The Window Blind

The Window Blind

by Patricia Colton

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: 1-800-839-8640

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2011 Patricia Colton. All rights reserved.

Cover Design and Artwork: Abraham Rivera.

Photo taken by Abraham Rivera.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 11/7/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4634-6001-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-6003-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4634-6002-0 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

This book is dedicated with love to the memory of my mother.

Thank you, James and Caitlin. Thanks also to: Margaret Andrews, Susan Goulding, Abraham Rivera, Dave Davis, Robert Stoute, Shelly Palmer and Mary Ann Colton. Thank you to both Stephen Levine and Joshua Hill for their inspiration. My deepest gratitude goes to Lisa Neves Woldt for her close reading, editing and for her suggestions. And finally, thank you to all of the writers, musicians, singers, songwriters and composers whose art has brightened each day of my life—you represent the best of humanity.

Prologue

The universe is full of magical things patiently waiting for our wits to grow sharper      – Eden Philpotts

A golden sliver of an upturned moon smiles in the distance. Two Watchers wade through the ether.

Lots of stardust, Miranda observes, waving a hand caked with shimmering particulate. Can’t we go near the bright star? I love the light. Light makes color so you don’t see such a mess.

Orders were to stay here, Al replies. There is less interference without the light, making communication easier. Besides, darkness is peaceful. And it’s all dust; don’t presume to clean it, Lady Day. It is life’s stuff, he adds, blowing on a spiky dandelion cloud. Al points to the glowing crescent. Race you to the porch swing! he bellows musically.

Silly, Miranda chides with laughter. It looks like a swing from here. When we get there it’ll be a round rock.

Then I’ll make one. Look away so you don’t lose the magic by observing the magician’s secrets, Al says, his puffed chest straining the buttons of his tuxedo as he sings Rusalka’s Song to the Moon, his contralto echoing through the vacuum, his hands furiously fashioning a brilliant half-halo from clusters of star debris.

They rest on Al’s burnished lemon moon arc, bare feet dangling and their ethereal forms oscillating rhythmically, as their ebony eyes Watch the dance.

So lovely, the Earth, Miranda notes, staring at the blue and white swirl. Such a pretty little Orby. From this perspective you’d never know there are six billion Earth stories being lived, told, simultaneously right now. That and the billions that have gone before.

Ah, Al sighs. Pretty but dissonant, he says, cocking his head to the side, as he tightens the knot of his red cummerbund. Ruins the music of the spheres. The stories are static chatter. Their wars are battered, syncopated drums.

Tsk, tsk, Miranda murmurs maternally, clucking her tongue. "Earth, she plays her one bittersweet chord of 10-71, only dissonant when compared to the seeming consonance emitted by the others. But most definitely better than the discord of that," she says, pointing with her nose to a shrieking black toilet bowl gyre below. A sticky white web floats before her and she grabs it, molding it into a circle crowned with a stem.

An asteroid? Al asks.

An apple, she replies. Fruit is one of 10-71’s most wondrous creations. Seed, color, sweet water.

Al narrows his eyes, two black slits of a mask. And that which you’ve made is white, barely moist and seedless. Why focus on Earth or 10-71, whatever you want to call it? There is so much more…

Because that is our concern at hand this eve. This is representative of before all that happened, happened. Innocence, Miranda interjects. Ah, and this has none of a fruit’s real attributes, but it’s alive, as you’ve said, it’s life’s stuff, she adds, crushing the apple and balling the clay-like matter between her palms. This is what she will be one day, Ms. Earth, she asserts, her thumbs creating little wings from the moist dust. Like this creature indigenous to her. An ugly, hairy little belly crawler—to a soaring beauty. When a tribe of butterflies flap their wings, the melody inspires even the sprites.

Solos likes it there, Al says contemplatively, twirling a stick of condensed star ash between his teeth.

The salt and the sea, Miranda concurs.

Coffee and sunshades, whatever that amounts to.

Cimonim! Miranda shouts gleefully.

I think he wants to be one of them. Human, Al says, amused. He gently takes Miranda’s creation from her fingers. Ahhhhhhhh, he sings, his breath blowing the butterfly dry.

I don’t think he wants to be human, Miranda counters. "I don’t think he wants to be birthed into an Earth. I think he wants to remain one of us in a world of them."

Well, he’s our Master Blaster, so he can do what he wants. It may be an equation beyond our understanding. I sing the music, you love the color and bliss, but he, he knows the numbers, and the numbers create the music, the color, the rhythm, the very DNA of…

Well he’s our Watcher leader, but there is hierarchy.

I don’t hear Sandalphon complaining, Al retorts.

But there are laws, order…Sandalphon may voice his displeasure in private.

New laws form from the ones that are broken, Al says, the words breaking his breath as he continues to dry the butterfly. It’s called evolution. And Solos is not who we are made to Watch. If it’s private, then it’s not for us to know. Our job is to Watch. To be good Numen.

"I think I want to take the leap someday." Miranda turns her head, shielding her eyes from Al’s wind storm.

Less a leap than a fall, Al cautions, dropping the butterfly into her open palm. Why not go here? To Thare, he says, standing tentatively, going out on an invisible limb, bracing himself for balance like a tightrope walker. He raises a shadowed, matte window blind above the Earth, revealing a slim, opalescent, rapidly spinning oval. So many worlds to choose, some as far from those Earth humans as a step on the rung of Jacob’s ladder, others closer to Earth in consciousness than the space between the slat of a window blind.

Oh, yes! Miranda exclaims excitedly. Thare. Where the air is rare and sweet. With humans of one different golden color. And essence. She spins so fast, the one note of 2-26 is like a chorus of Angels and children, wise but innocent. I know you wouldn’t go to Earth, but would you go to Thare?

I have a dream to ascend to the Angelic…if two humans could do it, why not one without any immersion in sin…

Miranda examines her butterfly. Al, she sighs. It’s cracked. You blew too hard.

Here, he says consolingly, breaking the two wings from the stem and forming them into tiny twin butterflies.

Thanks, Miranda says aloofly, accepting the butterflies from Al’s outstretched hand. But it was one of a kind.

Al drapes a brotherly hand over her shoulder. Never make one of anything; make two and they’ll be their own uniqueness.

What two humans without sin were you referring to?

"I didn’t say they were without sin, only I. But human twins, or brothers, Metatron and…"

Two worlds about to collide! a thundering voice interjects.

Sand… Al says, resigned to the task at hand.

Miranda turns to Al, a clenched fist to each cheek, her inky eyes startled. It’s Solos! It’s time! Their stories are about to intertwine.

What would you will us to do? Al asks Solos, his voice a trembling vibrato.

Do what you’re doing. Do what Watchers do. Now, go and prepare the place, Solos commands.

It’s already made! Al answers.

Miranda stands, wobbling on the slender swing, arms extended, as the butterflies slip from her grasp. Goodness, she frets. Hey, she says on the fly, regaining her composure. We’ve made two evolvers for you, Solos, she yells as the pieces of starlit clay descend, their tiny iridescent wings glinting through the blackness. Pieces of the force. May come in handy. Catch them, Solos! she beckons, her voice melding with the orchestral spheres. Reach out with your magnetic treasure-finder, Sol, and catch!

Chapter 1

Caterina Cammino pulled into the lot at the beach. Six miles from her childhood home, ten miles from her house, seventeen miles from work, six thousand miles from Italy. It was a secure distance from her life, no chance of an encounter with the familiar strangers. In the City of Angels with too many humans, the beach was a safe haven. She was not only anonymous, she was nearly invisible, like a contrail ribbon fading into the sunset.

Two For The Road Liquor blinked in pink neon, or rather, Two For he Ro or. Caterina couldn’t remember a time when all the letters were illuminated. She stepped from the blue Mazda Miata, her dog Meshugganah in a carry case dangling from her shoulder, and began her nightly ritual. As she entered the store, two quick bells signaled her arrival.

The clerk looked up from his paper and smiled. He’d been there for three weeks and hailed her in heavily accented English. Ah, za blue M&M.

Caterina nodded and walked to the back, her high heels clicking in rhythm to the music blaring statically through the speakers, Beginnings, by Chicago. She perused the aisle and grabbed two bottles of wine, a Cabernet and a Chardonnay, or in her mind, a black and a white.

As she paid, the clerk grinned again. Za usual for a pretty lady. Your car, za license plate is for za candy you like? Melt in my mouth, not in her hands?

Something like that, she replied in a low, raspy monotone. He was nosy and encroaching, but he would be gone in another two weeks. They never stayed. BLU MM. She wondered why she had gotten a vanity plate; maybe it was a way to say, obliquely, I exist.

Caterina settled Shugga onto the passenger seat and drove to a raised stretch of pavement that provided an elevated view of the shore. She lifted the lid of her lapis blue sports bottle and filled it halfway with Chardonnay. When you weren’t ready to go home and drink alone, watching the world silently revolve through the sky was like drinking with an acquaintance across a bar, one who wouldn’t bother. As the clouds created a feather bed for the tangerine dream, Caterina started her count. She slept five hours last night. She had walked ten thousand steps today. She’d taken three sips of The Lamade, raising the bottle to her lips once more and swishing the wine around her mouth.

Caterina looked towards the store. The clerk was outside, smoking a cigarette. He waved. She tilted her head and closed one eye. He was gone. She opened both eyes. He reappeared. The parallax. Caterina shifted her gaze back to the refluent water. In, out, ebb, flow. The ocean played its game of hide and seek, catch me if you can, teasingly lapping the sand and then retracting. Did the ocean ever tire of getting nowhere, flinging forward only to fall back? She chugged another swig. The compulsive counting in her head had eased. The sun slid behind the mountain; it was on its way to somewhere else. Shugga moaned in his case.

You want some air, baby boy?

The dog crawled onto Caterina’s lap and she rubbed him with her right hand. She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes. In, out, in, out. I can tell what’s in, what’s out. I’m wide awake. I’m not sleeping, she whispered. She opened her eyes, inhaling and exhaling the smoke, while humming a song she liked as a child. There was a messy smattering of stars emerging from the dome, reminding her of grease splattered on a frying pan. One speck beamed brightly, and she sang to it softly, "If I could be any star up above, I’d want to be the star people wish on for love…" She drained the cup dry.

Caterina dropped the butt onto the ground, zipped Shugga’s case and started the engine, backing up and angling forward, turning toward the exit. Something rolled in front of her, and she swung sharply to the right, ramming into a yellow trash can.

Shit, she whimpered and got out of the car, teetering in her heels.

The can perched precariously, lightly kissing her front bumper, before falling forward onto the sandy embankment. Shugga barked, the sound echoing through the hollow air. Kicking off her heels, she slid down the slope. She would do the right thing, stop it from running and littering, and then flee. Debris spilled and flew wildly in the sudden wind. The trash can rolled on in the crepuscular half-light, and she saw the word BE in large letters, inscribed in black marker on its side. The receptacle stopped abruptly, colliding with another can that was upright. She paused. Cocooned in the intersecting cans, a man lay in the sand, his suit covered in spillage from the trash. He lifted his head and raised a hand to his neck.

You awake? Hey, you OK? Caterina asked as she grabbed the fallen cylinder and set it upright, cautiously keeping her distance from the sprawled figure.

The man sat up and put his face in his hands, his knuckles kneading his eye sockets. His long fair hair was covered in paper.

Are you alright? Good, she snapped hastily.

Caterina climbed up the incline and stopped at the top, dusting sand off her bare feet and tripping over her discarded shoes. Looking below, she saw the man attempting to stand, supporting himself with one of the trash cans. He fumbled and fell and struggled to get up again. She saw something shiny glinting in the distance. A dark shape approached with a silver cane. She squinted and saw that the cane was a metal detector.

The figure called out to the fallen man. You need help, Son?

She heard a soft reply rise with the tide. Yes. Yes, help me.

Caterina turned away. Two bums on the beach. Bums help each other in their transients’ code of brotherhood. They assist each other with spare change, buried treasure by the trash. Recyclable cans and outstretched hands. She brushed her palm over the bumper. Looking across the lot, she saw a skateboard gliding along the pavement, propelled by the wind. She slipped on her heels and walked to it. Riding in the center was a tiny white ceramic butterfly. Why would you need wheels when you have wings, she thought. She held the butterfly in one hand and picked up the skateboard with the other, then wobbled a few feet to another yellow can and dropped the board inside.

As Caterina settled into the car, Shugga let out a soft cry. She patted his case. It’s OK, boy.

Her hands were shaking. She studied the butterfly and then rapidly blinked at her image in the rearview mirror. She looked scared. She looked sad. She thought of a movie she and Poppi had watched long ago about the king of Camelot, his queen, and a knight so pure in spirit he could resurrect the dead. Young Arthur had asked what he could do when he was feeling sad. Learn something, his teacher, Merlin, replied.

Caterina rolled the butterfly in her hand. Merlin, make me a hawk. Let me fly away from here, the older, war-weary Arthur had said wistfully, yearning for the simple guilelessness of childhood, when real life included a wizard and magic, and when the remedy for sadness was knowledge. She held the butterfly inches from her face with a thumb and forefinger on each wing.

But you’re no hawk. And you can’t fly. You’re a piece of shit ricordino, a remembrance of something better forgotten. Someone left you. Someone lost you. And now you’re trash.

She stood up in her convertible, reached back, and flung the butterfly into the air as a curdled fog seeped in. Sitting back in her seat, she lightly touched the mother-of-pearl rosary beads hanging from the mirror and fanned her hands over her eyes. Mi aiuti, she implored to no one. Help me.

Chapter 2

Tyler Beck waded into the ocean. The water was frigid, and the foamy waves weaved between his calves like the caress of a cold cat seeking warmth. He looked at the sky, a vortex of blue and magenta, as the sun started its descent into the Pacific. The beach was littered with remnants of the previous evening’s revelries. He glanced down at a red box with yellow letters announcing Noisemaker floating in the water, and a paper crown with 2007 emblazoned in gold glitter.

Welcome to another New Year, there’s no turning back, he thought as he bent down, picking up the crown. He touched the Buddhist mala bracelet on his wrist, moving the beads along the skinny string. High school graduation in five months. My birthday in sixteen days. Robie’s return home, in what, twelve, thirteen days? Before my eighteenth birthday? He walked out of the water.

The idea of his future was exciting, yet as confining as the sand caking his toes. Time stuck to your body and mind. The actions, the reactions, the worries could pile up like a peel. He wished time could be like powder, not a messy powdered clump like damp sand, but one that would shimmer the skin and seal in the clean; if experience could retain the innocence. He walked to the trash can, knocking his feet together. He paused by the receptacle and gathered the backpack he had left leaning beside it. This was his mark, his territory. He had rested against this can myriad times, watching the heaving waves breathe in and out, and in black marker he had christened the trash can as his. BECK. He unzipped his pack and grabbed his jeans and iPod, slipping on the Levis over his swimming trunks and clipping the iPod to his belt. His favorite artist, Beck Hansen, was right where he had left him, singing Emergency Exit. Beck the singer was now known as just Beck, and so was he. He punched his head through his red tee and adjusted the backpack on the shoulders of his tall, muscular body.

Crumpling the 2007 crown, he flung it into the can. Something caught his eye. A white ceramic butterfly perched on top of the refuse. How pretty, yet how plain, he thought, more a moth than a butterfly. He pinched the pristine wings, and felt a swift, strange pang of déjà vu flow through his body, accompanied by a wave of nausea that quickly retreated. In any event, he thought, steadying himself against his can, it was too sweet to discard. Maybe he’d give it to his sister, Arabella.

Beck started walking eastward. He stopped momentarily, feeling as if he’d been shocked, as a numbness shot through his body. It was a familiar feeling, and he fought it. He felt himself buckle and then, deliberately looking down at his flip-flops, he continued shuffling in the sand, staring at his feet as if they were a compass until he reached the pavement.

He felt as if something was about to engulf him, fold over him, and he looked over his shoulder to see if there was a wave at his back. He heard voices. You OK? Good, a woman whispered, followed by a man’s soft, comforting offer of help. This has wings to take you home, Son, the man said gently, and he felt a hand press the butterfly against his palm so hard he was sure it left an imprint. Looking up, he saw the sun coming up over the horizon, the rays cracking the sky into a brand new day. A bell droned in the distance and as he lowered his gaze he saw that he was clothed in his black suit.

Beck hesitated, then slowly rounded a corner and saw an empty plaza. He staggered to a chipped green metal bench and placed his backpack on the ground between his feet, still in his sand-coated yellow flip-flops. He wanted to take it in, this foreign place, and get a sense of his bearings, but instead he closed his eyes. The bell faded and he heard a faraway clamor, like the background static in his school cafeteria. He felt frozen and yet the day, wherever he was, was warm and humid. The sun pierced his eyelids and he prayed that when he opened them, he’d be back at the beach, a hundred feet from his beloved BECK can, the sun falling westward as it was swallowed by the mountain, a jarful of stars spilling across the sky of a new night.

Beck felt tears emerging from the corners of his eyes, and while he fleetingly thought they could be from the sting of the sun, he knew they welled from a place nestled deep inside, a pocketful of fear. He heard sounds of doors opening or closing, but he kept his eyes stitched and stifled his chokes as the dread wound from his belly to his throat with a serpentine crawl. He wondered if this fear of the unknown was something felt by his friend Robie when he went to Iraq the previous year. Robie would have prepared himself for the apprehension in the way that he would break down every problem. When Beck would come to him with an issue—Robie never called them problems, only issues—Robie would counsel Beck with an observation and a question: So here you are. Now look behind you and trace how you got here. Look at those breadcrumbs. Are you where you want to be? Robie could look at an issue with calmness and clarity and crystallize the situation into a beautiful prism until there was no problem, no issue, only a present moment full of the promise of more precise footing in the future. Robie was a man of God. Robie was the rainbow’s arc. He could be a leader, a life coach. What a waste, Beck thought. Iraq. Bush. Hussein. Who’s Insane?

His eyes were still closed as the sun dried the wet patches on his cheeks. He felt a cool, gentle breeze waft over his body, and blinking his eyes open, he saw a woman sitting next to him. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back, loose tendrils framed her translucent face, and she wore a simple white sleeveless shift that draped to her bare feet.

Hello, Tyler, she said, the words clear and echoing, like a resonant chime. Her red, glossy lips were arched in a lopsided smile, and her black eyes glistened. Hello and welcome. I’m Miranda, she added.

Beck stared at her, shielding the glare with a hand over his forehead. I know you, he whispered. I’ve seen you before.

The woman nodded in acknowledgement. Beck looked down at his suit and felt another flood of tears.

Your name’s Miranda?

Yes.

Miranda? Am I dead? The words dropped, and in the distance he heard a crash.

No, Tyler, she said softly. We have met before, and I told you it wasn’t your time. It still isn’t your time. She caressed his hand. I know you’re frightened, but you needn’t be. You’re here because you want to be here. You asked to be here, and I am here to help you, she continued in her bellbird voice.

All Beck heard was the word here, reverberating. Where am I? he asked cautiously.

Well, you’re in Italy, but that is just your projection. Actually, you’re in 10-17.

10-17, Beck repeated. And that would be what? The year?

No, not the year 1017. In Robie’s school you studied the passage that said, ‘In My Father’s house there are many mansions.’ You could substitute the word dimension for mansions. In the Universe there are many dimensions. You can think of them in terms of a window blind. There are several segments of a blind with spaces in between.

She extended her arms, her hands climbing through the air. This is the blind, and here is the obvious space, this is the blind, here is the space. When you are placed on this blind, for example, she said, wiggling one arm, you are, so to speak, pretty much unaware of anything but where you are. You are blind to the next blind. She paused and laughed delightedly at her pun, then continued. You sit on this blind as say, a speck of dust. Then one day a great arm reaches out and rolls up the blind to let in the light. The speck of dust moves slightly and settles. It’s now between two rolled up slats, so close now they are nearly touching. Your Earth plane, 10-71, is here, she said, her left hand hovering in the air. Another dimension, another world, one can safely say, lies here, she said, her right hand rising above the left. Dimension 10-17 is another segment of the blind that you, Tyler Beck, are in right now. Miranda paused, her eyebrows raised, her luminous face angled to one side, a wordless gesture of ‘Do you understand?’

Beck smiled for the first time since leaving the world that he knew. Miranda, if I’m a speck of dust on a blind, then you would be…what… he trailed.

I would be the hand pulling the strings, she finished with a gentle titter.

Beck closed his eyes again and stretched his long legs in front of him. Miranda?

I’m here, Tyler.

He batted his feet together, kicking off the dry sand. Miranda, why am I dressed like this, in a formal suit and flip-flops? Why am I decked out so oddly? I mean, with everything I’m absorbing, it’s nothing, but I was just wondering.

Time is not really sequential, Tyler. It’s a swirling blend. You were on the beach on New Year’s Day. And then you were attending Robie’s funeral. But you fell again. You fell again, Tyler, and it’s not your time.

Beck’s eyes popped with panic. Robie? Even as he spoke the name, he knew it was more of a declaration than a question. Robie, he repeated, as another tear streaked his cheek. Is he here too, in this 10-17 place? You said I wasn’t dead, but is that true? Am I dead or not dead?

No, Tyler, your body is still alive in 10-71, on the Earth as you know it. A piece of your consciousness is wholly here, but you are simultaneously still in the Earth dimension, going to school, grieving Robie and falling back into the habits which have not served you. It may be a difficult concept to understand, but humans are multi-dimensional.

He hung his face in his opened hands. And I’m here because?

"To learn. It’s not your time to die. You have to learn life. Learn how to live your life, Tyler. Love the life that you have. The life you can have. You have to learn to change."

The, the last thing I remember is picking up this butterfly from the, the trash, he stammered, offering it to Miranda.

A piece of the equation, she said, nodding. The life force.

Beck laughed ironically. A piece of ceramic shaped like a butterfly is the life force? He shook his head and studied his palm. There was no butterfly imprint, just a slanted M formed from the intersecting lines of head, heart, fate and life.

Good for recharging the dying and the living dead. Miranda shivered and hugged herself. It’s suddenly a bit chilly, she said, as her arms disappeared into two funnels of fog and light that reformed into sleeves.

So this, this can resurrect the dead? Beck said, his hand gliding the butterfly through the air like a toy airplane.

No, Ty, not for those whose equation is complete. She combed a hand through her hair. It can be used for whatever you want, but in your case, touching it eased your entry here. You have come to 10-17 before in your dreams, but this aided your transport so you could experience physically being here. Semi-physically, that is. This will be your classroom.

So, I am here in 10-17, in a dream, or a type of physical dream to learn, and I’m also living my life on Earth, in 10-71, you called it?

Precisely. But 10-17 is not completely a dream. And 10-71 is at times a dream too. Miranda smiled enigmatically.

And Robie is where, exactly?

Robie died in your mankind’s war. He is on another segment on the blind, 1-1-03. 10-17 is an intersection of consciousness with the Earth plane. The window blinds are rolled up and they are all but touching. Robie’s current placement does not cross the Earth blind.

Can I see him? God, please let me see him! Beck pleaded.

In consciousness you do not need eyes, Miranda stated, her own eyes boring through Beck, eyes so black, devoid of white or color, they were like two giant pupils.

Beck felt the nausea dock in his core as he rocked back and forth, wrapping his arms around his abdomen.

And Robie, if he asked himself the question, to trace how he got from there to there, from point A to point B, from life to death…

There is no question.

They sat in silence, and Beck closed his eyes again. He spoke, not knowing if he were speaking to himself. Miranda?

Still here, Tyler.

If I want to go home, completely home, to 10-71, how can I do that? I mean, if I want to leave here, how can I get back there? I can’t trace my way home. There are no breadcrumbs lining the path, he said, his voice breaking.

Find the Cat, she urged. Together you will help each other in 10-17, as you will in 10-71.

Beck opened his eyes. He was alone. Two pigeons were warbling, their slick grey heads bobbing aimlessly, and a flock of crows squawked overhead. Church bells rang like a call to action, descending in a rushed count of five, four, three, two, one. He unzipped the front compartment of his backpack and tucked the butterfly inside, then stood up and walked across the sun-splashed piazza. Despite the chatter he heard earlier, he didn’t see anyone.

He pinched his wrist and told himself to get a grip. Where you are is the result of where you’ve been, Robie always said. It was sound advice when applied to life, but he wondered if it would work in a dream, and perhaps this was completely a dream, not a dimension. Beck decided to retrace his steps. Maybe a black cat would cross his path; maybe he’d step on a crack which would widen a portal spinning a gyre that would deposit him back to the beach. He walked from the bench to where the parking lot had been, looking for the seam between the dreams, but new scenery continued to unfold like a time-compressed movie. Saplings became trees, rosebuds bloomed and shriveled, and buildings grew from pavement.

Passing the storefront of a café, he stopped and gazed at his reflection, seeing his strawberry blond hair and the scruff of a beard on his chin. He saw the black suit, rumpled and wrinkled, as if someone had thrown it haphazardly on a hanger. He was the hanger, but to his surprise, he was relieved to see himself.

The door to the café was open. He peered inside and saw a girl sitting in the corner, reading. He approached her tentatively and she glanced up at him, smiling slightly.

I’m, um, I’m new here. English? Speak English?

Yes.

Beck pointed to an empty chair. Mind?

She took off her eyeglasses. There are plenty of seats, she said, gesturing around the empty café with a wide sweep. But sure. You can sit with me.

Her eyes were a soft grey, her skin tanned. A tumble of caramel waves fell in layers down the length of her black tank top. She wore a white flowing skirt and black slip-on shoes. Seated, Beck couldn’t quite gauge her height, but she looked small and petite. A trace of a smile was still on her face. Her upper lip was nearly non-existent, like a thin pencil line of an artist’s rendering of a mouth, incomplete, waiting to be filled in later, a contrast to her full, rounded bottom lip.

Oh, so you must be the Cat, Beck declared and cringed as he straddled a chair. Looking down, he felt a burn igniting in his cheeks. I’m a loser baby, so why don’t you kill me.

The Cat, she repeated playfully. Her voice was sultry and raspy, the voice of someone older.

He looked up and saw that she was smiling broadly, her upper lip now dissolved under her teeth.

And what are you, The Mouse?

You know, it’s funny, Beck replied, because that’s exactly how I feel…like a mouse trapped in a labyrinth.

And?

And what?

And?

And, I’m Tyler Beck. People call me Beck or Tyler, sometimes Ty. I prefer Beck, actually.

I like Ty, she said with a giggle, her teeth sinking into the plump bottom lip, deflating the billowy pillow top. It reminds me of a special accessory, like a present encased in pretty wrapping with a gorgeous ribbony fluff tied on the top for which there is no word. Only now there is. It’s called a Ty.

He laughed nervously. OK.

"I am the Cat," she said, extending her hand.

You have coffee, Ty remarked, pointing to her cup with his eyes, limply squeezing her fingers.

Yes. Café. Coffee. Obviously.

But how do you get it? I mean, save you, I haven’t seen another human here.

Signora Vigilante is back there. She’ll make you what you want. She paused, blowing into her mug before daintily sipping her cappuccino.

A short, slight, grey-haired woman emerged, wearing a full white apron. Caffe? Cappuccino? she called to Ty in a high, singsong voice.

Si, si, he answered. He breathed deeply and exhaled a loud sigh.

Long journey? asked Cat.

Yes and no.

Aren’t you hot in that suit? It’s July. She looked at his feet. Suit and thongs. Hmmm.

Cat picked up a pack of Marlboros from the table and thumped it against her palm. She lit a cigarette and flicked the box across the table to him. Ty waved and shook his head.

So, Ty, where are you from?

Los Angeles area, near the beach.

Cat blew a plume of smoke. Oh, my God! Me too! How old are you?

Seventeen. Well, eighteen in a few days.

Wow, me too, seventeen. So, you born in ‘71?

71? Like Dimension 10-71? he asked eagerly, interested in more data about the dimensions.

She cocked her head to the side. No, like 1971. She inhaled again and studied him intently.

Actually, ‘89. I was born in 1989, he sighed.

Signora Vigilante sauntered to the table and set a cream-colored porcelain cup in front of Ty. Ecco, the woman murmured in a comforting whisper. Tutto bene?

Ty glanced up at her uneasily, his vision clouded by sweat drops falling from his forehead into his eyes. Yep. Great. Grazie.

Cat flicked an ash into a faded red ashtray with the word ‘Illy’ written in chipped white letters. But it’s 1988, she said in a husky laugh. You’d be like negative one. She examined her cigarette. "What have you been smoking?"

Ty kicked off his flip-flops, his squirming bare feet scattering sand to the floor. Cat, have you met Miranda?

Miranda, she said, taking a long drag before stubbing out her cigarette. No. No bells.

Do you notice no one’s here?

Signora V is here, she countered.

But anyone else? What are you doing here? You in school? You on vacation?

School. But I may have my days confused. She smiled a half-smile. I don’t mind that no one’s around, it’s refreshing, actually, because Italy’s so crowded in the summer. But I can’t find Tracy. We went to a party last night… She rubbed her fingers though her hair. Last night? Night before? But I can’t find her. She didn’t come home, or back to the school. That’s not like her. That’s not Tracy.

Who’s Tracy?

My best friend. We’re here together from California. We’re sharing a dorm room, you know, for summer school. But she’s reliable and dependable. She wouldn’t dump me. She drained her cup and looked at him coolly. So what’s this about being born in 1989? How could that be?

Ty shrugged. I think, he said, then paused and drummed his fingers on the table. Cat, I think that where we are, there is no time.

No time?

No. But let me prove the future to you. He reached into his backpack and dug out his iPod and cell phone.

Cat scrutinized the iPod. And?

And, you listen to music with it.

Like this? she asked, extracting her Walkman from her tote bag.

Yeah, but with this you can have your entire library on one unit. Not one tape, but thousands of songs. It’s called an iPod.

May I?

Sure, but first you have to turn it on. Here, let me see it, he said, touching the circle. There. Now, just scroll the wheel and choose something random by pressing here, he said, tapping the iPod’s center.

She inserted the earphones and closed her eyes.

What are you listening to? Check what it says.

Cat squinted at the screen. "Suddenly. Raul Midon. Or State of Mind?"

Oh, right. Yeah, OK, it displays the song, the artist and the album.

He sounds familiar, she remarked loudly over the music in her ears, her voice trailing hard on the ‘r’.

You sound like a Valley Girl! Ty shouted.

She laughed. Eighteen miles or so over the hill. It’s still there, yeah? In the future?

Yeah, the Valley, it’s still there, somewhere over the smog. Ty picked up the cell phone. Now this is a cellular phone. You can call anyone, anywhere, he added, offering it to her.

Cat took it from him, flipping it open. It’s like a car phone?

Yeah, but without the car.

So I can call my parents?

Ty glanced at the phone. No signal. I don’t think you can call from 10-17.

What’s 10-17?

I think that’s where we are.

They sat without speaking as Cat listened to music.

I like this! she exclaimed, her little outburst like a shriek of thunder on a cloudless day. Signora Vigilante, napping behind a counter, was jolted awake.

Ty was gazing out the window, waiting for a passerby. What’s that?

"Another View. Celeste Lear. The Echo Inside."

Yeah. She’s cool.

After a while she pinched the phones from her ears and handed the iPod to Ty. I like this I’mOdd thingy.

iPod, he corrected.

Right. The I’mOdd is me. Odd, not mod. She looked down, smoothing her skirt. I think this so-called future is the land of gadgets.

It makes life easier, Ty said dryly.

Does it? Cat stretched and leaned toward the window. Does anything really make living life easier?

I don’t know.

Do you want to take a walk?

Sure, Ty replied as he stood up, sliding into the flip-flops and throwing his backpack onto one shoulder. As he did, he bumped something that felt strong and elastic. He surveyed the ceiling but saw nothing but a fan whirling hot, stagnant air around the café.

Signora Vigilante walked stiffly from behind her counter, sighing loudly as she started to clean the table.

Grazie, Cat said, smiling sweetly.

Prego, Cara Mia, Signora Vigilante murmured sotto voce, as she dumped the ashes and butts into a cup.

They walked through the door and a small bell over the archway chimed a tinny goodbye. Arrivederci, Ty called over his shoulder.

The sun was climbing in the sky and Ty unzipped the front pocket of his backpack, removing his shades.

Cool, Cat said, admiring his sunglasses.

Thanks. I got them in Venice. Venice Beach, California, that is.

Do you want to see a church? Cat looked at her skewed reflection through Ty’s mirrored glasses.

I guess.

They walked in silence through the empty streets, as hollow as a dried well.

I can’t believe there’s no one here, Cat said finally.

Ty flashed a glance at her and then shook his head to the sky, grasping the straps of his backpack tightly.

What? she asked coyly.

Nothing.

And?

Ty laughed. What’s up with this ‘And’ thing? You’ve said that a lot.

’And’ is a joke game that Tracy and I play. A few years ago her parents were thinking of divorcing. They didn’t, eventually they worked through their stuff, but they sent her to a shrink, you know, to talk about her feelings and her fears. Tracy said the guy would ask her a question, she would answer it, and then he would keep prompting, ‘And,’ ‘And,’ ‘And’… Cat laughed, shaking her head.

Must have been a lot of conversation, Ty mused sarcastically.

Actually, she said she spoke volumes.

Volumes, huh. How’s that?

Well, you know, she found herself talking a lot. A lot a lot. You prompt someone with ‘And’ and they run with it. I. She paused, lingering on the last word. I don’t think it works on me, though. I think I only share what I’m ready to share. I have an ‘And’ guard.

Me too, Ty said, kicking a pebble with his big toe. I mean, between the past and the future, there’s a lot to say. But we haven’t said much, Cat. Not really.

Maybe we just need to wake up—let the caffeine kick in.

And?

She hit his arm playfully. Ty, why are you dressed like that? I mean, even for the future, it seems a bit odd. A suit and flip-flops.

I was at the beach, and then I was here, Ty replied.

They continued strolling and Cat’s face was downturned. Her eyes were fixed on the sidewalk as she chanted softly.

I was at the beach and then apparently I was at Robie’s funeral.

Who’s Robie?

My friend. My best friend. Only friend, really, besides my sister.

Like Tracy is to me. So, Robie died? What a weird name. Boy or girl?

Yes, died. A name belonging to a man, short for Roberto. What are you doing, Cat? he asked, his voice twitching with agitation. Are you counting something?

I count my steps sometimes. It’s how I know my way around. Like instead of breadcrumbs to find my way, I get my direction and start counting. It’s two thousand steps from the café to the church, but I like to see how much it changes.

"You are an I’mOdd, Ty teased. I think where I’m from, we have pedometers for that."

Huh-yeah? she giggled.

So, while I’m talking to you about my life and Robie’s death, your steps are an abacus?

No. No. I can listen and count. I can do both simultaneously. It’s just a metronome in the back of my mind. I do it a lot when I walk. It’s a meditation, like a prayer, but I’m listening. I’m here for you, Ty. I’m here, Cat reassured.

You’re a strange girl yourself, Cat, or maybe this is a strange world.

I’m odd, Ty, I know that. And we’re here. Nineteen hundred eighty-eight today. Steps, that is. But you have a long stride.

Ty stared in awe at the duomo as he perched the sunglasses to the top of his head. Now this is amazing. He pressed his hands forcefully against the church’s stone facade. It feels real. It’s beautiful, don’t you think, Cat?

Definitely, she said proudly, her arms outstretched, as if she were displaying her own work of art. Most definitely, she repeated. You Catholic, Ty? Do you want to go inside?

I was raised as nothing, but Robie taught me Jesus.

Well, Cat declared, Jesus is here!

He held the door open for her. The sun spilled in through the stained glass windows, creating angular prisms of colored light. Cat dipped two fingers in holy water and blessed herself, while Ty watched her and awkwardly did the same. She genuflected and tiptoed over to the candles.

Nothing’s lit. There’s no fire, she remarked in a loud whisper.

Don’t you have matches?

She reached into her tote, rummaging for her box of wooden matches. She struck the stick and her face was illuminated in an amber halo.

You want to light one too?

Sure. Ty took the flame from her. What do we do now? he asked.

You make an intention, she replied firmly, her eyes pearlized in the dim light.

Maybe I need more faith, Ty said. ’Cause I’ve done that before, intended, prayed, but it always feels like, dunno, like a wish?

Yeah, something like that. I like wishes. Children wish with certainty, most definitely with something like faith. She closed her eyes and kneeled. I like to think that God can hear me in here, if nowhere else.

Ty looked at the enormous crucifix hanging on the wall behind the altar. Jesus wore a small sheet around his hips, his hands and feet were soldered to the cross, and the crown of thorns formed droplets of blood around his head, with a single scarlet tear congealed on his left cheek. Jesus looked upward.

Why have you abandoned me? Ty said to himself.

As they exited the church the sun was trailing westward, and as a breeze swelled like a wave, a flock of pigeons took flight.

Beware of the pigeon poop, Cat said, squinting at the sky. That’s strange, she added.

What? Ty said, looking at a low-slung three-quarter moon on the rise, pale with a bubbly center, like an ulcerated sore.

Wasn’t it just morning?

I don’t know the structure of time here, Ty replied, kicking a pile of grain the pigeons left behind.

And where is here?

I think this is Dimension 10-17.

And…

And? asked Ty.

And where is everyone?

I don’t know.

Cautiously, he put his hand on her right shoulder. Hey, you OK, Cat? What did you wish for? On the candle in the church? he whispered gently.

She looked up at him and rolled her eyes. ‘It’s not a birthday cake," she chided.

He rubbed her shoulder with his thumb in a clockwise circle. OK, what did you intend?

Peace.

Personal or global?

Personal, I guess, since there doesn’t seem to be a world, she said quietly, her eyes tearing.

She took his hand from her shoulder and squeezed it. You have anywhere to stay, Ty?

He looked at their conjoined hands, his large enough to glove hers. I was dropped here from another place and time without a reservation. He shrugged. That would mean ‘no.’

You can stay in our room if you want, if no one comes back to find out. And when Tracy arrives, you can just hit the floor.

Like hide?

No, just sleep on the floor. She shouldn’t mind if you’re there.

Thank you, Cat.

Let’s get back before dark, she whispered, looking at the steely sky. Andiamo. Cat stared at the pavement, and her steps were quick and deliberate.

You counting?

She didn’t reply, and he didn’t recognize any of the streets from earlier in the day. Church bells eddied through the air, spiraling inside Ty’s head.

Nineteen ninety-nine. Eccoci, Cat said, pressing on a black gate hanging on one hinge.

She opened the unlocked door to the school. The setting sun shot a wide cone of light up a staircase, reminding Ty of a spotlight. As Cat raced up the steps, he paused, looking up and around in a semi-circle. He half-expected more lights to come on and to see an anonymous audience clapping and cheering—or laughing. The silence had its own sound, the stuffy, rolling vibration of a conch shell pressed to one’s ear, making Ty yearn for the stinging laughter that could be his, would be his, for being the humiliated victim in this week’s episode of a reality TV show. But the light returned a deadpanned stare, and grasping the railing–it felt real—he stumbled clumsily up the staircase.

Cat! he yelled, his voice rippling back to him in the hall.

Shush! she said, standing outside an opened doorway. You’re not supposed to be here. She shook her head, a finger to her lips. You’re not here.

The hallway felt like The Dead Man’s Walk. When he reached her, he said breathlessly, Please don’t leave me. His mouth felt like rubber and tasted of blood, and for a moment he worried that the words he spoke were different from what he wanted to say, but she took his hand and her touch was comforting. He looked at the placard on the door. Caterina Cammino was written in neat black cursive. He stood at the doorway and felt as if he were entering a jail cell.

It’s OK. I’m here. Come in, Cat said in a rushed whisper.

Ty stepped into the room. Behind him, he heard Cat locking the door. There were twin cots with chocolate-colored covers framing the room like an inverted L, one tidy and jutting vertically into the room’s center toward the door, while the other, with a rumpled spread and smashed pillow, was placed horizontally against a window.

Tracy’s, I presume, Ty murmured, motioning to the neatly-made cot.

Cat nodded, coughing into her fist.

May I? He slipped off the flip-flops and plopped on the cot, lacing his hands behind his neck. Ouch, he mumbled, lightly kneading the back of his head. Hey, Cat, you OK?

She was looking out the opened window above her bed, her back to him. He hoped she wasn’t crying.

Ty groped into his backpack and removed a jumbo-sized chocolate bar he had bought from a child selling candy for school fundraising.

Here. I got it for Arabella, but you take it, Ty said, placing the candy on the edge of the cot.

Cat turned towards him. Tears were sprinkled on her cheeks, reminding Ty of a picture in Bella’s bedroom: Three perfume bottles were lined behind a single peach rose, water pendants trailing on the petals, forever frozen in a photographer’s moment. Cat looked so vulnerable that he wanted to encapsulate her, to put her in his pocket like Zuzu’s petals, and never let anything bad happen to her. His hands dug into his suit pockets and he felt the loose threads fraying against his fingers, creating a tear.

Who’s Arabella? she asked guardedly. Your girlfriend? She examined the candy. God, this thing’s huge.

In the future we supersize everything. But in this case, it’s like a candy sale thingy. I think they make them bigger for that.

Candy sales, Cat said sentimentally. So you still have them…

Yeah. He cleared his throat. And Arabella, she would be my sister.

Arabella Beck. That’s a supersized mouthful. She wiped her cheeks.

Alliterative, like Caterina Cammino, he rejoined, smiling weakly.

How do you know my last name? Or my full first name?

It’s on the door outside, Ty replied, realizing that he had widened the hole in his pocket and that two fingers were now poking through to the other side.

Alliterative, Cat nodded. My name, your sister’s na… The puffy bottom lip dissolved the thin upper line, swallowing the last word.

Hey, you’ve got a nice voice, Cat. It’s sexy or sultry, if I may be so bold. Good voice for a late-night D.J.

Thanks. You may be so bold, she said as she composed herself, the tears drawn back and tight, like opened curtains. Her mouth was dumbly open, revealing vacant window smile.

But maybe you should lay off the smokes.

Nah, my voice has always been like this. When I was little, Poppi used to say that Cat swallowed the kitty litter.

Poppi?

You know, my dad. What do you call your dad?

That would be Dad. So, do you have cats? Ty said, staring at the white tiled ceiling, wondering if he should count himself to sleep.

Cats? she repeated, a cloud of confusion coating her face.

You know, you mentioned cats, kitty litter.

My dad was just making a joke. God, I don’t really eat kitty litter. She stared at him. He looked scared and tired. He was cute. Longish, red-blond hair, stubble framing his lips, tall, tanned, well-built. He was almost pretty. Cat smiled at him sympathetically. Nah, I’m a dog person.

Me too.

Cat opened the squeaky drawer of a white-painted wooden dresser next to the window. She stuffed the chocolate bar inside and took out a large plastic mouthwash bottle, untwisted the cap, and enjoyed a long drink before tossing it to Ty.

What is it? he asked, catching the bottle with both hands as it grazed his gut. Scope, he said, disdainfully. You drink Scope?

Silly? It’s Grappa. It supposed to be an after-dinner drink, but it’s really just one hundred percent alcohol.

But we haven’t had dinner. He greedily chugged a gulp, then coughed violently. It’s like cough medicine, he said, bowling the bottle back to her across the floor.

But you’re coughing, Cat laughed. Cough medicine with a kick. She sipped again, grasping the bottle’s neck, and put the Grappa back in the drawer.

Ty lay back on the bed, his legs dangling. The liquor burned from his esophagus to his stomach. Sweat beaded his forehead and he felt like he was going to puke. Cat, can you open that window wider? I think I need some air.

Better? She looked out the window. I can hear people, but I don’t see anyone. Ty, can I see your I’mOdd machine?

iPod, he corrected in a fey voice. He unzipped the backpack on the floor next to him and held the iPod out to her.

You OK, Ty?

You know, I didn’t bring a toothbrush, but do you have toothpaste so I can possibly…? he gestured, running his finger over his teeth.

Most definitely.

Ty stumbled to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. He splashed water on his face, ripped off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, rinsing his hands and arms. He smiled at the mirror. His chipped tooth was still there, the left front tooth broken and filed, half the length of its twin. He flicked his tongue over the chip. It was a comfort. He was still himself. As he rubbed the toothpaste over his teeth, he felt a sting in his upper right gum, and as he spit, a small speck of red swirled with the water down the drain. He looked at his reflection again, and a sticky trail of blood oozed from his nose. Ty wiped it with one finger, leaned his aching head back, and counted to ten.

Cat was sitting under the window listening to music, rocking back and forth rhythmically. You have a lot of Beatles on here. It’s amazing you can have so many songs on such a little machine, she said to Ty as he walked through the bathroom door.

Yep. You like The Beatles?

Love ‘em. Poppi knows everything about them. He went to work the day after John died, but he didn’t really hold class because he was too distraught. He told me he just asked his students to talk about the Beatles and their impact on the world. And, of course, John.

Is your dad a teacher?

Professor. He teaches a lot of William Blake, but some other stuff as well, like the Romantic poets.

I like them too, the Beatles, that is, Ty said, sitting on Tracy’s cot. I won a contest about them once on the radio. K-WHY.

KY? Isn’t that a sexual lubricant or something?

Ty laughed with a hiss of air between his teeth. He still felt sick. You’re a flirty girl, Cat.

He stretched out on the cot as a hot breeze blanketed over him. He felt like he was going to pass out. Cat was singing to the tune of Yellow Submarine but in a foreign language.

He closed his eyes.

Chapter 3

Dimension 10-71

Beck was resting against his trash can. The phones were secured in his ears, though the iPod was paused. The soothing sounds of the ocean played in the distance, but they didn’t allay his pain. He lit a joint and inhaled, holding his breath and examining the mala bracelet on his wrist. He counted a few beads and exhaled. The days since Robie died. He inhaled again. If only the beads could be days, days that you could wear and live again. He pinched the sole red drop in the ring of brown circlets, strung together like little mud bubbles. This would be the day we bought the bracelets together. The joint dangled from his lips. He sucked it like a straw one last time and snuffed it out with his fingers. He put the J in a plastic bag and stuffed it in his backpack.

Beck jumped on his skateboard, pressed his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, and rolled over to Two For The Road Liquor. A blue Miata pulled up in front of the store and a woman got out of the car, a large, gym-like bag on her shoulder, a purse in her hand. She was dressed in a white leotard, a pink and orange skirt, and porcelain-colored patent leather heels. Her long, light brown hair flowed to her waist. Beck skidded off his board and followed her into the store, riding shotgun. Two bells chimed their entrance.

The clerk looked up from the counter and smiled. Za blue M&M.

Hey, the woman purred.

She walked with a purpose to the back, and Beck pursued her. She perused the wine selection and grabbed two bottles, holding one in her hand, the other nestled under her arm. Beck grabbed a Red Stripe from the refrigerator and wrapped a five dollar bill around it as he strode up to the woman.

Buy this for me?

She smiled at him and Beck felt dizzy, his shades sliding down his nose. He felt his