LAST WEEK: Jim investigates the history of the Lenape tribe. Pam confesses to River that she shot Wang Lijin and they spend the night together.
Read last week’s installment here. See all installments here. Read the next installment here.
Chapter 77
River
San Francisco — 1985
Scent Memory
River is awakened by an insistent tapping. Pamela is gone. Blinking awake, he sees Huck pecking at the window. He blinks again, twists out of bed, and opens the window. Huck flies in, cawing indignantly.
“Oh hush.” River says, throwing him a few peanuts. Huck fluffs up his wings, shakes his head and hops to the glass beside River’s bed for water.
River looks down at the twisted bedclothes. They lie like a topical map under the harsh light of the sun. River buries his face in the sheets. They smell of Pam. River sprawls naked on the bed, wrapping himself in her scent. It’s better than chocolate.
Ever since River first saw the small white baby, cold and beautiful as a moonbeam, he has felt apart, marked, alone. That is why it’s never surprised him to hear ghosts in the wind. That is why it is no surprise now, to find himself alone again with only Huck for company, Huck, and the fragrance of Pamela that clings to the bedding sweet as love, enduring as memory.
Chapter 78
River
San Francisco — 1985
Brothers
The next night at Bert’s, Pam and River lean across the counter looking into each other’s eyes. It feels to them as if no one else is in the diner, even though Jackson is at his usual booth sitting across from his usual sleeping partner. His partner has a garish-colored donut in front of him. Jackson has one of River’s muffins.
Jackson is writing another letter to his brother Jim. Eddie Jackson had always been the favorite boy, the good son.
But Jim is smart, Jackson thinks, smarter than I am. Jim had liked English, and theater. In fact, thinking back, Jackson is pretty sure that Jim had been gay: not a good thing to be, growing up in a small town like Healdsburg, especially not if your father was the Sheriff.
Jackson sighs.
When I was young, I was sure of everything, he thinks. It had seemed so simple: right and wrong, good and bad, queer and straight. Now he’s seen more and knows less, or at least that’s how it feels. Jackson remembers Jim coming home from school bruised blue, eyes swollen shut.
“Been fighting son?” their father would ask, “Well, I sure hope you won. Sure hope you showed him you were a Jackson.”
But Jackson had known that Jim was more likely to have been the punching bag than the victor. He sighs again. For nineteen years, he hasn’t tried to track Jim down or to get in touch. Oh, he’s thought of Jim often enough… somehow it always seemed like it could wait. But just a single bite of River’s muffins, and suddenly it feels urgent. As he swallows, he can hear his brother’s spot-on imitations of Mr. Meggers, the Dean of Boys, or his father, on a rampage. Just thinking about it, Jackson smiles.
He’s written to Jim twice now. The first letter was returned, but this time he’s pretty certain he has the right address. It wasn’t hard for Jackson to track him down. After all, he is a policeman. Jim lives up in the Catskill Mountains.
Odd, Jackson thinks, I’d never have pegged Jim for a country boy.
He can still see Jim’s miserable nine-year-old face when their father would insist that they go hunting. He can hear Jim crying when they shot a deer. Hear their father telling Jim not to be “such a goddamn sissy.”
“I invited my brother to come visit,” Jackson says. “Haven’t seen him in almost forever.”
“That’s nice,” says Pam, as if waking from a reverie. “Families should be close… if they can.”
Chapter 79
Jim
Greene, NY — 1985
Message from the Past
I went to Greene this morning and stopped by my post box. There’s never anything there. I don’t know why I keep it, really. But today, out of the blue, I get this letter from Eddie! I don’t even know how he found my address. But he’s a cop. I guess he has resources.
He’s in San Francisco. He’s fifty-two, got two kids and no wife. I guess no one’s life is perfect.
Seems he ate a muffin and thought of me. Life’s funny that way.
It’s funny in a lot of ways, actually. He wants me to visit. Maybe I will.
Eddie seems more open now… living in San Francisco and all. Maybe the point of all my blind wandering is to go back to my beginnings and be accepted for who I am. Or maybe I’m just getting my hopes up for nothing. But Eddie’s note made me a little optimistic.
Maybe I can track Kristjan down when I’m there. Hell, I may even go visit the folks, if I get the nerve.
Chapter 80
Jim
San Francisco — 1985
Dutch Courage
Jim arrives in San Francisco at dusk, tired after the flight from New York. Outside, he is embraced by fog. He descends into the train for the trip toward Noe Valley. The compartment opens its glass jaws. Jim gets inside. There are not many people in the train.
Why, wonders Jim, do people always look so unhappy on subways? Unhappy and mean. No one ever smiles or talks. It’s not that way on buses, or planes. If aliens landed on a subway, they’d get a very unfavorable impression of our species…. There are a hell of a lot of places that aliens might find disturbing. I should know, I’ve been to most of ‘em.
The fluorescent light turns the riders a sickly green. Jim is fatigued and nervous. He hasn’t seen Eddie in years. Soon they’ll be face to face.
Exiting into the night, the fog digs tiny, moist cat paws into his back. He shivers. It is early still, barely dark. Eddie lives just over the hill from the Castro.
Maybe, Jim thinks, a drink will warm me, give me a little courage. A cab drives through the night, headlights illuminating the mist.
“Taxi,” Jim calls.
He wanders into a small warm bar in the Castro and orders a scotch. He talks to no one. He needs to be alone with his hopes and fears. After an hour, dry and heated from within, he leaves, wandering the narrow winding streets for several hours. The city welcomes him in a wet, cold embrace. He’s never been here, but it seems like home.
Due to the lateness of the hour, the stores are all closed. Only one, The Mystic Eye, is open. Jim looks at the window display of crystal balls and tarot cards. He examines the small, rough figures of wolves and birds.
I bet I could sell my stuff here, Jim thinks. He has a few totems with him. They’d fit right in. It feels like an omen. Like a shooting star. Like a lover’s greeting.
He pushes open the door and walks in. The shop is empty, small, and spare. From across the room, something calls to him, beckoning with tiny rainbow fingers. Glistening like a frozen tear, delicate as a kiss, the crystal necklace lies on wine velvet cloth. Jim has never seen anything so lovely and flawless. His breath catches in his throat. He holds it in his hand. It’s out of his price range. There’s no way he can afford it. There’s no way he can walk away. Something in the manner the colors intertwine weaves around his soul.
If he had remembered Amimi’s warnings, perhaps he would have thought of the perils of perfection. Perhaps he would have considered the hazards of hope.
“Invisible flaws are the most dangerous,” Ryo whispers in Jim’s ear, but for once Jim cannot hear him. He is caught in a net of rainbows and desire.
Looking around, Jim pulls a flying crow and two wolves from his bag. The crow’s wings are fashioned from triangular hinges that gently flap. The wolves race on twisted screw claws.
Silently asking for forgiveness and understanding, Jim scoops the necklace into his pocket. Mouthing a small benediction, he gently places the three totems on the cloth and departs into the night. He doesn’t realize that from his open bag, The Book of Totems has slipped onto the floor. As he opens the door and steps into the night, its pages rustle like a warning.
Jim walks into the darkness, the crystal burning in his pocket like a promise. From behind the burgundy curtain, Morta smiles.
Watch the author read this week’s installment in the video below:
NEXT WEEK: Jackson stands in the doorway, wind whipping round him like a cloak. His eyes are wide and unseeing. “We found another body,” Jackson says. He’s swaying as if he has no center, as if he might fall at any moment and never arise.
Edited by Mitchelle Lumumba and Sophie Gorjance.
E.E. King is cohost of the MetaStellar YouTube channel's Long Lost Friends segment. She is also a painter, performer, writer, and naturalist. She’ll do anything that won’t pay the bills, especially if it involves animals. Ray Bradbury called her stories “marvelously inventive, wildly funny and deeply thought-provoking. I cannot recommend them highly enough.” She’s been published widely, including Clarkesworld and Flametree. She also co-hosts The Long Lost Friends Show on MetaStellar's YouTube channel. Check out paintings, writing, musings, and books at ElizabethEveKing.com and visit her author page on Amazon.