The Girl With Aquamarine Eyes (11 page)

He inhaled sharply as he waited for the blasted incessant
ringing to return. He froze for a moment and finally exhaled. The God-forsaken
sound didn’t return. He sighed in relief.

He stared at his desk. The amber liquid had long since
dried, his lyrics were now a permanent addition to the fine mahogany desktop.
More pages were crumpled and lay in ruin on the floor.

Rose’s face was completely missing from the photo. All that
was left were the fading and running colors of her once navy-blue school
uniform. Certainly his mother would have a copy of the photo. He’d give her a
call in the morning.

He suddenly realized he couldn’t call her. The woman’s vases
were broken into a million pieces, and he’d have to tell her. It was out of the
question. He wouldn’t call her, for now at least.

Maybe he could fly back to Mystique and have more made.
Certainly they still had the molds. No, that was impossible. He’d insisted they
be destroyed, so the vases would forever remain one of a kind.

He shook his head in disgust and stomped out of the room. He
was in a mess now, and needed to sort things out. When things became to much he’d
go to the beach. The sea was his place of peace and solitude. Often while
staring out across the waves, he’d be inspired to write a lyric or two.

He headed out the front door, and stepped into the settling
dusk. A forgotten memory suddenly woke.

He gazed down at his faded jeans and gasped. They were gone.
Instead, he wore a pitcher’s uniform. The pants were much too short, the fabric
dusted with grime of days gone by. In his ten year old hand, he cradled his dad’s
pitchers mitt. He twisted the cap backwards on his head, chewed his lip and
raised his leg high into the air. But he’d thrown the ball too hard.

His aim was off. The leather sphere arced into the sunlight,
momentarily disappearing. When it finally reappeared from its journey around
the earth, it swooped through the neighbor’s window and crashed into their
living room. He was proud in a way, it was one hell of a throw.

He had to face his mother that day. Then, the neighbor.

When he did get the nerve to call her about her vases, he’d
explain he still hadn’t lost his knack for breaking things. Maybe she’d
understand, and they might have a chuckle or two for old times sake.

He knew he’d have to face her sooner or later. Hopefully, it’d
be later. Much later.

He slowly made his way toward the sea. The sun was gone, the
last of its rays faintly etched fluttery prisms of orange-gold across the
rolling waves.

He took his usual seat on a jutting ledge at the base of the
algae covered cliff. He gazed at the horizon, and thought of the mysterious
teenager upstairs whom he’d searched so long for.

* * *

Bice stood at the kitchen counter, gazing at the remnants of the
broken vases.

The tiny butterflies which adorned it were now mere shells
of what they were. Mortal wounds throughout their silvery wings glared in
protest at him. Large pieces, small pieces, in-between pieces. He picked up a
chunk of glass, and slowly tried to find to which vase it might have belonged.

He whirled around at a sound behind him. He peered into the
darkness, seeing a shadowy figure float through the pantry door. It was
Thornton.

The tall, thin majordomo might as well hang from the ceiling
with a light bulb screwed into his mouth. He was never far from the center of
the expansive home. Always peering down from his perch, in search of some sort
of disorder in its midst. In search of a maid to reprimand, hoping to overhear
a snippet of gossip which he’d quickly silence.

Bice willed his heart to stop fluttering, lest it wind up
forever stilled along with the remnant of butterfly he held in his palm.

Thornton cocked his eyebrow and studied him. “What are you
doing with Mr. Steel’s vases?”

Bice carefully laid the broken piece back on the counter. He
wasn’t sure why. It was beyond repair. He finally whirled around, his dark eyes
ablaze. “Do you mind not sneaking up on me like that?”

“My apologies, Mr. Bice.” The majordomo moved toward the
shattered shards of glass, and stared at them. “I’ve terminated Bonita’s
employment for allowing this to happen.”

Bice was unable to control has already mounting temper. He
grabbed the man’s neatly pressed cuff, and squeezed his wrist until the
Majordomo’s eyes threatened to bug out of his head. Which would certainly make
an astounding mess on the majordomo’s perfectly polished marble floor.

“Bonita is no longer terminated, she works for Harmon now.
You never gave her a chance to explain. I was the reason she dropped the vases.”

“Miss Bonita knows quite well when moving about valuables,
it’s a house rule to request assistance in order to prevent mishaps such as
this. And, theft. “ Thornton glanced at his hand. Red and purple blotches were
slowly surfacing across his stretched beyond capacity wrist. His fingers
throbbed, and his fingertips were beginning to numb. “Would you kindly remove
your hand from my arm?”

Bice squeezed the man’s wrist even harder. Finally, he threw
the butlers arm into the air, twisted it for good measure and let go. He
watched as Thornton doubled over in pain, shaking his hand like one might shake
a ballpoint pen which had suddenly ran dry.

Thornton’s thick accent from across the pond was punctuated
with anger. “I request of you, to kindly refrain from placing your hands on my
person in the future.”

“I request of you to go straight to hell. I answer to no
one.” He watched as the butler whirled on his polished heel, and stormed back
to the dark place from where he’d come.

He glared at the majordomo as the man slammed the door
behind him. He pressed his palm to his suddenly throbbing temple. He was
getting tired. He’d go check on Heaven, find Harmon and let him know he was
turning in early. He gazed at the vases once more, and sighed in resignation.
He would ask Bonita to discard the remnants first thing in the morning.

He eased open the refrigerator door, and gazed inside. He
squinted at the amber light, and groped around for a moment or two. He pulled
from the depths two fine beers. It had definitely been a two beer day. Tomorrow
might have to be a three beer day. Back in the day when he managed a band in
Philly, every day was a thirty or so beer day.

It’d taken him months to finally gain control of the monster
which slowly crept up on him in those days. Until one day he woke, and he was
the monster. Now his limit was two beers a day.

Harmon was a good man for keeping the fridge fully stocked
with a plethora of the finest beers from around the world. But this knowledge
ate away at him day and night, as a termite might chisel a freshly hammered
board.

He sighed as he gazed at the many fine beers. It was indeed
tempting to take half a dozen or so up to his room, and indulge in them into
the wee hours of the night.

But he must resist. There were too many strange things going
on in the household, things which he needed to sort out. Plus, Harmon would
come up later, only to find him sloshing drunk and surrounded by empty bottles
of exotic brew.

Then the termites would come. They’d saw away at his bed and
dresser and even his desk, until one took in its teeth his leg, while he laid
in drunken abandon on the floor. He would awaken and be the Philly Monster once
more, covered in sawdust.

He wouldn’t do it. He couldn’t do it. He’d left the monster
back in Philly, where it would stay.

He slammed the door shut and quietly headed upstairs, gently
cradling his two fine beers.

* * *

She lay on the bed and gazed at her hands.

Moments ago, she’d watched the sun set while she ate her
sandwich. Peering through the majestic window toward the beach, she’d studied
Harmon as he slowly walked across the sands, finally taking a seat at the base
of the glaring cliff which cut into the sky. The ocean wind churned his fiery
hair into an inferno of blazing umber.

She gazed at her hand. They showed no sign of the blistered
burns. Bice had come and gone from her room. He’d lifted her palms, and had
muttered illegible words when he too confirmed the wounds were no more. He told
her he was heading for bed, and reminded her he’d be in the next room if she
needed anything, He’d never shown any feeling toward her, until tonight.

The handsome man then peered at her from the doorway, his
dark eyes beseeching her for an explanation of what might have happened on the
staircase earlier, yet his lips never moved.

She told him with her eyes she honestly didn’t know. She had
a gut feeling he would never call her a freak again. He’d smiled warmly at her,
almost as a father might smile at his child and left the room.

She gazed at the beautiful door. Swirls of colorful woods
seemed to melt together. The patterns drifted and whorled, creating a road map
of the tree’s former life for all to see.

The magnificent carvings boasted raised flowers and foliage,
from top to bottom.

She crept from her bed, and traced her finger down the dark
line near the center of the slick wood. It was almost the same color as Bonita’s
hair.

She sighed. Bonita had been terribly sad earlier. She liked
the kind woman, and didn’t want her to be upset. This was her fault, all of it.
If she’d waited until Bice had reached the bottom of the staircase and called
out to him Harmon was in danger, but to go to him calmly, none of this would
have happened.

She’d messed up yet again. By morning Harmon would certainly
decide to drop her off at the orphanage. He might even insist she pack as he’d
done on the beach, not realizing she had nothing to take. He may even find a
deserted island, somewhere in the middle of a vast undiscovered sea and drop
her off there. Forever. She’d be alone until the end of time.

She gazed at the bronzed doorknob. Finally, she opened it
and quietly crept into the deserted hall.

* * *

The sun had long ago set. Harmon sat on the jagged cliff, deep in
thought as the tide slowly ebbed to the pull of the rising moon.

He’d done many things the past few years. He’d been around
the world not once, not twice, but more times than he could honestly remember.
He’d seen millions of women.

Most threw themselves at his feet as he played with his band
onstage. He chuckled at the thought of a few groupies actually fighting over
him, hoping to be the chosen one for a backstage tryst. He could’ve had his
pick of many beautiful women. He finally settled on a lovely actress. He’d been
left her in wake when someone more intriguing, and who didn’t travel abroad
most of the year came to call.

He hadn’t sought Heaven out because she was lovely. He hadn’t
sought her out because he was lonely. He was far from it. He’d sought her out
because of her eyes. The way she gazed at him when he turned her near lifeless
body over in the sand ten years ago. The way she read every song long buried in
his soul, not yet set to paper.

Maybe he shouldn’t have brought her to the mansion. Maybe
she was much to fragile to deal with the jet-setting carefree lifestyle he once
enjoyed. He knew he’d never take her back to the orphanage, yet maybe there was
a family out there who knew how to deal with the strange occurrences which
seemed to manifest themselves around her.

No, he would never allow that to happen. Maybe, he’d find a
therapist to talk to her. Someone to help them understand what was going on
with the broken windows, and legs which suddenly became whole again. If he
brought her friend Dreams to visit, she’d have company and could do all the
things teenagers do.

He stifled a yawn. It was unlike him to grow tired until the
break of dawn. But it’d been a strange day. A day which had slowly drained his
energy the moment he opened his eyes, to find Bice breathing into his mouth in
the study. He shuddered at the thought.

He gazed at his large home looming on the windy hill above
him. Heaven’s light was out, as was Bice’s. The two had apparently turned in
early, even though the sun had only set an hour ago.

He rose and stretched from his overlook on the cliff wall,
inhaling the deep scent of the salty sea once more. Far in the distance,
lightning zigzagged across the churning waves. He kicked off his shoes and
walked through the surf barefoot.

The waves lapped around his ankles and soothed his tired
feet. He pondered sleeping on the beach. He’d lay in the surf all night,
letting it gently caress him into a tranquil slumber. But with the luck he’d
had today, he would surely drift out to sea only to be found washed ashore in
China come morning.

The sands were soft and cool between his toes. He wriggled
them deep down, until the grainy earth was topping his ankles. It felt good
against his aching muscles.

Suddenly, he felt a searing hot pain in his foot. He yelped
in surprise and fell backward onto the shoreline. Crimson stains oozed from his
heel, and dripped into the water around him.

He grabbed his foot and studied it in the moonlight. A deep
cut crossed from one side of his heel to the other. He yanked his shirt off and
carefully pressed it against the wound.

But the blood continued to flow. He wrapped the shirt
tightly around his ankle and tied it off. He was going to have to get back to
the house in a hurry now. His tranquil evening by the sea had fallen to the
wayside in only seconds. He couldn’t win for loosing.

He reached for his shoes, and noticed a jagged strip of
metal glowing in the moonlight near them. He bent over the object which had cut
him, and slowly scooped the sand away.

Whatever it was must have been buried for years. The dull
metal was pitting and rusted, threatening to break apart the moment the next
wave crested over it. He would have to pull it from the sand which held it
prisoner, before someone else got hurt.