Palimpsest

1| The City

In the small town of Bushelle, there's not much that can happen. If you were to adventure down one of its winding trails, on a rusty bike of sorts and on your merry way to the city, and happen to come across an edition of the weekly paper lying on the ground, the evidence of the butterfinger hands of Richard Swanson, the local delivery boy, do pick it up. Edges crimped and cellophane of the lowest caliber, a small package matted with the dust and grime which has collected on this town over the years, it may be against your better judgment. But still. Do take a look. I plead of you.

The poor men, young and old, work many a day and night in the print shop down near the outskirts of town, where the Great Arrow runs straight through Bushelle and spills into the city. It leads to somewhere but nowhere at the same. See, if you were to venture further into this humble little place, which I don't have the slightest idea why you would, you would soon learn that all of us are joined at the hip by what defines all our lives in a single phrase. It's sad, really.

A certain young man, an orphan who was not a boy nor a man, had to spend quite a few months in Father's home a few years ago. Of course, we opened our arms toward the poor child, but we soon realized that he wasn't bringing in enough money at the printing press for Mother to put another portion on the table. Thankfully, another family was willing to take him in. I hear Julian's well these days, so it puts my heart at ease.

There are men who live in giant houses and bath in riches. There are women who manage to bathe in a tub of goldwater even larger than their husbands'. And then there are children who possess the minds of geniuses and develop scientific breakthroughs in the matter of minutes. Those are the kind of people who live in the city. Those are the people who have their faces slathered all across crisply folded papers in cellophane that we would have to spend a fortune on.

But here, in little ol' Bushelle, the closest we could come to that, you will soon realize, is a headline along the lines of, Jonathan O'Donnell catches 3-foot long bass! And old O'Donnell wasn't a headline only once, I assure you. The man's a miracle fisher, at least in our eyes. Even I could learn a thing or two from him, if Sophie wasn't allergic to seafood.

And then... Oliver Page's "Elixir" becomes commercial success! came along one morning. It was plopped hastily onto our front lawn, and Sophie opened the door to the frigid air as soon as she had awoken.

"It isn't a commercial success." Sitting at the oaken roundtable we call our dining table, I stared at the big block letters decorating the front page, miffed. "Look at the meager profit I was able to sweep in. If you ask me, it's the equivalent of--"

"Shhh..." I stopped and felt gentle hands rubbing my shoulders in a smooth, soothing action. A sweet, feminine voice breathed against my ear, locks of silky hazelnut hair painting designs on my neck. "It's alright, honey. No need to be a pessimist now. Any sum of money is better than nothing, am I right?"

I sighed and reached for my cup of tea, a simple brew of hot water and tea leaves picked from the Kanters' tea garden. It excited my blood in the morning, something which is rarely able to be done by anything else grown in our gardens.

Taking small sips in danger of scalding my tongue, I heard Sophie's footsteps walk away from me as wooden legs scraped with a shriek against the floor. I felt her eyes on me as I lowered the cup and placed it back on the table. Her hands were folded beneath her chin, elbows on the table. An endearing look danced in her eyes as she smiled ever so slightly.

"So, honey... Do you know what day today is?"

I looked up at her, dead straight in the eye. "How could I forget? It's Christmas Eve."

"No, dummy!" She laughed, her eyes squinting into crescents as a soft, tinkling sound like the chiming of bells came from her mouth. Bells...

The realization hit me. "Ah--"

"It's our one-year anniversary!" She playfully swatted at my hand. "You didn't actually forget, did you now?"

"No, of course not." I took another sip of my tea, trying to conceal the lie in my eyes. "I was just toying with you." Placing the cup down, I caught a glimpse of the expensive metal around my left ring finger, courtesy of exceptional mason Jack Kelly.

"Jeez... That's so unlike you, Oliver."

"So? Do you have any plans?"

"You bet I do!" Sophie stood up, hands on her hips. She had an air of playfulness around her that reminded me of better times, causing a sudden wave of nostalgia to hit me. "I'm planning to take us to the city this afternoon!"

"What?!"

Sophie reeled back in shock, her smile completely disappeared. I had stood up with mighty force, and my hands had come down hard on the table, causing the cups to rattle, drops of liquid splashing onto the wood. All merry thoughts dissipated from my brain, replaced by pure shock and anger.

I crumpled up the paper beneath my hands. "What did you say?"

Sophie's eyes narrowed. "I said I'm planning on taking us to the city this afternoon. What's with the big reaction?"

I took a deep breath, trying to forcefully calm myself down. "Sophie. Of all the places I've let you take me to, this is one that I absolutely cannot allow." I looked down at the crumpled-up paper in my hands, afraid to look in her eyes. Because if she stared back, she would see my true face, the face of a coward, of an exile. A criminal.

"Why? Why, Oliver? It's our anniversary! I've always wondered what it's like outside of Bushelle and how people live in that bustly, shiny place. You know what kind of life we live. Oliver."

"You just can't, Sophie! Please, please get it through your mind for once! I don't want to go back there!" I stared down at the distorted words on the paper as a reel of memories sped through my brain. My breathing quickened, my heart pounding at an exponential rate in my ears.

I heard her slowly sit back down, and I sneaked a peak up at her. Her expression was hard, her warm coffee pupils now ice cold as they glared deep into my own. It sent a shiver down my spine that I'm less than willing to confess about.

"You're hiding something from me, Oliver Page. Again. I thought that was something we agreed to never do to each other after marriage, but you never seem to get it." She dropped her gaze and shook her head. "This is the last straw. I'm disappointed in you."

Sophie pushed back her chair. "I need to clear my head for a bit," she murmured. "Excuse me." And she bolted out the door.

"Sophie!" I roared, running after her. "Where are you going?"

But whether or not she heard me, she didn't turn around or give me an answer. She just kept running down the Great Arrow. I plopped back down in my chair and heaved a sigh, rubbing my face. I was tired. All those late nights writing "Elixir" and fights with Sophie... She'll be back soon, right? I grit my teeth. I knew it. I knew I shouldn't have married a girl 10 years my junior. It was absurd. But I knew that I didn't have any other choice at the time.

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