Uncanny Magazine Issue 32

by Lynne M. Thomas

  “You’re—Jean—”

  “Julia Popova. You haven’t changed at all.”

  He had to duck his head climbing into the car. “That’s right. Vivian’s friend.”

  “Admit it, you don’t remember me.”

  “I do, I do.” He grinned at her. “Her best friend. The artist. Took me a second.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “I’ve got a hotel on the East Side. Vivian first, though.”

  They inched out of the airport under a pewter sky, the churn of jet engines trembling the little car. Odd, how airports diffused an industrial grayness across the landscape, washing out yellows and reds, leaching warmth from complexions.

  “How long has Viv been sick?” Gregory said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “She’s been very mysterious about the whole thing. I didn’t know until two weeks ago. ‘Hey Gregory,’ she says. ‘I’m dying. Stage Four ovarian, isn’t that funny? Want to swing by one last time?’ Like she hadn’t pitched me out the door.”

  Julia snorted.

  “So how long?”

  “Chemo off and on for the last eleven months.”

  Gregory chewed his lower lip, gazing at the pawnshops and discount clothing stores that glided by. “Did everyone know?”

  “Her friends. Her family.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “Did they take out her ovaries?”

  “Excuse me?” Julia almost missed a stoplight flicking from yellow to red. She stomped on the brakes, and they both choked against their seatbelts. “What’s that to you?”

  “She’s my wife,” Gregory said. And that, however regrettable, was true.

  It was night when they arrived. A half moon hung in the strip of sky between buildings. Gregory wavered on the sidewalk, looking up.

  “You can go home now,” he told her through the car window.

  “All right.”

  “I’ll get a taxi. I appreciate it, Julia.”

  She sat in the car, watching windows blink awake in his path. For forty-five minutes she listened inattentively to the radio station she had flicked on to forestall conversation, and to the light breeze that rattled paper cups and cans down the street. Black and brown people walked by, chattering, smoking, hefting groceries. The moon fell behind a roof. Gregory did not come outside.

  At last she turned the key in the ignition and drove home.

  The next day thickened into a soup of meetings in conference rooms sharp with the smell of whiteboard markers and phone calls that locked in zero new clients. Julia stopped at a café for a roast beef sandwich with too much mustard before heading to the park. She was looking forward to grass and greenness and the sight of water, even stagnant and sulfurous water. As she sucked threads of onion from between her teeth, her cell phone hummed.

  “Are you going to Central Park?”

  “Gregory?”

  “Which entrance?”

  “I’m taking the A.”

  “Okay, which stop?”

  “The Museum. Look, I’d rather not—”

  “See you there.”

  Julia huffed and stomped down the steps into the station. She was busy, urgently busy, and not about to wait for him. But as she walked to Naturalists’ Gate, she heard her name.

  Gregory, pressed and polished, waved at her from a bench. Her own hair had blown every which way. Her irritation deepened.

  “I thought this was it. Vivian said you used to meet here after work and walk to Conservatory Garden.”

  The humid summer evenings she and Vivian had spent wandering through the park, pausing for ice cream éclairs and the occasional concert, appeared at an impossible distance. It had been centuries, surely. Kingdoms had risen and crumbled in the interim. She was obscurely hurt that Gregory knew about those days.

  “What else did she say?”

  “You’re hunting a unicorn.”

  Julia compressed her lips. “She’s told you a lot, then.”

  “Vivian’s very fond of you. Thank you for taking care of her.”

  “Someone had to.”

  “Do you mind if I come? I’ve never gone on a unicorn hunt.”

  I do mind, Julia wanted to say, but the words stuck in her throat. Her silence did not discourage him. They walked together into the darkening park, Gregory glancing at her, tipping his head toward her, as attentive as if they were a couple.

  “What are you planning to do?”

  “I have some ideas.”

  “Isn’t there a procedure? You need a virgin—”

  “How do you know?”

  “I read,” he said. “Or I used to. Viv fell for my bookshelf before she fell for me. Ask her about it sometime. So, you borrowing a kid for this?”

  “No.”

  “It’s just, if you don’t mind my saying so, you look past the age—also too beautiful—”

  “Fuck off,” she said.

  He stared at her. “You are?”

  “I said fuck off.”

  “Do you mean technically? Are you a lesbian? Or have you never—”

  “I mean get lost. Catch a cab, go home. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  “Look, I didn’t mean to—” He raised his palms in apology. “How do I say it? There’s no imagination in my job. No imagination outside of it, either. No time to read, no time to socialize, and no nice girl dates a married man. Work, sleep, work. Dull as hell. I got excited when I heard about your unicorn.”

  “You’re laughing at me.”

  “I’m not.”

  Julia strode off, Gregory trailing behind her. At the eastern edge of the Ramble, she bent over two hoof-shaped patches of verbena and goldenseal. The clusters ran in double lines across the grass.

  “What’s that?”

  “The flowers of old New York,” she said. “They grow where it goes.”

  Gregory pinched off a purple blossom and sniffed it. “This is amazing,” he said.

  From what she had seen, she figured that the age of the plants corresponded to the freshness of the trail. She ignored luxurious, knee-high tracks of bee balm and wild ginger in favor of a younger trail of asters, following it until it vanished at an outcrop of schist.

  “Damn,” she said, slapping the rock. “This one, I thought—”

  “Keep going,” Gregory said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  They were descending Cedar Hill when Gregory dropped to a crouch.

  “Here,” he said. The print was damp, as long as her hand, an impression of teardrops curving toward each other. It was speckled with seedlings.

  Julia knelt, bending until her nose was on a level with the sprouts. Their cotyledons were spread, the tips of the first true leaves beginning to unfurl. It was not clear what they would become.

  “I’m not making this up,” she said.

  “No.”

  “They’re growing, look.”

  There was a faint metallic scrape behind them, like a hobnail on rock. Julia’s neck prickled. She pushed herself upright, brushing her hands on her jeans, and dug in her purse for the knife. The night was thick around them, and she could not see much.

  On the crest of the hill, a flash of silver.

  “Oh,” she said, transfixed.

  Tree trunks divided and obscured the white form, but as it picked its way through them, she glimpsed a feathering mane, a silver wisp of beard, a horn like a slant of light. It shone pearl and silver in the darkness.

  “You are,” she said. “You exist.”

  As if it had heard, the unicorn swung its head toward them. The point of its horn traced a bright curl in the air. In that long, frozen moment, Julia observed the fine pulse of one vein in its neck, the mud on its forelocks, the leaves tangled in its mane. Vapor fogged its nostrils. It regarded them with an opaque intelligence, considering.

  Then it wheele
d and trotted in their direction.

  Gregory stayed still. Moving slowly, Julia slid the coil of black and golden hair from her purse and weighed it in one hand. Would the unicorn let her wrap her arms around its neck? Or would she have to lasso it? Any horse could snap the braid with a toss of its head, but according to her research, a unicorn would not. A gilt watch chain would do the trick. An embroidered girdle. A necklace. If her books were correct, all she needed was the horn.

  Ten steps separated them, and still the unicorn advanced. Julia held her breath. Five steps. Three. Two.

  Gregory snatched the knife from her left hand and lunged.

  “Wait!”

  The knife was cheap and small, but she had spent half an hour rubbing it over a whetstone, wincing, as her parents had taught her to do.

  A dark, dripping line opened along the pale neck. With a cry like bells, the unicorn shied away. It ran faster and fleeter than any horse, a shimmer in the trees, a glint, then gone.

  Gregory sprawled on the grass, the knife wet and black in his hand. She prodded each of his arms and legs, checking for injury, then yanked him to his feet. Tears burned her eyes, and she mopped at her face, frustrated.

  “Asshole. How could you?” she said. The unicorn—Vivian—the question rang with accusations.

  “What else was the knife for? What were you going to do?”

  She opened and shut her mouth and could not speak.

  They headed out of the park in silence. Here and there, on a bench, under the dark arc of a bridge, Julia spotted a huddled body husbanding its warmth. Those who needed unicorns as much as she did. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she walked faster, too weak and foolish, she knew, to ask forgiveness.

  “Why waste your time with someone like him?” Julia said. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching Vivian eat breakfast, and offered mug and spoon at appropriate intervals.

  “He’s helping with the bills,” Vivian said reasonably. “And it’s his health insurance.”

  “He could write a check from anywhere.”

  “It’s not just that.” Vivian dipped her spoon into each of the dishes that crowded her tray—zhou, strawberry jello, bone soup with slices of winter melon, chocolate pudding—without raising it to her lips. Her skin was soft and loose against her bones. She was not eating, the aunt had whispered to Julia. “I’m trying to remember what was beautiful about him.”

  “Him? Nothing.”

  “You’re angry at him?”

  “Yes.”

  “So am I. And I don’t want to die with that much anger. It’s the size of a house, roof, floors, porch, everything.”

  “So you have him over every day to yell at him?”

  “We talk.”

  “For hours.”

  “Don’t be silly. I talk to you too.”

  Julia tightened her lips. “Not every day.”

  “You have work.”

  “It doesn’t seem healthy to me.”

  Vivian sighed. “Didn’t you see the flowers?” The kitchen table was flooded with lilies and chrysanthemums, more than Vivian had vases for, and she made Julia haul home an armful every visit. “Know who they’re from? Classmates. Roommates. Colleagues. Friends. Cousins. He has to wait outside when anyone else is here.”

  “Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy that.”

  “Oh, I do. I do.” She smiled. “You’ve taken good care of me. I know. I notice. But when you’re looking death in the face at thirty-three—”

  “You’re not. Don’t say that.”

  “Cut the crap, Julia.”

  “But Gregory—”

  “He’s figured out something you haven’t. I’m dying. He knows it. He doesn’t waste words. We don’t waste time.”

  “Tell me how.”

  “How what?”

  “How to not waste your time.”

  “That’s your job.”

  In the quiet that followed, they heard the long, bright song of the doorbell, then the snick and thunk of Vivian’s aunt unbolting the door. Muffled voices reached them, one a familiar baritone.

  “Is Gregory here? Give us a minute—”

  Julia returned to Central Park alone. The damp wind numbed her fingers and wormed its way up her sleeves. She clutched her thin coat, wishing for a scarf.

  As she walked the twenty blocks from Sheep Meadow to the Reservoir, she could find no unexpected flowers, no tracks, no magic. Where hoofprints of columbine and wake robin had flourished the week before, there were now only bare and indistinct spots of earth. Few people remained in the park. The one or two she saw ducked their heads against the wind and never looked up.

  It grew colder as the night deepened. Dew soaked her canvas shoes and cotton socks, prickling her toes. She wished for company, anyone at all, even Gregory. After an hour of searching, she had seen no sign that the unicorn ever existed.

  “Well,” she said aloud, “that’s that,” and turned toward 86th Street and the subway.

  “Nice bag there, lady.”

  In the dark, Julia could make out only a pale grin, a paler shock of hair, and the switchblade presented by way of introduction. She had not noticed his approach, preoccupied as she was with her hunt. The calm of perfect terror settled over her.

  “My wallet, right?” she said, fishing it out of her purse.

  “Why not your whole bag?”

  “There’s nothing you want in there.” She riffled the bills in her wallet and tossed it at his feet.

  His eyes never left hers. He stepped forward and wrenched the purse from her arm. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Every nerve shrilled at her to run. She locked her knees. “Please,” she said. “My friend’s hair. She’s dying.”

  “You’ll shut up, if you know what’s good for you.” He upended her bag and shook it. Pens, tampons, fliers, and tissues scattered across the grass. The detritus of an insignificant life, she thought, starting to shake.

  “Run.”

  She didn’t.

  He grabbed a fistful of her jacket and held the braid under her nose. “Or come get it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Let me go, please—”

  “Too bad you’re not prettier.”

  He hooked his arm around her neck, cutting off her air. Her lungs burned as he tightened his chokehold. Her knees buckled. The unspoken fears of nights and days coalesced into a fine point. So this is it. My turn. This. Now.

  A hundred carillon bells clanged together. Over the wet, dark grass, a white shape tilted at them, indistinct at first, but growing brighter and clearer every moment.

  The man swore and dropped her. She fell on her face, grateful for the dew that seeped into her clothes, the distinct sensation of each blade of grass against her skin. When she had caught her breath, she pushed herself to her knees.

  He was running, his jacket flapping around him. The unicorn crashed past her in a glorious arc of white, the whorled horn pointed at his fleeing back. For an instant she imagined it spearing his back, the stutter of blood, him stumbling, sinking, deserving it—

  “No!”

  The pale body pivoted, pawing the air. When it landed, snorting steam, it was facing her. The gash on its neck had scabbed over into a rough crust of garnets. Julia glanced down, ashamed.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. She picked up the braid of black and golden hair and offered it to the unicorn. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. Not this time.”

  The unicorn approached her, formal and slow, and sniffed the braid. Her fingers tangled in its beard, which was silk and cobweb and gossamer. Its breath burned her skin with cold.

  “I need you,” Julia said. “Will you come with me?”

  She made herself meet its eyes, which were as old and secret as fossils, and felt very small. After a long, careful look, the unicorn sighed and bowed its head.

  Julia looped the braid loosely around the broad neck and fumbled with a knot. She was close enough to smell the odors of cinnamon, tamarind, and cardamom rising from
its skin. When that was done, she bent and shoveled the pieces of her life back into her purse, heedless of the wet leaves stuck to her keys, the mud on her wallet. The unicorn waited for her to rise and grasp the braid, and then it set out after her.

  They left through Hunters’ Gate and went north on Central Park West. The streets were hushed and empty of cars. A few pedestrians hurried along on the far side of the road, none of them looking in her direction, though as they passed, Julia noticed, they slowed and straightened, brows smoothing, hands falling to their sides.

  She was shivering with cold and shock. Every now and then she leaned against the unicorn’s side, and its breath was a deep rumble in her ear. The long, spiraling horn wrote eights in the air as they walked.

  At intersections, the traffic lights flared green in all directions. Above them, one by one, lit windows snapped out. A shouted argument that had spilled onto a fire escape subsided to a murmur, and the high, inconsolable wail of an infant faded. Soon they were enveloped in quiet.

  “Will you help her?” Julia said. “I can’t lose her. She’s the best thing in my life.”

  The unicorn did not answer. As if it knew the way, it went up Seventh Ave and turned onto 119th. Its hooves printed moist, silvered daguerreotypes on the sidewalk behind them.

  Vivian’s building was dark. Julia led the unicorn up the stoop and through the narrow doorway, watching anxiously as its flanks twitched and shuddered between the jambs. She had not planned for the two flights of stairs to Vivian’s apartment. But the unicorn placed one foot, then the next, on the threadbare runner, each step making a muffled chime. Less graceful, Julia groped hand over hand along the railing. Though she left the light switch alone, the unicorn gave off a fragile, glowworm light.

  A neighbor’s tabby sat on the second-floor landing, its eyes two small bright moons. As the unicorn passed, it tucked in its paws and purred.

  On the third-floor landing, Julia unlocked the door, and she and the unicorn entered Vivian’s apartment. Moonlight cut black paper silhouettes out of the flowers on the kitchen table. Everything was stark and sharp, but Julia still stumbled over a single shoe and skidded on a magazine before she grasped the loose brass doorknob and let them both into the bedroom.