Corona of Blue

by Berntson, Brandon

  You chose my death to save you from your own. That’s why I’m haunting you.

  Rayleigh didn’t know who to listen to anymore. The voices in her mind were constant, by the thousands. Nothing made sense, and she let the thoughts come at random. What did she care? It meant nothing to her, and they couldn’t harm her anyway, could they? They were only voices.

  “Horrors? What horrors? These things I hear and see are nothing to me. You don’t scare me. I don’t think you can.”

  Laughter echoed between her ears. Janeen emerged from the trees in front of Rayleigh.

  “Hi, love,” Janeen said, holding a bouquet of roses in her hands. She bent down and handed them to Rayleigh. “These are for you.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Rayleigh said, taking a deep inhalation. “I’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you, too.”

  Rayleigh looked at Janeen for a moment. “You shouldn’t have left that night.”

  “I wanted to see you, to say I was sorry. I still love you, you know?” Janeen smiled, but Rayleigh looked somewhere else.

  “I wish you would have known, Janeen…that I love you without all that. It hurts that you don’t see it. What can I do to fix it now that you’re dead? I know I’ve done wrong, too, more than you, but you don’t know me at all.”

  Janeen looked at her for a long time; she looked at the flowers. “It’s hard to love what you are,” she said. “I died for you.”

  Rayleigh looked at the flowers. She put her fingers to the soft, silky petals and caressed them. She took a whiff and closed her eyes. A second later, she opened them. “How come you didn’t love me like a friend, like a true friend would? How come you couldn’t see it?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter,” Janeen said, holding her hands to her tear-stained face.

  “How can it not?” Rayleigh asked.

  Janeen fell to her knees, throwing her hands out pleadingly, begging forgiveness. Or was it show? “Nothing I ever had compared to you! I can’t live without you, Rayleigh. You’re everything to me! I feel. I love. I know I’m real. How can I persuade you?”

  Rayleigh almost fell for it. “To love is better,” she said. “I lost the magic when you died. It’s too constant. Life is frivolous, not bold. I am less lonesome with you gone.”

  The phrase seemed to kill Janeen all over again. She hung her head and wept. Still pleading, she stole the words in Book of Poems: “Rayleigh, I love you. In death, I’m still haunted by you.”

  “How is that possible?” Rayleigh asked.

  “You will not leave me.” Janeen looked at the flowers.

  The roses wilted, shriveled in Rayleigh’s hand, an aroma of decay wafting into her face. “Why did you do that?” she said.

  “To let you know you broke my heart. That’s why I’m here. You had a beautiful opportunity. You killed me before I was even dead.”

  Rayleigh set the flowers down. “You broke your own heart,” she said, and stood up, avoiding Janeen’s gaze. She grabbed her notebook and walked out of the glade, away from the oak and back home. Janeen disappeared or failed to follow. It didn't matter.

  “My hand betrays every thought I know,” Rayleigh said. “This hand, in vain, knows all it knows.”

  A sudden frosty chill filled the air. Like ice, it scraped her cheeks and ears. She shivered and knew it was more than the frosty chill of some distant winter. A steely hand of death reached up from the grave, begging her to lie down beside her.

  “I loved you, too, Janeen,” she said. “You betrayed it, took it for granted. You wanted more, and that’s why you’re where you are.”

  She convinced herself of this, letting the darkness snuff her out.

  But something else was with her, the reason she never felt lonely, Carmilla perhaps, reminding her: I am with you, and I will never forget. I will always remember, and you will, too.

  Rayleigh opened her eyes. She was still sitting by the oak, she realized, not on her way home at all. She had dozed and dreamed of Janeen, them talking more maturely than eleven-year-olds. No flowers…no scent of decay.

  She rubbed her eyes, grabbed her notebook beside her, and looked up into the night sky. A vast spread of stars loomed overhead. A chill moved through her again, but something stayed. Something dark clung to her…the hand of Janeen…

  ~

  Dorothy, thankfully, did not see Janeen again. Rex returned to his old self after a time, but when—that morning (two weeks later)—putting scrambled eggs together for Rayleigh (Rex having eaten a muffin and a glass of orange juice because he was trying to lose weight), the sound of screaming made Dorothy stand rigid and drop the spatula to the kitchen floor. She turned to her husband.

  The quick tread of Rayleigh’s feet came running up the stairs. Soon, the door to the kitchen burst open. Rayleigh, her face glossy with tears, shrieked hellishly, holding her hands in front of her. “Jesus, Mom, get it off!” she shrieked. “Get it off! I killed her! I killed her! She told me, and I didn’t believe her! Get it off, Mom! Oh, Jesus, get it off!”

  Dorothy was too horrified to act. She simple stood there, stunned, not knowing what to do.

  Rex stood up from his chair, eyes wide, skin drained of color. “Rayleigh, calm down!” he said, grabbing his daughter by the shoulders and shaking her. “You’ve had a nightmare, honey. Calm down, please. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. You just had a bad dream.”

  “I killed her!” Rayleigh shrieked, and started to cry. Her chin trembled violently. She held her hands out. “Get it off, Mom! Please! Get it…OFF!”

  Dorothy grabbed Rayleigh, pulling her to her chest, and rubbed her back. She didn’t know what else to do. “Rayleigh, calm down, please. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing there. Just calm down, honey. You had a bad dream was all. Like your dad said.”

  But Rayleigh continued to scream and sob. Her frame, her tear-stained face, continued to shake and tremble.

  What was it? Dirt? Blood? Both?

  Dorothy looked at Rex with wide, terror-stricken eyes. Rex looked at his daughter. He couldn’t see it, but he could smell it:

  Earth and rot, blood and death.

  Madness had a smell…

  PART III

  HOME AGAIN

  12.

  Charlotte and Shame

  George Cooper from downstairs knocks on the door. I know this because George has a secret knock. He’s a black Irishman and probably one of the most generous, humorous, and humble people I know. He served in Vietnam, but I try not to talk about it with him. If he brings it up, I might ask questions, but I always figure it’s best to leave that kind of stuff alone. George has an ex-wife and a grown boy living in New York City. He misses marriage sometimes, he says, but it doesn’t take away from his single life. He misses his boy, Geoffrey, even more. They talk every Saturday night on the phone. I think that’s cool of Geoffrey.

  George’s secret knock is something like: dump dump dump. Dump dump. Dud-up-dump! He’s very creative. It’s the kind of knock I like to answer the door to.

  When I open it, he is standing there wearing a gray shirt which has seen a lot of use. I think it’s his favorite. On the upper left breast is the Ireland flag with a tiny shamrock under it. He is very proud of his heritage. Bright red shorts contrast against his dark skin. He is not wearing shoes. His thick body and limbs are intimidating. I’m always put off guard and hope he doesn’t go crazy and make advances on me, because I’d be screwed…no pun intended. I told him this once, and he laughed for almost five minutes. His big dark eyes and smiling face are beaming at me when I open the door.

  “Hey, girl, what-choo-doin’?”

  “Hi, George,” I say, smiling. “Where have you been?”

  “Same place in apartment twelve. You don’t come down as often. Been wondering how you are. Like a brandy?”

  “I’d love one,” I say.

  “That a-girl,” he says.

  Before I can say ‘Let me grab my keys and cigarettes,’ Junky ha
s already claimed him at the door. Junky knows the secret knock, too, and I think he loves George more than me. I’m jealous because of it.

  “Junky hasn’t seen you in a while, George. He might thrash the apartment if I don’t bring him along.”

  George lets out a hearty laugh and says, “Bring the Junk down.”

  Fortunately, George loves Junky, too, probably because Junky loves him.

  “Let me lock up,” I say.

  George nods and bends down to grab Junky. Junky is claiming George’s chin, and George is scratching Junky behind the ears, which Junky loves.

  I grab my keys and cigarettes and lock the door behind me.

  The hallway is open to the outside world and lighted. So, even though we’re standing in a hallway, we’re still outside. The building reminds me of a Lego model a child would put together.

  I see a cigarette butt on the ground, and bugs and moths are dancing and bouncing around the lights overhead. The night is warm, and we walk downstairs to apartment 12. I can smell someone cooking Hamburger Helper. Stroganoff, I think.

  George did not lock his door. If thieves raid his house, they’ll have to work faster than two minutes. We walk inside, and he puts Junky down, closing the door after me. Junky immediately begins to inspect the place.

  George has a very nice apartment. Pictures of himself and memorabilia from the war cover the walls, pictures of him and his son, a tall, handsome man in his early thirties. In one of them, they have their arms around each other’s shoulders. They’re next to a lake. It looks—because of the way they’re dressed—as if they’re on a fishing trip. I think Geoffrey must’ve gotten his mother’s looks, because he doesn’t look anything like George. I do not see a picture of his ex-wife anywhere, though, which is no surprise, I guess.

  George told me a story once about when he worked on the medic unit in Vietnam. While choppering in to get the wounded, he noticed how they all had bright red crosses on their backs. He remembers—he told me—how the crosses looked like targets and how stupid that seemed. The next thing George knows—as they’re cowering from the wind of the chopper blades—gunfire erupts from the trees. George remembers hitting the dirt with his hands on the back of his helmet. He says he looked up and could see other medics being gunned down around him, the people he drank and played poker with the night before.

  I think about what he must’ve gone through in Vietnam and what his dreams must be like, and a chill goes down my spine.

  George goes into the kitchen and comes back with two brandy snifters. The liquid looks almost black in the gloom of his apartment. A single, shaded lamp is on by his favorite chair. It’s the only light on. I take the glass, holding it accordingly, swirling it in my hand, so it warms to my body temperature.

  “That a-girl,” George says, smiling. “Come sit down.”

  I go to a chair, a big, plush, dark brown recliner. Junky is chewing on one of George’s spider plants. George sits in another plush chair opposite me.

  “Junky!” I shout, startling him. Junky swivels his head quickly in my direction, already looking guilty. “Bad kitty! No kitty! Gonna go to bed with no dinner and a snack kitty!”

  George laughs and tells me not to worry about it. He has lots of plants, and Junky doesn’t come by often enough to destroy them.

  I take a sip of the brandy and try not to wince in front of George. He doesn’t notice.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he asks. “How’ve you been?”

  I’ve been having a horrible time, George. I see these bloody mirrors and ghosts everywhere. I met this guy. I have to talk to Lacey. The stores gonna go under. I can feel it. Oh, George, what am I gonna do?

  “I’ve been okay,” I say. “What about you?”

  “You’re the only pretty girl to come by. People start wondering about me. I need you here for my image.”

  “You should meet Lewis,” I say.

  “Who is Lewis?”

  “A guy I met.”

  “You met a guy, girl!” he throws back his head and laughs, a great, big booming bass of a sound. “Get out! Jump back! What’s he like? Is he cute? Do you like him? Is he rich?”

  I laugh. George likes to make fun of my girlish behavior, and sometimes when I talk to him, he puts an extra pitch into his voice as if he’s my lost girlfriend or something. I take another sip of the brandy, and the warmth spreads through my chest like spiky tendrils of flame. I blush like mad.

  “My mom invited him over for dinner at their house on Saturday,” I tell him. “I thought he was going to be the same old bore, ya know? Roll eyes, nod, force smile, all that stuff. He came by the store the other day. I don’t know George,” I say, shaking my head. “Life’s been crazy lately.”

  He nods, staring at the Oriental rug. Not a real Oriental rug, but a replica, made in America. America loves replicas, don’t they?

  George turns to look at me. “Sometimes weird is necessary. It will always get weirder.”

  I want to tell him everything. I feel like I should. George will understand. It’s in his eyes, the crows-feet. What I tell him will be no worse than what he’s been through in Vietnam, so he’ll understand. But I’m not being serious, thinking this. It’s something I tell myself only to make me feel better.

  I think it’s romantic how well colored people age. Is that a racial statement? But I notice how they are always beautiful and young at every age. When they’re fifty, they look twenty, at least to me. Is George haunted, too? Are we all haunted? Am I going crazy? Because I feel it’s possible I could be going crazy. Somewhere along the lines, there is a switch—an adjustment. I don’t know where or when it will take place, but it’s out there. It’s in a dark place. I stare at Junky and think about Edgar Allen Poe’s story, The Black Cat. If I ask George, maybe he’ll bury an axe in my face.

  “I should call Lacey,” I say.

  He looks at me. Junky has jumped from the shelf of plants onto the floor. He’s claiming George’s bare legs.

  “Who’s Lacey?” he asks.

  “Lacey,” I say. “Lacey. Friend Lacey. I never told you about her?”

  “Oh, yeah! The girl girl.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I never met her.”

  “I should introduce you. You’d like her.”

  He pauses and takes a drink, grabbing Junky for his lap. Junky is happy to respond and walks in circles over George’s thighs.

  I stare at a picture across from me on the wall. It’s a rough sketch of a girl’s face. It looks old and faded, but it’s framed. The girl is looking at me with dark eyes, but it’s a black and white, so it could be anything. I have never noticed this picture before. The look on her face is very intense. She is looking over her shoulder, and she will not leave me alone.

  “George?”

  “Yes?” he asks.

  “Where did you get that picture?”

  “What picture?” he asks.

  “That picture,” I say, nodding and pointing. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  He looks and sees the picture I’m talking about. “Oh, that’s been there a while. I call it, ‘Charlotte.’”

  “You drew it?”

  He nods.

  “I didn’t know you were an artist.”

  “I’m not. I just like to draw. Women’s faces mostly.”

  An icy finger travels down my spine for the second time.

  “What’s bothering you?” he asks. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Stop it! Stop it!” I suddenly shriek. I put the drink down, my hands over my ears. George’s eyes go wide. “If I hear one more thing like that, I’m going to go crazy! Just leave me alone! Stop it!”

  I open my eyes and George is looking at me in mortal horror. I start crying. George comes over and puts his arms around me. He will not let me resist. I shake, holding myself, while George holds onto me.

  “I think I’m going crazy, George! Jesus, I think I’m losing my mind! What the hell was that all about? I�
�m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me anymore. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know why I get this feeling it’s just gonna get worse.”

  I can’t believe I’ve just said all this. What a goddamn basket case I am. I shake and tremble. I don’t know what George must be thinking. I’m ashamed of myself for letting it happen. Quiet night with nice neighbor does not turn out the way I was hoping. I wonder what poor George must think. He probably has his own madness to deal with. Some friend I am. I wonder when the end will come, and I see fire all around me. Nothing makes sense anymore. I am awash with nightmare. I can’t possibly imagine. I have a million things going on inside of me, most too abysmal and horrible to mention. I try to imagine my life in this crazy hell. For some reason, I’m getting more lost and confused by the day. It doesn’t mean anything to me. I just don’t care anymore. I don’t want to care. I’m tired of caring. I just want to curl up into a little ball and wink out of existence. I want to disappear.

  “Hey,” George says. “It’s okay, Rayleigh-girl. It’s okay. Let it out. Let it out.”

  He rubs my back with a big warm hand. When he says, Rayleigh-girl, I actually manage to laugh.

  He kisses my cheek, and for the first time, I hear Junky let out a concerned meow. Maybe he’s just jealous I’m getting all the attention.

  I pull away and wipe my eyes. I try to smile, and George smiles back.

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?” he says.

  George and I have been friends a long time. I look over at the picture of Charlotte. I figure, what the hell?

  I take a deep breath, grab the drink, and tell him what happened to me a long time ago. How did I forget is what I want to know? Why, after all this time, can I remember everything so vividly suddenly, and seemingly not remember anything before a week ago? Have I forced it out of my mind? Have I finally decided to deal with Janeen? And by dealing with it, is it going to kill me?

  I don’t know. What’s done is done. I reach into the past and bring it up like some tempestuous monster lurking at the bottom of a cold, dark sea.