Supernova

Some men have an undeniably powerful presence. When they walk into a room, the air changes. All wandering eyes latch onto his inflated chest and raised chin, all ears perk up at the sound of his commanding tongue, and all minds cannot help but wonder about him. Men of power, money and self-importance dominate everything in their path. But sometimes a man possesses this presence separate from petty traits—a presence that is innately rooted in his being. It originates from wisdom, strength of character, charisma and accumulation of curiosities picked up from years of wandering the world in search of something that cannot be held in one’s hand.

Dallas McAvoy was one of these people with a supernova inside of him that was not easily detected by the average passerby. At first glance, he seemed just another dirty vagabond all too familiar with Jack Daniels. But those who knew him well claimed that his spirit was so powerful, he reflected light in the darkest hour of evening.

Dal wasn’t the textbook definition of attractive. He looked like one of Michelangelo’s unfinished marbles—crudely chiseled and abandoned, yet clearly meant for something great. He had the potential to be ruggedly handsome but was heavy on the rugged. He always looked slightly hungover due to the pink crescents that hung beneath his sad sapphire eyes. His red lips, wet with whiskey, curved into a crooked crocodile smile that sprawled the length of his jaw—which was always tightly clenched as though he believed all his secrets would spill out of the slightest fissure in his teeth. Dark brows, plunging and mischievous, hid behind the hair swept in front of his forehead, riddled with grooves from a life full of expression. His shaggy hair fell loose over his long overcoat that dragged behind him wherever he roamed, which was nowadays predominantly back and forth from the Cloverdilly Tavern. He was the bar’s resident musician, spending his nights hunched over a neglected old piano—inhaling tobacco and tipping back Tennessee Fire between notes.

“Don’t you know any happy songs?” Came a slurred a jab from a crusty old sailor at the bar. Dal flashed his canines and continued to play a haunting Johnny Cash tune.

~

Hillary was sitting on a rock overlooking a clear, flowing stream. Wriggling red salmon swam against the current, weaving and leaping frantically. She reached down and tried to push them upstream, but leaned too far and fell in. She felt heavy as lead as she sank deeper and deeper into a black abyss, the salmon swirling around her in a red tornado. She felt two hands on her shoulders and spun around to face a pair of electric sapphire eyes that struck her with a sobering jolt. The eyes belonged to a stranger who opened his crooked lips and sang a haunting melody as bubbles slipped from his teeth: I’ll never forget those blue eyes; I see them everywhere.

It was in that moment that Hillary realized she was dreaming.

She awoke on the couch, face smashed in the cushions, the dream replaying in an endless loop in her brain. She had seen it so clearly. The face of that man was etched into her—sharp and long and sad, with eyes so intoxicating she felt dizzy just thinking about them. She heard once that it’s impossible to dream about someone you’ve never seen before, but she would have remembered seeing somebody like that.

She turned over onto her back and watched the ceiling fan whip around and around. She looked at the clock. Five pm. Time for a drink.

The day was leaving quickly and dusk began to drape itself over the small town. The shops shut down as the lamp posts flicked on, illuminating Hillary’s path to the bar with soft halos of light, and the gurgling of distant fountains serenading her. She climbed the white stone steps that led to the Cloverdilly Tavern, pausing at the balcony to soak in the view of the last flash of sunlight sink beneath the sea.

A faint melody swept through the night air that turned her attention away from the beach. It was coming from inside the bar. The song grew clearer as she drew closer. She opened up the thick wood door and was struck with an explosion of sensations.

The potency of cigarette smoke hit her eyes like a dust cloud as she meandered through the crowd of bearded, plaid-clad tourists on their way out. The pub was sprawling and lit only by wax candles hung on iron chains from the ceiling. The window facing the ocean was cracked open to let the smoke escape, inviting in a cool breeze that gently swayed the chains, rattling like rusted shackles. She felt like she was below deck on a pirate ship. She turned to the bar, watching as the bartender splashed assorted alcohols into multiple drinks at a time, pouring half of it onto the counter in the process. It looked more like swabbing the deck than mixing drinks.

The tavern was bustling and noisy, but she blocked it out as that same melody, now clear as day, weaseled its way back into her ears. She wriggled past drunken sailors struggling to form words, as her eyes widened, frantically searching the room for the source of the music. It was so familiar.

She finally reached the bowels of the bar where a figure was hunched over a piano, his back to her. As she inched toward him, his posture shifted slightly, as though he knew she was there. Hillary was close enough now to hear the man’s low, slightly off-key voice spilling from his lips:

“I go out to a party to have a little fun, but I find a darkened corner, because I still miss someone.”

His fingers fluttered over the keys, his buckled black boots jingled softly as he tapped his foot, his whole body swaying with the swelling tide.

Hillary swore she could smell the musty leather of his jacket and feel the warmth of his cigarette burning. Her heart was hammering as he parted his red lips to sing the next verse, but the melody was swirling around in her mouth and she already knew the words. As if in a trance, she sang out, unable to contain herself:

“I’ll never forget those blue eyes, I see them everywhere.”

The piano player abruptly looked up, fixing his electric blue eyes on the girl in front of him. Hillary froze in shock.

It was him.

The man from her dream.

His gaze bore into her like a drill. It was almost horrifying, but she could not tear her eyes away.

He sat there staring at her as if she were something in the distance he was trying hard to see. She panicked, spun around, and pushed through the drunkards, past the dripping bar, and out into the cool night air.

The tavern door swung open behind her, revealing the silhouette of the piano man in the doorway.

Hillary launched off the stairwell and sprinted home, blood pumping through her veins like pistons shooting gasoline through an engine, the words what the hell was I thinking? running through her head over and over.

~

She spent the next day walking along the beach. She kicked off her boots and squished her toes in the sand, turned over seashells, kicked the water, breathed deeply and tried to forget about the weirdness of last night. She didn’t leave until the sinking sun touched the sea.

She had just passed her driveway and started toward the cottage when she halted as though she had hit a flagpole. Sitting on her porch was the pianist.

He stood up slowly, unfurling himself like a giant bat, his coat looking like it had been run over by a street sweeper then stomped on by a troupe of river dancers. He reminded her of the villain in a Western.

She swallowed as she drew as close to him as she could bare.

“You a Cash fan?”

Hillary said nothing.

“Johnny Cash. You seemed to be familiar with his music last night.”

Hillary cleared her throat. “Yes…you can’t trust a person who doesn’t like Johnny Cash.”

He smiled.

“What are you doing at my house?” And what are you doing in my dreams, she wondered, her fists clenched.

He stomped down the porch steps, slowly and heavily, keeping his eyes fixed on Hillary. “I dreamt of you.”

They stood there in silence, studying each other. She felt woozy, like she was teetering on the edge of a diving board. He had dreamt of her too. She couldn’t muster a single syllable.

“You know where to find me,” he said after a while. “And the name’s Dal,” he added as he passed her and walked off into the night.

Long after he’d disappeared, Hillary was still standing outside staring into the dark.

~

Hillary found Dal outside the Cloverdilly the next night. They wandered through the residential areas of town, loosely guided by the moon. The stars were throbbing and twinkling clumsily—as if a jar of silver glitter was knocked over and spilled across the sky.

Their conversation was not seamless. It was not easy like two friends catching up; there were pauses thick with tension, flighty sideways glances coupled with too-long staring contests. It was guarded at first, like both of them were holding back, and then out of nowhere one of them would spill their guts, tell each other about their dreams of one another.

Dal nodded every so often, as she spoke, his eyes twinkling.

Hillary, in turn, listened to him intently. He dreamt he was in a desert at night, and he saw a shape in the sand. He knelt down and uncovered a face—Hillary’s face.

“What does this mean?” She thought out loud. “I mean, what are the odds that two strangers somehow dream of each other?”

Dal shook his head. “All I know is that it can’t be nothing. These things don’t happen for no reason.”

Hillary squinted. “So, you think…we were pushed together? Like…by the universe or something?”

He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

Hillary felt like he knew more than he was saying. She wondered why the universe wanted to connect her to this strange man. There was this way about him that was perilous and remote, like she couldn’t quite catch him, but she couldn’t keep herself from wondering about him, wanting to be around him, know everything about him. But he wouldn’t let her in. 

As if reading her mind, Dal said, “Most people only let others see what they want them to see. We become masters at concealing the…unsavory parts of ourselves. Once we walk out the door in the morning, we slip on masks to convince others we aren’t who we really are. And we strip off the disguise at night and do it all over again the next day.” Dal traced the mountain range between his brows. “And if you do it too often, the mask doesn’t ever come off.”

Hillary swallowed, listening to the sound of the wet gravel crunching under their feet, scrounging up a reply to his strange soliloquy. “Well…I hope that’s not my fate.”

Dal looked sideways at her. “Believe me. There’s no danger of that. Your eyes give you away—which is both your power and your weakness.”

She swallowed. “Well…what about you? You said everyone is hiding something…so what’s your big secret?”

“I’m a magnet for lost things.”

Hillary raised an eyebrow.

Dal extended his palm. “Come on, I’ll show you.”

~

She was surprised to learn that his house was only about five minutes from hers. He had been so close to her this whole time.

It was small and cavernous, right on the beach with one long glass wall completely dedicated to the view. The moon was small tonight—obstructed by grey wisps haunting the sky above still waters. He lit a series of candles and lanterns and immediately the place was flushed with light reflected off glass floats and empty whiskey bottles. There were books stacked up to the ceiling, more candles warped and dripping with waterfalls of wax, every inch of the room adorned with oddities. Passports, travel guides, receipts and currencies were flung here and there. It looked as though he’d lived there for centuries.

“Christ on crutches,” Hillary said under her breath. Dal chuckled.

The collection of strange shapes projected fragmented shadows across the textured walls, shivering with every wave of the candles’ flames. Dal reminded Hillary of a dragon—hoarding a trove of jewels and curiosities. Had he not propped open the back door, she might have collapsed from the overpowering musk of old leather-bound books and lantern oil.

They sat down on the floor in front of the window, a pile of bottles in front of them, all with rolled up paper inside.

“I spend most of my time beach combing.” He passed her one of the bottles.

She turned it around in her hand. “Message in a bottle,” she smiled.

He nodded. “My favorite things that wash ashore. I figure if the sea wanted to keep all this stuff, it wouldn’t spit it out.”

They spent hours popping the corks, carefully removing the messages with long needle-nosed pliers, gently unrolling the notes and taking turns reading them aloud. Hillary loved listening to him read in his velvety caw. He stumbled on the words once in a while, squinting, as though his eyesight was severely deteriorated.

She smiled to herself.

Somehow, she felt there was nothing more important than sitting there, reading letters with this stranger.

~

Laying in his bed that night, Dal was lost in his thoughts. Hillary had seen right through him, just as he did her. She was so…bright. She was the morning sun, clearing away the fog on the bay. She reminded him of how mysterious the world was to him when he was her age. How he yearned to figure everything out as fast as he could.

He thumbed the Celtic cross tattooed on his wrist, thinking of what Father McGregor told him the day he departed from the monastery so many years ago. We can’t have all the answers, son. All we can do is find a way to live without them.

It made him think of the strange, suspicious twinkle in Hillary’s eyes, always searching for something. He had known from the first moment they met, their destinies were intertwined. He felt with acute certainty that they were drawn together for a reason, part of something bigger. He tried to quash the nagging inside of him telling him that once they had fulfilled their duty to the universe, completed the task set upon them by this otherworldly force, her fascination with him would fade as soon as she realized he was just another phony, damaged derelict, hopelessly scrounging the earth on a futile quest to put to rest his unquenchable longing.

Hillary’s power was intense and steady, slow burning like incense, and would get more potent in time. His own essence was quick and scorching like wildfire, and he knew it was only a matter of time until it burnt up everything in sight.