Pembroke looked at his hands.
They were no longer covered in the smudgy bruises—or, more accurately, the smudges had coalesced to form a dense inscription of strange glyphs that appeared tattooed across the palms of his hands and circling around his wrists. They weren’t so much words as symbols, but Pembroke knew, even through his horror, that words were exactly what they were. Words from some alien world, perhaps, or some alien time.
He thought of Selwyn’s fangs and the snakelike skin beneath his eyes.
“Excuse me,” Pembroke said, wincing as he rose from the chair. Hefting the book under one arm, he hustled through the small restroom door, which he promptly closed and latched behind him. Setting the book on the edge of the sink, Pembroke examined his reflection in the mirror. The lighting in here was so poor that, at first, he didn’t notice the smudgy darkening of his skin along the left side of his face. But when he did see it, it was like strong, cold fingers were slowly closing around his throat.
You’ve already been tainted, Selwyn had said. It still may not be too late for you.
He looked down at the book. Momentarily, its organic green-yellow cover seemed to swell then deflate, as if respiring. Pembroke convinced himself it was just an illusion of the poor lighting in the bathroom. And as much as he didn’t want to touch it again, his hands went to it and he gathered it up—lovingly—from the sink.
When he came out of the bathroom, Tom was still standing there, a mixture of confusion and concern on his face. Pembroke rushed past him with a curt nod, clutching the book to his chest. Tom followed him to the front counter, where Pembroke hurriedly stashed the book underneath in one of the shelves. A bright red rubber spider bounded out of the cubbyhole and cartwheeled across the linoleum floor.
“What did you do to your hands, Mr. Pembroke?”
“It’s no concern of yours, Tom.”
Tom frowned. He was holding his own cup of coffee, which he set down on the counter now. “What’s with that book, anyway?” he said.
Pembroke reeled on him, teeth clenched as he said, “Do not speak of it!”
Tom shook his head and took a step backward. But he didn’t let it go. “What is it? There’s nothing on the pages...but then, the longer I look at it, I begin to see...”
“Enough,” said Pembroke. “We will not talk about the book.”
“And then the other night, when I was straightening up, I went to put the book on the rolling cart when it cut me.” Tom held up his right index finger, which was capped in an adhesive bandage.
“A paper cut,” Pembroke marveled, recalling that odd splotch of blood on the book’s page.
“Yes, of course,” said Tom, “only that’s not what I thought at the time. Because when it happened, Mr. Pembroke—and this is going to sound ridiculous, I know it—but when it happened, my first thought was that the book had bit me. I dropped it on the floor like it was some wild animal. I’ve gotten my share of paper cuts working here, Mr. Pembroke, as you know, but this one...this one bled.”
“Tom,” said Pembroke, trying to keep himself calm but also speaking as firmly as he could at the moment, “I think you should go home early today.”
“I want to know what—”
“Please go, Tom. I’ll see you next Tuesday.”
Tom wanted to protest further—Pembroke could tell just by looking at the young man—but in the end, Tom snagged his jacket from the rolling cart and, whipping it over one shoulder, he hurried out onto the sidewalk. The bell over the door chimed. Outside, Tom paused momentarily on the other side of the front window, peering in at Pembroke, before continuing down the block.
After he was sure Tom wouldn’t return, Pembroke picked up the telephone. Selwyn’s business card was taped to the counter beside the phone, and Pembroke was halfway through dialing the 800 number when he froze, suddenly able to decipher the glyphs spiraling around his wrist. They were images quite similar to Egyptian hieroglyphics, but for some reason, Pembroke could now read them.
—for whether it resides in the well or in the dome, in the blackness of the void or the sprockets of the earth, in the soul of mankind or the blackened heart of the devil—
Very calmly, Pembroke hung up the phone.
* * *
When the man who called himself Selwyn arrived at the end of the week, Pembroke was propped in his wooden chair behind the front counter, his face waxen, his pallor the color of curdled cream. In just the past week he had lost about thirteen pounds and had pretty much stopped eating. His hands shook as Selwyn approached the counter, Pembroke’s eyes rolling up to meet Selwyn’s ratlike gaze beneath the wide brim of his ash-colored fedora.
Pembroke had the book out on the counter in front of him. He made no attempt to hide it as Selwyn approached. As it was, his arms were bandaged and in terrible pain; he didn’t think he’d even be able to lift the book now if he wanted to. The only part of his body he hadn’t been able to bring himself to cut was the left side of his face, where the smudgy bruise had solidified into a series of tiny symbols, running from his temple, down his cheek, and curving around the left side of his chin.
“You are in some shape, friend,” said Selwyn, peering down at Pembroke’s shaking hands and bandaged wrists and forearms. Blood had seeped through the bandages and stained the gauze a ruddy copper color. There was also dried blood on the counter and fresher puddles of it along the floor. The ream of paper that was the store’s inventory was soggy and bloated with blood. Atop the inventory was a straight razor. Beside the straight razor was a bright orange rubber spider.
“I tried...tried getting the words off,” managed Pembroke. Even speaking took much out of him. “They cloud my head. I can’t stop reading them. And when I close my eyes, they speak directly to me.”
“That’s because you’re a fool,” said Selwyn. “Are you ready to hand the book over yet?”
“Y-yes,” Pembroke stuttered. He attempted to slide the book across the bloodied counter to Selwyn, but Selwyn held up one hand and shook his head. Pembroke dropped his bloodied and ruined hands in his lap.
Selwyn peeled off one of his leather gloves, liberating a hand that was as pale as a cadaver’s. His fingers, hideously long, were like the pale, segmented legs of arctic crabs. Selwyn ran his palm along the top of the book. His eyes momentarily unfocused and he actually released a faint, almost orgasmic sigh. Then his face went firm again. He gathered the book off the counter and tucked it under one arm.
“My clients will be most appreciative, Mr. Pembroke.”
But Pembroke hardly heard him; he was busy staring at the small adhesive bandage at the tip of Selwyn’s index finger. Selwyn followed his gaze then grinned at him like a feral dog.
“Oh, this?” said Selwyn. “Occupational hazard, I’m afraid.” Then he nodded at Pembroke and headed for the door. He paused, however, halfway across the floor and turned back around to face Pembroke. “I almost forgot. Your commission. Have you decided on a price?”
“Please,” Pembroke said. “Just help me. Get the words out of my head.”
“I’m afraid that is beyond my ability. With any luck, you might recover. After all, it’s only been a week, correct? It’s not as if the exposure was unduly prolonged. Though do please remember, Mr. Pembroke—you brought this upon yourself. This was a mistake; it had nothing to do with you. You should have left well enough alone.” With that, Selwyn nodded sharply, then left the store.
“Please,” Pembroke shouted after him, still able to smell the man’s cologne in the air like a calling card. “Please! Please!”
But there would be no salvation from that monster.
* * *
Pembroke’s physical injuries cleared up over time. The scars left behind were terrible, ugly things, but they also served as a reminder that he had been foolish and careless and had committed himself to something that was beyond his comprehension. And after a bit more time, the voices in his head, much like the glyphs on his skin, began to fade. Soon, the only mantra he hear
d in his head were Selwyn’s parting words: This was a mistake; it had nothing to do with you. You should have left well enough alone.
When Tuesdays and Thursdays passed without Tom showing up to work, Pembroke felt awful. He felt guilty the way he had left things with Tom, but he wouldn’t let that guilt prevent him from making amends. Late one Thursday evening, he telephoned Tom’s house. The phone rang several times before Tom answered.
“Listen, Tom, it’s Arthur. I feel just terrible. I understand if you’ve got no interest in coming back to work here, but at least stop by and allow me to apologize and explain what happened.”
“Geez, Mr. Pembroke, I really appreciate it,” Tom said. “You know, I got another job, but I’d certainly like to stop by and see you in person. I don’t like how we left things, either.”
It delighted Pembroke that Tom was amenable to his apology, and the following Tuesday, prior to Tom’s arrival, Pembroke bought a couple of coffees at the corner bakery and carried them back to the bookstore, a smile on his face.
Yet he froze midway across the street when he saw a man in an ashy-gray overcoat and matching fedora leaning against the front window of the bookstore.
Selwyn, Pembroke thought...but when the man lifted his head, he could see it was Tom’s face beneath the brim of the fedora.
“Hello, Mr. Pembroke,” Tom said, tipping a single bandaged finger against the brim of his hat.
In a Pet Shop
She was not very pretty and not very young and she did not say much about anything. An umbrella tucked under her arm, rain or shine, and dressed in a heavy wool coat and with a string of white pearls about her neck, she came just like that. There were many animals but she always went directly to the birds. There were many birds in the shop. She would stand for a long time and look carefully in all the cages and at all the birds. They were noisy and they smelled bad, but she did not seem to mind. Often, she would speak quietly to the birds as if she were speaking only to herself. Her lips were thin and were always painted a startling red. Her lips hardly moved when she spoke.
Once a day the birds were fed, and she was always there when they were fed. She never said anything and only backed up against the far wall and watched as John or I fed the birds. Once I asked her if she would like to feed them and she said no. She said this very quietly, and the way she said it made me feel ashamed and somewhat guilty for having even asked the question, for whatever reason. But I supposed it was all right. Anyway, she was not very pretty.
She came every day for two weeks, always in the black wool coat and always with the pearls, and she never spoke to anyone except the birds. One day I asked if she wanted to purchase one. They weren’t very expensive. But she said she did not. I showed her one of our new cages, assuming she might like to see it and that she might then decide to purchase one of the little inexpensive birds, but she did not seem impressed by the cage and said nothing about purchasing a bird. On this day she left earlier than usual—just after John came out from the stockroom to feed the birds—as if my conversation had disturbed her.
“She is a crazy little thing,” John said one day after the woman had gone. “What do you think she does it for?”
I said I didn’t know.
“Why doesn’t she hardly ever speak?”
I said I didn’t know.
“How long do you think she’ll keep this up?”
Again, I said I didn’t know.
John said, “I’ll bet she is senile.” He said, “I’ll bet she has dementia.” He said, “I’ll bet it’s the early stages of Alzheimer’s,” only he pronounced it “old-timer’s.” Then he shook his head and pushed his glasses way up on his thin nose and kept his eyes on the science-fiction paperback he was reading. He said, “I’ll bet she’s a grade-A whacko.”
Twice it rained when she came, but she did not use her umbrella: it remained tucked under her arm as it did on the days when it was clear and sunny. Her black wool coat was wet and it dripped rainwater onto the linoleum. She stood for a long time looking at the birds and I stood behind the counter for a long time looking at her. I watched her watch the birds through the thin metal piping of the birdcages. I watched her take out a small compact from her coat one afternoon, just before feeding time, and she opened it and held the mirrored section up in front of one of the cages, attempting to incite the birds. John saw this and told her not to be a nuisance. She did not look at John and only slid the compact back inside her coat. Then she stood against the far wall and waited for the birds to be fed.
“I have a feeling she is recently widowed,” John suggested during lunch one afternoon. “Perhaps her husband had kept birds, and now that he is dead she comes here to remind herself of her husband and of her husband’s birds.”
Even if that were true, and her husband had died, I said, wouldn’t his birds still be alive?
“How the hell should I know?” John said. He seemed slightly incensed by my comment. “Maybe it was a house fire. Maybe they all burned up together.” He laughed and said, “Rotisserie squaw.”
Squab, not squaw, I told him. A squaw, I informed, was a term for an American Indian woman.
“Oh, sure,” said John, snickering. As if I was trying to pull one over on him.
She came and was not very pretty and stood in front of the wall of birdcages. I wondered what she would do if she came in one day and all the birds were gone. What if John and I moved all the birds to the stockroom? What if we took all the cages away and there was nothing left for her to look at? Would she stop coming or would she continue to stare at the empty wall? Was it the birdcages or the space in the shop the birdcages occupied? Now I was confused; or was I making it more difficult than it really was? I did not know. Maybe she would sniff them out and discover their new location in the stockroom. Like a hound. Who knew? I thought about this and I did not know, and then she came into the shop and I thought about this some more. I said nothing to her, and she only stuck a knobby old finger between the slats in the birdcage. I said nothing. John was in the stockroom on his lunch break and did not see her stick her finger between the slats of the birdcage. Had he seen, he would have told her not to be a nuisance. To John, everyone was a nuisance.
I wondered if this was some sort of therapy. That maybe, as a child, she had been attacked by a bird of some sort, or perhaps even a flock of birds, and had sustained an irrational fear of them well into adulthood. Perhaps, I surmised, this was some sort of coping exercise for ornithophobes, prescribed to her by her therapist. Perhaps she was attempting to overcome this childhood phobia by sticking knobby white fingers through the slats of birdcages. It made me think of that old Hitchcock movie starring Rod Taylor and Tippi Hedren, the one where the birds start attacking people with no discernable rationale. What was the name of that film, anyway? I imagined flocks and flocks of birds blanketing the parking lot outside the shop, congealed in molting white clusters on the slanted roof of the In-N-Out Burger across the street, populating the roadway outside, studded in fowl straight up to the highway—so dense with birds, choked with birds, you could not see the pavement at all. Maybe this was the woman’s therapy. When I was five I woke up to find a spider in my left ear. To this day, I maintain a severe apprehension toward spiders. The littler they are, the worse—because they can get into your ears, burrow in there (or do whatever it is that spiders do)—and how the hell are you even supposed to get them out? Thinking of this, I doubt there is enough therapy in the world…
The Birds, the film was called. Duh.
I watched her watch the birds and then it was time to feed them. I was reminded to feed them, in fact, by the way the woman shifted noiselessly across the floor and stopped against the far wall. She knew the birdseed was coming before I even remembered it. So I gathered the sack of seed and opened all the cages and poured the seed into the little white cups that hung suspended from the wire bars of the cages. She watched, and I could feel her little black eyes constantly on my back, boring into my back like spiders into my ea
rs. It was as if she was looking directly through me to watch the birds eat. I could not understand her fascination. And not understanding it made it all the more fascinating.
I noticed one of the little brown finches dead at the bottom of the cage. This happens from time to time—there was nothing unusual about it—but then I thought of the woman, staring through me at the tittering birds, and wondered if she was slowly emitting some poisonous pheromone that was killing all the birds. Maybe, it occurred to me almost immediately, she was slowly killing me, too—John and me—and that this dead finch at the bottom of the cage served as the coalminers’ canary. Was she here to slowly poison the shop’s air? Was she slowly and silently murdering both John and me with each exhalation of breath?
Or maybe it was just the opposite: maybe she was here to resurrect the dead bird. Rise, finch, and walk. Christ incarnate. Maybe there was some greater, omnipotent divinity at work here. Perhaps the finch, in the scheme of mankind and the universe itself, played some vague but invaluable role, and this strange old woman was here to revive the dead finch so the prophecy—or whatever—could be fulfilled. If this was the case, I did not want to impede divinity, so I finished feeding the birds and paused with the sack of seed in my hands. I clutched it. I stood and did not move until I finally did move, stepping away from the cage to allow the woman access to the dead finch. Surely she had seen it was dead; she had been staring at them all morning. But she did not move and I did not move, either. We both stood like that for a long time. At one point I considered prodding her, asking if she had noticed the all-important finch was lying on its back with its stiff little legs in the air, but I did not say this. She would not move, so maybe I had been wrong about it all. I considered asking her why she was here and why she always came to look at the birds and why she liked to watch them eat. I was very close to asking this. I was very close to solving the whole mystery.