GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

Vincent looked toward her but not at her. It reminded Isabelle of a blind person whose eyes appear normal. The disconcerting way they have of seeming to see you but not really.

“I’m still waiting for you to prove this.”

Instead of responding, the old man looked at Isabelle and waited. In time he turned back to Vincent and spoke. “She says she wants you to put both of your hands on the table, palms down.”

What was there to lose? Lifting his hands from his lap, he put them on the table. He wanted to turn and see how Broximon was reacting to all this. But Ettrich didn’t want to miss any expression on Putnam’s face that might indicate something important.

“Now look at the palm of your left hand. I’m only telling you what she’s telling me.”

Hesitantly Vincent lifted it and turning it over, peered at his palm. The word celadon was written across it in Isabelle’s sloppy but distinctive handwriting in celadon-blue letters.

“Look at your right hand.”

Written in the center of that palm was anak which Ettrich now knew was the Eskimo word for shit.

He remembered the incident at the cemetery when they both put their hands on Petras’s gravestone. Vincent was instantly transported back to the time Isabelle learned from the old man how to enter death. And later that same day when they were sitting together on the tram, how they’d held hands and played the “unknown word” game together. Unknown words like celadon and anak. The game that was only possible because of the magic that happened now when they touched.

“What do you want, Mr. Putnam?”

“Do you believe me now, Vincent? Do you believe that she’s here?”

“Yes. But why can’t I see her?”

Broximon knew the answer to that but remained silent. He clamored to get out of the carrier but knew it was not the moment to ask Ettrich to put him down.

“You will never see Isabelle here again. She is too far into death, past the point of no return. She chose to do that, Vincent. It was her decision; she wasn’t coerced. If someone chooses to go there, then they have to stay. Those are the rules, set in stone. We have no control over them.”

Broximon knew this was true. But he also knew, because he had been there when it happened, that Isabelle had chosen to go over because she had been tricked by Chaos. She had done it to protect their child. Broximon did not need to see the writing on Vincent’s hands to know that she existed in another dimension now and could never wholly return here again. It was finished. Disconsolate, he asked Putnam, “If she’s gone for good, then why are you even here? You’ve won. What more do you want?”

“To make Vincent an offer, as I said on the telephone. You see, he can still be together with Isabelle, but just not here.”

On the other side of the table Isabelle slowly straightened, like a cat rising out of its sleeping spot in the sun. Alert but uncertain, she made sure her hands were still touching Ettrich’s.

“Even if you’re here alone, Vincent, you remain dangerous to us. You know too much about life and death and what goes on in between. I’ll be honest with you and get right to the point.

“Here’s our offer—we will make it possible for you and Isabelle to be together in your afterlife dreamworld. You already died once so you’ve been through the first stage. If you agree to this, we’ll arrange to send you directly to the second stage, which is your dreamworld. I’m sure Broximon has explained it all to you by now.

“Isabelle and Anjo will meet you there and the three of you can be together forever. The best part is you will be able to create that world. Sculpt it as if it were a piece of clay, down to the smallest detail, so that everything there is exactly to your specifications. Your own personally designed heaven, Vincent. We’ll even allow you to consult with Isabelle about what she wants so that you can include it and make her happy too. It really will be your own paradise.”

Despite a million arguments against it, Ettrich chose to go in a different direction. “And Anjo? What would happen to him after he’s born?”

Putnam rubbed his hands together slowly, as if they were arthritic and he was trying to warm and make them feel better. “Anjo would grow up happy and healthy in your heaven. That’s not a bad place to be, eh? It would be your decision whether or not you wanted to tell him where he was.”

“And what would it be like when he got older?”

The old man leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “You could give him the perfect girlfriend or wife, a job he enjoyed, a bright red Ferrari.” He smiled at his little joke and looked up at an airplane crossing the sky. “Maybe give him some kids later if that’s what he wanted, or a million-dollar house with an ocean view… things that made him content. It’s all up to you. Give him whatever he wants, Vincent. You’re the creator—it’ll be your world.”

“What’s the catch?”

Putnam responded without any hesitation, “The catch is you’ll always know. Both you and Isabelle will always know where you are, what it really is, and how you got there. No matter how wonderful you make your world, you’ll always know that it isn’t here.”

“Ha!” Broximon squawked from the Babby Basket, unable to contain his indignation.

Out on the street a car passed with all its windows rolled down. Its stereo was blasting an old AC/DC song.

Sitting on the park bench twenty feet away, Leni heard the song and smiled a little. She remembered teenage days and how she had so recently crossed a Highway to Hell in her own dreamworld.

Isabelle also heard the music but had a totally different reaction