Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet No. 32

by Kelly Link

  As an indication of where my head was, I confess to not thinking about the scrap until a week later. Finishing the run, swimming ten miles a day, keeping the Mansai in shape, and avoiding my mother at the other end of the pier as much as possible, covered the in-between time. Even when I went back up the same route for my big run, the redhead was an afterthought.

  It was only when I hit Calistoga, almost desperate for my calorie load for the run back to the Bay, that I had to deal with the consequences of my choke-hold. I liked hitting up the nice tourist joint restaurants for grub when I was sweaty, and paying cash for double entrée meals. The place smelled of wood and fire, but most of the fixtures were constructed out of industrial iron and brass. Servers dressed in white shirts and black slacks prayed the heavy-fingered piano player’s jazz standards would cover the clang of their dropping silverware on the brass tables. Most patrons came in dressed in custom suits and designer dresses. Me, I’ve always been sweats ’n’ hoodies girl. Usually I was the most out-of-place-looking person in the spot. But not that day.

  I was devouring two orders of BBQ oysters, fries and half a broiled chicken when a bear-looking man walked in. Seriously, he was 6’9”, three hundred pounds of muscle with another twenty-five pounds of fat for padding. He was local. I’d seen skinnier versions of his face in the area, long in the cheekbones, bullet marks where eyes should be. He wore a large red flannel shirt and Carhartts fit for a bear. But what stood out was his facial hair. It made a mockery of any other beard I’d ever seen. His hair started on his head and covered every part of his face, from pretty close to his eye sockets to well past his collar line. It seemed almost bizarre that a mouth existed under all that fur. But it made him easy to read. As soon as he saw me, the hair moved into a smile. All the wait staff and bartenders seemed to know him. It wasn’t until he sat at my table facing me that I saw any relation to the redhead in the woods. I’m not usually one for weapons, but I palmed my butterfly knife on the off chance the bear tried to maul me in public.

  “What do you weigh in at? One hundred and twenty pounds? Sopping wet?” he asked after it became obvious I wasn’t going to stop eating.

  And you care because?

  “I’m just wondering where all that food goes,” he said with a laugh. “What? You one of those bulimics or something?”

  Mind not talking about gross shit while I’m eating? I snapped.

  “Apologies. Didn’t realize you were so sensitive.”

  The waitress delivered a slice of key lime pie and a glass of red wine so casually I knew she’d supplied the same to him dozens of times before.

  That’s going straight to your hips, I said while shoving a handful of fries in my mouth. He laughed for a while before he could take a bite of pie.

  “I knew this teacher, Filipino chick or something. One of those goody-goodies. Worked at a private school in Frisco. Coached soccer, taught all day, would drive up here and take dirt samples all around my vineyard, acres and acres. All for her thesis. She never broke a sweat.” He looked at me like I was supposed to get it. I kept eating.

  “Turned out she had this hyperthyroid condition. Made her super strong, super fast, sped up her metabolism something fierce . . . ”

  Like a superhero, I said laughing and chewing my chicken.

  “Exactly,” the bear growled back. “Only if she hadn’t have gotten it fixed, it would have killed her.”

  Believe me I was listening for the threat. I stopped eating and stared the bear down. To his credit, he didn’t blink. But he didn’t keep eating either.

  I get the sense you’re trying to tell me something, I said after I pulled my arms under the table.

  “Then you misconstrue me entirely young lady. I’m filled with nothing but questions.”

  Better you ask straight away then.

  “Was that you that choked out my nephew, not nine miles from here while his uncle stood by and watched?”

  Your nephew the sort to chamber a pump action on a jogger while she’s minding her own damn business?

  “It took him two days to fully recover.”

  But he recovered. I leaned back in my chair, spinning my knife to my wrist, ready for whatever came next. The waitress poured another glass of Syrah.

  “My brother, the one with the moustache, said he’d never seen anybody adjust to a threat as quick as you did.” I nodded. “He’s been in Kosovo, Iraq, Afghanistan. But you impressed him. My nephew took a different path. Did six years in Angola, the prison, you understand, not the country. Another three in San Quentin before he got smart about his game. You got the drop on him, and he saw you coming. Now you eat like a horse, but aside from that you don’t say much, seem tough as nails and can obviously handle yourself. Type of business I’m in, I can’t help but ask if you’re looking for work.”

  First time I met Narayana the entire pier was being threatened by snakes. Some idiot independent filmmaker decided he wanted to make a sequel of a movie that he didn’t own the rights to. He was shooting it “guerilla style,” meaning without a script, a proper crew, or a clue. Oh yeah, and it involved snakes on a boat. The majority of houseboats on our Sausalito pier were like the one I grew up in, more house than boat. You’d have better luck finding alcoholics and ’80s radicals living off the grid in those forever moored houses than a sailor or anyone with a hint of grit in them. So when the pock-faced 20-something filmmaker’s snakes escaped after a drunken wrap party, let’s just say things got chaotic.

  Screams of panic didn’t rouse my mom from her drunken snoring back then. But I got curious. Not yet fully dark and all I could see were squirming shadows darting to and fro on the dock, in the bushes, out of people’s boats, falling in the water. Some of the snakes were thinner than a pencil and lightning quick; some moved so heavily across the port they seemed to dare you to touch them. Folks were grabbing their children and pets and locking themselves in their boats or trying to run past the snakes to get off the pier. I turned to go back inside when a coil hissed at me.

  It was a hooded cobra. Don’t ask what kind, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. I just know it was banded, tan, and hissing. It stood between me and the walkway that went down to my boat house. I tried backing up but in doing so I dragged my foot, a sound which agitated the snake. It raised its head a little more and hissed in a lower tone than I thought it would. What freaked me out more was that I thought I heard my name in its hiss.

  I didn’t have time to focus on it. From behind me, a man five inches shorter than me and two shades darker appeared. His arms were so muscular and veiny they looked like a knot of rebar. But they were as skinny as his legs. What little hair he had was a deep red and mostly near his temples. He wore an Ice Cube Predator shirt and carried a large metal trashcan. I couldn’t figure out which one I should be more cautious of: the snake or the man. He didn’t give me a choice.

  “Hold this,” Narayana told me as he took the lid and handed me the can. With circular steps that never left the dock, the tiny man pushed lesser snakes out of his way with his foot until he was able to squat in arm’s length of the coiled cobra. What noise, cold, and chaos had been all around disappeared in the distance as I watched this stranger speak in angered tones to this snake in a language I almost understood. After a while, he seemed to get frustrated. So he slapped the snake. Hard. The snake hissed lower, I swear almost speaking. He slapped it again. It opened its mouth in time with the tides, methodically quickly.

  Again, Narayana slapped its head. I didn’t see it strike. I didn’t see it move. But Narayana did. Faster than a bullet he raised the trash lid. The snake’s mouth made a harsh thud against it, but before it could fall to the deck, Narayana grabbed its head with his other hand. He stood with it as the snake’s body, more than double his length, flopped and fought. But it was useless; his rebar hands would not let go. He held it close to his face, staring in its eyes, and spoke to it in a thick accent.

  “I’m free. Tell your masters.” He threw it hard in the trashcan and slamm
ed the lid on top. If he noticed me, he didn’t say anything as he grabbed the can from my hands. But I couldn’t forget him. Not ever. . . .

  An excerpt from Was: a novel

  Geoff Ryman

  Part One: The Winter Kitchen

  Manhattan, Kansas

  September 1989

  During the spring and summer I sometimes visited the small Norwegian Cemetery on a high hill overlooking a long view of the lower Republican Valley. In late evening a cool breeze always stirs the two pine trees which shade a few plots. Just south of the Cemetery in a little ravine is a small pond surrounded with a few acres of unbroken prairie sod. On the rise beyond the ravine a few large trees grow around a field. They are the only markers of the original site of my Grandfather’s homestead.

  My Grandmother once told me that when she stood on the hill and looked southwest all she could see was prairie grass. An aunt told me of walking over the hills to a Post Office on the creek there. I can remember when a house stood just across the field to the west and now I can still see an old tree and a lonely lilac bush on the next hill where a few years ago a house and farm building stood. Of the ten houses I could see from this hill when I was a child, now only two exist—but instead of the waving prairie grass which Grandmother saw in the 1870s, there are rectangles and squares of growing crops and trees along the roads. A few miles distant the dark green of trees, with a water tower, tall elevator and an alfalfa mill rising above them define the area of a small town.

  —Elinor Anderson Elliott,

  The Metamorphosis of the Family Farm

  in the Republican Valley of Kansas: 1860–1960,

  MA thesis, Kansas State University

  The municipal airport of Manhattan, Kansas was low and brown and rectangular, and had a doorway that led direct from the runway. The last passenger from St. Louis staggered through it, his cheek bristly, his feet crossing in front of each other as he walked. He blinked at the rows of chairs and Pepsi machines and then made his way to the Hertz desk. He gave his name.

  “Jonathan,” he said, in a faraway voice. Jonathan forgot to give his last name. He was enchanted by the man at the Hertz desk, who was long, lean, solemn, wearing wire glasses. He reminded Jonathan of the farmer in the painting American Gothic. Jonathan grinned.

  He passed the man an airport napkin with a confirmation number written on it. American Gothic spoke of insurance and had forms ready to sign. Jonathan put check marks in the little boxes and passed over a credit card. He waited, trying not to think about how ill he was. He looked at a map on the wall.

  The map showed Manhattan the town and, to the west of it, Fort Riley, the Army base. Fort Riley covered many miles. It had taken over whole towns.

  Jonathan did not know there had once been a town in Kansas called Magic. There had even been a Church of Magic, until the congregation had to move when the Army base took over. The ghost towns were marked. Fort Riley DZ. DZ Milford. The letters D were ambiguously rounded.

  Quite plainly on the map, there was something that Jonathan read as “OZ Magic.”

  It had its own little box, hard by something called the Artillery and Mortar Impact Area, quite close to a village called Keats.

  “There you go,” said American Gothic. He held out car keys.

  “What’s this mean?” Jonathan asked, pointing at the words.

  “DZ?” the man said. “It means ‘Drop Zone.’”

  There were little things on the map called silos. Jonathan thought the silos might be for storing sorghum.

  “At the end of the world,” said the man at the Hertz desk, “it will rain fire from the sky.” He still held out the car keys. “Manhattan won’t know jack shit about it. We’ll just go up in a flash of light.”

  Not a single thing he had said made any sense to Jonathan. Jonathan just stared at the map.

  “Anyway,” said American Gothic, “you got the gray Chevrolet Celebrity outside.”

  Jonathan thought of Bob Hope. He swayed where he stood. Sweat trickled into his mouth.

  “You all right?” the man asked.

  “I’m dying,” said Jonathan, smiling. “But aside from that I’m pretty good, I guess.” It was an innocent statement of fact.

  Too innocent. Ooops, thought Jonathan. Now he won’t rent me a car.

  But this was Kansas, not Los Angeles. The man went very still for a moment, then said quietly, “You need a hand with your luggage?”

  “Don’t have any,” said Jonathan, smiling almost helplessly at the man, as if he regretted turning him down.

  “You from around here? Your face looks kinda familiar.”

  “I’m an actor,” Jonathan replied. “You may have seen me. I played a priest in ‘Dynasty.’”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said American Gothic. “What you doing here then?”

  It was a long story. “Well,” said Jonathan, already imitating the other man’s manner. “I suppose you could say I’m here to find somebody.”

  “Oh. Some kind of detective work.” There was a glint of curiosity, and a glint of hostility.

  “Something like detective work,” agreed Jonathan, and smiled. “It’s called history.” He took the keys and walked.

  Manhattan, Kansas

  September 1875

  After the Kansas were placed on the greatly reduced reservation near Council Grove, a substantial decline occurred. For example, in 1855—the year their agent described them as “A poor, degraded, superstitious, thievish, indigent” type of people—the Commissioner of Indian Affairs reported their number at 1,375. By 1859 it was down to 1,035 and in 1868 to 825. Finally, while this “improvident class of people” made plans for permanent removal to Indian Territory, an official Indian Bureau count placed their number at “about 600.” Clearly the long-range trend appeared to be one of eventual obliteration.

  —William E. Unrau,

  The Kansa Indians: A History of the Wind People, 1673–1873

  The brakeman danced along the roofs of the train cars, turning brake-wheels. The cars squealed and hissed and bumped their way to a slowly settling halt. The train chuffed once as if in relief.

  There was a dog barking. The noise came from within the train, as regular as the beating of its steam-driven heart. The dog was hoarse.

  The door of a car was flung open, pushed by a boot, and it crashed against the side of the train. A woman all in black with a little hat at an awkward angle was dragging a large trunk case. A little girl all in white stood next to her. The white dress sparkled in sunlight, as if it had been sprinkled with mirrors. The dog still barked.

  “Where’s my doggy? We’re going to leave my doggy!” said the child.

  “Your doggy will be along presently. Now you just help yourself down those steps.” The woman had a thin, intelligent face. Her patience was worn. She took the child’s hand and leaned out of the car. The child dangled, twisting in her grasp. A huge sack was thrown out of the next car and onto the platform like a dead body.

  “Aaah!” cried the child, grizzling.

  “Little girl, please. Use your feet.”

  “I can’t!” wailed the child.

  The woman looked around the platform. “Johnson!” she called. “Johnson Langrishe, is that you? Could you come over here please and help this little girl down from the train?”

  A plump and very pimply youth—his cheeks were almost solid purple—loped toward the train, hair hanging in his eyes under a Union Pacific cap. The woman passed the child down to him. Johnson took her with a grunt and dropped her just a little too soon onto the platform.

  The train whistled. The dog kept barking.

  “Dog’s been making music since Topeka. It’s a wonder he’s got any voice left. Trunk next.” The woman pushed the trunk out the door. Johnson was not strong enough to hold it, and it slipped from his grasp to the ground.

  “My doggy,” said the little girl.

  “Dot rat your doggy,” muttered the woman. “Johnson. Do you know Emma Gulch? Emma Branscomb as was?
”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Is there anybody waiting here to meet a little girl come all the way from St. Louis, Missouri?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “Well that’s just dandy,” said the woman with an air of finality.

  “There’s no one here? There’s no one here?” The little girl began to panic.

  “No, little girl, I’m afraid not. I’m going to Junction, otherwise I’d stop off with you. Why? Why let a little girl come all this way and not meet her, I just do not know!” The woman turned and shouted at the next car.

  “Hank,” she cried. “Hank, for goodness’ sake! Fetch the little girl her dog, can’t you?”

  “He bit me!” shouted the porter.

  The woman finally chuckled. “Oh, Lord!” She turned and disappeared into the next car.

  The train sneezed twice and a white cloud rolled up doughnut-shaped from the funnel. Great metal arms began to stroke the wheels almost lovingly. And the wheels began to turn. A creak and a slam and a rolling noise and the train began to sidle away. It whistled again, and the shriek of the whistle smothered the cry the little girl made for her dog.

  Then out of the mailcar door, the woman appeared, holding out a furious gray bundle. It wrenched itself from her grasp and rolled out onto the platform. It somersaulted into the child and then spun and righted itself, yelping in outrage. It roared hatred at the train and the people on it. The dog consigned the train to Hell. Johnson, the boy, backed away from him.