The Drowned Life by Jeffrey Ford Page B

them. This tale can tell me nothing about the story contained within the rose-colored bubble but only about its existence and about the grotto that was like a dragon’s mouth. Still, there are methods to get at the story in that bubble underthe lake. What’s called for is someone to discover it. For this, we’ll need a character.
    Here’s one, easy as could be—she comes toward me out of the shadows of my mind, a young lady, perhaps fifteen, maybe sixteen. One moment, please…. Okay, her name is Emily, and she has long red hair, green eyes, and freckles across her nose. She’s dressed in denim overalls, and beneath them she wears a T-shirt, yellow, with the word “ AXIMESH ” in black block letters, showing just above the top of the overall bib. On her feet, she wears cheap, coral-colored beach sandals. She’s got long eyelashes, a hemp necklace with a yin/ yang pendant, and, in her back left pocket, for good luck, there’s a piece of red paper folded into the figure of an angel. When you pull on its feet the wings flap and the ring that’s the halo above its head separates at the front and turns into two curved horns, sticking up.
    I know she’s walking along the sidewalk in her hometown, moving her lips, silently talking to herself, staring at the cracked concrete beneath her feet, but I don’t yet know where she’s going. Wait…she lifts her head. She hears someone calling her name. “Emily!” She turns around and sees a boy of about her age approaching from behind. I see him, and the instant I do, the dim nature of my imagination pushes back in a circle with these two as its center to reveal a perfect blue day in a small town. I see and hear them talking within that portal of brightness, and he’s asking her where she’s going. “To the cemetery,” she tells him. He nods and obviously decides to follow her.
    The boy has large ears, that much is clear. His hair is cut close to his scalp, and his face could either be construed as dim-witted or handsome, depending on how you construe. I’m no judge of looks. He’s got a name that begins with a “V,” but I’m not sure what it is. It’s sort of exotic, but since I can’t think of it, I’ll call him Vincent just to have something to call him. I know he knows the girland she knows him. They more than likely go to school together. I think they’re in the same math class. She’s good at math. He’s not very good at it, and the teacher, an old woman the students call the Turkey, for the wattle beneath her chin, once gave him a zero for the day as a result of, as she said, his “gross ignorance.” Emily felt bad for him, but she laughed along with the other students at the insult.
    Emily’s grandmother has recently passed away and Emily is telling Vincent that she’s going to the cemetery to pay her respects. Vincent’s wearing the same expression as when the Turkey calls him to the blackboard and sticks a piece of chalk in his hand and tells him to solve a fantastical division problem—one number as long as his arm going into another number as long as his leg. He wants to do something in both instances, say the right thing, do what’s appropriate, but he’s not sure how to so he just keeps walking beside Emily. When they stop at a corner to check both ways before crossing, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pack of licorice gum and asks if she wants some. She says okay and takes a piece.
    As they cross the street, I start to lose sight of them, so I lean in close to the circle of light in which they are walking, and…aghhh, shit, I’ve knocked it onto the floor of my imagination and it’s cracked. Their story is leaking out and I’m missing some and knowing the rest too fast. The light that had been in the bubble of their scene slowly dissolves. Hold on while I try to find them again. I can’t