Three Stories
By Kristofer Collins
The Breeze of Girls
Ianthe was done with it. I’m done with it, she said. This isn’t working, us. I can’t go on.
Carmichael stared at her, then blinked. What, he said. Carmichael was sitting at the little table in their little kitchen. A rock’n’roll magazine and a bowl of children’s cereal in front of him. What, he said.
I’ve been seeing someone else and I’m happy when I’m with him. Carmichael, I think I’m leaving, I do.
Carmichael felt the whole world fall out of him. Or had he fallen out of the world. Was there anyway to tell such a thing. Probably not while it was happening, he thought.
He’s younger than me, younger than you even, Ianthe said. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
Carmichael was tumbling through empty, airless space.
I know we talked about marriage, I know we did, Ianthe said.
Carmichael became a man of ice, then a man of fire, then water. He wanted to become rock but could not. He wanted to put his spoon down, but could not work his hand. There were birds and people outside. Cars.
I can’t marry you. We both know that, Ianthe said.
Carmichael did not know that. Only a month ago Ianthe had said yes, marriage was right. It would be good. They would do it together and soon. It made her happy.
I won’t tell you his name or anything else. I met him and now I’m leaving, Ianthe said.
Girls were everywhere. Carmichael saw them crowding the apartment. Some wore his clothes. Some turned the television on, then off. One played his Patsy Cline record. All those girls, all those girls. None of them wore Carmichael’s ring. They all passed through like they were air. A breeze of pretty girls.
So that’s it, then, Ianthe said. I’m sorry but I’m not sorry. I love you but I don’t anymore, Ianthe said. I’m going.
And she left.
Carmichael sat in the chair at the little table in his little kitchen. It belonged to him alone now. The magazine, the spoon. The box of cereal with the dancing bear. He could not build a world from these things. They were not good building materials and they were all he had.
Carmichael would sit here and wait for the breeze of girls to blow again. But he knew he could never hold on to it. They would only float through him. Or was it Carmichael who floated through the girls. Untouched, untouchable.
Was there anyway to tell such a thing. Probably not while it was happening, thought Carmichael.
A Terrible Story
Cooper was reading a story to the children. And here was the knife, he said. And here was her heart. Cooper turned the big book around to show the children the drawing.
The children whispered to each other and went ooh.
He didn’t know where the knife had come from, Cooper read. He had never owned a knife. It confused him, Cooper read.
Eliza giggled and pointed at the drawing. Ha, ha, she went. It was funny. A man and a knife.
Cooper continued, He wanted only to love the girl. He had dreamt of her for a long, long time. She was very beautiful, Cooper read.
She’s not so pretty, Buzzy said. Is she a princess?, asked Ruthven.
Cooper turned pages and his voice was quite soft. The window was open and it was winter.
He tried to love her the way he had dreamed it, Cooper read. He tried very, very hard.
Some of the children had fallen asleep. Their little faces scared Cooper.
He’s a bad boyfriend, Patricia Nell said. Bad, bad. He doesn’t have a career, or nice friends. He’s a loser, Michael Dumont added.
All of the children thought that was funny. Cooper thought it was probably true.
He failed so many times, Cooper read. Always failed. She told him she was leaving. There were better things in life than what they had shared and she wanted to know them.
Cooper showed the children a very sad picture of the man. The woman was angry. And the woman was sad, too.
Are there horses in this story?, asked Juniper. I like horses. My daddy let’s me ride them.
The man didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. The man tried to tell the woman how he felt, Cooper read. There was a knife.
It would be better if it was a horse, Juniper pointed out.
The man hurt the woman with the knife. He didn’t believe it was happening, but it was happening. The woman made a sound. It was over.
Cooper showed the children the last picture.
Boring, Malcom Box said. Bo-o-o-ring.
That was a terrible story, Paris said. The children all agreed.
Yes, Cooper said. It was.
Higher
Carmichael was climbing a fire escape. Up and up. It was a building he did not know. It went up and up. Carmichael was chasing Ianthe.
Ha, ha. Ianthe laughed and climbed higher.
Carmichael was out of breath. He could not call to her. What is happening, he thought.
Ianthe moved like a monkey, like a many-legged insect. Up and up.
Carmichael tried not to look over the side. It was very far to the bottom. Carmichael did not like heights. He would never get on airplanes. Elevators were avoided. And now here he was. The ground was where it should be, but Carmichael was not.
Higher, said Ianthe from above. Come on, Carmichael. Higher, ha ha.
The building was brown and very tall. Brown like Ianthe’s eyes. Eyes like deer.
Ianthe threw bricks and flowerpots. Ianthe threw checkbooks and spoiled milk. Ianthe threw the things she carried and still climbed higher.
Why, thought Carmichael. Why won’t she stop. I liked it better on the ground, thought Carmichael.
Ianthe was kissing the men who hung from the fire escape. The men who lived high up in the air. Men who never worried where the ground was.
Don’t do that, Ianthe. Please stop, thought Carmichael. Please come down.
Carmichael looked in the windows as he climbed. Men and women were walking in rooms. Some were in beds. Some ate, others talked. Arguments and all of it.
There were things happening in the building and Carmichael continued to climb.
Ianthe wore white and up she went. There was a ring and there was music. The lights were lowered and wine was had. A celebration. Then came children.
Up and up. Carmichael was so slow. So scared.
The children had her eyes. Brown as the building. Eyes like deer.
Ianthe was laughing. But she was not laughing at Carmichael. She couldn’t see him anymore. She had gone too high.
What has happened, thought Carmichael. How will I ever get down.
By Kristofer Collins
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© Tomas Castelazo, www.tomascastelazo.com |
The Breeze of Girls
Ianthe was done with it. I’m done with it, she said. This isn’t working, us. I can’t go on.
Carmichael stared at her, then blinked. What, he said. Carmichael was sitting at the little table in their little kitchen. A rock’n’roll magazine and a bowl of children’s cereal in front of him. What, he said.
I’ve been seeing someone else and I’m happy when I’m with him. Carmichael, I think I’m leaving, I do.
Carmichael felt the whole world fall out of him. Or had he fallen out of the world. Was there anyway to tell such a thing. Probably not while it was happening, he thought.
He’s younger than me, younger than you even, Ianthe said. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh.
Carmichael was tumbling through empty, airless space.
I know we talked about marriage, I know we did, Ianthe said.
Carmichael became a man of ice, then a man of fire, then water. He wanted to become rock but could not. He wanted to put his spoon down, but could not work his hand. There were birds and people outside. Cars.
I can’t marry you. We both know that, Ianthe said.
Carmichael did not know that. Only a month ago Ianthe had said yes, marriage was right. It would be good. They would do it together and soon. It made her happy.
I won’t tell you his name or anything else. I met him and now I’m leaving, Ianthe said.
Girls were everywhere. Carmichael saw them crowding the apartment. Some wore his clothes. Some turned the television on, then off. One played his Patsy Cline record. All those girls, all those girls. None of them wore Carmichael’s ring. They all passed through like they were air. A breeze of pretty girls.
So that’s it, then, Ianthe said. I’m sorry but I’m not sorry. I love you but I don’t anymore, Ianthe said. I’m going.
And she left.
Carmichael sat in the chair at the little table in his little kitchen. It belonged to him alone now. The magazine, the spoon. The box of cereal with the dancing bear. He could not build a world from these things. They were not good building materials and they were all he had.
Carmichael would sit here and wait for the breeze of girls to blow again. But he knew he could never hold on to it. They would only float through him. Or was it Carmichael who floated through the girls. Untouched, untouchable.
Was there anyway to tell such a thing. Probably not while it was happening, thought Carmichael.
A Terrible Story
Cooper was reading a story to the children. And here was the knife, he said. And here was her heart. Cooper turned the big book around to show the children the drawing.
The children whispered to each other and went ooh.
He didn’t know where the knife had come from, Cooper read. He had never owned a knife. It confused him, Cooper read.
Eliza giggled and pointed at the drawing. Ha, ha, she went. It was funny. A man and a knife.
Cooper continued, He wanted only to love the girl. He had dreamt of her for a long, long time. She was very beautiful, Cooper read.
She’s not so pretty, Buzzy said. Is she a princess?, asked Ruthven.
Cooper turned pages and his voice was quite soft. The window was open and it was winter.
He tried to love her the way he had dreamed it, Cooper read. He tried very, very hard.
Some of the children had fallen asleep. Their little faces scared Cooper.
He’s a bad boyfriend, Patricia Nell said. Bad, bad. He doesn’t have a career, or nice friends. He’s a loser, Michael Dumont added.
All of the children thought that was funny. Cooper thought it was probably true.
He failed so many times, Cooper read. Always failed. She told him she was leaving. There were better things in life than what they had shared and she wanted to know them.
Cooper showed the children a very sad picture of the man. The woman was angry. And the woman was sad, too.
Are there horses in this story?, asked Juniper. I like horses. My daddy let’s me ride them.
The man didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. The man tried to tell the woman how he felt, Cooper read. There was a knife.
It would be better if it was a horse, Juniper pointed out.
The man hurt the woman with the knife. He didn’t believe it was happening, but it was happening. The woman made a sound. It was over.
Cooper showed the children the last picture.
Boring, Malcom Box said. Bo-o-o-ring.
That was a terrible story, Paris said. The children all agreed.
Yes, Cooper said. It was.
Higher
Carmichael was climbing a fire escape. Up and up. It was a building he did not know. It went up and up. Carmichael was chasing Ianthe.
Ha, ha. Ianthe laughed and climbed higher.
Carmichael was out of breath. He could not call to her. What is happening, he thought.
Ianthe moved like a monkey, like a many-legged insect. Up and up.
Carmichael tried not to look over the side. It was very far to the bottom. Carmichael did not like heights. He would never get on airplanes. Elevators were avoided. And now here he was. The ground was where it should be, but Carmichael was not.
Higher, said Ianthe from above. Come on, Carmichael. Higher, ha ha.
The building was brown and very tall. Brown like Ianthe’s eyes. Eyes like deer.
Ianthe threw bricks and flowerpots. Ianthe threw checkbooks and spoiled milk. Ianthe threw the things she carried and still climbed higher.
Why, thought Carmichael. Why won’t she stop. I liked it better on the ground, thought Carmichael.
Ianthe was kissing the men who hung from the fire escape. The men who lived high up in the air. Men who never worried where the ground was.
Don’t do that, Ianthe. Please stop, thought Carmichael. Please come down.
Carmichael looked in the windows as he climbed. Men and women were walking in rooms. Some were in beds. Some ate, others talked. Arguments and all of it.
There were things happening in the building and Carmichael continued to climb.
Ianthe wore white and up she went. There was a ring and there was music. The lights were lowered and wine was had. A celebration. Then came children.
Up and up. Carmichael was so slow. So scared.
The children had her eyes. Brown as the building. Eyes like deer.
Ianthe was laughing. But she was not laughing at Carmichael. She couldn’t see him anymore. She had gone too high.
What has happened, thought Carmichael. How will I ever get down.
Kristofer Collins is the editor of The Pittsburgh Book Review.
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