Gwendy's Magic Feather

49

UNFORTUNATELY, EVEN AFTER THE surprise appearance of her long-lost magic feather, Gwendy’s good mood doesn’t last, and by nine o’clock, she’s slumped in front of the television, missing her husband terribly. A hollow ache has crept into her heart, and no amount of meditation or happy-sappy positive thinking can ease it. She stares at her cellphone, willing it to ring, but it remains silent on the sofa beside her.

The button box sits on the coffee table next to her Grisham book, the small white feather, and a cup of hot tea. Normally, Gwendy would be worried about spilling her drink and getting it on the box. Tonight she doesn’t give a damn.

Once she got back to the condo, Gwendy called Sheriff Ridgewick to wish him a Merry Christmas and ask about Caroline Hoffman. He picked up on the first ring and assured her that Mrs. Hoffman was doing just fine. Some stitches and a concussion—and one doozy of a hangover. The hospital kept her overnight and released her earlier this afternoon. Her husband was waiting to drive her home.

The phone call started the shift in Gwendy’s mood—she could still picture the dark angry gash on the woman’s forehead; the glassy, excited stares of the partygoers gathered around her—and then when she stumbled upon the tattered deck of playing cards Ryan left behind, the downward spiral began in earnest.

On their second official date, many years ago in downtown Portland, Ryan confided in her that he’d always wanted to be a magician. Gwendy was charmed by the thought and implored him to show her a magic trick. After dinner, and much convincing on Gwendy’s part, they stopped at a drug store and picked up a pack of Bicycle playing cards. The two then sat on a bench in the park and Ryan demonstrated three or four different tricks, each one more elaborate than the last. Gwendy was impressed with his skills, but it was much more than that. It was deeper than that. This childlike wonder was a part of Ryan she’d never known existed when they were just friends, a part of his true self. That was the first time Gwendy thought: I might be falling in love with this guy.

Twenty minutes earlier, when Gwendy bent over to pick up her bookmark and discovered the old pack of cards sitting in a nest of dust bunnies underneath the corner of the sofa, her first reaction was one of calm gratitude: Hey, I’m glad I found you, Ryan will be looking for you when he gets home.

And then those four words exploded inside her head: WHEN HE GETS HOME!

Oh my God, he forgot his damn cards, she thought, her stomach roiling. He never went anywhere without taking them with him. He says they’re his good luck charm. He says they remind him of home and keep him safe.

Gwendy picks up her book from the coffee table, and then immediately puts it down again. She can’t focus. She glances at the television screen, jiggling her foot with nervous tension. “If he’s not going to call, at least let there be something on the news. Anything. Please.” She knows she talks to herself too much, but she doesn’t care. No one is around to hear her.

She turns her head and stares at the button box. “What are you looking at?”

Leaning forward, she runs her finger along the rounded edge of the wooden box, keeping a fair distance from the buttons. “You made me hurt that woman last night, didn’t you?”

She feels something then, a slight vibration in her fingertip, and pulls her hand back. Before she realizes what she’s saying: “What’s that? You can help me get Ryan home?”

Sure, she thinks hazily. Find out from the news where the rebel forces are located in Timor. Once you’ve pinpointed their location, push the red button. Once they’re gone, the uprising’s over, and Ryan comes home again. Simple.

Gwendy shakes her head. Blinks her eyes. The room feels like it’s swaying, ever so slightly, like she’s riding on a ship in uneasy seas.

And, hey, while you’re at it, why not do something about that jerk-off president of yours, too?

Is she thinking these thoughts or listening to them? It’s suddenly hard to tell. “Destroy North Korea?” she asks dimly.

You need to be careful there. You do that and someone will most likely assume the U.S. military’s responsible. Someone like China, let’s say, and they’ll want to retaliate, won’t they?

“Then what are you proposing?” Her voice sounds very distant.

Not proposing anything, dear woman, just food for thought is all. But what if that president of yours were to up and disappear? Now that’s not such a bad idea, huh? And just think, it’s only a red button away.

Gwendy leans forward again, her eyes fixed on something far away. “Murder in the name of peace?”

You could certainly call it that, couldn’t you? Personally, I rather think of it along the lines of that age-old question: if it were possible, would you travel back in time and assassinate Hitler?

Gwendy reaches out with both hands and picks up the button box. “Richard Hamlin’s a lot of things, most of them bad, but he’s no Adolf Hitler.”

Not yet, anyway.

She places the box in her lap and leans back into the sofa cushion. “Tempting, but who’s to say the vice president will be any better. Guy’s a certified fruitcake.”

Then why not get rid of the lot of them? Start over fresh.

Staring at the rows of colored buttons. “I don’t know… that’s a lot to think about.”

Okay then. Perhaps it would be easier to start with something… less far-reaching. A bitch-cow of a woman named Caroline Hoffman? How about a certain ill-mannered congressman from the state of Mississippi?

“Maybe…” Gwendy slowly reaches out with her right hand—

And that’s when the phone rings.