The Metrognome and Other Stories

COLLECTIBLE

It's hard to see horror in bright sunshine, when it's warm and all you're wearing are shorts, a tank top, and sandals. It's hard to see horror when everyone around you seems to be having a great time, laughing and taking life easy. But it's always present. Even at its nicest, the world isn't necessarily an inherently benign place. The best we can do is try to shut out the bead and concentrate on the nice. Because if we don't, we end up turning ourselves over to an uncaring reality, to madness or hopelessness or worse.

There's plenty of terror amid the sunlight. It's just that most of us manage to shut it out. Occasionally, though, it impinges on our consciousness whether we want it to or not. The old drunk shambling across the street in front of the car. The bag lady sifting through garbage in hopes of finding something salable. The husband who goes berserk and murders eighteen family members in Arkansas. The teacher who finally has had too much and shoots a tormenting student.

That's true horror. Not bloodsucking aristocrats who turn into picturesque flying mammals or vast shapeless eminences from imaginary universes.

The line that separates the real world from unreality is thin and easily snapped, like cheap elastic. What is real and what is hallucination is not a matter of physics but of perception. Darkness is not always the catalyst for dreams. Life is as real as an individual desires it to be, or as insubstantial.

She saw Ehahm-na-Eulae clearly for the first time when she discovered Frank and her best friend, Maureen, in bed together. It was a nebulous, leering aquamarine smudge on the wall above and behind the water bed. Its long snout hung over the custom headboard, the sinuous body plastered against the woodwork and wall and ceiling like a huge, torpid spider. Clawed forelegs cupped the matching built-in bookcase at either side of the bed. Membranous wings scratched by livid arterial lines covered the ceiling from wall to wall.

Clearest of all the dimly perceived features were the dragon's eyes, bulbous citrine orbs cut by deep crimson slits: whip-scar pupils. Vitreous yellow bulbs, they seemed to float freely in their sockets like quicksilver on glass, mocking her. The triforked red tongue flicked nervously at her, and the armored tail caressed the ceiling.

Neither Frank nor Maureen noticed Ehahm-na-Eulae. They had neither the inclination nor the sensitivity to see him. Pearl had seen him several times lately, but never before in such detail. Wrinkled covers and sheets fell away from Frank's naked torso as he sat up fast. He brushed long black hair, away from his eyes and forehead, stared at her, and mumbled "Well, shit . . ."

How eloquent you are, Pearl thought wildly. How predictable. He was no prize . . . but Pearl was no prizewinner. Frank had been far better than nothing, a great deal better than the men she'd become used to. She'd had silly, little-girl hopes, fast fading now.

And Maureen . . . helpful, friendly Maureen . . . lay, lazily alongside traitorous dreams and smiled slyly, her grin a mixture of innocence and snollygostery.

To lose Frank was bad. To lose him to the one woman Pearl thought she could trust was worse. Emotional critical mass. Critical mess, she corrected herself hysterically. You read too goddamn much. She whirled and fled down the hall.

"Pearl . . . wait! Pearl, honey!"

Putting a restraining hand on his chest, the slim girl next to him ran her fingers through the curls there. "Forget it, Frank. There's nothing you can do now. Nothin I can do." She shrugged indifferently. "You can try to help someone like Pearl all you want, but some people are just born sorry."

"Yeah, but I . . ."

"There's nothing we can do," she repeated firmly. He allowed himself to be pulled down.

Halfway back to her own apartment Pearl stopped running. It was a foggy morning, and the beach on her left was still deserted. Stooped and jacketed against the Pacific chill, the lonely figure of some retired man stood silhouetted against the early morning light. He held a metal detector, moving the dish-shaped end back and forth across the bronze sand. Back and forth, back and forth, looking more insect than human, he formed a solitary icon of the elderly beach culture.

Waves massaged the tide line, sucking out and digesting the detritus of the weekend: beer cans; lost rubber sandals on their way back to Taiwan, forgotten toys, banana peels, thousands of fading cigarette butts, Popsicle sticks, sticky paper cones that had once held miniature cumulus shapes of cotton candy.

Her apartment did not face the ocean, but from her single window she could smell the distinctive sour seaweed odor. She mounted the two flights of stairs, pushed against the recalcitrant door, and stumbled inside. The secondhand alarm clock on the dresser insisted it was seven in the morning. She had– thirty minutes to get to work. No time for breakfast, even if she had been hungry. Just coffee.

A switch and several minutes turned the coils of the hot plate red; she, it, and the clock were the only alive occupants of the apartment. The hot plate and the ancient refrigerator filled what would have been the closet. There was a tiny bathroom nearby with a stall shower, john, and sink. The white porcelain was badly wounded, ugly black streaks and circles showing through.

Filling a cup with hot water from the pot on the hot plate, she added instant coffee and a little sugar, moved to the chair facing the window. Cream was a luxury not to be thought of.

She sipped tiredly. The water purchased by the beach city was highly mineralized. It gave the coffee a strong alkaline taste she could never get used to.

The window looked out on the apartment building across the alley. Yellow roll-up shades walled off the window directly opposite her own. She'd never seen they open. If humanity resided anywhere beyond that impenetrable barrier of faded yellow paper, she had no idea what it might look like.

Nor would she ever inquire. Prerequisites for communication in the megalopolis of Los Angeles were a willingness to initiate conversation and a car. Pearl had neither.

To her surprise, she found her hand was shaking. She'd thought Frank and she had it all together, and that had been helping her get it all together. Now her life was back where it had been last year, one of a karma kind with the broken windows in the back of the building that the garbage men consistently refused to pick up and that, the building's manager obstinately refused to break up and place in cans.

She surveyed her collection slowly, savoring each item so painfully paid for, and managed to smile. Her stopped shaking. A hobby was good for the soul, she'd been told. It also gave her something else to think about', besides her life, which had taken on all the aspects of permanent residence in a dentist's chair. A friend had suggested the hobby. That friend was dead, killed a year ago by a drunk driver, her body and mind shattered like, the windows back of the building's garage.

Bad year, Pearl thought, sipping. Worse before.

But the collection helped soothe her, took her mind off the comic-opera confrontation earlier.

The glass dragons stood neatly aligned on top of the dresser, guarding the steady tick of the old clock. Four dragon planters scattered around the room held plants in various stages of decomposition or health. The two coleuses were doing well, but they were notoriously tough.

The dieffenbachia was not as strong, and the purple velvet was nearly dead. But the planters alternately grinned or growled or pouted back at her, unchanged and overly enthusiastic.

Wings and teeth, claws and tails, scales and eyes of various size and composition and color filled the tiny room. They hinted at unknown lands and times, strange worlds where grace and power were the norm instead of the exception and wonderful magics made life a kaleidoscope of unending delight.

At night a dragon light lit the room, its horned head supporting the torn shade, a forty-watt bulb embedded neatly in its upcurving spine. From the ceiling hung a dragon kite, vast paper wings hiding the worst of the peeling plaster. Everywhere dragons concealed, brightened, or served some useful function.

Her thoughts drifted on the smell of decaying kelp and salt. Eventually they came around to consider the mist shape she'd thought she'd seen on the ceiling, wall, and backboard of the bed this morning. A fine dragon shape that had been!

She recalled the vein marks in the wings, the powerful talons, and the floating, limpid eyes. For a vision it had been very well defined. She could imagine herself seeing something like it in a moment of great mental stress. It resembled none of the dragons in her collection, nor any she'd seen but been unable to afford.

Surely it had been staring back at her: Its expression puzzled her. At first she'd imagined it to be a leer, but that could have been due to her own unfortunate position at the time and the circumstances of the moment. It could have been expectation, she thought deliciously. Or perhaps indifference, or contemplation.

Another puzzle came from the name. Ehahm-na-Eulae. All of her dragons had pet names, but nothing like that. It had been there, in her head, simultaneous with the vision. Where had it come from? It sounded faintly biblical, but many strange names sounded "faintly biblical." That's a product of your upbringing, she told herself. Life had been more solid in Oklahoma. And colder.

Ehahm-na-Eulae. eHAHM-na-eulae. Oriental, maybe? She'd certainly read enough about Oriental dragons, everything that was available in the local library. Always she had the books to herself. Usually she had the library to herself. In her neighborhood literacy was not considered a prime ingredient for survival.

If not Oriental, not biblical, how about Hindu? She resolved to research the lineage as soon as she had the chance. It would be fun. Anything that involved dragons, even imaginary ones, was pleasurable. It was research in the real world that was difficult. Like trying to locate a real friend or true lover (and forget such fantasies as true love).

She washed the dragon spoon carefully, then the dragon mug. Its tail formed the mug handle. She moved to the dresser and brushed back her hair, the dragon framing the top of the mirror, holding the mirror firmly for her.

The face that looked back at her out of the mirror was used. Lines formed in her forehead like ripples in the sand, and there were sandbags beneath each eye. No time or need for makeup now . . . she tucked the blouse back into her skirt and secured her hair in back with a rubber band.

Next to the dresser was a small cabinet. A dragon of Mexican onyx rested on top. Inside the cabinet were additional clothes, other personal effects, and old movie magazines. The top drawer released a couple of bottles, thick-walled and squat, with seductive mouths now sealed tight by pungent corks. She hesitated, chose one.

She sipped ladylike from it. Honey-colored liquid burned her throat. She stared at the bottle, muttered a silent "what the hell," and downed a full, gut-scouring swallow. She recorked the bottle then, inordinately proud of not choking, and forced herself to put it back in the cabinet and close the doors.

Two tiny china dragons flanked the black hulk of the telephone. She stared at it for several minutes before dialing. The click-click ricocheted inside her head. Cigarette. I wish to God I had a cigarette.

The phone made some peculiar, unfamiliar noises. A strange voice came on.

"Is this . . . ?" and the voice repeated Pearl's number.

"Yes . . . operator? What's the trouble?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Miss, uh . . . Sommer. This is the United Telephone business office. There seems to be some discrepancy in our records. You appear to be two months behind in your account? I'm afraid until at least the oldest bill is paid . . . you understand."

"But I-" She stopped herself. She was a lousy liar. "Look, please, can I make one collect call?"

"I don't . . ." The voice turned unexpectantly human. "Collect? I suppose that would be all right. What number would you like, please? I'll try and connect you through this exchange."

"Thank you, operator, really. I promise I'll get those back payments in right away, right away." She gave the number. Dialing noises came back at her. Fearsomely beautiful, a dragon on the far wall snarled down at her from a poster and gave her courage.

Faint noises, then: "I have a collect call for Frank from Pearl. Will you accept the charges?"

Mumbling . . . two mumblings, one female. A single click, final in the room, like the opening of a switchblade. Then the operator's voice, embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Miss Sommer. The-"

Pearl hung up. On the operator, on Frank, on that incredible little bitch Maureen, on that part of her soiled world. Golden haze clouded her thoughts, and she thought again of the bottles in the cabinet: The onyx dragon guarding it sat expressionless, solid.

No . . . no, dammit.

She happened to glance at the clock. It was nearly eight. Oh, God.

She splurged on bus fare. Normally she walked to work, but she happened to reach the stop just as the bus was pulling up. It would save her twenty-five minutes.

The precious quarter clanked forlornly as it tumbled out of sight into the collection box. She walked unsteadily toward the back of the bus. People turned nervous or curious stares on her. She felt like shouting, screaming back at them. There wasn't a damn thing wrong with her. Not a damn thing! She was as good as any of 'em, better, even. Just some bad luck lately. That didn't affect the way a person looked, did it? Then what were they all staring at? Mind your own goddamn business, she yelled silently at them.

Poor commuters crowded the bus, those unable to afford a car, the Untouchables of the freeway society.

Brakes screeched a shrill about-to-stop warning, and she found herself stumbling forward, oddly fascinated at her inability to keep her balance. A vapid-faced youth in glasses and jeans caught her, kept her from falling. She almost said thank you, until she felt one hand fumbling beneath her skirt.

He smirked at her, the oily grin making her angrier than the cheap feel. He exited the bus before she could curse him.

Her face burning, she slumped into a seat. His hand was branded into her flesh. Down the aisle, an old black leaned on his cane and chuckled at her. She turned away, pressed her forehead against the window. In the chill of early morning it was comfortingly cool. By noon the fog would have burned off and the coast would be sweltering, unusually humid and hot for southern California.

A streamlined, writhing shape cavorted through the air outside the bus and glared with enormous yellow eyes back into her own. She sat up straighter on the worn seat. Ehahm-na-Eulae, she thought excitedly. Again, here, outside the sanctum of her collection.

He was very clear now, the outline sharp and precise, each individual scale outlined in sunlight. This morning's horror, the sallow-faced pervert who'd accosted her, all faded at the sight of the glorious bewinged apparition paralleling the bus.

He kept pace easily, skittering across the tops of cars and trucks. One time he settled himself on the hood of a big semi like the king of all hood ornaments, gleaming talons clutching the engine cover while the triple tongue flicked tantalizingly at her.

He launched himself ahead to perch nimbly on a stoplight, balancing himself with translucent wings that filtered the fire from the morning sun, an eagle atop a metal broomstick.

For the first time she saw true colors, scales of metallic iridescent green and blue shot through with slivers of silver. Once he opened his mouth wide and emitted a flash of pure dragon flame and smiled haughtily at her as if to say: I am pure, I am clean, I am a dragon of a lineage unbroken back ten thousand years through time and space, and this is but the barest hint of what I, Ehahm-na-Eulae, can do!

She almost missed her stop, and when she stepped onto the sidewalk, the dragon-wraith was gone.

Howard Johnson's lay two blocks north, a threatening tower of twelve stories that lay athwart two of the town's main streets like a vision out of Piranesi. Within lay twelve stories of soot-filled ashtrays to be emptied, spilled sodas to be mopped up, torn paper to be collected by hand, and a Hades of missing towels that she would have to pay for. Worst of all were the hectares of unmade beds that she would painfully have to remake, only to find on the morrow that, like Tantalus, she would have to begin again from the bottom.

A vast presence confronted her in the building's first sublevel. It stood by the clock that held the card that recorded the substance of her life. Miss Perkins was a towering harpy, a violent, gutter-mouthed giant of a woman with shoulders like a fullback and a voice like a Neanderthal.

Actually, Emma Perkins was a smallish middle-aged woman of pleasant disposition and firm but fair inclinations. She was the supervising housekeeper, and she looked sadly at Pearl as she came tottering in, breathless from running the two blocks from the bus stop.

"You're forty minutes late, Pearl," she said more pityingly than accusatorially. "That's three times in two weeks." She eyed the floor uncomfortably. "Last time it was over an hour. "

"I-I know, Miss Perkins. I'm sorry. I've had some trouble and-"

"Everyone in this world has trouble, Pearl. I have trouble, my sister Jane has trouble, China has trouble. The world's full of troubles."

"Yes, ma'am."

"The trick is not to bring your troubles to work, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am, but I-"

"Some of us are better at doing that than others. That's a sad fact, but still it's a fact. " She stared at Pearl, shocked by her appearance and trying hard not to show

"I'll . . .try to do better, ma'am. Really I will. I won't be late ag-"

"I understand, dear. You look terribly tired." Miss Perkins forced a smile. "Why don't you take a few days off? There's a three-day weekend coming up week after next, and we'll need everyone at full strength then." She took one of Pearl's hands, patted it in grandmotherly fashion.

"I'm sure with a little genuine rest and some time to think about what you really want, you'll find yourself feeling much better." She used the hand she was patting to guide Pearl toward the door leading out to the subterranean garage.

"Yes," Pearl began desperately, "but I need the-"

"I understand, dear." The door was closing behind Pearl. "In two weeks, when you're feeling better. If you still want the job." The door closed.

Pearl stood, swaying slightly. Then the import of what had just happened penetrated the fog in her brain. "Goddamn you, you rotten old whore! You can take your job and shove it! You hear me? SHOVE IT!"

The door did not reply. Pearl turned, started toward the distant exit of the dark garage. Something made a noise behind her. She stopped. The sound came again, louder this time. It sounded like garbage cans being moved around on the level below hers. It echoed through the otherwise deserted garage, bounced off shiny new Chevys and Fords. She turned.

Ahead was emerging from between a Corvette and a big muraled van. Vast globular eyes stared at her, stared through her own eyes into the brain beyond. The red slash of a pupil expanded in the left, then the right one, contracted lazily as the eyes rolled independently, like a chameleon's.

Teeth of all sizes and shapes were revealed by the hungry, half-opened mouth. Some were curved and outthrust tike tusks. Others were slim as needles and just as straight. A few curved backward like the fangs of a snake.

Orange flame came in hot puffs from the dark gullet, the fire shining on the crystal cave inside those jaws. The dragon padded toward her on massive cushioned feet, the only sounds the faint roar of its breath and the regular tick-click its claws made on the concrete.

Pearl was backing instinctively away from this very real, very uncuddly monster. She was alone in the garage. "M-M-Miss Perkins . . . Miss Per-KINS!"

She spun and ran, feeling the hot breath closing on her back, expecting her skin to shrivel and crisp or hot fire of another kind to shoot through her as long teeth sank into her back and legs.

Then she was out in shockingly bright daylight. She slowed to a reluctant walk. A glance over her shoulder showed nothing emerging from the cave of the garage behind her. People stopped staring at her when she ceased running. A mother inconspicuously shooed her two children across the street, away from an encounter with Pearl.

She lifted her head, lengthened her stride, and assumed a confident air. I see dragons all the time, she told herself firmly. Real ones. In my apartment. When I'm under pressure, I sometimes conjure up imaginary ones, that's all. It happens when I nightdream, sometimes when I daydream, and occasionally, like today, when I'm not thinking intentionally about them at all. They're my refuge, and it's good to have a refuge, she told herself.

Idly, she examined the faces around her, the awkward bodies flowing past. Dragons are always perfect, she noted disdainfully. Fat ones, thin ones, big or small, they're always perfectly proportioned and exquisite of design. Their wings are never too big, their heads never at the end of necks too long, their tails constantly producing just the proper counterbalance for weight and length. Not like clumsy, inelegant human beings.

That night she finished the bottle of the morning and part of another. It was dark outside now, cooling off rapidly as the fog trundled in to cloak the beach communities.

Somewhere nearby a stereo was playing a scratched copy of a song she thought she recognized, full of electric guitars and challenging moans. A stubborn car was grinding dully on the street below, refusing its impotent owner's fervent demands to turn over.

She tried the phone again. It was possible the business office hadn't disconnected her yet. Surprisingly, there was a dial tone. She fingered the numbers.

The voice that answered was not Frank's. She could even have coped with Maureen's, anyone's, just someone familiar to talk at, if not to. But the voice was perfunctory and mechanically unsympathetic; a recording.

"I'm sorry, but the number you have reached has been disconnected, and there is no new number."

The phone hummed patiently at her until she placed the receiver back in its cradle. She lay back on the bed, hearing the springs creak in the room's remaining heat, and began to shake.

Jesus, got to stop this. C'mon, woman, get ahold of yourself. Cigarette . . : got to have a cigarette.

She fumbled unsuccessfully through the drawer in the phone stand, then had a thought and looked beneath the bed. A crumpled white rectangle lay there. Exhausted from the effort of placing her swimming head lower than her torso but feeling triumphant, she picked it up. Two white cylinders remained in the pack.

Selecting the unbroken one, she located matches and lit up, leaning back contentedly against the stained pillow. The smoke's usual acridness was smothered by the residue of the liquor in her throat. She puffed deeply. Then she began to cry.

A scratching penetrated the room. It came from the open window. Her eyes turned, tried to focus through the smoke in front of her face and behind it: In the cabinet the brown lines of the onyx dragon seemed to shimmy. A faint breeze stirred the wings of the dragon kite, set it turning slowly overhead.

Clean and sharp as a chef's cutlery, the talons slipped over the sill and into the room. Bottomless eye pools of yellow-gold stared at her. She was not afraid this time. Maybe it was the dragon's deliberate. pace, maybe the familiar surroundings of her own apartment, but she wasn't afraid.

All the dragons in the room-planters of clay, miniatures of china, poster paper and ceramic cup-seemed to expand slightly, turn slightly. She felt their eyes on her.

Silent as a cat, the adamantine, shimmering body slid through the window. Once inside, it filled much of the single room. Wings unfurled, strong and wind-defying, bumping against the ceiling.

Enthralled, she watched as it moved toward her on powerful legs. Foreclaws gripped the metal end of the bed. The magnificent head moved from side to side on the muscular iridescence of the long neck, hypnotizing her, those cabochon eyes pulling her up and into the dragon soul.

It moved slowly forward. Somehow the bed held its great weight without collapsing. Wings fluttered, irritatible in the confined space. They blotted out the ceiling and obscured any hint of the pale, sickly plaster or the weak incandescent light.

Then Ehahm-na-Eulae was over her, and she could have reached up and run her fingers over the thousand teeth, some curved, some straight, some hooked fanglike backward. The great eyes no longer moved independently. Both stared down into hers. Ehahm-na-Eulae moved a little nearer, only its tail dragging on the floor as a mesmerized Pearl listlessly dropped the cigarette. The dragon opened its mouth, and she felt fire wash over her, clean dragon flame, light at first but rising in intensity. It didn't hurt at all. She'd known it wouldn't. It cleansed and didn't hurt at all.

She embraced the flame and Ehahm-na-Eulae of the dragons and line of dragons that was ten thousand years old, as old as the forever freeing flame that engulfed her for the first and final time, purified and cleansed Pearl who was only seventeen.