| Wooden Circus Lindsay Kaplan |
| page four >>> |
| Henry Killbride was supposed to have been posthumously famous. After his literary breakthrough was penned that stormy night in Poughkeepsie, he devised a noose with duct tape and hanged himself from a naked pipe in his bathroom. The tape was the color of soot, or charcoal, or deeply tarnished silver. It snapped only seconds shy, allowing for a bruised skull from the rim of the toilet. If only he had used a rope. If only he had left the seat down. Stroking his neck, he got up from the dirty, tiled floor and put on a pair of shoes and a scarf. He went downstairs and across the winded street, carefully stepping over an uprooted tree, to the Holy Roller pub. He ordered a Coke on ice and thanked the bartender before turning to the woman to his left. She had obviously never been much but ordinary. Her pale, oily skin and hair the color of a rusted out penny framed brown puddled eyes, a tiny nose and chapped lips. She sat on a wobbly stool, stirring her drink and staring at the clock behind the bartender. It was late Tuesday night. She looked as though she had not slept in three days. "Hi. I'm Henry." "Claire." Thunder, the rumbling fool, surged drunkenly outside. It seeped into the woodwork, barely a whisper in the bartenders ear. "Nice night, huh, Claire." She rolled her eyes and recrossed her legs. The stool creaked under her. "What do you do for a living, Henry, that allows you the freedom of getting drunk this late on a stormy Tuesday night?" She gnawed at her bottom lip. He sipped his soda. "I'm a writer," he murmered, turning his head to the rain in the window, allowing the storm to finish his sentence for him. But the weather remained static. The bartender folded his hands in disgust. "A writer? Right. Well, they say the pen is mightier than the sword." "Ever been stabbed in the heart with a ball point Bic?" He fingered a growing welt on his forehead. "Everybody writes." Another sip of watered down soda. He leaned forward just enough to make one last impression on her. "Just not everyone writes it down." She ran a hand through her hair. "That's some line." "Are you a natural red head?" "Excuse me?" "I guess you are. I've just noticed that people like to dye their hair red in the winter to try to suck every last bit out of fall." They talked until the rocks under his Coke had melted. Henry invited Claire back to his apartment, and invitation that implied more sexual tension than sex. So much for sex selling. He told her he liked Harry Belafonte, Slavic accents and the ocean. She told him that she liked Edith Piaf, Argentinean tango and the smell of burning wood. He discovered that she liked wearing layers on his own. He took off her jacket, a sweater, a long sleeved t-shirt, a tank top. "Why do you wear so many layers?" "I like weight on my body." "So why don�t you eat more?" "No," she laughed. He felt enamoured by just the sound of it, mottled and throaty. "I like the extra weight on my skin." He took that as a good sign and proceeded to wrap his chubby hand around her slender waist. She put her chin on his shoulder. "What's this on your neck?" "Duct tape residue." He tapped his thumb on her forehead. "Hung myself this evening." "Hanged," she corrected, before realizing her rudeness. She rubbed her nose on the sticky, painful looking marks. "Did it hurt?" "Oh, yes, but I guess every hanging has its silver lining." Claire laughed again, which pleased Henry. "Do you think world peace is possible in our lifetime?" "Yes." "Really?" "No." Then he began to sing softly, "Quand il me prend dans ses bras, il me parle tout bas, je vois la vie en rose..." "Look, we can talk about anything you want," she whispered. "Upside down beds or unhooked telephones...." He wanted to talk about the hooks of the bra she wore. It was beige, with crimson lace over the cups, covering her nipples, making patterns where he wanted his fingers to. His hands fumbled to open it from the back, fat fingers clumsily tugging at the satiny fabric. She smelled like cinnamon. Her tongue slipped into his ear, and with a gasp, he ripped the bra. It fell on her knees. She sat like a statue, startled at his violent burst of passion, shocked to see that he was sobbing. They were huge, guttural sobs that crept from his belly and pushed through his soggy lips. She decided he was a virgin, or psychotic, or far too intoxicated to handle a one night stand. She feigned sleep, listening to the slowing sound of Henry's weeping and sniffling. Eventually, she decided to fall asleep. Henry decided he was in love. |
| part three |