novella
Active Member
bobbyburns leaned closer to the mirror as he adjusted his silk ascot. The mirror’s silver had decayed and flaked, rendering his reflection as a shadowy ghost in the dim light. He found a toothpick and removed the last of the poppyseeds from between his teeth, legacies from the irresistible kolaches his grandmother had sent by post from Iowa. He thought of stormclouds over the grassland, and the long flat highway that ran past her house, and his father’s Allis Chalmers chugging through the cut corn. Another life.
His wingtips needed a final buffing. Perched on the edge of a tapestry armchair he worked the chamois across the toes, first the right then the left.
Time to work. He took his place at the head of the table, a pencil, a legal pad, and a glass of water aligned next to his keyboard. The orange evening sun glanced off the walnut tabletop, momentarily blinding him. It was a sign.
He opened a new document and typed
“My name is bobbyburns. I have committed a crime. Through no evil intent. I have taken a life. This is my confession.”
Through the open window, he heard someone singing.
Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom
When the jungle shadows fall
Like the tick tick tock of the stately clock
As it stands against the wall
Like the drip drip drip of the raindrops
When the summer shower is through
So a voice within me keeps repeating
You, you, you you you
Night and day, you are the one . . .
A beautiful voice, like Fred Astaire’s. The curtains whispered as it faded away, down the street.
You you you. That was for him, matching his mind exactly. He did not yet know why he’d done what he’d done, he only knew he’d done it for her.
Lily stood in the street and looked up at the window, wondering whether he would answer the door today. She was afraid to try. A car passed slowly, edging by her, but she did not move. A man in a Red Sox cap rounded the corner with his dog. He was singing to himself and did not look up at her. She might have been invisible. Even the dog did not turn.
His wingtips needed a final buffing. Perched on the edge of a tapestry armchair he worked the chamois across the toes, first the right then the left.
Time to work. He took his place at the head of the table, a pencil, a legal pad, and a glass of water aligned next to his keyboard. The orange evening sun glanced off the walnut tabletop, momentarily blinding him. It was a sign.
He opened a new document and typed
“My name is bobbyburns. I have committed a crime. Through no evil intent. I have taken a life. This is my confession.”
Through the open window, he heard someone singing.
Like the beat beat beat of the tom-tom
When the jungle shadows fall
Like the tick tick tock of the stately clock
As it stands against the wall
Like the drip drip drip of the raindrops
When the summer shower is through
So a voice within me keeps repeating
You, you, you you you
Night and day, you are the one . . .
A beautiful voice, like Fred Astaire’s. The curtains whispered as it faded away, down the street.
You you you. That was for him, matching his mind exactly. He did not yet know why he’d done what he’d done, he only knew he’d done it for her.
Lily stood in the street and looked up at the window, wondering whether he would answer the door today. She was afraid to try. A car passed slowly, edging by her, but she did not move. A man in a Red Sox cap rounded the corner with his dog. He was singing to himself and did not look up at her. She might have been invisible. Even the dog did not turn.
