Tesseracts Twelve: New Novellas of Canadian Fantastic Fiction

by Claude Lalumiere

  “Men,” her mother said, and she said it with such force that Natasha was surprised that spit didn’t spray out of the phone’s earpiece. “Bunch of emotional fuckwits. Just look at your father.”

  “I thought you loved Dad,” said Natasha with surprise.

  “I do.”

  Hypocrite, Natasha thought. Her mother was many things, but she had never known her to contradict herself, only others. Aloud, she said, “How do you and Dad do it?”

  Her mother’s voice was a rapid-fire machine gun. “It’s not easy, hon. That’s why I hated fairy tales when you were a kid. Those stories always end with a marriage. But stories don’t end after you get married. They keep going. They get worse, like a good plot. That’s why I let you read A Thousand and One Nights. Love sets you up for betrayal, unlike that happily-ever-after bullshit. And every bitch and bastard gets what’s coming to them. All you can do is be careful what you wish for.” She took a deep breath and reloaded. “So he left. Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know,” Natasha lied. “It was so sudden.”

  “Well, go find him.”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “It can’t be that hard these days. Use the internet. I use it to find everything now that your father’s shown me how.”

  Anger bubbled up in Natasha’s voice. “What if I don’t want to find him? What if he doesn’t want to be found?”

  “That doesn’t matter, honey. No matter how it ends, you have to see it through. Don’t leave things hanging between you.”

  Shadow yawned. Natasha envied his peaceful, ignorant existence. It was unfair that she was the one who had to deal with the fallout, not him. “Mom, you’ve been happily married for almost fifty years. You’re in no position to give advice.”

  Her mother snorted. “It wasn’t always happy, hon. Remember, we almost split up before you were born.”

  Natasha was so flabbergasted she sank onto the sofa. Everything she knew was suddenly wrong. Again. She had always thought her parents had the perfect marriage. They were devoted to each other and never fought.

  The same could have been said about you and Paul, she thought. Shadow padded over to her and put his head on her knees. She pushed him away. “You never told me that.”

  “Didn’t I?” her mother said. “Well, let me tell you what happened.”

  The Story of the Enchanted Calf

  Your father, as you know, is much older than me. I married him when I was very young, and I was not his first wife. For the first year of our marriage, we were blissfully happy. I was very much in love, and I believed that he loved me, too.

  I soon discovered why his first marriage had not lasted. His first wife had not been able to bear him a child, and so your father cast her out. He then married me in the hope that I would give him children. He was worried about what would happen to his estate after he died. After a year, however, he grew increasingly disappointed as I failed to produce an heir, and he soon stopped visiting my bedroom at night.

  It was at this time that we hired a new maid. She had a son of about sixteen or seventeen; a bright, handsome boy who mowed our lawn in the summer and shovelled snow in the winter. Your father took him under his wing immediately as the boy had no other men in his life.

  At first I supported this act of charity, but when your father began talking about adopting him I grew fretful and jealous. Although I was his wife he acted as if he loved Amine and the boy more than he loved me, and I envisioned myself being cast out in shame as his first wife had been, with Amine taking my place.

  I secretly applied myself to sorcery with the intention of ridding myself of my rival. When I had acquired some small skill, I transformed Amine and her son into a cow and calf while your father was away on business.

  “She was a cow, you know,” Natasha’s mother said. “Hips like saddlebags. But that’s beside the point.”

  I put the cow and calf in the barn, and, in my defense, they were treated well by the stablehands, likely better than they had been treated as humans.

  When your father returned from his business trip, he was distraught that Amine and the boy did not greet him.

  But where is Amine and her son? he asked.

  Ah! I said. She quit while you were away, and I have not seen her son for some time.

  Their absence upset him, but soon his attention returned to me and for a short while I was happy again.

  Some months later it was nearing Christmas, and your father expressed dismay that we had nothing grand on which to dine.

  There is a cow and her calf in the barn, I said. One of the local farmers gave them to us in exchange for using some of our land for grazing. The cow is strong, gentle, and healthy.

  Your father agreed, and sent for the butcher. A day later, however, the butcher returned, troubled. He told your father that the cow had gazed at him so imploringly that he barely had been able to perform the deed. Tears had even fallen from her eyes. When at last he found the courage to slaughter her, he discovered her to be nothing but skin and bones.

  No matter, I said. There is still a fine, fattened calf in the barn.

  The next day the butcher called on us again. I cannot do it, he said in anguish. This calf is unnatural. You must see for yourself.

  I tried to persuade your father that the butcher was being fanciful, but he went to the abattoir. That night he returned home with the calf.

  I held the knife myself, he said, and I could not slaughter this creature. It broke free of its rope and prostrated itself at my feet, as if it were human and knew me.

  I flew into a fury and was only be placated when he promised to kill the creature at next Christmas. Our family and friends arrived for dinner and were satisfied with the modest hens I had prepared, and your father was pleased.

  A week later the butcher knocked on our door once more.

  My daughter wishes to speak to you alone, he told your father. She claims it is important.

  Your father, bemused, went with the butcher to speak with his daughter. The girl was also skilled in sorcery. After having heard her father’s fantastical story about the cow and her calf, she discovered their true nature. She told your father that I was responsible for their enchantment.

  The cow could not be restored, as she had been killed, but the girl could still save the calf. She only asked that Amine’s son be given to her as a husband and that I be punished for my foul act. Your father readily agreed and took her back to the barn.

  The girl put her hand in a bowl of water and sprinkled a little on the calf. If you were born a calf, remain a calf, she said. If you were a man, become a man.

  The calf resumed the shape of Amine’s son, who was delighted that the butcher’s daughter wished to marry him; he had always thought her very beautiful and clever.

  The girl then gave the bowl of water to your father, as well as some instructions. He found me in the kitchen and said, This is your reward for your malice, and he threw the water upon me. I changed instantly into a white mare.

  Your father kept me in the same stall where I had kept Amine, but he did not treat me well. Every day he rode me hard around our pastures until I frothed and bled, and when I collapsed he would whip me until I stood again. I endured this punishment for five years, and every day I wished I were dead.

  “It all worked out fine in the end,” Natasha’s mother said. “The butcher’s daughter turned me back into a woman when she decided I had suffered enough, and your father and I forgave each other. We both grew from the experience. I learned to control my jealousy, and he learned to be less of an asshole.”

  “You never told me this before,” Natasha said.

  “There are lots of things I’ve never told you, and never will,” her mother said. “Like how I met your father in the first place. Anyway, nine months after I became
a woman again, I gave birth to you. Although I was never sure if it was actually the donkey who got me pregnant. He was a randy son of a bitch and would never take no for an answer. A lot like your father, really.”

  “Mom,” Natasha interrupted, unable to help herself. “I didn’t need to know that.”

  “You wanted to hear the story,” her mother said. Then she laughed. “Christ. You sound like you’re twelve years old again. That took me back. Now, look. I don’t know what you did—”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Natasha said.

  “Right. And I didn’t do anything either. Shush, let me finish. I don’t know what you did, or what Paul did. That isn’t important. There are no wrongs and rights, only miscommunications and misunderstandings, cruelties and kindnesses.”

  Shadow wedged his head into Natasha’s lap again. This time, she let him stay there.

  “Amine’s son is still married to that girl. I hear they’re vegetarians,” her mother said, sounding as mystified as if they had become Scientologists.

  “Mom, I have to go,” Natasha said.

  “Think about what I’ve said,” her mother said.

  “Sure. Bye.”

  Natasha hung up the phone. She pushed Shadow away and stood up.

  “In hindsight,” Natasha said, echoing Ameer’s words, “It wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been night.”

  She sat on the bed, her feet tucked up beneath her. Shadow sprawled on the floor, his front paws stretched out in front of him. His tongue lolled out in contentment. Some would find his pleasure in little things charming. Natasha found it worrisome. Shadow’s silent loyalty was a choking weight about her neck. Although she wondered whether he was really loyal or whether he merely stayed with her because he had nowhere else to go. She studied him, hating him for hiding behind that innocent, unreadable doggy face.

  Was this where her story began? Did it begin with disappointment and disillusionment, with deception and devastation? Did it begin with a parade, a caravan of thieves and bandits, a clever slave girl who just happened to know a little sorcery, a mysterious bottle washed up on a beach?

  Natasha’s story began at the beginning, where most stories start.

  “In hindsight…” she said again.

  Now that she wanted to talk, there was no-one to whom to speak. She had not seen Ameer at the dog park since that day; she wondered if he had been telling the truth after all and had moved on in search of his sorceress-maid.

  She hoped to find the sorceress herself and end Shadow’s silence. Benevolent fairies and witches always disguised themselves as ugly hags, but no-one had revealed herself yet even though all last week Natasha had doled out spare change to panhandlers and opened doors for elderly ladies.

  Evening fell, limpid and languorous. Sound increased in volume and clarity; feelings and trivialities were amplified, travelling swiftly through still, lush air. Shadow rested his head on his forepaws. Natasha thought she heard him whimper.

  She acknowledged him at last. Perhaps, as with the benevolent fairies, if she showed him a small kindness, he would reveal himself.

  The Story of the Woman and Her Dog

  In hindsight (Natasha said to Shadow), it wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t been night. At night, in the dark and quiet, everything seems bigger and louder than it really is. In the daytime a closet is just a closet. At night, there’s a monster inside.

  I sat on the bed, reading. Paul was — I don’t know where Paul was. Somewhere in the condo. Washing dishes in the kitchen, measuring out detergent in the laundry nook, puttering away in his office, watching TV. I didn’t care. And yet I felt annoyed that he didn’t care where I was either. Hypocrite, I thought. I didn’t know if I meant him or myself.

  The phone rang. I picked it up. A woman’s breathy voice was on the other end.

  …thinking about you, the voice said. It was only the last half of a sentence, thin and wispy like a mouse’s tail, but it was enough.

  I told you not to call me here, a man’s voice said.

  Paul, wherever he was, was by a phone. I slammed down the receiver.

  Natasha? he called out. Where are you?

  I ran the gauntlet of emotions. Hysterical, whiny, petty, jealous? Angry, vengeful, bitchy, shrewish? Weepy, desperate, clingy, needy? The options all seemed predictable.

  Paul burst into the bedroom. It’s not what you think, he said.

  Oh? What do I think? I retorted. What should I think? Who was that?

  It was Lucy, he said. You know Lucy — you met her at the office Christmas party. She’s the new girl, straight out of school. You thought her skirt was too short.

  Right, I said.

  I did remember Lucy, but I remembered that she had worn too much makeup, not that her skirt had been too short.

  It’s not what you think, he repeated. I had dinner with her on our last business trip — just dinner — and now she won’t stop pestering me. She comes by my desk, sends me emails all the time. I don’t know how she got our home number. She calls me every day. I don’t know how to get rid of her. She knows I’m married.

  I said nothing, afraid that speech would set free one of the reactions I was trying to stifle. Afraid that a jealous whine would leak out, or worse — hysteria. Maybe you’re not trying hard enough to discourage her, I wanted to say. Yes, but does she know you’re happily married? I wanted to say.

  Don’t you trust me? he said.

  I felt that, if he had to ask, I probably didn’t. Or I had no reason to. We’d been married for eight years, but lately that meant nothing except civil small talk during the day and the thrust and parry of rebuffed advances at night.

  For fuck’s sake, he said. Why don’t you ever get angry with me? Come on, yell, throw things.

  Should I be throwing things? I said as calmly as I could. Do I have a good reason to?

  I regretted saying that; I sounded bitchy. I remembered Lucy’s too-red lips and the way she had looked me up and down, as if she were sizing me up. I remembered that she appeared to be ten years younger than me. She didn’t know yet that everything she’s grown up believing is wrong. She probably just saw an unhappy man with a Wife Who Doesn’t Understand Him. She probably saw someone she could save with her youth and charm and cleverness. I knew because I had been that girl once.

  I didn’t mean it that way, he said. I mean, do whatever you feel you have to do. Cry, scream, or something. Stop bottling it up. Get it out of the way, so we can talk about this. We never talk anymore.

  I wanted to cry but knew I couldn’t. I can’t believe you’re cheating on me, I wanted to say. Does our marriage mean nothing to you? I wanted to say. But I couldn’t be weepy. I hated that stereotype — the manipulative, weak-willed woman who uses tears to get her way.

  Come on, talk to me, he said. Don’t give me the silent treatment. That’s your reaction to everything. Be reasonable.

  I thought I was being perfectly reasonable. I checked myself again. Hysterical, whiny, petty, jealous? Angry, vengeful, bitchy, shrewish? Weepy, desperate, clingy, needy? No, none of those; I had smothered them. But what was left to feel?

  He threw up his hands.

  I don’t know why I bother, he said. I don’t know why I bother explaining myself. I could be having an affair with this woman, and you don’t care. What am I supposed to make of that? You want the easy way out, don’t you? You’re going to make me say it. You want to make me the bad guy.

  Stand up and fight, a voice said in the back of my head. But what was I fighting for? Those precious moments of Zen-like bliss when you’re half-asleep on a Sunday morning, before the parade starts, when you can believe that the person lying next to you really understands you? It’s only a fairy tale. The reality is that they’re unknowable, the proverbial Other, as foreign and exotic as one of Scheherazade’s stories.
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  Well, you know what? he said. I like it when Lucy comes by my desk to flirt. I like her emails. She’s smart and funny and really hot, and, yes, I’m attracted to her. But I haven’t done anything to encourage her, I swear — except maybe smile more than I should.

  I couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled at me.

  He said, Natasha—

  I turned him into a dog.

  There was no flash of smoke, no bolt of lightning from a genie’s eggplant-coloured fingertips, no acrid scent of sulphur and charcoal. Just a dog. When I closed my eyes and opened them again, he was still a dog. When I begged Allah for mercy and rubbed all of my lamps and pleaded with the goldfish and said Open Sesame, he was still a dog.

  I shut him in the bathroom to wait for night to pass. Things are always different at night, after all.

  Natasha closed her mouth. She pursed her lips, waiting, watching Shadow.

  The dog turned into a man.

  Paul stood at the foot of the bed. “Natasha,” he said. “Natasha, talk to me.”

  Natasha said nothing, unable to find the words to express what she felt, if only because she did not know what to feel.

  Paul sighed and sat on the bed. Without thinking, Natasha tucked her legs against her body, widening the space between them. He folded his hands behind his neck and looked down in his lap. His posture admitted defeat. Natasha wondered what she had won.

  “That’s it,” he said quietly. “I think this is it. You know it. I know it. This isn’t working anymore. I don’t know if it ever did. You win. I’m the bad guy. I’m leaving.”

  He rose slowly to his feet, as if to give Natasha time to say something. You just want an excuse to go running to that other woman, she wanted to say. Don’t leave me, I love you, I’ll die without you, she wanted to say. Don’t you go walking out on me, you bastard, she wanted to say.

  Instead, she remained silent. “I don’t know where I’m going,” he said, shuffling into the walk-in closet. She heard him tearing shirts and pants off hangers. “Ben’s, if he and his wife have room. Or I’ll find a hotel. I’ll call you in a couple of days.”