I’ll tell you, if it could always be like today, I’d do it in a flash. But it gets harder and harder for me to be in her company and not just blurt out that I love her. That I want to be her lover. I don’t think she’s exactly homophobic, but I do know that the thought of same-sex sex makes her feel very uncomfortable.
I can remember walking past a cafe on Lee Street with her once and we saw two women necking in a darkened corner of the outside patio.
“God,” Izzy said. “Why do they have to do that in public?”
“Heterosexuals do it in public.”
“Yeah, but that’s normal. I couldn’t ever imagine kissing another woman like that.”
I didn’t say anything. Truth is, I’m not so sure that I’m actually a lesbian myself. I’m not attracted to men, but I’m not attracted to women either. It’s just Izzy I want.
* *
I like the work that Izzy’s been doing for the past few years, but I miss the earlier paintings. Or maybe it’s that I miss the numena.
Izzy used to say that they came from a place where all was story—that’s all they remember, she told me: that there were stories. But we’re all made of stories—you, me, everybody. The ones you can see and the hidden stories we keep secret inside—like my love for Izzy. When they finally put us underground, the stories are what will go on. Not forever, perhaps, but for a time. It’s a kind of immortality, I suppose, bounded by limits, it’s true, but then so’s everything.
It didn’t work that way for her numena, though. Even when they were brought over to this world through Izzy’s art, they lived in secret, in their own hidden world. Izzy could find them—or they found her. I could see them, because I knew where to look. I suppose other people saw them from time to time as well, but it wouldn’t be quite real for them. I thought it’d be different. I thought their existence would change the world, but it wasn’t the first time I’ve been wrong about something, and I doubt it’ll be the last. It just never hurt so much before. The cost was never so high.
When the farmhouse burned, the numena died, and their stories died with them. Only Izzy remembered them, and me.
And Rushkin, I suppose, wherever he might be.
Angels And Monsters
—Traditional Mexican folk song
For Isabelle, the act of unwrapping the painting of
So she fully expected the figure in the painting to speak to her, or for its numena to appear at her window, tapping his long twiggy fingers against the glass pane, requesting entry. She remembered a winter’s night, a fire escape festooned with ribbons, the
It took her another long moment to register what the sound was before she cleared her head with a quick shake. Laying down the painting, she went to the door to find Jilly standing out in the hall, worry clouding her normally cheerful features.
“I was about to give up,” she said. “I’ve been knocking for ages.”
“I’m sorry. I was ... thinking.”
Remembering. Wishing she could reclaim what was gone. Regretting that the world would no longer allow her even that small touch of magic. But perhaps when she began the paintings to illustrate Kathy’s stories, perhaps when she once again breached the bathers that lay between the world of her numena and her own ...
“Isabelle?”
She blinked, returning her attention to her visitor.
“You went all vague on me,” Jilly said. “Are you sure you’re all right?” Isabelle nodded and stepped aside to let Jilly in. “I’m fine—a little distracted, that’s all.”
“Well, I’ve had the weirdest thing happen to me,” Jilly said. She paused in the middle of the room to look around. The studio looked exactly the way it had when they’d left it last night, still furnished in unpacked boxes and suitcases, sacks and bags, all heaped up in various piles.
“I just got back from running a few errands,” Isabelle explained.
“This is why I don’t ever move,” Jilly said. “It’s way too much like work. I don’t know how Christy can stand to do it almost every year—especially with all those books.”
“Imagine if I’d really moved.”
“No thanks. But listen to this.” Jilly boosted herself up onto the counter that held the studio’s sink and a hot plate and sat there with her legs dangling. “John Sweetgrass stopped by to see you at my place this morning.”
“John,” Isabelle repeated.
A deep stillness seemed to settle inside her. She put a hand on the counter to steady herself. Only moments ago she’d been yearning to reclaim the past, but now that it was here, looking for her, she wasn’t so certain what to do about it. After all these years, what could she possibly say to him?
“Except,” Jilly said, “he told me he wasn’t John. He was quite rude, really. The only similarity between this guy and the John I knew is that they look exactly the same.” She went on to relate the morning’s encounter, finishing with, “I mean, isn’t it weird? I know we were never the best of friends—I don’t think anybody really knew John well except for you.”
And did I even know him at all? Isabelle wondered.
“But still,” Jilly said. “It’s not as if I hadn’t just seen him a few days ago and he was perfectly normal—well, perfectly John, anyway: friendly enough, but a little distant. This guy had such a mean look in his eyes. Does John have a twin brother? More to the point, does he have an evil twin brother?”
Isabelle shook her head. “I’ve no idea. He never really talked much about his family, or his past. I know he had an aunt living here in the city and that’s about it.”
“It’s funny how you can know someone for years, but not really know them at all, isn’t it? There’s people I’ve hung around with for years whose last names I still don’t know.”
“Considering how many people you do know, I’m surprised you can remember anybody’s name.”
Jilly smiled. “Yes, well, I’m not exactly renowned for my very excellent memory. I never forget something I’ve seen, but anything that requires words, which includes names, forget it. My memory becomes very selective then, tossing up information only as it feels like it, instead of as I need it.”
“I think it’s called getting old.”
“This is true, more’s the pity.”
Isabelle was trying to match July’s lightness of mood, but it was a losing struggle for her. She couldn’t help but remember what Rushkin had told her, how the numena could be either monsters or angels, and sometimes it was difficult to tell which was which. Except Rushkin had always had his own agenda when it came to parceling out
