The Wish Belly Parts VII-IX
Crystal Visions by Trish Hamme. Image License: CC 2.0
A fiction serial by Shane Kimberlin
Part VII
“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person.
Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.”
- Oscar Wilde
I leapt back and stumbled, falling on my side.
“Ho ho ho,” said the mask in the hollow of the tree.
The mask was white as snow and round. Its mouth moved. It had no teeth.
I stood up, ready to run.
“No need for alarm,” said the mask, “I could not hurt you if I tried. All you see is all I am. A face in a tree, a face in a tree.”
The cat seemed nonplussed by all this.
“And who might you be?” said the mask to the cat.
“I am a cat,” said the cat.
“Oh yes,” said the mask, “how droll. Your accent betrays your humor, yes, your humor. Tell me, what brings you to the Cave of the Cherry Blossom Tree?”
“This is a cherry tree?” I said.
“Of course it is, can’t you see?” said the mask.
“This looks like painting,” said the cat.
“It is, and it is not,” said the mask, “just as I am a face, and I am not. It is very hard to be more than one thing at once at the same exact time, but here we are, here we are. I am both a mask and a face, and this is both a painting of a tree, and a tree. Don’t you see?”
I nodded.
“Now,” continued the face, “where are my manners? It’s been awhile without true company. Must have put them on a cloud, a little bitty cloud, and watched them float float away. Yes, sometimes manners and other things evaporate like water, only to rain somewhere else, like my manners right now. Just like rain. I hope they fell on someone who needs them.”
“Who,” I said, ”are you?”
“That is a good question. I am the face of the Cherry Tree. Its eyes and ears and mouth. I talk with it and watch the ships come and go, like time.”
“‘The ships?’ Here?”
“Yes, where else? Goodness, I’m rather stuck here, you know. You see the shore behind you, no? I’m sure you see the shore.”
“This is a lake?”
“An ocean with walls,” it smiled, “sea shells notwithstanding.”
“What is this place?”
The mask sighed.
“You really have no idea where you are, do you?”
Both the cat and I said nothing.
“Well,” said the mask, ”you see now, you are not home, that much is for sure. I saw you fall, yes, I did, into the ocean from the sky.”
“Hole in ceiling,” said the cat.
“Why, yes, exactly, to you it’s a ceiling but to me and others, many others, it is a sky, albeit limited and very, very hard. And there you are.”
“But where,” I said, “are we? What is this place?”
The mask’s face changed as if in a thought too heavy for even it to comprehend.
“You are in the cave of the real, the cave of the cherry tree.”
“How do we get out of here?” I said. My tone was sharp. I didn’t intend to be rude. I was feeling claustrophobic from the conversation. It had the airs of a discussion where the idea of resolution is a joke. The mask’s expressive brow sullied.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “I don’t mean to be rude. We’re trying to find someone and we don’t have a lot of time.”
“Hmm, yes, would it be a she, a her, you are attempting to locate?”
“How do you know that?”
“Ho ho, there’s much I know and don’t know. I know your friend here,” the mask glanced at the cat, “and you, ah yes, you seem familiar. You are like a dream I half-remember. Some passing thought you have in the day and tell yourself to record so you don’t forget, but you put it off, and wonder what that memory is. I know you both.”
“We have never met,” said the cat.
“We haven’t?” said the mask with a sly, awful smile, “I quite believe we have, even though you haven’t, if you follow. I know all about you. Tell me,” it looked at me now like a riddle, “where did you come from?”
“We came from the hole above your sky.”
“And where was this hole?”
“Three feet below the cherry tree.”
The cherry tree began laughing a deep murky chuckle, making the seams and fibers of the embossed wood move.
“Yes, he said, “I know who you are. You are looking for her. The woman. Oh yes, I know exactly where you are headed. You don’t, but I do, I do.”
“But how do you know anything? You’re down here?”
“The cherry tree above is but a ghost of what you see before you. It is a shadow that leads to its very creator. I stand before a light and create such shadows. To reach me, you dug the earth up by my own muddy reflection.”
“The cherry tree above is you, also,” I said, “or, what you’re saying is it’s an echo of you.”
“Yes,” said the mask with great excitement, “and no,” with immeasurable gloom.
“It is,” it continued, “not me and me. But you are on the right way if you are this far. You must realize some journeys are straight lines but some are spirals. The line must bend back, or else it's all rather boring.”
“How do you know about my wife?”
“Because,” said the mask, “I saw her walk this way just a little over a day ago, just one day.”
“What?”
Yes, walking the shoreline.”
“Was she safe?”
“Oh, yes, in a manner. She wasn't harmed, if that's the question you're asking. There she was, on that tepid blade of sand, humming to herself some tear-ridden song.”
I knew the song immediately. “Both Sides Now” by Joni Mitchell. She sang this to herself often as she took off her scrubs. A singular memory took hold of my soul in that moment. We walked a beach in Washington state. It was high morning. The sun had just gained strength and warmth spread with the ocean wind. She stood twenty feet from me, wearing a big green puffy coat and rolled up jeans. Shoeless, she stood in the beginning of the sea with salt water to her ankles. Her untrained voice sang “Both Sides Now” as she twirled back and forth, half a smile from ecstasy.
“Both Sides Now,” I said.
“What was that?” said the mask.
“Nothing.”
“Fair enough,” said the mask, “but I must remind, nay, perhaps inform you that it is quite improper, quite rude, to say something in the shared field of conversation and take it back before it is known, for now I will spend long, long times wondering just what you murmured, to no avail, yes. And my cherry blossoms will grow old, wither back into the stone from all the stress.”
“He said, 'Both Sides Now,'” said the cat. He wore a scowl. It made sense. Their personalities, if represented as Venn diagram circles, would have no overlap, and would be as marbles bouncing away from each other at full-speed.
“Is that a song? I'm not familiar. Not a lot of songs down here, only the ones I sing to myself. I know this one ditty, oh yes, about a cherry tree. Very touching, this song.”
“What was she doing here?” I asked.
“She was kept here. She is here no longer.”
“Who was keeping her here? Those things? The machines?'
“I don't know,” said the mask, “I merely saw a woman humming a song. I cannot watch everything all the time.”
Was the mask lying?
“You see no one else, huh?” said the cat.
“No,” said the mask.
“You know,” said the cat, “you are not made of wood, no? Made of paint, yes?”
“Both,” said the mask, “very high-end.”
“There is fire here,” said the cat, “and water there. One for wood. One for paint.”
“Ho, ho,” laughed the mask, “is that a threat? Are you threatening me?”
“I merely state possibilities. Fire on wood, water on paint, claw on rock.”
The cat leapt to the tree and furiously scratched the stone. Suddenly, the mask's eyes transformed as human eyes. Cold hard dots shifted to bulbous brown corneas. Red veins surrounded the iris like bloody riverbeds seen from the sky. Its face, too, was now human, with wrinkles and pores.
“youmustunderstand,” said the mask, “imustthinkofmywownlife.”
“theyareviciousones,yes,viciousones. Theywouldbreakmetodustandchaffandashes.”
The dark hollow in where the head floated glowed bright as a fireplace. The face grimaced. Ears and eyebrow hair began to grow like plants on the floating head. Its pale white glow darkened into a deep red.
“Hey, hey, hey,” yelled the cat, “it is alright.”
“You're okay. We're not gonna hurt you,” I said.
“isittrueiwillholdyoutosuchclaimsiwillholdyoutosuchclaimsiwilliwill.”
“I swear,” I said.
“I swear too,” said the cat.
“veryverywell,oh,veryverywelliwill stopdoing such t h I n g s I will s t o p-”
The face's features burrowed and erased itself from view. In less than a minute, it was back to a pale mask.
“You must understand,” said the mask, “I can only tell you what I can tell you. Nothing more and nothing less.”
“Where did she go?” I said.
“Three feet below the cherry tree,” smiled the mask.
“But that's where we are now.”
“Exactly,” said the mask, “and exactly not. You see, she was taken across the sea.”
I turned around and surveyed the endless water, then walked away.
“You cannot go across there,” said the mask.
“Why not?” I said, “how'd she do it?”
“Three feet under the cherry tree,” said the mask, a pitiful look across its surface.
The floor rumbled violently. I stepped back. A panel of the cave's floor a few feet from the street moved, revealing a square hole and a staircase heading down below.
“Three feet under the cherry tree,” I said.
“This is the only way,” said the mask, “the only way.”
“Will you leave it open?” said the cat.
“Er, well, no,” it said, “secrets must be kept. To leave these stairs in view would mean I entertained company, and for both our sakes, it’s better if it seemed like we never met at all.”
I paused for a moment.
“Alright,” I said. I didn't move. The cat looked up at me.
“It is right,” he said, “we have nowhere to go.”
“Sigh.”
I grabbed the digging stick and a lit a fire from the lantern. We reached the stairs and walked down the steps, reaching a flat floor and straight stone hallway.
“One more thing,” said the mask out of view, its voice booming.
“What?” I yelled.65
“When you find Melinda, tell her Hoshi sent you.”
“Who's Melinda?”
“Straight lines and circles, my friend, you'll answer your own question soon enough. Good luck! Or, good fate!
The floor panel moved back to its position. Except for the lantern, we were in a pitch black hallway.
“Do you think he lies?” said the cat.
“I don't know,” I said, “why would he lie? I don't know much about talking masks or trees. I can't say.”
“Masks are a kind of lie,” said the cat. I didn't respond. We walked.
The hallway went on for a time. Blank stone walls and ceiling. Nothing of distinction. What was above us? A grocery store? A home filled with an elderly birthday party? A gym? A restaurant?
My stomach moaned the sound of a moose in heat.
“Sorry,” I said, “I'm hungry.”
“Da.”
“The adrenaline at first but...” I rambled.
“Do you hear that?” said the cat?
“What?”
We stopped.
A sound. Modulating in tones. Wonky.
“That sound,” said the cat.
“It sounds like-”
“-Music.”
We kept walking. The music grew louder.
“It sounds like jazz,” I said.
“Look,” said the cat.
On the right wall were ornate double doors, painted black, and lit by a lamp on each side. Each door had a golden knob in the form of an animal. The left doorknob, a lion, the right, a bear. A sign hung overhead in big red letters.
HALLWAY BLUES.
On the right side of the doors hung a small sign marked with a permanent marker. YES, it said, WE ARE OPEN. Laughter rang out from behind the door. The cat and I stood frozen in the hall.
“You said you are hungry, no?” said the cat, “might they have food?”
“What if this is a trick?” I said.
“You think too much,” said the cat, “and on empty stomach.”
I looked at him. Always a thin cat, I felt bad.
“You're just trying to get me to open the door,” I said.
“I sadly lack opposable thumbs,” said the cat, “and it is hard life for kitty like me. C'mon, if anything happens, I will claw our way out of here.”
Literally, I thought.
Too tired to argue, too loopy to construct any rebuttal, I opened the door and walked inside.
Autumn cat by Trish Hamme. Image License: CC 2.0
PART VIII
Hallway Blues was small. Jazzy piano wafted through the room's dim lighting and yellowish hue. A long bar hugged the right side and on the left were scattered tables. An assortment of people filled each. Two older businessmen, worse for the wear, sat at the far corner of the bar. They each wore pricey button-up shirts with rolled up sleeves, their ties drooping like their backs.
“Look,” said the left businessman, wearing a blue shirt, “either invest or leave the horse alone, *burp* that is my per-fessional add-vice.”
“I want to retire,” said the one on the right, wearing a white shirt.
A couple sat at a table near the entrance drinking coffee. The man, thin, bespectacled and mohawked. The woman, looking like a future Supreme Court judge. The woman moved her hands a lot. She was fighting an invisible monster. The man was engrossed in her pronouncements.
“We need to abolish the parking meters.”
“For sure," he said.
"And parking in general."
"For sure," he said.
In the far left corner sat two old ladies in their nineties, playing cards and laughing.
A woman walked around the space cleaning, picking up empty glasses, and pushing in chairs. Light brown hair cut to a bob. Leather vest.
“Welcome,” she said, “what can I get you?”
The cat looked up at me.
“Two glasses of milk,” I said, “do you have food?”
The woman smiled, walked behind the bar, picking up a single dusty, crumpled menu and handing it over.
“We don't serve food a lot. But it's there. And not the freshest. But there. I'll grab that milk. You want a saucer?”
“Yeah, if I can. Is it okay the cat's in here? I bring him everywhere.”
“It's fine, honey,” she said.
Honey. That term of endearment, used in food and drink establishments since the dawn of time. A most romantic statement sanded down smooth and flat, only to tell you you're in a place that could be a second home, going all the way back to the Middle Ages. Bar wenches calling beaten-down knights honey before taking their order on a scroll.
She walked over to a small fridge near the two businessmen and poured two glasses.
“Whatever happened to milk?,” said blue shirt, “it used to be everybody was saying to drink a lot of milk.”
“You're supposed to drink a lot of milk,” said the white shirt.
“Not anymore,” said the woman.
“That's what they want you to think,” said white shirt.
“Who's 'they?'” said blue shirt.
“Yeah, who is 'they?'” the woman.
“You know,” said white shirt, “'they.' That 'they.'”
The woman shook her head and brought back the milk. The big cold glass for me, the saucepan for the cat. I put the saucer on the floor. The cat immediately dived in.
“So,” she said, “what'll it be?”
“I haven't looked at the menu yet,” I said.
“First time here?”
“Oh come on, Melinda,” said white shirt, “you're the only one ever here.”
“Hey,” she said to the drunk, “it's called 'propriety.' Ever heard of it? It's probably not a thing in small claims.”
White shirt gave a look of mock-offense. Blue shirt cackled.
“You're Melinda,” I said.
“Yep,” she laughed, “I am Melinda. Such an exotic name. Ha. So whatchya thinkin'?”
I looked at the menu.
CHEESEBURGER
PIZZA
WE MAY BE OUT OF ONE OR ALL ITEMS. NO APOLOGIES IN ADVANCE.
“I'll have the cheeseburger,” I said.
“Cheeseburger it is. Good call,” she said, “we're all out of pizza.”
She walked back to the mini-fridge and opened the door. Cold air sprung out like winter breath. She grabbed a plastic bag, took out a frozen cheeseburger and placed it in a small oven.
“That'll be about 20 minutes,” she said.
I took the first sip of milk and a minor form of heaven hit the tongue. The best milk of my life. I didn't even like milk that much. Trying to be civil and failing, I chugged the glass in two gulps. The cat had finished too. The bartender came back.
“Thirsty?” she said.
“It's been a long day.”
“Oh yeah? Where you comin' from?”
“All over,” I said, “sort of on a road trip.”
“A road trip, huh? You look damp.”
“Damp?”
“Yeah. All of you. Clothes, hair. What were you doin'?”
“Swimming,” I said, punctuating my answer with a sip from the glass that I remembered was empty too late.
“Swimming? You're not a local professor?”
“I'm not much of a reader,” I shrugged.
She peered at me for a moment, then left us to make the rounds.
“Well,” whispered the cat, “good milk.”
“Yeah,” I whispered back, “you good?”
“We almost die today. We are not dead. All is good.”
My phone was still in my pocket. I took it out. Absolutely dead. Black screen. Water-logged. Maybe she was trying to call me. A hold in my gut twisted around. Panic spread. What was I doing here? Hanging out while she was kidnapped? Why didn't I go to the police? I should. But they'd think I was insane. All my evidence was nuts. Or they'd think I was a suspect. But wouldn't they think I was a suspect if I didn't report it? She had to be at work on Tuesday. It was Friday evening after her last shift when they took her.
Ding.
“Food's ready,” smiled the waitress.
She returned with the burger on a paper plate. A napkin printed with the words, “Hallway Blues,” and a phone number, in a grand Roman font, wrapping a plastic fork and knife in an ornate manner.
“Your dinner, monsieur,” she said, “and-” handing me the napkin, “your serviette. Enjoy.”
The burger had the texture and taste of a gas station meal. I engulfed it all in fifteen seconds.
“Well, well,” she said, “looks like someone was hung-a-ree. Want another one?”
“I'm good.”
“You scarfed that down faster than me turnin' around.”
“Really, I'm good.”
“Okay,” shrugged, “I can get you something else.”
“Do you have rice here?”
“Rice?”
“Yeah, dry rice. My phone.”
I took out my wet phone.
“You know, we actually do. You're not even the first person this week who's brought a phone over with this problem.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, great.”
She walked to the back room and in less than a minute came out with a bag of rice.
“So,” she said, “what kind of swimming were you doing?”
“Accidental swimming. We didn't mean to. Both me and the poor cat here went into the drink.”
“Oh, poor baby,” she said, “let me get her another milk.”
She walked over to the fridge.
“Do not correct her of my sex,” whispered the cat, “she might charge you for milk.”
She went around the bar and came over to us. She bent over and poured the milk into the saucer herself.
“So where'd you fall in?,” she said.
“It's a long story.”
“I got time for long stories. Long shifts.”
“It's a weird story.”
“I like weird.”
“Hoshi sends his regards.”
Her face went blank.
“Who?”
“Hoshi.”
She nodded slowly.
“Can you wait here?” she said.
“Yes, how long?”
“Till close.”
“What time do you close? What time is it?”
“I close at Ten. It's five now. So, five hours.”
“That's early for Saturday.”
“It's Sunday," she said.
A low tone went through my chest.
“Really?” I said, “alright.”
“Are you okay? Do you need anything? I don't know you. Don't want to be rude. Maybe you always look this bad. But you look bad."
“I could sleep at a table right now.”
She shook her head.
“Walk with me.”
I picked up the cat and walked to the other side of the room, past the two businessmen, and into the bar area where the door stood on the right wall by the fridge and oven. Nobody said anything but everybody watched, except for the two old ladies in the corner still playing cards and laughing. She opened the door.
“Just hang out here. You can rest. There's a cot. We'll talk.”
I walked inside and she shut the door.
The room was very small. An elaborate closet, really. A mop and broom leaned on the wall. Shelves of drinks and cleaning supplies. The smell of bleach permeated the air. The cot hugged the wall. It was aloha-shirt patterned, meant for a beach. A real beach with a real sky. I lay down on the cot. The cat hopped on my chest.
“What do you think is her endgame?” said the cat, yawning.
I didn't respond. Couldn't. Already I had fallen, fallen from the world and into dreams.
Glamour Shot by Trish Hamme. Image License: CC 2.0
Part IX
THE WISH BELLY PART IX
Serialized Fiction by Shane Kimberlin
Love.
Yes?
What will you ever do if I am lost?
What?
If I'm lost. What would you do?
What kind of question is that?
Just answer. I need to know.
How lost are you?
As lost as one can be.
I'd find you.
How? Maybe I'm not even in the world.
I'd sail across the stars for you.
How would you do that?
I'd find a way.
Would you do that?
Of course I would.
For how long?
Until I'd reach you.
What if that took -
- my whole life?
Yeah?
Then still I'd sail. I'd sail across time and space.
Oh, stop.
What?
You're just saying pretty things.
But isn't it nice to hear?
That's why they're pretty things.
I'd take the ship across the sea of stars.
How would you find me?
With my heart.
You're such a romantic.
Life is too short not to be.
It really is short, isn't it?
I'll find you again.
Will you?
I will.
Do you promise?
I promise.
Okay.
Okay.
***
“Hey. Hey. HEY.”
I woke up. In the doorway stood Melinda.
“Hi,” I said.
“Want some coffee?”
I stretched.
“It's a little late for coffee,” I said. Who drank coffee so late at night?
“It's Monday morning.”
“What? Are you serious?”
I got out of bed fast and put on my shoes. The cat didn't budge. He was even snoring.
“Whoa, buddy,” she said, “I tried to wake you after my shift. You weren't moving. Dead weight central. I even yelled. You needed to sleep.”
I breathed in.
“Sorry,” I said.
“You in a rush?”
“I don't know.”
“Here,” she said, “let's get some coffee.”
I walked out into the Hallway Blues main room and it was empty. Chairs were still up on tables. “It looks so much more open when you don't have the chairs down,” I said.
“Yeah,” she laughed, “you could roller skate in here. Coffee?”
“Sure.”
She poured a black cup.
“Cream?” she asked.
“I dunno,” I said.
“What?”
“I dunno,” I said again. “Sometimes I want cream in my coffee, other times I don't. It depends on how the coffee tastes.”
“Like if it tastes bad you put cream in there?”
“No, not like that. Not if it's bad or good. Just if the coffee goes with cream or not. Sometimes black coffee just doesn't need anything. Some coffee does. Some coffee just needs a little sugar or honey or cream or whatever, maybe all three. You know?”
She shrugged.
“Hey,” she said, “if the coffee sucks, by all means, there's some moo juice.”
She handed me a cup. I sipped.
“And?” she asked.
“It's good,” I said.
“No cream?”
“No, this is great.”
“Okay, good, more for me,” she said, and grabbed the milk container and poured a wallop of cream to the mug's brim.
“Why did you put cream in your coffee?” I asked.
“Because,” she said, “this coffee sucks. Mmm, moo juice. Moo.”
I didn't have anything to say, so I sipped and stared at my legs. My pants looked like they had been through a war.
When I looked up at her she was looking at me already.
“So, how do you know Hoshi?”
“That was fast,” I said.
“I have four hours before I open this place.”
“It takes you four hours?”
“No,” she said, “it takes me thirty minutes. I have a bunch of errands to do though. I came here early to talk to you. My roommates thought something was wrong this morning. Like really wrong. I'm a sleeper.”
“You have roommates?”
“Yeah. I live at the college.”
“In the dorms?”
“No. Look at me. I'm too old. I live in a house at the college.”
“What's 'too old' to go to college?”
“Me.”
“Are you studying here?”
“Why are you changing the subject?”
“I'm not, I'm just wondering why you live at the college. I used to go to the school here.”
“Yeah? What'd you study?”
“Business.”
“Figures.”
“What does that mean?”
“It just means,” she said, sipping her coffee and in thought, “you came in way bedraggled, dude, but you still looked like you owned some duds, ya know? Like office duds. You're not a tech bro, are you?”
“No. I work at an accounting firm. Programming stuff, mostly.”
“Ah. Oh, right, your question. I take classes. I'm studying nothing.”
“How can you study nothing?”
“I just take whatever classes I want to do.”
“Like what?”
“Like calligraphy, criminology, literature, sculpting, fencing...just fun stuff.”
“That sounds like studying.”
“No, no,” she says, “it's not. I'm just skimming. It's fun.”
“Not trying to get a degree?”
She laughed.
“No,” she said, “they're worthless. That whole thing is over. I make more money managing this thing than I could with a degree.”
“Do you own Highway Blues?”
“No,” she said.
“Who does?”
“How well do you know Hoshi?”
“What?”
“How do you know Hoshi?”
“I just met him once.”
“Where?”
I sighed. This was the moment of the conversation where it could get very uncomfortable for both her and I.
“In a cave. Nearby. You're going to think I'm nuts. He's a tree, right? Like a mask in a tree that talks.”
She was silent. I figured it'd take me about twenty awkward seconds to walk out the door. Hoshi meant an ex-boyfriend, or maybe a manager of a chain restaurant, or some professor. How mad I was. How stupid and mad I was to say such a thing to somebody.
“Okay,” she said, “and why did he send you to me?”
“I don't know,” I said, “I don't know. I need to go across the sea. He said to talk to you.”
She nodded.
“Why do you need to go there?” she asked, “it's not my business. It never is. But I want to know with you. You seem so normal.”
“Normal.”
“You are new to all this.”
“What's that?”
“The world outside the world,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Then she knows,” said the cat, walking out the door, “Good morning.”
The Wish Belly series by Shane Kimberlin: