Onion Songs

by Tem, Steve Rasnic

  But if there’s traffic...

  “Call my cell phone from your car in fifteen minutes. Then I’ll know you’re coming.”

  She held on to the phone after he hung up, watching in fascination as a narrow trail of blue flame followed the cord from the cradle, around the tangles, toward the handset. She dropped it when her hand began to burn. More blisters. She did not find them unattractive.

  Behind her the closet ignited explosively. Without considering the consequences she went for her clothes. A wall of heat pushed her back, but she managed to get her slacks and top out. Her shoes were already on fire. She watched them burn: the colors were spectacular—red, yellow, cobalt blue.

  4. IF YOU SEE A FIRE, REPORT IT TO THE HOTEL OPERATOR

  We have operators on duty twenty-four hours a day to provide you with information and answer all your questions. Please note that room service is closed from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. If you should get our answering service please leave a complete and detailed message.

  A sheet of flame spread steadily up the wallpaper behind the headboard. Jane stood and watched. Those little bugs were suddenly very unhappy, curling up and tumbling off the wall in all directions, their bug parts blazing. Of course she should have been making her escape, getting out of that room as quickly as possible, but she couldn’t help herself. Once the fire reached the flame-retardant ceiling it rolled back on itself, further complicating the patterns of flame. Gorgeous. Like a headboard of passionate dream. She wanted to stretch out on the bed and feel the heat, sleep while all the tension of the day burned away.

  Something in her hand. She looked down. Her cell phone. She wasn’t even aware of getting it out of her purse. Of course. There was always the right thing to do, the thing that announced itself and judged you when you did not act. She dialed the hotel switchboard.

  “I’d like to report a fire.”

  Location?

  “Four-oh-two-oh. My room. My bed. My goddamn life.”

  Any idea how long? A man’s voice. She wondered what his name might be. He sounded like a Bob or a Bill, maybe a Tom. Certainly too sincere to be a Dick.

  “Pretty much forever.”

  Then you’d better get out.

  “Oh, I will. You just watch me.”

  5. FEEL THE DOOR WITH THE PALM OF YOUR HAND

  Is it hot to the touch? Is it cold? Wet or dry? If you cannot relate to these words, how would you describe it? Perhaps everything’s normal and you can go back to bed. Would you like a wake-up call?

  The door was warm, but that might be simply because her room was on fire. Did they ever think of that? She’d seen movies in which the hapless victim had opened the door against all advice and been blown backwards by the explosive force of the conflagration on the other side. A great word, “conflagration,” much more impressive than mere “fire,” but a much harder word to shout during a dire emergency.

  Jane could feel the hairs on the back of her neck begin to curl and singe. She jerked the door open, ran out and slammed it behind her. Muzak continued to play in the quiet corridor, vaguely reminiscent of the melodies they played at buffets. She felt a little embarrassed about running down the hall in her bare feet. Somebody might think she was having an affair. Somebody might think she’d been stood up. Somebody might think she’d been a fool. So she walked, head high, posture proud.

  6. CHECK THE HALL

  Do you see any flames? Are there signs of smoke damage? If you cannot see because of the smoke, get down on your knees and crawl. If you encounter bodies or other human debris, please contact the management upon your arrival at the first floor.

  Halfway down the corridor she noticed that some of the walls had become transparent. The only thing worse than a glass house is a glass hotel, she thought. This slowed her down when she should have been making for the stairs. But it was a peculiar thing—her theory was that somehow the intense heat had reduced the walls to a microscopic thinness, causing things to be all too clear. She could see people inside their rooms watching TV, dressing for dinner, making love. Sometimes they stared at the walls as if they could sense her presence, her gravity, but apparently they could not see her as she could see them.

  She should warn these people, but she couldn’t very well knock on every door—she wouldn’t be able to save herself. Then she saw the rooms one by one fill with fire and there was no one left to warn. Their spirits floated through the walls and accumulated on the ceiling of the hall.

  She fell to her knees and crawled, trying to stay as far away from their toxic spirits as possible. She refused to look at them any longer, even when she heard them weeping, even when their tears drizzled down from the storm clouds they had become. They probably thought she was some heartless bitch. But you can’t always control what other people think about you.

  7. TAKE THE STAIRS

  Sometimes in a fire people get turned around and head the wrong way. Don’t be one of those people! Let the handrail be your friend—we put it there just for you. Keep as far away from any panicked guests as possible—their chances of survival are slim. Don’t let them take you down with them.

  The door to the nearest staircase was difficult to open, as if it hadn’t been used in some time, or as if heat had welded it. But it wasn’t hot to the touch. It was hard getting leverage in her bare feet, but finally, when she pulled on the doorknob while pushing her naked soles against the frame, the door popped open like a cork in a vintage wine bottle, sending her sprawling. She scrambled to her feet and made it through the door before it closed again.

  The staircase had that unfinished look that emergency exits so often do: unpainted, the seams of the wallboard exposed, looking as if she had stepped back through time and the building was still under construction. The silence was what she really found disturbing, however. The only sound she could hear was the harsh labor of her own breath as she pounded down the stairs. She needed to work out more, she thought. She was woefully out of shape.

  When Jane’s cell phone went off in the midst of all that quiet, she barely stopped herself from tumbling head-first down the stairs. She sat down on a step and fumbled the phone from her pocket, noticing that one of her feet was bleeding as she thumbed the phone on. “Yes?”

  Okay, I’m almost there. I’m calling, just like you wanted.

  Richard. She’d actually forgotten all about him. Amazing. She could barely keep the pleasure out of her voice. “That’s right. Good boy. How far are you away?”

  No more than a couple of blocks, I guess. Say, what’s with all the smoke?

  She caught her breath. “Smoke? You see it? My God, I was beginning to think I’d imagined...” She stopped herself.

  What was that? Christ, is there a fire there?

  “No, no. They’re throwing a big barbecue up on the upper deck. Texas style. Have you had lunch?”

  I don’t feel much like eating, Jane. What do I do when I get there? Do you want me to come up to the room?

  “Oh, you mean our room?”

  Yeah, whatever. Is that where I’m supposed to go?

  “Why, you sound a little angry, Richard.”

  He didn’t answer right away. You’re the one in charge. What do you want me to do?

  “That’s a good boy. Meet me down in the lobby. Like I said, ignore the smoke, no matter what else you see or hear. You got that, Richard?”

  I got that.

  “Good. See you in five.” Gleefully she switched off the phone.

  8. DON’T PANIC

  There’s really nothing to worry about. All members of our staff are trained professionals, ready to deal with any eventuality. We’re all consenting adults here. Remember that violence solves nothing.

  It seemed imperative that Jane reach the lobby before Richard figured out what was going on. Before anyone else figured out what was going on. Where was everybody, were they sleeping? She hadn’t even heard a fire alarm go off, much less a sprinkler. Shitty hotel. People died in hotels like this, not even knowing what hit them. As far
as she knew, the hotel staff already knew about the fire and had made their escape from the building without telling anyone. People were scum, especially people in the service industries. Didn’t they give a damn about the people they were supposed to be serving? No wonder customers got angry all the time. You just couldn’t get good service anymore.

  Jane threw her head back and howled. The anger rose in great rings of dark cloud up the stairwell. The walls closed in to maximize the echo, becoming like another throat that surrounded her and gave amplification to every bad thing she’d been feeling for twenty-odd years.

  9. MAKE YOUR WAY TO GROUND LEVEL

  There you will find hotel staff eager to assist you. Please take advantage of our complementary beverage tray and cheese basket. Tell your friends. At the Greenmark we are prepared to deal with parties of any size.

  Jane entered the lobby at a dead run. People stared at her, then went back to whatever it was they were doing. It occurred to Jane that they were dressed quite nicely for a fire. And impeccable behavior. No one was crying. No one looked even the least bit scared.

  Obviously no one had told them about the smoke. No one had told them about the fire. Or perhaps they’d been told about it, but they had failed to listen. People were always failing to listen.

  “You know, for a minute there I thought you’d set the place on fire.”

  Jane turned and saw Richard standing there, the smug expression on his face, his take-charge stance.

  “Oh, but there is a fire. Can’t you smell it, Richard?”

  He was still looking at her with that confident expression when his sleeve burst into flames. This change in circumstance had barely registered in his face when the rest of him fell forward. The fire burned itself out as quickly as it had begun, leaving a dark, warped misery lying on the smoking rug.

  Several in the crowd screamed. A woman standing beside Jane began to cry. Jane turned: she was young, pleasant-looking. She felt sorry for her. “Spontaneous combustion,” Jane whispered into her delicate ear. “It’s everywhere these days. Didn’t you see the spread last month in Cosmo?”

  10. LET SOMEONE KNOW YOU’RE ALIVE

  So many are tempted to continue their escape, stroll out of the building and start a new life under an assumed name. The management would like to disavow any knowledge of, or responsibility for, the actions of this radical minority.

  The young woman stared as the lady walked through the lobby and out the front door in her bare feet. Everywhere the lady stepped, a scorched teardrop appeared in the rose-colored carpet.

  MINIMALIST BIOGRAPHY

  He and his wife led their small life. No great adventures or newspaper photos.

  Neither did anything you might remember the next morning.

  Tiny bodies, tinier heads—they disappeared in the glare of one bright day.

  A dozen and more owned the house after. None recalled them or their time.

  Then one morning cleaning we found handprints on ceilings, footprints across walls.

  My wife angrily climbed the ladder with dripping mop, overflowing pail.

  Kids? Elves? Way up here?

  What is that red spot? Blood?

  Peering closer she found a delicate, miniature painting: an alizarin rose.

  Written beneath were flyspeck words:

  “Tom loves Martha. She says hello.”

  SOMETIMES I GET LOST

  The woman in the photograph has no name. I have no story for what she is to me. I want to say she starts her day with “A,” first in the alphabet, and that she is first in my heart. “You’re just the best,” I say to her shimmering image, as if encouragement will grow eyes that see out of that paper portrait and soft lips that speak, identifying herself, available for more.

  She may be alive or she may be dead. There is no difference inside my happy skull.

  The day (morning? afternoon?) is cold. I reach out to wrap my children around me. I try to be careful, but some always fall away. I can hear them tumble, even with my eyes closed and hands clamped over my ears.

  It is so sad to see an unfamiliar face in the mirror. I have fallen into someone else’s life, and now I must teach him how to cry.

  In the distance there is the sound of buses pulling away for home. I can hear nothing with this fellow’s ears, except the stumble-bum rhythm of my own heart. It is so sad to see the backs of people’s heads. They are like portraits without features.

  Inside my skull, people rearrange themselves. They may not realize how terrifying this game is.

  This woman holding my hand: a very long time ago I stayed up all night building her a house full of dolls. I decorated each room to be like a room she might one day live in. Perhaps now I can crawl into one of those tiny rooms and stay. I will make myself very small: they will feel me against their faces or around their ankles and believe I am a soft breeze.

  For years everything will be the same. I will have memorized the positions of all the furniture. No one will have thought to rearrange things. I will have a name for every voice I hear. Their names will be like music. Said together, the sound will make the walls shake.

  Finally the girl’s hand arrives. I remember it being as delicate and tentative as a new bird learning flight. It is all that and more. The hand wraps itself around and takes me high in the air with its tender embrace. Careful not to break me, but this reunion is breaking me up inside, as wife, children, and grandchildren come tumbling out of my mouth.

  The child watches me for a very long time, as if examining me for surprises. I cannot change the smile painted broadly across my face. Carefully she places me back inside rooms within rooms.

  Sometimes I get lost, and it takes years for the memories to find me. Someday I will wake up big. I will wake up huge.

  Until then, sweetheart, tell me your name. And if I still look confused, tell it to me again.

  THE CHANGING ROOM

  He wakes with the door behind him. It rattles, rattles again. He hears the eager key opposed by the reluctant lock. He hears the torn breath of the key’s owner, as if even this is too much effort. He hears a familiar language whose words he still cannot understand. He hears a music of distressed syllables, low vowels, painful consonants.

  He risks a constricted, claustrophobic breath: these objects in front of him so close and yet somehow unreachable: the miniature table with the picture of the young girl: the bright red necklace arranged about the neck of her black and white image: the necklace moving one segment at a time down her throat: the click of insect legs on glass as the narrow red body disappears around the edge of the stained silver frame. A few inches away the square of soiled handkerchief, its aged stains graying into a spotted lizard hide. And on that cloth square, the ruins of the young girl’s comb, metal teeth broken and handle cracked, a swatch of blonde hair caught and held for decades, the whole of it collapsed like a wolf’s decaying grin. And beyond that grin, crumpled like a life regurgitated, lie the meager remains of her last letter, paper fingered again and again almost to transparency, the blue ink of her words floating above the shadows.

  And, hanging around him, the clothes he wore that day, as if he were standing in the changing room of a large swimming pool, as if the objects on the table were the things from his pockets, laid there, away from the dampness that must eventually creep, that must eventually spread everywhere, and soften everything, and dissolve us all in its path.

  The back wall of the room shimmers, as if metal or glass, but he knows it’s not metal nor glass, but he knows... nothing. And leaving the realm of factual carpentry, he understands that this is the corridor outside the changing room, leading to that grand public swimming pool. The passage glitters, reflecting the pool that lies beyond the doorway, around the short hall to the left, where the water extends as far as his mind will allow, as deep, where every word he speaks has an echo, where the other swimmers repeat his awkward speech, but will not show their faces.

  But he will not go there. He is not ready to go there. He
hasn’t done enough, even with all these rooms to show for what can and has been done, each one holding a moment he can climb into. He hasn’t gathered enough. There’s never enough time to gather everything he needs, and never enough space to hold it all. And what is there to do when every moment he’s collected demands focus, insists upon his attention? Sometimes all he can do is leave.

  He turns around and grabs the handle. He runs through all his keys, trying each in succession. The door rattles, rattles again. The reluctant lock resists the eager key. He hears his breath begin to tear in the close space of the room. He rests his hand on the interior wall and is alarmed at how leathery it has become, how brittle, how yielding. He starts to pray in a familiar language whose words he cannot understand.

  His repetitive plea becomes a music of distressed syllables and low vowels. The consonants are painful in the tender space of his mouth.

  CHARLES

  The night before Charles’s wedding, his mother took the long bus ride from her small house in the suburbs to the run-down apartment building downtown where he had been staying for many years. She had never visited him in this place, and although she missed him terribly she didn’t at all look forward to the meeting. Off and on during that day she had such spells of absentmindedness—misplacing her keys, forgetting why she had gone in to this or that room, walking out to the clothes line with her blouse all undone, finally losing the worn-out slip of paper with her son’s scribbled address—she eventually just had to sit down and have herself a good long cry. She really hadn’t thought she’d been sad, and wondered if sadness was really the right word for what she was feeling. Sometimes her body seemed to feel things she herself had no knowledge of.