Grotesquerie

by Richard Gavin

  Teddy’s voice was muted. What silenced it was the presence that had miraculously managed to go from shambling down the winding lane to standing inside the foyer of the house.

  Jon stood in the living room, staring at the apparition. It was the first time he’d ever doubted his mind and all his senses. For even though he was wholly present, his every sense engaged by what was now before him, his rational brain refused to accept it. Like a spoiled child, his reason ranted against the sight of this crooked guest.

  The interior of the house had become stilled, as if the hands of time were being held in place by some greater force. Everything seemed to be stretching, crackling with the cold, stifling power of impossibility.

  The figure was that of an old man. Jon’s nostrils were impacted by a waxy stench of illness and unwashed skin.

  For an instant Jon thought of bursting through the picture window and tearing down the lane. What prevented him from doing this was a genuine uncertainty that he would even find a world out there, at the lane’s end.

  The figure advanced to the staircase. It appeared to be using the banister to pull its frame up the steps. When it was halfway up, Jon discovered that the revenant was footless.

  By now the bluish glow had faded, leaving the main floor in a terrible darkness. Paige’s face flashed in Jon’s mind, breaking his trance. He took a step forward and was instantly overwhelmed with vertigo. Swallowing back the bile in this throat, he staggered to the stairs.

  Teddy was visible in his periphery, huddled like a puppy under the dining room table, his large frame quaking, his sobs sounding like cat mewls.

  Jon found himself no better equipped to scale the stairs than the spectre had been. Even the idea of touching that banister repulsed him. Instead of using it, he crawled up the carpeted steps before frantically moving down the hall. He turned the handle to their room, tumbled inside, and immediately shut and locked the door.

  “Paige!” he hissed, again and again. Her snoring was louder now. Not even his violent shaking of her body managed to rouse Paige from sleep.

  The walls here were so very thin, every sound seeped through from the opposite room. Jon sat on the floor beside the bed. He listened helplessly, or, if he was being honest, feebly, to every awful noise that stabbed at his psyche; the thuds, the feminine screams muted by, what? A pillow? A foul hand? There was low grunting and creaking springs. The headboard thumped against the wall again and again, in a rhythm that should only ever be made by lovers. One of the room’s hanging pictures was knocked from its hook.

  When Jon heard Alicia struggling to call out Teddy’s name, he dragged himself into the bathroom and shut the door. Not daring to switch on the light, or even to breathe too loudly, he crawled into the tub that was still damp from Paige’s luxurious bath.

  *

  Jon shifted, his limbs aching. Though he was sure he hadn’t slept, he was groggy nonetheless. He sat up in the tub and, against his better judgment, he strained to listen.

  There were noises in the house, but not the kind he was expecting. Through the floor he could hear the chink of dishes and women’s voices. He recognized Paige’s laugh.

  He climbed out of the tub and, with breath held, pulled back the door. Clear autumnal sunlight filled the bedroom. His and Paige’s suitcases were sitting atop the made bed.

  Stepping into the upper hall, Jon had no trouble avoiding the closed door to Teddy’s and Alicia’s room. He descended the stairs, keeping his hands in his pockets.

  Paige was the only guest in the dining room. When she saw Jon in the foyer, her only greeting was a lift of her eyebrows. She bit into a pastry, then reached for her coffee-cup.

  The hutch by the mirrored wall was heaped with a variety of cakes and pastries. The silver coffee-urn needed polishing.

  Imogene entered through the swinging kitchen door. Her outfit was in such contrast to yesterday’s attire that it took Jon a moment to identify her.

  “Good morning,” she said. She was dressed in slacks and an oversized cable-knit sweater that was the colour of yellow sugar. Imogene placed another tray of delicacies on the serving table.

  Jon pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Imogene was telling me that she’s thinking of only staying open for the summer from now on,” Paige said.

  “I’m considering it,” said Imogene. “It would be nice to just let people see the place in full-bloom. I might just close it up once the leaves begin to turn.” She was not wearing any makeup.

  The sound of movement drew Jon’s eyes from his hostess to the foyer. Teddy was patiently leading Alicia down the stairs, whispering lovingly to her the entire time. When Jon saw Alicia’s appearance, last night’s potent vertigo once again pressed through him. Her flesh was as bloodless as the revenant’s. Jon couldn’t help but wonder if she was now somehow infected, if she shared in whatever affliction kept creatures like that in their half-life. Her manner was catatonic.

  The couple exited the house without a word. Through the picture window Jon watched their jeep driving down the sunlit lane.

  Imogene went back into the kitchen, at which time Paige expressed how disappointed she would be if the bed-and-breakfast wasn’t open next fall. She said this could be the beginning of a new Halloween tradition for the two of them.

  Jon was unsure which two she meant. He stared at his reflection in the mirrored wall, whose gold veins marred his face like cracks in a fragile mask. This image bored into him, caused his hands to tremble. Halloween’s masquerade was now over and fate, it seemed, was forcing him out of his cherished disguise. The last twenty-four hours, with all their ugly spite, antagonism, and above all cowardice, raced through Jon’s mind. Everything was coming undone. His precious mask was slipping. Jon lowered his head, partly in shame and partly to avoid looking at the marbled glass. He knew it was only a question of time before he’d have to look upon the long-hidden face of his true self.

  Neithernor

  1.

  Vera was my only cousin and was a distant one in more than the usual way; genetically, yes, but also geographically, emotionally, and, I now see, in the character of what one might call spirit or soul. We had never shared any sort of kinship, or truly any acquaintanceship, to speak of. Best as my holey memory serves, Vera and I had met only a single time, at a stuffy family reunion that had taken place during my tenth Thanksgiving.

  To suggest that any sort of foreshadowing had taken place during that soporific feast day would be prevarication of the highest order. I recall only that Vera had worn a plaid skirt and that her hair was very dark and very straight and rather short; not quite as short as I’d worn mine, but nearly. It is dubious that we exchanged any words beyond asking for a condiment to be slung down the chain of hands that lined the long banquet table.

  Forearmed with this knowledge, I hope you might appreciate the dazed reaction I experienced when, on assignment, I came upon her name in conjunction with a tiny art gallery on the outskirts of the city.

  “Yes, they’re very interesting, aren’t they? Very interesting indeed. They’re made by a local woman; each piece is done by hand and each is one-of-a-kind.” This was the voice of the older man who was perched behind the tiny counter. His was the physique of an overfed pigeon and his eyes were large and rheumy. The wooden stool that braced him groaned woefully each time he fidgeted, which was often. His teeth were the grey of cooked mushrooms and they shimmered with saliva when he smiled, which, thankfully, he did but once.

  “Unique,” I said, hoping that the proprietor would retort with something like ‘Oh, yes, very unique’ or ‘truly unique’ so that I could then correct him by saying that the word ‘unique’ implicitly means something singular and without equal and thus requires no modifiers to enhance it. I enjoy giving these sorts of lessons to my public. Language is so very important, dying though it may be.

  But the droopy man’s only response was a wet-sounding sneeze. I moved further down the gallery’s aisle, pausing to study an especially comple
x and delicate-looking piece that sat beneath the smudgy glass of a display case.

  “That the carousel you’re looking at?” the proprietor asked, returning his hanky to the inside of his vest. “A keen eye you’ve got, sir. I’m fond of that one myself.”

  I nodded. “Yes…yes I suppose it is a carousel at that. Truth be told, I thought it was a scorpion at first.”

  He chortled. “That’s the rub of it. That’s Ms. Elan’s gift, you see? Your eye’s sharper than most, I daresay. She calls this series ‘Neithernor,’ because they are neither one thing nor the other. One sees two things at once, you might say. Take that one, for example…”

  He leaned forward on his stool and for a moment I feared he might try to rise, but he merely pointed to the case at the end of the show floor. I moved to it to save him further exertion. I studied the biggish piece featured there.

  “For the longest time I thought that one represented a handheld mirror, then a young lady from one of the universities nearby told me that it was most definitely an Egyptian ankh. Now I don’t know which it is. I tell you, the funny thing is, when I leave here at night I will often think about Ms. Elan’s work, while I’m cooking my supper or lying in bed about to sleep. I think of it, but I can never remember exactly what these pieces look like. Isn’t that a puzzler? I sit here five days a week and I study them, trying to memorize every curl and bend, but once I leave this room, my memories change. The pieces become something different than what they were. Neithernor…” the old man’s mind was drifting.

  “Maybe it’s like the Hindus with their neti neti, ‘not this, not that,’” he continued. “Talented artist, she is. I’d like to show you my favourite of her creations, a sofa with teeth, but it sold in August.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to boast about my relation to the artist, but I didn’t.

  “It’s clear she’s been successful, given that this gallery showing is all hers.”

  The man’s head drooped as if ashamed. “We’re a consignment gallery, sir. We’d pay our artists if we could though. Surely we would.”

  “She lives locally you said?” I returned, changing the subject.

  “Well, her representatives do at the very least. They deliver me new pieces every few weeks or so.”

  “Her works do sell then?”

  “Occasionally. To tourists mostly. Slow time right now, being the off-season.”

  “Could I trouble you for Ms. Elan’s contact information? I’m the arts and culture writer for the Mirror and I’m always looking to educate my readers on the more unique goings-on outside of the city.”

  “A writer! Well, well, well. But you have me at a disadvantage, sir. Vera is a very private woman.”

  I nodded. “That’s fine. Might I leave you my information so that Vera or her representatives can contact me if they wish?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  I produced my card then made my way to the door.

  Prior to exiting, I posed one last question to the owner.

  “Yes,” the man confirmed, “yes, every piece is, sir. Copper wire and human hair, that’s Ms. Elan’s medium. As I said, sir, you’ve a keen eye. Very keen.”

  2.

  After I returned to the city and to the echo-heavy building that is the Mirror’s headquarters and to my tidy desk that is stationed within it, I had every intention of drafting an official proposal concerning a local interest column on my cousin Vera. But two enmeshed events intervened to keep me from forwarding the idea to my editor. The foremost of these was an electrical fire in the annex beside mine, which resulted in irreparable smoke damage to a number of my belongings, including the entirety of my music collection and a suede armchair that was very nearly a favourite. The next event was my becoming engaged to a woman named Cara.

  I am to blame entirely for this romance. Cara was a clerk at the music shop that sat between the Mirror office and my smoke-damaged home. For a period of a month, perhaps longer, I incorporated a stop at the music store into my lunch hour routine. Cara was not the reason for my frequent visits (though she would likely say otherwise). I was simply trying to not merely replenish but actually improve my lamented record collection and the shop’s location was convenient. My guilt in this crime of the heart was ordering Tchaikovsky, which women almost always equate with sensitivity. He is my own concession to the delicate, and it cost me. I have always theorized that women like men who like Tchaikovsky. I have become living proof of this theory.

  What shall I say about our courtship? We talked and Cara made recommendations of records I did not buy. Somehow, we ended up at a café and later in her bed and much later in a townhouse that we shared. As to who proposed to whom, my recollection is foggy, but Cara insists that I asked her in a manner that was “endearingly shy.” This is the version she tells her friends and her mother, at whose apartment we have lunch every Sunday. I suppose this version is accurate enough.

  There were and are obvious advantages to my relationship with Cara. Companionship always puts one more at ease with one’s own eccentricities. Alone, one’s compulsions can become forces of anguish and alienation. Betrothed, they twist into endearing quirks in the eye of one’s lover. This of course is so much easier than the futile quest to entirely remake one’s self to fit an ideal.

  Also, Cara received an employee discount on any records she purchased, so I was able to rebuild my collection much more quickly and at less expense than I’d initially thought.

  One Tuesday in November, a most unexpected thing happened. Cara walked through the door shortly after six, smiled, and then handed me a parcel. Its shape and thinness were obvious enough to render the brown paper wrapping superfluous. But then the real question was, exactly which record had she gotten me?

  I set my magazine aside and said, “Thank you, my dove,” and pecked her cheek.

  The peeled wrapping revealed a cream album jacket. A slate-grey circle with a straight line underneath, akin to an underline used for emphasis, was its only adornment.

  “Dear?” I said.

  “Scelsi,” Cara replied, turning from me to remove her coat. “Put it on.”

  I broke the seal and heeded.

  What came leaking through the speakers was a warbled and creeping harmonic of brass, of strings being tediously bowed. I stood holding the record sleeve. Something cold and shapeless raised the hair on the back of my neck.

  “This music,” I began.

  “Do you like it?”

  “It sounds as though it’s…melting.”

  “It’s called Anahit. Scelsi wrote it for Venus. That’s why I bought it for you.”

  I must have been visibly confused, for Cara explained that this music, which I found remote and coldly firm as a headstone, seemed to her to illustrate a kinship between myself and the composer.

  “In what way?” I asked, feeling the edge creeping into my voice.

  “Just listen. Scelsi felt the same about women as you do.”

  “Did he?” I asked, now spinning in one of Cara’s eddies of insinuation.

  “Did he?” she repeated before regressing into the unlit kitchen.

  A few moments later the scream of a kettle was added to the Italian’s razor-wire concerto.

  Cara then told me something about Scelsi that I have never forgotten.

  It was only natural that I felt impelled to reciprocate her gift, but after a few fruitless hours gazing through boutique windows and pacing the airless labyrinths of antique shop after antique shop I began to question exactly how well I knew my fiancée. Of all the curios I’d spotted, none seemed to represent her. But then, how well did the Scelsi recording represent me? Rather poorly in my candid opinion.

  I then began down a lane of thought that I admit I’m less than proud of taking. I started to suspect that Cara’s motive was less about gifting and more about challenging. The outré concerto was a gauntlet of sorts, a distorted mirror that was designed to disconcert me about not only her but also myself.

  As I said, I am
not proud of the way I searched for Cara’s motives in dark corners.

  I’m even less proud of the fact that I decided to best her at this game of malice that I projected upon her. But it was as it was. Far be it from me to burnish reality. If the game was to be Presents Beyond the Pale, I knew just the bauble to use for my next play.

  3.

  I sought the phone number of the little gallery in the little town where Cousin Vera’s little creations could be had. I found no listing. My editor had long ago eliminated my off-the-beaten-path travelogues, but the gallery keeper didn’t know that. On a Friday I left the office after only a half day and drove north, hoping all the while that the gallery would be open.

  I found it closed, permanently. A cold autumn rain began to fall as I stood on the sidewalk, peering into the showroom as though this would somehow alter its condition. Was I expecting the cold potted lamps to suddenly brighten, the showcases to fling back their dustcovers and once again be filled with Vera’s fetishes?

  Like a petulant child I gripped the entrance handle and shook the door with violence enough to cause the little bell to rattle inside. Then I returned to my post on the sidewalk and tried to think of alternatives.

  Had the day not been so gloomy I would likely never have noticed the light that went on in the second-storey window. But notice it I did, beaming like a small amber moon just above me. I took a few paces back and looked upward. The silhouette’s frame suggested that it was the gallery clerk. I waved and called “Hello!” and prattled something about being the newspaper writer.

  The shape disappeared from the window. A few moments later it was standing in the little alley that divided the gallery from the organic bakery next door. My suspicion had been correct; it was the gallery owner. He was dressed in saggy pyjamas, a housecoat and tattered plaid slippers. The umbrella in his dirty fist was designed for a child.