Vacuum in the Dark

by Jen Beagin

She did as he said, her hair brushing the floor, and grasped the back of her knee with both hands.

  “You’re choking your knee,” he said. “Not hugging it.”

  Her arms and legs were shaking. “I’m not a contortionist.”

  “Turn your heels out a little,” he said. “Relax your arms.”

  She forced her chest a little closer to her leg and stared at her trembling knee. Her nose was running. He took pictures with three different cameras and sketched furiously for fifteen minutes. She went back to her exhibition in New York and walked around the gallery. She was standing in front of a portrait of her and her vacuum when Dark sidled up and put an arm around her shoulders. I’m so proud of you, he said. And I miss you like crazy—

  Paul mumbled something.

  She moved her head slightly so that she could see his face, and decided she liked the way it looked upside down.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Your vagina,” he said.

  She waited for him to continue, but he didn’t. “What about it?”

  “It’s very young.”

  She studied his face to see if anything might be written there. The word “weltschmerz” came to mind. That was what she saw in his upside-down eyes, his upside-down mouth, the way he shuffled his feet. She hadn’t thought of that word since her first date with Mr. Disgusting.

  * * *

  “ ‘WELTSCHMERZ’ MEANS ‘WORLD-PAIN,’ ” SHE REMEMBERED Woody saying in bed. “ ‘World-weariness.’ ” He lit a cigarette. “You’re only eleven, so you’re too young to feel it now, but you are likely to feel it later, after you’ve lived in the world a while.”

  He had the kind of cancer you could see. Black lesions on his head and face, growing, spreading, morphing. He reminded her of a large, rotting banana. And now there was a new lesion in the iris of his left eye—a second pupil, it looked like, about to eclipse the real one. Unfortunately, it hadn’t interfered with his vision. He still spent most of his time in bed, chain-smoking and watching her.

  Ginger didn’t scream at him anymore. She read him the Los Angeles Times, trimmed his fingernails, fed him rainbow sherbet, and let him smoke with the windows closed. If he asked for scotch, she poured him a triple and didn’t water it down. He could watch whatever he wanted on the idiot box, and he could crank it up and leave it on all night, if that’s what he felt like doing. She even let him piss standing up.

  “Sleep in here with him, Mona,” she’d said. “Make sure he doesn’t drop his cigarette and burn the place down. That’s the last thing we need.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To your room,” she said. “We can’t all sleep in the same bed—I’m too fat and you’re too big now. If he seems like he’s in pain, come wake me up.”

  Mona sat in the chair next to the bed that night and they watched Johnny Carson. She could tell he was trying to stay awake, but he dozed off when the news came on. She waited until he was snoring before getting into bed.

  * * *

  “FIVE MORE MINUTES,” PAUL SAID.

  “Then what?”

  “You can go.” He looked at her face. “Smile,” he said, for the first time.

  “Say something funny,” she said. “I don’t smile on cue.”

  He frowned, scratched his head with his pencil. “Well, then I guess I will have to give you a fake smile.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  “Place your left hand on your behind,” he said. “Pull your cheek away from your—”

  She heard herself shriek. The pain was so sudden and sharp, for a second she thought he’d done something to her. Knifed, or punched her. Then, another spasm. This one felt electric, shooting down the backs of her legs and zapping her feet. She collapsed heavily onto her hands and knees. She was frozen for a second, but then her arms and legs began to quiver, and now her ass was quivering, too. “Fuck,” she said.

  “What’s happening to you?” he asked.

  “My back,” she said.

  “Lie down and rest.”

  “I can’t move.” She wanted to kick off Lena’s heels, but her feet were swollen and completely numb.

  “I have something,” he announced. “Downstairs. I will get it for you.”

  She waited, eyes watering, ass in the air. Wished she had a tail to tuck between her legs, something with which to cover herself. She listened to the aspens quaking outside. The wind called and the leaves answered and it seemed so loud to her suddenly, so inappropriate and out of rhythm.

  Her spine whimpered. She fell awkwardly onto her side and then slowly brought her knees toward her chest. A pillow was what she needed, wedged between her legs, something to relieve the pressure. Paul kept a few under the platform. She reached under there and felt around. Her hand touched something soft and smooth. Skin, it felt like. Soft skin.

  Lambskin.

  Her portfolio.

  * * *

  WOODY HAD TALKED IN HIS sleep that night. Gibberish mostly, but she could make out a sentence here and there. “Swim over to me,” he’d said at 2:18 A.M. “Make a keyhole with your arms.”

  She’d kept her back to him and stared at the green numbers on the Cartex alarm clock next to the bed. The clock was made to look digital, but the numbers weren’t synchronized and only lined up evenly on the hour. This bothered her for a while.

  At 3:13 A.M., which happened to be the time she was born, she heard him mumble, “It hurts. It hurts all over the sheets.”

  She got out of bed, pulled back the covers, and looked for blood or shit or piss. Nothing. He was touching himself through his pajama bottoms. “It hurts,” he repeated, and she waited for the rest of the sentence: when your wife doesn’t touch it. That’s what he’d said before, when she was eight, and she’d felt so sorry for him, because it really did look painful—shiny, angry, the wrong color.

  She climbed back into bed and stared at the clock. After a while she closed her eyes and drifted off. When she woke, just after dawn, he was lying on his side, holding his head up with one of his hands and staring at her. His skin looked green and baggy, the lesion on his nose glistening like a piece of tar.

  “You sleep like an angel,” he whispered.

  “Are you in pain?” she asked. “Should I get Grandma?”

  “Let her sleep,” he said. “Just bring me my medicine and two fingers of scotch.”

  Fingers. He said two, but he always meant three.

  She poured the scotch and went for his medicine in the bathroom. It was in its usual spot on the sink. Oramorph Oral Solution, Morphine Sulfate. She unscrewed the cap, squeezed the nipple-like bulb, and drew a full dose into the dropper. Ginger usually emptied the dose into a glass of water, and that’s what Mona did, but it seemed like too little to really do anything, so she added four or five more.

  Poor Ginger. When she came into the bedroom that morning Woody’s creepy eyes were still open—of course—but he’d been gone for twenty minutes or more. Mona was just sitting there, paralyzed.

  “Happy birthday, mister,” Ginger said, and kissed his forehead.

  “He’s not here,” Mona said.

  Ginger put her face right up to his and shouted, “Woodrow! Wake up!” She looked pissed off when he didn’t answer. She turned to Mona and said, “Christ! Why the fuck didn’t you come get me?”

  She’d never heard Ginger say “fuck” before.

  “He said not to wake you,” Mona said in a shaky voice.

  After they took his body away, Ginger put on her sunglasses and didn’t remove them for five weeks. If you hadn’t known her, you’d have thought she was legally blind.

  * * *

  PAUL WAS BACK, CARRYING A large teak serving tray, which he set on the platform. A glass of water, a tumbler of amber liquor, two white horse pills. “Muscle relaxers,” he said. “One for now, one for later. And some bourbon, if you like. Here, open your mouth.” He placed the pill on her tongue and she thought of Lena. He brought the water glass to her mouth. The pill stuc
k to her tongue and dissolved a little. She made a face.

  He smiled and handed her the bourbon. Two burning fingers.

  “Do you think you could take these shoes off for me?” she asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “Roll onto your back.”

  He crouched at her feet and pried off Lena’s heels. His hands were smeared with red and pink paint. She realized he’d never touched her before, not even on the shoulder. He seemed to realize this, too, because he kept his hands on her a little longer than necessary, squeezing and massaging each of her feet. His touch felt reassuring and paternal, but it was edged with something else, something impoverished, deprived.

  Allergy Rescue. “Will you bring me my purse, please?” she asked. “And my kimono?”

  “Please don’t worry,” he said, ignoring her. He moved the tray aside and sat next to her on the platform. “It’s not the end of the world.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she said.

  “Then tell me why you look so sad.”

  She smiled weakly.

  “Is the pill working?”

  “I miss Lena,” she said.

  “What do you miss about her?” he asked.

  “Our weird, easy friendship,” Mona said.

  He got to his feet and walked over to the shoji screen. She thought for a moment that Lena might be hiding there, waiting for her cue. Surprise! But he was just fetching her purse. No kimono.

  “I wish I had something stronger to give you,” he said, handing her the purse. “But I had to throw everything away.” He removed his glasses and placed them on the platform. Fuck, she thought, not those naked eyes again. He may as well have presented her with his scrotum.

  Christ, Woodrow, turn over, she heard Ginger’s voice say.

  “I had to empty the house,” he said. “It took days. I wandered around with a trash bag. At one point I was convinced she’d hidden pills in the boat. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that Lena is in the hospital. For drugs. That’s where she went last month. That’s why she isn’t here. She didn’t abandon you.”

  Rehab—right, of course. Her departure had had nothing to do with Mona. Did anything have anything to do with Mona? Probably not. Lena didn’t love her, not really. She just missed her daughter. As usual, Mona had only been a surrogate, a body double, a substitute for the real thing. It seemed to be her role in life, starting with Woody.

  We are all ghosts in each other’s stories, she imagined pontificating to Terry.

  She thrust her hand in her purse and rummaged around. There it was. She opened the bottle and peered inside.

  “You didn’t throw everything away,” she said. “You gave it to me.” She shook out two pills. “See?”

  He watched her swallow the pills without water.

  “Are you also an addict?” he asked.

  “I’m an enabler,” she said. “Which is more insidious and perhaps harder to treat.”

  He grunted. They were silent for a while.

  “You two and your secrets,” Mona said. “Lena seemed like such an open book, and you seemed so stoic, but you’re actually more forthcoming than she is. At least about what matters. She had no problem talking about poop and prostitution and yet she couldn’t tell me—”

  “Detachment,” he said, and rested a hand on her forearm. “It’s a question of detachment. Lena is still very attached to her grief. But she loves you. She talks about you all the time.”

  His hand felt heavy on her arm. She glanced at the paint on his knuckles and closed her eyes. Where would his hand go next? It would find her breast, perhaps, followed by her punci. What would she do about it? She was too old to let anything happen. In fact, she felt as ancient as the aspens out the window, as durable and dependable. It was Paul who was quaking, not her. His fingers trembled on her arm. They seemed weak and artless to her now, as if newly born.

  “You’re so young,” he murmured.

  She opened her eyes. “You keep saying that,” she said. “But I’m not that young.”

  He removed his hand from her arm. “Have I upset you?”

  She felt the pills loosen something in her brain. “It feels like you’re about to molest me,” she said. “That’s the vibe I’m getting.”

  He looked offended. “No one is molesting you,” he said. “You’re young, yes, but you’re not a child.”

  “I’m naked,” she said. “You’re old and wearing clothes.”

  “You must not assume that every man is out to get you,” he said. “My wife is in the hospital. My daughter is dead. I’m old enough to be your father. I am only trying to take care of you now.”

  “Grandfather,” she said.

  “I have no interest in you,” he said. “It is easy to see that you have buried your shame. It’s why you seek intimacy with other people, why you’re so desperate for closeness.”

  He put his glasses back on and left the platform. She listened to his slippers shuffle toward the shoji screen. He returned with her kimono and draped it carefully over her.

  “What do I have to be ashamed about?” she asked, bewildered.

  “I’m sure you are not without fault,” he said. “I’m sure you have made mistakes in your life.”

  “I’ll tell you something I don’t tell other people,” Mona said. “If you’re interested.”

  “Please,” Paul said.

  “I used to think I seduced my grandfather,” Mona said. “Because I walked around naked and he caught me masturbating a few times.”

  “How old were you?” Paul asked.

  “Seven,” Mona said. “He began telling me his secrets as if we were newly in love. He’d killed people in the war. He cheated on his first wife. He cheated on Ginger, his second wife, because she was frigid. That was the word he used. He talked about it as if it had nothing to do with him, like she suffered from hearing loss or low-back pain. According to him, she hadn’t touched him in over twenty years. He said it hurt not to be touched, especially down there. I grew up thinking that an erection was like a sprained limb, a twisted ankle, a pulled muscle. My instinct was to untwist the ankle, to massage the muscle. I felt obligated. But, of course, I didn’t know how, and he didn’t instruct me. So, I just let him ogle me. I let him watch me. And then he got cancer, and I remember thinking that it was because of our secret relationship. But what I’d forgotten, until about ten minutes ago, was that I gave him too much morphine—on purpose—and he died a few minutes later.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Yes,” Mona said. “I put him down—you know, like a dog?”

  “And you felt shame,” he said.

  “Relief,” she said. “That’s what I felt. The only shame I feel is that I’ve been too passive. I haven’t said no to enough in my life. If I had, I’d probably be a different person now. Less tormented, maybe. More . . . successful.”

  He picked up the bottle of Allergy Rescue and shook it. For a second she thought he might tip his head back and pour the pills down his throat. Instead he stood up and walked into the bathroom. A second later she heard the toilet flush. He returned to the platform and asked if there was anything he could do for her.

  “Well, you can give me my portfolio.” She tapped the platform with her hand. “I know it’s under here.”

  He blushed and looked away. She waited for him to make some apology, but he said nothing. It was time to leave, and not come back. She rolled onto her stomach, got to her knees, and stood up. The spasm had subsided for now and she was agile enough to step off the platform and get dressed behind the screen. It took her several minutes to step into her pants and pull them up, and she could hear his slippers shuffling across the floor toward his desk. She could also hear Terry breathing in her ear.

  “I’m sorry I left you alone with him,” Terry whispered.

  “Who?” Mona said, pulling her shirt over her head. “Paul?”

  “Woody,” Terry said breathlessly. “I shouldn’t have left you there.”

  “Jesus, Terry,” Mona said. �
�You don’t sound like yourself.”

  “This isn’t Terry,” Terry whispered.

  “Who is it?” Mona said out loud.

  Terry didn’t answer.

  Mona stepped out from behind the screen, fully dressed. Paul was waiting for her with a check and the portfolio. She handed him her favorite kimono and said, “Give this to Lena, please, and tell her I love her.”

  “Who were you talking to just now?” Paul asked. “Behind the screen?”

  Mona shrugged. “Pablo Picasso.”

  He smiled sadly and handed her a check, which she glanced at before slipping it into her pocket. She’d expected a Be Quiet Bonus—a hundred bucks, perhaps—but he’d given her five grand. Five zero zero zero. A gift, not a bonus. It was difficult to accept a gift when you didn’t know what it was for, but she wasn’t about to ask him. She didn’t need to know the answer.

  The portfolio was heavier than she remembered. Five pounds, six ounces, she guessed. A miscarried baby. She hugged it tightly to her chest and carried it out of the house.

  It wasn’t until she pulled into her driveway that she noticed the teeth marks. Something had scratched the cover and chewed each of the corners, something with claws and sharp teeth.

  Barbarians.

  MOMMY

  THE MIDDLE FINGER OF HER right hand remained in the fetal position. The rest of her fingers behaved normally, but the middle one refused, even after three cups of coffee. She tried ice, heat, and aspirin. Her efforts at straightening it reminded her of the times she tried to bend spoons telekinetically as a child. Perhaps her finger felt threatened, subjected as it was to daily chemical baths and vicious scrubbing, and was simply taking a defensive posture. In any case, she stayed in bed, petting it occasionally with her other hand. At least it didn’t hurt or smell bad.

  The only discomfort she felt was the nearly physical pain of having a word on the tip of her tongue. The sensation had been nagging her for a day and a half. She searched for the word in the novel she was reading, Coetzee’s Waiting for the Barbarians, but it wasn’t there. She found this little gem, though: “I sleep badly and wake up in the mornings with a sullen erection growing like a branch out of my groin.” That’s what the word felt like, a sullen erection she wasn’t able to bring off. Only it wasn’t a word, she realized now, but rather someone’s name, and it began with the letter M.