Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 13 Read online

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  Small Beer Press

  www.lcrw.net

  Copyright ©2003 by Small Beer Press

  First published in 2003, 2003

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  Kukla Boogie Moon

  Lunar Fate

  The Changeling

  The Faith of Metal in Ghosts

  Home and Security

  The Greebles

  Dear Aunt Gwenda: Advice from a Better Time & Place

  The Poor Man's Wife

  Rowboats, Sacks of Gold

  White Rabbit Triptych

  Salesman

  Legacy

  Serpents

  A Last Taste of Sweetness

  Pinned

  Sidhe Tigers

  The Guest Film Column

  The Magnificent Dachshund

  Mama's Special Rice Tin

  The Meat and the Mushrooms

  Contributors

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  Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet no.13

  Gavin J. Grant,

  Cake is love.

  Kelly Link,

  Cake is cake.

  Diane Kelly &

  Vanessa Scott,

  Interns is interns.

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  Gentler readers beware the final story.

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  Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, No.13 November 2003. ISSN 1544-7782 Text in Bodoni Book. Titles in Imprint MT Shadow. Since 1996 LCRW has usually appeared twice a year. As of 2004, there will be three issues per year: April, July, & November. LCRW springs forth from Small Beer Press, 176 Prospect Ave., Northampton, MA 01060 [email protected] www.lcrw.net/lcrw $4 per single issue or $16/4. Except, as the sharp-eyed observer may have noticed, this issue is $5. This is an experiment (look at that art! look at that binding!) and may or may not be a good idea.

  Contents (C) the authors. All rights reserved. Submissions, requests for guidelines, &c. should be sent to the address above. No SASE: no reply. If there were torpedoes, we'd have to build a dam. As it is, how about a new ship of state?

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  The Ichthyomancer Writes His Friend With an Account of the Yeti's Birthday Party

  David J. Schwartz

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  Xaya:

  You no doubt recall (or perhaps you don't; it's been quite a while) that last Thursday was the Yeti's birthday. I wanted to tell you about the surprise party we threw for him. We were sorry you couldn't be there, but obviously that would have been impossible. If it makes you feel any better, there were quite a few people there whom I don't believe you've met.

  The guest list was too large to have the party at our apartment—the fish are upset by crowds. So we looked for a restaurant. We had to call around a little bit to find a place with a vegetarian option, since the Yeti doesn't eat meat, but we settled on a little Thai place downtown. Maggie and I had eaten there a few times, since it's not far from our place, and we've always enjoyed it. The rama Thai is excellent.

  Maggie and I arrived early and had a drink in the bar. Maggie wore a turtleneck and a short skirt with high boots and nylons. She looked incredible, as you can imagine. For myself, I wore a long-sleeved shirt, charcoal-colored, with some green pants. The fish call them our Quiet Party Clothes, which is their snide way of insinuating that we're predictable. The Black Mollies have an entire spectrum worked out: our Social Obligation clothes are dark and conservative, while our Loud Party Clothes are brighter and don't need to be dry-cleaned.

  When we got to the table Todd and Mictecacihuatl were already there. Todd is a lawyer; right now he's representing the dolphins in their lawsuit against Miami. Mictecacihuatl is a god of the underworld, which is nice work if you can get it. Mictecacihuatl was overdressed, as usual, in a black tuxedo. One of the gods he works with, Ixpuztec, told me once that Mictecacihuatl bought the tux for a wedding that never happened, but it doesn't seem like the sort of thing you ask about.

  Maggie told a few lawyer jokes. Todd's a good sport about them, but she had to stop after a while because Mictecacihuatl has false teeth, and his rather wild laughter kept knocking them loose. I suppose that working where he does you learn to appreciate a good joke, or even a rather formulaic and predictable one.

  It wasn't long before more people arrived. Max and Earl, the conjoined twins, came in with their seeing-eye dog Bathsheba. Max and Earl aren't blind, but when Bathsheba retired she sort of lost her direction, and one day a couple of years ago we found her begging door-to-door for bowls of Beaujolais. She says she doesn't have a problem, but she's certainly happier since Max and Earl adopted her.

  Sergeant Rust was there—stunning in a sleeveless red dress—with her new husband Arvid, the arachnid taxidermist. The Flying Cardellini Sisters were there, and I got a dirty look from Maggie when I waved to Phyllis, the middle sister. Maggie knows I dated Phyllis before we met, and she's terribly insecure about the sex, although she won't ask about it. The truth is that Phyllis was very conservative sexually, and the trapeze above her bed was strictly for practicing in her sleep.

  The Zulus came, although they spent most of the time talking on their cell phones, which I thought was rather rude. Dr. Wise was particularly irked by this, as he has a script he's been working on about the female pharaoh Hatshepsut which he's determined to see Johnny Depp star in. But thanks to the miracles of modern technology, instead of pitching his script he spent the entire evening listening to Lawrence—the mastodon, not the fire elemental—complain about his dating troubles.

  (Between you and me, I think poor Lawrence's problem isn't the depth of the dating pool but rather his dislike of children. Female mastodons these days are rather militant about breeding, which is why the males tend to go into engineering or medicine or other financially stable professions. By the way, Lawrence was telling me that he thought he'd seen you on some satellite photos—he works for Rand-McNally now, you know. I told him I didn't think you'd be recognizable by now, but he seemed pretty certain.)

  It was a big group, and eventually we had to ask the waitress if we could add another table. She was very gracious about it, I think because the Monkey King was especially charming that night, and likely could have talked her into coming home with him if she hadn't been happily married, as she told us several times.

  Before long everyone was there, from Coventry Rose to Hector Elizondo. Yes, that Hector Elizondo; apparently the Yeti met him while they were both on a ski vacation in Banff. It's amazing, the facility the Yeti has for making friends, but then you know that better than anyone.

  Evelyn was supposed to bring the Yeti by at seven-thirty, but she had called Maggie at ten minutes to eight to let her know they were going to be a bit late. So we talked. Joan—the macaw, not the dominatrix—told a story about a jaguar and a giant otter that made Mictecacihuatl spit up his drink all over Ling Ling, who was very calm about it considering how difficult red wine is to get out of fur. Maria Cardellini told a story about a bearded lady and a thin man that seemed to rather embarrass Lawrence. And we all talked about the weather, which was so unusually warm for the Midwest in February.

  Still the Yeti didn't arrive. I was enjoying myself, but I must admit that every time I checked my watch I got more worried. I'm a worrier, Maggie tells me, and you will probably
agree. I knew the Yeti could take care of himself, and Evelyn was a very safe driver. She was probably trying to hurry him along as much as possible without making him suspicious.

  Mpande spotted them first, and hung up his cell phone in time to cue us all to shout “Surprise!” I'm afraid we startled a busboy, who stumbled and would have dropped an entire tray of glasses if Lawrence hadn't steadied it with his trunk. In the confusion I missed the Yeti's reaction, but he was all smiles as he circled the table, shaking hands and kissing the ladies. I have never seen the Yeti miss a chance to kiss a woman, and yet I've never seen a woman resist him either. I suppose it's the teddy-bear look that makes him seem harmless.

  There were presents, of course. Dr. Wise gave the Yeti a first printing of Walden, which quite moved the Yeti and left the rest of us feeling our gifts were inadequate. The Zulus gave a set of ivory combs and brushes, and were careful to mention that the ivory came from elephants who had died of old age. The Yeti thanked them and ruffled up his fur to try out the brushes, which produced a roar of laughter and a few sparks of static electricity. Maggie and I gave him a pair of snowshoes—with a smaller set for Evelyn—since he had told us he was going back to visit the Himalayas in March. He thanked us and said they'd come in useful for outrunning photographers.

  The food came soon after we ordered; I think perhaps the management was trying to rush us out. If so, it didn't work, since everyone spent as much time talking as they did devouring their Pad Thai and spring rolls. Sergeant Rust and the Monkey King swapped war stories, while Dr. Wise tried to interest Hector Elizondo in the part of Tuthmosis II.

  At one point Maggie leaned close and asked me why we didn't do things like this more often, and I shrugged. In my experience things like this happened when they were good and ready, when schedules opened up and everyone was in town. (Everyone except yourself, of course. Which reminds me, Maggie says we should try to visit in June, after she's turned in her grades for the spring semester. Let us know if that's a problem.)

  Of course, it didn't all go smoothly. Baron Samedi said something which mortally offended Coventry Rose. I never did find out what was said, but when Lawrence—the fire elemental, not the mastodon—confronted him about it, he was convinced that we were all siding against him. Despite our protests, he threw a pair of twenties on the table for the bill, tipped his top hat, and vanished in a puff of black smoke. You can imagine the stir that caused among the other diners, especially considering that we were in a non-smoking section.

  The Baron's dramatics notwithstanding, it was a wonderful dinner, and I was sorry when the group started to break up. Max and Earl excused themselves before dessert on the grounds that Bathsheba was rather drunk, and the three of them went weaving out. Sergeant Rust and Arvid left soon after in order to get their babysitter home at a decent hour. The Zulus had a flight to catch, and they swept out in a flurry of embraces, pursued by Dr. Wise, who was still trying to get a phone number from one of them.

  Soon only Maggie, Evelyn, the Yeti and myself were left. We sipped our cordials (all except the Yeti, who has quit drinking and was content with a Thai iced tea—did I tell you about the unpleasantness at Geb's barbecue last summer? I can't recall) and talked quietly of the old days. It seems such a long time ago that we were students, and yet it seems like yesterday. I do miss those days, although I never dated and wouldn't have had money to go anywhere if I had. Maggie says the pictures from then don't look like me, although the Yeti of course hasn't changed. (Maggie says you look adorable, although I've tried to explain about your size. I also tried to explain that “adorable” was probably not the right word for the master of the mountains, but that's Maggie. I'm curious to see her reaction when that two of you finally meet, since I've come to suspect she's immune to surprise.)

  Of course, once we began sorting through the checks and cash on the table we realized someone had shorted us. Maggie engaged in some rude speculation as to whom it had been, but in the end I simply threw two hundred onto the pile to make it worth the waitress's time. The Yeti asked Evelyn for his wallet, but we wouldn't let him pay. Business is good, and if I can't afford to treat my friends then the money doesn't mean a thing.

  We left then, making plans to see Evelyn and the Yeti again before they left for Nepal. They're truly happy together, and it's a wonderful thing to see. Evelyn used to be so moody. Remember the way her tail would droop when she felt self-conscious, which was nearly all the time? And the Yeti—I must admit that I used to think the Yeti was rather superficial, and any woman could make him happy. But Evelyn has illuminated new depths within our hirsute friend. They make a wonderful couple, and they both send their regards.

  As we walked back to the apartment, Maggie asked me if I thought Dr. Wise would ever get his movie made, and I told her we should ask the fish when we got home. And do you know what they said? The Zulus had already been in touch with Johnny Depp's agent, and he was eager to see a script.

  We're sending some cookies along with this letter; Maggie's idea, which I didn't have the energy to argue against. I'm fairly certain they'll be shaken to crumbs in transit. I'm not even sure you still eat—how is the transformation progressing?

  Let us know about June. I know there's been some distance between us since you moved back home, but I want to spend some time with you before you go back to sleep for another thousand years. The fish say we will see each other again. I hope they're right.

  Take care,

  Allan

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  Kukla Boogie Moon

  Eliot Fintushel

  The telephone rang at sunup. I groped my way to a phone just in time to hear my boy, Apollo, pick up in the next room. The caller started right in to talking, and I listened while the fog in my larynx burned off.

  "This is Gabe Tyvil, Silas's father. I will be there in exactly three minutes, and I want Silas to be at the door. At the door. I have heard what Mr. Jack Earl is burying in his yard, by the way. I suppose there is nothing a decent person can do about it, but I will not have anyone of my household exposed to such a perfidious person or to his tainted and perfidious children. Three minutes. Repent. The clock is running."

  Apollo said, “Have you tried the new flavor of Kukla Boogie, Mr. Tyvil?"

  Click.

  Through the wall:

  "At least I'll make fifty cents off the stinker when the Kukla man scans my implant."

  I hung up on dead air. I have to say, I thought it was interesting that the Tyvils had waited till morning to call. They must have been secretly glad to have us handling Silas for the night. That's how it is with some of those darn Muddites, is my view—I mean, with the Modern Luddites, to be nice about it. They can't keep up with their own principles—too many and too hard. For pity's sake, they're even against the Kukla Boogie Moon.

  "Boogie man!” Gabe had barely hung up when the meter man rang at our door. “Kukla man! Boogie boogie boogie man. Kukla Boogie man."

  "Coming!” I trotted down to let him scan my implant, but I guessed I'd let Jack and Apollo wait and be scanned at some more civilized hour. I opened the front door and pulled up my sleeve.

  "Morning, Mrs. Earl. Nice day for a Kuke, isn't it?” He was a pot-bellied old tout, just a little bit silly in the striped pullover with that bottle-cap hat.

  "Will be, when it's daytime,” I huffed. “Sorry. I'm not awake."

  "I don't mind, as long as I get my fifty cents for saying it. Want to know your account stats?"

  "Not just now, thanks."

  He holstered his scanner. “See you next time."

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  Where was Jack during all this ruckus, you want to know? In bed, that's where, where a person ought to be so early in the day. He was dead tired from the hauling and digging he'd been doing, poor man. But I heard the sweetheart sing in his sleep. It was that old song . . .

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  I believe in Kukla Boogie Moon.

  It won't fade soon—

  That's like our love.

&n
bsp; * * * *

  I believe in passion, pep, and power,

  Boogie by the hour—

  That's like our love.

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  I snuggled in, my lips close to his ear and sang the next part:

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  I used to wander, wan and clueless,

  Without a boogie to my name.

  My sky was boogieless and blueless.

  No Kukla Boogie sunshine . . .

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  Sure enough, Jack supplied the next line: “No Kukla Boogie rain.” We crooned and snuggled under the comforter . . .

  * * * *

  I believe in Kukla Boogie Moon

  From Perth to Cameroon—

  That's like our love.

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  I knew he was completely awake now, because the next verse was pure Jack:

  * * * *

  I believe in doing God one better

  Making water wetter—

  That's like our love . . .

  * * * *

  Then the doorbell rang for the second time that day. And the third. And the fourth.

  "I'd better go get it,” I said. “That'll be Gabe Tyvil to pick up Silas."

  "Darn Muddites.” Jack pulled a face. He looked just like our Apollo whenever he did that, pinching those Valentine lips and squinting his baby blues to little sequins. Needed a shave, though. Always needed a shave, my Jack.

  "Modern Luddites is what they like to be called, Jack, and you know it. They have their lights, dear."

  "I didn't tell you what happened yesterday."

  "The door . . ."

  "Oh, let him wait. Those darn Muddites got wind of my contract for the Kukla Boogie sludge, and they were out picketing at KB Corporate in Tonawanda, stopping traffic, the louts. I couldn't make my pickup—I hope Gabe busts his finger on the doorbell.” Throwing off the covers: “Get me a warm Kuke out of the closet, would you, honey? Get my motor going. Might as well hit the sludge, long's I'm up."

  "Sure thing, sweetums."

  Jack liked to keep some in the closet. Kuke is good for all occasions, you know, and it's good to have some near at hand in every part of the house.