Corona of Blue

by Berntson, Brandon

  I smile. I like Rachel.

  “How’s Burt?” I ask, trying to be civil. I go to the kitchen and put the cobbler on the counter. I come back into the living room shortly afterwards. I hadn’t expected visitors. I was in the mood for my rum and Coke and hadn’t wanted to be disturbed. Had I imagined the little girl, the voice in my head, and why was I thinking about Pug so much lately? I need to call Lacey and ask her what she thinks. ‘You’re crazy. That’s what I think. And Carmilla would agree.’

  Thanks for the advice. For some reason, I get this sudden, crazy notion to go shopping for shoes, maybe some nice low-cut boots. I love a nice boot, but I don’t get the chance to wear them often. Tennis shoes are, after all, much more comfortable. I will go shopping tomorrow, I tell myself.

  “Burt’s okay. He has to go in for a colonoscopy on Tuesday. He hates them, but at his age, it’s the right thing to do. He grumbles for a while, then comes back, and says, ‘Everyone’s eating peaches.’ He says it the same way every time. Everyone’s eating peaches. I don’t know where he got it.”

  I hope Burt won’t ever come back saying, ‘No one’s eating peaches anymore because I got cancer.’ Rachel eyes the surroundings with one raised eyebrow like she always does. I wonder what she tells Burt when she goes back to the apartment. “I love that Rayleigh, Burt, but man, is her apartment creepy. She worries me.”

  My apartment is dark and sexy. I ask her if she wants a drink. Maybe that’s why she always hesitates.

  “No thanks,” she says. “I have one before dinner, and that’s it for the night. I was hoping to catch you at home. How’s your love life?”

  This phrase, for a single girl, can be annoying. In a way, you want to tell them exactly how your love life is: boring, vapid, and completely non-existent. I think of Ricky Bradford, the times we kissed, and say, “Not in active duty at the moment.”

  “You’ll find someone, dear. Pretty thing like you. I’m surprised they’re not beating down your door.”

  Quite honestly, I’m very glad they’re not beating down my door because I couldn’t stand all the attention. The, ‘You’ll find someone dear,’ is a phrase I wish they wouldn’t say, either, as if I’m spending every minute wondering why Mr. Right is not beating down my door. That’s not the way I see it. I don’t tell Rachel this, of course. I smile and nod in all the right places and hope I can get back to my drink without looking like a lush.

  “Well,” she says, cutting it short. “I’d better get back. Burt gets restless when I’m not home.”

  “Thank you for the cobbler, Rachel. It smells delicious.”

  “Tastes even better,” she says. “You have a good night, dear.”

  “I will,” I say. “You, too.”

  “Bye Junkster,” she says, and lets herself out with a single wave, shutting the door.

  “Well, that was weird,” I say to Junky. “Wasn’t it? Pointless, thank you, not with any meaning other than to scare the crap out of us. How’s that for a fine day, Junk?”

  Junk, like always, doesn’t say anything. He’s perched on the windowsill again, looking into the street. I grab my drink, down it quickly, and make another. I’m eager to put the events of the day behind me.

  I wonder what the world is trying to tell me, if anything. I pull the shades, forcing Junky to pay attention to me and not the neighborhood. That’s a good kitty. But he ignores me and goes to the food dish.

  So much for companionship. Mr. Right is hidden in the guise of four legs and black fur, and all he can ever say is, “Meow.”

  4.

  Extremely Under-dressed

  “I cannot see. My eyes are not my own. I see through the eyes of a child.”

  I don’t know what’s happening. Am I dreaming? Is it Carmilla, hounding me for the benefit of my own salvation? I have never been a treasure. I’ve never been miraculously saved. My time in this dungeon has come to a close. Beasts are now running the show.

  I haven’t the foggiest idea why these thoughts enter my brain. Maybe I’m really going crazy. Maybe I’m about to have a confrontation with the dead.

  My wickedness takes over, and I see something I haven’t in a long time. Darkness is all around me. I’m breathing heavily. I have never had a history of asthma, but for some reason, my breath is cut short, and it is not from smoking. Am I a child now? Is that it? Have I been driven back to my youth, and if so, what the hell for?

  I shake. Even during the nightmare, I am asleep having another nightmare. Nightmares are all around me, surrounding me on all sides because I believe in the nightmare, and the nightmare believes in me. It’s a fair trade.

  Before I can grasp what’s happening, I wake to daylight and a storm outside. In the faintest of breaths I catch the words, I love you, by a young girl who is supposed to be me but somehow isn’t.

  ~

  The great void is being filled, but I’m not sure I like what’s filling it. For the first time in my life, I’m terrified, and I don’t even know why. Rayleigh Angelica Thorn, lover of dark tales, dreamer of cryptic graveyards in the night, lifeless corpses is…afraid. She wishes she could have a simple life again, something rhythmic in its mendacity. Hell, even a relationship I have to settle for would be better than this.

  In the morning, the dream fades, what there is of it anyway, and I get up with Junky sleeping on the pillow next to me. I rub the glue out of my eyes, and walk into the kitchen, wearing nothing more than baby blue panties over cream-colored skin. I do not tan. I burn. I gave up trying to tan a long time ago when all it did was give me moles. I am a ghost, so I figure I’ll stay looking like a ghost. Some people, I hear, are actually attracted to that. That’s the kind of man I need, the cryptic kind, who can still be charming and love me because I’m ghostly. It’s a Gothic thing. Does such a man exist? If he does, I’m sure he’s not a tall, elegant, handsome, mysterious stranger. He’s probably more like Pug, destitute with an attitude. Yeah, that’s what I’m looking for.

  I’m glad it’s raining. That means there’ll be no barbecue because it’s Saturday, and today is supposed to be the day. I feel guilty for thinking this, but I only want to curl up with Junky and enjoy the day off in my apartment. Maybe I can clean this place up. The bathroom is looking rather sickly.

  I get the coffee pot going, yawn a tearful yawn, and go to the bathroom, getting the shower ready. The morning routine is the slowest. I am not a morning person, and I think about waiting until eleven, sometimes twelve to open the bookstore.

  I look at myself in the mirror, and for a split second, see something more than the ghoul who has awoken, the baggy eyes and lack of make-up. I can smell the alcohol oozing out of my skin from the night before. I will drink a lot of water today.

  My mouth is a grisly laceration from having my teeth violently pulled out. It only lasts a second, but it is the most vivid part of my day. A powerful, acidic smell of wet copper hovers under my nose. I swoon as if I’m still drunk. The edge of my vision darkens, and I panic for a long time. I realize I’m trembling because just the other day everything was fine, and now everything isn’t fine, and I don’t understand what the hell is going on.

  I have to call Lacey. I have to tell her. She is the only one who’ll understand. She will put the humor aside and listen like a good friend. This is when I do not need jokes. Something is happening to me. A child is screaming at me in the dark, and I curl up on the bathroom floor, letting the tears come. I figure, whoever the child is, I might as well join her.

  ~

  This takes me roughly an hour to get over. I manage to compose myself, get it together, and take a shower. I have too much going on to deal with this today. A shower and a cup of coffee will make me feel better. At least I hope.

  I step out of the shower, dripping water on the floor, rubbing a pink towel through my hair. Despite being dark, I still enjoy girlish cute colors and things.

  I wonder where my life is going, what has happened over the course of the week, and what will happen to me in the future.
I look at myself in the mirror and try to see myself as beautiful. I really do have big eyes, eyes so big and brown they’re almost black. My hair is black. My hips aren’t too big, at least I don’t think so, but they are bigger than they used to be. I know guys who love hips. And not small ones either. Of course, they’re all married or distant cousins. I’m a 32C, which is fairly decent. I see people staring at them. Sometimes, it gets annoying, sometimes not. It would be better if they spoke for themselves.

  I cannot keep waking up from this nightmare anymore. And how long have I had it? Years? Have I dreamed it since I’ve been a little girl? I don’t think so. In fact, I cannot remember anything of the kind.

  Something dark, reaching out for me, the hand of a girl, a scream, some anger…

  I must call Lacey.

  I straighten up the house, reorganize some books, wash some dishes, and put some clothes in the hamper. Must remember to do laundry, I tell myself. I put on a black shirt with very short sleeves because it fits my mood. It brings out the cream in my skin. Now, I really do look like a ghost, and my eyes look even bigger and darker. I really am beautiful, I try to tell myself, without sounding vainglorious. Someone is capable of loving me. And I am capable of loving. But I probably don’t know a damn thing.

  I make my bed, and the phone rings, and I go to pick it up. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Rayleigh. Did I wake you?”

  “No, Mom,” I say. “I’ve been up for a while.”

  “What’s the matter? You sound a little stressed.”

  “Nothing. It’s been one of those mornings. Junky tore a curtain. I spilled coffee all over the floor, and I don’t have any hot water to shower.”

  “Oh, dear,” she says, sympathetically. “That stupid cat. You should get rid of it.”

  My mother does not like cats, and she doesn’t realize, even though the excuses are all lies, that she’s not helping. I love Junky.

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she quickly apologizes. “I know it’s raining, but would you want to come over today anyway? Dad wants to make beer chicken. He put it in the fridge last night.”

  “Sure,” I say, knowing all too well I wouldn’t get out of it. “That would be fine.”

  “Everything’s okay then?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I say. Except for a few traumatic nightmares, and some ghostly visitations, I haven’t even begun to understand, I’m just fine. Where’s a Calgon bath when you need it?

  “How does four o’clock sound?” she asks.

  “Four o’clock sounds fine.”

  “Great,” she says. “Your father or I will be there to pick you up.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “See you then, sweetheart,” she says. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mom. Bye.”

  I hang up. Mom has this wonderful, maternal mannerism of saying ‘I love you’ every time we part on the phone or in person. She says you never know what might happen, and the last thing she wants to know, or that I should know before we both get hit by a bus, or drown in a flood or something, is that we love each other. It’s genuine, melodramatic, and morbid at the same time, but I do love her.

  I think about calling Lacey and wonder if she’s home. She’s probably out with Amanda or one of her daring dates of sophistication. I’ll call her later, I decide, and realize I haven’t had a cigarette yet. So, that’s the next thing I do. I don’t smoke around my parents because it bothers Mother. Not so much Dad. He says girls will be girls, she’s over thirty, let her do whatever the hell she wants. Gooooo Dad!

  I light up, sit in a chair by the window, and stare out at the rain.

  ~

  Mother comes to get me at five to four. She is and always has been very punctual. I pat Junky on the head, tell him the food bowl is full, the box is in the bathroom, fresh, don’t mess up the place. I grab my purse, my cigarettes, because I always find a way to sneak one while I’m over at my parent’s house, despite what Mother thinks. I meet her at the door, close it behind me, and we walk down the hallway and down the steps to a silver Lincoln Continental. Must be nice, man of suits, I think. I’m surprised they don’t have butlers and housekeepers.

  “How have you been, Mom?” I ask.

  “Fine. Dad thinks they might be able to get that store on the east coast. He’s very excited about it.”

  “Really? He’s been trying to do that for a long time.”

  She nods and looks over at me. “Of course, he might be gone for a while. There’ll be many business trips.”

  We make it to the street and into the car. I always think it funny when Mom drives the big Lincoln. It seems too intimidating for her; and I want to laugh when she’s behind the wheel. I guess she looks like me. She has the same jet-black hair and fair skin, but she is noticeably larger. She is wearing a long black skirt with a white blouse and a black jacket. Mom always looks stylish, like Dad. It’s something they definitely have in common. She has her hair up in a clip, the mass of curls off her neck and shoulders. She has aged well. She keeps rouge on her cheeks because she says it makes her look younger. I laugh and love her at the same time.

  “Anyone else at this party?” I ask, trying to nudge my mother and prepare early.

  “Uh,” she stumbles, and the rouge on her cheeks turns a deep red.

  Got her! Goddamnit! Already, I am vexed, peeved, perturbed, angry, and downright furious.

  “Mother, you know I hate it when you do that. Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  “I’m sorry, dear. I just thought…I don’t know. I worry about you so much. You’re always so alone.”

  “I have Lacey,” I say.

  “That’s what worries me,” she says.

  She knows about Lacey, and she does not approve; she certainly doesn’t approve that her only daughter is best friends with a jaw-dropping lesbian.

  “Does it worry you?” I ask.

  “Yes! It worries me,” she exclaims. “What if my only daughter—”

  “Decided to bat for the other team? Of course, there would have to be bats then, or something smaller, because the real thing would be out.”

  “Rayleigh!”

  I figure this scores me a home run, and I am glad I say it.

  “Well, Mother,” I say. “If Lacey and I were to be…lovers—” my mother cringes, “—then I think it would’ve happened already. And I wish you wouldn’t talk about Lacey that way because she happens to be a good friend of mine, if not my only friend.”

  “I’m sorry, dear.”

  “Forget it. So, who do I have to be polite and civil to, then candidly kick into the street?”

  Driving down the road, my mother pulls the car onto Pine Street, through a luxurious neighborhood of houses I can never imagine inhabiting. Every time I go to my parent’s house, I feel like a stranger. It’s that big, a large Tudor style with an immaculate lawn and ivy crawling up the sides. It’s like a giant entity reminding you how insignificant you are, and the mission works. I feel like cowering and looking to the ground every time I walk the length of the sidewalk.

  “He’s a nice man,” my mother says. “He’s in his thirties. Thirty-five, I think.”

  “I want a young stud who can go all night,” I say.

  “Rayleigh, can you be serious for one minute?”

  “You’ve got thirty seconds,” I say. “Shoot.”

  An image of the bathroom mirror comes into my mind and what I saw there, and I feel myself going pale, if that’s possible.

  “His name’s, Lewis,” she says. “Lewis Chase.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He, uh…is a musician. I think he teaches music at the university.”

  I look over at her. “Say what?”

  “He’s a musician.”

  “What kind of musician, Mother?”

  “Well, he plays the piano, the cello, and the guitar, I think.”

  “Jesus, you set me up with Beethoven? He’s probably a condescending prick and a pomp
ous ass!”

  “Rayleigh, that’s not fair! He’s a very nice man.”

  “Probably a geek. Probably wears Coke-bottle glasses.”

  “Rayleigh, stop it. He used to be a detective. His wife died several years ago. He plays concerts for the symphony and teaches. He’s very good.”

  “How did his wife die?”

  “She was killed at a crosswalk, apparently. Someone didn’t stop.”

  “My god! Are you serious?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Well, Mother, thank you for helping me feel like absolute shit.”

  “Anytime, dear. Here we are.”

  ~

  I have grown accustomed to ignoring the grandeur of my mother and father’s house. It’s spacious and filled with mahogany. I always thought they should use it in a movie, and I’m amazed Mother does all the cleaning and dusting herself. How does she keep up with it all? Inside, the smells of chicken with a robust flavor meet me at the door. I am nervous. I own a drab bookstore, and I am about to meet Mr. Concert Pianist. I am not ready for this, and I wish my mother would leave my goddamn love life alone. I am perfectly happy with Junky.

  Daddy is sitting in the living room chair, smoking a cigar. He is a big man, dark, intimidating, who could’ve put Mr. Sandbag in the dirt with a flick of his wrist, but he is insanely charming. I see a man sitting in a chair opposite with a drink in his hand. It looks like bourbon over ice. Mom has set me up with an alcoholic. Perfect. Like I have any room to talk.

  Haunting you, haunting me.

  I ignore this just as surely as it enters my brain.

  “Hi, Daddy,” I say. He likes it when I call him Daddy, like I’m still his little girl.

  “Pumpkin,” he says, and I see the stranger smile. He is handsome, I see, not overdressed enough to stand up my father. He has on khaki pants and nice brown shoes. He is wearing a long-sleeved, button-up shirt rolled up maybe three times on his forearms. The color makes his eyes look almost sea green. There is a white T-shirt underneath the blue one. Suddenly, I feel very under dressed. His hair is blond, slightly wet, and he has a broad chin, Roman nose, full lips, and the most intriguing green eyes I’ve ever seen. Something mysterious is lurking there in those green eyes. Somehow, as he looks at me—for the split-second I embrace my daddy—they go right through me. They tell me everything. He is intelligent, humorous, charming, and he has been through enough in life. Anything else might send him over the edge, though. He is okay with a simple, uneventful life. He will be soft-spoken and humble, careful with his words. For once, I look at my mother, and I feel like the stupid girl I’d been when Ricky Bradford took my hand and kissed me that day.