Issue February 2012 Flash Fiction Online February 2012

“Miss Young, I want to ask you something,” and Geoffrey modestly pulled the sheets close up under his pink chin. “I suppose you’ll think me an awful bore for saying this to you so abruptly, but I’m dreadfully in earnest. Will you marry me, please?”

Miss Young did not stop a minute in her deft arrangement of his breakfast tray. She didn’t even blush. “No, I don’t think I will,” she answered. “You see, I can’t marry everyone that asks me.”

“How many have you married already?”

“Well, I haven’t married any yet.”

“Then marry me.”

The unruffled little nurse smiled at his impetuosity. “You know,” she said, “every marriageable male that I have ever nursed has proposed to me. It is merely a sign of recovery. It ought to go on the list of symptoms.”

“My proposal is a symptom, all right, but not of recovery. It is a symptom that I am desperately in love.”

“You do it beautifully, but you are not quite so romantic as Antonio, my last potential husband. He wanted me to flee with him to Italy, but his wife came and took him away.”

Geoffrey was indignant. “Do you think I’m going to let you stay here while every Dick, Tom, and Italian Henry proposes to you?”

“Better eat your breakfast, Sonny.”

“Sonny,” Geoffrey flounced over, his face to the wall. “I don’t care for any breakfast, thank you.”

“All right, I’ll take the tray away in a minute,” and with a knowing smile she left the room.

Geoffrey was twenty-one, possessing all the impetuousness and dignity accessory to that age. He had offered his love and had been laughed at. She had called him “Sonny.”

Yet, during those three past weeks of antiseptic nightmare she had been extremely kind to him. Perhaps she loved someone else. At the thought Geoffrey became quite disconsolate.

But finally he turned over and his eyes fell upon the breakfast tray laid temptingly beside his bed. A ravenous hunger assailed him. He pulled the tray onto the bed and began to eat. After all, things were not so bad. A woman always had to be coaxed.

Meanwhile Miss Young was talking it over with a sister nurse at breakfast in the nurses’ quarters. “What I want to know, Heine, is this. When do we ever get a fair chance at a man? We don’t get away from the hospital long enough at a time to capture one, and here, where we receive proposals every day, it’s against the rules to marry the patients.”

“Did he propose to you?” interposed Heine.

“Yes, he did. And he’s a nice boy, too.”

“Excuse me, not for mine. I’m vaccinated against marriage. I’m tired of having men growl and grumble at me all the time.”

“Sure, so am I. But, Heine, wouldn’t it be perfectly grand to have just one great big man to jaw at you! He asked me to call him Geoffrey.”

“Look here, kid, you’re not falling in love, are you?” demanded the quizzical Heine.

“I wonder if he has another girl,” answered Miss Young irrelevantly.

About noon Geoffrey became exceedingly restless. Miss Young smoothed his pillows again and again. Once, when her hand strayed temptingly near, he grasped it and kissed it. It must be confessed that Miss Young didn’t withdraw her hand quite so quickly as the superintendent would have thought proper. She even blushed, and that was very unusual for the sophisticated nurse.

“Gee, I know I’m an awful bore to keep bothering you like this, but haven’t you changed your mind? Don’t you think you can marry me?”

“Look here, Geoffrey” — she really hadn’t meant to call him Geoffrey — “you don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the only woman you’ve seen in the last three weeks. I may have helped pull you over some pretty rough places. Of course you think you have to marry your benefactor.”

“I have to marry you, Miss Young, but that’s not the reason. I’m going to ask you three times a day until you consent to be my wife.”

“Well, keep it up, Geoffrey. It will help pass the time.” Miss Young had quite regained her customary impenetrability.

Geoffrey kept his word. When his nurse was in the room he watched her continually and at the most unexpected times propounded the old question. If she left the room he always developed a dreadful thirst as an excuse for an imperative summons. Even Miss Young found it hard to doubt his sincerity. She floundered between natural emotions and her professional indifference.

At last Geoffrey was pronounced well, and yet the girl had not consented. He had no excuse for remaining longer, so with evident bad humor he consented to go.

“Miss Young,” he said, “I’m going home today, and I just won’t leave you here for some dirty Italian to be grabbing at your hand and proposing to you all the time. Marry me and come away from here.”

“Geoffrey, I’m going to give you a square deal. You go home for a month, see other girls, and if you then still want to marry me, come up here and I’ll think about it.”

“I’m on, Miss Young. Say, I’ve found out your first name. It’s Claire, isn’t it? You know I used to think ‘Diana’ was a peach of a name, but ‘Claire’ beats it a mile.”

Geoffrey went home. Miss Young cried a little in the solitude of her room. Then she settled down to a half-hopeful vigil of waiting. During the first two weeks she received seven letters, each one declaring Geoffrey’s undying devotion and his firm desire to return for her. Every night she read the entire collection up to date, and wept over them, as is the manner of women beloved. Then for days she received no word. She fought this rather hopeless portent with trusting heart.

Often during the long day’s work when patients grumbled, when some ogling male became amorously persistent, when the little nurse found herself almost hating mankind, she slipped into the vacant corridor and reread one of the treasured epistles to give her faith.

The third week dragged along and the beginning of the fourth, and still she received not a word. At first she waited impatiently for each day’s mail, but finally she began to delay her call at the desk, dreading the recurrent disappointment.

At last one morning at breakfast she received a letter addressed in Geoffrey’s handwriting. All aflutter she slipped it into her pocket until she could be alone. But she couldn’t wait, so she tremulously tore the envelope open and read:

My Dear Miss Young:

I shall always regard you as a woman of the rarest good sense. You must have thought me a great fool. I think a man is hardly responsible for what he does when he is sick. I must thank you for your splendid nursing, and, furthermore, for the way in which you brought me to my senses. You see, Diana and I have made it all up again. I’m sending you a card.

The card bore the conventional “Mr. and Mrs. W.P. Harvey announce — ”

Miss Young slowly crumpled up the letter and shoved it into her pocket. “Heine,” she said, “One of these days I’m going to take advantage of some guy and marry him while I’ve got him down.”

The winged infant adjusted his diaper and blew a curl of golden hair away from his face. He wobbled on intoxicated legs, steadied himself and accepted the dart that was handed to him.

“What’ll it be this time?” he asked.

The bearded man rubbed his chin and considered the question. The patrons of the tavern mumbled to one another, giggling at their own suggestions. One of them shouted, “Between the legs!”

The bearded man smiled. “Yes,” he said. “That.”

Cupid tried to twirl the dart in his hand, but lost control and dropped it. He bent to pick it up and nearly fell over, catching himself on both hands.

“Okay,” he said, still down on one hand, his other groping for the fallen dart. “How much are we talkin’ this time?”

The bearded man evaluated Cupid’s inebriation. He counted the coins left in his purse.

“Fifty.”

Cupid smiled. “Deal.”

Still bent over, he flung the dart between his legs like he was hiking a football. Everyone’s eyes followed it across the tavern.

It struck the center of the board.

Everyone cheered, save for the bearded man. He grumbled and slapped his last fifty copper into Cupid’s pudgy hand, then stormed out of the tavern. Two men with quivers and bows on their backs passed him on their way in, one wearing green, the other red.

“Well, well,” Cupid said as he saw the newcomers, “if it isn’t the second-best archer in all the land.” He tilted his head back and took a long swig from a brown bottle, then fell on his baby bottom. He was still drinking when he landed.

“Second-best?” the green archer asked. “You must be drunk. Give me the keys to your cloud.”

Cupid finished his beer and let out an elated sigh. “You know, you should stop giving so much of your haul to the poor, Robin — that way you could afford some archery lessons.” Cupid squeaked a laugh and slapped his knee.

Robin offered the winged baby his hand and helped him to his feet.

“Who’s your friend?” Cupid asked.

“The real second-best archer in all the land,” Robin said. “After me, of course.”

Cupid rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You got a name, big-shot?”

“Yi,” the red archer said, bowing proudly.

“Yi? Yi. Yi…” Cupid rubbed his jaw. He shook his head. “Nope. Never heard of you.”

Yi stopped halfway up from his bow. “You’ve not heard my tale?” he asked. “I slew the birds of flame! When all ten ravens tried to carry their suns across the sky at once, it was my arrows that saved the world from being burned.”

“So you nailed ten birds? That’s it?”

“Ten?” Yi asked. “No — only nine. The final bird carries the sun that lights our world.”

“So you didn’t hit one of them.”

“I would have, had my tenth arrow not been stolen.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. Let’s just get the facts straight: you only hit nine of the birds. Correct?”

Yi gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

“Well, keep at it, tiger — you’ll get that tenth some day.”

Yi’s eyes were fire, his breath smoke. “If you believe you are the better marksman, perhaps you would agree to a game of darts.”

Robin’s eyebrows raised. “I’m in.”

Cupid shook his head. “Wouldn’t be fair. I’ve already had two beers.”

“Oh, dear,” Robin said. “A whole two?”

“Hey, that’s half my bodyweight — give me a break!”

“Fine, fine. If we’re going to play drunken darts, we’ll just have to catch up to you.”

Robin snapped his fingers over his head. “Bartender!”

Two hours and a table full of empty bottles later, the archers were ready to play.

“One dart each,” Cupid said, holding up two drunken fingers. His left eye was half-open and his right wing had gone completely limp. “May the best baby win.”

Robin went first. He stepped up to the line, stepped over the line, stepped behind the line and flung his dart before he had a chance to fall on his face. It was a decent toss, except for the fact that the dart went twelve feet wide and killed a nobleman. Robin looked at the situation, shrugged, then gave the dead nobleman’s purse to a beggar. The beggar would go on to invest the money wisely and buy his way into nobility four years later, at which point Robin would shoot and rob him.

Cupid was up next. His dart hit the bartender’s cat, which happened to be looking at a whiskey bottle at the time. The cat instantly fell in love, then died of liver failure the following year.

When Yi’s turn came around, he couldn’t find his dart. He passed his play, then passed out.

The next day, the sober archers gathered at the royal archery field to finally settle who was the greatest marksman, with the princess agreeing to judge the competition.

“The rules shall be as follows,” she said. “One arrow each, to be fired simultaneously.”

Robin’s complaint was written all over his face. “Simultaneously?”

“Yes — none of that splitting the opponent’s arrow nonsense. I still haven’t figured out how to score that sort of thing.”

Robin sighed. “Fine.”

“Now, this promises to be a close competition — do we agree that my judgment is final?”

The archers nodded.

“Then let’s begin.” The princess gave them space. “One… two… three!”

Three bowstrings twanged.

Two arrows struck the bull’s eye.

“Close,” Robin said to Yi, “but I think I’ve got you.”

“Do not be so sure — my arrow seems to be in the exact center.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It’s a lot closer than Cupid’s, anyway — he didn’t even hit the target.”

“Didn’t I?”

Robin and Yi turned to see the princess smothering Cupid with kisses. There was a pink arrow stuck in her thigh.

“The winner is Cupid!” she said. “He’s the greatest archer in all the land!”

“Power of love, boys — better luck next time!”

I hate it when she does this.

Brianna lies in the bathtub on her back, one knee bent and leaning in, making the lines of her hips twist and beckon. She lies in deep water, her eyes in calculating slits, the exhalations from her nose rippling a tiny current atop the surface.

I refuse to acknowledge this. I flip up the toilet seat and take myself out like nothing’s wrong.

Brianna’s mouth rises above the waterline. “What are you doing?”

“This is the bathroom. I’m going to it.”

“This is the bathroom, and I’m taking a bath. Can’t you use the other one?”

“What, like you’ve never seen me — ”

“It’s disgusting, Jess.” She gets onto her elbows and the water laps against the sides of her breasts. “And I’m trying to relax.”

“Well, I’m almost done anyway. Problem solved.”

She hisses and sinks back down, air bubbling up from between her teeth. I realize that I’m staring at her. But she counts on this. Her submerged body makes me feel both tempted and helpless, because to me, she may as well be Snow White entombed in glass.

I flush the toilet and go to her, stepping over the rim of the bathtub. But when I step down I don’t hit skin. Instead, I stand upon the water’s surface.

I move my other foot inside. I’m towering over her now, as if the threat of my body weight were real. My nearness should make her uncomfortable. Maybe it does — Brianna gives me a forced smile, and I feel guilty and sick.

Her mouth emerges again. “I found one of your empty cans on the shoreline.”

“Could be anybody’s can.”

“I found the receipt on the nightstand. If you’re going to lie to me, Jess, you’ve got to try harder.”

“Since when does having a beer out on the lake make up a lie?”

“Having a beer? The receipt was for a six pack.”

“Fine, I go out on the lake and have six beers. How’s that any different from what you and Claire do on Fridays?”

“That’s not the goddamn point.” Brianna moves as if to sit up, then remembers the shielding barrier and stays put. “The point is that I always tell you where I’m going. But you just disappear.”

“So?”

Her eyes narrow even further, but not in anger. “Yeah. Okay. So what? Why should I care about what might be happening to you?”

“I’m just saying — ”

“Forget it. You don’t have to talk to me. Go take one of those walks you love so much.”

I do.

I leave the house and go down to the lake. When we first moved here, I’d stroll along the surface while Brianna swam by my feet. Sometimes she’d tell me about the lake bottom — the scummy weeds, the boulders 30 feet out, the wide-eyed fish that hid in the shadows of the rocks. The landscape sounded ugly but romantic, like urban ruins. “It’s not all that great,” she’d say, and I’d nod like I believed her.

Today the lake is a vast expanse of empty sheet metal. I stride onto it and out. A half mile from shore, I sit down and look out to the horizon. Brianna tells me that when other people look over a vast body of water, they feel its mystery and power. I only feel alone, unable to sink down into that powerful embrace that everyone else gets to feel.

I rub a finger along the water. It feels like stone to me. It will only become liquid if I press my open mouth against it or if it falls on top of me, which is as miraculous as the rest of it, I guess, but I’ve long stopped wondering what it means. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.

I sulk out there for a while. I probably ought to apologize. Again. But this won’t necessarily mean anything either. Our argument is deeper than me drinking alone on the lake, and whatever apology I come up with will have to be better than all the ones I’ve made before.

But maybe I don’t need to make a better apology.

Maybe I need to make a submarine.

I walk back to the house and get a bucket from the garage. I fill it with baseball-sized rocks from the beach, then lug the bucket into the kitchen, where I grab a 40-gallon trash bag. Then I go into the bathroom.

Brianna is still there, lurking beneath the refreshed bathwater like a wary crocodile. She eyes me as I approach. I unfold the trash bag and drop the closed end into the water by her feet. With almost-comical difficulty, I use one hand to hold the bag open while I step into it, while my other arm hugs the rock-laden bucket against my chest.

Brianna frowns.

I look down. I can’t see anything past all that crinkly black. “Have I sunk in at all?”

“Jess… what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to sit in the bathtub with you.”

Brianna sits up, looking at me skeptically while water dribbles down her unprotected skin. I squat down in my garbage bag, then one at a time, remove the rocks from the bucket, dropping them into the plastic at my feet. Only when I’m not carrying them do the rocks have weight. The garbage bag begins to sink.

“Jess?”

I finally run out of rocks. I sit on top of them, which is awfully uncomfortable. But the garbage bag now clings around me, because I have finally found a way to sink in to her, and I can feel the soft weight of all that powerful water molding itself around me.

The bag crinkles whenever I breathe.

Brianna stares at me. Her face pinches into a grin, and her shoulders twitch with suppressed laughter.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” I ask.

“Yes.” Her eyes shine like the surface I’ve broken through. “Yes, you’re certainly here.”

Well, it’s a start.