41 Return to Morpheus

Kris, for the moment, was safe in the sanctuary of Maggie’s pad.  He had Abraham Lincoln curled up on a cushion to his left, and a stash of Maggie’s historical documents on a cushion to his right.  Kris had resurrected Sadie, his Breedlove Master Class CM acoustic, and was taunting Abe with impromptu songs. 

“Oh Abraham, you’re a Calico,

I bet you’d like to go to Montego,

But you can’t, no you can’t, cuz you  ain’t got no,

Leg in the front, you got three, not fo’

Legs that is . . .

Oh Abraham.”

Abraham looked at Kris with the serenity of the Buddha, barely cracking his eyes open.  His look seemed to say, “Oh Kris.  Poor, poor, fat-brained, Kris.”

“Oh yeah?” Kris countered, “Well even if you did have four legs, you don’t have opposable thumbs, anyway!  So there.  Not to mention pockets.  There is no way you could get to Montego.”

“Has Kamal taught you nothing, Christopher?” Abe silently retorted.  “It doesn’t concern me that I have only three legs, can’t you see?  It is only you fat-brains who care about such things, who allow entire days to be ruined, worrying over which barista didn’t put in the right amount of cream.  There is no other creature on the planet who cares about having the right kind of heels, or haircut, or having too big a butt, or – sigh – the same number of legs that you were born with.”

“Well I can play guitar!  And write checks.  And play Mine Sweeper!”

Abe twitched and invisible fly away from his ear.  “And now I will show you the most excellent way.”  Abraham Lincoln craned a hind leg far out over the back of his head and began licking the furry underside of his thigh in long strokes.  He relished the motion like an Amish furniture maker, as concerned with the activity itself as much as the product of the handiwork. 

Kris put his guitar down on the floor beside himself raised a glass to Abraham, “You win, Mr. Lincoln.  Please send my regards to Mary Todd.  Kris took a sip of Gran Marnier and pulled Maggie’s leather-covered trunk towards him.

He carefully removed a treasured album from the box.  On the inside cover was the name “Lauralei”, written in the cutesy, barbelled font of a tweener-girl: stick letters with fat dots capping the ends of each stroke.  This was an album of newspaper clippings from Lauralei’s life.  The first was her birth announcement, a small, grey clipping with a one-inch square photo and tiny lettering.  The next was about a Junior Miss Irish Kensington pageant that she had won, and then an article about Lauralei’s prize-winning 4H hog.  Kris was impressed at how often this girl appeared in print.  The articles continued in this way, until the timeline of childhood accomplishments was inexplicably interrupted by a clutch of articles about a local serial killer.  The killer had been called the Kensington Caller, and had preyed upon teenage girls, for that oldest and most primal of reasons.  There were seven articles on the caller, and then, as out of place as they had been, another article landed in the album about the burning down of the Palisades.  

Kris traced the grainy photo of the skating rink’s burnt-out husk with his finger.  The yellowed image on the page still lived in vivid color and immediacy in Kris’ mind.  He had loved that old place with a true and undying affection.  Even now he could retrace every inch of it in his memories: a scavenger map of first kisses and New Wave hairdo’s.  He remembered clearly standing on the curb across the street next to Alberto’s taco stand, looking at this exact scene, as fire men watered down the blackened and smoldering ribs of the charred building.  He felt like a dear friend was on a small boat, drifting slowly and forever away from him, just out of reach, irretrievable with an ever-broadening gap between.   He remembered that the night before the fire was the last time he saw Maggie until those months ago when he returned to Kensington.  It filled him with that same achy-nostalgic feeling that he had that day on the curb.  That was the last clipping in the album.

“Why do I do this to myself, Abraham?” Kris asked his feline companion.  The cat addressed him with his sleepy, blissful smile, as if to say that he had no idea why humans made everything so unnecessarily complicated.  “We’ve been over this, grasshopper.”  Kris replaced the book into the box and pulled out another.  It had pictures of Maggie’s dad.  Kris had always liked Mr. Kennedy, and enjoyed seeing the old man again.  But these photos didn’t resonate with him in the same way.  It was curious, though, that the back cover had several Alcoholics Anonymous tokens adhered to it.  Kris tried to recall if Old Man Kennedy had been a drinker or not, but couldn’t decide one way or the other.  One of the tokens was missing.

Kris put the book away and called it a night.

As Kris slowly crossed over into Morpheus’ domain, his thoughts drifted back to the case of Donnie Gomez.  He had never been able to get settled with the crime scene.  Why didn’t it feel like the others?  It wasn’t Omega, Kris felt confident of that.  But something was different about Donnie’s death.  Surely it was Alpha, but why the restraints?  Had Donnie been killed in the chapel, or killed elsewhere and brought to the church?  Was the scene about “sanctification”, or something else?  He repeated to himself, until he was out, “Je ne sais quoi?  Je ne sais quoi?  Je ne sais quoi?”