Beautiful Sorrows (12 page)

Samson Gimble dashed at his eyes. The Universe watched this silently before turning Its interest back to Life.

WINGS

Every time he sits down, his wings catch underneath him. They smack into the doorframe when he walks, pegs his sister in the eye if she isn’t paying attention. He is always asked to play the dove or the pigeon or the heavenly angel in the community plays. Every time, he forgets his lines. Every time, he promises to do better.

At school he is knocked down, held to the ground while the bullies rip out his feathers. He tells his parents that it’s the change in seasons and he is molting. Nobody mentions his black eyes and split lip. Molting can be hard on a young man.

One day in the cafeteria, a girl calls to him.

“Hey, you,” she says. Never have those two words sounded so lovely, so uncommon.

“Boy,” she says, and it is even more exquisite. He slowly turns to the girl.

She is beautiful, with eyes that never seem to blink. He stands, wings beating almost frantically, before walking over to her with his lunch tray.

“Please sit,” she says, and points at the seat across from her. Her friends laugh, but she doesn’t seem to notice them. He sits gingerly, ready to spring up before they dump his lunch tray on his chest—or whatever it is that they’re going to do. His wings bump into the girls on either side of him. They squirm away.

The girl watches him with her pale eyes. He’s nervous and his feathers ruffle.

She speaks. Her voice is like water. “I hear that you’re quite good in chemistry, and I’m struggling. I was wondering...would you mind partnering up?”

Her friends gasp. Her eyes don’t leave his. He’s waiting for her to break face. He’s waiting for the punch line.

She tilts her head to one side.

He swallows. “Uh...sure.”

He’s certain alarms will sound and confetti will fall into his lap. He’s sure cameras will appear out of nowhere and tell him that he’s on TV.

Instead, she smiles. Her teeth are like pearls. “I’m so glad,” she says. His heart flips a bit. He wonders if this is what it’s like to be in love.

She chooses a seat next to him in class. They bend over the book with their heads together. He explains why the experiment she proposes would explode and kill them all. He tells her how fireworks are made, what gives them the colors. She asks if she can come over and study the next evening. His wings flutter and he stutters out a yes.

His parents are thrilled. His mother drags him to the store to buy a new “studying shirt”. She hums as she cuts out holes for his wings. His father shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

When she comes over, she’s wearing a white dress with her hair down, and she looks like a little girl. She clutches a stack of books to her chest and smiles at his father. She laughs with his mother and crosses her eyes at his sister. He comes quietly down the stairs and stands for a long time, looking at her. She hurts his eyes.

She comes over often to study. Her chemistry grade gets better, but still she comes. They go for walks. He lets her run her hand down the length of his wings, feeling the bones. She’s surprised at the warmth of them. She bites her lip and then takes a deep breath. She will be dancing on stage soon, and...would he and his family like to come?

They go. She is lovely, and he can’t stop watching. He walks her home and gives her a flower that has flattened in his sweaty fist. She tucks it into her hair, and it is exactly right.

They stand on the porch under the light. He wants to kiss her but is too nervous. She slips her chilly hand tentatively into his, and he calms. She shivers and he wraps his wings around both of them. They fit wonderfully, and she laughs.

She murmurs something. He wonders if he hears the word
love
.

He kisses her hair, his lips touching the flower that he gave her. She asks him to explain the difference between incandescence and luminescence, even though she already knows. She says she likes the way he uses his hands as he talks, the way that he tries not to gesture with his wings, which is fine because he’d rather keep them folded where they are.

She has an idea for chemistry; maybe it can be their project. She likes the way his lips turn up as he explains again that the laws of physics are like love in a way: they’re beautiful and amazing and most important, unchanging...and, unfortunately, the experiment will still explode and kill them all.

“Unchanging?” she asks.

“Unchanging,” he agrees. He gently touches his fingertips to her cheek. She takes his hand and touches his fingers to her lips, and then his own cheek.

Her eyes, they’re like stars. His, they’re full of hope. His wings barely even flutter.

SWEET, SWEET SONJA T

His eyes had caught on her name many times.
Sonja
. They scanned smoothly over the rest of the page, but something about the ripe, ready to burst “S” of her name made his eyes give pause. Sonja T. Lansom. What was the “T” for? Tammy? Tabatha? The stories that she submitted to his magazine were sweet. Simple. Charming, for the most part, but he wanted something a little more visceral.

“I feel that you are holding back,” he commented once. A personalized rejection letter, not something that he did often, but he wanted to for her. “Don’t hold back anymore. I’d love you to send something else to me, Sonja. Strip down your façade. Peel away your layers. Show me who you really are.”

It took two more stories, hesitantly written. He politely rejected them as well, but continued to encourage her. Like a young girl approaching womanhood, she was changing. He could smell it, see it in the way that her vocabulary unfolded its wings like locusts. So discreet. So maidenly. So afraid, when all he wanted was for her to trust him, so that he could get to know her, really know her.

“Try again, Sonja. Try again.”

Then one day, she sent it. The story. The one that he always knew was inside of her. He read it, groaned, read it again. He left the computer, walked outside, leaned against the gatepost. Went back inside, sat back down. Read it again. And again.

Then he called her.

Sweet Sonja. So trusting with her information, if not her writing. Her name, her address. Her phone number typed neatly at the top of the manuscript. He picked up the phone and discovered that his hand was unusually clammy. He wiped it off on his jeans, dialed the number carefully, and held the phone too close to his mouth.

It rang. It rang.

“Hello?”

Her voice was lovely. He knew it was hers right away. The sound of music playing in the background, something old. Something from the 40s.

“Sonja,” he said, and it thrilled him.

“Hold on a second, would you? Let me turn the music down.”

The sound in the background was suddenly much quieter.

“That’s better,” she said, and he was struck silent by the laughter that seemed to run under her words. What would she be laughing at? What wonderful things would she see, there by the seashore? He looked at her address even though he knew it by heart—1871 Benson, small town by the coast. Did she hear gulls? Were the woody trees scented with brine?

“Hello?” she said again, and when he didn’t answer, she simply hung up.

The sound—
click
—made his shoulders draw in.
Click
. How impersonal. How absolutely final.

But then, she didn’t have any idea that it was him. It could be anyone, any old crazy from the street calling her number. She’d want to protect herself, savvy girl. Savvy woman. His Sonja, his bright prodigy.

He called his boss. “It’s time that we go on tour,” he said. “I want to do some speaking engagements. Put a little money in our pockets, promote the mag. There’s a college by the sea. Charming little place. How about I do it there?”

The e-mail was a masterpiece. Polite without being stuffy, formal enough to be professional but with a casual, lackadaisical flair.

My dear Sonja,

I will soon be coming to your area to speak at a conference. Would you be at all interested in attending? I would like to discuss your latest story with you. It is fantastic, both vicious and tenderly written. A gloriously beautiful tragedy and we would be most pleased to publish it.

Come see me after the conference if you can attend, and if not, we will most certainly hammer out the details through email.

All the best,

JB, Editor

Her reply was instant. “Oh yes, I would love to attend! Thank you so much for accepting my story! You have certainly made my day.”

He got a haircut, he started jogging. Time would soon come when he would meet his divine Sonja T. Lansom.

She was heartbreakingly lovely. He had looked her up online, of course, found a few pictures. A blog written by her sister-in-law, who had four children and a penchant for polar bears. It was tedious reading for the most part, but a brief “and then S. came over for dinner” made his heart twitch. There was a picture of Sonja holding one of the kids, her face turned to the side and laughing. No signs of a husband. Sonja had also started an Author’s page, and had a black and white picture at the head. Sweet girl, eyes a bit too large, but time and hard experience would take care of that. Her hair was carefully combed down in the picture, pulled into a ponytail that fell over one shoulder. She was wearing a soft white sweater that endeared her to him even more. A full mouth that practically trembled in the photo. So unsure of herself, so young. He’d take out anybody that ever hurt her, he decided. Right then and there. They would deserve it.

Whoa, he thought suddenly. Going back to my youth. I thought I’d stamped out that part of me long ago. My sweet, sweet Sonja T, look what you’ve done.

He lectured, he spoke, he bantered wittily during the Q&A. She didn’t raise her hand, which was a shame, but she watched everything with her lips slightly parted, her eyes sparkling. Luminous. Gray moons. Her hair wasn’t as sleek as her picture, and he liked that. It railed against the barrette that tried to tie it down. It sought him out. It waved in the air like a living thing, tentacles reaching for his words. He imagined that his breath moved it, made it sway from side to side like underwater weeds. She ducked her head from time to time and her hair fell in front of her eyes. Shielding her. Hiding, from his intensity, the bright, burning light that was him. Engaging girl.

Afterward, she tentatively crept up to him. Slim black pants, a purple top cinched at her waist with a belt, tiny ballet flats. The shoes charmed him, an Audrey Hepburn in a nearly steampunk world. Her lipstick had been eaten away long ago, and she smiled at him timidly.

“Hello,” she said, and stopped. She caught her breath, started again. “Hello,” she said, and held out her hand. Her fingers were warm and soft. He held the handshake exactly four seconds longer than normal—he counted in his head—and reluctantly dropped her trembling fingers. She slid her hands into her sleeves, clutched girlishly at the cuffs, pale fingers peeping out. Baby birds.

“Hello,” he said back, and smiled wide. This gave her new courage.

“Hello, I’m...I’m Sonja T. Lansom. I...you said that you were going to publish my story.” She wavered on her feet a little, and he gallantly took her arm, helped her sit down. She tucked her feet under her chair.

“Yes, Sonja. Let us discuss your wonderful story. Would you like to do it now? Actually, I’m quite hungry. Would you possibly have time to come with me while I grab a bite to eat? We could discuss it there? Or if you would rather...”

“Oh, no,” she said quickly, and touched his hand briefly with her delicate fingers. Just a second (less than that, really), but his body roared hot at the touch. “Certainly, let’s get you something to eat. I know a café around the corner, if that sounds at all like something...something that you...”

She floundered, the reticent thing. Sweet, sweet Sonja T.

“That sounds great,” he said, and offered her his arm.

They chose a table on the patio. He ordered meatloaf and mashed potatoes with pie. She had a salad with pecans and mandarin oranges. No wonder she’s so tiny. So light. He held his breath every now and then so as not to blow her out to sea.

“Your story, it was so raw,” he said, leaning forward. She leaned forward, too. Into him. Attracted by his pull, drawn into his source of gravity. It made him smile, and she shyly smiled back.

“I’m so happy that you liked it,” she whispered, and he reached out for her bare hands on the table. She frowned briefly but then it was gone. He’d have to be careful not to scare her, or else she’d rabbit out of there. He pulled his hands away until their fingers were barely touching.

“I do like it. We, everybody at the magazine, simply loved it. I felt like you really broke through, Sonja.” Sonja, Sonja, Sonja. “It was like there was a wall that you scaled. No, you didn’t scale it; you completely kicked it down. However did you kick down your wall, Sonja? Tell me. I am simply dying to know.”

She chewed her bottom lip. He raised his eyebrows, made his eyes sparkle. Ta-
DING!
He was interested, friendly. Worthy of her trust. She was lost, needed to confide. Talk to me, my girl.

“You really want to know?” she asked. Her gray eyes were doubtful. Sweet Sonja T, she didn’t trust herself yet. She didn’t trust
him.
She would, in time. He covered her hands with his again. She didn’t move them away, instead nestled her fingers inside. He shielded her hands, protecting them. Like a mother bird, like a layer of ozone. Shielding, warming, guiding. A bomb shelter before a nuclear holocaust.

“Of course I want to know,” he said, and pressed his hands more tightly to hers. “Tell me, Sonja T.”

She hitched a breath. “I...made a choice one day. To do something that I have always wondered about. To do something that I have always wanted to do, but was too afraid. I decided that I didn’t want to be that kind of person anymore.” She looked up, trying to read him. “Do you understand?”

He nodded wisely. Sagely. “I do,” he said kindly. “I do. Go on.”

She swallowed. “Finally one day I had enough. I said, You know what? I spend all of my life being afraid. That somebody will find me. That somebody will hurt me. I follow all of the rules, do everything that I’m supposed to do. I have never...I have never...”

She loves me, he thought. Just look at her. Here holding my hands, telling me secrets at a quaint little café. The ocean breeze blowing her hair off of her face. He shivered just a bit, and her fingers tucked into her fists in response. Poor little birds, always hiding. He thought of her house, of the way the lights flicked on and off as she walked from room to room. He wondered what her routine would be before going to bed, how long it would take until he was part of her routine as well. Toothbrushes side by side, smiling a little as she straightened his razor. Poor Editor JB, he’s such a slob. Good thing she’s there to take care of him. How did he ever get by without her?

“So what is your scandalous secret, Sonja? You can tell me.” He was dying.
He was dying
.

She smiled. It was lovely, wide as the sea. Her eyes were dreamy. “My secret? Is that I’m not afraid anymore. I am strong. Stronger than he thought.”

His soul crushed. His heart broke. His hands melted like something painted by Dali.

“He?” he asked.

“What?” she said. Her eyes were huge. “What he?”

“Your he. Your ‘you’re stronger than he thought’ he.”

She looked panicked. “You misheard! There is no he. At least, not anymore.” Her moonlight eyes caught his. Trapped him. He read them, was still reading when her lashes fluttered down over them.

Her story. Her dark, brutal, visceral story.

“Ah,” he said.

Her face was white. Oleander white, except for a flush high on both cheeks. She started to pull her hands away.

“My sweet, sweet Sonja T,” he said.

She paused, didn’t look at him. Needing a sign. Needing acceptance.

He sighed, leaned back in his chair, threaded his fingers through hers. “What say you and I run off to Finland?” he offered casually.

“F-Finland?”

“Yes.”

She thought about it. “How do they say ‘hello’ in Finland?”

“
Hei,
” he responded.
Hei. Hei, Sonja.

Her smile broke something inside of him. Sternum tearing off and puncturing his heart. Heimlich given by a 400-pound gorilla. It felt good.

“I could do that,” she said.