Breadcrumb #9

Bob Raymonda

Erin hands her daughter a fuzz-covered peach before returning to the dishes. Margaret smiles from the table and bites into its yellow-orange flesh, slurping to catch the nectar that spills out onto her face. Erin makes no attempt to mask her disdain for her daughter when asking, “Could you maybe try to eat a little quieter, sweetie?” Margaret stares up at Erin defeated, nectar still streaming down from the right corner of her quivering lip. She sets the peach down on the countertop and tears well up in her tiny eyes. Erin can tell it’s going to be a doozy, because the sound of her sobs is pitiful.

     She grabs the peach (wincing at the combination of nectar and saliva on her hand), slaps it on a cutting board, and dices it into thin cubes. She isn’t sure why she didn’t do this in the first place, but Margaret’s tears are abated when Erin returns the newly desiccated fruit and coos, “Here, baby, this will do the trick.”

     Her mother always told her that childrearing is no picnic, and that doing it alone would be no small task. She often wonders if that’s why she went through with the adoption, like some sort of challenge. It surely wasn’t out of some innate feeling of motherhood. In fact, she was quite relieved when she found out her womb is barren. Yet somehow, here she is: a mother. Her once sleek and modern two-bedroom, five-floor walkup, strewn with the detritus of a budding toddler. Crudely drawn stick figures replace the fast-food menus on her fridge; her eggshell-white walls covered in dirty handprints and long swaths of brown crayon.

     Her therapist assures her that she just hasn’t had enough time to form a lasting bond. But how long should that take? Margaret has been in her life now for over a year, and every time she comes down with a cold, Erin would rather barricade the snotty monster in a room for three days than care for her. Of course, she ignores these impulses — she plays the loving mother, but why doesn’t she feel it? Why can’t she feel this “undying” love that her sister Diane boasts when talking about her three brats?

“Why can’t she feel this ‘undying’ love that her sister Diane boasts when talking about her three brats?”

     Erin nicks her finger with the steak knife she used to cut Margaret’s peach. “Fuck,” she shouts, as droplets of her blood gather at the bottom of the sink. She grabs the wet dish towel from her shoulder and tries to stop the flow. Margaret looks up at her mother with a look of faint concern that turns to marked indifference and plops another piece of peach into her mouth. Even without the abundance of nectar present in the whole fruit, she manages to slurp while sucking on it. Erin would rather be lying in a bed of needles than listen to her own daughter eat.

     There are a few pieces of fruit left on the plate and, with her bloody hand, Erin tosses them into the sink. She watches as they become unrecognizable lumps of grey under the still-running water, and thinks it might be what her heart would look like if it were outside of her chest. She feels a sick sense of satisfaction as Margaret runs off into the living room crying. She wonders how inappropriate it is to return an unwanted child, or if it is too late.

• • •

Breadcrumb #8

Daniel Toy

B., ~37 y.o.
Case ID: 6-TT9

<Loc> described as “mountain of blue-green glass” by person of interest B. upon exiting the SomethingShoppe off Singleway 6 on [date last seen] — though, according to Witness III, who stood ~17 feet from the SomethingShoppe exit (the last confirmed individual to have seen B., and who also overheard B.’s aforesaid depiction) noted — later, to be clear — that “grass” could have been misheard as “glass,” making the <Loc> in question a “mountain of blue-green grass” and not a “mountain of blue-green glass” as originally reported. (It should be noted that this small uncertainty on the part of Witness III unfortunately calls into question the validity of the phrase in its entirety.)

     SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, former employee of Best Buy *, reports B. purchasing a brand-new CelPal with in-store activation, which B. then (again, reportedly) used to audio-comm another individual. (It was the tail-end of this CelPal comm, re: possible description of <Loc>, that was overheard by Witness III, who last recalled B. entering her auto and continuing down Singleway 6.)

      A compiled description of B., based on the accounts of Witnesses I, II, & III and SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, is as follows (in subjective and, at times, metaphorical terms): “lean” (WII); “of a copper complexion,” “delicate,” and “salty, like a beach” (WI)**; “more likely to be a customer of Best Buy than SomethingShoppe, if you know what I mean” (SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott); “fatigued,” “moved with a reluctant gait, as if, like, just walking for the second time ever, or something… I felt kind of like uncomfortable watching, to be honest” (WIII).

      On [date last seen], WI encountered B. in line at the Chop-‘n’-Go in the city, WI wearing the Team’s standard dress with logo patch on shoulder, B. to his right, smelling vaguely of the sea, compelling him to lean inward, which is when he couldn’t help but notice a particular set of coordinates filling the screen of B.’s old-model ArmPal (which, itself, was odd to see, on account of those not being popular for years), and he (thinking, of course, as always, about the <Loc>) became curious, or paranoid, or suspicious, or some combination of all of those feelings of B., at which point B., he thinks (see: speculative) glimpsed the Team logo on his uniform, because then she hurriedly left her place in line (and if you’ve ever been to that Chop-‘n’-Go you know never to leave your place in line because wow does it take a mighty minute just to get in the door), dropped her ArmPal on the cement, it complete-crashing after falling from her hand (it being a super-old Pal device), and he not wanting to overreact [plus also still wanting his Chop-‘n’-Go because it had been him in line for ~52 minutes, his stomach not stopping noise-making, a definitive sign he (his body) needed said Chop-‘n’-Go], so he watched B. drive onto Singleway 6 from inside the Chop-‘n’-Go before (finally) grabbing his foodstuff and sending a lit- and audio-comm to Team headquarters to be on high alert for an individual resembling B. heading west on Singleway 6, this comm resulting in the testimony of Witness II, who happened to have his AutoPal tuned to pick up all types of alerts (reason unknown) and saw someone fitting B.’s description getting off at Exit 82 “where, y’know, that Somethin’Shoppe just, uh, opened up.”***

      After picking up Witness II’s comm identifying approximate location of B., Witness I stepped into his auto and did the following things in an order he cannot completely, fully, 100% remember on account of high levels of stress and a history of panic attacks: a) exceeded 95 mph on S-6 in pursuit of B.; b) grabbed a handful of Chop-‘n’-Go greens and dropped them into his mouth, three times; c) just in case, tuned the AutoPal from a song by Geese Geese to his alerts station (which was a shame because he’s been really getting into Geese Geese); d) nearly hit another auto trying to merge right to take Exit 82; e) took Exit 82, narrowly.

      He questioned passersby in the area off Exit 82, including, eventually, Witness III, who directed him to the SomethingShoppe where B. exited moments before, thus leading him to SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, a generally unhelpful and unlikable informant. The rest, as dictated way, way above, is just mountains of blue-green something.

“The rest, as dictated way, way above, is just mountains of blue-green something.”

      And so concludes case 6-TT9, another report in a series of reports re: the <Loc> concluding in “So concludes…” As it wraps up, something to wonder about is: What would it feel like not to always be retaining forever this warehouse of information? Another thing: What if B. had just been on her way to an out-of-town interview for a fancy, stress-free new job (speculative), or to a tropical getaway on an all-inclusive vacation (speculative), or even to elope with a beautiful stranger (speculative), and she needed those coordinates to find her way, so when she accidentally broke her old Pal outside Chop-’n’-Go on her rush to get there, she had to buy a new one, for something everyday, and lovely, and real? But this report, like the hundreds of others that this scribe has composed regarding the <Loc>, will become all that’s definitive, because no room exists in this warehouse-mind for anything else, and there’s no vacancy for finer things, things like copper skin, or Geese Geese songs, or freckles, or senseless, simple speculation.

     At this time, the whereabouts of B. — and the <Loc> — remain unknown.

---

*Lateral career move calls into question, slightly, the character of SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott

**Without breaking RSR (Report Style Regulation shorthand) in the official transcript above by transitioning into a first-person perspective, it should be noted that the first witness to this case on [date last seen], WI (Witness I shorthand), is the scribe of this report and the headmost suspector of B. (see: me)

***At this time, since RSR prohibits editing of any kind, Witness I would like to add something, on account of he forgetting to mention way above (and he regrets not already mentioning this) but in the description given of B. by himself, Witness I, well, he intended to note the pattern of freckles covering a patch of exposed skin on B.’s back due to the cut of the garment being worn. Now, as he writes this report, additional almost-forgotten details (like the lamp-shaped freckle patch) reveal themselves to his conscious mind.

• • •

Breadcrumb #7

Bob Raymonda

The cold bites against his few stretches of bare skin. No clothing he’s ever found has been truly impenetrable against the winter wind. He remains in the state he was born in despite this. He claims that it’s a liminal period, that sooner or later he will extract himself from the polar vortex, but there is no true weight behind his words. At least not yet.

     The rush of traffic and people drown out the sound of music in his ears. He fights to gain traction against the slick concrete, but feels a brief moment of joy when he slides down a wooden ramp erected to cover a hole in the ground. He is briefly reminded of a rush he hasn’t chased in ages. The suspension of control he used to feel sledding, letting momentum take the wheel. Abandoning the cool, calculated steps that regularly reigned. The jumps he built with neighborhood children were sometimes taller than he was. At least at the time. And now a four-inch incline can, for a moment, match the feeling of riding headfirst into the pillowy, snow-covered earth. He isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or depressed, though it’ll likely be the latter.

     With holdover adrenaline, he decides to cross the street after the foreboding orange hand stops flashing and urges him back. He steps onto the opposite curb just as the light turns green and wonders what it would take to excite him the way climbing up a hill and barreling down it again for hours on end once did.

     The snow that cakes the ground now is nothing like the welcoming mounds of his childhood. It cements itself into the nooks and crannies of the street before melting away into a grey unforgiving slush. It seeps into his shoes and ensures that even his bones are cold. No rubber boots or waterproof pants to protect him here from the elements. Just his jeans and the promise of a bad cocktail made with old ginger ale and whiskey from the bottom shelf. He considers pouring it out, but commits. Because something as simple as a drink can help to dull his indifference, and lessen his desire to relive moments past.

“Because something as simple as a drink can help to dull his indifference, and lessen his desire to relive moments past.”

     He skates across the living room floor with his drink and microwaved leftovers into his self-imposed solitary confinement and ingests as quickly as possible — both the sustenance in front of him and the media he uses to avoid: the blank page, or the prospect of a trip home to go sledding again and relive his youth.

     He climbs into bed and kicks off his socks. He tries to stop thinking about the incline. The rush of flying face first down a hill toward certain injury. He ignores his urges to go up on the roof of his building and replace his memory of childlike glee with one of at least adult awe at the sight of the city skyline. He chooses instead to close his eyes and attempt to forget, once again, what it’s like to be alive during the coldest time of the year.

• • •

Breadcrumb #6

Dallas Rico

I warned Art that my sister, Sophia, would be in town this weekend and that I planned to spend most of it with her. Yet, not 15 minutes after she and I arrive at the bar, he’s blowing up my phone with a barrage of jealous texts and outrageous voicemails.

     I set my phone on silent and l drop it in my handbag. It’s our monthly “Girls' Night Out” and I’m determined to keep him from ruining it. As I stare at the small-scale Ferris wheel spinning against the wall, Sophia asks me what’s wrong. I hate how she can read me like a book.   

     “This place is way too crowded,” I say, still looking at the Ferris wheel and sipping my rum and Coke. In the corner of my eye, I see her giving me a look like she knows that’s not what’s really bothering me. Thankfully, she doesn’t press the issue. I resist the urge to look back at my phone. He’s probably sent me, like, 51 texts by now. But, I don’t care. I’m not going to let him ruin another night.

     Sophia orders us both whiskey sours, though I’m not even finished with my first drink. We talk about what's going on in our lives but I make sure to avoid mentioning Art. And she doesn’t ask. She’s never made an effort to mask her disdain for him. As we talk, a guy approaches us and orders us more drinks. We let him join our conversation. Little by little, I drink the second whiskey sour he got me and my anxiety over Art intensifies. I succumb to the temptation to look at the cracked screen of my phone.

“I succumb to the temptation to look at the cracked screen of my phone.”

     “That's it. I'm done!” This message has appeared on my screen so many times before that now it’s lost its impact.

     “Look. I told you I was going to hang out with Sophie tonight. Deal with it,” I reply. I’m sick of his shit. I slam my glass on the counter, grab Sophia, and head to the dance floor. The hours fly by as we dance the night away amongst dozens of sweaty bodies. When the crowd dies down, Sophia suggests we check out this new club that’s got great Yelp reviews. I check the time on my phone and see Art hasn’t texted me back, which worries me.

     “I'm sorry, Sophie. Do you mind if we stop by Art’s place first?”

     “Do I have a choice?” She crosses her arms.

     “Please. It'll just be a minute.” I give her a pleading smile. A beat later, she lets out a long sigh of exasperation.

     “All right. I guess.”

     I stagger to the car, which prompts her to take my keys so she can drive. On the way to Art’s apartment, she asks questions I don't want to answer. Like what do I see in him and do I see us getting married. I ignore them and urge her to drive faster. Once we arrive, I practically jump out the car and scurry to the door. She waits in the car. He doesn't answer when I knock, but, thankfully, I have his spare key.

     My anxiety spikes when I open the door and don’t see him playing Xbox in the living room. I call out his name. “Art?” No response. My heart stops when I find him in the closet. My mind slowly processes the image of his limp body hanging by a belt from the ceiling. Oh my god! I can't breathe. I feel weak. Everything fades to black.

• • •

Breadcrumb #5

Bob Raymonda

The foundation of the castle sits just beneath the surface of the lowest cloud. Windows of varying shapes and sizes peek out from all along the spires. Wanda’s small green legs sprout out of the lowermost windows and she wiggles her toes enthusiastically with the wind. If she had had a mother, she would tell her that it feels like dipping them into marshmallow fluff — much less airy than one would expect. She giggles to herself and sits like this for hours until her caretaker enters the room (one of the unused storage areas in the basement) and chastises her for her carelessness. “Wanda June, get your feet inside this instant.”

     The caretaker is an old B376TT9 model and has been with Wanda since she was born. His joints creak as he kneels to pick her up. “Oh, Tin-Man,” she laments, “why don’t you ever let me have any fun?”

     The robot tilts his head to the left like a dog that has just been caught nose deep in his master’s dinner. “Wanda June, you know I don’t know what that means.” Tin-Man locks the door behind them after they’ve left. She is slumped over his shoulder, and her stomach is tied up in knots.

“The robot tilts his head to the left like a dog that has just been caught nose deep in his master’s dinner.”

     “I can walk myself you know.” She stares at the robot’s rusty back and sticks her tongue out. He continues his ascent up the spire’s steps none the wiser.

     “Wanda June, you are not permitted to walk unless you are wearing your protective suit, which you know as well as I,” Tin-Man says, setting her down on a chair in the study. Books line the walls, and a weathered VHS copy of The Wizard of Oz plays on a tube television in the corner. It’s one of the few movies Wanda June’s mother left behind in her castle in the clouds, and is how she coined her caretaker’s nickname. It's much easier to remember than B376TT9.

     She pouts as he prods her into her orange kevlar jumpsuit, and protests as he hefts the large fishbowl helmet onto her head. The absolute worst part, though, is when Tin-Man pulls the heavy gravity-inducing boots onto her feet. She hates the way they feel; they make her sweat. She feels anchored to the floor now, as he is, when otherwise she’d be floating through the halls as a ghost might. She lumbers off farther up into the castle, where the windows are reinforced by bars she can’t fit her booted feet through. She looks out into the deep grey sky and wonders at the purpose of it all. Why she’s here, alone, with nothing but an imprisoning space suit and a worrywart of a Tin-Man, who won’t let her realize her full potential. 

     She wonders what it will be like when he stops working. He goads her with the possibility of it every day that he finds her somewhere misplaced, naked, and enjoying the true freedom of the clouds. “Wanda June, someday I won’t be here to catch you before you fall,” he threatens. “And you won’t like what you find below any more than you like this suit I make you wear.”

     But she isn’t so sure that he’s right. Even if the earth is dangerous, isn’t that where her mother went? Isn’t that where the other people are? Isn’t that where Oz was? Maybe someday she’ll find out, she hopes. Maybe someday she’ll be able to read one of the books on the walls of the castle study and what’s inside will teach her how to deactivate Tin-Man and rid herself of her protective suit for good.

     Until then, she waits. She stews.

• • •