Pivot

by L C Barlow

  Cyrus pulled out a gun and made sure it was loaded. He handed it to Alex, and they both stood back. "Do it right this time," Cyrus said. "Not like the first."

  Cyrus glanced at me, and when he did, I said, "Please don't fucking do this." He did not respond, but turned to Roland, and as he raised his arm up, Roland's entire body lifted in the air from where he stood. I gasped.

  One of Roland's black, shiny shoes flopped off and hit the floor with a clap, and he floated like wax in a lava lamp just a few feet above the ground, his cream clothes moving against his body as if in a silent and invisible wind. Then, Cyrus's hand flared out straight, and Roland's body hit the back wall with a crack.

  Cyrus handed the gun to Alex. "One shot in the head. That is all," he told him. Alex's hand cocked the gun and pointed it at Roland, who was not crying or grimacing or screaming, just taking it all in. He never looked away.

  But before Alex did anything, Cyrus stepped to me, and then behind me, and he placed his hands against my ears. I shook, I turned, but I could not get him to let me go.

  As Cyrus held me, I watched as Alex did as Cyrus asked. A shot has never resounded so loudly in me. I shook and fell down, my whole weight supported by the cutting cuffs.

  Hands wrapped themselves around me and lifted me, and I was pulled up and against a warm body as one would expect from an angel.

  "This time he won't be coming back," Cyrus whispered, and then I felt a hand against my temple, and I opened my eyes. The blade of a knife was before me, on which there was a puddle of blood. Alex held it, had dipped it into Roland and brought it to Cyrus, and Cyrus dabbed his hand again in this blood and pushed it against my forehead, marking me. He pulled my black hair away from my face and cooed to me. I looked to Roland's body against the wall and watched it drop to the floor like a doll, and I felt all feeling in me vanquished. My eyelids dropped.

  "You've killed me," I told him.

  "No," he said. "I've released you. The old bond is gone." And I felt his hands caress my neck and pull my head close to him. "That man was keeping something in you that should not have been there, but we've unhooked it now and let it go."

  I was so numb, I was choking on all the numb. "He'll come back... or I'll bring him back."

  "I'm going to burn him, Jack."

  I looked up to see four men enter the room and carry Roland's body away, and as I watched them, I emptied too much to cry.

  Cyrus kept me there for hours, long enough for the fire to catch and carry Roland far away.

  It was only much later that I felt hands reach up my arms to the cuffs, and after a few clicks my arms fell. I would have hit the floor, just like Roland, but Cyrus held on to me, hugged me close.

  "There is no person so wondrous as you are, and when you survive this, you will be stronger than any would think imaginable. And you will be powerful, and rich, and beautiful, and there will be nothing, absolutely nothing, that you cannot do, no action you cannot commit. And a coldness will fill you, and it will feel marvelous. It will course through you and lift you up. You will be perfect."

  I felt him kiss me.

  "You will be without borders, beautifully ungoverned. No need to rescue those I kill. No need to bring anyone back, but those I command. No yearning anymore, just what is. You are so lucky."

  But all I could think of was the first time I had killed Roland, slid the butterfly needle into his neck and let the blood drain away, my hand clamped to his chest to feel his heart die, and the misery of that night, the agony. It was fresh in me still. I thought he would never return, but he had.

  And now, I felt that he would, but he would not. He would never return, not by his own hand or by mine. The true death. I had never experienced it until then.

  And I had never said, "Goodbye."

  Chapter 27

  MARGARET

  Disoriented and numb, I left Cyrus's mansion that night. He let me, did not hold me near, and somehow I knew that whatever power he had would be used to make sure I didn't kill myself, would watch me even while he didn't watch me. But that wasn't on my mind. Nothing was. I was... blank, but running.

  As I drove through the town, it was like I had never been there before. The street signs all looked unfamiliar, the buildings were alien, and there was no sound anymore. I remember it was like I was wandering through water or glass.

  I remember I drove close to home, but I only did so to retrieve my stash of heroin and needles from an old railroad tie.

  I retrieved the heroin, and I put it in my inner jacket pocket, and then I drove away.

  The graveyard was far from the rest of the town, as was the church that it sat beside. It had hundreds of trees and thousands of graves. I had visited this place many times, but this time, I felt like I belonged. I remember the smell of the cherry blossoms. I remember the Cottonwood trees like snow in the night. And I remember the tomb. The stone angel it sat in front of.

  I got out the syringe. I retrieved the vial. I boiled the contents, slurped them up into the needle and blew them into the body, and went down down down. Downhill. Downhell. Far away from the alien town and Cyrus and Roland and Alex and Sloan. I did not think of them at all. I said goodbyes to murder and meaning. In doing so, I must have used more heroin than usual. I remember the syringe slipping. It fell down into the tomb with me. I don't know why it didn't break. I frankly don't know why I didn't break. I stretched myself out, against the blanket I had placed within, amongst the cottonwood seeds that were caught in the maw that held me on its concrete tongue.

  I looked up into the night at the moon. And, in this dark little corner of the world, I saw the stone angel's face appear, faintly luminescent at the ledge. I thought I saw her bend down, clasp the stone with her hands, with hair turned from stone to silver threads, and eyes a bejeweled green instead of the sparkling white of sand. Her pinky raised, then the rest of her right hand, and she turned it and held it out to me inquisitively. "What are you?" she asked. I went to apologize, but passed out instead, dreaming that I was in a catacomb, not a tomb, and there were hundreds of me in the vaults.

  I did not wake for a long, long while. Days passed.

  * * *

  "A vampire! Wouldn't that be wonderful? Finally caught one in the cemetery, and we can come back at night and take it home."

  "How ridiculous!"

  "The best things don't make sense."

  "Well, you do know about the best things Margaret. The best of the best."

  "Indeed. I've been needing a pet. A vampire would fit the bill."

  "Oh, you are ridiculous indeed."

  Three voices? Four voices? I couldn't tell. Too many giggles. I moved slightly, trying to feel out where I was. Everything hurt, my joints popping shutters. I heard gasps.

  "Shhhh!!! Your vampire is waking!" Someone else cleared her voice, and then, "Had a little bit too much fun last night, dear?"

  I had enough sense to open my eyes. I was laying on my right side, staring at a flock of geese distorted in liquid. The first thought that entered my head was, "Too bright."

  Someone patted my arm. "My dear," the same voice said, "Do you need some help getting out of there? I know it must be the most comfortable and lovely of places to fall down into drunk and disorderly, but really one must try different things now and again. Fresh air should be one of them." I felt a hand grab my own and tug gently. I lifted my head up and looked into the face of an older woman with auburn hair, dressed in a 1920s style Flapper dress with pearls and a Cloche hat. I peered round, and the other women beside her were dressed the same. One of them said, "What a very sturdy bed. I must try it once it's free."

  I pushed myself up, was brought to my feet, and I sat against the edge of the tomb, rubbing my numb and sore face, trying to wake. My stomach felt like gravel, but my attention was drawn away by sounds of music, very distant, and I wondered why I should be hearing such in a graveyard.

  The one that I soon knew to be Margaret, who had lifted me up, now spoke to me. "We came from the litt
le church across the way," she said. "Beatrice's daughter was getting married, and while we were having a wonderful little gathering afterwards, the weather was so nice, and the peacocks so beautiful, that we went outside, sort-of chased them a little - or they thought we did - and then decided to have a little run through the graveyard. There really are some beautiful tombs and statues. And plus, it is interesting, don't you think? To go scampering off through the graveyard... birth and death, wedding and grave, oh I'm probably sounding crazy again. I do that."

  I was not entirely sure where I was, what day it was, or who I was. I looked at her again and peered at her dress and the dress of the other women. "What's with...?" and I pointed up and down at them.

  "Oh!" she said, "Yes! Well, the wedding was done in flapper style, 1920s. It really was a marvelous time. Simply loved the idea. I feel a nostalgia for that time period, though I didn't live then. Isn't that strange? How you can feel nostalgic for things that you've never experienced?" The other women giggled. "Have you ever felt that way?"

  "I don't know," I said truthfully. "But it sounds nice..." Then, feeling nauseous and unaware, I muttered, "I need a cigarette."

  "Oh yes," she said, "I think I see them right there." She bent down and grabbed the pack in the tomb, but as she did so, she paused, her hand just inches from a syringe, and as she stared at it, her head turned. She looked up at me.

  I pursed my lips and looked at this stranger. "What can I say?" I asked in a whisper.

  The other women did not notice us in this awkward and dramatic moment, and as they kept chattering behind her, she handed the syringe to me, and I placed it in my pocket. Her hand bent to the pack of cigarettes, grabbed it again, and she straightened.

  She spoke as though the event had never happened. "Used to love the things, but I quit... oh, I think twenty years ago. Still enjoy the smell. Cloves! How wonderfully dark." She smiled at me and winked. The other two women were still in their own small discussion and chattered in the background. I lit the cigarette and had a good first draw.

  Margaret handed me my pack and lighter back to me. She motioned towards the hill, over which I knew lay the church some yards off. "You know, I bet you haven't had anything to eat. Rachael - the woman getting married - she and her husband have tons of cake balls - chocolate, red velvet, vanilla - as well as hors d'oeuvres - vegetarian of course, she is like that - and tea and champagne and water. You should have some, and we'll introduce you to Rachael. She won't love you, but she'll pretend she does. She doesn't know half the guests here. It would be good for you, I think."

  This woman never waited for a response. Having decided what I should do, she attempted to help me out of the tomb. I willingly stepped over the side and felt as if the Earth might spin. I gave another suck on the cigarette, and then steadied myself. "Do you do this for all the dead?" I asked her, joking with a monotone.

  "I do whatever I please," she said.

  She marched me forward, arm-in-arm per her preference, as the two women behind us followed. I thought to myself that this woman was insane, but I was in no position to judge a person so willing to feed me.

  She told me, "My name's Margaret Wilhelm. That's Emily Harrow and Sarah Moulder. I am pleased to make your acquaintance..."

  "Jack," I replied.

  "Jack! That reminds me of London and Burton at the same time," she said. At that I smiled.

  I had never taken the time to visit the little wooden church, and when I saw it I beheld it with wonder. It seemed more a park than religious building. There were peacocks, the feathers of them many different blues and greens and golds, and their tails brushed against the ground as though wearing their own dresses, long and thick and sweet. Out amidst the lawn there were little ponds with stone edges and bright green lily pads. A few had dark and spotted frogs on top. The water was covered in downy flakes of Cottonwood seeds landing from their journey in the air. Facing the back porch of the church, the double doors of which stood open, were white chairs in rows, and they had light blue ribbons tied in bows on each arm. They trailed to the ground and kissed it in the breeze, much like the peacock tails. There was an outline of trees around this lawn. Their leaves were dark. They swayed constantly, as though they loved the feel of the wind stirring.

  All of the people were inside the church - where we were headed - and from within I could hear a familiar blues play behind the tinks and clinks of dinnerware. It was a fast blues song and echoed round the little church, which seemed to me in my uneven state to swing slowly to the rhythm. "What is this?" I wondered. "Blues at a wedding?" The idea seemed very strange. I thought to myself that perhaps I really had gone back in time, or gone crazy, or both.

  The first room we entered, once we climbed three wooden steps, was completely empty, as was the room beside it. The brother rooms were only disconnected by one wall with a fireplace that opened to both. The floor of these rooms was a light brown, and the walls were bright white. I took a deep breath and was instantly reminded of the old houses I had visited on some of Cyrus's property - the odor of spicy wood.

  Above us in both rooms were small and very complicated looking crystal chandeliers, with hundreds of tiny drops of stone dangling from six or so different gold arms. We did not linger here long, though, and eventually I was ushered by Margaret on my right to my left, and through that room we arrived at a hall, the other end of which held fruits and delicious looking foods and cakes. We passed through a couple of sets of Victorian doors and then arrived at the loaded and large table.

  "Here, dear," Margaret said to me, handing me an antique china plate. "Pile it up. You're skinny, and it's a shame great enough to kill you if the hunger doesn't. Don't let the reputation of a fat America fall down, now. Eat. Eat. Let's see if we can put a pound on you." Out of confusion more than hunger, I let her choose for me a few pieces of piercingly orange cantaloupe, as well as honeydew, red grapes, vegetarian potstickers, cheese and spinach quiches, spanakopita, bruschetta, baby brie and crackers, and many other things.

  Then she grabbed a china cup for me filled with cake balls. "You get to keep the cup," she whispered to me and winked. "I chose a good one for you."

  The room where everyone was eating had ten windows at least, and in this room the wooden floor was painted a nice blue. There were fifteen tables, with seven or so chairs at each one. Every table had a picture of the bride and groom, as well as a vase with peacock feathers and paper flowers, the petals of which were rolled pages of literature books. The table I was eventually led to supported a picture of the couple on the grass staring at each other adoringly. Rachael, I saw, was a blonde with a lily in her hair.

  When we sat down at the table with the many guests wearing fedoras and pin-stripe suits and loose black dresses, they were conversing amongst themselves and did not look at me twice. Margaret sat across from me, sipped on a glass of champagne she had acquired, and watched me in silence. I ate.

  As I did, my head cleared, and the sense of the surreal began lifting. I remember suddenly being able to see and hear again, and that a plague of questions and shock and guilt ran through me. I was at somebody's wedding - a person whom I did not know - I was eating their food, across from a strange woman who had found me in a grave and had seen my syringe. There was heroin in my pocket. There were tracks on my arms. I could not remove my jacket, not there, and I yelled to myself in the caverns of my mind to remember that.

  And Roland was dead. Yes, he was gone. Cyrus had burned him, and I could never bring him back again. I could have cried right then.

  Every time one of these realizations shot through my head, I looked up at Margaret. Each time I looked, she seemed all the more knowing.

  When I was finally done eating, she asked, "Feeling better?"

  I nodded my head, and I knew what was coming. The syringe. She would want to know.

  But instead, she carried on cheerily as though something far more acceptable existed between us. "Jack, I know you must only be fifteen or sixteen, but have you ever ex
perienced postmodern art?" She looked at me with inquisitive green eyes. After choking on this thought like I did the food, I said simply and softly, "No."

  "Ah," she said, "Well some say it's shit." She paused and looked out across the guests. I wondered if she was seeking any in particular. "They say that it lacks the beauty of classic art and has no meaning. But there are others, people like me, who absolutely disagree with those assholes." She said 'assholes' lovingly, and it made me smirk. "I admit that the postmodern is repetitious and does not focus on beauty alone, but that is no reason to be so liberal with its destruction. What we believe postmodern art does is what all art is supposed to do: present what cannot be presented. The vastness of space, for instance, cannot be told." She swung her arm out and slammed it down on the table. It was startling. "If you even try to grasp it, your mind starts to get dizzy. But art is supposed to present it. And that is what the postmodern does. Do you understand?"

  I shook my head carefully in acknowledgement.

  "Wonderful," she said, with a flick of her wrist, "Now now. There is a poet by the name of Anis Mojgani, whom I heard one day. It really was a wonderful retreat, that whole week. But yes, Mr. Mojgani. He has captured this idea of art quite well. 'I want you,' he said in his poem that he read to us that marvelous night, 'to draw me a picture of what smoking a cigarette feels like.' Well, now. What a great example! Presenting that which cannot be caught or bound! Purifying into a drop the complicated amalgam of the human condition. And I, my dear Jack, have a question for you like Anis Mojgani. What, pray tell, would you choose to represent the soul? Of all the things in the world, what would you choose?"

  This woman, in one simple question, had opened up worlds for me She was like a smelling salt. And somehow, I sensed within my very skull the blooming of hundreds of red roses. I felt their petals brush against the roof and walls within. And in this simple moment, I suddenly began to wonder if perhaps we shake hands with God in agreement to the lives we live, before we are even born. And then I wondered what I might have agreed to.