The Green Man (16 page)

While she locked up again, the boy headed to the room. He stood dripping in the doorway.

Elizabeth Redshaw was still reading. Emily’s hand kept reaching for the little brass lady, then dropping back to the arm of the chair. Finally, the reader finished. There was a round of applause as she returned to her seat.

Again there was a rustling of papers, a panning of eyes
around the room. The tall rumpled guy who had come with Tiny went up to the front. His kinky red hair fell to his shoulders, and he had tattoos up both arms.

He pulled a sheaf of tattered papers from his pocket.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Jasper Cook.” And, without further ado, he started to read. His poetry was full of extravagant noises, extended silences, chants and yowls. He clapped his hands, stamped his feet, shook his curly head. It was unlike anything O had ever seen.

People weren’t quite sure how to respond. They turned to one another and smiled nervously. Finally, Tiny broke into a laugh. The crowd quickly relaxed and got into the swing of it.

Through it all, Rimbaud stood dripping in the doorway. O noticed Emily looking over at her and raising an eyebrow. Her aunt scrawled something on a scrap of paper and passed it back.

Get that boy a towel
, it read.

O raced upstairs and returned with a clean towel. “I thought you might like to dry yourself off a little,” she said.

“Thanks.” He wiped his face and toweled his hair lightly, leaving the towel resting around his neck. There was a pool of water on the floor, but he didn’t seem to notice.

He was completely enraptured by Jasper Cook’s performance. He closed his eyes, moved his head from side to side, and smiled to himself.

As she stood there beside him, O had a chance to observe him – the fine delicate features, the almost ivory-like skin. When he smiled, there was a devilish edge to his grin, and something kindled in the depths of those dark eyes. She was glad he had her towel around his neck.

A couple of others got up, read, sat down. She didn’t notice what they read. Finally, the group broke for coffee. People milled about. Make conversation, she told herself.

“Have you been to a reading before?” she asked as she brought out the cookie plate.

“No, I’m new to town.”

“I’ve seen you in the shop,” she said. They traded glances. She offered him a cookie. He took two.

“My aunt says you look like Rimbaud. Do you know Rimbaud?”

“Yes, I know him. Now, if I could only write like him …”

“I think you write very well.” The words were out before she realized what she’d said. “I think I’ll get a coffee.” And a knife to slit my throat, she thought.

She poured two coffees, but by the time she got back, he was gone. The towel was draped over the back of a chair. She was sure he had fled, but then she heard a noise coming from the shop. He was standing in the shadows by the front window, looking out into the night.

“I got a coffee for you.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking the cup from her. After a
long silence, he asked, “How do you know that I write?”

“You left a poem in the Poe collection.”

“I see.”

He followed her as she walked over to the poetry section and pulled the Poe off the shelf, opening it to reveal the folded piece of pale blue paper.

“I left it in there for you,” she said. “I thought you might come back for it.” She handed it to him. “It is yours, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s mine. I hope I’m a better poet than I am a thief. Look, I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m new to town. And I’m … a little short of money.”

“It’s okay. I mean, it could have been worse, right? You could actually have stolen the book.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I figured that.”

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“O.”

“O. Like the letter?”

“That’s right.”

“I like that.”

“Thanks. What’s yours?”

He paused for a moment. “I kind of like ‘Rimbaud,’ actually.”

“Fine. Look, I should get back. I’m supposed to be helping out.” She turned to go.

“Wait,” he said, holding out the poem to her. “Please – take it. And thanks.”

She escaped to the other room and gathered up the empty cups while her aunt held court. In a few minutes, the second half started. Every now and then, she would glance over at the patch of wetness on the floor. There was no other sign of him. He had slipped off quietly into the night.

Before she climbed into bed, O took out the folded piece of pale blue paper and read the poem again:

Tucking the poem safely away in her journal, she switched off the light and fell asleep to the patter of rain on the roof.

T
he morning after the meeting, Emily left after breakfast to see Leonard Wellman. At ten, O went down to open the shop. She unlocked the front door and pulled out the bargain bins. The street was still damp from last night’s rain. She looked up and down it, hoping Rimbaud might be there.

She spent most of her time these days thinking about him. Yet she didn’t even know his real name, only the one they’d given him – and he’d willingly taken. He said he was new to town and didn’t have much money. So where was he living? How did he eat? She remembered the figure rooting through the containers behind the bakery that night.

It had been too late to do much cleaning up after the reading. Now she dumped the dregs of the coffee down the sink and rinsed out the percolator. She cleaned the table, folded the chairs, and returned them to their place against the wall.

The visitors had taken down some books from the shelves, which she returned to their places. As she was
putting a book on stage magic back in its spot, she noticed a folded sheet of paper tucked in the space where it was to go. She slid it out.

The paper was yellow with age, and as she opened it, a small corner piece flaked off in her hand. It seemed to be an old playbill for a magic show:

PROFESSOR MEPHISTO PRESENTS
An Evening of Magic and Mystery
Consisting of
Wonderful Illusions, Startling Feats
,
And Astonishing Transformations
NEVER BEFORE WITNESSED
.
Among the features will be found
The following wondrous acts:
THE MYSTERY OF THE
CHARMED CHEST
THE AMAZING AUTOMATON
And his
ENCHANTED CARDS
The Seeming Miracle of
THE MYSTIC MIRROR
The Awe-Inspiring Phenomenon of
THE SPHINX
The Incomprehensible Marvel of
THE INDIAN BASKET
Not for the faint of heart
.
THE ETHEREAL SUSPENSION
In which a child will sleep in the air
.
And concluding with the justly famous
HUMAN SALAMANDER
In which the Professor will master
The might of fire
.
ONE NIGHT ONLY
Saturday, August 8
^th
The Professor’s book, revealing the secrets
Of his Magic Art, will be presented
To all volunteers from the audience
.
SHOW BEGINS AT EIGHT

O was sure it must be valuable. She carefully flattened it and put it inside a plastic cover, as she had seen Emily do with other valuable paper ephemera that came across her desk. She set it aside to show her later.

That night at dinner, she brought it out.

“Emily, I found something today I thought you might be interested in.” She was sure her aunt would be surprised by it and hoped to be praised for protecting it properly. She handed it to her and waited for her reaction.

Emily took it quite cheerfully and began to read. But, almost immediately, a change came over her. The color
drained from her face. Her hands began to tremble, and the playbill fell to the table.

“Emily, what’s the matter?”

Her aunt stared through her as if she were not there. She had gone as rigid as stone. Through a fog of panic, O remembered the tiny pills her aunt always carried with her. She reached into Emily’s sweater pocket and found them. Taking one out, she forced it under her aunt’s tongue.

“Don’t swallow it. Just keep it there,” she said.

Within a minute, the color crept back into Emily’s face. The rigor that had gripped her began to relax. The distance in her eyes disappeared, and she was back in the room with her again, looking dazed. O had never been happier to see anyone in her life. She threw her arms around Emily’s neck and started to cry.

“Oh my God, Emily. Do you want me to call your doctor?”

“No. I just need to lie down for a minute.” Her voice was as brittle as the playbill.

O cleared the couch in the living room and settled her on it, a pillow under her head. Emily assured her she was feeling all right and didn’t want to hear any talk about doctors. But she
would
like a cup of tea.

As O was gathering the tea things together, she glanced down at the playbill. It had aged noticeably since she first saw it that morning.

She told herself to be calm, but still the cups rattled on the tray like chattering teeth as she carried the tea things into the living room. She poured a cup for both of them.

“Thank you, dear,” said Emily, cradling the cup in her hands as she took a sip. “Do you know what I’d like more than anything in the world right now?”

“I think so,” said O. “Where are they?”

“In my jacket pocket.”

O disappeared down the hall and returned with Emily’s cigarettes and lighter. Emily shook one loose, lit it, and inhaled deeply.

“That’s better. I promise you, I’ll be good again tomorrow. But, for the moment, I desperately need to be bad.”

She calmed noticeably as the tea in the cup disappeared and the cigarette was smoked down to a stub. She butted it in the ashtray that had briefly become a candy dish. The candies lay strewn on the table beside it.

“Now, tell me exactly where you found that playbill.”

“I was cleaning up the reading room this morning, after last night. Someone had taken a book down from the magic section, and, when I went to return it, the playbill was sitting in the empty spot on the shelf.”

“So either it had been there between the books all the time, or someone at the meeting put it there.”

“What is it?”

“A memory. A memory – and perhaps a warning of things to come. I have something to tell you, O. Something I should have told you some time ago. I warn you, by the end of it you may doubt my sanity – if you don’t already. But I swear every word of it is true.

“When your father first approached me with the idea of your coming to stay for the summer, I delayed a long time before answering him. I was full of doubts. I was still full of doubts when I finally did agree.

“You see, this year marks an anniversary of sorts – an anniversary of something that happened long ago. I successfully buried the memory of it for many years. I buried it under a mound of books – under a mound of books and poems. And, over time, I tramped the ground down hard over it. So hard that I hoped it would stay buried.

“But I can feel it coming all the same. Everything I write these days is about it. I’ve removed every calendar in the place, so I wouldn’t constantly be thinking about it, constantly counting down the days.”

So that was why all the calendars had suddenly disappeared, thought O, as she watched her aunt pour more tea and reach for another cigarette. Her stomach was in knots – but, this time, it was not the cigarette smoke. It was something in her aunt’s voice – an undertone of muted terror she had never heard before. Emily lit her cigarette.

“It’s not just houses that can be haunted. People can be haunted too.
I
am haunted – haunted by something that happened a lifetime ago.”

“I
was fourteen at the time. Already I had dreams of becoming a poet. Already I had felt the wonderful magic of creating something new with words. And by some strange irony, I was introduced to another, darker magic at just that moment. I wonder now whether it was mere coincidence, or whether the very gift that opens one to the light might also attune one to the workings of the dark. That’s why I warned you that poetry can be a dangerous thing.

“It all unfolded during the long sweltering summer following my graduation from grade school. My teacher that year was Miss Potts. She was a small, strange, slightly bewildered older woman with a passion for poetry, and it proved infectious. She was near retirement. I can see now that the prospect of it must have appalled her. She clung to teaching like I cling to this shop – because she knew nothing could fill the chasm that losing it would leave.

“In my mind, she’s always dear old Miss Potts, and I’m the age I was when we first met. But, in fact, she’s long
gone, and I’m older than she was then. And here I am now, about to tell you the very story she told me.

“School had been out for less than a month when I received a phone call from Miss Potts. She asked me about something she’d found in my desk while she was cleaning out the classroom for the summer – an old playbill for a magic show. A playbill much like the one you found this morning.

“As it happened, I
had
seen it. It appeared on my desk on the last day of class. During all the confusion of that day, it somehow got pushed to the back of the desk, which is where she found it. She was excited –
relieved
is perhaps a better word – that I’d seen it, and asked if we could meet. She didn’t want to talk about it over the phone.

“We arranged to meet in a park. I was baby-sitting my little brother Albert, who was just a toddler then. She had the playbill with her. When she showed it to me, I told her it was the one I’d seen. I think she was hoping that meeting with me might somehow shed light on the mystery of its sudden appearance. But I had no more idea where it had come from than she did.