Blanche/Warren stood. Her eyes glazed over.
There was still power in the metaphor.
I thought back on my experience under the influence of Naomi, how I’d been plunged into a new reality, how I’d participated in it, shaped it, fleshed it out, like I’d been implanted with an end and given the tools to manufacture and rationalize the means to that end. Warren’s end, according to Naomi, was to help me, but that was vague. Maybe he had several ends, each one designed to help me differently, and I just had to set him on the right course, one that brought me in contact with the sourdough totem—breadcrumbs—and massive amounts of Blanche’s Cackle—seagull feathers?—so that I could enter the sourdough whorl and end all of this. But how was I supposed to relay these needs to Warren? I could spend all week and not get through, and I only had an hour at the most before the county grafted to the flood, and probably a lot less than that before Blanche discovered I wasn’t dead yet.
The last thing Naomi had said to me was, “Remember our picnic in Sequoia Park.” At the time, I’d thought she was using sentiment and nostalgia to mess with my head, but she could just as easily have been giving me the final instruction in her tutorial.
I waded through the memories of that day, of our picnic: The sun was out. Summer was almost over. We had errands to run in Eureka, and as a treat for finishing, we picnicked in the park. We walked down a trail, through giant redwoods that blocked the sun, and we sat at a picnic table by a pond. I didn’t remember any ducks in the pond, but there were turtles and a couple of swans. That was close enough to get me excited. I took a stab:
“Swans protect ducks from seagulls,” I said.
Blanche/Warren didn’t move or change expression. A shuttle drove slowly by. The passengers looked past us. I waited a minute—still no movement. Maybe something was happening internally, the way a duck appears calm on the surface while underwater their legs are pedaling ferociously. I waited a little longer before realizing the metaphor was having more effect on me than Blanche/Warren. I took another stab: “When the storm comes, the ducks will have to share the duck pond with the seagulls. Turtles and ducks work together to hide breadcrumbs from seagulls.”
A high-pitched moan slowly seeped out of Blanche/Warren like air from a balloon, and she began squatting, standing, squatting, standing, over and over. She seemed distressed, tormented. I could only imagine what was spinning around in her mind. I preferred she be motionless like before rather than doing this and drawing attention to us. Another shuttle was coming from up the road. Worried the spell would break if the passengers saw Blanche/Warren in her current state, I dipped back into my memory. What else? What else?
Crayons! That was it! It had to be. After our picnic, I’d tossed some leftover potato chips into the pond for the swans. In a hurry to eat the chips, the swans also ate some crayons floating nearby that a kid must have thrown in earlier. Feeling responsible, I considered calling the city to get the swans’ stomachs pumped. Naomi just laughed at me and told me they’d be fine.
The shuttle was twenty yards away. This had to be what she was looking for. If not . . . .
I repeated the metaphor and followed it with a new command: “Crayons! Crayons in the duck pond. Crayons and potato chips. Crayons aren’t poisonous to swans.”
Blanche/Warren stopped squatting, reached into her back pocket, and pulled out a wallet with an envelope sticking out the top. She handed the envelope to me. After the shuttle passed without Blanche taking notice of us, I hunched over the envelope to shield it from the rain as I opened it. My fingers were wet, pruney, shaking. I found a letter inside. Drops fell onto it from my jacket, running the ink as I read:
“Dear Charlie,
I know that secret tests are frowned upon by relationship experts, but I’ve been alive a long time. Fashions come and go. Anyway, you passed. You remembered a day that is very special to me, the day I fell in love with you. Your concern for those swans was so sweet, so cute, so emblematic of your nature, that I couldn’t help but risk everything to keep your light in this world.
“It took all of my skill as a wanda to prepare Warren for you, and to keep that hidden from Blanche. Now that you’ve given him the key phrase, or at least an approximation of it, you no longer have to speak metaphorically. He will now translate your commands into my metaphor so that you don’t have to, but because of the strain this puts on the spell, you will only have fifteen minutes before it wears off.
“Good luck, and I love you. Always, Naomi”
Old feelings I had for Naomi breached in my mind and made a huge splash. I dropped the letter in the water behind me and scooted back as if from a snake, afraid Naomi had somehow laced it with her cackle. Though I was grateful for her help, and my judgment of her had softened, I had no desire to join her harem.
“Tell Blanche I’m dead,” I said to Blanche/Warren, testing Naomi’s claim.
“The swan swallowed too many crayons,” Blanche/Warren said, and I hoped that meant the command had been followed.
“Free my hands and feet,”
“Plastic six-pack rings can be deadly to wildlife.” Blanche/Warren crouched in front of me, took out a pocket knife, and cut the zip-ties.
Chapter 38
MY FIRST IMPULSE WAS to get a car and get to Naomi and the sourdough totem before Blanche. But the DMV was a thirty-minute drive away, and Blanche could be anywhere, in anybody. The whole county was either
