by Tony Burgess
The speedometer is wide and sparsely signified, with slim glowing bars radiating along the turquoise dust of a vanishing point. The needle, a red, trembling heart beat, is lying still against a tiny perfect post. A window is open near the bottom: it reads 70,122. The lower half of a two and the upper half of a three are also visible in another red and black panel. The next gauge is smaller than the speedometer and turned ninety degrees on its end. It’s portioned in fractions that grade from E to F. An attenuated red triangle drifts past the E and concludes beyond its range. A white needle rests at a post that is, if possible, even tinier and more perfect. The soft lights fall off the ledge beneath the tilted glass and form a broad white elliptical glow that appears to reflect back to something a great distance away — a radio signal stirring in the dust, sent by a remote star; the short flight of sand at the edge of a camel’s hoof.
Marion is holding a fingernail painted dark burgundy against the illusion of upholstery. She is watching a bar of white glue fill a ridge in her nail. She presses down on the pad of her finger and the bar dips away. It returns when she rocks her finger forward as a yellow sombrero, tilting into the dead skin folded against her cuticle. Someone raps on the window and Marion drops her hand quickly to her knee. The Mayor is standing beside the car, turning his finger in circles. Marion glides her window halfway down.
“Marion. Please let me sit in there with you for a second. I have to talk to someone. Please.”
Marion is startled by the disheveled look of Robert — there are stains on him, and he is covering his teeth with his hand. A blackness is ground into his knuckles. Marion pushes a switch on her door panel and all of the locks clunk open.
“Marion. I have a problem.”
The Treasurer rotates the car key, shutting down the power to her lights.
“I don’t even know what to say. I think everyone thinks I’m goin’ crazy. Oh shit. If I talked to anyone about this they’d know that I really am goin’ …”
Marion folds the hem of her dress in over her knees, then lifts it and lets it drift back beyond them.
“I gotta tell someone … something. I think I’ve been hiding things from myself, and I know I’m drifting away, I can feel it.”
The Mayor lays his hand on the back of Marion’s wrist and she freezes.
“I’ll tell it this way. This way. Marion, you know that I’ve lived in the same house all my life. My mother and father, well, they’ve been dead for eight years now, but I guess, they were never much company. Anyway, I’ve been alone in that house for eight years, Marion. Eight years. It wasn’t so bad at first. I kind of liked it. For the first few, for the first few. Walking from room to room. Sitting on the floor sometimes. Eventually, I didn’t notice it, but months went by and I was losing touch with things. Small things. Like I started forgetting when I was asleep.
“That’s how it started, that’s what I noticed first. I started falling asleep at odd times, in strange places, not noticing. And I would do things in my sleep, meet people at the door, invite them in. For months I thought that I was living with a woman. God. I’m still not certain that she isn’t at home right now. I even remember getting used to her being there. She anticipated the things I would say. She would, I’m sure of it, she’d remind me that the hydro bill was past due. We talked about the money we could save by paying our bills on time. I had a list of things that I knew she wanted for her birthday. Her birthday, Marion. I know the date so well, but I can’t say for certain what the date was. Funny, I don’t remember the date, because, of course, because she never existed. Maybe I always knew that — I probably did know that, right? Or I would have talked about her to people. And I never did. So I must have known that she was — that she wasn’t there. I know that now. For certain. I’ve known it for certain for about six months, I guess. It just broke in on me one day, so casually, so real: she was never really there.
“That’s when things started going very badly. Because, because I missed her. I still miss her bad. I have memories. Not memories really, but feelings. Strong feelings. The feeling of knowing her. Of her knowing me. Feeling that it was going to last forever. We used to laugh about things together, and I can’t bear those feelings now. I can’t walk through my front door until they go away.”
The Mayor is crying, not touching the tears that are spattered beneath his eyes, pooling at the soft fans on his cheeks where his wrinkles diminish. He is looking through the windshield, intense and confused. He opens his mouth to speak again but emotion rattles along his tongue and he clenches his teeth to stop it.
“Oh Robert. I could tell you — things. I should. I should say, Robert, I should say that I’m so sorry. You poor man. What should I say? Should I say: ‘Oh well, that’s the way it goes’?”
Robert laughs, grateful, and feels enough relief, enough of something normal, to wipe the tears from his cheeks. Marion snaps open the purse at her feet and gives him a Kleenex. The tissue is soiled by the wet grains of muck that the Mayor’s tears have flushed across his skin.
“But, I also know … what do you say? I also know about, you know, when it isn’t the way it goes.”
Robert drops the visor and looks into the small mirror. He touches the hard wave of blond hair across his brow. This wave of hair is the one thing that has not lost its shape.
“I feel a bit better, Marion. I still think I’m crazy, but now I’ve said it. Christ, at least I’m something. At least I can say that something happened.”
Marion drops her head back and carefully unhooks the wires that dangle large ivory plates from her earlobes. She places them on the dash and separates and straightens them with a long fingernail.
“You know, Robert, things for me, right now, aren’t good either.”
She turns to face him. Her expression is frank and emphasized by the thumbnail she draws backward through the short bristle of her eyebrow.
“Oh, I know Marion. Jesus, I’m sorry, I could tell. I just didn’t want to ask. I figured you might just say something.”
“Well, Robert, since you’ve been so brave, and you feel so much better, I think I will tell you.”
Marion whips her hands to the top of the steering wheel and presses her lips against the grip exposed between her fingers.
“OK. OK, Robert. Things with me and Barry aren’t so good.”
The Mayor reaches up and strokes the steering wheel.
“Oh dear, I kind of thought it was something like that.”
Marion reaches down quickly and clutches two of the Mayor’s fingers together.
“No. No, I don’t think you thought it was anything like this. The problem isn’t with us really. The problem is with me.”
A strong odour suddenly stings the Mayor’s nose. He attempts to contain it but can’t with Marion pulling at his fingers. He tries to slip them away, but she grips tighter.
“Robert, I love Barry. Well, at least I don’t know any other way of putting it. So I say I love him. We’ve been married for twenty-seven years. When you’re married that long you start to become, I don’t know, like each other. You start thinking alike, maybe not agreeing so much, but, how do I put this, it’s only ever like arguing with yourself, really. Anyway, I think it was like that for, well, I don’t remember if it was ever any different. Only lately, lately, I’ve had the terrible feeling that he has been, uh, controlling my thoughts.”
Robert skips air through his teeth. He makes a face that Marion doesn’t see, that he doesn’t want her to see.
“But that’s just the beginning. I found I was sort of OK when I wasn’t around him. But with him I get the strange feeling that he’s part of something bigger. Robert, do you remember all those people who drowned last winter, all those snowmobile accidents?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Well, he wanted them to die.”
“Hmmm?”
“He said they’d die befo
re it started happening.”
“Hmmm.”
“Do you remember the name Al Glindy?”
“No.”
“Well, Al Glindy drowned sometime in February. And the night before it happened Barry said Al was going kill himself.”
“Right.”
“Anyway, if you rearrange the letters in the name Al Glindy it spells ‘all dying.’”
“Does it?”
“Yes, it does. After that Barry started talking about all kinds of crazy things. How the anti-Christ was teaching piano in Newmarket. All kinds of crazy things. I struggled not to believe him, but, like I said, I felt like I was arguing, struggling with myself. Then one morning I stepped into the kitchen and he looked over his paper and his face was made of aluminum — shiny and silver. And he was laughing. Oh God, I just screamed and ran out. To the car. Right here. And I haven’t moved since.”
“Uh, Marion. Wow. That’s quite a story. You, uh, you don’t actually believe it though, do you?”
“Well, I believe it less out here. But still, I feel very shaky. I don’t trust myself to talk to people.”
“You’re talking to me aren’t you?”
“Yes. But, Robert, I have to tell you. I’m aware that you brought him here.”
“Huh?”
“When you were talking earlier I saw him in the rearview mirror, and I saw you whisper something to him. When you dropped the visor, there. When you pretended to fix your hair. I saw you signal to him.”
“I didn’t Marion.”
Marion is becoming agitated and she pulls hard at the bottom of the steering wheel.
“Yes you did, Robert! Yes you did!”
“Marion, that’s crazy.”
“Crazy? Crazy? I let you be crazy! I let you.”
Marion slaps the Mayor on the arm and begins pumping furiously at the gas and brake pedals.
“I just want somebody to let me be crazy for a second! Why is it so goddamn important that Barry isn’t hiding in my glasses?”
The Mayor is frightened and he folds his arms to protect himself.
“I let you have your scary shit, Robert. I let you have it.”
Marion has broken down. She sobs with her forehead hanging off the top of the steering wheel.
“Oh God. OK Barry. OK, I’ll come home.”
Robert reaches his hand across Marion’s back, as much to console her, though he is repulsed by her, as to prevent her from suggesting again that she — that he — should go home.
Marion opens her eyes and through tears she can see three men, in heavy robes, climb down off their camels. The one in the lead turns his back to her and points upward. She looks into the sky and sees what he sees.
A long luminous coffin is hanging at an angle against the stars. Just above it, like a headstone, is a tall, sleek 80. Marion concentrates on the bottom loop of the 8 and finds that it has depth, a smooth valley or riverbed that runs deep beneath the stars. She places her foot on the edge. It is firm, so she stands up inside it, looking over her shoulder to an image of Robert that is distant and flowing, scattering across a faraway field of light, an aurora borealis. She walks toward the end of the wide gully and, as the moon peeks above her head, a yellow pearl in the cross of the 8, she feels that all the time and all the space in the world have fallen and left her here. Here, with two arms and two legs and a tickle in her throat that she coughs to clear.
ELEVEN
In the cottage home of Doctor John Mendez a suicidal poet sleeps. The morning sun has broken across the embroidered hounds that hunt upon his pillow. The young man flips over so that he faces the back of the couch; his breathing is laboured, hot dust has risen and become trapped between his mouth and the fabric.
“Let’s wake up now. Now. Up now!”
Mendez pulls the front of his black, silk robe together with one hand as he tears back the curtains with another. Kyle feels a bright warm panel open on his shoulder, so he gathers the thin sheet to his face and turns to sit up.
“There is a tray here on the table for you. Come on.”
Mendez pulls back a wooden chair, lays a folded white cotton napkin on its arm, and beckons the young poet with four gathered, impatient fingers.
“Here it is. A big sunny grapefruit, halved and sugared.”
Kyle gets off the couch, trailing the sheet that he keeps bunched around his waist.
“Oh yes. Chilled juice. I like the pulp, I hope you do. And some toast and marmalade.”
Kyle sits down as Mendez retreats toward the kitchen.
“There is a nice Colombian coffee brewing. Can you smell that?”
Mendez pauses for a second; he waits for an answer, but Kyle is silent. He continues talking from within the kitchen.
“I was surprised when you showed up last night. You seemed so, so well, last fall. I thought maybe you would just go on and be famous.”
Kyle slides the serrated spoon into a section of the grapefruit and scrapes it up from below. The skin releases the piece easily and Kyle raises the heaping spoonful to his nose. Sweet. Sharp. He slurps it into his mouth and winces as the citrus bites at his jawline.
Mendez returns with another tray, heavy with mugs and a coffee decanter.
“Finally free of the family, weren’t you? I remember. I remember. That rotten family of yours. Bloody head cases, hmmm?”
Mendez sits across from Kyle and draws the curtain closed again.
“Too bright to eat under. I don’t like when the sun competes with the grapefruit. Let’s leave this closed and talk by the light of your breakfast. How is it?”
Mendez is nervous in the silence, so he reaches across, impulsively, and touches the edge of Kyle’s grapefruit. He pulls his hand back quickly, embarrassed, and presses down on the tines of a fork.
“Sorry. I’m sorry … I should leave you to eat in peace, hmmm?”
“Doct(OR), I am w(OR)se than /eye/ EVEr was.”
Mendez rolls the fork over and scratches wax from an old groove in the table top. He recognizes, by the young man’s strange new affectation, that something is, indeed, wrong.
“Oh?”
“wHELL, /eye/ fEEL l/eye/ke /eye/M being pul(led) A-way, L/eye/ke /eye/M f/eye/ting SUM(thing) awl the T/eye/me. L/eye/ke /eye/m any(thing), the sm(all)est (thing) co-coo-uld k(ill) me.”
Mendez sits back in his chair. He looks down at his hands, then leans forward and picks up a pen. He pulls a pad of paper that sits on its edge between the tall salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table. He hasn’t understood a word that Kyle has said.
“OK, OK. Let me figure something out. You have a new a complication there. Now, last fall, when we left off, you were playing at poetry. A very good thing. I remember, you were beginning to write those wonderful poems. That was a way, a very good way, I thought, of telling the world, a world that had set upon you with such terrible teeth, to go to hell. I thought that you could, too. Wonderfully smart poems. Such a bright, intellectual life. And you wrote in that poetry about how you were fighting. Oh dear, the writing was so strong. You were writing and, I think, waving a flag to me. To warn me. Weren’t you? You were warning me that I was deteriorating, like the sugar cube in that coffee.”
Mendez turns a spoon in his mug and drags the cube to the side. It sizzles and dissolves.
“So there we go, for Christ’s sake! Listen, my boy. I thought you’d walk out of that office, light up one of your cigarettes and say, something like: ‘Fuck him! He can’t help me!’ Some little guiding melody: that’s what I wished for you. The guiding melody of ‘Fuck him!’ Ha-ha! Exhale your nicotine hard, my boy, give those near you a good rabbit punch.”
Kyle slips the sheets up over his shoulders and ties the corners loosely in his lap.
“/Eye/ (DO)n’t c(ARE) any MORE. /Eye/ w-(as all) ways WRONG. /Eye/ j(US)t w(ant) to D/eye/.”
Mendez draws three sloppy circles on the pad.
“My God, Kyle, I can’t understand a thing you’re saying. Not one word. How did things go so far? Did no one notice? Didn’t anyone say anything?”
Kyle pushes his knuckles into his eyes and blows between his thumbs.
“Well, we have to do something. First, I’m going to give you some good diazepam. I think I have some in this pocket. Yes, here’s a couple. Now swallow them down for God’s sake. With this.”
Kyle drops the two blue pills on the back of his tongue and swigs from the orange juice.
“Well, that should at least stop this gibberish. OK, now, Willy Wordsworth, I’m going to tell you a story about another patient of mine. This woman was from Toronto. I’m not sure how she came to see me. Some reference or other. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. This woman had a fairly normal life. Well, maybe a bit better than average. She and her husband were professional people, wealthy and quite happy, with a lovely little girl. Anyway, one day she is rear-ended. In her car, just like that. Bang! Her head flies backward and a terrific force knocks her bones against the frame of her seat. And, when everything settles down, she’s really quite fine. Nothing broken, no whiplash. Except — and this is where I come in — her personality has changed.
“She became a sort of desperate woman: suspicious of people, convinced that everyone ignored her. And so she began to panic. A terrible panic. She’d slam windows closed, become tearful and frightened if she was left alone for even a moment. Well, what was I to bloody do? A little bump to the body can’t make you go haywire like that. At least not that I know of. So I had to look elsewhere.
“I consulted all the texts, conferred with colleagues, but I could come up with nothing. So you know what I did? Hmmm? I looked for the most obvious manifestation of her problem and sought to treat that all on its own.
“She had this terrifying habit of clutching your arm when she talked, hanging off you like a lobster. Frightened, I suppose, that you’d stop listening, that you’d walk away. So I took that repellant habit as the thing I must cure, and I did it like this. One day, while she was in the middle of some fearsome harangue about how her lovely daughter hated her, and she had those long claws pinching at me, I withdrew my arm. I pulled her fingers off and I said, ‘Stop bloody doing that!’ And, oh my goodness, did she look shocked. She looked at me like I was a shocking pervert.