As I Was Going to
St. Ives
by E. E. Wolfe
Malcolm Gilcrist was the most level headed, if not contented man on St. Ives and McGuffin.
“My son, he’s a good lad. Got my looks, his mother’s heart, but his mind is in the right place, tell the truth!”
His father said laughingly. Malcolm had a good future cut out for him, nothing short of perfect. Graduating
top of his class, he went on to some French collage and received his Master’s, full tuition paid by his father,
who resided himself very comfortably in London. Old Man Gilcrist set his son off right, though far from
London, with a 5th floor condo at the St. Ives Arms, an enchanting, antiquated apartment building dead in
the middle of green Falmouth, a somewhat larger city in Cornwall. Along with this, Malcolm was also
blessed with a beautiful fiancé, and a good job at Greenston University. And he wasn’t one of the crazies,
so it was very probable he was the most sound-minded, well off gentleman that ever lived in St. Ives Arms.
He obviously did not believe in superstition, and luck was just something you read in fortune
cookies, a load of nonsense and nursery rhymes. That particular area was known for its highly obscure
background, and was richly abound with old legends and mysteries, none of which concerned him. Malcolm
paid little attention to the old hags that wailed and whined, nonstop, on the corner of St. Ives and McGuffin,
telling him to beware of this and elude that. And so Mr. Malcolm Gilcrist went on with his daily life.
***
The sky trembled with the thought of thunder, spitting and muttering, whispering to itself,
informing the mist washed moors of Cornwall county of the oncoming storm. Malcolm stared out the tinted
window of his black Mercedes Benz, smiling as Jillian blew him a kiss from the window of her dorm. What a
great kid, he thought, it’s just to bad I’m five years her senior…but when did I start caring about age? He
chortled to himself, “Malcolm, it’s about time you got yourself a real woman. These kids nowadays…they’re
all grown up before they hit puberty. Jillian though, she’s swell girl, a right good one. Bright enough, but a
little self absorbed.” He yawned, gently massaging his temples. ‘Now, however it’s time for me to go to
bed.” The young man sighed. He took the car out of park and gassed it, causing the wheels to scream
violently on the brick street. It was a routine by now, kind of like saying a final adieu, though probably
growing very irksome to the neighbors, but they’d get used to it.
The rain began now, hesitantly at first, pittering off the windshield as if unable to make up its mind
whether to fall or not. Electric lamps, at one point gas, shone a dull orange onto the old brick streets, as he
made his way to 247 St. Ives and McGuffin. His lids drooped drowsily, lulled by the quickening rain. He
glanced at the green glowing digital clock, exhaling a weary breath at the wee hours. “So much for a good
night of sleep!” Malcolm grunted.
Wiping the fog off the window with his leather gloved hand, he turned on to McGuffin. Suddenly,
through the screen of rain and blearing of his eyes he saw something. Well at least he thought he saw
something…and if not, it was the most real looking “something” he’d ever seen. He slammed on the breaks,
whipping the car sideways before it came to a stop. Fearing for the worst he fumbled for the handle, heart
thudding against his chest like a snare drum. He stepped out slowly his breath catching in his throat as his
eyes gazed upon nothing he had ever seen before. The something stood there was most definitely a woman!
Her eyes were vacant and face wan, built slight but with a regal nature, enhanced by a long cascade of silken
bronze hair. Her simple blue frock quavered in the wind but was seemingly untouched by the torrential
downpour.
“Hello, are you all right? Hello?” He rushed up to the figure, coat ready in offertory. But she gave
no reply.
Smiling slightly she placed one surprising cold finger on his cheek.
“Thank you sir. I’ll see myself off.” She said.
“But you’re freezing! Here take my ja…” The coat fell limply to the ground, for there was no one
there to accept it. The headlights of the car reflected off the sheets of rain, his very wet self, and absolutely
nothing else. The man looked frantically around to see where she might have gone; the car? Couldn’t be, it
was empty. Maybe she went inside that house. That was probably it. There was no way she could have just
disappeared like this unless…she wasn’t there in the first place. No! He would not, could not take that for a
reasonable answer. She was there, she had to be! He, Malcolm C. Gilcrist wasn’t going crazy, certainly not!
There was a shy girl, he almost ran her over and then she ran into her house. That was it. She wasn’t his
responsibility after all, and he didn’t hurt her.
Malcolm nodded his head at his natural ability to rationalize. Scooping up his drenched coat, he
trudged over to the car, sat himself down on the patent-leather seats and cranked up the radio, trying to
avert his mind from the previous incident. The heater shot blasts of warm air at him and wiping the water
from his eyes, Mr. Gilcrist revved up the motor and slowly began again. A few minutes later he pulled up in
front of the St. Ives Arms, made his way to the front door and pressed the door bell. Bzzzzzzzzzz!
“Aye, oo’s out there?” The speaker crackled.
“Who do think’s out here, Frank? Father Christmas?”
“Oh, it’s ye, Mister Gilcrist. Hehehe… Had another let night again, eh sar?” said the Night
Watchman.
“Yes Frank, now stop yer gibberin’ and let me in. It’s blasted cold out here!” Malcolm removed his
sopping gloves and rubbed his hands together, doing his best to get them warm again. Finally there was a
replying buzz and the doors unlocked. The odd man sat with his feet propped up on his little desk, the
flickering florescent light above him turning his silver-gray hair a slight purple colour, and the monitors
surrounding him changing his face to a sickly green.
“Good aivning to ye Mister Mowcome. From the looks of ye, ye’ve been owt dancin’ wi’ Mz.
Jillian again?” The Scotsman observed.
“What? Oh--dancing. Yes I have, but now I’m going to bed. And if the U. calls to-morrow, tell
them I’m ill and can’t make it. Good night Frank.”
Malcolm had already gone up the stairs by the time he finished dictating all this, so Frank smiled
sadly and turned to his monitors, and murmured, “Sleep well Mister Mowcome. Thew I dewt ye’ll want
it….”
***
Mr. Gilcrist slithered between his dry sheets which, though better than being wet, were
excruciatingly cold. His teeth chattered slightly and he pulled the coverlet over his head, trying to keep in the
escaping heat, though after a few minutes he found it quite difficult to breath and it was lowered down to his
mouth. Slowly he warmed up and drifted off into a restless sleep, filled with dreams and nightmares, each
clinging so tightly he could decipher it from reality.
~~~
Something brought him into consciousness. Wind. That’s what it was. The draperies were
billowing madly, as if possessed. But the windows weren’t open, so how that be? He had made sure that he
had closed them before he left on his date, but here they were, open again. That Frank! He’s really abusing
his duty, going into people’s apartments like this. Sulkily he got up and re-closed them, making sure he
locked them this time. He gave the lock one last pound and then completely satisfied, wandered back to bed,
stubbing his toes twice on the bed post, cursing loudly.
Then it happened again. She was there, dressed just like last time, hair shimmering and gown flowing. The
girl just as real as before, but sitting comfortably at the foot of his own bed.
“W-what are you doing here? Did Frank let you in?” Malcolm stuttered, caught totally off guard.
She smiled sweetly. “ Such a kindly old gentleman, is he not? Not so much unlike yourself.” Her
voice was soft and haunting, like an angel’s, but it was tinged with a coldness he could not understand.
“What d-do you want with me? I don’t even know you do I?”
“No. You do not. I just wanted to thank you for your benevolence today. There is so little
hospitality in these times. ”
“It was nothing… really. Anyone with a d-decent head on their shoulders couldn’t help but come to
the aid of someone they almost ran over.” A slight bit of pride couldn’t help but slip in with the young man’s
words. But this strange, beautiful woman who insisted on inhabiting the end of his bed just didn’t sit well on
Malcolm’s nerves. He was about to tell her, politely, that it was about time for her to leave when she pulled
her disappearing act again. Her icy fingers brushed his cheek and then was gone. Again he stood there
looking at an empty space, but he was much too tired to be confused, not even enough to ring Frank.
~~~
A solitary rooster crowed from some farm farther out in the moors, but it brought about a chorus
of adjoining calls from inside the city. These had always been Malcolm Gilcrist’s choice of alarm clock, not
only because it was much more pleasant to listen to, but was always right. That and he could not turn it off.
This morning, Mr. Malcolm refused to get up with the roosters, and thus remained in bed until at least nine,
when he decided it was time to tell Frank a thing or two. He couldn’t have weirdo women gallivanting
around the Arms when he was trying to sleep, certainly not in his own room. Dressed, he meandered down
the twisting mahogany staircase into the front room where Frank usually sat, watching the doors and
keeping track of things. But as he came in front of the desk he immediately noticed that it wasn’t Frank, but
a younger man he had never seen before.
“Excuse me, could you tell me where a Mr. Frank Roney is?”
“Is he a resident here?” replied the younger man, reaching for a clip board.
“No, he’s a doorman, I suppose. Is he out to lunch?”
“I’m sorry but I really don’t know. If he was a night doorman, I would guess his shift ended around
five. As you can probably tell I’m rather new here, and don’t know much about any thing, but I’m Kenneth,
and I’ll see what I can do for you….”
“Malcolm Gilcrist.”
“Malcolm. Nice to meet you. If I meet up with this guy when my shift ends, I’ll tell him you wanted
to talk to him.” They shook hands over the desk, the younger fellow looking genuinely glad to have made
his acquaintance. Malcolm, however, was fuming as he went out the door, not even noticing Kenneth’s little
wave goodbye.
How could I have been so stupid? He thought. I bet Frank wasn’t even there to tell the U. I was
sick today. Hah, not like I am but still…he might have at least left a message with that Kenny person.
What an old buzzard. Pondering these things, Malcolm stiffly walked down the boardwalk, eyes half open
and mouth turned down to a tight frown. He wasn’t paying attention and strode down to the corner and
stopped against the street light.
“Somefing wrong, boy?” The old St. Ives and McGuffin Street Hag asked casually,
hobbling out to him from her bench.
“Not today, woman. Not now. Please?”
“Somefing is troubling you isn’t it, child? You have,” she paused a moment, “—hmmmm—seen
somefing, someone you don’t care to see. You have anger in your heart—“
“Yeah, yeah lady. Anger, spirits, and whiskey. Now you want to read my palm, and for three
pounds more, you’ll tell my future. All a bunch of stuff and nonsense. Now go bother some one else.”
She let out a harsh laugh, coughing and hacking and nodding her head. With great pains she turned
around and limped back to her bench, her old wheezing laughter never ceasing.
“I know your type, lad. Head all filled with knowledge and not enough room for dreaming—
harhahar-harummfffachah-hahaa! Aye, not an ounce of imagination in yer whole body! Achhcahh—‘scuse
me.”
“You only say that because you have no knowledge in your whole body—Oh blast. This is no time
to be arguing with an old woman.” Perturbed, he crossed street, hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets
only to sit down on the opposite curb. He stared down at his reflection in the puddle at his feet. Malcolm
didn’t see any thing different than what he usually saw; a stylish young man with a neatly trimmed black hair,
steely blue eyes, and a few more wrinkles than last time. His lips curved slightly into a smile, remembering
times when he was young and would just stare at the looking glass in his room, making dumb faces, finding
that if he pushed down on his forehead and made the fiercest frown that he could, he could look just like his
father. He would have never dreamed that someday he would make that face without an effort.
Malcolm glanced up and saw the old woman smiling toothlessly at him from her bench across the
way. Maybe…she was right. Maybe he didn’t have dreams…. But he didn’t need them! He had his life to
live, plans to make, things to do. That left him no time to bother with faery stories. And the girl, she was
nothing out of the ordinary. Once there was a dotty old man who would wander about the Arms looking for
a Captain Somebody-or-other, and never finding him, would pound on doors at night asking for orders.
Finally someone gave him a rather sour one, and quite unexpectedly the old nut died. Malcolm was pretty
sure he knew exactly what it was. She could be just in a milder case of lunacy…but still, he had to admit she
was the most beautiful loony he had ever seen. That is—ahem—next to Jillian.
***
The day went with out complications, and other than when Greenston U called, it could have been
called quite uneventful In the evening, Malcolm had decided to take a long steaming bath, and was there
presently when the phone rang. His eyes still closed he reached for the cellular phone that sat nearby.
“Uhhhh hello, Malcolm here.”
“Mr. Gilcrist, this is Kenneth from the front desk. ‘Member me?”
“Uh-huh…”
“Well I just called to tell you that Frank Roney is in and can talk to you now.”
“All right. Tell him I’ll be down in a few minutes. Thanks Kenny.”
“Yessir, Mr. Gilcrist, any time.”
Malcolm pressed end and tossed the phone out of reach of the water. He pulled himself languidly
out of the warmth and wrapped a towel quickly about him. He got dressed and sped down stairs, ready to
speak his mind to the old badger.
“Hullo again, Mister Mowcome! Ah heard ye wanted tuh talk the me?” The old Scot greeted
cheerily.
“Yes, and if you’ll excuse us Kenny…”
“I’m on my way out Mr. Gilcrist, on my way out!” the younger man grinned and waved goodbye to
the older, and then left.
“Now, Mister Gilcrist, what waz it ye wanted to say?”
“Frank did ye-er-you go into my room yesterday for any purpose?”
“Nay, not that I cun remember, Mister Mowcome, why? Do ye suspect a burglary…I cun call
Scotland Yard if ye reckon anythin’s been takin’…”
“No, no Frank. Nothing like that. It’s just that before I left I shut my windows, and when I come
back they’re open again. You know any reason that could be, sir?”
“ Sorry Mister Mowcome, I didn’t know. I’ll have it looked at, though. But wuz thare…anythin’
else ye wanted to talk about, before I go back to me work?” The old man raised a bushy eyebrow.
“Right Frank. Last night I had a young woman come into my room, and she told me you let her in.
Was that true?”
The old man chewed on his lip in thought, trying to recall if any such thing had happened. “Well
sar,” he began, “I don’t remember any girl, unless ye count Mrs. Duffy, but, if ye pardon me sayin’ so, she
can hardly account fer any young lass!” he chuckled. “Wot di’ she look like?”
“She was real lovely, had kind of red hair and was wearing a bright blue dress, and all pale like. But
that’s not much of a description….”
“Good enuff fer me to say I ain’t seen hide nor hair of a girl like thet fer many years…” Frank
sighed and turned towards the monitors on his desk. It was clear he was finished talking.
“So you never let the girl in?”
“Didn’t ye hear me lad? I sed I never let no girl in last naht and so I didn’t! It wuz probably just yer
dreams hauntin’ ya. Now go on, leave me be!”
Unsatisfied, Malcolm went upstairs. What a stubborn old man. But if he said there wasn’t any girl,
there wasn’t any girl. He had always trusted the Night Watchman because, as of yet, he had found no reason
not to. He couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t getting the entire story with the way Frank had said “many
years,” however now was not the time for yarn spinning.
The sun was setting behind the hills, her last rays spilling through the stained glass windows which
lined the mahogany stair case, creating a “stairway to Heaven” air. Malcolm skidded his hand along the time
worn banister as he ascended, watching as they turned varicoloured. He had always been fond of those
stairs, spiraling ever upward in its own castle like tier, bejeweled with the rainbow tinted windows. Once,
when he was younger, someone, most likely a nurse, had taken him to an old church overflowing with stairs
and stained-glass, light shining through all. The younger Malcolm had looked at her and asked in awe, “Are
we in Heaven? Can I see Mum now?” She had only smiled. The little boy had looked all around that church,
asking parishioners and priests if they had seen his dear mum, but no one had. He had gone home crying that
day and the nurse was fired on the spot. He had never known his mother…there were only many nurses and
nannies. Not one memory was left of her. Still, these stairs remained, and as long as they did, so did that
hope of meeting her someday. Malcolm ran a hand through his raven hair. Too many sad times.
“Hello again Malcolm.” Came a voice.
“Hmmm? You! What is it? Why do you stalk me?”
“Peace, my friend. You will come to no harm…” It was she, the red head magic woman dressed in
blue, standing a few stairs up.
“No harm? First you try to wreck my car, then you try to frighten me to death, and I suspect that it
was you who opened my window and tried to turn me into an ice-cube—and now Frank’s mad at me. What
more harm can you cause in my life woman?”
She smiled, her snow-white face multicoloured from the glass. And as he looked at her this way, in
the falling hours of the day, she was the most angelic thing this side of Eden. Like the child in the church
seeing the coloured panes…are we in Heaven? He shook his head in frustration. This woman was tinkering
with his mind, playing games that he could not control.
“Who, or should I say, what are you? What’s your name at least?” he said at last.
“Call me what you wish. To you, I am just Woman as it seems. Far times ago lost, my Father
christened me Celestia Ariana . But call me what you wish.” That moment the sun drowned into the horizon
and was lost to night. And as that last stream of gold flickered through, so did she and was gone.
“Woman! Woman! Celestia! Stop disappearing on me!” the man screamed, his voice reverberating
off the stone walls.
***
“Malcolm, you all right?” Jillian queried. “You sound all out of sorts. Not your usual…self I guess.
I mean, sheesh! I haven’t heard from you all week!”
“It’s because I’m not myself, Jill! My mind is screwed up!” he practically screamed into the
receiver. She, Celestia, had visited everyday, mostly at night when he least expected it; straight from the
shower once, while he was reading, even at 3:00 in the morning! He swore she was puttering with his
conscience.
“Jeeze, Malcolm, don’t bellow! I’m not deaf yet, but keep screaming like that and I’m gonna be!
And what do you mean, screwed up? You’ve got the best mind I’ve ever known. C’mon Mr. Proffesor,
don’t start dissin’ yourself like that.” She chided laughingly.
American girls.
“I’m not joking Jillian. There’s this-this person and she’s-they’re driving me batty! I have never felt
so akward in my whole life. I’m very sorry for not calling you or anything, but I’ve got things to deal with
and…have been held up.”
“Batty, Malcolm? Really. Please don’t tell me you’re having a mid-life crisis this early in the
game… How old are you anyway? 25? 26? But anywho,” (She loved that phrase.) “Hurry up and get back
to class. Everybody misses ya baby, and if anyone’s driving anyone batty, it’s gotta be the substitute! She’s
an old rabid shrew! Well, I gotta go now, Mal, but I hope to see you tomorrow, kay?”
Malcolm sighed. He some how doubted it. “Alright, I’ll do my best. Bye….”
“Love ya Professor Malcolm!”
“Good-bye Jill.”
At long last Jillian hung up. He flung his head back onto the overstuffed chair, staring ruefully at
the ceiling. She kept saying that she loved him which could always be possible, going out for two months,
but he had thought very little of love. He knew for sure that he had liked her, really liked her at one point,
but he couldn’t even say that anymore.Their relationship was different somehow. Nothing was like it was,
except for Kenny, who never ever changed. He was just a young guy, probably around Jillian’s age, who
loved his job and everyone around him. Quite unlike his old talkitive self, not even old Frank bothered to
converse with him any more. His life was desinagrating around him!
However this was hardly end of his miseries. A feeling had started to grow in the farthest regions of
his mind and was beginning to consume his heart slowly, like a virus. And had it a name it would be simply
called Celestia Ariana. Malcolm Gilcrist’s emotion’s had gone haywire, but seeing there was nothing
humanly possible he could do, he just let it all happen. The girl, spector, or whatever she was knew exactly
what she was doing apparently, and was pleasantly aware that it was working like a charm.
~~~
Monday came bright and early the next week, and knowing his responcibilities as a teacher,
Malcolm felt that there was no time like the present to go back. Jillian herself said the students missed him
and anyway he’d be so far behind on his schedule it wouldn’t even be funny. Gaping at the dark circles
under his eyes, he sped out for Greenston, glad to be somewhere that girl couldn’t find him. Well, at least he
hoped.
The black Mercedes shone brilliantly in sun, parked with pride in front of a sign that read,
“Gilcrist,” in bold black print. It’s owner stroad meaningfully down Greenston University’s halls and into
room G-12, Freshman English. The students lounged around chatting amiably with one another, 25 pairs of
eyes then glancing up at him as he entered, followed by a chorus of ahhh man’s and other more explicit
phrases.
“What’s he doing back?”
“Heheheh, yeh, I thought he was dead or something…”
“You could only hope!”
Jillian added her own, “At least it’s not Mrs. O’Shey again!” After which she was pelted with a
million paper wads and a couple of ooohs.
“Glad to know I’m loved.” Was Malcolm’s sarcastic reply. Of course, someone then whispered
something about Jillian and and received quite a few giggles.
“Ok, guys, vacation’s over. Did that O’Shey woman teach you anything?”
“Uh-huh, she taught us a new phrase so dear to our hearts,” chimed some loud-mouthed guy, “Sit
down and shut up!”
“Good. I’m glad someone fianally did. Now can we put that poetry to use, please?”
With little haste the room fell silent, and class began as routine. Elepantine sized books were pulled
out, along with a smaller “Understanding Shakespeare” manual.
“First, will you kindly turn to page 1045 in your Blue books, look at section D. This is where we
stopped, isn’t it? That’s wonderful. Next, you all know about the finals coming up this month, right?”
Everyone nodded tediously.
“Then all of you have been studying furiously….” A few smart-alecky no’s were added.
“Ok….But I don’t need any cramming on the night before. But anyway, let’s begin.”
~~~
St. Ives Arms seemed a tad more unwelcoming than usual, (if anything was usual anymore)
Malcolm thought, parking the car that evening. The turrets that once seemed so picturesque were now
almost nightmarish, like something out of an old Dracula movie. Frank had been gone last night and another
man had taken his place, a Mr.Durrow, who himself looked like a monster. Malcolm bet he could rent the
place over as a spook house and make some money, but that would not help matters.
He had prayed that this would be a Celestia-free day, and so far, someone must have been listening
for no Celestia had been seen. Not today, not last night, so it surely was a record. He was even beginning to
wonder. Had she forgotten him? Had she---
“Hi there Mr. Malcolm! Have a nice day?” Kenneth called.
Malcolm glanced about, his thoughts shattered like a mirror hit with a boulder. “ Wha-huh?
Oh…sure Kenneth.” However, a conversation with Mr. Perky didn’t appeal to him at that moment. But
then, when had it ever?
“Kay! Talk to you later and have a nice evening!”
“Uh-huh…” he mumbled again, and went up stairs, finding his room dark and pleasing.
Lighting a candle just for the effect, he pulled out his school work and began grading.
1. I think Crassus was wrong trying to make Varennia his wife cuz that is
not legal now and I wouldn’t think he could get away with it.
Except this is not now. Explain in that time period. -2
2. If I were Sparticus I wouldn’t have just died. I would have gotten up and
gone after Varennia, but he didn’t. He died….. Give me more details-
explanation. -3
Malcolm read and reread a few of the answers, but his mind wasn’t really in his work, so his
markings came out vague and blunt. He didn’t care much, at least now anyway. He wouldn’t have cared if
they had put Varennia married a handsome prince and lived happily ever after. He had his own love life to
contend to. This spirit woman was intriguing him, making him do things he would never do. She would
touch him and stare, like if trying to make out if he was real or not, but never letting him touch back. Her
voice was known to float out of his room late at night, singing. She was like a siren, who tempted him yet
every time he drew near would flit off. He was loosing sleep over this creature. He was only a man, after all.
Suddenly, the clock struck 9, causing Malcolm to nearly jump out of his seat. Tossing the papers
over in the corner, he took off his shirt and tie and wandered into the bathroom and began to study his face.
Look at you, he thought. You look like some haggard old man. Those rings weren’t there a few weeks ago.
Heck, you were living the life a few weeks ago. You had a great girlfriend, a great job, and
now…now…you don’t want either. The young man yawned, watching the distortion of his mouth in the
mirror. What a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, Malcolm Gilcrest. But his face was no longer that
which was in the mirror. He squinted. No…that was certainly not his face it was…Frank!
“Lawks! Frank! How’d you get there? Is this some sort of trick? I’m going to have to report you if
you keep these pranks up.” Frank didn’t respond. His knobby old face morphed as quickly as it had come. It
was no longer a male face, it was Celestia crying…two faces now…it was his or some one who looked like
him, and the girl.
“You knew the child was yours, yet you refuse….”
“Celeste, we both know I cannot be held accountable for some milk maid’s wretch. Perhaps it’s
not mine! What do you say to that, eh?”
“I could turn you in for this, you know!”
“Indeed! A lower class hussy turning in a noble man? What do you think the people down there
will say? Nothing! They will merely laugh in your face.”
(The woman starts to cry) “Fred—“
“Don’t call me Fred. It is Mr. Gilcrist to you. And that child is of no concern of mine, so leave
me be, you hear me, woman?”
The figures faded in those last words, and there Malcolm heard himself. In this Gilcrist man, who
ever he was and whether or not he was related, his own echo could be heard: leave me be! Do you hear me
woman…woman…woman….Who was this person, this man under his own name who denied his son? Who
was so above her that he could not take his own blood? He then realized something…Fred Gilcrist…why
that was his own father’s name, was it not? Surely this was not his father. His da had always been a kind
man, thoughtful, smart, generous. None of these traits were apparent in this cold being. But then, this type
of thing shouldn’t be happening to begin with! If he wanted to see a soap opera, he’d watch television, not
his bathroom looking glass. And with that, the young Mr. Gilcrist ran from the bathroom, his mind jumbled
and very confused. If that was his father…who was that child??
~~~
“Hullo? Dad?”
“Malcolm! My boy! Good to hear from you! Glad you finally pried yourself away from that Jillian
woman to finally give me a ring!”
Malcolm winced at the word ‘woman’ and was very glad his father could not see him. “Right…uh...so I did.
But now I really have a favor to ask you.”
“Do you need more money? You know that’s not item, Mal, and I could gladly send you some over
the midnight post--”
“Nah, Dad, money is fine. I just have a question.”
“Really? That simple? All right, go ahead and shoot.”
“I want to know about mum. How did she die, where did she come from, even her name would be
nice…you know you never told me her name.”
“Your mother? Why? There isn’t much to tell! She was a good woman, but she died when she had
you, and there’s nothing more to it. She loved you very much, mind you.” He paused, as if in thought. “ I
can’t remember her name, for some reason…must have slipped my mind. I must be goin’ daft in my old
age!”
Malcolm was shocked. “Oh come now, Da. There is no way you could forget your own wife’s
name. And your age has nothing to do with it. I’m sure you know more about her than you let on--”
“Listen Malcolm, she is a touchy subject, that’s all. I’d rather not go into to it. Can we discuss this
later?” Fred Gilcrist’s voice sharpened, reminding him of Frank’s the day after the window incident.
“I can’t wait forever Da.”
“I never intended you to Malcolm. I have things to do and don’t have time to talk about the good old days,
that’s all. Look, I have a call coming in. I’ll talk to you later. Bye son.”
“Bye D--” The phone clicked emptily.
Tossing it back on the base, he strode out of his apartment, fuming. Thudding down the stairs, he
pushed Kenneth out of his way and went out the front door, closing it with a horrible noise that caused some
of the ceiling to crumble on to the floor. He had no idea where he was going, but he passed the old wretch
and ended up once more on the old curb across the way.
“Well, young man! Haff ye finally returned to me, eh?” The St. Ives and McGuffin Street Hag
croaked merrily, mending diligently a dirty sock.
Mr. Gilcrist looked up and scowled at her.
“Ah, yes, yes! Acheh-mmm-yes! Quite a nicely surprise for me, indeed! You are still troubled, I see!
You were…cast away by your father, hechha ahrmmm (s’cuse me) were you not?”
Malcolm squinted and peered with a sudden interest.
“I was right! Ha ha! Now there is somefing else. Oh yes! Yes. He feels…he can no longer trust
you…you haff broken his confidence! No?”
“No!”
“No?”
“NO! That isn’t how it is at all! My old man trusts me with every bone in his body. If you are going
to make your assumptions or guesses, or predictions, or whatever you call them, make them correct and
helpful!”
“Dear, dear!” She lamented. “We haff made a herrible mistake! To err is human, they say, mmm
yes. I must concentrate harder! Can we come nearer, young man? I will help thee if ye come nearer!”
Malcolm had no intention to come any closer to her than where he was, and he shook his head
bitterly.
“Hmm-uhhhmmahech ahrumph! This is too sad. Neffer thought there’d come a day where the
young’ns would look down upon their elders…no respect! I shan’t bother ye anymore, son of Gilcrist, if ye
so wish it.” The old woman rocked as she darned, no more bothered by him than if he were never there.
“Blast her.” Malcolm muttered under his breath. She hinted keenly, he knew, but he had to get past
her freakishness to see it. There was something in the way she said ‘Son of Gilcrist’ that began to make him
think. The St. Ives and McGuffin Street Hag could recollect many a thing from the past as her cold, black
eyes had hardly failed her.