The Puppet Maker's Bones (17 page)

Kevin hopped off his skateboard, vaulted over the concrete railing and onto the ground on the other side. He worked his way down the embankment to an area far underneath the bridge. “C’mon!” he called to the kid. What had he said his name was? Josh? Ian? Some generic name for a generic boy. The boy got off his bike.

“What about my bike?” the boy called.

“Shit, you’re right.” Did he have to make it so easy? Kevin went back up to the concrete railing. “Here, hand it over the railing to me. We’ll hide it here.” The boy hoisted the bike over the railing to Kevin, who leaned it against the concrete on the other side, making it invisible from the boulevard.

They moved together down the embankment and under the bridge. Kevin did another quick look around to see if the area was occupied. All clear. No blankets, lean-to tents or large boxes that might serve to hide someone choosing to camp in that location. Kevin led the way to the seam between bridge and channel at the topmost part of the embankment. Dirt and weeds came through the concrete where part of the channel had broken up over time.

“Right here. Kevin started digging around in an area of dirt. The boy kneeled next to him. “Can you hand me that hunk of concrete right there? No, the bigger one.” The boy handed Kevin a hunk of concrete. He did not even ask Kevin what he meant to do with it. Kevin took the hunk of concrete and smashed it full into the boy’s face. After the boy fell to the ground, Kevin continued to smash the boy’s face and head until the boy would never move again. Kevin stripped off his clothes until he stood naked under the bridge and proceeded to turn his soiled clothes inside out, using the inside of the shirt and jeans to wipe off his face, arms and hair. He took the extra change of clothing out of his backpack and put them on. When he was cleaned off and dressed, Kevin sauntered back to the concrete railing. He glanced once at the bike as he picked up his skateboard, hopped back over the railing and took off down the street where he would catch the bus back to his own part of town. Behind him lay the remains of the generic teenage boy who would be found eventually, though it was probable the first discovery would be made by coyotes. Kevin skated for a few blocks and deposited his backpack with the bloody clothing into a trash bin near a bus stop. He kept the other backpack that had belonged to the boy. No one would look in the trash. Kevin knew this area. He knew that bus stop. People threw the most disgusting things in that trash bin. Baggies of dog poop, diapers changed at the bus stop, human filth of every variety. Confident, Kevin remained at that very bus stop waiting for the arrival of the next bus.

Kevin had left his digital recorder at home, so no music would accompany this killing, but there is always merit in variety, thought Kevin.

1883

“F
ather, I have decided I wish to marry Pavel and move to America.”

Pavel and Eduard Rychtar stared, open-mouthed, at Žophie, both men surprised and stunned. They sat at the dining table in the Rychtar home and had enjoyed a quiet evening meal when Žophie made her announcement. Rychtar’s eyes flashed.

“Sir, I assure you I am as surprised by her as you are. Žophie, what mischief are you up to now?” Pavel asked.

“None. I think it is time you and I were married, and I want to move to America.”

“Žophie, this is highly inappropriate. You do know it is customary for the man to ask the woman for her hand. And that comes after the man has had the opportunity to discuss things with the woman’s father. That’s me, in case you have forgotten.”

“I don’t care. If I wait to be asked, I’ll be a toothless old crone. Pavel, you weren’t going to ask me unless I asked you. Were you?”

Pavel was silent.

“And Táta, it was not as if you were approaching Pavel to see what his intentions were or when he planned on making those intentions known. You are both slow as turtles.”

“I fail to see what the rush is. We have been spending a good amount of time getting to know one another,” Rychtar said.

“Yes, and you and Pavel already have business that you conduct with one another. I know this.” Žophie was referring to a parcel of land that the two had invested in together and were in discussion with several architects regarding building plans. The past year had proved to be a positive year for Pavel and Eduard Rychtar as friends first, then colleagues.

“Does Pavel have any say in this matter of yours, daughter? You are rather putting him in a corner, aren’t you? And at dinner?”

“Pavel? Tell me you don’t want to marry me and go to America.”

“Mr. Rychtar, it appears that things have gotten away from us somehow, and I have no choice in the matter but to try to attach some normalcy to the proceedings. I know this is irregular, and no, this has not been discussed prior to this moment, but if you would do me the honor of granting me your daughter’s hand, I would be most grateful.”

“No! You don’t get to take this away from me,” said Žophie. “This is my proposal. My idea. Either you want to or not, but you don’t get to try to twist it around to being normal and boring and predictable. Father? I would like to marry Pavel and move to America. Apparently he wants to marry me. So?”

“Žophie, why America? They just had a war—” Eduard said.

“That was almost twenty years ago, and I don’t want to go to that part,” she said. Žophie got up from the table and ran out of the room. The two men exchanged a look, shook their heads and laughed. Pavel felt a host of emotions and was trying not to breathe for fear of blurting out—what, he wasn’t sure. A laugh, a cry, a wail of despair. Žophie reentered the room carrying a pile of papers and pamphlets and books.

“The location is in a place called California—nowhere near where they had the war. The weather is beautiful all the time, and people are moving there from all the colder places in the country to be there. They are building such grand and unusual homes—look!”

“How on earth did you come by these pamphlets? What would you possibly know about America?” asked Eduard.

“Father, you did not raise me to be an idiot. Pavel is a self-educated man. Why can’t I follow his example and educate myself about things in the world other than our tiny little existence here? I want to go where it is new. It is in an area in the San Gabriel Valley near the mountains along a river they call the Arroyo Seco. Look at these illustrations! It is beautiful. They are calling it the Indiana Colony of California.”

The men examined the pile of paper collected by Žophie and then at each other.

“And I wish to marry Pavel and go there.”

“Pavel? Do you wish to have any say in the matter? Do you have any desire to leave your work, your theatre?” asked Eduard.

Pavel spoke with care. He was attempting to control his breathing and reduce his rapid heartbeat, but it was taking some effort. “Žophie, I would very much like to be your husband. But America?” He could not believe his fortune. This beautiful woman loved
him
.

“All right! Fine, you two go talk about it or talk to your people or go look around your theatre and ask your puppets or do whatever it is that you do, but I expect an answer.”

“Žophie, I don’t know what to do with you,” said her father.

Pavel stood. “This evening has become very odd and has given me much to think about. If you don’t mind, I will excuse myself for the evening. I believe I have been assigned the task of making a decision. Žophie. Eduard. I will speak with you both on another day.”

Žophie ran to him. “You are not upset? Tell me you are not upset, Pavel. You do want to marry me, yes?”

***

Dear Mr. Trusnik:

It is of the utmost urgency that we see you at our offices at Trope & Co. A matter has come to our attention that requires our immediate action. It is of the utmost urgency that we speak with you regarding your association with one Žophie Rychtar, daughter of Judge Eduard Rychtar. The matter, while urgent, is of a delicate nature and will be handled with all appropriate discretion.

Sincerely,

Leonard Trope

Mr. Trope told Pavel that in his present state of denial he was becoming a danger to himself and to others. The letters stated that Pavel had no idea how dangerous he actually was. He had a drawer full of warning letters, all outlining why it was imperative that he cease his association with Žophie Rychtar, and he had read all of these letters and summarily dismissed them. Did they not tell him he could
hope
? Pavel meant to marry Žophie.

“Žophie, you must allow me some time to think, yes?” Pavel stumbled out the door, and halfway between the Rychtar home and his workshop lodgings he collapsed on the side of the road. Anxiety had caused a stitch in his side that was making it difficult for Pavel to walk or breathe. He doubled over and threw up at the side of the road. America? Married? He had never left here. His family was here. Well, the theatre was here, which was a monument to his family. How could he leave that? She was asking him for the impossible. Yet a part of him wanted, for her, to make it possible.

Pavel thought of a million ways to break his association with her. He had begun the conversation countless times in his head, how he was not meant to be with anyone, how she had greater prospects than he, how he had no plans to travel the globe. His rehearsed speeches fell flat. He had no resolve when it came to Žophie, for he had fallen hopelessly in love. Pavel meant to marry Žophie, and he hoped with every fiber of his being that Mr. Trope and all the worrying souls who sent him letters of warning, were simply that. Worrying souls. Nothing bad could come of this. This was love. There was nothing greater and more hopeful than love.

***

“Behold. Unloved vegetables,” Žophie said. Only yesterday had Žophie announced that she intended to marry Pavel, and he was still wrestling with the host of emotions at war with his reason. They sat under a tree surrounded by boulders which provided a makeshift table and chairs for an outdoor luncheon. Žophie had brought a stew of lamb and potato, with the addition of several root vegetables which Pavel quite liked: rutabaga, turnip, parsnip, carrot and beet. Pavel stared at them, overjoyed.

“You cooked them yourself!” he said.

“With a great degree of reluctance!” Žophie countered.

“I happen to love all root vegetables. It does them a great injustice to call them ‘unloved,’” he said, smiling.

“I would call it an injustice to make us eat them!” she said, returning his smile. Pavel loved her smile. And her laugh made every place
sound
better, by changing whatever outside noise his ear might register to something musical and happy.

One year ago, Žophie had walked through the door of his workshop. She made him happy. Hopeful.

He ate his turnips and rutabagas and parsnips and was content with the beautiful day. One thing marred the otherwise perfect afternoon, and that was the fifth letter of warning from Trope & Co. regarding his association with Žophie which resided as a crumpled ball in the pocket of Pavel’s trousers. He knew, without reading, what they wished to speak with him about, and it did not involve making the room a better place or laughter or happiness. Or hope.

“What is making you look so serious, Pavel?” asked Žophie.

“Do I look serious? How rude of me. That was not my intention. I was thinking about a new design for one of my puppets, but it involves a very special element.”

“What kind of element?”

“Your face.”

“What? My face?”

Pavel decided if there was a possibility he would never see her again, there was one thing he could do to keep a bit of her with him.

“I would like to make a puppet in the likeness of the most beautiful woman I know.”

“Oh, Pavel! How wonderful! What can I do? Wait. Did you say the
most beautiful
woman you know?”

“I suppose I did. I might have been lying. You can never be sure when people are talking about puppets. They all lie.”

Žophie pushed him into the clover that grew at the base of the boulders. He rolled and landed upon his knees. He laughed and stood, and noticed the green clover stain on his knee. He laughed and shrugged.

“It will require a certain amount of patience on your part. And no squirming whatsoever, or the results will be quite awful,” said Pavel.

“Sounds so mysterious!” she said.

“Not so much. I take a plaster cast of your face, leaving you room to breathe, of
course
, and once the plaster dries, I have a perfect outline of your face.”

Žophie studied him for a moment, looking a little unsure. If she had misgivings, she dismissed them, for she threw her hands in the air and laughed.

“You are so very creative!”

“Oh, I am not the first to try this, I can assure you. Would you want to? I’m afraid it will leave a small bit of a mess, but you can wash up with little or no evidence of our silliness.”

“Can we do it right now?” Žophie asked and put away the lunch plates and utensils.

“But I haven’t finished my ‘unloved vegetables,’” Pavel said.