Tag: fiction

“Pardon me,” said the fine looking man in his very fine business suit. Dark suit, too, with a bold red tie to call attention to his middles. He had a shining leather case in his left hand that looked like it was bought at a Sears or some place. He was tensing his right hand like his fingers had a score to settle with his palm. I wasn’t sure what such a man would be doing on the bus in the hottest August since that August when a bunch of old people died. It might have been two thousand four, but I don’t think so. Maybe two thousand seven. Back then, the same as now, no man in a very fine suit would be on a bus anyway.

“What?” I asked.

“I have a peculiar itch, here on the back of my arm. Would you mind terribly if I scratched it?”

I was sitting across from the guy. We were at the back and the next closest person was an old Indian lady sitting by herself in the middle next to a big green graffiti. She was wearing one of those frumpy purple dresses with an orange scarf wrapped all around her. Her face was to the front because when you look to the front there’s only the bus driver and there’s little chance of catching his eyes with yours.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” I told the man in the suit. He would have scratched and that would have been that. But he didn’t scratch, and instead of squirming his arm around all funny he started squirming his neck all funny.

“Oh, wonderful, now it’s on my neck. Mind if I scratch it, miss?”

“Do what you want. Don’t need to ask.”

“But I do,” he said. “I wish to God I didn’t. You see, I suffer from a peculiar condition.”

I turned to the front of the bus and told him I don’t care.

“Goodness, you should! You see, my itch gets worse and moves around if people around me show no interest in my itch. It’s a peculiar condition that I have suffered for some time.” He leaned closer to me and pursed his thin, wide lips. “In fact, it’s a magical condition. A sea curse! But, my doctor tells me that it is a fascinating case, and that I may be featured in a journal. He doesn’t believe it to be of magical origins, of course, and insists that it is a psychological condition. I know better. But I must say, it’s rather exciting, truth be told. But yes, the itch itself. It is very troubling, I’m sorry. But please, you need to care about my itch.”

I knew he was crazy as soon as I saw him. No one wears a suit on the bus in August.

“I’m not interested in your crazy itch,” I told him.

He sighed and looked around, then walked toward the Indian lady, trying to explain to her what he’d just said to me. She stared at him blankly and said “no” over and over again until the man in the business suit stood and approached the driver.

They say you shouldn’t walk up to the driver or talk to him, and sometimes that’s not true because what’s wrong with a nice chat? This driver wasn’t having it, though, and the man came back and sat down across from me again.

“Why will no one care about my itch! Miss, please, can you explain why?”

“Your head problems aren’t my problems.” I got up to go sit closer to the bus driver and the old Indian lady and he grabbed my arm and would not let go. His hand was sweaty and now that he was closer I could see he was sweating all over. His face had little bumps running all down to his chin.

“Please, all I ask is that you care about my itch. Please?”

“You get your goddamn hand off me!” I tried to shake him off but he wouldn’t budge. His case fell to the floor at his feet when he leaned to hold on. I pulled harder and he just kept on holding tighter still.

“Oh it’s all across my shin now! Miss, simply tell me that I may scratch! For the love of God. This is the last time I will ask you.”

“Driver!” I yelled. “Stop the bus! This old guy is going crazy.” The old Indian lady stared.

The driver glanced in the mirror and yelled out, “Hey! Let go of her!”

The man in the business suit held tight. He looked at me with a sad expression in his eyes, like his wife had just told him she wanted a divorce. He held on and I stood and tried to get away. All while the bus driver yelled and the old Indian lady huddled in her corner, finally looking frightened as hell, probably more frightened than even I looked.

The bus stopped eventually and the driver opened the doors. He talked into a radio and I couldn’t hear him, but this finally got the man in the business suit to let go and step away. He still looked sad and I just stumbled away to the back, so I never saw him walk to the front and leave the bus. I never even heard footsteps. He simply appeared outside, glanced back at us—at me—and walked away.

The old Indian lady and I looked at each other. Then the driver and I looked at each other. Then he asked me if I was alright, and I said I felt okay. He closed the doors and talked on the radio again. I just sat down and waited for the bus to start again so I could feel the engine and calm down. I wanted to get his face out of my mind, and his thin, ugly mouth. I wanted to get home to Jim.

I looked at the ground and saw that the man in the business suit left his leather case on the ground. The case had slid under the seat. I figured the man in the business suit might want it back, even if he’s crazy, but I was so angry that I decided in that moment that it would be better if I took his stupid case. I don’t know why. I made sure no one was looking and slid the case out onto the stairs for the back exit with my foot.

I did not move the rest of the way. The old Indian lady did not move either. We both stared at the windows, and no one else got on the bus. Outside, it was getting dark. When we arrived at my stop I stood, and the driver asked, again, if I was okay. I smiled to reassure him. The old Indian lady continued to stare at the windows. I stepped to the back and, when they stopped looking, kicked the leather case out onto into the gutter and stepped out after it. The bus drove away, leaving me and the case on the sidewalk.

The case was wide, cracked along the joint where the top flipped open. When I picked it up it weighed what a leather case might weigh, and when I opened it, there was nothing but a few sheets of paper. The smell from the case was strange, sort of like a mildew. I picked up the papers and saw that the inside of the case was lined with a crusty green coat of seaweed. I began to feel strange about all of this. I felt like I felt inside the bus.

The papers were white, but crisp. They had been soaked in water and then dried. There was something written on both sides, in English, and in a strange ink that didn’t run even after it was soaked in water. The lettering was perfect, like art, and I don’t know why I noticed but it looked beautiful. I could tell that each paper was written in a different hand. I could not read it there in the dying light, so I moved to the bus bench beneath a street lamp and sat down.

***

Have you heard the tale of the mermaid beneath the tree? She lies in sleep forever, beneath the sun that dries her wispy hair, beneath the moon that soaks into her flesh, beneath the dirt that takes the life from her and feeds it to the trees and worms and gulls and eagles. Her life was in the ocean, in the cold and frigid waters of the coast so near the man that brought her up to land. She began her life so tiny, a small fragment of a thing, floating among thousands of her siblings to and fro with the ocean’s current. Her mother and father, long forgotten, having floated away, their love momentous and exquisite in its simplicity, a meeting of a pair of long, elegant ocean angels, guided by the moon, their long limbs wisping about, out and in, spreading from the soft and semi-visible bells that were their bodies, propelled to each other not by currents but by will and senses that told them: I see you. They met and felt the jolts, each other’s presence, a natural progression from no presence to presence and then engagement and release, spawning their children, the angels of the ocean, the nonexistent swarms that seldom last above the surface. The mermaid’s mother and father, long forgotten, were the foundation of her universe. The mermaid wandered, lost, taken in by no one but the ocean’s caress and beatings, avoiding the dangers and threats of the predators that lurked about, seeking a quick and easy meal. The mermaid knew none of this, of course. She did not know she was, and did not know they were. As time passed, she changed. The mermaid was released from her small, tentacled form into a larger shape, like her mother and father, small and simple. She grew, then. Grew and grew, larger and larger, seeking out the small creatures in the darkness and drawn only by the ocean’s will and the movement of her small and growing body. Her wisps became longer and longer. The mermaid was pulled along with swarms of others for days, weeks, and as she grew she felt the surge, the call, like her mother and father, like all the others. She felt the jolts in the water and responded to the presence. She engaged and she released, and something happened. Something new, that she could not understand, a great force that overtook her and would never be seen again by anyone, as such things only happen once, if the universe is pleased. She felt. She knew she was. But she was unable to respond to this new type of feeling. She was still an angel of the ocean, still like the rest, except for the feeling trapped within her. The mermaid floated onward, feeling, until at last she floated closer than all of the others to the land, where she was taken, and died, settling on the surface of a swath of seaweed.

***

The man’s mother never knew him, having disappeared days after his birth. The man’s name was Guardia, a child of men, named by his father and grandfather, for they could predict he would be a large and formidable figure. They were slight men and unable to become pillars of the community, as they were only fishermen with no boats of their own. But with Guardia to help them, they would catch many fish, many turtles, many sharks. Guardia grew as they predicted. He grew large and strong, overtaking other rowers even as a boy and going farther and farther out into the reefs with each passing year. In time he became the greatest fisherman the villagers had ever known. With the strength of his back and power of his arms, he fished out giants, beasts with long, spiked noses and thick tentacles that would have choked a lesser man to death. He tore the beasts apart with his hands and beat them back until they lay helpless in his boat. They sold for much in the market, and as they predicted, he brought the family wealth, prosperity, and a standing in the community that was highest of all the people. When it came time to step into manhood, Guardia courted a girl whose family lived in a small house by the shore. He wedded her and took her into his home to be his wife. He loved her and she did as he asked, for he was a man of great standing and earned her love.

***

Ana Vela lived alone and today exists in a place where you and I cannot enter. Her soul was like flowers, and like flowers it had its times of beauty and times of frigid sadness when nothing grew. She showed me her soul many times but never in the frigid times. She would not allow me. So it went that I did not know her well, not in the way that a woman should be known. Even now there are nights when I rise, leaving my slumbering wife alone in bed, and walk out toward the sea. When she asks why I walk out at night, I tell her that the effort of bringing in the day’s catch has fallen on me heavily, or that the meal from that evening did not sit well in my stomach. And my wife, lovely as she is, believes my every word.

Ana lived alone, supporting herself with the meager earnings from shelled and beaded necklaces she sold at the faraway markets, where people bought such things and did not make them with their own hands. She did this endlessly, created and disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, but always returned to her cottage. She mended everything herself, fixed her own roof, fished her own food, and refused men that came to court her even as time passed and lines began to appear along her forehead, at the edges of the seams of her eyes, and her mouth. Many men tried, but she refused them all. It was believed that she had a man in the faraway markets, someone who pleased her and provided her with something the village men lacked. Some said she would become a lonesome witch, but I did not believe in such nonsense. She was simply a woman. My evening walks eventually extended later and later into the evenings. That is the time when I met Ana Vela. She was sitting on a rock far from the village beach, looking into the sand. I did not think it right to meet a woman alone in the evening, whether by chance or as intended, but I would not be rude.

Hello, I told her.

She turned and did not smile initially, but recognized me and showed it with her eyes.

Hello, Guardia, she said. It is a beautiful evening, isn’t it?

Very much so, I told her, but I would advise you to be careful. The tide is high.

Are you worried about me?

I turned to the ocean. I am simply advising, I said. Be wary.

Your name is Guardia, she said. You protect people, your family, and even someone like me, alone out here on a rock, looking at this little miracle.

What miracle? I asked.

She stood and motioned for me to follow and pointed to the sand. I stepped closer and looked over the rock to see a pile of sea grass and a strange shape lying on top of it.

What is this? I asked.

A sea angel. Come here, look.

I stepped closer still, now curious, and saw that it was one of the bloated sea jellies that we so often encountered near the surface. This one was large, several paces across and with long, thin tendrils, the tips wavering in the surface of the water.

She blessed me, said Ana, and I turned to her.

How can this thing bless you?

Ana showed me her arm and revealed a purple mark on her arm. She blessed me before she passed.

You should see the doctor, I told her. You should seek medication.

She did not know, Guardia. She just wanted to feel. But, I will make sure it is attended.

***

He was like the rest of them. He knew little of life outside the village, spoke of fishing and the weather and the latest squabble in the market. But he was strong, and he held much power in the village, and I could see that he would not waver. He called me a fool the night we met. He called me beautiful the night we sat on the same rock, the one nearest to the angel, and discussed his family, the child in his wife’s womb, the world as he described it, full of responsibility and realities that he was concerned with. In truth, his life was more complicated than I imagined. When he asked me of my life, my dealings in the markets at the harbor, I answered simply. I sold necklaces, I stayed at inns, I purchased flutes. He enjoyed my flute collection the night that he came to my house. Like a small boy, he picked them up and played, or pretended to play, and walked around, as if in march with the village musicians. It delighted me to see his mind free of the burdens.

***

What do you see in the ocean? Mermaids or fish?

And why do I have to choose, Ana?

Don’t think about it. If you’re the type who thinks you are going to bore me.

Fish, then.

She stood and removed her dress, beneath which she had not even a strip of clothing. With a smile that was more a girl playing than a woman seducing, she ran and threw herself into the water.

Come here, Guardia. Mermaids are out here. A mermaid is waiting for you, but only in the sea!

***

His lust was evident often as we sat together in my house, sometimes silently or sometimes talking about things that mattered little but filled the space between us. The first night of lust, he came closer, spoke of the beauty of my eyes, my voice, the passion with which I created my products. To him, a simple fisherman after all, it was miraculous. He could not see that my necklaces were his fishing nets and poles. The second night, we sat on stools made of old wooden stumps and looked out at the village, where his wife and unborn child slept. He reached out to me and placed his hand on my thigh, and felt me quiver slightly. He did not remove his hand. The third night, we lay in bed, whispering. He asked me who I am. I told him who he wanted.

***

Her body was cold, even in bed, beneath me. I kissed her face, saw her eyes partially close as I lay on top of her and loved her, entered into her with such passion as I had not felt before. She did not remain silent or still, but called out to me, for me, and in her voice I heard the sea, a hiss and crash that aroused me and lifted me higher, hardened me to painful heights. She wrapped herself around me, pressed her heels into my back, and in her voice I heard a whimper, and knew, then, that I would be bound to Ana. All my accomplishments, my work, my life, would be informed and guided by our every moment, beginning with the blessing, and all else mattered little. We lay together in silence as often as we could, listening to the breaths, pressing our lips against each others’ and in places that I never knew one could kiss. An entire body, all flesh, meant to be adored, meant to be loved

***

Ana passed several weeks after our first night together as man and woman, and every night until then was spent with her. When asked by my wife where I was going at nights, I explained that the night brought fish of such enormity that I would become a king in the village if I could catch them. I began to notice the white sleeve Ana wore, which she scratched frequently.

I asked her to reveal what she hid. Just scratch my arm for me, please? she asked.

This is ridiculous. Show me your arm, I said, and when she did not, I reached out. When I pulled away the white fabric I saw a sickening mass of purple and red flesh. Her blessing, as she continued to call it.

She had been blessed by the angel of the sea. I buried her beneath two trees near her cottage. I was no longer concerned with the village, or their thoughts and gossip. I buried her in a place where her spirit could look across the sea, if she wished it.

***

I died with him at my side. Farther still, I could hear the angels in the water.

***

It was cold. I was shivering, and I thought I could hear the ocean somewhere, but it couldn’t be because I was nowhere near it. I thought I could feel my arm itch. I put it out of my mind and put the papers back in the case. The walk home was quiet. Sometimes a dog, sometimes the sound of a passing car, and oddly, no people. When I arrived, Jim was in the living room, watching a sitcom. I could hear the laugh track. Everything sounded like the ocean.

I wanted to fall apart.

He called out. “Anna, that you?”

“Yes. Hi, honey. Sorry I’m late.”

“I was getting worried. You alright?”

“Yes,” I was alright. I no longer wanted to tell him about the man on the bus, or the case, or the mermaid, so I placed it in the linen closet and went to the living room. He smiled and kissed me on the cheek. We watched television. I felt an itch on my arm.

“Jim. Scratch my arm, please?”

“Hm?” I gestured to my left arm. He reached out and scraped his fingers across my skin. I felt better.

I dreamt I was a jellyfish. My tentacles were long and beautiful, and instead of trailing behind me they enveloped me, like the hair of a medusa, like the seaweed along the bottom of the ocean. I could not do anything besides move with the current. My body quivered and bulbed in and out, and I glowed when light from the surface shone down on me. There was no thinking. Just being and feeling.

I woke up soon after the dream and sat in the living room. I could hear the ocean again. It washed in and out of the space, like the indecisive wind. My thoughts were scattered and I felt like I needed to look at the papers again. I pulled them out and noticed something I had missed before when I was in the darkness. It was a pen. It was small, worn, made of some kind of wood. The tip appeared dry but left a sharp dot on the back of my hand. The dot looked like it soaked into my skin so deeply that I doubted I would ever be able to remove it. The man in the business suit’s words came back to me: sea curse. I don’t think he understood.

I pulled out the last sheet of paper and looked at it. The words were there. I could feel them even if I could not see them. I took the pen in my hand and wrote.

A blessing.

The dot made me sleepy, and I returned to bed. The ocean whispered to me all the while.