Murmuration

by T. J. Klune

  So he says, “That’s good.” He means it.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You sleeping okay?”

  Yeah. Maybe. “Yes.”

  “Really.”

  Okay, so he’s been having more dreams and he’s waking up thinking about mountains and birds and cigars, but that’s nothing. He feels fine. He is fine. “Really.”

  “You’ll tell me if that changes.”

  Mike can’t help but smile a little. “Yessir.”

  “I hear you humoring me, Mike Frazier.”

  “Wouldn’t even dream of it.”

  Sean snorts. “Funny guy.”

  “Right-o,” he says and thinks, Up your nose with a rubber hose. He doesn’t say that, though. He doesn’t know why he thought of it.

  “Not how I wanted to spend my afternoon,” Sean says, voice muffled by Mike’s stomach. It tickles a little.

  “I bet.”

  “You gonna say it?”

  “Say what?”

  “How I should know better. That when I get like this, I need to tell someone. That I need to take better care of myself.”

  “If you want me to.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Whatever you think is right.” He’s being diplomatic.

  “Mike.”

  “What?”

  “Stop it.”

  He thinks they might be talking about more than what he initially thought. “I don’t know what you want.”

  “Sure you do. You always do.”

  He nods even though Sean can’t really see it.

  “I know you’re a little angry.”

  He looks down, surprised. He sees how big his hand looks on Sean’s head. It makes him feel strong. Like he’d be enough to stop anything from coming after Sean. He thinks, Fuck it, and says, “Yeah.”

  “Yeah,” Sean says, laughing a little. “‘Yeah,’ he says. It feels good. What you’re doing.”

  So he keeps on doing it. “You have to.”

  “I have to what?”

  “Take better care of yourself.”

  “I know.”

  “I need you to.”

  “I know.”

  “If something happened to you—”

  “Nothing’s gonna happen to me, big guy.”

  “You don’t know that. Nobody does. You can’t say that because it’s a promise you can’t keep.” Okay, so maybe he’s angrier than he thought.

  “They’re not worse. That’s the truth.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. If they get worse, you tell me. And you take the pills with you. And if you need a break, you tell Walter to get his ass out from behind the grill so you can take one. People can wait for their damn food if they need it.”

  Sean shivers a little. “And you.”

  “And me.”

  “You have to take care of yourself too.”

  “I do,” he says, but he wants to take it back, because things have been weird lately. He remembers the day last week when he had the gap in his memory and didn’t come back into the land of the living until late in the morning. He lied to Sean about it, or at the very least, let him assume something that wasn’t true. Fact is, Mike’s not a stupid man, and he’s thinking things like brain tumor or Alzheimer’s or some other thing that’s wasting his brain away, but he’s young (ish) and strong as a horse (and he’s distracted by this thought, just a little, because a horse is a horse is a horse), and he lives in Amorea. He’s fine.

  “I’m serious, Mike.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re scratching your wrist again.”

  He is. He didn’t even notice. He stops. “You’re wearing a sleep mask.”

  “Your wrist is near my ear.”

  “It’s fine.”

  Sean sighs. “Quite a pair, aren’t we?”

  He feels absurdly fond at that. “We are,” he agrees.

  Sean yawns, a loud, cracking thing. “The pills,” he mutters. “Always make me sleepy.”

  “They helping?”

  “A little.”

  “Want to head to bed?”

  “Why, Mr. Frazier. Are you propositioning me?”

  Mike sputters a bit at that. Sean laughs.

  It’s good. All of it. They’re together like this. Quiet and soft. It’s good.

  “Not yet,” Sean says. “I like where I’m at.”

  Mike does too. “Okay.”

  “Stay? For a little while?”

  Mike does.

  LATER, WHEN it’s full dark, he puts Sean to bed. Sean’s already asleep by the time his head hits the pillow.

  Mike makes sure his alarm is wound and set, and before he leaves, he leans down and presses a kiss against Sean’s forehead. He lingers, briefly, before pulling away.

  XIII

  HE’S WALKING home. The moon’s out (like a big pizza pie, he thinks, because that’s… amore) and the stars are twinkling. There’s a bit of a bite to the air, but they’re on the wrong side of summer now, heading full-on into fall, so it’s expected. It’s okay. He’s warm enough, and halfway home. He’s thinking of making a sandwich and some soup, something simple before he goes to bed. Martin will be cranky because his own dinner is late, but he’ll get over it after a while. Mike is good. He’s happy. He’s relieved Sean’s asleep. Everything’s fine.

  He’s a few blocks from home and whistling a little song. He thinks it might be that love shack song that Donald always has on the brain, but he can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter. He’s got a tune on his lips and a song in his heart, and the moon is bright, bright, bright.

  And then it’s like he’s

  (not)

  here.

  He stops.

  And thinks, What?

  “Fo sho,” he says, and then he

  (doesn’t)

  (does)

  feel the need to say it again. Because fo sho.

  He shakes his head. It’s late. He’s tired.

  He takes another step.

  Amorea melts around him and he’s horizontal, looking up at the sky, floating a few feet off the ground. The air around him shimmers and there are machines around him, these machines that are attached to him, and he’s weaker than he’s ever been, sluggish and heavy. He can barely find the strength to keep his eyes open. There are voices around him, shapes he can’t quite make out, out of focus, his vision hazy. He’s starting to panic.

  He thinks, I

  (am)

  (am not)

  Mike Frazier and I

  (do)

  (do not)

  live in the town of Amorea.

  There’s an electrical snap and a mechanical voice blares, saying, “HELLO YOU ARE FINE HELLO YOU ARE FINE HELLO YOU ARE FINE HELLO—”

  He stumbles on his feet in Amorea.

  He breathes in that sweet, sweet Amorea air.

  “Okay,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “Okay.”

  Maybe he should go see Doc.

  He doesn’t want his brain to waste away. He’s got so much more to—

  His wrist itches something fierce.

  He’s scratching at it and as he looks down, he sees black lines starting to etch their way onto the skin of his right wrist. He doesn’t know what they are, but they’re clear as day in the moonlight and there’s a 4 and a 22 and a 15. There’s a 5 and a 20 and an 82, and he sees them. He knows what they are. They are numbers tattooed onto his skin, numbers he’s never seen before, and he thinks they’re dates. They look like dates. In his head he sees 4/22/15 and 5/20/82, but that makes no sense, because that’s old, those dates are old because it is Monday, September 13, 1954, and Happy thinks they’re going to have an Indian summer this year, followed by a cold winter. He lives in Amorea. He works in Amorea. He loves in Amorea.

  The numbers fade even as he watches. The itching fades too.

  I’m just tired, he thinks. That’s it. That’s all it is. I’m tired and first thing I�
�m going to do is see Doc. In the morning.

  He starts toward home again.

  He makes it three steps before he starts to see trails.

  Like everything is melting around him.

  The stars look like they’re crying, their little ice-chip selves streaking across the sky.

  The moon is a long, fat bright line.

  The houses around him are melting.

  The trees are melting.

  He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose.

  He opens his eyes.

  He’s horizontal again, and the lights above him are harsh. They burn and he squints, trying to make out details, any details he can, and the voice is saying, “CODE ORANGE IN THE GARDEN. CODE ORANGE IN THE GARDEN.” He’s trying to breathe, but he can’t because he’s stuffed full of tubes and the machines around him are screaming, and he’s choking, he’s fucking choking to death, and he’ll—

  He gasps as he takes a step in Amorea.

  Everything is the way it’s been and the way it should be.

  Except he’s in an overpriced apartment in Washington, DC. He’s furious, more furious than he’s ever been in his life. He’s trying to calm himself down, and he hears her in the kitchen moving around, muttering things to herself. He’s staring out the window, and he can see the tip-top of the Washington Monument if he looks hard enough, and his reflection is there too. His beard is neatly trimmed, and his hair is sticking up all over the place, like he’s been running his hands through it.

  He’s wearing a sharp suit, black and pinstriped, the tie around his neck a deep red. There are dark shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. He looks worn down, like the weight of everything is on his shoulders. He’s thinking of leaving, he really is. It’s about time. Someone has to call this, and for some reason, he hasn’t done it yet. Jenny won’t do it. He can pack up a bag, stay in a hotel for now. He’s in the office enough as it is. Maybe Mark in accounting can recommend a divorce lawyer after the shit he went through with his ex-wife a couple of years ago.

  He rubs his hand over his face and thinks to himself, You’ve really fucked up your life. You’ve really let it get this far.

  He should have ended it. He can do it now before he does something he can’t take back. He’s not his father, after all. He will never raise his hand to a woman like his father did to his mother. He has got his father’s temper, but his father didn’t have his control. He remembers what his mother looked like, cheap makeup caked on her face as she tried to cover up the swelling, the bruises, the split lip. He remembers thinking, Why don’t you just leave? Why don’t you just run and never look back? And he looked at his father, thinking, I could be you. I know I could. How easy it would be. Because I’m so angry. But I won’t let it happen. I won’t. I won’t.

  He owes it to himself. He owes it to his wife. He owes it to Becca, who was two years, two months, and three days when she took her last breath. He was in the room with her, her little hand in his, and he watched her chest rise up, up, up and then down, down, down, and that was all she wrote, folks. Her chest didn’t rise again and the heart monitor starting flatlining, but the nurse was right there to switch it off. They were ready for it. They’d been told it was only a matter of time. Still, when it came, it was something revelatory, because there’d been life in there, in his little girl, as her chest rose up. The little girl who may not have been able to learn many words, or even developed mentally like other two-year-olds, but who would smile at him, a big, goofy smile, and she had this grip, okay? This strong grip, and she’d hold on to his hand like she was afraid he’d leave if she ever let him go.

  He didn’t know how to put into words that he’d never let her go. Never. No matter what.

  And his little girl was there when she exhaled that last little breath, nothing more than a puff of air. The little girl who couldn’t quite walk, but could crawl for a little while before getting tired, the little girl who spent more time in the Children’s National Medical Center than she did out of it. The little girl who all the nurses knew by name and always cooed over like the good people they were.

  And that was it. One moment she was a living person, and the next she was a warm, empty husk who hadn’t opened her eyes in almost three weeks by that point.

  Yeah. He sure as shit owes it to her. She deserved better than what she got. So does he. So does his wife.

  This is something he can do for her. For both of them.

  And maybe his wife will one day lose the wild look in her eyes she’s had since the day of the funeral.

  He’s resolute in this. It feels like the first firm decision he’s made for himself in years. Something loosens in his chest. Not completely. Not all the way (he doubts it ever will), but it’s a start.

  He sees his wife in the reflection of the window.

  He thinks, Oh fuck.

  Because she’s got a knife. A ridiculously overpriced Wüsthof Ikon Damascus, something they got as a belated you-eloped-what-the-fuck present. Over three grand for a block of knives, and it was so ludicrous, so over-the-top, that he just laughed and laughed until he thought he was choking.

  They’ve never used them.

  Until now.

  She’s coming quickly and silently up behind him.

  He thinks, Oh, you stupid bitch, what the hell have you done?

  And she’s almost on top of him then, and he’s spinning, saying, “What the fuck are you—” but she’s already bringing down the knife toward him.

  He catches her wrist.

  The point of the knife is just inches away from his right shoulder.

  She’s screaming at him now, snarling up into his face, teeth bared, a line of spittle trickling down her chin. Her eyes are wide and wet, but he doesn’t think there’s anyone home.

  She’s hit him with enough force, though, to make him stagger back. His foot catches on that damn rug she insisted on buying in Chinatown last summer. Their kid was having a good day and they thought, why not, let’s get out, let’s go do something. They rode the Metro down to Gallery Place and walked out into Chinatown, wandering under the ornamental archway, the sidewalks full of tourists snapping photos with their smartphones. She found this shop down an alley and fell in love, the man behind the counter saying, “Good deal, I give you good deal.” His daughter was in a Björn on his chest, and she was grinning her dopey grin, and his wife said, “Look at it, look at it,” fingers trailing along the ornate rug hanging from the ceiling. “Wouldn’t it look good in the living room?” And he thought, It’s hideous, but also, This feels okay, maybe we’ll be okay. So he said, “I guess, are you sure?”

  She was sure.

  He trips over it now, stumbling back. He’s trying to hold them both up while also trying not to get stabbed because she’s pushing against his grip, trying to force the knife down into him. He’s going backward and she’s going forward, and he’s so mad that it’s gotten to this point, so angry that she’d do something so stupid. He’s sad too, because this isn’t who she is. He knows her. At least he did.

  The balcony door is open, but only partway, and the momentum is too strong. His back hits the glass, and he’s a big guy, always has been, pushing two-thirty and muscles on top of muscles. It’s no contest what happens when he meets the glass. It shatters around them, the metal frame twisting and shrieking. It’s safety glass, so it breaks off in chunks, but he still feels little pinpricks on his back, like bee stings.

  He lands on his back on the floor of the balcony, glass sprinkling around them. The sounds of traffic below float up around them. She’s on top of him, looking dazed, the knife loose in her grip. He’s reaching up to knock it from her hand when she rears back, the tip of the knife pointed at his throat.

  He does the only thing he can.

  He punches her in the face.

  Bone crunches under his knuckle. A flash of blood. She falls back and he—

  —is standing on the road that leads out of Amorea, gasping for breath. He doesn’t kno
w what’s going on, but it’s already slipping from him, he can feel it, can feel it draining out of him. It’s visceral, being on the balcony going through glass, like he actually was there. But the thoughts were not his own, and were foreign, words used he didn’t understand. Had never heard before.

  Mike Frazier bends over, hands on his knees, and gags, a thin string of bile hanging from his bottom lip. He’s trying to focus, trying to hold on to as much as he can because he thinks that this has happened before, that he’s been at this moment before only to have it taken away from him. Those little lapses in memory, those moments he can’t remember. The cigar. The African queen. He thinks there might have been a man standing at the foot of his bed. It’s ghosts, he thinks. Either that or it’s like that movie Sean made him go see last year, that damn movie that creeped him out more than he cared to admit. It Came from Outer Space. It’s either ghosts or it came from outer space, he thinks, because rationally, he doesn’t know what else it could be.

  Or it could just be tumors. Little tumors the size of seeds infecting his brain.

  He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Or it’s a dream,” he says. “It could just be—”

  He jerks upright. He’s in his bed, the blankets pooled around his waist. Weak sunlight is coming in through the window. Martin is purring like a motor on its last legs.

  Mike’s skin is slick with sweat. His heart is rabbiting in his chest. He scrubs a hand over his face and says, “Holy god, I’m losing it.”

  The problem with that, though, is he doesn’t remember how he got home. The problem with that is he can remember standing on the road and also standing in an apartment that he’s never seen before. He can remember words he doesn’t understand like smartphone and Björn. He remembers the weight of Sean’s head in his lap, the feel of his hair under his fingers. He remembers the sleepy way Sean said his name before he drifted off, breath evening out. Mike slipped the mask off his eyes and set it on the nightstand next to Sean’s bed.

  He kissed Sean’s forehead. He remembers that.

  He remembers the 4 and the 22 and the 15. The 5 and the 20 and the 82.