We both were, said so, and looked; and the only photograph of a woman on the mantle made us stop.
The footsteps from the kitchen had arrived, and Paolo was saying, “Ragazzi, this is my sister, Gianna."
We turned. It was the “maid."
This was his sister?
This was not the woman in the hospital.
The woman in the picture on the mantlepiece was.
I looked at Marco and Marco looked back, and somehow Paolo knew. Perhaps he'd felt it one night. Perhaps he'd seen it in his sister's face one day, or on many days, when she'd returned from the hospital or was about to leave for it. That she'd met someone there. That she hadn't really been alone.
"No—” he said, shaking his head. “It was Gianna you met—who helped you. Gianna, you remember the boys, yes?"
The young woman, her eyes crazy—this was the reason she didn't look at people, I knew—glanced at us quickly and shook her head. “No, Paolo. I do not remember them.” She was holding another plate of cookies. “Would you like more, ragazzi? Would the boys like more cookies, Paolo?"
"Gianna is the one you met. She just doesn't remember—she is on medication—and because of the shadows and the commotion, you do not remember either. It is understandable. Marco was shot in the neck, a dangerous wound. The light, the commotion...."
Neither of us said a thing. I looked back at the picture on the mantle—at the pretty face with wide-set eyes—and could almost smell her again. I wondered how often she'd gotten her lipstick wrong in the craziness of war, the wounded and dying soldiers, and whether she'd been wearing lipstick the night when her husband had come to the hospital.
"Thank you for coming over, boys,” Paolo was saying, hurrying us toward the door. “That was very kind of you. Your families should be proud."
Marco was ahead of me. As we reached the door, Paolo touched my back to stop me, and in English—with a thick Italian accent—said, for me and me alone:
"The boy's name—the one who shot Marco—is ‘Speer,’ correct?"
"Yes."
"Is that name German?"
I didn't know why he was asking.
"Yes,” I said in English too. “Yes, it is."
"Is his father an officer?"
"Yes,” I said, still not understanding, but then seeing it at last.
Paolo was staring out through the window to the hills and cove once more, as if in a dream.
"Then Marco is indeed my cousin,” he said quietly, still in English. “It could not be otherwise. Please tell him."
* * * *
As we took the road back to my house, I thought of our hunchback teacher, how he had made what had happened possible, and wondered whether he somehow knew. I thought about the woman he cared for, whether she was still alive, or whether she called to him only from his heart. I wondered how far someone might go to hold onto what they loved.
Marco was asking what the owner had said to me in English. I answered that he'd thanked me for coming, that was all, and that he'd wanted to show off his English, too.
Marco didn't believe me. I wasn't lying well.
"That woman in the photograph—"
"Yes,” I answered.
"Wasn't that the woman?"
"I don't know,” I lied again. “It could have been her or it could have been his sister, I'm really not sure. He is right. There was a lot of commotion, and the light was bad...."
"Is she still there?"
"Who?"
"That woman."
"I don't think so,” I said. “I think she has gone now."
Marco stared at me as we walked. He knew I wasn't telling him everything; but he knew too that he would, just like me, have to make of what had happened that day in the hospital a story that somehow made sense to him and him alone, one that he could live with for the rest of his life. It would help him if I told him, but for some reason I couldn't. I couldn't tell him what Paolo had asked me in English that day—though many years later, married and with children of my own, I would write a story, one very much like this one, spend months finding where he lived (it would be Vecchia Erici still), and send it to him, so that he might at last know the truth about love.
Copyright © 2010 Bruce McAllister
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Short Story: THE BOLD EXPLORER IN THE PLACE BEYOND by David Erik Nelson
David Erik Nelson is co-author (with Morgan Johnson and Fritz Swanson) of “Ask the Giant Squid"—www.squid.poormojo.org—the ongoing serialized advice and memoirs of a sinister and deathless Architeuthis dux living in Detroit, Michigan. Links to David's Twitter feed and other projects are available at www.davideriknelson.com. Readers may get a taste for what the author has to offer at his website from the outré escapade of the cephalopod in...
"So, that lil squid, the bold explorer, had just knocked his whole damn operation into a cocked hat, is what he'd done.” That voice came chopping out of the crisp spring dark and scared the tar out of me. I'd been creeping down to peep into the windows of Two-Ton Sadie's Dancehall—catch me a look at them dancing girls she's got—when that crippled ole Johnny Reb, Dickie Tucker, came bellowing out of the dark alley alongside the General Mercantile Emporium, bottle in hand. He stomped up to Rev. Habit's First Church of the Latter Day Saints, and I went hopping into Sheriff Plume's high hedge like a jackrabbit.
The fat, spring moon gleamed on Dickie's single good eye and made plain the hard fist of scars clenching the right side of his head as he hectored the big double doors of Rev. Habit's church. He looked like the Devil's own fist hammering down the Lord's door.
"That lil squid had kitted hisself together a clever ole clockwork diving engine—an undiving engine. Looked like a lil crab stitched outta scraps of copper, rubber, and greased leather.” Dickie made obscure gestures in the air, like he was telling a Chinaman how to put together a pump head, but I already had a notion of what his bold explorer looked like: Like them Union automatic clockwork soldiers that keep their camp up on Windmill Mesa, now that they's retired from Sherman's dreaded First Mechanical Battalion. Word was that Dickie'd lost his face to a clockie platoon at the Battle of Atlanta. No one knew if that was true—you couldn't hardly talk to Dickie Tucker, no more than you could talk to a rabid dog, but the way he lashed into the clockies when he'd see them in the street ... it seemed credible.
"Started okay: The bold explorer, he'd crept up out of the water, peering from behind a curved shard of a Chinese blowed-glass fishing float, not knowin’ what to expect of the Place Beyond. He'd clicked and clacked up out of the surge and scuttled into the sedges, not just blinded by the clean, pure light of that slitted sliver of moon, but by his sense of wonder and terror. He'd skidded right through the scintillant edge of everything, and was still live and sane.” Dickie wavered in the street and held his bottle up to see its level in the moonlight. I couldn't see how much he had, or had had, or would have. Probably God couldn't, neither. Behind him, the dancehall thumped and jangled. With its swaybacked roof and lit up windows, it looked like a November jack-o-lantern gone soft, waiting to fall in on itself.
"Before he'd even gotten over congratulating hisself on bein’ so damn brave and clever,” he told the bottle, “the bold explorer had already bumbled his way through the thickets of sharp bentgrass, tumbled down the backs of the dunes, and stumbled into the forest.” Dickie took another slug.
"The forest was thick,” he said, taking the church steps like he was charging a trench through a mucky field, “and the leafy branches of the old beeches and buckeyes cut the glare off the moonlight. His lil optically perfect eyes could focus again, and he saw a sick world of wonders. It was crowded with what he took for corals and anemones, but these reefs was fishless and vacant, the piebald corals bleached of their living color, the anemones listless. No wonder, he thought, that the few that got pulled up through the Silver Edge came back broken and dead, and the survivors mad; the Place Beyond was a dead world.” Dickie knelt shakily, set down his bottle on the to
p step, and peered through the door crack like he was peeping on Jesus in the bath. Then he started to whisper into the doorknob.
"The bold explorer's lil legs whirred and clicked as he scuttled through the dry leaves,” Dickie crawled the fingers of his left hand over the wooden door, like a giant spider tickling a lady's bottom over her silk knickers, “whirred and ticked as he scrambled over logs, whirred and tocked as he skittered over knobby old roots. Even if it was a dead world, there was still much to see, and he aimed to look his fill while he had the chance. He was slipping into a dip under a big ole uprooted paper birch when his suit whirred and sproinged, and one of his front legs gave out limp.” Dickie made his index finger flop lamely, “He stopped in his tracks, and gave the leg a test jiggle. It did nuthin'. He gently tested the other seven; two more sproinged. He backtracked up out of the dip, but was hardly clear of the tree's lee when the suit crack!ed” he clapped his hands, “sproinged, whirred, whistled, and keeled over.” Dickie's left hand dropped dead on the church's wide top step. “He rolled a half turn, and looked up through a break in the canopy at the drowsy, half-lidded moon.” Dickie himself rocked back on his heels, almost tumbling down the steps, then spun and planted his skinny hams on the narrow threshold. He leaned back into the door's embrace, closed his eye, and basked in the spring moonlight.
"Soon enough,” Dickie grunted, “bold explorer discovered that the forest wasn't so empty like he thought. But ‘til then, he had hisself a time to lay out orderly how he'd got where he was. If there's such as sin, then the bold explorer, his sin was pride. All his days, as a young squidlet at the bottom of the goddamn sea, he'd been too fancy to socialize proper with all them other lil squiddies. When they'd spurt up to ask him to play at races and crack-the-whip, or to twirl it up at the annual squid cotillion, he was always too busy studyin’ up and schemin’ on his glorious Future. He's too busy to even be proper and polite and express his regrets, and so it wasn't too soon before every other lil squid stopped tryin’ to pal up to him. Not that the damn thick bastard even might notice.” Dickie opened his eye and there was fire in it. He shot to his feet, and shouted in the moon's face.
"'cause ole Mr. Fancy Pants had him a notion that there was somethin’ worth knowing up beyond the undulant, silver top edge of the waters, somethin’ more than plain, ole Death. The squids, they all knew there was somethin’ out Beyond, but didn't reckon it was somethin’ worth knowin'. Why? ‘cause on account now and again some poor damn bastard would get caught in a net, or lay into a baited hook, and get whisked up clean out of their world. Mostly, that was the end of the story. Occasionally, his corpse might get coughed back out, limp and torn. And very, very, very...” his steam had run down. Dickie seemed like a locomotive that might start rolling back down hill, devil may care and no survivors when it jumps track. He took the steps back down in a loose-limbed trot, then looked at his hands quizzically.
"Very, very rare,” he mumbled absently, looking about him on the ground, “that unlucky squid would come back live. But what he could say of what he'd seen...” Dickie finally caught a glimpse of his bottle, left neglected on the church steps, and his single eye sparkled, “There weren't much to it. It was crazy babble,” Dickie leaned over the steps, laying out across them, snatched up his hooch, and took a long, reflective gulp before standing. “He'd tell ‘em, of a thin place up above and beyond the world, a searing place of blinding light, of roars and shudders, of helpless flopping and hopeless incomprehensibility. All them other squids pitied these madmen that had seen the Place Beyond. And, jus’ like us, sayin’ they pitied these luckless travelers is to say they ignored them."
Dickie rubbed his face, then knuckled his good eye. “But the bold explorer,” he sighed, “he lacked the good goddamn sense to ignore crippled lunatics."
Dickie rocked on his heels, staring into the moon, and then muttered, “He was a brave, dumb sonofabitch. I'd pity the bastards too. Pity ‘em all."
Dickie strutted up the street, like an actor across the boards. He took a deep breath and blew out his contemplative mood. “And then,” he kicked a horse apple, aiming for Sheriff's door. It pounded into the bushes where I crouched, off to my left, “As the bold explorer laid there, thinkin’ on his progress, cats oiled in on the darkness, like eels ‘cross ice. Feral old toms, refugees from a torched plantation. One still wore his leather collar, which was cracked and dry, but had its silver bell. Though tarnished black, that bell tinkled high and pretty in the moon-bright night.” He kicked another turd. “Not that the bold explorer could hear.” And it went extremely wide, skittering up the street, “They was cats and didn't know much, but they remembered the sorts of fancy food what came out of cans and jars, once upon a time, afore them clockie sonsabitches brought their fire down through Atlanta and clear to the sea.” He kicked another turd, hard. It disintegrated to a mist of manure on impact with his boot toe, but he still squinted into the distance to see where it had landed.
"Them cats flowed out of the dark and knotted around the bold explorer who, bless his stupid heart, was glad to see ‘em. He watched the cats glide through the air, slick as fish, and blushed a warm hello and gracious salutation, such as you might to diplomats and ambassadors. ‘course,” he kicked, and a horse apple shot into the bush directly above me, raining down leaves and filth, “they didn't give a good God damn for greetings. Them toms couldn't even imagine the full-color skin semaphore that's squid talk. All they saw was pretty fish in a Mason jar.” Two more horse apples came in quick succession, cutting right into the trail of the last, and dusting me with stink to match my regret.
"But the bold explorer, he just kept grinnin’ like a blue-ribbon asshole, and flashin’ his howdy-do?, and swirlin’ his embarrassed relief, and jiggin’ an excruciatingly boring explanation of his predicament. He was explicating his situation when the first swat knocked him and his little bubble of sea into the brush.” Dickie cracked his hard palm smartly across his thigh, “And they was off to the races. The trio of toms swirled off into the forest, drivin’ that squid in his clockwork divin’ bell before ‘em like injuns runnin’ buffalo off a cliff. They went ricochetin’ off trees, tumblin’ down banks and sprintin’ up hills. Soon as they started they'd lost the sense of the goal of the task, and was just runnin’ after the savage joy of it. Once that dome cracked the party'd be done, and maybe they'd mourn the loss of the game, but a full belly goes a long way to soothe a sad heart. Least when you's livin’ rough.” Dickie made to drink, but lost his grip. The bottle tumbled to the dirt. He shook his head, watching his tonic glug away into the rutted lane. Sadie's thumped and rocked, like a distant train passing on a track that don't go nowhere near your town. The girls all whooped together, high and pretty, and the sound of it in the spring night made my heart crinkle till I was near to crying.
"But the cats,” Dickie said, “They didn't get their supper. They was all legs and cartwheels, time a-their life, when somethin’ big and angry, somethin’ that wanted what they had, pounded up the brush and loosed a single screechin’ roar. Stopped them three toms dead in their tracks, and sent ‘em yowlin’ to the four points of the compass, leaving the bold explorer to rock and froth and shudder to rest among the roots and bracken."
Dickie squatted shakily and dabbled his fingers in the puddle of booze that was mingling with everything else in the street—hog slop and horse piss and cowflops and God even don't imagine what. “The cats’ yowls and ruckus drifted off into the night, with the tinkle of that age-black silver bell followin’ after,” he brought his fingers to his mouth and my guts clenched up tight and greasy. He scowled, then nodded.
"Soon, out from the brush, crept the ‘possum, gopher, and two squirrels who'd made that racket.” Dickie got shakily to all fours, “They circled up ‘round the bold explorer. His little undiving engine was worse for wear: Three of the legs was gone altogether, with toothy gears and useless snarls of spring-steel protruding from their empty sockets. The other five were twisted beyond all hope of repair,
bent back and around the dome of his lil’ anti-bathysphere like the green sepals pulled up around a dandelion's fluff.” He carefully lowered his face to the puddle. “The glass was still whole—maybe for the luck of being shielded by them bust up legs—but there was a trickle of water running out from between the tarred plates on his undercarriage.” Dickie was bringing his lips to the dirt-flecked surface of that grotesquely filthy whiskey puddle when the better angels of his nature reared their heads. My guts hitched into my throat and stuck there, even when Dickie flopped onto his backside instead of slurping up that mess. He sighed like an abandoned dog.
I was scared of getting skinned by my pa, and scared of Dickie Tucker, and sick sad that I was missing on seeing those dancing girls that Pa calls “prairie nymphs,” like the words are a mouthful of spoilt milk. Maybe they're cheap trash, but to see them twirling in the light of a hundred candles, their curls shining, to see them lounge against the bar like cats, to see their legs and arms and necks, to see their coyness that ain't coy when they set hand to a man's arm or chest—it's warm and dizzy and worth any kind of scared. It settled my gut, thinking about them.
"The bold explorer himself was bruised all to hell,” Dickie said, “with one eye swelled shut like a county fair pugilist, but he's just as optimistic as ever. He smiled tentative, then blushed and wigwagged his color-talk, ‘splaining how he'd got there—which they knew plain enough, from seein'—and askin’ their help in diagnosing the ailments of his suit—which was beyond their capacities.” Dickie stood and turned back toward the church doors, serendipitously catching sight of his dropped bottle. A bare inch of liquor lay in the curve of the bottle's belly, and Dickie perked up seeing it. “All's to say that it was probably just fine that they couldn't understand a damn thing he said.” Dickie scooped up the bottle and drained her.
Though it seems unlikely, Dickie was even less steady on his feet than before, pacing careful, his eyes glued to the dirt. He brought each step to bear with ferocious concentration, as though he expected the ground to squirt out from under foot.
Asimov's SF, February 2010 Page 10