by Mark Foss
40
RAIN POURS DOWN IN THE morning, wrecking the forecast of another sure thing.
Swann slips into the room while I’m ironing a suitable dress for Candy. Because even now she might surprise me. Sometimes I think: I haven’t kept Candy alive; I’ve made her up. The images in Going, going, gone, and all the scenes played by Molly O, are more vivid than my memories. At the very least, I give them equal weight. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the head, to find out I’m my own sister. Hitchcock should have filmed Psycho at the Wasteland. Norman Bates was his own mother. Has it come to this?
— I read your blog, man. It’s really something. Especially after seeing your film. I just wasn’t clear on why you think Candy is coming. Has she texted you?
— The steam smells funny. I shouldn’t have used tap water. I wonder if the French use Perrier in their irons.
— Your brother is freaking out. He thinks you’ve lost it. If you could give him some proof or something. That she’s coming.
— Lost what?
Hoss cried because he thinks I’m nuts. This from a man with self-love affirmations stuck over his refrigerator and bathroom mirror in first, second, and third person. Say positive words often enough and they feel right. An inner sense of knowing takes over as one’s psyche opens to a universal truth pushed away out of fear. Pitiful bullshit. How many sleepless nights has he endured, how many broken relationships, how many gurus and spiritual paths and healing journeys, how many retreats and workshops and sweat lodges. Despite his professed commitment to openness and non-judgment, he apparently can’t fathom that Candy might have pursued a career as an actress, disappeared from sight, and become resurrected thanks to my blog. Or not. That’s the thing.
I expected doubt and hostility from him, not tears of pity at his brother’s questionable mental state. Swann’s ambivalent response bothers me more. All I need do is give him something, anything, to hold on to his faith in me.
— Ashok likes the idea of a retreat centre right between Toronto and Montreal. My mother’s dead against it. Going to that island was bad enough. Your place is just too far from Buffalo. She’s trying to make him think about the Americans in his programs. Like no one ever thinks about us. I don’t have the money for La Scala. I may end up singing in the shower.
The smouldering dress has set off the smoke alarm in the hall. Poisonous fumes seep out from under the iron. They surround us on Candy’s bed, tease the tears out of our eyes.
41
OF COURSE THE BUZZES AND whistles return with a vengeance once Ashok takes up Flicker. He’s got the magic touch. No aggression or impatience, he releases the plunger at exactly the right moment and doesn’t sweat the things he can’t control. His fingers stay poised on the flippers, relaxed but ready. His eyes do not stray up to the scoreboard because, after all, it’s all about the process.
— I didn’t see you standing there.
— I thought you’d have eyes in the back of your head. Don’t stop on my account. You haven’t won yet.
— It was a standing meditation. There’s no winning. I feel you and I are like the balls in this machine. We have a moment of calm, and then we hit a rubber band, and all hell breaks loose.
— “Every moment for what it gives you.” Isn’t that what you preach?
— I’m sorry for what happened yesterday. It was my fault for not speaking with you directly. And you’re right. I knew nothing of your father’s suffering. But I know something of your brother’s.
Another meaningful glance in my direction. This man never indulges in half measures. His gaze is full bore, head-on with a veneer of friendliness and empathy that can’t hide the intense, calculating mind underneath. His khaki pants and striped short-sleeved shirt would be innocuous on anyone else. On him they stand out as manipulations. And what’s with the pinball? He was expecting me to drop in, and wanted to put up a front of normalcy. Yet I can easily see him fooling a mortgage advisor at the bank with his smooth, albeit heavily accented, patter. He’ll wear a casual suit for the occasion and disguise his intentions. He wants a commercial, not a spiritual, property. They’ll probably offer him cash-back. I can’t afford to be wrong on this. I’ve been wrong too often this week.
— I enjoyed your presentation yesterday. It gave me a great deal of insight into your family, and what it meant to lose your sister.
— The key point was that I’ve found her.
— Your evidence was quite powerful.
I stop myself in the middle of a sharp comeback. Is this sincerity or another ploy to win my affections?
— So you’ll understand why I don’t want to sell the Wasteland to you.
— I did want to talk to you about all that.
— There’s nothing to say. I’m not my brother. I don’t want you anywhere near the scattering today. Am I clear?
He doesn’t protest or acquiesce. Just stands there with an insufferable worldly look of unconditional acceptance.
— I asked Ashok to say a few words and play a few notes on his flute.
Hoss stands in the doorway of the barn, holding a velvet bag.
— I don’t want him to talk, witness, observe, officiate, or take part in any way. I don’t want his grimy hands anywhere near Joseph’s remains.
— Cremains.
— You can’t sell the Wasteland without my permission. I own half of it.
— I thought it was only a third.
The bag is heavier than expected, and when I strike his shoulder with it, Hoss almost tumbles over. He shoves me back, and I stagger up against Flicker. Joseph, meanwhile, or what’s left of him, is rolling over and over before he reaches the grave. This can’t end well. It will take a big man to make peace, bigger than either of us.
— Stop. I mean it.
Anthea’s voice is uncompromisingly authoritative. Gone are the goofy gestures and run-on at the mouth. This must be the woman who raised Swann into a confident young man.
She opens the bag, and removes a small cardboard box with crushed corners. A plastic bag pokes out of a tear on one side. There’s a label with Joseph’s name and a coded number on the top. Even now, he’s not a free man.
42
WE WALK SINGLE FILE TO the flat rock, equally spaced to give our umbrellas room to breathe and maintain the unspoken truce. Hoss leads, protecting the cremains beneath an ill-fitting, bring-me-back-alive windbreaker. Swann and Anthea follow, while I bring up the rear to make sure no one strays from the path. The downpour has awakened the mud and the rising steam has enveloped us in a thick fog. I keep checking over my shoulder. No Ashok in pursuit. Nor anyone else.
Standing in a circle under a roof of umbrellas, the four of us barely maintain eye contact. Soon enough their gazes all fall on me.
— I guess we can start.
Thunder shakes the sky with the force of a betrayal. If Joseph were here in more than spirit, he might chant to the Gods, bestow an ode upon his beloved wife or a plea to his missing daughter. Neither Hoss nor I could ever compete with that voice.
A sweet, otherworldly sound emanates from an unknown source. Slowly and quietly, at first, but then with increasing power and presence. Neither masculine nor feminine, a voice soars on top of the rain, drains the clouds of power, and leaves a caramel scent hanging in the air. Swann, singing “Forever Mozart” towards the heavens. La Scala is next indeed. Love this kid.
We fling open our fists onto the earth, over and over. I tell Joseph my last toss is for Candy, and let the gritty ash slip from my fingers. The heavens open anew, pounding the cremains and they disappear into the soil faster than quicksand. Hoss and Anthea tiptoe back to safety, away from the muck and rain, afraid to become infected with the virus they think has infiltrated my head. Swann waits, head cocked. I wave him off, and he leaves me alone on the rock.
It’s a desolate place, really, even in the best of weather. In a downpour, the bleakness seems to rise out of the earth and soak into my pores. Is it really so important to save? All these years,
I have held on to the past, scratching the wound at red lights and checkout lines and the back rows of cinemas. Discovering Molly O has propelled me to new extremes. Maybe I would have been better off in the dark. I know I’m right. Even Ashok said the evidence was compelling. But if Candy does not want to be found it all means nothing.
With Hoss’s umbrella and one of Joseph’s walking sticks, the guru makes his way out here. The slick mud, which has enveloped my shoes, will soil the ends of his khaki pants. When he falls, it will get into his beard, his hair, his eyes. His vision will blur from the rain and the fog. Disoriented, he will call my name, but I will throw my voice deeper into the field. Farther and farther he will travel, beyond the reach of any human hand, at the mercy of the shifting ground. The Wasteland will never accept the construction of a retreat centre.
Ashok is setting a remarkable pace for someone who’s never set foot here before. I keep waiting for his knee to buckle or his body to sway. At the halfway point, I leave the flat rock and head deeper into the field. My footprints are immediately sucked up and disappear. Let’s see how he fares off the beaten path.
I stumble twice, landing on my knees. Third time, I fall flat on my face. My right hand meets no resistance and I put it out quickly from the hole. Abandoning the umbrella, I crawl on all fours to measure the circumference of the quicksand. I wasn’t aware of this one or else I’m disoriented. I wait a few feet back from the pit, covered in mud from head to toe. Al Jolson in blackface did not look more ridiculous. I raise my face to the skies for a cleansing.
Ashok continues with an insouciant air through the mud, as if out for a stroll in the merry, merry month of May. Never once looking back, never once slipping, never once doubting it makes perfect sense to be out here.
— Thank you for meeting me.
Those intolerably good manners! As if he accepts everything without judgment or curiosity. My filthy appearance is apparently neither here nor there.
— Inhospitable, your Wasteland.
— The place or its people?
He nods with amusement.
— When Janardan called the other day, his voice was distraught. He was not himself. He said your father had died, and he asked me to come here. He was adamant. I sensed something would unfold so I agreed. I don’t regret my decision, although it’s been difficult for both of you.
— Hoss was himself long before he met you.
He nods again, this time more ruefully.
— He will get tired of Momentous Moments, and look for something new.
— Possibly. But that does not detract from its value today.
— He can’t sell without my permission.
— And your sister’s. Don’t forget her.
I stare at his face for any trace of derision. Nothing.
— If you still want to say a few words, then maybe share that thought with my brother. He doesn’t believe Candy is Molly O.
— Is that what he doesn’t believe?
— He thinks she’s no longer alive, is that it? Which would explain why we haven’t heard from her. I don’t buy that. You don’t either. Or you wouldn’t keep bringing her up. Correct?
Ashok bends down, dangerously close to the quicksand pit, and picks up a clump of sloppy mud. He lets it slip through his fingers. Then he shrugs. Not out of callous indifference to Candy’s fate. It’s more a gesture of helplessness in the face of what we can’t and don’t know. I want to dive at his feet to save those drops of mud from disappearing into the muck of the earth.
— My mother and now my father are part of this land. Their ashes were scattered here. This entire field is a memorial to them. I won’t give it up without a fight.
— Janardan has told me the stories about the quicksand.
— You don’t think it’s real.
— Do you?
— I have to believe in it.
A bolt of thunder covers the crack in my voice.
— Why is that?
— Because if the quicksand exists so does Candy. The words sound like a foreign tongue. Did I think them or say them aloud?
— And if there’s no quicksand?
— There is.
— I came out here to tell you I’m no longer interested in the Wasteland. In many ways, it’s the perfect setting. But it doesn’t feel right. Apart from the conflict it’s creating between you and Janardan, there is a presence here, a palpable resistance in the soil. Other souls linger. Not just your parents. You feel them, too. They might be reassured in time, but perhaps not. My intuition tells me to leave them be.
My mouth hangs open stupidly.
— Why didn’t you say that ten minutes ago?
— You needed to tell me about the quicksand. Can we shake hands?
His abrupt movement snaps me out of my dream state. I remember the danger. I can’t have murder on my conscience, not when he’s proven himself to be a pretty decent fellow. But he’s too quick. He steps forward, hand outstretched. I wait for the dreaded sucking sound, for panic to replace the eternal calm on his face. His desperate leap to the edge will fail, leaving him waist-deep in the shifting sands. The walking stick will smack pointlessly against the mud. He will hold it out to me in desperation, but it will fall short. This is the most momentous moment of all. He realizes a lifetime of moving with the energy flow, of accepting all that is, has been wasted. A lie he told himself, and charged others good money to hear. For in the struggle against death he has never felt so alive. If only he could survive to share this insight! He would structure his entire teachings around it.
His bare feet are not sucked up and dragged down. His palm is not damp with expectancy. It feels normal.
43
HOSS STARTS UP A CHANT to sell the broken Predicta. Dried mud from Little Joe Grant’s dive in the field thrown in for nothing. It’s funny for a few seconds. Then both of us feel Joseph’s absence. I still prefer laughter to silence, and the reminder of Mary and Candy and all they didn’t say.
Hoss gets up from the stage, and paces around.
— It used to be the new shows all started in the fall. It was something to look forward to. Now they’re coming out all the time, all summer long. So many channels. I can’t keep up.
The ache in his voice almost brings me to tears.
— What’s with all those tapes of All My Children?
— Beats me.
— I’m sorry about the blackboard.
— Me too.
My response sounds more like a lament for Hoss’s idiocy than an apology for my role in the debacle. Our moment of brotherly bonding is ebbing. We walk together in silence towards the front of the house, and then he continues to his car alone. Ashok dons shades to combat the burst of afternoon sunshine, while Anthea adds one last layer of protection to her face. It only takes a few seconds for them to disappear. In the distance, Hoss honks out the opening notes of “Aqualung” as a late peace-making gesture. Something to build on.
Swann and I repair to the wicker chairs on the verandah. If we’re really to spend August here together, I need to buy a hammock. Swann needs time to think about college or save money for a trip to Italy.
— I was thinking we could mount an opera about Molly O. You could write the words. I would write the music and sing. You could film it and make a mashup with the Mickey Nailand clips. A multimedia extravaganza. We could make it a fundraiser to get me to La Scala.
— Maybe we could dust off the old Steenbeck in the barn.
— Digital, man. We need to go digital.
It’s a joke, I want to tell him, a reference to those wholesome Andy Hardy movies. He’s probably never heard of Mickey Rooney, let alone seen him put on a show.
Swann could help with the lyrics. We’d have Candy’s wardrobe to draw upon. I could slap a fresh coat of varnish on the stage and mend holes in the canvas roof. Auction-goers were used to standing for hours, but we could rent chairs for our performance. We’d promote it with posters on hydro poles in the village. Maybe build a secure
website for donations. Upload a demo on Facebook and YouTube. It could go viral.
44
THUNDER RUMBLES EVER CLOSER, THREATENING a downpour to break the humidity. The flat rock is only a few inches above the ground, hardly high enough to prevent streams of fast-flowing mud from attacking the tent. In the distance, a light from Candy’s room, but I know it’s just Swann.
I don’t expect to find her tonight. I’m here out of habit more than conviction.
The flashlight has dropped out of my hands and rolled off, the batteries dead or extinguished from contact with the earth. I smell the rain before I feel or hear it. Sweet and humid. A sharp flash in the sky and it pours down. There is nowhere to run. If only I could shoot up a flare.
On the east side of the path, a quicksand pit. I can’t bring myself to test it with my stick. I’m afraid nothing will happen.
I STARE INTO the far reaches of the Wasteland, beyond where any of us have dared tread, in case a flash of lightning reveals a small figure moving steadily across the field. The going would be treacherous in the slippery mud, the path far from certain. I’m almost relieved to see no one. The rain ramps up its intensity, and I strip off my wet clothes, intending to spread them on the boulders behind the tent for the early morning sun. There are already clothes here, carefully laid out. Women’s clothes.
She can barely hold her own against the bracing wind that maliciously impedes her progress. Two bolts of lightning crack open the earth on either side of her narrow path, creating jagged abysses. The driving rain stings her face, blinds her vision, loosens her footing. The Wasteland is punishing her for the long absence, forcing her to earn the right of return.