But he does not answer, he does not know how. He has withdrawn, an escape trick of his. She is already on her way up to bed. He has a lot on his mind. He too feels that she is near—how close? The sexual predator has become the quarry. The calls are not long distance anymore. How long has she been watching? Planning … planning what? It comes to him, again, how much he has to lose.
His daughter is ill, his wife is exhausted. As he is, but he busies himself. He does not want sleep. He tends to his daughter, checks on her twice an hour. He sits in her room, or in the kitchen while the milk warms. Once, near four, he feeds her mashed potatoes and apple sauce.
At dawn his wife finds him dozing on the leather couch in the den.
She is covering him with a yellow woollen blanket. He sits up. “With Catherine sick and you not sleeping nights, I’m wiped out.” She looks it. Her eyes hollow and blurred, skin drawn tight at her temples. “I need rest, I need to sleep. Just a few days. If you wouldn’t mind … sleeping down here. Don, honey, I don’t want you to misunderstand. Just for a couple of days. Just till we work this out.”
“Won’t it make things worse?”
“No. Not worse.”
He is aware now of the one thing he has not proposed, has not offered to do. The one thing on his mind and Madeleine’s. See her. Go to her. He has been telling himself he will not play into Beulah’s hands. Emotional blackmail—we do not negotiate with terrorists. Not in our state.
It’s over. She ended it. And anyway what would he say?
There is nothing to say.
But the truth is simpler. He is afraid to face her. The prospect fills him with dread. He has long harboured a dim idea of the minuscule events set to deflect the entire course of a life—a rotted rung, a film of ice, a quarrel in a parking lot. It is the butterfly of chaos theory, that flaps its wings in Canton, to trigger a typhoon in Madagascar.
He is exhausted but begins to see now what it is she wants. He thinks he understands at last.
She wants him to murder her.
He returns to Catherine’s room, watches her sleeping, a sheen of fever on her cheeks, her face working, a restless furrowing of her brow. Her eyes make sidelong shifts beneath the petals of her lids, soft as moth wings. Everything moves him tonight, in his shallow way. Straining at the darkness, he senses, in the air around her crib, slippages, shadows, shapes of collapse. Tears threaten at any moment to scald him—hot, fat, sputtering gobs of mawk, painful in their superficiality, like burns in the first degree.
BONFIRE
[18 Feb. 1995]
SWAMP OPHELIA, soggy manatee slipping out to sea, adrift under el Peyotl’s hotstarred constellations … smear of prisms in a red dwarf shift. Tiny disk under the vast flaming stars far from shore she spins … weightless. Yardarms snapped little sailor drifting off the map. To wrestle with dragons, to swim with seamonsters.
She will not write it. She will not write this death. She has learned a new trick see she is never too old never too close to the end. Listen instead. To the breathless roar inside these seashell ears, a nightsea roar that pulls her down into a well of raven ink. Feel the stitches soften. Feel the hole reopening. Black oceans welling up, she is drowning in the hole in her chest.
Drift, then. Sink down on this gulfstream to the sea’s deep trenches. Follow where it leads….
But no … it only carries her in. Gently in. Mustn’t hurry. Drowsy head bumping bumping on the hourglass sand, run aground on unknowing’s vastest sea. Turn and kiss the grainy glitter. Claim this new shore for the Science Queen.
Lie and heave a bit. Try to keep the buttons down—retch a sear of bile, they said it would be bitter said take them with bread. But I am not afraid of bitterness, bile is my good-humoured friend. Watch the clouds slip in from the west, hitch a lift—now, little explorer. On. Up and on. To the bonfire, dead ahead, not far left. She has debts to pay, party favours to share. On Nanautzin, Scabby One. Ever on, Bubosillo, one last test.
The more she lets them touch the less she has to feel.
Call the night to fill her—darkfelt rag that plugs this emptiness. Walk on. The found must first be lost.
Lowering swab of cloud, soft hover of far off pulses, spectral colours—sheet lightning crackling. Over the sea a sheen of violet, faintest green. Pale sand a cream tickle of velvet underfoot. It crunches like fresh snow in new winter boots. Barefoot she steps, how chilly in this dress.
A soft whisper from behind—she turns to say hi—to the swiftshape rush of black hounds casting swirling without sound. Faintest whines that close to snap and chop riprending her flowerdress to allfalldown to hush. Hollow clop of jaws, pearlgleam teeth hideous but no pain no pain—is this how it happens how it ends—without pain? chopped down for kindling—
Hotmeat breath in face on thighs and knees.
Then gone. The sand is whispering….
Try to stand try to stand. Judder of elbows, shuddering knees. Warm forehead propped in cool cool sand. Shooting streaks of violet, ear canals red coils of drybaked heat—little ear-ovens of solar energy. Only now the horror comes. A writhing up the back—churn and tumble of guts—hot clear scald of bile again over these hands of accident, into this sandy haircurtain in clumps.
Crawl then. Crawl, if you can’t walk. Crawl to the rainbow fire.
Closer now. Flames flutter and start like jewels. All the wondrous shades!—blues and lemons, vermilion and rose. She will draw strength from this—from the holocaustic heat / flame’s cauterous tongues—these cruel blasts of laugh for ambience. Stand, stand and greet your new oldfriends.
Muchachos, look! Our friend has been swimming out there in the dark with the sharks—all alone no man for protection such a crime—¿verdad? ¿no están de acuerdo, hombres?—and so very dangerous. Ven amiga, come-come to the fire, warm yourself you are shaking you are naked underneath let us help warm you up. Are you hurt? your dress—who did this, dogs? you are sure? we are here to service and protect. Come I will pour rum on you. Y un traguito para ti—toma, ándele. Otro. Swallow it all at once there that’s good. And once more for your wound. Turn to the fire—no not so close not so rumsoaked—here this way so I can see too. Ah, not so bad, maybe a bite, maybe not. Hold still.
This will only hurt a little.
You will be fine sit for a while then maybe you will dance with my friends. To warm yourself. You have been thinking about yesterday, what I said. You are ready right now? Good tonight we will all dance with you.
The Great Hunter cranks and cranks the handle. She is that music box all wound up. Watch her dance, dance nameless with her new friends.
Come for her now, sweet Xochiquetzal. All these men. She is still afraid of this. To go all the way to the end. But you, precious flower, she will follow you. Dance closer, please, slower for her, whisper sweetly in her ear….
Ah, Captain Offlitch. She is here as you asked. As you see she has already started to dance with us.
Thank you, Diego. You and your people may go now.
Greet the smiling young masks of an ancient martial loathing—slut, they know her now. Hatchet faces glue-dead eyes. Remember they are only boy soldiers fighting for toys / all buckles and belts—boys with guns / running glue.
Now señorita I will dance with you.
Yes dance with the tall Captain—pulling rank in the rancorous swirl of feral revelry of soldiery and jackalry mingling so angrily now—no no cut in nicely don’t quarrel one at a time there’s enough to go round and round.
Off the tail-tucked jackals slink into the palms. The Maya sergeant not far behind.
Slowdance now with the tall blondbeard legionnaire / roaming shatter-hands over the ass / hike up the dress / put on a bravo tango show for the enlisted men. Well yes okay Captain if you want to impress let’s show them your spectacular FIREDANCE. No we haven’t practised yet but give it a whirl / till the flames lick up like jewelled birds to peck at this rumdrunk serpent skirt / till slim coral snakes lift from this seaweed hem in a greenwood hiss—too h
ot for you Captain even in boots?—her gorgonkiss.
Captain Slowdance stalks up the beach.
So we pull rank in reverse pull dress over head to entertain the enlisted men. Who needs a flowerscreen, compañeros, when we are all such good friends just us kids nekkid under nightshirts let her go first—olé! all the fireside boytoy soldiers laugh uproarious / stamp out the flameshirt weft specially for her. Liquid tar in their conscript eyes. Hardening. Well OK if you must touch her run your hands all over all at once—come rub your genie numb. Go on. Head to foot yes all the way down she feels it now a slowdance of fear thrilling her guts—so nice to be kneaded demi-urgently cupped / in the palms of new friends in boots dipped in ashtray sand and flourdust. The more you touch the less she feels. Dance closer dance harder—this is cumbia? Smell the musk of fuck gathering / feel its answer in her now netherly—oh yes she will eat your disease.
Feed the hole.
Leave them the body now. Like a tip. Just cast it aside, there look up at the bright night so wide open, spirals of sparks—smoke-dragons in diamond-back quilts, vision serpents writhing up—stare ever on ever skyward through these eyes brimming prisms—stare on as one final fiery THOUGHT scales now the pyramid of the last First Cause—THIS IS HOW IT ENDS. Tomorrow these eyes will know what to do, when the last humpback firedance is done, at dawn she will burn these eyes blind to everything but you—track the sun from the kerosene sea up through the dawn’s red palaces. Track it unblinking up to the nightsun’s eternal noon, with eyes burnt cold as coals—for you jealous Apollo, for you. From now on she sees no one else.
Sweetest bliss of decision…. Savour the insightful moment, this last night of eyesight in gaza—so SEE! See the quartered moon drawn free of the sea, see the rent cloudbellies gleam—watch abalone figurines prance to the shore on slippers of pearl—to carry her on in the glow in the sand on the rocks in the sea. Carry her on to the altar of dawn.
So she can never write this death. So she does not have to go on.
No no friendly friends she is touched by you just enough just now. Come back at noon she’ll see you then, to look deep in your eyes and find fellow feeling there. Stop. Hands off here let her show something new this is something else she can do—make angels in the sand for you.
This is her miracle.
Stand in a circle now holding hands bulging pants watch her skinny-dip backstroke in the cool coral sand. Arms and legs flailing out little wings and angel skirts.
One private-eyed tar with blackjack boots / with a lazy kiss of a pointy toe flicks a nudge of sand up between her thighs. A moment of pause, of tarry cogitation then all join in the tarpit fun / hysterical highkick—heap her high with sand only feet no hands all play bury your fallen comrade till she goes blind in a sandstorm of contempt.
Hear a bell’s musical tinkle … oigan compañeros, watch this—this will put out her fire, eh?—hear the chorus of laughs, buckling chimes, answering….
Hombres páranse. Ahorita mismo.
The laughter stops, the chiming stops the fountain plash—all stops.
Sit up and see, blink the sand from her eyes. Who is this now-and-ever more surprises, is her work never done will the end never come?
A tiny white vision walks to the fire, always room for one more, have you come for her? She must remember to remember this, write it in braille tomorrow at noon. On he comes tiny Maya man all in white wading through bloodsmoke trailing sparks—a comet train of glowing cotton that stops. Stands stonestill. Eyegouges of fireshadow, impassive Maya face a soft brass mask. Its high broad brow frowns the whole fuck carousel down.
Their Maya sergeant surges out of hiding in the trees, the strain of shame in his face an urgency.
Good evening, caballeros. I am sorry to interrupt. Compadre, Sergeant, I wonder if you would shut the music off. The boy soldiers stand round all wound up all unbuckled—balled fists / fists in the balls—needing so bad for something good to kill. The little vision waits till the sergeant is done then the two Mayas speak—cascade of soft glots glissades / high clicks and glides.
Next Captain Slowdance strides back to stand TALL—spread-legged tripod—surveyor’s hands parallaxed at his back.
Sergeant Dzul!—who is this person?
He is respected, Captain. Un poeta, un maestro, un curandero. With many friends in our region.
Just tell me what he said.
That you and your men are far away from your loved ones. He said this is not what we do with women here. Or in the villages where the mothers and sisters of these young men here still live. He asked that I explain how it is with us.
Ah…. Well, my Maya healer friend … it is good you are so widely known. Y gracias por su comprehensión. But understand also that it is not always healthy to attract so much notice. Too many friends might turn your head. Completely.
Thank you, Captain Hooflick. I will take to heart your advice. Now, with your leave, she will be coming with me. Beulah, I have your things. Pick your dress up. Now, there, that’s good. Put it on.
SUNDAY
[Sunday, March 19, 1995]
CATHERINE IS FEELING much better. The sky is a soft, dove-grey. The temperature has dropped to minus twenty-five. There is a heavy snow warning for late evening. Make ready.
They have put away a hearty breakfast. Their faces are brave. They are eager to leave the house, together, for a few hours. They bundle Catherine up in layer upon layer of wool, the outermost a robin’s-egg blue. Casually, on the way out, Madeleine asks him to switch off the answering machine. The car is warm after a night in the garage. At a careful speed they make their curving way down one icy freeway named after a vanished Indian tribe, and up one named after another. The two meet at a river whose ancient name has been displaced. Between upthrust crusts of ice, the river glimmers a deep, mint green as they drive over the bridge.
Madeleine’s parents live at the top of Coach Hill in an exclusive condominium complex designed and built by her father. Though there are still only a couple of inches of snow on the ground, Jack Cole is out snow-blowing the driveway as the black Saab pulls up. A small, solid man hunched over a thin plume of snow, puffs of steam issuing from between his lips. His glasses are opaque with frost. He is barehanded and coatless. White hair pinches out from under a blue and white woollen toque. He offers a stiff, ruddy smile of welcome. To smile can be painful at minus twenty-five. With great reluctance he’d traded his shovel in for the snow-blower, but only after the second heart attack.
He and Madeleine’s father started off tolerating one another but have wound up almost friends. The proximity of a final heart failure brought out a mellow sweetness in the man, a childlike pleasure in simple things that Donald began noticing after Catherine was born. Sunday drives up to Coach Hill have become a regular event.
The house is furnished in quiet luxury. The roast goose is a triumph, the Oregon Pinot a revelation, the brandy a folle blanche Armagnac. The afternoon turns out to be just the tonic they all need. Catherine, scaling furniture and grandparents like the baby primate she is, appears almost completely recovered. She basks in the sunny certainty of unclouded, unconditional love from every quarter, in every lap. After dinner, while the men sit hunched over snifters, the women load the dishwasher and tidy up. It is quietly agreed that Catherine will stay up on the hill for a few days, with Madeleine coming up for dinner each evening.
As they reach the bridge on the way home, the car skews slightly on a patch of ice. He slows.
“Mom’s worried.”
“She said that?”
“She was hoping we had put all this behind us when Catherine was born.”
They stop at a traffic light, the only car on the road. Although it is not quite eight o’clock, it has been dark for two hours. At the spring equinox the sun sets in Calgary at about six-thirty, preceded, on days like this, by a long grey dusk. It is snowing more heavily now. Huge, wasp-paper flakes rare in weather so cold. A dry, fey beauty falls … flakes dropping out of darkness into the
headlights. Flights of crystalline craft angle and bank to touch down on slant, molecular gear. All come to rest in a glinting, silica sea…. His wintry world has never been so lovely and precious to him.
“Did she ask what it was about?”
“She asked if she could help.”
“Tell her not to worry.”
And for the rest of the ride home they do seem not to worry. In the dashlight glow he sees her reach over, feels her hand, palm down, wedge itself snugly under his leg and against the leather seat. Over the years, how many miles have the two of them driven like this? He turns on the radio. Something by Haydn is ending.
He eases through the intersection and up the freeway home. The car gains speed through what seems an inexhaustible migration of moths on diamond wings, papery multitudes smashed without violence in the headlights.
Another traffic light. The freeway ahead curves up and away in a soft, orange strand of sodium lamps. As the car gains speed he feels through the steering wheel the shift in surfaces—slippage, stutter and grip—ice, packed snow, asphalt. In a news bulletin a provincial politician addresses the people of the empty ranchlands. His is the furry-tongued voice of repentant adolescence, austerity, alcoholism. He’s had a belt or two again this night. It is the speech of a lackey, a quisling groomed for this common touch of his, for wrecking the common good. Man of the people, bred to turn on his own—a jowly, gimlet-eyed, half-pint cannibal in a Zellers suit. Another populist who despises democracy, fronting another government that hates government, a common-sense revolution backed by creationists.
At the wheel the driver has worked himself into a complacent pique. Forces are set to extinguish the world he has known. An extinction all the more devastating to remember for this day of reprieve. But his belly is full and the brandy flickers in him with a soft, certain glow. They drive through the enveloping night in a well-built foreign car.
He glances over at Madeleine. It is a long time since he has bothered himself about any of this, but he has been learning the price of turning one’s back on the past … he knows this is why he hates this politician.
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