Blood In Electric Blue Read online

  “How do you fall out of love? It doesn’t seem fair that you know how to do that and I don’t.”

  “It’s not.”

  He has not seen or spoken to Lisa since.

  Twenty years. Twenty years. He was only twenty-two at the time. It hardly seems possible it could’ve happened so long ago. Most days it’s like a piece of some entirely separate life. In a way, maybe it is. Nothing has ever felt quite that real since. There were a few girlfriends here and there, negligible relationships that lasted weeks, sometimes even a few months, but never anything like he had with Lisa. It’s been more than a decade since he’s been in a relationship, and though he stopped trying long ago, the idea of a relationship of value is still something he thinks about. But he hasn’t even been on a date in nearly five years. He can’t remember the last time he had sex. Jackie Shine used to encourage him to go with him to a prostitute he’d seen regularly, but Dignon always declined. He cannot imagine anything less erotic than paying a woman to pretend she desires him. Even this horrible loneliness is preferable.

  If nothing else, it’s real.

  And here I am, he thinks, forty-two. It seems he just turned thirty not so long ago, and now his thirties are over. He may not yet be old, but his youth has left him in the flutter of an eyelid. He wonders if one day he’ll find himself sitting in this chair thinking the same of his forties, his fifties, perhaps even his sixties and seventies, should he live that long, his entire life a slow burn, a fatigued look back over his shoulder at…at what?

  This book belongs to Bree Harper.

  Ignoring his headache, Dignon pushes himself to his feet and returns to the kitchenette. He digs the phonebook from a drawer next to the sink, drops it onto the counter and turns the pages until he reaches H. Quickly sliding a finger down the columns, he locates listings for Harper. There are several, but only one has a local exchange: Sabrina Harper. His fingertip lingers on the name, presses down into the sheer paper. Sabrina. Sah-bree-nah. Bree.

  The phone number matches.

  With a rush of excitement he reads the address listed: 36 Borges Lane. Over the years, he has delivered to virtually every part of the city. A map appears in his head, and he locks on Borges Lane, a small side street a block or two from the ocean and not far from the retail district.

  The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee fills the air. Dignon puts the book aside, fixes himself a mug then goes through the mail on the kitchen table. Junk flyers, a light bill, and his monthly disability check. Though the amount of compensation is the same each month, he checks it anyway, then wanders back to the den and stands before the window overlooking the street. He watches the sky a while, numerous scenarios and possibilities forming in his mind.

  * * *

  After a shower Dignon puts a Band-Aid on his damaged fingertip, dresses and tells Mr. Tibbs he’ll be back soon. The cat hops up on the chair and faces the door, watching him with a look that says he’ll be on guard until Dignon returns.

  It is a cold, raw morning. The huge factory stacks along the horizon pump their usual endless clouds of mystery into an otherwise clear gray sky, but what he notices first is how busy the sidewalks and streets are for this time of morning. During the holidays everything comes awake earlier, things become more congested and electric. Ironically, despite the masses, he never feels quite as isolated as he does during the Christmas season. Everywhere he goes he’s faced with images of family and children, love and romance, togetherness and peace, brightly-wrapped packages, carols, Santa Claus and magic and all things happy and wonderful, all of which serve to remind him just how empty his life has become. As if he needed to be reminded of such things. Still, despite it all, particularly during this time of year, Dignon struggles against allowing his soul to be swallowed by despair and grief. He views Christmas and the holiday season in general as an enigmatic but fascinating possibility, an elusive but attainable state of being. Like Shangri-La, though remote, should he have any hope of finding it, he must believe in its inherent existence and never stop hunting for its promise of paradise.

  Time passes quickly, and his mind wanders as he walks. When it clears and he refocuses, he finds himself in a familiar neighborhood. He stops, looks to the building where Jackie Shine lived. Dignon searches for the street sign and other markers to make certain he has, in fact, walked this far in what seems such a short time. The apartment is in an old house, a former single residence converted to apartments several years ago and out of place with the rest of the architecture on the street. He wonders if someone else lives in Jackie Shine’s apartment now. He had few possessions. Dignon has no idea what became of them. All he knows is that the body was cremated and the remains flown to California where his children reside.

  There is no trace, no remnant of Jackie Shine’s existence here. One day, Dignon thinks, when everyone is gone, there will be nothing left but buildings like this one. Buildings and machines and all the things Man has constructed and left behind. No people, no animals, just things, and no one to remember or care about any of it.

  Dignon hurries across the street and down the block toward the retail district. The smell of eggs and bacon and sausage leaks from a diner on the corner and fills the air. His stomach rumbles with hunger, and he stops long enough to peer through the front window at the giant grill and two chubby men in white outfits and paper hats wielding spatulas. He continues on, down the street to the outdoor mall. Again, he hears the Christmas music blaring from tinny speakers, and notices the garland strung along the poles, which looks decidedly different in the light of day, even more unnatural and peculiar. As he stops, he pushes his hands into his coat pockets to warm them and surveys the stores.

  Within the hordes of people, Dignon mostly notices other men. There seems to be a disproportionate number of them shopping for Christmas gifts for their significant others. But there are also lots of couples buying toys and gifts for their children. He people-watches a while and wonders what it might be like to have a life like that, a life with someone to share it, someone to love, with a family. Dignon likes children, always has, but has never seriously thought about having a child of his own. The delicate nature of children frightens him, and he knows firsthand just how fragile they can be.

  He notices several men coming and going from the Victoria’s Secret a few doors down, most carrying large handle bags with the smiling face of a model wearing a Santa cap emblazoned on the side. He moves closer, studies the window displays then ventures inside.

  An intense combination of images slams into him the moment he moves through the door. He hesitates and glances around. Tables are positioned throughout the space, filled high with stacks of various items of clothing and lingerie. Directly in front of him is a bone-white, headless, armless female torso that looks like it’s growing up out of one display table. Adorned in a red lacy bra, it is surrounded by a sea of neatly positioned, identical bras in an assortment of colors. Dignon stares at the mannequin—or whatever it is—uncertain if the feeling slinking through him is one of vague lust or something more akin to creepiness. There is something at once sinister and darkly humorous about this dismembered chunk of imitation human being that leaves him mesmerized, albeit briefly.

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  A young woman to his right seemingly materializes out of thin, though heavily perfumed air. Her ample breasts jut out at him from beneath a white sweater to form an abnormal shelf in the middle of her chest. She is otherwise astonishingly thin, which makes her head and bust appear large and awkward in comparison to the rest of her body. An inch or two taller than he is, which makes her about five-ten or eleven, she has angular features that match her bony physique and razor-straight black hair that hangs like glossy curtains on either side of her face, framing beady eyes, a long nose and a mouth made fuller with the application of maroon lipstick. She raises a spindly arm and jangles a series of gold bracelets on her wrist, smoothing one side of her hair away from her face to get a better look at him while also making sure
he has seen the diamond sparkling on her ring finger.

  “Hi,” Dignon says.

  The clerk raises a drawn-on eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I help you?” she says again, this time phrasing it as if she suspects he may not fully comprehend English.

  “Sorry, I…” He realizes he has not thought this through. He has no idea what he’s doing here. Dignon looks around as if trying to remember what he’d come looking for. “I need a Christmas gift.”

  “OK.” The woman holds her hands down in front of her, one clasped over the wrist of the other. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  Frantically scanning the store, he settles on a stack of plush bathrobes on a table to his far right. “A robe,” he says, pointing, “one of those, actually.”

  She seems to come alive, and strides over to the table. He follows, trying to anticipate her next question. “Full-length or mid-thigh?” she asks.

  Unsure, he looks to the robes. “Uh…”

  “Who is the robe for?”

  Dignon makes eye contact with her, notices in her expression she has already assumed it must be for his mother or sister. “My wife,” he says defiantly. “And I think she’d prefer full-length. Yes, definitely full-length.”

  Without bothering to hide her surprise, the saleswoman says, “OK, did you want a particular color?”

  “Red, I—she likes red.”

  “Size?”

  “Medium should do it.”

  “They’re really nice,” she says, almost kindly. She removes a folded red robe from the pile and holds it out with both hands, presenting it to him like an award. “I have one myself, I just love it. I’m sure your wife will too.”

  “Yes, she likes robes, she—she likes them very much.”

  “Super.”

  At the counter he tries to appear unfazed by the fifty-dollar price of the robe. Although it’s well beyond what he can afford, he hands her the cash like he makes these kinds of purchases all the time. The woman places the robe and a folded box for it into a large carry bag, the same one he saw so many other men carrying. “Thank you,” she says blandly, handing the bag across the counter to him. “Have a happy holiday.”

  “You too, thank you.” He offers a quick smile. She doesn’t return the gesture.

  Once outside in the sobering cold air, he decides he’ll give the robe to Willie as a Christmas gift. It should fit her and she’ll love it. But for now, he holds the bag proudly, hoping others will see it and consider him just another guy out shopping for his wife. It feels good to play this game for once, to at least pretend he is not the odd-man-out. He walks briskly, swinging the bag back and forth as he goes, careful to cross the street and move a bit more discreetly as he approaches his old stomping ground and passes Tech Metropolis.

  By the time he reaches the outskirts of the retail district the exhilaration passes and he again begins to think about Bree Harper.

  The smells and sound of the ocean grow closer as he cuts across a short avenue and onto Borges Lane, a rather drab, residential working-class street. Even as he walks the narrow lane, casually glancing at the building numbers, he silently scolds himself. What are you doing here? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you some sort of stalker now? None of this is a sign. It has no meaning whatsoever. She’s just some woman who innocently jotted her name and phone number in a book you happened to pick up, stop obsessing.

  Willie’s right, he thinks. He simply has too much time on his hands, and it’s not healthy. When he was working he had neither the time nor the energy to obsess about things. Now he has nothing but time, and it’s more difficult to control his fixations. Perhaps it’s his recent focus on the past—his childhood, his parents, Lisa and all the rest—that has led him here, to this stranger. Regardless of whom she may, or may not be, the fantasy of Bree Harper is a preferable distraction.

  The dialogue in his head stops.

  #36 looms before him, an unimaginative six-story apartment building the color of faded paper, a dreary rectangle standing on end with tiny symmetrical, square, socket-like windows carved into its face.

  With the conspicuous Victoria’s Secret bag at his side dashing any hope of subtlety, Dignon slows his pace but keeps moving, watching the apartments through the twisting clouds of mist his breath forms in the cold air.

  The building stares back with its black eyes.

  There’s no way to tell how many units there are, but he notices a small foyer just inside a set of double glass doors at the front of the building. Beyond them, he can make out what appears to be a series of small mailboxes built into the wall on the far side of the foyer. There’s no doorman, and he sees no security equipment, cameras and the like. He can’t be certain, but it appears access to the foyer is more than likely possible without the use of a key, though there does appear to be a buzzer system.

  Dignon heads for home, a plan already taking shape in his mind.

  FOUR

  There are only two mirrors here. One is in the bathroom above the sink and acts as the front panel to his medicine cabinet. The other is a full-length model that hangs on the back of his bedroom door. Dignon often forgets about that one, as he rarely closes the bedroom door for fear he may catch a glimpse of himself passing by. But on this morning, after returning from his robe shopping adventure and his reconnaissance mission to Bree Harper’s apartment building, Dignon takes his copy of Mythical Beings in a Mortal World, slips into his bedroom and shuts the door behind him. He isn’t exactly certain why he does this, but the need for increased privacy seems necessary. As the door closes however, he fails to turn away in time, and looks directly into his own eyes.

  This is not what Dignon sees in his mind when he imagines himself visually. His is a dated version, a younger, thinner, healthier and more vibrant one. This is someone else. This is what’s left.

  He wants to turn away but for some reason cannot.

  There he is, dumpy and balding and haggard, a pathetic look on his face, a silly book clutched in his hands and an even sillier idea running through his head.

  Who is this person?

  Rather than answer, Dignon leaves the image behind and slowly walks to the bed. He sits on the edge, the book in hand and the telephone on his nightstand just inches away. He rehearses his lines again, lips moving silently, then flips the book open to the number, grabs the phone and makes the call. There is an empty sound on the line, a pause in time as his finger hovers above the final digit that will complete the connection. He feels a tremor move through him. The moment it passes he stabs the button and the call goes through.

  It rings once…twice…three times…

  Hang up, he tells himself. Just hang up, this is crazy, it’s—

  “Hey, it’s Bree,” a female voice suddenly answers. “I’m either out or I can’t get to the phone right now so please leave a message after the beep and I’ll call you back first chance I get.”

  Dignon hangs up before the tone sounds and the recording begins. He looks to the alarm clock. She must be working, he tells himself. Of course, she—most people have jobs you stupid bastard—she must be at work. He assures himself he’ll try again later, but for now he sits on the bed replaying the sound of Bree Harper’s voice in his head. She sounds as intelligent as she does kind. Her voice is light and pleasant, sweet but articulate. The memory of it makes him swoon like a heartsick character in some cheesy romance novel.

  What is wrong with you? Why are you—

  Stop, he thinks. My God, stop, what—what the hell do you think you’re doing?

  Dignon stands, paces. Relax, it’s OK. It’s all right. Call her back later.

  His body calms, the muscles slowly relax and the tension slips free. But his heart continues to race with the fervor of a teenage boy who has just called a girl for the first time to ask her out on a date. Beneath the Band-Aid, his raw fingertip pulses in time with the beat of his heart.

  It’s been a long time since Dignon
has felt this alive.

  He again catches himself in the mirror then angrily pulls open the door and slams it back into the wall with a hollow thud.

  Mr. Tibbs sits just outside the doorway, staring at him quizzically.

  “Sorry,” Dignon says.

  The cat sighs.

  “I called, Tibbs, I actually did it. She wasn’t home.”

  Mr. Tibbs slowly shuts his eyes and then just as slowly reopens them.

  Dean Martin Christmas tunes begin playing downstairs in Mrs. Rogo’s apartment, reminding Dignon that he has not yet put up his Christmas tree. He wasn’t sure he was going to this year, but suddenly feels it might be a good idea after all.

  He goes to the closet in the hallway, Mr. Tibbs trailing, and from the top shelf pulls down a white plastic bag closed with a drawstring. Inside is the tree. Well, not exactly a tree, more a bush, really. He opens the bag and pulls it free, a squat artificial number he bought a few years prior and has used every year since, about one-foot high with little white lights built directly into its artificial branches that automatically blink once it’s plugged in. He stares at the small tree, the extent of his holiday decorations.

  “Merry, merry, joy, joy,” he mutters.

  Once in the main room, he makes room on a small table near the window, sits the tree down and plugs it in. The white lights twinkle and come to life. Mr. Tibbs hops up onto the table, sniffs the branches then looks to Dignon, pleased with this latest development. As the cat curls up next to the tree and gazes out the window, Dignon returns to the closet, finds a roll of wrapping paper left over from last year, and wraps the bathrobe. His skills in this area are, at best, adequate, and the end result is a passable, though unorthodox-looking package.

  He recalls the salesclerk speaking to him as if he were a moron. Can I help you? Is it so awful, so unthinkably outside protocol to simply say hello? Is common courtesy such a stretch? What right does she have to act as if he doesn’t exist as a fully realized human being?