“We ordered you the English breakfast,” Sue said.
“Very good. I love that. You’ve got me down pat.”
Sam was scraping the paint off a teacup with a talon. I couldn’t bear to look at him.
From the loudspeakers came a rappa-rappa-rappa. A fresh-faced man stepped up to a microphone. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Diners applauded. “Organizing this conference was a challenge, and we hope you enjoy it. A conference at sea is an incredibly original idea! We needed a full week of discussion before meeting our conglomerate counterparts in London, so we decided to do it en route! Now we’ve officially started our North Atlantic tour!” People cheered. “Such innovative thinking is at the root of the success of Remston Batteries. Just last week, CEO Benson said to me, ‘Youngster, when I was your age, the world was an oyster. I can’t eat oysters now because the juice stains my dentures, but I hope that when you’re my age, you’ll eat oysters all day, even if your teeth turn green permanently because’”—the man’s voice wavered; he was becoming emotional—“‘you deserve them.’” He was going to start crying.
A woman shouted, “You’re a real trooper, Hank.”
Reviving, Hank yelled back, “Yes I am a trooper, and when we arrive in Bristol, those Brits are gonna love our fine products!”
The crowd hurrahed and clattered their cutlery.
Our food arrived. Taking a utensil in each hand, I asked Sue, “So, why are you here?”
She looked at me warily. “Because I want to be here.”
“Want to be here? What do you mean by that?” I put a salty piece of bacon in my mouth and munched loudly.
Sue lifted a piece of toast, held it level before her face as if balancing a marble on top. “I had to leave where I was. That’s all.”
“Where are you going?” I countered cheerfully. I sliced my ham-circle in half.
Sam burst out, “Switzerland.” He clutched a greasy sausage in each trembling hand; froth splattered from his mouth onto the tablecloth as he spoke. “When I left Zurich, I thought I had been forced to leave, but it turns out I left of my own corrupted volition.”
My poor son. I was going to start weeping. Luckily Sue distracted me. “My town in Labrador was awful. I hated everything there. The kids, the school, my mother.” Surely she didn’t realize the weight of the word “hate.” She was speaking with adolescent bravado, but still I felt wounded. Her eyes reddened. She swallowed round a lump in her throat. She was not honest about me.
A man at the mic said, “How great to see so many company-men and women in one room.”
I continued, “This mother of yours,” was it my imagination or was the ship rocking? “she can’t have been that bad.” I spoke each word as notes in a descending scale, “Because, she, gave, birth, to, you.”
“Gave birth?” Sue’s eyebrows raised. “No. She’s not my real mother at all.”
Restraint. I had to learn restraint, for at that moment I wanted to scream. I know her idiotic story about a honeycomb mother in the sky. I stared at my daughter’s bulbous head. The stories she tells are clouds of mist, not rooted in flesh and blood. I’d heard Sue blubbering at her open window. “Come Mother, come! I want to touch your drops of sweetness.” Hiding in our alder bushes, I flung a rock that bounced off the house. She gasped, shut the window, and turned off the light. That’s her sky mother for you. Faced with the slightest opposition she disappears like a vanishing ring of smoke.
“So why is your brother going to Switzerland?” I asked.
Sam gnawed on the tip of his fork. When he removed it from his mouth, two prongs were missing.
“Who knows?” Sue said. “I thought he’d come along to help me, but he has other things on his mind.” She studied a patch of skin on her forearm now cleared of stingers.
“But why must he leave Canada?”
Sue’s eyes narrowed.
I was asking too many questions. “I ask this question because,” I spoke in an off-hand, relaxed tone, “because I have fled many things myself. I fled the army and before that, I fled an office job. Before that, I fled my high school, grade school, I fled my kindergarten teacher, and I fled my nursery. I fled the hands of the doctor who pulled me out with forceps. The thing I regret most is fleeing my mother’s womb. I should’ve stayed inside. The placenta walls fitted my body perfectly, her cervix was as comfy as an ottoman, and fallopian tubes hung like party streamers. I have fled many things in life but long to turn flight into its opposite, rest.”
Sam blurted, “The opposite of flight is chase.” He grabbed the salt shaker and began nibbling on it. Sue glared at him.
My children’s disjointed lives lay in pieces before me and I could not find the thread to join them together. Lord, help me unravel these mysteries and return my children unto me. I remembered Mary’s gold liquid and the miracles it promised.
As we headed out, I glanced at people talking together at the tables. It occurred to me that I’d never really had friends of my own. Religion is supposed to expand your life, but without my God I’m nothing. In Cartwright I could have developed other parts of myself.
Returning to the lower corridor, I said, “It has been wonderful meeting you both. I’d like to invite you to my cabin for a—” A what? For once my imagination failed me. “To look out my porthole. I have a fantastic view.”
“We’re very tired,” Sue answered carefully. “We didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Let’s meet later then. For a … martini. Before dinner. It’s on me.”
Sue’s forehead wrinkled. She needed me for my money and the appearance of normality I provided. She was terrified of arousing suspicion and probably feared that if she offended me, I’d report her. “All right. We’ll meet. Later.” My children scurried down the hall and ducked into a curtained space beside the boiler room.
I entered my room, locked the door, took off my hat, and let my hair fall down my back. Here no one could see me except—through the porthole—flying seagulls and those horrible, leaping swordfish. I cradled Mary’s vial in my hands as if shielding a flame from the wind. Praise God for His succour and may those with dirty minds not snigger at the word “succour”!
I could hear the boiler room door opening and closing. The elevator bell rang incessantly as workers transported things out of storage rooms. From the dry cleaner’s came a steady hum followed by a loud hiss. At noon a man began to shout and curse. He was the soldier who’d come to get the uniform I was wearing.
In the late afternoon things quieted down. I tucked my hair under my hat and crept into the hall. I lingered by the wall near where my children were hiding. From behind the curtain I heard a scraping sound like a stick rubbed across a washboard—Sam snoring—punctuated by occasional sighs. Sue was awake.
Soon Sam woke and he and his sister started giggling together. Through a crack in the curtain I observed Sam lying with his head in Sue’s lap. She stroked his hair. They were happy together! For an instant, I felt superfluous. Something was growing inside them that I wasn’t privy to. A waiter carrying a box appeared in the hall. Afraid he’d speak to me, I darted into my room. An hour later I returned to the curtain. My children were arguing, which reassured me.
Sue said, “This isn’t what I expected. Everything’s so difficult—and dangerous. And what’s with that creepy soldier who keeps asking questions?”
Sam began to wheeze, a mountain of phlegm in his throat. “We don’t have one identity but several, Sue. We change from one personality to others every second of our lives. Only submitting to passion keeps us safe.”
My body curled like a comma over their hiding place, my ear as wide open as a trumpet-mouth.
“What do I have now?” continued Sue. “I no longer have Father and his dingy. And when we get where we’re going, what’ll I do there? Sam, quit picking your crotch, I’m talking to you! You’re no help at all. You’ve been creating all these problems, and I’m the one who has to look after you. I’m afraid of you, Sam. Surely if you
shaved off all that hair, things would be fine. Oh, quit reading those stupid letters! Why won’t you even tell me anything? Why are you going to Europe? I told you all about what happened to me. You have to learn to trust somebody, Sam.”
“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “Maybe I’m not on track.”
A loud thump. She’d leapt to the floor. “I’m going to find out where the washroom is.”
I flew like an arrow to the end of the hall and ducked into a closet; its shadowy shelves were lined with plastic goats with silver eyes and spring-necked puppies whose heads nodded as the ship rocked. In the corner, a bunch of naked Barbies lay like a pile of flesh-coloured kindling. I heard Sue’s feet pick-pock past the closet. She was wearing my shoes. Then—bam-bam-bam—Sam’s heavy feet followed her. When I saw him in the doorway, I noticed his hands were empty. Where was his bag?
I counted to ten, raced out into the hall, arrived at their empty hiding-place, knelt, and drove my head through the curtain. Piles of rope, pails, steel poles and, in the corner, a small rock beside a shopping bag. I snatched the bag, stuffed it into my pants, marched purposely down the hall, entered my room, and slammed the door with such a loud bang that I imagined the ship swayed from side to side and waiters fell onto trays as plates and cutlery slid off tables. The ship’s horn gave a disgruntled blast.
I plucked one piece of paper from the bag: “Eins, zwei, drei, vier. Kraut-talk. The manly language. You wanted it, Sam. You wanted my tongue …”
I read further and the words entered my eye sockets, seeped into my bloodstream, and flowed to my brain, my heart. Colour drained from my cheeks. My lips quivered. I briefly experienced life without faith.
Now I understood the reason for this trip. That this Franz Niederberger—a pervert, a debauchee, a degenerate spawn of Satan, a pantywaist homo-boy—had breathed his rank, polluted air into the nostrils of my boy, poured poison-peppered saliva onto his tongue and with a touch of one suave, manicured fingernail laid waste to Sam’s entire body.
Listen, reader. My son was never a skirt-twirling ball-sniffer, a flitting, pulp-sucking guava-girl, a purse-flapping fruitfly, a pirouetting, zipper-kissing Pansy McBride until Franz hurled his body against him like a comet that collided with the Earth.
My fingers began to flail. The Monster in me was let loose. I could crush Franz’s testes like grapes, tear out his penis by the roots, and chop up the rest of his body into bite-sized chunks, each no bigger than a Shreddie that I’d scatter over all the oceans of this world. A storm of weeping descended upon me and I tumbled to the floor. No wonder Sam’s pores sprouted hairs that curled like tarantula legs.
Suddenly in my mind’s eye came a horrible vision: two ruler-hard penises crashing together like swords. They smashed against each other, one slanting upwards and the other down, or the tips struck—bam!—directly against each other. Then they clumsily whacked at the other’s sides, poked a swinging ball, or rebounded from flabby stomach skin, shuddering but not vanquished. On and on they continued thrusting, thrashing, clobbering, jabbing. It was a nightmare vision! Each penis desired that the other submit, but the skin surfaces were too solid, unyielding, and self-enclosed, so the dicks lunged, pummelled, and pounded at each other relentlessly. The sight was dizzying, repulsive, gut-wrenching, and exhausting.
I skimmed the other sheets, and they all told the same story. Then I thought: Lo, I shall defy ye, beast from Zurich. Lord protect us from Satan whose Hell-heated head is so hot, it melts any toupée you place on it!
I knew my actions had only pushed away those I love, but the Monster was too strong. I crammed every last page down the front of my pants, fled my room, and dashed up the metal stairs. In a daze I wandered the main deck. Where should I cast Franz’s words? A woman with a beehive hairdo eyed the bulge in my pants and licked her lips. I couldn’t cross my legs, for Franz’s sentences were too long.
The ringing of the lunch bell was like a slap awakening me. The deck cleared. I limped toward the stern and stood alone at the back of the ship. I observed the strip of bubbling foam the vessel left in its wake. It swung back and forth like a tail. I undid my pants, and a gust lifted Franz’s words from my drawers. The pages flew up and over the water. They hovered for a moment in mid-air, then fluttered down to be absorbed by the rolling waves. I zipped up my pants and sighed profoundly.
I kept the first sheet of the letter as criminal evidence of Sam’s deeds, quickly folded and stuffed it into my jacket.
When I returned to our corridor, Sam was running in circles, squealing and rocking his head from side to side. Sue chased him, yelling, “I didn’t take your papers. How could I have? I was with you! Could you at least tell me what was written on them?”
“What on Earth has happened?” I exclaimed.
Sue told me the story. Sam twisted his hands and moaned. I glanced at my groin freshly emptied of Franz’s words. She implored, “Did you see anyone down here, sir?”
I shook my head. “How terrible indeed. To lose letters that mean so much. Absolutely dreadful.”
Sue asked me where they stowed the garbage.
“On the third level at the bow.”
“We can get them before they’re dumped overboard.”
“I wish you the best of luck,” I called after them. When I re-entered my room, I laughed so loud, the people in the dining room above probably heard me. I stuffed the remaining page of Franz’s letter into a hole in my mattress.
At dinner my children joined me at our table in the corner. Sam kept muttering and Sue tried to console him. “I’m glad you finally told me about Franz, Sam. And I’m really happy that you’ll see him again. You shouldn’t be afraid to tell me other stuff about you either.” Sam gnawed on his dessert spoon. “Don’t be so upset. Losing the letters is nothing. You still got that rock you can give him instead.”
Sam put the spoon on the table. “Maybe you’re right. Letters are less important than he is.” He spoke more clearly now. Perhaps he was learning to control his bizarre vocal cords. “I will not get trapped in illusions. I must remember a diamond is being formed.”
“That book you told me about is so neat, Sam. Mr. Potato Head people who can remove and share each other’s body parts! Just thinking of that gives me a weird happy feeling, and I don’t even know why.”
Soon Sue’s arms were grazed clean of stingers. She bent her foot and picked at her dotted shins. Her tongue flicked lizard-like; her fingers leapt and darted so quickly, they appeared to be fluttering. By the time I finished my fruit cup, she’d cleared her whole kneecap.
“Ah,” I said cheerfully. “I see that your skin is nearly free of its … ailment.” I spoke lightly. “What is that all about anyway?”
“A little mistake I made.” She stabbed a pineapple chunk with a toothpick. “At least you’ve noticed. Sam doesn’t notice me anymore. I don’t think he ever did. He’s useless to me, really.”
She’s starting to understand the truth. She’s alone in the world. My son is intelligent, but he isn’t her saviour. “If you’re feeling upset, come to my room this evening for a cognac.”
Then I heard my husband’s name. “Ted Masonty.” A businessman sitting behind us said: “A fisherman from Cartwright. He was found floating dead in the wake of our ship. The town wants to blame us, but the captain swears he saw him jump into the water deliberately. They say it was suicide, but the corpse had a grin on its face that the undertaker couldn’t remove.”
“He must have purchased one of our products.”
Sue asked, “Excuse me, did you say Ted Masonty?”
The man nodded; she turned abruptly and, trembling, clutched Sam’s arm. My hand flew to my face. Then I saw a man running toward me. He was wearing a white T-shirt, track pants, and had a military haircut. “Gimme my clothes!”
I leapt from the chair and raced to the exit. I charged down to the lower level, dashed into the boiler room, climbed the ship’s inner skeleton, shot out on the deck, and was again at the V-shaped stern of the
ship. I stripped to my underwear and threw the jacket, shirt, tie, pants, and boots overboard, then hid behind a rowboat.
A minute later the man ran on to the deck. When he saw his hat floating on the water, he cried, “Jesus Christ!” He didn’t go back inside but stared at the water for over an hour. He left, and other people arrived, drinking from shot glasses.
Huddled in a ball, I shivered in the shadows. I watched the moon rise and cast a strip of light on the sea. The line’s edges wavered and were crossed by abrupt slashes of darkness. At last alone and unobserved, I wept for my husband and me. His death was the end of a long process, and I felt half-responsible for the failure of our marriage. Yesterday I had at last left him alone in an empty house, but did that free him? He threw himself into the ocean to be with his ridiculous mermaid. That desire was always in him. I asked God to be gentle and forgive his faults, which were many. As were mine.
“We could bottle this seawater,” a man said, “and sell it in the Sahara. The people there wouldn’t know the difference.”
A breeze fingered the hair on my forehead. Now was the proposed hour of my children’s baptism, but I was trapped here. Tomorrow I’d have to strike up an acquaintance with them as a whole new person. It was all so exasperating! When Satan is clipping his toenails, may he get confused and chop off his whole foot!
Finally the deck cleared. The midnight gong sounded, and I scurried naked to the galley door, made my way to the lower deck, hurried to the dry cleaners, and stole some new clothes.
My children were still awake. Sue stopped sobbing and said, “If I’d known I’d never see him again, I would’ve said goodbye. I’m trying not to blame myself because I always do that.”
“I could’ve stopped him,” blubbered Sam, “or talked sense into him.”
“I’m worried about Mom. How’ll she feel now?” I silently thanked my dear daughter for saying that I mattered.
My children wept together. I hoped my husband’s death would kill their new spirit of adventurousness. Dread had always sharply defined my own character, and I’d hoped to pass on that fear in my breast milk.
The Lava in My Bones Page 23