The Return of the Orange Virgin
by Rob Hunter
The house had a storybook air to it―a short ground floor and a steeply
thatched roof with framed dormers peeking through the straw upstairs. Tudor half
beaming, wattle-and-daub with an occasional fieldstone for accent. Oswaldo
remembered seeing something like it in brochures for picturesque vacations; all
destinations looked alike in the travel folders.
Valerie Hatt picked up a wicker portmanteau Oswaldo had not noticed at his feet. "Like
you said, things happen fast; but we try to keep on top of them. You came
without stuff... now you have stuff." Hefting the bag, she turned her back and
headed for the house. "See?... easy!" Explanations were through. Oswaldo
followed.
Valerie dumped the case inside the door and threw herself into a kitchen chair. "Hot
work, chasing cows. Want a beer, some soda? We've got plenty in the fridge." So
saying, she was up again and back with a can of 7-Up and two glasses. Moisture
beaded invitingly on the can.
It was cool inside with rough plastered walls. A small fire smoked in a brick
and iron stove opposite the door. "You were expecting me."
"Plagiation, kidnapery. A snatch. It's the same old story. Lots of our boarders
get here that way. High-handed if you ask me, but nobody ever does." A breezy,
lighthearted laugh.
"Pardon me, but haven't we met before?" Oswaldo remembered the face. It had
belonged to a thin blonde girl in hip-huggers with a flaccid belly. Just a
memory with no background sketched in. He had seen her, somewhere. The
unconscious mind surveys a street scene, fitting made-up histories to passing
faces and shapes―the family groupings that spread out untidily across the
landscape of an idle mind.
"Probably, on the Other Side. Finite personalities, infinite universe, if you go
for that stuff. Anyway, it's an explanation. There are all sorts of familiar
faces here. We are true to type, you and I. People tend to repeat." Valerie
poured the 7-Up, tongue showing between her lips, her brow wrinkling. "They're
mounting some kind of an operation over there and we―you and me―are but two of
the casualties." Valerie poured the 7-Up, tongue showing between her teeth, her
brow wrinkling. "Maybe 'casualties' is not the best word. Tim and I have got it
pretty good here. Let's see, we've been here for, hmmm..." She searched the
ceiling for an answer.
Oswaldo took the glass from her hand and waited. Her eyes had a vague, far-away
look. The pause stretched on. Then, after several minutes, she snapped-to and
gave him a wide, welcoming smile of many well cared for teeth.
"Two years seems about right. Of course, that's subjective time―local time as we
see it right here. Time moves faster at the village 'cause they've been here
longer." She added an emphasis, "Much longer." She swung around a kitchen chair
and straddled it, looking at Oswaldo, her arms draped over the back. "That's
just the way things are here. We do some farming, keep this guest house; and for
the kids―well! it's just great. But..."
She looked wistfully to another room where boings, explosions and hyperactive
giggles told of children's play in progress. "It's like living in New Zealand."
Valerie had not been to New Zealand; it was a quick, commanding cliché and
Oswaldo felt somehow cheated. "You know, a place that is nice, really great,
where you get letters from relatives but nobody ever comes back from. Like dying
but with regular mail service." Valerie Hatt got the faraway vacant look again.
And again, it went on for many minutes. New Zealand must mean her options had
been closed. By somebody. She returned with the same disingenuous smile, a smile
that suggested that, for her, their conversation was rolling right along. "We
don't want to leave, not really. It would be nice to know we could whenever we
wanted to, but we don't, if you know what I mean..."
There was a cry of offended territoriality from the next room. "Ma..."
"And right on cue." Valerie rose, in no great hurry, her glass of 7-Up swinging
loosely between two fingers. "There's all sorts of room for them to play;
they're learning the language―they speak it like they were born here. And they
get along fine with the kids from the village. No fights aside from the normal
dust-ups." By the time they reached the children, the problem had solved itself
and been forgotten - the two boys seated silently in front of a television
screen. Valerie made a self-conscious gesture, tucking a stray lock back under
her kerchief. "Beats the city all to hell for raising kids; they don't even
remember any other life."
Oswaldo and Val joined the children on the sofa. The younger sucked his thumb.
Timmy and Skipper squirmed apart on their behinds, creating two grownup-sized
availabilities before the family shrine. "The VCR―it's a touch of home. We get
tall the latest shows on DVDs. Movies, too." There was a blare of music
signaling completeness, then the screen went blank. A click from the video
player as with a whirring mechanical sound from within a flashing red light
appeared on its front panel." The finale. "Ejection time. And time you two got
out and into the sun. You're Daddy's haying down by the South Fork; go and give
him a hand." Tow-headed, bright-eyed and animated, the two tussled, then obeyed
and headed after their Daddy. An idealized family. However long they had been
here, they were country kids now. There was none of the spattered, non-directed
energy of cramped quarters. "You should see them in the winter―they're a
handful. But the winters are short and mild..." Valerie's hand pursued the
wayward strand of hair again. Giving up on it, she removed her bandana and shook
her hair free. It was thick and irregularly sun-bleached. "We've become regular
frontiersmen. Plowing, sowing, reaping, doctoring ourselves and the animals. I
teach the kids and Tim wrestles with keeping our moody generator up and running.
The fuel comes from the same place the videos do―wherever. We don't ask."
"You said the children were learning the language. Everybody I've met so far has
been speaking English."
"Right. But the local lingo is a kind of medieval French. There's a Provençal
village five kilometers upstream and through the woods. Or leagues, versts,
miles. Depends on who's walking. We settled on metric as a friendly
accommodation. Weights and measures are pretty unpredictable here."
"A whole village? From the way you talk, I gather everyone here came from
someplace else. How did you get here, like me?"
Valerie held both hands up, palms out. "We don't talk about that. Neither do
they―the folks in the village. The parish priest runs a little school; no frills
- reading, writing and some arithmetic. Adaptable folks, these French. They look
on being here as a divine dispensation―no wars, no taxes, and business as usual.
They have nothing to do with why you and I are here. They popped through six
hundred years ago real time, so they've done a lot of settling in. And if I read
your body language right, you are about to ask where we are. Don't ask, we're
just where we were before we came. The way I make it is we―you and I―are still
where we were, and where we are now came around to meet us. You know―like a
stage play where the actors stand still and the scenery rotates to meet them.
That's kind of dumb sounding, but we have a video."
Valerie retrieved Oswaldo's soda and a tape from the kitchen. "This is the
orientation tape for new arrivals. We're supposed to show it to you. This is a
new one and I haven't seen it yet. Let me know if it's any good. I have to catch
up with the kids and shag those cows to a proper piece of grass. There's beer
and nachos in the fridge, help yourself." Valerie inserted orientation program
into the DVD player. "All ready to go. Just punch 'play.' Seeya."
Oswaldo sat quietly for some minutes, glad of the time to himself. The tanned
and confident young woman who had left to chase cows was no product of an
overnight makeover, but he could swear she had seen her, thin and listless,
dragging a gooey-faced toddler in town just the week before. Thinking, Well,
what the hell, he leaned forward to the control panel and pressed the 'play'
button.
The screen remained blank. A piece of nondescript mood music welled up,
suggesting majestic panoramas. Pastoral scenes appeared―mountain valleys awash
with morning mists, grazing deer, sun-dappled rippling pools where trout rose to
passing flies, and a time-lapse sequence of flowers opening. There was a
dissolve to an empty stage, its only furniture a work light on a stand. A man
sauntered to stage center. "And so, dear traveler, after many a weary mile, you
have at last arrived at this, your destination. You probably have some
questions. Well, if you play ball with us, we are prepared to play ball with
you."
Here the screen curled from one corner as if someone were turning a page and the
man was revealed attired in a natty golfing outfit. "Some nice effects, eh?" He
had changed into bright checkered yellow knickerbockers, knee socks and
two-toned oxfords with fringed bobs decorating the tongues. He brandished a
nine-iron like a pointer at a classroom chalkboard. A small mound of turf had
been placed on the floorboards at his feet. He tore loose a few blades of grass
and threw them in the air, testing a non-existent wind, and took a practice
swing. "Small but hard. The balls, that is." Leaning on the club, the announcer
peered into the distance, shielding his eyes with the flat of his hand.
Shouldering the club, he adjusted his stance and gave a mighty swing. Letting
the club slip through his fingers to hang carelessly at his side, he waited.
From off camera there was a sound of shattering plate glass. The screen
digitized, fell apart into a thousand fragments, then coalesced into the
announcer again, sedately clothed in shades of blue and seated at a
leather-covered desk. Books lined the walls, their bindings matching his
conservative tie. A banker. Or an osteopath.
He leaned forward and stared into the camera. "Life, like golf, is a game of
skill, not luck. You have already met Hatt and Scullion, a lovely pair of kids.
Their job is to make you feel at home. We all have our little tasks to perform.
Right now, yours is to get educated about what is going on and mine is to give
you some answers. Your mind is in a jolly old ferment about now and if you don't
get those answers you are fair to burst, right? You are an inquisitive,
resourceful sort. You made it over the hill, attracted by the smoke beckoning
from the chimney of this homey cottage, made your way here hoping for help.
Well, pilgrim, I'm it. We hope you like it here, for this will be your home for
the foreseeable future. The duration." The actor paused for effect, wiping a
speck of dust from his glasses.
Definitely, thought Oswaldo, now was the time to go to the kitchen and get that
beer. The actor rambled unconcernedly from the tape.
"Think of the universe as your basic Mom and Pop store. They never have what you
want, but since you took the trouble to show up, you make some accommodations
and accept something you really don't want but is probably just as good. It's
all give and take. "Ahh, yes... you want answers. Well, that feathery looking
tree in the yard is a mimosa. Yep, that's right, mimosa, just like the drink,
but this is a tree―the real thing, too. And around the door? That is
honeysuckle. And there is a wisteria bower out back if you'd care to have a look
after the showowowooo...." A trap door opened under him and he fell through the
floor. This scene must have been shot on a cut-away set, for the camera followed
him down, revealing the framing between levels, and caught up with him dressed
in a coarsely woven, hooded garment, seated on a slatted bed that hung from the
wall by a chain.
He had picked up several days growth of beard during the fall and his eyes were
made-up to suggest hollowness. Cotton-candy cobwebs had been spun about the set.
There was a sound of water dripping in a cavern. "Well, just about the time they
yanked the chain on me, you were wondering when I was going to stop the bullshit
and get around to business. Well, pardner," Here he threw back the hood,
replacing it with a cowboy hat, "The terrible, the awful, the unspeakable truth
is, you are in the calabozo, the slammer, the gray-bar hotel, up the river, in
durance vile and here you are going to stay until it pleases us to let you out."
A mechanical rat, a big key in its back unwinding as it ran, scurried across the
screen at his feet. Reaching under the monk's robe, the announcer drew forth a
six-shooter the size of a jackhammer and blew it to pieces with a single shot.
It was a bang of nuclear proportions. There was a rain of gears―springs and
artificial fur flew past the announcer, considerably more than could have
reasonably been inside the mechanical rat. He blew across the barrel of his
smoking pistol, making the sound of a tug-boat whistle. He replaced the gun
under his robe, rearranged its folds and sat with hands folded. He looked out
from the screen. "'Whoa!' you're saying... 'I didn't do anything.' Well, we
never said you did. The truth is, you were a potential embarrassment where you
were and instead of blowing you to smithereens, we put you here. Neat, huh?"
There was a 'pop' and the screen went blank. A sound effect of wind faded up,
suggesting bleakness. It went on that way for perhaps a minute. The wind faded
down and the announcer spoke with heavy echo, "You could have been HERE."
That, it appeared, was that. The sound stopped, the screen rolled over and the
player shut itself off. On the control panel a light was flashing over a button
labeled Restart. Oswaldo sat quietly. The movie had not been made specifically
with him in mind. He again debated going to the kitchen for a beer, but decided
to give it another chance. He pushed the restart button. Back to the camera, the
narrator was absorbed drawing cartoon figures on a blackboard.
"Oh, hello there, come right in." He turned and slapped his hands together
raising a small cloud of chalk dust. "Just doing some preparation for the next
part of our presentation." Walking to a handsome desk done in distressed oak, he
selected a book from a pile ready to hand and opened it to a marker. Retrieving
a pair of reading glasses from his jacket pocket, he settled them on his nose.
He ran a finger down the page, making professorial noises; then, apparently
satisfied, closed the book and again faced the camera. "So glad you decided to
stay. Since you haven't run screaming from the room, and allowing that the first
half of this show didn't have you gibbering on the floor, you appear to be made
of sterner stuff than the usual run. Valerie always has some beer and jalapeño
dip in the fridge, I make it a point to have some when I'm here. It's really
quite good, a mite spicy, though. I'd recommend you get a beer to wash it down.
Go on, help yourself, it's on the left the same way you came in. I'll wait." He
got up, whistling tunelessly, and returned to the blackboard where he busied
himself adding refinements―curly hair and a skirt or kilt―to a stick-figure
there. Obviously nothing was going to happen for a set period of time, whatever
the makers of the presentation figured appropriate for a round trip to the
kitchen. What the hell, Oswald thought, and came back with a beer, some nachos
and a bowl of jalapeño dip. It was hot, as advertised. He licked his fingers,
popped open the beer and settled back on the sofa.
"There. All comfy? Well, let me tell you, you of the select few. Since you have
had the nerve, nay, the raw animal courage to be snatched from all that is
familiar, near and dear to you to a different plane of reality, sit through the
first part of this orientation, and still press the Restart button, you clearly
deserve some straight talk."
The page peeled back revealing the severe lines of a New England church. His
eyes huge, the narrator thundered from the pulpit, his evangelical wig a
flailing silver mane. That and a broadcloth box-backed coat of nineteenth
century cut suggested flagellation, public confession, the pillory. "Oh that's
right―you smug, self-satisfied person, sitting there snarfing up the bounty of
the earth, content to feed and wax fat from grinding the faces of the poor. The
sweat of other brows makes you sleek and glossy... The sweat of other brows
makes you sleek and glossy..." He appeared to have lost his place. Oswaldo found
himself lowering the bag of chips to the floor, distancing himself from his
illicit harvest.
"Heads older and wiser than yours or mine are making some adjustments in the
probability continuum so that some day somebody like you will be able to pick up
their clothes at the cleaner's and keep that date. Not you though. Ahem,
unfortunately that is now out of the question."
Oswaldo felt a chill down his back. After wading through all his prefatory
remarks, the narrator was finally getting to the point. Oswaldo knew he was not
going to be happy hearing what the actor had to say from here on in.
"All your dreams, hopes and aspirations have been swept aside because you were
standing where the Moose of Circumstance was going to put her foot. I'm sorry if
you had made plans, but we have canceled them for you. Your clothes will
languish uncalled for at the cleaners; your date will get royally pissed off
when you don't show up, be heartbroken, and then finally forget you, marry to
the suburbs, have 2 point 7 children and spend weekends passing hotdogs hand to
hand at baseball games. Depressing, isn't it? But that's life and you see, you
were in the way." "Or perhaps that should be scarfing down..." The actor
relaxed, leaning casually on the pulpit, and thrust his free hand in his coast
pocket. The hand came out of the pocket. In it were a half dozen mothballs. He
considered the mothballs for a moment then, letting them dribble out onto the
floor, leaned forward into the camera. An expansive gesture was called for at
this point.
Oswaldo had had enough; this was getting silly. The salt made him thirsty and
his can was empty. He got up for another beer. In the kitchen he heard the video
talking louder, as though it realized it was losing its audience and had better
do something soon or be playing to an empty tent. "But enough about me,"
bellowed the announcer from the parlor, "Let's talk about you."
Ozzie returned with an extra beer, more jalapeño, and a dish of carrot sticks
and celery hearts. The music swelled to a climax and a voice which was not the
narrator's took over―impersonal, molassassy and transparent―an institutional
voice of the species most often heard on commercials for financial services.
"Wait. Come back and I'll tell you a story."
"I'm already back, dummy." Ozzie plomped down into the comfortable, poufy
cushions. Satisfied, the music changed to the hypnotic, cushioned soundtrack of
educational TV. The familiar chords and repetitive rhythms made Oswaldo sleepy.
Hmmm―little man, you've had a busy day. He shook his head, driving cobwebby
trailers away, and thought how nice it would be to have a nap on the couch.
Oswaldo drowsily curled his legs under himself once more and reached for a beer.
Having waited, the video continued, the new announcer talking gibberish with the
moist, sincere tone of cultural uplift. "Once upon a time there was the smallest
ever imaginable piece of silver foil, part of the factory wrapped cocoonage that
accompanied each and every stick of peppermint clove chewing gum on its voyage
into the world. That's just the way things are..." Oswaldo fumbled about on the
tabouret by the couch looking for the remote control. He found it and lifted it,
poised to zap the set; then remembered there were no other channels. Off was the
desirable compromise. He punched Eject. There was a whir and the video popped
out of the deck. The irritating voice was gone. The picture, however, did not
fade, and the music went plugging doggedly along, as player continued to
document the miracle of peppermint clove chewing gum.
He must have fallen asleep, soothed by the wordless drama. For how long? Ozzie
woke up with a snap, spilling some beer, but catching the bowl of jalapeño dip
between his knees, to find himself gliding precipitously to the floor. He was
settling back again when he felt a glowing against his chest. A glowing and an
itch. Setting his beer on the tabouret, he reached inside his shirtfront to
scratch. The glowing was not an uncomfortable feeling, but it was spreading. He
scratched under an arm. Itchy armpits were a summertime annoyance, like bugs or
heat rash. And it was getting worse. He began to squirm, unbuttoned and shrugged
a shoulder out of his shirt. That was better. He scratched liberally,
accompanied by the music from nowhere. The TV sang along wordlessly as endless
sticks of gum cascaded down a conveyor belt. What he wouldn't do for a free beer
and nachos. Yet he had nowhere to go and nothing but time. And nobody about the
place but Valerie. The glow had now spread from his belly to his groin and the
itching covered both thighs. Oswaldo jumped to his feet and shucked off his
shirt. There was a 'plop,' as something fell to the floor. Just as abruptly the
itching stopped and the glow faded.
"Ahem." It was from the TV. A cartoon duck paced back and forth across the
screen. "And quite pretty they are, too." The duck was looking out at him.
"Thank you for a safe and pleasant trip, my dear―nestled between your jiggling
spheres of interest. By freeing my moonsign, you have uttered one of the secret,
immutable names of God, the Rider on the Storm." Oswaldo shrugged himself back
into his clothes and sat on the couch, buttoning his shirt. "I am unfortunately,
uh... held up. So I fear my plans for you are likewise on hold."
"You are a duck. Where is the gum? It at least was educational."
"Somewhere on this time line, there has been a tampering. Morgana, I fear, is at
some point in the near future going to try to free you from my sign. You have
beat her to the punch." An effect of a page turning across the screen tried to
establish itself, but the duck held it off, pecking at the upper corner of the
page he occupied. "Ahh alas, no more chocolate and peppermint. But my messenger
comes and they have served their purpose."
There was a presence beside him, a hand on his thigh, and Valerie slid onto the
couch beside him. Her breath was warm and moist in his ear. She let out a long,
close sigh, setting up eddies of appreciative yearning across his body. "Sorry
I'm late. Got held up with Morgana." Her voice was close and clove scented like
the gum in the video.
The duck blew a kiss and disappeared diagonally.
"The video. It thinks that I am a woman." Oswaldo turned accusingly to Valerie
Hatt. "Then I am not the one you were expecting."
"No, you're not. But we never know whom to expect. I am as surprised as you are.
And you're very attractive, Oswaldo Patricio Melendez O'Rourke y Nuñez."
He was being tested, that was it. He had died after all and this was the portal
to the afterlife where the wheat was to be separated from the chaff, the wanted
from the unwanted. He touched his chest to draw comfort from the holy medal he
wore. His hand came away sticky and chocolate-coated. There was a minty odor.
copyright 1993, 2007 Rob Hunter