I'm Fine, but You Appear to Be Sinking

by Leyna Krow

  After all, it’s her memory, her dream. What’s it got to do with anyone else? Nothing, Dahlia decides. Lonely as it may seem to admit such a thing, Squid Days has got nothing to do with anyone else at all.

  But she resolves to still go. If nothing else, her presence seems to mean a great deal to Cyril. She doesn’t want to appear rude or ungrateful.

  The next morning, Madison helps Dahlia into the car for the drive to the marina. Dahlia is pleased by Madison’s willingness to put aside valuable study time to join Dahlia for this expedition, although somewhat less pleased by Madison’s reason for doing so.

  “You’re not going out on some boat alone with that guy,” Madison said when Dahlia told her she intended to take Cyril up on his offer. “He’s probably planning to murder you and feed your body to his precious squid. He’ll probably make you dress up in his dead grandmother’s clothes first. He’ll probably make you call him Sonny Boy.”

  Dahlia told Madison she was being cruel. She insisted Cyril was not dangerous; he was her friend and he was doing her a favor.

  In the car though, Dahlia wonders if maybe Madison senses something about the young man that Dahlia has missed.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Dahlia says, patting Madison’s knee.

  “Yeah, well, somebody has to look out for you out there on the high seas,” Madison says. Then she gives Dahlia a quick wink. Such a rare and playful moment from her grandniece. It makes Dahlia want to lean over and hug the girl. But that would be too much for Madison, Dahlia knows. Instead, she decides to let Madison in on her secret.

  “I wouldn’t normally do this sort of thing,” Dahlia says. “But it’s regarding Squid Days.”

  “I figured. It’s okay though. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, I guess.”

  “I know it seems weird, but someday you’ll have something like this happen to you,” Dahlia says.

  “Probably not,” Madison says.

  Dahlia wonders which of them is correct. Does everyone have their own Squid Days? Their own Mr. Stills? Something from their past that seems so crucial and so integral to their very being, forgotten then remembered, then fractured and fissured through the maddening tricks of the human mind. And if so, what might that be for Madison? Anything at all—a particular dessert at a particular diner, a conversation with a neighbor, a broken plate or lost piece of silverware—could do the trick. There is no way to guess or to predict.

  “Well, it’s not a bad thing,” Dahlia says, and hopes that it’s true. “Just so you know. In case it does happen.”

  At the harbor, Madison helps Dahlia from the car and into her chair and then tells her she’s going to go find a parking spot.

  “Try not to get murdered before I get back,” she says.

  Dahlia spots Cyril nearby. He’s leaning against a railing at the edge of the parking lot, looking out at the bay. Dahlia studies the back of him for a moment. He is a bit of an odd duck, she concedes. Odd, but more than that, simply different from the way Dahlia had first perceived him—from the way she first wanted to perceive him.

  He’s certainly picked a nice day for a boat ride though, warm with high, wispy clouds. The wheels of Dahlia’s chair clatter against the rutted asphalt and Cyril turns at the sound. He greets her with a wide, genuine smile—more at ease than in her house, and more welcoming than in the lab—and begins to tell her about his plan for the afternoon, the route they will take across the bay and what he’s hoping to observe from his squid once they’re tagged. Dahlia nods politely.

  “Well, thank you again for inviting me. And for letting Madison tag along,” she says. “This is really very kind.”

  “I’m glad you two could come. I’m just happy to be able to help out with your Squid Days search,” he says. “I really am.”

  Dahlia senses that is the crux of the issue for the young man. Cyril’s not a “creeper” as Madison fears. And he’s also not a modern-day Mr. Stills as Dahlia had first hoped. He’s a lonely young man, looking for someone for whom he can be a hero. Or, if not a hero, a good helper. Dahlia remembers what Cyril said about his own grandmother. How he doesn’t have anyone to help anymore. It’s so strange, she thinks, the sorts of things we need from other people. Sometimes one of those needs is to be needed.

  Madison appears by Dahlia’s side. She announces that she’s found a parking spot nearby. “So I guess we’re all ready to go, or whatever,” she says, kind of looking at Cyril, but not really.

  Cyril nods. “There’s our ride,” he says.

  He points to a white motorboat tied to the end of the dock. The dock is connected to the parking lot by a set of meandering wooden stairs. Dahlia knows there must be a ramp somewhere she can use—it’s city property, after all—but she can’t see it. She notices Madison turning her head, trying to answer the same question.

  “How will I get there?” Dahlia asks.

  Cyril shrugs. His big hands are wedged into the pockets of his jeans. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “Well, I just figured...” he starts, and Dahlia knows right away what he’s going to say.

  It’s a silly gesture, really. And an unnecessary one. Truly, there must be another way down to the dock. This isn’t some action movie where Dahlia is the damsel in distress, waiting desperately to be rescued. In fact, Cyril will probably feel a little awkward about the whole thing while it’s happening.

  But then, Dahlia thinks, maybe in the future, when Cyril’s old, his mind will flip and fracture this scene in his dreams and in his memories. And then it won’t be awkward or silly or unnecessary. He’ll get to play the part of the hero when he needs it. Just like Dahlia gets to be scooped up by Mr. Stills, picked out as special, shown something fantastical and wonderful in her dreams now that she needs it.

  Dahlia wonders, if she could pick one part of Squid Days to make real again, what would it be? The squid? But she has seen them in Cyril’s video and they meant nothing. The food and the music? It may never have existed in the first place. The companionship of her brother and parents? Who knows if they were even there, and if they were, what they thought of it. Maybe it was, to them, totally forgettable, as Isaac suggested.

  No, if she could pick just one thing, it would be Mr. Stills’ arms. The feeling of being held by someone strong, by someone who cared greatly for her, whatever his reason.

  This is something Cyril can do for her. This is something Cyril wants to do for her. He can be those arms.

  Poor Cyril, he’s stammering a little now, as if he’s lost his nerve. Behind him, Madison shakes her head, draws her hand in front of her neck, the universal sign for don’t encourage him. But Dahlia wants this. She smiles up at the young man, nods her head to show her support. Go ahead, Dahlia thinks, willing him to stand up straight with his strong shoulders pushed back so he looks the part, so he looks more like Mr. Stills, more like Terry. Then he does, and the image is complete, and Dahlia notices how warm the sun feels on her face and how everything smells like the ocean. Go ahead.

  “I just figured I’d carry you,” Cyril says, finally. “If that’s all right.”

  Acknowledgments

  I owe tremendous thanks to the many people who have offered advice, support, and feedback for this book.

  First and foremost, to my friends Michael Bell, Rosie Bartel, Melissa Huggins, Elizabeth Moore, Aaron Passman, and Maya Zeller who voluntarily took the time to read and comment on these stories in various stages of development, and to my peers from Eastern Washington University’s MFA program who were forced to do so, but generally seemed to still have a good attitude about it.

  To Greg Spatz, my thesis advisor at EWU, who helped me shape many of the stories in this collection, and who taught me what makes a story good in the first place.

  To everyone at Featherproof Books for their diligent work on this project, but in particular to my friend and editor Jason Sommer whose enthusiasm and vision made this book far better and far weirder than anything I ever could have come up w
ith on my own.

  To Shannon Garvey for telling me about the lions and tigers of Terre Haute, Indiana.

  To Cathie Johnson for pestering me to write her into a story, until I finally did.

  And to my husband Scott, who I am grateful to most of all, for reasons too numerous to list here.

  Publishing strange and beautiful fiction and nonfiction and post-, trans-, and inter-genre tragicomedy.

  Available at bookstores everywhere, and direct from Chicago, Illinois at

  www.featherproof.com

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  Endnotes for End Times

  1 Or, maybe “fail” is the wrong word. Maybe “choose not to” is better. After all, some conversations are just plain undesirable, no matter many opportunities I’m given to have them. I feel guilty about this. Although there’s nothing to be done about it now—Cole won’t be born for another four years. The man I’m currently sitting across from at this coffee shop isn’t the man who will be Cole’s father, so no use asking him for help. I suppose I could write myself a note: Tell Cole you will die young. I mean it this time!! But I know it wouldn’t make any difference and Cole will still wind up unprepared. This isn’t pessimistic conjecture on my part. When I say I know, you must believe me. I know.