Stories (2011)

  The old man shook his head. "No."

  "Perhaps it was my brother?"

  "No. You are the lightest, you are our hope. If the wings bear anyone, it is you, the daughter of the king."

  "Maybe we will win this day and there will be no need."

  The old man smiled grimly. "Then you will not fly and things will be as they were, but I do not expect that. The time of our people has come to an end, but you will carry our thoughts, our dreams, our hopes with you."

  The young girl’s long black hair whipped in the wind. "Oh father, let me die with you. I do not want to be the only one left, the only one of us still alive."

  "While you live," her brother said softly, "while you hold all the old songs and stories to your heart, we all live and we will never die. Somehow, someway, you must pass these things on."

  "But there are none left to pass them to," the young girl said.

  "The war will end this day," her father said. "You must make a boat in the manner I have taught you, sail to one of the other islands and wait until the hate and fear have died. Then return. You will find a young man among them, one too young to know their hate, and he will give you children and you will teach them the ways of our people. Not so that these things will rule again, for that time is passed, but so that the memory of us will not die."

  "Hold me," she said.

  Brother and father pulled closer.

  Down below, moving up toward the cliff, came the sound of battle, the cries of men, the smashing of clubs against clubs and clubs against flesh.

  "These wings," the old man said, "they will make you a goddess in the sun. You will soar over the valley and turn with the wind toward the sea, and down there, far from them, you can hide."

  "Yes father." The wind strained at the wings, tried to lift the girl up.

  "Lift the wings," her father said.

  She did as he asked.

  The sound of yelling warriors was very close.

  From where they stood, the trio could see a fine line of brown warriors falling back, being forced toward the edge of the cliff.

  "Soon," the old man said, "we go over the cliff with the others."

  "But not before we fight," said the boy. He looked into the face of his sister. "You are the last of the hopeful. Carry our hope far and wide."

  Tears were in her eyes. "I will."

  The warriors were very close now. You could smell the sweat of battle, feel the heat of hate and anger.

  "Ride the wind," the old man said.

  She turned to look out over the beautiful green valley. She spread the wings. The wind billowed them.

  "You must go now," her brother said.

  "Our hopes go with you," her father said.

  And they released her into the wind.

  It was a powerful wind. It caught the great green wings and pulled her up and out over the valley. For a moment her father and brother watched, then, picking up their war clubs, they turned to join the last of the battle.

  A moment later, along with the rest of the warriors, the old man, who was known to his people as King Kalanikupule, went over the cliff and down into the green valley without a scream.

  And moving out over the valley, slave to the wind, went his daughter.

  Kamehameha, the sweat and blood of war coating his body, watched her soar. Clubs were tossed at her, but all fell short.

  The wind whipped her up high again, and then seemed to let go.

  She plummeted like a stone.

  But only for a moment, an updraft caught her, took her up again, and even as the victorious forces of Kamehameha stood on the cliff’s edge and watched in awe, the slim brown girl glided down and over the tree tops, around their edge toward the shore line, shining in the sun like a great, green and brown bird before coasting behind tall trees and out of sight.

  On the wind, for a brief instant, there floated the sound of her sweet, hopeful laughter.

  LISTEN

  The psychiatrist wore blue, the color of Merguson’s mood.

  "Mr.... uh?" the psychiatrist asked.

  "Merguson. Floyd Merguson."

  "Sure, Mr...."

  "Merguson."

  "Right. Come into the office."

  It was a sleek office full of sleek black chairs the texture of a lizard’s underbelly. The walls were decorated with paintings of explosive color; a metal-drip sculpture resided on the large walnut desk. And there was the couch, of course, just like in the movies. It was a chocolate-brown with throw-pillows at each end. It looked as if you could drift down into it and disappear in its softness.

  They sat in chairs, however. The psychiatrist on his side of the desk, Merguson on the client’s side. The psychiatrist was a youngish man with a fine touch of premature white at the temples. He looked every inch the intelligent professional. "Now" the psychiatrist said, "what exactly is your problem?"

  Merguson fiddled his fingers, licked his lips, and looked away.

  "Come on, now. You came here for help, so let’s get started."

  "Well," Merguson said cautiously. "No one takes me seriously."

  "Tell me about it."

  "No one listens to me. I can’t take it anymore. Not another moment. I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t get help. Sometimes I just want to yell out, Listen to me! "

  Merguson leaned forward and said confidentially, "Actually, I think it’s a disease. Yeah, I know how that sounds, but I believe it is, and I believe I’m approaching the terminal stage of the illness. I got this theory that there are people others don’t notice, that they’re almost invisible. There’s just something genetically wrong with them that causes them to go unnoticed. Like a little clock that ticks inside them, and the closer it gets to the hour hand the more unnoticed these people become.

  "I’ve always had the problem of being shy and introverted–and that’s the first sign of the disease. You either shake it early or you don’t. If you don’t, it just grows like cancer and consumes you. With me the problem gets worse every year, and lately by the moment.

  "My wife, she used to tell me it’s all in my head, but lately she doesn’t bother. But let me start at the first, when I finally decided I was ill, that the illness was getting worse and that it wasn’t just in my head, not some sort of complex.

  "Just last week I went to the butcher, the butcher I been going to for ten years. We were never chummy, no one has ever been chummy to me but my wife, and she married me for my money. I was at least visible then; I mean you had to go to at least some effort to ignore me, but my God, it’s gotten worse...

  "I’m off the track. I went to the butcher, asked him for some choice cuts of meat. Another man comes in while I’m talking to him and asks for a pound of hamburger. Talks right over me, mind you. What happens? You guessed it. The butcher starts shooting the breeze with the guy, wraps up a pound of hamburger and hands it over to him!

  "I ask him about my order and he says, ‘Oh, I forgot.’"

  Merguson lit a cigarette and held it between unsteady fingers after a long deep puff. "I tell you, he waited on three other people before he finally got to me, and then he got my order wrong, and I must have told him three times, at least.

  "It’s more than I can stand, Doc. Day after day people not noticing me, and it’s getting worse all the time. Yesterday I went to a movie and I asked for a ticket and it happened. I mean I went out completely, went transparent, invisible. I mean completely. This was the first time. The guy just sits there behind the glass, like he’s looking right through me. I asked him for a ticket again. Nothing. I was angry, I’ll tell you. I just walked right on toward the door. Things had been getting me down bad enough without not being about to take off and go to a movie and relax. I thought I’d show him. Just walk right in. Then they’d sell me a ticket.

  "No one tried to stop me. No one seemed to know I was there. I didn’t bother with the concession stand. No one would have waited on me anyway.

  "Well, that was the first time of the complete fadeo
uts. And I remember when I was leaving the movie, I got this funny idea. I went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. I swear to you, Doc, on my mother’s grave, there wasn’t an image in the mirror. I gripped the sink to keep upright, and when I looked up again I was fading in, slowly. Well, I didn’t stick around to see my face come into view. I left there and went straight home.

  "That afternoon was the corker. My wife, Connie, I know she’s been seeing another man. Why not? She can’t see me. And when she can I don’t have the presence of a one-watt bulb. I came home from the movie and she’s all dressed up and talking on the phone.

  "I say, ‘Who you talking to?’"

  Merguson crushed his cigarette out in the ashtray on the psychiatrist’s desk. "Doesn’t say doodly squat, Doc. Not a word. I’m mad as hell. I go upstairs and listen on the extension. It’s a man, and they’re planning a date.

  "I broke in over the line and started yelling at them. Guess what? The guy says, ‘Do you hear a buzzing or something or other?’ ‘No,’ she says. And they go right on with their plans.

  "I was in a homicidal rage. I went downstairs and snatched the phone out of her hand and threw it across the room. I wrecked furniture and busted up some lamps and expensive pottery. Just made a general wreck out of the place.

  "She screamed then, Doc. I tell you she screamed good. But then she says the thing that makes me come here. ‘Oh God,’ she says. ‘Ghost! Ghost in this house!’

  "That floored me, and I knew I was invisible again. I went upstairs and looked in the bathroom mirror. Sure enough. Nothing there. So I waited until I faded back and I called your secretary. It took me five tries before she finally wrote my name down, gave me an appointment. It was worse than when I tried to get the meat from the butcher. So I hurried right over. I had to get this out. I swear I’m not going crazy, it’s a disease, and it’s getting worse and worse and worse.

  "So what can I do, Doc? How can I handle this? I know it’s not in my head, and I’ve got to have some advice. Please, Doc. Say something. Tell me what to do. I’ve never been this desperate in my entire life. I might fade out again and not come back."

  The psychiatrist took his hand from his chin where it had been resting.

  "Wha... ? Sorry. I must have dozed. What was it again, Mr.... uh?"

  Merguson dove across the desk, clawing for the psychiatrist’s throat.

  Later when the law came and found the psychiatrist strangled and slumped across his desk, his secretary said, "Funny, I don’t remember anyone coming in or leaving. Couldn’t have come in while I was here. He had an appointment with a Mr.... uh." She looked at the appointment book. "A Mr. Merguson. But he never showed."

  MR. BEAR

  Jim watched as the plane filled up. It was a pretty tightly stacked flight, but last time, coming into Houston, he had watched as every seat filled except for the one on his left and the one on his right. He had hit the jackpot that time, no row mates. That made it comfortable, having all that knee and elbow room.

  He had the middle seat again, an empty seat to his left, and one to his right. He sat there hoping there would be the amazing repeat of the time before.

  A couple of big guys, sweating and puffing, were moving down the aisle, and he thought, Yep, they'll be the ones. Probably one of them on either side. Shit, he'd settle for just having one seat filled, the one by the window, so he could get out on the aisle side. Easy to go to the bathroom that way, stretch your legs.

  The big guys passed him by. He saw a lovely young woman carrying a straw hat making her way down the center. He thought, Someone has got to sit by me, maybe it'll be her. He could perhaps strike up a conversation. He might even find she's going where he's going, doesn't have a boyfriend. Wishful thinking, but it was a better thing to think about than big guys on either side of him, hemming him in like the center of a sandwich.

  But no, she passed him by, as well. He looked up at her, hoping she'd look his way. Maybe he could get a smile at least. That would be nice.

  Of Course, he was a married man, so that was no way to think.

  But he was thinking it. She didn't look and she didn't smile. Jim sighed, waited. The line was moving past him. There was only one customer left. A shirtless bear in dungarees and work boots, carrying a hat. The bear looked peeved, or tired, or both.

  Oh shit, thought Jim. Bears—they've got to stink. All that damn fur. He passes me by, I'm going to have a seat free to myself on either side. He doesn't, well, I've got to ride next to him for several hours.

  But the bear stopped in his row, pointed at the window seat. "That's my seat."

  "Sure," Jim said, and moved out of the middle seat and out into the aisle to let the bear in. The bear settled in by the window and fastened his seat belt and rested his hat on his knee. Jim slid back into the middle seat. He could feel the heat off the bear's big hairy arm. And there was a smell. Nothing nasty or ripe. Just a kind of musty odor, like an old fur coat hung too long in a closet, dried blood left in a carpet, a whiff of cigarette smoke and charred wood.

  Jim watched the aisle again. No one else. He could hear them closing the door. He unfastened his seat belt and moved to the seat closest to the aisle. The bear turned and looked at him. "You care I put my hat in the middle seat?"

  "Not at all," Jim said.

  "I get tired of keeping up with it. Thinking of taking it out of the wardrobe equation."

  Suddenly it snapped. Jim knew the bear. Had seen him on TV. He was a famous environmentalist. Well, that was something. Had to sit by a musty bear, helped if he was famous. Maybe there would be something to talk about.

  "Hey," the bear said, "I ask you something, and I don't want it to sound rude, but..'. can I?"

  "Sure."

  "I got a feeling, just from a look you gave me, you recognized me."

  "I did."

  "Well, I don't want to be too rude, sort of leave a fart hanging in the air, though, I might. . . deer carcass. Never agrees. But I really don't want to talk about me or what I do or who I am, and let me just be completely honest. I was so good at what I do ... well, I am good. Let me rephrase that. I was really as successful as people think, you believe I'd be riding coach? After all my years of service to the forest, it's like asking your best girl to ride bitch like she was the local poke. So I don't want to talk about it."

  "I never intended to ask," Jim said. That was a lie, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

  "Good. That's good," said the bear, and leaned back in his seat and put the hat on his head and pulled it down over his eyes.

  For a moment Jim thought the bear had gone to sleep, but no, the bear spoke again. "Now that we've got that out of the way, you want to talk, we can talk. Don't want to, don't have to, but we can talk; just don't want to talk about the job and me and the television ads, all that shit. You know what I'd like to talk about?" "What's that?"

  "Poontang. All the guys talk about pussy. But me, I'm a bear, so it makes guys uncomfortable, don't want to bring it up. Let me tell you something, man, I get plenty, and I don't just mean bear stuff. Guy like me, that celebrity thing going and all, I can line them up outside the old motel room, knock 'em off like shooting ducks from a blind. Blondes, redheads, brunettes, bald, you name it, I can bang it."

  This made Jim uncomfortable. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had sex with his wife, and here was a smelly bear with a goofy hat knocking it off like there was no tomorrow. He said, "Aren't we talking about your celebrity after all? I mean, in a way?"

  "Shit. You're right. Okay. Something else. Maybe nothing. Maybe we just sit. Tell you what, I'm going to read a magazine, but you think of something you want to talk about, you go ahead. I'm listening."

  Jim got a magazine out of the pouch in front of him and read a little, even came across an ad with the bear's picture in it, but he didn't want to bring that up. He put the magazine back and thought about the book he had in the overhead, in his bag, but he hated to bother. Besides, the book was the usual thriller, and he
didn't feel like bothering.

  After a while the flight attendant came by. She was a nice-looking woman who looked even nicer because of her suit, the way she carried herself, the air of authority. She asked if they'd like drinks.

  Jim ordered a diet soda, which was free, but the bear pulled out a bill and bought a mixed drink, a Bloody Mary. They both got peanuts. When the flight attendant handed the bear his drink, the bear said, "Honey, we land, you're not doing anything, I could maybe show you my wild side, find yours."

  The bear grinned, and showed some very ugly teeth.

  The flight attendant leaned over Jim, close to the bear, and said, "I'd rather rub dirt in my ass than do anything with you."

  This statement hung in the air like backed-up methane for a moment, then the flight attendant smiled, moved back and stood in the aisle, then looked right at Jim and said, "If you need anything else, let me know," and she was gone.

  The bear had let down his dining tray and he had the drink in its plastic cup in his hand. The Bloody Mary looked very bloody. The bear drank it in one big gulp. He said, "Flight drinks. You could have taken a used Tampax and dipped it in rubbing alcohol and it would taste the same."

  Jim didn't say anything. The bear said, "She must be a lesbian. Got to be. Don't you think?"

  The way the bear turned and looked at him, Jim thought it was wise to agree. "Could be."

  The bear crushed the plastic cup. "No 'could be.' Is. Tell me you agree. Say, is."

  "Is," Jim said, and his legs trembled slightly. "That's right, boy. Now whistle up that lesbian bitch, get her back over here. I want another drink."

  When they landed in Denver, the bear was pretty liquored up. He walked down the ramp crooked and his hat was cocked at an odd angle that suggested it would fall at any moment. But it didn't.

  The plane had arrived late, and this meant Jim had missed his connecting flight due to a raging snowstorm. The next flight was in the morning and it was packed. He'd have to wait until midafternoon tomorrow just to see if a flight was available. He called his wife on his cell phone, told her, and then rang off, feeling depressed and tired and wishing he could stay home and never fly again.