Grim anthology. Christine Johnson

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СКАЧАТЬ muffled voice of a young man, a begrudging beckoning over the strum of guitar.

      Hinges creak. The guitar grows louder, doesn’t pause while the woman who carries me stands still at what must be a seldom-crossed threshold.

      “Eli, your father is dead.”

      The guitar doesn’t stop, but it hits a sour note. Then Eli continues to play, picking up where he left off. “So?”

      “He left you this.”

      The guitar is set aside with a soft gong. Eli takes my envelope and squeezes it, crushing my face. “It’s soft. Is it a big fat wad of cash?” he asks with a mixture of harshness and hope.

      “Just open it.”

      Eli tears the sealing strip, letting in the first light I’ve glimpsed in...I won’t know how long until I see a calendar.

      “What the hell?” He clamps the envelope shut, smothering the light. “Mom, is this a joke?”

      Pull me out. Please don’t let me stay in here.

      “There’s a story behind it,” his mother says. “It’s rather interesting, actually. Your father—”

      “What did the others get?”

      “I—I don’t know.”

      “Never mind, I’ll look it up online. It’ll be in the news. One-hit wonder Gordon Wylde, 45, dies of— What did he die of?”

      “A boating accident. They said it was instant. He didn’t suffer.”

      “Good for him.” Eli’s voice cracks, causing me to wonder how far past puberty he is. His hands are large and strong, squeezing me tighter than ever, so perhaps the voice-crack is...sadness? Anger? I wouldn’t know.

      “Eli, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

      “I know you are,” he snaps. Then his voice softens. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry—I mean, if you’re upset he’s gone.”

      “Not really.” She gives a wistful laugh. “Your father’s always been gone.” Her footsteps come closer, then a kiss, muted, laid upon hair instead of skin. “I’ve got a roast in the oven, but how about pizza tonight instead?”

      “That’d be cool. Thanks.”

      She retreats and closes the door. Eli takes a deep breath—as would I, had I lungs—and pulls me out of the envelope.

      Amber eyes examine me, the same color as the streaks in his disheveled black hair. Eli pulls in his lower lip, brushes his tongue over the silver ring there. He could be as young as sixteen, but the piercing makes me think he’s closer to eighteen. “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I do not get it.”

      Eli tosses me on the bed—faceup, luckily. The ceiling features a wood-and-green-metal fan, currently off, as well as a poster of a brunette girl with wide blue eyes. The right edge is torn, the poster ripped in half to eliminate her partner. At the bottom it reads “she &” in a whimsical cursive hand.

      He pulls a note from the envelope, the folded sheet of paper I’ve been lying on for...a long time, I think. I don’t remember how long, or even what form I’ve taken. It must be the same form as when I was Gordon’s friend, because vessels contain our spirits until they disintegrate (the vessels, that is). I never forget disintegration.

      I am eternal. I can never die, only sleep. My kind has existed since humans first drew pictures on cave walls and told stories around campfires. We were born at the dawn of imagination.

      “Call Tyler,” Eli says in a flat voice. It sounds like a command, but not, I hope, for me.

      A tinny male voice emits from a cell phone speaker. “Eli! What’s up, bro?”

      Eli picks me up and stares into my eyes, his own turned dark with loathing.

      “My father left me a cat.”

      * * *

      I’m four inches long. My plush fake fur is black, except for my paws, which are white. My eyes are stitched yellow-thread rings surrounding felt black centers. Their perfect roundness makes me look perpetually astonished.

      All of this I’d forgotten, because when no one holds you for...years?...you lose sense of your shape.

      All of this I remember, because Eli has thrown me against the wall and I’ve landed, fortuitously, in front of a full-length mirror.

      My puffy white forepaws extend forward, like I’m asking for double fist bumps, or worse, protecting myself. But nothing can hurt me, aside from being ignored.

      Eli is ignoring me. In the mirror I see him sitting cross-legged on the double bed, his back turned. The fan is on low now, its wood-and-metal arms making lazy circles, casting hazy shadows on the ceiling and the girl in the poster.

      I examine what details I can, to determine Eli’s state of living. His dresser and nightstand are basic pale wood, IKEA-ish. The boots sticking out from under the bed appear to be Timberland knockoffs. His jeans and black T-shirt are threadbare and distressed, but that might be the style still (or again). Through the floor I hear his mother in the kitchen, opening the oven door, then letting the door crash shut. A two-story house, then. Eli and his mother seem neither rich nor poor.

      My gaze sweeps the walls for a calendar. I’m used to lying dormant for years between allies, but not knowing how many years is unsettling. Eli’s father crammed me into that envelope in 1997, when the world was throwing itself at his feet. He thought he didn’t need me anymore. I wonder how that worked out.

      Some months or years later, Gordon opened the envelope, but only to add the note, which Eli read to his friend Tyler over the phone.

      

      

      “My dear Elias,

      Of all my sons, I’ve given you the least in life, so in death I give you the most.

      This wee kitty has been more than a good-luck charm to me. It’s been a friend, perhaps the most loyal one I’ve ever had. I advise you to keep it at your side at all times if you want to succeed. And when (not if, but when) you find that success, do not make my arrogant mistake and cast the cat aside. Give credit where credit is due.

      Your father,

      Gordon Wylde”

      

      

      Tyler laughed his ass off, naturally, and then Eli threw me across the room, where I wait, neither patiently nor impatiently, since I do not feel.

      I do have opinions, however, an important one of which is forming now: Eli has more musical genius in that pouty lower lip than his father had in his entire body. His voice needs no enhancing, and his playing needs no amplification. He could most likely make hundreds a day busking in a subway station. God only knows what a decent record label could do for him.

      But he needs more than СКАЧАТЬ