IGMS Issue 5

by IGMS

  His hat bobbed, and he blew a delicate trill on his instrument. It was a wooden recorder, big as a saxophone. I watched his fingers, remarkably dexterous for their size, skip over the holes. His skin was the darkest I'd ever seen, so black I couldn't tell where his wrist ended and the shadows of his coat sleeve began. His fingernails had a luminous quality, like they'd been glossed with liquid pearls.

  "What kind of recorder is that?" I said.

  His answer was a fluid scale that spanned astonishing octaves from soprano to bass.

  "You're very good. How come you don't play on the corners where there's more traffic? You'd get more money."

  A flurry of notes rose, wistful and amused. Conspicuously absent was either donation cup or hat.

  "Don't you play for handouts?"

  The music stopped, mid-stanza.

  "I'm sorry if I offended you. I'll leave --"

  "Don't go." His voice was a deep rumble, almost a growl. He moved faster than someone his size ought, and his fingers clamped my wrist. I knew better than to scream, because nothing frightens a man more than a screaming woman, but my heart galloped in my chest.

  "Sure, okay. I've got nowhere I have to be. What's your name?"

  He released me, and while I longed to bolt away, his legs looked to be twice as long as mine.

  "Eloy."

  "What tune were you playing, Eloy?" I used the cheerful tone reserved for unknown dogs and lunatics, and took a tentative step back.

  "Beauty's Folly."

  "That's the title?"

  "You are Beauty?" His words were thick and broken, like English was a foreign tongue.

  "My name's Annabel."

  Despite my best efforts, I flinched when he moved, relaxing again when all he did was offer me his recorder. At a loss, I accepted it. It was lighter than it looked.

  "Beauty's Folly," he said. "Play."

  "I wasn't -- I can't play."

  He waited. Not wanting to anger him, I set the mouthpiece to my lips. I'd never learned an instrument, although once I'd blown through a friend's harmonica. I expected something like the loud and unmelodic bray from that time. Instead, a single note sounded, sweet and clear.

  I gasped. "Did I do that?"

  Eloy rumbled, deep in his throat -- a chuckle. "Roses. Your folly."

  "What? I don't --"

  He held out his hand, and I gave back the recorder. The brim of his hat shifted to reveal the shadowy curve of his chin. The line of his mouth emerged beneath a tangle of inky hair that poured in a mane around his face. His lips were thin and pale, and his face sloped back like a wolf's muzzle. When I saw his eyes, I made a noise. They had no whites, no change in color between iris and pupil. They were a pair of liquid orbs too big for his head. Utterly inhuman.

  "Marry me?" he rumbled.

  I fled, expecting to hear chasing footsteps or to feel his weight smash into me. I reached the end of the alley with only my panting breath loud in my ears. I glanced back once; Eloy was gone.

  Back home, I told my family about my encounter. Luella, predictably, was terrified.

  "He could have been a rapist," she said. "What were you thinking, approaching him like a streetwalker?"

  Father peered from the ledger in his hands. "It's wonderful how you get along with everyone, Annabel, but you should be more careful. I don't like you chatting with crazies."

  My indignant reply was lost when the doorbell rang. The grating buzz was so different from the chimes of our last home.

  A delivery man stood at the door, his arms overflowing with red roses.

  "You Annabel?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Delivery for you."

  I stared at the basket of long-stemmed beauties. "They can't be."

  He squinted at the number on our door and the card in his hand. "Address on the card matches. Says 'For Annabel.'"

  He thrust the roses at me, and I staggered into the apartment with the basket, a confused "thank you" halfway out. Only he wasn't done. He stuck a box into my arms stuffed with rose-colored silk -- yards and yards of tiered evening gown, complete with train. Next came a satin bag that held a crystal vial of rose-scented perfume, the expensive kind sold in posh boutiques uptown. And finally, he tossed a little velvet box on top of the pile. Luella helped me juggle dress, perfume, and roses so I could open it. An antique ring nestled in the box, set with rubies and diamonds. The gems sparkled from a traditional rose cut, framed by curlicues of gold rosettes.

  "I didn't order any of this," I said. "I can't afford --"

  "Everything's paid up," the man said. "Sign here."

  Father stood with eyes glazed and wide. He stumbled over the dress, his face becoming by turns white then flushed. "Who sent this?"

  The delivery man shrugged. "Card doesn't say. Maybe you won a sweepstakes or something." He tapped his clipboard.

  I signed. What else could I do?

  I closed the door after him, leaving me to face the alarm and accusations of my family.

  "Annabel," Father said, "when Luella suggested you were playing the tease with strange men, I never once believed her."

  "I'm not --"

  "But these expensive gifts are the kind a man buys for his mistress." His face crumpled, and his voice broke. "Do you miss all the extravagance we used to have so much?"

  "Daddy, no! I swear, whatever you think I've done, I haven't."

  "I hope not."

  Luella helped me lug my mysterious windfall into the bedroom we shared.

  "I'm sorry," she whispered when we were alone. "I know you wouldn't, aren't . . . I didn't mean to make Daddy so upset."

  I scowled and pushed the dress to the back of the closet.

  "I worry about your reputation. I wish you would too." She took an appreciative sniff from the crystal vial before setting it on our dresser. "And I'm afraid you'll trust someone you shouldn't."

  "I worry about you too, y'know." I tucked the velvet ring box in the bottom of my drawer. "I wish you would go out and meet people. If you gave them a chance, you might find someone you like."

  Luella grinned. "Now wouldn't that give Daddy a heart attack?"

  We giggled, little girls sharing a secret.

  There was no space to put the roses in our bedroom, so they clustered around the window beside their bonsai cousin. Father ignored them, and when he was home, Luella followed his lead. But when he was away, she often drifted over to inhale their perfume, sometimes reaching out to stroke their delicate petals.

  Days passed, and the roses wilted and died. I threw them out, and our lives settled back into their routines. I ran errands and did the shopping, doing temp work as retailer and receptionist when the agency called me, while Father worked long hours in the factory. Luella kept our apartment tidy and acquainted herself with the moods of the temperamental stove.

  Sometimes, when I passed the donut shop, I thought I heard recorder music, but I never ventured into the alley again.

  One day, I came home after an afternoon of answering phones and alphabetizing files to find Father already there, with Luella both excited and dismayed. He paced our living room, his eyes alight.

  "I'm flying to New York tomorrow," he announced. "One of the factory accounts belongs to an old business associate. He's split from his old partner and looking to expand. I called him up and asked if he'd hear my pitch, and he wants me to give it in person."

  "Daddy, that's great!" I said. "And so generous of him to fly you up."

  Father lowered his eyes. "He's not."

  "Then how did you book the flight?" Credit cards were another indulgence the IRS had appropriated from us, leaving us with only a household debit card for emergencies. Our account balance was nowhere near enough to afford plane fare to New York.

  "I'm so sorry, Pumpkin. I should have asked you first, but there was such a rush."

  "My ring." His hangdog expression told me before his ashamed nod that I'd guessed right. "You pawned it."

  I struggled against the surge of o
utrage that made me want to scream and stamp my feet. It was childish; I hadn't even worn it. But it had been mine. The thought of it, safe in my drawer, had reassured me -- a pretty, gold safety net.

  "I'll make it up to you," Father said. "Once I get this new job, I'll buy you a dozen gold rings to replace it."

  "I'm not mad." It was lie, but a necessary one. "I'm sure you'll wow them tomorrow."

  Luella packed his overnight bag. I smiled and made the appropriate excited responses throughout dinner. But after Father had gone to bed, I locked myself in the bathroom, turned on the tap, and bawled into a towel. I was a spoiled brat for resenting what Father had done, spoiled and selfish and silly.

  After I cried myself out, I had a long, hot soak, and felt better.

  The next morning, all of us trooped to the subway station -- the express line to the airport. Luella and I took turns hugging Father and wishing him luck and a safe journey.

  The apartment was emptier without him, but also charged with anticipation, awaiting his homecoming and hopeful good news. We scrubbed the place from corner to corner. I defeated the dingy gray walls, forcing them to gleam, and Luella declared war on the dust bunnies and dust elephants.

  On the day of his return, we made a sumptuous feast: Luella's signature casserole and homemade biscuits, with strawberry ice cream for dessert. But the hour when Father should have stepped off the subway platform and made his way home arrived without him. I phoned the airport and the subway. His flight had landed on time, and there were no delays on the track.

  All that night, we waited. In the morning, I tried to track down the man Father had gone to see. Unfortunately, we didn't have his name or number -- a foolish oversight, in hindsight. Father's supervisor at the factory was at a loss, and the few people who would still talk to us in New York hadn't heard from him either.

  We tried to comfort each other and carried on our lives, going through all the obligatory motions of eating, working, and waiting. One day, I woke up and discovered the refrigerator was empty. We were out of everything -- milk, eggs, bread, cheese -- so I left Luella a note and headed out to restock.

  As I passed the donut shop, a mournful strain of music stirred the air. It echoed my mood so perfectly; I stood stock-still, caught in the spell of it. Without meaning to, I drifted to the alley's mouth. Where I had thought to find Eloy with his recorder, there was only alley.

  The trail of notes led me to the graffiti window of painted brick. Something glittered at my foot. It was my ring, the antique one with the rubies and diamonds, the ring Father had pawned so he could finance his ill-fated trip.

  I did what I had longed to before; I put it on. The music soared. In front of me, the graffiti window took on shape and dimension. No longer flat paint, it was a portal through which I could see a living, moving forest. Leaves stirred and flickered in the breeze, and a fluffy seed pod floated by. I could smell the bouquet of green growing things -- moist life and musty decay. I strained to hear the shush of wind as it streamed through branches.

  I didn't hear the wind. I heard my name, faintly, as though shouted from a distance. It was Father.

  He was in there, past the breezy grove with its swaying trees, somewhere. I lifted my hand, the ringed one, and felt the forest wind. Playful at first, it turned insistent, tugging and finally dragging me forward. My foot came down on a carpet of grass. The light spilling through the canopy dazzled my eyes, and I blinked them shut.

  When I opened them, I was in a bright, hospital foyer surrounded by hallways and escalators. On my right, a wall of elevators sat ready, and on my left, an untended reception desk stood spotlighted by the sun.

  "Hello?" I called.

  The single word boomed, shattering the stillness. Places like this were supposed to be full of noise -- the clamor of busy, waiting, and harried people. But it was silent. No voices, no footsteps, only me.

  A file lay on the desk with Father's name scrawled in bold letters on it, and beneath it, a number: 417. I'd swiveled to the elevators and pressed the up arrow before it occurred to me that the folder had been turned so that someone on my side of the desk could read it.

  The elevator chimed, and I boarded it and pressed the 4 button. A familiar dizziness fluttered in my gut as it rose. The doors slid apart, depositing me in a featureless, white hospital ward. The air was harsh with disinfectant, an acrid, sterile smell.

  Room 417 was the only door with a number. It was a small room with a privacy curtain erected. The curtain jangled and clattered when I yanked it aside. Beyond the plastic barrier was an occupied bed, the blankets rumpled and twisted.

  Father was tucked beneath the covers, asleep, his chest rising and falling. I exhaled; I hadn't realized I'd been holding my breath.

  "Daddy." I touched his shoulder. "Daddy, wake up."

  He opened his eyes. "Annabel?"

  I fell into his arms. He hugged me, and I was a little girl again, secure that Daddy would take care of everything.

  "I was so worried," I sobbed. "We both were. Luella thought you'd been kidnapped."

  Father rocked me like he used to when I'd run to him with my childhood bumps and fears. "I'm fine, Pumpkin. I'm fine."

  I wiped my damp eyes on my sleeve. "What happened? How did you get here?"

  Father frowned. "It's a bit of a blur. I've been trying to get someone to discharge me, but I haven't seen anyone."

  "Did you make your flight okay?"

  "Oh, yes, I flew to New York. Never realized how badly they treat people in economy. Shameful."

  "And you met with the man you were supposed to?"

  "Of course. I gave him my pitch. It was a good one too. Reminded me of when I was important, and I could buy my girls everything they wanted."

  "You're important to us, Daddy, and we have everything we need."

  He continued as though he hadn't heard me. "We were about to call in the lawyers to finalize the deal when the police barged in. Somehow they'd gotten the notionthat I was a trespasser. I told my friend to set them straight, but the fool didn't say a word, only watched as they carted me off. Next thing I know, I'm here." He yawned. "At least it's quiet. You don't mind if Daddy takes a nap, do you, Pumpkin?"

  "But we have to get you discharged."

  "Fine, fine. You do that." Father's eyes drooped shut.

  "Daddy?" I shook his arm. "Daddy!"

  A knock sounded. Before I could answer, the door swung open. It was the hulking musician in the alley, Eloy. I could not have been more astonished if someone had told me I'd been elected president. He'd exchanged the ragged layers of a street person for a doctor's uniform -- white lab coat and stethoscope slung around his neck. He crowded the room, his uncanny features stark in the hospital fluorescence.

  "Hello, Annabel," he rumbled. "You look lovely. Did you like my gifts?" His words, unlike the occasion of our first discussion, were articulate and clear, though still accented.

  "I -- it was you that sent the roses and the dress and perfume?"

  "And the ring."

  The jewel glittered on my finger.

  "Are you a doctor?"

  "In a manner of speaking."

  "Can you discharge my father?"

  He shuffled his feet like a nervous boy, a fanciful impression for someone his size. "He's not well," he murmured. "The man he flew to see refused him outright on the phone. But he showed up anyway, raving about his starving daughters selling themselves on the street."

  "Oh, no." I gripped the bed railing until its edges dug into my palm. "He's been under so much stress. I'll take him to a psychiatrist back home, make sure he gets help."

  Eloy regarded me. "No."

  "What do you mean 'no'?"

  "He must stay here."

  "Why?" I had to crane my neck to glare at him.

  "Because I insist." He turned to go.

  "Wait!" It was a crazy idea, but I ran with it anyway. "I -- if I stayed here with you, would you let Daddy go home?"

  Eloy bent his neck, and I saw the g
limmer of one black eye over his shoulder. "When I asked you to marry me, you fled."

  "You scared me."

  "I am repellent to you, even though no longer a beggar performing for handouts."

  I could think of nothing to say.

  "Still, you would remain of your own will, for his sake?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well."

  The walls blurred and ran, spinning away in a rush of motion. I covered my eyes, sickened and dizzy. When I recovered enough to peek through my fingers, the walls were still, but both Father and Eloy were gone.

  I sat on the edge of the newly emptied bed and buried my head in my hands. Long moments passed in this posture, and I began to feel silly. The fright and disbelief I had anticipated had stood me up. Maybe I was in shock. If so, shock was grossly misrepresented in the popular media.

  As I didn't feel like throwing a tantrum or gibbering in fear, I went exploring. I got on the elevator and picked a floor at random. The doors opened to an identical hospital ward, except this one was patterned a discreet plaid in pastel blue and grey. I wandered the plaid hall, past plaid doors and over plaid tile.

  I'd been avoiding the doors out a sense of propriety. Nice people didn't barge into hospital rooms. But curiosity overcame good manners, and I pushed open the next one I came to. It revealed a tiny room with a wooden folding chair facing a plaid wall. Disappointed, I tried the next door and found an identical arrangement -- chair, wall, empty room. The chair was different, with a taller back and padding on the arms, but it was still a chair. The next room was the same, and the next. Each chair was different, but that was all.

  I did the only thing left to do. I sat in a chair. The one I chose was an executive model with cushy lumbar support and coasters. As I swiveled back and forth, the wall switched on, splashing up images and sounds. It wasn't like the portal in the alley; there was a reassuring flatness to the picture, like a television set or movie screen.

  The screen-wall showed a party of some sort. The people were tall and graceful, their skin dusky and their hair in shades ranging from burnished mahogany to spicy cinnamon. Their faces were pointed -- like Eloy's fierce muzzle, but softer, more fox than wolf -- and they shared his eyes: dark, liquid orbs with no whites. Their clothes billowed in muted colors with strange folds that flared at hip and leg. Glittering ornaments of metal and stone circled finger and wrists, and dripped from ears and necks.