Stories About Things

by Aelius Blythe

  Sip. Click.

  "What happened?" they had asked.

  All of them, the doctor, the police, his mother, asked the same question. His hand still held a baseball. He'd forgotten about that too. When he looked down at it, it answered for him.

  "Accidental?" they'd said, already nodding sadly, because these were good boys and when trouble happened, it was an accident.

  "Yes," Chi said. "He was running backwards and tripped on the rock, smacked his head on the pile. He was running backwards to catch a ball."

  "Yes," his mother said. "He comes out with his friend to play baseball all the time," she explained, and they nodded. You could see the worn grass between the bases - three trees and a shrub for home.

  They were good boys and it was an accident. The grass was wet, and he wasn't looking behind as he ran back. Slipped and hit the rock too hard. Too bad, they said, shaking their heads.

  "That's why you don't do that," his mother said, crying. "That's why you look where you are going."

  "It was baseball. He was running to catch a ball. He was looking at the ball. You do that in baseball."

  Sip. Click.

  Ten years of drinking maple syrup had rotted his teeth prematurely. Chi didn't care. Teeth could be fixed, the past couldn't be. He wondered if memories could be. He wanted to fix his memories.

  They weren't broken that bad, he thought.

  Everyone else's were worse because they only looked ahead. The taste of the syrup had recalled the day for him, recalled it crystal clear, for ten years, except for the one thing. Sip after sip of maple syrup, flask after flask, jug after jug, and he could not remember why he was angry. He could not remember why he pushed Geo onto the rocks. That had been wiped from his mind the moment the other boy fell, and no amount of looking had brought it back. He kept trying anyway.

  Sip. Click.

  FIVE

  The Swing

  When the swing fell again, the tree died.

  That wasn't how it was the first time. Then, it had been just a matter of getting a new rope and stringing it back up. They couldn't do that anymore because there was nothing to string it up on.

  The first time, Bridget has seen the rope make a graceful arc from bough to ground. It had sounded like a candy bar snapping in half (not one of the gooey ones, though–a crisp bar. Like Crunch or Hersheys, not Twix.) A soft, crisp pop, then the arc. Broken from hours of carrying her up into the sky, it was a beautiful, not a sad injury.

  She had shared the wound then, too. The seat disappeared from beneath her, somehow falling much faster than her own body and the rope's. Of course, she should have been holding on like her father always said to, but she liked to drape her arms lightly around the ropes. That way, it was more like flying.

  That time, she really had been flying. Her body was weightless, not like a bird struggling to keep itself aloft, but really weightless like the air itself.

  For a second.

  She saw the broken rope falling beside her, and wondered how it felt to finally be free of the tree. They landed beside each other in the leaves which crunched beneath them. It sounded like applause.

  The second time the swing fell, there was no applause, and no flying.

  The saws screamed so loudly that Bridget couldn't even hear the snap of the branches. She imagined it must have sounded like a much bigger bar of candy - maybe a solid block of chocolate filled with nuts.

  The branch with the swing went first because it was lowest. The swing fell silently, or at least whatever sound it made was drowned by the hysterical saw. It's branch made a soft whump against the ground, which was again brown with leaves.

  Bridget couldn't help cringing, just a little, remembering the bruising fall. The swing and the branch laying beside each other reminded her of her and the rope laying beside each other, looking at each other. But she had been happy then, despite the bruises, and she couldn't imagine the rope feeling sad either. Both the swing and the branch looked sad now. They hadn't flown, just fallen. The grace was gone.

  Maybe that was why the leaves didn't applaud.

  She looked for one second, then another limb fell on top of the first, then another and another. Then the trunk joined the pile and the screaming finally stopped. For a while she just stared at the pile, unsure of whether she were looking at it from the outside or whether she were still trapped down there on the ground with the swing.

  SIX

  That Night, There Was No Dinner

  The filet mignon was tempting, but the stewed tomatoes were heavenly. Of course, Cora's attention was not caught by dish itself, but on the one who could transform the hated food into such a delicious piece of art. The medley of spices masterfully blended made the single tomato into an entire meal in itself. After that first bite, she paid little attention to the other dishes. The other chefs were good, but they were only human.

  Caleb was a magician.

  She read his nametag when she snuck back to the makeshift kitchens to investigate the origins of the miraculous tomato dish. He was there cooking, surrounded by a cloud of spices. Those spices would always linger in his hair and his clothing. Her mother argued, scornfully, that Cora had only fallen in love with the scent and the spices but not the man.

  "He isn't handsome," the older woman would protest. "And he can't afford to make himself so."

  Cora disagreed.

  Her mother's party had brought the two together. Her insistence on gourmet and fresh-cooked refreshments for her aristocratic guests was responsible for Caleb's presence in that neighborhood, one in which he would never have been seen out of uniform. Her mother was responsible for their meeting. But she had skipped the tomatoes that evening, and hadn't cared who made them. It was only when the cooking dared to woo her daughter that she even noticed him.

  Cora's pleading never bought her mother's approval; but Caleb's talents in the kitchen could tempt it. When she eventually deigned to try her son-in-law's cooking, she at least had to admit that her daughter's heart–or perhaps her stomach–had never stood a chance against that charm. Even the stubborn heiress could attempt to forgive the pale, rotund man his looks and poverty for one of his homemade meals.

  Still, even after three years of marriage, the audacious woman would call her daughter from time to time about some attractive (and always well-off) young gentleman she'd met at one of her clubs. Just last night she'd suggested one.

  "He can afford an entire kitchen of cooks!" she'd argued.

  "But I love Caleb," said Cora.

  "Oh Cora..." she sighed. "Forget him. Please?"

  Cora hung up.

  That night, like every night, she fell asleep thinking about him and woke to the same thoughts in the morning. In the hazy moments before fully waking she felt the weight of his limbs wrapped around her like a comforter. Her chin rested on a hand as big as two of her own. And against her back, his soft chest leaned like a pillow. She felt absolutely secure. In those moments, she shifted in and out of the pre-dawn doze. Her thoughts lifted her up lightly, like clouds, and she rested on them in lazy contentment. Her mind entertained only one subject.

  His teeth shown like alabaster - all of them - when he smiled, and the rose in his cheeks never paled. His arms were heavy, but gentle; her own barely reached around his waist. She felt tiny in his arms, but safe. And always, the scent of spices lingered in his hair and clothes and over his skin.

  The house, too, was always full of their perfume: steak sautéing in onions and peppers, spiced tomatoes, stuffed olives, and herbal breads. She drank in the aromas in every breath, and at night they wrapped her up like a comfort blanket.

  "I must remember to get cumin for the chili tonight" she reminded herself before the shifting half dreams swept her away again.

  But as she drifted off, a lead dart punctured the clouds she lay upon.

  The smile she remembered had faded and the cheeks dulle
d.

  That day there had been no dinner.

  Beans sat soaking on the stove but the soup was never made.

  The hospital had a dining room but it was not the same.

  She could not have eaten anyway with the elephantine weight crushing her chest. Even breathing was hard. Each breath seemed insufficient to sustain her until the next. The blanched waiting room was like a lifer's cell; she could not imagine the world outside it. Hours and hours pressed in on it until it seemed no bigger than a closet. Beneath the petrifiction that gripped her body, a tremor shook her heart.

  Only when the news came did the scalding tears fall from her frozen lids.

  They were tears of relief: Caleb had survived.

  She vaguely remembered that there was a person in the other car and that they didn't make it, but that seemed inconsequential. Seeing her husband's face, the smile only a little less broad, sent the drips from her eyes cascading onto his gown and blanket. The color returning to his face lit up the room for her like a torch.

  When he walked again they walked together, always. When he cooked she stood over his shoulder watching and learning his secrets. When she shopped, they walked hand in hand down the aisles picking out the perfect ingredients. And at night she could smell the spices in her own hair.

  Again her thoughts were like clouds, As wakefulness crept upon her she kept her eyes closed still wrapped in the delicious memories. Not for long though, for they could not tempt her from the real thing.

  But today he was not beside her when she opened her eyes. As her mind woke fully to the daylight, the weight of his arms and the warmth of his body disappeared. But as she looked at his neatly made up side of the bed, she smiled at his attention to detail.

  Oh how much tidier he is than other men, she thought

  However, when she sat up, he was not there, and no sound from the bathroom or downstairs betrayed his presence. The silence buzzed obtrusively and the room felt strangely empty. The dresser top was cleared off, and only her dresses hung in the closet. Then her eyes fell on a box, half packed by the door. Caleb's comb lay inside, and a tie pocked over one side.

  "Where are you going?: she called to the house.

  The empty room yawned around her like a mouth. Legs with just a hint of tremors sought the floor. Down the empty hallways she walked and the great mouth opened further to encompass the whole house. She peered around each doorway cautiously as if it were a tooth threatening to chomp down. Staring down the stairs, she saw a slide that would whisk her away to its dark end. She went down anyway and stood in the dim foyer. Stretching her eyes, she tried to see the familiar hulking shape dozing on the couch or coming around the kitchen door. A fluttering hand touched the light switch, but as the room brightened the only shapes that resolved were the tall bookshelves, the fireplace and the furniture. On the fireplace mantle there was a curious vase without flowers or clippings. She walked to it and stared at her face in the polished brass. It had a lid which she lifted with one hand.

  Grey ashes the color of his sparkling eyes stared up at her. The lid crashed to the hearth chipping the stone. Her shoulders drew together so tightly they ached. Fingered pressed on her brow as new memories tumbled over her, supplanting fantasy.

  Again, she remembered.

  Again, the morning woke her to the memory she'd fallen asleep to.

  Only the hearth, chipped in hundreds of places, where the urn's lid had crashed down again and again, knew many times the memory had been forced back on her.

  Another crash made her twitch and before she could stop herself she called his name.

  "Caleb?"

  Then she felt herself blush and looked away in disappointment as her mother walked in. Cora stared at the urn before two manicured hands swept it away.

  "Why do you stare at that like he's still here? You should be moving on, forgetting the past. That's how you deal with it dear; it's what they all say."

  Cora had not found her mother's pop psychology advice helpful in the least and ignored it now. She was silent as her mother moved about the room brushing off tabletops and straightening rugs She'd hidden the urn behind the bookshelves.

  "Honey, it's been three years. Honestly, sometimes it's like you don't even know he's gone."

  Cora didn't listen, she was still trying to crawl away from the real memories. But they chased her down. Her mind sat in the hospital waiting room--it really was a cell now. Still waiting, waiting, waiting. But they wouldn't come home together. She didn't look at her mother.

  "Now, this one's a real gentleman so try not to scare him away before the second date, okay?"

  Date? Cora flinched. Not again. Not Again!

  Her mind crawled faster, away from the memories of her mothers matchmaking attempts. She didn't know whether her mother did this to remind her that Caleb was dead, or to remind her of all the men she could have agreed to marry instead .

  "And please tell me you've cleared out his things. The last thing he needs to see is another man's clothes in your room. Come on now he'll be here soon."

  "He?"

  "Your date, hon. His name is Chris."

  That wasn't the "he" she was thinking about.

  "Go get dressed, honey! He'll be here soon, I told him to come for brunch."

  She was tired, and didn't have the strength to fight this. Without a word or thought, she went and dressed.

  When the doorbell rang she opened it and she looked into a pair of brown eyes. But all she could see was grey ashes.

  Standing in the living room, not listening to her mother's chatter she looked at the new pair of eyes. They seemed disembodied–they had no body that Cora could see, anyway. She could not have said whether he were tall or short or handsome or repulsive. It didn't matter.

  The brown eyes swept over the shelves full of cookbooks.

  "Do you cook?" he asked hopefully.

  "No." she said. "I don't"

  SEVEN

  First Impressions

  Those shoes!

  To kiss those shoes... To bend over them, brush a cheek against the jade toes... Velour? Velvet? Oh to caress that fabric and find out! Just the shoes... Just the shoes.

  The skirts don't match.

  Yellow petals brush the green toes. Each layer is translucent in the sun, but hung together, the piece is opaque. Like a daffodil.

  A slender yellow stalk sways above the skirt. Dress... a dress, not a skirt.

  "Don't take a pretty book home just cuz it's pretty," Mom always said, "and a girl neither."

  Somewhere above the shoes, above the dress, there are eyes.

  The flower smiles.

  Not at him.

  The flower has brown eyes, a bright brown, almost-red. They smile. They don't shine in the sun. They shine at the sun. A street sign, a bus shelter, a sidewalk, cement cubicles a hundred feet high--a daffodil grows at their feet. Oh to look into those eyes and see them looking back!

  But no, he couldn't bear it.

  Don't look. Don't look... But it's like hoping the sun doesn't shine. Look. Please look.

  They do.

  Our children will have those eyes.

  The sun is dumb beside them... shining down stupid on the grey world. No understanding, no discretion, bright only in color. But the eyes in the flower are bright. Intelligent. Looking on the world, smart and kind. The street sign, the bus shelter, the sidewalk, the cement cubicles--the flower makes sense of it all.

  The eyes say so.

  So much in two eyes in a flower. So much... Our children... our children will have them. Our children could be doctors with those eyes. Lawyers, or inventors or scholars. Those eyes could make a president.

  "Don't take a pretty book home just cuz it's pretty," Mom said.

  "Why do you comb your hair so careful for the interview?" he asked.

  "First impressions count."

  First impressions count.


  How? How... To hear the flower speak! But how? How...

  The daffodil sways in the breeze, sways away... away.

  Stop!

  No, that's not it. Maybe...

  Hello. Are you lost? I can help you--

  But she might say no.

  What beautiful shoes--What's you're name?...Does that come with a number?

  No.

  Hi, I'm lost, do you know where I can find a map?

  How... how to speak to a flower? to hear it speak back?

  The shoes disappear around the corner.

  "Wait!"

  Where ... ?

  "Wait! What's you're name? I like your–your shoes are–"

  Already gone, already gone.

  Part II. Fairies and Things: things of other worlds...

  ONE

  Sun Set

  “Never, never look into the sun. Don’t ever. There are creatures in there, a fairy relative of the salamander, and the sun is their circle. They don’t much like being looked at, and if they catch you staring, they’ll snatch you up and carry you off through their fiery ring, which is just as dangerous as any fairy circle on the ground.”

  Sal’s grandmother always warned him like this when she caught him looking. His mother said this was silly, and he was old enough not to be scared by fairy stories. If he looked into the sun, she told him, he would go blind, and that was that.

  He never understood how someone could say that– “Don’t look at it.” People looked. If they could, they did. Sometimes, Sal thought, if he wasn’t paying attention he could turn off his hearing so when the lawnmower was going while he was reading he wouldn’t even notice. He could turn off his nose too by breathing through his mouth. Touch was a sense that everyone ignored unless it was too bad or too good. Taste was the same. But he could only turn off his sight by closing his eyes, and he couldn’t go around like that. He had to look. He didn’t know how not to. If he could see something, he would.