Read by Terence Anderson
There comes a late-November Sunday, even in the upper Midwest, when the world outside is just too beautiful for those of us who live here to stay cooped up inside. Golden sunlight dances through branches bare of all but the most tenacious leaves. Grass bends a bit in a southerly breeze. Birds and fowl halt their migration for a while.
If you would like to read the rest of this story, please check out Weird Lies, the recent Arachne Press anthology in which it, and many other fantastical stories from the League archives, appears.
There comes a late-November Sunday, even in the upper Midwest, when the world outside is just too beautiful for those of us who live here to stay cooped up inside. Golden sunlight dances through branches bare of all but the most tenacious leaves. Grass bends a bit in a southerly breeze. Birds and fowl halt their migration for a while.
Carol decided we should spend this gift of a day shopping for antiques. She wanted to find just the right occasional chair for our recently remodeled living room, and knew exactly what style of framed mirror would work above her dressing table. Having been married better than twenty years, I left thoughts of brats and the Packers unspoken while I found a light jacket and the car keys.
Once away from the city, we took county roads out to Taintsville. It was a lovely drive through the rolling countryside and past miles of fields filled with soybeans and winter wheat, every bit as perfect as the day surrounding it. I almost yielded to the temptation to put the roof down on our old ragtop Caddy and pretend we were teenagers again, wind in our hair and no cares in our world. Too soon, it seemed, we reached our destination.
Taintsville is a good place to hunt for true antiques at realistic prices. It's an old farming community, by and large, with enough shops on the outskirts to make the search worthwhile without crowding and over-commercialising the process. On a day like this, much of the merchandise would be displayed outside, on gently sloping lawns and flagstone walks. We'd combine a stroll in the sunshine with serious shopping.
Sometimes, Carol would wander from store to store, examining each piece of furniture in great detail and never reaching a decision. Other times; well, have you ever seen a dog pick a person out of a crowd without hesitation, sensing something that promises a perfect match? As far as chairs were concerned, this was one of those quick times. At the second store, she spotted a handcrafted early nineteenth-century chair tucked away on the corner of the porch, looked only once at the price tag, and asked me if it would fit in the back of the car. I knew I'd have to make it fit; it was coming home with us.
That settled, and the chair settled comfortably in the car, she said to me, "Hey, sailor. Buy a lady a meal? Maybe I'll show you a good time while you're in town."
"Well, blow me down," I said in my best Popeye voice. "I yam what I yam." Such a cultured, polite invitation. Back when I really was a sailor, the bargirls were more likely to say, "I love you, Joe. Let's go short-time."
Carol laughed, and managed a fair Olive Oyl in return. "Okay, Sweet Potato, let's shiver our timbers over to Ashley's and see what's on the menu."
We lunched on pot roast with baby potatoes and sweetcorn, the kind of meal you wish your mother had known how to make. Ashley's coffee is even better than her cooking, and we used the small talk old marriages are known for as an excuse to have an extra cup each. Good weather, good food, good company. Such a fine day.
"Ready for more?" Carol asked, meaning following her around the remaining four antique shops.
"Lead on," I replied. And so she did.
The mirror Carol had in mind wasn't in the third store, nor the fourth or fifth. I'm not sure why she passed on the ones she saw there; several seemed beautiful to me, and perfectly suited to my image of what would fit her needs, both practical and aesthetic. As we approached the last shop, I thought we might be out of luck that day.
"That's it," she exclaimed, and hurried over to a mirror that leaned against a small dresser. I smiled at the child's delight in her voice and step. "The dimensions are perfect for what I want."
She examined the frame from just enough distance to take in its overall design. Satisfied with what she saw, she moved close for a careful look at the woodwork. A little character-giving distress would be one thing; major scratches, dents, or warping would be unacceptable. Her fingers ran over the surface, feeling for exceptional roughness, poor polishing, or the falseness of an unoriginal finish. I felt like I was watching a blind person investigate a new face, and she did in fact close her eyes from time to time, as if to allow greater focus on touch.
When Carol was done looking at the front and sides, I pulled the mirror away from the dresser so she could give the back an equally thorough going over. Once she was finished, I leaned it back again and stepped away so she could examine the glass.
"No chips or scratches in the silvering," she reported. "Come over here and see what you think. I'm guessing there's a very attractive couple in the mirror."
I stood next to her, on her left, and looked.
"Um, what a shame. There must be a flaw in the glass. I can see me," I told her, "but not you."
She didn't answer immediately, but shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then back, all the while looking intently at the mirror. "That," she finally said, "is strange."
"You didn't tell me you had vampire blood in you," I joked.
"Trade places with me."
I moved to stand on her right side. "Okay, so the mirror has vampire blood in its family." Now I could see her reflection but not my own.
"That is a shame. Do you think we could replace the glass? The frame is exactly what I hoped to find."
I moved the mirror and examined the back. "Nope. This is the original glass, from the look of things. Probably never removed after it was placed. Change the glass and the value of the piece goes right down the toilet."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." She frowned, then looked up at the sky, where clouds were starting to bunch up to the west. "Let's call it a day and get home before the rain comes. I found the chair, and fifty percent ain't a bad day's work."
We both took one last look at the mirror. Carol shivered, though the air was still pleasantly warm.
She shivered again as I started the car.
"We'll get you warmed up as soon as the engine does," I told her.
"I'm not cold. It's just that mirror. I've never seen anything so ... so weird. How did it do that?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I'm glad you decided to pass on it, though. I don't think I'd want it in the house. Sure you don't want the heat on?"
"Nah, but thanks, honey. I'll be okay."
As we crossed out of town, Carol asked me, "Do you know why it's called Taintsville?"
I did, in fact, but thought her story might be funnier than the truth. "Do tell, please."
"Well, you know this area was settled by Swedes and Norwegians, back when they mixed as well as oil and water. Whatever one group said, the other would say, 'No, it ain't.' After a while, people from other towns took to calling this Taintsville."
I laughed. "And you're going to tell me their soft-hearted children settled Missouri, saying 'show me' instead of 'it ain't'."
"Exactly. You're a very smart man. Of course, you proved that years ago."
"How?"
"You married me."
We didn't get home before it started raining. The storm built rapidly, and caught up to us out on the two-lane, blacktop county road. Its speed was equaled by its intensity. Driving soon became a challenge. I remember turning the wipers to their fastest speed, and wondering if there was a safe place to pull off the road until the weather eased.
I don't remember anything between that and when I woke in the hospital. The doctors said limited amnesia is common in accident victims, especially where there's been either severe emotional distress or head trauma, and I'd suffered both. What they were telling me, I finally realized, was that I didn't really remember the crash. The things I saw in my mind's eye day and night were imagined, pictures drawn in great detail by the force of my survivor's guilt.
Carol's folks flew into Chicago and rode up here with my parents. The four of them took care of arrangements while I was still in an induced coma, and so I missed my wife's wake and cremation. I understand a lot of people came to pay their respects, more than she would ever have realised she could touch with her life. They saved the ashes for me to scatter over the Pacific Ocean she'd loved so much. And they held me safe, in both body and spirit, until I was ready to rejoin what was left of my world.
The area newspapers' accounts of the crash are generally clear. An oncoming pickup drifted into our lane on a curve, its driver blinded by the rain. Accidents happen, and I don't have it in my heart to hold my loss against him.
They're wrong on one point, though. She definitely was wearing her seatbelt. Neither of us would forget that all-important item. The police said it broke loose, allowing her to be thrown from the car.
And they leave out one thing. I would do anything, give everything, for her to have been on the left and me on the right.
A few years have passed, and with them perhaps a hundred Sunday drives along county roads to Taintsville. Sometimes the day is beautiful around my car. Other times the outside is as gray as the inside. The mirror is still there, unsold. And no matter how I stand before it, despite all prayers and supplications, I still see my reflection.
Carol decided we should spend this gift of a day shopping for antiques. She wanted to find just the right occasional chair for our recently remodeled living room, and knew exactly what style of framed mirror would work above her dressing table. Having been married better than twenty years, I left thoughts of brats and the Packers unspoken while I found a light jacket and the car keys.
Once away from the city, we took county roads out to Taintsville. It was a lovely drive through the rolling countryside and past miles of fields filled with soybeans and winter wheat, every bit as perfect as the day surrounding it. I almost yielded to the temptation to put the roof down on our old ragtop Caddy and pretend we were teenagers again, wind in our hair and no cares in our world. Too soon, it seemed, we reached our destination.
Taintsville is a good place to hunt for true antiques at realistic prices. It's an old farming community, by and large, with enough shops on the outskirts to make the search worthwhile without crowding and over-commercialising the process. On a day like this, much of the merchandise would be displayed outside, on gently sloping lawns and flagstone walks. We'd combine a stroll in the sunshine with serious shopping.
Sometimes, Carol would wander from store to store, examining each piece of furniture in great detail and never reaching a decision. Other times; well, have you ever seen a dog pick a person out of a crowd without hesitation, sensing something that promises a perfect match? As far as chairs were concerned, this was one of those quick times. At the second store, she spotted a handcrafted early nineteenth-century chair tucked away on the corner of the porch, looked only once at the price tag, and asked me if it would fit in the back of the car. I knew I'd have to make it fit; it was coming home with us.
That settled, and the chair settled comfortably in the car, she said to me, "Hey, sailor. Buy a lady a meal? Maybe I'll show you a good time while you're in town."
"Well, blow me down," I said in my best Popeye voice. "I yam what I yam." Such a cultured, polite invitation. Back when I really was a sailor, the bargirls were more likely to say, "I love you, Joe. Let's go short-time."
Carol laughed, and managed a fair Olive Oyl in return. "Okay, Sweet Potato, let's shiver our timbers over to Ashley's and see what's on the menu."
We lunched on pot roast with baby potatoes and sweetcorn, the kind of meal you wish your mother had known how to make. Ashley's coffee is even better than her cooking, and we used the small talk old marriages are known for as an excuse to have an extra cup each. Good weather, good food, good company. Such a fine day.
"Ready for more?" Carol asked, meaning following her around the remaining four antique shops.
"Lead on," I replied. And so she did.
The mirror Carol had in mind wasn't in the third store, nor the fourth or fifth. I'm not sure why she passed on the ones she saw there; several seemed beautiful to me, and perfectly suited to my image of what would fit her needs, both practical and aesthetic. As we approached the last shop, I thought we might be out of luck that day.
"That's it," she exclaimed, and hurried over to a mirror that leaned against a small dresser. I smiled at the child's delight in her voice and step. "The dimensions are perfect for what I want."
She examined the frame from just enough distance to take in its overall design. Satisfied with what she saw, she moved close for a careful look at the woodwork. A little character-giving distress would be one thing; major scratches, dents, or warping would be unacceptable. Her fingers ran over the surface, feeling for exceptional roughness, poor polishing, or the falseness of an unoriginal finish. I felt like I was watching a blind person investigate a new face, and she did in fact close her eyes from time to time, as if to allow greater focus on touch.
When Carol was done looking at the front and sides, I pulled the mirror away from the dresser so she could give the back an equally thorough going over. Once she was finished, I leaned it back again and stepped away so she could examine the glass.
"No chips or scratches in the silvering," she reported. "Come over here and see what you think. I'm guessing there's a very attractive couple in the mirror."
I stood next to her, on her left, and looked.
"Um, what a shame. There must be a flaw in the glass. I can see me," I told her, "but not you."
She didn't answer immediately, but shifted her weight from one foot to the other and then back, all the while looking intently at the mirror. "That," she finally said, "is strange."
"You didn't tell me you had vampire blood in you," I joked.
"Trade places with me."
I moved to stand on her right side. "Okay, so the mirror has vampire blood in its family." Now I could see her reflection but not my own.
"That is a shame. Do you think we could replace the glass? The frame is exactly what I hoped to find."
I moved the mirror and examined the back. "Nope. This is the original glass, from the look of things. Probably never removed after it was placed. Change the glass and the value of the piece goes right down the toilet."
"Yeah, I guess you're right." She frowned, then looked up at the sky, where clouds were starting to bunch up to the west. "Let's call it a day and get home before the rain comes. I found the chair, and fifty percent ain't a bad day's work."
We both took one last look at the mirror. Carol shivered, though the air was still pleasantly warm.
She shivered again as I started the car.
"We'll get you warmed up as soon as the engine does," I told her.
"I'm not cold. It's just that mirror. I've never seen anything so ... so weird. How did it do that?"
"I don't know," I answered. "I'm glad you decided to pass on it, though. I don't think I'd want it in the house. Sure you don't want the heat on?"
"Nah, but thanks, honey. I'll be okay."
As we crossed out of town, Carol asked me, "Do you know why it's called Taintsville?"
I did, in fact, but thought her story might be funnier than the truth. "Do tell, please."
"Well, you know this area was settled by Swedes and Norwegians, back when they mixed as well as oil and water. Whatever one group said, the other would say, 'No, it ain't.' After a while, people from other towns took to calling this Taintsville."
I laughed. "And you're going to tell me their soft-hearted children settled Missouri, saying 'show me' instead of 'it ain't'."
"Exactly. You're a very smart man. Of course, you proved that years ago."
"How?"
"You married me."
We didn't get home before it started raining. The storm built rapidly, and caught up to us out on the two-lane, blacktop county road. Its speed was equaled by its intensity. Driving soon became a challenge. I remember turning the wipers to their fastest speed, and wondering if there was a safe place to pull off the road until the weather eased.
I don't remember anything between that and when I woke in the hospital. The doctors said limited amnesia is common in accident victims, especially where there's been either severe emotional distress or head trauma, and I'd suffered both. What they were telling me, I finally realized, was that I didn't really remember the crash. The things I saw in my mind's eye day and night were imagined, pictures drawn in great detail by the force of my survivor's guilt.
Carol's folks flew into Chicago and rode up here with my parents. The four of them took care of arrangements while I was still in an induced coma, and so I missed my wife's wake and cremation. I understand a lot of people came to pay their respects, more than she would ever have realised she could touch with her life. They saved the ashes for me to scatter over the Pacific Ocean she'd loved so much. And they held me safe, in both body and spirit, until I was ready to rejoin what was left of my world.
The area newspapers' accounts of the crash are generally clear. An oncoming pickup drifted into our lane on a curve, its driver blinded by the rain. Accidents happen, and I don't have it in my heart to hold my loss against him.
They're wrong on one point, though. She definitely was wearing her seatbelt. Neither of us would forget that all-important item. The police said it broke loose, allowing her to be thrown from the car.
And they leave out one thing. I would do anything, give everything, for her to have been on the left and me on the right.
A few years have passed, and with them perhaps a hundred Sunday drives along county roads to Taintsville. Sometimes the day is beautiful around my car. Other times the outside is as gray as the inside. The mirror is still there, unsold. And no matter how I stand before it, despite all prayers and supplications, I still see my reflection.
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