The Edge of Madness Cafe (The Sea and the Wasteland Book 2) (40 page)

Prosser went livid.
“She’s not supposed to be alive, you stupid bastard! Not supposed to be alive!
Don’t you fucking get that? Not alive means she’s supposed to be dead!
Dead
!
And that’s
my
job!”

“But if
she was never alive then she cannot die.” Serena looked meaningfully at Arnold
Prosser. “Therein lay the paradox of which you speak; forcing the death of
someone who is not alive would tear the universe to shreds.”

“Just as her continued
existence will slowly unbind reality,” Nicholas finished, offering the answer
that the Garbageman was just beginning to see. “Everything she touches begins to
spin out of control. It’s only a matter of time really. She is a piece of
random chaos, a fragment of entropy.
My
domain.”

Serena shook her head
disapprovingly. “She is a lost soul, Nicky, and, as such, not the province of
any of us. She is from outside and belongs outside.”

Dabble’s mouth opened,
but Serena countered his unspoken objection. “I have heard enough from the both
of you. We will accomplish nothing here this afternoon if we continue to bicker
back and forth fruitlessly about domains and boundaries. The simple fact of the
matter is that Ellen Monroe, whatever you may think she is, is here at my
request. That should be more than enough to let the both of you know that your
claims, regardless of the premise you choose, fall subservient to mine. On that
point, gentleman, I expect there can be no dispute. Am I incorrect?”

It was a question in form
only. Both men turned, chastened but unsatisfied. Dabble’s face was white and
bloodless, his lips pursed tightly, holding back a torrent of bile. The Garbageman’s
face had gone dark red, eyes wide with rage so that he resembled some kind of
bull terrier—a bull terrier in an ill-fitting, blue suit.

Then Serena turned to
Ellen, her smile pleasant and disarming, all sternness gone. “I am sorry, Ellen.
This must all seem very distressing. In spite of what you’ve heard, this is not
the least bit your fault. You have found yourself caught in the middle. Please
don’t let it keep you from enjoying tea. Try one of the finger sandwiches. I
think you’ll find them delicious.”

Ellen found the entire
affair positively surreal, a strange acid trip she didn’t remember starting.
She felt like an extra in a stage play without a script, a line coach, or even
a clue as to what was going on or what was expected of her. Worse, none of the
other players seemed to realize that. What she had done, or supposedly done,
she had no idea. And no idea why it should so upset the Garbageman, or so
intrigue Nicholas Dabble. As for Serena, the coffee shop owner was a growing
enigma.

Ellen timidly selected a
triangle of bread containing a smear of white cheese and some orange fish she
guessed was raw tuna; there was no sense in being rude. And Serena was right;
it was delicious. “This is very good.”

“And there we are,
gentleman,” Serena said pleasantly. “Something upon which I’m sure we can all
agree. Amidst all the insensibility, the chaos and randomness fighting a
never-ending battle with order and design, all the disagreements over domain
and jurisdiction and boundaries of control, there is the simplicity of tea. It
is the basic construct: a hub of rules, etiquette and form loosely woven
together with tea and
hors d’oeurves
. It is a simple foundation upon
which great things can be created. That is why I have invited all of you here.
Our differences must be settled and the solution must be mutually agreeable. To
satisfy merely one goal is not enough. We must come together and see it through
to its conclusion. Wouldn’t you agree?”

For a moment, there was
only silence. Then Arnold cleared his throat. “There are certain conditions
that I have, petitions what need to be met. Beyond that, I’m willing to be …
flexible in the way in which we go about the solution.”

Serena smiled warmly at
him. “Splendid, Arnold. I knew you could be counted upon. In the end, I think
we all want the same thing. Our own particular backgrounds limit the ways in
which we believe these ends can be met, but the ends are still the same. All
that remains is that we arrive at a mutual consensus for obtaining that end.
Don’t you agree, Nicky?”

Nicholas Dabble took
decidedly longer to reply, and when he did, it was a truculent grunt. “With
reservations.”

“Distances that need to
be overcome, Nicky. Perhaps some tea will put you more in the mood.” Serena
lifted the teapot’s lid and delicately lifted out the tisane, allowing it a
moment to spill the last few drops back into the pot before laying it aside
upon the tea tray. All the while, she continued talking, not paying the
slightest attention to what it was she was doing, the perfect hostess. “Ellen,
would you be so kind as to pass the cups around as I fill them?”

Ellen took each cup and
saucer from Serena, passing the first to Nicholas Dabble; she was uncertain if
there was an order to how guests were to be served, and frankly didn’t care.
Everyone was talking about her like an object, an abstraction, a situation that
required resolution. Well, she wasn’t any of those things. Mr. Dabble had
always looked out for her, so the first cup would go to him.

The bookstore owner
simply smiled and accepted the tea, holding it easily in his right hand that he
might drink with his left.

The next she handed to
Arnold Prosser. He took it from her somewhat crossly, snatching it from her
hands too quickly and very nearly upsetting the cup. He stared at it angrily,
perhaps feeling the rattling piece of china was somehow conspiring to embarrass
him, and reached for the sugar bowl, ladling great, heaping spoonfuls of sugar
into his cup. He had stirred in four by the time Serena handed Ellen her cup of
tea, allowing her to sit back down while Serena poured a cup for herself.
Nicholas Dabble stole the opportunity to take a cinnamon biscotti from the
tray, laying it quietly upon his saucer.

“I imagine,” Serena
began, leaning back into her chair with her tea, “that the simplest thing to do
would be for all of us to share our ideas on order and the universe, and how
Ellen Monroe violates that order. We can each conclude with our own personal
idea of the means to which that order can be restored and the matter of Ellen’s
existence put to rest. Once each of our views is known to the other, along with
our personal reservations and concerns, then we will all of us be better
equipped to decide upon this matter.”

Ellen did not remember
dropping acid—not in months—but there was no denying that she felt like she’d
stumbled into Alice’s tea party with the Mad Hatter and the March Hare. But then
who was Serena in this weird version? And why didn’t anyone care what she
thought. “Do I have a say in any of this?”

Arnold Prosser poured
enough cream into his tea to brim the cup, then stirred noisily, spoon clinking
as tea slopped over and pooled in the saucer.

“Of course,” Serena remarked
pleasantly. “It may not always seem so, but in the end, whatever the outcome,
the final decision will be yours. Whatever my other guests may believe to the
contrary, free will is sacrosanct; they can influence it, but they can never
dictate it.”

“I’m not sure I
understand.”

“I don’t imagine you do,”
Serena said pleasantly. “There’s a world of things beyond one’s ken. It does
not change the fact that some things must still be done, understood or not,
fair or not, rational and sensible and sane or not. Many things are an act
simply of faith, the belief in one’s sense of rightness and order, a journey
first of the heart then of the mind. They cannot always be explained. They
cannot always be understood. But they are still the correct course of action.”

It was like talking with
Podak.

The Garbageman made a
horrid face, his first mouthful of tea dribbling back out over his lips and
down the front of his shirt as he made an awkward gagging sound.

“Goodness. Arnold, what is the matter?” Serena asked.

Arnold Prosser sniffed
suspiciously at his tea then snatched the small pitcher of cream from the table
and held it to his nose. His features curled in disgust. “Serena, your cream’s
gone over.”

Serena’s hand leapt to her
throat. “Arnold, I’m so sorry. I don’t understand how this could have
happened.”

The only real surprise
was that Arnold would actually drink some of it before realizing that the
cream—the same cream that had been sitting out in the sun since the previous
morning—had soured miserably. Serena thought the aroma of fresh cookies and tea
a thin mask at best for the sour dairy smell. The coffee shop owner turned to
Ellen.

“You live only a couple
of blocks away don’t you? I feel terribly embarrassed asking you this, but I am
completely out of cream downstairs; the morning rush caught me unprepared, and
my next delivery won’t be until tomorrow. Do you have any milk or cream at your
place that I can borrow?”

Ellen shrugged
uncomfortably. “I … I don’t think so.”

“Are you certain?” Serena
asked desperately. “Any half-n-half, perhaps? You must have some half-n-half. I
would be ever so grateful if you would run back to your place and bring me back
some half-n-half for our afternoon’s tea. I know it’s an imposition, but we are
desperate to resolve this dilemma. You understand?”

Ellen nodded vaguely,
feeling out of place, out of sorts, out of body,
out of mind
.
No, she
did not understand.
What was Serena’s sudden obsession with half-n-half;
the coffee shop owner never served it. Hated it, quite frankly. Yet here she
was asking over and over for it, as though the world depended upon it.
Ridiculous.

“You’re an angel,” Serena
said. “Hurry home and fetch it for me, won’t you?” She was urging Ellen to her
feet, much to the dismay of Arnold Prosser and the feigned disinterest of
Nicholas Dabble. “Be back just as quickly as you can.”

“Serena, don’t bother
with that,” Arnold pleaded, standing up awkwardly, his overfilled teacup
bobbling in the saucer and spilling more tea out upon the floor and tabletop.
“Oh, sorry about that. I’ll get somethin’ to wipe that up with.” Then he
remembered his reason for standing in the first place. “Anyway, forget about
the cream. I don’t need it. I can drink it like a Yank. Sugar and lemon’s
fine.”

“Arnold, that’s very
polite of you to offer, but I won’t hear of it. This is a tea party, and my
guests should have the condiments of their choice. If you would like cream in
your tea, you should have it. I daresay Nicky would like cream, too.”

“Cream would be nice,
thank you,” Mr. Dabble remarked, ignoring the exchange over the spoiled cream
in favor of the
hors d’oeuvres
; anchovy-laden crackers circled the rim
of his tea saucer like hedge stones.

“It shouldn’t be any
trouble at all, Nicky.” She placed a hand to the small of Ellen’s back and guided
her to the door. “It won’t be any trouble, will it Ellen? To fly on home?”

Ellen shook her head,
though truthfully nothing made sense about this afternoon at all, not from the
very beginning.

Undeterred, Serena pushed
Ellen into the hallway with a quick glance over her shoulder, looking at
something beyond the parlor, maybe outside the front window. “The shop is
locked, so use the backdoor.”

Ellen found herself on
the landing looking in at the coffee shop owner, the Garbageman behind her, a
dripping teacup and saucer in one hand, a questionable expression on his face,
and her boss, the epitome of sophistication, stuffing
hors d’oeuvres
into his mouth one after another, seemingly oblivious to the events transpiring
around him. He chanced her gaze, and she saw something both secretive and
knowing in his eyes. Then he looked away, eyeing a tray of gingersnaps and sweet
biscuits.

Serena leaned forward,
placing her lips beside Ellen’s ear, and whispered, “My best to Jack.”

And with that, she closed
the door.

Ellen left by the backdoor as Serena
suggested.

Staked out in front of the coffee shop,
Gusman Kreiger hid within the sparse folds of the midday shadows lurking
outside
Dabble’s Books
—shadows the Cast Out wore with the familiarity of
an old and trusted cloak—and never saw her leave.

If he had, things might have turned out
differently.

Stepping into the narrow
alleyway behind the coffee shop, Ellen inhaled, the air already different from
when she crossed the street half an hour earlier, heady with the smells of the
storm fast approaching: damp and clean and electrically charged. The wind
whipped at her hair and clothes, stole the breath from her nostrils. Clouds
boiled and rolled overhead in a tumult of ever-darkening gray.

Had she closed the
windows to her apartment?

What difference will
it make? It’s time to leave
.

She felt the urgency, the
charge in the air that made the hairs on her arms and neck prickle, her steps
quicken. Reality was in
flux, the storm merely an outward expression like whitecaps on the water,
leaves turning before the wind. Unseen below the surface, pieces were in motion,
the coils and gears and springs of the universe were turning, tightening,
moving. It had been still for too long, as if some great hand holding the
pendulum had finally released it and set it back in motion.

It was there in the wind,
in the lay of the clouds, the abandoned streets stripped of life and left
behind, nothing more than empty vessels, shells washed up on the shore,
abandoned. The entire world was one great ghost ship, the
Mary Celeste
searching endlessly for lost souls in the night-sea. Ellen was the only life
left on this world, and it was time for her to leave.

Maybe past time.

She ran up the steps of her
building, a giddy mix of excitement and panic. When she opened the door, the
knob slipped from her fingers and slammed into the wall with a resounding bang.

Serena had sent her here because
her tea party was out of cream, and she needed half-n-half. Serena once told
her half-n-half epitomized society’s fear of commitment, of the repercussions
of its wants and desires. Half-n-half was indecisive and timid, and she would
not serve it.

So why did she send
you after half-n-half? And why send you here, when she could just as easily
have sent you to the store?

And how did Serena know
about Jack? She mentioned him, not in condescending or conciliatory tones the
way you spoke to a crazy person about their imaginary friend, but
conspiratorially, like someone who realizes that the imaginary friend is not,
and never was, imaginary.

Ellen looked around the
near-empty apartment, everything about the place unfamiliar. There was no
history behind anything she saw. She did not remember her first night here, did
not remember moving in or having her mail forwarded. She did not remember
anything about any of it. She did not remember buying any of the furniture, or
any of her clothes, or any of the food in her cupboards. It was all simply
here, simply props and stage articles added to provide a semblance of life to a
production that was not real; a production taking place while reality went
about its business elsewhere.

There was nothing left
for her here; certainly not half-n-half. Serena’s only intention was to secret Ellen
away from the tea party and its unusual guests, and give her time to escape—not
merely tea, but the world!

It was time to find Jack.
They had been apart long enough, her time spent reclaiming sanity while Jack
sacrificed his own one piece at a time, mad over her, losing his mind that she
might stay safe, be sane.

It was time to find him.

This place was nothing anymore,
just an apartment; an empty box where she started her mornings and finished her
days. Her first real memory of this life was here, and it would be the last
memory she would take with her. The chapter was ending, the screen fading to
black, and what came next would be nothing like what had gone before.

Ellen went to her
bedroom, discarding the blouse and vest in favor of a loose white T-shirt more
suitable for traveling. She left the clothes discarded on the floor; there was
no point in being neat when she wasn’t coming back. She took only Jack’s book
as she left; she wasn’t exactly sure she would need it, but it was a hard thing
to surrender, and she didn’t think it would hurt anything if she kept it.

Everything else she left
behind.

She found herself on the
landing, staring at the words scrawled in heavy black marker upon the opposite
wall leading up to the roof.
STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN.
Likely the product of some half-asleep recollection of
another Stairway to Heaven, the one she would climb at the Sanity’s Edge
Saloon, seeking refuge and freedom in the isolation. Jack did not understand; a
novice when it came to flying, it frightened him. But not her. She earned her
wings a lifetime ago, swallowed it in small pills that opened her eyes to
realities different than the one everyone insisted she accept. Yes, she knew a
thing or two about flying, and about the Dreamline, and how the two were
connected.

The Stairway to Heaven.

The Dreamline.

Fly on home.

She followed the twisted
rope of extension cords back to the roof like a guideline, a thread tied to the
entrance of a maze and unwound through the labyrinth. Or maybe simply a
safety-line lowered down into the hole she had found herself in, a clear avenue
out. It was time to go. She need only find the way … and the means.

Opening the door to the
roof, she felt a gust of wind try to pull the door’s handle from her grasp. The
wind was picking up, whipping her hair about her head and face. The storm was
close now, and she had to leave before it arrived. For no reason she could
explain, she knew that if she delayed, she might never escape.

Ellen went to the edge of
the rooftop, that same place she had started her dream journey night after
night, careful to navigate the abandoned tools, snaking power cords, discarded scraps
of sailcloth and sawed chunks of aluminum tubing, all left where they fell,
features of the silent landscape. Stepping up on the capstone ledge, she looked
out over the distant horizon of green beneath a thick pall of a storm-darkened
sky. Far below, the oily brown river snaked thickly along its endless, winding
course that surrounded and gripped the city in its coils. The wind sucked at
the treetops, updrafts lifting the crowns then lowering them back down, only to
lift them up again. No grand sweeping motion like waves of wheat fields, the
trees were more surreal: the rise and fall of the ocean’s surface, a world
breathing as it slept.

And perhaps dreamed.

Above the treetops,
beyond the river, a sign crowned a distant building that she knew to be a dairy
co-op. It was the only thing visible past the river, over the trees, outside
the edges of the town. The Riverside Dreamery. She could see it from her
apartment, but never more than the name painted on the brick of the building’s
top floor.
The Dreamery
.

That was
the direction she should go. This moment had been lived out a dozen times or
more in her dreams, the precise circumstance subtly different but the basic
situation always the same. She needed to reunite with Jack. This world was
meant to be a safe place, a haven away from the ravaged Saloon. But peace was a
resource in short supply, and maybe exhausted now. She felt it in the storm, in
the silent streets, in the strange behavior of the final inhabitants of this
existence. She was behind the curtain, the Oz machinery collapsing, the smoke
spent, the mirrors cracked. The dog was old, the pony dead. It was time to
leave this place behind.

All that remained was to
find Jack again, to return to him.

She was ready now.

Somewhere out there,
beyond the river, beyond the wilderness, beyond the sky, Jack was waiting.
Beyond this reality, this universe, this time and place and meaning. There were
other worlds than this; it was time she moved on.

The only question that
remained was how. She thought the answer would come to her, thought it would
leap into her mind like words off a page once she put herself in the right
place at the right moment. But the place and time had arrived, and she still
didn’t know. She didn’t think a swan dive into the air was right; not this
time. Dreams were one thing, but reality, however ephemeral it could be at
times, was governed by very different rules. And gravity was one. Nothing would
come from an act of sheer stupidity except the validation of all of Dr.
Kohler’s warnings about her to herself, her father, the authorities, everyone.
And the last thing she wanted to do was prove him right. There were plenty of
ways to fly, but for actual flight, the physical world required one to have
wings.

Ellen noticed for the first time the plywood plank lying up
against the ledge, hanging out over the lip of the building like a ramp
overlooking the ravine. Someone had placed it there for a reason.

A shiver coursed down her frame like a spark seeking ground,
and she turned back to the rooftop and Jasper’s creation, complete and standing
at the ready.
The Dream Flyer.

The wings and tail were fully fleshed in sailcloth skin, less
a glider than a large bat or a flying fish, a thing part avian, part aquatic,
features like wings or fins, both and neither. Only a small seat and seatback
for the rider, pedals hooking into the main front bicycle wheel and chained to
the gears to power the wings. Hand levers to either side of the seat
manipulated the steering controls in the tail. There was no propeller or motor,
the flyer powered solely by the pilot, bike gears and chains making the wings
pump, driving the flyer forward and up. Where the flyer was going, fuel was difficult
if not impossible to find. Jasper’s solution was both elegant and masterful.

Ellen walked slowly
towards the craft as though it were a wild animal that might turn skittish and
bolt, a creature in need of the gentle reassurance of a slow step, soothing
words, a hand calmly extended. The flyer was aimed at the plywood ramp, its
means to overcome the lip of the building and fly free, out over the river and
past the Dreamery beyond.

There is no coincidence; only plans of which one is
unaware.

Jasper Desmond lay asleep
beside the small outbuilding of the stairs, apparently exhausted. Ellen
approached him, knowing now what she needed to do.

“I need to find Jack,”
she said. “I guess you wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand myself, but I
know it’s what I have to do. But in order to reach him, I have to escape this
place: this roof, this building, this town with all of its people, and, yes, I
suppose, this entire universe and all the reality that goes along with it. More
things I don’t expect you’ll understand. Probably all you will understand is
that I need to borrow your Dream Flyer. And since I don’t know when or if I’ll
ever return, I suppose I’m really stealing it.” She stopped and swallowed. “I’m
stealing your Dream Flyer, Jasper. I’m sorry for that. If there was any other
way, I wouldn’t. But I’ve run out of time. I’m sorry. And thank you.”

Jasper grunted, adjusted
his position, and continued sleeping. Once she would not have suffered any
guilt over stealing what she needed, but it bothered her now. She thought she
should say something more, but knew there was nothing more to say, her unheard
confession merely a postponement of the inevitable.

She took a seat in the
Dream Flyer, staring out past the ramp to the vast open sky with a kind of
sparkling detachment, hypnotized and bedazzled. From the Flyer’s “cockpit”, she
could envision it all: flapping down the runway of the rooftop like an enormous
crane, wings pumping faster and faster, building up the speed and lift needed
before throwing itself out over the wild roaring ocean of clouds that swirled
before her. She could see the Dream Flyer doing this, see herself at the helm,
flying out into the great unknown, passenger and pilot, guide and follower.

It was to be a leap of
faith.

When Jack first found himself in the Sanity’s Edge Saloon
that day that felt a hundred lifetimes ago, it was not due to some precise plan
or grand scheme. Jack simply left; followed his instincts; attended to his soul
instead of his intellect. He left his entire world behind, taking only the
things that comprised who he really was, and boarded a train with no idea where
it would take him. It all came back to that first step into the darkness, no
idea what lay ahead, only the knowledge that it was different from what he left
behind. Jack made the leap.

Now it was her turn.

Ellen looked forward at
the narrow plank of sagging plywood then at the aluminum skeleton and canvas
skin behind her, the last vestiges of a moldering raptor trapped in a world
outside of dreams, a world run its course and now slowly dying. There was no
knowing what might come next. The only certainty was that it would be different
from the world she was leaving behind.