The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories (2 page)

He was back in no time. “Look at this. You want to see something beautiful? Look at this.” He handed me a blue velvet case. I opened it and saw ... the Dixie fountain pen.

“But you said you’d never heard of them.”

His voice was hurt and loud. “It is not a Dixie fountain pen. It’s a Sinbad. An original, solid gold Sinbad made at the Benjamin Swire Fountain-Pen Works in Konstanz, Germany, around 1915. There’s a rumour the Italian Futurist Antonio Sant’ Elia did the design, but that’s never been proven. Nice, isn’t it?”

It
was
nice, but he was so angry that I wouldn’t have dared say no. I nodded eagerly.

He took it back. “I’ve been selling pens twenty years, but’ve only seen two of these in all that time. One was owned by Walt Disney and I have the other. Collector’s value? About seven thousand dollars. But as I said, you just don’t find them.”

“Won’t the Dixie people get in trouble for copying it?”

“No, because I’m sure they either bought the design, or there are small differences between the original and this new one. Let me see that brochure again.”

“But you have an original, Michael. It still holds its value.”

“That’s not the point! It’s not the value that matters. I’d never sell this.

“You know the classic ‘bathtub’ Porsche? One of the strangest, greatest-looking cars of all time. Some smart, cynical person realized that and is now making fibreglass copies of the thing. They’re very well done and full of all the latest features.

“But it’s a lie car, Juliet; sniff it and it smells only of today—little plastic things and cleverly cut corners you can’t see. Not important to the car, but essential to the real
object.
The wonder of the thing was that Porsche designed it so well and thoughtfully so long ago. That’s art. But the art is in its original everything, not just the look or the convincing copy. I can guarantee you your Dixie pen has too much plastic inside where you can’t see it, and a gold point that probably has about a third as much gold on it as the original. Looks good, but they always miss the whole point with these cut corners.

“Look, you’re going to find out sooner or later, so I think you better know now.”

“What are you talking about?”

He brought a telephone up from beneath the counter and gestured for me to wait a bit. He called Lenna and in a few words told her about the Dixies, my discovery of them ...

He was looking at me when he asked, “Did he tell you he was doing that, Lenna?”

Whatever her long answer was, it left his expression deadpan. “Well, I’m going to bring Juliet home. I want her to meet him. What? Because we’ve got to do something about it, Lenna! Maybe she’ll have an idea of what to do. Do you think this is normal? Oh, you
do
? That’s interesting. Do you think it’s normal for me?” A dab of saliva popped off his lip and flew across the store.

When Michael opened the door, Lenna stood right on the other side, arms crossed tight over her chest. Her soft face was squinched into a tense challenge.

“Whatever he told you probably isn’t true, Juliet.”

I put up both hands in surrender. “He didn’t tell me anything, Lenna. I don’t even want to
be
here. I just showed him a picture of a pen.”

Which wasn’t strictly true. I showed him a picture of a pen because I wanted to know more about “Dixie” and maybe my five-thousand-dollar earrings. Yes, sometimes I am nosy. My ex-husband used to tell me that too often.

Both of the Rhodeses were calm and sound people. I don’t think I’d ever seen them really disagree on anything important or raise their voices at each other.

Michael growled, “Where is he? Eating again?”

“Maybe. So what? You don’t like what he eats, anyway.”

He turned to me. “Our guest is a vegetarian. His favourite food is plum stones.”

“Oh, that’s
mean,
Michael. That’s really mean.” She turned and left the room.

“So he is in the kitchen? Good. Come on, Juliet.” He took my hand and pulled me behind on his stalk to their visitor.

Before we got to him I heard music. Ragtime piano. Scott Joplin?

A man sat at the table with his back to us. He had long red hair down over the collar of his sports jacket. One freckled hand was fiddling with the dial on a radio nearby.

“Mr Fiddlehead? I’d like you to meet Lenna’s best friend, Juliet Skotchdopole.”

He turned, but even before he was all the way around, I knew I was sunk. What a face! Ethereally thin, with high cheekbones and deep-set green eyes that were both merry and profound. Those storybook eyes, the carroty hair and freckles everywhere. How could freckles suddenly be so damned sexy? They were for children and cute advertisements. I wanted to touch every one on him.

“Hello, Juliet! ‘Skotchdopole’, is it? That’s a good name. I wouldn’t mind havin’ it myself. It’s a lot better than Fiddlehead, you know.” His deep voice lay in a hammock of a very strong Irish accent.

I put out a hand and we shook. Looking down, I ran my thumb once quickly, softly across the top of his hand. I felt hot and dizzy, like someone I wanted had put their hand gently between my legs for the first time.

He smiled. Maybe he sensed it. There was a yellow plate of something on the table next to the radio. To stop staring so embarrassingly at him, I focused on it and realized the plate was full of plum stones.

“Do you like them? They’re delicious.” He picked one off the shiny orange/brown pile and, slipping the stony thing in his mouth, bit down. Something cracked loud, like he’d broken a tooth, but he kept his angel’s smile on while crunching away.

I looked at Michael who only shook his head. Lenna came into the kitchen and gave Mr Fiddlehead a big hug and kiss. He only smiled and went on eating ... stones.

“Juliet, the first thing you have to know is I lied about your birthday present. I didn’t make those earrings—Mr Fiddlehead did. But since he’s me, I wasn’t
really
lying.” She smiled as if she was sure I understood what she was talking about. I looked at Michael for help, but he was poking around in the refrigerator. Beautiful Mr Fiddlehead was still eating.

“What do you mean, Lenna, he’s ‘you’?”

Michael took out a carton of milk and, at the same time, a plum, which he exaggeratedly offered his wife. She made a face at him and snatched it out of his hand.

Biting it, she said, “Remember I told you I was an only child? Like a lot of lonely kids, I solved my problem the best way I could—by making up an imaginary friend.”

My eyes widened. I looked at the red-headed man. He winked at me.

Lenna went on. “I made up Mr Fiddlehead. I read and dreamed so much then that one day I put it all together into my idea of the perfect friend. First, his name would be ‘Mr Fiddlehead’, because I thought that was the funniest name in the world; something that would always make me laugh when I was sad. Then he had to come from Ireland because that was the home of all the leprechauns and faeries. In fact, I wanted a kind of life-sized human leprechaun. He’d have red hair and green eyes and, whenever I wanted, the magical ability to make gold bracelets and jewellery for me out of thin air.”

“Which explains the Dixie jewellery in the stores?”

Michael nodded. “He said he got bored just hanging around, so I suggested he do something useful. Everything was fine so long as it was just the earrings and keychain.” He slammed the glass down on the counter. “But I didn’t know about the fountain pen until today. What’s with
that,
Fiddlehead?”

“Because I wanted to try me hand at it. I loved the one you showed me, so I thought I’d use that as my model. Why not? You can’t improve on perfection. The only thing I did was put some more gold in it here and there.”

I put my hand up like a student with a question. “But who’s Dixie?”

Lenna smiled and said, “I am. That was the secret name I made up for myself when I was little. The only other person who knew it was my secret friend.” She stuck her thumb in the other’s direction.

“Wonderful! So now ‘Dixie’ fountain pens, which are lousy rip-offs of Sinbads, will be bought by every asshole in New York who can afford to buy a Piaget watch or a Hermès briefcase. It makes me sick.” Michael glared at the other man and waited belligerently for a reply.

Mr Fiddlehead’s reply was to laugh like Woody Woodpecker.

Which cracked both Lenna and me up.

Which sent her husband storming out of the kitchen.

“Is it true?”

They both nodded.

“I had an imaginary friend too when I was little! The Bimber-gooner. But I’ve never seen them for real.”

“Maybe you didn’t make him real enough. Maybe you just cooked him up when you were sad or needed someone to talk to. In Lenna’s case, the more she needed me, the more real I became. She needed me a lot. One day I was just there for good.”

I looked at my friend. “You mean he’s been here since you were a girl? Living with you?”

She laughed. “No. As I grew up I needed him less. I was happier and had more friends. My life got fuller. So he was around less.” She reached over and touched his shoulder.

He smiled but it was a sad one, full of memories. “I can give her huge pots of gold and do great tricks. I’ve even been practising ventriloquism and can throw my voice a little. But you’d be surprised how few women love ventriloquists.

“If you two’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go in the other room and watch TV with the boys. It’s about time for ‘The Three Stooges’. Remember how much we loved that show, Lenna? I think we saw one episode ten times. The one where they open up the hairdressing salon in Mexico?”

“I remember. You loved Moe and I loved Curly.”

They beamed at each other over the shared memory.

“But wait, if he’s ... what you say, how come he came back now?”

“You didn’t know it, but Michael and I went through a
very
bad period a little while ago. He even moved out for two weeks and we both thought that was it: no more marriage. One night I got into bed crying like a fool and wishing to hell Mr Fiddlehead was around again to help me. And then suddenly there he was, standing in the bathroom doorway smiling at me.” She squeezed his shoulder again. He covered her hand with his own.

“God, Lenna, what did you do?”

“Screamed! I didn’t recognize him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he grew up! The Mr Fiddlehead I imagined when I was a child was exactly my age. I guess as I got older so did he. It makes sense.”

“I’m going to sit down now. I have to sit down because this has been the strangest afternoon of my life.” Fiddlehead jumped up and gave me his seat. I took it. He left the room for television with the boys. I watched him go. Without thinking, I picked up Michael’s half-empty glass of milk and finished it. “Everything that you told me is true?”

She put up her right hand. “I swear on our friendship.”

“That beautiful man out there is an old dream of yours?”

Her head recoiled. “Oo, do you think he’s beautiful? Really? I think he’s kind of funny-looking, to tell the truth. I love him as a friend, but—” she looked guiltily at the door—“I’d never want to go
out
with him or anything.”

But I did, so we did. After the first few dates I would have gone and hunted rats with him in the South Bronx if that’s what he liked. I was, as expected, completely gone for him. The line of a man’s neck can change your life. The way he digs in his pockets for change can make the heart squawk and hands grow cold. How he touches your elbow or the button that is not closed on the cuff of his shirt are demons he’s loosed without ever knowing it. They own us immediately. He was a thoroughly compelling man. I wanted to rise to the occasion of his presence in my life and become something more than I’d previously thought myself capable of.

I think he began to love me too, but he didn’t say things like that. Only that he was happy, or that he wanted to share things he’d held in reserve all his life.

Because he knew sooner or later he’d have to go away (
where
he never said, and I stopped asking), he seemed to have thrown all caution to the wind. But before him, I had never thrown anything away, caution included. I’d been a careful reader of timetables, made the bed tight and straight first thing every morning, and hated dishes in the sink. My life at forty was comfortably narrow and ordered. Going haywire or off the deep end wasn’t in my repertoire, and normally people who did made me squint.

I realized I was in love
and
haywire the day I taught him to play racquetball. After we’d batted it around an hour, we were sitting in the gallery drinking Coke. He flicked sweat from his forehead with two fingers. A hot, intimate drop fell on my wrist. I put my hand over it quickly and rubbed it into my skin. He didn’t see. I knew then I’d have to learn to put whatever expectations I had aside and just live purely in his jet-stream, no matter where it took me. That day I realized I’d sacrifice anything for him and for a few hours I went around feeling like some kind of holy person, a zealot, love made flesh.

“Why does Michael let you stay there?”

He took a cigarette from my pack. He began smoking a week before and loved it. Almost as much as he liked to drink, he said. The perfect Irishman.

“Don’t forget he was the one who left Lenna, not vice-versa. When he came back he was pretty much on his knees to her. He had to be. There wasn’t a lot he could say about me being there. Especially after he found out who I was. Do you have any plum stones around?”

“Question two—why in God’s name do you eat those things?”

“That’s easy: because plums are Lenna’s favourite fruit. When she was a little girl, she’d have tea parties for just us two. Scott Joplin music, imaginary tea and real plums. She’d eat the fruit then put the stone on my plate to eat. Makes perfect sense.”

I ran my fingers through his red hair, loving the way my fingers got caught in all the thick curls. “That’s disgusting. It’s like slavery! Why am I getting to the point where I don’t like my best friend so much any more?”

“If you like me, you should like her, Juliet—she made me.”