Electricity by David Rogers

The whole sky flashed, a searing electric blaze, fading to the blue-brown of the horizon. Lightning here did funny things to a man’s vision. The clouds were patchy, silver gray, like the plains of an airless moon.

Masters checked the zippers on his wetsuit, snugged the goggles down over his eyes, and waded into the surf. The water was cold. He’d have to make the repair fast and get out.

This was his first real job since the last episode. He’d been turned down by half a dozen companies before he decided in desperation to change his name and doctor his resume. Not that he felt bad about the deception. At least, not most of the time. After all, didn’t people usually do the opposite of what he did–claim skills and experience they didn’t have, in order to get jobs they were not qualified for? But he’d been told he was overqualified enough times to know it was code for “untrustworthy.” So he did what he had to, in order to survive. It was evolution at work. Natural selection. Not that it had been easy, even so. The first three employers he applied to

checked his references and invited him to go away, without bothering to be polite. Not that he blamed them. That was how things worked.

But Undersea Power Corporation was a budget operation from start to finish. Sooner or they might check up on him, and he’d have to hit the road again. Especially if he screwed up an assignment. He wasn’t worried about that. He was good at what he did.

The wave generator was a hundred and fifty yards out. A surprisingly simple internal mechanism converted the mostly- lateral motion of the waves to rotary motion that turned a generator. The anchor cable fed electricity back to the terminal high on the cliff behind him. Dozens of other generators were strategically placed along the shore in places where they could collect maximum energy without being impossibly hard to reach for maintenance.

#

She stood ankle-deep in the surf when he turned from the generator. At first he thought she wore a flesh-colored wetsuit. As he came closer he saw that, beneath short dark hair, curiously streaked with red and gold, she wore only a few strands of seaweed, strategically-placed. Her eyes were also flecked with gold and red, around green irises, cheeks flushed pink in the cold wind. Her lips curved, dark red bows parted slightly as if about to speak or smile.

“You look cold,” she said.

Masters shivered. He’d forgotten how frigid the water was. He opened his mouth, but the memory flooded back before he could ask, “And you are not cold?”

#

He smelled smoke. It must be the lingering cobwebs of dream. He shook his head, sat up, struggled to recall where he was. The room was dark. He fumbled for his watch. The luminous dial showed four minutes after three.

He remembered, then. The tiny apartment was all he could afford in the new city since his last episode. Rumor had it there were jobs here.

Awake, he still smelled smoke. It was stronger now, the harsh, cutting stench of electricity and burning carpet, painted walls in flame, and the dry tinder of old furniture instantly alight. He heard the roar of flames in the hallway outside the door.

He almost touched the door knob, then tried to recall what people were supposed to do in these cases. Stay and wait for help, because there was no escape through the hall?  He ran to the window, stumbling over the room’s only chair in the darkness. Pushing aside the curtain, he stared at the silent, half-empty parking lot. No sirens, no flashing lights. Nothing moved. He was on the fourth floor, the rusty death-trap fire-escape fallen away long ago.

He turned away from the window, pulled the blanket from the end of the bed, and wrapped his hand. The heat of the knob scorched his hand through the cloth, but he wrenched it open anyway, ready to mask his nose and mouth with the blanket and run. Too late, he recalled the blanket should be wet.

The hallway was dark and quiet. The EXIT sign flickered and buzzed at the end by the stairs.

He went back in the room, back to the window, saw the fire trucks and ambulances, their furious lights strobing the darkness into a hideous, psychedelic nightmare. Flameless smoke choked him, and he fell on the bed, gasping for breath.

Dawn broke at last. In the the tiny bathroom, he ran water over the burned hand and found disinfectant and bandages to  wrap the blisters. The medicine stung and throbbed where torn skin had already cracked and leaked.

The building supervisor’s office off the corner of the lobby said he would be in by eight. He arrived at a quarter after.  His name was Hensley. They’d met when Masters rented the apartment. Masters waited, sitting in the chair by the dusty window while Hensley unlocked the door, turned on lights, and sat in the creaking chair. The man turned when Master’s shadow blocked the light from the hall and cast a shadow on the opposite wall.

“Mr. Hensley,” Masters began. He took a deep breath, as if he would have to hold it for a long time, and then exhaled. “Mr. Hensley, this building is not safe.”

Hensley stared at him. “Why do you say that?”

“There’s no fire escape.”

“Sure there is. They’re called stairs. Front and back.”

“You know what I mean. And the wiring is ancient–when was the last time an electrician looked at anything in this building?”

“What, you thought you were getting a suite at the Taj Mahal for what you pay here?” Hensley’s face twisted in a crooked grin. “I don’t live here. It’s not my building. Just a job. But the boss gave me strict orders–no troublemakers. You want to hit the streets, or you want to keep your big ideas to yourself?”

“I’m only warning you. I have to. When–if–if there’s a fire, many people will die.”

So of course, after the fire, nine days later, the super had told the detectives, and the arson inspector, and the reporter, and anyone else who would listen. Masters was questioned by the police, but the inspector concluded faulty wiring had caused the fire. Eleven people died, four of them children, and there was talk of criminal negligence on the part of Hensley and the building owner. By then, only reporters wanted to talk to Masters. Headlines ran along the lines of “Psychic’s Warning Unheeded! Deadly Inferno! Dozens Die Needlessly!” or even more sensational language.

It had happened before, time and again, the vision, the attempt to warn, to explain, the disaster followed by suspicion, by questions he could not answer. So he’d left that city, all cities, and come here to this lonely, rocky outcrop where sky and land and water thrashed through their eternal love triangle, settling nothing, solving everything.

#

     The next day, the warning light on the panel flickered for the same generator. Masters suited up, strapped the tool vest across his chest, and started to the water.

He saw her when he was still far away, as he walked down the long zig-zag path from the top of the cliff to the narrow beach. Still as a length of salt-bleached driftwood, she waited.

“You look cold,” she said.

“How do I know you are real?” he asked.

“Don’t I look real? Or feel real?” She put her hand on his shoulder, then raised it to touch his face. Her fingers were pale, silver skin around blue nails, curiously warm.

“Yes, but . . .”

They stood with the surf booming around them, its roar echoing off the cliffs, the tang of salt filling his nose and lungs.

“But I see things sometimes. See things, hear them. Like you. It doesn’t mean you’re real.”

“Don’t they become real? You see the future.”

How do you know that? But all could do was nod. Nod, and turn, and swim for the generator. The water closed around him like a womb.

#

The company let him live in the tin building near the transformers, sheltered from the wind, in a basin two hundred yards wide, half a mile from the cliff’s edge. In heavy rains, water coursed across the plain in rocky streams and sluiced down through tunnels under the last few hundred feet to the ocean.  The rumble of streams and the drumming on the roof and the sighing of the distant surf made Masters think of Homer, of ancient chanted poems about wooden boats on the Aegean sea.

He scooped coffee into the pot, poured in water, letting it mix with the grounds and settle, and lit the gas burner. While the coffee came to a boil, the room filling with the rich, earthy scent, he sat on his bunk and put on dry socks. How did she know abut him, how he saw things that, sooner or later, turned out to be real? Was she real now, or part of a vision? He knew the answer, the way he knew the smell of coffee and salty ocean air, an instinct old as consciousness. The visions were always dream-like, surreal, but more intense, nightmarish. She was no nightmare. Fay and mesmerizing, but he did not fear her. His rational mind told him he should be afraid. He had hallucinated, or something very bizarre had happened. But he could not convince himself to feel fear. People died this way, when they stopped being afraid of dangerous things.

#

This time she was on shore when he came out of the water. Somehow she had started a fire with the wet driftwood, sheltered from wind by boulders on two sides, the cliff on the third side. Bright flames sent clouds of steam into the low sky. A blue-lightning haze flickered like St. Elmo’s fire where smoke rose over the cliff.

Ruby coals hissed on wet sand around the fire. She stared at the burning wood, mesmerized. “It’s so beautiful. We have nothing like it. Some of the corals make these colors, but they do not move or sing this way.”

She took his hands and the seaweed fell away from her shoulders, breasts, hips. They danced around the fire.

#

“We live for thousands of years,” she said, later. They sat near the dying fire. She spread kelp and Irish moss on small rocks around the fire. Soon it was seared and crisp as bacon. The taste was salty and pleasantly bitter.

“Our children, if they are female, join the coven,” she said. “Or rather, the coven raises them, and ours is the only life they ever know. Or want.”

“Ever? No girl-child has ever chosen to live on land?”

“Oh, once or twice. They almost always come home. We do not force them to stay, if that’s what you mean.

 “The boy children come ashore and live human lives, never knowing or remembering where they came from. Usually. Some of the male children have–abilities. This makes it hard for them to live among humans. Sooner or later, the ocean calls them back.”

“Who cares for them? The boys, I mean?”

“Humans, who agree to love the child and forget where he came from. Oxygen-breathers are marvelously adept at believing stories they invent.”

“There are no men in your . . . coven?”

“Very few. Only ones who belong. Most were boy children who were determined to come home. As I said, some of our boy children have qualities that make life among oxygen- breathers difficult. Or impossible.”

“Who makes that decision, about who belongs–you or the men?”

She did not hear the question, or she ignored it. “One or two extraordinary oxygen-breathers–male and female–have also joined us.”

“You call humans oxygen-breathers–but you seem to breathe air well enough.”

“My sisters and I are more adaptable than humans. When we are not in the water, we breathe what they call carbon dioxide. It is not natural for us, and it stinks of their machines, worse every year. But we manage.”

“Carbon dioxide–that’s what plants take from the atmosphere.”

She smiled. “We all come from the same mother.” Masters shivered, not from the cold wind, not from fear. Not quite.

“Tell me about the boys. The odd ones, who find it hard to adapt.”

“Mostly, the boys are like ordinary oxygen-breathers. They find our way of life . . . unsuitable. Or impossible even to imagine. But certain boys–they leave us, and wander for a time, and then come home. When they become young men, or young men on the verge of middle age, tired of running, they are drawn back.”

“Drawn back how? Mental telepathy, fortune-tellers? Or emails from mysterious strangers?”

“I’m told it’s more like compulsion. Compulsion, and fatigue. They grow tired of trying to live where they are not understood or wanted.”

“And you let them come back? Who decides if they belong?”

“Usually, it is a mutual understanding. Or so I have been told. As I said, we live for thousands of years. Males are rarely needed. I’ve known only a few.”

     “What if a male is needed and none shows up?”

     “One is always found. The boys who left us are most easily called back.”

     “Who calls them?”

     “The mother, of course.” Again, the little smile he thought should frighten him. “Now and then, extraordinary human men may be called. Genetic diversity is essential, of course.”  She looked in his eyes, smiling fully now, the far away, green-blue look in her eyes that made him think of warm sand on the Aegean archipelago.

     “I still don’t understand what you mean. Called? Are you talking about an actual sound, or a feeling . . . ?”

But she was standing, and then running toward the water, her short, dark, red-gold streaked hair bobbing in the wind.

He followed, slowly, and when the sea lifted him, he started to swim. Somewhere far out, he could hear her siren call. It came from under the waves. He took a deep breath, and dove.

David Rogers’ poems, stories, and articles have appeared in various print and electronic publications, including The Comstock Review, Atlanta Review, Sky and Telescope, and Astronomy magazine. He is the author of two novels, D.B. Cooper is Dead: A Solomon Starr Adventure and Thor’s Hammer, and a fantasy novella, Return of the Exile, each available from Amazon. More of his work can be read at https://davidrogersbooks.wordpress.com/.

Instrucciones para matar a una rata por Fernando Sequeira

-¡Ya no sea cobarde y cuidado se me pone a llorar! ¡Y Dios guarde titubea! Ya usted está grandecito, pórtese como un hombre.

Los ojos del niño se humedecieron y la boca de su estómago tembló como si un viento fuerte huracaneara en él. No hay peor miedo para alguien que el miedo a lo que no puede enfrentar por culpa de la moral, de la religión y de la herencia de la sangre.

-¿Ya tiene listo todo? ¿Y diay? ¿En qué lo tengo? A ver, primero lo primero, saque el veneno. ¿Cómo que cuál? ¡Ese de ahí! No empiece a jugar de idiota, ¿acaso no lee la etiqueta? ¡Agarre eso bien y cuidado se le riega, vea que esa carajada es cara! ¡Si llora lo arreo a fajazos, para que llore por algo!

Pero él llora, llora como todo hombre, como cualquier ser humano. Llora de rabia y de miedo, por ser él y por su padre. Llora porque la repetición de la palabra lo hace sentirse inútil; porque no es perfecto, aunque nadie pueda serlo.

-Déjese de mariconadas, que yo no crie a una chiquita. Póngase recto, va a asesinar, hágalo seguro.

Ese día, frente al cuerpo grande de su padre, el niño recibiría instrucciones para aprender a matar una rata. Sería la primera vez que quitara una vida, y probablemente solo una de muchas. Después de todo es solo un niño, moldeable y manipulable.

Al saber que mataría sintió como si los tejidos de su rostro se voltearan y no pudo evitar abrir grandes los ojos. Palideció. El niño ya no quería seguir, no quería ser parte de eso. ¿Por qué no estaba más bien jugando? Si tan solo fuera fácil huir de su padre. Pero era su padre. Su palabra era santa orden, su voluntad era la voluntad de todos los miembros de la casa.

La espera era larga. Al niño le dolían las piernas porque su padre no lo dejaba acomodarse en otra posición: si se movía, la espantaría. ¡Pero si ni siquiera está cerca! ¿Por qué debía presenciar la muerte? ¿Por qué verificar con la mirada lo que era mejor evitar? Es mejor vivir suponiendo, enterrar en santo funeral el cadáver cuando aparezca, pero no mirar a la rata agonizar. Es un peso menos en la conciencia.

-¡Ahí está! Quédese quieto porque si no la asusta. ¡Ya! ¡Ya! ¡Se lo está comiendo! Ya va a ver cómo estira la pata. Primero va a respirar más rápido y a caminar desorientada. En un rato le empieza a sangrar el hocico y después va a vomitar sangre. ¡Ve! Ya se atontó la bichilla. ¿Que si le duele? ¡Qué va! Es una rata, las ratas no sienten. Ella solo se va quedando dormida. Y si sintiera qué importa. ¿Quién la tiene naciendo rata?

Pasó como profetizó su padre. Con cada respiración de la rata el niño sentía la cuchillada cada vez más profunda en su alma. ¿Por haber matado ya no irá al cielo? Es su culpa, por hacer caso. En los programas que ve en la tele los niños se oponen y hacen lo justo, pero él tiene miedo de que su papá le pegue. El niño no quiere matar, él quiere hacer lo que cree correcto, pero el pánico es tanto que se toma su tiempo para prepararle a la rata su última cena y mirar traidor su agonía.

La rata, con el hocico lleno de sangre, cayó y su respiración atenuó hasta que el vello de su abdomen dejó de moverse. En ese momento se cumplió el inicio de la pena del niño, y tan solo el preludio del momento que marcaría el resto de su vida.

-Eso era todo, carajo. ¡Lo hizo bien! Así me gusta. ¿Ve? Yo sabía que había criado un buen carajillo.

Y así fue, por unos momentos el padre estuvo orgulloso de su hijo, pero una rata más, una cría minúscula de ojos grandes se asomó desde el agujero y caminó dudosa hasta el cuerpo de su madre. Lo olfateó, dio vueltas y lo empujó con su hocico, pero la rata grande ya no respondía.

-Ah, no jodás, ¿hay más? Ah, pero si esa es una ratilla, ha de tener como dos o tres semanas… ¿Cómo que qué? Di, mátela. ¿Que por qué? ¡Porque es una rata! ¿Necesita más motivo?… ¿Y a mí qué putas me importa que sea bebé?

Envenenar era una cosa, pero usar el propio cuerpo para cegar la vida de un infante era otra cosa. El niño era ya un asesino, su primer crimen aún borboteaba sangre caliente, y se veía obligado a cometer un pecado aún más grande sin haber superado el trauma del primero. Como todo buen primerizo, no sabía qué hacer.

-Di, no sé, májela… ¿Cómo que pobrecita? Ay, no se me ponga en esas. Tome, tome esta pala y péguele… ¡Que le pegue! ¡O le arrea usted o los arreo yo a los dos! ¡Es una hijueputa rata! Si la deja viva va a crecer y va a ser otra plaga. ¡Dele!

Golpe.

-Uuuy, carajo. No la mató. Qué mierda, le deformó el cráneo pero no se murió. Dele otra vez. Dele.

Golpe. Llora como un hombre.

Golpe. Llora con rabia, odia a su padre, odia no ser esa rata.

Golpe. Se aferra con fuerza a la pala. Acomoda su cuerpo para voltearse y cambiar su objetivo en cualquier momento, destrozar el cráneo de su padre, que su madre corra a él con sus brazos abiertos y vivan felices para siempre.

-No dude, siga dándole hasta que se muera.

Golpe. Es capaz. La orfandad no es tan mala si se compara con esto. Está decidido, y a pesar de ser un niño tiene las fuerzas suficientes para matarlo. ¿O no? De por sí ya sabe matar, su padre le enseñó. Matará. Con todo el pánico que puede tener matará a su padre. Tiembla de rabia, dispuesto a matar a la mayor rata de su vida. Y no le importa qué pase luego, le importa el ahora. Golpe.

-¡Puta! Le sacó los ojos. Y todavía respira. Deje, deme esa vara a mí, va a ver cómo se mata una rata a palazos.

-¡No!

Golpe. Del padre al hijo. Lo abofeteó por cuestionarlo y por débil. Su padre le arrebató su pala y su impulso en un instante. Ya en el suelo, llorando y desesperanzado, el niño perdió la única iniciativa segura de su vida, y el padre terminó de matar a la rata, como si matara a cualquier niño.

-¿Ve? Ya está. Nada costaba matar un par de ratillas. Eso es básico para que vaya construyendo su masculinidad y deje de andar con mariconadas. Ya está grandecito, usted ya es un hombrecito, así que tiene que empezar a comportarse como tal. Ya en su momento usted le va a enseñar a sus chiquillos cómo matar a una rata.

Y entonces se fue, dejó al niño solo como fue común toda su infancia, solo con un cadáver y restos de sesos, piel y sangre de otro. Ese día, frente a los cadáveres pequeños de sus víctimas, el niño aprendió la mayor lección de su vida, y lo que en este mundo llaman “ser un hombre”.

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Fernando Sequeira (San José, Costa Rica, 1993), seudónimo de Fernando Montero, estudiante de posgrado en Literatura Latinoamericana de la Universidad de Costa Rica. Actualmente habita en Ecuador y labora de manera independiente realizando revisiones filológicas. Ha cursado talleres de dramaturgia en el Taller Nacional de Teatro, Teor/ética y el Teatro Giratablas, pero su producción gira alrededor de la narrativa breve. Asimismo, ha publicado cuentos en revistas digitales de Costa Rica y Nicaragua.

Madison by Ted Morrissey

The storm had passed, and brilliant daylight streamed through the separation of the window curtains. A bar of yellow light fell across the pillows to his left and along his neck. He discovered it was merely bright, with no warmth whatsoever. He’d had a couple of hours of restless sleep, literally so, it seemed: sleep without rest. His mind was scattered among the various pieces of the past twenty-four hours. He thought of Beth, whose life circumstances remained behind a veil, and of Katie, who had not sent a follow-up text. There was the single question, the single expression of concern, and that was their only communication in days. And what of Elizabeth Winters? When he’d reconnected to the Web, he was alerted that someone had already uploaded the 753 words—the 753 jpgs of tattooed words—to Elizabeth Winters’s website, the prologue to Meditations on the Word, but of course in no coherent order. No one knew the order, said Marian Tate, except their now-deceased author.

So among the chaotic swirl of his thoughts was the idea of making sense of the 753 words. No doubt a number of Elizabeth Winters devotees, or the merely curious, or the morbidly curious, had been at work on the puzzle for hours already. He imagined the years—decades—of articles and conference papers devoted to deciphering the prologue. Like Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, the prologue would gain a notoriety, an infamy due to its unintelligibleness. However, Joyce’s opaqueness was deliberate, whereas Elizabeth Winters’s was tragic.

Unless of course it was a hoax, a publicity stunt, which he apparently didn’t believe, for lying there in the comfortable hotel bed he felt the weight of mourning, of bereavement. Unless what he felt was the loss of Katie, or the anticipation of losing his connection to Beth. Perhaps it was the grief of losing all three, a trinity of loss.

He knew he should try to sleep but it seemed pointless. A shower and coffee sounded better at the moment. It wasn’t quite 7:30. In the shower he noticed a touch of redness, pinkness really, around the injection site on his hip. It didn’t hurt or itch, and in fact was barely noticeable even when he was looking for it. He wondered about the piece of Elizabeth Winters’s novel he carried under his skin—a story he would never know. He was connected in a unique way to the other bearers of the tale: the ultimate book club but one that could have no discussion regarding the substance of the book, only vehement speculation. He realized he’d been conjuring narratives of the prologue—almost subconsciously—based on the few words he knew: his and Beth’s words, and the words of his nighttime confederates who tried to find Elizabeth Winters, almost literally characters in search of an author, the surreal made real. The prologues he conjured tended to coalesce into a story about a prep school, something Pencey Prep-like: a place from which all Holden Caufields must escape, its being the natural order of things.

When he returned home, he’d print out the word images and toy with them over time. He imagined frothy debates in hotel bars about the prologue for years, with each verbal pugilist (perhaps at times actual pugilists) convinced his reconstruction was correct. He recalled other literary enigmas. When he was working on his master’s he took a course in Medieval literature, and one of the works they studied was Beowulf. The Anglo-Saxonist who taught the class professed that Anglo-Saxon had practically become a lost language by the time scholars began translating Beowulf into modern English at the dawn of the nineteenth century. The first stabs at translation got the story mostly wrong, and it wasn’t until the 1830s—after more than a quarter century of steady scholarly effort—that they felt they had an accurate understanding of the story. Even more infamous than the Wake, which spawned reading societies around the world devoted to deciphering the Irish author’s final tome.

Would there be such passion devoted to Elizabeth Winters’s final work, Meditations on the Word?

As he was dressing into his jeans and a navy pullover, he noticed that the pad of paper on the bed’s side table was written on. A couple of steps closer and he saw what’d been written: pupils—. He looked about the room and of course no one was there. Could someone have slipped into his room while he was showering and written his word on the hotel pad? He supposed it was possible, but who besides Beth and a handful of people even knew his word? And what would be the point of the prank, other than to give him a sense of uncanniness?

He sat on the unmade bed and picked up the pad. The word was almost certainly written with the cheap hotel pen which lay next to the pad. The handwriting looked familiar. He picked up the pen and flipped to a clean sheet in the pad. He wrote his word as naturally as he could manage. He flipped between the two words: they were virtually identical. He must’ve written on the pad but had no recollection of it. Writing in his sleep, something he’d never done before. As an undergrad he’d experimented briefly with Kerouac’s technique of continuing the plotlines of his dreams upon waking, resulting in Kerouac’s Book of Dreams, but all he gained was a stressful way to wake up in the morning because most of the time he didn’t recall his dreams vividly enough to pick up their narrative threads. The thought that he’d written pupils— himself disturbed him more than the idea of a stranger stealing into his room to scribble it: he, in essence, was the stranger.

He reminded himself how exhausted he’d been when he and Beth returned from the donut shop. On the brief walk he began to see strange shapes on the periphery of his vision, undefined objects that closed in on him suddenly then just as suddenly disappeared. He attributed it to sleep deprivation as he walked alongside Beth, who was strangely quiet. Perhaps she had finally crashed. He felt himself to be in a half-asleep, dreamy state. For a second or two he might think it was Katie at his side before recalling more lucidly where he was and with whom. In a moment the process would repeat. While walking with Katie he once or twice nearly reached over to take her hand.

Or did he at one point hold Beth’s hand? Seated on the hotel bed, remembering, it almost seemed he had, but surely not. He would recall it with certainty if he had. He looked again at pupils— written on the pad in his own hand, it would seem, even though he had no recollection of it. Being certain of anything appeared unwise. He couldn’t recall undressing and crawling under the bed covers.

His cellphone face flared to life to let him know he had a text. Katie? He checked. Beth: Hopefully you’re sound asleep but if not you want to do breakfast? Developments.

He typed, I’m awake. Hotel bistro? When?

Immediately. Sounds good. 20?

K

He didn’t need twenty minutes to slip on his Nikes. He picked up his phone and iPad and headed for the lobby for coffee and to catch the headlines before Beth arrived. In the elevator he looked at his reflection in its mirrored interior. He probably should shave before the memorial. Or maybe he would grow a beard, something he hadn’t done for years. The timing seemed off since it was nearly spring, but something felt right about the not-rightness. He was feeling the rough stubble of his chin as the doors opened to the lobby.

He went directly the bistro, where only about a half dozen tables or booths were occupied. The one where he and Beth had had their Irish coffee was open so he took it, sitting on the opposite side so that he could watch for Beth.

There appeared to be one waiter working, Mario, said his name badge. He ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso and told Mario he was expecting one more for breakfast. Mario left two menus, single laminated sheets.

He opened Safari on his iPad to check the morning news. The world no longer considered Elizabeth Winters’s death significant, not with a bomb threat at the Met in New York, a school shooting in Tennessee, an airliner landing on the wrong runway at LAX, the Dow diving nearly a hundred points, a hostage situation at a market in Madrid, an assassination attempt in Syria, a tsunami with Tokyo in its sights, a power outage affecting a hundred million in India. . .  .

He had to search Elizabeth Winters to locate any updated information. There was little to report. They’d released the name of the other fatality in the crash, the pilot Meredith Overturf. Wait, what? Meredith Overturf? It was the name of one of the central characters in Orion. He quickly read the news report. There was no commenting on the connection. The nagging fear that it was all some elaborate (and cruel) hoax began to stir again. Beth had mentioned a development. Could this be it? Evidence of a hoax would be more than a development, however.

He decided to direct his attention elsewhere on his tablet: the weather, that’s always a good, utilitarian distraction. Warmer today, mid forties, but rain beginning by noon and lasting … basically forever. He was about to check his hometown forecast when Beth arrived. Hair pulled back, black yoga pants, zip-front sweater, red-orange, orange Nikes. She could’ve passed for a college student. She slid into the booth opposite him just as Mario was bringing his latte.

That smells wonderful, she said, waving some of the espresso aroma toward her face.

Low-fat latte, an extra shot, he said.

She opened her eyes. I’ll have one too, please.

Here. He pushed the colorful, overlarge cup and saucer toward her and nodded at Mario to bring another.

Really? said Beth. You’re a prince. She put her hands around the warm cup and blew on the foam froth before sipping. Oh my God—that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Thank you. She sipped again.

Let me guess, he said, the development is that the pilot who died in the crash is named Meredith Overturf. Pretty suspicious.

That does sound suspicious, but look up Meredith Overturf Aviation Magazine. She sipped, giving him a moment.

The first item that popped up was a story in Aviation Magazine about a private pilot and his relationship with an eccentric author. Apparently the pilot discovered he had the same name as a character in the novel Orion by Elizabeth Winters. He contacted her through her website, not expecting to hear form her, but she did reply, which began a correspondence then a friendship, said the article. It turned out they actually lived fairly close to one another. Meredith had flown Elizabeth Winters to some readings and events in California, Washington, Nevada and Arizona (including, most likely, her infamous reading in Sedona). The article was nearly seven years old.

So, the pilot had the same name as the planetarium director in Orion. He was finished skimming.

Yup, so not as suspicious as it sounds. Weird, and tragic, but not suspicious.

They took a moment to look over the single-page menus. When Mario returned with the other latte they placed their orders.

Veggie omelet, and toss in some turkey sausage, said Beth. I need some protein—and the fruit cup.

Mario didn’t bother to write down the order.

Plain omelet, he said, with a bowl of oatmeal, cinnamon and walnuts, please.

Mario nodded and left to put in their order.

So, the development?

Right. Beth adjusted her glasses, sliding them unnoticeably higher on her nose. I crashed for a couple of hours then I woke up super thirsty for a cold drink, so I tossed on some clothes and toddled down the hall to the machines for a bottle of water and some ice, and I ran into the Aussie, Here (whose real name, by the way, is Cameron, she adds parenthetically); he was just going to bed—they ended up admitting poor Deliberately for further observatons, so he and Too had come back to the hotel. Anyway, while they were waiting for their ride, a limousine service arrives and who should saunter out (well, saunter is my word, I don’t think Cameron used such a freighted verb), who should saunter out of the ER doors and into the back of the limo? Marian Tate and the distinguished-looking guy, but no third person. She must’ve been admitted to the hospital too, or she left some other way.

Interesting.

It is interesting. And that’s not all, Beth said almost under her breath before taking a sip of latte.

What?

Ok, it’s more weird than plain old interesting, and maybe a little creepy—or maybe nothing, just me being overtired. It did kind of freak me out for a while though.

What?

So I got my water and ice and was having a nice cold drink before going back to bed and hopefully sleeping for a couple more hours. I put my glass on the nightstand and I notice something is written on the hotel notepad—

Let me guess: the word radiant. Your word.

Holy crap. That’s right.

Holy crap indeed. And it’s your handwriting.

Yeah, maybe, I guess. I don’t know. Otherwise somebody came into my room and wrote it while I was talking to the Aussie. It really weirded me out. I thought about calling hotel security. Instead I poked around my room. I even did the classic horror-movie procedure and looked behind the shower curtain. I’ve always wondered, What would a chick do if there really was an axe-murderer hiding behind the curtain? Pretend not to notice before casually backing out of the bathroom, whistling a show tune for effect, and then making a mad dash to the door? What, are you clairvoyant?

No—it’s just that I had an uncannily similar experience. After taking a shower I saw that someone—me I guess—had written pupils on the hotel notepad.

No way. And you’re positive it’s your handwriting.

Not a hundred-percent positive but pretty darn positive. What about you? Your know for sure it’s your handwriting?

Like you, pretty sure. I mean, the alternative doesn’t make any sense: someone knows all the Logos’ words, someone who’s a master forger and accomplished at B&E? And to what purpose other than to give us all the willies?

True, true, all true. I suppose we had essentially identical experiences yesterday and were more or less equally exhausted. I suppose we could’ve both scribbled our words on the pads while still mostly asleep, asleep enough not to recall it the next morning. It’s possible. Stranger coincidences happen all the time.

You don’t sound convinced.

I’m working on it. It’s a process.

You don’t think we’re being programmed by the chip, surely. Do you? Beth asked.

I don’t know. No . . . and yes. Not in some science-fictiony way. But clearly bearing the chip inside of us, and having had the experiences we’ve had so far because of it, plus the knowledge that we’ll never know the story that we carry along with us, literally to our graves—all of that has in a sense been programming us, or re-programming us. But, no, I don’t think there’s some deliberate and mysterious revision of our brainwaves happening. I don’t think.

Beth seemed to consider it all for a moment while she sipped. I trust you were able to change your train ticket.

To five o’clock, which might be pushing it if the memorial goes past four. I may have to step out a bit early.

A silence blossomed like a bomb at the end of his statement: the concrete reality of their parting suddenly perched there on the table between them, as ominous as a darkly contoured thunderhead.

Mario brought their breakfasts.

They ate in the shadow of that silence for a while. He wondered if she sensed it too, the weight of their leave-taking. He thought she did.

Well, said Beth, we have several hours before the memorial. Normally Sundays are all about The New York Times, especially the Book Review, and more coffee than could possibly be good for me. But here we are in the big city. Surely there is plenty to do, even today. A great indie bookstore to pillage, something like that. What do you think?

A great bookstore sounds, well, great. We have one fair indie bookstore back home.

In Madison, we’re in better bookstore shape than that, but I’m up for being wowed.

His tablet was next to him on the table. He entered the passcode then pushed it toward Beth. Here, it’s your brainstorm. You should have the honor of choosing.

What a gentleman. She put her fork down long enough to type in a search, then returned to eating while she studied the results.

Meanwhile, the distraction afforded him the opportunity to study her. As he watched her scrolling and reading, a quizzical determination about her sculpted brow, absently replacing a strand of hair behind her ear, a life with Beth unfolded in his imagination like a game board which had been folded down to a square inside the box, now taken out and revealing the intricate mysteries of the contest, geometric section by geometric section.

Madison. A place he’d never been. It seemed a place of farm fields carefully stitched onto hills, a place where cows, black and white and sonorously belled, were forever lowing. Sky and hill met in a perfect pleat, perfect enough to tear-fill Betsy Ross’s patriotic eyes. The blue was blue, and the green green. There were coffeehouses and bookstores, and coffeebookhousestores, some with eclectic foci, one, perhaps, named for Bukowski, which only trafficked in aggressive poetry, another only in the cozy mystery, Murder by the Mug or Quilts and Culprits, yet another the indie store’s indie store, bearing only the original owner’s name, now long dead, Walcott’s or Wallace’s, est. 1947, a bookshop so serious readers must sign a waiver before browsing among the dangerously weighty titles, written by authors who have only coteries and cult devotees, writers who would slit their wrists, consumed with shame, if one of their works stumbled onto the Times bestsellers list. Art galleries, too, of course, and local theatre (-re, not -er), and free lectures at the university by award-winning economists and mathematicians and entomologists who’ve discovered a new species of flea, one that only lives on a particular species of bat which only lives in a single cave deeply recessed in a mountain pass among the Andes, only rarely accessible to humans and then only at great risk. And he and Beth would attend the openings, ask provocative questions at the readings, hold hands in the lecture halls, supportively attend each other’s events as their careers bloomed always-upward like sunflowers, their creative chi nourished in a warm, lilac-scented bath of affection and sex through the years. And connecting them at the cosmic level was their mutual connection to Logos. Online discussions with the Logos community, one of the smallest and most select on the planet—regional get-togethers, national and international conferences, a palpable spirit of camaraderie based on the words inked into their derma and deposited beneath it. There would be a scholarly journal, Logos Notes or The Elizabeth Winters Quarterly, he and Beth would be regular contributors, or guest editors. They shared it all, births in the Logos community, professional milestones, and each devastating death throughout the years as time marched toward the release of Elizabeth Winters’s greatest book, Meditations on the Word.

This looks like the place: Orville’s. I saw a woman at Revelation yesterday carrying an Orville’s bag. I didn’t know what it was. All I could think of was popcorn.

Sounds good . . . the place, not popcorn—well popcorn too.

Great. It says they open at eight on Sunday. I need to go to my room for a bit—meet you in the lobby in, say, forty-fiveish minutes?

That’ll work. I trust the idea is to return before checkout at noon.

Oh hell. I nearly forgot about that pesky detail, but, yeah, we’ll have to be mindful. The timing isn’t great, is it? With the memorial at two. I probably better pack while I’m at it, just in case. Better give me more like an hour then. It ain’t easy being a chick.

I sympathize. An hour.

Mario brought their checks.

I got this, he said. Lunch is on you.

Fair enough. Beth drank down the last of her latte and left to return to her room.

Mario used a handheld to read his card at the table and send him a receipt.

He didn’t need an hour to pack—something closer to five minutes—so he had Mario add a black coffee to the bill before paying. When it arrived he took the mug of Hawaiian to the lobby to drink in a comfortable chair while skimming through his tablet.

He felt the impulse to write, though that wasn’t normally a Sunday-morning thing. It didn’t feel like Sunday morning. He was out of sync, in many ways. He wrote in the mornings, yes, Monday through Friday, doggedly. If for some reason several days elapsed during which he didn’t write (while traveling, for example), he’d become anxious and even a little irritable. The nearest sensation was being horny, the ever-present itch to have sex for which there was only one relief. If he’d been celibate from writing for a few days, the urge to touch pen to paper began to burn in him. Composing creatively was a kind of meditation which kept him centered. He filtered the world through the point of his pen and the inky vortex it created on the paper. Absent the act of writing, the thoughts and feelings, the impressions, the signs and symbols began to well up in his psyche, swimming furiously but contained, seeking the only outlet that would serve their purpose.

This morning he felt especially restless. He imagined the chip beneath his skin as a kind of stimulant but instead of stimulating muscle growth or hair regeneration, it spurred language production. The Logos Project had literally planted words beneath his skin, and they were growing and multiplying, doubling, tripling and quadrupling in linguistic tumult, verbs and nouns, adverbs, adjectives, gerunds and infinitives, all manner of phrases and clauses coursing through his blood seeking some weakened barrier to breach. That’s how it felt.

He drank his coffee and tried to breathe evenly. He wasn’t in a position to write exactly, but he thought of something which might somewhat satisfy the craving. On his tablet, he went to the Logos site and began downloading the tattoo-word jpgs. Just fifteen for now. It was unlikely that these fifteen words went together at all—in fact, it was highly likely that they did not—but toying with them was a start. He opened a new memo on the tablet’s memopad and pecked out the group of words in the same random order in which he’d downloaded their images. Then he set about trying to arrange them in an order that made some sense.

dive                           hark                           gold

strange                       under                         bones

teeth                          flood                          gently

unfold                       toes                            keep

hourly                       they                           rats

gold teeth gently unfold bones under rats they hourly keep

rats hourly dive under flood toes gold bones

gold bones keep strange rats under flood dive

gently gold flood rats hourly

teeth bones hark strange toes unfold gold rats

teeth bones keep gold rats

dive under strange flood hourly

dive under gold flood gently

they dive toes under rats

they unfold toes under gold rats

teeth hourly gently keep flood rats gold

under bones dive strange teeth rats

rats toes gently keep strange good teeth under flood bones

hark gold bones flood under strange dive teeth hourly

The random words took on more and more meaning the longer he toyed with them. Nouns put on the mantel of adjectives, adjectives verbs. He recalled the Zombie Poetry Project website a colleague had developed, zombie as in insects who take over a dead host’s body, reanimating them into something different, some other species altogether. The way it worked, on the site, you typed a poem—any poem, a classic or an original poem you’d just written—and the zombie program chopped it into bits, reatomized them, absorbed them into its ever-expanding database, then combined parts of your poem with bits and pieces of others’ poems—to arrive at a different poem entirely, one in which you could recognize, here and there, your original, but the randomizing and juxtapositioning with other texts cast even the recognizable words and phrases into altered shades of meaning, lighting and obscuring contours of the original text—perhaps calling attention to possibilities of revision if you were working with an original poem. Or sometimes this newly created zombie poem was a thing of beauty or a thing of resonance itself, an object worth keeping in the world. If nothing else, you’d altered the database’s DNA, changed it forever with the addition of your text, now in a position to migrate to others’ poems, infecting them and zombiefying them with traces of you.

He received a text. Katie: Still ok?

It wasn’t like her to be so staccato in her text messaging. The altered tone of her texts was the kith and kin of her altered tone face to face: the filter of texting only amplified her confusion, her teetering between versions of their relationship. Only twenty-four hours ago signs of her indecisiveness about their breaking up would’ve been heartening. Now he didn’t know what he felt.

He sensed his own wavering between possible futures, none of which was fully in his control. He didn’t believe Katie was toying with him, leading him on—but if they resumed their relationship, what would be different? For that matter, what was wrong in the first place?

He heard the Norwegian’s pleasantly blond baritone. Too was speaking to the young woman at the front desk, asking about the hotel’s shuttle service to the airport. Apparently he wouldn’t be staying for the memorial.

When Too finished his conversation and turned, he noticed him in the lobby. He strode over, smiling broadly, a lumberjack about to fell a tree.

I would guess that you and Radiant would be sleeping still.

I would guess that, too . . . Too, but it’s not the case. We just had breakfast. He stood to speak with him, but still had to cast his gaze up. He considered mentioning the bookstore plan but felt protective of his outing with Beth. He didn’t want anyone else tagging along. Too’s itinerary would likely prevent his joining them; still, he was reluctant to advertise their plans. Instead: You must’ve gotten next to no sleep. How’s Deliberately?

In truth I haven’t been to bed. I should be at the airport to check in. I’ll be sleeping soundly on my flight. They admitted Deliberately, so he is still there. His wife is flying in later today. There was something they didn’t care for in the bloodwork and wanted to run other tests.

That’s terrible. Hope it turns out to be nothing.

Indeed. Well, I must pack a bag and drink some coffee.

Of course. Have a safe flight.

Safe travels to you as well. Let’s stay in touch—remember the hashtag, EWLogos. At Twitter I’m BigSwedeToo.

Thought you were from Norway.

I am but BigNorwegianToo doesn’t have the same, what, resonance?

True. It’s the assonance, the internal rhyme. I’ll find you.

Too clapped him on the shoulder then strode toward the elevators.

He watched him enter one just as its twin was opening. Beth emerged, having traded her yoga pants for jeans. He stood still as she walked toward him, buttoning her coat and adjusting her scarf and hair.

Ready? she asked. It was a single word but there was something about her tone that seemed changed, not so much an added coolness but the absence of chirpy warmth, communicated in her face (sterile of expression) and the way she held herself (stiff and guarded) as much as in her voice (tone of simple interrogation).

We should be able to grab a cab out front. He motioned for her to lead the way, with a hint of gallantry, which would have been more exaggerated if Beth weren’t suddenly different. Maybe he only imagined a change or maybe the events of the past day caught up to her. Perhaps the bookstore would restore the brightness to her mood. Already, instantly, he was thinking of the day, the moment, when Katie was no longer Katie, when the edge entered her voice: the moment she became something of a stranger. And the change occurred due to no visible stimulus. Nothing upsetting had happened between them, and as far as he could see nothing upsetting had happened to Katie at all. The shift in the tectonic plates of her emotions had taken place unseen, caused by some observation, some deduction, some decision about the world; and she wasn’t inclined to let him in on it, whatever it was. In fact, when he first broached the subject, she denied anything was wrong, even that anything had changed.

Still, the iciness wouldn’t completely thaw, though its edges became less sharply frigid. He sometimes would compare old messages to recent ones to reassure himself he wasn’t imagining her change in tone. For one, Katie’s messages had frequently been spiced with sexual innuendo before the chill.

You’ve been in my thoughts, thinking about what you can enter. LUMU.

Rainy day. Meet you in bed. LUMU.

Hope your head is feeling better—I could work wonders with it.

TGIF time—F for Friday optional.

Enjoyed the shower this morning. Girls have never been this clean. LUMU.

Then one day the flirtations just stopped. Katie’s messages became as mundane as market reports (soybeans up, pork futures down). For a time he tried to initiate the sexy exchanges (efforts that had always been repaid in kind), but they were met with banality or not answered at all. When he tried to discuss with her what was happening, he mentioned the altered tone of her texts (almost like exhibits in a trial). Katie insisted he was imagining the change. Over time he slipped into the rhythms of this cooled iteration of their relationship. When he thought of before, it was like recalling another relationship, with someone else. Meanwhile even this tepid kind of coupling further crumbled. Katie wanted something—something that wasn’t this, them—but she couldn’t articulate it, even to herself it seemed.

The recollections played on the taxi’s window glass as he and Beth sped through the city streets, still oddly quiet and white, in spite of the large raindrops that plummeted from the colorless sky. Before long the snow would be washed gray by the rain; then washed away.

He looked at Beth, who was watching out her window and likely reflecting inwardly also. Reflections of a similar theme to his own? Her left hand rested on the seat. He thought of holding it. On the taxi’s black seat, her hand appeared whiter than the white sleeve of her coat—not cadaverous or pallid, however: baptismally white, clean and fresh, unblemished. He wanted to touch her skin, its warmth or its coolness—it didn’t matter—but he had no pretense for holding her hand, for connecting to her in so intimate a way.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the bookstore. He swiped his card to pay, then they hurried to the maroon-colored awning through the big drops of rain. Inside, Orville’s was heaven: café, bakery, books, books, books. A significant portion of the main floor was devoted to the café, but there was a half second-floor fully devoted, it appeared, to print. To their right were stacks of Sunday papers, luring them toward the café area. The fresh ink of the newspapers was intoxicating. One wanted to lay one’s face on the cool sheets, cool and smooth, and huff the powerful aroma.

First things first, said Beth. I need to keep my caffeine buzz going. As she passed the stacks of newsprint, arranged neatly in wooden bins, she let her fingers trail across the New York Times. Tempting, my pet, but you’re waiting for me at home.

It was good to see her more animated—more her old self, the Beth he’d known less than a day—yet still there was something different. He didn’t follow immediately but stood watching her, thinking of her as an odd portrait, one captured from behind, framed by the quaint interior of Orville’s. His mind eased into interpretation, analyzing the subject via the composition within the frame: Beth’s white coat, among the darker elements of the store, stood out as a snowy scape, or perhaps, even, an imperceptibly inching glacier. Given the point of view, it was impossible to say if she were drifting away from or toward greater isolation. Not isolation, he revised: greater autonomy, independence—the clearly defined lines of the central figure suggested power and strength of will, not mere drift due to capricious currents.

Suddenly point-of-view reversed, and he had the vertiginous sensation it was he who was moving, sliding backward. He caught himself on the nearest stack of papers, the Tribune. As his balance returned he noted the front-page story about Elizabeth Winters’s death and the Logos Project. In addition to the author’s portrait there was a crowd shot of Logos waiting in the snow to enter the Dance Center. He and Beth were the focal point of the photo. He’d had no awareness their picture was taken. The photographer may have been quite a distance off using a powerful lens. However it happened, there they were, immortalized, forever linked to the event.

He wanted to tell Beth but she’d already gotten in line for her coffee. Maybe he’d point it out later. He joined her in line.

After they got their French roasts, they began drifting among the aisles and aisles of books, most of which were displayed cover facing out. He was on the lookout for unfamiliar titles and authors, yes, but he also liked to find favorites among the stacks as spotting them provided a certain reassurance about the world: it was still a place wherein lived Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, Slaughter-House Five and Breakfast of Champions, The Old Man and the Sea and Death in the Afternoon, as well as all the Austens and Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. In the poetry section, Ariel, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, Howl, Mountain Interval, The Dream of a Common Language, Leaves of Grass, and The Waste Land. He found the Elizabeth Winters section, and it was nearly sold out. A single copy of Orion remained and a handful of her early collection, Wirds of a Feather. As he watched, a woman picked up a copy of Wirds and headed toward the registers. On the one hand, he was gratified that more and more readers had suddenly discovered Elizabeth Winters, but he also felt a subtly hostile possessiveness of her and at the macabre audacity of those who only came to appreciate her upon her death. Elizabeth Winters’s devotees were something between a coterie and a cult. Death threatened to make her conventionally popular. At least the Logos would maintain her uniqueness among American authors, among all authors.

Without thinking why, he set down his cup of coffee and reached out with both hands to touch the covers of Orion and Wirds of a Feather, which felt like completing a circuit with Elizabeth Winters’s words swimming in his circulatory system, though the encrypted prose remained embedded at this hip. Still, he experienced a sensation akin to electricity flowing from Wirds to Orion through him, perhaps even recoding his DNA, turning him into something other than what he had been, something more he hoped.

He released the books, or they released him, and he moved on to further browsing with his coffee.

He turned a corner and ran into Beth, who was studying a paperback. He thought of not interrupting but she said without looking at him, William Gass, Fiction and the Figures of Life—I think I’ve heard about this book. Are you familiar?

Only marginally, I’m sorry to admit. I have one of my grad seminars read and respond to “The Artist and Society,” one of the pieces.

The final piece. I just saw it. Beth turned to it. Good?

I think so. It’s about the purpose of art, writing as an art form, or what its purpose ought to be. Gass wrote it during the Vietnam era but, to me, it seems relevant to any time, to all times. It’s universal and eternal.

Hmm. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Stay here for now, sweet book. Mama will probably be back.

Beth continued sipping and browsing. He wandered in a different direction. He came across a section of books grouped together because of their association with the city: novels and collections of poetry and fiction either set in the city or about the city or written by a local author. It was the store’s City Celebration section. There was Harrison Gale’s seminal collection, El Is for Loss and Other Poems, placed next to the poet who’d most inspired Gale, Carl Sandburg. Then there were the Bronzeville poets and writers, Gwendolyn Brooks prominent among them. And Richard Wright. He spied a copy of Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories. He felt a restlessness he hadn’t felt for a long while but knew well: it was the restlessness to write something noteworthy, something remarkable, something great. Not simply to write, to just get words on a page competently enough rendered to find publication somewhere. Rather, to produce something special, truly magnificent and powerful—something worthy of sitting here on these exalted shelves with Sandburg and Brooks and Wright and Gale, Hemingway and Cisneros. He felt the words welling in him, swimming, flailing for release into the world. Yet, it would not be a single seismic explosion of inspiration—some mythical Kerouacean geyser of prose—but a sustained period of creative intensity, over months, over years if necessary. Even still, he was antsy to begin. Here, perhaps? No, but on the train home. He would go to the dining car, where there were tables, and he would begin this great work, something about the city and Elizabeth Winters and the entanglement of lives. Would it be poetry or prose? Something that was both, and neither?

He would need something to begin his work. He scanned the bookstore and located the section of journals and pens . . . and there was Beth perusing them. Maybe she too had been inspired. He mused about this attraction he felt for Beth, if it had been something else all along: the beginning blossoming of his writing welling inside of him: this kindled passion for Beth was really a renewed urgency to create, to bring forth into the world something worthy of it. Worthier even. His desire to create a life with Beth—a thought barely beyond pure fantasy—was a displaced desire to create a work of literature for the ages.

He migrated toward the journals and notepads and pens. There were journals of varying sizes, some with lined pages, most with unlined. They had leather covers and cloth covers and covers of heavy, decorated boards. In some a vibrant ribbon could mark your place. There were all manner of pens: ballpoints, fountain, and calligraphy, in wood, plastic and metal. By the time he arrived at the section Beth had sauntered on. Her coat was over her arm so he couldn’t say for certain if she’d selected anything to purchase. He was attracted to the leatherbound journals, but they seemed too precious (as if one would be afraid of making a mistake). He selected an unlined clothboard journal in aqua blue and a gun-metal gray pen. He knew he could just as easily write his great work on a cheap Mead pad with a Pilot pen, as he always had, but he wanted to make a statement to himself: he wanted to mark a new commitment to his writing life. He didn’t need a Katie or a Beth to be complete, to be whole: he needed a revitalized artistic aspect of his life, he needed to be devoted to something that would last beyond him.

He glanced back at the section where he’d just been, the section devoted to the city’s authors and books. No one was there. In fact, there was an absence around it like a bubble. Elsewhere customers browsed, reading book jackets and pages opened to at random. There was a glossy poster of James Patterson, ballcapped and pseudo-sage, above a display of his mass-produced mysteries, blatantly co-written by one of his stable of co-authors; and bookstore patrons milled there especially thickly. The hum of activity, the hum of commerce, seemed particularly electric when juxtaposed with the small section devoted to city-connected authors. Readers clambered for James Patterson, not Richard Wright; for Janet Evanovich, not Gwendolyn Brooks; for Nora Roberts, not Ernest Hemingway. For him, it wasn’t simply a matter of not wanting to write for popular appeal: he literally didn’t know how: producing such banality was beyond him.

He drank from his cup, the coffee finally sufficiently cooled, and gripped his journal and pen more securely as he moved toward another unpopulated part of the store, a section devoted to the city’s university and independent presses. Here were the story and poetry collections, the novels, the monographs, and the art books that attracted almost no one’s attention. He noted the small presses’ names imprinted on the book’s spines: Tortoise, Twelve Winters, Woolfsword, Haymarket, Knee-Jerk, Artifice, Lake Street, Dancing Girl, Sundress, Agate, and (his instant favorite) Readerless Press (because of its brutal honesty). From this last press he perused a collection of prose poems, written and illustrated via collage by E. B. Bishop, whose enigmatic author’s note said only that she or he grew up in a small Midwestern town and attended the Art Institute. The unusual little book was titled Malcontent. The cover, rendered in shades of red, featured an unsettling image of a creature that was part crow and part human. He added the prose poems to the journal and pen to purchase.

He thought about what separated Elizabeth Winters from these avant-garde authors. How had she achieved a level of notoriety, of fame even? It helped that she’d emerged at a time when there was still some interest in writing worth reading. Also, she’d always lived in metropolises where she could cultivate devoted readers, due to her writing, yes, but also her charismatic personality, and—he had to admit to himself—her ability to promote her work. His thinking was dancing dangerously close to Katie’s criticism of Elizabeth Winters. The one distinction remained: Elizabeth Winters’s charisma and media savvy drew attention to her superior talent.

He came to the classic mysteries section: Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dick Francis, Dorothy Sayers, P. D. James, Dashiell Hammett. As a boy he’d liked mysteries—and it was his father’s genre of choice, which perhaps influenced his tastes—but as he matured he found the writing itself, divorced from the page-turning plots, was too basic: it was about providing information, clearly and succinctly, like newspaper accounts, detached entirely from artfully complex language. Every so often he would pick up a mystery, nostalgic for the comforting mood of his youthful reading, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed, the rag rug beneath and the pillow behind providing just the right amount of cushion; the book, with the smell and the feel of its pages, angled just so to catch the light from his desk lamp, angled just so; meanwhile knowing his father was in his room, stretched on his bed, reading too, a mystery, his after-dinner pastime.

He’d try to evoke all those feelings, but the book wouldn’t hold his attention, in spite of the murder or kidnaping or jewel heist. The language itself failed to engage him. In high school he discovered and devoured Kurt Vonnegut—Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions left their mark of course, as did Mother Night, Galapagos and Jailbird. It was Vonnegut’s genre bending that most appealed to him, and the author’s wit and wisdom.

In college it was Kerouac and the Beats, the lyricism of On the Road, which transitioned into the poetry of Mexico City Blues and Dr. Sax, leading naturally to Ginsberg’s Howl, hooking him on poetry just in time to switch his emphasis and initiate his tunneling backward into its tropes and traditions, its history and its heroes and heroines. By the time of his MFA he’d returned to the twentieth-century poets: Plath and Hughes, Heaney and Larkin, Lorca and Neruda, Nemerov and Giovanni, Gale and Wilson, Eliot, Rilke, Valéry, Bishop and Moore.

Then there was the poetic prose of Elizabeth Winters and her determination to do something different. If there was nothing more to do with language and its shape, according to narrative theory, then the new ground must be transmission. How will readers’ reception of a text affect their processing of it? And what if that text remains largely hidden and readers can only process the hint of it, its mere shadow on the surface? Elizabeth Winters seemed to want to take Hemingway’s iceberg principle, which dominated twentieth-century prose, to a new depth in the new century. Hemingway felt the characters’ stories—their motivations—should remain mostly below the surface of what appeared on the page, directing the action from the characters’ hidden depths. Elizabeth Winters went further: the narrative itself should disappear from view, leaving only its opaque outline for the reader, leaving their processing of the faintest fragments nearly the whole of the narrative itself.

He sat in a comfortable chair—with his coffee, and his newly purchased journal and pen and book of prose poems—considering it all as Elizabeth Winters’s last novel seethed beneath his skin.

Meanwhile Beth continued to browse about the store. It appeared she’d collected at least two books she intended to purchase.

He read the introduction to the prose poetry book in which the author attempted to clarify the murky genre of prose poetry. The very term, she or he said, communicated the cultural privileging of prose over poetry, evidenced by the fact that most people, even nonreaders—the aliterate—could name a few well-known novelists but the names of poets, especially still-living ones, would be much more of a challenge, especially if the names of children’s poets, Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, for example, were cordoned off. But, also, on its surface prose poetry appeared to be just prose. It tended to be parsed into paragraphs, if parsed at all, then separated into sentences, not stanzas and lines, the most readily visible indicators of poetry on the page. However, once one began reading, began processing, wrote the prose-poet in her or his introduction, then the poetry would (or should) dominate the textual landscape with its telltale tropes: alliteration, assonance, repetition, caesura, onomatopoeia, internal rhyme. Prose poetry was really mainly poetry—poetry masquerading as prose.

Why not then simply write a poem? (the author asked rhetorically) Because prose offers expansion opposed to ellipsis, the availability of more conspicuous connective tissue between images, and the opportunity for a hierarchy of ideas, layered in degrees of dominance as if by syntactic trowel.

Oriented chiefly as a poet, he was dubious of the final claims, but the form attracted him and he was willing to reserve judgment.

He watched Beth on the far side of the store. She had several more books under her arm and was still perusing. Perhaps she was shopping for her library as well. A figure crossed behind Beth, and he realized it was Beth: he’d been observing a look-alike, and side by side not even with that much similarity. He attributed his confusion to his need for more sleep.

He continued gazing at the pages of the prose poetry book’s introduction, but only gazing, not reading: the black letters on the off-white page, the uniformity of them, the abundance of them, all served to comfort him. A kind of textual security blanket, text-ile.

After a time—he couldn’t say how long—Beth was standing by his chair. Ready to check out? she asked. She’d retrieved the Gass after all, and two other books.

He rose in affirmation and they stepped in line for the cash registers. It should only take a minute or two, he surmised. The checkout employees were spritely and efficient, like Santa’s elves in grownup, bookstore form. He glanced toward Orwell’s front windows and realized he and Beth were reflected there, their ghostly images holding their books and cups of coffee. He wondered briefly if their ghosts had the same reading tastes.

Then a woman by the newspapers said, It’s you. You’re Logos. Her hand was resting on the Tribune’s front-page picture.

He realized they were standing in line in a more or less identical pose as the one depicted in the paper. Others were now staring at them, including the cash-register elves, momentarily fazed into inefficiency. You’re Logos, repeated the woman, whom he realized was the one he mistook for Beth. From here, now, with so little resemblance, the mistake was difficult to fathom. The woman was considerably older for one thing, and heavier set, perhaps at best a matronly version of Beth, or grandmatronly, perhaps a glimpse of the future Beth Winterberry.

Yes, said the younger Beth—we’re Logos. She patted her hip.

Interesting, said much-older Beth, colorlessly, and went about her business.

The elves returned to their task, their sprightliness reanimated. Everyone did. Yet the previous moment remained. Their sudden celebrity lingered like a scent, or the after-image of a dazzling flash. He and Beth were separate and apart from everyone in the shop who’d been within the sphere of their recognition. Suddenly three planes of people existed: those who didn’t know them at all, those who knew them now as Logos, and there was the plane wherein only he and Beth resided, the only one which felt to him normal and natural. He looked toward the window for their doppelgangers, to maybe double the population of their sparse plane, but something had changed—the light, or the angle from which he gazed, something—and their reflected selves had disappeared, as ghosts will, to be replaced by the rainy city sidewalk beyond, umbrellaed strangers now and then hurrying past.

Madison

The storm had passed, and brilliant daylight streamed through the separation of the window curtains. A bar of yellow light fell across the pillows to his left and along his neck. He discovered it was merely bright, with no warmth whatsoever. He’d had a couple of hours of restless sleep, literally so, it seemed: sleep without rest. His mind was scattered among the various pieces of the past twenty-four hours. He thought of Beth, whose life circumstances remained behind a veil, and of Katie, who had not sent a follow-up text. There was the single question, the single expression of concern, and that was their only communication in days. And what of Elizabeth Winters? When he’d reconnected to the Web, he was alerted that someone had already uploaded the 753 words—the 753 jpgs of tattooed words—to Elizabeth Winters’s website, the prologue to Meditations on the Word, but of course in no coherent order. No one knew the order, said Marian Tate, except their now-deceased author.

So among the chaotic swirl of his thoughts was the idea of making sense of the 753 words. No doubt a number of Elizabeth Winters devotees, or the merely curious, or the morbidly curious, had been at work on the puzzle for hours already. He imagined the years—decades—of articles and conference papers devoted to deciphering the prologue. Like Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, the prologue would gain a notoriety, an infamy due to its unintelligibleness. However, Joyce’s opaqueness was deliberate, whereas Elizabeth Winters’s was tragic.

Unless of course it was a hoax, a publicity stunt, which he apparently didn’t believe, for lying there in the comfortable hotel bed he felt the weight of mourning, of bereavement. Unless what he felt was the loss of Katie, or the anticipation of losing his connection to Beth. Perhaps it was the grief of losing all three, a trinity of loss.

He knew he should try to sleep but it seemed pointless. A shower and coffee sounded better at the moment. It wasn’t quite 7:30. In the shower he noticed a touch of redness, pinkness really, around the injection site on his hip. It didn’t hurt or itch, and in fact was barely noticeable even when he was looking for it. He wondered about the piece of Elizabeth Winters’s novel he carried under his skin—a story he would never know. He was connected in a unique way to the other bearers of the tale: the ultimate book club but one that could have no discussion regarding the substance of the book, only vehement speculation. He realized he’d been conjuring narratives of the prologue—almost subconsciously—based on the few words he knew: his and Beth’s words, and the words of his nighttime confederates who tried to find Elizabeth Winters, almost literally characters in search of an author, the surreal made real. The prologues he conjured tended to coalesce into a story about a prep school, something Pencey Prep-like: a place from which all Holden Caufields must escape, its being the natural order of things.

When he returned home, he’d print out the word images and toy with them over time. He imagined frothy debates in hotel bars about the prologue for years, with each verbal pugilist (perhaps at times actual pugilists) convinced his reconstruction was correct. He recalled other literary enigmas. When he was working on his master’s he took a course in Medieval literature, and one of the works they studied was Beowulf. The Anglo-Saxonist who taught the class professed that Anglo-Saxon had practically become a lost language by the time scholars began translating Beowulf into modern English at the dawn of the nineteenth century. The first stabs at translation got the story mostly wrong, and it wasn’t until the 1830s—after more than a quarter century of steady scholarly effort—that they felt they had an accurate understanding of the story. Even more infamous than the Wake, which spawned reading societies around the world devoted to deciphering the Irish author’s final tome.

Would there be such passion devoted to Elizabeth Winters’s final work, Meditations on the Word?

As he was dressing into his jeans and a navy pullover, he noticed that the pad of paper on the bed’s side table was written on. A couple of steps closer and he saw what’d been written: pupils—. He looked about the room and of course no one was there. Could someone have slipped into his room while he was showering and written his word on the hotel pad? He supposed it was possible, but who besides Beth and a handful of people even knew his word? And what would be the point of the prank, other than to give him a sense of uncanniness?

He sat on the unmade bed and picked up the pad. The word was almost certainly written with the cheap hotel pen which lay next to the pad. The handwriting looked familiar. He picked up the pen and flipped to a clean sheet in the pad. He wrote his word as naturally as he could manage. He flipped between the two words: they were virtually identical. He must’ve written on the pad but had no recollection of it. Writing in his sleep, something he’d never done before. As an undergrad he’d experimented briefly with Kerouac’s technique of continuing the plotlines of his dreams upon waking, resulting in Kerouac’s Book of Dreams, but all he gained was a stressful way to wake up in the morning because most of the time he didn’t recall his dreams vividly enough to pick up their narrative threads. The thought that he’d written pupils— himself disturbed him more than the idea of a stranger stealing into his room to scribble it: he, in essence, was the stranger.

He reminded himself how exhausted he’d been when he and Beth returned from the donut shop. On the brief walk he began to see strange shapes on the periphery of his vision, undefined objects that closed in on him suddenly then just as suddenly disappeared. He attributed it to sleep deprivation as he walked alongside Beth, who was strangely quiet. Perhaps she had finally crashed. He felt himself to be in a half-asleep, dreamy state. For a second or two he might think it was Katie at his side before recalling more lucidly where he was and with whom. In a moment the process would repeat. While walking with Katie he once or twice nearly reached over to take her hand.

Or did he at one point hold Beth’s hand? Seated on the hotel bed, remembering, it almost seemed he had, but surely not. He would recall it with certainty if he had. He looked again at pupils— written on the pad in his own hand, it would seem, even though he had no recollection of it. Being certain of anything appeared unwise. He couldn’t recall undressing and crawling under the bed covers.

His cellphone face flared to life to let him know he had a text. Katie? He checked. Beth: Hopefully you’re sound asleep but if not you want to do breakfast? Developments.

He typed, I’m awake. Hotel bistro? When?

Immediately. Sounds good. 20?

K

He didn’t need twenty minutes to slip on his Nikes. He picked up his phone and iPad and headed for the lobby for coffee and to catch the headlines before Beth arrived. In the elevator he looked at his reflection in its mirrored interior. He probably should shave before the memorial. Or maybe he would grow a beard, something he hadn’t done for years. The timing seemed off since it was nearly spring, but something felt right about the not-rightness. He was feeling the rough stubble of his chin as the doors opened to the lobby.

He went directly the bistro, where only about a half dozen tables or booths were occupied. The one where he and Beth had had their Irish coffee was open so he took it, sitting on the opposite side so that he could watch for Beth.

There appeared to be one waiter working, Mario, said his name badge. He ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso and told Mario he was expecting one more for breakfast. Mario left two menus, single laminated sheets.

He opened Safari on his iPad to check the morning news. The world no longer considered Elizabeth Winters’s death significant, not with a bomb threat at the Met in New York, a school shooting in Tennessee, an airliner landing on the wrong runway at LAX, the Dow diving nearly a hundred points, a hostage situation at a market in Madrid, an assassination attempt in Syria, a tsunami with Tokyo in its sights, a power outage affecting a hundred million in India. . .  .

He had to search Elizabeth Winters to locate any updated information. There was little to report. They’d released the name of the other fatality in the crash, the pilot Meredith Overturf. Wait, what? Meredith Overturf? It was the name of one of the central characters in Orion. He quickly read the news report. There was no commenting on the connection. The nagging fear that it was all some elaborate (and cruel) hoax began to stir again. Beth had mentioned a development. Could this be it? Evidence of a hoax would be more than a development, however.

He decided to direct his attention elsewhere on his tablet: the weather, that’s always a good, utilitarian distraction. Warmer today, mid forties, but rain beginning by noon and lasting … basically forever. He was about to check his hometown forecast when Beth arrived. Hair pulled back, black yoga pants, zip-front sweater, red-orange, orange Nikes. She could’ve passed for a college student. She slid into the booth opposite him just as Mario was bringing his latte.

That smells wonderful, she said, waving some of the espresso aroma toward her face.

Low-fat latte, an extra shot, he said.

She opened her eyes. I’ll have one too, please.

Here. He pushed the colorful, overlarge cup and saucer toward her and nodded at Mario to bring another.

Really? said Beth. You’re a prince. She put her hands around the warm cup and blew on the foam froth before sipping. Oh my God—that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Thank you. She sipped again.

Let me guess, he said, the development is that the pilot who died in the crash is named Meredith Overturf. Pretty suspicious.

That does sound suspicious, but look up Meredith Overturf Aviation Magazine. She sipped, giving him a moment.

The first item that popped up was a story in Aviation Magazine about a private pilot and his relationship with an eccentric author. Apparently the pilot discovered he had the same name as a character in the novel Orion by Elizabeth Winters. He contacted her through her website, not expecting to hear form her, but she did reply, which began a correspondence then a friendship, said the article. It turned out they actually lived fairly close to one another. Meredith had flown Elizabeth Winters to some readings and events in California, Washington, Nevada and Arizona (including, most likely, her infamous reading in Sedona). The article was nearly seven years old.

So, the pilot had the same name as the planetarium director in Orion. He was finished skimming.

Yup, so not as suspicious as it sounds. Weird, and tragic, but not suspicious.

They took a moment to look over the single-page menus. When Mario returned with the other latte they placed their orders.

Veggie omelet, and toss in some turkey sausage, said Beth. I need some protein—and the fruit cup.

Mario didn’t bother to write down the order.

Plain omelet, he said, with a bowl of oatmeal, cinnamon and walnuts, please.

Mario nodded and left to put in their order.

So, the development?

Right. Beth adjusted her glasses, sliding them unnoticeably higher on her nose. I crashed for a couple of hours then I woke up super thirsty for a cold drink, so I tossed on some clothes and toddled down the hall to the machines for a bottle of water and some ice, and I ran into the Aussie, Here (whose real name, by the way, is Cameron, she adds parenthetically); he was just going to bed—they ended up admitting poor Deliberately for further observatons, so he and Too had come back to the hotel. Anyway, while they were waiting for their ride, a limousine service arrives and who should saunter out (well, saunter is my word, I don’t think Cameron used such a freighted verb), who should saunter out of the ER doors and into the back of the limo? Marian Tate and the distinguished-looking guy, but no third person. She must’ve been admitted to the hospital too, or she left some other way.

Interesting.

It is interesting. And that’s not all, Beth said almost under her breath before taking a sip of latte.

What?

Ok, it’s more weird than plain old interesting, and maybe a little creepy—or maybe nothing, just me being overtired. It did kind of freak me out for a while though.

What?

So I got my water and ice and was having a nice cold drink before going back to bed and hopefully sleeping for a couple more hours. I put my glass on the nightstand and I notice something is written on the hotel notepad—

Let me guess: the word radiant. Your word.

Holy crap. That’s right.

Holy crap indeed. And it’s your handwriting.

Yeah, maybe, I guess. I don’t know. Otherwise somebody came into my room and wrote it while I was talking to the Aussie. It really weirded me out. I thought about calling hotel security. Instead I poked around my room. I even did the classic horror-movie procedure and looked behind the shower curtain. I’ve always wondered, What would a chick do if there really was an axe-murderer hiding behind the curtain? Pretend not to notice before casually backing out of the bathroom, whistling a show tune for effect, and then making a mad dash to the door? What, are you clairvoyant?

No—it’s just that I had an uncannily similar experience. After taking a shower I saw that someone—me I guess—had written pupils on the hotel notepad.

No way. And you’re positive it’s your handwriting.

Not a hundred-percent positive but pretty darn positive. What about you? Your know for sure it’s your handwriting?

Like you, pretty sure. I mean, the alternative doesn’t make any sense: someone knows all the Logos’ words, someone who’s a master forger and accomplished at B&E? And to what purpose other than to give us all the willies?

True, true, all true. I suppose we had essentially identical experiences yesterday and were more or less equally exhausted. I suppose we could’ve both scribbled our words on the pads while still mostly asleep, asleep enough not to recall it the next morning. It’s possible. Stranger coincidences happen all the time.

You don’t sound convinced.

I’m working on it. It’s a process.

You don’t think we’re being programmed by the chip, surely. Do you? Beth asked.

I don’t know. No . . . and yes. Not in some science-fictiony way. But clearly bearing the chip inside of us, and having had the experiences we’ve had so far because of it, plus the knowledge that we’ll never know the story that we carry along with us, literally to our graves—all of that has in a sense been programming us, or re-programming us. But, no, I don’t think there’s some deliberate and mysterious revision of our brainwaves happening. I don’t think.

Beth seemed to consider it all for a moment while she sipped. I trust you were able to change your train ticket.

To five o’clock, which might be pushing it if the memorial goes past four. I may have to step out a bit early.

A silence blossomed like a bomb at the end of his statement: the concrete reality of their parting suddenly perched there on the table between them, as ominous as a darkly contoured thunderhead.

Mario brought their breakfasts.

They ate in the shadow of that silence for a while. He wondered if she sensed it too, the weight of their leave-taking. He thought she did.

Well, said Beth, we have several hours before the memorial. Normally Sundays are all about The New York Times, especially the Book Review, and more coffee than could possibly be good for me. But here we are in the big city. Surely there is plenty to do, even today. A great indie bookstore to pillage, something like that. What do you think?

A great bookstore sounds, well, great. We have one fair indie bookstore back home.

In Madison, we’re in better bookstore shape than that, but I’m up for being wowed.

His tablet was next to him on the table. He entered the passcode then pushed it toward Beth. Here, it’s your brainstorm. You should have the honor of choosing.

What a gentleman. She put her fork down long enough to type in a search, then returned to eating while she studied the results.

Meanwhile, the distraction afforded him the opportunity to study her. As he watched her scrolling and reading, a quizzical determination about her sculpted brow, absently replacing a strand of hair behind her ear, a life with Beth unfolded in his imagination like a game board which had been folded down to a square inside the box, now taken out and revealing the intricate mysteries of the contest, geometric section by geometric section.

Madison. A place he’d never been. It seemed a place of farm fields carefully stitched onto hills, a place where cows, black and white and sonorously belled, were forever lowing. Sky and hill met in a perfect pleat, perfect enough to tear-fill Betsy Ross’s patriotic eyes. The blue was blue, and the green green. There were coffeehouses and bookstores, and coffeebookhousestores, some with eclectic foci, one, perhaps, named for Bukowski, which only trafficked in aggressive poetry, another only in the cozy mystery, Murder by the Mug or Quilts and Culprits, yet another the indie store’s indie store, bearing only the original owner’s name, now long dead, Walcott’s or Wallace’s, est. 1947, a bookshop so serious readers must sign a waiver before browsing among the dangerously weighty titles, written by authors who have only coteries and cult devotees, writers who would slit their wrists, consumed with shame, if one of their works stumbled onto the Times bestsellers list. Art galleries, too, of course, and local theatre (-re, not -er), and free lectures at the university by award-winning economists and mathematicians and entomologists who’ve discovered a new species of flea, one that only lives on a particular species of bat which only lives in a single cave deeply recessed in a mountain pass among the Andes, only rarely accessible to humans and then only at great risk. And he and Beth would attend the openings, ask provocative questions at the readings, hold hands in the lecture halls, supportively attend each other’s events as their careers bloomed always-upward like sunflowers, their creative chi nourished in a warm, lilac-scented bath of affection and sex through the years. And connecting them at the cosmic level was their mutual connection to Logos. Online discussions with the Logos community, one of the smallest and most select on the planet—regional get-togethers, national and international conferences, a palpable spirit of camaraderie based on the words inked into their derma and deposited beneath it. There would be a scholarly journal, Logos Notes or The Elizabeth Winters Quarterly, he and Beth would be regular contributors, or guest editors. They shared it all, births in the Logos community, professional milestones, and each devastating death throughout the years as time marched toward the release of Elizabeth Winters’s greatest book, Meditations on the Word.

This looks like the place: Orville’s. I saw a woman at Revelation yesterday carrying an Orville’s bag. I didn’t know what it was. All I could think of was popcorn.

Sounds good . . . the place, not popcorn—well popcorn too.

Great. It says they open at eight on Sunday. I need to go to my room for a bit—meet you in the lobby in, say, forty-fiveish minutes?

That’ll work. I trust the idea is to return before checkout at noon.

Oh hell. I nearly forgot about that pesky detail, but, yeah, we’ll have to be mindful. The timing isn’t great, is it? With the memorial at two. I probably better pack while I’m at it, just in case. Better give me more like an hour then. It ain’t easy being a chick.

I sympathize. An hour.

Mario brought their checks.

I got this, he said. Lunch is on you.

Fair enough. Beth drank down the last of her latte and left to return to her room.

Mario used a handheld to read his card at the table and send him a receipt.

He didn’t need an hour to pack—something closer to five minutes—so he had Mario add a black coffee to the bill before paying. When it arrived he took the mug of Hawaiian to the lobby to drink in a comfortable chair while skimming through his tablet.

He felt the impulse to write, though that wasn’t normally a Sunday-morning thing. It didn’t feel like Sunday morning. He was out of sync, in many ways. He wrote in the mornings, yes, Monday through Friday, doggedly. If for some reason several days elapsed during which he didn’t write (while traveling, for example), he’d become anxious and even a little irritable. The nearest sensation was being horny, the ever-present itch to have sex for which there was only one relief. If he’d been celibate from writing for a few days, the urge to touch pen to paper began to burn in him. Composing creatively was a kind of meditation which kept him centered. He filtered the world through the point of his pen and the inky vortex it created on the paper. Absent the act of writing, the thoughts and feelings, the impressions, the signs and symbols began to well up in his psyche, swimming furiously but contained, seeking the only outlet that would serve their purpose.

This morning he felt especially restless. He imagined the chip beneath his skin as a kind of stimulant but instead of stimulating muscle growth or hair regeneration, it spurred language production. The Logos Project had literally planted words beneath his skin, and they were growing and multiplying, doubling, tripling and quadrupling in linguistic tumult, verbs and nouns, adverbs, adjectives, gerunds and infinitives, all manner of phrases and clauses coursing through his blood seeking some weakened barrier to breach. That’s how it felt.

He drank his coffee and tried to breathe evenly. He wasn’t in a position to write exactly, but he thought of something which might somewhat satisfy the craving. On his tablet, he went to the Logos site and began downloading the tattoo-word jpgs. Just fifteen for now. It was unlikely that these fifteen words went together at all—in fact, it was highly likely that they did not—but toying with them was a start. He opened a new memo on the tablet’s memopad and pecked out the group of words in the same random order in which he’d downloaded their images. Then he set about trying to arrange them in an order that made some sense.

dive                           hark                           gold

strange                       under                         bones

teeth                          flood                          gently

unfold                       toes                            keep

hourly                       they                           rats

gold teeth gently unfold bones under rats they hourly keep

rats hourly dive under flood toes gold bones

gold bones keep strange rats under flood dive

gently gold flood rats hourly

teeth bones hark strange toes unfold gold rats

teeth bones keep gold rats

dive under strange flood hourly

dive under gold flood gently

they dive toes under rats

they unfold toes under gold rats

teeth hourly gently keep flood rats gold

under bones dive strange teeth rats

rats toes gently keep strange good teeth under flood bones

hark gold bones flood under strange dive teeth hourly

The random words took on more and more meaning the longer he toyed with them. Nouns put on the mantel of adjectives, adjectives verbs. He recalled the Zombie Poetry Project website a colleague had developed, zombie as in insects who take over a dead host’s body, reanimating them into something different, some other species altogether. The way it worked, on the site, you typed a poem—any poem, a classic or an original poem you’d just written—and the zombie program chopped it into bits, reatomized them, absorbed them into its ever-expanding database, then combined parts of your poem with bits and pieces of others’ poems—to arrive at a different poem entirely, one in which you could recognize, here and there, your original, but the randomizing and juxtapositioning with other texts cast even the recognizable words and phrases into altered shades of meaning, lighting and obscuring contours of the original text—perhaps calling attention to possibilities of revision if you were working with an original poem. Or sometimes this newly created zombie poem was a thing of beauty or a thing of resonance itself, an object worth keeping in the world. If nothing else, you’d altered the database’s DNA, changed it forever with the addition of your text, now in a position to migrate to others’ poems, infecting them and zombiefying them with traces of you.

He received a text. Katie: Still ok?

It wasn’t like her to be so staccato in her text messaging. The altered tone of her texts was the kith and kin of her altered tone face to face: the filter of texting only amplified her confusion, her teetering between versions of their relationship. Only twenty-four hours ago signs of her indecisiveness about their breaking up would’ve been heartening. Now he didn’t know what he felt.

He sensed his own wavering between possible futures, none of which was fully in his control. He didn’t believe Katie was toying with him, leading him on—but if they resumed their relationship, what would be different? For that matter, what was wrong in the first place?

He heard the Norwegian’s pleasantly blond baritone. Too was speaking to the young woman at the front desk, asking about the hotel’s shuttle service to the airport. Apparently he wouldn’t be staying for the memorial.

When Too finished his conversation and turned, he noticed him in the lobby. He strode over, smiling broadly, a lumberjack about to fell a tree.

I would guess that you and Radiant would be sleeping still.

I would guess that, too . . . Too, but it’s not the case. We just had breakfast. He stood to speak with him, but still had to cast his gaze up. He considered mentioning the bookstore plan but felt protective of his outing with Beth. He didn’t want anyone else tagging along. Too’s itinerary would likely prevent his joining them; still, he was reluctant to advertise their plans. Instead: You must’ve gotten next to no sleep. How’s Deliberately?

In truth I haven’t been to bed. I should be at the airport to check in. I’ll be sleeping soundly on my flight. They admitted Deliberately, so he is still there. His wife is flying in later today. There was something they didn’t care for in the bloodwork and wanted to run other tests.

That’s terrible. Hope it turns out to be nothing.

Indeed. Well, I must pack a bag and drink some coffee.

Of course. Have a safe flight.

Safe travels to you as well. Let’s stay in touch—remember the hashtag, EWLogos. At Twitter I’m BigSwedeToo.

Thought you were from Norway.

I am but BigNorwegianToo doesn’t have the same, what, resonance?

True. It’s the assonance, the internal rhyme. I’ll find you.

Too clapped him on the shoulder then strode toward the elevators.

He watched him enter one just as its twin was opening. Beth emerged, having traded her yoga pants for jeans. He stood still as she walked toward him, buttoning her coat and adjusting her scarf and hair.

Ready? she asked. It was a single word but there was something about her tone that seemed changed, not so much an added coolness but the absence of chirpy warmth, communicated in her face (sterile of expression) and the way she held herself (stiff and guarded) as much as in her voice (tone of simple interrogation).

We should be able to grab a cab out front. He motioned for her to lead the way, with a hint of gallantry, which would have been more exaggerated if Beth weren’t suddenly different. Maybe he only imagined a change or maybe the events of the past day caught up to her. Perhaps the bookstore would restore the brightness to her mood. Already, instantly, he was thinking of the day, the moment, when Katie was no longer Katie, when the edge entered her voice: the moment she became something of a stranger. And the change occurred due to no visible stimulus. Nothing upsetting had happened between them, and as far as he could see nothing upsetting had happened to Katie at all. The shift in the tectonic plates of her emotions had taken place unseen, caused by some observation, some deduction, some decision about the world; and she wasn’t inclined to let him in on it, whatever it was. In fact, when he first broached the subject, she denied anything was wrong, even that anything had changed.

Still, the iciness wouldn’t completely thaw, though its edges became less sharply frigid. He sometimes would compare old messages to recent ones to reassure himself he wasn’t imagining her change in tone. For one, Katie’s messages had frequently been spiced with sexual innuendo before the chill.

You’ve been in my thoughts, thinking about what you can enter. LUMU.

Rainy day. Meet you in bed. LUMU.

Hope your head is feeling better—I could work wonders with it.

TGIF time—F for Friday optional.

Enjoyed the shower this morning. Girls have never been this clean. LUMU.

Then one day the flirtations just stopped. Katie’s messages became as mundane as market reports (soybeans up, pork futures down). For a time he tried to initiate the sexy exchanges (efforts that had always been repaid in kind), but they were met with banality or not answered at all. When he tried to discuss with her what was happening, he mentioned the altered tone of her texts (almost like exhibits in a trial). Katie insisted he was imagining the change. Over time he slipped into the rhythms of this cooled iteration of their relationship. When he thought of before, it was like recalling another relationship, with someone else. Meanwhile even this tepid kind of coupling further crumbled. Katie wanted something—something that wasn’t this, them—but she couldn’t articulate it, even to herself it seemed.

The recollections played on the taxi’s window glass as he and Beth sped through the city streets, still oddly quiet and white, in spite of the large raindrops that plummeted from the colorless sky. Before long the snow would be washed gray by the rain; then washed away.

He looked at Beth, who was watching out her window and likely reflecting inwardly also. Reflections of a similar theme to his own? Her left hand rested on the seat. He thought of holding it. On the taxi’s black seat, her hand appeared whiter than the white sleeve of her coat—not cadaverous or pallid, however: baptismally white, clean and fresh, unblemished. He wanted to touch her skin, its warmth or its coolness—it didn’t matter—but he had no pretense for holding her hand, for connecting to her in so intimate a way.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the bookstore. He swiped his card to pay, then they hurried to the maroon-colored awning through the big drops of rain. Inside, Orville’s was heaven: café, bakery, books, books, books. A significant portion of the main floor was devoted to the café, but there was a half second-floor fully devoted, it appeared, to print. To their right were stacks of Sunday papers, luring them toward the café area. The fresh ink of the newspapers was intoxicating. One wanted to lay one’s face on the cool sheets, cool and smooth, and huff the powerful aroma.

First things first, said Beth. I need to keep my caffeine buzz going. As she passed the stacks of newsprint, arranged neatly in wooden bins, she let her fingers trail across the New York Times. Tempting, my pet, but you’re waiting for me at home.

It was good to see her more animated—more her old self, the Beth he’d known less than a day—yet still there was something different. He didn’t follow immediately but stood watching her, thinking of her as an odd portrait, one captured from behind, framed by the quaint interior of Orville’s. His mind eased into interpretation, analyzing the subject via the composition within the frame: Beth’s white coat, among the darker elements of the store, stood out as a snowy scape, or perhaps, even, an imperceptibly inching glacier. Given the point of view, it was impossible to say if she were drifting away from or toward greater isolation. Not isolation, he revised: greater autonomy, independence—the clearly defined lines of the central figure suggested power and strength of will, not mere drift due to capricious currents.

Suddenly point-of-view reversed, and he had the vertiginous sensation it was he who was moving, sliding backward. He caught himself on the nearest stack of papers, the Tribune. As his balance returned he noted the front-page story about Elizabeth Winters’s death and the Logos Project. In addition to the author’s portrait there was a crowd shot of Logos waiting in the snow to enter the Dance Center. He and Beth were the focal point of the photo. He’d had no awareness their picture was taken. The photographer may have been quite a distance off using a powerful lens. However it happened, there they were, immortalized, forever linked to the event.

He wanted to tell Beth but she’d already gotten in line for her coffee. Maybe he’d point it out later. He joined her in line.

After they got their French roasts, they began drifting among the aisles and aisles of books, most of which were displayed cover facing out. He was on the lookout for unfamiliar titles and authors, yes, but he also liked to find favorites among the stacks as spotting them provided a certain reassurance about the world: it was still a place wherein lived Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, Slaughter-House Five and Breakfast of Champions, The Old Man and the Sea and Death in the Afternoon, as well as all the Austens and Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. In the poetry section, Ariel, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, Howl, Mountain Interval, The Dream of a Common Language, Leaves of Grass, and The Waste Land. He found the Elizabeth Winters section, and it was nearly sold out. A single copy of Orion remained and a handful of her early collection, Wirds of a Feather. As he watched, a woman picked up a copy of Wirds and headed toward the registers. On the one hand, he was gratified that more and more readers had suddenly discovered Elizabeth Winters, but he also felt a subtly hostile possessiveness of her and at the macabre audacity of those who only came to appreciate her upon her death. Elizabeth Winters’s devotees were something between a coterie and a cult. Death threatened to make her conventionally popular. At least the Logos would maintain her uniqueness among American authors, among all authors.

Without thinking why, he set down his cup of coffee and reached out with both hands to touch the covers of Orion and Wirds of a Feather, which felt like completing a circuit with Elizabeth Winters’s words swimming in his circulatory system, though the encrypted prose remained embedded at this hip. Still, he experienced a sensation akin to electricity flowing from Wirds to Orion through him, perhaps even recoding his DNA, turning him into something other than what he had been, something more he hoped.

He released the books, or they released him, and he moved on to further browsing with his coffee.

He turned a corner and ran into Beth, who was studying a paperback. He thought of not interrupting but she said without looking at him, William Gass, Fiction and the Figures of Life—I think I’ve heard about this book. Are you familiar?

Only marginally, I’m sorry to admit. I have one of my grad seminars read and respond to “The Artist and Society,” one of the pieces.

The final piece. I just saw it. Beth turned to it. Good?

I think so. It’s about the purpose of art, writing as an art form, or what its purpose ought to be. Gass wrote it during the Vietnam era but, to me, it seems relevant to any time, to all times. It’s universal and eternal.

Hmm. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Stay here for now, sweet book. Mama will probably be back.

Beth continued sipping and browsing. He wandered in a different direction. He came across a section of books grouped together because of their association with the city: novels and collections of poetry and fiction either set in the city or about the city or written by a local author. It was the store’s City Celebration section. There was Harrison Gale’s seminal collection, El Is for Loss and Other Poems, placed next to the poet who’d most inspired Gale, Carl Sandburg. Then there were the Bronzeville poets and writers, Gwendolyn Brooks prominent among them. And Richard Wright. He spied a copy of Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories. He felt a restlessness he hadn’t felt for a long while but knew well: it was the restlessness to write something noteworthy, something remarkable, something great. Not simply to write, to just get words on a page competently enough rendered to find publication somewhere. Rather, to produce something special, truly magnificent and powerful—something worthy of sitting here on these exalted shelves with Sandburg and Brooks and Wright and Gale, Hemingway and Cisneros. He felt the words welling in him, swimming, flailing for release into the world. Yet, it would not be a single seismic explosion of inspiration—some mythical Kerouacean geyser of prose—but a sustained period of creative intensity, over months, over years if necessary. Even still, he was antsy to begin. Here, perhaps? No, but on the train home. He would go to the dining car, where there were tables, and he would begin this great work, something about the city and Elizabeth Winters and the entanglement of lives. Would it be poetry or prose? Something that was both, and neither?

He would need something to begin his work. He scanned the bookstore and located the section of journals and pens . . . and there was Beth perusing them. Maybe she too had been inspired. He mused about this attraction he felt for Beth, if it had been something else all along: the beginning blossoming of his writing welling inside of him: this kindled passion for Beth was really a renewed urgency to create, to bring forth into the world something worthy of it. Worthier even. His desire to create a life with Beth—a thought barely beyond pure fantasy—was a displaced desire to create a work of literature for the ages.

He migrated toward the journals and notepads and pens. There were journals of varying sizes, some with lined pages, most with unlined. They had leather covers and cloth covers and covers of heavy, decorated boards. In some a vibrant ribbon could mark your place. There were all manner of pens: ballpoints, fountain, and calligraphy, in wood, plastic and metal. By the time he arrived at the section Beth had sauntered on. Her coat was over her arm so he couldn’t say for certain if she’d selected anything to purchase. He was attracted to the leatherbound journals, but they seemed too precious (as if one would be afraid of making a mistake). He selected an unlined clothboard journal in aqua blue and a gun-metal gray pen. He knew he could just as easily write his great work on a cheap Mead pad with a Pilot pen, as he always had, but he wanted to make a statement to himself: he wanted to mark a new commitment to his writing life. He didn’t need a Katie or a Beth to be complete, to be whole: he needed a revitalized artistic aspect of his life, he needed to be devoted to something that would last beyond him.

He glanced back at the section where he’d just been, the section devoted to the city’s authors and books. No one was there. In fact, there was an absence around it like a bubble. Elsewhere customers browsed, reading book jackets and pages opened to at random. There was a glossy poster of James Patterson, ballcapped and pseudo-sage, above a display of his mass-produced mysteries, blatantly co-written by one of his stable of co-authors; and bookstore patrons milled there especially thickly. The hum of activity, the hum of commerce, seemed particularly electric when juxtaposed with the small section devoted to city-connected authors. Readers clambered for James Patterson, not Richard Wright; for Janet Evanovich, not Gwendolyn Brooks; for Nora Roberts, not Ernest Hemingway. For him, it wasn’t simply a matter of not wanting to write for popular appeal: he literally didn’t know how: producing such banality was beyond him.

He drank from his cup, the coffee finally sufficiently cooled, and gripped his journal and pen more securely as he moved toward another unpopulated part of the store, a section devoted to the city’s university and independent presses. Here were the story and poetry collections, the novels, the monographs, and the art books that attracted almost no one’s attention. He noted the small presses’ names imprinted on the book’s spines: Tortoise, Twelve Winters, Woolfsword, Haymarket, Knee-Jerk, Artifice, Lake Street, Dancing Girl, Sundress, Agate, and (his instant favorite) Readerless Press (because of its brutal honesty). From this last press he perused a collection of prose poems, written and illustrated via collage by E. B. Bishop, whose enigmatic author’s note said only that she or he grew up in a small Midwestern town and attended the Art Institute. The unusual little book was titled Malcontent. The cover, rendered in shades of red, featured an unsettling image of a creature that was part crow and part human. He added the prose poems to the journal and pen to purchase.

He thought about what separated Elizabeth Winters from these avant-garde authors. How had she achieved a level of notoriety, of fame even? It helped that she’d emerged at a time when there was still some interest in writing worth reading. Also, she’d always lived in metropolises where she could cultivate devoted readers, due to her writing, yes, but also her charismatic personality, and—he had to admit to himself—her ability to promote her work. His thinking was dancing dangerously close to Katie’s criticism of Elizabeth Winters. The one distinction remained: Elizabeth Winters’s charisma and media savvy drew attention to her superior talent.

He came to the classic mysteries section: Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dick Francis, Dorothy Sayers, P. D. James, Dashiell Hammett. As a boy he’d liked mysteries—and it was his father’s genre of choice, which perhaps influenced his tastes—but as he matured he found the writing itself, divorced from the page-turning plots, was too basic: it was about providing information, clearly and succinctly, like newspaper accounts, detached entirely from artfully complex language. Every so often he would pick up a mystery, nostalgic for the comforting mood of his youthful reading, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed, the rag rug beneath and the pillow behind providing just the right amount of cushion; the book, with the smell and the feel of its pages, angled just so to catch the light from his desk lamp, angled just so; meanwhile knowing his father was in his room, stretched on his bed, reading too, a mystery, his after-dinner pastime.

He’d try to evoke all those feelings, but the book wouldn’t hold his attention, in spite of the murder or kidnaping or jewel heist. The language itself failed to engage him. In high school he discovered and devoured Kurt Vonnegut—Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions left their mark of course, as did Mother Night, Galapagos and Jailbird. It was Vonnegut’s genre bending that most appealed to him, and the author’s wit and wisdom.

In college it was Kerouac and the Beats, the lyricism of On the Road, which transitioned into the poetry of Mexico City Blues and Dr. Sax, leading naturally to Ginsberg’s Howl, hooking him on poetry just in time to switch his emphasis and initiate his tunneling backward into its tropes and traditions, its history and its heroes and heroines. By the time of his MFA he’d returned to the twentieth-century poets: Plath and Hughes, Heaney and Larkin, Lorca and Neruda, Nemerov and Giovanni, Gale and Wilson, Eliot, Rilke, Valéry, Bishop and Moore.

Then there was the poetic prose of Elizabeth Winters and her determination to do something different. If there was nothing more to do with language and its shape, according to narrative theory, then the new ground must be transmission. How will readers’ reception of a text affect their processing of it? And what if that text remains largely hidden and readers can only process the hint of it, its mere shadow on the surface? Elizabeth Winters seemed to want to take Hemingway’s iceberg principle, which dominated twentieth-century prose, to a new depth in the new century. Hemingway felt the characters’ stories—their motivations—should remain mostly below the surface of what appeared on the page, directing the action from the characters’ hidden depths. Elizabeth Winters went further: the narrative itself should disappear from view, leaving only its opaque outline for the reader, leaving their processing of the faintest fragments nearly the whole of the narrative itself.

He sat in a comfortable chair—with his coffee, and his newly purchased journal and pen and book of prose poems—considering it all as Elizabeth Winters’s last novel seethed beneath his skin.

Meanwhile Beth continued to browse about the store. It appeared she’d collected at least two books she intended to purchase.

He read the introduction to the prose poetry book in which the author attempted to clarify the murky genre of prose poetry. The very term, she or he said, communicated the cultural privileging of prose over poetry, evidenced by the fact that most people, even nonreaders—the aliterate—could name a few well-known novelists but the names of poets, especially still-living ones, would be much more of a challenge, especially if the names of children’s poets, Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, for example, were cordoned off. But, also, on its surface prose poetry appeared to be just prose. It tended to be parsed into paragraphs, if parsed at all, then separated into sentences, not stanzas and lines, the most readily visible indicators of poetry on the page. However, once one began reading, began processing, wrote the prose-poet in her or his introduction, then the poetry would (or should) dominate the textual landscape with its telltale tropes: alliteration, assonance, repetition, caesura, onomatopoeia, internal rhyme. Prose poetry was really mainly poetry—poetry masquerading as prose.

Why not then simply write a poem? (the author asked rhetorically) Because prose offers expansion opposed to ellipsis, the availability of more conspicuous connective tissue between images, and the opportunity for a hierarchy of ideas, layered in degrees of dominance as if by syntactic trowel.

Oriented chiefly as a poet, he was dubious of the final claims, but the form attracted him and he was willing to reserve judgment.

He watched Beth on the far side of the store. She had several more books under her arm and was still perusing. Perhaps she was shopping for her library as well. A figure crossed behind Beth, and he realized it was Beth: he’d been observing a look-alike, and side by side not even with that much similarity. He attributed his confusion to his need for more sleep.

He continued gazing at the pages of the prose poetry book’s introduction, but only gazing, not reading: the black letters on the off-white page, the uniformity of them, the abundance of them, all served to comfort him. A kind of textual security blanket, text-ile.

After a time—he couldn’t say how long—Beth was standing by his chair. Ready to check out? she asked. She’d retrieved the Gass after all, and two other books.

He rose in affirmation and they stepped in line for the cash registers. It should only take a minute or two, he surmised. The checkout employees were spritely and efficient, like Santa’s elves in grownup, bookstore form. He glanced toward Orwell’s front windows and realized he and Beth were reflected there, their ghostly images holding their books and cups of coffee. He wondered briefly if their ghosts had the same reading tastes.

Then a woman by the newspapers said, It’s you. You’re Logos. Her hand was resting on the Tribune’s front-page picture.

He realized they were standing in line in a more or less identical pose as the one depicted in the paper. Others were now staring at them, including the cash-register elves, momentarily fazed into inefficiency. You’re Logos, repeated the woman, whom he realized was the one he mistook for Beth. From here, now, with so little resemblance, the mistake was difficult to fathom. The woman was considerably older for one thing, and heavier set, perhaps at best a matronly version of Beth, or grandmatronly, perhaps a glimpse of the future Beth Winterberry.

Yes, said the younger Beth—we’re Logos. She patted her hip.

Interesting, said much-older Beth, colorlessly, and went about her business.

The elves returned to their task, their sprightliness reanimated. Everyone did. Yet the previous moment remained. Their sudden celebrity lingered like a scent, or the after-image of a dazzling flash. He and Beth were separate and apart from everyone in the shop who’d been within the sphere of their recognition. Suddenly three planes of people existed: those who didn’t know them at all, those who knew them now as Logos, and there was the plane wherein only he and Beth resided, the only one which felt to him normal and natural. He looked toward the window for their doppelgangers, to maybe double the population of their sparse plane, but something had changed—the light, or the angle from which he gazed, something—and their reflected selves had disappeared, as ghosts will, to be replaced by the rainy city sidewalk beyond, umbrellaed strangers now and then hurrying past.

Madison

The storm had passed, and brilliant daylight streamed through the separation of the window curtains. A bar of yellow light fell across the pillows to his left and along his neck. He discovered it was merely bright, with no warmth whatsoever. He’d had a couple of hours of restless sleep, literally so, it seemed: sleep without rest. His mind was scattered among the various pieces of the past twenty-four hours. He thought of Beth, whose life circumstances remained behind a veil, and of Katie, who had not sent a follow-up text. There was the single question, the single expression of concern, and that was their only communication in days. And what of Elizabeth Winters? When he’d reconnected to the Web, he was alerted that someone had already uploaded the 753 words—the 753 jpgs of tattooed words—to Elizabeth Winters’s website, the prologue to Meditations on the Word, but of course in no coherent order. No one knew the order, said Marian Tate, except their now-deceased author.

So among the chaotic swirl of his thoughts was the idea of making sense of the 753 words. No doubt a number of Elizabeth Winters devotees, or the merely curious, or the morbidly curious, had been at work on the puzzle for hours already. He imagined the years—decades—of articles and conference papers devoted to deciphering the prologue. Like Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, the prologue would gain a notoriety, an infamy due to its unintelligibleness. However, Joyce’s opaqueness was deliberate, whereas Elizabeth Winters’s was tragic.

Unless of course it was a hoax, a publicity stunt, which he apparently didn’t believe, for lying there in the comfortable hotel bed he felt the weight of mourning, of bereavement. Unless what he felt was the loss of Katie, or the anticipation of losing his connection to Beth. Perhaps it was the grief of losing all three, a trinity of loss.

He knew he should try to sleep but it seemed pointless. A shower and coffee sounded better at the moment. It wasn’t quite 7:30. In the shower he noticed a touch of redness, pinkness really, around the injection site on his hip. It didn’t hurt or itch, and in fact was barely noticeable even when he was looking for it. He wondered about the piece of Elizabeth Winters’s novel he carried under his skin—a story he would never know. He was connected in a unique way to the other bearers of the tale: the ultimate book club but one that could have no discussion regarding the substance of the book, only vehement speculation. He realized he’d been conjuring narratives of the prologue—almost subconsciously—based on the few words he knew: his and Beth’s words, and the words of his nighttime confederates who tried to find Elizabeth Winters, almost literally characters in search of an author, the surreal made real. The prologues he conjured tended to coalesce into a story about a prep school, something Pencey Prep-like: a place from which all Holden Caufields must escape, its being the natural order of things.

When he returned home, he’d print out the word images and toy with them over time. He imagined frothy debates in hotel bars about the prologue for years, with each verbal pugilist (perhaps at times actual pugilists) convinced his reconstruction was correct. He recalled other literary enigmas. When he was working on his master’s he took a course in Medieval literature, and one of the works they studied was Beowulf. The Anglo-Saxonist who taught the class professed that Anglo-Saxon had practically become a lost language by the time scholars began translating Beowulf into modern English at the dawn of the nineteenth century. The first stabs at translation got the story mostly wrong, and it wasn’t until the 1830s—after more than a quarter century of steady scholarly effort—that they felt they had an accurate understanding of the story. Even more infamous than the Wake, which spawned reading societies around the world devoted to deciphering the Irish author’s final tome.

Would there be such passion devoted to Elizabeth Winters’s final work, Meditations on the Word?

As he was dressing into his jeans and a navy pullover, he noticed that the pad of paper on the bed’s side table was written on. A couple of steps closer and he saw what’d been written: pupils—. He looked about the room and of course no one was there. Could someone have slipped into his room while he was showering and written his word on the hotel pad? He supposed it was possible, but who besides Beth and a handful of people even knew his word? And what would be the point of the prank, other than to give him a sense of uncanniness?

He sat on the unmade bed and picked up the pad. The word was almost certainly written with the cheap hotel pen which lay next to the pad. The handwriting looked familiar. He picked up the pen and flipped to a clean sheet in the pad. He wrote his word as naturally as he could manage. He flipped between the two words: they were virtually identical. He must’ve written on the pad but had no recollection of it. Writing in his sleep, something he’d never done before. As an undergrad he’d experimented briefly with Kerouac’s technique of continuing the plotlines of his dreams upon waking, resulting in Kerouac’s Book of Dreams, but all he gained was a stressful way to wake up in the morning because most of the time he didn’t recall his dreams vividly enough to pick up their narrative threads. The thought that he’d written pupils— himself disturbed him more than the idea of a stranger stealing into his room to scribble it: he, in essence, was the stranger.

He reminded himself how exhausted he’d been when he and Beth returned from the donut shop. On the brief walk he began to see strange shapes on the periphery of his vision, undefined objects that closed in on him suddenly then just as suddenly disappeared. He attributed it to sleep deprivation as he walked alongside Beth, who was strangely quiet. Perhaps she had finally crashed. He felt himself to be in a half-asleep, dreamy state. For a second or two he might think it was Katie at his side before recalling more lucidly where he was and with whom. In a moment the process would repeat. While walking with Katie he once or twice nearly reached over to take her hand.

Or did he at one point hold Beth’s hand? Seated on the hotel bed, remembering, it almost seemed he had, but surely not. He would recall it with certainty if he had. He looked again at pupils— written on the pad in his own hand, it would seem, even though he had no recollection of it. Being certain of anything appeared unwise. He couldn’t recall undressing and crawling under the bed covers.

His cellphone face flared to life to let him know he had a text. Katie? He checked. Beth: Hopefully you’re sound asleep but if not you want to do breakfast? Developments.

He typed, I’m awake. Hotel bistro? When?

Immediately. Sounds good. 20?

K

He didn’t need twenty minutes to slip on his Nikes. He picked up his phone and iPad and headed for the lobby for coffee and to catch the headlines before Beth arrived. In the elevator he looked at his reflection in its mirrored interior. He probably should shave before the memorial. Or maybe he would grow a beard, something he hadn’t done for years. The timing seemed off since it was nearly spring, but something felt right about the not-rightness. He was feeling the rough stubble of his chin as the doors opened to the lobby.

He went directly the bistro, where only about a half dozen tables or booths were occupied. The one where he and Beth had had their Irish coffee was open so he took it, sitting on the opposite side so that he could watch for Beth.

There appeared to be one waiter working, Mario, said his name badge. He ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso and told Mario he was expecting one more for breakfast. Mario left two menus, single laminated sheets.

He opened Safari on his iPad to check the morning news. The world no longer considered Elizabeth Winters’s death significant, not with a bomb threat at the Met in New York, a school shooting in Tennessee, an airliner landing on the wrong runway at LAX, the Dow diving nearly a hundred points, a hostage situation at a market in Madrid, an assassination attempt in Syria, a tsunami with Tokyo in its sights, a power outage affecting a hundred million in India. . .  .

He had to search Elizabeth Winters to locate any updated information. There was little to report. They’d released the name of the other fatality in the crash, the pilot Meredith Overturf. Wait, what? Meredith Overturf? It was the name of one of the central characters in Orion. He quickly read the news report. There was no commenting on the connection. The nagging fear that it was all some elaborate (and cruel) hoax began to stir again. Beth had mentioned a development. Could this be it? Evidence of a hoax would be more than a development, however.

He decided to direct his attention elsewhere on his tablet: the weather, that’s always a good, utilitarian distraction. Warmer today, mid forties, but rain beginning by noon and lasting … basically forever. He was about to check his hometown forecast when Beth arrived. Hair pulled back, black yoga pants, zip-front sweater, red-orange, orange Nikes. She could’ve passed for a college student. She slid into the booth opposite him just as Mario was bringing his latte.

That smells wonderful, she said, waving some of the espresso aroma toward her face.

Low-fat latte, an extra shot, he said.

She opened her eyes. I’ll have one too, please.

Here. He pushed the colorful, overlarge cup and saucer toward her and nodded at Mario to bring another.

Really? said Beth. You’re a prince. She put her hands around the warm cup and blew on the foam froth before sipping. Oh my God—that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Thank you. She sipped again.

Let me guess, he said, the development is that the pilot who died in the crash is named Meredith Overturf. Pretty suspicious.

That does sound suspicious, but look up Meredith Overturf Aviation Magazine. She sipped, giving him a moment.

The first item that popped up was a story in Aviation Magazine about a private pilot and his relationship with an eccentric author. Apparently the pilot discovered he had the same name as a character in the novel Orion by Elizabeth Winters. He contacted her through her website, not expecting to hear form her, but she did reply, which began a correspondence then a friendship, said the article. It turned out they actually lived fairly close to one another. Meredith had flown Elizabeth Winters to some readings and events in California, Washington, Nevada and Arizona (including, most likely, her infamous reading in Sedona). The article was nearly seven years old.

So, the pilot had the same name as the planetarium director in Orion. He was finished skimming.

Yup, so not as suspicious as it sounds. Weird, and tragic, but not suspicious.

They took a moment to look over the single-page menus. When Mario returned with the other latte they placed their orders.

Veggie omelet, and toss in some turkey sausage, said Beth. I need some protein—and the fruit cup.

Mario didn’t bother to write down the order.

Plain omelet, he said, with a bowl of oatmeal, cinnamon and walnuts, please.

Mario nodded and left to put in their order.

So, the development?

Right. Beth adjusted her glasses, sliding them unnoticeably higher on her nose. I crashed for a couple of hours then I woke up super thirsty for a cold drink, so I tossed on some clothes and toddled down the hall to the machines for a bottle of water and some ice, and I ran into the Aussie, Here (whose real name, by the way, is Cameron, she adds parenthetically); he was just going to bed—they ended up admitting poor Deliberately for further observatons, so he and Too had come back to the hotel. Anyway, while they were waiting for their ride, a limousine service arrives and who should saunter out (well, saunter is my word, I don’t think Cameron used such a freighted verb), who should saunter out of the ER doors and into the back of the limo? Marian Tate and the distinguished-looking guy, but no third person. She must’ve been admitted to the hospital too, or she left some other way.

Interesting.

It is interesting. And that’s not all, Beth said almost under her breath before taking a sip of latte.

What?

Ok, it’s more weird than plain old interesting, and maybe a little creepy—or maybe nothing, just me being overtired. It did kind of freak me out for a while though.

What?

So I got my water and ice and was having a nice cold drink before going back to bed and hopefully sleeping for a couple more hours. I put my glass on the nightstand and I notice something is written on the hotel notepad—

Let me guess: the word radiant. Your word.

Holy crap. That’s right.

Holy crap indeed. And it’s your handwriting.

Yeah, maybe, I guess. I don’t know. Otherwise somebody came into my room and wrote it while I was talking to the Aussie. It really weirded me out. I thought about calling hotel security. Instead I poked around my room. I even did the classic horror-movie procedure and looked behind the shower curtain. I’ve always wondered, What would a chick do if there really was an axe-murderer hiding behind the curtain? Pretend not to notice before casually backing out of the bathroom, whistling a show tune for effect, and then making a mad dash to the door? What, are you clairvoyant?

No—it’s just that I had an uncannily similar experience. After taking a shower I saw that someone—me I guess—had written pupils on the hotel notepad.

No way. And you’re positive it’s your handwriting.

Not a hundred-percent positive but pretty darn positive. What about you? Your know for sure it’s your handwriting?

Like you, pretty sure. I mean, the alternative doesn’t make any sense: someone knows all the Logos’ words, someone who’s a master forger and accomplished at B&E? And to what purpose other than to give us all the willies?

True, true, all true. I suppose we had essentially identical experiences yesterday and were more or less equally exhausted. I suppose we could’ve both scribbled our words on the pads while still mostly asleep, asleep enough not to recall it the next morning. It’s possible. Stranger coincidences happen all the time.

You don’t sound convinced.

I’m working on it. It’s a process.

You don’t think we’re being programmed by the chip, surely. Do you? Beth asked.

I don’t know. No . . . and yes. Not in some science-fictiony way. But clearly bearing the chip inside of us, and having had the experiences we’ve had so far because of it, plus the knowledge that we’ll never know the story that we carry along with us, literally to our graves—all of that has in a sense been programming us, or re-programming us. But, no, I don’t think there’s some deliberate and mysterious revision of our brainwaves happening. I don’t think.

Beth seemed to consider it all for a moment while she sipped. I trust you were able to change your train ticket.

To five o’clock, which might be pushing it if the memorial goes past four. I may have to step out a bit early.

A silence blossomed like a bomb at the end of his statement: the concrete reality of their parting suddenly perched there on the table between them, as ominous as a darkly contoured thunderhead.

Mario brought their breakfasts.

They ate in the shadow of that silence for a while. He wondered if she sensed it too, the weight of their leave-taking. He thought she did.

Well, said Beth, we have several hours before the memorial. Normally Sundays are all about The New York Times, especially the Book Review, and more coffee than could possibly be good for me. But here we are in the big city. Surely there is plenty to do, even today. A great indie bookstore to pillage, something like that. What do you think?

A great bookstore sounds, well, great. We have one fair indie bookstore back home.

In Madison, we’re in better bookstore shape than that, but I’m up for being wowed.

His tablet was next to him on the table. He entered the passcode then pushed it toward Beth. Here, it’s your brainstorm. You should have the honor of choosing.

What a gentleman. She put her fork down long enough to type in a search, then returned to eating while she studied the results.

Meanwhile, the distraction afforded him the opportunity to study her. As he watched her scrolling and reading, a quizzical determination about her sculpted brow, absently replacing a strand of hair behind her ear, a life with Beth unfolded in his imagination like a game board which had been folded down to a square inside the box, now taken out and revealing the intricate mysteries of the contest, geometric section by geometric section.

Madison. A place he’d never been. It seemed a place of farm fields carefully stitched onto hills, a place where cows, black and white and sonorously belled, were forever lowing. Sky and hill met in a perfect pleat, perfect enough to tear-fill Betsy Ross’s patriotic eyes. The blue was blue, and the green green. There were coffeehouses and bookstores, and coffeebookhousestores, some with eclectic foci, one, perhaps, named for Bukowski, which only trafficked in aggressive poetry, another only in the cozy mystery, Murder by the Mug or Quilts and Culprits, yet another the indie store’s indie store, bearing only the original owner’s name, now long dead, Walcott’s or Wallace’s, est. 1947, a bookshop so serious readers must sign a waiver before browsing among the dangerously weighty titles, written by authors who have only coteries and cult devotees, writers who would slit their wrists, consumed with shame, if one of their works stumbled onto the Times bestsellers list. Art galleries, too, of course, and local theatre (-re, not -er), and free lectures at the university by award-winning economists and mathematicians and entomologists who’ve discovered a new species of flea, one that only lives on a particular species of bat which only lives in a single cave deeply recessed in a mountain pass among the Andes, only rarely accessible to humans and then only at great risk. And he and Beth would attend the openings, ask provocative questions at the readings, hold hands in the lecture halls, supportively attend each other’s events as their careers bloomed always-upward like sunflowers, their creative chi nourished in a warm, lilac-scented bath of affection and sex through the years. And connecting them at the cosmic level was their mutual connection to Logos. Online discussions with the Logos community, one of the smallest and most select on the planet—regional get-togethers, national and international conferences, a palpable spirit of camaraderie based on the words inked into their derma and deposited beneath it. There would be a scholarly journal, Logos Notes or The Elizabeth Winters Quarterly, he and Beth would be regular contributors, or guest editors. They shared it all, births in the Logos community, professional milestones, and each devastating death throughout the years as time marched toward the release of Elizabeth Winters’s greatest book, Meditations on the Word.

This looks like the place: Orville’s. I saw a woman at Revelation yesterday carrying an Orville’s bag. I didn’t know what it was. All I could think of was popcorn.

Sounds good . . . the place, not popcorn—well popcorn too.

Great. It says they open at eight on Sunday. I need to go to my room for a bit—meet you in the lobby in, say, forty-fiveish minutes?

That’ll work. I trust the idea is to return before checkout at noon.

Oh hell. I nearly forgot about that pesky detail, but, yeah, we’ll have to be mindful. The timing isn’t great, is it? With the memorial at two. I probably better pack while I’m at it, just in case. Better give me more like an hour then. It ain’t easy being a chick.

I sympathize. An hour.

Mario brought their checks.

I got this, he said. Lunch is on you.

Fair enough. Beth drank down the last of her latte and left to return to her room.

Mario used a handheld to read his card at the table and send him a receipt.

He didn’t need an hour to pack—something closer to five minutes—so he had Mario add a black coffee to the bill before paying. When it arrived he took the mug of Hawaiian to the lobby to drink in a comfortable chair while skimming through his tablet.

He felt the impulse to write, though that wasn’t normally a Sunday-morning thing. It didn’t feel like Sunday morning. He was out of sync, in many ways. He wrote in the mornings, yes, Monday through Friday, doggedly. If for some reason several days elapsed during which he didn’t write (while traveling, for example), he’d become anxious and even a little irritable. The nearest sensation was being horny, the ever-present itch to have sex for which there was only one relief. If he’d been celibate from writing for a few days, the urge to touch pen to paper began to burn in him. Composing creatively was a kind of meditation which kept him centered. He filtered the world through the point of his pen and the inky vortex it created on the paper. Absent the act of writing, the thoughts and feelings, the impressions, the signs and symbols began to well up in his psyche, swimming furiously but contained, seeking the only outlet that would serve their purpose.

This morning he felt especially restless. He imagined the chip beneath his skin as a kind of stimulant but instead of stimulating muscle growth or hair regeneration, it spurred language production. The Logos Project had literally planted words beneath his skin, and they were growing and multiplying, doubling, tripling and quadrupling in linguistic tumult, verbs and nouns, adverbs, adjectives, gerunds and infinitives, all manner of phrases and clauses coursing through his blood seeking some weakened barrier to breach. That’s how it felt.

He drank his coffee and tried to breathe evenly. He wasn’t in a position to write exactly, but he thought of something which might somewhat satisfy the craving. On his tablet, he went to the Logos site and began downloading the tattoo-word jpgs. Just fifteen for now. It was unlikely that these fifteen words went together at all—in fact, it was highly likely that they did not—but toying with them was a start. He opened a new memo on the tablet’s memopad and pecked out the group of words in the same random order in which he’d downloaded their images. Then he set about trying to arrange them in an order that made some sense.

dive                           hark                           gold

strange                       under                         bones

teeth                          flood                          gently

unfold                       toes                            keep

hourly                       they                           rats

gold teeth gently unfold bones under rats they hourly keep

rats hourly dive under flood toes gold bones

gold bones keep strange rats under flood dive

gently gold flood rats hourly

teeth bones hark strange toes unfold gold rats

teeth bones keep gold rats

dive under strange flood hourly

dive under gold flood gently

they dive toes under rats

they unfold toes under gold rats

teeth hourly gently keep flood rats gold

under bones dive strange teeth rats

rats toes gently keep strange good teeth under flood bones

hark gold bones flood under strange dive teeth hourly

The random words took on more and more meaning the longer he toyed with them. Nouns put on the mantel of adjectives, adjectives verbs. He recalled the Zombie Poetry Project website a colleague had developed, zombie as in insects who take over a dead host’s body, reanimating them into something different, some other species altogether. The way it worked, on the site, you typed a poem—any poem, a classic or an original poem you’d just written—and the zombie program chopped it into bits, reatomized them, absorbed them into its ever-expanding database, then combined parts of your poem with bits and pieces of others’ poems—to arrive at a different poem entirely, one in which you could recognize, here and there, your original, but the randomizing and juxtapositioning with other texts cast even the recognizable words and phrases into altered shades of meaning, lighting and obscuring contours of the original text—perhaps calling attention to possibilities of revision if you were working with an original poem. Or sometimes this newly created zombie poem was a thing of beauty or a thing of resonance itself, an object worth keeping in the world. If nothing else, you’d altered the database’s DNA, changed it forever with the addition of your text, now in a position to migrate to others’ poems, infecting them and zombiefying them with traces of you.

He received a text. Katie: Still ok?

It wasn’t like her to be so staccato in her text messaging. The altered tone of her texts was the kith and kin of her altered tone face to face: the filter of texting only amplified her confusion, her teetering between versions of their relationship. Only twenty-four hours ago signs of her indecisiveness about their breaking up would’ve been heartening. Now he didn’t know what he felt.

He sensed his own wavering between possible futures, none of which was fully in his control. He didn’t believe Katie was toying with him, leading him on—but if they resumed their relationship, what would be different? For that matter, what was wrong in the first place?

He heard the Norwegian’s pleasantly blond baritone. Too was speaking to the young woman at the front desk, asking about the hotel’s shuttle service to the airport. Apparently he wouldn’t be staying for the memorial.

When Too finished his conversation and turned, he noticed him in the lobby. He strode over, smiling broadly, a lumberjack about to fell a tree.

I would guess that you and Radiant would be sleeping still.

I would guess that, too . . . Too, but it’s not the case. We just had breakfast. He stood to speak with him, but still had to cast his gaze up. He considered mentioning the bookstore plan but felt protective of his outing with Beth. He didn’t want anyone else tagging along. Too’s itinerary would likely prevent his joining them; still, he was reluctant to advertise their plans. Instead: You must’ve gotten next to no sleep. How’s Deliberately?

In truth I haven’t been to bed. I should be at the airport to check in. I’ll be sleeping soundly on my flight. They admitted Deliberately, so he is still there. His wife is flying in later today. There was something they didn’t care for in the bloodwork and wanted to run other tests.

That’s terrible. Hope it turns out to be nothing.

Indeed. Well, I must pack a bag and drink some coffee.

Of course. Have a safe flight.

Safe travels to you as well. Let’s stay in touch—remember the hashtag, EWLogos. At Twitter I’m BigSwedeToo.

Thought you were from Norway.

I am but BigNorwegianToo doesn’t have the same, what, resonance?

True. It’s the assonance, the internal rhyme. I’ll find you.

Too clapped him on the shoulder then strode toward the elevators.

He watched him enter one just as its twin was opening. Beth emerged, having traded her yoga pants for jeans. He stood still as she walked toward him, buttoning her coat and adjusting her scarf and hair.

Ready? she asked. It was a single word but there was something about her tone that seemed changed, not so much an added coolness but the absence of chirpy warmth, communicated in her face (sterile of expression) and the way she held herself (stiff and guarded) as much as in her voice (tone of simple interrogation).

We should be able to grab a cab out front. He motioned for her to lead the way, with a hint of gallantry, which would have been more exaggerated if Beth weren’t suddenly different. Maybe he only imagined a change or maybe the events of the past day caught up to her. Perhaps the bookstore would restore the brightness to her mood. Already, instantly, he was thinking of the day, the moment, when Katie was no longer Katie, when the edge entered her voice: the moment she became something of a stranger. And the change occurred due to no visible stimulus. Nothing upsetting had happened between them, and as far as he could see nothing upsetting had happened to Katie at all. The shift in the tectonic plates of her emotions had taken place unseen, caused by some observation, some deduction, some decision about the world; and she wasn’t inclined to let him in on it, whatever it was. In fact, when he first broached the subject, she denied anything was wrong, even that anything had changed.

Still, the iciness wouldn’t completely thaw, though its edges became less sharply frigid. He sometimes would compare old messages to recent ones to reassure himself he wasn’t imagining her change in tone. For one, Katie’s messages had frequently been spiced with sexual innuendo before the chill.

You’ve been in my thoughts, thinking about what you can enter. LUMU.

Rainy day. Meet you in bed. LUMU.

Hope your head is feeling better—I could work wonders with it.

TGIF time—F for Friday optional.

Enjoyed the shower this morning. Girls have never been this clean. LUMU.

Then one day the flirtations just stopped. Katie’s messages became as mundane as market reports (soybeans up, pork futures down). For a time he tried to initiate the sexy exchanges (efforts that had always been repaid in kind), but they were met with banality or not answered at all. When he tried to discuss with her what was happening, he mentioned the altered tone of her texts (almost like exhibits in a trial). Katie insisted he was imagining the change. Over time he slipped into the rhythms of this cooled iteration of their relationship. When he thought of before, it was like recalling another relationship, with someone else. Meanwhile even this tepid kind of coupling further crumbled. Katie wanted something—something that wasn’t this, them—but she couldn’t articulate it, even to herself it seemed.

The recollections played on the taxi’s window glass as he and Beth sped through the city streets, still oddly quiet and white, in spite of the large raindrops that plummeted from the colorless sky. Before long the snow would be washed gray by the rain; then washed away.

He looked at Beth, who was watching out her window and likely reflecting inwardly also. Reflections of a similar theme to his own? Her left hand rested on the seat. He thought of holding it. On the taxi’s black seat, her hand appeared whiter than the white sleeve of her coat—not cadaverous or pallid, however: baptismally white, clean and fresh, unblemished. He wanted to touch her skin, its warmth or its coolness—it didn’t matter—but he had no pretense for holding her hand, for connecting to her in so intimate a way.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the bookstore. He swiped his card to pay, then they hurried to the maroon-colored awning through the big drops of rain. Inside, Orville’s was heaven: café, bakery, books, books, books. A significant portion of the main floor was devoted to the café, but there was a half second-floor fully devoted, it appeared, to print. To their right were stacks of Sunday papers, luring them toward the café area. The fresh ink of the newspapers was intoxicating. One wanted to lay one’s face on the cool sheets, cool and smooth, and huff the powerful aroma.

First things first, said Beth. I need to keep my caffeine buzz going. As she passed the stacks of newsprint, arranged neatly in wooden bins, she let her fingers trail across the New York Times. Tempting, my pet, but you’re waiting for me at home.

It was good to see her more animated—more her old self, the Beth he’d known less than a day—yet still there was something different. He didn’t follow immediately but stood watching her, thinking of her as an odd portrait, one captured from behind, framed by the quaint interior of Orville’s. His mind eased into interpretation, analyzing the subject via the composition within the frame: Beth’s white coat, among the darker elements of the store, stood out as a snowy scape, or perhaps, even, an imperceptibly inching glacier. Given the point of view, it was impossible to say if she were drifting away from or toward greater isolation. Not isolation, he revised: greater autonomy, independence—the clearly defined lines of the central figure suggested power and strength of will, not mere drift due to capricious currents.

Suddenly point-of-view reversed, and he had the vertiginous sensation it was he who was moving, sliding backward. He caught himself on the nearest stack of papers, the Tribune. As his balance returned he noted the front-page story about Elizabeth Winters’s death and the Logos Project. In addition to the author’s portrait there was a crowd shot of Logos waiting in the snow to enter the Dance Center. He and Beth were the focal point of the photo. He’d had no awareness their picture was taken. The photographer may have been quite a distance off using a powerful lens. However it happened, there they were, immortalized, forever linked to the event.

He wanted to tell Beth but she’d already gotten in line for her coffee. Maybe he’d point it out later. He joined her in line.

After they got their French roasts, they began drifting among the aisles and aisles of books, most of which were displayed cover facing out. He was on the lookout for unfamiliar titles and authors, yes, but he also liked to find favorites among the stacks as spotting them provided a certain reassurance about the world: it was still a place wherein lived Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, Slaughter-House Five and Breakfast of Champions, The Old Man and the Sea and Death in the Afternoon, as well as all the Austens and Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. In the poetry section, Ariel, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, Howl, Mountain Interval, The Dream of a Common Language, Leaves of Grass, and The Waste Land. He found the Elizabeth Winters section, and it was nearly sold out. A single copy of Orion remained and a handful of her early collection, Wirds of a Feather. As he watched, a woman picked up a copy of Wirds and headed toward the registers. On the one hand, he was gratified that more and more readers had suddenly discovered Elizabeth Winters, but he also felt a subtly hostile possessiveness of her and at the macabre audacity of those who only came to appreciate her upon her death. Elizabeth Winters’s devotees were something between a coterie and a cult. Death threatened to make her conventionally popular. At least the Logos would maintain her uniqueness among American authors, among all authors.

Without thinking why, he set down his cup of coffee and reached out with both hands to touch the covers of Orion and Wirds of a Feather, which felt like completing a circuit with Elizabeth Winters’s words swimming in his circulatory system, though the encrypted prose remained embedded at this hip. Still, he experienced a sensation akin to electricity flowing from Wirds to Orion through him, perhaps even recoding his DNA, turning him into something other than what he had been, something more he hoped.

He released the books, or they released him, and he moved on to further browsing with his coffee.

He turned a corner and ran into Beth, who was studying a paperback. He thought of not interrupting but she said without looking at him, William Gass, Fiction and the Figures of Life—I think I’ve heard about this book. Are you familiar?

Only marginally, I’m sorry to admit. I have one of my grad seminars read and respond to “The Artist and Society,” one of the pieces.

The final piece. I just saw it. Beth turned to it. Good?

I think so. It’s about the purpose of art, writing as an art form, or what its purpose ought to be. Gass wrote it during the Vietnam era but, to me, it seems relevant to any time, to all times. It’s universal and eternal.

Hmm. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Stay here for now, sweet book. Mama will probably be back.

Beth continued sipping and browsing. He wandered in a different direction. He came across a section of books grouped together because of their association with the city: novels and collections of poetry and fiction either set in the city or about the city or written by a local author. It was the store’s City Celebration section. There was Harrison Gale’s seminal collection, El Is for Loss and Other Poems, placed next to the poet who’d most inspired Gale, Carl Sandburg. Then there were the Bronzeville poets and writers, Gwendolyn Brooks prominent among them. And Richard Wright. He spied a copy of Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories. He felt a restlessness he hadn’t felt for a long while but knew well: it was the restlessness to write something noteworthy, something remarkable, something great. Not simply to write, to just get words on a page competently enough rendered to find publication somewhere. Rather, to produce something special, truly magnificent and powerful—something worthy of sitting here on these exalted shelves with Sandburg and Brooks and Wright and Gale, Hemingway and Cisneros. He felt the words welling in him, swimming, flailing for release into the world. Yet, it would not be a single seismic explosion of inspiration—some mythical Kerouacean geyser of prose—but a sustained period of creative intensity, over months, over years if necessary. Even still, he was antsy to begin. Here, perhaps? No, but on the train home. He would go to the dining car, where there were tables, and he would begin this great work, something about the city and Elizabeth Winters and the entanglement of lives. Would it be poetry or prose? Something that was both, and neither?

He would need something to begin his work. He scanned the bookstore and located the section of journals and pens . . . and there was Beth perusing them. Maybe she too had been inspired. He mused about this attraction he felt for Beth, if it had been something else all along: the beginning blossoming of his writing welling inside of him: this kindled passion for Beth was really a renewed urgency to create, to bring forth into the world something worthy of it. Worthier even. His desire to create a life with Beth—a thought barely beyond pure fantasy—was a displaced desire to create a work of literature for the ages.

He migrated toward the journals and notepads and pens. There were journals of varying sizes, some with lined pages, most with unlined. They had leather covers and cloth covers and covers of heavy, decorated boards. In some a vibrant ribbon could mark your place. There were all manner of pens: ballpoints, fountain, and calligraphy, in wood, plastic and metal. By the time he arrived at the section Beth had sauntered on. Her coat was over her arm so he couldn’t say for certain if she’d selected anything to purchase. He was attracted to the leatherbound journals, but they seemed too precious (as if one would be afraid of making a mistake). He selected an unlined clothboard journal in aqua blue and a gun-metal gray pen. He knew he could just as easily write his great work on a cheap Mead pad with a Pilot pen, as he always had, but he wanted to make a statement to himself: he wanted to mark a new commitment to his writing life. He didn’t need a Katie or a Beth to be complete, to be whole: he needed a revitalized artistic aspect of his life, he needed to be devoted to something that would last beyond him.

He glanced back at the section where he’d just been, the section devoted to the city’s authors and books. No one was there. In fact, there was an absence around it like a bubble. Elsewhere customers browsed, reading book jackets and pages opened to at random. There was a glossy poster of James Patterson, ballcapped and pseudo-sage, above a display of his mass-produced mysteries, blatantly co-written by one of his stable of co-authors; and bookstore patrons milled there especially thickly. The hum of activity, the hum of commerce, seemed particularly electric when juxtaposed with the small section devoted to city-connected authors. Readers clambered for James Patterson, not Richard Wright; for Janet Evanovich, not Gwendolyn Brooks; for Nora Roberts, not Ernest Hemingway. For him, it wasn’t simply a matter of not wanting to write for popular appeal: he literally didn’t know how: producing such banality was beyond him.

He drank from his cup, the coffee finally sufficiently cooled, and gripped his journal and pen more securely as he moved toward another unpopulated part of the store, a section devoted to the city’s university and independent presses. Here were the story and poetry collections, the novels, the monographs, and the art books that attracted almost no one’s attention. He noted the small presses’ names imprinted on the book’s spines: Tortoise, Twelve Winters, Woolfsword, Haymarket, Knee-Jerk, Artifice, Lake Street, Dancing Girl, Sundress, Agate, and (his instant favorite) Readerless Press (because of its brutal honesty). From this last press he perused a collection of prose poems, written and illustrated via collage by E. B. Bishop, whose enigmatic author’s note said only that she or he grew up in a small Midwestern town and attended the Art Institute. The unusual little book was titled Malcontent. The cover, rendered in shades of red, featured an unsettling image of a creature that was part crow and part human. He added the prose poems to the journal and pen to purchase.

He thought about what separated Elizabeth Winters from these avant-garde authors. How had she achieved a level of notoriety, of fame even? It helped that she’d emerged at a time when there was still some interest in writing worth reading. Also, she’d always lived in metropolises where she could cultivate devoted readers, due to her writing, yes, but also her charismatic personality, and—he had to admit to himself—her ability to promote her work. His thinking was dancing dangerously close to Katie’s criticism of Elizabeth Winters. The one distinction remained: Elizabeth Winters’s charisma and media savvy drew attention to her superior talent.

He came to the classic mysteries section: Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dick Francis, Dorothy Sayers, P. D. James, Dashiell Hammett. As a boy he’d liked mysteries—and it was his father’s genre of choice, which perhaps influenced his tastes—but as he matured he found the writing itself, divorced from the page-turning plots, was too basic: it was about providing information, clearly and succinctly, like newspaper accounts, detached entirely from artfully complex language. Every so often he would pick up a mystery, nostalgic for the comforting mood of his youthful reading, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed, the rag rug beneath and the pillow behind providing just the right amount of cushion; the book, with the smell and the feel of its pages, angled just so to catch the light from his desk lamp, angled just so; meanwhile knowing his father was in his room, stretched on his bed, reading too, a mystery, his after-dinner pastime.

He’d try to evoke all those feelings, but the book wouldn’t hold his attention, in spite of the murder or kidnaping or jewel heist. The language itself failed to engage him. In high school he discovered and devoured Kurt Vonnegut—Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions left their mark of course, as did Mother Night, Galapagos and Jailbird. It was Vonnegut’s genre bending that most appealed to him, and the author’s wit and wisdom.

In college it was Kerouac and the Beats, the lyricism of On the Road, which transitioned into the poetry of Mexico City Blues and Dr. Sax, leading naturally to Ginsberg’s Howl, hooking him on poetry just in time to switch his emphasis and initiate his tunneling backward into its tropes and traditions, its history and its heroes and heroines. By the time of his MFA he’d returned to the twentieth-century poets: Plath and Hughes, Heaney and Larkin, Lorca and Neruda, Nemerov and Giovanni, Gale and Wilson, Eliot, Rilke, Valéry, Bishop and Moore.

Then there was the poetic prose of Elizabeth Winters and her determination to do something different. If there was nothing more to do with language and its shape, according to narrative theory, then the new ground must be transmission. How will readers’ reception of a text affect their processing of it? And what if that text remains largely hidden and readers can only process the hint of it, its mere shadow on the surface? Elizabeth Winters seemed to want to take Hemingway’s iceberg principle, which dominated twentieth-century prose, to a new depth in the new century. Hemingway felt the characters’ stories—their motivations—should remain mostly below the surface of what appeared on the page, directing the action from the characters’ hidden depths. Elizabeth Winters went further: the narrative itself should disappear from view, leaving only its opaque outline for the reader, leaving their processing of the faintest fragments nearly the whole of the narrative itself.

He sat in a comfortable chair—with his coffee, and his newly purchased journal and pen and book of prose poems—considering it all as Elizabeth Winters’s last novel seethed beneath his skin.

Meanwhile Beth continued to browse about the store. It appeared she’d collected at least two books she intended to purchase.

He read the introduction to the prose poetry book in which the author attempted to clarify the murky genre of prose poetry. The very term, she or he said, communicated the cultural privileging of prose over poetry, evidenced by the fact that most people, even nonreaders—the aliterate—could name a few well-known novelists but the names of poets, especially still-living ones, would be much more of a challenge, especially if the names of children’s poets, Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, for example, were cordoned off. But, also, on its surface prose poetry appeared to be just prose. It tended to be parsed into paragraphs, if parsed at all, then separated into sentences, not stanzas and lines, the most readily visible indicators of poetry on the page. However, once one began reading, began processing, wrote the prose-poet in her or his introduction, then the poetry would (or should) dominate the textual landscape with its telltale tropes: alliteration, assonance, repetition, caesura, onomatopoeia, internal rhyme. Prose poetry was really mainly poetry—poetry masquerading as prose.

Why not then simply write a poem? (the author asked rhetorically) Because prose offers expansion opposed to ellipsis, the availability of more conspicuous connective tissue between images, and the opportunity for a hierarchy of ideas, layered in degrees of dominance as if by syntactic trowel.

Oriented chiefly as a poet, he was dubious of the final claims, but the form attracted him and he was willing to reserve judgment.

He watched Beth on the far side of the store. She had several more books under her arm and was still perusing. Perhaps she was shopping for her library as well. A figure crossed behind Beth, and he realized it was Beth: he’d been observing a look-alike, and side by side not even with that much similarity. He attributed his confusion to his need for more sleep.

He continued gazing at the pages of the prose poetry book’s introduction, but only gazing, not reading: the black letters on the off-white page, the uniformity of them, the abundance of them, all served to comfort him. A kind of textual security blanket, text-ile.

After a time—he couldn’t say how long—Beth was standing by his chair. Ready to check out? she asked. She’d retrieved the Gass after all, and two other books.

He rose in affirmation and they stepped in line for the cash registers. It should only take a minute or two, he surmised. The checkout employees were spritely and efficient, like Santa’s elves in grownup, bookstore form. He glanced toward Orwell’s front windows and realized he and Beth were reflected there, their ghostly images holding their books and cups of coffee. He wondered briefly if their ghosts had the same reading tastes.

Then a woman by the newspapers said, It’s you. You’re Logos. Her hand was resting on the Tribune’s front-page picture.

He realized they were standing in line in a more or less identical pose as the one depicted in the paper. Others were now staring at them, including the cash-register elves, momentarily fazed into inefficiency. You’re Logos, repeated the woman, whom he realized was the one he mistook for Beth. From here, now, with so little resemblance, the mistake was difficult to fathom. The woman was considerably older for one thing, and heavier set, perhaps at best a matronly version of Beth, or grandmatronly, perhaps a glimpse of the future Beth Winterberry.

Yes, said the younger Beth—we’re Logos. She patted her hip.

Interesting, said much-older Beth, colorlessly, and went about her business.

The elves returned to their task, their sprightliness reanimated. Everyone did. Yet the previous moment remained. Their sudden celebrity lingered like a scent, or the after-image of a dazzling flash. He and Beth were separate and apart from everyone in the shop who’d been within the sphere of their recognition. Suddenly three planes of people existed: those who didn’t know them at all, those who knew them now as Logos, and there was the plane wherein only he and Beth resided, the only one which felt to him normal and natural. He looked toward the window for their doppelgangers, to maybe double the population of their sparse plane, but something had changed—the light, or the angle from which he gazed, something—and their reflected selves had disappeared, as ghosts will, to be replaced by the rainy city sidewalk beyond, umbrellaed strangers now and then hurrying past.

Madison

The storm had passed, and brilliant daylight streamed through the separation of the window curtains. A bar of yellow light fell across the pillows to his left and along his neck. He discovered it was merely bright, with no warmth whatsoever. He’d had a couple of hours of restless sleep, literally so, it seemed: sleep without rest. His mind was scattered among the various pieces of the past twenty-four hours. He thought of Beth, whose life circumstances remained behind a veil, and of Katie, who had not sent a follow-up text. There was the single question, the single expression of concern, and that was their only communication in days. And what of Elizabeth Winters? When he’d reconnected to the Web, he was alerted that someone had already uploaded the 753 words—the 753 jpgs of tattooed words—to Elizabeth Winters’s website, the prologue to Meditations on the Word, but of course in no coherent order. No one knew the order, said Marian Tate, except their now-deceased author.

So among the chaotic swirl of his thoughts was the idea of making sense of the 753 words. No doubt a number of Elizabeth Winters devotees, or the merely curious, or the morbidly curious, had been at work on the puzzle for hours already. He imagined the years—decades—of articles and conference papers devoted to deciphering the prologue. Like Joyce’s Finnegans Wake, the prologue would gain a notoriety, an infamy due to its unintelligibleness. However, Joyce’s opaqueness was deliberate, whereas Elizabeth Winters’s was tragic.

Unless of course it was a hoax, a publicity stunt, which he apparently didn’t believe, for lying there in the comfortable hotel bed he felt the weight of mourning, of bereavement. Unless what he felt was the loss of Katie, or the anticipation of losing his connection to Beth. Perhaps it was the grief of losing all three, a trinity of loss.

He knew he should try to sleep but it seemed pointless. A shower and coffee sounded better at the moment. It wasn’t quite 7:30. In the shower he noticed a touch of redness, pinkness really, around the injection site on his hip. It didn’t hurt or itch, and in fact was barely noticeable even when he was looking for it. He wondered about the piece of Elizabeth Winters’s novel he carried under his skin—a story he would never know. He was connected in a unique way to the other bearers of the tale: the ultimate book club but one that could have no discussion regarding the substance of the book, only vehement speculation. He realized he’d been conjuring narratives of the prologue—almost subconsciously—based on the few words he knew: his and Beth’s words, and the words of his nighttime confederates who tried to find Elizabeth Winters, almost literally characters in search of an author, the surreal made real. The prologues he conjured tended to coalesce into a story about a prep school, something Pencey Prep-like: a place from which all Holden Caufields must escape, its being the natural order of things.

When he returned home, he’d print out the word images and toy with them over time. He imagined frothy debates in hotel bars about the prologue for years, with each verbal pugilist (perhaps at times actual pugilists) convinced his reconstruction was correct. He recalled other literary enigmas. When he was working on his master’s he took a course in Medieval literature, and one of the works they studied was Beowulf. The Anglo-Saxonist who taught the class professed that Anglo-Saxon had practically become a lost language by the time scholars began translating Beowulf into modern English at the dawn of the nineteenth century. The first stabs at translation got the story mostly wrong, and it wasn’t until the 1830s—after more than a quarter century of steady scholarly effort—that they felt they had an accurate understanding of the story. Even more infamous than the Wake, which spawned reading societies around the world devoted to deciphering the Irish author’s final tome.

Would there be such passion devoted to Elizabeth Winters’s final work, Meditations on the Word?

As he was dressing into his jeans and a navy pullover, he noticed that the pad of paper on the bed’s side table was written on. A couple of steps closer and he saw what’d been written: pupils—. He looked about the room and of course no one was there. Could someone have slipped into his room while he was showering and written his word on the hotel pad? He supposed it was possible, but who besides Beth and a handful of people even knew his word? And what would be the point of the prank, other than to give him a sense of uncanniness?

He sat on the unmade bed and picked up the pad. The word was almost certainly written with the cheap hotel pen which lay next to the pad. The handwriting looked familiar. He picked up the pen and flipped to a clean sheet in the pad. He wrote his word as naturally as he could manage. He flipped between the two words: they were virtually identical. He must’ve written on the pad but had no recollection of it. Writing in his sleep, something he’d never done before. As an undergrad he’d experimented briefly with Kerouac’s technique of continuing the plotlines of his dreams upon waking, resulting in Kerouac’s Book of Dreams, but all he gained was a stressful way to wake up in the morning because most of the time he didn’t recall his dreams vividly enough to pick up their narrative threads. The thought that he’d written pupils— himself disturbed him more than the idea of a stranger stealing into his room to scribble it: he, in essence, was the stranger.

He reminded himself how exhausted he’d been when he and Beth returned from the donut shop. On the brief walk he began to see strange shapes on the periphery of his vision, undefined objects that closed in on him suddenly then just as suddenly disappeared. He attributed it to sleep deprivation as he walked alongside Beth, who was strangely quiet. Perhaps she had finally crashed. He felt himself to be in a half-asleep, dreamy state. For a second or two he might think it was Katie at his side before recalling more lucidly where he was and with whom. In a moment the process would repeat. While walking with Katie he once or twice nearly reached over to take her hand.

Or did he at one point hold Beth’s hand? Seated on the hotel bed, remembering, it almost seemed he had, but surely not. He would recall it with certainty if he had. He looked again at pupils— written on the pad in his own hand, it would seem, even though he had no recollection of it. Being certain of anything appeared unwise. He couldn’t recall undressing and crawling under the bed covers.

His cellphone face flared to life to let him know he had a text. Katie? He checked. Beth: Hopefully you’re sound asleep but if not you want to do breakfast? Developments.

He typed, I’m awake. Hotel bistro? When?

Immediately. Sounds good. 20?

K

He didn’t need twenty minutes to slip on his Nikes. He picked up his phone and iPad and headed for the lobby for coffee and to catch the headlines before Beth arrived. In the elevator he looked at his reflection in its mirrored interior. He probably should shave before the memorial. Or maybe he would grow a beard, something he hadn’t done for years. The timing seemed off since it was nearly spring, but something felt right about the not-rightness. He was feeling the rough stubble of his chin as the doors opened to the lobby.

He went directly the bistro, where only about a half dozen tables or booths were occupied. The one where he and Beth had had their Irish coffee was open so he took it, sitting on the opposite side so that he could watch for Beth.

There appeared to be one waiter working, Mario, said his name badge. He ordered a latte with an extra shot of espresso and told Mario he was expecting one more for breakfast. Mario left two menus, single laminated sheets.

He opened Safari on his iPad to check the morning news. The world no longer considered Elizabeth Winters’s death significant, not with a bomb threat at the Met in New York, a school shooting in Tennessee, an airliner landing on the wrong runway at LAX, the Dow diving nearly a hundred points, a hostage situation at a market in Madrid, an assassination attempt in Syria, a tsunami with Tokyo in its sights, a power outage affecting a hundred million in India. . .  .

He had to search Elizabeth Winters to locate any updated information. There was little to report. They’d released the name of the other fatality in the crash, the pilot Meredith Overturf. Wait, what? Meredith Overturf? It was the name of one of the central characters in Orion. He quickly read the news report. There was no commenting on the connection. The nagging fear that it was all some elaborate (and cruel) hoax began to stir again. Beth had mentioned a development. Could this be it? Evidence of a hoax would be more than a development, however.

He decided to direct his attention elsewhere on his tablet: the weather, that’s always a good, utilitarian distraction. Warmer today, mid forties, but rain beginning by noon and lasting … basically forever. He was about to check his hometown forecast when Beth arrived. Hair pulled back, black yoga pants, zip-front sweater, red-orange, orange Nikes. She could’ve passed for a college student. She slid into the booth opposite him just as Mario was bringing his latte.

That smells wonderful, she said, waving some of the espresso aroma toward her face.

Low-fat latte, an extra shot, he said.

She opened her eyes. I’ll have one too, please.

Here. He pushed the colorful, overlarge cup and saucer toward her and nodded at Mario to bring another.

Really? said Beth. You’re a prince. She put her hands around the warm cup and blew on the foam froth before sipping. Oh my God—that’s exactly what the doctor ordered. Thank you. She sipped again.

Let me guess, he said, the development is that the pilot who died in the crash is named Meredith Overturf. Pretty suspicious.

That does sound suspicious, but look up Meredith Overturf Aviation Magazine. She sipped, giving him a moment.

The first item that popped up was a story in Aviation Magazine about a private pilot and his relationship with an eccentric author. Apparently the pilot discovered he had the same name as a character in the novel Orion by Elizabeth Winters. He contacted her through her website, not expecting to hear form her, but she did reply, which began a correspondence then a friendship, said the article. It turned out they actually lived fairly close to one another. Meredith had flown Elizabeth Winters to some readings and events in California, Washington, Nevada and Arizona (including, most likely, her infamous reading in Sedona). The article was nearly seven years old.

So, the pilot had the same name as the planetarium director in Orion. He was finished skimming.

Yup, so not as suspicious as it sounds. Weird, and tragic, but not suspicious.

They took a moment to look over the single-page menus. When Mario returned with the other latte they placed their orders.

Veggie omelet, and toss in some turkey sausage, said Beth. I need some protein—and the fruit cup.

Mario didn’t bother to write down the order.

Plain omelet, he said, with a bowl of oatmeal, cinnamon and walnuts, please.

Mario nodded and left to put in their order.

So, the development?

Right. Beth adjusted her glasses, sliding them unnoticeably higher on her nose. I crashed for a couple of hours then I woke up super thirsty for a cold drink, so I tossed on some clothes and toddled down the hall to the machines for a bottle of water and some ice, and I ran into the Aussie, Here (whose real name, by the way, is Cameron, she adds parenthetically); he was just going to bed—they ended up admitting poor Deliberately for further observatons, so he and Too had come back to the hotel. Anyway, while they were waiting for their ride, a limousine service arrives and who should saunter out (well, saunter is my word, I don’t think Cameron used such a freighted verb), who should saunter out of the ER doors and into the back of the limo? Marian Tate and the distinguished-looking guy, but no third person. She must’ve been admitted to the hospital too, or she left some other way.

Interesting.

It is interesting. And that’s not all, Beth said almost under her breath before taking a sip of latte.

What?

Ok, it’s more weird than plain old interesting, and maybe a little creepy—or maybe nothing, just me being overtired. It did kind of freak me out for a while though.

What?

So I got my water and ice and was having a nice cold drink before going back to bed and hopefully sleeping for a couple more hours. I put my glass on the nightstand and I notice something is written on the hotel notepad—

Let me guess: the word radiant. Your word.

Holy crap. That’s right.

Holy crap indeed. And it’s your handwriting.

Yeah, maybe, I guess. I don’t know. Otherwise somebody came into my room and wrote it while I was talking to the Aussie. It really weirded me out. I thought about calling hotel security. Instead I poked around my room. I even did the classic horror-movie procedure and looked behind the shower curtain. I’ve always wondered, What would a chick do if there really was an axe-murderer hiding behind the curtain? Pretend not to notice before casually backing out of the bathroom, whistling a show tune for effect, and then making a mad dash to the door? What, are you clairvoyant?

No—it’s just that I had an uncannily similar experience. After taking a shower I saw that someone—me I guess—had written pupils on the hotel notepad.

No way. And you’re positive it’s your handwriting.

Not a hundred-percent positive but pretty darn positive. What about you? Your know for sure it’s your handwriting?

Like you, pretty sure. I mean, the alternative doesn’t make any sense: someone knows all the Logos’ words, someone who’s a master forger and accomplished at B&E? And to what purpose other than to give us all the willies?

True, true, all true. I suppose we had essentially identical experiences yesterday and were more or less equally exhausted. I suppose we could’ve both scribbled our words on the pads while still mostly asleep, asleep enough not to recall it the next morning. It’s possible. Stranger coincidences happen all the time.

You don’t sound convinced.

I’m working on it. It’s a process.

You don’t think we’re being programmed by the chip, surely. Do you? Beth asked.

I don’t know. No . . . and yes. Not in some science-fictiony way. But clearly bearing the chip inside of us, and having had the experiences we’ve had so far because of it, plus the knowledge that we’ll never know the story that we carry along with us, literally to our graves—all of that has in a sense been programming us, or re-programming us. But, no, I don’t think there’s some deliberate and mysterious revision of our brainwaves happening. I don’t think.

Beth seemed to consider it all for a moment while she sipped. I trust you were able to change your train ticket.

To five o’clock, which might be pushing it if the memorial goes past four. I may have to step out a bit early.

A silence blossomed like a bomb at the end of his statement: the concrete reality of their parting suddenly perched there on the table between them, as ominous as a darkly contoured thunderhead.

Mario brought their breakfasts.

They ate in the shadow of that silence for a while. He wondered if she sensed it too, the weight of their leave-taking. He thought she did.

Well, said Beth, we have several hours before the memorial. Normally Sundays are all about The New York Times, especially the Book Review, and more coffee than could possibly be good for me. But here we are in the big city. Surely there is plenty to do, even today. A great indie bookstore to pillage, something like that. What do you think?

A great bookstore sounds, well, great. We have one fair indie bookstore back home.

In Madison, we’re in better bookstore shape than that, but I’m up for being wowed.

His tablet was next to him on the table. He entered the passcode then pushed it toward Beth. Here, it’s your brainstorm. You should have the honor of choosing.

What a gentleman. She put her fork down long enough to type in a search, then returned to eating while she studied the results.

Meanwhile, the distraction afforded him the opportunity to study her. As he watched her scrolling and reading, a quizzical determination about her sculpted brow, absently replacing a strand of hair behind her ear, a life with Beth unfolded in his imagination like a game board which had been folded down to a square inside the box, now taken out and revealing the intricate mysteries of the contest, geometric section by geometric section.

Madison. A place he’d never been. It seemed a place of farm fields carefully stitched onto hills, a place where cows, black and white and sonorously belled, were forever lowing. Sky and hill met in a perfect pleat, perfect enough to tear-fill Betsy Ross’s patriotic eyes. The blue was blue, and the green green. There were coffeehouses and bookstores, and coffeebookhousestores, some with eclectic foci, one, perhaps, named for Bukowski, which only trafficked in aggressive poetry, another only in the cozy mystery, Murder by the Mug or Quilts and Culprits, yet another the indie store’s indie store, bearing only the original owner’s name, now long dead, Walcott’s or Wallace’s, est. 1947, a bookshop so serious readers must sign a waiver before browsing among the dangerously weighty titles, written by authors who have only coteries and cult devotees, writers who would slit their wrists, consumed with shame, if one of their works stumbled onto the Times bestsellers list. Art galleries, too, of course, and local theatre (-re, not -er), and free lectures at the university by award-winning economists and mathematicians and entomologists who’ve discovered a new species of flea, one that only lives on a particular species of bat which only lives in a single cave deeply recessed in a mountain pass among the Andes, only rarely accessible to humans and then only at great risk. And he and Beth would attend the openings, ask provocative questions at the readings, hold hands in the lecture halls, supportively attend each other’s events as their careers bloomed always-upward like sunflowers, their creative chi nourished in a warm, lilac-scented bath of affection and sex through the years. And connecting them at the cosmic level was their mutual connection to Logos. Online discussions with the Logos community, one of the smallest and most select on the planet—regional get-togethers, national and international conferences, a palpable spirit of camaraderie based on the words inked into their derma and deposited beneath it. There would be a scholarly journal, Logos Notes or The Elizabeth Winters Quarterly, he and Beth would be regular contributors, or guest editors. They shared it all, births in the Logos community, professional milestones, and each devastating death throughout the years as time marched toward the release of Elizabeth Winters’s greatest book, Meditations on the Word.

This looks like the place: Orville’s. I saw a woman at Revelation yesterday carrying an Orville’s bag. I didn’t know what it was. All I could think of was popcorn.

Sounds good . . . the place, not popcorn—well popcorn too.

Great. It says they open at eight on Sunday. I need to go to my room for a bit—meet you in the lobby in, say, forty-fiveish minutes?

That’ll work. I trust the idea is to return before checkout at noon.

Oh hell. I nearly forgot about that pesky detail, but, yeah, we’ll have to be mindful. The timing isn’t great, is it? With the memorial at two. I probably better pack while I’m at it, just in case. Better give me more like an hour then. It ain’t easy being a chick.

I sympathize. An hour.

Mario brought their checks.

I got this, he said. Lunch is on you.

Fair enough. Beth drank down the last of her latte and left to return to her room.

Mario used a handheld to read his card at the table and send him a receipt.

He didn’t need an hour to pack—something closer to five minutes—so he had Mario add a black coffee to the bill before paying. When it arrived he took the mug of Hawaiian to the lobby to drink in a comfortable chair while skimming through his tablet.

He felt the impulse to write, though that wasn’t normally a Sunday-morning thing. It didn’t feel like Sunday morning. He was out of sync, in many ways. He wrote in the mornings, yes, Monday through Friday, doggedly. If for some reason several days elapsed during which he didn’t write (while traveling, for example), he’d become anxious and even a little irritable. The nearest sensation was being horny, the ever-present itch to have sex for which there was only one relief. If he’d been celibate from writing for a few days, the urge to touch pen to paper began to burn in him. Composing creatively was a kind of meditation which kept him centered. He filtered the world through the point of his pen and the inky vortex it created on the paper. Absent the act of writing, the thoughts and feelings, the impressions, the signs and symbols began to well up in his psyche, swimming furiously but contained, seeking the only outlet that would serve their purpose.

This morning he felt especially restless. He imagined the chip beneath his skin as a kind of stimulant but instead of stimulating muscle growth or hair regeneration, it spurred language production. The Logos Project had literally planted words beneath his skin, and they were growing and multiplying, doubling, tripling and quadrupling in linguistic tumult, verbs and nouns, adverbs, adjectives, gerunds and infinitives, all manner of phrases and clauses coursing through his blood seeking some weakened barrier to breach. That’s how it felt.

He drank his coffee and tried to breathe evenly. He wasn’t in a position to write exactly, but he thought of something which might somewhat satisfy the craving. On his tablet, he went to the Logos site and began downloading the tattoo-word jpgs. Just fifteen for now. It was unlikely that these fifteen words went together at all—in fact, it was highly likely that they did not—but toying with them was a start. He opened a new memo on the tablet’s memopad and pecked out the group of words in the same random order in which he’d downloaded their images. Then he set about trying to arrange them in an order that made some sense.

dive                           hark                           gold

strange                       under                         bones

teeth                          flood                          gently

unfold                       toes                            keep

hourly                       they                           rats

gold teeth gently unfold bones under rats they hourly keep

rats hourly dive under flood toes gold bones

gold bones keep strange rats under flood dive

gently gold flood rats hourly

teeth bones hark strange toes unfold gold rats

teeth bones keep gold rats

dive under strange flood hourly

dive under gold flood gently

they dive toes under rats

they unfold toes under gold rats

teeth hourly gently keep flood rats gold

under bones dive strange teeth rats

rats toes gently keep strange good teeth under flood bones

hark gold bones flood under strange dive teeth hourly

The random words took on more and more meaning the longer he toyed with them. Nouns put on the mantel of adjectives, adjectives verbs. He recalled the Zombie Poetry Project website a colleague had developed, zombie as in insects who take over a dead host’s body, reanimating them into something different, some other species altogether. The way it worked, on the site, you typed a poem—any poem, a classic or an original poem you’d just written—and the zombie program chopped it into bits, reatomized them, absorbed them into its ever-expanding database, then combined parts of your poem with bits and pieces of others’ poems—to arrive at a different poem entirely, one in which you could recognize, here and there, your original, but the randomizing and juxtapositioning with other texts cast even the recognizable words and phrases into altered shades of meaning, lighting and obscuring contours of the original text—perhaps calling attention to possibilities of revision if you were working with an original poem. Or sometimes this newly created zombie poem was a thing of beauty or a thing of resonance itself, an object worth keeping in the world. If nothing else, you’d altered the database’s DNA, changed it forever with the addition of your text, now in a position to migrate to others’ poems, infecting them and zombiefying them with traces of you.

He received a text. Katie: Still ok?

It wasn’t like her to be so staccato in her text messaging. The altered tone of her texts was the kith and kin of her altered tone face to face: the filter of texting only amplified her confusion, her teetering between versions of their relationship. Only twenty-four hours ago signs of her indecisiveness about their breaking up would’ve been heartening. Now he didn’t know what he felt.

He sensed his own wavering between possible futures, none of which was fully in his control. He didn’t believe Katie was toying with him, leading him on—but if they resumed their relationship, what would be different? For that matter, what was wrong in the first place?

He heard the Norwegian’s pleasantly blond baritone. Too was speaking to the young woman at the front desk, asking about the hotel’s shuttle service to the airport. Apparently he wouldn’t be staying for the memorial.

When Too finished his conversation and turned, he noticed him in the lobby. He strode over, smiling broadly, a lumberjack about to fell a tree.

I would guess that you and Radiant would be sleeping still.

I would guess that, too . . . Too, but it’s not the case. We just had breakfast. He stood to speak with him, but still had to cast his gaze up. He considered mentioning the bookstore plan but felt protective of his outing with Beth. He didn’t want anyone else tagging along. Too’s itinerary would likely prevent his joining them; still, he was reluctant to advertise their plans. Instead: You must’ve gotten next to no sleep. How’s Deliberately?

In truth I haven’t been to bed. I should be at the airport to check in. I’ll be sleeping soundly on my flight. They admitted Deliberately, so he is still there. His wife is flying in later today. There was something they didn’t care for in the bloodwork and wanted to run other tests.

That’s terrible. Hope it turns out to be nothing.

Indeed. Well, I must pack a bag and drink some coffee.

Of course. Have a safe flight.

Safe travels to you as well. Let’s stay in touch—remember the hashtag, EWLogos. At Twitter I’m BigSwedeToo.

Thought you were from Norway.

I am but BigNorwegianToo doesn’t have the same, what, resonance?

True. It’s the assonance, the internal rhyme. I’ll find you.

Too clapped him on the shoulder then strode toward the elevators.

He watched him enter one just as its twin was opening. Beth emerged, having traded her yoga pants for jeans. He stood still as she walked toward him, buttoning her coat and adjusting her scarf and hair.

Ready? she asked. It was a single word but there was something about her tone that seemed changed, not so much an added coolness but the absence of chirpy warmth, communicated in her face (sterile of expression) and the way she held herself (stiff and guarded) as much as in her voice (tone of simple interrogation).

We should be able to grab a cab out front. He motioned for her to lead the way, with a hint of gallantry, which would have been more exaggerated if Beth weren’t suddenly different. Maybe he only imagined a change or maybe the events of the past day caught up to her. Perhaps the bookstore would restore the brightness to her mood. Already, instantly, he was thinking of the day, the moment, when Katie was no longer Katie, when the edge entered her voice: the moment she became something of a stranger. And the change occurred due to no visible stimulus. Nothing upsetting had happened between them, and as far as he could see nothing upsetting had happened to Katie at all. The shift in the tectonic plates of her emotions had taken place unseen, caused by some observation, some deduction, some decision about the world; and she wasn’t inclined to let him in on it, whatever it was. In fact, when he first broached the subject, she denied anything was wrong, even that anything had changed.

Still, the iciness wouldn’t completely thaw, though its edges became less sharply frigid. He sometimes would compare old messages to recent ones to reassure himself he wasn’t imagining her change in tone. For one, Katie’s messages had frequently been spiced with sexual innuendo before the chill.

You’ve been in my thoughts, thinking about what you can enter. LUMU.

Rainy day. Meet you in bed. LUMU.

Hope your head is feeling better—I could work wonders with it.

TGIF time—F for Friday optional.

Enjoyed the shower this morning. Girls have never been this clean. LUMU.

Then one day the flirtations just stopped. Katie’s messages became as mundane as market reports (soybeans up, pork futures down). For a time he tried to initiate the sexy exchanges (efforts that had always been repaid in kind), but they were met with banality or not answered at all. When he tried to discuss with her what was happening, he mentioned the altered tone of her texts (almost like exhibits in a trial). Katie insisted he was imagining the change. Over time he slipped into the rhythms of this cooled iteration of their relationship. When he thought of before, it was like recalling another relationship, with someone else. Meanwhile even this tepid kind of coupling further crumbled. Katie wanted something—something that wasn’t this, them—but she couldn’t articulate it, even to herself it seemed.

The recollections played on the taxi’s window glass as he and Beth sped through the city streets, still oddly quiet and white, in spite of the large raindrops that plummeted from the colorless sky. Before long the snow would be washed gray by the rain; then washed away.

He looked at Beth, who was watching out her window and likely reflecting inwardly also. Reflections of a similar theme to his own? Her left hand rested on the seat. He thought of holding it. On the taxi’s black seat, her hand appeared whiter than the white sleeve of her coat—not cadaverous or pallid, however: baptismally white, clean and fresh, unblemished. He wanted to touch her skin, its warmth or its coolness—it didn’t matter—but he had no pretense for holding her hand, for connecting to her in so intimate a way.

The taxi rolled to a stop in front of the bookstore. He swiped his card to pay, then they hurried to the maroon-colored awning through the big drops of rain. Inside, Orville’s was heaven: café, bakery, books, books, books. A significant portion of the main floor was devoted to the café, but there was a half second-floor fully devoted, it appeared, to print. To their right were stacks of Sunday papers, luring them toward the café area. The fresh ink of the newspapers was intoxicating. One wanted to lay one’s face on the cool sheets, cool and smooth, and huff the powerful aroma.

First things first, said Beth. I need to keep my caffeine buzz going. As she passed the stacks of newsprint, arranged neatly in wooden bins, she let her fingers trail across the New York Times. Tempting, my pet, but you’re waiting for me at home.

It was good to see her more animated—more her old self, the Beth he’d known less than a day—yet still there was something different. He didn’t follow immediately but stood watching her, thinking of her as an odd portrait, one captured from behind, framed by the quaint interior of Orville’s. His mind eased into interpretation, analyzing the subject via the composition within the frame: Beth’s white coat, among the darker elements of the store, stood out as a snowy scape, or perhaps, even, an imperceptibly inching glacier. Given the point of view, it was impossible to say if she were drifting away from or toward greater isolation. Not isolation, he revised: greater autonomy, independence—the clearly defined lines of the central figure suggested power and strength of will, not mere drift due to capricious currents.

Suddenly point-of-view reversed, and he had the vertiginous sensation it was he who was moving, sliding backward. He caught himself on the nearest stack of papers, the Tribune. As his balance returned he noted the front-page story about Elizabeth Winters’s death and the Logos Project. In addition to the author’s portrait there was a crowd shot of Logos waiting in the snow to enter the Dance Center. He and Beth were the focal point of the photo. He’d had no awareness their picture was taken. The photographer may have been quite a distance off using a powerful lens. However it happened, there they were, immortalized, forever linked to the event.

He wanted to tell Beth but she’d already gotten in line for her coffee. Maybe he’d point it out later. He joined her in line.

After they got their French roasts, they began drifting among the aisles and aisles of books, most of which were displayed cover facing out. He was on the lookout for unfamiliar titles and authors, yes, but he also liked to find favorites among the stacks as spotting them provided a certain reassurance about the world: it was still a place wherein lived Ulysses and Finnegans Wake, Slaughter-House Five and Breakfast of Champions, The Old Man and the Sea and Death in the Afternoon, as well as all the Austens and Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights and Agnes Grey. In the poetry section, Ariel, Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair, Howl, Mountain Interval, The Dream of a Common Language, Leaves of Grass, and The Waste Land. He found the Elizabeth Winters section, and it was nearly sold out. A single copy of Orion remained and a handful of her early collection, Wirds of a Feather. As he watched, a woman picked up a copy of Wirds and headed toward the registers. On the one hand, he was gratified that more and more readers had suddenly discovered Elizabeth Winters, but he also felt a subtly hostile possessiveness of her and at the macabre audacity of those who only came to appreciate her upon her death. Elizabeth Winters’s devotees were something between a coterie and a cult. Death threatened to make her conventionally popular. At least the Logos would maintain her uniqueness among American authors, among all authors.

Without thinking why, he set down his cup of coffee and reached out with both hands to touch the covers of Orion and Wirds of a Feather, which felt like completing a circuit with Elizabeth Winters’s words swimming in his circulatory system, though the encrypted prose remained embedded at this hip. Still, he experienced a sensation akin to electricity flowing from Wirds to Orion through him, perhaps even recoding his DNA, turning him into something other than what he had been, something more he hoped.

He released the books, or they released him, and he moved on to further browsing with his coffee.

He turned a corner and ran into Beth, who was studying a paperback. He thought of not interrupting but she said without looking at him, William Gass, Fiction and the Figures of Life—I think I’ve heard about this book. Are you familiar?

Only marginally, I’m sorry to admit. I have one of my grad seminars read and respond to “The Artist and Society,” one of the pieces.

The final piece. I just saw it. Beth turned to it. Good?

I think so. It’s about the purpose of art, writing as an art form, or what its purpose ought to be. Gass wrote it during the Vietnam era but, to me, it seems relevant to any time, to all times. It’s universal and eternal.

Hmm. You’ve piqued my curiosity. Stay here for now, sweet book. Mama will probably be back.

Beth continued sipping and browsing. He wandered in a different direction. He came across a section of books grouped together because of their association with the city: novels and collections of poetry and fiction either set in the city or about the city or written by a local author. It was the store’s City Celebration section. There was Harrison Gale’s seminal collection, El Is for Loss and Other Poems, placed next to the poet who’d most inspired Gale, Carl Sandburg. Then there were the Bronzeville poets and writers, Gwendolyn Brooks prominent among them. And Richard Wright. He spied a copy of Hemingway’s Nick Adams stories. He felt a restlessness he hadn’t felt for a long while but knew well: it was the restlessness to write something noteworthy, something remarkable, something great. Not simply to write, to just get words on a page competently enough rendered to find publication somewhere. Rather, to produce something special, truly magnificent and powerful—something worthy of sitting here on these exalted shelves with Sandburg and Brooks and Wright and Gale, Hemingway and Cisneros. He felt the words welling in him, swimming, flailing for release into the world. Yet, it would not be a single seismic explosion of inspiration—some mythical Kerouacean geyser of prose—but a sustained period of creative intensity, over months, over years if necessary. Even still, he was antsy to begin. Here, perhaps? No, but on the train home. He would go to the dining car, where there were tables, and he would begin this great work, something about the city and Elizabeth Winters and the entanglement of lives. Would it be poetry or prose? Something that was both, and neither?

He would need something to begin his work. He scanned the bookstore and located the section of journals and pens . . . and there was Beth perusing them. Maybe she too had been inspired. He mused about this attraction he felt for Beth, if it had been something else all along: the beginning blossoming of his writing welling inside of him: this kindled passion for Beth was really a renewed urgency to create, to bring forth into the world something worthy of it. Worthier even. His desire to create a life with Beth—a thought barely beyond pure fantasy—was a displaced desire to create a work of literature for the ages.

He migrated toward the journals and notepads and pens. There were journals of varying sizes, some with lined pages, most with unlined. They had leather covers and cloth covers and covers of heavy, decorated boards. In some a vibrant ribbon could mark your place. There were all manner of pens: ballpoints, fountain, and calligraphy, in wood, plastic and metal. By the time he arrived at the section Beth had sauntered on. Her coat was over her arm so he couldn’t say for certain if she’d selected anything to purchase. He was attracted to the leatherbound journals, but they seemed too precious (as if one would be afraid of making a mistake). He selected an unlined clothboard journal in aqua blue and a gun-metal gray pen. He knew he could just as easily write his great work on a cheap Mead pad with a Pilot pen, as he always had, but he wanted to make a statement to himself: he wanted to mark a new commitment to his writing life. He didn’t need a Katie or a Beth to be complete, to be whole: he needed a revitalized artistic aspect of his life, he needed to be devoted to something that would last beyond him.

He glanced back at the section where he’d just been, the section devoted to the city’s authors and books. No one was there. In fact, there was an absence around it like a bubble. Elsewhere customers browsed, reading book jackets and pages opened to at random. There was a glossy poster of James Patterson, ballcapped and pseudo-sage, above a display of his mass-produced mysteries, blatantly co-written by one of his stable of co-authors; and bookstore patrons milled there especially thickly. The hum of activity, the hum of commerce, seemed particularly electric when juxtaposed with the small section devoted to city-connected authors. Readers clambered for James Patterson, not Richard Wright; for Janet Evanovich, not Gwendolyn Brooks; for Nora Roberts, not Ernest Hemingway. For him, it wasn’t simply a matter of not wanting to write for popular appeal: he literally didn’t know how: producing such banality was beyond him.

He drank from his cup, the coffee finally sufficiently cooled, and gripped his journal and pen more securely as he moved toward another unpopulated part of the store, a section devoted to the city’s university and independent presses. Here were the story and poetry collections, the novels, the monographs, and the art books that attracted almost no one’s attention. He noted the small presses’ names imprinted on the book’s spines: Tortoise, Twelve Winters, Woolfsword, Haymarket, Knee-Jerk, Artifice, Lake Street, Dancing Girl, Sundress, Agate, and (his instant favorite) Readerless Press (because of its brutal honesty). From this last press he perused a collection of prose poems, written and illustrated via collage by E. B. Bishop, whose enigmatic author’s note said only that she or he grew up in a small Midwestern town and attended the Art Institute. The unusual little book was titled Malcontent. The cover, rendered in shades of red, featured an unsettling image of a creature that was part crow and part human. He added the prose poems to the journal and pen to purchase.

He thought about what separated Elizabeth Winters from these avant-garde authors. How had she achieved a level of notoriety, of fame even? It helped that she’d emerged at a time when there was still some interest in writing worth reading. Also, she’d always lived in metropolises where she could cultivate devoted readers, due to her writing, yes, but also her charismatic personality, and—he had to admit to himself—her ability to promote her work. His thinking was dancing dangerously close to Katie’s criticism of Elizabeth Winters. The one distinction remained: Elizabeth Winters’s charisma and media savvy drew attention to her superior talent.

He came to the classic mysteries section: Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Raymond Chandler, Dick Francis, Dorothy Sayers, P. D. James, Dashiell Hammett. As a boy he’d liked mysteries—and it was his father’s genre of choice, which perhaps influenced his tastes—but as he matured he found the writing itself, divorced from the page-turning plots, was too basic: it was about providing information, clearly and succinctly, like newspaper accounts, detached entirely from artfully complex language. Every so often he would pick up a mystery, nostalgic for the comforting mood of his youthful reading, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, leaning against his bed, the rag rug beneath and the pillow behind providing just the right amount of cushion; the book, with the smell and the feel of its pages, angled just so to catch the light from his desk lamp, angled just so; meanwhile knowing his father was in his room, stretched on his bed, reading too, a mystery, his after-dinner pastime.

He’d try to evoke all those feelings, but the book wouldn’t hold his attention, in spite of the murder or kidnaping or jewel heist. The language itself failed to engage him. In high school he discovered and devoured Kurt Vonnegut—Slaughterhouse-Five and Breakfast of Champions left their mark of course, as did Mother Night, Galapagos and Jailbird. It was Vonnegut’s genre bending that most appealed to him, and the author’s wit and wisdom.

In college it was Kerouac and the Beats, the lyricism of On the Road, which transitioned into the poetry of Mexico City Blues and Dr. Sax, leading naturally to Ginsberg’s Howl, hooking him on poetry just in time to switch his emphasis and initiate his tunneling backward into its tropes and traditions, its history and its heroes and heroines. By the time of his MFA he’d returned to the twentieth-century poets: Plath and Hughes, Heaney and Larkin, Lorca and Neruda, Nemerov and Giovanni, Gale and Wilson, Eliot, Rilke, Valéry, Bishop and Moore.

Then there was the poetic prose of Elizabeth Winters and her determination to do something different. If there was nothing more to do with language and its shape, according to narrative theory, then the new ground must be transmission. How will readers’ reception of a text affect their processing of it? And what if that text remains largely hidden and readers can only process the hint of it, its mere shadow on the surface? Elizabeth Winters seemed to want to take Hemingway’s iceberg principle, which dominated twentieth-century prose, to a new depth in the new century. Hemingway felt the characters’ stories—their motivations—should remain mostly below the surface of what appeared on the page, directing the action from the characters’ hidden depths. Elizabeth Winters went further: the narrative itself should disappear from view, leaving only its opaque outline for the reader, leaving their processing of the faintest fragments nearly the whole of the narrative itself.

He sat in a comfortable chair—with his coffee, and his newly purchased journal and pen and book of prose poems—considering it all as Elizabeth Winters’s last novel seethed beneath his skin.

Meanwhile Beth continued to browse about the store. It appeared she’d collected at least two books she intended to purchase.

He read the introduction to the prose poetry book in which the author attempted to clarify the murky genre of prose poetry. The very term, she or he said, communicated the cultural privileging of prose over poetry, evidenced by the fact that most people, even nonreaders—the aliterate—could name a few well-known novelists but the names of poets, especially still-living ones, would be much more of a challenge, especially if the names of children’s poets, Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, for example, were cordoned off. But, also, on its surface prose poetry appeared to be just prose. It tended to be parsed into paragraphs, if parsed at all, then separated into sentences, not stanzas and lines, the most readily visible indicators of poetry on the page. However, once one began reading, began processing, wrote the prose-poet in her or his introduction, then the poetry would (or should) dominate the textual landscape with its telltale tropes: alliteration, assonance, repetition, caesura, onomatopoeia, internal rhyme. Prose poetry was really mainly poetry—poetry masquerading as prose.

Why not then simply write a poem? (the author asked rhetorically) Because prose offers expansion opposed to ellipsis, the availability of more conspicuous connective tissue between images, and the opportunity for a hierarchy of ideas, layered in degrees of dominance as if by syntactic trowel.

Oriented chiefly as a poet, he was dubious of the final claims, but the form attracted him and he was willing to reserve judgment.

He watched Beth on the far side of the store. She had several more books under her arm and was still perusing. Perhaps she was shopping for her library as well. A figure crossed behind Beth, and he realized it was Beth: he’d been observing a look-alike, and side by side not even with that much similarity. He attributed his confusion to his need for more sleep.

He continued gazing at the pages of the prose poetry book’s introduction, but only gazing, not reading: the black letters on the off-white page, the uniformity of them, the abundance of them, all served to comfort him. A kind of textual security blanket, text-ile.

After a time—he couldn’t say how long—Beth was standing by his chair. Ready to check out? she asked. She’d retrieved the Gass after all, and two other books.

He rose in affirmation and they stepped in line for the cash registers. It should only take a minute or two, he surmised. The checkout employees were spritely and efficient, like Santa’s elves in grownup, bookstore form. He glanced toward Orwell’s front windows and realized he and Beth were reflected there, their ghostly images holding their books and cups of coffee. He wondered briefly if their ghosts had the same reading tastes.

Then a woman by the newspapers said, It’s you. You’re Logos. Her hand was resting on the Tribune’s front-page picture.

He realized they were standing in line in a more or less identical pose as the one depicted in the paper. Others were now staring at them, including the cash-register elves, momentarily fazed into inefficiency. You’re Logos, repeated the woman, whom he realized was the one he mistook for Beth. From here, now, with so little resemblance, the mistake was difficult to fathom. The woman was considerably older for one thing, and heavier set, perhaps at best a matronly version of Beth, or grandmatronly, perhaps a glimpse of the future Beth Winterberry.

Yes, said the younger Beth—we’re Logos. She patted her hip.

Interesting, said much-older Beth, colorlessly, and went about her business.

The elves returned to their task, their sprightliness reanimated. Everyone did. Yet the previous moment remained. Their sudden celebrity lingered like a scent, or the after-image of a dazzling flash. He and Beth were separate and apart from everyone in the shop who’d been within the sphere of their recognition. Suddenly three planes of people existed: those who didn’t know them at all, those who knew them now as Logos, and there was the plane wherein only he and Beth resided, the only one which felt to him normal and natural. He looked toward the window for their doppelgangers, to maybe double the population of their sparse plane, but something had changed—the light, or the angle from which he gazed, something—and their reflected selves had disappeared, as ghosts will, to be replaced by the rainy city sidewalk beyond, umbrellaed strangers now and then hurrying past.

Ted Morrissey is the author of seven works of fiction, including the novel Crowsong for the Stricken, winner of the International Book Award in Literary Fiction, as well as the American Fiction Award, from Book Fest 2018, and a Kirkus Reviews Best Indie Book of 2017. His stories and novel excerpts have appeared in more than sixty journals. “Madison” is from his work in progress, The Isolation of Conspiracy. Other excerpts have appeared in Floyd County MoonshineLakeview Journal, and two issues of Adelaide. Visit tedmorrissey.com and follow @t_morrissey.

Una rebanada de noche por Ernesto Juárez Rechy

Hay una rebanada de noche afuera de mi ventana, una grande de chocolate oscuro.

Cuando llegué a este cuarto, donde me he sentido como una condenada, la ventana fue la única que logró que le contestara el saludo.

El viento hacía un murmullo suave y húmedo al pasar entre las hojas y ahí mismo aparecían los rayos vespertinos.

Sentí reparo de acostarme en la cama, porque no sabía si estaba limpia, pero como quien ha huido y ya no puede más, me desvanecí sobre las sábanas.

Nunca había vivido fuera de casa a pesar de que tengo más de treinta.

Ahora me quedo con una familia completamente desconocida.

La gente puede verse amable, pero esto es insuficiente cuando acabas de conocerlos, más cuando tú misma estás hecha un desorden.

Cualquier gesto es amenazante para quien no ha convivido con estas personas y no tiene la experiencia necesaria para descifrarlos.

Allá, en mi país, mi recámara quedaba junto a la lámpara de la calle, por lo que era difícil que la penumbra fuera completa.

Aquí, cuando apagué el interruptor para irme a dormir por primera vez, me asusté por lo que percibí como una total ausencia de luz, como la pérdida de todo sentido y de toda orientación, no sabía siquiera si seguía teniendo cuerpo o si me había vuelto yo misma una tristeza vacía y extensa como un abismo.

La siguiente noche entre sueños escuché que alguien giraba la manija de la puerta intentando irrumpir en el cuarto, cada vez con más fuerza, y yo no podía moverme ni evitarlo.

La penumbra era un peso muerto que cerraba mis párpados como las profundidades marinas.

En medio de sobresaltos y sudores fríos logré despertar.

¿Había alguien intentado entrar o sólo era yo?

La falta de cortinas fue acostumbrándome a abrir los ojos con el sol o, más aún, a sentir el amanecer en la piel.

Al final del día, el cansancio del estrés y del trabajo me obligaban a rendirme y a paulatinamente hallar grata la sensación de ser arropada por la oscuridad.

Las horas nocturnas pasaban sin sentirlas.

Sin embargo, ahora despierto tres o cuatro horas antes de que suene la alarma.

Pero no es molesto, es como si estuviera sentada frente a un pedazo de un buen pastel de chocolate, al que podría devorar, pero me detengo.

Quisiera tragarme uno completo para poder sentirme satisfecha y despegarme de lo que me gusta tanto.

Como no es posible, trato de saborear la noche, de disolverla en mi saliva, le rasco la espalda y con los dientes me limpio la uña, me acerco al plato para olerla y trato de retener el aroma, como si con cada paladeo pudiera extender el tiempo.

La noche ha sido el primer lugar donde me he sentido segura aquí

Lo que no implica que ahora en mi vida cotidiana me sienta cómoda o tranquila.

Tal vez porque ahí es donde más apartada estoy de esta ciudad y de todo lo que implica…

Compromisos, extrañamiento, una sensación de estar siempre tras un cristal, una convivencia que todavía no sé digerir, miradas que no sé leer, la imposición de una presencia que me rechaza…

…ser demasiado lenta para este ritmo de vida…

Me siento cansada como nunca antes.

Las líneas paralelas entre el sueño y la vigilia se han unido oscuramente.

Antes podía sentir mi fatiga y prevenirme contra ella.

Ahora mi cuerpo se desbarata sin avisarme.

Me duermo sin darme cuenta y cuando menos lo espero.

A medianoche no hay sensación de extrañeza porque estoy sola.

Me levanto y no enciendo el interruptor, la iluminación es estruendosa, todas las demás luces sabrían dónde me oculto y vendrían a buscarme a esta apagada colina.

En la mañana las prisas le clavan las espuelas a mi corazón.

La noche me calma y me dice que todavía falta para lo que sea que haya que hacer, que estoy a salvo en su territorio.

Debe sin embargo ser una noche despejada, sin nubes que me oculten su brillo, como las gotas relucientes que escurren cuando alguien comienza a llorar o los genitales a lubricarse.

La noche en la ventana sería lo que más extrañaría de este cuarto, tan inconveniente porque estoy distante de la universidad, de los horarios, de las fechas de entrega.

Desde que llegué a esta ciudad todo lo que pasa lo veo como fuera de mí.

No estoy ni muerta ni viva, las cosas suceden y yo no sé qué está pasando.

Lo mejor de este viaje ha sido la hora de dormir, pues ha sido donde más conciencia he tenido.

Para mí el instante de la felicidad no es la inconsciencia durmiente.

Es el momento en que percibo que estoy cómoda y tranquila.

Es un instante de plenitud y de pérdida, e implica estar lejos.

Pienso que Heráclito se despertó a mitad de la noche, como yo, y fue consciente del relámpago y del río.

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Ernesto Juárez Rechy Aguilar nació en Coatepec, Veracruz. Estudió la carrera de Letras Españolas, ha trabajado en el ramo editorial y actualmente estudia un posgrado en lengua, literatura y cultura. Forma parte de la compañía de danza Compañía de Vuelo.

La casa de los disturbios por Carlos Andrés Pastrán

Iba en un viaje tremendo hacia algún departamento lejos de la capital.  Los bosques a ambos costados de la carretera se hacían más estrechos y parecía alguna película tétrica o un capitulo de una serie de terror. La carretera frente a mis ojos, oscura, con una luz tenue apenas visible era somnífera. La luna era brillante y las estrellas se alejaban. Me sentía raro y angustiado. Repasaba cada decisión mal tomada de mi vida en mi cabeza, cada segundo eterno que transcurría.

Manejé un rato más sobre la autopista y en un momento perdí la noción del tiempo. Se había hecho tarde rápidamente, no había llegado a mi destino y de pronto sonó mi celular. Me había llamado un número desconocido. Fue extraño y la luz del móvil me cegó totalmente. Decidí atender pero también detuve el carro en plena calle para descansar los pies, no me pareció peligroso, pues la carretera estaba desolada. Resultó que la llamada se cortó, quizá por la mala señal de la zona en dónde estaba, pero de repente, caí. Sentí un ambiente soporífero y me dormí infinitamente en aquel limbo extraño, en aquella pasarela de sucesos extraños poco convencionales, me dormí pero a la vez me sentía en otro mundo.

Me levanté de pronto, y por una trágica y extraña razón empecé a sentir un dolor de cabeza espeluznante. Sentí ansiedad de levantarme, caminar y estirar mis piernas. Era de noche, muy tarde. Me fijé en los bosques de los costados y me dio escalofríos.

Una voz familiar endulzaba mi oído, llamándome tan cariñosamente, tan peculiar que no me pude resistir. Mis piernas comenzaron a moverse y me adentré al bosque al lado de la carretera. Caminé como una media hora entre aquellos árboles enormes y encantados. Miré los cielos y vi estrellas fugaces. Pedí deseos de  una vida mejor. Me lavé la cara en una pequeña laguna que más bien parecía pantano. Mis piernas me pesaban, mis zapatos estaban llenos de lodos y de agua. El clima era bastante frío y hasta pude ver cómo la niebla se formaba en varias montañas a los lejos de aquel bosque. Seguí caminando persiguiendo aquella voz.

En un valle encontré vacas, caballos libres y una cabaña con las luces encendidas. La casa era grande, de madera, vieja, sucia, embrujada, con telarañas, cómo la típica casa de campo de las películas de Hollywood. Se oía un disturbio dentro y decidí acercarme e investigar un poco. Tenía miedo, tenía ganas de orinar y mucho frío. Me adentré en la terraza de la cabaña en plena oscuridad sin hacer ningún ruido y dentro de ella habían muchas personas pero todas estaban de espalda, todas tenían el mismo atuendo, exactamente un saco de gala gris que había visto en  una tienda capitalina, la misma estatura y todas hablaban con su igual acento y tono de voz.

En ese momento tan extraño entré en pánico y en un intento de salir huyendo de ese lugar, tropecé, hice un ruido enorme y todas aquellas personas me voltearon a ver rápidamente. Salieron y me tomaron por los brazos y piernas. Yo simplemente cerré los ojos de aquella inminente tortura y deseé que solo fuera una pesadilla.

Abrí los ojos tiempo después y estaba sentado en el comedor principal de la casa y todas las personas estaban frente a mi, observándome como si fuera un espécimen raro. Pero en ese mismito momento entendí su preocupación, que inmediatamente se convirtió en la mía también. Todos éramos las mismas personas. Todas las personas en aquella casa tenían mi aspecto y mi rostro y mi voz y mi estatura y mi forma de ser.

Tuve la sensación de sentirme en mi propio hogar pero a la vez lejos. Me sentí triste, sin alma, sin humanidad. No sabía ni lograba precisar  rápidamente la locura que estaba pasando y de  la cual yo era el principal partícipe. Súbitamente uno por uno se me fueron acercando y me contaron su historia.

Uno de ellos me contó que tenía miedo de fracasar en la vida. Otro que no sabía si el era suficiente para hacer feliz a sus seres queridos. Otro me dijo que tenía miedo de su futuro porque no tenía idea que lo que iba a hacer con él. Otro me dijo al oído que tenía miedo al rechazo y que inventaba hazañas a sus amigos para no parecer menos que los demás. Otro me contó, mientras lloraba, que era un idiota y que todas las cosas que hacía le salían mal. Otro bien triste me pidió consejos de cómo hacer para volver a confiar en las personas. Otro me contó que en su vida hace muchas cosas pero que no sentía que esas cosas eran perfectas. Y así estuve todo el tiempo infinito dando consejos y escuchando la vida y problemas de seres extraños que por alguna coincidencia tenían mi maldito rostro.

Se escuchó un estruendo, como el de algún vidrio romperse y del segundo piso de aquella cabaña bajo un tipo sin rostro, alto, musculoso, vanidoso y extraño. De repente todos los que se parecían a mi desaparecieron corriendo a sus cuartos cuando vieron a aquel ser raro. Era como su jefe, su padre, su teniente, su mayor. Se acercó a mi y me dijo ”¿Qué haces tan pronto aquí?”. Me quedé perplejo, en shock. Aquel bosque, aquella cabaña, aquellos hombres, yo, me desvanecía, así como por arte de magia.

Luego una luz cegó mi mirada y el sol me quemaba la cara mientras estaba acostado con el asiento reclinado en mi vehículo. Me asusté, tomé agua, me fijé en mi celular, era de mañana y mi mamá me había llamado repetidas veces. Leí un mensaje donde me preguntaban si había llegado bien. No respondí y seguí mi camino.

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Carlos Pastrán, joven de 19 años, nicaragüense. Amante de lo natural, las complejidades de la vida y los conflictos filosóficos. Escritor de cuentos, artículos y opiniones en periódicos locales.

La gallinita ciega por Fernando Sequeira

Corretea la gallina porque sabe que no hay falta en procurar su vida. Cacarea para sentir su pescuezo, para oírse y amenazar a quien no puede ver. Y es que ella es ciega, siempre lo fue, nació invidente y por los granjeros fue acusada de torpe. “La ilusa” fue llamada, por tropezar con paredes, por caer en cuencos, por no encontrar su comida cuando ellos la escondían.

Corretea la gallina porque sabe que es su turno, porque conoce el sonido del cuchillo. Cacarea como un grito de auxilio, para unir a las masas, para alertar a sus hermanas, a aquellas que la vieron de lejos. Y es que será decapitada, ejecutada sin delito ni condena. “La siguiente” es su nombre, porque ya mataron a otras, porque ahora ella fue señalada, porque a los granjeros no les gusta su actitud.

 Corretea la gallina en busca de su pueblo. Corretea por el corral porque sabe que no está sola. Corretea para buscar, corretea para encontrar, para tantear y reconocer a los otros, y reconocerse en los otros. Y da vueltas y vueltas y más vueltas, y no encuentra a nadie. Llora a lágrima viva, a llanto sincero, no por su muerte sino por su abandono.

Ese día murió una gallina más en la finca, devorada por los grandes insensatos. Y fue solo una gallina más, una del diario morir, de las que siguieron desapareciendo mientras el pueblo observaba y evitaba en silencio, por miedo a ser atrapados y ser los siguientes.

Pero la frecuencia es imposible de ignorar, las desapariciones no son casualidad. Las gallinas se levantaron con palos y piedras contra los finqueros armados, tomaron para sí el corral, afilaron sus garras, reclamaron el derecho a su vida y no evitaron más la obviedad que significaba el peligro de los granjeros, aquellos que les prometieron alimento pero se las comían a escondidas.

Hasta el día de hoy, los niños pequeños conmemoran en ritual lúdico a la gallina ciega, pero ninguno recuerda su historia. Recordar la historia no es costumbre humana, luchar es propensión, pero guerrear por vivir es la base de la naturaleza más humana y animal, desmiente lo impuesto por el hombre y reafirma en las gallinas su propio ser. Es por esto que las gallinas combaten, se defienden y viven, y aunque los hombres del corral lo crean absurdo, las gallinas se saben capaces de abrir sus alas y emprender un vuelo extenso, no para huir, sino para sentir su libertad.

Alguna noche el espíritu de la gallina ciega volverá como ideología, y el corral será retomado por las gallinas que aran su tierra, que luchan las unas junto con las otras, que viven, comen y duermen dentro de sus fronteras. Alguna noche una verdadera gallina suplantará al granjero, y el corral será al fin justo para todo el gallinero.

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Fernando M. Bonilla (Fernando Sequeira), nacido en San José, Costa Rica, en 1993. Bachiller en Filología Española por la Universidad de Costa Rica. Estudiante de grado con énfasis en Literatura. Su incursión en el género narrativo es reciente, con dos publicaciones previas en la revista digital costarricense Arrebol. Actualmente labora para el Ministerio de Educación Pública y realiza revisiones filológicas independientes.

Flight Risk by Nadeem Zaman

Men conversed importantly about business deals and real estate. The women had their mysterious exchanges. Hassan wanted to stand before an open window and be carried off into the night – on a broom, a flying carpet, on moonbeams, anything. Anything that would extract him from his life, erase the last twenty-four months, clean the slate, and land him back on the right side of the law.

In the hall of the wedding reception, Hassan sat at a table near the door sipping scotch from a plastic cup. He’d brought the bottle with him and given it to a server to keep hidden. The reception, like the country, was non-alcoholic. Hassan had agreed to co-host his niece’s wedding with her parents. He wasn’t sure he could make it through the night without a drink.

The bride and groom on the makeshift stage were pictures of humility and restrained joy.

It was nine-thirty – an hour and a half from the time set down in the invitations – when the last guests made their entrance. At ten the hall was mad with noise.

“Why are you sitting around?” Habib bounded up to him like a misfired cannonball. His sherwani was half a size too small, or he’d gained more weight. The latter was likelier. Habib was a lifelong glutton. “Mingle, bhai. Keep the guests entertained.” He waddled away hurriedly content, as another guest called his name and congratulated him.

 

****

“Leave America,” Hassan’s lawyer told him. “It’s not a problem. A couple months. If you’re needed back earlier, I’ll find you.”

Hassan’s lawyer had spoken these words six months after the disaster. The small private investment company Hassan had started with three other colleagues from his first job out of graduate school had gone under. His partners were out on bail awaiting trial or a plea bargain, on charges of embezzlement, fraud, and money laundering, and one of them had a separate allegation of sexual misconduct.

It was, in fact, Carla, the new hire that Hassan’s associate had (allegedly) harassed that had blown the whistle. With an accounting degree from the University of Chicago she was fixed behind a desk with a computer, a telephone, and a headset with the sole duty of managing travel calendars, appointments, and social commitments of the four executives. It left her so much time that she volunteered for more responsibilities.

Shenice, the office manager, was too happy to oblige. An official accounting department was non-existent, and Shenice was overworked. Carla was a Godsend. Before Shenice was done making the suggestion, Carla had jumped at the prospect of doing the work of three people with disconcerting enthusiasm. Later, Carla would say that she would have said something whether the sexual harassment had occurred or not. She was ethically bound, she claimed, even though the work was outside her job description, to report what she had seen once she had seen it. She was sure, she added sanctimoniously, she could be criminally liable if she didn’t.

“You can’t waste time on those ‘What ifs’,” Hassan’s lawyer said when Hassan wondered out loud if they’d be in this shit if someone knew how to control his dick. “You came out the cleanest,” said the lawyer. “Use it. And I’ll put to use your clean nose to keep you out of jail.”

Plausible deniability, his lawyer reminded him, was what Hassan had the others didn’t. Hassan could, his lawyer also pointed out, have had his being not white on his side. But this was post-9/11, post-financial crisis America.

Hassan was never clear about how his lawyer had gotten around the issue of Hassan being a potential flight risk. As he clicked the two ends of the seat belt on board Turkish Airways flight 376, the catch of the mechanism of either end as synchronized as a kiss, he smiled uncaringly for the first time in months.

 

Hassan went by the bride and groom. The groom nodded politely, and the bride kept her eyes beholden to custom, cast down. Hassan couldn’t believe they still adhered to that dead ritual. Especially not a young woman like his niece, whom Hassan had heard cut down the shrewdest comments with the axe of her wit in public, openly and defiantly, not caring what her parents thought or what it did to their precious image in Dhaka society. Hassan was sure his niece had her eyes up just moments before he’d walked up.

At the table directly in front of the stage sat Samar, the bride’s mother, Hassan’s sister-in-law, with a coterie of family members from both sides. Hassan nodded their way. When his eyes met Samar’s, his spine filled with ice. From her, Hassan’s gaze drifted to Habib, on the far side of the room. He was nodding vigorously to something the man he was talking to was telling him.

Only the rudeness of time had dared trespass on Samar’s looks, leaving her once naturally glowing skin scrubbed with a rough brush, and the need for makeup heightened.

She didn’t have to hide what she was, Hassan thought. In fact, all that make-up made it worse. He wasn’t clueless as to how much Bengali women of a certain social standing worshipped fair skin. He was, however, always dumbfounded by the lengths to which they went to make it not fair, but white. Some added the extra touch of light-colored contacts. Samar’s use of makeup seemed still to be at a reasonable pitch.

The ear without the lobe struck him in the heart the same as it did a quarter century earlier.

 

They’d been married a year when Habib finally had the time for a proper honeymoon. He took Samar to America, with the first leg of the trip beginning in Chicago, where Hassan had recently finished his MBA and joined a prominent financial firm in the city. He’d missed the wedding and so was meeting his new sister-in-law for the first time.

Their plan was to stay two weeks, get around to all the tourist fare in the first, and spend time with Hassan for the remainder. Habib was surprised to see how much time his brother really had. He went to work most days at ten in the morning and was home by three-thirty.

They got to spend a lot of time with Hassan. Samar listened carefully when Hassan spoke, asked questions, and accepted his answers without qualms. Even when they were stories about their childhood involving Habib, and Habib had strong recollections of events, it was Hassan’s version that Samar listened to with the fascination of a child.

Hassan found his sister-in-law too eager, like the white liberal Americans he’d meet who were painstakingly and painfully attentive to every single reference to his immigrant life, and want more. They’d screw their eyebrows to emphasize their excruciating curiosity, and wait for some profound elaboration full of insights and anecdotes of surviving third world poverty.

 

Hassan wondered about them. Habib could be a monotonous bore. Even as a child he could drone on about a topic long after his point had been made. When he was younger it was adorable, and blessed for a sign of budding genius. As a teenager it made him a laughingstock among his peers and classmates. At university it earned him perfect grades. Habib was devoid of a sense of humor. After a joke he would need to be told to laugh. Samar laughed at most everything. Sometimes, while watching TV in between talking, she would let out a giggle at a commercial instead of the actual show, like someone had given her rib a sudden poke.

 

One morning, about ten days into their visit, still jetlagged and unable to sleep, Habib was sitting in the living room channel-surfing absentmindedly.

“That’s the true great American pastime,” Hassan said, startling him. “Flipping channels and finding nothing.”

Habib set down the remote. He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Three years younger than Hassan he looked at least five years older. He wasn’t yet thirty. Where once the fat colonized mostly his waist, arms, and legs, it had started laying strong claims to his face and neck. His eyes were perpetually drooped. His huge belly sat on his lap like a toddler. He gave off, at the moment, a smell of body odor and airplanes.

“I don’t know how it happened, bhai,” Habib said, as if suddenly waking from a dream.

“How what happened?”

“Don’t pretend with me, bhai. You don’t understand, right? how a woman like that,” he pointed toward the guestroom where Samar was asleep, “went for me?”

“You’re married,” Habib said. “You fell in love. She loves you, you love her.” Hassan rolled off one cliché after another, sounding like Habib on one of his monotony binges.

“If you believe that, okay,” said Habib. “But your face says something else.”

“My face is my face,” said Hassan, taking a sip of coffee. “You’re a good boy, Habib. You always have been. That’s why you found a good woman. And you’re going places in life.”

“But you know, bhai,” Habib stared blankly at the TV, “I don’t make her laugh. That is very bad news. It took you five minutes to make her laugh. She laughs here all the time. But not with me. She used to. Not anymore.”

Hassan checked his watch. He had plenty of time before he had to leave, but pushed hurriedly to his feet as if he was running late.

 

Later, that night, Hassan stopped by their door on the way to his room. Habib was talking. It was his signature monotone, which meant he was deep into some topic. Hassan imagined what Samar was doing. Reading, maybe. Or going through TV channels. As he turned toward his room, he nearly bumped into Samar. She had on a fitted t-shirt with BANGKOK written across the breast and loose-fitting yoga pants.

“I was out on the back balcony,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Who is he talking to?” Hassan whispered.

“Himself. He does that.” Samar went past him and inside. Habib’s voice amplified for a few seconds when she opened the door, and he kept on going without missing a beat.

 

At the end of two weeks, while having dinner one evening Hassan invited them to stay longer. Samar was nodding vigorously before he was finished. Habib hemmed and hawed about needing to get to their next few destinations, and then back to Bangladesh.

“What sort of honeymoon is it if you need to get somewhere,” Samar laughed. “Sounds like we’re on a business tour.” She refilled her wine glass and topped off Hassan’s. Habib eyed how much of the bottle had gone into Samar alone and pointedly took a sip of water.

“She’s right you know,” said Hassan. “I don’t want to meddle, but it does sound like a pretty boring affair when you put it like that. If you decide to stay, this weekend I’ll take the two of you up to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. It’s not much more than a tourist trap, but it has nice and peaceful corners. I’m sure you’ve seen what you came to see of Chicago.”

 

Hassan put the three of them up at the Tudor House Inn in Lake Geneva for the weekend. He shunned Habib’s offer to split the cost. It was a wedding and honeymoon gift from his older brother, Hassan declaimed with mock majesty. Habib would do as he was told. Samar laughed. Hassan didn’t miss the imperceptible expression of displeasure pass over his brother’s face.

They spent the first day walking around downtown, had lunch at an overpriced tourist spot, and stayed until they were politely told by their tired-looking young server that the restaurant was closing to prepare for dinner. Hassan was impressed by Samar’s tolerance. He could see Habib was not. As if to compensate for his lack of control over his wife, Habib insisted on paying the tab. Again, Hassan wouldn’t hear of it. When Samar went to use the bathroom, he patted Habib’s hand and said, “Stop with the paying, okay?”

 

“If Dhaka had about twelve million less people it would be a nice, clean town like this,” Samar said dreamily as they came out of the restaurant. The sun threw shards of twinkling golden glass on the late afternoon lake. A private jet whirred across the clear sky, its tail of vapor the only blemish against the clear light blue. People went in and out of the line of shops. Children giggled and shrieked.

“It’s going to take a lot more than that,” said Habib. “Look at how clean it is here. Can you imagine anywhere in Dhaka staying this clean for one day, one hour even? Unless you’re in Gulshan or Baridhara?”

“Whose fault is that, I wonder?” said Samar. “It’s people like us. We’re the ones living in Gulshan and Baridhara, keeping all the money and the resources there.”

“We can move to Old Dhaka,” Habib snickered. It came out more defensively than in jest. “Then I’ll give you five minutes before you’re screaming for Gulshan.”

“Listen to your brother, Hassan bhai,” said Samar. “He thinks I’m some spoilt brat.”

Hassan gave a perfunctory chuckle.

Fifty yards or so away was a rental dock. Samar wanted to go for a boat ride.

“Not me,” Habib held up his hands in surrender. “I need steady land under me after all that eating and drinking. And I’m still jetlagged, I think. I’d rather go for a long walk and back to the hotel.”

“Can we go?” she implored Hassan, batting her eyes like a coquettish heroine. When Hassan looked to him, Habib shrugged. Hassan had an idea how Habib expected him to respond, and so he said nothing. “Yes, we can go,” Samar answered herself.

 

A few other boats were scattered around the lake, and once they were out far enough, the water was calm and the only sound was of the gurgle and splash from the paddles.

“You’re very good,” said Samar. She was sitting in profile, facing the sun, her skin a rich, lustrous tan, glowing by its light. Her hair went just past her shoulder and was tucked behind her ears. The ear facing Hassan didn’t have a lobe.

“I used to come here with the last woman I dated, almost every weekend,” Hassan said. “It’s been about six months since the last time.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“You just ended things?”

“She just ended things, exactly because nothing was happening. I wasn’t ready.”

Samar laughed, shaking her head. “Hassan bhai, you’ve become very American. I’ve never met you before now, but that’s not the way Bengalis talk.”

Another boat passed by them. A young, college-age couple sat with their arms around each other letting the boat coast. The paddles lay against the gunwale like bored children staring at the sky and waiting for the ride to end. Far away a woman’s voice called a name, and a dog barked happily.

“Was she in love with you?” Samar asked.

Hassan found the way the question sounded peculiar. He would think she’d wonder about how he felt.

He said, “I know she was.”

“But you were not,” Samar said, as though the thought needed to be completed. “I’m sorry, Hassan bhai.”

“I’m the sorry one. You’re very beautiful. My brother is a lucky man.”

“So, she just broke it off?” Samar asked, as if the prospect was unimaginable, and, also, skillfully deflecting Hassan’s compliment.

“I work a lot,” said Hassan. “I know it doesn’t seem like it. I do. She felt neglected. Taken for granted.”

“She’s a woman. She should know what to expect from a man.” She added, “and what not to.”

“I don’t know. But that was it. I guess I didn’t pay her the attention she deserved.”

“I guess not.” The remark was more to herself, but Hassan felt the sting.

Samar turned her face to him. Until then he hadn’t really looked directly at her. Her eyes were squinting against the sun, but she found an elegant way of balancing appearance and comfort. She was a little too thin and small breasted. Her shirt flapped in the breeze like it sat on nothing but bones. Her neck looked soft enough to squeeze away, like a brick of butter that had sat in room temperature for an hour.

“How did you and Habib meet?”

“At university. We were the same batch. But I was in English, not finance. My friend’s brother is his friend. We went out together sometimes, the four of us, and soon, you know, your brother started paying me lots of attention.”

There was a note in her voice Hassan couldn’t quite describe.

 

Back at the hotel Hassan asked if Samar wanted to have more drinks. She was game, but winced with guilt at not being with her husband.

“I should at least go check on him,” she said.

She knocked on their door and let herself in. Habib was asleep spread-eagled diagonally, breathing in heavy bursts, his leg below the knees extending over the edge of the bed.

Hassan was at the bar drinking a scotch and water. Next to his glass stood a glass of red wine. Samar couldn’t help a smile at the thought that he knew she was coming back.

“I couldn’t wake him up if I blew up the room,” Samar said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

“We’ll drink his share, too,” Hassan chuckled.

Night fell outside and dinnertime guests filled up the dining tables behind them. A jazz trio set up and started playing at a low volume.

“You also look tired.”

“I am,” said Samar, “but I won’t be able to sleep. Not even after drinking for most of the day,” she laughed.

“I have to say, you are quite the expert.”

“Well, Hassan bhai, this isn’t my first time in America or my first daylong drinking binge. I went to Vassar for two years.”

“Just two years?”

“I didn’t like it. I liked Vassar. I didn’t like America.”

“Why?”

“Too much of this,” she swept her arm at the room.

“You don’t have to be part of…this if you don’t want.”

“It’s hard not to get taken by it.”

“And you actually wanted to go back to Dhaka?” Hassan asked with unfeigned surprise.

“Dhaka is home.”

Hassan had had many thoughts about home in the last year. He had applied for a Green Card through his job and, all going well, five years down the line would be taking his oath of citizenship. Then, America would be home. Yet still, the money, the haircut, the SUV, and the Lincoln Park condominium was as far into the club as he would be allowed. He would stick out, he would always stick out, and the first thought Americans would have about him would be where in the world he came from.

Soon the room was loud with dinner conversation, music, and children. Hassan ordered a bottle of Malbec and asked to have it sent up to his room.

 

“What was her name?” Samar asked, standing at the window looking out at the lake, the wine glass cradled between two fingers like a brandy snifter.

“Maricela,” Hassan replied from the bed. The room was dark, with the faint lights from the street two floors below delivering the only illumination.

Samar finished her wine. Her silhouette moved away from the window, and Hassan heard the tap of her glass touching the tabletop.

“Come here,” he said, before the intake of breath she’d taken became parting words.

“What happened?” he asked, as he left a trail of kisses from her collarbone up to her ear.

“I pierced my own ear when I was ten,” Samar whispered in puffs of breath that gave off empty stomach and undigested wine. “Got infected and had to be cut off.”

“Tell me something,” he said, touching her warmth. She emitted a gasp. “What do you fear?”

“Remembering this night.”

 

****

Hassan received postcards from Samar from each of the rest of their destinations. They contained short messages, always one of two kinds, either wishing him well or greeting him from whichever place they were at the time. One postcard was a picture of the two of them at the Grand Canyon. Samar was wearing sunglasses, her face pinched in mid-laugh, trying to keep her windblown hair out of her face. Habib stood next to her with one hand in a pocket hidden by his belly and the other behind his wife.

 

It was two months before Hassan heard from Samar again, after they’d returned to Bangladesh. The letter was long, almost ten pages, and jumped back and forth between rambling and regret. Hassan glanced through the pages till the last paragraph of the very last page.

Samar’s voice took on a confident, more assertive tone.

She wrote that night she was very drunk. She wasn’t in full control of her thoughts or her actions. She was tired. The wedding nonsense (her word) had lasted a month and left her drained. Habib, she went on, had become a different man almost from the day after the wedding. In one year of marriage, six months had passed with him working later and later and their relationship growing less and less intimate. She was vulnerable, she said, and that night was a result of her reaching her limit and breaking…of which Hassan took advantage.

Hassan read the last sentence over and over again. Advantage. That meant he had pushed himself on her against her will. It was an allegation. A serious one.

He spent days and nights consumed in panic. He sat down each night with pen and paper. He discarded sheets after writing one unsatisfactory line after another. Everything he wrote sounded defensive. They were the reactions of a guilty man. Guilty even before he’d been accused, guilty without trial. And if ever Samar did take him to court on charges of rape, just the sort of letter he was about to write in his defense would be his undoing.

He felt a wretched sensation in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to slap Samar. He wanted to hold her tight, fuck her again and hear her in his ear telling him how good he felt. He wasn’t that drunk. He remembered. She’d said it. He didn’t have to ask.

He was also getting too carried away. His mind had been too far-gone too long in legal – to use a word Samar had used – nonsense.

 

Then there was another letter from Samar. It was much shorter, about a page and a half. Her handwriting was less harried in this one, as was her tone. Hassan read each word like he was trying to decipher an ancient language. Codes could be embedded in them. But the letter was mostly apologies. It was her vulnerability that she felt he’d manhandled – she wrote the word in all capital letters. Everything else was the cause of both their actions, equally. And by not mentioning her husband once, Samar had written him out of the story.

 

Hassan waved over the server he’d put in charge of his bottle. The server returned with a refill, no ice. Hassan felt the burn of the liquid down his throat and the warmth spreading like wings in his stomach.

A boy of about ten or eleven stopped in front of him, dressed in an executive looking suit and tie combination, a stunted version of the grownup men around him. Hassan gave the boy a tight smile and looked past him at Samar. The boy turned his head following Hassan’s eyes, returned to Hassan again, and sauntered away. The children were bored. The adults were bored. The groom and bride looked bored. Habib was in another part of the hall now, nodding like a supplicant to someone else’s schooling. Samar, Hassan saw, was staring at Habib, too, in what Hassan could identify as unspeakable embarrassment.

There was also something else. Samar’s stare didn’t have the dead resentment with which Hassan had seen countless spouses eye each other. It happened, as it was now with Samar, when the other spouse was unaware of being watched. Samar was paying her husband attention. In return she wanted nothing. She had once told Hassan that Habib had given her the one thing that made him stand out: he’d paid attention. And Samar had spent the rest of her life giving it back to him.

 

The last of the guests left a little after one in the morning. They were the family members that had sat at Samar’s table. Left with Samar were the bride and groom. They were having a conversation that appeared to be happening without words. Hassan didn’t see Habib anywhere. He was good and drunk and craved air.

He waited a few minutes to see if he was needed for anything, and headed for the elevators.

“Wait,” he heard Samar just as he pressed the button. She came out into the hallway, waited for the door to close by itself behind her as if it was a person she was waiting to be out of earshot, and said, “are you leaving?”

“Just to get some air,” Hassan replied. “Where’s Habib?”

“Sometimes you two are so alike. Sometimes so not.”

She’d gained weight, which on her looked healthy. She’d filled out where she was lacking as a young woman, and it gave her the robust vitality of confidence. Hassan couldn’t keep his eyes off the ear.

“Is there anything you need?” Hassan asked, shuffling his feet.

“I’m not in fear. Not anymore. I haven’t been. For many years.” She broke each sentence up.

“Yes, that’s good,” said Hassan. “That’s very good.”

“What do you fear, Hassan bhai?”

“The older I get? Everything. Mostly, though, death.”

“Even more than prison?”

Hassan had had one conversation with Habib about his situation back in the States. Without getting into details, he’d given his brother a snapshot. In it Hassan had made himself the hapless victim, portraying his partners as calculating villains whose true nature he’d learned too late.

“I try not to think about things too far-fetched,” he said. The elevator had arrived once and gone back down.

“You didn’t think it far-fetched back then,” said Samar. “Your brother’s wife. Newlywed wife.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I guess because it got so close. I thought it was mine. Please. That was so long ago, Samar. You said it was both our fault.”

“Yes. Twenty-five years. I guess that is long.”

Samar made a perfect semi-circle standing in place, pushed open the door, and went back inside.

 

The air outside was brisk. A perfect December night in Dhaka. Hassan walked across the street to the park, took a left as soon as he was past the entrance, and continued walking.

He did a couple of fast laps. His heart was pounding and sweat tickled his scalp, making its way down his hairline and forehead. His panjabi was loose and spacious enough to allow good airflow. As soon as he slowed down he felt chilly. The sweat began drying immediately. The damp panjabi clung to his skin like a cold compress. He stopped for a cigarette.

He lit a second cigarette and followed his thoughts to the first seeds of a plan to return to America.

He heard a moan and loud sniffling, and then the person was crying. Hassan approached the figure, about ten feet away, in the farthest corner of the park. If Hassan hadn’t stopped where he had he’d never know there was a person there. He hadn’t heard anything during his laps.

“Habib?” Hassan paused. “What are you doing?”

“Bhai, why did you come here?” Habib wiped his face frantically.

“For a walk. But what are you doing here?”

“I’ve made a big blunder, bhai.”

“What are you talking about? How?”

“That bastard son of a bastard I just gave my daughter to.”

“I was surprised when you told me he was that criminal’s son,” said Hassan.

“Criminal, right,” Habib sighed. “Welcome home, bhai. You’ve been gone far too long. What does that make me?” He sniffled loudly. “My daughter chose him. Fell in love. This is a small city. He’s…not a bad boy.” He was losing control again.

“Habib, go back inside. They’re looking for you. It doesn’t look good.”

A choking sound issued out of Habib.

“So, why did you?” Hassan asked.

“Why did I what?” Habib fought waves of tears.

“Agree?”

“I have to survive here,” Habib sputtered. “You don’t live here, you don’t know. If I didn’t agree it would get out that I held some sort of judgment over the boy’s father, his family. You don’t live here anymore.”

“Don’t tell me about survival. I have a good idea how it is here. Don’t think it’s any different in most other places. You had to go tell your wife, didn’t you? I confided in you as my brother.”

Hassan couldn’t see his brother’s face but he could tell Habib was looking directly at him.

“I tell my wife everything,” he said. Hassan found his sincerity comical, and dangerous. “And she tells me everything. She has from the beginning.”

“Everything?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a good thing. Maybe. You’re a lucky man.”

“Am I, bhai?”

“Isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be? Honesty?”

Habib reached slowly into a pocket and delicately brought out a handkerchief. It had a silver sheen, which caught the floodlights of the park, making a small flash. He dabbed his face, blew his nose, folded the handkerchief, and as carefully as he had extracted it, slid it back into the pocket.

“There are things a man doesn’t wish to know,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Like…things that will never let him sleep at night again.”

“I have a good idea about that,” said Hassan, with the tightness in his head shifting to his heart.

“You have some idea, bhai,” Habib said, giving his eyes a final few swipes. “And there are ones you’ll never have. You’re right. I should go back.”

Hassan felt a tremor pass through him. He’d walked too fast. He hadn’t been on a treadmill or on the racquetball court since the troubles started. His diet had gone to hell. His drinking was, by most standards, at alcoholic levels. As Habib went past him he seemed to be gliding, the extra weight that had been his lifelong companion, handed off to Hassan – a reminder that they shared the same blood and DNA.

“One thing about that boy,” Habib stopped and half-turned. “He makes my daughter laugh. A lot. Real laugh. She sounds just like her mother, too. I’d forgotten how Samar sounded when she laughed.”

Hassan watched his brother walk unhurriedly, reach the entrance of the club, where the guard snapped him a salute and opened the door.

He wanted to walk a few more laps, jumpstart his lazy heart, take in more of the time of year he’d loved for the first quarter century of life. If he didn’t return to America within two weeks, his lawyer would panic. He would insist Hassan get on the next flight out. Was he out of his mind? his lawyer would demand, and then his lawyer would say he knew it was too good to be true to have the one client out of the lot that had a shot at getting off the hook.

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Nadeem Zaman was born in Dhaka, Bangladesh and grew up there and in Chicago. His fiction has been widely published worldwide and he is the author of the novel In the Time of the Others (Picador 2018).

China Harry’s Fish Buyer by Dave Barret

Chapter Twelve of “Gone Alaska”

    China Harry’s Fish Buyer

It was near midnight before Swanson announced we were done fishing that first day on the Esther Island grounds.

     The day had been a success: the biggest single-day catch we’d had yet.  The annual Esther Island King Salmon Run had occurred on the day predicted.  Our ice holds had become so filled that the last dozen salmon had to be left in the cooler above deck until we arrived at tonight’s fish-buyer.  Yet, as I staggered out of my four by three by two foot sunken box at the rear of the Western World, I couldn’t help feel indifferent towards it all.  Though I’d caught, cleaned and packed each one of these fish with my own hands, there had been something lacking in the way I’d gone about doing this.

      The afternoon run had gone smooth enough.  After the chaotic episodes of that morning, the numbing routine of the drag had been something of a comfort.  The act of bashing salmon brains had been a kind of release.  I’d been knocking them cold with one blow most the day, as opposed to the several clubbings it usually took. But, by late afternoon, even landing and killing the catch had lost its thrill.  By that point, the numbers of fish had begun to take their toll.  Like too much of a good thing, the salmon kept coming in without let-up.  One after another . . . until catching them became as engaging as drawing laundry from a clothesline.  Instead of anticipating the possibility of a star forty-pounder on the end of a tag-line, I found myself dreading the probability there was one.

     We were entering a small sheltered bay a few miles north of Esther Island.  After spending most the day on a pitching, rolling ocean, it was a comfort to see cliffs and mountains—actual land!—rising on three sides of us.  The sun had ducked behind the frozen peaks of Mt. Saint Elias only moments ago.  There was still enough light out that I could see a gang of sea otters perched atop a large floating log towards shore.  The otters had stopped their clowning to watch us drift by.

     Swanson called me to the wheel.

     “How’s the hand?” Swanson asked.

     I took my post at the wheel.

      “Stiff,” I said, showing how difficult it was to make a fist with my left hand.  “It keeps getting stiffer.  Like I got arthritis in it.”

     I remembered the surprise and shock I’d felt just a few hours ago when I’d unknowingly grabbed a Ling Cod around the gills while removing a troublesome hook.  The moment I’d performed this blunder poison had been injected into my palm from the spines hidden beneath the Ling Cod’s gills.  I could still feel the sting from the red spot in the middle of my palm where the spines had first pricked me.

     “Arthritis, huh?” Swanson grinned.  “Ah, well!”  He slapped me on the back.  “Stiffness don’t last long anyway.  Should be out come tomorrow morning.  Best thing you can do now is keep it moving.  Work it out.”

     I thought Swanson had winked at me, but couldn’t be sure.

     On the backside of this bay was a long flat-bottomed fish-buying scow we were to sell today’s catch.  I could read HARRY’S FISH-BUYER on a large red and white hand-painted sign on the scow’s rooftop.  Another trawler was pulled alongside the fish-buyer, preparing to leave.  The deckhand on this vessel had just untied his trawler and was recoiling the stay line on his back deck.  He was exchanging goodbyes with a little man smoking a pipe on the scow’s front porch.  I figured this man was the proprietor because of the excessive manner in which he nodded his head in agreement with what the other fellow was saying.  How many times had I seen my own father back home in Couer d’ Alene nod to customers at the hardware store in just such a manner!

     “Heads up!” Swanson shouted—so I jerked the wheel way over the right in my astonishment.  “Come on.  Straighten her out.  Let her down a gear.  See if we can’t coast in from here out. . .”

      Eventually, I got us back on course.  I was slaphappy at the wheel: smiling—even laughing—at the curt remarks Swanson made towards me.  I shook my head several times to get some of the tiredness out.  I felt oddly detached from what I was doing at the wheel.  It was as though I was translucent: my mind and body so worn out from work and lack of rest that the steering wheel felt like a toy under my work-numbed hands.  Maybe coffee would help?  But I’d already drunk so much I was beginning to wonder if hadn’t replaced the blood in my veins.

     And like the butt of a mercilessly repeated bad joke, Swanson was right on cue offering more NO-DOZE tablets:

     “Ah, come on,” Swanson said.  “It’ll give you a little pick-up.”

     Swanson dry-gulped two of the tablets himself.

      “Ah, yes!” he continued.  “That’s the ticket! Go ahead.  You’ll be thanking me by the time we’re through unloading that shit load out back.”

     Unload!  I thought.  Somehow, I’d imagined there’d be a crew to unload the catch for us like there had been in Pelican.

     “Yeah. . .” Swanson said, winking this time for sure.  “Just you and me and that big catch. . .”

     I took the caffeine tablets.

     The proprietor was through with his goodbyes to the other fisherman now.  He ducked through the large sliding door of the fish-buyer, then re-emerged wearing a yellow rain jacket and stuffing a fresh pinch of tobacco into his long wooden pipe.  He smiled and waved us forward, then commenced to lighting his pipe by running a match up the zipper of his rain jacket.

     “All right,” I heard Swanson call from somewhere on deck.  “Put her back in gear and creep up with her real soft.  When she gets alongside the scow slide her in reverse.  I’ll jump boat and signal you from the scow when to cut her off.  She’s all mine after that.”

     China Harry.

     We were unloading the catch Chinese Fire Drill style: I down in the holds tossing the ice-caked salmon up to Swanson on deck. . .who in turn tossed it to China Harry onboard the scow. . .who stacked them neatly in a roll-away cart.

     I’d forgotten the nickname Swanson had ascribed to the fish-buyer until Swanson referred to him as such while introducing us.

     “This here’s China Harry,” Swanson said.

     “How do you do, Adam?” said China Harry.

     “Fine.  Thanks,” I answered.

     I’d been briefed about China Harry.

     “We call him China Harry,” Swanson had explained.  “’Cuz he looks and acts like one of them Chinamen you see on TV and at the movies.  You know the type.  Always smiling and bobbing, bobbing and smiling.  Yes, sir.  No, sir.  Never talks back.  Lucky if you get two words out of him.  That sorta thing.”

     “Truth is,” Swanson had confessed.  “China Harry ain’t more Chinese than you or I.  He’s Tlingit—like Miss Sue Ann Bonnet.  Rumor has it he’s just as much a sucker for all that hocus-pocus horseshit as Sue Ann!  Lotta guys think he’s an old American Indian Movement activist from the 60’s.  They boycott his buyer ‘cuz of it. . .”

     “. . . but not me.  I don’t judge a man by the color of the flag he flies.  Besides, if you really want to hear it, China Harry’s just an old flake.  A fag.  ‘Course now that’s my opinion.  Thing is when it gets right down to it China Harry’s as good a man as any other.  Never cheats a fisherman at the scales.  Doesn’t give us a lot of lip like a lotta these new fish-buyers from the States do.  Always gives top dollar for a clean catch.  And that’s saying something out here, boy!  Believe me, that’s saying something.”

     China Harry was all and more than Swanson had forewarned.  He was a strangely effeminate little man.  His features were plainly Indian: the high, rather delicate cheekbones, the blunt nose, broad mouth and fleshy skin.  And his expressions, gestures, facial posturing were, indeed, of the Chinese stereotype he was trying to emulate.  If China Harry was a sign he would have read EXCUSE ME MAY I HELP YOU.  He was the last type of man I expected to encounter in so remote a part of the planet as this.

     Yet, in a funny way Swanson had failed to mention, there was also something similar about China Harry’s appearance to that of Philip Swanson’s.  Both were small, ageless looking men; both had the same beady set of eyes; and, most essentially, both had that puppet-like grotesqueness about their character: Swanson because of his crippled shoulder, China Harry because of his absurd efforts to appear an absurd Chinese stereotype.   They were flipsides of the same coin: Swanson the grotesque of the hard masculine man and China Harry that of the soft feminine one.  Yet this softness of China Harry’s was deceiving.  I learned this after shaking hands with the man and then, a few minutes later, observing how these same spongy soft hands had proved so apt at handling the catch.

     Tossing the last King salmon up to Swanson, I climbed out of the holds, and helped him and China Harry wheel the rollaway inside the fish-buyer.

     The chrome-plated scales were set in the middle of the large rectangular room.  There were three actual scales.  They reminded me of the ones in the produce section of the IGA store in Couer d’ Alene that my mother had scolded me and my brothers and sisters for pulling on when we were children.

     “China Harry,” Swanson said, as the first three salmon were laid on the scales.  “You sure you haven’t rigged this scale?  This one on the right looks a little off center to me.”  Swanson nudged me with an elbow.  “You wouldn’t be trying to pull a fast one on a couple of dumb, tired fishermen, would ‘ya?”

     China Harry smiled slyly back, his tobacco-stained teeth clenched down on the stem of his pipe.  He took his eyes away from the scales only to punch numbers on his adding machine.  He said nothing.

     “That’s what I thought!” Swanson joked, nudging me again.

     While Swanson and China Harry discussed the current market price for King and Coho salmon, I wandered to a far corner of the room where two large shelves of books reached towards the ceiling.  Beside the books was a padded rocking chair . . . beside the chair, a thermos of coffee and clean coffee mugs.

     There was a hand-written sign on the wall that read: THESE BOOKS ARE NOT FOR SALE . . . BUT FEEL FREE TO BROWSE IF YOU MUST.  I smiled at China Harry’s use of the phrase IF YOU MUST.

     There was a smattering of Louis L’Armour and Zane Grey westerns, some Tom Clancy and Ken Follet spy thrillers, but most of the books were of scholarly-type.  I’d read or heard of some of the titles: RICHARD II by Shakespeare . . . ORIGIN OF THE SPECIES and THE DESCENT OF MAN by Darwin.  But then there were others I hadn’t heard of: THE GOLDEN BOUGH by Sir James Frazier. . .DECLINE OF THE WEST by Oswald Spengler. . .ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE. . .WAITING FOR GODOT. . .THE TIBETAN BOOK OF THE DEAD.  There were two full rows of Indian histories: NOW THAT THE BUFFALO’S GONE . . . BLACK ELK SPEAKS . . . BURY MY HEART AT WOUNDED KNEE.  Half the names of the funny foreign authors I couldn’t even pronounce: like THE TECHNOLOGICAL SOCIETY and PROPAGANDA: THE FORMATION OF MEN’S ATTITUDES by Jacques Ellul.  I laughed at the way my tongue kept tripping over the last name of this author.

     “Do you like books?” China Harry asked.

     “Yes,” I said, glancing back at the shelves.  “The little that I’ve read.”

     Actually, I love books and had declared English as my major at U of Idaho that coming fall.  But I was feeling a bit intimidated by the selections I saw on China Harry’s shelves.

     “Have you read all these yourself?” I asked.

     “Ninety-nine percent of them,” China Harry said, laying three new salmon on the scales.  “It gets very lonely here.  It’s nice to be able to read about faraway places and other peoples and other worlds.  Don’t you think so?”

      “No frigate like a book!” I said.

      “Oh!  Very good!” China Harry said.  “Emily Dickinson. . .”

     Then I said something that made China Harry stop smiling—for a moment.  Swanson had returned to the Western World for some reason, and I took advantage of the opportunity.

     “Harry,” I said.  “If the fishing’s really as bad as some people say it’s getting . . . how come we keep catching so many fish?”

     I was fully aware of the bluntness of my question.  But Swanson might return at any moment.

     China Harry hesitated, puffing on his pipe several times.  Then, in one word, he answered:

     “Canada.”

     My mind flashbacked to the conversation between the three fishermen in line behind me at the Elfin Grocer.  I remembered something about tolls and Mounties and dams on the Columbia River and no dams on the Fraser River.

     “You’re kidding!” I said.  “These are Fraser River salmon?”

     China Harry nodded.

     “Son of a bitch!” I said.  I felt like someone who has been searching for something only to find it right beneath his or her nose.  “That’s how we keep our numbers high—and beat the regulators!  By intercepting Canadian salmon—“

     “And the Canadians do the same!” China Harry replied.  “Both sides are fighting over what’s left in the barrel.  When this resource is exhausted, we’ll be fighting over another as yet un-named one!  It’s the human condition.  It’s how we are as a species.”

     I was overwhelmed.  All this . . . and China Harry with his same poker-face . . . was marking another fish’s weight down on his note pad.

     “But Harry. . .” I said.  “How can you know all this and still be part of it?”

     I realized the brashness of my question—not to mention its hypocritical nature—after the fact.  When I began to apologize, China Harry only smiled and said:

     “Remember, Adam . . . there are always three shells in a shell game.”

     Just then Swanson came clomping back on the scow, fooling with his fly.  When he saw me standing gape-mouthed by the books, he motioned me over.

     “What’s going on here?” Swanson joked.  “I expect you to keep an eye on the Chinaman while I’m away.  No telling what China Harry’s capable of!”

     We were towards the end of the catch now.  There was a little chute behind the scales leading down to the holds beneath the floor.  China Harry grabbed the three salmon he’d just weighed under the gills and sent them headfirst down the chute.  I wondered if Swanson had eavesdropped on our conversation.  I was more confused now than ever.  What had China Harry meant by three shells in a shell game?  Was he implying that the First Nations could regain control of their old salmon grounds after the U.S. and Canada were busy duking it out over what was left of the salmon pie?  And what if the First Nations could pull off this shell game?   What would they alone be able to do to save the salmon?

     The room was strangely quiet.  There was only the familiar pattern of the scale’s squeaking as new salmon were laid on them, then the sound of digits being punched  out on the adding machine, then the salmon being shot down the chute to the holds below.  Outside, the wind had stopped blowing and it was eerily still.  There was only the tinkled of bilge water being pumped out of the Western World’s bulwarks.

     To break the monotony—as well as cover-up the sentiments of my conversation with China Harry (in case Swanson HAD been eavesdropping)—I cleared my throat and joked:

     “Guess we pulled in quite a haul today—hey, Phil?”

     “Yeah. . .”Swanson said, after a pause.  “I suppose you could say that.”

     China Harry was having difficulty laying a larger-sized King on the scale properly.  Swanson had to reach over and hold the salmon by the tail while China Harry took the reading.

     “Oh, yeah,” I continued—since Swanson had nothing else to say.  “I’ve been meaning to ask what kind of percentage of the catch I’m getting.  I would have brought it up sooner—“

     “Hmm—“I heard Swanson grunt.

     Swanson seemed irritated about something.  I wasn’t sure if it was something I’d said or if it was the seeming trouble he and China Harry were having with another large salmon.

     “Excuse me,” I said.  “I suppose we can talk about this later—“

     “No-no,” Swanson interrupted, free to address me now that this salmon had been weighed.  “Now’s as good a time as any.  Funny we haven’t gotten round to it sooner.  Hmm, now?  Let’s see. . .”

     I reached over and held the tail of a large Coho while Swanson mulled over figures both aloud and in his head.

     “Yes. . .” China Harry said, almost to himself.  “You are new out here.”

     “How can you tell?” I said, trying to be a good sport.

     Smiling pleasantly, China Harry continued:

     “Well, among other things, by the way this catch has been cleaned.”

      “What?” I said, feeling betrayed.

      China Harry opened the slit belly of the salmon in his hands and ran one of his fingers along a section of meat I had cut against the grain on.  “But,” he finished, “not damaged so much as to devalue THIS fish.”

     I smiled back weakly.

     China Harry was definitely a player.

     “Harry?” Swanson asked.  “What’s the going price on Coho’s this week?”

     “Three twenty-five a pound, Philip.”

     “And Kings?”

     “Four-ten.”

     “Thanks,” said Swanson.

      At last, Swanson turned to me and concluded:

      “Ten percent of the catch is the going rate.  Including today—and those three good days we had before Pelican—I figure we’ve grossed somewhere in the neighborhood of three-thousand by this point.  Ten percent of three thousand is three hundred.  Roughly, three hundred dollars.”

     “Three hundred dollars?” I repeated.  I wondered if Swanson meant three-hundred for today and those three good days before Pelican exclusively.

     “Is that three hundred for the entire season?”

     “Yeah,” Swanson said.  “Unless,” he continued, smiling towards China Harry.  “Unless the Chinaman wants to give us a bonus for bringing in such a pretty catch!

What ya’ say, Harry?  Handing out any bonuses today?”

     China Harry smiled and shook his head.

     Swanson laughed out loud.

     “Three hundred dollars?” I repeated again.  I began to figure out how much that came out to per hour after all I’d worked these last two and a half weeks.

     “Of course,” Swanson added, as though an afterthought.  “I will have knock off for expenses and such . . . you understand.”

     I stopped figuring and looked at Swanson.  It crossed my mind he might be joking.  I tried smiling at him.  He did not smile back.

     “Yeah.  Expenses. . .” Swanson said.  With a grunt, he explained:  “Do I look like the Governor of Alaska to you?”

     When I didn’t reply, just continued to stare back in disbelief, Swanson continued:

     “Well, now. I‘ll have to knock off at least fifty food, another fifty for gear lost . . . little things. . like that brand new scrub brush you knocked overhead on opening day.  And then there was your fun at the Elbow Room and your little fling at Roxie’s. . .”  He winked devilishly at me.  “Heck!” Swanson concluded, grinning again.  “I guess that breaks us about even, don’t it?”

     I felt dizzy.  I couldn’t believe I was hearing this.  Even!  After all the work!  These long days!  No sleep!  It occurred to me that Swanson might even be screwing me over on the three-thousand dollar gross.  Intuitively, I knew the figure was more in the four thousand range.  But there was no way I could prove this.  I’d been so busy orienting myself to my new job and new surroundings that it had never occurred to me to keep any kind of record.  And, come to think of it, I’d never signed any kind of contract to work for Philip Swanson—never filled out a W-2 or passed along my social security number.  I was entirely beholden to Swanson’s judgment.  This seemed too terribly stupid to actually be happening!

     I turned towards China Harry, but his mask was firmly in place.  He’d finished weighing the last of the catch and was tapping out the bottom of his pipe. His wet red lips were puckered in a frown.  But I couldn’t tell if it was because of what he’d just witnessed or because of the trouble he was having cleaning the bowl of his pipe.

     “Even?” I said.  “How could that be?”

     There was a Styrofoam ice chest filled with packages of frozen herring at our feet.  Swanson was turning over one of these cellophane wrapped packages in his hands now.

     “Harry?” Swanson said, ignoring me. “These just come in today?”

     China Harry had cleared his pipe and was repacking the bowl with more of his cherry-flavored tobacco.

     “Yes,” China Harry said, lighting his pipe.  “Just this morning, Philip.  From Seattle.”

     “Seattle, huh?” Swanson said.  “All right, then.  I’ll talk six of these Puget Sound puppies.”

     China Harry punched out the cost of each herring packet individually.

     “Excuse me,” I said, stepping closer to Swanson.  “Excuse me.  I don’t understand.  I don’t get it.”

     “Goddamn it,” Swanson mumbled.  China Harry had handed him a clipboard with a bill of sale on it.  Swanson scribbled out his signature on the bottom line.  Then he tore out the carbon copy receipt of sale, folded it, and stuffed it in a breast pocket of his shirt.

     “Goddamn,” he repeated.  “I just told you why!  Expenses!”

     “Yeah. . .” I said.  “O.K.  But after all the hours I’ve worked—“

     “Hours?” Swanson interrupted.  “Hours, boy?  You are a green one, aren’t you?  Come on—get with it—man!  Everything’s based on percentages out here . . . like I been telling you since the start.  Percentages.  That’s why we work these long crazy hours.  I’m hoping things will pick up from here out.  If we can fill the holds in four hour’s time tomorrow—fine!  We’ll call it a day!  But if it takes until midnight, then we’ll be working till midnight.  That’s just the way things work out here.  Got to give up those old wage-slave ideas!”

     “And put my trust in you?”

     “That’s right,” said Swanson, unable to hold back a little smile.  “Put your trust in me.”

      Swanson paused to slide a pinch of chewing tobacco under his upper lip.  He offered me a pinch.  When I declined, he shook his head slowly and placed the lid in a rear pocket of his jeans.  After a long pause, he finished:

     “Now I wasn’t going to tell you this until the season ended . . . but . . . if things continue to work out . . . and you decide to stay on for sockeye season . . . I’ll be upping your percentage to 15%.  By that time I figure you’ll be worth the extra 5% to me.”

     Before I could respond, Swanson shuffled past me towards one of the open doors.

     Turning around, I saw that China Harry was already out of the porch in front of Swanson.  Both were waving hello as a new trawler, heavy with fish, came alongside the scow.

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Dave Barrett lives and writes out of Missoula, Montana. His fiction has appeared most recently in Potomac Review, Cowboy Jamboree and Midwestern Gothic. His story–EL PARADISIO–appears in the Spring 2018 issue of Quarter After Eight. He teaches writing at the Missoula College. His novel—GONE ALASKA—was accepted by Adelaide Books and will be published in August 2019.

La orquídea con espinas por Diego Zárate Montero

Para Thaís Rodríguez

En un bosque agreste, de noche tormentoso e inhóspito, florecía un delicado jardín bajo el cobijo ardiente de un sol tropical.

Cuando las montañas flotantes llegaron junto a un templado sol naciente que anunciaba un nuevo mundo, la plaga de ratas amenazó su vida endémica. Muchas especies se extinguieron, otras nuevas florecieron y las que sobrevivieron tuvieron que adaptarse. Ningún botánico daría crédito a las espinas que le brotaron a la Cattleya mossiae y cuyo filo de espada libertadora contagió a muchas otras, quienes para sacudirse de la peste se armaron con aguijones propios.

Con el águila calva vino la peste del pulgón verde, y como si la historia fuera una prueba despiadada de los dioses para seleccionar a sus favoritos, fue precisamente esta flor, la más hermosa de todas, la que llevó la peor parte. Otras orquídeas se acostumbraron a la plaga y la acogieron en su seno. La Cattleya trianae enquistó su tallos y flores con unas manchas como coágulos corpusculares; la Guarianthe skinneri renunció a su exuberante colorido y como congelada de temor se quedó morada; la Rhyncholaelia digbyana en su desesperado martirio arrojó muy lejos sus keikes, cual Stanhopea wardii con sus semillas.

Pero la flor de mayo decidió mantenerse digna ante los denuestos del cruel asedio. A su lado resistían la Hedychium coronarium, cuya blancura, aún con el tallo desvaneciente, seguía siendo cultivada por el poeta para sus amigos y enemigos; y la Plumeria rubra, a quien la peste verde había llegado como una primavera de ruina y fuego.

Las raíces de esta orquídea rebelde parecieron enfriarse y sus espinas perdieron vigor como deshidratadas. Su aroma, el mas dulce y seductor del jardín, entristeció como la risa de un niño hambriento, y la lluvia tórrida rebajó sus colores como al vestido raído de una humilde campesina.

Entonces, como venida de entre los muertos, floreció a su lado una tímida Cempoalxóchitl.

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Diego José Zárate Montero. Costa Rica. 9 de abril de 1990. Licenciado en economía por la Universidad Nacional de Costa Rica.  Estudiante del tercer semestre de la maestría en economía del Posgrado en Economía de la UNAM, en la sede el Instituto de Investigaciones Económicas, en el campo de conocimiento de economía política.

Estrella del rock por Tomás Sánchez Hidalgo

Estrella del rock

Una entrevista a una estrella del rock, paradigma mediático. Expresión facial traviesa y tímida de quien, con el aspecto del tipo divertido que más bien desconfía del extraño, de lo demás, del ager publicus, vivía parapetado en su mundo personal de referentes y relaciones, clichés propios. Acudió a la cita televisiva en pijama, un extracto de lo que escuché:

— ¿De qué vas disfrazado hoy?

— Voy disfrazado de mí mismo —llevaba un revólver, al lado del micrófono. Apuntaba de hecho hacia éste.

— ¿Un hobby?

— Logomaquia —además, estaba descalzo.

— ¿Otro hobby?

— Puterío selecto.

— ¿Un color?

— Cian.

— ¿Una comida?

— Sushi.

— ¿Una bebida?

— Absenta.

— ¿Un número?

— El final.

— ¿Un taco?

— Hostia.

— ¿Practicas algún deporte?

— Yo soy más de coger.

— ¿Un objetivo a corto plazo?

— Salir de aquí.

— ¿Un paraíso perdido?

—  Verano del 88, en algún lugar de Irlanda, irrepetible, con dieciséis años recién cumplidos: pecado cúbico.

— ¿Algo que detestes?

— Alabama, los palíndromos… Eso  es, sí, sin dudarlo… Los palíndromos…  Alabama y los palíndromos… Además, también detesto la cárcel catódica…   Bueno, y los casinos, las monarquías y los actos de fe.

— ¿Algo que temas?

— Temo al ostracismo a plazos. Temo poder llegar a ningunear en algún momento de mi vida mis propios objetivos vitales, mis principios. Temo llegar a esperar tiempos pasados, sudando años. Temo al embrutecimiento exponencial de la masa. Temo al petardo del fin del mundo.

— ¿Una palabra que te ponga nervioso?

— Matiz.

— ¿Te consideras un revolucionario?

— No, para nada, no soy revolucionario.

— ¿De veras? En ti suena raro.

— No, no lo soy, y es cosa lógica: en una revolución, las mujeres están todo el día cansadas, y además no hay buenos restaurantes.

— ¿Unas palabras para tus fans?

— Cadalso para todos.

— ¿Cuál es tu sueño inconfesado?

— Hacerlo, esposado, frente a un televisor en blanco y negro en el que pasan películas a cámara lenta, con imágenes muy cortantes. Hacerlo esposado, sí. También conocer a Bob Dylan.

— ¿No lo has conocido personalmente?

— No, personalmente no, lo cual resulta, cuanto menos, digamos que curioso.

·         — ¿Te gustaría conocerlo?

— Sí.

— ¿De qué hablaríais si os presentaran?

— Ah, pues, ni idea. ¿De muebles, quizás?

Silencio. Ahora de nuevo otra llamada, por el local en venta, que tampoco cogí.

— ¿Cuáles han sido tus principales influencias?

— Estoy hecho de muchas personas.

— ¿Un sinónimo de tu obra?

— Amalgama, o campo ecléctico.

— ¿Un poeta?

— Kavafis.

— ¿Un lema vital?

— Best is just to come.

— ¿Una marca de ropa?

— Paul Smith.

— ¿Qué fue de tu carrera taurina?

— Me sobraba valor, pero me faltaba talento… Yo no me quitaba de delante del toro, pero me quitaba el toro mismo.

— ¿Hay algo más transgresor que tu música?

— La Bauhaus.

— La vida te ha enseñado que…

— La letra, con teta entra.

— ¿Cuánto aspiras a ganar?

— Lo suficiente para gastármelo todo.

— ¿Te has sentido alguna vez un traidor?

— Enseguida se hace de noche.

— ¿Qué piensas de la copla?, hoy muchos intelectuales la reivindican.

— Pues que la reivindiquen, a mí me la suda.

— ¿Cuál es el último libro que has leído?

— Pues, ahora que lo preguntas… Precisamente éste, el que nos otorga efímera y circunstancial existencia a ambos.

— ¿Capital de Malí?

— Bamako.

— ¿Sabes pilotar un desierto?

— Puedo intentarlo.

— ¿Un psicotrópico?

— Pastillas para la fe.

— ¿Qué vas a hacer con tus Grammys?

— No lo sé.

— ¿Qué queda hoy del punk?

·         — Del punk no quedará nada.

Silencio.

— ¿Quién es tu ídolo?

— Aspiro a ser mi propio ídolo.

— ¿Quién es tu ídolo?

— Aspiro a ser mi propio ídolo.

— ¿Quién es tu ídolo?

— Aspiro a ser mi propio ídolo.

 

 

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TS Hidalgo (45) holds a BBA (Universidad Autónoma de Madrid), a MBA (IE Business School), a MA in Creative Writing (Hotel Kafka) and a Certificate in Management and the Arts (New York University). His works have been published in magazines in the USA, Canada, Mexico, Argentina, Chile, Venezuela, Germany, UK, Spain, Ireland, Portugal, Romania, Nigeria, South Africa, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Botswana, India, Singapore and Australia, and he has been the winner of prizes like the Criaturas feroces (Editorial Destino) in short story and a finalist at Festival Eñe in the novel category. He has currently developed his career in finance and stock-market.