Story Two · A Strangewoven story
Ada arrived at the cemetery carrying a newspaper and a paper bag.
The Graveborn rose from the bench.
“I’ve brought you something,” she said.
“How thoughtful. I brought you a joke.”
“Which of us goes first?”
“Depends how perishable yours is.”
Ada handed him the bag.
Inside were a reel of thread, three buttons, and a pair of braces.
He lifted the braces carefully.
“An investment in public safety,” she said.
He looked down at the cord holding up his trousers.
“I was beginning to worry about my next standing engagement.”
“Put those on. I’ve found you one.”
He became very still.
Ada unfolded the newspaper.
Beside an advertisement for gutter cleaning was a small announcement:
NIGHT OWLS — YOUR LOCAL LATE-NIGHT RADIO SHOW.
STORIES, MUSIC, AND COMPANY AFTER DARK.
GUESTS WELCOME.
The Graveborn read it twice.
“Radio,” he said.
“People hear you before they see you.”
“They don’t see me at all.”
“Usually.”
He looked up.
For the first time since Ada had met him, he seemed lost for words.
Then he held up the braces.
“I’d still better wear these. Standards are standards.”
The station occupied two rooms above a closed shoe shop.
Ada went upstairs first.
The Graveborn waited beneath the awning with a scarf wrapped over the lower half of his skull.
He had suggested a hat as well.
Ada had explained that there was a point beyond which disguising oneself became dressing for a robbery.
Through an upstairs window came the soft sound of a piano.
Then a man’s voice.
“If you’re still awake, you’ve got company. This is Martin Bell with Night Owls.”
The Graveborn listened.
There was something reassuring about the way the man spoke. He left room between his sentences, as though someone might answer.
A minute later, Ada appeared at the door.
“He knows,” she said.
“About the jokes?”
“About you.”
“And?”
“He’s asked me to remind you the stairs are narrow.”
The Graveborn looked down at himself.
“Fortunately, so am I.”
Martin Bell sat behind a desk covered in switches, mugs, and little handwritten labels.
He wore a cardigan with one elbow patched.
When the Graveborn entered, Martin stood halfway up.
Then he sat down again, rather suddenly.
Ada closed the door.
For several seconds, only the piano spoke.
“Good evening,” said the Graveborn.
Martin swallowed.
“Good evening.”
“I understand you’re looking for somebody with a pulse on local events.”
Ada shut her eyes.
The Graveborn lowered his notebook.
“Too soon?”
Martin looked at Ada.
“You weren’t exaggerating.”
“I was trying to prepare you.”
Martin studied his guest, taking in the roots caught in his sleeves, the hollow sockets, the cravat hanging over exposed bone.
His gaze paused at the notebook.
“You really do comedy?”
“I’m building toward it.”
“Have you performed anywhere?”
“The cemetery.”
“How did that go?”
“I cleared the place.”
Martin let out a startled laugh.
The Graveborn straightened a little.
Ada pulled up a chair.
They had twelve minutes before the end of the record.
Martin explained the microphone.
“Stay about here. Don’t touch the desk if you can help it. The sound carries.”
The Graveborn folded his hands in his lap.
“No tapping. Understood.”
“If you need a drink—”
Martin stopped.
The Graveborn glanced at the mug.
“I appreciate the thought.”
Ada took it.
Martin explained the headphones next.
The Graveborn held them beside his skull.
“Where would you suggest?”
Martin stared.
Then he began to laugh.
Not loudly. Not comfortably, at first.
But by the time the piano faded, he was wiping his glasses.
“Right,” he said, putting them back on. “Just listen through the studio speaker.”
A small red light came on.
Martin leaned toward his microphone.
“Welcome back. We’ve got a guest tonight. A local comedian performing as the Graveborn.”
He turned slightly.
“Thank you for joining us.”
“Thank you for having me. It’s wonderful to be somewhere with an exit nobody’s currently using.”
Ada pressed her lips together.
Martin smiled.
“What brings you to comedy?”
The Graveborn glanced at his notebook.
For a moment, he could hear rain on earth.
Then he looked at the little red light.
“I remember liking laughter,” he said. “I thought I’d see whether I could still cause some.”
“Well,” Martin said gently, “let’s find out.”
The first joke went badly.
There was supposed to be a gardener.
And a complaint.
And something about returning to one’s roots.
Unfortunately, the middle of the page had become attached to the page before it.
The Graveborn eased them apart.
A small piece broke off.
“Sorry,” he said into the microphone. “My material’s a little dry.”
Ada laughed.
So did Martin.
The Graveborn looked between them.
Then he set the notebook down.
“I had a difficult journey here. A dog followed me for three streets.”
“Oh?”
“I don’t know whether he wanted a friend or a complete set.”
Martin bent forward over the desk.
Ada put her mug down quickly.
Encouraged, the Graveborn continued.
“I’ve been trying to meet people. It’s going well, provided they don’t turn around.”
Martin’s laughter escaped directly into his microphone.
In the little room, the sound came back through the speaker a fraction of a second later.
The Graveborn listened to it.
He almost missed the next question.
The studio door opened.
A man carrying a cardboard box stepped inside.
“Martin, where do you want these—”
He saw the guest.
The box hit the floor.
Pens scattered across the carpet.
The man made a noise the microphone caught with remarkable clarity.
Then he was gone.
Downstairs, a door slammed.
The Graveborn watched the empty doorway.
Martin reached toward a switch.
Before he could touch it, the skeleton leaned toward his microphone.
“For those listening at home, a gentleman has just declined our stationery.”
Ada made a strangled sound.
“He seemed quite firm.”
Martin lost the battle entirely.
His laughter filled the studio, warm and helpless.
The Graveborn waited.
This time, he knew what he was waiting for.
The telephone began to flash.
Martin recovered enough to press a button.
“Night Owls. You’re on the air.”
A woman’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“Was that Dennis?”
Martin looked toward the open door.
“It may have been.”
“I’m his wife. Tell him to bring milk.”
The Graveborn leaned forward.
“I’ll write it down. I don’t think he heard you.”
The woman laughed.
Then the second line flashed.
And the third.
Some people wanted another joke.
One wanted to know where he performed.
A man called only to say that his wife was asleep and they had nearly woken her.
“I’m sorry,” said the Graveborn.
“No, no,” the man replied. “First time she’s heard me laugh in a fortnight. She said to keep listening.”
The Graveborn rested his hands beside his notebook.
He answered the next call more quietly.
Near midnight, Martin took one last caller.
There was a faint rustling.
Then an elderly man said, “I haven’t got a joke.”
“That’s all right,” Martin told him.
“I used to listen with my brother. He liked this programme.”
A pause.
The Graveborn stayed still.
“House gets quiet,” the caller said.
“Yes,” Martin replied.
Another pause.
This one lasted longer.
The Graveborn looked at Ada.
She gave the smallest shake of her head.
Let him speak.
The caller cleared his throat.
“Anyway. I wondered whether your guest would be on again.”
The Graveborn turned toward Martin.
Martin held up one finger, then pointed to the calendar beside the desk.
Same night.
Next week.
“If they’ll have me,” said the Graveborn.
“Good,” the caller replied. “I’d like that.”
The line clicked.
For a few seconds, nobody in the studio moved.
Then Martin introduced the final record.
The red light went out.
They helped gather the pens.
Dennis had returned, although he remained in the doorway.
“I thought Ada meant a costume,” he said.
“I did say a skeleton,” Ada replied.
“People say things.”
The Graveborn offered him the box.
Dennis hesitated.
Then took it.
“Your wife called,” the skeleton said.
Dennis looked alarmed.
“Milk.”
“Oh.”
He studied the weathered skull.
“You’re the one who said the thing about the dog.”
“Yes.”
Dennis looked down at the box.
“That was quite good.”
“Thank you.”
“Still don’t want you coming round a corner at me.”
“I’m trying to make fewer entrances.”
Dennis nodded as though this were a sensible professional arrangement.
Then he left, at walking pace.
The Graveborn watched him go.
Outside, the street was empty.
Ada locked the stairwell door behind them.
“You did well.”
He touched the pocket containing his notebook.
“I forgot half my jokes.”
“You found some others.”
They started toward the cemetery.
In an upstairs window across the street, a radio played the final record.
The Graveborn stopped beneath it.
Somewhere behind that curtain, somebody was still listening.
“Same time next week,” he said.
“That’s what Martin offered.”
“I’ll need new material.”
“You’ve got a week.”
He considered this.
Then he looked down at his newly secured trousers.
“And dependable management.”
“The braces were a gift,” Ada said.
“Of course.”
“And I’m not carrying your notebook.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
They walked on.
After a while, he asked, “Do you think that gentleman will call again?”
“The one with the quiet house?”
He nodded.
“Maybe.”
The Graveborn took out his pencil.
Under the next blank space in his notebook, he wrote:
Leave room for the callers.
Then, after a moment:
Remember the milk.
Ada glanced at the page.
“Dennis has already gone to the shop.”
“I know,” he said. “But he might run out again.”
And together they went up the hill.
