Libations
By Ryan Crimmins
I sleep near the corner of Axel and Grand. I’m left alone and the street lights give off a cool glow that I pretend is a blanket from god. As I watch today’s nameless silhouettes stroll down the street, I glance up at the clock. It’s flirting with dusk and I realize I’ll sleep and my dream will come again soon.
My life was torn from Boston to London. The Atlantic wasn’t big enough to end the war between my mother and father. I grew up in a warm philosopher’s house with Daddy, but in his heart, London was home. So when the thousands of years of British inbreeding reared up and hissed in my mother’s throat, “My daughter is to be a woman of Cambridge.”
My father flew the flag of surrender and brought me down with him. He wore colors of peace and swore to my mother that he would make it work between them, for me and for our family.
The dream I have is a relentless reminder of how I got here. It’s the end of my first semester. I’m home for holiday. I step off the bus and open the gate. I’m excited to see Daddy and it makes the long walk up the winding path of the estate a joy. My feet barely touch the ground as I approach the grand oak doors of mother’s mansion. Breathless, I pound the door with open palms.
The door silently opens only a crack. I can only see a shadow that has my mother’s face.
“What are you?” The shadow rasps.
“Mother it’s me. Surely Daddy told you…” I reply.
“He didn’t. Come.” She says, reaching her arm around my shoulder and pulling me through the door as it slams shut. She’s wearing a violet tattered sleeping gown, her long dark hair unkempt.
The normally elegant entryway feels like a cavern without luster. I see the chandelier has been dark for months. A shadow dances across the balcony in the corner of my eye at the top of the wide staircase. When I try to catch it with my eyes, I see only my father, wearing a heavy crimson robe like a dead king.
“You will be staying for dinner I hope.” Daddy calls down, his voice echoes through the chamber. “I’m staying for the winter holiday.” My voice shakes.
“Of course. Welcome home dear.” He calls back, his voice hollow.
As only possible in a dream, I turn to my left and walk down the family hallway leading to the dining room. The stag from mother’s coat of arms watches me pass, and its swords reflect menacing moonlight. The door opens to the dining room. In the middle of the room, where the grand table normally holds claim, there is a small round table for three. Somehow, it’s already set with Mother’s finest linens and Daddy’s precious silver. I’m compelled to take my seat. As I do, Daddy emerges from the kitchen with a roast goose. He sets it on the table, begins cutting slices of meat and serving them to me. Now he’s wearing a naval officer’s dress uniform. In our moment alone, he speaks to me with excited words, but I can’t understand him. Every waking day I pray that when the next dream comes I will hear him, but I never can. Mother enters wearing an exquisite ivory gown to match her pearls and diamonds. She carries potatoes, vegetables from the garden and her mother’s recipe for poison cranberries. We eat. Then I speak.
“Daddy, my literature teacher knows you. You wrote her a poem… ‘Libations of Lust’. She’s very fond of you… of your work.”
Daddy’s face turns pale, it thins and becomes gaunt. When I turn to mother her eyes flicker with a bitter fire and the tongues burn her hair. Daddy’s hand goes to his furrowed brow and his hand turns to ash, crumbling to bits and falling onto his plate. He frantically tries to scrape the ash off of his food with his fork, to keep them separate and salvage his meal.
“You must be tired.” Daddy says to me as if all were normal.
“Why don’t you lie down? We’ll bring your buttercream to your room.” Mother says.
I rise from my seat. I float to my room and wait in darkness.
As I drift to sleep without buttercream, I hear Daddy scream my name from the dining room. I run to him through the family hallway, and stumble over the coat of arms that has been torn from the wall, the swords violently removed. As I reach for the door, it opens before me. Mother stands over my dead father holding the fatal pieces from her broken heirloom, tainted with the blood of my father. With the face of a demon, my mother turns to me and speaks.
“Come child. Let us pour libations over your father.”
I turn to run; she chases me from the house. I slam the door in her howling face and either wake or the dream begins again.
I look at the clock as the street empties for the night. I drift to sleep. The dream begins again, with all the players reading the same parts. Only now, as I answer the cry of my father and burst into the dining room, where my mother normally stands, I see a grand tiger standing over my fallen mother. My father is still dead, but the tiger’s eyes are kind, and they promise me I will be safe. The tiger helps me carry my father’s body and together we bury him in the garden. Tears roll down my face, but the tiger dries them with his gentle tongue.
As I wake, the tiger is a kitten that kisses my face. He escaped the cold with me and in my sleeping bag we saved each other. I hold him close to my chest and finally sleep without my dream.
# # # #
Hello Jackie,
Attached is my submission for the writing challenge I found in the rabbit hole this week: http://mondaymemo.wpengine.com/londonkitten
Keeping it under 1,000 words was a fun challenge! I finally landed on 998 words with title and signature. I’m a Creative Copywriter for DR advertising in Minneapolis, and this was a great opportunity to play with language. I hope you and Roy enjoy it, and I look forward to seeing what the next step is…
Sincerely,
Ryan Crimmins