Diving Mimes, Weeping Czars & Other Unsual Suspects by Ken Scholes

Author:Ken Scholes
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-11-21T05:00:00+00:00

On a rather dreary Friday evening in late May, the phone rang unexpectedly. Her father answered, grumpily thrusting the phone toward her after a few minutes of listening. “Some editor.” He screwed his face into a twist, as if he smelled something foul. “Wants to talk to you about your poem.”

They’d never phoned before, usually corresponded by mail. Agnes accepted the phone, took a quiet breath and held one hand against her breast. “This is Agnes Barnham.”

A familiar voice, tinny and distant, filled her ear. “Miss Barnham, lovely to hear your voice.”

She glanced at her father, one hand covering the phone, eyebrows raised.

Mr. Barnham rolled his eyes and shambled out of the parlor, mumbling.

Agnes grinned. “Mr. Schonfeld, how nice of you to call. You’re buying poetry these days?”

“Listen, I haven’t much time,” he said. His words tumbled fast. “Do you fancy snakes?”

“Not so much,” she said. She paused, waiting for him to continue but he didn’t. “Why do you ask?”

She heard other voices in the background, equally excited. She heard Jacob’s muffled voice as his hand covered the receiver. “Please, can you keep it down? I’m on the line with Boston here.” Clearer now as he answered her question: “A chap up in Maine rang Fort to say there’s been a snake-fall near Portland. Would you like to see it?”

She wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. “A what?”

“A snake-fall. A rain of snakes. Would you like to see it with me?”

She looked around to make sure no one was in earshot. “Where are you?”

More voices. “Oh. I’m in New York. But I’m leaving in a few minutes and wondered if I could swing by and pick you up.”

Formality slipped her mind. “Jacob, you’re over two hundred miles away. Portland is at least another hundred miles from here.” Her mouth wanted to smile. She fought it back as if somehow he’d be able to hear it in her voice. “You’re just going to swing by?”

He seemed embarrassed now. “Well, only if you want to see it.”

“Mr. Schonfeld,” she said in her sweetest voice, “you’re either batty or drunk or both.”

He ignored her comment. “I should hit Boston easily by morning. Shall I pick you up at eight?”

She thought for a moment. “Oh, I should think eight-thirty at the earliest. At the train station, please.”

“At the train station?”

“It’s easier that way. Trust me.”

“I’ll see you then,” he said and rang off.

Agnes stood for a moment, holding the phone in her hands. A snake-fall in Maine. For a moment she wondered if this was some odd courtship she’d happened across, then wondered if calling it a courtship presumed too much and wondered exactly why some part of her felt afraid and hopeful all at once as memories of his eyes, his hands, his mouth flashed silently past.

Last, she wondered what lie she’d tell her father about tomorrow.

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