The Waterproof Bible

by Andrew Kaufman

“Look at me,” Lisa said. “I am frail and weak and fragile. And therefore so are you. Therefore so is the world.”

  Lewis didn’t say a word. He stood on the front steps of the Commodity Exchange Tower, watching the street. On the sidewalk immediately in front of him were an inconsolable toddler and a mother running out of patience. Lewis felt for the toddler. He felt for the mother. He wanted to cover his ears before either of their screams got louder, but then he discovered he didn’t need to. A city bus stopped at the corner and Lewis heard the brakes squeal but not the doors opening or the people getting off. The conversation of two office workers walking past him disappeared. He looked at Lisa and saw her mouth moving, but she made no sound. He heard no sounds at all.

  28

  Obscurity is a privilege

  Lewis had been deaf for twenty-nine hours, the last three of which he’d spent sitting at the bar in the Palm Room, unable to hear the piano player and finding this wonderful. Not being able to hear meant he didn’t have to listen. He was no longer forced to notice the symmetrical sharpness of squealing bus brakes, or the concise melody of an elevator door opening, or the ramshackle perfection of a slightly out-of-tune piano played by a slightly inebriated man wasting his talent. Without sound, the world was a muted television that Lewis could watch or ignore as he pleased. He felt perfect in his perfectly silent world until, having set his glass on the bar, he noticed a tiny version of his wife swimming in his drink.

  Lewis watched as she broke the surface and climbed the ice cubes to the top of the glass. She jumped, landed on the bar and ran towards a martini glass filled with toothpicks. Her steps left behind footprints that looked like single drops of water. Approaching the martini glass, she slammed her body against the stem, tipping it over and spilling the toothpicks. As Lewis watched, she began pushing the toothpicks across the bar. He didn’t immediately realize that she was spelling.

  “Have to what? Be clear. Be more specific. I have to what?” Lewis said.

  The toothpicks were slightly longer then she was. He found it very hard to watch her struggle, but he didn’t want to get in her way. Lewis feared she would disappear before conveying her message. Hovering over the bar, Lewis watched the tiny version of his wife continue to spell. She pushed toothpicks this way and that. Finally, she stopped, stepped back and looked up at him, clearly exhausted. She had spelt:

  “Ah, baby. What are you saying? What are you saying?”

  Lewis felt a tug on his sleeve and recognized the bitten fingernails and purple polish. He looked back down at the bar, but the tiny version of his wife was gone. Jerking his arm to remove the hand, he scattered the toothpicks. He took long strides out of the Palm Room, resisting the urge to run.

  He headed towards the elevator. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the woman who claimed to be God was following him, and he quickened his pace. He reached the elevators and pushed the up button. All four of the doors remained closed. Lewis pressed the button again, and then pressed it repeatedly. The elevators remained closed. Lisa continued her approach. With as much composure as possible, Lewis turned from the elevators and jogged to the revolving doors and out of the hotel.

  The night his wife died, Lewis had fallen asleep in front of the television. Something—he wasn’t sure what—had woken him. It was still dark, although he couldn’t judge whether it was late at night or early in the morning. He turned off the television, and the resulting silence caused a slight panic. The house was completely still, as if everything had been unplugged, and Lewis sat in this stillness, not liking it. These feelings intensified until Lewis closed his eyes and put his fingers in his ears. He did not know how long he stayed like that, but he jumped when he felt his wife’s hand on his shoulder, although he didn’t take his fingers out of his ears.

  The apartment they’d returned to after the tour was smaller than many of the hotel rooms they’d stayed in. As The Impostors, they’d played medium-sized venues in fourteen countries, as well as opening for The Voltage on eight stadium dates along the eastern coast of the United States. Both Lewis and Lisa described the tour as a success, but there was one major difference: Lewis called it their first tour, and Lisa their only. She wanted to start working on something new, whereas Lewis believed, strongly, that The Impostors was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that they’d be stupid not to exploit. They’d been home for sixteen days, and the tension between them had slowly but persistently increased.

  “Come to bed,” Lisa said. Lewis took his fingers out of his ears. “Come to bed,” she repeated.

  “Sure?”

  “Yes.”

  Lewis walked up the stairs behind her, keeping a loose grip on her hand. She got into bed. Lewis got into bed beside her, but he did not take off his clothes. The alarm clock on the nightstand ticked. This ticking was consistent, and it made Lewis feel safe. “I’m just kinda lost,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “We made so much money. We should do it again.”

  “But we didn’t do it for the money.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not really about the money, is it?”

  “No.”

  “What is it, then?” Lisa asked. When he didn’t answer, she waited. She thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he spoke.

  “Even though I know this is fake, I still like it better than what I really am. I’m afraid of being normal again.”

  “You’re afraid of being in the audience.”

  “That’s a good way to put it.”

  “What makes you afraid of that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You should find out,” she said. “And you should take off your clothes.”

  Lewis did as Lisa suggested. He turned so his toes touched her ankles and fell asleep thinking everything was, or would be, fine.

  At the top of the hotel steps, Lewis began to run. He pushed through a wedding party exiting a limo and went west on Broadway. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Lisa knock a bridesmaid to the ground, then continue her pursuit. By Smith Street, the pain in his side was immense, but he continued running. By Donald Street, the tightness at the top of his legs was overwhelming, but he ignored it. At Hargrave Street, Lewis looked over his shoulder. Lisa looked angry. By Edmonton Street, she was furious, and she’d begun closing the gap between them.

  Having reached the Manitoba Legislative Building, Lewis was cutting across the lawn when Lisa tackled him from behind, pushing him off his feet. His upper body struck the grass with considerable force, ripping the stitching in the shoulder of his jacket. His face slid through the grass, which smelled like it had recently been cut. With surprising strength, Lisa flipped Lewis onto his back. She pinned his shoulders with her knees. Lewis struggled but could not move.

  Lisa leaned down until her face was very close to his. “Your wife dies and I’m supposed to care? I’ve never even met her!” she yelled, her spit landing on Lewis’s nose and eyelids. “I didn’t kill your wife. I’m not making it so things don’t work out for you. I’m sick of being blamed for everything!”

  Lewis watched her mouth open and close, and then shut his eyes to avoid the spray. Feeling her knees digging deeper into his shoulders, he opened his eyes. Her face was so close to his that Lewis couldn’t focus on it.

  “But at least I’m not running around putting a beginning, middle and end on everything,” she said, letting go of his collar. She exhaled and then leaned towards him again, so close that their noses touched. “Have you people never noticed that there’s a central flaw? No? Here comes the clue—the only difference between a happy ending and a sad ending is where you decide the story ends.”

  Out of breath, Lisa rolled off Lewis. She pulled down her dress and lay on her back, panting.

  Lewis, of course, had heard none of it, and he continued to wonder what she’d said. “Lisa?” he asked.

  But Lisa did not turn to look at him. Instead, she stood up and began walking away, without looking over her shoulder. Lewis noticed a stra
nge thing: although Lisa continued to get smaller, the objects around her did not. It did not look like she was receding into the distance, but like she was walking in place while decreasing in size.

  “Lisa!” Lewis screamed.

  Lisa still did not reply. She got smaller and smaller, and when she disappeared, so did Lewis’s sight. First primary colours, then secondary colours, then all shades of grey and then all shades of white, until only black remained. He sat on the lawn of the Manitoba Legislative Building, blinking and rubbing his eyes, but he remained completely blind.

  29

  Thrum

  Aberystwyth spent the day she arrived at the Prairie Embassy Hotel within a twenty-foot radius of the white Honda Civic, during which time her mother failed to make a second appearance. To pass the time, Aby listened to music on the car radio, tried to acclimatize her legs and read parts of the Aquatic Bible she’d never read before. She discovered that Síðriin music was discordant, her legs were unwilling to accept the demands of gravity and, as far as the Aquatic Bible was concerned, she definitely hadn’t left the best parts to the last. For hours she watched a Siðri make tiny changes to a shack he was building beside the river. Even though Aby was in the middle of what she believed to be the most dramatic event of her life, she was completely bored.

  That night, after taking great pains to clean the apple from the windshield and hood, Aby slept on top of the white Honda Civic since it was too hot to sleep inside it. Stretching across the hood and resting her back against the glass was much cooler and significantly more comfortable. Aby wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. Four of her five nights on the road she’d slept folded into the back seat or cramped behind the wheel with her legs pressed against the dashboard.

  But something much more significant than comfort resulted from this position: the slight upward tilt of Aby’s head created the perfect angle for watching the stars. Pabbi had described them in great detail, but she had forgotten all about it, and now they dazzled her completely. The clear, cloudless Prairie night sky was as beautiful as anything she’d seen underwater. Aby started to count the stars, but quickly gave up. As her legs dangled over the front edge of the hood and she continued to stare upwards, Aberystwyth managed to achieve something she never had before: thrum.

  Aquatics believe that thrum is a meditative state that can diminish the distance to enlightenment, a sort of metaphysical shortcut. This highly coveted, yet nearly impossible, state allows you to see the events of your life as if they were someone else’s. As Aby remained on the hood of the stolen white Honda Civic, looking up, she became able to see her concerns and troubles, her successes and failures, her weaknesses and strengths, as if they belonged to a stranger. Aby, however briefly, was able to see her life not as its star but as its audience.

  She recalled the end of each of her significant relationships and then separated what was her fault and what was theirs. She worked through career decisions, friendships that had ended badly and opportunities missed. She saw her mistakes and did not flinch. She recognized her victories and did not gloat. She made observations about her character. Things that would normally have made her feel pathetic and weak became simply things to improve. Her skin turned a deep, rich green that in the moonless Prairie evening appeared almost black.

  And then she began to think of her mother. Things for Aby were never the same after her mother’s excommunication. Being stuck in a hick town like Nowwlk had been at least novel while her mother’s fame increased, but to be stuck there as an outcast was completely intolerable. Yet when they moved back to Alisvín-bær, things didn’t get any better. Even in a city as large as this one, her mother’s infamy preceded them. Neither of her parents could find work. Aby watched as they started to fight more and more often, trying to hide it from her less and less. Then her mother started coming home later and later in the evening. Although they tried to hide it, Aby knew her parents had begun sleeping in separate beds. Soon they were rarely in the same room, and when they were, both her mother and her father were stiff and formal.

  One night Aby woke up to the sounds of them fighting. Their voices were louder and carried more anger than usual. Creeping out of bed, Aby swam to the top of the stairs and listened. When her parents begin to talk in whispers, she snuck to the first landing. She couldn’t make out every word, but the one she did hear was “unwatered.” Aby returned to her bed, but she did not sleep.

  Three days later, Aby came home and found two suitcases just inside the front door. One was her mother’s. The other was hers. Stepping into the foyer, Aby closed the door with force, which brought her mother swimming down from the second floor. Margaret did not speak as she descended. She watched the webbing between her fingers. On the main floor, she bobbed very close to Aby, but they both looked at their feet. Finally, Margaret looked up, although her daughter did not. “Aby, I have to go,” Margaret said.

  “You can’t let them do this to you.”

  “It’s not about them. It’s what I have to do.”

  “What about us?”

  “I want you to come with me.”

  “No way.”

  “Why won’t you?”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!”

  “It’s not about you.”

  “It should be.”

  “Do you think this is easy for me?”

  “Yes,” Aby said, and although her arms remained crossed, her jaw unclenched and the edges of her gills quivered.

  “I have to go.”

  “No, you don’t!” Aby yelled. Grabbing her mother’s suitcase, she swam into the living room and raised it over her head. The contents spilled out. Her mother’s clothes floated through the water.

  “I have to go,” Margaret said.

  “It’s not right. You’ll die there. You’ll be sála-glorsol-tinn!”

  “It’s not true.”

  “What if it is?”

  Margaret did not reply. One of her dresses floated in front of her, but Margaret did not reach out for it. She turned, opened the front door and swam through it. Aby watched as the door closed, then looked down at her suitcase sitting in the hallway by itself.

  Aberystwyth’s thrum concluded with this memory. She came out of it blinking. Less than a minute had passed. She did not move, not even her head. Although her thrum had shown her many things, one question remained unanswered: Was she here to help her mother, or herself?

  30

  The great storm

  Anderson and Kenneth Richardson spent three days and two nights on the roof of the Prairie Embassy Hotel, waiting for the perfect cloud. They each spotted several clouds that might do the job, but let them pass. Holding binoculars to their eyes, the rainmakers continued watching different corners of the sky, Kenneth surveying the west and Anderson the east. Then a cloud came in from the north that was so large both men saw it in the edges of their binoculars and lowered their glasses to see it with their own eyes.

  It was, of course, a cumulonimbus, and was breathtaking in its grandeur. Its slate-flat bottom hung low, no higher than fifteen hundred feet. From there, it towered upwards, easily breaking sixty thousand feet. Fold after fold of white towered higher and higher, billowing like a plush atomic cloud; that it remained airborne seemed improbable. It crept towards them as if under its own power. Their heads followed its path until its shadow was on top of them and the sun became invisible.

  The rainmakers were inspired to an awe that bordered on the religious—it was a rare wonder, one that many wouldn’t even have noticed, let alone revered. Then they got to work. Kenneth put his fingers into his mouth and whistled. Starlings seemed to materialize out of thin air, gathering around him. Moving with quick, practiced motions he began attaching pouches to birds. Anderson, who had already circled his car batteries, began connecting the wires. Sixteen lengths of copper led from the positive and negative poles of each battery to the kite. When the middle of the cloud was precisely overhead, Kenneth released the starlings, the bir
ds straining under the weight of the added silver iodide. Anderson released his kite, the wind carrying it back and forth.

  The birds and the kite disappeared into the cloud at exactly the same moment. For a full second there was silence, then a blinding light flashed through the cloud, accompanied by a sound so loud that both rainmakers covered their ears. Looking up, their hands still held tightly to the sides of their heads, they saw the remains of the kite carried away by a sudden and growing wind. Then starlings began to fall. Dead birds, one after another, landed between father and son. They were followed shortly by the first drops of rain.

  31

  A lesser form of matricide

  Aby’s attention was so taken by the flash of light and the deafening clap of thunder that had come from the sky directly above the Prairie Embassy Hotel that she jumped when she heard the knock on the driver’s side window. First she noticed the rain that fell, then her eyes focused on her mother. Margaret rolled her eyes. Aby rolled down the window.

  “This will help,” Margaret said. She raised her right hand, which held a cane.

  “To what?”

  “To walk. You use it like a third leg. For balance.”

  To demonstrate, Margaret circumnavigated the stolen white Honda Civic, showing how the cane could be used to support her weight between steps. She stopped when she was behind the driver’s door again. Aby opened the door and tentatively twisted her thin legs to the ground, which the rain was already moistening. Refusing the cane, she took a full, confident step. She took a second step, followed by a third. Then she fell, her body raising a small cloud of dust as she landed.

  Margaret tossed the cane. It landed inches from Aby’s head, raising another cloud of dust, albeit much smaller. Margaret watched her daughter, lying face down in the dirt, struggling to right herself. She was, Margaret thought, a quintessential example of the dangers of dogma. Here was a creature who God had created with the ability to breathe both water and air, to swim and to run, but she’d spent her whole life experiencing only half of her gifts. It reminded Margaret of the Christians she knew who were scared of their genitals, or the scientists who could accept only a rational explanation as the right one.