Sam Weller - Shadow Show

Phillips’s narrow face brightened for the briefest of instants. It was such an unnatural look for a man of such grim aspect that Jim almost laughed. “I’ve never heard the process explained exactly like that, but I think it certainly obtains.”

“You are so lucky,” said Jim. The sentiment just burst out of him, fueled by equal parts admiration and envy. “To see your name in print. I’d give anything to do that.”

“I already have… and I fear it’s not worth it.”

“What?” Jim was stunned.

“Have you never been admonished to be careful what you wish for?”

“I don’t think so. Besides, who cares? What you do is special—it’s magic is what it is!”

Phillips sipped from his large cup, savoring the rich brew as he paused to order his thoughts. “You use that word with great frequency.”

“What word?” Jim felt off balance, confused.

“Let me tell you something, Jim Holloway. You seem to be on some kind of frantic mission to… to capture lightning in a bottle. But just as there is no magic shop in Providence, there is no magic out in the world for the taking.”

“I don’t think I follow…” Jim let his voice trail off as Phillips leaned forward, his gray eyes focused on him.

“There’s only one place you’ll find any magic, and that’s in here. ” Phillips tapped a fist lightly to his own concave chest. “And it’s a bit of a curse to be placed in charge of it.”

Jim’s expression must have belied his lack of comprehension. When he couldn’t find a proper reply, Phillips continued: “We are the only sad sorcerers you will ever know. Most of us only know one trick, and the true illusion is that we always believe we are the master of many.”

Jim wasn’t sure he understood any of what Phillips intended, but he was afraid to admit it. His companion was issuing some kind of strange warning, it seemed, but Jim was having none of that. Especially from another writer! Incredibly, he found himself getting upset with Phillips, who seemed to be growing insubstantial in the afternoon light, as if he might fade away like an unpleasant fog.

And so he said: “You sound—I don’t know—bitter? Or even angry.”

Phillips nodded as though he’d gotten the reaction he’d sought. “If I am guilty of those emotions, I assure you I have my reasons.”

“What possible reason could you have?”

“If you are observant, you already know I have neither means nor health. Although I tell myself I suffer from a common ailment, the lie does not banish the thing that is consuming me.”

And just like that, it made sense to Jim. He felt twice the fool. He’d believed his own lie—the greatest falsehood of adolescence—that he would live forever.

As he struggled for the appropriate response, he was shocked to hear himself talking—the words coming from a place where thoughts are replaced by feelings. “And you think your art has destroyed you?”

Phillips considered the question—one he’d most likely never been asked. Then: “I think that’s as accurate as it is perceptive.”

Jim beamed. “I think you’re wrong. I think that’s what gave you life, what gave you the only true pleasure we—how’d you put it?— ‘sad sorcerers’ can have!”

Phillips again did his best imitation of a smile. “You are an unexpected palliative, young man. How could you possibly know already that creation is the true and only machinery of joy?”

Now it was Jim’s turn to pause. “I don’t think I did…”

Phillips leaned forward, touched the sleeve of Jim’s peacoat, then held up his hand. It was performed as though part of a ritual. “I think something important has happened this day. Irony is a powerful force, is it not? You came to this place in search of something you didn’t know you even needed. It is something I fear I’ve lost, and yet I am still able to give it to you. Does that make sense?”

Jim grinned his schoolboy grin. This time he understood perfectly. “I came here looking for one thing, but I found something else.”

“As did I.” Phillips nodded gravely. “The tragedy of life is not that men die, but rather that most allow their dreams to expire while they still live.”

Jim felt transformed by this exchange, as well as an odd connection to this strange, feeble man. Signaling the waiter to refill their cups, Jim felt himself smiling at the man he now considered a friend.

He was certain they still had much to discuss.

Okay, so I took liberties with reality (at least the one with which we’re most familiar) and postulated an encounter that never happened. Which is one of the simplest functions of fiction, right? How else are we ever going to slip our tethers and check out the nightlife in any of the infinite parallel universes? The real concern for me is why I even tried to make this story work.

And I think it’s pretty simple, really.

During my formative years I received a couple of literary two-by-fours to the head, delivered by the doppelgängers of Jim Holloway and Phillips Howard. When I read Something Wicked This Way Comes , the characters of Jim Nightshade and Will Holloway were instantly familiar to me—because they were me . Bradbury became one of my favorite writers because I believed that, somehow, he knew me. In a dissimilar but equally powerful way, when I read my first collection of Howard Phillips Lovecraft’s stories, he became one of my seminal writers because he knew how to scare me.

In totally different ways, both Ray Bradbury and H. P. Lovecraft showed me the power of language and the sheer, raw energy of imagination. To say they inspired me seems silly and inadequate—rather, they both demanded something of me. They forced me to face the silly ideas I entertained about someday doing something unique… and to do something about it.

I’d like to think both of them made an exchange with me as well, and while I didn’t do as well as either of my trading partners, I’m humbled and honored to be here right now.

Thanks, Ray. It would have never happened without you.

I’ll admit I was drunk when I bought it, so I shouldn’t blame anyone else for my error in judgment, my lack of taste, my total disregard for the aesthetics of fabric and color and design necessary to what my wife, Vonnie, used to call the healing home. She got that from a book she read, one that encouraged her to use aromatherapy, light, feng shui, color, and natural materials to create a space where she and I would feel connected to earth, air, and each other. It was our last chance, though of course we didn’t know it then. All we knew was that we’d started to lose sight of what first brought us together—I couldn’t even have said what that something was—and still we were tongue-tied and dumb. If there were words that might have made a difference, we were having trouble finding them.

“A healing home is a happy home,” Vonnie said one day, and I agreed I’d give it a shot.

Then we got Henry, and everything went to hell in a hurry.

He showed up at our house in late October, just as the days were starting to cool and winter was in the air. A long, skinny tabby with a notch bitten out of his ear, a limp to his roll, a smirk on his face—yes, I swear a cat can smirk—and the most pitiful meow you’d ever want to hear. A croak that made Vonnie fall in love.

“Poor baby,” she said. “Where’s your house? Do you have a house?”

He was winding himself in and out around her legs, tail straight up in the air, as she stood on the front porch, petting him. I was inside watching through the storm door, and when I opened it to step outside, he saw his chance; he shot the gap, and presto, he was inside.