Goldenland Past Dark (34 page)

Webern had seen himself as the boy followed by the black raincloud, the punchline to a joke, cursed by the universe and laughed at for it. But he had never been cursed. He had just been a fool. Now, here he was with nothing, in the middle of nowhere: exactly what he deserved. His sisters were wrong: he would never find salvation. He doubled over and puked into the weeds.

Webern stayed stooped for a long moment. The toes of his polished German shoes reflected the light. He wondered how long he would have to lie here in the field before the crows would come for him, too. The grasses parted, and Marzipan appeared in front of him, her black fur gold-dusted with pollen. Webern stared at her in disbelief. She held out a pail of water.

“Wow.” Webern straightened up. He took it from her and carefully set it down on the ground. “Thanks, Marzipan.” He knelt in front of it and drank a little, then splashed some on his newest wound. It stung. “There a—farmhouse or something around here?”

Marzipan put her hands on her hips. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation. Maybe she’d been looking forward to dumping the whole bucket on his head, and he’d disappointed her by waking up on his own.

He rubbed a little water on his hands. Dr. Show’s watch still hung loosely from one bruised wrist. It had started ticking again. Marzipan took her turn drinking from the pail. Then she looked up at him impatiently. It occurred to Webern that she’d gone to some trouble to revive him. She might not take too kindly to his plan to lay down and die where they stood.

“So . . . which way should we go?”

Webern looked around again. He squinted purposelessly into the blinding sky. Somewhere in the distance, he saw what looked like smoke—the kind of haze that humans make. He started walking toward it.

As he pushed through the crackling stalks, he thought of all the places in the world he could go: Venice Beach, Tijuana, Atlantic City, Coney Island. He’d once met a team of dancers from Thailand, who had performed with cowhide shadow puppets; he imagined himself, dimly, learning their ancient trade in a grove of towering bamboo. Or he could always go to Europe. Even without Dr. Show, he might find some gypsies there, aged and irritable from waiting for him all these years.

He turned back. Marzipan was still standing in the same place, hands folded together. Her eyes shone amber brown in the sunlight.

“C’mere, Marzipan,” he called. Her rubbery mouth shaped an uncertain frown. He already knew he would go to San Francisco. He saw streets filled with wildflowers and naked women, tie-dyed banners strung up over the roads bearing words in a language too beautiful for him to understand. And Nepenthe—Eliza—swimming in the water beneath a gilded bridge.

He felt his heart beat faster. It was hopeless, of course. So what? A clown’s quests always were. He saw the humiliations that were coming—he would sleep in a box on the sidewalk and his shoes would be stolen, he would throw pebbles at the wrong window in her building and awaken the Hell’s Angels. He would go to the park to earn a few coins performing mime routines, get swept up in a demonstration, and end up tear-gassed by the police. He would get beat up, held up, pushed down, screwed over, tongue-tied, and heartbroken. He whistled. “C’mon. Let’s go.”

The chimp hesitated. Webern walked a few more steps. Behind him he heard leaves rustling, feet hitting the ground. Then, all at once, Marzipan jumped onto his hump. She held on tight, her furry arms wrapped around his chest for a piggyback ride. Webern bent under her weight, but he kept walking.

Writing and publishing a novel can be a long and difficult process, so I’ve been terrifically fortunate to have the support of so many phenomenal people in my life.

Working with ChiZine Publications has been a thrill; I’m honored to have my book share a shelf with their other marvelous titles. Thanks especially to my editor Samantha Mary Beiko, my publishers Brett Savory and Sandra Kasturi, and my agent Joy Tutela.

I hope I’ll never stop learning as a writer. But I was fortunate to have that education get off to an amazing start at Bennington College, under the instruction of wonderful authors like Lucy Grealy, Edward Hoagland, Christopher Miller, and especially the incomparable Rebecca T. Godwin, whose patient, thoughtful attention always went far beyond what my fledging work deserved. Later, studying at Columbia University also enlightened and inspired me; I was particularly lucky to find in Nicholas Christopher a professor who encouraged and nourished my love for the fantastic. And I’d like to thank all the incredible classmates who read the first pieces of this novel in the Columbia MFA program workshops, especially Olena Jennings, Daniel Villarreal, Julia LoFaso, Kat Savino, Vyshali Manivannan, Adam Boretz, Parul Sehgal, Snowden Wright, and so many others. Your insightful comments fueled my imagination, and this book wouldn’t be the same without you.

I also owe a debt of gratitude to the brilliant friends who encouraged me to persevere with this project out in the often-lonely world of post-graduate life, especially Valerie Wetlaufer, Courtney Elizabeth Mauk & Eric Wolff, Penn Genthner, Emily Mintz, Stephen Siegel & Nina Stern, Ryan Joe, David Gerrard, David Redmon & Ashley Sabin, Alex Lindo & Laura Faya, Meredith Dumyahn, and Larry Dague. Eric Taxier, thanks again for never letting me give up.

And I’m glad to have family members who believe in me, including Virginia Sole-Smith & Dan Upham, Laina & Matthew McConnell, and my grandparents.

Last and most importantly, I’d like to thank my parents, Deborah & Dale Smith, whose faith in my work has made every magical thing possible.

Chandler Klang Smith
is a graduate of Bennington College and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Columbia University, where she received a Writing Fellowship. She lives in New York City. Learn more about her on the web at
www.chandlerklangsmith.com
.

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