Layne, Melody

Digital Commons @ Butler University

Spring 1996Message From a Bottle/She is sitting in the semi-darkness, pen raised ex-pectantly above the paper, as if at any moment the ink willrun out on its own to form magic pictures in words there.Music flutters soft and light from the stereo in the comerand hovers over her shoulder to watch. She always fightswriter's block with Enya and candlelight.I am stationed precariously at the edge of the dresser,a primitive beacon. A light-bearer, I hold aloft the candlewhich illuminates the blank page before her. She scratchesher head, puts down the pen, and holds out her hand to catchthe river of liquid wax which is dribbling down my neck.Purposely distracting herself from the task of writing, shelets the wax begin to collect and settle into a solid mass,then smashes it between her thumb and forefinger. Shetwists it into a delicate curlicue and lays it down on the deskbeside several others.I don't mind the heat. Heat has always been a part ofwho I am. In my last lifetime, I was the peak of a dune inthe Arizona desert. The sun beat down on me by day, andthe moon cooled me by night. Humans complained aboutme. I rose in the wind and filled their lungs, making it hardto breathe. I settled heavy over anything they left outside. Ifilled their shoes and the cuffs of their pants. When theytried to walk over me, I let them sink.Then one day, I was leveled off, poured into the backof a truck, and taken off to a large factory, where they castme right into the heart of the fire. I melted, and I died.I rose up out of the fire in a new incarnation, glass.They had blown me into the shape of a bottle. I had manybrothers and sisters. Some were clear and heavy like my-self. Some were tinted green and light. The sun shiningthrough them made spots on the cardboard boxes of thefactory warehouse that reminded me of the desert lizards5Manuscriptsand cacti of my past life. The clear bottles, they packed incrates and shipped out. I don't know what happened to thegreens,When the light of the sun hit me again, I found myselfin a new place. Lush with vegetation and just as warm as mydesert had been, the sounds and smells in this new place weredifferent. Instead of the rattle of the snake or the shrieks ofthe vultures, I experienced, for the first time, the roar andcrash of the ocean, the scent of brine, moisture. Spots ofperspiration appeared across my base. I was taken out of thecrate and deposited in the lap of a dark woman. She began toweave straw around me. I noticed several other of my breth-ren already seated and clothed on the grass beside her. Whenshe had fmished with twelve of us, we were put back in newcartons and driven away.In the next place, over a dark, sawdusted floor, menpoured a dark burning liquid into me. I glanced down atmyself to see if I was in the fire again, but I saw no flames.Gradually, I grew accustomed to the strength of this liquorand enjoyed this new full feeling. They packed us into cratesagain and loaded us onto ships. On the first night of ourvoyage, the sailors, who knew their cargo well, decided tohave a party. One reached into the crate and grabbed me bymy neck. He uncorked my mouth and began taking longgulps from me. I had only been filled a few days, but Iresented this loss. The liquid, (he called it rum) had beenwarm and comforting. I felt as if my life's blood were beingdrained, as if his abrasive whiskers had put cuts in me and Iwere bleeding from them. When I was almost dry, he noticeda stray seagull in the night sky. He bragged to his friends thathe could peg it off, recorked me, and flung me into the air. Hemissed, and I landed in the sea, a lucky thing. As I bobbedfurther and further away from the ship, I saw many of mybrothers and sisters smashed against its sides.I bobbed for what must have been several days,6Spring 1996/enjoying the sun and the wann salt water. If I looked downthrough myself, I sometimes saw a shark below, a darkominous shadow. One curious fish took an interest and swamcloser to investigate, but upon finding me inedible andharmless, did no more than butt me gently to change mydirection. It didn't matter. I didn't care where I was going,since I didn't know where I'd been.One afternoon, I was up on the shore of a white sandybeach. Since I was reeling with deja vu, I hardly noticed awhite-haired woman approaching until she called out, "HeyHarold! Whadda ya know? An old bottle-too bad thereain't no message in it." One moment, whom was she callingold? She picked me up and carried me over to where anelderly white man in striped swim trunks was sunning him-self on a worn beach towel."Ah, geez, Bea," he whined, "can't we leave here justonce without someone else's garbage?""Whadda ya mean garbage?" she protested. Yeah,Harold, whadda ya mean garbage, I thought. "This is aperfectly good bottle. We can still get a lot of use out of this.We'll fill it up with good old Florida sand and have a me-mento of our last trip here." They argued. Harold lost, and Igot filled again, this time with memories of my last life.Harold and Bea had been traveling to St. Augustineevery winter for years. They had owned a trailer, but re-cently, upon the advent of Harold's seventy-eighth birthday,they had decided to sell it and begin wintering permanentlyin Indiana. Bea hated the idea, but she couldn't drive, andshe wouldn't be able to make the trip by herself if anythinghappened to her husband. This was to be their last trip to thebeach before heading home. The trunk was already loaded. Ibecame part of the baggage.Indiana is cold, especially in the winter, and I was notprepared for the shock. When Harold flung open the trunkand, for the first time, the frigid air held me up for examina-7Manuscriptstion, I turned to ice and lost consciousness. When I cameto, I was a semi-permanent fixture on Bea's nightstand.What can I say about my life there? Bea andHarold spent so little time in the bedroom. From my perch,I often heard sounds of the television in the next room. Iknew when the grandkids had come to visit because thetable I sat upon shook with the fury of their clomping. Oneevening, little Laura entered the room. The window wasopen and the air, which I had by then grown barely tolerantof, was taunting me with predictions. She picked me upand waved me in the air. I was her club -, "She-Ra! Princessof Power!" she sang with zeal. The cork came loose, andall the sand poured over her brown bowl of a head and intoher eyes. I was empty again. She flung me onto the bedand ran screaming for Grandma Bea, who cleaned her up,promptly vacuumed the bedroom carpet, and set me in abox in the closet. I was dropped off at the local highschool's trash and treasure sale with some old costumejewelry and neck scarves the next week.That's where this one found me, the summer beforewe went to boarding school. We've been together now forthree and a half years. I must admit I was rather surprisedthe first time she corked me with a candle, but I've grownused to it now, and since she uses me only for writing andfor special occasions, I've come to view it as a sort ofspiritual calling. I've seen her through four roommates,two schools, five relationships, twelve English classes, andeighty-seven candles.Oh, she must have made some headway in her story.She is shutting her notebook. She is clicking off the radio.She is climbing into bed. She must have decided to let thiscandle bum all the way down. She sleeps.Melody Layne8

Message From a Bottle

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Message From a Bottle

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