The Woman Who Married a Cloud: The Collected Short Stories (69 page)

He tried so hard to please his new girlfriend but usually to no avail. What a challenge! Patrick loved challenges. He disliked it when things were easy or went as scheduled. He enjoyed plotting and planning and preparing for a campaign. Reading maps and figuring out new, faster ways to get wherever he was going—bliss. If there had been a map to Lia Candelen’s heart he would have memorized it long ago.

“Hello, ladies.” He sat down next to Lia and stroked her arm once. He noticed that all three of the women looked gloomy. “Is something wrong? Did anything happen?”

“Patrick, this is Fionulla.”

“Hi Patrick.”

No one said anything and the silence continued until it became uncomfortable.

Patrick thought he should say something to get the conversation going. “So Fionulla, what do you do?”

“I’m a Hate Writer.”

“Whoa!” He recoiled and then looked with great compassion at Ramona. “I didn’t know you two were having
problems
.” For the last part of the sentence he lowered his voice in case Menno was somewhere nearby and might hear.

The sisters looked at each other and then at Fionulla.

“I’m not here for her, Patrick; I’m here for you and Lia.”

His face instantly lost all expression. That was odd because Patrick had the most animated face Lia had ever seen on a man. Whether he was happy or sad, there always seemed to be five things going on at once in his expression. His eyes told you one thing, his mouth another, even the way his nostrils flared, he licked his lips or swallowed—all were signs that indicated what was going on in his head at that moment. Over time Lia had become very adept at reading both his face and body language. Now she read nothing there besides blank silence. She had never seen Patrick like this. He looked like a ninja or a stone cold professional killer right before he struck.

“Why are you here—
for me, Fionulla
?” His voice was haughty and dismissive. He paused before saying the last part of the sentence. Then he spoke it with a kind of emphasis that made those three words sound both distasteful and in italics.

His eyes slid slowly from staring at his unmoving hands in his lap to Fionulla. Even she seemed nonplussed by the strength of his cold gaze. There was suddenly so much tension around them that without being aware of it, Lia started breathing differently—short shallow breaths. She remembered with a jolt like a shove in the chest that her sweet boyfriend was actually an alien from another planet who suddenly sounded like he might do something scary right this minute.

Instead he asked in a calm voice, “Is she here because of the smell?”

Fionulla glanced at Lia to see if she wanted to answer his question. Patrick took that as a ‘yes.’ He turned to his girlfriend and asked “
Is
she? Did you call her because of the smell? The way I smell?”

How could he know that? She had never said a word about it to him, no matter how much she disliked the odor. Unable to meet his eyes now, Lia stared at the table and murmured, “That and the sex.”

“You brought a Hate Writer here for those things? Is that why you killed me twice?”

Lia nodded again quickly and vehemently, head still down. She closed her eyes and tried to magically will away this awful moment.

“So you lied before when you said why you killed me? It was really because of the smell and the sex?

“Okay Lia—fair enough. All bets are off. The end of nice. Smell your hand.”

Confused, she looked at him. “What?”

“Just smell your hand.
Now.
Do it.”

He had never used that harsh tone of voice with her and it was very disturbing. Raising a hand to her nose she smelled it. After two wary sniffs her eyes widened in alarm. She looked at Patrick.

“It’s your smell,” he said flatly.

“What do you mean?”

“That smell is
your
smell. The one you don’t like so much on me. It’s actually yours—it’s you.”

“What are you talking about, Patrick?” She asked, indignant. But in between words, she sneaked another little snuffle off the back of her hand. There it was again—that all-too familiar repellent odor. There was something metallic in it; metallic and strangely chemical. Also in that odor was the faint trace of something gone bad,
off,
like some kind of rotten food.

So many times when they were standing close or having sex or she turned in bed in the middle of the night, half awake—the first thing that came to her was that instantly recognizable unpleasant odor. At the beginning of their relationship when everything was going so well she thought I’ll grow used to it. But that had never happened. Every time it entered her nose Lia frowned or recoiled or winced or showed some other sign that she’d just bumped into ugly again and it was still dire.

“The smell is a combination of everything you don’t like about yourself, Lia. All of it distilled down into that one tangy s
tink
.” Patrick rubbed a hand across his forehead before continuing. Part of him genuinely regretted telling her this. But he was so hurt and disappointed that she had called for the Hate Writer instead of first trying to work things out with him. Part of Patrick, some wounded very human part, wanted to strike back at Lia and hurt her.

The three women watched him and waited to see what he would do next. Fionulla had no stake in any of this so she was only interested in what would happen. She was only there to do her job but always eager to learn new things. She could use all of this in her work.

Ramona Candelen knew some of what was coming but had hoped she would never have to tell her sister what Patrick was about to reveal.

“Where I come from, on my planet, we’re optimists. Menno’s like me in that way, isn’t he Ramona?”

“Yes he is.”

“We have hope; we’re a hopeful race. We honestly believe that things can work out fine if we just give it everything we’ve got. So when I came here and saw how unhappy you are, the very first thing I did was learn about the things you really don’t like about yourself: The bad habits, all the reasons for your bad moods, where the mean thoughts come from that bum you out so much of the time. Why you’re so
constantly
jealous of others, and your never ending belief that life hasn’t given you your due, your just desserts, even though down deep you know it has.

“I’ll tell you why your life is shitty: Because you’re a sourpuss, Lia—a real pill to be around. You’re basically a misanthrope who almost always sees whatever glass you’re holding as half empty, even when it’s filled with the best champagne.” He took a deep breath, let it out in a whoosh, and continued. “Do you know what a ‘Nez’ is?”

“No.” She could barely breathe.

“It’s the French word for nose. A perfume maker is also called a Nez because they have to be so sensitive to different fragrances. In a way I was yours. I took all the things Lia Candelen doesn’t like about herself and her life, mixed them together, and turned them into a very rare perfume: Eau de Lia.

“Then I put it on myself.” Patrick held up one finger as if the point he was about to make was particularly important. “I wanted you to smell that noxious combination on another person; hopefully someone you cared about and wanted in your life a long time. A person important enough for you to overlook or even forgive some of their shortcomings, like their bad smell.

“I thought taking away some of the bad stuff from you and putting it on me would give you new perspective about your life and the way you’ve been living it. Maybe you’d grow to accept it more, accept your life
as it is
as well as who you are, warts and all. Maybe
that
would lessen some of your constant unhappiness. Or if you
really
couldn’t stand the smell, you’d change and then discover that the smell would too as soon as you did.”

Aghast, Lia put a hand to her throat and turned to her sister. “Ray, is this true? Is this what happened with you and Menno?”

“Yes, pretty much. I changed because I loved him. Then his smell went away. Or I got used to it—I got used to
me.
Maybe I just finally accepted who I was so the smell was okay, like I was okay now, even with all my faults.

“I don’t know which it was, Lia. I just know I don’t smell anything bad anymore.”

“But you also said Menno was a lousy kisser at the beginning.”

Ray smiled. “He was, but that was something I could teach him and I guess I did.”

Lia had to repeat what she’d heard to Patrick. “You took everything I don’t like about myself and my life and you made it into a
smell
?”

He nodded once. “And pretended it was mine.”

“You can really do that?”

“Yes.”

“And Menno too?”

“It was Menno’s idea that I try the smell thing with you because it had worked so well for him and Ray. I’d tried so many other things by then and was at the end of my rope. I was desperate. I would have tried anything, Lia; I would have
done
anything to make our relationship work.

“I’m not a creative guy like Menno; I couldn’t have thought up the smell thing myself, but I am absolutely
tenacious
when it comes to anything I want badly. And I wanted you; oh God, I wanted you. Even when you kept killing me I wouldn’t accept it because I was convinced I could make it work.

“But now you’ve done it—you actually called a
Hate Writer
! How could you without talking to me? I was half of the dance! I had as much of a stake in it as you! I
never
would have done this without talking to you first.”

Looking at this good sweet man so clearly hurt by what she had done, Lia answered without thinking. As if the thought had a mind of its own and needed to be expressed without any diplomacy or artifice, she just straight out said it. “Maybe deep down I like the way I am, Patrick. Maybe I’m just a naturally grouchy person who likes holding a half empty glass.

“I’m really not being arch or cynical. I
do
get sad and bitchy a lot but maybe I’m just happiest when I’m
not
happy. When I don’t like what’s going on in my world and there are all kinds of things to complain about.” Having said this, she wasn’t sure it was true but it felt true. It felt like her heart was talking.

Ramona and Fionulla didn’t move.

Patrick made a disgusted face. “That’s perverse.” For a moment, an instant, a bright flare of fury flashed in his eyes. It said he’d like to throw her across the room. But it died quickly and then everything on his face went back to sad.

He turned to Fionulla, asked for the papers and tapped a finger impatiently on the table while she opened her worn leather briefcase and extracted two white sheets with identical text printed on both. She slid one across the table to Patrick and the other to Lia.

“This is the standard cloud release form you were shown when you first signed with the company. You can take some time to review it now, or even bring it to a lawyer if you like. But you were already told everything about it when your initial applications were approved. I’m sure you remember.

“It says you both agree to formally terminate this relationship which was originally arranged for you by my company. As soon as it is finished, the cloud takes full legal possession of your story to do with as it pleases. You relinquish all rights to it although once it is terminated, neither of you will remember anything that has to do with each other or this relationship. Nor will those of any of your acquaintances who are aware of your connection.” Fionulla looked at Ramona who nodded that she understood and accepted that.

Patrick took out a pen and signed his paper quickly. He slid it back across the table to the Hate Writer. “Tell me again what happens to me now.”

“Nothing. You’ll be returned to your planet with no memory of this. You’ll continue to live as before. You can reapply to the cloud any time you like so long as you accept the conditions.”

As she wrote her name Lia said with sincere fondness, “I hope you do try again, Patrick. I
hope
you find someone great—”

“Shut up, Lia. Please don’t say any more. Just sign that paper and let me get out of here.”

She finished and handed the paper to Fionulla. The other woman checked both signatures then nodded as she slipped both releases back into her case. Lia took the flashlight out of her pocket, aimed it at Patrick’s chest and without making eye contact with him, clicked it on.

A month later the Candelen sisters were sitting together in that same booth late one rainy September afternoon. They had run out of things to say to each other and both were looking out the window onto the gray world outside. Now and then they could barely make out the faint wet hiss of car tires passing on the busy street.

“So what are you going to do tonight?” Ramona asked while sliding her empty glass back and forth across the table, impatient to leave.

“The usual—eat dinner alone and watch ‘Love Gone Wrong’ on TV. But you know what’s weird? I checked the TV Guide and tonight’s show features a character named Lia who spells her name exactly the same way I do.”

Ramona looked up, half interested. “Really? No one spells it that way. It’s always L-e-a-h.”

“I know. That’s why I’ve got to watch. I love that show anyway; I’m completely addicted. Everybody I know is. Everyone watches it—men
and
women.”

“What’s her partner’s name?”

Lia shrugged, indifferent. “Patrick. That’s a nice Irish name, eh? On this week’s exciting episode of ‘Love Gone Wrong’ my namesake has a failed love affair with an Irishman named Patrick from another planet. Be sure to tune in.

“I’ve got to go, Ray. Say hello to Menno for me.”

Jonathan Carroll (b. 1949) is an award-winning American author of modern fantasy and slipstream novels.

He was born in New York City, the son of Broadway actress June Carroll and screenwriter Sidney Carroll, who wrote the classic Paul Newman film
The Hustler
(1961). His childhood was split between Hollywood and New York; Carroll then attended boarding school in Connecticut and college at Rutgers University. Shortly after graduation, he got married, and taught English across the country before moving to Vienna.