Cygnet

by Season Butler

  Then someone knocks on the door. I’m still in the bathroom.

  Great. Now I need to puke. If I breathe hard I’ll be able to get some fresh air into my stomach and that’ll calm things down. But I have to leave because someone else needs to get in here.

  I don’t have to puke. I’m fine.

  My phone’s on the table. No missed calls, no messages. But it’s fine because all of my friends are here. Except . . . where’s Rose? I can’t see her. I get up and look around the bar. I can’t make out anyone’s face very well. Just shapes, like we’ve all broken up into symbols. I take a sip of beer to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth.

  I’m standing up. What was I doing? Oh, yeah, looking for Rose. She doesn’t smoke, but maybe she’s outside getting some air. It’s really hot. I’m trying to figure out my feet, how I’ll step between the chairs and people without stepping on anyone or knocking anything over or falling down. But Helen and Nancy sidle up on each side of me.

  “Did all your birthday wishes come true?” Helen whisper-shouts into my ear.

  “Everything!” It’s the lie she wants to hear. The lie I want to tell. So it’s almost the truth.

  “Beautiful baby,” Nancy coos and kisses my cheek.

  I love them. I love this night.

  I’ve lost Rose. She wouldn’t have just left without saying anything. She wouldn’t have just left me. Maybe she’s in the bathroom doing a line with someone. God, I’m really tired. The skin on Nancy’s hands falls, makes valleys between the knuckles and bones as she rolls a massive joint. She spreads her fingers wide, curling the edge of the paper over the leaves, and rolls the whole thing up tight and tidy.

  The band wraps up with “Casey Jones.” The pitch of the whistles and wails from the Wrinklies makes me wince. Nancy gestures with her eyebrows and we go outside with our sword-length doobie.

  “You got greens, birthday girl.”

  I spark it up. Her hash is chocolatey and warm. The joint and the cool air on my face and arms calm my stomach, but looking up at the sky is a mistake. The gaps in the black clouds are full of too many stars. It’s too big; it’s all too much. Where am I? Where’s Rose? My mouth feels glued shut. I have nothing to say to Nancy. I feel for the steps and sit down, a little embarrassed at how fucked up I’ve gotten.

  Reading my mind, Nancy reaches into her bag and hands me a bottle of water. I love old people. They fucking know everything.

  “Where should I go, Nan? You’ve been everywhere.” My words aren’t coming out clearly. I can hear my tongue in my mouth when I talk. “Should I go to Europe?”

  I pass the joint, which is awkward since it’s pretty much as long as my forearm. Nancy takes a draw. Thinking lines settle across her face. “Europe’s spent, kid. Maybe the Balkans, though . . .”

  That makes me laugh. “I don’t know where that is. What about California?”

  “California’s going to fall into the ocean. San Fran’s gone the way of Woodstock.”

  I’ve been to Woodstock. It’s pretty silly. Lots of middle-aged people in designer hippie gear. “Fine, then, I’ll go to Tibet and hang out with the Dalai Lama.”

  “Dalai Lama’s gone, kid. Don’t they teach you anything in school?”

  “I don’t go to school.”

  “I guess that’s why you need to travel.”

  “Exactly.”

  I don’t want any more of the joint, and Nancy doesn’t pass it back, so I must look as wasted as I feel. I finish the whole bottle of water. I don’t think she minds.

  “The question you’re asking me doesn’t have an answer, kid. You’re not going to find the good spots in any of the guidebooks or websites. You’ve gotta keep going until somewhere feels right. Trial and error. Lots of it. Trial and error.” She puts out the joint on a rock and hands it to me. “Don’t smoke it all at once.”

  She goes in but I stay, sitting on the tavern steps, taking in the stars and the night sounds and even the fear of how big the sky is and how long life is going to be.

  When I finally spot Rose she’s cuddled up in a booth by the stage sucking face with Suzie Q. I walk in and perch at the bar.

  Johnny rocks up and knocks his hip against mine. “Come here often?”

  “No”—I’m feeling kind of frisky now—“it’s my first time.”

  “Lyall! Two brews, my man.”

  Johnny and I clink our bottles and turn and lean our backs against the bar, checking out who’s still here. The blondes have gone. Frances looks keyed up, talking to Gretchen as much with her hands as with her voice. Gretchen is listening with a serious face on. Grover and Ernie are talking. One is explaining something to the other but it’s hard to tell who’s doing which. Lyall balances a curved tower of glasses as he goes from table to table clearing up. Helen and Nancy hold hands and look at each other like they’re trying to stop time.

  And then the pain in my leg almost makes me jump. I’d forgotten all about it. It sobers me up and suddenly everything looks very clear. I control my body. I keep from making any noise. I breathe slowly.

  It’s Johnny. Johnny’s hand on my thigh.

  I look around swiftly. I don’t think anybody sees.

  I try to make my face blank, even though I want to wince. I lean my mouth to his ear. “Harder.”

  His fingertips press into my inner thigh and his thumb is almost where the knife went in. The pain sears; my thigh muscle is a slab of meat cooking. The hurt is so hot it’s almost numb. The only thought that comes clearly through the burning is the desire not to get a bloodstain on my grandmother’s dress. It’s probably bleeding again, seeping through the fabric and running down my leg.

  As if reading my mind he pulls his hand away, making sure it brushes against my ass on its way to his pocket to pull out a pack of Marlboro reds.

  “I’m smoking,” he says, trying to sound like he’s talking to no one in particular. But I’m the only one in earshot of his flimsy little mumble. Then he turns around to face me, flicks the bottom of the pack, knocking a cigarette out of the top. “Smoke?”

  I take it. “Why not?”

  I don’t really smoke cigarettes. But I can. I follow him outside, not looking at anybody but trying not to look like I’m trying not to look at anybody. Just, you know, ignoring them.

  Johnny doesn’t stop on the steps. He keeps going into the tall grass then, through the grass and over to some boulders overgrown with ivy and moss.

  I feel invisible. All I can see around me is the black black night and Johnny, Johnny Come Lately with his salt-and-pepper eyebrows, some of the longest ones I’ve ever seen, spiking out above his yellow, bloodshot bear-brown eyes. “I love your eyebrows. They’re really long.”

  He looks over his shoulder, just once, quickly, and then plunks his big arms, heavy in his leather jacket, on my shoulders. He moves in fast and plants a longish kiss on my mouth. Then he pulls back to look me in the eye. It feels polite, and there’s something very wrong about that. Everything is wrong, so it fits somehow. I take a breath and tilt my head. His cheek nudges mine. The soft skin of his cheekbone contrasts with the scratch of his stubble. I lean in and let my weight fall against him. Johnny’s big body is this perfect soft-firm curve, solid and round. It’s comfortable and comforting and I find myself wondering if this is what it’s like to have a grandfather. That’s not what I mean . . . The most fucked-up thoughts always pop into my head at the worst fucking moments, and this one makes me lose my kissing rhythm and something feels funny against my tongue. And then I realize what it is and I cough a little laugh into Johnny’s mouth.

  “Do you wear dentures?”

  Johnny nods an earnest nod.

  “They look really natural.” And we go right back into kissing, but only for another minute because a bell rings. Not the chapel bell. I don’t recognize it.

  “Closing time. Come on.”

  No, this is all wrong. Something from the Bad Place has made its way into my night and I can’t look at him now.

&nb
sp; Rose and Gretchen are leaning on the steps. I think they’re watching pretty closely when Johnny and I appear from the other side of a big rock and walk back up to the tavern together. Paranoia and liquor bring a bit of scratchy warm puke up my throat.

  Rose is holding a joint. “Got a light, big guy?”

  Johnny snaps out his Zippo. Rose has a draw and then passes the joint to Johnny. “I think your missus is asking after you. Last call at the bar.”

  As he goes in, I look through the windows at the stragglers. Everyone’s piling up together, smiling, pulling up tables and chairs at the far end of the tavern by the stage. Johnny and Suzie are cuddled up together again. Grover’s laughing with Frances and Ernie. Lyall’s come out from behind the bar and blows a funny little note into a tuning pipe. The Swans start singing some old English song. Then I get it. This is their closing time song. They all know every word:

  Isn’t it grand, boys, to be bloody well dead?

  Let’s not have a sniffle,

  Let’s have a bloody good cry.

  And always remember the longer you live,

  The sooner you’ll bloody well die.

  The Swans start getting their jackets and canes or whatever and make their way out but it can’t be time yet. Where’s everyone going? It’s not that late, surely.

  Tiredness is taking over my brain and I wish I could curl up in one of the booths and sleep there. Rose passes me on her way out, gives me a hug and kiss, wishes me happy birthday one last time, and limps off toward her shop.

  Black clouds stretch out over the patches of sky where stars still show through. No problem getting back on my own. Except that the stars are spinning faster than usual.

  Rumbling noises come at me from the horizon and suddenly I’m trying to get home before it starts raining, and even though I’ve made this trip eight million times I keep getting lost and finding myself out by the coast instead of on the fast route straight through the middle of the island. The clouds are thickening up over the moon and I can’t see anything. My eyes keep closing too. None of this is helpful. The ground under me gets all rolly and crumbly. I’ve wandered onto the rocks. The sea is black and growling at me, parroting the sky sounds, ganging up on me again.

  I left a trail of pebbles but there’s no moon to light them up. I left a trail of breadcrumbs but the bad Swans came behind me and ate them all. Can’t get back to my grandma’s house.

  Wait, that’s really good. I have to remember to write that down when I get home. They could be song lyrics. Maybe Suzie and Johnny would let me sing with them. Yeah, I should totally be in a band. Sort of mysterious and damaged, a weird young thing in old lady clothes. Life is going to be amazing.

  Fuck, it’s cold. Where am I? Bugs are biting my ankles. Sometimes waves of heat and nausea take over and I lie down in the grass until my skin feels the cold again and I hoist myself onto my feet and keep going. South, I think, I hope.

  We’re all going to die. There are moments when I can’t see the difference between me and the Swans. We’re here together, traveling through time at the same rate, one second per second. Slow as slow gets, but it always feels too fast for me. All of us are moving toward death at precisely the same pace. It’s just that they had a head start. They had the sixties and used it all up in just ten years. They used up Morocco and Paris and Venice Beach, Times Square and the Bowery. They used it all, breathed it in deep, down to the end, leaving behind only roaches and ash. Whatever I do will be an anemic imitation of what they did.

  But maybe I’m wrong. I’ve never been to Morocco or Paris. There could be something left, maybe even enough for me. Nothing, then, for anyone who might come next, but I don’t think anyone’s coming next (although, that’s probably what they thought). Even if they do, there literally might not be any Paris to go to. Better get it while I can.

  By the time I spot Lolly’s house I’m shivering and wobbly. The wind has picked up. Down the steps and along the path, trying to keep as far from the edge as I can. I stumble a few times and my heart beats fast as the waves crash hard against the cliff.

  The relief is wonderful when I get into the kitchen. I kick off my shoes and curl up on the carpet in the living room. I lie there taking deep breaths until my goose bumps go down and a wave of nausea passes. Eventually I get myself up and I’m making my way to bed when something catches my eye. I double-take. The green light on the answering machine is blinking. It really is. I lunge at it and hit the play button, my heart positively galloping.

  The long beep stings. The tape clicks and plays: Testing, just a test to check that this piece-of-shit twentieth-century technology is still operational . . . I’ve never been so disgusted by the sound of my own voice.

  I’m so dizzy I can’t tell if I’m upright. Somehow I make it to the bathroom, face in the toilet bowl, heaving so hard it feels like I might break a rib until, finally, the first pukey belch breaks through. I throw up three or four times and lie panting on the cool bathroom tiles. Then I’m back at it, stomach squeezing hard against itself, pushing out those last horrible mouthfuls of rancid greenish slime. My face is sweaty and tingling from the strain of it all. I wipe my mouth and teary eyes on a fistful of toilet paper and make my way out on shaky legs.

  I go to the guest room, pull the blanket and a pillow off the bed, and curl up on the floor. The blue-gray walls have nothing to do with me. The color is inoffensive and anonymous, like a hotel room. I’m in the middle of nowhere and I could be anywhere. I could be anyone.

  The rain starts tapping at the window, gently at first but it gets harder very fast until it sounds more like sheets than drops, a roar that could almost be wildfire. I’m trying to get warm, trying to drift into sleep, but the rain is loud. And after the rain I know what comes next. The ground gets soft and loose, not like the ground should be.

  The rain slaps the earth like the silver tail of a sea monster. My house wants to be at the bottom of the sea and it doesn’t care if I go down with it. I could be the furniture. I could be a phone that never rings. I’ll freeze and bloat. I’ll get ripped apart by sharks. And the really frightening thing is how cold it will be, the heat of my blood drifting away as it pours out of me. And the sharks will take no particular pleasure in it. It’s like shitting to them. Or like rape. It’s only dramatic for the victim. I could be anyone.

  Waves slap, dragging their tentacles down the side of my house, spilling their gummy body up and over my roof, belly-flopping hard over me—a giant nightmare jellyfish—before they pull back, bracing for another blow. Smashing, banging, grabbing at me with thick pedo-fingers. It wants me but I’m not ready. And all the air drains back with it. And then the water—the rain, the waves, the flood—comes back. I’ll drown before the sharks get me. I once read that drowning isn’t so bad. And I’ll probably be crushed by the roof or some rocks or something as the house crashes into the ocean. It’ll be over soon.

  I close my eyes and listen to the waves and the thunder. It’s not fair. What am I supposed to do? Walk out in the rain? Hobble over to Rose’s place and say, I’m scared of the storm, can I sleep with you? I need this house. I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  Stop it! You horrible son of a bitch, stop it right NOW! I’m not ready! But nothing I do will make it stop. If it doesn’t take my house tonight, the monster’s just going to keep coming, growing extra arms until it gets it.

  I could make an escape, run for the center of the island and into the chapel while the sea keeps advancing, devouring the island, shrinking Swan from its edges. I’ll make for the highest point, climb up the rope, and grab onto the bell. And I’ll stay there until the world ends, until the Swans have all gone and the sea has eaten the island all around. I’ll stay there forever, sitting on top of the bell, swinging in the breeze when the sun shines, crawling under and hanging from the hammer to keep out of the rain.

  My thoughts go black.

  Chapter Twelve

  Along the horizon it looks like a huge light bulb has crashed and cracked
and spilled its light onto the surface of the water. It’s . . . it’s that something makes you stop and you have to try hard to breathe when you’re looking at it. Arresting. Waves push forward, lines of white-gloved hands. The sea is gray like a military uniform. White foam advances toward the curve of the coast beneath the cliff.

  I sit with my back against the house. The ground is soft and wet from the storm. A damp, gravelly chill is seeping into my underwear and spreading steadily. It’s uncomfortable but it feels like I deserve that. I examine the edge of the cliff. Didn’t lose too much last night. It’s when the air heats up again and the weather dries out, that’s when the big slips happen. Not during the storm. In the drama of last night’s squall, I’d forgotten. I press my back against the side of my grandma’s house and extend my stubbly brown legs out in front of me, stretching my feet, pointing my toes, seeing if I can reach the edge.

  Not yet. Soon, though.

  I look out across the sea at this day that’s just starting. The colors have changed; it’s gone all half-assed pastels, nursery colors—powder pink, lemon yellow, peach, lavender, forget-me-not. The sky is baby-talking, trying to trick me into getting excited about doing something that I’m too old to pretend isn’t going to be really boring. This again—another stupid day in my idiotic life. I can’t stand it—I don’t want to do this again. Not again. I’m exhausted. I wish it could be bedtime already. It’s dawn and I just want this day to end, to have been, and for me to have lived through it. Or I could tumble down, roll over the side and onto the rocks and let the waves finish me off. Surrender is all I have energy for; the prospect makes me feel so much more alive than the thought of making my way from today into tomorrow.

  Day, day, go away. Come again another, um. Shit.

  After a while, all the interesting stuff stops happening in the sky. There’s a dark blue line against the horizon. I’m not sure if I like it. Maybe I do. It creates a kind of cartoonish division between the sea and the sky, keeps you from taking this whole breathtaking landscape shit too seriously.