The Sky Is Yours

by Chandler Klang Smith

  “I set about filming my video application with care. The models, built to scale from balsawood and taxidermied geckos, may not have been strong indicators of my prowess in battle, but the judges were amused. And once they found out my age—the previous contenders had two decades on me at least—they grasped the delightful gimmick instantly. Comical, precocious, and unmistakably wellborn, I was the type of privileged savant that would be singled out for depantsing by my peers in any proletariat schoolyard. That lent me an unlikely appeal. Every Weekend Warrior carried our city’s fate in his hands as he hearkened to the holy call of CHALLENGER. But if the dragons got me, it would, in the sickly parlance of that time, ‘go viral.’

  “I see that now, of course, but at the time I was entirely oblivious to the ulterior motives of my handlers. After I was selected as a contestant, I spent the filming period—with their encouragement!—declaiming hawkish poetry and rubbing my mother’s feet in front of the cameras. All the while, the state-of-the-art HowTank I had requested awaited me on the roof, a strange, hostile emissary from a realm I didn’t dare to contemplate, for fear that my cowardice would prove both visible and untelegenic.

  “The night before I took up the Brand Sponsorship Mantle and boarded my ill-fated craft, Humphrey visited me in my room. ‘Did Father send you?’ I demanded. He eyed me perplexedly, as only a lunatic’s brother can. ‘Why would Father send me?’ he asked. ‘I’m here to talk you out of killing yourself tomorrow.’

  “Once I gathered the fortitude to expel dear frère from my suite, I fell unabashedly to pieces. I hadn’t known I was bluffing until the bluff was called. My father did not care whether I lived or died; no further humiliation was possible. I drifted off to sleep resolved to drop my Challenge and slink, as best I could, into the blessed shadows of obscurity, where I could rediscover the quiet joys of self-pity and other pleasurable forms of self-abuse.

  “Yet that night, I dreamt a dream, one that, more than any waking action, has determined the course of my existence.”

  Osmond quaffs deeply from his doppelbock, his silence for once uninflected with the tacit hostility of biting one’s tongue. Swanny, now wide awake, cranes forward on the couch.

  “So?” she prompts him at last. “What did you dream?”

  Osmond waves his hand as if relating a magician’s trick in dismissive summary. “Everyone knows that only a terrible bore tells his dreams.”

  “Everyone knows that only a terrible boor leaves off at such a crucial narrative juncture. Don’t keep me guessing. I quite seriously implore you.”

  Osmond sets his half-empty glass on a bookshelf. He smiles.

  “What do you think I dreamt of?” he asks. “I dreamt what every lowbrow ‘Weekend Warrior’ before me did. I dreamt of the dragons.”

  “And?”

  “I dreamt that they confronted me, and that I emerged from the confrontation victorious. I dreamt…”—he gazes foggily into the room’s haze—“of heroism.”

  Swanny sinks back to contemplate this. “I’m surprised, somehow, that you wanted to save the world.”

  “It was mainly the glory I sought. But the world—yes, I liked it better then.”

  “Mmm.” In the city of Swanny’s fantasies, the lights are winking off, one by one, a grand imaginary architecture erasing itself, until only this room remains. She presses the cold beer bottle to her forehead. “I know just how you feel,” she says.

  * * *

  The bed boat floats on a sea of night. Never has Abby known the small hours to be so silent, so scentless, as they are in this place. She touches Ripple’s back, the smooth dreamful expanse of him that flexes unconsciously at her touch, then crawls down to the bed boat’s prow, where Hooligan sprawls on his back. He tilts his head at her, curious, his liquid brown eyes shimmering in the nightlight’s glow, transmitting the question to her without a sound.

  —awake?

  —Uh-huh.

  His tail thumps on the mattress, and he stretches his arms above his head, offering his chest and belly for her affection. She pets him. His soft black fur is indistinguishable from the darkness, except by feel.

  —yes. nice touch. touch more.

  —I love you.

  —love. love.

  —Do you love Dunk too?

  —love. love. love.

  —When did you start to love him?

  —always love.

  —I know what you mean. I loved him as soon as I saw him. But when did you come to live here?

  —happy day. wore bow. licked dunk’s face. ate chocolate cake. barfed on rug.

  —Where were you before?

  —before?

  —Where were you born?

  —crowded. smelly. scary. bitey. too many voices. nicer here. with dunk and love.

  —I guess it is.

  —yes.

  —You’re so good. So much friendlier than the vultures.

  —vulture strange.

  —Cuyahoga likes you!

  —vulture hungry.

  —How can you be scared of her? You’re twice as big.

  —vulturrrrr…

  The growl becomes audible. Abby stifles a giggle.

  —Shhh, it’s OK. She won’t come back for a long time. She has to tend to a sister’s brood on the Island. Her sister was burned in a fire.

  —fire warm.

  —But it burns. You must never go near a fire.

  Abby stops petting him for a second to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He takes her hand in one of his and guides it back toward his armpit.

  —nice touch. more love.

  —OK, OK.

  She resumes. He squeezes his eyes shut in pleasure.

  —Hooli?

  —uh-huh.

  —Can you talk to Dunk? The way we’re doing? With your mind?

  —he no listen.

  —Can you do it with any other humans?

  —they no listen.

  —The Lady could never do it either, with the vultures. She said I was the only one who knew their language.

  —mmm.

  —But I couldn’t talk to all of them. Only certain ones. The magic ones, I guess. Are you made of magic?

  —must be.

  He moves her hand to another spot on his rib cage. She whacks him playfully.

  —Just pet yourself, if you’re gonna tell me how to do it.

  —please. love.

  —OK, OK.

  —nice touch.

  —I’m glad for magic. If I couldn’t talk to magic animals, I’d be so lonely.

  —he no listen to you, too?

  —I guess Dunk does, but everyone else here hates me. They shut me in that room for hours. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t shown me how to unlock the door. It was so terrible. I wanted to kick and scream. But then they would throw me out.

  —in garbage?

  —Yes.

  Hooligan licks his lips hungrily.

  —mmm, garbage.

  —I know. I like garbage too. I miss it.

  Abby starts to cry.

  —Maybe it would be better if they threw me out. I’m so homesick. I like nature. I like the squish of trash bags under my feet. I like being able to roam. But I love Dunk.

  She contemplates miserably.

  —And even if they throw me out, they might not take me back to the Island. They might just leave me here, loose in the city. With no home.

  —lost.

  —Yes, lost.

  —lost. lost. sad.

  —But I’m sad here too. I wish you could understand how I feel.

  Hooligan kisses her face in one wet slurp.

  —salty.

  Abby smiles.

  —stay, abby. stay.

  —I guess it wouldn’t be so bad, as long as we stick together.

  —yes. stay.

  Abby’s fingers furrow through Hooligan’s fur, shaping winding paths, meditative and aimless. His tongue lolls out of his mouth; he seems almost asleep when, all of a sudden, he ro
lls over on his stomach and looks up at her eagerly.

  —walk?

  —Right now? But it’s the middle of the night.

  —walk walk walk walk.

  His tail thumps the mattress. Abby sighs.

  —OK, OK.

  Hooligan hops down from the bed, bounds on all fours to the door.

  —This one is locked too.

  —open it. like i taught you. by feel.

  Hesitantly, Abby touches the panel beside the door. It reminds her of the toaster, coils humming with energy, but she feels no heat. No, something inside this device is alive; she feels the currents flowing through it, like blood inside an unsmashed fish. What are you doing in there? she wonders. No response. And yet…it waits, ever so patiently anticipates, a signal from—what was that? a particular button? She touches the keypad, reaching for the source of the device’s yearning, but as soon as she presses one button, the yearning shifts to a second, then to a third. In the calming simplicity of this exchange, Abby forgets about the door, the People Machines, Dunk, all her worries. Then, after the fourth button, the door pops loose and the currents retreat from the coils.

  —easy, see? walk now.

  Hooligan nudges the door open with his snout. A thick wedge of light falls onto the carpet. Abby picks up Ripple’s sweatshirt from the floor and slips it on, then follows.

  Late at night like this, the mansion spooks her less. The humans are the ones who awaken its wicked sorcery to bend it toward their ends. When they sleep, no one is here to turn off the lights by snapping, or to conjure a voice from nowhere that tells of distant events and weather yet to come. Padding down the hall with Hooligan, Abby can almost pretend they are exploring the living world, though she’s never walked so long without a sky above her. But the apehound destroys the illusion when he stops in the middle of the hall to press the button for the Surprise Room.

  —Let’s not go in there.

  —go. go.

  —But every time the doors open, I’m somewhere new and scary.

  —no scared.

  Hooligan balances on his hind legs and takes her hand. They step across the threshold together. He presses one of the numbers on the wall, and it lights up.

  —Where are we going?

  —no scared.

  Abby feels a funny lurch in her guts, as if she’s falling. Then, with a “ping,” the doors to the Surprise Room open again. Hand in hand, she and Hooligan walk down another hallway and through glass doors into the Land of Plants.

  The lights are off in the Land of Plants, and the leaves rustle as they pass, but Abby isn’t afraid, because in here she can see the stars. They are framed in the panes above their heads, squared away into neat little boxes like everything else in this place, but they are still familiar, and their presence comforts her. She gazes up as Hooligan leads her over a little bridge and to the base of a towering palm. He takes a spade from its hiding place beneath some groundcover and digs into the dirt. He uncovers a shallow grave. In it lies the corpse of a sparrow.

  —magic bird. my friend.

  Abby kneels. She touches the delicate wings, the beak as small as a single tooth.

  —tried to play but too small. got hurt. you fix.

  —I don’t think I can fix him, Hooli.

  —he need help, but dunk no listen. you listen. you fix.

  Abby listens to the bones. There is an echo in their hollowness, faint and distant. A small musical voice she has to strain to hear, something between a lament and a wish:

  —fly away, away, away.

  12

  COMMITTED

  “A marriage is a series of compromises between a husband and a wife,” Pippi once said. “A wedding is a series of compromises between a young lady and her mother.”

  During contract negotiations, Pippi did not even grant the Ripples consultation on the wedding preparations. Every aspect of the ceremony, cocktail hour, and reception is the result of a series of arguments she had with Swanny, the vast majority of which Pippi won. The ceremony is to take place in the greenhouse, beneath a trellis of climbing snapdragons; Champagne afterward in the Hall of Ancestors; dinner and dancing to follow in the ballroom. Everything has been planned for months.

  “Darling, if I have to touch up your eyeliner one more time,” Pippi scolds, sotto voce, though it would be impossible for the Ripples to hear them out here in the hall. “You’re beginning to look like one of those raccoons we poisoned under the veranda.”

  “I don’t love him, Mother,” Swanny insists, tilting her head back. The last thing she wants is an inky teardrop staining this sumptuous dress, the one item she and Pippi instantly agreed on. It’s yards and yards of vintage satin, a noir nightgown writ large, lush and dragging with puffed sleeves (Swanny loves her arms in it), all in the subtlest tint of yellowed white: the color of a tooth. They ordered it from a designer overseas. Before Pippi would let Corona alter so much as a stitch, she, Pippi, pinned the whole thing herself. It was a nightmarish ordeal. Swanny stood immobile for hours while her mother circled her, pricking her with needles and hissing about the garment’s substandard manufacture. It seemed it would never end until Pippi abruptly stood back and said, “My work here is done,” with such tremendous satisfaction, such confidence and pride, that it felt like she had put a curse on all of Swanny’s enemies. Was that just six weeks ago? Swanny’s eyes fill with ruinous tears once more. “I’ll never love him. Not in this life or the next.”

  “That reminds me.” Pippi unsnaps her clamshell purse and produces an amber pill bottle. “You’ll want to be good and doped-up the first few times. Take one of these after dinner.”

  Swanny reads the label, incredulous: “Muscle relaxants?”

  “Better than tranquilizers, dear. I’ll never forget your poor father’s face that terrible night. He thought he’d killed me. And I was so certain I’d only closed my eyes for a moment.”

  The processional music starts up, louder than Swanny would have thought possible from a soloist. The amplified harp emits a yelp of feedback.

  “Mother,” Swanny insists, desperate now. Everything has been planned for months. The events of the last two days loom and shrink in proportional importance to those long weeks with her mother, scrapbooking centerpieces, cross-referencing the spousal-abuse termination clause with the divorce law encyclopedia, taste-testing the mail-order sample cakes. “This will be the death of me.”

  Pippi’s eyes are the oldest part of her face, and still the sharpest.

  “Life is long,” she instructs Swanny, staring her down. “Do you have any idea of the scope of this family’s holdings? Humphrey and I were up till three a.m. going over the books. Things being as they are, your annual dividends will be the GNP of a lesser nation. But if this city ever comes back—and it will, darling, believe me, it will—the real estate properties will put you over the top. Over the top, Swanny. Do you have any idea what that means? The freedom it will give you? You won’t have to answer to anyone—not me, no, not even Duncan, I can see plainly enough he’ll be easy to control. You won’t just be a baroness, you’ll be an empress. You can either seize this opportunity now, or spend the rest of your long, long life wishing that you had.”

  Swanny looks down at the simple bouquet of baby’s breath in her hand, knotted up in a lace handkerchief—her mother’s choice. Swanny originally wanted to carry an old silk fan painted with an artful “suicidal lovers” tableau, but she realizes now that it would have looked prop-ish, cartoony, against the luscious curves of her gown. Her mother was right. Her mother is always right.

  “Shall we?” says Pippi, offering her arm.

  They step into the greenhouse together. Fairy lights glimmer in the topiary trees. The satin runner stretches out before them, a long purple tongue.

  * * *

  Hot mics in the indoor gazebo:

  “But Dad, what if we just keep her around for special occasions? She’s, like, imprinted on me, she’s going to be a waste for anyone else.”

 
“That girl is going to the Quiet Place in North Statesville at five thirty a.m. tomorrow—it was the soonest they could take her. How could any son of mine get this far in life without learning to properly tie a tie?”

  * * *

  The wedding march does not have lyrics, but Swanny and Ripple both hear it the same way: no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no…

  * * *

  Osmond wheels out to perform the ceremony, dressed like a priestly executioner in a black hooded cloak.

  “What is death?” he begins, ignoring the unopened prayer book in his lap. Humphrey and Pippi exchange barbed looks—this isn’t in the script—but Swanny gazes at him raptly, an invitation to continue. Ripple scratches his ear. “And why do we rejoice in it so? It is to me of no small anthropological interest that the occasions we come together to consecrate in society are, at heart, concerned with the belching nothing from which we spring, and to which we shall inevitably return. Maiming, disfigurement, philosophic revelation, involuntary celibacy, the highest achievements in the arts and sciences—all pass unmarked by ceremony, and often, by the world’s notice. Births and deaths, births and deaths: these are our sacraments, every one. Even that word, ‘sacrament,’ evokes with etymological cunning the obsidian blade, the bloodstained altar, of the ‘sacrifice,’ the ritual of old that did not simply acknowledge but in fact brought about man’s final transformation from a being of flesh into a being of pure spirit.

  “The lone exception, of course, is said to be the business we are employed in now, on this very afternoon: the act of wedding, of binding two souls together in mutual ownership. Marriage appears to be an undertaking by the living, for the living. Like a slave auction, perhaps, or a lawsuit. Yet in truth, marriage too, is a living death—and I the sinister gondolier tasked with ferrying you to its farther shore.

  “A name is the mark one leaves upon the Earth, and sooner than we might prefer to think, our names will be all that is left of any of us. But here, now, beneath this seemingly innocuous canopy of flowers, one partner will willingly forsake her name and the other will give up exclusive ownership of his. Mr. and Mrs. Duncan Humphrey Ripple the Fifth. Though this ugly construction is unlikely to appear in common use, it is this renaming that concerns us here today. A marriage is not about the division of property, or the obtainment of health insurance, or sexual congress, or the public affirmation of private sentiment, all of which can be accomplished by more expedient means. A marriage is mutation, the artificial merging of discrete elements from nature that turn monstrous when combined.