Voids

by Jeffreys, Tim

  She turns her head and gives me a hard look. “Do you ever consider the possibility that this “not wanting children” thing is your way of being absent?”

  This stuns me into a little laugh. “Wh-what? How can I be absent when I don’t have any offspring?”

  “Because you’re scared.”

  I nod in mock agreement, then glance away. Her gaze is so penetrating it burns. “Maybe so. I am scared; scared I’ll turn out like my old man. I know how it feels to have someone walk out on you.”

  I chance a look at her again. I can see the disappointment in her eyes. Turning out like my old man isn’t the only thing that scares me about the whole idea. Emily knows it too, but until now she’s never broached the subject.

  “That’s not it,” she says. “You’re scared because a child will make everything concrete. It’ll make your job concrete, your whole life. It’ll make us concrete, Danny, and you’d rather think you could walk away from it all tomorrow if you wanted to, away from our marriage, away from everything. But you couldn’t walk away from a child, and you know it. You wouldn’t.”

  “Em…” I try to put my arm around her, but she shifts away. “You know that’s not it.”

  “You know what the real problem is, Danny Seraphine? You’re immature.”

  Anger rises within me, and before I know it I’m yelling at her. “There are too many people in this world already, Em. One out of every six people alive today goes to bed hungry, most of them children. Pollution’s endemic and all the resources are running out. We’re already massively overcrowded and the human race continues to happily fuck itself into extinction!”

  “Stop it!” she says in a harsh whisper, slapping a hand against my chest. “That’s not you talking, that’s your goddamn job. That’s the agent talking. You never used to talk like this, Danny, you used to be a human being. But now that’s all you are, a Sterilization Agent, going around punishing all these poor men because the one man you’re really angry at isn’t around anymore.”

  “Look, Em. Maybe Marnie was a sign, you know? Like the universe was telling us not to bother.”

  As soon as the words leave my mouth, I can tell by the look on her face that I’ve gone too far. Tears well in her eyes, and her face seems to cave in on itself. When she speaks her voice has a quaver in it.

  “So…so what, Danny? You…you think the only babies I can give birth to are dead babies? Is that it?”

  “No. No. I’m not saying that. But I saw what it did to you. I love you too much to watch you go through that again.”

  “Watch me?” Emily looks up to the sky and I can see its glare reflected in the tears that coat her eyes. She starts to say something but stops, takes a deep breath and tries again. “I think about Marnie every single day. She should be here, and she’s not here, and sometimes I just can’t understand why.” She looks down at the ground, like she’s trying to discover an answer there. “I gave birth to her. She…she should be nine years old now. She…You have no idea, do you? No idea!”

  Before I can say anything, she turns and marches away across the grass. I don’t follow. Instead, I let my gaze drift over the play area, over all those smiling and laughing faces. On the horizon, across the greensward of synthetic grass, I can see a line of gyroscopic Solarspheres, their opaqueness giving the effect of bright circles cut out of the haze of a paper sky.

  And then there’s the Rorschach shape I’d last seen on the stairway after leaving Kelli Geitner’s apartment. It appears in the centre of the sandpit. My heart rate quickens. I look around to see if anyone else can see this thing, but nobody else reacts. A child skips right behind it, her infant form mutating briefly, like a deformed reflection in a fairground Hall of Mirrors. The trees behind ripple within its translucent shape. It’s as if I’ve stared too long at something illuminated by a penetrating light source, only for the object to move away suddenly, leaving a formless negative in its wake, burned onto my retinas, before it disappears again.

  Hot under the harsh sunlight, I run a hand through my hair. It feels dry and scorched and my head buzzes. It’s the heat; that’s it. I need to get out of this sun. Maybe I should hire myself an adult Solarsphere and roll back home. I can imagine Emily’s face as she searches for me and then sees me rolling by in a Solarsphere. She’ll think I’ve lost the plot. And she might be right.

  My hand hurts, and when I look down I see blood oozing from the tiny cuts in the palm where my nails have dug in.

  ~

  My father left when I was nine years old. He never even said goodbye. One day I noticed him in my parents’ bedroom, throwing clothes into a silver Panthers backpack. I remember asking him what he was doing, but he wouldn’t answer me. I picked up the football he’d bought for me and asked if we could go to the park, but still he said nothing. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—even look at me. Then he walked right by me and left the house, carrying his bag of clothes.

  Mom had often tried to explain Dad’s shortcomings: his temperament, his mood swings, all the veiled rage building up inside him. She’d called him a free spirit, like it was a compliment. Now he was living up to that description. I knew this day was coming, I’d known it for a long time, perhaps even from the moment of my delivery: I’m a mistake; I’m not welcome here.

  From my bedroom window I watched him stroll away up the avenue, making his break for freedom. Freedom from us. I don’t remember what I felt—scared? Sad? Confused? He didn’t look back. Not once. I never saw him again. Now I realize what a coward he was.

  Dad leaving hit my brother Zack the hardest. He was only six at the time, and had been a lot closer to Dad. I remember one time when we were teenagers we both got drunk on a bottle of cheap cider and Zack broke down crying and started asking me why Dad never loved him. At the time I just laughed, and told Zack our father was a loser and he was an idiot to still be thinking about him. Nowadays, I wonder if I should have been more sympathetic.

  When I was a boy, I used to envy the other kids; I envied all the love and support I imagined they got from their fathers. If they had a problem, they’d just go to their dad, and he’d help fix it. That’s the way it should be, but I never had that, even before Dad quit on us. My mother did what she could for us, but she was kind of broken after dad left. Sometimes I’d find her sitting on the stairs rocking back and forth, an incoherent ghost, so I faced down most of my problems on my own. Some might say that’s how I ended up being a Sterilization Agent when what I’d always wanted to do, ever since I was a kid, was write songs and play in a rock band. I’m too old to think that will ever happen now. Without the right guidance, it’s easy to lose your way.

  Not that I don’t like being an SA. As I said before, I get a great deal of satisfaction from my job. I can give you two good reasons why: One, it helps with the overcrowding situation by stopping men like Bass Brooks from irresponsibly reproducing; Two, it cuts down the number of angry kids, like the one I used to be, whose fathers abandoned them and whose escalating incidents of antisocial behaviour are draining the already-overstretched public finances.

  There.

  ~

  Every month or so, I find myself with a day off. Usually, I volunteer for overtime. The extra money comes in handy, and since Emily works Monday to Friday there isn’t a whole lot of point me being home alone. It’s not something I enjoy. Sometimes, though, the Sarge insists, so I’ll end up with a day like today, pottering about the apartment looking for ways to amuse myself. What I’ve started doing lately is going into the utility block and bouncing this tension ball against the wall for an hour or so. I find it a good way to unwind. There’s something Zen-like in the nature of it and I find I can drift into reverie during the exercise and get to grips with whatever thoughts have been buzzing around in my head.

  There’s no natural light in the utility block; the interior space is instead lit by mercury-vapour lamps that flicker on as I enter. The four walls are constructed of Biotite masonry painted beige. I sit on the concrete floor and rol
l the tension ball between the palms of my hands to warm up the rubber. This is an exercise I began last year after my left hand was crushed during a tricky assignment. Even though my tendons have now healed I still enjoy the rhythmic sensation of the ball bouncing and hitting the wall opposite before returning with a hollow whop to my cupped hand.

  I let my arm go limp and release the ball at the instinctive moment which gives it a pleasing arc onto the floor a few yards ahead of me, before bouncing against the wall to rebound back into my palm.

  THUD—POK—WHOP!

  THUD—POK—WHOP!

  THUD—POK—WHOP!

  The months of repeated impact have caused a large dark-grey stain to bloom on the far wall, each collision of ball against brick leaving traces of rubber.

  I think about my brother. I can see Zack in the yard outside the house where we grew up. He’s maybe fourteen or fifteen years old. I’m three years older. He’s just inside the garage doorway and I can see sunlight on his bare, reddened back as he rifles through a pile of junk. Finally, he pulls out a baseball bat, turns and holds it up. The rays of the late afternoon sun give it a metallic gleam.

  He races out onto the patch of scrubland at the back of the house. From my bedroom window I can see an excitable huddle of boys waiting for him, smiling and cheering before exploding in a starburst as they run to take their positions on the field.

  Another shape catches my eye. To my right I see Emily standing by her dad’s bright red Pulsar hybrid. She’s looking up at me and waving. I smile and wave back, then head downstairs. I pass my mother in the hallway. She’s wiping her face and reapplying her eye shadow in the mirror. I can see she’s been crying.

  “You…you going out, honey?”

  “Yep. Emily wants me. You okay, Mom…?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She nods but doesn’t say anything more. I plant a quick kiss on her cheek and open the door into the humid summer air. I recall it being a beautiful day, the kind that makes it hard to imagine we were ever anything other than happy.

  “Danny!”

  Emily beckons me. I can picture her clearly. She’s wearing a white dress with blue flowers and she’s smiling. I walk towards her. When I’m close enough for her to hear, I start singing under my breath.

  Shielding my eyes from the sun until I realized it was simply your smile,

  And so I held both my arms out wide and allowed myself to be blinded…

  Emily laughs, recognizing the lyrics. I bow theatrically and kiss her as she falls into my embrace.

  “Danny, guess what…Dad said he’ll teach me to drive and pay for my exam, then when I pass, he says I can have the hybrid! Isn’t that great news?”

  “Great news for him. He’s totally hoping you’ll fail!”

  “Danny Seraphine!”

  Emily laughs in mock indignation and slaps my arm with her hand. That smile of hers never wanes and I want to bask in its glow. Or maybe that’s just the way I remember it. She hooks the crook of my arm and walks at my side as we head to the Want-O-Mart for a milkshake.

  “When’re you going to finish that song, Oh Danny Boy?”

  “When it wants to be finished. You can’t rush this stuff, Em. It has to come naturally. I’m still working on a chord structure for the chorus.”

  Back then, I thought I was the next Joey Jackhammer. One day, when I was about eleven, I was up in the attic shifting through some junk when I came across an old Telecaster electric guitar that—Mom later informed me—used to belong to Dad. It was ruby red and carried a label that said RIOT! Mom said Dad used to play guitar a bit, back when they first met. I hadn’t known this about my father; but as soon as I found out I was determined to learn to play the guitar, but I would play it better than he ever had. By the time I was fifteen or sixteen I was even writing songs.

  I had this fantasy where I’d be on stage somewhere, singing and playing guitar, and—mid-solo—I’d look down into the audience and see my dad. Sometimes I’d imagine him looking at me and he’d be glowing with pride. That’s my son up there, he’s telling the other people in the crowd. That’s my Daniel! I can’t hear him from the stage, but I can read the words on his lips. Listen to him play! That’s my son! Other times, when I’d indulge this fantasy, all I’d see in his expression would be envy.

  Emily and I reach the corner of Velasco.

  “Well, when it’s finished, you bring it straight to me before you let anyone else hear it. Promise?”

  “It’s your song, Em, why would I let anyone else hear it first?”

  “A promise is a promise!” Emily laughs again.

  Ahead of me, I see a group of teenage boys, about my age. They’re standing around another kid. He’s bigger, but he’s on the ground, lying there in silence. Hearing our footsteps, a couple of them turn to look at us. I let out a little groan when I recognize them.

  “Hey fellas.”

  “Keep walking, Seraphine.”

  “What’s going on here?”

  “You heard. Stroll on, dude…”

  I recognize the big kid lying prostrate on the asphalt, too. It’s Victor Laguna. He’s only fourteen but built like a grain silo. Despite his bulk I know he’s as timid as a kitten. He hardly speaks a word and he has this habit of standing and staring at people as they walk by. It can be unnerving, but once you know him, you quickly understand how harmless he is. Obviously these guys aren’t blessed with such insight.

  “He’s okay. I know him. Just let him up, yeah?”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Leave him alone.”

  “What’re you? His mommy?”

  The group turn their backs to me and focus their attention solely on Victor as he gazes up at them in bewilderment. With a laugh, one of the gang stands on Victor’s fingers, forcing Victor to yank them away.

  “Hey, that’s enough! Let him up.”

  “Take a fucking hike, Chugnuts, this ain’t got shit to do with you.”

  I part the two boys nearest me. Emily lets go of my hand and stands back, a look of anxiety creasing her brow.

  “Come on big guy, get yourself up.” I reach my hand out towards Victor but he remains there, gazing up at me. One of the boys, Treams, grabs hold of my right shoulder. I stand looking at Victor, my hand still outstretched to help him get to his feet.

  “Fuck off, Seraphine.” Treams stiffens his grip and tries to turn me, but he lacks the strength.

  “Move your hand, Treams, or I’ll tear your arm off and beat you to death with the soggy end, got it?”

  I still don’t move. After a few seconds I feel Treams’ fingers loosen their grip from my shoulder. Seeing this, Victor takes my hand and I haul him to his feet. He stands in the centre of the group and looks at each member in turn. They stare back at him with feral hatred in their eyes.

  “It’s fine, Victor, off you go. They aren’t gonna touch you now.”

  Victor walks out of the circle and lumbers across Velasco towards his home. I turn to face Treams. He stiffens.

  “You eager for a conversation with me, or what?”

  Treams stares back at me, his eyes flicking from side to side as he tries to gauge the expressions of the rest of his crew.

  “Nope. Guess not,” he says after a pause.

  “Then I’ll take your advice and walk on. Okay with you?”

  “Yep. Just fine.”

  “Good.”

  I take Emily’s hand, which is shaking a little. Milkshakes will help and we’re not far from the Want-O-Mart. I’ve also figured out a nice minor chord for the chorus of Sunblind. I begin to whistle it as we walk.

  At a table inside the Kreemy Koffee Bar, Emily takes hold of my hand in both of hers.

  “How’s your mom these days, Danny? She hasn’t been looking…too great lately. She looks like she’s lost weight and…”

  “She’s not eating properly, I guess. She needs help around the house. I do what I can.”

  “What you can? Danny, you never stop. If you’re not helping your
mom, you’re fighting some kid’s battles for him or running around after Zack.”

  “What am I supposed to do, Em? Give up on them?”

  “No, Danny, you know that’s not what I mean. It’s just…sometimes, you need to look out for you, Danny Seraphine.”

  “That’s where you come in, beautiful.” I lean across the table and kiss her warm lips.

  “What’s going on with that kid brother of yours these days anyway?”

  “He’s gone most of the time. He doesn’t say much when he’s home. He stops over at a friend’s house most nights. Any friend with a bed or a couch to spare.”

  At the counter a young guy with bad acne is fixing an espresso for a customer. Without looking back at Emily I say, “Hurts. Kinda. That he doesn’t wanna be around us. I asked him last week why he was cutting school and he told me to fuck off and mind my own business.”

  Emily strokes my face. “Hey, come on. Things will work out, I’m sure. Maybe Zack’s gonna buck up soon. He’ll always have you, so he knows he’s not on his own.”

  “I suppose.” I sip my milkshake and smile as best I can. Emily looks over at a family seated several tables away. The father has his infant son in a high chair and is feeding him bits of muffin. The mother is wiping the face of the toddler sitting next to her. Emily beams. She keeps her eyes fixed on the homely scene.

  “You’d like kids wouldn’t you, Dan? I mean, you want a family one day, right?”

  “So long as it’s with you, beautiful.”

  She doesn’t catch the irony in my voice. The sun shines from her.

  Clouds set in as I glance out the window.

  “Look out. Here’s Treams and his gang again. What’re they up to now?”

  Emily looks over her shoulder. “Idiots. Hey, what’s Zack doing hanging around with those guys?”

  I see that she’s right. Zack’s standing there with Treams and his gang. He’s still holding the baseball bat, only now I have a feeling it’s no longer being used for games. Suddenly there’s the sound of a siren and Treams and the others, including Zack, all scatter in different directions.