Fog Heart

by Thomas Tessier

  Carrie got the plastic mirror in her hand and banged Marthe on the side of the head with it a couple of times. It was enough to loosen her grip slightly – though she smiled, as if amused at the act of resistance. Carrie turned her head, saw something she thought was a gun, fumbled it into her hand and shoved it up into Marthe’s face as she leaned forward again. Marthe knocked it to the side with a jerk of her head.

  Carrie’s blurred vision was quickly disappearing altogether. She rammed the heavy gun at Marthe’s head once more, and rapidly pulled the trigger several times.

  ‘Oooooh…’

  Click, click, click, click – nothing, empty.

  But Marthe exhaled loudly, and her hands went slack. Carrie blinked and wiped at her eyes until she could see clearly. Then she discovered that she was squeezing the trigger of a soldering gun. The red-hot element had slid easily past Marthe’s eyeball, straight on into her brain.

  A faint sizzle, a curl of smoke.

  Horrified, Carrie screamed. She dropped the soldering gun and staggered back several paces. Marthe tottered vacantly for a few moments, her mouth and hands still moving slightly. Then she came to a stop, face turned to her chest. Marthe’s stalled body sagged to the floor and did not move again.

  The gummy air reeked. The fans droned. The music raced and roared. The heat was dissolving her.

  Carrie turned and stumbled away.

  25

  The affair with Heather ended quietly not long after Charley got back to New Haven. He’d called her once from Wisconsin, when he was a little tipsy and very miserable in his motel room on the eve of Jan’s funeral. At the wake earlier her relatives had been pretty cool to him. Some, no doubt, believed that Charley should be in jail, charged with murder. It was probably not the best time to phone Heather, but he did. She was careful to say all the right things. So terrible about your wife, it must have been awful, hope you’re all right, and so on. Yes, you can call when you get back to New Haven.

  Which he did, though it took him a few days. He sat around the apartment, listened to Mahler and Bruckner, sorted papers and some of Jan’s possessions, and finally he cleaned the place in a fit of manic energy. Then he slept for thirteen hours and awoke feeling weak and groggy. The world did not look any better to him. It was still his life, and he was still in it.

  Heather was just as vague in the second call. She offered a few uplifting platitudes, an all-purpose exhortation or two, and a foggy murmur of indecision when he suggested a rendezvous. She wouldn’t say yes and she wouldn’t say no. She did say maybe, but when the appointed hour came she failed to appear at Gene’s Tap. Probably not the best choice of venue.

  Not much of a surprise, really. He was, after all, somebody whose wife had died of a slit throat while alone with him, a fact that was bound to have a cautionary effect on other women. Funny thing: the New Haven Register and the local TV news programmes gave only brief and quite restrained coverage of Jan’s death. Few of the grim details were made public, although word leaked out by way of cops and newsmen in the know.

  The police had certainly pegged him as a murderer, at least for the first twenty-four hours. That, undoubtedly, had been the second or third worst day of his life. The questions, the insinuations, and then the open accusations. Charley bore up very well under it all, he thought. He could have called a lawyer and shut up, but that would only make things look worse. So he answered all their questions patiently, denied guilt heatedly and finally persuaded them when he took and passed a polygraph test. The fingerprints on the knife were Jan’s alone, which also helped. The police let him go – reluctantly.

  The Brownes had been helpful and supportive, though Malcolm did seem a tad relieved when Charley dropped the summer-school course he had been about to start teaching. Perfectly understandable, a wise move, you need time to heal, to accept your loss and to arrive at closure. Ah yes, good old closure. But it was true that, at odd moments now, Charley felt himself unburdened. That whole phase of his life was over. It was time to pack up and move on, start another life in a new place. Whether you want to or not. Moving on. It’s the American way, bud.

  He and Jan had done such a thorough banjaxing of their lives that deep and genuine sorrow was now somewhat difficult to dig up within himself. What Charley felt was a kind of detached regret. The last twenty years had been a bad idea in which they had both persisted for far too long. Not entirely her fault, not entirely his, but theirs. And now Charley had no particular desire to trade places with Jan, but part of him, perhaps, envied her in some small way for getting out of it.

  Charley crossed the Old Campus and the city green. He ought to make the move to Hamilton soon, take the time to settle in and find his bearings. He could spend the first semester writing his paper on Dunsany and Beckett. He’d also been thinking about one on Dunsany and Calvino – fantasy literature in what Iris Murdoch called the ‘crystalline’ mode. Clever and sound ideas. He could earn liquor and cigar money by tutoring a few hours a week.

  The apartment was pleasantly cool, but stale. Charley got a tumbler and poured some Powers. He put on his beloved Bax, three early tone poems, and settled in his armchair. Great music, fine whiskey, a smoke – the wee pleasures that help us abide.

  Charley had barely lit the Honduran cigar when Oona appeared in the archway by the front hall, one hand clamped on the wall as if to steady herself. She had a duffel bag, and let it drop to the floor. She gave him a weak smile. Charley was astonished to see her there, but then felt a swirl of anger gathering within his chest.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I need help.’

  ‘Try the Connecticut Mental Health Center.’

  Oona looked around, eyes widening. ‘Your wife.’

  ‘What about her?’ Charley said in a growl.

  Oona was shocked. ‘Oh, my God, she’s dead.’

  ‘Thank you, Psychic News Network.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘A mass card in the mail would have done.’

  ‘So’s Roz.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Roz is dead, is she?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that trumps me.’

  ‘I mean it, Charley.’

  ‘Oh, sure. And I suppose I’m next.’

  ‘No.’ Oona sagged a little. ‘I am.’

  ‘If you’re trying to cheer me up, that’s a good start.’

  ‘You’re the one. I told you.’

  ‘What one?’

  ‘I always thought it would be you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Oona didn’t answer. She continued to look around the room, her eyes brightly fearful, as if the white ceiling and grey walls were closing in on her. She sagged a little more, her eyes fell shut, and then Oona slumped to the floor. Thin streams of blood were trickling from her mouth and nose when Charley stepped past her to close the apartment door.

  * * *

  ‘But you haven’t even been told.’

  ‘Not officially, but it doesn’t matter. I know.’

  ‘You would have heard something,’ Charley said.

  ‘If they knew. If they found her.’

  Charley shook his head in mild disbelief. He took a sip of Powers and relit his cigar. Oona was stretched out on the sofa, her head slightly raised on pillows. She was light and scrawny, like a child in his arms when Charley picked her up. He stopped the bleeding easily enough with ice and a damp towel.

  ‘Another psychic fantasy,’ he scoffed.

  ‘It’s true,’ Oona said. ‘It was like someone reached in and ripped out half of my heart. You don’t know.’

  ‘Oh?’ Angry again. ‘My wife died in my arms. She cut her own throat. Thanks in no small measure to you.’

  Oona looked down. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Ah, not at all. Think nothing of it.’

  ‘I am,’ Oona said quietly. ‘We’re both alone now.’

  ‘We will be as soon as you leave.�
��

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I can’t leave. I have nowhere to go.’

  ‘You have a whole house of your own.’

  ‘I can’t stay there any more.’

  ‘Why not?’

  A long pause. ‘I’m scared.’

  ‘Of what?’

  A longer pause. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s go.’ Charley put his cigar in the ashtray.

  ‘Where?’ A flash of alarm.

  ‘I’ll drop you off at Connecticut Mental Health. After that you’re on your own.’

  ‘No, no. Charley, please. I’ve done that scene.’

  ‘Aha. And what did they tell you?’

  ‘That there’s nothing wrong with me,’ Oona said.

  ‘You need a second opinion, darling.’

  Oona laughed. Somehow, things weren’t going the way Charley wanted. The spasms of anger he felt were genuine, but they had a way of dissipating as quickly as they came. He didn’t like Oona, he wanted to throw her out. But, at the same time, he did sort of enjoy her being there with him. It was the company, and the game she was playing.

  ‘Charley.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Can I have a drink?’

  ‘Are you sure you’re twenty-one?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Charley almost laughed. He brought her a glass of sinfully watered-down whiskey. Some colour had returned to her face. Oona smiled as she took it. You wanted to hate her, you wanted to like her, and the cunning little creature knew it. She patted the space beside her on the sofa.

  ‘Sit here for a minute.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have to talk to you.’

  ‘What else have we been doing?’

  ‘I mean closer. Eye-to-eye talk.’

  Charley sat on the edge of the sofa. ‘So?’

  ‘You won’t make me leave. Please don’t.’

  ‘You can’t stay here, if that’s what you have in mind.’

  ‘Just for a day or two,’ Oona said quickly. ‘Until I get an idea of where we have to go.’

  ‘We?’

  She looked down again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘We are not going anywhere, and you—’

  ‘Charley…’

  Tears gushing up in her eyes. He hated this kind of stunt. But those eyes had invisible hooks.

  ‘You can wring your fingers too, for all I care.’

  ‘I’m alone.’

  ‘Who isn’t.’

  ‘You need me.’

  ‘Why on earth do I need you?’

  Oona sniffed and brushed away a tear. ‘Because,’ Oona said, her voice nervous and waifish, ‘you couldn’t save your daughter and you couldn’t save your wife.’ Now she looked up and gazed at him. ‘I’m your last chance. You can still save me.’

  * * *

  What was he doing? Oona meant trouble, one way or another. She could talk like that, she could say things that got under his skin and worked on him – but they meant nothing. It was more of the same blather. She had a huge capacity for poking around the edges of your life, hoping to draw blood. That was the sort of person Oona was: seductive, sly, canny, manipulative.

  Throw her out. She has a place of her own to live, and you can’t give her the kind of help she needs anyway. Then drive up to Hamilton, Ontario. Find a nice apartment, get your future in hand. Straight away. Lose her. Now. Yes.

  Charley stared at Oona, who was dozing on the couch. He had no idea why she’d come to him. He had had no idea about Roz. But he knew one thing. If you think you’re lost and alone, you probably are. Oona was lost and alone.

  And him with her.

  * * *

  While in the bathroom, he looked at his face in the mirror. Not much flesh tone in that mug. Grey stubble on the chin, to go with the first silvery strands cropping up on top. You have such tired eyes, a tired face. But who was he to judge? He knew some women who’d told him he had bedroom eyes. Meaning sexy, erotic. Charley preferred to accept their judgement over his own, even if he generally felt more tired than erotic. He splashed cold water on his face, brushed a few stray hairs back in place, sprayed his mouth with mint freshener, and returned to the living room.

  ‘Charley.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you.’

  He hadn’t given her a decision yet. ‘Why?’

  ‘For letting me stay.’

  ‘Oona, I—’

  ‘But I want to tell you straight, so you’ll know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t try to put your thing in me.’

  ‘Oona, it never crossed—’

  ‘Don’t even ask me to touch it.’

  * * *

  ‘When did you read Sir Walter Scott?’

  ‘At the home.’

  Oona was running her fingers along the spines on one of his bookshelves. She seemed a little stronger now and was wandering about the room, looking at things.

  ‘The home?’

  ‘It wasn’t, really. They just call it that.’

  ‘You mean an orphanage?’

  ‘No. It was the kind of place where they put you when they have nowhere else to put you.’

  ‘Were you in trouble?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Oh, a while back.’ Oona was growing restless. ‘It doesn’t matter now. But it wasn’t all that bad a place. They had plenty of books, so I did a lot of reading. Makes the time pass.’

  ‘What kind of trouble?’

  ‘I don’t know. Trouble trouble.’

  ‘Oona, you must know,’ Charley said, gently scolding. ‘You might find it helps to talk about it.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Know what I like about you, Charley?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You stayed with Jan. You did stay. It might not have been the best thing for either of you but it was the good thing to do. Everybody leaves sooner or later. Even Roz. But you didn’t, you stayed with your wife.’

  ‘Jan was not a strong person.’

  ‘You are.’

  Charley laughed. ‘Oona, I’m probably the weakest man you’ve ever met, bar none.’

  ‘You have a blind spot about yourself, but I see you in ways you never can. You’re stronger than you think.’

  ‘Well, good. That’s nice to know.’

  Charley was growing uncomfortable. This kind of talk was so ensnaring and it led nowhere. Oona was trying to make him feel better and, thus, more willing to do whatever she wanted. When he asked her anything about herself, she would swing it back to him and his life.

  ‘You joke about it,’ Oona said. ‘But I was right about you. I was the first time we met.’

  Charley ignored that. ‘Tell me about your trouble.’

  Oona gave him a strange look. She turned to the bookshelf again and moved along it, away from him.

  ‘I saw the worst thing coming at me,’ she said quietly. ‘So I did the worst thing I could about it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Well, you didn’t kill anybody. Did you?’

  Oona looked at him for a moment, then turned away.

  * * *

  The drink didn’t help. It was a long time before he finally fell asleep that night. She took the sofa in the living room and insisted that he leave his door open. Such a fey creature. Oona was not all there in some ways, but was, too much so, in others. Charley lay awake in his bed, trying to figure out what he should do with her.

  No doubt there had been some traumatic event in her past. A childhood of abuse, violence, something like that. Murder, even, witnessed more likely than committed. The usual explanations for a disturbed personality. But whatever had happened to Oona years ago interested him less than who she was now. Fascinating in her own spooky way, appealing but at the same time off-putting, the picture of helplessness and yet subtly dominating – oh, yes, Oona was a l
ittle wonder. But not for ever irresistible.

  He would let her stay for a day or two, three at most. Let her come to her senses. Then he would push her out, gently but firmly. You will know when the time is right because it’ll be when you start to like her too much.

  He thought he had it more or less worked out, when he heard the noises. Oona. She was crying in her sleep, whimpering as if in response to a bad dream. It grew louder. Bloody hell, it was going to be a short stay if he had to listen to this every night. Louder, then worse. It sounded as if she were choking or gagging on something.

  Charley got out of bed and went to the living room. Now he could hear her thrashing about on the sofa, thumping it blindly with her arms. He slapped his hand against the wall to switch on the light. It looked even worse than it sounded.

  She was having some kind of seizure. Her body twitched and jerked, and she was grinding her teeth in a clatter. Her eyes were squeezed tight shut. Saliva beaded in both corners of her mouth and then dribbled down her chin. Her fingers clawed at the upholstery, then smacked it wildly, and her head twisted back and forth in a frenzy. Strangled sobs and groans escaped through her clenched teeth.

  Epilepsy? That would explain a lot, the visions and voices, the whole mad scene that Oona went through for the customers. It was so obvious – Charley was amazed that he hadn’t thought of it before now. But he didn’t know exactly what to do for someone in that state. Keep them from swallowing their tongue, right?

  He rushed to the sofa and tried to calm Oona – but she was like a wild animal. Charley held her head and tried to open her mouth, but her teeth wouldn’t budge. Her breath was hot on his skin and came in tiny snorts. Panic setting in.

  ‘Help,’ he said half aloud, to himself. ‘Get help.’

  Before he could move, however, Oona’s hands shot up and took hold of him by the hair. Her strength was shocking. She pulled his head down onto her chest and held it tightly there. His neck was twisted painfully, and Charley turned the rest of his body on the edge of the sofa to ease the angle. He couldn’t pull away or free himself from Oona’s grip.