Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
Ginder has a legal right to do what he does.” He stood up and moved his eyes pointedly around the room. “If some teenage boys rough him up, or anyone comes too close with a lighted match, someone's going to jail, regardless of what I might feel personally."
"Holy Jesus,” Michael said, after the officer left. “Neon tetras in his stomach."
"If it weren't so disgusting,” Jennifer said, “it might almost be pretty."
* * * *
Caitlin was getting worse. Her lips were slightly purple most of the time, and she used oxygen at night. Michael and Jennifer tried to convince Scott to keep her in bed, but Caitlin wanted so badly to be outside that Scott didn't have the heart to keep her in.
On a Sunday afternoon, Scott watched from a little distance as she played alone atop the fallen trunk of a decaying red cedar. She had given names to various crevices in the soft red bark: the living room, the kitchen, the school. “No, Mr. Ghost,” he heard her say, “you have to stay in the kitchen and cook the Queen's oatmeal."
Scott had never seen her so beautiful.
"Go away, Daddy,” Caitlin said. “My unicorn only likes girls and you're making her shy."
He didn't want to leave, but it was a direct order, so he moved off a hundred feet and sat on the soft fir leaves. The gray sky—the sky was always gray here in Olympia—thinned to tease him with the sun. He felt like he had lead weights in his chest. “I can still see you,” Caitlin said.
Reluctantly, Scott obeyed and took a path that led beside the Carsons’ house to the river. The water level had fallen now, and wooded islands were rising out of it, their re-exposed branches broken and tangled with long thready strands. A rustle came through the wet overhanging foliage and Scott saw Cary walking along the muddy path toward him.
"How are the new grafts doing?” Scott asked. Cary pulled back his cap and Scott examined the sewn-in tissue. It seemed quite healthy.
They walked downstream together until they reached the field of trilliums in flower, their white and purple petals lighting up both sides of the trail.
Cary kneeled and delicately touched one. In Washington, it was illegal to pick trilliums because they took twenty years to bloom. Longer, Scott thought, than Caitlin will ever live.
"I have a bit of surprising gossip,” Cary said.
"Tell me,” Scott said.
"Hold onto your hat. The minister's wife is a body artist too."
"Jennifer? You're kidding."
"She cuts on herself,” Cary said. He seemed to be speaking to the flower. “It's the same idea."
Scott was shocked, and then not so shocked. “How do you know?"
"She came over to preach on me and I saw the scars under her nylons."
"She admitted it?"
"She was glad to have someone to talk to. It's hard being a minister's wife. I feel for both of them, having to keep a lid on everything."
"Considering what the two of them say about you, it's rather hypocritical."
Cary laughed. “I can accept hypocrisy. It's a kind of mutilation."
They walked back together and it was only when Cary headed off home that Scott realized how much the body artist's presence had comforted him.
* * * *
He'd only been gone ten minutes, but that felt irresponsible. When he came close and didn't hear Caitlin's voice he forced his way through the soggy underbrush and called her name. She didn't answer. He found her lying face up on the soft, crumbling red bark. For a moment he could convince himself it was part of her game and then he knew it wasn't a game.
He called 911 and rode with her in the ambulance. They brought in a cot for him and he stayed with her in the ICU. He'd done this twice before but this would be the last time: Caitlin was brain dead.
His mind wouldn't stop clubbing him. Each time he woke from sleep his body felt bruised.
Michael and Jennifer came by to visit. Michael sat on the edge of the cot while Jennifer stood near Caitlin and stroked her matted hair. Scott wished they would leave but he didn't have the
"Holy Jesus,” Michael said, after the officer left. “Neon tetras in his stomach."
"If it weren't so disgusting,” Jennifer said, “it might almost be pretty."
* * * *
Caitlin was getting worse. Her lips were slightly purple most of the time, and she used oxygen at night. Michael and Jennifer tried to convince Scott to keep her in bed, but Caitlin wanted so badly to be outside that Scott didn't have the heart to keep her in.
On a Sunday afternoon, Scott watched from a little distance as she played alone atop the fallen trunk of a decaying red cedar. She had given names to various crevices in the soft red bark: the living room, the kitchen, the school. “No, Mr. Ghost,” he heard her say, “you have to stay in the kitchen and cook the Queen's oatmeal."
Scott had never seen her so beautiful.
"Go away, Daddy,” Caitlin said. “My unicorn only likes girls and you're making her shy."
He didn't want to leave, but it was a direct order, so he moved off a hundred feet and sat on the soft fir leaves. The gray sky—the sky was always gray here in Olympia—thinned to tease him with the sun. He felt like he had lead weights in his chest. “I can still see you,” Caitlin said.
Reluctantly, Scott obeyed and took a path that led beside the Carsons’ house to the river. The water level had fallen now, and wooded islands were rising out of it, their re-exposed branches broken and tangled with long thready strands. A rustle came through the wet overhanging foliage and Scott saw Cary walking along the muddy path toward him.
"How are the new grafts doing?” Scott asked. Cary pulled back his cap and Scott examined the sewn-in tissue. It seemed quite healthy.
They walked downstream together until they reached the field of trilliums in flower, their white and purple petals lighting up both sides of the trail.
Cary kneeled and delicately touched one. In Washington, it was illegal to pick trilliums because they took twenty years to bloom. Longer, Scott thought, than Caitlin will ever live.
"I have a bit of surprising gossip,” Cary said.
"Tell me,” Scott said.
"Hold onto your hat. The minister's wife is a body artist too."
"Jennifer? You're kidding."
"She cuts on herself,” Cary said. He seemed to be speaking to the flower. “It's the same idea."
Scott was shocked, and then not so shocked. “How do you know?"
"She came over to preach on me and I saw the scars under her nylons."
"She admitted it?"
"She was glad to have someone to talk to. It's hard being a minister's wife. I feel for both of them, having to keep a lid on everything."
"Considering what the two of them say about you, it's rather hypocritical."
Cary laughed. “I can accept hypocrisy. It's a kind of mutilation."
They walked back together and it was only when Cary headed off home that Scott realized how much the body artist's presence had comforted him.
* * * *
He'd only been gone ten minutes, but that felt irresponsible. When he came close and didn't hear Caitlin's voice he forced his way through the soggy underbrush and called her name. She didn't answer. He found her lying face up on the soft, crumbling red bark. For a moment he could convince himself it was part of her game and then he knew it wasn't a game.
He called 911 and rode with her in the ambulance. They brought in a cot for him and he stayed with her in the ICU. He'd done this twice before but this would be the last time: Caitlin was brain dead.
His mind wouldn't stop clubbing him. Each time he woke from sleep his body felt bruised.
Michael and Jennifer came by to visit. Michael sat on the edge of the cot while Jennifer stood near Caitlin and stroked her matted hair. Scott wished they would leave but he didn't have the
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