I was four.

Opi said it was a wake.

He said, "Marushka, we will go and look." With respect, for the dead.

Dead, I knew to be the not-moving.

The dead man was very important. So many people came to see him.

With respect.

Lying there.

"...a Politician," Opi said. I thought that must be something like a Policeman.

An Officer behind the scenes, at some desk, off duty, no uniform. I saw him armed, with telephone. Important.

He had a pin. On his chest, a little flag, over his silent heart.

People gathered. They looked, pointed. One or two at a time, we filed through. The room was small, or it was really the edge of a hall, a corner roped off.

"Did he hang himself?" asked a boy older, more worldly than I.

"Hush! whatever gave you such an idea?!" scolded his Mother.

"...but Mutter..."

"Sh."

And they stepped out of line, an attendant guiding them to the right Exit.

After much standing around and twisting our brims in our hands, it was our turn to walk along the rope.

The box behind it was lifted high.

So high a grown man could lean in and kiss the dead man's cheek.

For a moment it was just Opi, the deadman, and me.

Opi raised me. The man's face was wet.

Tears? I asked. "Spit," Opi whispered.

Now I noticed the man behind, seated, half-covered from viewing by the casket and fancy skirting.

Eating.

He was eating! And he was crying while eating. He tore into day's old bread, and with dirty hand, wiped sobs. The snot mixing with crumb.

Breaking the bread, with himself.

The back of his hand, wiping and caking his stubble, more, and more with each bite. With each wipe.

I could not turn away.

"Opi!," I said, "What is that beggar doing?!"

"That is the Sin Eater," said Grandfather in the smallest voice, as a hand noisily tossed several cents into a metal bowl at the beggarman's feet and pushed another old loaf upon him. I could no longer tell if he was hungry.

It was now the deadman, the beggar, Opi and me.

I knew Sin was wrong. And here was one man eating up a whole Church week of Communion!

"He is eating the dead man's Sins," Opi said as we turned away.

It was then I tasted Shame.

2024 JUN 15

"'As luck would have it'. Curious phrase isn't it? As luck would have it. Is it luck that has brought us here tonight, to this moment? Is it fate? Perhaps they're one and the same, two sides of the same coin, ever present, ever aware of the other, yet destined to never meet...

Whatever force has brought us to this moment, a challenge you have issued, and a choice I must make-"

"Will you just play a damn card?"

"Well... as luck would have it... DRAW FOUR! "

"... This is why no-one wants you at game night anymore Gary."

from the dream

you awoke

and spoke of us

naked under

a tree

made of

fire

you said we

had died

and found

each other

there

on the edge

of time

bleeding

and fucking

under a tree

made of

fire

and now

after years

beyond

your passing

I imagine

you there

waiting

patiently

for me

to arrive

the black

eyed man

who held

my empty

pale soul

beyond

the storms

of internal

rage

beyond the

demons

of dark

winds

naked

and waiting

under a tree

made of

fire

California feels like it’s moving a million times a second. There are businessmen shouting into phones, tiny angry dogs on leashes, women stomping along in high heels, kids in strollers, advertisements scrolling by, car horns, bird wings, ringtones. So many things to fill my brain with. I love this place.

“--you’re kidding me!” Jamie is on the other side of my phone, sounding just as incredulous as I needed him to. Truly, I don’t think he was ever actually upset with me.

“Yes, thank you. No warning, he just tossed me into the water.” I beat an old man to the crosswalk button and he stands next to me and glares.

“Who is this mysterious, hot, and dangerous man?” Jamie all but croons.

The crosswalk symbol changes to ‘walk’ and I power-walk past the grumpy old man, overtaking two people with blue hair and coffees while I’m at it. “He’s off the table, that’s what he is.”

Jamie does not give up so easily. “But crazy is kinda hot. I mean, look at you.”

I reach the other side of the road and keep my eyes on the traffic. “I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear that,” I deadpan.

“It was a compliment,” Jamie insists.

I roll my eyes and hail a cab, briefly leaning forward to give the driver the address before replying. “Hot or not, I’m not going anywhere near him.”

Jamie’s laugh is a familiar high-pitched trill that reminds me of bird chatter. “I don’t believe you, but ok.”

My gaze catches on the familiar skyline outside the cab window: a steady stream of rectangular buildings with copy-and-paste windows. Then I close my eyes, push back the feeling of water rushing into my mouth, and remember the expressions on Bram and Mariana’s faces when they’d looked up at me from the bottom of the stairs. Jamie’s my best friend, sure, but I don’t really feel like telling him about that.

I must have been silent for too long, because Jamie sighs a really long sigh and then concedes. “Fine. Then tell me more about this blonde bookseller instead.”

“Ugh, Jamie,” I groan, eyes popping open. “Nothing on it. He’s kind of surfer-hot, but isn’t interested.”

Jamie laughs again. “You act like this is so distressing. Masie, you now have three--no, four, including Bram--attractive, young, and seemingly single men to hang out with? That’s insane?” He’s clearly jealous.

“Whatever, it’s not like I’ll see them ever again. Barring Bram, who is a constant thorn in my side.” The cab makes a sudden stop at a crosswalk, and I have to brace myself against the seat in front of me. I meet the driver’s eye in the rearview mirror and glare daggers.

“A thorn with perfect hair and beautiful blue eyes,” is Jamie’s reply.

I settle back in my seat. The scenery is finally beginning to change from urban to residential. “I’m not having this conversation. Anyway, I’ve gotta go.” Jamie begins to protest but I hang up on him with a “sorry”.

From the front, the house doesn’t look like it’s four stories. It’s because it’s built into the side of a cliff, so the side facing the beach is the part that really makes it look like a multi-million dollar house. The side facing the road looks more like a million dollar house, I guess.

In typical Mom fashion, she’s purchased new additions to her property since the last time I saw it, which, if I’m being honest, was probably a year ago anyway. There’s a big ugly statue of an abstract face to the right of the driveway, and a new fountain past the sunset-mosaic concrete bench on the left.

None of that really catches my eye. Not the sandstone pillars, not the perfectly-manicured potted hedges, not even the line of cars in the driveway. No, what makes me stop in place is the figure of a skinny white girl with perfect blonde waves getting out of a Porsche. For a moment I’m eleven years old again, and my sister is coming home from one of her shows, and my heart swells with excitement. But this girl is too old to be fifteen and too young to be however old Rachael is now--thirty-three. It’s an idiotic thought. And she’s wearing a hideous, gaudy, purple ruched dress.

If I hadn’t been so distracted by the terrible dress, I might have found it suspicious that Graham had texted me that my sick mother is here, the obvious site of some kind of party. As it is, I follow Not-Rachael up the drive, and she smiles at me with a big gap in her front teeth and holds the door open for me. Definitely not anything like my sister.

I wander into the house, take in the strangers and their martinis and the way they stop and stare at the paintings on the wall like it’s an art gallery--which is exactly what it is. I don't think Mom even likes most of them, they're just expensive. Immediately my urge is to make myself invisible; stand in the corner and let the grown-ups talk and drink and laugh. Fetch a rag when someone inevitably trips and spills wine all over the sheepskin rug imported from Iceland. Instead I snatch a martini from the table in the lounge and stomp upstairs.

Even during a party Mom’s always in her office. It’s a hexagonal room that’s half made of windows, and it overlooks the courtyard in between this house section and the next. It’s the best place to watch partygoers, like balcony seats at an opera.

When I storm through the door my martini is empty and I’m itching for another one. “I’m home,” I announce loudly to the room.

Graham’s head jerks to the side in surprise. He’s seated in a corner in the leather chair that Mom always assigns to her current boyfriend. I’ve told Jamie before that the chair smells like desperation, because it’s true. Mom doesn’t move an inch, just stands there in her ruby-red gown, a wine glass resting lightly in her grasp and her eyes firmly affixed to the courtyard below. I’d always thought she looked like a queen addressing a crowd, the way she stands at the window. But now it feels more like a zookeeper admiring her pets.

“Oh, that’s lovely. Isn’t it, Graham?” Graham nods. “Oh, by the way, I’m not really sick,” she tells me without even turning around. She takes a sip of her wine.

I roll the stem of the martini glass between my fingers and don’t bother keeping the anger out of my voice. At least we cut to the chase. “Oh really? I hadn’t figured that out.”

“Mm. Well, you were never really top-of-the-charts in the brain department, it’s true. But! It was the only way, sorry, dear.” When she moves, the soft light of her office chandelier makes all the gemstones on the back of her dress twinkle. It’s nauseating.

I’m such a goddamn fool, coming all this way. When I knew it was a lie. How did any part of me ever believe it? I resist the urge to shatter this martini glass on the floor. But god, I want to. “You want to tell me what’s so important, then? Hm? Why am I here?”

Mom turns, and even I’m stunned by how good she still looks in her plunge-neckline dress. It makes me--in my trench coat, bodysuit, and slacks combo--look frumpy and underdressed. “Masie,” she says like she’s explaining something to a simpleton, “You needed to come home from that horrible place.” Mom drifts to her desk and pours another glass of wine, pushing it towards me.

I’m still a few feet away from the desk, closer to the door than to her. “You tricked me into coming here,” I remind her. “You told me you were in the hospital. That’s--that’s, like, maniac behavior! To say things like that when they’re not true.” I’m waving my arms too much when I talk, which is something Mom does too, so I clamp them to my sides.

She laughs and tilts her head at me. “Maniac behavior is not lying, dear. People lie every minute of every day. Throwing people down ancient hotel stairs is maniac behavior, if we want to be semantic.”

“I don’t think that’s ‘semantic’.”

She sits on the edge of her desk and looks at me from underneath her bangs. It’s a familiar look: disappointment.

“Whatever. I’m leaving,” I say, turning around.

Mom’s tone is nonchalant with a twinge of whininess. “Oh, but you can’t yet. I’ve brought you a therapist.”

--

(next chapter)

pt 20: https://www.theprose.com/post/794456/selling-lies

--

(previous chapter)

pt 18: https://www.theprose.com/post/784816/fanatic-and-dramatic

ACCORDION MUSIC

The antique camera was only $12. It was love at first sight, and Malcolm couldn't pass it up. He loved old things, especially technological or mechanical. The week before he had scored a brass orrery. It was just the Sun, Earth, and the Moon, but he was thrilled when he wound it and it worked, the two orbs noisily circling the central Sun at their different speeds.

He was a sucker for sequences and cause-and-effect.

It was the sort of thing that hobbyists and enthusiasts spent their time doing instead of the more interactive social activities. Time with others was just too much work; time by himself was easy and more interesting. "Things," even complicated things, just weren't as complicated.

Malcolm had terminal romanticism, a fatal emotional disease whose pathology is based on the need to recognize love-at-first-sight—or die alone. Many young women had shown interest in him, but if the first glimpse didn't trip that first domino, all of his emotional dominos were left standing.

Still, he knew that all he needed was that first one to fall. He imagined the orrery in his head, sentiments unrequited in permanent orbits, revolving around hopes and dreams, and gravity failing.

Yet, the dominos stood inert. And Malcolm navigated the machinations of his very practical, lonely world, tiptoeing over them, letting them stand to collect the dust of bygone opportunities.

He had joined several online communities dedicated to the vintage contraptions he loved; they traded pictures. He couldn't wait to post the video of his orrery.

When he had returned home from his fleamarket adventure, Malcolm examined his bargain camera carefully. It was obviously vintage, the label applied to any camera older than 50 years. This one, of the portable models of the time, was what was referred to as a "folding camera." Its expandable accordion-like bellows was typical of camera design between the 1890s to 1940s. To accommodate a longer focal length, a lever released a sliding mechanism to lengthen the distance from the lens to the film. Vintage.

Malcolm attended Swarthmore College and fulfilled the quintessential Swarthmore traits of being both intellectual and nerdy. Although he was enrolled in its chemical engineering program, he seeded his curriculum with liberal arts classes as well, one of which was his photojournalism course. It appealed to both his artistic sensibilities and his engineering inclinations because part of its curriculum entailed learning how to develop film. This entailed using the chemistry that was the standard of photography before digital image capture chips revolutionized the industry.

A lost art, certainly. Before pixels replaced silver halide molecules. Before thousands of selfies replaced having few-to-no pictures of one's self.

He loved the ambiance of alchemy under the isolated frequencies of his dark room's monochromatic photo-safe red lamp. He fantasized with a gestalt of one-part researcher with two-parts mad scientist. He felt creative when the projection lamp allowed him to dodge out, or burn in, isolated portions of a photograph to create fantastical dreamscapes.

For Malcolm, black-and-white film ruled.

While the later panchromatic color films were sensitive to all parts of visible light, even a red "safelight," orthochromatic B&W film was only sensitive to photons riding on blue or green: red was the right ploy. Red was a world away from the world, where visions appeared miraculously, people's faces arose from fuzzy wraiths, and other dimensions evolved and separated from the mundane. It revealed the world beyond that wasn't normally noticed by the busy and bustling in their everyday activities.

Malcolm was in his dark room, preparing his trays and chemicals when it occurred to him: if he could find the right film to take pictures with his newly acquired antique camera, might he produce antiquated images anew, with all of their nostalgic artistic effects making quaint magic?

With the usual light-leak safeguards in place, he left his dark room to retrieve the camera. He wanted to open it to see what type of film it took. The most common was 35-mm, but a camera of unknown age might take something else. He was anxious to get it open to see, but once retrieved, he suddenly stopped, just short of opening its back.

What if there were undeveloped film left in this camera? How dare he be so reckless!

He re-entered his darkroom to open the folding camera under the protection of his safe lamp. His hunch paid off.

From spindle to spindle, one 35-mm frame at a time flowed to span someone's still life—probably, now, long dead. Opening the back of the camera was like letting someone finally gasp out a breath held in for over half a century. The accordion of the camera once again played its song.

He knew what his next mission was.

***

CHEMISTRY AT WORK

Chemistry sublimated the images from the cellulose nitrate to mannikin-like human silhouettes. It was the Bizarro world, however, the negatives portraying an alien, reversed tableaux. He engaged his projection lamp and focused the images as best as he could, given the limitations of the film substrate from age.

Further along his journey, he next bathed 8x10 paper sheets, each holding a secret, into a series of chemical tubs. There they floated. Then, like the pros of yesteryear, he used string and clothespins to hang his prints. From the roll had survived about a dozen images. As expected, they were "vintage" looking—slightly foggy and suffering a lack of contrast.

They were pictures of a woman.

Malcolm gasped. He had never seen such a visage. Even at his age, he saw with eternity's filter. A permanence of devotion flowed from him to the 2-dimensional, hanging, wet 8x10 images.

Stack 'em up, let 'em fall: a domino tottered, and soon the entire wave of motion undulated along the correct neuroreceptors: it was love at first sight!

It was his right brain that saw in her everything he had wanted in a life mate; it was his left brain that had ignored the fact he was probably looking at a phantom.

Malcolm knew what Mario Puzo must have meant when he scripted Michael Corleone's love for Appolonia Vitelli in Sicily to be a thunderbolt.

He did some quick arithmetic in his brain. He calculated her age, by this time, anywhere from being in her 70s at the youngest to—well, he surmised—she could be long dead.

Nevertheless, she was the one. He knew he hadn't been foolish to wait. And even though she was unobtainable, he now knew such a thing was possible. There were other strings of dominos waiting to fall.

She mesmerized him. She stood, at ease, with her graduation robe hanging open to reveal her coquettish posture. It was a tease that had reached through a half-century to hook him. He was so stunned, he almost turned on the overhead lights to get a better look—but stopped short to remain in crimson safety. He must mind his muscle memory, he thought, to prevent a disaster.

She wore a graduation cap on her head. Of course it was jaunty, as she could only wear it. The curls in her hair defined her femininity with a playful attitude.

He closed down his photography room for the evening and had his usual mundane frozen meal and a beer. He took a shower during which he thought about her: at least one of them was naked, he laughed. He shamelessly fell in love with her a second time, but then the hot water ran out.

He knew it would take overnight for the prints to dry, so he planned to skip his morning classes to spend time with her and a magnifying glass.

That morning, the prints hung ready, passing in review on the clothespins. He seized what he felt was the best one, first, and began to examine her in the full light.

The eyes could say it all. He could appreciate the naqib, worn by Muslim women, showing only their eyes. She had those squinty-type smiley eyes—a whole face crammed into them; a whole personality flashing out to the rest of the world. Little did she realize that her broadcast would cross the time barrier, creating a chronic boom that shook Malcolm to his core.

Offset media, the conflict between imagery and time, evaporated.

Her smile was a gift to whomever it was launched. He fantasized it was for him. Of course it was for him. It had to be. He was the one making the rules here, after all.

A smile, he thought, was his favorite part of a woman, because it was something offered just for him. Her face and body language, frozen in time, really was just for him, as well. Here and now, there was no one else on the planet looking at her. Just him. Malcolm and Mystery Graduate. Malcolm and his fictional love-of-his-life.

Malcolm had been imbued with the elusive love-at-first-sight. Fictional? Did it matter?

At the very least she could be in her 70s, but the reality was that she was likely dead. He looked at her picture, there—starting out in life anew, with all that living ahead of her. But now it was behind her. And him. Does anything that lived once—anyone who loved at one time—remain intact somewhere? Or everywhere?

His physics teacher—whose class he was skipping that very morning—taught him that time was an illusion. Mystery Graduate must be somewhere just as sure as he was here now. She lives on—in that somewhere.

He looked through the different photosheets. Inspecting each with his magnifying lense, one of them—the worst one—offered him a clue. In the corner on some bricks was an almost undecipherable sign that said, "Swarthmore." He shouted out loud.

Of course! he surmised. It had been a local antique shop. Here, near his university. And hers!

He scanned the photos into files on his computer. How great would it be to find out who she was! How she lived!

At his computer, he went into the Swarthmore portal and navigated toward the alumni section. The database of alumni was not helpful, because it didn't have the yearbook pictures of each year. While he was prepared to look at each one, he was dead in the water.

The alumni section had a blog. Malcolm had an idea.

He uploaded the pictures of Mystery Graduate with the question, "WHO IS SHE? WHO IS 'MYSTERY GRADUATE?'" Then, he added a comment that included his name, hometown, and university email address.

The Swarthmore world responded with deafening silence. Mystery Graduate would remain dead and gone, without as much as a footnote for his life's heartache.

Malcolm attended Swarthmore for three more years and earned his chemical engineering degree. He ended up working for an engineering consulting firm in Philadelphia.

Beyond that Mystery Graduate footnote to his sophomore year, he had gone through some fleeting romances during his remaining college semesters. But he found himself chasing a special smile that was long gone. And those eyes. The other eyes and smiles—the insufficient ones—all came and went. There were never those squinty smiley ones able to hold an entire laughing person in them; or that special part of a woman called a smile, meant just for him. For him, all such features on the others were just poses and not personal messages.

His dominos began accruing dust once again.

There were times when he hadn't thought about Mystery Graduate, but then, between romances, he would wax romantic and bring up her images again. And he would fall in love again.

Over time he wrote an entire script about her, which revolved around himself, as most self-indulgent fantasies do. He was glad he had never heard from anyone about the images of her he had posted. Any real story would have spoiled the novel he had written in his head.

Until nearly six years later.

***

A STRANGER CALLS

"Malcolm? Malcolm Ferguson?" It was a female voice.

"Yes, this is he."

"You have no idea how hard it was to get to you."

"Who is this, may I ask? Do you know me?"

"No, I'm sorry. My name is Marie...Marie Steward."

"What can I do for you, Miss, er--"

"Mrs."

"--Mrs. OK. How can I help you?"

She sounded like an elderly woman, as best as that sort of thing could be determined over the telephone. "I'm calling to help you, actually. But first I had to go to the Administration Building, Junior Division."

"At Swarthmore?"

"Yes. I had to reverse hunt your Swarthmore email address—and lemme tell you—they don't want to just give those out."

"Mrs. Stewart?

"Yes, yes. Sorry. I know who it is!"

"Yes, we've established that. It's me."

"No, no, Mr. Ferguson. I know who Mystery Graduate is."

Malcolm froze.

This was not something he had wanted merely blurted out. He hadn't prepared. He wasn't ready. There was such a private legacy between them, albeit one-sided, that he imagined he'd be eased into any identification of her. It was like skipping a whole novel to find out the protagonist dies in the end, instead of having the story unfold and blossom in its own deliberate beauty.

"Don't tell me," Malcolm blurted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, let's meet for some tapas or something. Or a drink."

"Mr. Ferguson, really, I think that--"

"Oh, please don't get the wrong idea. Not to be creepy or anything, but all this comes as something of a big revelation—my spending so much energy back then wondering who she was."

"She was Grace. Grace Starling."

Grace. He paused. Of course her name was Grace. It was like he had known it all along.

"You won't meet me, then?"

"No, I really shouldn't. I wouldn't do that sort of thing. I don't know you. Please understand."

"Yes," Malcolm agreed, "I do. But can you tell me anything about her?"

"I hadn't really seen her since college, so I really don't know. She was president of some pre-med society at Swarthmore. I was in it, too, until I realized that if medicine meant acing chemistry, then I needed another vocation. You can probably Google her. Grace Starling, like the bird. Have a blessed day, Mr. Ferguson." Click.

"Wait! What year were you—" Malcolm was talking to himself. But the dominos lining up for him yet again.

Grace Starling.

He wrote the name down and set it aside. He had several engineering projects due soon and couldn't put them off over some puerile crush. When he sorted out his deadlines he found a place to insert Grace Starling.

It would be several days before he would revisit his Grace in whatever way she might present. First, he Googled her, and filtered by "images." Comparing the foggy image to anything of legitimate pixelation was difficult; additionally, the images ranged from young women to obituaries. Next, he used Google Lens, and found many similar photographs of quite different women. Then he researched Swarthmore's Pre-Med Society in each year recorded.

Grace Cara Starling, President, Swarthmore Pre-Med Society, 1971.

There she was!

A single name on a single list, but from there her story unfolded as quickly as gossip. She had majored in Zoology and then had done graduate work in Genetics. In his web browsing he was able to sign up for the Pre-Med Society alumni email. Couldn't hurt.

From Swarthmore postgraduate school, she attended the Touro Infirmary School of Nursing in New Orleans, which he was disappointed to find no longer existed, having closed in 1987 after 91 years. From Touro Infirmary, she served in the Air Force as an RN at Walter Reed Hospital in Washington, D.C.

And then the gossip abruptly ended in 1967. Malcolm figured she must have gotten married which erased her surname from any history thereafter. The case when cold.

Time of death: 1967.

***

NÉE, STARLING

It was pure luck that Malcolm received the email about the Pre-Med Society's 50th reunion of members from 1971. It was held in the Spring of 2021, and once again, Grace—as she was the only "Grace" found on search—appeared again as a solitary name on a single line of the list.

Grace (née Starling) Taylor, 1971, Dallas, TX.

The search engine floodgates opened, for Grace S. Taylor was apparently very discoverable, including phone number and address.

His first outreach was by letter. Handwritten and sent by post:

Dear Grace,

I don't mean to intrude, but I have something you might want. I had purchased an antique camera and found some undeveloped film in it, which I developed. I believe the pictures are of you at your Swarthmore graduation. Below is my contact information. Sincerely, Malcolm Ferguson, Swarthmore Class of 2011.

A week later, Grace S. Taylor replied, via the email he had included with his address and phone number.

She uses email. Not bad, for a Boomer, he thought.

Dear Malcolm,

The world is smaller than we think, isn't it? Yes, I would love to see those pictures. I'm not so good with email, so I have a friend helping me with this. So, could you email them to me, perhaps? Yours, Grace.

Malcolm lied in his own email response:

Dear Grace,

I'm sorry, but I just have 8x10 paper photos. I don't have a scanner, but it would be an honor to hand-deliver them to you. I guess I could mail them to you, but I really want to see your reaction. It's so weird how they were in an old camera that finally got to reveal its secrets. We can meet somewhere and you can bring your husband if you'd like, since you really don't know me. Sincerely, Malcolm.

After a back-and-forth exchange, plans were finalized:

Dear Malcolm,

I am a widow, and I'm back in my hometown of Hershey (like the chocolate!). You can visit me on August 2 at 10:00 AM in the social area of the Hershey Silver Center. Attached are the directions and phone number. I look forward to seeing what you have. Lovely. —Grace

Malcolm was relieved he wouldn't be traveling to Texas to see her, especially in August. It had been an unseasonably warm summer for most of the continental US. All nostalgia and feelings aside, that might have been a deal-breaker—flying out, renting a car, flying back, time away from work, etc. To Hershey would just be a drive of only a couple of hours.

***

"AMAZING GRACE! ...I ONCE WAS LOST BUT NOW AM FOUND..." — John Newton

Malcolm was surprise when he saw that the Hershey Silver Center was a nursing home. Then, why wouldn't it be. He knew Grace was elderly. Why should he be surprised it wasn't a social facility or community center?

He was met at the door by a middle-aged orderly. The man was in a facility's company uniform and stood there looking like he was expecting, Malcolm, which he was.

"Hello, I'm Manny. I help with Ms. Taylor." It took Malcolm a moment, then realized she hadn't had her name, Starling, in a very long time.

"I'm Malcolm Ferguson, Manny. Pleased to meet you." Manny eyed the large clasped envelop under Malcolm's arm.

"Are those the famous photos?" he asked. "She's been talking about nothing else lately. I guess we all want to recapture our youth—or at least remember it, y'know, reminisce."

"Yes, Manny. I think that's true."

"She really has no photos of her younger self," he said. "This will be so nice for her."

"Well, they were very old when I got my hands on them, so I'm afraid the quality isn't very good."

"That won't matter, Mr. Ferguson. She's had her cataracts taken care of, but still I wonder how well she sees."

"Her vision only needs to be as good as the pictures turned out, and she'll see them just fine," Malcolm answered with a laugh, although Manny didn't get the joke.

Manny escorted him through the reception area, where Malcolm signed in and received a visitor sticker to place on his shirt. From there was a circuitous path dodging slow-moving residents, many obstructing the path with walkers. The place smelled of rubbing alcohol. It was old but clean. The residents all looked happy, and they seemed additionally delighted to get an actual visitor, Malcolm labeled as such on his shirt.

"Hello, Visitor," one person actually said to him. He smiled and nodded.

Finally, Manny presented him to a large room, much like a cafeteria, with many folding tables surrounded by folding chairs. The place was mostly empty, except for a few tables where two or three persons sat playing cards, checkers, or chess. Manny pointed to a table that sat under a row of windows facing East, streaming the late morning sunlight through.

There she sat.

Her back was to him, as if she wanted to face the sunlight. Manny walked him around to face her.

She must have been in her late 80s or early 90s. She seemed stunned to look at Malcolm, and she remained so unresponsive that he wondered about her cognitive abilities.

"Can she...does she...?" he stammered.

"A hundred percent," Manny smiled.

"May I sit down?" Malcolm asked her. She nodded with a smile, but the smile was all in her squinty eyes. Then she produced a real smile, just for him.

"Hello, Malcolm," she said after a moment. "Please do sit."

"Hello, Grace," Malcolm answered. "It's good to see you in person. The pictures don't do you justice."

"Is that a good thing, Malcolm?" she asked. That's when he realized she had her wits about her.

"See for yourself," he said, unclasping the large envelope and taking the 8x10s out. He placed them down in front of her, but she didn't look down at them. She just stared at Malcolm, eyes and mouth still smiling.

This continued until Malcolm started getting a little uncomfortable. What was she thinking behind her eyes and lips? Here was someone old enough to be his grandmother—or at least his mother—with her whole life lived, nothing left to prove, her legacy now signed and sealed and delivered.

"Grace?" asked Manny. Is it OK if I leave you two alone?" She didn't respond.

Malcolm counted the seconds, and Manny retreated silently away after many of them.

"What?" Malcolm asked Grace. "What are you thinking? You haven't even looked at the photos."

"Tell me, Malcolm," she finally spoke.

"Yes, Grace?"

"Tell me what you see here in front of you when you look at me."

"I see a beautiful woman, Grace."

"Oh, please! I'm not falling for that. Tell me what you really see, please."

Malcolm thought for a moment. He knew he couldn't get away with anything short of the truth. Why not? he thought. Why not tell her what he really thought?

"I see an elderly woman who has lived an entire life, with a sense of mortality and completeness no one my age could begin to understand. But, here's the catch—I'm in love with you."

Grace smiled. Eyes and lips smiled. "And?"

"Do you believe in love at first sight? The proverbial thunderbolt? Because that's what happened to me when I developed these pictures of you. I was with you on that day, loving you. I had waited all my life for you, and there you appeared afloat in the tub of reagents from an image from last century."

"Why, Malcolm? Why do you feel you loved me?"

"Don't really know. That's what the thunderbolt is, right?"

She nodded. "It's a little difficult to comprehend, though, Malcolm, don't you think?

You're in love with a young woman in her early 20s. Not with me. Look at me, Malcolm. I'm not the woman in those pictures anymore."

"You are, Grace. And I am looking at you. I see the same person I loved then and love now. Don't get me wrong, I'm not going to ask you out or propose or anything, but it is possible for two human beings to feel this way outside of inconveniences like impracticalities and impossibilities. It's a human thing that can sidestep time, right?"

Grace observed the way the younger man across from her regarded her. She accepted what he was saying. And even though there was nothing that could be done to bring such feelings to the full fruition that courting, marriage, sex, and life experiences with children could attain, there was a baseline of love running a current between them.

Grace felt it.

Was it two-way?

"You know, Malcolm, the answer is yes, I do believe in love at first sight."

"For me, I've always wondered what it would have been like being contemporary with you. Meeting you when we were the same age. Maybe even having a life together. How our timelines mismatched! Woe is us, right?"

"Malcolm, listen to me. I look at you, too, and I wonder what my life would be like with you, were I around your age."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't you see? I believe in love at first sight because I am experiencing it right now, looking at you, here and now. Is that so hard to believe?"

Malcolm was stunned. Was such a thing even possible?

It was.

"Yes, Malcolm. You may have wondered all this time, but now I'm the one wondering. Don't misunderstand me, I loved my husband, rest his soul. He was a good man. He and I had beautiful children and a beautiful life and no regrets. But something about you, what you did, how you came, how you look—right now—overwhelms me. Your eyes that say so much to me; your smile that is meant just for me. While I grieve for my husband, now I grieve for us, on our two different trains in life. But it's the same destination, even though mine pulled into the station a long time ago. Yes, Malcolm, I grieve. For the life that might have been." She extended her hand onto the table and placed it on top of Malcolm's hand.

Physical touch.

There are things that are ineffable. Things that cannot be expressed in words, poems, or song. Love at first sight is love's sight, and Grace's and Malcolm's interlocked.

"Go, Malcolm. Live your life. I've lived mine, but there's something about our visit that puts it to bed, so to speak. Even though we couldn't live out a life together in entirety, there is always now. It can be timeless, if you know how to let it become a part of you. Thank you, Malcolm, for loving me. Thank you for being you. And thank you for the photos."

"You haven't even looked at them," Malcolm said. His throat was a bit lumped when he did.

"Oh, I will," she promised, still not taking her eyes off of him.

About this time, Manny returned. "Ready for your lunch, Ms. Taylor."

"Yes, Manny. Mr. Fergusing was just leaving."

After lunch, she finally looked through the photos, one at a time. They seemed incomplete, without the magician who brought them back from the dead. She grieved for her husband and grieved for her life not lived with a love-at-first-sight. Isn't that the real way it should be? Did she merely settle with her late husband? Should she have held out? If so, would it have taken until now, August 2, today? Then she would never had had her two children. Or helped so many in her medical career.

***

POSTPRODUCTION

Malcolm drove the two hours back in silence. He went back to his profession. He went back to his life. He went back to his antiquing and mechanical devices and photography. Love-at-first-sight seemed distant now.

Perhaps he would get lucky soon, or even one day; or perhaps it would take half a century for him to bump into someone he could love—and who would love him back—from the other side of a sadly asynchronous timeline. Even if it were impractical and impossible.

A month later, when he read the obituary for Grace S. Taylor, of Hershey, Pennsylvania, he cried for days. Maybe most of her was an architecture rendered in so much detail in his mind. But it had to be as real as it was for Grace, because we each make our own universes: that August 2 encompassed two creations that for once in a double lifetime, coincided.

Having searched the entirety of the cavernous castle to no avail, and on the verge of giving the search up for goose, a realization of sound found his ear, a sound which, similarly to the disregarded songs of a zillion cicadas, had been playing there in the background of his thoughts, completely unnoticed all the while. But that was not the light, almost airy sound of water he was hearing, but was rather the heavier, sloppy gurgle of some oily liquid.

The fountain! Tappan had passed by the fountain three or four times in his searches without giving a thought to it, it being so obvious. As he approached it, he understood why. What little light his tiny torch could offer to the surrounding darkness gleamed back towards him from off the fountain’s thick, languid liquid with an unnatural, unholy limpness which water alone could never muster. The torch held high with the one hand, and the other steadying him atop the cold, damp granite, Tappan bent his head low to inspect the fountain’s contents.

The orange torchlight glowed dimly across it’s metallic, almost coppery surface. Up close, the liquid smelled of salt and age, an odor that was somehow both alluring and revolting at the same time, but a familiar odor as Tappan recollected the deer he‘d hunted with his father long ago, and the static tang the blood had applied to his tongue when he’d been forced to bite into the still warm heart of the beast.

Blood. Is that what he was looking at? A fountain of blood?

But, why not? What better hiding place? Disgarding the torch and rolling up his sleeves, Tappan plunged both arms in up to the elbows. The fountain’s rocky bottom was both sticky and slick on his fingers as they searched in abject blindness, this way and that, but then his hand touched something else! Something that moved away from their contact! He grasped at it, feeling his fingers wrap around it even as it sliced into them. Never minding the pain, or that his own blood was adding to the fountain, Tappan withdrew his prize. He had found it! The sword of Lothal! And with it, he would become king… nay, a God!

If, that is, he could now get past the dragon.

I’ve got one hand on a bottle of wine. Windthrow might be virtually nonexistent, but someone had enough sense to build a 24-hour convenience store on the street corner, and the blinding whiteness of the LED lights feels familiar, at least. All convenience stores are the same building; I swear you could enter one in L.A. and walk out only to find yourself in Reno or Detroit. Or in this case, Windthrow. They're some kind of in-between space where it’s always dark outside and the young person behind the counter never looks you in the eye. I almost buy two bottles of wine, but settle on one and, on a whim, a bag of frosted animal crackers.

If I could, I would be at some club where I could be anonymous, but I don’t think anonymity is an option in a place with approximately ten people in it. I’d already been to the only bar on the block yesterday, and let’s be honest, it sucked. And turned out poorly. So instead I walk down the street in the dark, pretending there are people around to make it feel more like a city. Everything is darker and colder and emptier here, and there’s nowhere to blend in.

It’s actually cold out, so I tuck my face into what little collar exists on my fur vest. I’m not sure why I brought it or if it’s real fur, but it looks good with flare jeans and platform tennis shoes. It makes me look like a Bratz doll. I take a swig of the wine and wash it down with a handful of the animal crackers, almost spilling the bag all over the street but managing to catch it just in time.

I find myself suddenly standing outside the bookshop where I’d first found Darian and Keigan. It seems taller in the dark, and dirtier. The ivy on the outside looks like it’s strangling the bricks, like a giant beast’s tentacles are about to crush the whole thing without a shred of remorse. I get an itch to write, but now’s not the time.

I squint up at the sign above the door: Midnight Strikes Books. I hadn’t noticed that before. Stuffing the bag of animal crackers into my vest pocket--yes, it’s fantastic, it has pockets--I pat one-handedly around my vest and pants pockets until I find my phone. It says it’s 12:11 AM. I’m disappointed because I kind of thought it might be precisely midnight, but now I’ve missed it. Wasted all evening pretending to be asleep in my room at the inn, just waiting until it was late enough that no one would notice me leave.

I stare at my phone for a minute. I’m a bit annoyed, really, that I hadn’t missed any messages from when I’d lost it. Two emails, neither important; quite a few missed calls from Bram, which I knew would be there; and an Instagram friend request from someone I’ve never heard of. I was anticipating a flood of messages: Masie, listen to what just happened! Masie, where are you? Pick up! Are you dead? Hello?! I guess now I know that if I were to be kidnapped no one would actually notice. A comforting thought.

I dial a number and tuck my phone between my shoulder and my ear, staring up into the bookstore’s second-story windows. It picks up on the second ring.

"Masie?" I like the way Darian says my name. That’s the alcohol talking, sure, but also the memories of his lips on mine.

I shake it off. "Does Keigan live at the bookstore?"

"Does Keigan--" he begins to repeat.

"I want to talk to Keigan!" I clarify somewhat petulantly.

Darian's voice sounds far away from the phone. “...wants to talk to Keigan…” Someone else's voice, too, is muffled on the other end.

"Bram wants to know why," Darian finally replies.

"Don't tell her I--!" comes from the other side of the line. I recognize the voice in the background now.

"Why're you with Bram?"

There's a shuffling on the other side of the phone, like it's being passed--or taken--from one place to another. "Are you drunk?" Bram.

"Why are you always asking me that?" I ask, annoyed, holding up my wine bottle to the light of the street lamp to check how empty it is. Mostly, but not completely.

There's more noise on the other end, muffled speech back and forth. "--to me," comes Darian's voice, louder now. "I just texted you his number. But he might not pick up; he’ll be asleep. I’m sure he’ll call you back in the morning."

"Ask her where she is." I can still hear Bram.

"Tell Bram to fuck the fuck off," I say, thinking I sound clever.

I can hear a smile in Darian's voice. "I will, Masie."

“I don’t regret sleeping with you,” I tell him, my brain too slow to realize that maybe now’s not the time. He doesn’t get a chance to respond, because I hang up.

Turns out Darian did text me a number, so I call that next, tipping back the rest of the wine as the dial tone trills. No answer, so I try again. On the third try, I drop the wine bottle, which was an accident, and it shatters into shimmery sharp bits on the sidewalk. I pound both fists on the bookshop’s front door now that they’re both free. I forgot which pocket I put my phone into already.

A dim light turns on inside. I cup my hands around my eyes and press my face against the glass to see, but it’s smudgy. Then the door creaks and I kind of fall inside, but I stay upright. Mostly because someone has grabbed me by both elbows, but that’ll do.

“Keigan!” I say happily, patting his chin as he puts me back on my feet. It’s definitely him because his hair’s up in a falling-apart bun, and he makes that look attractive. But he looks different, because he doesn’t normally have glasses.

“Aren’t your arms freezing?” is the first thing he says, shutting the door behind me. I was going to ask him something, but I’m still trying to remember what.

“It’s called fashion. I thought you liked vests.” In the dim light from a single bulb near the stairs, I watch the shape of him go to the counter and flip a switch. All the fairy lights in the shop begin to glow.

“I do, but you have goosebumps. The temperature drops when the sun’s gone.” Keigan turns back to me, his fine features now warmly lit from the fairy lights above. He’s wearing a crinkly, loose t-shirt and tie-dyed sweatpants.

I remember. “What happens at midnight?”

Keigan lifts one side of his tortoise-shell glasses to rub his eye. “What?”

I point at the door I just came through. “Midnight Strikes. What happens at midnight?” I find the animal crackers in my pocket. “Animal cookie?”

“Why don’t we go sit down, Masie?” He leads me into the shop, which goes on way further than I’d anticipated. Everything smells like paper. There’s a corner with cushy pastel chairs and a chess table whose base is shaped like a rook. We sit, and I eat animal cracker crumbs because I pretty thoroughly smashed them all at some point. Keigan doesn’t want any.

Keigan doesn’t speak, just rearranges the pieces on the chessboard--mismatched, like they're from different sets--back into a starting position.

“I don't know how to play chess,” I inform him. He looks up at me. “I pushed Walker down a flight of stairs,” I add.

Keigan scoffs and sits back in his chair. “I’m sure he deserved it.”

“Thank you! I knew I'd like you.” I pick up a queen off the chess board and roll it between my fingers.

“What did he do?”

I inspect the queen, resisting the urge to bite it. “He threw me into the lake. I thought I was going to drown.”

Keigan’s hand is warm when he pats my forearm. “Sorry. He really has a tough time with women.”

Pieces of Keigan’s hair are falling in front of his face, and I reach up to touch them. “Will you kiss me?”

He just smiles at me, sleepy lines forming around the edges of his mouth. And pulls away. “No, Masie.”

I toss the queen back onto the chess board, knocking over some of the other pieces. I’m very good at taking rejection, actually. I’m not making a scene. I stand. “Then I will need more alcohol, I think.”

--

(next chapter)

pt 17: https://www.theprose.com/post/783495/risque-discoveries

--

(previous chapter)

pt 15: https://www.theprose.com/post/780631/a-little-bit-of-revenge