The Lemoncholy Life of Annie Aster Page 5

  His original intent had been to pursue a career on the stage, and San Francisco was only meant to be a weekend excursion. But he’d fallen in love with the city and decided he could as easily pursue his dream in Baghdad by the Bay. The universe had other ideas, however, throwing him a curveball in the form of laryngitis the night before his first big audition.

  After a period of sobering introspection, Edmond had switched professional gears, becoming a landscaper. It wasn’t a big occupation with big rewards, but Edmond didn’t have big aspirations at the moment. He was still healing from choices he’d made in a prior life that led to unexpected and undesired consequences. Little aspirations suited him well at this time. He would no doubt aspire to more when he had healed.

  While affected by this turn of events, Edmond was ever the optimist who was certain the universe had a plan, though he often questioned whether its successful execution required these little miseries.

  Frankly, such thoughts were far from his mind as he made for Walgreens, a little blue dot on the radar image being watched at that moment with particular interest by none other than the universe itself.

  And Christian was a red dot.

  The two dots simultaneously worked their way, with fits and starts, to an end point where they merged as a single, blazing spot of bright purple at a fire hydrant in front of the drugstore.

  Christian was leaning against it, squeezing in a few more pages from the chapter he was reading before going inside to purchase what he was yet to determine he needed, when someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me.”

  Christian turned.

  “This yours?” The “face” calmly returned his gaze while its owner held out the frequent-reader card Christian used as a bookmark, causing the uneasy itch of misplaced memory to surge like a word on the tip of his tongue. Christian hiccupped in surprise and slipped off the fire hydrant.

  “Careful!” Edmond scrambled to break the fall but missed. He shrugged cheerfully as Christian landed in a heap on the curb, saying, “And down he goes.” He hauled Christian up. “You all right?” he asked.

  Christian rested his hand on the fire hydrant, massaging his back and nodding stupidly. “That’s my”—he blinked several times before managing to say—“bbbookmark.”

  Edmond handed over the item in question with a lopsided grin that trailed away quickly as he gave Christian a closer look. “I know you from somewhere,” he said. This was typical of Edmond. While anyone else in a similar circumstance would have asked, “Do I know you?” Edmond made a statement of fact. He was never uncertain.

  Unnerved by the intensity of Edmond’s gaze, Christian felt his vocal cords start to tighten—a bad sign—but as he struggled for a response, Edmond took the lead, firing off, “It’s you! From Crissy Field. And…hold it”—he snapped his fingers twice—“the supermarket! And I’m pretty sure I saw you crossing Church and Twentieth yesterday.” He stared at Christian and said with a hint of mischief in his voice, “If I were the suspicious type, I’d think you were tailing me.”

  Missing the joke entirely, as was often the case, Christian fired back with something less than his usual rhetorical genius. “I li-lili-”—he closed his eyes and swallowed, wrestling with the word, then raised his hand, moving it as if in benediction—“live…here.”

  “Neighbors then.” Edmond nodded knowingly. He leaned forward in a manner that suggested he would unveil a singular truth, impart the one inimitable law that bound the universe and everything within, and said, “I was kidding, by the way, about the ‘tailing’ thing.”

  Having gotten that off his chest, Edmond crossed his arms and declared, “Well, the universe is telling us something, isn’t it?” He said this with confidence because, unlike Christian, he had come to believe the universe had a plan. Since he also believed in guardian spirits and dream catchers, that shouldn’t come as much of a surprise. And best not to even get him started on karma. He lifted an eyebrow as Christian continued to nurse his back. “Maybe you should sit down,” he added.

  “I’m good,” Christian said as he slapped dust off the back of his pants.

  Interrupting his attempt to tidy up, Edmond extended his hand, offering his name.

  Christian took it, sharing his as he looked to the clear skies, certain he’d heard the rumble of thunder. He glanced over to see Edmond doing the same before examining his own hand as if it were somehow to blame. He looked at Christian, puzzled.

  “Well, Christian, nice to meet you,” he said, glancing at the heavens a second time. “By the way, you have a doozy of a stain on your pants.” He waited for a response, but getting none, shrugged. “Take care,” he said, before turning to walk through the entrance of the drugstore.

  Christian waved noncommittally and headed to the street corner. He decided that heading to the hardware store before going to Walgreens would be best, even though he was dead certain there was nothing there he actually needed. Glaring skyward, he let out an exasperated woof of air and opened his book to the next chapter as he entered the crosswalk.

  Shouts. Screeching wheels. The blare of a horn. Christian felt a violent tug from behind, yanking him to the curb as a car went screaming past.

  “Wake up, dumbass, before you get yourself killed!” yelled a shadow from the passenger seat of the passing car, its engine roaring like a sour note of a tuba.

  Floundering at the edge of the street only to trip on the curb, Christian ended up next to the fire hydrant in an all-too-familiar heap. Doing a quick inventory, he decided nothing was broken and gingerly propped himself up on his elbow before reaching across the sidewalk to rescue his book. He sat up, Indian style, rested his forearms on his knees, and began to breathe in and out very slowly. Having collected himself, Christian scanned his surroundings to note with acute embarrassment that a small crowd had gathered and that Edmond was standing over him with a belt loop dangling from his upraised hand.

  Edmond stuffed the belt loop into his pocket and said, “Sorry, grabbed the first thing I could reach. Mind if I ask—” He paused. Looking at Christian’s stricken face, he seemed to realize that this was not the time to discuss traffic hazards. Instead, he extended his hand. “Okay, up with you,” he said, hauling Christian up for the second time that day. “Let’s get you out of the monkey cage.” He turned to face down the crowd. “Show’s over, people!”

  As the crowd dissolved into the complex rhythms of urban sidewalk traffic, Edmond helped Christian brush himself off, noticed a stain to shame the first, and overheard him mumble, “Annie’s going to k-kill me.”

  Christian was examining a nasty scrape on his elbow when Edmond gently pushed him on the back to set him in motion. “There’s a coffee shop down the street. I want to get that cleaned off.”

  Edmond sipped his coffee and watched as Christian picked at a slice of pound cake. His elbow was cleaned up and forgotten, and he was making a mound of crumbs that he lined up in rows by scraping the tines of the fork through the pile, though he’d yet to take a single bite. “You don’t say much, do you?” Edmond said.

  Christian stole a glance at him before fixating once more on the cake.

  “The conversation’s going to suck if I have to do all the talking,” Edmond added, clearly amused despite the narrowing of his eyes.

  Still nothing.

  Just as Edmond was about to give up, Christian slumped back in his seat. “I’m sorry,” he said, the words coming out as little more than a breath of air.

  “It’s okay,” Edmond said airily. “Want to tell me about the death wish?”

  Christian reached for the fork and shoveled some cake in his mouth, then took a deep breath as if preparing himself for a monumental effort. Speaking deliberately, like a third grader reading in front of class, he said, “My best…friend says that books are my ah-ah-”—he raised the fork, moving it in a complex series of gestures like he had with his hand outside Walgreens—“armor, b-but evidence suggests I’m just a garden-variety misanth-th-thth—” His eyes bli
nked with each repetition, and he raised the fork again. This time, though, he wrote the rest of the word in the air: “—thrope.” After a stretch of silence, he realized his attempt at humor might have generated a certain ambiguity. “I stutter,” he added, shrugging. He set the fork aside.

  Edmond smiled,charmed by Christian’s admission of the obvious.

  “M-m-muh”—Christian’s hand waved restively, moving his words along—“mainly… around people I don’t know. So I keep my w-wo-wo-”—he paused, grimacing, before forcing out the word world—“pretty small. There’s Annie and my books.”

  “That must be very lonely for you.”

  Christian furrowed his brows and grimaced, an expression that seemed to say, You think? “There are certain d-d-duh-deficiencies in my social skills,” he said.

  “Do you always talk like that, though?”

  Not sure that he’d heard Edmond correctly, and afraid he was going to be the butt of yet another in a lifetime of jokes, Christian blinked. “Like what?”

  “Like a person with too many smarts and not enough experience.” Edmond glanced at the clock on the wall and jumped to his feet. “I’ve gotta run. You going to be all right?”

  Christian nodded.

  As he turned to leave, Edmond dug into his pocket, pulling out a business card. A few pieces of paper scattered to the floor. Picking them up, he placed the card on the table and tapped it. “I’m a bit of a loner myself,” he said. “And you know, you’re kind of interesting— in a weird sort of way.”

  Christian picked up the card with a start, trying to figure out if there was intended insult in the statement. He looked at Edmond carefully and decided he was sincere enough. He nodded, not knowing what else to do.

  At that, Edmond barreled out the door with the same conviction with which he had entered it, leaving Christian to wonder if the man laced his breakfast cereal with testosterone. He banished the thought with a shake of his head and opened his book to page forty- seven.

  He’d only begun to be transported into the world of Middle- earth when the waitress walked over to pick something off the floor by his foot, something that Edmond had missed, and placed it on Christian’s table with a nod.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Candid Conversations

  At the exact moment Christian watched Edmond disappear, minus a hundred years, Elsbeth was busy responding to Annie’s latest correspondence.

  21st of May, 1895

  Dear Annie,

  I’m certain it will come as no surprise that I read your letter with some measure of incredulity. Drowning orphaned kittens, indeed! Clearly, you must realize that you’ve laid down the gauntlet with your anemic attempt at humor. I have never drowned a kitten in all my sixty-three years.

  I may have dined on a few, however.

  Sincerely,

  Elsbeth Grundy

  P.S. While not being familiar with the phrase “dumbing down,” I certainly understand its intent. Never lower yourself for others. Make them rise to you. Whether they can or not is their burden, not yours.

  P.P.S. Were you aware that Shakespeare originated the term “in stitches” in “Twelfth Night”? “If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me.” He was a clever man, Shakespeare.

  Elsbeth read the letter and grunted in satisfaction. She placed it in an envelope and made her way across the field to Annie’s picket fence. Like yesterday, and almost every day recently, it was warm and sunny in Kansas. She stopped at the gate and considered the house. What a fascinating turn of events for her rather ordinary life. She’d found a friend—an unexpected treasure. She waved at the door self-consciously before dropping her hand to her side, then placed the letter in the mailbox and slowly made her way home.

  As Elsbeth closed her back door, Annie’s flew open in an orchestration of precise, yet serendipitous timing. Annie swept through the rose garden in a swishing pile of sateen to collect her mail, returning to her rolltop desk to read in comfort.

  And she was thrilled! Elsbeth had met her pound for pound with her drollery. Who would have thought she’d find a friend in such an unlikely place? And one who shared her sense of humor, no less. She placed El’s letter in a cubicle of her rolltop and rested her hand on it affectionately before closing the drawer.

  On a whim, she grabbed a bonnet and whisked out the back door to stand before the picket fence. A light breeze sent tendrils of stray hair swirling over her face. Annie gazed fondly at the cabin on the horizon, then, as a declaration of her budding friendship with El, lifted the bonnet and scarf over her head like a banner before slowly turning around and going back inside to the future.

  May 21, 1995

  Dear El,

  Shakespeare. Whether he “sets your teeth on edge,” or you love him “like the dickens,” you can’t escape borrowing his phrases. (Smirk)

  It’s high time we became better acquainted—a little “girl talk,” to coin a phrase. To start, you may be surprised to learn that Annabelle Aster is my adopted name. I don’t know my birth name, having never bothered to learn the particulars. The only testimonials to my prior life are some documents gathering dust in my safe-deposit box.

  My adoptive mother and father raised me with prodigious assistance from my godmother—Auntie Liza. I’ve mentioned her already. Mom and Dad passed away two years ago, and I still live in the home they built. It’s too much house, but I can’t bear to part with it.

  I’m not married, having found no one possessing a disposition that is consonant with my own. There were one or two who might have possessed a congenial makeup, but they lacked what I considered to be the requisite constitution. I’m told that I can be quite willful, but I prefer to think of it as knowing my own mind.

  I suppose that’s enough for now. It’s your turn to “spill your guts,” as people say. There must be quite a story behind your solitude.

  Sincerely,

  Annie

  P.S. Are your traps in good repair?

  P.P.S. Just reread my letter. Miss Austen is turning in her grave.

  21st of May, 1895

  Dear Annie,

  Spill my guts? Is this where the English language is headed?

  And solitude? If we are to be friends, I will require you to speak precisely. To wit, you wish to know why I behave like a spinster. Do not deny it! No one knows better than I the image I present to the world, and I accept the mantle even though it is an ill fit for a widow.

  You are surprised? Yes, I was married once. And happily. His name was Tom. I recommend the institution, should you find it convenient. We had a daughter named Beth Anne. We loved her dearly, and she repaid us threefold with joy.

  Tom died of sepsis from a plowing accident. And I lost my heartbroken Beth Anne to wanderlust. There were letters from her in the beginning, but we lost contact many years ago. I can only hope she made it to Chicago as she dreamed.

  Regardless, they are both memories to me now, and I occupy my days with pigs and wheat. At night, I sit in my rocker and think. Occasionally, I read.

  I have had twenty years to forget love. But I don’t think I am loveless.

  Sincerely,

  El

  P.S. Traps are fine. Sadly, supply is low.

  P.P.S. I want to know more about that door you mentioned.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  A Peculiar Door

  May 26, 1995

  Annie waited patiently as the gaunt owner of the Antiquarian spoke into his cell phone, his voice as scratched and tinny as the music coming from the gramophone by the door.

  “Yes, yes… That’s fine,” he said, eyeing her warily for the third time. Flipping the phone shut, he turned on his heel and walked briskly to the sales desk where he settled onto a stool, his elbows and knee joints collapsing upon themselves in a disheveled pile. As he poured a cup of coffee and arranged his features into a well- practiced blank stare, a faint electric buzz signaled the imminent demise of the fluorescent light ove
rhead, stuttering Morse code across the patina of his bald pate. To the knowledgeable the message read, “Approach at your peril.”

  Annie placed the ghastly jade ashtray she’d been ogling on a table and walked to the sales desk. Ignoring the signal and feeling a bit perverse, she simply stared at the man.

  He tried to ignore her at first, but her silence was off- putting, and the stick figure of a man finally pursed his lips as a single leg unfolded in sections to rest on the floor. “I’m on my coffee break, ma’am. Perhaps— ”

  Grinning, she interrupted him. “Yes, you were most eager for it,” she said.

  “Pardon me?” The jig was up, and he knew it.

  She flicked her wrist, a gesture that might have been construed as saying, “It doesn’t matter,” but contained enough condescension to also be interpreted as “You’re dismissed.” She ran a finger over the counter and flicked away imaginary dust, hammering her point home. “Is Adam available?” she asked.

  Startled speechless, the man blinked his amphibious eyes and lifted a bony finger, looking like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come in an Alexander McQueen knockoff as he pointed to a door at the far end of the sales counter.

  Before she’d taken three steps in the direction indicated, the door in question opened, and a young man walked out. “Miss Aster!” he said, looking delighted. “How lucky! I have something for you.” He disappeared inside, returning with a file labeled Abbott’s Door.

  Following Annie’s gaze, he watched the store owner retreat into his office, along with his cup of coffee. “Is it just me, or does he dislike women in general?” she asked, nodding at the recently vacated space.