Corona of Blue

by Berntson, Brandon

  “Do you want to come up for a cup of coffee?” I ask.

  “I would love to,” he says. “But I can’t. I have a couple of students coming to the house tonight. They should be there in about an hour. We’re going over Bartok.”

  “Wow,” I say. “You teach, too?”

  He nods, smiling. “Playing doesn’t pay that well. I teach at home sometimes…students at the university.”

  I nod, wishing I didn’t look so flighty. Do I look flighty? “Well, thanks for the ride,” I say. “It was fun.”

  “Next time’s on me.”

  He smiles, and I love his smile. I am falling hard and fast for that smile. I realize I like him more than I would’ve thought.

  “Okay, it’s a date.”

  “Can’t wait,” he says, still smiling. He meant to rhyme, and I think it’s cute as hell.

  I put up my hand as I step out, telling him goodbye. He nods, and I shut the door. He pulls away from the curb and drives away. I watch him, then hurry upstairs out of the drizzling mist. I step into my apartment and lock the door behind me. The food has sobered me up a little, and I make myself a rum and Coke. Junky meows, starved for attention.

  “What do you want?” I ask. I look and his food dish is still full. He knows where the litter box is. Does he want to go back to the bookstore?

  Junky rubs against my legs, and I pull out a cigarette, unable to find the time to sneak one over at my parent’s house. It is getting dark, just after seven, but it won’t be completely dark for another hour or more. The buildings are so tall they cut off the setting sun. I open the window, bringing—in stereo—the sounds of the city into my apartment. I sip my cocktail, somehow forgetting about the ghost girl, the morning episode, and my vapid, empty life as a single woman. I wonder what Lewis is thinking on his way home. Perhaps he’s wondering the same about me. My cocktail is already empty, and I fill it again while Junky does figure 8’s between my legs. Why is he so starved for attention?

  I think about Lewis again. Coke-bottle sunglasses, he is definitely not, and I wonder if I’ll ever see him again.

  5.

  Home Again?

  The basement of the house (mainly walls and floors of concrete, except for my room) was dark and cold. Daddy framed it because there wasn’t much room upstairs. He put up drywall, textured, and painted it in a bright rose color. I hated it immediately. Daddy didn’t realize I was a dark girl then, and all I wanted was to put up posters of Jack Nicholson from The Shining—the one where it shows him holding his coat together in the maze of snow while chasing Danny. A demented look is on Jack’s face. It’s freaky, but I like the picture. I’ve seen it before, but I was never able to buy one. I also wanted a poster from A Clockwork Orange, where Malcolm McDowell is coming through the picture holding a dagger with his black, droogy cap on. I thought Stanley Kubrick created some ambiance that was just flat-out creepy, and I liked it. As a child, I was hypnotized by the horrors I’d witnessed on screen, and I did feel an unequivocal terror. It kept me up nights. But the more I experienced the horror film, the more I became mesmerized and fascinated with my own fear and terror. Edgar Allen Poe mentioned something about the impossibilities of putting fear on the page. To back it up, he went, instead to stark cold terror. And if that didn’t work, he went to horror. Or was it Stephen King who said it? Maybe it was a combination of the two. Doesn’t matter, I guess.

  The basement of the house was basically mine. I had it all to myself except for the washer and dryer, which is where Mom, of course, did all the washing and cleaning. I would sit down in my room listening to Van Halen, Pink Floyd, or The Doors, dreaming of Ricky Bradford, and how I was going to sneak him into my room at night.

  Despite my adoration for cryptic things, I still felt fear. The basement terrified me because the only light switch was at the head of the stairs, which was actually a chord hanging from a light bulb. If I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I had to leave the light on in my bedroom, leave the door open and move through the entire basement toward the stairs with only the glow from my bedroom until I found the cord for the light. My bedroom provided enough light to see by, but the shadows in the corners were solid black, and my imagination ran wild. I could imagine all kinds of hulking, slithering things wrapping their slimy tentacles around my ankles, pulling me, wailing and screaming, into the endless black. Demented girl, have you ever been aware of what horror does to you? Horror girl, did you ever expect this?

  The older I got, of course, the more I looked for fear, but once you appreciate and adore the nightmarish world of the macabre, the more it takes to terrify you. Some people love being scared, others don’t. I love it and think it’s good for the blood. My life has always been unorthodox as far as reveling in the dark trades. In school, I donned more thick, black eyeliner than the other kids. I wanted to be a vampire girl, and even today, in the city—as anyone can attest—vampire girls are still visible here and there. Capes are back in fashion. What is it with today’s fascination with immortality and drinking blood? And to think, somewhere in there, a girl fancies bucolic settings of runaway princes, knights on black steeds. Someone will rescue me. Someone will see through all the thick eyeliner, my demented mind, and tell me I’m beautiful. My fascination is here in the dark. Evil is seductive and beautiful, otherwise, the fascination with immortality and vampires would cease to exist. Vampires are not beautiful, despite what people think. They are undead creatures that prey on human flesh. Despite how suave and elegant they appear, they are still monsters.

  I was struggling, fighting a blanket made of cement. No matter how hard I struggled, I could not escape. Something licked my ear, a thick wet tongue the size of an alligator. Claws clamped my mouth shut. Something from an H.P. Lovecraft story came to life in my basement, tormenting me. No matter how long I fought or how loud I screamed, my parents would never hear me. I would die in the basement of this red brick house, lost to the shadows of cement.

  The dreams I had of the house followed me throughout my life. I’d forgotten them until now. Are dreams like that? How can you forget if it’s a recurring dream?

  Back in my apartment in the modern city, I wake in a cold sweat, breathing heavily. Junky looks at me, then over my shoulder, as if he can see something I cannot. His eyes are wide, and he meows. The meow has a note of concern to it as if something has followed me through my dream and into reality.

  He whispers your name in the dark. That feeling is not imagined. It is a threat. All too real and tangible in the form of human shadows. The claws of the past are reaching out, attempting to take you back to the nightmare you’ve been running from your whole life. Be warned. Be careful. Be very, very afraid.

  My heart is beating fast, and I’m clinging to the sheets, my skin pasty white. Life is not supposed to be this way. There is more to it…or less. Thoughts turn to liquid, and I am sporadic in my fear of the unknown. How can I escape? What makes me think I have the power to destroy the unknown when it knows more about me than I do about myself? There really is no life in this body. It’s all a ruse.

  Your immortal paramour is already dead and wants you to find true love beyond the grave. In the end, you’ll realize you’ve always been dead. There is no existence for you in the city.

  The bookstore does not exist, Lacey, Pug, Mom, and Dad. Lewis is only a revelation of the nightmare. He is trying to destroy me as well.

  Panicking, I don’t know what to make of these thoughts. I’m circling through my head at impossible speeds. I am scatterbrained. There is no hope for me. I have lost the battle before it has begun. What time is it? Who am I? Do I exist? Where is my teddy bear?

  Mommy, are you there? Daddy, can you hear me?

  My voice comes back to me, an echo from the past. My voice is as empty and cold as the basement of my house. The voice has no source, no sound because it echoes through a timeless void of black. The black is the blackness of death, solid nothingness without matter. My voice comes back to me because it has
no origin. My wickedness has caught up with me. I am being punished in a silent prison of death. I cannot muster the imagination of dreams. I have never been born. I have always been dead. I will be dead forever. And that’s something I’m just going to have to live with.

  Junky meows again, a little concerned, but I can think of nothing to alleviate his fear. Or my own. I don’t even understand why I’m so afraid.

  ~

  At work, with Junky roaming about, I call Lacey.

  “Cellitall Advertising,” a female voice says. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi, Lace,” I say.

  “Rayleigh, darling,” she says, cheerfully, “How are you, dear?”

  “Lace,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh,” she says, a little concerned. Maybe she can hear it in my voice. “What’s the matter?”

  “Can I see you tonight after work?”

  “Of course. I’ll come by before you get off. Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I need to talk.”

  She pauses. “Hang in there,” she says. “I’ll be there tonight.”

  “Thanks, love,” I say.

  “Talk to you later, sweet,” she says. “Remember who loves you.”

  “Thank you, Lace,” I say, and hang up.

  I look out the window. The rain has stopped, and the clouds are parting, sending rays of sunshine throughout the city. Cars hurry by on Broadway. A bus passes. I put my elbow on the counter, resting my chin on my hand. Pug comes in a little after one o’clock.

  “Hi, Ray,” he says, still looking the same in his modern, Gothic attire. He is dressed roughly the same as when I saw him last, only wearing a solid black T-shirt with a big red skull on the front with sharp teeth and horns. The sight unsettles me.

  “What’s up, Pug? How come you’re not in school?”

  “Taking the day off from school. Thought I’d come in and say hi.”

  I wonder how many days off from school he has taken throughout his years and think it can’t be any more or less than how many I’ve taken. How I made it to college baffles me, but it also explains why I only made it to my sophomore year.

  Pug is smiling. Something has captured Pug.

  “What are you so cheerful about?” I ask.

  He keeps smiling, leaving me in suspense. I wonder what is going on in his life. For a minute, I am able to forget everything and focus solely on Pug. My thoughts turn girlish, and I suddenly want information. It’s the KGB in me, something Lacey finds fascinating. She’s the one who introduced me to this flaw in my character. Or is it a virtue? Lacey is always starved for information, much like I am. We joke about working for the KGB because every time we seek information, or receive a juicy tidbit of advice, we joke about selling it to the KGB.

  “Come on, Pug! What is it! I want to know!”

  He smiles even wider. “I met a girl,” he says.

  My eyes grow large, and I smile. This is exactly what Pug needs. “You’re kidding?”

  He laughs. “No. I met a girl. We have a lot in common, same taste in horror fiction, even, both love to read, and she’s only a couple of years older than me.”

  “Pug, that’s great! Where did you meet her?”

  He coughs into his hand. “Uhm.” He pauses. “At the cemetery.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Come again?”

  “I know. It’s weird. You know me. I’m a freak of nature. I go there for inspiration, or when I’ve had a bad day at home. I walk between the graves, wishing my dad’s name was on one of the markers. She was there putting flowers on one of them. Her mother and father. I didn’t really notice her. She just kind of materialized.”

  A chill runs down my spine, an icy cold finger from the grave, no pun intended. I feel myself going pale, what little color I have draining from my face. My heart stops for a minute, and I can’t breathe.

  “I just said hello to her, and she was very friendly. We got to talking,” Pug says. “She said her parents died in a fire when she was a kid, and she comes back on their anniversary to put two roses on the grave. The anniversary of their wedding, that is, not their deaths. Anyway, we kept talking, went out for ice cream, and the next thing I know, I’m holding her hand, walking her home. Just like that.”

  I think of Ricky Bradford and how quickly it moved for me in 1988. Asking to walk me home, holding my hand, and leaning in to kiss me. I hadn’t known him for half an hour, and already I had fallen in love with him and wanted to go on tour. So, it really does move that fast.

  “That’s wonderful, Pug,” I say, surprised I mean it.

  He is proud, smiling. Color blooms in his cheeks. I don’t think he realizes it’s possible anyone can like him, let alone want to hold his hand, let alone love him. I don’t want to mention any of this, my cautious doubt, my inklings of worry. I keep a straight face and think about the best way to approach the situation.

  “I’m very happy for you,” I say.

  “Anyway,” he says. “I wanted to come in and get her something. She wants me to read something for her. What do you recommend?”

  “Hmmm,” I say, putting a finger to my chin. “Let’s see…what does she like?”

  “Anything. She’s very open-minded.”

  I walk over to the shelves of books, thinking of something lyrical, something sweet, something colorful and impressionable.

  “This is good,” I say, handing him a used paperback.

  “If You Could See Me Now, by Peter Straub,” he says. “Hmm.”

  “Ever read it?” I ask.

  “Huh-uh.”

  “It’s yours. Happy love affair,” I say.

  “Really, Ray? Gee. Thanks.”

  He takes the book, eyeing the cover, and hurriedly leaves the store like the giddy schoolboy he is. All of sudden, my being the dumb, stupid girl I am, did not realize I just handed him a ghost story about a guy who loses his favorite cousin. Not necessarily a love story, but pretty damn close. I scold myself for not seeing this, not realizing it, and look at Junky. He’s looking at me again with wide eyes, staring at something behind my shoulder. By the look on his face, I think he agrees with me. I am a dolt.

  ~

  The bell above the door sounds and I look up after a long yawn. It has been a tiring day. Lacey comes into the bookstore wearing a sharp black outfit with a black blazer, a white blouse underneath, black slacks, and shoes. It is quarter to eight in the late evening, and I am making sure Junky has the necessary provisions for the night. I have been trying to organize a slipshod pile of mystery books behind the counter onto their proper shelves. I have been cleaning the bookstore, vacuuming and polishing the windows, trying to make everything look neat. I have seen some bookstores that look absolutely hapless, and although I understand this philosophy, it never makes me want to stay. Sometimes, I’ll even brew a pot of coffee from the back room, so it smells like coffee and books, instead of books and kitty cat.

  “Hi, Lace,” I say, setting a few paperbacks onto the ground. I have been busy cleaning and organizing to occupy my mind. I realize I’m sweating slightly. I wipe my brow with my sleeve.

  “Hello, darling,” Lacey says. She looks too sophisticated for the store. “How are you?”

  I can see by the look in her eyes that she is worried. Her sense of humor has been put on hold. She is saving any comedy for the end of the evening, perhaps to cheer me up later in case I need it.

  “I’m holding my own,” I say.

  “You look tired,” she says.

  “Thank you,” I tell her. “Let me close up, and we’ll go.”

  While I turn off the lights, and change the sign in the window, I lock up with Lacey standing on the sidewalk outside. Junky scratches at the window and meows. I feel a pang of guilt. He looks sad, and I almost start crying at the sight of lonely Junky. “I’m sorry, Junky. I’ll come back for you. Don’t cry.”

  Junky meows again. It rips me apart, and I force myself away.

  “Shall we?” Lacey says, an
d I nod.

  We go to the curb where her car is parked, and she opens the door for me. I’m now the charity case, the one people always drive home or come and get. I have no car, so Lacey always opens the door for me.

  I get in. She hurries to her side, opens the door, and sits down, shutting it after her. She drives to one of the closest bars, a bar-and-grill called, The Rocky Mile. It isn’t terribly packed for a Monday. The evening is brisk but not as cold as it has been lately. Few patrons are at the bar; some occupy several tables, but other than this, it’s pretty empty. I’m glad because I don’t want anyone to overhear my delirious conversation, which will only prove how lunatic I am. I think about what I want to say to Lacey, and suddenly I don’t know where to begin or how to start. I refrain from everything and think this is a ridiculous idea. She’s going to think I’m a fruit basket. She’s going to have me committed. I can already feel it. But there’s nothing I can do. I am dying for something to drink, maybe a cold beer. I’m making an exception.

  We find a table, and a tall red-haired waitress comes and takes our order. I have a beer, and Lacey orders a rum and Coke. When our drinks arrive, Lacey looks at me over the rim of her glass and asks, “So?” Her green eyes show no trace of humor. She is looking right through me.

  I take a deep breath, not knowing how I got into this, how I’m going to explain it. This is ridiculous. A vision comes to life in my head of Pug at the graveyard, seeing some ghostly apparition. Again, I feel a cold finger traveling the length of my spine, and I shiver. The only thing I can think of to say is, “Lace, I think I’m going crazy.”

  She looks at me for a long time. She does not say anything, and I realize I have to keep going.

  “I don’t know what’s happening to me. Something weird is going on. I’ve been having these dreams about the house where I grew up. I…” I have no idea how I’m going to say this. Because surely it will be the most maniacal thing I’ve ever said. “I…I was looking out the window of my apartment the other day. I…saw a little girl looking up at me from the street below. She said something. I saw her mouth the words, but I could hear them from all the way up in my apartment. When I turned, she was gone. She was looking at me, Lace. She was standing on the sidewalk wearing jeans and a rock-and-roll T-shirt, and then she just disappeared. The next day, I looked at myself in the mirror…” I take a long pull of the beer, look around the bar, then at Lacey. She is giving me her full attention. She is not looking at me like I’m crazy, but she’s not looking at me like I’m all that sane, either. A very rapt, concerned look is on her face.