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Fall
In mid-October, the leaves of California finally get around
to changing color, and Edward’s macro photography follows suit: the golden
oriental fans of gingko, zinfandel stars of liquidambar, rainbow feathers of
pistache. A maple leaf lies on the sidewalk, phasing from green to yellow to
copper, its ragged edges echoed by a crack in the concrete.
She doesn’t know what to do with this. Edward is a mythical
figure, the Oracle at Delphi, these digital images the only evidence that he
was once a mortal. She needs corporeal presence, limbs upon limbs, breath upon
skin. The pole-dancing doesn’t come close to filling her hours, so she comes to
the old coffeehouse, orders a Sinatra Sumatra, fires up her laptop and reads
the leaves.
One picture is different: a blossom of mustard against a
black background, tributaries of gray and chocolate. All at once she gets it.
It’s Einstein, all that crazy hair expressed in a Jackson Pollock outburst. The
background is rough, like granite, or slate.
“Okay. Just go for the head. Don’t worry about getting much
more. We’ll leave that to the professionals.”
Zelda giggles and studies the plum-size cap. “Hey, can you
turn off the water? It’s getting in my eyes.”
“Sheesh. Amateur.”
“Yes! Amateur.”
He turns the knob and the water cuts off. “If you can’t
handle liquids in your face, you’re never gonna make it in this biz.”
Zelda is readjusting her knees, about to make a retort when
she notices a tile next to the drain.
“Wow! Check that out.”
“What?”
“Next to your right toe. That burst of yellow.”
“Silly woman.” He nudges his dick to the right and squints.
“Oh! Huh. Einstein, right?”
“I love that about slate. All kinds of random stuff.”
“Any chance you could suck my dick now?”
Zelda gives a drama-queen sigh. “If I have to.”
Johnny’s laugh echoes off the walls.
Zelda stares at the photo for a long time. She looks into
the courtyard, where raindrops freckle the concrete. She expands Einstein to
full screen. The world is beginning to make sense.
She directs her driver along Hamilton, past the tennis court
to Old Japanese Road.
“Just drop me off here.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She pays him and begins her trek. It’s a bit of a distance,
but it’s all downhill, and she doesn’t mind a little time to strategize. Soon
she’s standing at the leftward drop of Alameda Lane, and still has no idea what
she’s doing. Well, no alternative but to
plow on through.
She heads downhill, careful of her steps, and enters the
redwood canopy. A sharp whine makes her jump. It’s a Mexican man in a
neighboring drive, working with a bandsaw. Like most Mexican workers, he
ignores the crazy white woman and continues with his job.
Zelda ascends the final hill and arrives at Roxy’s, site of
the infamous bachelorette party. The phallic fountain stands in still water.
Now what? How does one accuse a friend of nasty, unforgiveable betrayal? And
how does one execute a “pop-in” in the middle of a redwood forest? I was just
in the neighborhood?
She proceeds carefully, peering up at the balcony adjoining
the kitchen. Nothing. But Roxy’s Mercedes is here, at the far side of the
circular drive. A Steller’s jay lands on the railing and unleashes a raspy
alarm. Zelda feels short of breath. She boards the front steps and climbs to
the phallic brass knocker. She reaches for it. The door bursts open.
“Zelda! What the hell? How nice to see you.”
Roxy in jeans and a black sweater, her hair tucked under a
baseball cap. She wraps her in a hug.
“How the hell did you get
here?”
Zelda’s thoughts are a crossword puzzle. Somewhere a neuron
tells her to just answer the damn question.
“One of those Uber drivers.”
Roxy takes her by the shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, are
you?”
“No. Just… bored. And I missed you.”
“How sweet! You can imagine, I don’t get many visitors. When
I do, I always assume they’re on the run from the law. Come on up.”
She climbs the stairs to the kitchen. Zelda follows.
“What’s your pleasure? Beer? Wine? Tea?”
“Umm. A Coke? Non-diet?”
“Oh, the sweetener? Yeah. Gives me a headache. Have a seat.”
Zelda sits at the kitchen table. She’s facing the long
window, the one through which her sex tape was filmed. Roxy reaches into the
cabinet, giving Zelda a chance to study her figure. The pole-dancing classes
have done her well. In male terms, she is “doable.” Roxy takes a glass to the
fridge and returns with her Coke, carbon bubbles spitting the surface. She
savors the first swallow.
“Oh. So good.”
Roxy leans back on the counter, crossing her long legs.
“Sometimes the best things are the things that you know are bad for you. Ha!”
Make small talk,
says the neuron. “Yes. I get so irritated at these women who try to lose weight
by following zero-tolerance diets. I got a handful of stripper poles that will
take care of that problem.”
Roxy sips from a cup of coffee. “No one works out harder
than you, Zel. I don’t think I’ve known a more remarkable athlete. I describe
some of your moves to my friends, and they all think you’re a superhero.”
The thing is, she doesn’t look guilty. And Zelda can’t go blurting out accusations like a TV
detective.
“Could I use your bathroom?”
“Of course! Up the stairs, to the… oh, well, you know. Hey
and why don’t you meet me up on the hot tub deck?”
“Sure.” Zelda climbs the steps and turns into the dark hall,
feeling shadows of Johnny Sequoia. She locks the bathroom door, peers into the
shower and locates the Einstein tile. She pulls out her smartphone to take a
couple of shots, then sits down for a pee. Afterward, she crosses the master
bedroom (devoid of male clothing) and opens the sliding door. Roxy’s at the
table, adjusting the patio umbrella, wiping the chairs with a towel. She sees
Zelda and smiles.
“Have a seat! I know I’m a little silly, hanging outside in
a drizzle, but the rain kicks up all these great woodsy smells. We’ve got some
cedar trees just up the hill, and oh! sometimes the aroma just pours down.
Here, have a cookie. Lemon ice, my favorite…”
Zelda picks one off the plate. It’s very good, but she’s too
deep into analytics to enjoy it. All the chattering is very much Roxy, but
paired with a confirmation of the Einstein tile it seems very much like nervous chatter.
“So how are you, Zel? What’s new and exciting?”
Zelda takes time to chew her cookie and wash it down with
the Coke.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And… I was looking at
some new photos that Edward posted. There’s this one that’s pretty fascinating.
It’s a slate tile with a pattern in yellow that looks like Einstein’s hair.”
Roxy laughs, birdlike, like a soprano in an opera. “Is this
like seeing the Virgin Mary in a potato chip?”
“It’s like seeing a tile from your shower.”
Roxy blinks a couple of times. “I’m… pardon?”
“The Einstein tile is on the floor of your shower. I saw it
when I was there with Johnny. It’s very… distinct.”
Roxy laughs. “But that’s so random! How can you know if…”
“Stop it, Roxy. Just fucking stop it.”
Roxy’s smile flattens to a line. She gets up and walks to
the railing, reaches into a bird feeder and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She
takes the time to light one and enjoy a drag.
“I was trying to help you.”
“Pshh…”
“No! Listen to me. You were being horrendous. You were
being… criminal. And I mean that. You were not a stable person.”
“Oh, I don’t…”
Roxy stomps on the deck. “No! Goddammit, you are going to
listen to me. I saw him at the coffeehouse after your last… encounter, and the
boy was a wreck. He still had the imprint of your hand on his face. Usually, I
would tell someone in Edward’s position to just forget about it, get the hell
out of town. When you’re married to a divorce lawyer, you see the shit that
goes down in these love-hate relationships. Fistfights. Stabbings.
Murder-suicides. Horrible, horrible shit, Zel. But I couldn’t forget what it
was like between you two, in the beginning. You made that boy blossom, you
brought him back from the dead. So I gave him a place to hide. And yes, I spied
on you, but it’s only stuff that a normal friend would ask about, anyway. All I
needed was a sign that you were willing to forgive him, and I would have
arranged a meeting. Do you realize that every
time we talked about Edward, you described some new form of violence you
were going to inflict on him? You’re such an awesome person, Zelda. Why are you
so obsessed with this idea of
justice? Fuck justice. Grab a little happiness. Believe me, you only get so
many chances.”
Roxy takes a final drag and crushes the cigarette into a
tray.
“Did you fuck him?”
Roxy turns with a start. “Why would you even ask that?”
“You’re a woman. And I’ve been to your parties.”
Roxy’s eyes work their way into a targeted squint. “I could have fucked Johnny Sequoia. But I
saved him for my friend, because she
needed it more than I did.”
She turns to grab another cigarette. The redwoods are
deathly quiet, nothing but the patter of raindrops and Roxy’s hoarse breathing.
Zelda realizes the mistake that she has made. If Roxy holds the keys to Edward,
she needs to be nicer. She takes a deep breath, planning out her words.
“I’m sorry, Rox. I’m just so lonely these days, it’s apparently
turned me into an idiot. You’re my friend, I know that.”
Roxy gives her a careful study. “No shenanigans? No
violence?”
Zelda produces a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll be good. I
just want to talk to him.”
She takes a drag and considers the options. “He’s staying
with some friends in Pacifica. I’ll give him a call tonight and see if I can
set something up. Meanwhile, why don’t we head to Santa Cruz and I’ll buy you
some dinner?”
“Okay.”
Roxy crushes her cigarette and walks toward the sliding
glass door. “Give me a couple minutes to glam up a little.” She laughs. “Okay.
Fifteen minutes.”
Zelda eats another cookie, then wanders to the corner of the
deck. She leans over to look at a woodpecker and is surprised when the railing
gives way – just an inch, but enough to make her heart jump. She backs away and
realizes it’s the inset, the section they take out for zip-line launches. The
zip-line! She locates the cable, running from a telephone pole next to the
deck, and follows it into the forest, where a line of smoke rises through the
redwoods. The next image is one of Edward and Roxy in the shower, fucking over
the Einstein tile. Lies. Lies upon lies upon lies. Fuck! She feels the pressure
building in her head and rubs her temples. When she opens her eyes, she sees
the latches on the inset. She flicks them open, pulls the gate and kicks it to
the deck. She reaches for the bar, loops the strap around her hands, and takes
off.
Flashing over the clearing, Zelda realizes that she should
have made use of the safety harness. Still, given her chosen occupation, she’s
well-equipped to hang on. (The thought of it makes her laugh; she’s a
superhero.) The zip-line hits the slowing mechanism, and the treehouse comes
into view. She’s doing fine, feeling very Peter Pan, until she hits the slick
deck and falls on her ass. She’s still getting her bearings, taking an
accounting of all body parts, when she looks up and sees the mythic figure of
Edward in a window, talking on the phone. Talking to Roxy.
She rises, loosens up a knee and walks to the door. She
tries the standard triple knock, and is a little surprised when it opens.
Edward is clean-shaven, clothed in jeans and a black ski jacket, as if he were
about to set out on a hike.
“Hi,” he says.
“Um. Hello.”
“How are you?”
She looks down and finds a rip in her jeans. “I’m not doing
well, Edward. I don’t know why you disappeared again. I don’t know what you’re
doing here, at the home of one of my best friends. Frankly, I’m pretty fucking
confused.”
Edward puts up his hands and pushes them downward, the motion
of a person signalling someone to slow down. “Look. Zelda. I love you. I wanted
you back. But you were taking me into some weird places, and I was getting the
general impression that you hated me. I’m really not into this shit where two
people abuse each other for recreation. Plus, I… I was feeling a little
frightened of you.”
Zelda takes a step forward. Edward takes a step back.
“Let’s get this straight,” she says. “I am the victim in
this relationship. I’m the one who keeps
getting fucked over. And you’re the
one who’s frightened? I may be a little nuts, but at least I stick around to
fight it out. You’re a fucking
phantom.”
Edward gives her a long, direct look. “I don’t want to fight. If you’re not going to forgive
me, why do you want to be with me?”
Zelda feels the pressure in her head. She lets out a huffing
breath. Edward takes a step back.
“Because you screwed me over, Edward. I want what’s due to
me. You abandon me to find yourself, and then you just show up and expect everything to be fine? No! There is a price to
be paid. And it doesn’t help matters when you’re fucking my friends!”
Edward takes a step back. “That’s ridiculous, Zelda. Roxy did
this because she cares about you, she wanted to…”
“You don’t know shit about Roxy. Roxy likes to play the
Countess and have everyone kiss her big white ass in gratitude, and then she
fucks their boyfriends. You’re not fooling
anyone. Nobody’s fooling anyone!”
Zelda’s arms seem to be waving around. Edward takes another
three steps and now she sees where he’s headed: the slide. He turns.
“No! Edward! I just…”
She lunges forward to pull him back but she slips on the wet
deck and reels out of control. Trying to regain her balance, she knocks Edward
sideways and goes tumbling down the slide. She ricochets off the edges, strikes
an elbow on a fallen branch and, finally, arrives at the bottom, flying head-first
into a bed of fallen needles. After a long while she rolls onto her back, finds
a gray opening in the redwood canopy, and hears a groaning sound that boils
over into bird-like shrieks.
She struggles to her feet, holding her elbow, and staggers
forward, tripping on a root. In the shadow of the deck she finds Edward in an
unnatural position, writhing in pain.
“Oh God, Edward…”
A word rises from the groaning: leg. She kneels at his side and works her hands carefully down his
jeans. She finds a long rip, covered in dark fluid, feels something sharp and
sees a white stick.
The forest has gone dark.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
It’s a man wearing a baseball cap. His face flashes red and
black, red and black.
“Who…?”
“Tell me your name, honey.”
“Zelda?”
“Okay. Where do you live, Zelda?”
“Campbell.”
“Good. You’re doing
good.”
“Edward?”
The man smiles. He has a moustache. “Is that your friend,
Edward?”
“Yes. Is he…?”
“He’s got a pretty nasty break, but it could have been
worse. They’ve taken him to the hospital. They left me here to take care of
you. You’ve got a few scratches, but nothing on your head, so I’m guessing you
just passed out. Still, I want you to stay under that nice warm blanket for a
while, ‘cause I don’t want you going into shock. What do you do for a living,
Zelda?”
Zelda smiles. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
The man laughs, a deep woof.
“Well, you’re gonna have to tell me anyway.”
Fall
In mid-October, the leaves of California finally get around
to changing color, and Edward’s macro photography follows suit: the golden
oriental fans of gingko, zinfandel stars of liquidambar, rainbow feathers of
pistache. A maple leaf lies on the sidewalk, phasing from green to yellow to
copper, its ragged edges echoed by a crack in the concrete.
She doesn’t know what to do with this. Edward is a mythical
figure, the Oracle at Delphi, these digital images the only evidence that he
was once a mortal. She needs corporeal presence, limbs upon limbs, breath upon
skin. The pole-dancing doesn’t come close to filling her hours, so she comes to
the old coffeehouse, orders a Sinatra Sumatra, fires up her laptop and reads
the leaves.
One picture is different: a blossom of mustard against a
black background, tributaries of gray and chocolate. All at once she gets it.
It’s Einstein, all that crazy hair expressed in a Jackson Pollock outburst. The
background is rough, like granite, or slate.
“Okay. Just go for the head. Don’t worry about getting much
more. We’ll leave that to the professionals.”
Zelda giggles and studies the plum-size cap. “Hey, can you
turn off the water? It’s getting in my eyes.”
“Sheesh. Amateur.”
“Yes! Amateur.”
He turns the knob and the water cuts off. “If you can’t
handle liquids in your face, you’re never gonna make it in this biz.”
Zelda is readjusting her knees, about to make a retort when
she notices a tile next to the drain.
“Wow! Check that out.”
“What?”
“Next to your right toe. That burst of yellow.”
“Silly woman.” He nudges his dick to the right and squints.
“Oh! Huh. Einstein, right?”
“I love that about slate. All kinds of random stuff.”
“Any chance you could suck my dick now?”
Zelda gives a drama-queen sigh. “If I have to.”
Johnny’s laugh echoes off the walls.
Zelda stares at the photo for a long time. She looks into
the courtyard, where raindrops freckle the concrete. She expands Einstein to
full screen. The world is beginning to make sense.
She directs her driver along Hamilton, past the tennis court
to Old Japanese Road.
“Just drop me off here.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
She pays him and begins her trek. It’s a bit of a distance,
but it’s all downhill, and she doesn’t mind a little time to strategize. Soon
she’s standing at the leftward drop of Alameda Lane, and still has no idea what
she’s doing. Well, no alternative but to
plow on through.
She heads downhill, careful of her steps, and enters the
redwood canopy. A sharp whine makes her jump. It’s a Mexican man in a
neighboring drive, working with a bandsaw. Like most Mexican workers, he
ignores the crazy white woman and continues with his job.
Zelda ascends the final hill and arrives at Roxy’s, site of
the infamous bachelorette party. The phallic fountain stands in still water.
Now what? How does one accuse a friend of nasty, unforgiveable betrayal? And
how does one execute a “pop-in” in the middle of a redwood forest? I was just
in the neighborhood?
She proceeds carefully, peering up at the balcony adjoining
the kitchen. Nothing. But Roxy’s Mercedes is here, at the far side of the
circular drive. A Steller’s jay lands on the railing and unleashes a raspy
alarm. Zelda feels short of breath. She boards the front steps and climbs to
the phallic brass knocker. She reaches for it. The door bursts open.
“Zelda! What the hell? How nice to see you.”
Roxy in jeans and a black sweater, her hair tucked under a
baseball cap. She wraps her in a hug.
“How the hell did you get
here?”
Zelda’s thoughts are a crossword puzzle. Somewhere a neuron
tells her to just answer the damn question.
“One of those Uber drivers.”
Roxy takes her by the shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, are
you?”
“No. Just… bored. And I missed you.”
“How sweet! You can imagine, I don’t get many visitors. When
I do, I always assume they’re on the run from the law. Come on up.”
She climbs the stairs to the kitchen. Zelda follows.
“What’s your pleasure? Beer? Wine? Tea?”
“Umm. A Coke? Non-diet?”
“Oh, the sweetener? Yeah. Gives me a headache. Have a seat.”
Zelda sits at the kitchen table. She’s facing the long
window, the one through which her sex tape was filmed. Roxy reaches into the
cabinet, giving Zelda a chance to study her figure. The pole-dancing classes
have done her well. In male terms, she is “doable.” Roxy takes a glass to the
fridge and returns with her Coke, carbon bubbles spitting the surface. She
savors the first swallow.
“Oh. So good.”
Roxy leans back on the counter, crossing her long legs.
“Sometimes the best things are the things that you know are bad for you. Ha!”
Make small talk,
says the neuron. “Yes. I get so irritated at these women who try to lose weight
by following zero-tolerance diets. I got a handful of stripper poles that will
take care of that problem.”
Roxy sips from a cup of coffee. “No one works out harder
than you, Zel. I don’t think I’ve known a more remarkable athlete. I describe
some of your moves to my friends, and they all think you’re a superhero.”
The thing is, she doesn’t look guilty. And Zelda can’t go blurting out accusations like a TV
detective.
“Could I use your bathroom?”
“Of course! Up the stairs, to the… oh, well, you know. Hey
and why don’t you meet me up on the hot tub deck?”
“Sure.” Zelda climbs the steps and turns into the dark hall,
feeling shadows of Johnny Sequoia. She locks the bathroom door, peers into the
shower and locates the Einstein tile. She pulls out her smartphone to take a
couple of shots, then sits down for a pee. Afterward, she crosses the master
bedroom (devoid of male clothing) and opens the sliding door. Roxy’s at the
table, adjusting the patio umbrella, wiping the chairs with a towel. She sees
Zelda and smiles.
“Have a seat! I know I’m a little silly, hanging outside in
a drizzle, but the rain kicks up all these great woodsy smells. We’ve got some
cedar trees just up the hill, and oh! sometimes the aroma just pours down.
Here, have a cookie. Lemon ice, my favorite…”
Zelda picks one off the plate. It’s very good, but she’s too
deep into analytics to enjoy it. All the chattering is very much Roxy, but
paired with a confirmation of the Einstein tile it seems very much like nervous chatter.
“So how are you, Zel? What’s new and exciting?”
Zelda takes time to chew her cookie and wash it down with
the Coke.
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. And… I was looking at
some new photos that Edward posted. There’s this one that’s pretty fascinating.
It’s a slate tile with a pattern in yellow that looks like Einstein’s hair.”
Roxy laughs, birdlike, like a soprano in an opera. “Is this
like seeing the Virgin Mary in a potato chip?”
“It’s like seeing a tile from your shower.”
Roxy blinks a couple of times. “I’m… pardon?”
“The Einstein tile is on the floor of your shower. I saw it
when I was there with Johnny. It’s very… distinct.”
Roxy laughs. “But that’s so random! How can you know if…”
“Stop it, Roxy. Just fucking stop it.”
Roxy’s smile flattens to a line. She gets up and walks to
the railing, reaches into a bird feeder and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. She
takes the time to light one and enjoy a drag.
“I was trying to help you.”
“Pshh…”
“No! Listen to me. You were being horrendous. You were
being… criminal. And I mean that. You were not a stable person.”
“Oh, I don’t…”
Roxy stomps on the deck. “No! Goddammit, you are going to
listen to me. I saw him at the coffeehouse after your last… encounter, and the
boy was a wreck. He still had the imprint of your hand on his face. Usually, I
would tell someone in Edward’s position to just forget about it, get the hell
out of town. When you’re married to a divorce lawyer, you see the shit that
goes down in these love-hate relationships. Fistfights. Stabbings.
Murder-suicides. Horrible, horrible shit, Zel. But I couldn’t forget what it
was like between you two, in the beginning. You made that boy blossom, you
brought him back from the dead. So I gave him a place to hide. And yes, I spied
on you, but it’s only stuff that a normal friend would ask about, anyway. All I
needed was a sign that you were willing to forgive him, and I would have
arranged a meeting. Do you realize that every
time we talked about Edward, you described some new form of violence you
were going to inflict on him? You’re such an awesome person, Zelda. Why are you
so obsessed with this idea of
justice? Fuck justice. Grab a little happiness. Believe me, you only get so
many chances.”
Roxy takes a final drag and crushes the cigarette into a
tray.
“Did you fuck him?”
Roxy turns with a start. “Why would you even ask that?”
“You’re a woman. And I’ve been to your parties.”
Roxy’s eyes work their way into a targeted squint. “I could have fucked Johnny Sequoia. But I
saved him for my friend, because she
needed it more than I did.”
She turns to grab another cigarette. The redwoods are
deathly quiet, nothing but the patter of raindrops and Roxy’s hoarse breathing.
Zelda realizes the mistake that she has made. If Roxy holds the keys to Edward,
she needs to be nicer. She takes a deep breath, planning out her words.
“I’m sorry, Rox. I’m just so lonely these days, it’s apparently
turned me into an idiot. You’re my friend, I know that.”
Roxy gives her a careful study. “No shenanigans? No
violence?”
Zelda produces a self-deprecating smile. “I’ll be good. I
just want to talk to him.”
She takes a drag and considers the options. “He’s staying
with some friends in Pacifica. I’ll give him a call tonight and see if I can
set something up. Meanwhile, why don’t we head to Santa Cruz and I’ll buy you
some dinner?”
“Okay.”
Roxy crushes her cigarette and walks toward the sliding
glass door. “Give me a couple minutes to glam up a little.” She laughs. “Okay.
Fifteen minutes.”
Zelda eats another cookie, then wanders to the corner of the
deck. She leans over to look at a woodpecker and is surprised when the railing
gives way – just an inch, but enough to make her heart jump. She backs away and
realizes it’s the inset, the section they take out for zip-line launches. The
zip-line! She locates the cable, running from a telephone pole next to the
deck, and follows it into the forest, where a line of smoke rises through the
redwoods. The next image is one of Edward and Roxy in the shower, fucking over
the Einstein tile. Lies. Lies upon lies upon lies. Fuck! She feels the pressure
building in her head and rubs her temples. When she opens her eyes, she sees
the latches on the inset. She flicks them open, pulls the gate and kicks it to
the deck. She reaches for the bar, loops the strap around her hands, and takes
off.
Flashing over the clearing, Zelda realizes that she should
have made use of the safety harness. Still, given her chosen occupation, she’s
well-equipped to hang on. (The thought of it makes her laugh; she’s a
superhero.) The zip-line hits the slowing mechanism, and the treehouse comes
into view. She’s doing fine, feeling very Peter Pan, until she hits the slick
deck and falls on her ass. She’s still getting her bearings, taking an
accounting of all body parts, when she looks up and sees the mythic figure of
Edward in a window, talking on the phone. Talking to Roxy.
She rises, loosens up a knee and walks to the door. She
tries the standard triple knock, and is a little surprised when it opens.
Edward is clean-shaven, clothed in jeans and a black ski jacket, as if he were
about to set out on a hike.
“Hi,” he says.
“Um. Hello.”
“How are you?”
She looks down and finds a rip in her jeans. “I’m not doing
well, Edward. I don’t know why you disappeared again. I don’t know what you’re
doing here, at the home of one of my best friends. Frankly, I’m pretty fucking
confused.”
Edward puts up his hands and pushes them downward, the motion
of a person signalling someone to slow down. “Look. Zelda. I love you. I wanted
you back. But you were taking me into some weird places, and I was getting the
general impression that you hated me. I’m really not into this shit where two
people abuse each other for recreation. Plus, I… I was feeling a little
frightened of you.”
Zelda takes a step forward. Edward takes a step back.
“Let’s get this straight,” she says. “I am the victim in
this relationship. I’m the one who keeps
getting fucked over. And you’re the
one who’s frightened? I may be a little nuts, but at least I stick around to
fight it out. You’re a fucking
phantom.”
Edward gives her a long, direct look. “I don’t want to fight. If you’re not going to forgive
me, why do you want to be with me?”
Zelda feels the pressure in her head. She lets out a huffing
breath. Edward takes a step back.
“Because you screwed me over, Edward. I want what’s due to
me. You abandon me to find yourself, and then you just show up and expect everything to be fine? No! There is a price to
be paid. And it doesn’t help matters when you’re fucking my friends!”
Edward takes a step back. “That’s ridiculous, Zelda. Roxy did
this because she cares about you, she wanted to…”
“You don’t know shit about Roxy. Roxy likes to play the
Countess and have everyone kiss her big white ass in gratitude, and then she
fucks their boyfriends. You’re not fooling
anyone. Nobody’s fooling anyone!”
Zelda’s arms seem to be waving around. Edward takes another
three steps and now she sees where he’s headed: the slide. He turns.
“No! Edward! I just…”
She lunges forward to pull him back but she slips on the wet
deck and reels out of control. Trying to regain her balance, she knocks Edward
sideways and goes tumbling down the slide. She ricochets off the edges, strikes
an elbow on a fallen branch and, finally, arrives at the bottom, flying head-first
into a bed of fallen needles. After a long while she rolls onto her back, finds
a gray opening in the redwood canopy, and hears a groaning sound that boils
over into bird-like shrieks.
She struggles to her feet, holding her elbow, and staggers
forward, tripping on a root. In the shadow of the deck she finds Edward in an
unnatural position, writhing in pain.
“Oh God, Edward…”
A word rises from the groaning: leg. She kneels at his side and works her hands carefully down his
jeans. She finds a long rip, covered in dark fluid, feels something sharp and
sees a white stick.
The forest has gone dark.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
It’s a man wearing a baseball cap. His face flashes red and
black, red and black.
“Who…?”
“Tell me your name, honey.”
“Zelda?”
“Okay. Where do you live, Zelda?”
“Campbell.”
“Good. You’re doing
good.”
“Edward?”
The man smiles. He has a moustache. “Is that your friend,
Edward?”
“Yes. Is he…?”
“He’s got a pretty nasty break, but it could have been
worse. They’ve taken him to the hospital. They left me here to take care of
you. You’ve got a few scratches, but nothing on your head, so I’m guessing you
just passed out. Still, I want you to stay under that nice warm blanket for a
while, ‘cause I don’t want you going into shock. What do you do for a living,
Zelda?”
Zelda smiles. “If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”
The man laughs, a deep woof.
“Well, you’re gonna have to tell me anyway.”
Zelda can’t decide between team mascot or stripper-pole
instructor. But it’s nice to have a man who cares.
Zelda can’t decide between team mascot or stripper-pole
instructor. But it’s nice to have a man who cares.
