Chapter 10: A Storied Future

I arrive at the theatre the next day with a bundle of roses and lavender in my hand. A silly gesture, but what can I say? She makes me feel like a schoolboy again. Young and frivolous. Any frustration that I felt at first, knowing that I must once again pursue that which was mine, has vanished. I am eager to impress her and to see what will transpire after this small overture of affection. She is not in the costume shop, not on the stage, not anywhere nearby as far as I can tell. I look for Arthur instead. If anyone should know of her whereabouts, he would be the one. The faint noise of music leaks from his office, ceaseless even after I knock. Like before, the door drifts open and I see the pair of them, seated on either side of an old green record player. The volume is turned to the lowest level, but I can hear a jovial tune coming at me from the speakers.

"Come in," Arthur beckons, "and shut the door behind you, please."

Marigold, otherwise transfixed by the spinning vinyl, springs to her feet when she sees me. "Look, William! Isn't it the most spectacular thing you've seen in all your life?!"

"And to think, she wouldn't have found it if she wasn't such a snoop!" Arthur pulls a fresh cigarette from his pocket.

"I brought you these," I hand her the flowers and my heart begins to flutter as she accepts them.

"For my soaps!" Excitement fills her eyes. "That was so kind of you!"

I look over at Arthur, who is fighting the urge to laugh and losing miserably. She couldn't have truly forgotten the tacit rules of courtship, too. Could she? "For your soaps. And lemonade." I say, defeated. The effects of this mild rejection are fortunately short-lived. After all, it is impossible to feel sad around her for long. "So, what is this strange device? It plays music without an orchestra or singers?"

"Yes! These large, circular thingamadoodles are called records," she tells me, removing a new one from its sleeve and powering down the player before switching albums. "I've been fiddling around with it all morning! I only scratched two of them! Isn't that wonderful?"

"For you, maybe. For my records, not so much," bemoans Arthur, between puffs.

"Now, we mustn't tell anyone about it! Could you imagine the uproar? The brawling in the streets? Everyone from here to Timbuktu would give anything to have music in their home whenever they please! It's a secret. The loveliest secret in all the world!"

"Yes," I say, deeply and wildly enamored with her. "I imagine it would be the poodle skirt debut times a hundred!"

"A hundred thousand, perhaps! Hey, Mr. Director Man? May I stay here this afternoon? I promise not to take the volume past level four!"

"Level three and we've got a deal. We are going off-script for the first few scenes and there are bound to be plenty of awkward pauses down on the main stage today."

Delighted, Marigold scrambles to the entrance. She doesn't let either of us leave the office without giving us a tight hug and a joyous thank you. Once we are a few doors down and no longer within earshot, I turn to Arthur.

"I know how this must look. Certainly, she is still foggy in some areas, but I think she is beginning to remember."

"Yes. I see progress. Promise, too. That does not mean that we shouldn't tread softly."

"She is my wife, not yours," I murmur through gritted teeth. "We have a record player at home. It is her most cherished possession. Aeropress aside, of course."

"Of course!"

"She showed me how to use it my first night in the 21st century. Just as you are showing her now. It soothed me, comforted me in ways that only she could understand. This isn't a coincidence. Neither is the fact that you had one hiding in your office."

"Collecting vinyl is a common hobby, especially among old souls like Marigold and I. You are wasting time reading between the lines. Speaking of lines, we have a show to work on. I hope you are ready!"

At the end of rehearsal, we find that she hasn't moved an inch. I listen as Arthur tries to explain to her that the record player will run out of its charge if she keeps using it so excessively. She seems to comprehend and yet, severing her from that newfound treasure is like pulling teeth. I walk with her to the costume shop, delighted to learn about her musical discoveries. Even more so when I learn that her taste in music remains unchanged- a strange albeit wonderful fusion of folk, rockabilly and show tunes. Gradually, our conversation shifts from records to flowers.

"The bundle that I gave you are from my mother's garden. She cannot be without her plants, you see."

"Oh, what I wouldn't give to have a garden of my own! I usually have to go to a vendor or sneak a few in my basket while running my errands!"

"Perhaps," my voice weakens, shaking like a seaside reed, "I can bring you flowers from now on, every day when we see one another."

"Surely, you will need payment for such a gesture!"

"Time," I say, "all that I ask for in return is time with you, Marigold."

She skips into the costume shop and quickly clears off two chairs for us. "Can I be very frank with you, William?"

"Yes, of course."

"You aren't the only one who believes that we should spend more time together. As a matter of fact, Arthur seems to think that you will be able to help me. What he means by this is open to interpretation. The rest, I dare not say or you will likely think that I am just as mad as he!"

"You have my word," I vow, inching closer to her. So close, in fact, that I am skirting the rim of the little round chair beneath me. "You are anything but mad."

Marigold fidgets with the rings on her left hand. "I don't remember my life before this building, this room. Whenever I step out into the world, it comes back to me in fragments. But they hardly make sense. Horseless carriages, palaces of glass, giant metal birds painting streaks of clouds, white against a blue sky. These sound like dreams, I know. I do not dream at night. I dream during the day, right here, while I sew. I see things, often times before they make an appearance in my life. Like that record player. Strange as it sounds, I feel as though it came from that world. That terrible, wonderful world of artificial things. I'm sorry. I feel embarrassed now. Should I be?"

"You said that Arthur thinks that I can help you with this. You saw me, too, didn't you? Just like you saw the record player?"

"The song that you sang for your audition. I knew it by heart, even though I'd never heard it before," she shakes her head, "how is that even possible?"

I cover my mouth with my left hand, watching intently as she examines my ring from afar. "You are anything but mad, Marigold," I reiterate.

"Do you feel out of place here, too?"

"At times, yes. But not now."

She looks over her shoulder at the stack of fabrics near the sink. "I have so much work to do tonight. Please understand, I-"

"-I do. You need time to think this through and so do I."

We stand. "Goodnight," her lips turn upward, forming a tender smile, "my someone."

"Goodnight, my someone." I say, touching the elegant curvature of her blushing cheek before departing.

...

Tonight, she fills my dreams. Images of the life we made and the one that we now reside within move before me. They wrap around my mortal form like Arthur's tapestry. I feel her warmth, I revel in the floral scent radiating from her ivory skin. This is the longest we have gone without intimacy. I crave her now and wonder if she shares in this deep desire. She must. I dare to say, dare to wish that she is lying in this same darkness, across town in that lonesome theatre by the harbor. The passion in her kiss immobilizes my senses. That is, until the spell ends and she breaks free. My eyes blink open. The color of her dress and hair and the rays of the sun form a ring around her. Beyond the light, I see a ship, the same one that carried me away from home and to the Carolinas.

"Promise me," she says, guiding my hand to lay across her abdomen, "promise us that we three will find each other again."

I step back, almost far enough to break our connection. "We should have gone home long ago. I can't leave you here. Don't you understand? I need more time with you!"

Between us, a shadow stretches. It belongs to Arthur. He closes in on me, wearing his usual smile, cloven by the white cigarette between his lips. "You have fulfilled your purpose here in Liverpool. Now you must allow Marigold to fulfill hers."

"I have no purpose without her!" I cry. "She feels the same! Tell him! Tell him that we cannot be parted!"

"We never were and never will be. Go to our apple tree," she embraces me. "I promise that you will not have to wait there long for Mabel and I. Do you trust me?"

I start to speak, to vow my trust in her but a foreign sound pulls me out of my dream, out of her arms. A draft from the roof has chilled me. The thin stream of coldness blowing from it like air through a straw disturbed the pages my field book as I slept. Swiftly, protectively, I shut it. The cover and its pages are cold as death. It feels heavy in my hands, heavier than it ever has. As I open it to look inside, wisps of fog escape from its pages. They hover above my hands, gathering to create a nameless, shapeless form.

A tiny voice, faint and fragile whispers from inside the grayness. "Do not be afraid."

"I am." I admit, watching the little cloud intensely, searching for any trace of an identity. "I have never seen a ghost like you before. You are strange to me."

"As I should be. I am not your average ghost!"

"Your voice is familiar. I've heard it before. In a dream."

"Hello, Fa. Something has fallen into your hands and I am to blame. In the future, far in the future, I read this book. The page that you found, I tore it out after reading what it said. You cannot read it."

"Why?"

"You have an opportunity to undo everything. If you so choose. I fear that if you know what happens on the day that I am born, you will make it so you and Ma never-"

"I already know." The cloud grows silent momentarily and I decide to take this opportunity to divert her. "What I do not know, however, is whether or not you traveled here with us, with her. What I mean to ask is, if we decide to stay here, will you be joining us in seven short months?"

"I will. If Ma stays, that is. You, on the other hand, will sail alone to South Carolina. The rest is a mystery to me."

"What of her fate if she stays? Is that a mystery to you?"

"That I cannot tell. What makes you think she will have a chance in this century and not in the one where she belongs?"

"I do not know," I confess, "I only wish to do what is best for both of you. No matter the cost."

"That is why you cannot read this, Fa. That is the only cost that I wish for you to pay on my behalf."

I glance at the book, the paper in question is peeking out like the pointed tip of a dagger. On it, spiraling black letters that I will someday write. In a leap of fantastic faith, I pull it out and turn it over so that the writing no longer shows. "What must I do with it?" No answer comes. The little ghost breaks apart, climbing towards the ceiling and dissipating into a fine, sparkling mist.

...

The hour is early. Far too early for even the most committed thespian to be here. I stand in the wings. Silently, I watch Marigold as she meanders around a spinning record. Before I found her here, my mind was fraught with worry. I can breathe again now. Five whole minutes have passed since I slipped the envelope beneath Arthur's door. On the top, I wrote a simple message: "Destroy it." What he does now and whether he or, God forbid, someone else finds it, is out of my hands. I cursed myself all night and well into the morning. Even now, the sharp fangs of guilt sink into my bones. I am ashamed to admit that the unread page defeated me. I searched and searched for the will to rid myself of its presence. Alas, I could not.

It is a haunted thing, you see. A supernatural force with a will of its own. Deep inside of me, I knew that by tearing it to shreds, by throwing it into the hearth and watching it burn into a scrap of black ash, I would doom her all the more. That those flames would find her here on the stage and swallow her whole while she danced. Relief overwhelms me as I watch her. She seems otherworldly to me, like a sorceress trying to awaken the dead through her graceful movements. My presence goes unnoticed for but a moment more until at last, her eyes are drawn to where I stand. Surprisingly, she does not seem alarmed to see me. She kneels, trading one record for another and lifting her hand as the melody begins.

"We married in a theatre," I say, suddenly emboldened by the tune she chose, "this was our song. Only it was played by a string quartet."

"I know. I seem to remember it best when I'm standing here."

"There is magic in these buildings," I reach out to her and without the restraints of formal invitation, we begin to dance.

"Magic and memory, beauty and love," she laughs softly through her tiny, darling nose. "Then again, it all seems so unearned. Sure, you chose me in another life. What makes you so certain that we are compatible here and now?"

"Because I chose you a third time, too. Perhaps even a time before that. I would marry you again right now if I could."

As she spins, her eyes move from my face to her bare feet. She is blushing deeply. "But you don't even know me!"

"Well, then tell me about yourself."

Our eyes meet, stillness finds us and yet, the song plays on. "I am Marigold. I love stories of all kinds. But the ones that I love most of all are told in colorful costumes and with the most beautiful, melodic words. I love humor and talking and laughing! And yellow! And the taste of apples. And the way that lavender smells in the rain. The buzzing of bees, the iridescent feathers on the hummingbird's wing, the carefree and seemingly nonsensical wisdom of children before their hearts are broken by the world. I love this silly thing right here and the records that are played on it. I love my home or rather, the dreams that I have of it and the people there. I love them and I know that they love me, too. Perhaps they love me even now, even while we are so very far from one another. I love to lie awake at night and tell myself about the adventures that I had in that curious little river town. Some, I wager, may be true. Others I know are my own invention. Still, they play before me: the most intricate scenes on the world's grandest stage. You are in so many of them. I love to see you there, yes... I love spending time with you. More than words can say, even if you are nothing more than a perfect story, a perfect dream." Tears appear in her eyes, but they do not fall far. They cling to her eyelashes and sparkle in the candlelight like dew. "What about you?"

"I am William," I frame her lovely face with my hands, trying and failing to form a cohesive list, let alone a cohesive sentence, "and I love you."

She shows no resistance as I draw nearer. Her breath, sweet as it ever was, spills over my lips. It warms them, calls them in like how a breeze guides a wayward ship toward some tropical shore. I remember now, how tentative and light her kisses were at first. How tenderly her mouth would glide across my own between each fleeting contact. I smile adoringly at her bashful exploration. She smiles, too, perusing every tiny crease in my lips. I never noticed before, but it is the same ritual that she follows while reading a poem for the first time. Someday soon, she will know me by heart again.

"Forgive me," she whispers without pulling away. "I have dreamed of this for as long as my memory permits. I only wish to savor this morning before it is gone."

"Then savor it, my beautiful one."

Her smile grows, "Let us close our eyes and imagine that every clock in the world has stopped. That there are no more seasons or days or hours or seconds. All that we have, all that we are, can be found within this unchanging moment. All the moments we shared in the time preceding, lovely though they were- were nothing more than the world's attempt to create something truly perfect. Now those playwrights, those poets and painters, those gods in their golden pantheon can marvel at what came to be. One fine morning on a tiny stage, in a tiny theatre, time stood still and all was beauty, forevermore."

"You truly believe that?" I ask and with her nod, I hold her even closer. "Then I dare to believe that you love me in return."

"The first time you entered this building, my heart heard your footsteps, it heard you calling my name long before your voice reached my ears. It was like an answer to every question I ever dared to ask. Yes William, I love you."

We stay a while there, underscored by the wonder of music, surrounded by the magic of theatre, suspended high above the earth by the miracle that is love.