Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant

reported, “In yesterday's briefing, Police Chief Bob Neuget expressed a disinterest in the meaning of the vandalism. ‘Our concerns here rest solely in identifying the perpetrator or perpetrators of this act, bringing them to capital-J justice, and punishing them appropriately,’ he advised. At this time police profilers are seeking anti-social teenagers with signage typographic templates, large quantities of industrial spray paint, and the kind of suspension scaffolding window washers are seen using."
    Immediately suspect was the antisocial and acutely sensitive Archie Idlewilde. Never seen without his olive overcoat (he called it a balmacaan ) and slightly wall-eyed behind thick, black-framed glasses, Archie was Etna's most conspicuous high-school student. He drove one of the town's two hearses (the other belonged to the funeral home on Sandusky Street). He had an overbite. He was in a one-man band called Mersey-on-Manchester. And about once a month Archie targeted the shortcomings of our town and our abysmal culture in an editorial for the Sun-Gazette . To corroborate his points, he often turned to Dylan Thomas ("Rage, rage against the..."). Industry wed to eccentricity, we thought. We formed pointed suspicions, but the police refuted them. Archie Idlewilde was cleared of any connection to the Message. He had been in Baltimore at the annual conference of the Esperanto League of North America. Archie spoke the failed language fluently.
    Deprived of the obvious culprit, we bred our own hypotheses about Artemisia Guile, and as we did, the vaguest inkling of anticipation seeped into our blood. Daylight now outlasted our sons’ evening little league games at Deerfield Park, and walking home, we saw each other pause amid the dusky lawns to search the houses, the maple trees, the street lamps, the contrail-thatched darkling skies. Then the moon would appear, aloft over Etna like an open secret. Two weeks hadn't gone by since utility workers erased the Water Street Bridge Message, when we heard rumors of insomnia. Cigarettes winked between fingers in Etna's nighttime yards. We saw ourselves wandering our patios late at night, hands in pockets or arms folded across chests. Long after we'd put the kids to bed, we dragged our dogs out for walks around the block. Surely something was being kept from us.
    Then Frank O'Connor found on the underside of his trashcan lid a message written in metallic silver ink. Slightly scribbled, it read, “AWAIT ARTEMISIA GUILE.” Beetle-like garbage trucks had just that morning collected the trash from more than a quarter of Etna. Our trashcans had stood out at the curb overnight, vulnerable in the darkness for hours. We wondered if it could be possible.... It was. Hundred of lids, almost all of them, bore the same phrase, “AWAIT ARTEMISIA GUILE.” Bliss calls this the Lid Note of June 18.
    Like the Roll, the Lid Note was executed crudely but on a bewildering scale, while the Milwaukee Banners more closely resembled the Water Street Bridge Message. The following Tuesday morning, June 23, Milwaukee Street's residents woke to find two giant banners strung between their curbside oaks. They were the kind we'd seen at car dealerships and strip malls. Where Milwaukee met Avon, a banner read, “YOU CAN'T DO WITHOUT ME—AG.” Its partner at Edison Avenue told us, “NOT LONG TO SALIVATE NOW—AG.” The utility workers were obliged once again to take her from us. But before the utility crew came for them, all of Etna must have visited Milwaukee Street. Alone, in pairs, and as families we stood under the oaks and stared like we were scrutinizing the knots and cables. A few of us lost track of time and lingered there without speaking to one another until the sodium street lamps shivered to life. We were astonished to see how it had grown so late. Feeling foolish, we hurried off, fighting against the urge to turn and take one last glimpse.
    * * * *
    Donning his animadversion cap, Archie Idlewilde