Chronicles of Ara: Perdition

by Joel Eisenberg

  Some even thought he was dead.

  From here forward, from Perdition through the yet untitled Volume Seven, I will present to you the state of your contemporary world during the entirety of McFee’s self-imposed exile. We will still portray the past, but our contemporary times will be relegated to, with exceptions here and there, subsequent months-long periods per volume until McFee reunites with Denise twenty months later; see how that works? And then in Volume Eight, all bets are off as we resolve the series of events that ended Volume One.

  That we teased at the beginning of this one.

  Got it? Not yet?

  Consider . . .

  I assume you would like to know when I’m writing these words? After all, if the world was on the brink of collapse by the end of our first volume, how then could I possibly cover not only the forthcoming follow-up to that cataclysmic event but the lead-in to it? Well, hold for another minute. How about these other sticklers: Yes, I have compiled the entirety of the material, to that much I’ll confess. Am I editing it? Am I your narrator?

  We’ll get there too.

  Like a fine girl once told me (you’ll meet her here, pages from now and trust me, talk about a whole other level of unnecessary complication), it’s prudent to leave a little mystery. Yes, even when the survival of the universe hinges on the answers. She can be persuasive, and you will meet her shortly. It is prudent to leave a little mystery, as I can only hope to convince you of so much in the time allotted and need to be careful because I don’t want to overwhelm you.

  Or you’ll tune out.

  Despite the paradoxes, we really are running out of time.

  Got it now? Good. If not, grab a pencil and draw a flowchart. I did my best. Considering all the grief you’ve given me so far, consider yourself fortunate I’m still bouncing my superball throughout the limiting area known as the modern-day human mind (to remind you, remember, I’m supposed to have at least a moderate form of Asperger’s syndrome, and this analogy does accurately represent how my own mind works 24–7). On topic, you may as well consider yourself blessed that I’m still working with you.

  And so, to the next Measures of Creation, those “missing McFee years” and the other presents at hand . . . :)

  ORDER

  PELHAM CO-OPS, BRONX, NEW YORK,

  JANUARY 1, 2015

  What I would give to sleep all damn day.

  His eyes remain closed for barely a minute more.

  “Aw, fuck!” Matthius tosses the blankets aside and swings to a sitting position. As his feet dangle, he quickly realizes that the slippers he feels for are nowhere in reach.

  And he remembers why. He buried them, yesterday, with the rest of his year.

  ~~~

  He cried himself to sleep last night because he’s a mess that way. The idea was that he would awaken on New Year’s morning, hit the gym, then go for a jog, begin the process of losing the twenty-seven pounds he allotted himself as grief gut following the death of Persia, his rescue cat, and altogether embrace the symbolism of 2015’s shiniest dawn.

  Alas, it was not to be. Not that he could jog anyway. He was awake nearly the entire night, sweaty and trembling, after dreaming early.

  He dreamt—again—of finding Persia as he had in his conscious hours, reliving his regular nightmare of a traumatic personal tragedy of just over one year ago . . .

  ~~~

  First, from the distance of the lobby he saw the sign, plastered with tape and sealed with something yellow, likely piss, to the door of his new second-floor apartment—

  NO FAGS

  YOURS,

  DA BRONX

  Then, he heard the sobs and was instantly reminded of his sacred promise that she would never again feel any pain for as long as they were together.

  He had been warned that Persia was tagged “4-A” upon her admission to the shelter, a classification representing a high-risk adoption due to substantive physical abuse.

  Persia was, still, five pounds underweight for an average cat of her breed and size, deeply cut with scars on her abdomen and forehead.

  Matthius didn’t ask but was warned before he signed for her—

  “Most of her scars will heal. She’ll put on weight, but she can’t be blamed for being a bit of a drama queen now and then.”

  ~~~

  Indeed, Persia cried—wailed—the entirety of the car ride back to his building, but never again after their first night together; still, he refused to forget how frightened she must have been and how sensitive he needed to be with her moving forward.

  They were a perfect match.

  Two weeks after the adoption he told a date that he went to look for a dog, but the moment he saw her he knew he would return home with a pussy for the very first time in his sixty-two years. The date told him the line was “pathetic.” Matthius agreed but didn’t care, though he had hoped for a laugh.

  The guy was allergic to cats anyway.

  Matthius hadn’t had a date since. Persia was his best friend—she would be his best friend to the end—and he didn’t need much more than her company.

  ~~~

  He looked up slowly, heard the slow drip . . . looked down and saw the expected droplets of blood leaking from the side of the stairwell and his own eyes moistened with tears.

  The door upstairs was partially ajar, but a chain wrapped around the knob and tightened through the lock-latch told the rest of this tale.

  Matthius’ apartment was broken into, and Persia had been wedged, deliberately, in the doorway.

  ~~~

  Persia recognized her owner’s familiar patter as Matthius cautiously climbed the creaking hardwood stairs—he dreaded reaching his door—after another interminable train ride home, after another time-and-a-half day at the Algonquin, and then a visit to Soho to check out a new apartment.

  She could barely contain her excitement as his footsteps hastened, inadvertently trapping herself further, however, as she struggled to approach him, squeezing another few inches beyond the splintered wood that continued to dig deeply into her skin and draw the expanding pool of blood.

  Matthius arrived at the top of the stairs.

  “Why?” he cried. “Why would they do this to you?”

  He snapped and repeatedly kicked the door. Persia fell to her side, freed but barely able to catch her breath. As he gingerly bent to retrieve her, her labored sobs turned to squeals; she weakly brushed her face against his palm, which he took as pleading to let her go.

  She then weakly licked his hand.

  He tried to be strong for her but collapsed to the floor, never once letting her go, sobbing uncontrollably because, when she needed him most, he failed to uphold his commitment.

  ~~~

  Matthius had been saving his money to move to the city; his intent was to leave the chronic gay-bashing behind and cut his commute by two hours each way. He was almost there; a photographer friend of a friend rented a tiny Soho studio unit for storage, mostly furniture. Her own apartment was a modest one-bedroom two doors down the hall.

  He makes the appointment and will head to Soho at the end of his workday.

  SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY

  Sidra Ghioto elected to keep the second unit, keenly aware of the demand for prime downtown rental space and besides, maybe she could help someone.

  She always strived to be better than she had any right to be.

  I never received any help when I needed it, but fuck all, it’s too easy to be bitter. Her oft-repeated refrain during early pangs of self-pity that tend to come and go with no warning. They’ll have to kill me first.

  She was slender and light-skinned, dark of hair and eyebrow and full of piss and lip, and could pass for black, but she had no idea. Latina, maybe. Italian, possibly. She didn’t think about it much, and cared less. Her two favorite descriptors, both of which she happily accepted as compliments, was that she was “fiery” or “exotic.”

  Sidra occupied the top of five floors. Her storage room, though small
, was artistically decorated. Most of the furniture was recently shifted into her apartment, replacing her older chairs and couches following a ceiling leak, her larger couch strategically placed over some drops of blood that seeped from the leak and stained her light brown carpet.

  She had no idea, and nor did she want to know. But that was then.

  Yesterday.

  Now, as Sidra impatiently waits for him, she lights a joint, flops on her couch, and stares, as if entranced, at the sloppy repair patch three meters over her head.

  “Trouble . . .” she says, bereft of context, as she slips off her shoes and cracks her toes with her toes.

  ~~~

  Matthius stops over on the way home from work. His initial response to the girl and the place is informed by the array of photos and styles framed to the walls. The theme is consistent: Average people of no notable distinction, posing with and near great works of art. Tourists on vacation in the Sistine Chapel, men and women reading great books, families in museums . . .

  A black and 14-karat gold nameplate adorns her desk, though no name is engraved. Instead, the inscription reads:

  HER NAME WAS

  “What’s that mean?” he asks.

  “What’s what?” She follows his gaze. “Oh, that. A subtle reminder—not—that I can’t go through life as a loser, I guess.”

  “No. Not what I meant.”

  “No?” Sidra intones, as if violated. “It was a gift, or so Denise said—”

  “What does it mean to you?”

  Sidra hesitates before responding. “You know,” she says, “I may be resenting you right about now for asking too many questions.”

  “I’m harmless. I didn’t mean—”

  She has trusted him since he entered. Just one of those things, she thinks. “Most of these photos,” she relents, “most will one day be pieced in a collected work called Her Name Was . . .” She looks to him for a frown, or any other immediate sign of dissatisfaction or doubt. Instead, Matthius is captivated; his remaining silence is the safe invitation Sidra needed to continue. “What can I say; I’m lofty for twenty-two.”

  “And this was a storage unit?” he asks.

  “This was a storage unit. As long as you can deal with my collection here, it’s yours. No more room on my own walls.” Matthius looks to the raggedy couch. “The price you pay for your dreams, I guess.”

  “I guess,” he affirms. Sidra follows him as he admires her work. “I’m captivated.” He is taken aback by the singular photo that hangs on its own wall. Three men, posing in front of the Algonquin: Franklin McFee, Donovan Bradley, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Matthius was working in the hotel that week in 1970; Tolkien had signed Matthius’ edition of The Hobbit during his stay. He plays it cool as the coincidence is far too convenient to elicit an over-the-top reaction. “That here on purpose, I assume? Denise?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I’m an eternal fan of Tolkien’s, but I’ve never seen this shot before. No one was supposed to know of his New York visit, and photos were not permitted to my recollection . . . how did she get it?”

  “I think she stole it from Thomas. What’s your connection, exact—”

  “McFee?”

  Sidra allows her question to lie. “Uh huh,” she answers. “She hasn’t been beyond trying to manipulate him up here now and then. If I tell you any more I may have to kill you. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking it was a memorable day is what I’m thinking.” Narrowly evading confrontation. “You really want me to take the place, huh?”

  “Before I go there, what do you think of the rest?”

  “Your photos?”

  “No, my ass.”

  “Yeah.” He senses that his response will mean more to her than that of others. He senses as much based on a wholly unexpected natural chemistry, which he finds quite welcoming and, also, a little suspicious. And sad, even, which he doesn’t attempt to understand, as he is cognizant he may ruin the illusion that, for a change, he really has a good thing going. At least so far. He looks. Up, down . . . around. “Your art is dangerous.”

  “Why is my art dangerous?” Not skipping a beat.

  “Well, you asked. With the one exception, common men and women surrounded by godly images that—”

  “—that are created by common men and women.” He looks to her for more. She taps her heart. “From here.” She taps her head. “And here.” She smiles. “It’s not that the images overtake or supersede the humanity. The humanity is responsible for the images.”

  “I see. So . . . I answered your question. Still want me?” Matthius asks.

  “That depends.”

  “On what? Not convinced?”

  “No. Not really.” Sidra glares, but for a moment. “I was waiting for something more,” she says. “How about . . . we create our reality? If you agree, we can move on.”

  “Very new age-y.” Matthius offers, as he laughs. “Okay, I agree.”

  “Do you?”

  “No,” Matthius dryly responds. “I lied.”

  “You’re a piece of work.” Sidra smiles. “Okay. Honesty goes far with me,” she says. “Maybe I’ll give you another chance.”

  “So . . . Denise give you the photo?”

  “She did.”

  “And you’re telling me Thomas McFee must have given her the photo.”

  “You have something to gain by this inquisition?” She removes the photo from its frame and hands it to him. “Frames are expensive, and I didn’t take the shot so—”

  “I can’t.” He casually flips the photo and glimpses the poem written on its back. “Goddess Ode?” he questions. “What’s this?”

  She shrugs. “So tell me.”

  Curious, he pockets the gift but does not force the issue. Another day. “Tell you what?”

  “I hear I take after our friend. I don’t do cat and mouse very well without losing what’s left of my mind. Think you really could settle here?”

  “You strike me as someone who doesn’t take no for an answer.”

  “No. See, I can do that too.”

  “I can certainly settle here. What date did you say your scholarship ends?”

  “I didn’t. Open-ended. What did she tell you?”

  “She told me you’ll be out of the country, in Alexandria, Egypt, for half a year.”

  “Minimally . . . pray tell. I’m so over New York.”

  “Minimally. Photography scholarship that can cover your entire master’s depending on how well you do, or what you come back with, or—”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “I wish I had that opportunity when I was your age,” he says. “I worked at the same hotel most of my life.”

  “I feel sorry for you. The Algonquin is such a slum. You just never know how many people are starving out there.” He bites his tongue in response to her sarcasm, and doesn’t answer. “How old do you think I am, anyway?” she asks.

  “You told me you were twenty-two.”

  “Kismet,” she responds. “But I lied. My age is none of your business. And Thomas? McFee? Since he’s been gone Denise has been so much nicer to me.”

  “So I’m your fool.”

  “All men are fools. Don’t give yourself so much credit.”

  He likes her. She’s spirited, he thinks. He follows her to the middle of the room. “Regardless,” he says, “the room really is perfect for me. When—”

  “New Year’s will work. And you’ll have at least the six months—”

  “It’s January 1 now,” he says.

  “Exactly. What you don’t have is all the money.”

  “Of course not, but I’ll make it work,” he promised. “Don’t have a hell of a lot of choice.”

  “Up to you.”

  “No, no. Done deal. Thank God for credit unions.”

  “Your credit must be fantastic.” Matthius doesn’t respond. “I’ll—”

  “No, I’ll call her.”

  Sidra was imp
ressed. “Good.”

  “Just curious, though . . . what did she tell you?” Matthius asks, in a brief moment of paranoia.

  “She told me you’re independently wealthy. She told me everybody loves you. She told me you love the Bronx. She—”

  “I’m late on my rent due to this, and I have no friends to speak of save for my—”

  “Not a big partier, huh? I’m sure she loves that about you.”

  “Not a partier. And I hate the Bronx.”

  “I get it. There are haters everywhere, man, not just the Bronx, you know.”

  “You don’t underst—”

  “I live five blocks from Greenwich Village, ten from Chelsea, in a straight-friendly apartment complex with my conservative, dogmatic boyfriend who doesn’t believe in gay marriage. His mother’s Jewish, and his father’s Muslim. You’re telling me I don’t understand?”

  “Why are you with him?”

  “Because he’s really fucking hot.”

  He looked her over. As he pondered his next words, his eyes caught notice of another framed photo, this one 8 x 10, on a bookshelf behind her. Pierced nose with chain to ear, jet black Uma Thurman-style short-cropped Pulp Fiction wig, a crucifix around her neck.

  “You look nothing like your picture.”

  She follows his eyeline. “That? An original selfie before selfies were cool. I was angrier then.”

  “I guess.”

  “Besides, you think they’d look upon that kindly in Egypt?”

  He shrugs. “Never been.”

  “Me neither . . . but my gut says the scholarship committee wouldn’t appreciate it.”

  “When are you leaving?” he asks.

  “Tuesday. She’ll keep the space unrented until . . . never mind. I forgot. You’ll—”

  “—call her. Right.”

  Awkward silence, punctuated with more unexpected—“Too bad you’re not straight.”

  Matthius is amused. “And why do you say that?”