The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2)

by Mark Reynolds

  The Garbageman disagreed.

  “Cannot be allowed! Have you gone soft in the head?” Prosser shouted. “She” and he angrily hooked a finger at Ellen, “does not belong here. Not here. You understand that? She was never meant to be here. But somehow there she is. You’re messin’ with the very core of the universe with her. There’s a balance, and she’s upsettin’ it. She ain’t supposed to be here—there’s no possible way she could be here—and yet somehow … she is! She’s a paradox, and paradoxes have a nasty tendency of unbindin’ the fabric o’ the universe, tearin’ apart the order o’ things. I can’t allow that. You put a piece in a machine what don’t belong, you break the machine.” He emphasized his point by jabbing the air with his finger.

  “But if you try to remove the piece with a hammer, the machine will be just as broken,” Serena remarked mildly.

  “And what would you suggest?” Arnold demanded.

  In her same mild, nonplussed tone, Serena said, “Convince the wayward piece to leave of its own accord.”

  “And how’s this piece gonna take itself out of the machine?”

  “You obtuse imbecile,” Nicholas Dabble snarled, clearly staking out the boundaries of his territory. “In the first place, we’re speaking metaphorically about an agent of free will, not a three-eighth-inch gear. And in the second place, there wouldn’t be any of your precious order in the universe without the element of chaos by which it can be defined. You might as well wish for a head with no tail. They cannot be separated. That is the true nature of the universe. If you can’t see that then there is no point to our meeting at all.”

  Arnold Prosser turned sharply on Nicholas Dabble, jaw clenched, already starting to rise from his seat. “You wanna take this outside and finish what we started the other day, you say the word, salt-licker. But don’t you start pissing about order and chaos and the nature of the universe ‘cause I won’t hear it from you. You knew full goddamn well what this little strip was when you found her, yet you kept her anyway.”

  Ellen opened her mouth to object, but Arnold Prosser’s tirade was not about to be deterred.

  “You hid her out: from me, from Serena, from everyone. Thought she was some kind of pretty trinket you could stash in the false bottom of a drawer, or an old shoebox in the closet. You thought I wouldn’t find ‘er, wouldn’t know what you’d done. But I surprised you, didn’t I? You thought you was safe behind your little lies and half-truths, answers that aren’t answers? Well I saw through your fuckin’ games right quick, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

  “I had every right to do as I did, and you know it,” Dabble challenged back, his tone dropping to a warning snarl.

  Prosser’s eyes darkened. “I musta scrambled your fuckin’ brains yesterday, dabbler. Did you actually say that she was within your right? That little strip of a mortal right there? You know my jurisdiction, and I damn well know yours. And she’s clearly mine.”

  “And how did you arrive at that erroneous conclusion?”

  Prosser went livid. “She’s not supposed to be alive, you stupid bastard! Not supposed to be alive! Don’t you fucking get that? Not alive means she’s supposed to be dead! Dead! And that’s my job!”

  “But if she was never alive then she cannot die.” Serena looked meaningfully at Arnold Prosser. “Therein lay the paradox of which you speak; forcing the death of someone who is not alive would tear the universe to shreds.”

  “Just as her continued existence will slowly unbind reality,” Nicholas finished, offering the answer that the Garbageman was just beginning to see. “Everything she touches begins to spin out of control. It’s only a matter of time really. She is a piece of random chaos, a fragment of entropy. My domain.”

  Serena shook her head disapprovingly. “She is a lost soul, Nicky, and, as such, not the province of any of us. She is from outside and belongs outside.”

  Dabble’s mouth opened, but Serena countered his unspoken objection. “I have heard enough from the both of you. We will accomplish nothing here this afternoon if we continue to bicker back and forth fruitlessly about domains and boundaries. The simple fact of the matter is that Ellen Monroe, whatever you may think she is, is here at my request. That should be more than enough to let the both of you know that your claims, regardless of the premise you choose, fall subservient to mine. On that point, gentleman, I expect there can be no dispute. Am I incorrect?”

  It was a question in form only. Both men turned, chastened but unsatisfied. Dabble’s face was white and bloodless, his lips pursed tightly, holding back a torrent of bile. The Garbageman’s face had gone dark red, eyes wide with rage so that he resembled some kind of bull terrier—a bull terrier in an ill-fitting, blue suit.

  Then Serena turned to Ellen, her smile pleasant and disarming, all sternness gone. “I am sorry, Ellen. This must all seem very distressing. In spite of what you’ve heard, this is not the least bit your fault. You have found yourself caught in the middle. Please don’t let it keep you from enjoying tea. Try one of the finger sandwiches. I think you’ll find them delicious.”

  Ellen found the entire affair positively surreal, a strange acid trip she didn’t remember starting. She felt like an extra in a stage play without a script, a line coach, or even a clue as to what was going on or what was expected of her. Worse, none of the other players seemed to realize that. What she had done, or supposedly done, she had no idea. And no idea why it should so upset the Garbageman, or so intrigue Nicholas Dabble. As for Serena, the coffee shop owner was a growing enigma.

  Ellen timidly selected a triangle of bread containing a smear of white cheese and some orange fish she guessed was raw tuna; there was no sense in being rude. And Serena was right; it was delicious. “This is very good.”

  “And there we are, gentleman,” Serena said pleasantly. “Something upon which I’m sure we can all agree. Amidst all the insensibility, the chaos and randomness fighting a never-ending battle with order and design, all the disagreements over domain and jurisdiction and boundaries of control, there is the simplicity of tea. It is the basic construct: a hub of rules, etiquette and form loosely woven together with tea and hors d’oeurves. It is a simple foundation upon which great things can be created. That is why I have invited all of you here. Our differences must be settled and the solution must be mutually agreeable. To satisfy merely one goal is not enough. We must come together and see it through to its conclusion. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  For a moment, there was only silence. Then Arnold cleared his throat. “There are certain conditions that I have, petitions what need to be met. Beyond that, I’m willing to be … flexible in the way in which we go about the solution.”

  Serena smiled warmly at him. “Splendid, Arnold. I knew you could be counted upon. In the end, I think we all want the same thing. Our own particular backgrounds limit the ways in which we believe these ends can be met, but the ends are still the same. All that remains is that we arrive at a mutual consensus for obtaining that end. Don’t you agree, Nicky?”

  Nicholas Dabble took decidedly longer to reply, and when he did, it was a truculent grunt. “With reservations.”

  “Distances that need to be overcome, Nicky. Perhaps some tea will put you more in the mood.” Serena lifted the teapot’s lid and delicately lifted out the tisane, allowing it a moment to spill the last few drops back into the pot before laying it aside upon the tea tray. All the while, she continued talking, not paying the slightest attention to what it was she was doing, the perfect hostess. “Ellen, would you be so kind as to pass the cups around as I fill them?”

  Ellen took each cup and saucer from Serena, passing the first to Nicholas Dabble; she was uncertain if there was an order to how guests were to be served, and frankly didn’t care. Everyone was talking about her like an object, an abstraction, a situation that required resolution. Well, she wasn’t any of those things. Mr. Dabble had always looked out for her, so the first cup would go to him.

  The bookstore owner simply smiled and accepted the tea, ho
lding it easily in his right hand that he might drink with his left.

  The next she handed to Arnold Prosser. He took it from her somewhat crossly, snatching it from her hands too quickly and very nearly upsetting the cup. He stared at it angrily, perhaps feeling the rattling piece of china was somehow conspiring to embarrass him, and reached for the sugar bowl, ladling great, heaping spoonfuls of sugar into his cup. He had stirred in four by the time Serena handed Ellen her cup of tea, allowing her to sit back down while Serena poured a cup for herself. Nicholas Dabble stole the opportunity to take a cinnamon biscotti from the tray, laying it quietly upon his saucer.

  “I imagine,” Serena began, leaning back into her chair with her tea, “that the simplest thing to do would be for all of us to share our ideas on order and the universe, and how Ellen Monroe violates that order. We can each conclude with our own personal idea of the means to which that order can be restored and the matter of Ellen’s existence put to rest. Once each of our views is known to the other, along with our personal reservations and concerns, then we will all of us be better equipped to decide upon this matter.”

  Ellen did not remember dropping acid—not in months—but there was no denying that she felt like she’d stumbled into Alice’s tea party with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare. But then who was Serena in this weird version? And why didn’t anyone care what she thought. “Do I have a say in any of this?”

  Arnold Prosser poured enough cream into his tea to brim the cup, then stirred noisily, spoon clinking as tea slopped over and pooled in the saucer.

  “Of course,” Serena remarked pleasantly. “It may not always seem so, but in the end, whatever the outcome, the final decision will be yours. Whatever my other guests may believe to the contrary, free will is sacrosanct; they can influence it, but they can never dictate it.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “I don’t imagine you do,” Serena said pleasantly. “There’s a world of things beyond one’s ken. It does not change the fact that some things must still be done, understood or not, fair or not, rational and sensible and sane or not. Many things are an act simply of faith, the belief in one’s sense of rightness and order, a journey first of the heart then of the mind. They cannot always be explained. They cannot always be understood. But they are still the correct course of action.”

  It was like talking with Podak.

  The Garbageman made a horrid face, his first mouthful of tea dribbling back out over his lips and down the front of his shirt as he made an awkward gagging sound.

  “Goodness. Arnold, what is the matter?” Serena asked.

  Arnold Prosser sniffed suspiciously at his tea then snatched the small pitcher of cream from the table and held it to his nose. His features curled in disgust. “Serena, your cream’s gone over.”

  Serena’s hand leapt to her throat. “Arnold, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand how this could have happened.”

  The only real surprise was that Arnold would actually drink some of it before realizing that the cream—the same cream that had been sitting out in the sun since the previous morning—had soured miserably. Serena thought the aroma of fresh cookies and tea a thin mask at best for the sour dairy smell. The coffee shop owner turned to Ellen.

  “You live only a couple of blocks away don’t you? I feel terribly embarrassed asking you this, but I am completely out of cream downstairs; the morning rush caught me unprepared, and my next delivery won’t be until tomorrow. Do you have any milk or cream at your place that I can borrow?”

  Ellen shrugged uncomfortably. “I … I don’t think so.”

  “Are you certain?” Serena asked desperately. “Any half-n-half, perhaps? You must have some half-n-half. I would be ever so grateful if you would run back to your place and bring me back some half-n-half for our afternoon’s tea. I know it’s an imposition, but we are desperate to resolve this dilemma. You understand?”

  Ellen nodded vaguely, feeling out of place, out of sorts, out of body, out of mind. No, she did not understand. What was Serena’s sudden obsession with half-n-half; the coffee shop owner never served it. Hated it, quite frankly. Yet here she was asking over and over for it, as though the world depended upon it. Ridiculous.

  “You’re an angel,” Serena said. “Hurry home and fetch it for me, won’t you?” She was urging Ellen to her feet, much to the dismay of Arnold Prosser and the feigned disinterest of Nicholas Dabble. “Be back just as quickly as you can.”

  “Serena, don’t bother with that,” Arnold pleaded, standing up awkwardly, his overfilled teacup bobbling in the saucer and spilling more tea out upon the floor and tabletop. “Oh, sorry about that. I’ll get somethin’ to wipe that up with.” Then he remembered his reason for standing in the first place. “Anyway, forget about the cream. I don’t need it. I can drink it like a Yank. Sugar and lemon’s fine.”

  “Arnold, that’s very polite of you to offer, but I won’t hear of it. This is a tea party, and my guests should have the condiments of their choice. If you would like cream in your tea, you should have it. I daresay Nicky would like cream, too.”

  “Cream would be nice, thank you,” Mr. Dabble remarked, ignoring the exchange over the spoiled cream in favor of the hors d’oeuvres; anchovy-laden crackers circled the rim of his tea saucer like hedge stones.

  “It shouldn’t be any trouble at all, Nicky.” She placed a hand to the small of Ellen’s back and guided her to the door. “It won’t be any trouble, will it Ellen? To fly on home?”

  Ellen shook her head, though truthfully nothing made sense about this afternoon at all, not from the very beginning.

  Undeterred, Serena pushed Ellen into the hallway with a quick glance over her shoulder, looking at something beyond the parlor, maybe outside the front window. “The shop is locked, so use the backdoor.”

  Ellen found herself on the landing looking in at the coffee shop owner, the Garbageman behind her, a dripping teacup and saucer in one hand, a questionable expression on his face, and her boss, the epitome of sophistication, stuffing hors d’oeuvres into his mouth one after another, seemingly oblivious to the events transpiring around him. He chanced her gaze, and she saw something both secretive and knowing in his eyes. Then he looked away, eyeing a tray of gingersnaps and sweet biscuits.

  Serena leaned forward, placing her lips beside Ellen’s ear, and whispered, “My best to Jack.”

  And with that, she closed the door.

  FLIGHTS OF MADNESS

  Ellen left by the backdoor as Serena suggested.

  Staked out in front of the coffee shop, Gusman Kreiger hid within the sparse folds of the midday shadows lurking outside Dabble’s Books—shadows the Cast Out wore with the familiarity of an old and trusted cloak—and never saw her leave.

  If he had, things might have turned out differently.

  Stepping into the narrow alleyway behind the coffee shop, Ellen inhaled, the air already different from when she crossed the street half an hour earlier, heady with the smells of the storm fast approaching: damp and clean and electrically charged. The wind whipped at her hair and clothes, stole the breath from her nostrils. Clouds boiled and rolled overhead in a tumult of ever-darkening gray.

  Had she closed the windows to her apartment?

  What difference will it make? It’s time to leave.

  She felt the urgency, the charge in the air that made the hairs on her arms and neck prickle, her steps quicken. Reality was in flux, the storm merely an outward expression like whitecaps on the water, leaves turning before the wind. Unseen below the surface, pieces were in motion, the coils and gears and springs of the universe were turning, tightening, moving. It had been still for too long, as if some great hand holding the pendulum had finally released it and set it back in motion.

  It was there in the wind, in the lay of the clouds, the abandoned streets stripped of life and left behind, nothing more than empty vessels, shells washed up on the shore, abandoned. The entire world was one great ghost ship, the Mary Celeste searching endles
sly for lost souls in the night-sea. Ellen was the only life left on this world, and it was time for her to leave.

  Maybe past time.

  She ran up the steps of her building, a giddy mix of excitement and panic. When she opened the door, the knob slipped from her fingers and slammed into the wall with a resounding bang.

  Serena had sent her here because her tea party was out of cream, and she needed half-n-half. Serena once told her half-n-half epitomized society’s fear of commitment, of the repercussions of its wants and desires. Half-n-half was indecisive and timid, and she would not serve it.

  So why did she send you after half-n-half? And why send you here, when she could just as easily have sent you to the store?

  And how did Serena know about Jack? She mentioned him, not in condescending or conciliatory tones the way you spoke to a crazy person about their imaginary friend, but conspiratorially, like someone who realizes that the imaginary friend is not, and never was, imaginary.

  Ellen looked around the near-empty apartment, everything about the place unfamiliar. There was no history behind anything she saw. She did not remember her first night here, did not remember moving in or having her mail forwarded. She did not remember anything about any of it. She did not remember buying any of the furniture, or any of her clothes, or any of the food in her cupboards. It was all simply here, simply props and stage articles added to provide a semblance of life to a production that was not real; a production taking place while reality went about its business elsewhere.

  There was nothing left for her here; certainly not half-n-half. Serena’s only intention was to secret Ellen away from the tea party and its unusual guests, and give her time to escape—not merely tea, but the world!