Sworn to Silence
Posted: Mon Sep 14, 2009 12:46 pm
First of all, I’d like to apologize to everybody, but mostly to Ron. Waking them up at three in the morning to go through the countermeasures he had set up was inexcusable. But the thought of being so close—literally on their doorstep—and staying at a hotel until the morning twisted my intestines as though they were in a taffy stretcher. I may have had my doubts about myself, but I still missed them. I missed them a lot. I’d also like to apologize for my silence—it wasn’t intentional, and I’ll explain as I tell you as much as I can of what’s happened to me. I’ll start at the exhibit.
“’scuse me,” the man muttered absently, bumping into me hard; he moved on almost before the stiffly stuttered “Yes?” had left my lips. The whining, squeaky roll of wheels following his brusque departure identified him as one of the movers assigned to relocate any of the artists’ remaining merchandise and not . . . somebody else.
I was feeling out of sorts in spite of the excellent turnout at the exhibit; all my wares had been bought, many of them praised more than they deserved, and the exhibit was nearly over. Though my body didn’t want to accept that; less than two months to prepare for the exhibit had left me feeling rushed. The stress had been accumulating ever since I had received the invitation so suddenly and begun getting all my art things together for the showing; Ron and Sarah had been very patient with me; the packing had been a constant hassle and the steady mess of trying to get everything in order for my trip would have grated on the nerves of anyone. Hannah’s always patient with me, it’s just the way she is; but maybe it was the unicycle. I’m not sure which one concerns Ron more, Hannah’s growing attachment to that thing or her . . . other matters. But I’ve had my chat with her about both, so I’ll let Ron be the dad and Sarah be the mom and leave it at that.
“How are you doing, Lonwy?” the voice broke into my nervousness.
“Fine, Cathy,” I answered while the woman sidled her way through the stream of movers by my side. “A little tired and anxious to get home to my partner and family, but doing well, thank you.”
I had never called Ron my husband before, and I wasn’t going to start now—not without his permission and with Sarah living with us, too. Many awkward questions would arise with two women under one roof and both calling the man ‘husband.’ I felt it was best to be vague on the relationship.
“Tell me about it,” Cathy gave me a light hug; we had been bunkmates during the exhibit to slash the hotel price between us, and the arrangement had brought us close as friends. “I heard yours did well. Not surprising. You’re very good, considering—” she stopped abruptly, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what she had been going to say.
She had been going to say I was very good, considering I was blind. We might have been friends, but she still didn’t know how to talk to me without blundering over her personal faux pas. But she was honest and sincere, and I appreciated that.
“Thank you,” I smiled and blushed, finding her hand and giving it a warm squeeze to cover her discomfort.
“Have you had a chance to see some of what the others are selling?” She moved on—almost. “I mean—I’m sorry, Lonwy. You’re probably ready to smack me, aren’t you? I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re fine,” I insisted, patting her hand. She was more unsettled by my blindness than Ron was. But I assured her again she was fine, and steered the conversation back to comfortable ground: I hadn’t done any “window shopping” yet. Cathy readily agreed to show me about, leading me by the hand. My high heels clacked on tile before being silenced by a stretch of carpet, Cathy describing items that might have interested me. Sculptures of various make and design, stained glass figurines, and embroidered quilts passed within our notice. We had just passed by a set of wind chimes next, Cathy offering suggestions all the way.
“Anything tickle your fancy so far, Lonwy?”
“Not yet,” I smiled and followed her guiding hand through a series of stalls. They were mostly empty, both in terms of wares and people; Cathy enjoyed these “window shopping” excursions as much as I enjoyed sunlight though, so it had become a daily ritual as the day ended. Now that the actual exhibit was ending, we were free to do what we wanted. I also knew my way around the lobby and floor like the shaft of my collapsible cane, but Cathy would always lead me as far as the “New Age Aisle.” It was a simple compromise we made: she would lead me around so Jerry couldn’t, and I would do all within my power to discover just what Jerry wanted in a woman so Cathy could obtain it. His divorce was almost finalized, and Cathy wanted fresh meat.
The reasoning behind the compromise was a little more complex, but let’s just say it started with the fact that Cathy was not a believer in the supernatural and ended in the fact that, even if I didn’t love Ron, I would never pursue a married man. My love for him only solidified and lent more credence to my decision to remain faithful. Cathy had no such compunctions however, and would gladly go after the curator of our wares had he even been slightly inclined to notice her the way he noticed me.
Cathy and I separated at the New Age Aisle and went our separate ways. She had agreed to walk me through it once, and when it had first opened, she had told me the colors had been blood and black, with glass display cases interspersed liberally, “nonsense garbage” like skulls, crystals, and rings underlit by a variety of colored lights. She had not been comfortable with it, claiming it was right out of a gothic novel. Her description made me glad I was blind; with stone gargoyles atop the shelves watching the goods below and thick, gold-tasseled crimson drapes hanging periodically like waterfalls of blood and bile, it was quite enough to make my stomach turn uneasily. Now, I imagined with most of the wares sold or packed away, it didn’t seem so creepy. The temperature was still cool and the atmosphere claustrophobic.
“May I interest a pretty lady such as yourself in something . . . special?” A gaunt, frigid hand grabbed my wrist while it was on an outward sweep of my cane.
I suppressed my scream into a whimper. “You startled me,” I accused, pulling my wrist back. His grip was tenacious; it would only be broken with some effort. I fought to keep my tone kind. “What do you want?”
“A moment of your time,” he replied, tugging my arm gently as if in a gesture to follow.
“Lovely,” I muttered, trying unsuccessfully to pull free. He struck me as someone very old and brittle, though his voice was young. “Don’t hold me so tightly, please—” I pulled at his wrist gently with my free hand with no result, followed the general shape of his arm, and gently pushed against his chest.
“Don’t touch me!” he screeched, throwing my arm away and retreating a step, his clothes rustling with movement.
Taken aback and full of confused umbrage, I turned on my heel and stalked back out.
“I’ve been waiting every day for someone like you,” he said as though nothing had happened, following me with swift, uneven steps. “Someone with your . . . discerning tastes. I have one particular artifact you might be interested in . . . purchasing.”
I didn’t like the way his voice slimed over the word “purchasing.” It was almost as though he wasn’t talking about common currency. Rather, my soul. “No, thank you,” I replied honestly; continuing my way out of the New Age Aisle with acute angled sweeps of my cane. “The art exhibit is nearly over; I just want to go home.” I was stopped by the wall, so I ran my hand along it, searching for the door.
“I think you had better take an interest in this artifact,” he whispered in my ear. “Otherwise, I will have to sell it to a less . . . worthy holder. And their use of this artifact may not be as judicious as yours. In the wrong hands, it can be very dangerous.”
I stopped, alarmed. He spoke about it in the same tones Ron spoke about guns.
As if this artifact was loaded with bullets at all times.
“It will only take but a moment,” he said, sensing my weakness. “My shop is just down the hall and through the door. I kept it closed during this little gathering because I needed someone who truly appreciated the wares I sell: someone like you.”
Something inside me told me to follow him and check out this “artifact;” something inside me told me to flee from this strange, wasted, bipolar, old-and-yet-young man; something inside me told me I spent too much attention on the supernatural; something inside me told me I didn’t spend enough.
“A moment,” I decided. “And a moment only; if I am interested, I may or may not buy. In any case, I’d like you to go first, leave your shop door wide open, and keep a fair distance from me at all times. Agree to this, or I walk away.”
“Splendid,” his agreement was speedy and amiable, though he added his own terms. “But you must swear to me to communicate nothing of what you will find in my shop to any. Agree to this, or I walk away. And find another to buy this artifact.”
I would have also added the condition that I wanted a friend with me, but I knew that was a condition he would not meet; it was by invitation only. Besides, who would I take that he would agree to? Cathy, who didn’t believe? Jerry, unhappily married and eager for a mistress even before he was truly ‘free?’ No. I considered the man’s own terms with cautious consideration. Finally, I agreed.
Making certain the conditions were met, I followed the man.
“’scuse me,” the man muttered absently, bumping into me hard; he moved on almost before the stiffly stuttered “Yes?” had left my lips. The whining, squeaky roll of wheels following his brusque departure identified him as one of the movers assigned to relocate any of the artists’ remaining merchandise and not . . . somebody else.
I was feeling out of sorts in spite of the excellent turnout at the exhibit; all my wares had been bought, many of them praised more than they deserved, and the exhibit was nearly over. Though my body didn’t want to accept that; less than two months to prepare for the exhibit had left me feeling rushed. The stress had been accumulating ever since I had received the invitation so suddenly and begun getting all my art things together for the showing; Ron and Sarah had been very patient with me; the packing had been a constant hassle and the steady mess of trying to get everything in order for my trip would have grated on the nerves of anyone. Hannah’s always patient with me, it’s just the way she is; but maybe it was the unicycle. I’m not sure which one concerns Ron more, Hannah’s growing attachment to that thing or her . . . other matters. But I’ve had my chat with her about both, so I’ll let Ron be the dad and Sarah be the mom and leave it at that.
“How are you doing, Lonwy?” the voice broke into my nervousness.
“Fine, Cathy,” I answered while the woman sidled her way through the stream of movers by my side. “A little tired and anxious to get home to my partner and family, but doing well, thank you.”
I had never called Ron my husband before, and I wasn’t going to start now—not without his permission and with Sarah living with us, too. Many awkward questions would arise with two women under one roof and both calling the man ‘husband.’ I felt it was best to be vague on the relationship.
“Tell me about it,” Cathy gave me a light hug; we had been bunkmates during the exhibit to slash the hotel price between us, and the arrangement had brought us close as friends. “I heard yours did well. Not surprising. You’re very good, considering—” she stopped abruptly, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what she had been going to say.
She had been going to say I was very good, considering I was blind. We might have been friends, but she still didn’t know how to talk to me without blundering over her personal faux pas. But she was honest and sincere, and I appreciated that.
“Thank you,” I smiled and blushed, finding her hand and giving it a warm squeeze to cover her discomfort.
“Have you had a chance to see some of what the others are selling?” She moved on—almost. “I mean—I’m sorry, Lonwy. You’re probably ready to smack me, aren’t you? I’m so sorry.”
“No, you’re fine,” I insisted, patting her hand. She was more unsettled by my blindness than Ron was. But I assured her again she was fine, and steered the conversation back to comfortable ground: I hadn’t done any “window shopping” yet. Cathy readily agreed to show me about, leading me by the hand. My high heels clacked on tile before being silenced by a stretch of carpet, Cathy describing items that might have interested me. Sculptures of various make and design, stained glass figurines, and embroidered quilts passed within our notice. We had just passed by a set of wind chimes next, Cathy offering suggestions all the way.
“Anything tickle your fancy so far, Lonwy?”
“Not yet,” I smiled and followed her guiding hand through a series of stalls. They were mostly empty, both in terms of wares and people; Cathy enjoyed these “window shopping” excursions as much as I enjoyed sunlight though, so it had become a daily ritual as the day ended. Now that the actual exhibit was ending, we were free to do what we wanted. I also knew my way around the lobby and floor like the shaft of my collapsible cane, but Cathy would always lead me as far as the “New Age Aisle.” It was a simple compromise we made: she would lead me around so Jerry couldn’t, and I would do all within my power to discover just what Jerry wanted in a woman so Cathy could obtain it. His divorce was almost finalized, and Cathy wanted fresh meat.
The reasoning behind the compromise was a little more complex, but let’s just say it started with the fact that Cathy was not a believer in the supernatural and ended in the fact that, even if I didn’t love Ron, I would never pursue a married man. My love for him only solidified and lent more credence to my decision to remain faithful. Cathy had no such compunctions however, and would gladly go after the curator of our wares had he even been slightly inclined to notice her the way he noticed me.
Cathy and I separated at the New Age Aisle and went our separate ways. She had agreed to walk me through it once, and when it had first opened, she had told me the colors had been blood and black, with glass display cases interspersed liberally, “nonsense garbage” like skulls, crystals, and rings underlit by a variety of colored lights. She had not been comfortable with it, claiming it was right out of a gothic novel. Her description made me glad I was blind; with stone gargoyles atop the shelves watching the goods below and thick, gold-tasseled crimson drapes hanging periodically like waterfalls of blood and bile, it was quite enough to make my stomach turn uneasily. Now, I imagined with most of the wares sold or packed away, it didn’t seem so creepy. The temperature was still cool and the atmosphere claustrophobic.
“May I interest a pretty lady such as yourself in something . . . special?” A gaunt, frigid hand grabbed my wrist while it was on an outward sweep of my cane.
I suppressed my scream into a whimper. “You startled me,” I accused, pulling my wrist back. His grip was tenacious; it would only be broken with some effort. I fought to keep my tone kind. “What do you want?”
“A moment of your time,” he replied, tugging my arm gently as if in a gesture to follow.
“Lovely,” I muttered, trying unsuccessfully to pull free. He struck me as someone very old and brittle, though his voice was young. “Don’t hold me so tightly, please—” I pulled at his wrist gently with my free hand with no result, followed the general shape of his arm, and gently pushed against his chest.
“Don’t touch me!” he screeched, throwing my arm away and retreating a step, his clothes rustling with movement.
Taken aback and full of confused umbrage, I turned on my heel and stalked back out.
“I’ve been waiting every day for someone like you,” he said as though nothing had happened, following me with swift, uneven steps. “Someone with your . . . discerning tastes. I have one particular artifact you might be interested in . . . purchasing.”
I didn’t like the way his voice slimed over the word “purchasing.” It was almost as though he wasn’t talking about common currency. Rather, my soul. “No, thank you,” I replied honestly; continuing my way out of the New Age Aisle with acute angled sweeps of my cane. “The art exhibit is nearly over; I just want to go home.” I was stopped by the wall, so I ran my hand along it, searching for the door.
“I think you had better take an interest in this artifact,” he whispered in my ear. “Otherwise, I will have to sell it to a less . . . worthy holder. And their use of this artifact may not be as judicious as yours. In the wrong hands, it can be very dangerous.”
I stopped, alarmed. He spoke about it in the same tones Ron spoke about guns.
As if this artifact was loaded with bullets at all times.
“It will only take but a moment,” he said, sensing my weakness. “My shop is just down the hall and through the door. I kept it closed during this little gathering because I needed someone who truly appreciated the wares I sell: someone like you.”
Something inside me told me to follow him and check out this “artifact;” something inside me told me to flee from this strange, wasted, bipolar, old-and-yet-young man; something inside me told me I spent too much attention on the supernatural; something inside me told me I didn’t spend enough.
“A moment,” I decided. “And a moment only; if I am interested, I may or may not buy. In any case, I’d like you to go first, leave your shop door wide open, and keep a fair distance from me at all times. Agree to this, or I walk away.”
“Splendid,” his agreement was speedy and amiable, though he added his own terms. “But you must swear to me to communicate nothing of what you will find in my shop to any. Agree to this, or I walk away. And find another to buy this artifact.”
I would have also added the condition that I wanted a friend with me, but I knew that was a condition he would not meet; it was by invitation only. Besides, who would I take that he would agree to? Cathy, who didn’t believe? Jerry, unhappily married and eager for a mistress even before he was truly ‘free?’ No. I considered the man’s own terms with cautious consideration. Finally, I agreed.
Making certain the conditions were met, I followed the man.
