Calliope Read online

  Funny how you both get to be so cold, he thought. It’s pointless anymore. Your lives are just so separate. You might as well be on opposite ends of the earth.

  Geneveeve had been cold from the beginning. Mason had been her first. Breaking her into sex had been like trying to suck a beluga whale through a curly straw.

  Fuck it, he thought. No pun intended.

  What did he care? Numb to the perceptiveness of alcohol, he’d enjoyed the success of his first three novels.

  The door to the study opened. It must’ve taken some courage to walk in and confront him! She wore a white sweater, tight blue jeans. Her hair was black, wavy, falling to her shoulders. Her eyes were hazel, except for now. They were puffy, a glossy sheen of tears. She had a small petite nose, fair skin. She was pretty. Physically, she was his type, but all compatibility ended there.

  “I’m tired of this,” Geneveeve said.

  The alcohol moved swiftly through him, or was that his blood?

  Don’t accost me here, he thought. Don’t challenge me in my domain. This is my sanctuary.

  He’d been tired as well. He looked up, wavering, trying to ‘blink’ her into focus. “Do we have to talk about this now?” he asked.

  “How else can I talk to you? This is where you are all day. How else am I supposed to talk to you? I’m sorry if I’m ruining your buzz.”

  Mason turned and looked at the computer terminal.

  “Goddamnit!” she said.

  One hundred and ninety pages of a printed manuscript sat on the desk. She walked over, grabbed it, and threw the entire thing against the wall. Papers fluttered through the air like feathers.

  “Good thing I numbered those pages,” Mason said.

  “This is all you care about!” Geneveeve shouted, crying openly. “This is all you do! I might as well not even be here!”

  “You don’t want anything to do with it anyway,” he said. “You’re right. Why spend time with garbage?”

  “I read your first book.”

  “And what, pray tell, didst thou think of it?” He was surprised this came out as clearly as it did.

  Geneveeve sighed. They both knew what she thought—a novel that wouldn’t have had a prayer in the market without the lust, drugs, and violence.

  “That novel bought this house,” he told her.

  “To hell with this house!”

  Which was like saying: To hell with you.

  It wasn’t worth it anymore. Finalize the divorce, live with mother, let him relax and breathe again, drive the beast from the house. It would linger still, that resentment and tension. He’d have to perform some ritual to get rid of it, burn some sage perhaps. Sometimes, he thought, he could even quit drinking.

  Fat chance, he thought.

  ~

  Mason went away into a primitive land again.

  That’s the drink.

  “I didn’t get married to get divorced,” she said.

  He liked hearing that. And, of course, he loved her. He wished her the best, but . . .

  He’d gone to A.A., but it didn’t last. He never felt the healing spirit they claimed was there, and he didn’t think he had a problem with drinking anyway. Life was the problem, not drink. Drinking helped him deal with life. He wanted a drink. He didn’t need one.

  “Your religion is that damn bottle,” she said.

  “Then let me die by my religion. Death and religion are all the same thing anyway.”

  They met at an American Literature seminar at the university. Mason saw a flyer for it at a local bookstore in town. Geneveeve was an avid reader. She liked Emily Dickinson. Mason wasn’t into poetry, but she did catch his eye, Geneveeve, not Emily Dickinson. That she was an English Major and attractive was what intrigued him most. He asked her to a play: As You Like It. They stood and clapped, smiling, sparkling at each other, and they had taken a long walk afterward. How different was that conversation then? Had the talk been a lie, too? Every moment from then on had been a lie. Asking her to the play, much like the marriage . . . all a lie.

  Seven months later, he’d asked Geneveeve to marry him. He’d been an occasional drinker. Once Blood and Fire found success, he turned into a regular drinker. He’d waited a long time for this. He was still celebrating. He just didn’t want to stop celebrating.

  She’d moved out a year ago to stay with her mother and think about things. When she came back, Mason was surprised to find the spark had returned, if only for a few weeks. Things returned to normal in a hurry, and it wasn’t long before they were at war with each other again.

  Love isn’t marriage, he thought. Love is what you make it, what God gives you that you have to recognize.

  Mason knew his true friends and family were from another world; he just had to find them.

  He sighed and shook his head.

  You know, you always come back to it. You’re trying to make it real.

  You’ve always known about it, another voice answered. You just never made it there.

  The places he imagined were real. They had to be. As long as they were real for him and his readers, what else was there? Why else were they in his head? He never saw Geneveeve there. She never inspired him, never dreamed of putting her into a story. Geneveeve wasn’t the kind of character he wanted to write about. True love didn’t come from Geneveeve. Inspiration didn’t come from Geneveeve. He couldn’t compose a simple sonnet for her, a single line of poetry. Maybe she resented the fact that he’d never dedicated anything to her. He always thought she’d be insulted by the fact.

  Mason closed his eyes and grabbed the drink, swallowing the rest of it. If anything, it put him in another world directly.

  Some other time and place, he thought.

  He refilled his glass . . . and drank to that, too.

  ~

  Geneveeve left. Her mother would be concerned with her arriving so late.

  Mason heard the front door close. She didn’t say goodbye.

  He’d written enough for the day. He poured another dollop of whiskey, the ice in the bucket melting. He threw in the last. He opened the door to the study, walked through the kitchen, and opened the door to the back patio, stepping outside.

  Mason drank and looked up at the stars. He should’ve gotten some cigarettes. If he’d known Geneveeve was going to her mother’s house, he would have.

  It was a warm summer night in June of 2015. A clear, radiant sky of stars spread above. There was a half moon in the sky.

  These stars are not worth it to her, he thought.

  “You need to get over it, boy,” he said to himself. “Enough is enough already. What’s done is done. Shining lights do not welcome you. These stars are not your own.”

  He bought the home in Elk Ridge a year ago. He would’ve never thought, not by looking at it, that it would harbor the resentments it did now.

  The money had helped, but it didn’t solve all their problems.

  He held the glass up to the stars, a silent salutation to worlds better than his own. “To you,” he said. “Wherever you are.”

  Worlds of make-believe followed him. They spilled out into the real world and welcomed him home.

  Finally, Mason thought, and closed his eyes.

  It was good to pretend.

  CHAPTER II

  Mason’s sleeping was fitful, but he’d eaten before going to bed. Eating and plenty of Ibuprofen. That was the ritual, and it made the hangovers tolerable. Usually, he could wake-up feeling close to eighty-percent.

  He managed to shower and drink two cups of coffee when his cousin called. Mason picked up the cordless phone on the kitchen wall. He’d never been one to have a cell or an iPhone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Cuz, how’s the morning treating ya?”

  “I could use a little more sleep and a good breakfast.”

  “That good, huh? How would ya like to do some fishin’?”

  “Actually, I was just thinking about a vacation,” Mason told Eric. “Can we go away for good?”
>
  “Just say the word”

  Eric Reese was a year older than Mason at thirty-four. He owned his own landscaping company called simply, Reese Landscaping. Eric supervised renovations and remodels at various job sights. He had a dependable crew and spent most of his time inspecting work sights and making bids. “Having people do the work for you, especially that kind of work,” he once told Mason, “is the only way to work at all. Someday, I hope to get away from that as well. Sitting at a desk sounds okay, going through the paperwork. I’ve always been good with numbers.”

  “Things are only so bad,” Mason told Eric over the phone. “What time are you heading out?”

  “Pretty soon. I was thinking of trying Black Canyon today. The fish are small, but it’s active this time of year. If we get tired of them, we can always head up to Blackfoot.”

  “I wonder why everything’s ‘black’ up there?’” Mason asked.

  “It’s better than everything being lavender. Wanna go or not?”

  “It sounds like a great idea. I’ll grab my things and force something down my throat.”

  “Anything I can do to help?”

  Mason grinned. Dirty talk between cousins was a game they played, slightly revolting, but amusing at the same time. Mason saw it as a healthy sign of kinship.

  “Geneveeve isn’t around, so it looks like a go.”

  “Far out,” Eric said. “But I think I’ve changed my mind.”

  Mason could virtually see Eric’s grin. “Your loss,” he said.

  Eric laughed and said goodbye. Mason hung up and looked for something to eat.

  ~

  He met Geneveeve in the driveway as he was taking the fishing supplies to the red Jeep Cherokee. Red was Mason’s favorite color. Since success, everything was red: the chair in his study, the jeep, even his fishing pole.

  The sun was out, warm and blistering in a sky filled with large, billowy clouds. It was a beautiful day, hotter than usual with no wind. He’d put on jeans, a 7-Up shirt, sunglasses, and a red and black Colorado Avalanche baseball cap.

  Mason caught Geneveeve’s eye as she pulled into the driveway. She drove a gold Toyota Camry. His timing couldn’t have been any worse. He set the fishing gear next to the Cherokee. They’d probably take Eric’s truck.

  Geneveeve stepped out of the Camry and shut the door. Her hair was done up with a large white clip. She was wearing the same white sweater from the night before, despite the warmth; she had poor circulation. She was always cold.

  “Fishing, huh?” she asked.

  He didn’t even look at her. “Yup.”

  “By yourself? Or did Eric call?”

  “Eric called, and we’re going to have a big cocaine convention at the First Methodist. He says it’s to bring in a new Christian duty. The fishing supplies are just to deceive you.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that,” she said, obviously hurt. “I can’t imagine what it does to your soul.”

  “It can’t be much worse than what you do to my soul. It’s all punishment in some form or another, no matter how you look at it.” Mason knew he was going too far, but he couldn’t help it. “When are you moving out?”

  And then he realized . . . he probably shouldn’t have said that, either.

  You and that tongue of yours, boy.

  Geneveeve’s eyes filled with tears. “Don’t you want to at least try and make this work?”

  Where the hell had that come from? What about, ‘I just can’t take this anymore?’

  Please don’t go there, Mason thought. Don’t ruin my day. We’ve talked about this already.

  He took a deep breath and looked at her. He shook his head, not saying anything.

  “I just want you to slow down on the drinking,” she said.

  This was not the same person he’d argued with the night before.

  Where you’re going, nobody cares if you drink. Where you’re going, you’ll have all the friends you’ve ever needed. You might even meet a young damsel who wants to drink with you. Where you’re going, boy, you’ll be happy.

  He’d never heard so many characters coming to life in his head before. Over the last twenty-four hours, they seemed to be bombarding him. Why was that? Christ, maybe he was drinking too much.

  We’re not strangers. We’ve met before.

  Something terrified Mason when he looked at Geneveeve again. He was looking at a total stranger. How could he have been brainwashed into marriage? Why had he allowed it to happen?

  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  Yes, she was asking him to give up his life, everything he loved, and for what?

  “That’ll solve everything, will it?” he asked.

  “Yes, I think it will. If you slow down.”

  Mason looked her in the eye. “It’s more than that,” he said, trying to be as honest as he could. “It’s always been more than that. You want to think drinking will be enough. But it won’t. It never will be. You hate the smoke; you’ll be asking me to give that up, too. Soon the coffee will be a problem, and church will be right around the corner. And even church won’t be enough, will it? I could have the power to heal the sick and afflicted, Geneveeve, and it wouldn’t be enough. You don’t understand the things I do. And vice-versa. I don’t know how many times I have to tell you that there’s nothing left for me to say.” He paused. “I’ll quit drinking all right.”

  There were the tears, he saw. He was good at bringing out the tears. Goddamn, he had mastered the art of making her cry!

  They ought to give you awards for that, he thought.

  Geneveeve held her hands to her face and ran to the front door, disappearing inside.

  Eric pulled up in a dark blue Chevy truck with Reese Landscaping and Renovation, printed on the side in white cursive letters. He’d probably seen just enough.

  “Smooth,” Mason said, under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. He stood there for a second, sighed, then turned. Eric stepped out of the truck and shut the door. He was a big man, intimidating, the size of a linebacker with reddish-blond hair and deep blue eyes hidden behind solid black sunglasses. He wore an army green fishing hat, long gray shorts, tennis shoes, and a T-shirt.

  “Do I have bad timing or what?” Eric asked.

  “Perfect timing, actually,” Mason told him. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “I’ll drive,” Eric said.

  Mason put his fishing supplies in the back of Eric’s truck, and they were down the road in a matter of seconds.

  ~

  Gentle hills passed them as they drove. Black Canyon was still an hour away. They drove along Main Street, through Smithfield, and into farming communities. Mountain hills bordered the wide valley that was northern Utah and soon, southern Idaho. The fields to the left turned to rich, green alfalfa.

  Mason lit a cigarette, and Eric did the same.

  “So, pilgrim,” Eric said. “Anything you need to get off your chest?”

  Mason rolled the window down and blew out smoke. He felt dehydrated from the night before. He needed a glass of water.

  “Jesus,” he said, taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I don’t think there’s anything left Geneveeve and I can do. I just want us to get on with our lives. I guess I love her. But it’s not about that anymore. It’s about everything else. Has it ever occurred to you that I have horns and a tail?”

  “Plenty of times. It gives you fashion.”

  Mason laughed. “The funny thing is, I actually take that as a compliment.”

  “That’s why I said it,” Eric said.

  Mason nodded, managing to smile. At least he felt better. He never had to hide anything with Eric. The man’s presence was refreshing. With Geneveeve, it was exactly the opposite.

  “I think she’ll be better off once she moves in with her mother,” Mason said. “We both will.”

  “Is that what she’s doing?”

  Mason nodded. “Good old mo
ther,” he said. “When all else fails, go to mother. When things turn bad, just talk to mother. Mother knows all. Mother will help you.” Mason thought of a Pink Floyd song with the same title.

  “What do you think of Mother?” Eric asked, taking a drag of his cigarette, and blowing the smoke through the cab.

  “Well, Mother doesn’t think too much of me,” Mason said. “You forget they’re like fucking twins. Whatever Mother thinks is what Geneveeve does. Geneveeve’s mind is her mother. She’s always been that way.” He thought for a minute.

  “Like a big kid,” Eric said.

  “Yeah. Funny. That’s what she says to me.”

  Eric grinned, and said, “Well, I have a little something to take your mind off things. Remember, Cuz, we’re fishing.”

  Eric pulled out a joint from his pack of cigarettes. “You game?”

  “Can’t remember the last time I wasn’t.”

  Eric lit the joint and handed it over. Mason took a deep drag and held it in for a long time before blowing it out.

  “Yeah, not to talk out of place,” Eric said.

  “By all means, talk out of place.”

  “I think you guys would be better off divorced.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her.”

  “She’s stubborn,” Eric said, taking a deep drag, and passing it over.

  “She’s a lot more than that.”

  “She’s a vixen,” Eric said. “She wants to lynch you, hang you by your balls, destroy everything you’re made of. She thinks she’s helping you, but she’s not. Believe me, friend, she’s more the enemy than you realize.”

  Mason nodded.

  “You guys are just different,” Eric finished.

  Mason was silent for a while. “I’ve been thinking of going away,” he finally said.

  Eric looked at him.

  “You know, like a vacation,” Mason went on. “I told you on the phone.”

  Eric smiled and nodded.

  “I’m not fucking around!” Mason said, seriously.