Ribbon and Tin

“Lookie-loo, he came home!” said the scrap metal sculpture, Gardener, sucking on his tin pipe.

A shadow passed along the stone fence that separated the front lawn from the country road. With the fence being relatively short, Gardener had no problem seeing who was approaching the iron gate from the wooden seat he occupied at the foot of an oak tree.

“Who? Who did?” asked the cog-eyed sculpture, Owl, perched on the bough above.

“Our very own Percy! You know who Percy is.”

“Ow, ow,” groaned Owl. “Not Percy who broke Mailbox-Duck. Not that Percy!”

“Lamentations for our friend, but that’s our Percy. And he needs us, or have you forgotten everything that happened yesterday?”

“Ho, ho, an owl never forgets. Not I! Not ever!” cried Owl. “But he broke Duck. What if getting close to him ends us up just like her?”

“Hm. That doesn’t matter. He made us and just the same can destroy us. But also make us again. Should we not be with him to make sure he gets over this slump? And maybe if he does, he’ll make Duck again.”

“You–you don’t need to ask me twice! Duck had such a good sense of humor.”

“So did Percy. But look at him now. Even Duck’s rusty beak has more glow than him.”

Getting on his two spade feet, Gardener got as tall as he could so Owl could lean himself off the bough and drop into Gardener’s hollow hat. With luck he dunked himself right in, but the impact made a booming sound, and sent the two rolling down to the cobble walkway. Recollecting themselves some ways away from the tree, they got up and walked together in drizzle that tinkled against their metal limbs, over to the fence gate through which Percy was about to enter; carefully, though, so as to not step on Duck’s body, or her day-old dress.

As Percy stepped forward, they opened the gate for him.

“Oh, Percy, we’re so glad you’re back! But look at you…” said the Gardener, gesturing to Percy’s damp tuxedo. “You have been out in the rain as if you were one of us!”

Percy took a final swig from his bottle of Labatt 50, then straightaway walked up the cobble path and up the porch steps. On the railings and rafters were strung a hundred different ribbons, but overnight many had fallen, and those that were still up drooped sadly. One of these caressed Percy as he passed beneath it. Startled, he slipped on the steps and fell down, crushing the bottle in his hand against the wooden boards. He turned around.

*  *  *

“Excuse me,” said a voice.

Percy was on the stone steps of his building, skimming through the Aikenhead’s Hardware catalogue, when he looked up to see a young lady in a long coat. A rather worn long coat, but he did not linger on it. His gaze quickly met her brown eyes, framed by her black locks. She gave him a courteous smile.

“You must be Beila. Here for the room,” he said, rising to his feet.

She looked at him quite quizzically. “How did you guess so quickly? Most would have assumed I’m too young.”

“I wish I could say you were the first DP adolescent to come here alone.”

“Mm.”

He put his catalogue under his arm. “Follow me.”

Together they entered the building and ascended to the apartment where she would be staying. On their way, they passed many doors. Beyond some they could hear ruckus arguing and crowded conversation. Others had the mere shuffling of feet and muffled cluttering.

When they reached her floor, Percy opened the door for Beila and showed her in.

“Everything’s already prepared for you. I’ll leave you now to get settled. Only thing before I go, make sure to lock your door whenever you enter and leave. Dundas is not known for its safety.”

“What day would you like me to give you this month’s rent?” Beila asked. “I don’t know how much my delay in arriving has affected things.”

“Oh no, I’m not the landlord,” said Percy.

Beila was surprised.

“What? Who are you then? His son?”

“Not that either. I’m Percy. I just live here across the hall from you. Roland, who you previously spoke with, is out running errands. Had me take care of you for today.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Percy.” She offered her hand. He shook it in turn. “I hope to see you more often.”

“If anything, I’m just across the hall,” he said, afterwards retreating into his quarters.

As she was closing her door, she saw him perch his coat on the antlers of a deer made from an axe and a rake head. She found this to be both wonderful and strange.

*  *  *

“Oh dear, did one of you two bite him?” asked Grandma-Screw-Nose.

She hopped over to Percy who was bleeding from his hand all over the kitchen counter. Whether or not she was in shock was impossible to tell, since her mouth was always agape.

“We did no such thing,” said the Gardener. “He simply slipped and broke the glass bottle on his hand. See?”

“OOOH!”

She fainted when he retracted a shard from his palm without hesitation.

“Move–move her before she becomes a stumbling block for Percy,” said Owl.

The Gardener did so. Meanwhile, Owl had hopped out of his hat and was now helping Percy find some gauze. This effort proved futile, as it was on a counter at the opposite end of the kitchen.

After letting the faucet run over his wound, Percy grabbed a hand-towel with flower embroidery and dried his blood on it.

*  *  *

“I don’t understand why you like to have so many of those metal things in your apartment,” said Beila, pressing cold meat wrapped in her cleanest hand-towel against his bruise. “There’s barely any space for them as it is.”

“It’s just a hobby, Bel. If I said anything about your little dresses, you would argue with me the same way.”

“Well my dresses don’t weigh ten pounds and have rusty edges. Were that cross to be pointy instead of blocky, you’d be going straight to the hospital.”

He winced as she moved the cold slab around, pulling his hairs along with it.

“Tsk. Hold this for me,” she told him. “I’m going to get rid of that cross this instant.”

“No!” he grabbed her wrist as she rose. “Do not touch that cross.”

She knelt back down before him. “Then what are you going to do, Percy?”

He looked into her eyes, full of distress for him in a way he didn’t fully understand.

“What if…” he said. “What if I could borrow your textiles to cover the sharp bits and soften the heavy things?”

She laughed at him. “Yeah? And why don’t I make dresses for the birds and squirrels too?”

The look he reciprocated was all too coy and not at all tasteful to her.

 *  *  *

The moon shone down upon Percy’s house, and entered his abode with soft silver beams. Only, its gentle glow entering through the kitchen window landed upon a bloody gash that continued to seep. Though Percy had Neosporin and gauze with him, he had not yet decided on using them.

“Percy, your hand. It’ll only get better when you treat it,” said the Gardener, peering over the counter.

Grandmother suddenly reemerged behind him, making the sculpture jump with a racket.

“Forgive me, dear. I wanted to get a good look at Percy,” she said.

“No–no, you better not look or you’ll faint again,” said Owl.

“I’m not looking at his cut, but at his eyes. Ooh, I see a dark look in his eyes. See them, stiffened by — what is that? Anger. Resentment. Sorrow. Grief. Shame. Oh, poor Percy.”

“What else do you see?” asked the Gardener.

“I see a big round owl in the way!”

“Oop–oop, sorry!” said Owl, scuttling aside.

“Hm. Oh, dear. I see Genius. The inklings of Malevolence. OH! OH!”

She stumbled backwards away from Percy, and once again collapsed on the floor.

“Did she see the blood again?” asked the Gardener.

“No!” she exclaimed. “Despair! The nasty web of Hopelessness!”

*  *  *

“Percy!” Beila hugged and kissed him giddily. “It’s so beautiful!”

The house was two stories tall with an attic. It had a rustic appearance, being made almost entirely out of wood and having a huge yard overgrown with grass and Spring weeds. It took the two almost an hour to reach it by car, as it was set along an empty road by the Humber River.

“I’m glad you like it,” said Percy. “Get closer if you like. There’s no one home.”

Without a second thought, she rushed forward.

“This is exactly like how I dreamt it. Nothing like the houses in Warsaw. Spacious enough for all your sculptures and with enough walls to hang all my dresses!” She sighed. “If we were to live here, we might finally be able to move on. No more bad neighbors, no more antisemitic jokes and tasteless slurs. It would finally be just us. Percy?”

When she turned around, she let out a big gasp. On his palm was a small metal box, wrapped in velvet lacing, and in it, a ring.

“Will you marry me?” he said.

Beila suddenly laughed at him. “Next you’re going to say the house is ours.”

The look he reciprocated was all too coy and not at all tasteful to her.

“Percy! What did you do? What about our jobs? Is there even a town close to here?”

“No more than a thirty minute stroll from here. And I’ve already spoken to a locksmith. He’s willing to let me intern for him until he sees my worth. And for you, there’s a seamstress shop in town, and they specialize in wedding dresses.”

She gave him a scowl. “I should leave you for doing this without asking me first.”

“Beila,” he said, locking eyes with her. “I want to officially make your dream our dream, and I am ready to start living it now if you are. So…”

“So…”

“Beila, will you marry me?”

She paused. Then she embraced him. “Yes, I will marry you.”

*  *  *

All throughout the house, there were ribbons strung from the railings, to the ceiling lamps, to the curtain rods. Hundreds swaying gently over the spacious floor of the living room. Every sculpture on the wall assisted in holding up this display, and those on the ground were groomed to have spiffy tuxedos or poofy dresses.

“The man of the hour! Where have you been?” asked Bucket-Bear.

“Oh yes, oh where! Does the Gardener know?” babbled a group of Hammer-Hens.

Percy and the Gardener, with Owl in his hat, clambered up the stairs onto the second floor, while Grandmother hung back due to her poorly designed knees and incessant pestering from the other sculptures. By the time they reached the second floor, clouds had enveloped the moon and enshrouded the house in darkness.

“Percy! Where are you going? We cannot see you!” said the Gardener.

A flash of lightning, exposing the silhouette of Percy and his trailing blood-droplets. 

“Oh–oh, there he is!” said Owl.

He headed towards his bedroom at the far right corner of the house, which from the top of the east facing stairs, would be the last door on the left. With another lightning strike, Percy found the doorknob, and went inside.

*  *  *

“Oh, look at this one!” said Beila, holding up an owl sculpture. “Remember when you tried gifting it to our landlord, Roland, at our departure, but he said it was too ugly to keep?”

“He didn’t say it was too ugly,” said Percy, taking it from her. “His exact words were, ‘I cannot find the space for it.’”

“Which is the nice way of saying, ‘I think it’s ugly and I don’t want it in my house.’” she snickered.

“Perhaps you would have preferred that he had disposed of it directly.”

“Nonsense! Don’t even joke about that.” She took the sculpture back into her arms. “You’ll hurt Owl’s feelings.”

Percy went on to disrobe another sculpture of its newspaper wrapping. A gardener, wearing a hollowed out hat with an oil drum rim and smoking a pipe made of tin.

“Is this what I think it is?” said Beila over his shoulder.

When he turned, he saw her cradling in her hands the cross that had made that bump on his head two years ago.

“I thought you had thrown this away. Isn’t it super rusted by now?”

Percy seized it from her.

“Percy! Why’d you rip it out of my hands? What’s your obsession with it? Why can’t you just throw it out?”

He went up the stairs from the living room to his bedroom. Although Beila tried to follow, he locked the door behind him.

*  *  *

Rain had started to trickle in through an open window by the right side of the bed. On the ground was half of a rusty cross, with a ripped strip of white lace splayed over it. Percy stared at it blankly.

“That’s a nasty piece of metal,” said the Gardener.

Percy continued to drip blood on the floor beneath him. Paying no mind, he reached out his wounded hand and grabbed the broken cross.

“Woe–woe to him! He’s sure to be infected!” said Owl.

Before the Gardener could do anything to pull Percy’s hand away, Percy peeked into its hollow inside.

“What is it you’re seeking? Was there something inside? Perhaps it’s on the floor here somewhere.”

At the clap of thunder, Percy looked up at the window, through which rain spat on his face. Still clutching the cross, he peered over the sill and to the exterior. Out there was a scene of chairs facing a canopy, and from the trees there hung curtains of ribbons shaking in the wind, and around the chairs there were over a dozen sculptures – big and small – having their custom-made wedding attire soaked in the rain, and their metal legs sucked into the mud. As another bolt of lightning smote, he saw a round metal object glint in the center aisle, next to the other half of the cross.

*  *  *

“Have you seen Beila?” asked Percy.

“I thought I saw her go upstairs some minutes ago,” said Roland, fidgeting with his bowtie in front of the living room mirror. “You know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?”

They heard a muffled thud coming from above.

“Thank you, Roland.”

Percy went up the stairs, calling out her name, but heard no response. After checking the washroom, he noticed that the door to his bedroom was open. When he entered, he saw Beila with her hair in a bun, in a stunning white dress, but she was facing the wall.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

Slowly, she turned around. From beneath her gown appeared one half of the rusty cross, which had been split in two. In her hands was the other half, along with a war medal. The medal had a red, white, and black ribbon, and on the face of the medal was an inscription that read: Für Kriegsverdienst 1939. When she flipped it over, it showed the War Merit Cross with a Swastika in its center.

“Percy, why do you have this hidden in your cross?”

He stammered, unable to respond.

“Percy, please explain to me why the fuck you’ve kept this in our home for the past year.”

Tears swelled in both their eyes.

“It was my first piece,” he began. “Richard Klein came to my father’s shop in Munich.”

She held onto the dressed with a weakness.

“I’m going to be sick.”

She looked at herself, her dress, and gagged.

“I was just a boy then, and my father was so proud.”

She leaned down and grabbed the cross, then with its jagged edge, tore away at her gown.

“Stop! Don’t do that, please!” cried Percy.

She swiped the cross at him.

“Get away!” she yelled. “Take your medal and your accursed sculptures and never let me see you again!”

She threw the cross and the medal out the window, and before Percy could react, she was gone.

*  *  *

Percy and the others had gone outside, and were now surrounding the war medal and broken cross in the center of a ruined ceremony. Neither the gusts of wind, nor the rolling thunder, nor the tinkling sounds of rain on metal sculptures, could disrupt Percy’s trance.

“Who–who is he thinking about?” asked Owl.

“How do you know he’s thinking of anyone?” said the Gardener.

“Is it not obvious?” said Grandmother. “The better question is, who is he not thinking of? He’s thinking of God, and groaning at the thought of the suffering He’s let afflict him. He’s thinking of himself, and what he did during the war; what he thought was good, and what he knew was bad, and how he could never let go of any of it. Most of all, he’s thinking of Beila, that lovely girl, and all the moments they shared together. From the day they met, to the first intimate moment they shared, to when he decided to be with her forever. And finally, yesterday.”

“Wh-what was yesterday?” asked Owl.

Percy dug the medal out of the mud, and swiped his thumb over its surface. It shone violently as lightning cut the sky. It showed a cruel reflection.

“The moment Percy accepted the lie that he is utterly unlovable.”

As for the ribbon that clung viciously to the tin: its white muddled into a dirt brown, its scarlet deepened into bloody red, and its black sunk into darkness   dark as six-feet underground.

“And it will take a lifetime for him to stop believing it.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we don’t go away,” said the Gardener. “We can be there for him.”

“Once–once he gets over his slump, he might even rebuild Duck, right?”