Imagine

This is a story about Layla.

She cut her Civic's gas outside her father's house and looked out at it. It was the squarest house in the whole subdivision, it was all white with mascara window-frames, and it was what she would always consider home.

She went into her father's house that afternoon because he was three hundred miles away visiting his sister in Western New York, and it had been assigned to Layla to see there were neither floods not fires nor leaks nor cave-ins to be discovered upon his return--and she had promised to do so next day.

According to the weatherman, there was going to be a terrific thunderstorm than night at around midnight, and lots of rain was expected to fall before eight a.m. A big July storm, expect it to be dramatic. Layla knew what to do. Layla had a plan.

Prevailing winds during the storm, expected from the west. Layla knew where west was. The west side of the house; the side her bedroom had been on, with the kitchen directly under her.

She loved storms. The more dramatic the better.

She went up to her bedroom which was had changed itself into a musty storage-room in her absence of twenty-five years. But the window was exactly the same, with its tiny hairline cracks in the lower left corner. She went to this window, pushed aside the rough orange curtains, and worked at the little plastic claspy thing that held it tightly shut. Stiff. Not opened in some time. Probably not even thought about in some time. Or at least he wouldn't be able to understand it, not in the least.

Finally the plastic thing thunked open. Layla slid the window open. It felt almost rusty, as if glass could rust. Perhaps glass gets brittle over the years. In any case, the window was now fully open. The sky was grey. It was time to get home, before anyone noticed her absence. She went downstairs and out and into her car and drove to her house two miles away.

This is a story about Layla's daughter, Julie.

Juliet had gone out earlier, leaving Layla alone (to go to her father's house and return quickly, as said above). As a matter of fact, Julie was entering the downtown post office when Layla arrived at her father's house.

Julie went through the post office to the clerk who took care of the post office boxes. She produced identification and the clerk went to look. He came back with a single letter and handed it to her. Her heart leapt. She quickly left and went across the street to a cafe in which she had read more than one letter over the past three weeks.

She ordered a coffee and mint coffee cake and sat at the window. She opened the envelope (addressed to P.O. Box 18, Arcadia) and opened out the two sheets that lay within, gently counter-creasing the creases of the sheets.

She read the letter three times.

An answer was required. Naturally she had with her three sheets of precisely the same paper as the letter with the same type of envelope. Naturally she had a pen too--but sadly not the same type of ink as the ink on the letter received. That pen had run out a week before.

She wrote the letter slowly, getting a second cup of coffee when she reached the end of the third paragraph on the verso of sheet one. She wrote, thinking though to a time in the near future when everything would be sorted out.

Julie finished the letter, folded it carefully, and put it in the envelope. On the outside she wrote an address. The address was to a place twenty-three miles distant. Quite a hike it would be; Julie knew the bus she could take to get there. She would never take that bus in the end. In just a little while she'd be taking a bus to a different place entirely.

She went back over to the post office and slipped the letter in the mailbox just outside the building. Then she started on her way back to her house (to which her mother Layla had returned a half-hour earlier).

This is a story of Layla's son, Mike, brother of Julie.

He was sitting in the living room with Julie's mother when Julie got back from the post office. He smiled at her. He said, "I'm back."

Julie said, "Why aren't you in Spain?"

Mike stood up quickly and practically jumped on her. "It's so good to see you, sis!" he cried.

She shoved him away, crying, "What's all this about? What happened? Where were you?"

Mike let out a yelp of a laugh--something new--and told her, "I had some trouble at the border."

"So where have you been for the last two weeks?"

"Well," he began, but stopped there for he didn't want to tell her the truth. "I've been hanging around here. They wouldn't let me cross any borders, so I just ... hung around."

These three people shared features such that everyone could tell they were related. Julie looked exactly like her mother had twenty-five years ago. Sometimes for a moment some people thought they were sisters. They both had straight blonde hair, button noses, and narrow chins. Michael was taller than either, but with the same hair colour and features. They were certainly a family all right.

Layla said, "I'm glad you're home, Mike. What do you plan on doing?"

Mike fell on the floor, on his side, and started running in circles like the Curly Howard. He leapt up with a hand-high flourish, shouting, "Hawks and handsaws! Hawks and handsaws!"

"Oh my, Mike. Are you going to continue your study of theatre? Marlowe and all that?"

"Ah, the divine Marlowe! I believe I will, mother-o-mine."

Something was wrong in the house. Layla sensed it; so did Julie. Was Mike sensing anything at all? Julie said, "You still haven't said where you were these last two weeks."

"A riddle," he replied. "There are nine of us between the inside and the outside. What are we?"

Julie thought for a moment. "I don't think I have enough information."

"Ah, that's because you're on the inside. I have things to do. I'll talk to you all, every one of you, in three hours."

This is the story of Julie's correspondent, Layla's daughter's correspondent, Gerald, Mike's sister's correspondent.

Gerald waited for his sister to return to the table. She'd come to visit him; she was the only person (other than Julie) who knew where he was, twenty-three miles away from Julie. He stirred his coffee as he waited and he fingered the vialed philtre in his pocket. Finally she returned.

He said, "Is Mike back yet?"

She shook her head anxiously. "Nope." She was in love with Mike, Julie's brother. (It's not unheard of for a brother and sister to love and marry a sister and brother. This is a fact.)

"I guess he's up in all his research. Any letters?"

"Not one." She stared into the cup she held on edge. She sighed then said, "So what about you, Gerald? How you going to settle this?"

He pulled out the vial and showed it to her. "This is a paralysis potion, believe it or not. I bought it from a gypsy. When I drink this, I'll appear dead. Our folks will put me in the family tomb, then Julie will rescue me, and we'll run away together."

"That sounds convoluted. Why not just ... run away?"

Gerald thought for a moment. "I can't remember exactly the reason, but we can't do it that way. There's some snag. I can't go through the reasoning again. Something to do with money, I think."

She looked out the window. "So you're gonna come home to do this? Drink that stuff?"

"Yeah. Will you help me with this? Get me back in good with the folks?"

"That'll be easy. But what about Julie's cousin? The one you stabbed in the arras?"

"I've got a disguise." He put on the disguise there and then. "No-one will recognize me now. See?"

"It's quite the disguise."

He stood up. "Okay. Let's go back to Arcadia. I'm ready. This all has to happen tonight."

His sister stood up. "I hope you know what you're doing."

"It's all written in the stars, sis. I'm destined to be with Julie."

"Never heard of such a thing before."

And returned they to Arcadia and their parents' home.

This is the story of Gerald's parents, his sister's parents too, Otto and Mary, Julie's correspondent's parents, Layla's daughter's correspondent's parents, Mike's sister's correspondent's parents.

While Gerald and his sister were returning to Arcadia, a terrible scene was going on at their parent's house.

The blame lay entirely on Otto's subordinate accountant. Just because he was a rotten guy, and passed over for a promotion (maybe on account of his being a rotten guy), this subordinate, this Chuck, had made Otto jealous. Even after thirty years of marriage, Otto was still capable of being made jealous. So all that day Otto had been goading Mary, trying to get her to inadvertently reveal the name of her lover--which was the name of Otto's preferred employee.

"Come, dearest," he said to her. "My new promoted employee--he's very much of a lady's man, is he not?"

She was backed into a corner. "If you'll simply put away that cord, I will answer your questions. Why do your eyes bug out so?"

"Because, darling, I have my suspicions."

"I have done nothing untoward. I am entirely innocent."

She was not to be believed. There was no precedent to this type of behaviour. Nothing in her wide reading had prepared her for this.

Fifteen minutes later, Gerald and his sister came home to find their mother strangled upon the floor.

They rushed to her. She gasped, "Willow, willow, willow," and died.

Gerald stood up boldly. "You were lied to, father! I know all about it! It was all a lie! She was as innocent as snow! You beast!"

Otto recognized his mistake brought about by his naïveté. "How could I have done such a thing? It must be my military experience that's to blame. In Aleppo it was that I caught a kraut by the neck, and strangled him thusly." And as if by a miracle Otto managed to strangle himself. What an event! Surely worth a short story!

It started to rain.

This is the story of Layla's first husband, Julie's father, Mike's father, Otto†'s son's girlfriend's father, Mary†'s son's girlfriend's father, Gerald's girlfriend's father, Julie's father, Philip, a ghost.

He is lurking around the house, choosing not to be visible to anyone. Last time he showed himself--to his son Mike--things didn't go especially well. Mike didn't want to believe him. Can you believe that? Do you know how much ectoplasma a ghost has got to use up to make an appearance? Ectoplasma doesn't grow on trees, you know. Mike was hesitant, and he was still hesitant. Kids these days....

He sees his son Mike acting strangely. But is it an act, or is it genuine? Philip the ghost has adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Meanwhile he's more concerned with his daughter Julie. Her boyfriend Gerald, so knows Philip the ghost, is going to stage his own death in order to run away with Julie, in a convoluted way that's entirely unnecessary. Philip the ghost, low on ectoplasma, has to wait-and-see about that, too.

What did Philip the ghost's brother--now Philip's widow's second husband--have against this Gerald fellow anyway? He killed Nick†, nephew of both Philip and his brother (naturally), but Nick† was a loser-idiot, mostly just a joke to them all. He'd done everyone a favour. And now Gerald (so noted Philip the ghost, in tune with the astral planes and so on) had lost his parents: Otto† and Mary†. He was an orphan through no fault of his own. Maybe this new thing would mean that Gerald would reconsider his cockamamie scheme. Gerald and Julie! Just run away!

The rain was coming down heavily. It was pouring into the home of Philip the ghost's widow's father's house. Philip the ghost didn't know what his widow was up to. How could she do such a thing?

Philip the ghost wondered what William Shakespeare would have made of all this if he hadn't been stabbed to death in May of 1953 in Deptford. What would the author of the Richard III and the Comedy of Errors have seen here? Would he not have found such a family dramatic?

This is the story of Philip the ghost's brother, Layla's second husband, step-father of Julie and Mike, Gerald's correspondent Julie's step-father, Claudius by name, also Otto† and Mary†'s son's correspondent's step-father.

Claudius was in his study when it had started to rain, writing his confessions. And boy did he ever have a whopper. Fratricide. Yes, the crime of Cain was on his conscience. If only he could make it up to the boy Mike, who appeared to everyone to have gone utterly insane. Was it because of Gerald's sister what's-her-name? Had she rejected him in some way? Claudius thought about how jealous he had been when his brother had stolen Layla away from him. The devil, he remembered, had gotten a hold on his soul to inform him that jealous murder is not a real crime. And Claudius had believed it at the time.

A knock at the door. "Come in." The door opened. It was Mike. Mike with a big hunting knife.

"Hello, Mike. What can I do for you?"

"You can die for me."

Claudius sighed. "I had no choice in the matter. I am your father now. Put down the knife and gimme a big hug."

Mike gripped the knife fiercely. "Now I finally know. Now you've confessed."

"I feel bad about it, Mike. So gimme a break, and a big hug."

Mike rushed forward and stabbed his step-father to death. There was blood everywhere. The place was a mess. Claudius fell to the carpet, and was no more.

Mike looked upon Claudius†. He looked at his bloody knife. "Oh my God, I have killed my mother's husband! What else am I but ... a parricide? Or at least an avunculicide. My God, I'm probably both! My madness returns!"

Layla rushed into the room. She cried, "Is that a dagger I see before me?"

Mike said, "No, it's a hunting knife."

"You've killed my husband! My incestuous husband! I cannot live!" and with that she took the dagger and stabbed and stabbed herself and was no more.

Mike took the dagger up. "Let these horrid crimes end now!"

And soon he was no more too.

This is a story about a gravedigger not related to Layla†, Julie, Gerald, Mike†, Otto†, Mary†, Nick†, or Claudius†.

The gravedigger was drinking some coffee in the cemetery office around about one am when a noise from the cemetery gate alerted him. It was a woman climbing the gate in the rain. She was crying, "Gerald, Gerald!"

Now, there had been a lot of action in the cemetery world that day, what with the corpses piling up and all. But the gravedigger knew who Gerald was. He was a corpse they'd interred in a family tomb earlier that day under unusual circumstances. Rumour had it that a young man had shown up saying he had a body to inter in his family tomb. When asked who was the dearly departed, he answered, himself. Well, it was his family's property, wasn't it? No one had a quality counter-response, so they let him in. He drank something from a vial and lay out on the floor and died. How curious!

Now there was a young woman in the cemetery crying, "Gerald! Gerald!" And now she was heading for that family tomb previously mentioned.

The gravedigger quietly followed her through the rain.

She went down into the tomb. This tomb didn't have cobwebs, it didn't have skeleton hands sticking out the sides of caskets, it didn't even have bats. It was more like a lounge, with warm hues, throw pillows, and a big-screen tv.

The gravedigger saw the young woman fall on the corpse of the guy who'd come to die that afternoon. She cried, and gasped, and pulled out a dagger and stabbed herself repeatedly.

What a shock!

Then the formerly dead young man came to life! And he looked at the body beside him and let out a most unusual cry. Wow! The gravedigger watched as the man took the dagger up, and repeatedly stabbed himself. Double wow!

The gravedigger left the tomb. Everything could be sorted out at eight.

Wow! What an entry for his blog! (Rated #8 in cemetery-related blogs in North America.)

This is a story about King, father of Layla†, father-in-law of Claudius†, grandfather to Mike† and Julie†, Gerald†'s girlfriend's grandfather, Otto†'s son's girlfriend's grandfather, Mary†'s son's girlfriend's grandfather, and Nick†'s grandfather (I think).

King cut his Civic's gas outside his house and looked out at it. Home sweet home. And what a trip he'd had. Now it was back to his house. Almost.

He got out and looked at the sky. It looked like it had rained overnight. Everything felt moist and fresh. He could smell worms. He felt ten again ... like seventy years had never passed. His long life, his wife†, his children†, his grandchildren†...

He veritably hopped up the steps to his front door and opened it up and went inside. It was quiet, and he sighed. His house, that wasn't his house, not in deed--for he had signed it over to his daughter Layla†, wherein he was living rent-free so long as he could be judged competent. And King felt mostly fine, in mind and body. Mostly fine.

But there was a sound in there--some kind of a dripping sound, from over there.

He went into the kitchen. Oh God! A flood from above! How could this have happened? He threw down his two tea towels and shoved them through yellow water on the floor with his foot. He looked up--the water was from up there, in the storage room that used to be Layla†'s room.

Up the stairs he went to aforementioned room only to see the window wide open. But that's impossible, he hadn't been in that room any time recently ... as far as he could remember. No, he certainly had not been in that room.

So maybe my daughter is right. Maybe I am going senile. Maybe I should be in an old folk's home. Some things I am simply doing absentmindedly, and I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't have this house. It's not mine. I've given it away.

Maybe that was a mistake....