Sketchbook #3

Snow fell in wild designs: bats, crooked hearts, curly-cues, the silhouettes of women.

Archibald Coothe didn’t sip whiskey, he drank it. And as he drank, he watched those inspired pictures form in the sky and settle on the wrought-iron and cobblestone below. His heart ticked without tocking, making him uneasy and gassy. Sweat beaded his brow and his thick brown beard. At least there was whiskey.

Mouth wide, Archibald worked through his vocal warmups. First his face was a wide ‘o.’ Moments later, it was a tiny slit. His voice boomed or it hissed. Sometimes it even flapped on a burst of breath so that he sounded like a playing card in the spokes of Steven’s bicycle wheel. Archibald yawned. He hummed. He clicked. He growled. Careful to annunciate, focusing on the fricatives and plosives, he ran through tongue twister after tongue twister. All of this for the purpose of honing his craft. Archie’s was a craft sharp enough to kill.

When Archibald took the stage that night it was to a standing ovation. He froze, tall and wide and proud, holding his position in the spotlight, waiting patiently for the applause to die out so he could pronounce his first line. But the longer he held, the harder they clapped, the louder they screamed. Fight as he might, a smug smile seeped into his lips. He never tired of the favor of fervent fans. True adoration was as good as gold coins in Archibald Coothe’s thin pockets. He felt his pants tighten and he knew the night would be a savage success.

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Backstage, young Eli Coothe suckled at his mother’s breast. He was hungrier than usual and took every last drop from his tired but grateful mother. Eli ate until his stomach bulged. He took to the breast the way Archibald took to the bottle. Eli was his father’s son, there was no doubt. And so it was that as his father dropped dead on stage toward the end of Act Once, little Eli was milk-drunk and fast asleep. He missed the confusion, the screaming, and the inevitable panic. Eli cooed as his mother cried.

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Meanwhile, across a dark and unforgiving sea, a modest sailing vessel captained by the ghost of William Clementine pitched hard to starboard. It capsized beneath the power of a most violent storm. Black clouds imprisoned the moon. No light shone. Thunder shook the sky. Waves writhed, desperate to shake off the brutal storm. Lightning struck the sailboat’s jib and set fire to the floating wreckage. But there is a miracle in every night. That night’s blessing took the form of a survivor: a desperate passenger named Annabelle Davy who was pregnant with a peanut she planned to give no first name.

Some hope alive…