Pillow

by Andrew Battershill

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Good, good. Do let me know if you feel peckish. It would be my pleasure.’ Breton’s head jolted and, remembering something, he pointed at it. ‘Ah yes, did you see my new picture?’

  Pillow turned around and looked. On the door: a life-sized picture of a nude woman, standing with her hip cocked to one side, dangling a strangely long-stemmed pear in front of her face.

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘My mother sent it. It is a photograph of me as a child. But we have more important business. First, where is Louise?’

  Pillow was slightly startled by that question. He looked down at his knees, his pants torn enough that he could see straight down the legs, blood trickling numbly down his shins. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘Most unfortunate, obviously.’ Breton examined his buffed, clear-glossed nails as if they weren’t perfect. ‘It is one of life’s finer pleasures that death’s image, as it grows closer and the focus with which one chances to watch it grows sharper, only diffuses. Those lines that once seemed walls soften into mere smudges. Or, perhaps, smudges that are not so meagre.’

  The exhaustion fell on Pillow like a rock cut to his exact shape. His eyes half-rolled involuntarily, then twitched back open when Breton banged the desk with a flat hand. ‘I can see that time is, as always and for once, of the essence. So perhaps it is time for you to unfold the events in my direction. Talk, Pillow.’

  Breton kept his hands folded over each other and on top of his desk as Pillow told the whole story in one long, tired, honest blurt. Breton would purse his lips in seemingly random places and move his hands up at the end of Pillow’s important sentences, like he was the one talking. The boss was not one for social cues, and when Pillow finished, Breton sat there staring at his chest for a crazily socially inappropriate amount of time.

  Eventually he nodded succinctly and began speaking, without lifting his gaze to meet Pillow’s. ‘I must admit to a certain respect for these fellows. I’ve always felt that the ideal human act consists of a slow stroll down a crowded street, firing indiscriminate shots into adorable, privately owned retail stores.’ Breton raised his finger to the lips of an invisible person who had objected. ‘Idiots will ask me why I have never done so, as I consider myself most of all a human, and as a close second perfect. To defend myself I will say only that there is much of the wide, patchy quilt of life to be knitted before one indulges in a thing as blunt and hopeless as purity.’ He paused and used the arm of his glasses to stir his coffee. His eyes were a sort of tropical-sea blue, the kind of blue people will say isn’t blue if what they’re looking at is water. ‘So, you are worried that you threw the money, my money, carelessly and with admirable verve into the air for the thieves to collect, and that you ran away, stumbling, into the night?’ He put the arms of his sunglasses in his mouth, pulling them out and putting them back behind his ears in one motion, his eyes not blinking or looking away as the shades obscured them.

  Pillow opted for brevity. It was best to just let Breton talk most of the time. ‘Yup.’

  ‘Do not worry. I understand. You did what you had to do. You saved yourself. I admire you, in touch as you are with the elemental facts of life.’

  Pillow knew that Breton liked you only if you gave it back to him a little bit while doing absolutely everything he asked of you. ‘I’m also in touch with the elemental facts of doing whatever it is I need to do to fix this shit. I’ll find Artaud.’

  Breton laughed hard enough that with a normal person you’d think they were pretending. ‘As dubious a concept as merit is, Pillow, one must still reward quality. You were in charge of safety and, however unexpected the intrusion may have been, you did not handle it well. So, first we must discuss your continued role with the syndicate. In a just universe, a vacation would be in order. But I’ve always thought that the only true holiday would be to travel back in time to laugh at slaves. So, since real vacation is prohibited by the tepid reality to which you are resigned, I think we should find you some work. Work, as the world would tell us, is that which you do under the glare of a superior. Is that amenable to you?’

  Pillow shot Breton in the chest with his index finger and thumb and made a thick clicking noise with his mouth. ‘Sounds groovy.’

  Breton’s head twitched up in a quick double take. Pillow was maybe slightly too sleepy and loose to handle this well.

  ‘Murders are the sorts of things that excite even the most fossilized husk of a policeman’s imagination. In the not unlengthy period of time it took you to organize your limited thoughts, we can be sure that the police have been called and have begun their investigation. Artaud is, to put it as mildly as is tolerable, very unstable, a fact of which you should have been far more cognizant last night. So Don Costes will be in charge of picking him up and finding the coins. You will follow whatever instructions he gives you, and provide whatever assistance he asks for.’

  Pillow nodded and noticed for the first time that Breton’s cufflinks were shaped like anatomically correct human skeletons. ‘Are we going to have to clip him? Artaud, I mean.’

  ‘Only if and when I snap my fingers.’ Breton took a biscuit and crumbled it in his hands, letting the remains disperse toward the floor. ‘Take this seriously, sir. You are on twenty-four-hour call, you will go where you are told to and you will do as you are told. This, and only this, will help you. You are responsible for Artaud and for these coins, and you are not in charge of searching them out. A unique situation. Now, if you will excuse me, I have other business to attend to. I hope the coming days find you well.’

  Pillow decided to take a shot. ‘What about Bataille?’

  Breton wiped his hands together, spraying cookie dust. ‘And what, precisely, makes you think that any of your business?’

  Pillow paused a second, spun the biscuit plate in one spot without taking one. ‘I usually make things that almost get my balls shot off some of my business. This is all about the coins, so who knew about them? There was a tip-off somewhere down the line. And it wasn’t Louise, and it wasn’t me. Leaves Bataille.’

  Breton smiled in a thin, straight line, as cold and sharp as a razor. ‘Ah, and the fractional nature of your intellect reveals itself once again. Whosoever robbed the game did indeed have a tipoff. However, you have eliminated Louise as a possible traitor for the selfsame reason that she is, was, my chief suspect. If I were tipped to rob a deal, as you say, the tipper would be the only person I would kill. And who is the only dead person? You would do well to remember it, and to cure this sepsis of the mind which has you thinking, so tragically, that some certain and small things are, while others, the important ones, are not. A full half of this life is a test, the other half a game. Always, Pillow, there are forces greater than your understanding at work. I will not lavish praise on a partially correct, reductionist guess. You will help find Artaud and take care of him. You will cease to bother me with such trifling things as your thoughts. Understood? If you will excuse me, I need to go smoke.’

  Pillow honestly felt that being embarrassed was worse than most any other feeling. He imagined a rock hitting him in the head. It made him feel better.

  Before Pillow could stand, Don hugged him from behind and planted a wet kiss on the side of his neck. Pillow nestled his head into the crook of Don’s elbow.

  ‘Hey there, Donny.’

  ‘Don’t let him get you down, Pillow. He’ll get over it.’

  Pillow set to peeling Don’s hands off him. ‘What is this crazy bullshit, man?’

  Don was fussing with his bow tie as they stepped out the side door. ‘No, no, no. I do what he tells me, I don’t question it. You’ll be fine; this wasn’t your fault. It’ll all work out. I’ll put in some good words.’

  Pillow squinted and shielded his eyes from the sun.

  Don tipped his head back to the sky, as if parched for sunlight. ‘It’s that part of summer that’s just about to get away from us, Pillow. You feel it? It’s going to be weepy-ass fall in no time.’ The
y reached the sidewalk and Don looked at Pillow, then reached over and touched him on the forearm. ‘You’ll be all right. Breton’s in a bit of a twist, but I’ve got you covered.’ Don looked over at Pillow and pushed the sides of his own mouth up, to demonstrate a smile. ‘Perk up, you’ll be fine. Do you want to know how good you’re doing? I’ll tell you your score.’

  ‘You’ve been keeping track.’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’ve got a ledger: 27,000.’

  ‘That’s good?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that. And I can’t tell you anyone else’s score. Your score is 27,000 points, and it’s not relative.’

  Pillow reached over and made Don’s bow tie crooked. ‘What now, underboss?’

  ‘I’ll start looking for Artaud today, you go home and sleep, and if I haven’t found him by morning you join the hunt then. Sound good?’

  ‘I guess it has to be.’

  Don jumped up abruptly and kicked his heels together. He started walking toward Pillow’s car and motioned for Pillow to follow. Pillow was too tired to even be surprised his car had appeared, let alone wonder how it got there.

  Like most of his things, Pillow’s car had once been nice, or at least expensive, or at very least expensive-looking. But what he’d learned in the waterfall drain of cash and the many failed pawnshop visits since was that to keep nice things perfect-looking (and value-retaining), instead of dirty or scratched or spit on by accident sometimes, you had to be one of those people who was always worrying about their things, fussing with them and putting them back in boxes, and putting oil in them, and that just wasn’t in Pillow’s nature. So his car was now a twelve-year-old, formerly dark-green (now greenscratch-coloured) Bentley that performed about on par with, and was as well maintained as, the average eighteen-year-old Toyota.

  ‘I had a thought the other day.’ Don did like to talk.

  ‘Really, I had one of those a couple years back, I think.’

  Don plowed forward. ‘It was a thought about us, Pillow. About how we ended up … I was trying to remember the exact minute human flight became boring to me. You know? I can fly, Pillow. I’m a pilot. I’m good at flying, better than most birds …’

  Pillow jumped in. ‘You know something about birds? They’re not all good at flying. I bet it’s like people and running. You know? Like there’s some birds who tore their wing ACLs when they were young and now they’re just gimping along.’

  ‘It was the same with fighting. I quit, and then I needed something else, and I thought nobody gets bored of flying. So now I’m a sky sprinter. An Olympian flyer, Pillow, I’m really good and it bores me to tears. Seems sad, doesn’t it?’

  Pillow nodded with deep and genuine sympathy. ‘Like how fish don’t realize how cool water is.’

  When they got to the car, Don opened the door for him and Pillow sat down in the passenger seat with his legs sticking out onto the sidewalk, getting ready to fold himself over to the next seat.

  Pillow continued: ‘But it’s not like that for everything. Otters do realize. They swim all day, but you can tell they still think it’s fun. You can tell.’

  Don leaned down, holding the door open with his bent elbow. ‘Good points. I’ll have Artaud here for you to pick up tomorrow. Be on time, things are going to get bad in the next little while.’

  ‘I’ll be here, Donny.’

  Don looked at him and smiled, then he looked back through the car window. ‘The thing of it is, I never know how to finish conversations. And then, I don’t.’

  Don turned his back and walked down the street, singing in full voice.

  Pillow’s apartment had an old doorbell that was actually a metal bell on a string. The bell pealed four times, and he woke up like he was being pulled out of a well. He tried to make out the time on his alarm clock but saw only a blur. The bell rang again. Pillow confirmed he was wearing underwear and made for the door. He used one hand to open it and pressed the other firmly to his forehead, which felt comforting.

  Emily was walking away, and she turned around and laughed when she saw him. Emily was a cobbler at a shoe repair store downtown. She had been far nicer to Pillow than anyone else he’d ever consistently had sex with, and he was pretty sure the same was true for her of him. Her hair was very short and very brown, and she had a number of freckles that gave people the idea of one giant freckle over a whole body.

  How it was with Emily Phipps was just one of the things Pillow was both totally sure and confused about. They’d been living in the same building for just under a year, and had been together that whole time, less a week. She’d told him a borderline-hurtful number of times that they weren’t dating, just two nice people who liked each other having a good time. They slept at her apartment at least five nights a week, and Pillow was pretty sure he loved her and that, frankly, he didn’t have a whole lot else going for himself that could be called good.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ She was hanging halfway between turning toward or away from him.

  ‘What’s the haps, bay-bee?’

  She took a bit of a hop as she moved closer, eyeing him closely. ‘I’m sorry to wake you up, but could I borrow some sugar?’

  ‘Um, yeah, of course.’ Pillow wondered if he still smelled like cordite fumes. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Eight-thirty.’ She looked him in both eyes with the corner of one of hers. ‘That’s p.m., by the by.’

  Pillow was deeply and secretly relieved that she’d specified. ‘And it’s 1952? Neighbours are borrowing sugar.’

  Emily let out one exact breath of laughter. ‘Neighbours? You’re calling me a neighbour now. Well, aren’t you a peach?’ She lowered her head slightly and ducked under Pillow’s armpit into the apartment. Emily went over to the couch but didn’t sit. Pillow peeled off into the kitchen and opened the closest cupboard and started to search through it.

  The kitchen was, by a pretty good margin, the nicest part of his place. Although he was aggressively untidy, Pillow was also very conscious of germs, so the surfaces of the kitchen, while weathered, were whiter than when he’d moved in. His fridge was made of steel, and he had a gas stove with streamlined dials from back when people felt entitled to jet packs and hover cars. Beside the stove he had a three-layered metal fruit stand hanging from the ceiling. Each layer carried progressively smaller, less vividly coloured produce (starting with pomegranates at the bottom). The only plant in the whole place was a tiny potted tree he kept on the edge of the sink so that its leaves would catch the sunlight coming through the far end of the curtain’s reach.

  He took a look out of the corner of his eye and saw that Emily was standing still in the middle of his empty living room floor, trying not to look around. Although their apartments were the same size, shape and layout, Pillow’s compared to Emily’s about as well as a finger amputation compares to a manicure. All the living room had in it was a purple corduroy chair he’d found by the side of the road, a couch with a flat green sheet over it, a mismatched bed pillow and throw pillow on either arm. Between the couch and chair there was a makeshift side table, a pile of old luggage with an empty mandarin-orange crate on top. The walls were light-coloured, but with swirling greyish patterns that were either someone’s idea of wallpaper or just really old stains. The only thing he had up was a patch of half a dozen postcards Don had sent him from Mexico, unevenly stuck to the wall with medical tape. The living room had doors on either end of it leading to a stark, utilitarian bathroom and a dark bedroom with a $3,000 mattress and a knee-high marble statue of a nude woman whittling a flute (both from the good old days).

  Emily caught sight of the crate table, closed her right eye and rubbed it back and forth with her palm for a second. ‘How about that sugar?’

  Pillow spun back toward the kitchen, finally opened the right cabinet and grabbed the sugar. Emily stood up straight and looked up at him not pityingly but maybe a touch regretfully. He didn’t break eye contact as he tossed the bag straight up between them. She almost dropped it but held on.

  ‘
Thanks, neighbour. I’m making a cake.’

  ‘Gross.’

  She did one of those smiles that is really just resisting smiling. Pillow felt a powerful urge to eat a tiny amount of granola out of the crevice where her neck met her chest.

  Emily kept talking over her shoulder as she walked to the door. She stepped on a pair of running tights he’d laid out to dry on the way.

  She noticed the tights and took another quarter step. ‘Well, we can’t all be ath-uh-leets, can we? Listen, Pete, I’m really sorry I’ve been mean this week. I’m a mean sick person. I’ll work on it, but I’m not sure it’ll get much better, so I might just try to be more … And we should talk. We have stuff to talk about.’

  ‘No, don’t apologize. That’s …’ Sometimes Pillow needed a minute to find the next word, especially when he was thinking about what brains look like when they meet air, and as he fumbled around for the rest of his sentence Emily reached up to her eye and bent over at the waist.

  ‘Okay, okay, okay. I’m totally, totally trying to listen to you, but just now, right this second, a pimple formed on my eyelid and now I know that I have an eyelid and that I have a body and that I’m going to die someday.’

  Pillow couldn’t quite decide if he should laugh or give her everything he’d ever owned as a gift. ‘Are you all right? Need me to pop something?’

  She stood back up and breathed out evenly. She had her hand pressed flat over one side of her face. ‘Popping my zits for me is probably a personal-space boundary we should stick with for the minute. I’m perfect now. Sorry. I’ll have your sugar back to you in a couple hours, if that’s cool.’

  ‘Sure thing, but don’t feel obligated, I’ve been told I’m a couple lumps too sweet anyhow.’

  She shook the bag at him twice, leaned up and kissed him. The curve where the back of her head met her neck was visible as she walked away, and it seemed to Pillow he could feel the shape of it in his fingertips after she was gone.