Short Story for March 2002 |
ZACHARY'S GLASS SHOPPE |
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The
store looked seedy, but peering through the criss-cross of metal bars over
the dirty windows gave Channing a glimpse of colors and crystal that
hinted at unique treasures. He glanced at the Mercedes; even parking
directly in front was no comfort. Dark, sullen faces watched him silently
from doorways and front steps along a street gone unnaturally quiet. Like
stepping late into a full class in grade school—he was surrounded by the
feeling of eyes. His stomach twisted just a bit. The
thought of another returned present made him grind his teeth and he
stepped to the door, running a nervous hand through his thick hair. A
tall, heavily-built teenager walked by and made a kissing sound; Channing
ignored it. “Hey, man,”
the guy said, “that’s some hair you got. Let me touch it. We can party
down.” Channing
turned and glared at him with the door half open and the teenager glanced
up at the sign as if in sudden realization. Before Channing could reply,
the man was gone; twenty feet down the sidewalk he slipped into an alley
and disappeared. It
doesn’t matter, Channing told himself. Let him think he was gay; he knew
better and that’s what counted. The ebony mass of curls that spilled
down to his shoulder blades had been the initial bait that had landed him
marriage three years ago to Miranda Cuyler, one of the richest women in
the state. A woman who had
everything. Inside,
the small shop gave him used bookstore memories from his college days: the
aged smells of mildew and dust swirled lazily on the currents pushed from
an old ceiling fan. Channing stood uncertainly for a moment, taking in the
shelves of colored glass and crystal, all of the would-be sparkle covered
with a thin coating of fine, white powder. Apparently the owner didn’t
believe in housekeeping. There
wasn’t much to see and he covered it all in about thirty seconds: a few
vases and some period glass to his left with a standard run of statuettes
in the window, not much else—certainly nothing special. There was a
grimy display case supporting an ancient-looking cash register, but
Channing had no intention of trying to clean it so he could see inside. He’d
hoped for better. Wandering around unsupervised for another two or three
minutes did little to stall his disappointment and he turned to go, not
understanding how the owner didn’t get robbed. There was a rustling
behind him as he reached for the doorknob and he looked back to see a
tall, thin man with wide shoulders step from behind a curtained doorway
that Channing hadn’t noticed in back of the display case. Of all things
that might be extraordinary, Channing’s eyes fell on the man’s
hair—thick, dark waves much like his own fell from a side part to well
past the man’s ears, partially obscuring almost colorless eyes. “How
may I help you?” Channing
started at the sound; in the short time he’d been inside, the silence
had become... comfortable. Although the shopkeeper’s voice was low and
carefully modulated, it seemed to intrude on the atmosphere. “Uh—no, I suppose not.” Channing thrust his hands into
his pockets. The proprietor said nothing, but raised a questioning
eyebrow. Oddly, Channing felt obliged to explain. “I was looking for
something different for my wife. It’s our third anniversary.” He gave
the man a small apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I don’t see
anything.” The
man gazed at Channing solemnly, taking in the custom-sewn leather jacket
and the four hundred dollar Gucci’s; in the space of two pulses Channing
felt thoroughly probed. “I
have something you may be interested in, Mister...?” “Mandell,
Channing Mandell.” “Mister
Mandell. I am Zachary.” He bent with such quick grace that for a moment
Channing thought the man had vanished. Then there was a glimmer of
movement behind the filthy case and Zachary reappeared with a mirrored
tray. Channing saw with surprise that not a speck of dust showed on the
fragile objects d’art resting on the mirror’s surface. He
stared in fascination. Each was unique, a different color, a different
shape, a different pose, if such a word could be used to describe abstract
glass. Fragile filaments of
stretched glass twined and twisted, curving over and upon itself, treating
his amazed eyes to a constantly changing and glittering surface. His
fingers itched to touch and he bent closer, then reached out a tentative
finger— “Be
very careful, Mr Mandell.” Channing
glanced up to see the man watching him intently and stopped before
actually touching the small golden shape that had caught his attention.
Instead, he ran a hand along his collar to free his hair and brushed a few
loose strands from his jacket. They fell to the grubby countertop and
before Channing could blink the shopkeeper had swept them away. “What
are they?” he asked. Zachary
smiled. He had full, womanly lips that seemed a trifle too red; Channing
realized in embarrassment that he was staring at the man’s mouth and
forced his gaze back to the tray. “I
call them... frames.” “Frames?”
Channing asked in puzzlement. “But that’s such a—a plain
description! It hardly describes them.” Channing knew that any hope of
price bargaining was gone; gazing at the multi-colored pieces filled him
with a sense of childlike awe that he made no attempt to disguise. “Ah,
but it does!” Zachary reached out, his overlong fingers going unerringly
to the one that had attracted Channing the most. He plucked it from the
tray and held it up daintily between his thumb and middle finger, turning
it this way and that, like a jeweler testing a diamond for clarity. “Do
you see?” Zachary thrust the piece under Channing’s nose and he
squinted to bring it into focus. It was even more beautiful at close
range—not a crack or ragged edge showed anywhere among the myriad
strands of glass. But wait—there was something there, in the middle, a
flaw of some type. “What’s
that?” he asked, peering hard at the piece. It would be a shame if it
weren’t perfect, although Miranda’s myopic eyesight would never
notice. “What’s in there?” Zachary
gave him a guileless smile. It reminded him of a documentary he’d once
watched on jungle cats; a lioness had stretched in the sun with that same
sense of deadly unconcern. The memory left him uneasy; perhaps it was time
to tell the shopkeeper that the things were pretty but he wasn’t
interested. “A life, Mr
Mandell.” Zachary reached for Channing’s palm and turned it up, then
dropped the golden frame onto it. The glass wobbled there and warmth
seeped into his skin. “You are holding someone’s life in your hand.”
Channing’s fingers closed protectively around the warm glass. “I
think I’d like to hear about this,” he said. The
darkness outside made him nervous. Channing sensed the sly gazes of the
same people as when he’d arrived, as though they’d done nothing
besides sit and watch, waiting for him to come out. He’d been in the
shop for almost an hour, listening to the tale, half-believing it, all
thoughts of the seventy thousand convertible forgotten. Yet nothing had
happened, no missing wheels or stereo, though he’d left the door
unlocked. His father, a race car driver in his youth, had always told him:
“Never lock the door on a convertible, Channing. Why lose the stereo and
have to replace the top?” But there were no rips in the top or
spray-painted obscenities across the hood. The odds of this automobile
surviving for an hour in this section of the city were astronomical, but
Channing remembered the man who had propositioned him and the way the guy
had hoofed it when he’d realized where he was. He
got in and started the engine, letting it warm for a few minutes while he
held the small box and looked around at the interior, wondering where he
could put it to be sure the contents would not be harmed. The most obvious
place was on the passenger seat, where the heavy upholstery would absorb
any road shock. But what if
he had a wreck? He
shuddered deliciously. It was bullshit, but he couldn’t help believing
Zachary’s story and it sure as hell would make a gift Miranda could
never say was a duplicate. Zachary would tell him only that the tiny
golden frame contained the life—in the form of some minute personal
object—of a woman with the initials W S. There was a piece of parchment
only an inch square in the bottom of the box with those same initials
written on it in a thick script. If
the frame were broken, he’d said, the woman would die. Channing
had asked the obvious questions: What was the woman’s name? And what
kind of personal object? Zachary
wouldn’t say. The lives were chosen by the personal ‘objects’—he
would not be specific—themselves obtained purely by chance. The sense of
unreality grew when Zachary claimed to know nothing but the person’s
name, and that only by his so-called second sight. What
a tale! Channing smiled wistfully. It was Miranda’ s gift, sure, but the
person he longed most to share it with was his twin sister Adrienne. He
closed his eyes and remembered the way she’d looked earlier, when he’d
left; the sleep-tousled hair from their short nap, her swollen lips and
creamy skin... “Jesus! Get
up, you filthy animal! Get out—and you! Slut! Your own brother...” The
voice was a vicious memory from the past and he pushed it from his mind.
So what, he thought bitterly. The parents hadn’t understood the twins,
the closeness, the love. When two people shared so much—even the
womb—no one else could ever truly substitute. He supposed it was a form
of double narcissism, him loving himself in female form, her loving
herself in male form. But for
the eyes—hers gray, his green, they were mirror images. Personalities
were different, of course, the result of being shipped to separate
boarding schools at sixteen. It must have been the teen bitches that had
nurtured the streak of petty cruelty in Adrienne, and he freely admitted
to being able to out-connive almost anyone to get what he wanted. But
still, in every other way they fit together like the pieces of one of
those silly-looking broken heart necklaces. Someday it’d be just the two
of them. Channing buckled his
seatbelt and started the car, glancing at the box once more before pulling
away. A small gilded sticker that said Zachary’s Glass Shoppe secured
the top flap. There was no address and Zachary had told him he didn’t
believe in telephones. Maybe
someday soon. Miranda
was captivated by the gift. She played with it and poked at it and at one
point Channing thought she might pry the piece apart to see what was
inside. His stomach knotted a
little as he watched her fingernails picking at the glass filaments; it
was embarrassing to realize he worried about the well-being of some
unknown person, but there was a definite draining of tenseness when she
finally found a place of honor for the frame in one of the oak display
cabinets. Although she’d listened with interest to its history, the
parchment had gone in the garbage along with the box. At least, he thought
as he watched one of the maids empty the trash, that meant she wasn’t
going to return it. Channing
couldn’t bear to be alone in the dark—it was his phobia, a sickness
that hat been seeded the night in his sixteenth year when his father had
caught him and Adrienne together in the poolside sauna. His naked sister
had been dragged out and flung at his mother, who was already on her way
to hysterics, but he had been locked in. His father had shut down the heat
and the lights—thoroughly disgusted, he still had no desire to bake his
son alive—and left him in the sauna for seventeen hours, a period of
time he believed would be long enough to instill in Channing the proper
amount of remorse. Ten years later, however, the only thin Channing
regretted was not being able to sleep alone without a light. But
darkness could also be his friend. “Channing,
honey, hold me,” Miranda said. She snuggled against him and ran her
nails up the silk of his pajama leg. Blinking her lashes, she pushed her
face close for a kiss; at her hairline he could see the faintest hint of
gray. Time for a touch-up, he thought. All things considered, he’d known
what he was getting and for her age—somewhere around fifty, she’d say
vaguely—she was actually in damn fine shape. His body responded to her
searching fingers and he closed his eyes and reached for her. No
good. The light was an intruder, prying at his lids and forcing them open,
washing out his fantasy in the rainbow-colored glow from the Tiffany lamp
on the nightstand. He rolled away and fumbled for the switch. “Can’t we leave it on?” Miranda pouted. “I do love to
look at you.” Channing found the switch and darkness swallowed the
bedroom, broken only by a hint of moon through the heavy sheers at the
window. “But the darkness is so much more... intimate, don’t you
think?” he whispered. His hands cupped her breasts and she sighed. “Yes,”
she breathed. In
the blackness, Channing could make out only a shadow on the bed with him.
His mind obligingly supplied the details as he moved closer to his wife:
shoulder-length platinum hair became long and dark, the age-softened skin
became young and supple. He searched her body, remembering another form
touched by no one but him. In
his heart, Channing lowered his lips to Adrienne’s. Breakfast,
scalding Spanish coffee and bacon croissants served on the patio, would
have been perfect if the wrong woman hadn’t sat across the table. Ah,
well, Channing thought and smiled as the butler brought him the paper, I
suppose you take the good with the bad. The weather was unseasonably warm
and he enjoyed feeling the sun on his face. “What
are you smiling about, dear?” Miranda asked. She had on those damnable
granny glasses again, perched on the tip of her nose as she flipped
through a copy of Self. Someday he hoped to see them fall into her coffee.
And he hated it when she called him dear. “Nothing,
Miranda,” he said, losing some of his contentment. “Just enjoying the
day.” Channing opened the newspaper and scanned a couple of pages
without interest; it was hard to concentrate with her sitting there
staring at him and he felt his appetite wane. His eyes stopped at a morbid
photograph that showed a dark body bag next to the twisted wreck of a car.
The paragraph accompanying it was sadly simple. First
grade teacher and mother of four, Sandra Wheatley was killed on her way to
Blaine Elementary School early this morning. According to police, a truck
driver returning from an overnight run fell asleep and crossed the center
line, striking Mrs.Wheatley’s car in the left front. The truck driver
was treated for minor injuries at Wellington Masonic Hospital and released
with a citation for careless driving. Channing
couldn’t help but notice the woman’s initials—S W. Had they been
transposed, he might be worried; besides, he’d seen Miranda put the
glass frame safely away. Right now, he could still feel his wife’s
staring eyes and he put down the paper in exasperation. “Miranda,”
he said irritably, “you’ve been watching me all morning. What’s the
problem?” She
dropped her gaze obediently and picked at the tablecloth. “I’m sorry,
Channing. I didn’t mean to stare like that. It’s just that, well...”
“What?” he asked. “It’s just what?” “I
did so like your anniversary present,” she said. “I don’t know how
to say this.” She hesitated. Channing
leaned back and folded his arms. Here it comes, he thought angrily. She
wants to take it back. Finally
she continued. “Do you think you could get me another little glass thing
-- frame or whatever you call it? I didn’t want to tell you last night
and spoil your mood, but one of the maids dropped it when she was cleaning
the cabinet. It shattered into about a hundred pieces.” It
hadn’t changed—the same dusty, mildewed smell, the same old glass
vases and unremarkable crystal statuettes adorning the shelves. Channing
didn’t know what he’d expected to find on his second visit—perhaps,
although it’d only been a little over two weeks, that the place didn’t
even exist anymore. But here he was and this time he didn’t wonder
whether or not there was an owner; he could feel Zachary’s presence
behind the curtain. “Good afternoon, Mr Mandell.” Channing
started. He must have done a fade-out, because suddenly Zachary was there
and Channing didn’t remember seeing him step up to the register. “Oh,
hello.” He didn’t say anything else—how does one ask to buy another
life? Zachary smiled at him
serenely and waited. Five seconds passed, then ten; still Channing
remained nervously silent, never meeting the man’s eyes. Finally Zachary
sighed knowingly and bent behind the case, bringing up the mirrored tray
and its glittering contents. “A
pity about Sandra Wheatley,” Zachary said softly. “I’m sure she was
a lovely woman.” “Who?”
“The
woman who died this morning when the frame was broken,” Zachary answered
softly. Channing
felt his face drain—this sixth sense of Zachary’s seemed less the
impossibility he’d once thought. Then he frowned. “But I thought you
said her initials were W S, not S W.” The
man shrugged. “A small—shall we say, white lie? Sometimes I am
compelled inexplicably to reverse the letters.” His face remained
emotionless. “Oh. Well, it
w-was an accident,” Channing said, stammering slightly. “One of the
maids dropped it.” He chided himself mentally for offering this
explanation; after all, what difference did it make? Even had he purposely
crushed the golden frame, which of them was truly the more guilty?
Himself, for its destruction? Or Zachary, for its creation? “Of
course.” Listening
to the velvety tone of Zachary’s words, Channing again had that leonine
impression of deadliness. To mask his unease he turned his attention to
the tray. So many colors and shapes! And each represented the life—he
now fully believed—of someone in the city, a living, breathing man or
woman, someone who loved and hated, just like himself. There were at least
five or six frames he didn’t remember from the last visit—which one?
His conscience was playing hell on his ability to choose. “This
one,” he said finally. He pointed to it and watched as Zachary lifted it
from the mirror’s surface and held it up for inspection. It was
different from the others, darker and classier. Amid the crystalline
tendrils of glass were smoky swirls of black and gray. Zachary’s
eyes found his. “A beautiful piece,” he said evenly as he moved to put
it in Channing’s palm. “The life it surrounds belongs to a—“
“No!” Channing interrupted and waved the glass away. “Please, I
don’t want to know. Just ... wrap it.” “Not
even the initials?” Channing
shook his head firmly. If something happened to the frame—if it were
dropped—it would be easier on his psyche if its... victim remained a
mystery to him. “As
you wish.” Channing
wandered the small area absently, listening to the small rustling sounds
the shopkeeper made as he packaged the gift and letting his thoughts float
for awhile. “Will
there be something else, Mr Mandell?” Zachary asked softly. Channing
stopped with his back to the counter and his hands in his pockets. He
breathed in for a long, nerve-gathering moment before turning. “Yes...
Zachary,” he said. “There is.” He stepped to the counter and pulled
a folded handkerchief from his jacket. Willing his fingers not to tremble,
Channing opened the linen and held it out; in the centre of the white
square was a single, platinum blonde hair. “Do
you,” he asked carefully, “ever custom make your frames?” This
is getting to be a habit, Channing thought as he climbed in the
convertible. Déjà vu crowded in and he knew he’d experience it once
more when he came to pick up Miranda’s replacement anniversary present.
He opened the glove compartment and gingerly placed his purchase inside,
packing the rest of the contents—maps, extra napkins, and the like,
securely around it. That should do it, he thought as he locked the
compartment. Besides, it hadn’t really been that expensive. If life was
cheap, the frame so safely packed in his car was almost worthless compared
to the one he would pick up in three days. As he drove away, Channing wondered how he would explain the
drain on the checking account to Miranda—perhaps she would accept the
truth: that he had ordered a custom replacement for her shattered
anniversary gift. More likely she would think he’d spent the money on
Adrienne, although he hadn’t seen his sister since the morning of his
first visit to Zachary’s. Miranda’s instinctive and secretly justified
jealousy of his twin was amazing, and finding time to visit Adrienne was
like trying to escape a leash of saltwater taffy: he’d pull away, his
wife would just reel him in. Even today he had to rush back to the estate;
Miranda
had a huge dinner party planned and only promising to order her new
present had allowed him a few hours’ freedom. No doubt Miranda was
having Adrienne’s home watched even now. Nevertheless,
the contentment Channing had felt this morning returned; soon, very soon,
his life would take on a new direction. “Channing,
it’s gorgeous!” Miranda squealed and hugged him quite hard, clutching
the fragile glass object in one hand. For one dreadful moment, he fully
expected the frame to be crushed in her careless hand. Would she then die
in his arms? She pranced to a
chair and sat, cupping her hands around the frame a little more
cautiously. Channing thought dryly that while she couldn’t know she was
literally holding her life in her hands, she should at least think of the
monstrous amount of money he’d paid for that tiny, peach-tinted bauble. Channing
watched impassively. With her clumsiness, he figured two, three weeks at
the outside before she broke it. It would be just like suicide when she
did, he reasoned, though he’d failed to inform her that the personal
object inside the crystalline piece was a strand of her own hair. Zachary
had obligingly scripted the initials M M on the parchment, another little
white lie. They stood for Miranda Mandell, the married name that she
scorned in favor of her family name. Had she asked, Channing was prepared
to claim the initials were W W. It
proved a groundless worry; twenty minutes later the box and parchment were
crushed in the wastebasket and the frame occupied the same, possibly
lethal spot as had its predecessor. It was, Channing knew, only a matter
of time; when it happened he could righteously attribute it to
chance—Lady Luck, bad odds. He planned not to lay a finger on it, but
nothing that fragile ever survived more than a few weeks around Miranda.
He smiled. The
air spilling in the open window of the Mercedes felt good, cold and crisp,
like freedom in vapor form. He checked his watch. Miranda’s little tea
party would probably last another two hours, time enough for him to cruise
over to Adrienne’s. Though they talked often, he hadn’t seen her for
almost a month, nor had he spoken about Miranda’s unique gift yet—the
frame in the glovebox was for Adrienne. He knew she would love the sense
of control she would feel from it -- the almost god-like ability to end
someone’s existence at will. He
chuckled as he turned into Adrienne’s drive. When he’d left, Miranda
and her cronies had been passing the peach-tinted glass among themselves;
with those shaky old biddies, it was highly unlikely it would be in one
piece upon his return. He shut off the engine and sprinted up the walkway.
As he pounded the knocker, he hid the gift behind him. “Channing!”
Adrienne cried when she opened the door. “How I’ve missed you!” She
grabbed his hand and pulled him inside. “How long can you stay?” He
grinned. How like her to be greedy right from the start! “An hour,” he
answered, “two at the most. But here, I’ve brought you something.”
He held out the box, then pulled it back teasingly. “But it’s very
different. And very fragile.” Adrienne
took it almost reverently. “Damn, Channing. You know how she watches
your money—how will you explain this?” He
followed her into a sitting room and sprawled laughing into a chair.
“Pretty soon I won’t have to. She’s bound to rid the world—and
me—of herself for good. Perhaps even by the time I get back!” Adrienne
frowned and sank to the carpeting, sitting Indian fashion. Except for the
modestly applied make-up, it was like viewing his reflection in a mirror.
“I don’t understand.” She didn’t wait for his explanation as she
slipped a nail through the gilded sticker and pried open the flap. Her
fingers gently closed around the smoky-hued glass and lifted it up. She
sucked in a small breath. “It’s
beautiful! But... what is it?” “It’s
a life,” he said eagerly. Such a complicated, profound idea—yet he
managed to explain it in only a few minutes. “Someone’s
life, huh?” she asked dreamily. There was no question that she believed
him; the word of her twin had always been indisputable. Her long fingers
opened and closed around the crystal filaments, opened and closed. “How...
enticing.” Channing
could tell she was captivated and pointed to the box. “The initials of
your... person are in the box. Why don’t you see what they are?” She
picked the carton up with her other hand and tossed it to him. “Here,
you tell me.” He
caught the box and fumbled reluctantly for the parchment beneath the
cotton padding. “Here,” he said, holding up the tiny paper. His eyes
focused on the script and he froze. “Well?”
Adrienne asked impatiently. “What are they?” “Uh,” he said shakily
and reached out, “can I see it? I haven’t—“ “No way!” she said
and scrambled out of his reach. “It’s my personal... responsibility—God,
what a feeling of power!” Channing watched her numbly. Have to take it
back, he thought, exchange it. He looked at the writing on the piece of
parchment and stifled the urge to crush the paper in his fist. M A.
Sometimes
I am compelled inexplicably to reverse the letters—a little white lie. “So
what are they?” Adrienne asked and gave a wicked giggle. “Who am I
going to kill?” “Please,”
he said desperately, “let’s take it back—it’s defective. We’ll
get another one, okay?” “Why,
Channing,” she crooned, “are we having a guilty conscience? Hardly
fitting since your dear Miranda may very well destroy herself even as we
speak!” She laughed then and tossed the frame in her hand lightly, as if
it were a tennis ball. Channing felt a pulse jump in his temple. Personal objects are obtained by pure chance, Mr Mandell. He
remembered the last time he’d seen Adrienne, the morning of his first
visit to Zachary’s Glass Shoppe, how he’d held her close and kissed
her good-bye, her head resting sleepily against his shoulder only a half
hour before stepping into the glass shop. A soft-focus memory streaked
back: running his hand nervously through his hair and over his jacket, a
few strands floating to the countertop. ...pure chance, Mr Mandell. Zachary,
serenely sweeping them away. He
looked at his twin, the other half of his heart. Adrienne tossed the frame
up again; it arched past her cheekbone as she raised her face to look at
him and he saw how well the smoky crystal tendrils matched her gray eyes.
The fragile glass dropped ---Channing
opened his mouth to tell her, to stop her.
---into
her palm. Her fingers folded into a fist and she smiled with cruel
pleasure as her knuckles went white with the killing stroke. He wondered how Miranda was doing. God,
how he hated to sleep alone.
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