Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 13

by Gavin J. Grant Kelly Link

  * * * *

  She runs her fingertips across the surface of the paper. It is thick, delicately scented, and blank. Her fountain pen rests between still and heavy fingers, the metal cool in the embrace of her hand. After a moment, she places it gently on the desk.

  The time for good-byes is past.

  * * * *

  As I take a bite, I can feel it ending.

  I close my eyes and concentrate on the taste of the pancake. It is soft and warm, and the sweet taste of the syrup fills my mouth. I chew slowly.

  There is no heat yet, no sudden shock, only brightness. I let myself see it through closed eyelids, the red and yellow of that thin veil of skin all that is left between myself and the end.

  To be alive and knowing in this moment: I can think of no greater blessing.

  * * * *

  She lies down in the middle of the car park, grocery bags discarded at her sides. She is a body between yellow lines. The heat from the pavement scorches through her T-shirt and shorts, all along her sweaty skin. She will not move or turn away.

  She looks up, stares at the sun as it grows across the sky, welcomes tears and blindness.

  There is so much light.

  * * * *

  What is there to remember?

  This fleeting moment. The feel of heavy eyelids and slow fingers. Pancakes and syrup, strawberries and candle flame.

  A last taste of sweetness.

  Her lips.

  * * * *

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  Pinned

  Hannah Wolf Bowen

  The butterfly was dead. A beautiful butterfly, orange and black and banded white, fuzzy-fine across back and wings. He tried to be sorry that it was gone, glad it had ever been alive. But it was dead, trapped here in glass, and all that he felt was nothing.

  He lifted the camera and focused—clickclick—to snap the picture, still image of a dead thing. The light was good, the glass case wouldn't ruin the shot, and he had to believe that even a butterfly had a soul to lose.

  A cool breeze had kicked up while he was in the museum and now sent leaves head-over-heels, four lanes to safety and no stoplight here. He picked his moments carefully, finding gaps in the traffic and darting to teeter on dotted white, on the median, grass sanctuary just wide enough to stand upon. He exchanged smiles there with a pretty girl crossing in the opposite direction, her yellow dog trotting at her side.

  He asked, “Why did the walkers risk life and limb?"

  "Why?"

  "To get to the other side."

  She smiled again. The yellow dog wriggled as he bent to pat it and then there was another gap and they were gone. He turned back towards his destination, saw his chance and took two steps. He leaped back to the grass at screams behind him: brake and human both.

  The girl went to her knees in the street, tripped up by a pothole. Cars careened; he dodged. The yellow dog ran, wild-eyed, leash trailing, no traffic in the lane by the median but bolting to sidewalk safety into the path of truck skidding, brakes locked. The girl lunged forward, grabbed the leash and hauled, sent her dog back to safety but offbalanced herself, stumbled headlong out of her lane.

  He flinched. He closed his eyes.

  The truck came to a halt half-atop the median, blood on its bumper with more meaning than a Darwin fish. The yellow dog ran by him three-legged, one wounded paw held high; he grabbed the leash and reeled it in. He looked back towards the road and then he looked away.

  He pushed his arm to the elbow through leash's loop and opened his camera case. Clickclick.

  * * * *

  The evening news said of the girl, “Killed instantly.” Sarah examined the dog and decided that: “He'll be fine.” Yellow Dog whimpered in his sleep, sprawled across knees long since gone to sleep themselves. He rubbed the lanky creature's shoulder and played with half-flopped silken ears; Sarah leaned forward, backlit by the lamp, and studied the bandaged paw.

  "He'll be fine,” she said again. “Poor lucky guy. I wonder what happened to him."

  "Me, too,” he said, and ran a finger along the narrow white that blazed Yellow Dog's skull.

  "We should call the shelter. Or put up fliers—you could take his picture."

  He glanced away and down. But he got out already. Shrugged. “Tomorrow."

  Sarah nodded and, “Did you get anything good today?"

  "Yeah—” He glanced to the unmoving dog and pointed her across the shadowy space to his camera on the table by the darkroom door, to the photos he'd placed beside it, riot of color and some black and white, not the whole day's spoils but not a bad cross-section: the ones he knew she would like. Sarah reached the butterfly, all smiles, and demanded to know where he'd gone that day.

  "The botanical garden,” he said. “By the museum."

  Frost sketched designs on the big picture window; the sky was grey with impending snow. “Isn't it getting too cold for butterflies?"

  He shrugged: “Just lucky, I guess.” He asked her then about vet school and she told him about the animals she'd dissected and the cures that she'd studied. Old married couple, he thought rueful, all honey, I'm home and how was your day already, except for the part about being old and also the married bit, and it was comfort of routine, of belonging, instead of boredom and disinterest. She kissed him eventually, stopping the words, and he leaned into her warmth, and Yellow Dog woke long enough to hop down from the couch with a long-suffering sigh.

  * * * *

  "I could take him to school,” she said the next day. “So he doesn't have to stay here alone. No one would care—Doc Marsh brings her dog all the time."

  "I kind of wanted to take him with me,” he said, and Yellow Dog sat on his feet and grinned a doggy grin. “Have to take some pictures to the gallery, and I thought maybe I could put up those signs . . . see if anyone recognizes him.” And Sarah agreed, kissed him and then the dog's nose and tripped down the stairs to the street. He scooped up the sign they'd made for photocopying and crumpled it into a ball in his pocket.

  "You and me,” he told the dog. “Let me know if you're getting tired, okay?” He snapped new leash onto new collar and blinked outside in the sunlight glare.

  First to the gallery and haggle a price and then out for walking, the rest of the day all to himself. A few blocks down a lonely tree was marked for cutting. Its leaves lay on the sidewalk, bright mourning banner, clickclickclick from several directions and then zooming in on the little plaque half leaf-covered: In memory of. Across from the park with its grass and its lake, they found a late-season duckling that no one had thought to make way for, barely there beneath tire tracks, mother and siblings all gone away. He pulled Yellow Dog's nose away: clickclick.

  He wavered at a statue of a man both famous and gone, decided against it and snapped instead a striking shot, slice of sky between buildings, barest glimpse of freedom blue. Sarah would like that one.

  In the park, he sat on a rock and opened his backpacker, reaching for paper bag and folder. Sandwich from the former, peanut butter and honey stickysweet on his tongue. He threw the crusts to Yellow Dog and discovered the dog knew how to shake hands and lay down on command.

  "Good boy,” he said, cupping the blunt muzzle in his hands, staring into soft dark eyes. “Good, good boy.” Yellow Dog blinked back, then bounced and licked his nose.

  He chewed on an apple held in one hand, careful with the juice, and flipped through the pictures with the other. The other pictures, the girl in the street—Sarah hadn't seen all of these. He stared hard at the not-botanical garden butterfly and its artificial flowers. Sarah's eye had always been good. The butterfly seemed right at home and even knowing to look for it, he couldn't see the pin.

  He didn't realize he'd started shaking until the photo fell from his hand to browning grass and lay there, face down between Yellow Dog's paws. He picked it up and tucked it back into the folder, but not before whispering, “I'll get you out—it'll be okay."

  They would never let Yellow Dog into
the museum, and they would never let him take the butterfly out. He zipped the folder safe into the pack and lay back in the grass with the dog dozing heavy across his chest. The sunsoaked grass warmed his back. He tried to inhale its fresh green scene, but it warred with the early-autumn truth of rot. He drew a deep breath, tasting the air, and the wind cut slices from his lungs.

  He slept without meaning to, woke when Yellow Dog lunged to leash's end, jarring his shoulder in its socket and his wrist within the loop. Yellow Dog reared at treebase, forepaws up against the bark, keen-eyed at the squirrel that chattered from its perch.

  "Cheer up,” he told it. “Could be worse."

  He tugged Yellow Dog back. Squirrel-scolding followed as they wandered from the park and on the way out passed one of its kin, albino this one, white fur and red eye, and body here, head over there. Some dog had been meaner than Yellow Dog, or just faster, and poor squirrel not much chewed upon: just sport.

  Clickclick.

  * * * *

  "Are you all right?” Sarah asked, same as always. “I mean, really. You seem . . .” She screwed up her face, concentrating. “Not okay,” she said at last.

  "Thanks, Doc,” he said, and smiled. “All becomes clear."

  She grinned at the joke—he'd hoped she would—but then sobered again, staring hard. “You should go,” she said. “Get out of here. Really. I only have one more year in school and then I'll come with you, someplace away from the city. I mean, I want you here, but you're never happy anymore . . ."

  "I'm happy we have a dog,” he said. “I'm happy to be with you. I'm happy to be here."

  "You're a liar,” she told him, but smiling again. She meant what she said, he knew—but she didn't really want him to go, would be sorry if he left.

  He reached out, tapped her cheek and traced the line of her jaw. “I'll be okay. I'd miss you . . . you'd miss me, wouldn't you? And like you said—it's only one more year."

  * * * *

  Heat rolled off the fire, trembling the air, bright glowing against the night sky, not as bright as it could have been if undimmed by surrounding city lights. He couldn't see the stairs.

  Yellow Dog whined uneasy at the flames from where he stood tight-lashed to the elevator housing. The building roof was built in beds and terraces, kept stocked with soil and planted with vegetables and flowers. Wearing down now, always gone by the time the roof was blanketed in snow, but green during the summer: alive. The roof had tipped the balance, when they'd been searching for a place to live. It boasted a view of the city, the lake, boasted green glowing things and stretches of pavement perfect for safely setting a fire.

  He sat with his back to their fading roses, his face to the city and suburb beyond. The lake would have been a better view, but the wind blew in fits and starts to kick the smoke back into his face.

  He opened the folder and flipped through the photos. “You first,” he told the girl, car-crushed, Yellow Dog's friend so loyal even when it hurt. The picture twisted in the fire, curled, bubbled and blackened. The smoke tasted bitter, stung tears from his eyes and left him coughing even wind-aided away. He pushed at it with his hands and urged, “Go on—you don't belong here, don't have to stay."

  The tree burned, and the duckling, and the squirrel, souls written in smoke drifting free on the wind. He bent over the flames, tears hissing as they fell, vapor before they landed in ashes. He poured water over the fire, careful, slipped the butterfly's picture back into the folder, freed Yellow Dog and followed him back inside.

  * * * *

  "What do you want to do tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow?” he asked. “You don't have class?"

  Sarah glanced up from her textbook and arched an eyebrow. “On Saturday?"

  Oh. “I want to take pictures."

  "You do that every day. We could go out—see a movie, or go camping—or something?"

  He shook his head and rubbed Yellow Dog's ears. The camera waited on the table; the folder with its lonely photo lay beneath it.

  "You don't want to do anything at all?” She set her book on the coffee table and sat up, eyes narrow, unconvinced. “Are you sure you're okay?"

  He nodded, said nothing and stared out the window, their view of the street thick with cabs that milled in holding patterns. “I want to go to the museum,” he said at last.

  * * * *

  They would never let him take Yellow Dog into the museum. They would never let him take the butterfly out.

  They worried about leaving the dog alone and so they lurked outside the door, alert for signs of separation anxiety. He stood beside Sarah and listened, shifting weight from foot to foot; his hand itched, empty of leash. They thought they heard something that might have been a snore.

  And it didn't matter about the butterfly. They wandered exhibit to exhibit (clickclickclick) and stared through glass at long-extinct birds with dusty feathers, passenger pigeon steadfast beside its mate. In one room, a saber-toothed tiger stood frozen mid-prowl, one skeletal paw held high above the tar pit; another beastie thrashed within. Stuffed dead mammals gave way to insects and Sarah studied an anthill where the living struggled at their work, treading on the dead.

  And he stood alone across the room, unblinking beside the butterfly's case. Speckled handsome and striped with color, poised on the flower in the space between breaths but never moving, never again. He watched until he forgot to breathe and then he watched some more and the glass fogged with his breath. He couldn't see the pin, no matter how closely he looked, or maybe it was glue, but surely nothing to be taken out, nothing that could ever be removed to set the creature free in smoke, not without destroying it.

  Again, he found himself shaking.

  "That looks like the picture—” Sarah's voice at his elbow, hushed and low as she focused away from the butterfly, onto him. “Hey. Hey. What's the matter? Hey—don't.” Eyes wide and concerned, a hand on his arm, an arm around his ribs. “Come on,” she said, and on he went.

  * * * *

  "I take pictures,” he said, “of things that are dead."

  Negatives lay on the coffee table, backwards image of color and form, some smudged with dogspit from before Yellow Dog had hopped onto the couch.

  "Catch them,” he said. “Only for a little. And I burn them to let them go."

  "Oh,” Sarah said, and held a negative up to the light.

  "I'm sorry."

  "You hate it here,” she said, and then, “Why didn't you say something?"

  She tried so hard for him, he knew, wanted so badly not to hurt him. She'd even let him run off if he wanted, even let him run out. He shrugged, and she sighed. Yellow Dog's muzzle lay heavy across his knee.

  "We could move,” she said, “or go on vacation—or something. I can take a term off—or you can go, and I'll come when I'm done with school—it's only another year.” She stopped, stared at him, bleak. “Something. Please?"

  He looked down at Yellow Dog, looked at the negatives, took them gently from Sarah's hands. The butterfly was on this roll, and Yellow Dog's girl as well, steadfast and dead. He lifted his gaze to Sarah again. Not going to leave you. Again: “I'm sorry."

  "Don't be sorry,” she said, and he looked away.

  * * * *

  She slept, and so did Yellow Dog with his doggy twitches and his snores.

  He lay awake and stared out the window, not at the stars. He thought about the butterfly, pinned unknowing to the flowers. He rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom, picked up the camera on the way.

  He took pictures of things that were dead, and some of them didn't know they were, and even if they did, they still couldn't escape. And some of them did, and could, but wouldn't.

  He lifted the camera to focus in the mirror.

  Clickclick.

  * * * *

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  Sidhe Tigers

  Sarah Monette

  At night the tigers pace. In the hall outside the little boy's bedroom, they pace like patient, vengeful
angels. They are pale green, like luna moths; their eyes are lambent milky jade. They are cold and silent; when he has to go to the bathroom at night, the tigers stare at him with their pale pale eyes, and sometimes they open their mouths, as if they were roaring, but they make no sound. Their breath is like the aftertaste of brandy and the cold sting of snow. They never come near enough to touch. He wants the tigers to like him, but he is afraid they don't. They brush against the walls with a distant shushing noise, and even in his room he can feel the soft, relentless percussion of their padding feet. The moonlight shining through the hall windows streams straight through them.

  No one else can see the tigers.

  The house is always cold. His desire for warmth causes his father to brand him a sissy-boy, a weakling. At night he hugs himself, because no one else will, and dreams of escaping this loveless house, these cold tigers.

  Years later, his father dies. He goes back because he must, leaving behind lover, friends, work, passion—his adult life like a treasure, locked in a chest for safekeeping. The house is unchanged, his mother petrified in her harsh condemnation of the world and its inchoate yearning for love. She puts him in his old room at the top of the house, as if he had never left at all.

  That night, he hears the tigers, the patient rhythm of their feet marking off the seconds until Doomsday. “You aren't real,” he whispers to them, lying stiff and cold, afraid to close his eyes because then he might be able to hear them more clearly. But the tigers, unheeding, continue pacing until dawn.

  * * * *

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  The Guest Film Column

  Lucy A. Snyder

  California Noir: The Salton Sea

  I wanted to see The Salton Sea the moment I saw the trailer on Apple's Quicktime site, but it seemingly spent only about five minutes in theaters here in Columbus, Ohio before it disappeared. I think the studio figured it had tax write-off marked all over it, and didn't bother to do much to promote this one.