The Empire of Ice Cream by Jeffrey Ford Read Free Book Online Page B

Meager’s, and the results were precisely the same.
    In fact, no matter whom I asked or what inquiries I made at libraries or post offices, no one had ever heard of the Bolukuchet. Although my new life was fast paced and the basic excitement and wonder of mere existence had mysteriously returned to me, I missed my old friends and the tired, decrepit district. Luckily I had taken with me the pouch of foxglove tea. At first I imbibed it to try to discover how exactly Zel Strellop had come by Jupiter’s skull, but that part of the story was not to be mine. I did, though, revisit my memories of nights at Munchter’s, the fireflies in the forest across the canal, Meager showing me the finest prism he had ever created and the blizzard of color with which it filled the room, the soulful tunes of Bill Hokel’s mouth organ, et cetera. When these visions came to me, I made them into poems. Years passed and I had enough to collect into a book, which was miraculously published. Its title— Jupiter’s Skull .
    The book won great renown, and I was asked to give readings at colleges and libraries and coffee shops. When I was interviewed, the question most often asked was, “How did you dream up a place like the Bolukuchet?” I would answer every time that I had lived there, which would cause the interviewer to smirk or smile as if we were complicit in the lie I was telling.
    Many years later, on a rainy night, I gave a reading at a local bookstore. Afterward, as was my practice, I sat at a table and, one by one, people who’d purchased a copy of my book would come forward and I would sign it and chat with them briefly. At the end of a modest line, a woman stepped forward. Before I looked up to take in her face, she said to me, “I bet you could use a Lime Plunge right now.”
    She had my attention instantly. She was rather plain but pleasant looking in her appearance: brown hair, medium build, late middle age, dressed in a yellow raincoat. “Last week I was in Munchter’s,” she said.
    â€œFinally,” I said, “someone who’s been to the district.”
    â€œI know,” she told me, “out here it’s as if it never existed.”
    She told me that Munchter and Meager and the rest of the old crew were still fine, and that she had read my book and I had captured them perfectly.
    â€œDid you know a young woman, Maylee?” I asked.
    â€œOh, yes, not so young, really. She owned a little shop, Thanatos, over near the canal. Very long, gray hair, wrapped twice around her neck? I went there often and had tea with her. We rarely used her first name, though. She preferred Mrs. Strellop. I’m sorry to tell you that she passed away only a few days before I left.”
    â€œBy her own hand?” I asked.
    â€œWhy, yes. I wasn’t going to say, but I believe it was cyanide.”
    â€œAnd the skull?”
    â€œA woman’s skull? Zel, was the name she had for it. Apparently there was an entire story associated with the thing.”
    â€œI see,” I said.
    Before this woman left, she shook my hand, and when she smiled, I noticed the gap from a missing tooth. “Well,” she said, “it’s good to be back from the district.” Then she left the store, and I watched through the window as she disappeared into the rain.

Jupiter’s Skull
    Story Notes
    The writer and anthologist Al Sarrantonio is one of the first people I met when I entered the speculative fiction trade back in 1997. We’ve kept in touch and remained friends through the years. One of the first things Al told me was, “When you’re a writer, your neighbors are going to think you’re a weirdo. There’s two ways to avoid that. Either join a local bowling league or every time you have a book come out, walk up to each of their doors, knock, and hand them a copy of the book. After a while you just become the poor schmuck who writes the books and