Interfictions 2 (27 page)

And then there is Bill. Bill with the bluebell eyes and hair the color of ripe wheat, curly and soft to the touch. And you are in love, you think, and do not touch me anymore. I curse, I weep, and then I become silent. And while you love, I feed; I eat his soul like a candied apple, consume his flesh and lick his bones while he sleeps so soundly beside you. And then it is over, and I add his carcass to your heap of dead lovers. You curse, and you cry, and then you fall silent. “I didn't love him anyway,” you say on the phone and add another layer of nail polish to your claws. And of course you didn't, for you are mine, as chained by our pact as I am. No lover will ever know you as I do, from the inside out. Marrow, bones, and tissue. I am in every part of you, in every cell—even when you deny me.

And then you sit by your keyboard, before the shimmering screen, and you call for me, want to touch me—but I will surely not let you. You scream at me, and curse me, and drink far too much red wine. But why would I yield to a mistress who has treated me so badly? Who has taken advantage of me and discarded me as soon as she found something else to play with ... But then you are sweet and broken ... and you miss me so badly I can feel it in every nerve, in every fiber of your being. And if hearts could cry, yours would cry a fat, black drop of sheer despair. And I open myself to you again and let you touch me.

You are always gentle at first when we reunite, then bolder, as you realize I am really there and won't disappear again anytime soon. Then you kiss me and love me like before. I could never stand your misery for long...

And we take Bill, like we have taken them all, and we transform him. We give him a mask and send him out on the stage so you can punish him as you see fit. He'll be a tragic hero or a villain—maybe the guy who dies. And you can shoot him or stab him ... all that blonde hair covered in gore. I revel in it, you feel released, you close the chapter that was Bill and move on—and I feed you. Your nails go clickety-click as you see the world through my eyes ... Perfectly entwined, you and I ... And now you can write about the ripe berry moon, the sparkling stars, foaming champagne upon your brow, breasts, and thighs.

"Berry Moon” is an attempt to give the always working, never resting creative part of the writer's mind a voice and a personality of its own. It's a peculiar thing, often even to the writer, how his or her brain can take everyday occurrences, gobble them up, and transform them into shiny castles—how everything is inspiration, nothing is plain ... As a writer (or artist, for that matter), a part of you is always detached from the real world, busy looking for food for the creative “magic.” This, in my opinion, makes the writer somewhat interstitial by nature—walking in between the worlds.

This constant internal dialogue is, in many ways, far more intimate (and important) than a relationship with another human being can ever be, which makes the writer more or less self-sufficient when it comes to intimacy: no one can know you like you know yourself, even if you don't always quite understand exactly what it is that triggers and feeds your imagination. And nothing can satisfy you as completely as your creative work; to fill those pages and tell that story, to experience the sweetness of a creative “high"...

The relationship with the “muse,” or creative self, is like a lifelong marriage: you fight, you love, you feed each other. Sometimes you want the stream of creative impulses to cease, other times you wish for it to flow—but then, of course, it won't ... “Berry Moon” was written at a time when I had some doubts about this relationship between me and my “other self.” We worked it out, though—we always do, as walking away isn't really an option. We both live here, after all.

Camilla Bruce

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Amelia Beamer

Most of Morton's weight landed on his left forearm. After he'd caught his breath, he flexed the fingers to check that nothing was broken. His hip hurt where it had hit the sidewalk, and his ribs. Still, he would not be put off his weekly lunch out. Since Marie had passed, it was the only time he ate anything other than what he'd heated from a can. More than that, he was a creature of routine. He was expected at Happy Family.

The street was empty, save his parked car, and a few others. He was relieved that no one was around to have witnessed his fall, and then he was bemused that no one was around to help him stand. What the hell had he tripped on, anyway?

Probably just your feet
, Marie said.

He acknowledged the possibility with a nod. Morton had rules about speaking to Marie in public. It wasn't that he was crazy; he'd heard her voice in his head since before the cancer took her. Always coming up with some smart or insightful comment.

With some effort, Morton stood and dusted himself off with his good hand. His cane was nowhere to be found.

In the gutter
, Marie said.
You know, you should really go to the hospital
.

Sure enough, it had landed in a puddle that was slick with something that might be soap. Who knew what was in this water?

Marie didn't offer an opinion. Morton liked that from time to time. Anyone who's been married can understand.

He had to bend over, bracing against a parked car, to retrieve the cane. Already there was some blood coming through his sleeve. He bled so easily these days, from the Coumadin. Sometimes he had nosebleeds that lasted for hours.

He walked the painful half block to Happy Family. Their normal table was still empty. Good, he wasn't late, not that Alice would notice. Morton used the time to check his wounds in the bathroom. His forearm was scratched up pretty badly. He'd ruin his shirt, at this rate. There were several welts on his side, and he took shallow breaths to minimize the pain when he breathed. He'd be OK for a while, he decided.

Morton used the toilet, which he often did these days, washed his hands, and went to wait. He read the menu as if he hadn't already memorized it, as if he ever ordered anything other than Orange Chicken, and wished—as he did every week—that he'd brought the newspaper. He watched the door instead.

Twenty minutes later, Alice came through, pushing a walker and shepherded by the young Hispanic driver. The kid had once told Morton that he locked the van every time he got out, so that the old folks didn't wander off. Morton was both grateful and a little resentful. The way it worked at Alice's home, you had to be on a list to check out a resident, as if the old folks were library books. It was a liability thing, for insurance. And Alice's daughter didn't like Morton; that was a liability thing, too. Alice had to ask for a ride just to get out and see Morton. She had a standing order.

Morton waved with his good hand. Alice saw him, he knew by the look of puzzlement that passed over her face. The look that said she knew him from somewhere. He stood despite the pain and kissed her dry cheek as she approached. Her helper sat her down, then left.

"Well, here we are,” Alice said.

"It's Morton,” Morton said. “Your old friend. Getting older every day. Alice, how are you?"

"Fine, thanks, and you?” She picked up the menu with her delicate hands and read it as if she'd never read a menu before. “They spelled
dinner
wrong,” she said. “It's missing an
n
. And there's periods after some of the items and not after others.” Her eyes were watery through thick glasses. Alice kept a packed suitcase in her room, for when she was to go home.

"You're proofing the menu again, dear,” Morton said. He reached out to hold Alice's hand. She pulled away.

I do feel sorry for the poor dear
, Marie said.
I don't know why you keep doing this to her, dragging her out.

If she doesn't remember, what difference does it make? Morton thought. Maybe it was selfish of him, but she seemed to enjoy the food and the outing. Look, there she was, flirting with a baby in a nearby booth. The baby dropped a fistful of rice on the floor and smiled. It had tiny teeth poking up from its bottom gum.

I should tell you now, if you haven't figured it out already: Morton and Alice had a thing, back in the day. It lasted three years, from Christmas to Christmas exactly.

And I should tell you that it nearly destroyed him
, Marie adds. Morton's dead wife wants to show you something, and though you wouldn't expect a disembodied form to have photographs, she does.

See?

She wants me to tell you about them. I have to be polite, plus I'm curious. Who'd take photos of a love affair they were trying to keep secret? So I look.

Our families were friends,
Marie explains. The photos are Kodachrome, like the Paul Simon song, although I personally think everything looks better in black and white. They're curling around the edges, as if from repeated handling, although of course they're not actually real. The first shot is of a younger Morton in a Santa suit, with a thick tuggable beard. He's too skinny, and the red velvet is thin, also, but other than that he looks good.

This was taken before
, Marie says.
He got stuck in Alice's chimbly. They had to call the fire department.

Maybe this is what Marie had meant with
it nearly destroyed him.

If a spot of dust could give you a look like your mother discovering you'd tracked mud all over her kitchen, Marie does this. I'm not used to having my mind read. You and I had better watch out. I'm doing this for your benefit, you know.

The next photo is a blur of a child running. What's most impressive is the green grass, the blue sky. There's a blanket under a tree in the corner of the photo, almost as an afterthought. A woman lies on the blanket, or at least I think it's a woman.

Morton is a fool to think I wouldn't find out
, Marie says, but there is kindness in the ghost's voice. Poor woman. After all, she's dead, and that has to be hard on her.

That's not the story we're here for, Marie, dear
, I tell her. We're here because something is about to happen.

Neither he nor Alice can eat much these days, so Morton ordered Orange Chicken and white rice. They'd share. On second thought, he added an order of Crab Rangoon for a starter. He was starting to feel woozy. Already he had bled through his sleeve, and the white cloth napkin he was using for a compress was showing spots. He'd have to tip extra. The food came, and they ate, and he paid, and that was that.

"Would you like to go for a drive?” Morton asked. He wasn't supposed to take her from the restaurant, but Alice liked to look at the big houses in the suburbs. As her memory receded, she had forgotten that she'd moved to California. She thought she was still in Chicago and would comment on the drive back about how the neighborhood had changed over the years. The brick was gone, for example. You don't see a lot of brick in earthquake country.

Alice assented, and Morton brought the car back half a block. He hurried despite the pain, conscious of their time limit.

Once they were on the freeway, Morton said, “You may remove your stuff."

"Thank God,” Alice said. She took off her glasses, kicked off her sensible shoes, and stretched. They used to go through the litany from the Roald Dahl book (gloves, wigs, shoes), but it took too long, and Alice wasn't actually a witch. She just got better when she was going west. And worse when she was going east.

"I missed you,” Morton said. Usually he would ruffle her hair, but he had to keep both hands on the wheel.

"Jesus, hon, you're bleeding,” Alice said. “What happened?"

"No bother, just a fall. Stupid, my fault,” Morton said. They had maybe fifteen minutes before he'd have to turn around or risk being late. After that was the eight-and-a-half-mile Bay Bridge, and then about ten miles of San Francisco before the ocean. “Alice, honey, do you remember what we did the last time we had a drive?"

She undid her seat belt and slid closer to him. “Just drove, and looked out at everything.” Though she was lucid, Alice didn't seem to remember from week to week.

Morton took a breath. There was something he had to say, and he didn't care if Marie heard. Maybe she deserved to hear it.

"Alice, why'd we never do it, back in the day?” he asked.

"We probably should have,” Alice said. “It would have been good. Just multiply the mistletoe.” She sat in the middle seat of his old Buick, leaning her head against his shoulder. She should have been wearing a seatbelt.

Morton wanted to kiss her. He wanted to say something loving and charming and smart, something memorable. It tore at him. He wanted Alice to do something, say something, write her thoughts in a notebook while she still could. Whatever she should have been doing with this borrowed time, she wasn't doing it.

"I thought about you, though,” he said. “I had conversations in my head with you every day. I still do."

"As did I. That's almost as good, right?"

It wasn't. All of us knew it, Marie and me and you, too, and not one of us said anything.

"I think it must be a polarization thing,” Morton said to break the silence. “Because it's only when we're going west that you come back. Maybe there's something to do with the magnetic fields, the North Pole. If we could just figure out how it works—"

Alice interrupted. “When you only feel like yourself once a week for a few minutes, like waking up out of a dream, you—OK, well. I want it, of course I do. I miss being myself. When I'm coherent enough to notice.” She put a warm hand on Morton's thigh. “The rest of the time, I don't care. I sit in the sunny spot, and it's enough."

"I can't believe that,” he managed to say. Her hand on his thigh commanded his attention.

She teased his penis erect, through his khakis. He gasped, as much surprised at her action as his reaction. He hadn't had a willie since he started taking the blood thinners.

"Morton,” Alice said. “I wasn't going to tell you this, but every time you take me out, I have to go back through it again. Losing everything."