Ghosted

by Shaughnessy Bishop-Stall

  He’d been doing lines to stay awake, and now the dawn made him feel twitchy and aching. He wanted a drink.

  Will Utopia have a bar?

  What time would it open?

  “Rain Dance” by the Guess Who came on the radio. Another anomaly. It felt like he was coming onto something—what with the coke and the sunrise and the songs they never played. He stepped on the gas and the Dogmobile stopped.

  Not all at once, mind you. First it stuttered, shook, skidded and banged. After that it stopped. There was a hissing sound that made Mason want to run for the hills. He turned off the engine, wiped the coke off the stainless steel counter, then stumbled out of the hissing hat, onto the highway.

  He walked up the side of the road for a minute or so, then turned and looked back. Left to right: spooky tree in the middle of a barren field, mess of chicken wire and vines, dilapidated barn, gravel, ditch, giant fedora on wheels, the faded centre line of the county road, ditch, log fence, another barn, then fields into infinity. He waited until the Dogmobile stopped making that unsettling sound, then walked back towards it.

  No point in looking at the engine. He wasn’t even sure where it was. “Probably a gasket,” he said. “Or a hose. Or maybe …” He noticed he was talking out loud and stopped. After trying the ignition a half-dozen times, he took out his cellphone.

  No reception.

  He did a line, then set to work. He stuffed two bottles of water, a package of chicken dogs, three bags of chips, sunglasses and Seth’s notebook into a plastic bag. He put the clutch in neutral, dropped the bag on the side of the road, then began to push the Dogmobile off the highway.

  This was awkward. The chrome made it heavier than it should have been, the fibreglass made it lighter, and tippy. And the odd number of wheels didn’t help with the balance. Control was a delusion.

  When the Dogmobile hit the gravel it slowed down a bit—but didn’t stop. It was a singular sound—a giant chrome and fibreglass fedora tumbling into a ditch. Three hundred ravens alighted from the surrounding fields. They dispersed in the air like awakened souls.

  Mason stood at the side of the road, waiting for a car to come. He drank some water. Then, to kill time, he pulled out the notebook.

  THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN

  The Day I Was Degloved,

  by S. Handyman

  Dedicated to Mr. Larry White

  (Sing Larry White)

  It was a Tuesday afternoon and I was in the exercise room for my trice-weekly constitutional. You should know, dear non-existent reader, that prisoners in my position—for our own safety—do most things separately from the general population. On this day I was on my own, but for a guard named Jacob, and I was working on my triceps and forearms. Lying face-up on a padded bench, I was holding a barbell above me, doing vertical curls. My forearms are particularly impressive and young Jacob was watching closely—until suddenly he wasn’t. Within a second of realizing I was alone, no longer was I alone.

  I don’t know why, with all the equipment in there, they bothered to fashion a weapon; men become bored in prison. From what little I could gauge in that awkward moment, they’d made a hatchet of sorts—heavy and pointed, but also dull. It struck the top of my head, denting but not splitting my skull. The blade, however, caught beneath my scalp. Scalp is very thick—five separate layers of skin and flesh, adding up to almost an inch. But should something get through a few layers with sufficient force at the right angle, they lift right up, like peel from an orange.

  That was, in a life full of fascinating sensations, the most memorable. It felt as if my brain, though still connected to my nervous system, had been ripped from my head. The sound was like amplified Velcro. I didn’t lose consciousness. In fact I sat straight up, hurling the barbell across the room. The top of my head was flipped back but still attached, so that it stuck up in a semi-circle, like a blood-red sun rising above the Earth. I shouted, and my attackers fled.

  “If Larry White makes you write

  About getting scalped in a jailhouse fight

  Sing Larry White (Larry White)….”

  A car was coming. Mason stuck out his thumb, trying to make eye contact with the driver. Smiling. And then it was gone.

  The sun’s been up a while.

  Mason looked down at the notebook. Seth was emerging, but he’d have to wait.

  Every minute counts.

  He stuffed the notebook back in the bag and headed down the road.

  47. I’ve never had a favourite color, or animal, or tree.

  48. The world is what we make it.

  How many roads had he walked like this before? Hundreds. Maybe thousands. It had been a while, though: his boot heels on gravel, the sound of crickets and wires humming overhead, the crackling of someone making a phone call, the distance stretching out in all directions. It was like being home—the side of the highway in the early morning, comforting and intense. He hadn’t known he’d missed it so much. Sure, he was high as a satellite, but there was no mistaking this feeling—completely alone, yet connected with everything. He took it all in: the tennis shoe on the fence post, golden flashes on the silos, the dragonfly threesome buzzing through the grass, bullet holes in the speed limit sign, the smell of dry dirt and rotting wood, the shimmer of a car approaching.

  What have you been doing all this time? He stuck out his thumb. This one didn’t stop either. He pulled out his phone and checked the little bars on the faceplate. Still nothing. He turned and kept walking, the Save-On-Foods bag swinging at his side.

  Finally he came to the sign: Utopia 6 km. There was an arrow pointing south down another road. It was paved but potholed, with no dividing line. The sun was a quarter way up in the sky. Mason bent over, digging into his cowboy boots to pull up his socks. He put on his sunglasses and headed for Utopia.

  58

  It was high noon when he got there. Or rather, he was high and it was noon. Utopia didn’t look like much of a place—not any more, at least. There was a railway track, a small station house and a church, but the grass around it had grown high and the sign sticking out of it read, The Lak—of Fir—is real. The stores were boarded up but for the gas station, which looked like a giant corrugated tin can, cut in half, laid on its side with a storefront nailed on where the lid used to be. There was a large cardboard ice cream cone with three scoops and, next to that, a placard that read, The Best Darn Chips—EVER!!! Gas cost fifteen cents less than it did on the highway.

  There was a quick ringing, like Tinker Bell descending. A heavy-set woman came out of the store and put her hand up, shielding her eyes and squinting at Mason, as if he emanated light.

  “Hey there,” he said. When he heard his voice he realized how fucked up he was.

  “Yup. What can I do you for?”

  A tricky question at the best of times.

  “Just passing through,” said Mason, which was a silly thing to say.

  “How ’bout something to drink?”

  “Actually, I’ve got water.”

  “You want food?’

  “I’ve got hotdogs and chips.”

  “Well, you come prepared, don’t you?” She kept her hand up as a visor, and looked at the sky. He walked towards her.

  “Do you want some?”

  “What’s that?” She squinted back at him.

  “A hotdog? Chips?” He didn’t know where he was going with this. As he came into the shade she dropped her hand and raised her eyebrows—as if only now she saw the city in him. He took off his sunglasses. “I sell them.”

  “What, chips? You’re a travelling chip salesman?”

  Mason laughed. “I own a hotdog cart. I’m a hotdog salesman.” He opened his hands, as if to illustrate: I, too, am in the roadside food industry. “In fact,” said Mason, “my cart broke down, back on the highway there.”

  “You’re selling hotdogs on the highway?” Apparently this was where the humour had been lurking. She said it slowly, emphasizing hotdogs and highway, then started to laugh, with litt
le, ascending hoo-hoo-hoos.

  “Not exactly,” said Mason. He looked around while she laughed it out. There was a sign hanging from the railway house. It said Constance.

  “I thought this was Utopia.”

  The woman caught her breath. “It is.”

  He pointed at the sign.

  “Well it used to be Constance, when the train stopped here. Then after that, they changed it.”

  “To Utopia?”

  “Come in,” she said. “We’ll get you some lemonade.”

  “Anything stronger?”

  She laughed again and Mason followed her into the store.

  49. I mostly remember happy things.

  50. Hospitals are better than parks.

  By one o’clock he was back on the road. He’d traded in the plastic bag for a small backpack with a Canadian flag on it. In one hand he carried a beer, in the other a tiger-stripe ice cream cone. The cocaine made eating unpleasant and the ice cream was rapidly melting, his arm now streaked with orange and black stripes. Once out of view of the gas station he tossed the cone over a fence. He poured beer onto his arm to wash away the ice cream then poured some water to wash away the beer. The sun beat down.

  He opened another can, and pulled out the map that Gas Station Joanie had drawn. “Google can’t help you here,” she’d said, as she sketched: only two lines, but a half-dozen reference points. She’d said them aloud as she wrote them down: “The signpost with no sign … Gary’s old Ford … that electrical transformer thingy … the Chalmers place (it’s got a busted swimming pool out front) … the start of the woods … a wet woodpile … the turnoff to Apple Road …” Mason stopped. At the mouth of the road, leading into an old-growth deciduous forest, was a signpost that read Apple Road—the one marker she hadn’t included. It made the rest of them pointless.

  He folded the map, put it back in the bag, and turned down the road into the forest. He looked around at the thick looming trees. No lack of fir here, he thought. That was a good one. Gas Station Joanie would have liked it: hoo-hoo-hoo.

  Apple Road was long. Mason’s reborn love of travel receded, replaced by a tired nervousness. After a half-hour he stopped, opened another beer, did another line. His thoughts had been running away from him, disappearing into the dark parts of the wood.

  What the hell are you doing?

  Do you even have a plan?

  He decided to stop considering things, drank down half the beer, and kept on walking.

  Finally he arrived at 10 Apple Road. The address was singed into a glossy piece of wood, chest high. Beneath the sign, hanging from gold chains was another piece of wood in the shape of an apple. It read The Follows.

  The driveway was winding, so Mason couldn’t see the end of it. He drained his beer and put the can in his backpack.

  What if no one’s home?

  He stood there for a while, then looped the bag over one shoulder and headed down the driveway. He thought of doing another line, but his heart was already racing. And then he was there—out of the wood and into the clearing.

  The house was large and rustic in a well-kept way. He could see roses on an arbour. In front of the house was lush green grass, then a gravel area where a dozen cars could park. Beyond the gravel—all the way to where Mason was standing—everything was bark mulch. To the left was a paddock, a barn and stables. Elm trees stood like quiet soldiers.

  A woman emerged from the stables. “Hey,” she said.

  Mason almost said, Hay is for horses, but he stopped just in time. He didn’t say anything.

  She was tall and slender, in riding pants and a tight violet tank top bearing circles of sweat like dark, stylized hearts. There was dirt on her face. Again she said, “Hey.”

  “Hey,” said Mason, and took a breath.

  “What can I do for you?”

  The syntax was normal, but still he thought of Gas Station Joanie. The beautiful woman was waiting. “I’m here to see Jonathan Follow,” he said.

  “Oh shit.” She tilted her head back and the tendons in her neck formed long shadows in the sunlight. “You’re the guy who called, aren’t you?”

  “I …”

  She turned towards the house. “I left a message. I told you not to bother. He’s not even in the country right now.”

  Mason followed. “You didn’t say …”

  “I said not to bother. How’d you get this address?”

  He was sweating, could feel it through his shirt. “It’s about his daughter.”

  “What?” She turned to face him. Her tank top was like the two of hearts.

  Mason stammered. “I, I’m really sorry, but it’s really important. I know his daughter.”

  “Who?”

  “Sissy.”

  “I’m Sissy.”

  “Circe!”

  “I’m Circe.”

  “No.” His feet shuffled loudly in the gravel.

  “Uh … yeah.” She looked at him like he was stupid. Or crazy. Or stupid and crazy and high.

  He tried to check himself—pointed at her, then away, into the elms. “Circe Follow,” he said, his voice dropping at the end. The tree branches seemed to do the same, reaching lower.

  Elms …

  “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to tell me what this is about.”

  “Jesus.” Mason looked around. Everything was closing in. “Do you … do you have a sister?”

  “No.” Her hands tightened at her sides.

  “I’m … this is important!” There was a wind picking up. Snorting from the paddocks. “You have horses.”

  “What is this about?”

  “Do you—do you teach riding?”

  “I used to, yes. Now what do you want?”

  “There was a girl here. Sort of fat, with lots of acne, and orange hair. Or, I don’t know what her hair was like before …”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mason looked around, the wind lifting wood chips, dust rising from the paddocks, the heavy smell of horses.

  She was here, once. And now she’s gone.

  The scent like fresh mourning overtook him. His chest was constricting.

  “Right here! She was right fucking here—but she couldn’t get up! You’re the one. You helped her up!”

  Which is more than you ever did.

  Mason’s arms were out, like he was lifting something.

  “She started to cry! Right here!” He pointed at the dark, hooved earth. “She was crying right here!”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “Sissy!”

  “I’m sorry, I …”

  You’re too fucking late.

  “Sissy!” He was looking around now, like maybe she was hidden, behind the trees, in the paddock. His heart was racing, his head rushing with blood. Five years since the smell of stables.

  She hasn’t been here for a decade.

  “I’m worried she might be dead!”

  “You’re going to have to leave,” said the beautiful lady of the horses. Her hands were clenched at her sides. She was moving backwards towards the house.

  Mason followed her.

  She’s scared of you. Look at the fear in her face.

  “Stop,” he said, “you’ve got to help me!”

  The woman looked blurry now, as water welled in his eyes. He reached out and she took another step back, still staring him down. “If you don’t leave,” she said, “I’m phoning the police.” The mares were whinnying. She opened the door and shut it behind her. The thud of a deadbolt.

  Mason dropped, cross-legged in the dirt. He was still shaking from adrenaline, but exhausted. Too high. Too low.

  Can you stand up, sir?

  If I could stand up I would have climbed the fence.

  He let out a laugh. No doubt she was watching him through the window, the phone in her hand. Or maybe a hunting rifle. Sissy Follow. The beautiful daughter of a poet.

  He sat there for a while. But he knew at some point he’d have to stand up agai
n.

  And then what?

  The wind shifted.

  The scent of horses was overpowering. It shook him to his heart.

  Oh they smile so shy

  And they flirt so well

  And they lay you down so fast

  Till you look straight up and say

  Oh Lord, am I really here at last?

  THE SIXTH

  NO MORE INTRODUCTIONS

  59

  THE BOOK OF HANDYMAN

  At the hospital I learned a satisfying acronym:

  Skin

  Connective tissue

  Aponeurosis

  Loose areolar tissue

  Pericranium

  The doctors didn’t even try to save mine. They said there’d been so much blood loss that the flesh—though still attached to the back of my head—had died. It would have to be removed. What they meant, of course, was that it just hadn’t been worth the effort. Instead of letting it die, they’d have had to wash it, sterilize it and sew it all back down. And who the hell cared? My legion of fans? Johnny Cupcake in cell block 6? Nah, they’d keep on love-love-loving me anyway.

  “You can wear a hat,” said the man-child of a doctor, as if that might never have occurred to me. Then he brought in some colleagues to gawk at my open head.

  One of the doctors—by the looks of it, a twelve-year-old Chinese boy—had seen this happen before: a woman in a car crash, and the steering wheel sliced her scalp in a line across the front, peeling it right to the back of her head. He said it was called “degloving.”

  I said, “Wouldn’t detoqueing make more sense?” The Oriental kid laughed, and the others looked like they hadn’t realized I was conscious. “So what happened to her?”

  “We spent like hours cleaning under her scalp with soap and water, then it took forever to sew it back down …”

  “Aha!” I said, looking at my doctor, who, minutes earlier, had been holding my scalp in one hand, a pair of scissors in the other. He avoided my eyes. “So there we have it: a soccer mom’s scalp is worth more than mine?” The Chinese doc laughed nervously, someone else coughed. “Or maybe the other way round, hey?” I turned to Doogie Howser: “What were you planning to do—sell my scalp on eBay? Mark my words, kemo sabe, when I leave here the top of my head’s coming with me.”