Edgar's Worst Sunday

by Brad Oates

  Edgar placed one sweaty hand on his doorknob as the other fingered the guitar pick in his pocket. He glanced back at the shiny new guitar lying delicately on his bed. It had spent the night there, cozied up next to the boy as he tested each string again and again beneath his sheets.

  It had been a gift from his father, and it changed his little world.

  "By finding things out for myself!" he hollered, swallowing down the knot of fear in his throat. "Not by blaming myself for everything!"

  His Nana had blessed herself thrice over, drawing his mother to her side with a comforting hand. Edgar meanwhile pulled the bright red pick out of his pocket, testing its strength between his fingers as he worried he may have overplayed his hand. His mother seemed upset now, but his Nana was furious, and one way or another, he knew at least that confession was no longer a threat.

  A subtle smile passed over his angry young face. He hated arguments, and seeing his family upset was a hard thing to bear, but he just couldn't stand the idea of that long walk to tell a stranger about how bad he was; the tall, gothic steeple reaching up above the houses, calling out accusatory taunts with each step that brought him closer.

  "A boy needs more than himself," Nana Vasquez insisted with a shake of her head. Edgar couldn't distinguish whether the crack in her tone was haughty or hurt. "Without faith Edito, a man is just a man. And what is that, after all?"

  There were words between his Nana and mother at that point—all of them heated. But Edgar had no memory of them. He'd won, he knew, and stepping over the Sunday clothing that lay cast aside and wrinkled on the floor, he tumbled down onto his soft bed. Taking the shiny new instrument into his hands, he plucked one string, then another. He noted each sound, repeated the process once, and then moved on to the next string.

  Lying alone, he'd moved his fingers up the fretboard, feeling the tight strings push into his soft flesh as he memorized the changes in tone.

  "Are you OK?" The voice came from the door. Glancing up, Edgar found his mother awaiting him, a tray of cookies and glass of fresh lemonade in hand.

  "Yes, Mom, I just wanted to be here today." He tore his attention away from the strings with a great effort and met his mother's gaze with unabashed sincerity. "With you."

  Rosa's proud posture had collapsed in on itself like the end of a hard day and, setting down her tray, she'd lain on the bed and wrapped her arms around the little musician. "Oh Edgar, I know you must find your own way. It's OK, don't let Nana's words worry you. I'll always be here. Just don't lose your faith, my boy...everything will be alright."

  Edgar didn't answer. He'd resumed plucking on the strings; his mouth splitting into a broad grin.

  *****

  Edgar had never gone to confession again. But he'd never lost his faith. Still, for the rest of his childhood, the threat of that tall church steeple loomed menacingly over all he did.

  It wasn't about hurting anyone, just preserving myself. Edgar wondered why his insights were always accompanied by such strange remorse.

  Few things in life had ever tried him quite as sorely as self-examination. His Nana, admittedly, had always been a close competitor. Even in his earliest memories, she'd pushed him to change. His mother had as well, but that was always about being his best self—something at which Edgar always felt he excelled.

  At least, he reflected, drifting listlessly between the pillars, until this whole "death" fiasco.

  Edgar thought about his mother often, certainly far more often than he made the effort to visit. His phone calls on religious holidays—one of his few longstanding traditions—were his primary contact at this point.

  Rosa had long since ceased her objections. She'd always been easy to placate.

  Old memories, new regrets. Jake was right, Edgar reflected moodily, for the afterlife, this cycle seems awfully familiar.

  "Pete," he called, finally concluding that Pete's little table of indulgences wasn't such a terrible idea after all. "Pete?" But Pete didn't appear.

  Figures, Edgar ruminated, that even my own imagination would let me down at this point.

  "Edgar." He heard his name like a whisper on the wind. But no wind ran through these timeless halls, so cavernous and vast. He stood alone in the infinite silence: no comfort, no respite, no salvation.

  "Edgar."

  The voice, or voices, were soft. Following their call, he passed between pillars like a dream with no hope of waking.

  "Edgar."

  Just ahead, a blurry mass was visible beneath one of the pillars, and as he struggled to focus upon it, he heard the call again, louder now and more insistent. "Edgar..."

  The shapes at the pillar's base took form and clarity as he approached. Legs and arms, smiles and shining eyes. A tangled mess of skin and curves—a veritable harem of angels gazed longingly up at him from a spread of red satin pillows. In a unified motion, eerie in its perfect coordination, their lips moved to declare their shared desire: "Edgar."

  Tyra was there, and Tiffany. Jasmine, Chanel, Leslie, and half a dozen others Edgar hadn't yet met. Each lay as if somehow comfortable upon the pillows and marble checkerboard of a floor, clothed in loose-fitting tunics like Edgar's own, their folds and stitches concealing little of the angels' promise.

  Around their heads were wreaths, old and brown, with thorns jutting outward where they didn't push into the skin, tearing tiny bloodless holes into the angels' soft flesh.

  They stared at him with hungry eyes, and their tongues were long and sharp as they flicked out over crimson lips. "Edgar," they called again.

  Edgar smiled, his hands clenching nervously at his sides as he tried to ignore the chill in his blood.

  The angels grinned back, their spines curving and their dark eyes flashing with satisfaction at his hollow gesture. But that's all it ever took, was a smile. It was true of my mother, true of all the women I've met since...

  "Edgar," they called once more, and Tyra's knife-like nails played against the marble floor, indicating an empty spot for Edgar to curl into and join them.

  He knew it was a terrible idea.

  But Edgar had never been one to pass up an opportunity for satisfaction.

  *****

  The room had been lit by a sole lamp. Sitting at the edge of a misused bookshelf in Edgar's dorm room, the green banker's lamp had been a gift. He stared into it solemnly, letting its bright glow burn into his retinas as he rested his head in the warm lap of the gift-giver.

  "Edgar," Bev spoke—finally putting to rest the stony silence that had extended since the basic greetings of her arrival. Edgar puffed on a cigarette. He wasn't meant to smoke in his dorm, but it was his second year now, and he figured exceptions could be made.

  Bev coughed as a long waft of smoke floated up into her face, and took a drink of water from her canteen before continuing. "I don't even know what to say anymore."

  Her eyes watered as she spoke, and her voice broke periodically, leading to long stretches of silence in which Edgar could smoke in peace.

  "How are we supposed to keep going when nothing ever changes?" she finally asked.

  Edgar groaned, taking another drag as he snuggled his head deeper into Bev's warmth. "That's just it, baby." His voice was deep and smooth, and he spoke with the dreamy, speculative distance otherwise reserved for showmen and shamans. "Nothing's changed. I'm still right here, and we're still having the same tired arguments." He took Bev's small hand in his own as he spoke, the green glow of the lamp casting a queer tint over the room.

  "So why don't we just breeze over all the unpleasant arguing and get to the coupling in exquisite, carnal excess?" Edgar's tone rose endearingly, and he slid Bev's hand down his bare, trim stomach to the waistline of his jeans.

  Bev pulled away, her head falling back against the unforgiving padding of Edgar's residence futon. "Dammit Edgar, wait! You have no patience for anything but satisfaction. I'm tired of it, it's really getting old. Power ballads and chocolates won't cut it this time. Something has to change. One thing
or another."

  "Oh, I have patience Beverly, don't you doubt that." The curl of his lip and twinkle in his eye assured Bev that he hadn't heard a word she'd said. "I know just when to wait," he whispered, allowing his hot breath to play along her neck and up towards her earlobe. Then, bringing his hand up from the floor, he held out a shot for his lady, "and just when to deliver," he finished with a dramatic flourish.

  Bev sighed, turning her head away, rejecting the shot while trying to conceal her immense frustration.

  Edgar took only one of the cues. Tossing the shot down his own throat, he shifted on the futon to better meet Bev's shimmering eyes. "That's why it'll be so great," he continued undeterred, "and why we really shouldn't wait any longer."

  His hand passed gently up Bev's side as he rhapsodized. Before she could brush it away, however, there was a deafening pounding on the door.

  "Yo Edgar, you home?" The booming, slurred voice came slamming into the room, shattering the awkward intimacy of the moment. "I found some bitches outside, you gotta come help me close the deal."

  The voice was Jake's.

  "Really Edgar? This guy again? Now?" Bev had not, in Edgar's opinion, had time to cultivate a fair and dynamic understanding of the plucky young high-school boy.

  "That's Jake!" Edgar's eyes shone mischievously as he clarified for Bev. "He's got bitches," he continued, hoping against hope that Bev would appreciate his ironic humour.

  Her defeated sigh told him she had not.

  "You answer it," he instructed in an effort to distract from his insensitive comment.

  But it just kept getting worse for poor Edgar, who saw instantly in Bev's expression that this plan had failed as well.

  "I will not," she declared indignantly. "I barely know him. Besides, he's kind of creepy."

  "C'mon babe," Edgar pressed, "just pretend I'm not here."

  "Oh Edgar, sometimes I do," came her sad reply.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Edgar glanced up at Bev, but her eyes were elsewhere.

  "Edgar?" Jake's voice was equal parts desperation and confusion.

  "Jake," Edgar yelled doubtfully, as if into a portal to a beautiful world where choice and consequence were as yet unacquainted. "Just take them to The Scholar; buy them shots. You can do this, kid." Edgar considered for a moment before adding, "Try not to talk much."

  Edgar waited, listening to the footsteps making their unsteady way down the hall.

  "So," he said after he was certain they were gone, smirking as he gazed up at Bev's soft features, "are you ready?"

  "Ugh," Bev moaned, shaking her head, "you're more concerned with getting your idiot friend laid than you are with us."

  "That's not true, he just really needs the help. Besides, I brought him into the group, I can at least help him fit in. I helped Emmy, didn't I?"

  "You publically shaved him." Bev reddened, and a tremble crept down her spine.

  "Oh Bev, don't be all mad. He needed to learn to unwind. Besides, you know no one comes before you." He rolled over as he spoke, cuddling into Bev's chest as he flashed a salacious smile. "And if you don't know that..."

  This time Bev did look down, staring angrily at Edgar, who relaxed immediately and happily latched onto her intense gaze. He watched as her rage shifted slowly into annoyance, then vulnerability. He knew he had it— Bev never could resist the confident sparkle of his eyes or his ingratiating smile.

  "You're always so sure," she said, but the moody edge was gone from her voice now, and the angry slant of her eyebrows faltered as she strained in its upkeep.

  "It's not just that, baby," he spoke quietly, making Bev lean in to hear him. "It's just that I'm ahead of other people, and I know what's going to happen..." He helped her close the distance as he spoke.

  "Bro!" Along with the renewed pounding at the door, Jake's bellow caused Edgar to jump; head-butting Bev and sending them both rolling in pain and shock until they were tangled with one another in the cozy confines of the futon. "I've got no cash!"

  The dumbfounded couple chuckled at this. "Get them to buy, that's bonus points," Edgar hollered in reply.

  "Really?" The audible note of surprised excitement in Jake's voice renewed their laughter.

  "Yes," Edgar answered, wrapping his arms around Bev, who gave a halfhearted show of resistance. "Now fuck off, I'm busy!"

  "Such a supportive sensei," Bev teased.

  "Baby birds got to fly eventually," he answered. After a moment's consideration, he added, "nice alliteration!"

  Bev smiled, her hair tumbling down to entomb his face as she pushed herself up and stretched her tiny body out on top of his. "Edgar, who are you?"

  "The one and only."

  "Sometimes I wonder."

  "What?" he asked, reaching up to tickle her cheek with the stubble of his close-cropped head.

  "How you can be so many things? So smart, so passionate, so bold, and yet still such a farce? Every time I convince myself you're what I need, you go and prove me wrong. More booze, more absent nights, more strange women. Why can't you just pick what you want to be and stick with it?"

  "You know I try, baby. I want to be everything you need, and more." He looked up at her as he spoke, feeling her breath against his chest as he ran his hands gently along her arms.

  "But others always need me to be something else," he continued. "Like that idiot out there. I want to make everyone happy, and you more than anyone. But it's such a hard balance."

  Bev's breath was coming faster now, her pupils dilating as Edgar took her supporting wrists into his hands affectionately. "But I'll get it right Bev, for you. You just have to have faith."

  Bev opened her mouth to answer, but never got the chance. In that instant, Edgar pushed her wrists out from under her, bringing her tumbling down on top of him. With the same motion, he wrapped an arm around her, using it in conjunction with her momentum to roll over and envelope her in his embrace.

  Her lips moved once more to protest, but were silenced by his own.

  *****

  The stinging burn on Edgar's tongue wasn't what he was expecting. It was much more familiar. Opening his eyes, he realized he couldn't even recall the taste of Bev's lips. There was an empty glass in his hand, and he tossed it away as he swallowed the mouthful of Jack, gratefully.

  Pete's hoarse laughter was the real surprise, and as Edgar shook off the comfortable cobwebs of reminiscence, he watched the man's body lurch and sway with each loud guffaw.

  The angels were gone, and Edgar stood beneath the twisting pillar alone with Pete, who held a diminishing bottle of Jack in one hand as the other extended a follow-up shot to Edgar.

  He received it eagerly.

  Some things never change.

  Edgar's tunic was disheveled and torn, and as he adjusted it, he noticed a series of deep scratches along his chest. Pulling the fabric back into place, he felt evidence the damage was only worse on his back.

  All the remorse with no memory of the pleasure—this place really has it ass-backwards. He took a drag from the cigarette in his hand. This doesn't even merit a call to Emmy.

  Pete didn't speak. He barely even moved as his arm drifted out like one of the pillar branches: inevitable and immutable. He held another shot, which Edgar again took and consumed. Its warmth flowed through him, yet failed to chase out the growing chill.

  "Thanks," said Edgar.

  "Of course, sir," Pete answered, and now Edgar was certain of the malevolence lurking behind his cordial grin.

  That smug bastard is definitely enjoying this. Can't a man just get some peace in...

  Edgar bit his lip as he thought, not feeling the pain.

  Memory and regret; choice and consequence; Saturday and Sunday. This whole Hall of Memories scene was a little too familiar for comfort. It was the same cyclical nightmare that had encompassed his days for far too long, bleeding together the blurry nights and blindingly bright mornings. Edgar wanted to leave, to escape from the pillared expanse and retreat to somewhere else
, anywhere else.

  He pinched his eyes shut and thought intently about The Scholar, but it did no good. When his eyes opened, the twisted pillars still sprawled off in all directions; and Pete held out another shot.

  Edgar took it. He was tired of fond old memories tinged with new misgivings. Tired of Pete's mocking company. Sick-and-fucking-tired of being stuck in a limbo defined by his own excess.

  But I've been trying to change things. Edgar was certain of that.

  "What do you intend to do now, Mr. Vincent?" asked Pete, pouring another shimmering bronze stream of booze into a tiny crystal shot glass.

  Edgar stared into the glass as he took it from Pete. What do I intend to do? he wondered.

  His reflection bent around the glass in a surreal way. Distorted by the savoury liquid within, his features morphed into a mask barely recognizable as himself.

  Behind the reflection, another pillar waved and throbbed through the murky brown tint of the Jack. Superimposed behind his own mutated face, it hovered as if just beyond reach, vying for his attention with barbed claws.

  Edgar focused on his image. Handsome bastard, he mused.

  He smiled, but the relief he hoped for did not come. No matter the depths of depravity to which he had sunk in the past, he'd always been able to allow his childish sincerity to flow forth in the most disarming way. It had helped him satisfy many justifiably angry people throughout his life, yet his own happiness had always been a different matter.

  What does it take to really satisfy yourself? he wondered, knowing the answer had always been easier than he'd let on.

  But I've been working on that too, he thought. He'd been trying to make the most of his potential; it had been priority number one, in fact.

  If only I hadn't died when I did, he reflected somberly. But that wasn't it either. There was never enough time, no matter how much time he had.

  But I was trying, he reassured himself as if repetition would settle his doubts. I was trying...

  *****

  The bar had been an abysmal sort of place. All abstract art and brightly-lit floors. Bathrooms with tip-expectant attendants and quiet jazz music. Women with long dresses and bad attitudes. It was the type of bar Edgar wouldn't have been caught dead in during university except on some mad dare. But Edgar had been out of university for seven years now, and as a man of 29, his options were dwindling steadily.