Meeks

by Julia Holmes

  I turned back toward the river and walked farther and farther out, until I had plunged back into the wilderness. I was immediately afraid. Alone in the cold woods, while my wife and son sat beside the crackling hearth and waited for the telltale sound of my boots on the front walk. I pictured Ben racing to the window and back again, at the mercy of his happy little body, a doomed little animal, all heart and appetite. But I walked deeper into the dark pinewoods, the tumultuous sea of leaves, the green-choked alleys of the creek beds. The fangs of the underbrush—it knows me, it has me, it's in me. Or my thoughts have fanged the underbrush, invented this dark green villainy. I tried to settle my mind—I knew that when I was unhappy in this way, all of life was an armory, a hall of weapons I polished with my thoughts.

  Before long, the old dreaded project dangled in my brain. The villainous, mutineering hand of the mind had begun to turn its own crank. Where was this terrible volition originating (in my brain—where else)? Where is this terrible volition originating? A voice harangued me, followed me through the woods—I struggled to anchor it, with reason, to the center of my brain. Where do you think you're going? the voice sneered. The stalwart trees watched me indifferently.

  "What are you doing?” I managed to ask myself aloud. But my thoughts were already re-forming the designations: the hanging vines were hangmen, the heaped leaves were pyres. I had the terrible feeling of wrongheaded lucidity that had dogged me since boyhood. I remembered suddenly that I had thrown my knife in the woods months before—I had wanted nothing more to do with it. Now, I was determined to retrace my steps to it. I knew that I was something that the universe would have to correct if it was to redeem itself in the eyes of others. I reassured myself that I was a better husband and father for limiting the liability of my wife and my son, for sparing them the elaborate negotiations in which the universe and I were now embroiled. The woods grew colder and darker, until I had to crawl on my hands and knees to feel my way.

  Look at this new kind of creature crawling on the earth. The hateful voice followed me through the woods. I was listening attentively, crawling through the darkness, trying to feel my way along a steep, rocky embankment. Saw you ALONE, said the voice. Thought I'd come OVER.

  I woke the next morning deep in the woods—I was hopelessly lost, exhausted. I stared overhead, through the layers and layers of indifferent and alien leaves, beyond which the sky was pale and bright. I thought of the sameness of the leaves in the city, how abundant but ordinary leaves represent a profusion of Life, but perhaps one not worth living. I was a mere man, but I could add to the beauty of the world. I slid down the embankment to the river's edge. The soft green shapes of the algae-carpeted rocks were above the waterline and drying in the sun; the pink and gray granites, house-sized boulders of rock veined with quartz, looked in the autumnal light like tombs of silver and gold. I stood at the water's edge and looked to the opposite shore. Wheresoever the Enemy goes, we must follow.

  * * * *

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  SEPTEMBER

  * * * *

  Dread, dread September if you are alone, Young Man.

  Hide among the rotting timbers, separate, separated:

  All are lost and none remembered

  In the slaughter yard of old Dreadtember.

  Dead timber, remember, septic soil and no end

  To Dreadtember, when the taut rope and creak of timber

  Will teach you again to dread September.

  * * * *

  Ben

  The front door to the Bachelor House had swelled in the heat and was stuck open at an angle that permitted flies, hornets, mice, rats, dogs, and cockroaches to come and go freely but required a man of average size (Ben) to scrape between the door and the frame. He squeezed through, tearing another hole in his jacket, and climbed the stairs, listening to his own heavy footfall stamp the soft, ominous silence with a sad tempo. The halls were silent; he counted the closed doors . . . four, five, six . . . and pictured doomed bachelors behind each one, catatonic men in bed, staring, starving, waiting for the liberating “My brother!” of the Brothers of Mercy swarming the house. Up and down the street, the Bachelor Houses were dying their annual deaths. The rooms were cold and dark as empty cupboards, there was the smell of old kitchen grease congealing, there were the muddy tracks and leaf scrub drying out in the front hall. At night, the house creaked like an abandoned ship phantoming through the swells.

  The door to Selfridge's room had stood open for days: another lucky man hurrying toward the warmth of an embrace that—what could possibly harm or alter a human being who loved and was loved?

  In Selfridge's room still lived the many guns, another bachelor skill happily abandoned by its practitioner. There were guns lined neatly on the shelves and others depicted in posters hanging on the wall. Rows and rows: guns with flintlocks, those with hammerlocks, those known to misfire, those to be used in a duel, those carved of cherrywood, those with etched mother-of-pearl handles, those with the names of women, those with the names of generals, and those that were black and plain—the ones that seemed to be everywhere. Ben took one off the shelf and picked up a few bullets, which were scattered across the floor. Selfridge had shot out his window, leaving only the bullet-nicked white frame and the picture of the world.

  Ben sat on the windowsill and loaded the gun. He aimed at the tree in the yard and fired, sending the birds into the air and the squirrels winding frantically down the tree. There was no denying the pleasure: he had made that happen. He made things happen! He fired again and watched the animals draining from the branches. At the base of the tree, they scattered along the ground, while the birds, able by virtue of flight to keep the problem in play, lifted, alighted, lifted, alighted.

  Then Ben heard shouts in the house, someone struggling with the front door. He shoved the gun into his pocket and ran out into the hall. Finton was on the landing, peering down the stairs.

  "Oh, my God,” said Ben. “They're here, they're here."

  "Who's here?"

  "The Brothers of Mercy are coming. No, no, no . . ."

  "I don't think so—not yet. Calm down, Ben."

  "Finton, please,” whispered Ben in a near panic. Did Finton not grasp that they had finally come for him? For his lack of concern in matters of this world, for their very serious consequences. For his noted absence from the world. For his long occupation of a place (a Bachelor House—worse, his mother's house!) designed for a discreet experience, a tightly contained form of youth (exuberance alternating with melancholy) from which one must move on. “Just go back to your room, Finton. And close the door."

  "Ben, I can help—I've been through all this before."

  "Finton! I don't think you understand your situation. It's not a normal situation. Please just hide."

  Ben could hear some new and brutal force pushing at the door. He considered jumping from one of the second-story windows but pushed past Finton instead so he could peer down the stairs at the door. He could see someone trying to squeeze into the house—it was only a policeman! “I'll handle this,” said Ben. He jogged down the stairs, buttoning his jacket as he went. He poked his head amiably through the opening in the door.

  "Officers."

  Two policemen stood on the front steps. Several others milled through the yard, studying the grass, inspecting the flower beds. Ben smiled and buttoned the top button of his dark coat. Perhaps Selfridge is a wanted man, Ben thought hopefully.

  The policemen stared.

  "Sir,” said the shorter officer.

  "Officers,” said Ben again, disliking the thin timbre of his voice. “Has something happened to Selfridge?"

  The other officer, inexpressive and tall, wrote in his notebook: Selfridge?

  "Who is Selfridge?"

  "One of us, a former boarder bachelor—I mean bachelor boarder. He's married, or, I should say, he is getting married."

  The policemen smiled at one another fondly and took a step forward. The tall one said, “An
d you're jealous? Had your eye on his girl maybe?"

  "No, of course not."

  "Come out here, why don't you?"

  Ben pushed his way through and stood on the front step with the officers.

  "And who are you?” asked the short one, giving Ben an official look: gentle, predatory.

  "Beh,” said Ben nervously.

  "Ben,” corrected the tall officer.

  The short officer gave a friendly smile: “Seems you've been treading on the tailor's good nature."

  "What?"

  "Even the tailor's generosity has its limits. He has notified us of his intention to stop carrying you."

  "What?"

  "You must vacate this house immediately. Unless you want to be charged with illegal occupation of a house."

  "Wait. I paid him—"

  The short officer regarded the tall one in disbelief. “Please tell me he isn't going to argue with us."

  "Wait. Please listen,” said Ben.

  "Get your things—five minutes,” interrupted the tall one and rested his hand casually on his pistol.

  Ben thought of his paintings and bounded back up the stairs. He crammed the military cap, cufflinks, and paint pigments into his satchel. He took Selfridge's gun from his pocket and tucked it into his satchel beneath his father's cap. He yanked the canvases from the wall and scanned the room. He had nothing else. “Finton?” Finton's door stood open; he was nowhere in sight. Ben could hear the policemen climbing the stairs.

  "I'm leaving, I'm leaving now!” Ben shouted. The two officers were inspecting the upstairs hall, glancing casually into open rooms.

  "Well, go on, then,” said the shorter officer and smiled.

  "Thank you,” said Ben, wanting, perversely, to please the friendly man who was ruining his life.

  He walked to the park, clutching his satchel. Maybe he could patch things up with the tailor somehow, or perhaps Albert would let him stay for a few days? Ben circumvented the bachelors’ hill, the late-summer crush of bachelors jockeying for space, looking for women, all of whom seemed to be avoiding the park. In the near distance, Ben could see workers making repairs to the Independence Day stage. His brain was laying down the law: no more stupid daydreams, no more cowardice, no more wasting time. Bachelors elbowed and shoved one another; they fell down in the damp grass and swung wildly at one another. Policemen looked on, tired and bored. Ben could feel his hands seizing into fists, his heart swelling with hatred at the sight of the police. He glared at the facade of the station, making no effort to conceal his contempt for it. The doors to the police station swung open; two policemen emerged carrying an unconscious man half-covered by a blanket. Ben smiled awkwardly at the policemen, his hatred converting immediately into a look of friendly submission. The police made small talk while they carried the man toward the river. They were followed in a few seconds by another pair of policemen, carrying another body down the station steps. Bachelors were dropping like flies.

  Ben walked to the back of the station to take refuge in the overgrown alley. He hid in the gray-green light, trying to think of what to do next. If he went back to the house, perhaps Finton would hide him there—he would know every secret of the old house, having grown up there.

  As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he made out the shape of a man lying on the ground: He was wearing a pale suit; one leg was bent awkwardly beneath the other. A blanket covered the man's face. Ben fell to his knees and lifted the corner of the blanket: no one he knew.

  The bachelor's mouth hung open slightly. “Brother?” Ben said flatly and nudged him. Nothing. Ben took the man's hand in his hand and held it for a long moment. He leaned in and said, “It's OK, Brother. Everything will be all right."

  Ben took off his dark coat and laid it on the grass. He removed the pale jacket of the bachelor, rolling him this way and that; he dusted off the back of the pale jacket; he put it on; he buttoned the buttons. Ben exchanged his pants with those of the bachelor, who was suddenly coming to, trying to speak, reaching weakly for Ben with his hands. Ben was wearing the pale pants and trying to get the black pants past the other man's knees. “Shhhh,” soothed Ben. “It's all right. I'm sorry, Brother.” Ben turned his back to the man's face so that he could straddle his chest and pull the black trousers into place; he buttoned them quickly. The man was forming words, as of yet unintelligible. These would be the accusations, thought Ben dispassionately, the pleas for mercy. “You'll be OK, Brother, if you'll just keep still,” he said over his shoulder.

  Ben crouched behind the bachelor and propped him up, so that he could thread his arms through the sleeves of the stinking old black jacket. “Listen closely: the tailor did this to you,” Ben whispered and then let the bachelor fall back onto the ground. “Here,” he said, pressing his satchel into the man's hand. “I'm giving you all that I have in the world."

  Ben checked the pockets of the pale jacket—a train ticket and an invitation to the last Listening Party of the season. “You're in no shape to attend a Listening Party,” said Ben, unable to conceal his delight. The bachelor opened his eyes and stared. Ben pressed his hand over the man's eyes until he felt them close again. He touched the man's face gently; he smoothed the hair away from the man's feverish forehead, comforting him. “Quiet now. Go back to sleep, Brother."

  Ben walked toward the bachelors’ hill, buttoning and unbuttoning his new jacket with pleasure. He could feel his mind settling into the simple hierarchy it had been designed for: he was happy, despite everything. He unbuttoned the jacket again to inspect the lining more closely: orchid-pale silk ghosted with a lavender pattern—bees? Bees, decided Ben, faintly, faintly living within the silk. Lo, when I wore the pale suit I did proceed . .

  He plunged into the rough crowd on the hill, the grass worn, rutted, and muddy. He shoved his way happily ahead. Other bachelors careened into him and slapped his back with painful and powerful camaraderie. Ben felt the tight bubble of feeling that filled his chest for so long burst, and he pushed his way energetically past other men, knocking them almost from their feet. The sun was at the top of the sky, and it was still summer, and the birds were telling high-pitched, mellifluous secrets to one another, and the flowers were flush and full and bending their stems, and he was in the city he loved, in the heart of the park he loved. Anything was possible!

  Once beyond the bachelors’ hill, Ben made his way to the train station. He tried to effect a purposeful, jaunty walk—another lucky bachelor making a routine departure for the countryside. He felt he could extend endlessly this new project of being a normal, happy man. But when he thought of Finton, his heart plunged. Don't think about it, chided his brain. How can I not? he hissed back, thinking of the green velvet chair in Finton's room, which he had grown to love—the flecks of tobacco, the spilled tea, the dark lines where Finton's hands had rested habitually on the outer seam.

  * * * *

  Meeks

  It wasn't unusual, toward the end of summer, to find civil servants, like dying hornets, whole but done for, lying in the grass at night. I was passing through the alley behind the police station, on my way back to the Captain, when I came across a young man sleeping in the grass. It is not a policeman's job to pass judgment, of course, merely to maintain the order of things and to describe what he sees in an orderly fashion. It struck me right away that there was something both comical and dire about the man's situation. Dire in that he was alone in an alley in the middle of the night, and comical in that he was wearing a funny little suit—despite the direness. Or perhaps he had fallen asleep a boy and grown overnight into a man. His jacket reached only to his belly button, but his shirt was of a very fine fabric that glowed in the sepulchral light of the alley.

  I poked the man's hand gently with a stick, and then the side of his face, which was soft and young and handsome. I poked it again with the stick and said, Brother?

  Nothing.

  A satchel lay near the man's head; I searched it. (I'm a policeman.) Odds and ends, mostly. Some square
s of canvas, which might have made excellent boot liners had they not been ruined for the purpose by layers of paint. And then, at the bottom of the satchel, I found a gun. I had never held a gun in my life. I lifted it reverently, fearfully out of the satchel, and I saw the gleam of its black fang in the moonlight.

  I leaned against the hard wall of the police station and considered my options. I held the gun, which was cold and heavy and beautiful to the touch, and contemplated the young man. Bodies in the park are invariably a nuisance, attracting dogs and thieves and sick adventurers in the dark hours before the garbagemen carry them away. But I considered that this body was both a problem of the generic type and of a rare type (e.g., an opportunity). The dying and the dead can sometimes be found lying quietly by the docks, or in other dark places, not quite underfoot but among us, just beyond the scope of our errands, and there they wait patiently until we come to collect. Perhaps this young man was here for me, cosmically speaking. And in exchange for the misdemeanor of circumventing Bedge's forms, I resolved to deliver this body to him—an innocent victim, a wanted man? In either case, Bedge would have a stake in things.

  Even a shallow grave proves challenging if one is not properly equipped. I hid the gun in the ripped lining of my coat, and I broke a slat from a discarded park chair and began to stab away at the earth, scraping back the grass and cutting through the net of roots that held the soil in place. I dug and dug, stopping every now and then to toss aside the rocks I unearthed or to roll into the hole I was digging in order to judge its depth.