things. I became omoshiroi for him. He taught me a lot about myself. It wasn’t all good, but it was all useful.
I don’t regret the affair. Maybe that’s the worst part.
I always knew it wouldn’t last, though, the way Mnemosyne knew that one day Zeus would fly away forever. Aidan never took his ring off. He never pretended.
One day there were simply no more calls, no emails, no notes slipped under my door. I left a few voice mails, trying to keep them light, but he’d cut off all contact. It’s called ghosting.
I spent hours playing computer mahjongg, tiles clicking like prayer beads, but wabi-sabi got me through the worst of it: broken or not, my heart still worked. I waited out the worst of the ache until one day I realized he wasn’t in my every waking thought. But, being what I am, I still kept track of the time since he’d left. As of today, I hadn’t heard tell of him in one year, eight months, two weeks, and four days.
But I feel him now, a slow-drifting chill behind me, and check my watch as he enters me for the last time.
• • •
He flows over my tongue like melting snow, and settles in as I lock the hold.
I put the book-safe back, then go downstairs and open the door, knowing Valerie is watching. She comes back, shivering, and leaves the door open, an unspoken plea for me to go.
I pass over the confirmation form, which states the ghost has been removed. She takes it without comment and leans toward me, staring into my eyes as if trying to see Aidan behind them. I wonder how she feels, knowing for certain her husband is inside another woman’s body.
Valerie. From the Latin valere, meaning to be strong.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say.
“Thank you.”
I close the door behind me.
• • •
“Sam? I’ve got the ghost. I have until 4:31. Will you call the buyers?”
“Sure. How’s the road?”
“Okay so far.”
“Be careful, Syne. You know what to do if it gets too bad.”
Release the ghost if I can’t get there in time. Ruin his perfect record, because he’d rather lose his reputation than a courier. I know. But I believe he’ll get me through this, just like always. Get me through, then let me go. This job is his life; he doesn’t expect it to be mine. But in return for helping his couriers get their lives back, he expects them to live well. His first courier, James, got his pilot’s license and now moves cargo of a different kind. Matthew plans to open his own accounting firm. Sandrine bought a casino.
I kind of like selling real estate.
If I can just get through this . . .
Aidan was one of the few people who could understand how scared I am tonight. I thought it might hurt, dealing with him again, but my grief seems to have run its course.
We spent a lot of rainy nights together. Bad weather made it easier for him to come and go unseen. But even he wouldn’t have wanted to travel in this.
Last time I’ll have to do this, I think, just as the car hydroplanes and slews off the road.
• • •
I do my best banshee impersonation during the flight into the alders at the side of the road. Then my brain kicks in: calm down. There are no cliffs to go over; the airbag didn’t deploy. The car is still running.
I concentrate for a moment, looking inward. The hold is still closed. Aidan is quiet. I banged my head on . . . something, but nothing’s bleeding. My left arm slammed against the door when the car stopped. My hand is numb and the wrist is starting to swell, but I can move my fingers. My watch flashes 2:23.
I call Sam. “I’m off the road.”
“You okay?”
“Okay enough, but I’m stuck.”
“Where are you?” I give him the GPS coordinates. “Sit tight, I’ll send someone to get you. Call the buyer.”
Richard Ramsey answers. “Where are you?”
“I’ve had an accident. I’m not sure exactly when I’ll be there.”
“Is the ghost intact?”
“Yes, and so am I, thanks for asking.”
“Well, I didn’t mean . . . ”
“Mr. Ramsey, there’s a problem. This is my last job, and I can’t guarantee you’ll get your ghost.”
“We’re paying for it,” he reminds me.
“I’m not willing to die for your vanity. I’ll call back when I know more.”
Sam will move Heaven and Earth to get me out of here, but there’s nothing to do but wait until he does. I wish I had my copy of Bleak House. Then I remember Aidan’s disk, and flip down the DVD player.
The ghost flowing from my mouth is the blue-white of new ice. Long tendrils of mist circle me like ragged ribbons, weaving through my hair, looping through my fingers. They form a vaguely human-shaped cloud that shimmers above me. I seem to glow for a moment, like the moon behind shredded clouds. My eyes look silver.
Omoshiroi, I think. It’s the only time I’ve ever thought myself beautiful.
I reach out to turn off the player as the screen goes blank.
And pause as it clears again.
The woman in the second recording is beyond exquisite. Beautiful enough to be fascinating. Her hair is as red as his name. I check the time stamp in the corner of the screen, wondering how long ago this happened.
One year, eight months, two weeks, four days.
She throws her head back and cries, “Please!”
And he murmur
s, “Impatient little thing.”
• • •
Wabi-sabi knows that everything has its time.
It was good while it lasted.
I put the disk away, and wonder if I have the right to feel betrayed. Probably not, and even if I did—I don’t. And while I’m pondering this, I do one of the dumber things possible: fall asleep after a head injury with a ghost in the hold. I wake to a headache and a fist pounding on the window. Its owner yells, “Sam sent me!”
My watch reads 2:23. Sam’s friend yanks the door open and hauls me out, yelling, “Get in the tow-truck!”
He pulls out into the storm. “I’m David McKinney. I’ll get your car later.”
David, from Hebrew, meaning beloved. “Sam told you the address?”
“He told me everything. Don’t worry, I know these roads.”
I check my watch. 2:23. So far, so good.
Or not.
I waste another second wondering exactly how hard I hit my head before calling Sam. “My watch is broken.”
“Hang on.” My cell screen flashes once, and a chronometer appears, seconds blurring past.
“David, can we go faster?”
“Yeah.”
I hold up the phone so he can read the time. “I have until 4:31. How long will it take to get there?”
“Just about that long.”
“But we can do it?”
He glances in the rear view mirror. “We can, but . . . ” A siren goes off behind us. Blue-and-red lights strobe through the truck cab. Speeding at this hour in this weather, the cops probably think we robbed a gas station.
The car pulls closer. David swerves across the yellow line so it can’t pass. “Sam, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Hang up. I’m calling the Ramseys.” I break the connection and dial. “Mr. Ramsey, listen carefully. I want you to go through your house and turn on all the lights. All of them. I don’t have time to check the house numbers. Open the front door and wait for me.”
“Why?”
The truck swerves again. “DO IT!” I cut the call and tell David, “If I tell you to stop, stop.” If I have to release the ghost in the cab, he won’t be able to see anything for a few seconds, and going off the road once was enough.
Then he takes a turn too fast, and there it is, a mansion with windows blazing and the silhouette of a tall man in the doorway. David rams into the driveway, barely missing an SUV. I’m out before he comes to a full stop, The Gizmo in my hand.
A voice yells, “Police! Freeze!”
I almost knock Ramsey down, clicking The Gizmo as I brace my feet. Aidan comes out of me in a cold mist and rises sparkling to the ceiling.
I stagger a few steps and lean against the wall. It’s done—I’m alive, Aidan’s ghost is delivered, Sam’s reputation is intact. Ramsey’s face is white with shock. He must be horrified to have a tow truck in his yard, its driver handcuffed on the ground. What will the neighbours think?
But it’ll make a great story.
The cop who chased me inside actually has his gun drawn, but he lowers it as I raise my hands. His expression mirrors Ramsey’s. He knows what he’s just seen. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yes, thank you.”
He goes back out and speaks to his partner, who helps David up and removes the cuffs.
“That was amazing,” says a voice behind me.
Aidan’s video didn’t do her justice. Ramsey says, “This is my wife, Tara.”
Tara, from old Gaelic, meaning high ground. Something neither of us has.
I say, “Sorry about the drama.”
“I understand.”
Ramsey says, “She suddenly got it into her head that she wanted a ghost for our new home. As soon as she saw this one listed, she just had to have it.”
Impatient little thing.
“I give her whatever she wants,” he adds.
Apparently not everything, I think.
Tara drifts away, following what’s left of the man she pines for. Ramsey gives me Sam’s payment and my bonus envelope. I leave a business card on the hall table, for the day his wife gets tired of being haunted.
Back in David’s truck, I call Sam. The chronometer reads 0:00. I’m no longer an ectocourier. Tomorrow I’ll turn in my watch and The Gizmo, and destroy Aidan’s disk. I don’t need souvenirs.
But old habits die hard. As the phone rings, I look inward once more, checking the hold. Feeling for a chill. Listening for an echo.
But all I hear is the sound of a closing door.
Cloud
by Michael Swanwick
“Oh, and I should warn you that Aunt Céline is going to make a pass at you.”
“What?” Most of Wolfgang’s attention was on the road. Its surface was slick, and it wound through a forest of misty trees, twists of pale water vapor that faded indistinctly into the surrounding night. “Excuse me, you said what?”
“She’s hit on all of my beaux,” Judith said. “Well, almost all. The ones she didn’t, I always found out later there was something wrong with them. In retrospect, I probably should have run them past her before going to bed with any of them.”
“Wow.” The sign for I-87 floated out of the darkness and Wolfgang took the ramp. “I guess I’d better hope for the best, or we’ll have to call off the wedding.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, handsome.” Judith patted his thigh. “Trust me.”
They drove on in silence for a bit. The interstate was more heavily traveled than the Parkway had been, but straighter and better lit. A bridge rose up before them, and they crossed over a deep chasm caused by a fold in the cloudbanks. Down at its bottom was a bright ribbon of roads and buildings where the surface was flat enough to build upon. “Aunt Céline sounds like quite a character,” Wolfgang said.
“Oh, I told you about her! Céline was the family scandal. She married a man thirty years older than herself—”
“Harmon Anderson, I know.”
“—and I forget how many billions richer. Then, when he died, she spent years defending the estate from his children by the first two marriages. She fought them down to scorched earth. There were headlines. But no one can deny the good she’s done with that charity she founded.”
“You’re proud of her.”
“Darling, who wouldn’t be? Wait until you see her place.” Judith leaned forward and turned on the radio. A scatter of clacking notes of light jazz led into Terry Gross’s voice:
Today on Fresh Air: Is the Cloud trembling on the brink of a rainstorm that will dissolve our world beneath us? Some scientists say yes. I’ll be talking with Dr. James L. Stafford, who—
Wolfgang flicked off the radio. “We don’t have to listen to that. I mean, Christ. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, right?”
“You’re nervous!” Judith crowed in delight. “My big bad woof is nervous about meeting the family.”
“Don’t be absurd. I’ve faced down the best the Department of Justice could throw at me. Families are nothing.” He shifted into a higher gear and gave the Jaguar a taste of speed. It wove around and through the traffic. Meanwhile, the cloudbanks swelled up and up and up and the road went with them. Far above, at their peak, shone the bright skyscrapers of New York City.
• • •
The door opened onto a comfortable haze of conversation and laughter. A string quartet was playing Bach. A valet took their coats.
Before they could plunge in, a tall woman in an Issey Miyake gown swooped down upon them. “Judith!” she cried, adding after an almost imperceptible pause, “and you must be Wolfgang. How delightful, come in, come in.” With hugs and air kisses, Céline drew them out of the anteroom and into the suite. “I don’t think you’ve been here since I redecorated? Let me show you around.” She took Judith by the arm and led her through the penthouse, Wolfgang tagging after. This room had a variety of features and the tapestry came from Spain and hello, it’s been so long, you know Judith, don’t you? Guests
loomed up and melted back into the party.
They drifted through the library, the media area, and the spa, their brief confrontations with a famous cinematographer, his jailbait companion, and a politician on the way down dissolving to nothingness the instant they turned their backs. Wolfgang could not help reflecting on how good Céline looked for a woman of her age. Her vivacity was a part of it, of course, but so was her gown, cut low to show off her freckled breasts. They looked as if they’d been sprinkled with cinnamon. Small silver stretch marks showed at their tops, so he had to assume they were natural. It was easy to see why her late husband had been moved to acquire her. Wolfgang could vividly imagine those breasts naked, beginning to sag but not so much as to be a problem, could picture himself cupping them in his hands, could all but feel their warmth and weight on his palms.
“ . . . should warn you that Radford’s in a sour mood,” Céline was saying.
“Oh, Radford!” Judith cocked her head and launched a dismissive eyebrow. “Nobody takes him seriously.”
The tour wound up where they’d begun, in what Wolfgang now learned was called the commons. A table had newly materialized with hors d’oeuvres to one side, sushi to the other, iced oysters in the center. The caterer—or, no, Céline would have a full-time cook, surely, so this would be another servant—stood by it in respectful silence. On the wall opposite was an oil painting that Wolfgang had somehow failed to notice when he came in. Now his eye went straight to it.
“But this is—” He stopped. “Surely it can’t be.”
“It isn’t.” Céline went close enough to the painting to touch it and he followed. Swirling colors threatened to swallow him whole. “The final version of Cloud is in the National Gallery. But Turner painted eight oil sketches in preparation for it, more than he ever did for any other painting. They were all based on the very latest scientific measurements—some would say the first accurate measurements—of its dimensions. This one was the least highly sought-after because he set it at twilight, whereas the Cloud we most cherish rests in a flat blue sky.
“Yet of the lot, this is the vision I personally esteem the highest, save for the final painting of course, and not just because it’s the one I happen to own. If you look at the bottom edge of the Cloud, there to the right, you’ll see a faint but definite glow that’s only suggested in the other versions. Incipient lightning. Sunlit as they are, the others can no more than hint at what is explicit here—Turner’s frame of mind when he painted it. He thought we were all doomed. No, he was certain of it. You have only to look at the sketch to see. We are doomed, all of us, and our world as well. Knowing this, Turner nevertheless created a work so profoundly beautiful as to be a reprimand thrown in the face of God: Though you destroy us, still we are capable of creating this.”