Nica of the New Yorks

by Sue Perry

  "That's an amusing name for the mind eaters but they're not amusing."

  Mind eaters. The Entourage were officially called mind eaters. TMI. Names are important to attitude. Ludicrous is easier to withstand. Maybe we should start calling Maelstrom Clamface. "Are they after me? Is that why I need to stay away from Ma'Urth?"

  "No knowledge, no worry." Kelly Joe said, like it was a saying.

  "Not with me. I've got an apocalyptic imagination. The truth will be more tame."

  "No. No it won't be."

  For once, I stopped asking questions.

  It didn't take long to move me. While I schlepped small everyday items from Ma'Urth to Bedlam, Kelly Joe fetched furniture from who–knows–where. Maybe there was a discount furniture Frame. Or maybe, in some unsuspecting Frame, tonight Logram and Mametto would look at each other in confusion: "What happened to our couch?"

  I made a final stroll through my apartment on Ma'Urth. I guess I had everything I needed for now—Leon. Snoozing on the lawn chair on the fire escape. Should I take the cat? The chair? My hand brushed the chair and I got a feeling I should leave the chair where it was. But the chair had no advice about whether to take Leon.

  Kelly Joe appeared at the bathroom window. "It's time to go," he announced. I petted Leon with advance nostalgia, and he added, "He'll be safer without you."

  "Safer but not safe? Can I bring Leon with me to Bedlam?"

  "Cats can't be brought, they bring themselves or they don't come."

  Another move. My apartment in Bedlam seemed even more alien once it was furnished like its counterpart on Ma'Urth. Of course, I was barely accustomed to any of the New Yorks, and I had never felt settled back in Los Angeles when I lived illegally in my office at the Henrietta. So it had been a long time since any home had felt like home. But here I was and Kelly Joe had found me a couch that looked downright comfy. I flopped hard on the couch to test its springs.

  Kelly Joe seemed to mistake my flop for frustration. "You want to understand what's going on. What I can say is that a shift in focus is underway. We need to keep you out of sight during the transition."

  "Thanks for that. I was afraid your reasons might be obscure. Don't worry, I'll just sit here and tell myself jokes. How many Neutrals does it take to change a light bulb in a Frame that has no lamps?"

  "You only need to sit if you choose."

  And then he was gone, and I was here.

  I chose not to sit.

  My first day alone in Frivolous Bedlam was magical and reminded me for the umpteenth time that I should never resist the unexpected. I wandered and roamed, eavesdropping on building conversations more tangled than soap opera plots, more scattershot than a convention of comedians. I went inside buildings, too. I've always loved the possibilities in an empty room—although I needed another way to describe Bedlam interiors. Empty has negative connotations and these rooms had none, just fresh open respites. Outside was where the action was, and outside at all hours, food carts frolicked and motor scooters goofed off with bicycles. In Bedlam, playful is the basic state of being.

  I finished my wandering at dusk. None of the buildings had their lights on yet and Julian's front door glittered with the day's last sunlight. The antique glass was especially beautiful because here it was untouched by the Entourage's attack. As it reflected the sunset, it filled me with hope about our cause.

  I wanted to introduce myself to my building but wasn't sure how. Julian didn't chatter, which meant he had true sentience like Henrietta. I knocked on his front door. "Julian, it's me, Nica. Cat Shaver."

  "Good evening. Do you prefer Nica or Cat Shaver?" His voice was a sophisticated tenor that warbled like he gargled with marbles.

  "I'm good either way. Surprise me."

  "I do not know you well enough to know what you might find surprising. I will call you Cat Shaver for now, to remind myself of your reputation, which amuses me."

  "You must find your occupants funny."

  "Quite often, but Henrietta was right that you are especially entertaining."

  His manner was so appreciative I couldn't take offense. "How do you talk to Henrietta when she is so far away?"

  "Where there is ground we connect," he said, like it was an adage.

  "Tell her hello next time you speak."

  "From your mouth to her door."

  I went inside and after I entered my apartment, I heard Julian's voice, muffled. I opened the door and leaned into the hall. Now I could hear him clearly. "Henrietta sends her regards."

  "Wow! You heard back that fast?" He had just conversed with a building thousands of miles away. It took the shared–sentience buildings longer to send a message across the street.

  "I did. She inquires as to whether you plan to shave the creature known as Dizzy?"

  "No way, I value all my fingers."

  He laughed like the creak of grandma's rocking chair.

  I left my apartment door open and opened all my windows, too, to let some chatter in.

  It was mighty silent inside.

  End of Day 1. Here I was. Staring down boredom. Already. I needed input. I Traveled back to my apartment on Ma'Urth, grabbed an apple, opened my laptop then shut it. Kelly Joe hadn't said I could stick around long enough to amuse myself on the internet. I grabbed my books plus a copy of Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days. Leon had come inside to eat. I petted him for a few, then returned to Bedlam, where I read for maybe an hour, went home again for a mineral water. Leon met me in the hall. I sat to pet him for a few, then went back to Bedlam.

  It became a cycle. I returned to Ma'Urth every couple hours, until I realized how predictable my visits were. So this would have to be my last stop home for a while. I'd leave as soon as I finished petting Leon. On second thought, I'd leave now: Leon stopped purring and tensed, just before someone out in the hall rattled the doorknob. Someone in my locked hall area.

  I got the hell back to Bedlam and this time I vowed to stay there.

  Being in a new place, it's hard to get a start with sleep, and Bedlam was far less familiar than any hotel room. I went for a long run to boost my chance of slumber. Very late at night, Bedlam was a bit quieter and considerably less bright. The streets had a warm dark glow like aging holiday lights. Most of the food carts were parked in clusters and seemed to be resting.

  It was nearly dawn before I tried stretching out on my Bedlam couch. Maybe I should close my eyes. Damn. All those trips home and I'd still forgotten my pillow. I repositioned so that the armrest of the couch was behind my neck. I inhaled. I squirmed. I exhaled. Maybe I should do some calisthenics.

  Leon walked out of the bathroom, purring of course, and lounged across my feet. I loved that vibration through my—wait. Leon was on my feet. Which were in Bedlam. Had I somehow brought Leon with me on my last trip from Ma'Urth? Had I started my Frame shift while petting him? Leon was considerably larger than a ladybug so it seems like I should have noticed.

  Kelly Joe had implied that it wasn't good for Leon to be here. I scooped him up. Leon doesn't mind being held but he won't collapse against me, he stands on me. Weird, but workable. I returned us to Ma'Urth with Leon standing on my chest and hurried him out to the fire escape. It was creepy to be outside on Ma'Urth. The alley air was thick as though the Entourage were about to converge. I petted Leon until he curled on the lawn chair, then stumbled inside and sank to the couch. I was indeed getting stronger—I had been able to Travel with Leon and hadn't collapsed until minutes later.

  I was safe inside Julian yet felt exposed. Being home on Ma'Urth felt like I was sunburned and naked. As soon as I could, I grabbed my pillow and Traveled to safety.

  Back in Frivolous Bedlam, I flopped on my couch. Damn, I'd meant to check my clock at home. I had no sense of time's passage here. But I wouldn't go back just now. Maybe I should read. I let my volume of Yeats open to my favorite page, then Leon walked in from the bathroom. This time there was no way I could have had a role in his arrival.

  "Holy frijoles, Le
on, you're a Traveler."

  Still no sleep. I went out for another run and Leon came with me. In Bedlam, he displayed no fear outdoors. He lost the cockroach slink and trotted beside me, tail in the air. Now we were Cat Shaver and Cat, which brought us sporadic attention. A building would take time away from its knock–knock and slam–slam jokes to announce, "Cat Shaver, Cat is here."

  "He sure is! Right here! Thanks!"

  It had to be a game, because they kept doing it. In a related game, the buildings said, "Cat, Cat is here."

  "Thanks is thanks," I would reply. Or, "Here is right here!" The way delivery doors clattered, I got the sense I wasn't playing the game right, but couldn't guess what they wanted me to say instead. No matter. Another block and they forgot about us again.

  When I was tired enough that I could have slept standing up, I led us back to my apartment. En route to the couch, Leon arched, puffed, and hissed at the center cushion, where a gray and white feline sat.

  "Dizzy! How did you—never mind." Even if the cat could tell me how she had come from Los Angeles to find me in Bedlam, I wouldn't know whether to believe her. I loved the cat, but Anwyl hated her and Anya feared her. What did they know that I didn't?

  As my confusion roiled, the cats circled each other, crying like demon babies. I hate cat fights but you can't separate cats who are in fight mode, you'll trip the Attack switch and get shredded. But water can distract them!

  Dizzy lunged, mongoose quick, at Leon's throat. I yelled, ran to the sink, poured water in the nearest bowl and hurled it in their direction. I soaked the couch and missed the cats, now a shifting mass of orange white gray fur as they fought.

  Correction. As they play–fought. I should have realized theirs was a fight game; cats don't attack as a first resort; they've always just done their nails.

  I love watching cats pretend to battle—the drama, the pomp, the underhanded tricks—so I sat on the dry side of the couch and got an exceptional show. Dizzy led every maneuver, no two alike, and seemed to be testing Leon. She had ruthless cunning but he had evasive enormousness. Two viable solutions to the vulnerable plight of the street cat.

  From one moment to the next, it was over. Dizzy caught up on her grooming and Leon on his purring. I briefly fretted about which or whether cats could be trusted, but it didn't matter. I wouldn't chase them out—assuming I could. I loved them, and Ben had long ago trained me that love could be irrelevant to trust.

  Oops, I'd left the kitchen tap running water—hey. I had running water in Frivolous Bedlam. I checked the toilet and sure enough, it flushed.

  I stretched out on the couch. Maybe I'd read. But the problem with keeping only my favorite books was that I had every one more or less memorized. Except for Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days. "Nobody needs to know," I instructed the cats, and opened the self–help drivel. It wasn't as bad as I expected, but when you start that low, the limbo contest is already over.

  I was learning about loneliness these days and tonight's lesson was that time passes more quickly with friends. Dawn approached to the sound of pages turning and cats thunking the floor during play fights. At some point, I did fall asleep. When I woke up, the cats were gone and the books were in the air, flapping slow circles around me.

  18. I TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS

  I stayed calm, like a zombie at the DMV. The last time I'd seen books flying, they had rained text that pulverized flesh. There was nothing menacing about this group, though. If I had not witnessed books murdering innocents, I would have been enchanted by this vision of flying books, so I forced a smile until it became genuine. Anyway, if these books had wanted to hurt me I'd already be sliced thinner than prosciutto.

  Lose Twenty Pounds of Worry in Twenty Days adjusted its flap rate to hover above me. The other books copied its moves, some more gracefully than others. My woodcut–illustrated edition of Summer couldn't get the hovering right, would advance too far then have to circle and try again.

  "Good morning." I sat up, which startled Summer, who shed a brief rain of text and collided with Madame Bovary.

  Lose Twenty Pounds dipped in what looked like a formal bow, and at his barking command the other books tried to follow suit. Although they seemed to acknowledge him as a leader, they were not so much a squadron as they were flying puppies, so the bows devolved to mid–air collisions, all of which released more rains of text.

  Lose Twenty Pounds squeaked harshly and the other books settled onto the kitchenette counter. Lose Twenty Pounds shed a few syllables of text along the edge of the couch, slicing away fabric to reveal wooden frame. He shot over my head, squeaked several times, flapped over to the table and shed text that peeled a curl of glass from a bowl. I didn't understand his language but the meaning was clear. Text was dangerous and you had to control yours at all times. As the other books learned control, the hardwood floor became pocked with a thousand cuts from impaled text. Gradually, the text dissolved and the floor's cuts healed. The damage to the couch remained.

  "Go ahead and practice on the couch, it's already trashed." I retreated to the farthest corner of my main room, away from couch guts that bulged through the sliced fabric. Lose Twenty Pounds dipped a bow but continued training in the kitchen, slicing strips of tile from the counters. As I watched, I understood why he'd ignored me. Furniture, once sliced, stayed damaged; but the building's injuries healed themselves—like time–lapse photography that played just outside my view no matter how hard I stared.

  Each time text hit the floor or tile, from outside my apartment came a noise from Julian. The building seemed to feel each letter's impact. However, his reactions were more suggestive of intense massage than injury. I had to conclude that Lose Twenty Pounds knew what he was doing.

  I watched my books circle and wished for a way to talk with them. There was much I wanted to know. Were they aware when they were immobile in a Neutral Frame like Ma'Urth? How did they feel about their actions as mercenary soldiers? Did books have regrets? Would that depend on which book it was? Did every copy of Lose Twenty Pounds have the same personality? My questions smothered me like deployed airbags. I envisioned a book rescue, with rains of text that popped the airbags. Which gave me an idea about how to get some answers from them.

  Lose Twenty Pounds hovered and the other books perched on the edge of the tile counter between kitchenette and main room, dust jackets extended. They raised and lowered their spines at squeaks from Lose Twenty Pounds. They were doing exercises or stretches.

  "'S'cuse me. I want to talk to you. With you, I mean." Lose Twenty Pounds pivoted toward me, his pages rippling and his cover low, a stance I've come to know as relaxed. He squawked and the other books ascended.

  "If you understand my words, dip once to mean yes." I used my hand to show what I meant. Lose Twenty Pounds dipped, then the other books dipped but Summer took an unintentional dive. I reached to retrieve Summer from the floor but Lose Twenty Pounds squawked and blocked my motion. After a long moment, Summer rose without my help, in a wobbly arc with covers flapping out of sync.

  I waved my fingers back and forth. "This motion means no." Lose Twenty Pounds made an abrupt side–to–side shake. The others managed a one–sided hiccup.

  "Can you read?"

  Dip. Yes.

  "Can you spell?"

  Dip. Yes.

  "Does it hurt you when you shed text?"

  Shake. No.

  "Can you choose which text to release?" Selected Letters of Raymond Chandler shot forward from the pack and dropped three letters on the trashed arm of the couch. The tiny letters strobed my vision as they descended. Y–E–S.

  Excited books whizzed everywhere while Lose Twenty Pounds squawked what sounded like warnings. As I later learned, he spoke Refrencian, the limited, militaristic language that Librarians use when recruiting books to join the military, then squad leaders use to command those mercenary soldiers. Lose Twenty Pounds' warnings became prophecies when excited books crashed and collided. Soon my books littered the floor, s
pines bellowing as they panted.

  While I pondered whether to pick them up or leave them be, Leon and Dizzy were suddenly among them, picking their way through the splayed covers. Leon seemed puzzled and curious about the books but as he moved to sniff one, Dizzy jumped him and held the ruff of his neck in her teeth, which immobilized him. "They're okay, Dizzy, these books are friends." I stooped to reach for the closest, splayed book, mindful of the sharp page edges but confident that To Kill A Mockingbird would never hurt anyone.

  My limited field of vision filled with work boots and denim legs. Kelly Joe stood in my hall, taking in the panting volumes, the minute letters that bristled on the couch arm, Dizzy's hold on Leon, my calm. "Good morning," he concluded.

  "I'm glad you're here. I've got some questions for you."

  "You're Nica," he agreed. "I have a few minutes for answers."

  "I think these books are safe—friendly. That's possible, right?"

  "I believe it is, but on Ma'Urth we have a bond with books." He tilted his head this way and that to read all the titles.

  "They're not inherently vicious! I'm so glad you see that!"

  "Many would say we're blindered about books."

  "Oh."

  Lose Twenty Pounds sank to the counter. Kelly Joe tilted his head to read the back blurb and looked up as if it weren't the worst drivel he'd ever read. "I trust your instincts and you should, too."

  I couldn't decide which felt greater, my musician's validation of my books, or the respect in his voice.

  One by one, as the books stopped panting, they flew from floor to counter with less noisy flapping than previously. I got the impression they wanted to listen. I didn't want the books to hear anything discouraging, so moved on to my next set of questions.

  "Anya and Anwyl—and Miles, and Monk—why don't they like cats?"

  The cats on the couch showed no reaction. Leon was curled like a cooked shrimp; next to him, Dizzy cleaned her butt. Preposterous candidates for world domination. Anya and Anwyl didn't like to talk in front of Dizzy, but I figured she either understood nothing, or everything, and either way there was no point trying to disguise the conversation.