by Andrew Biss
“That’s all?”
“Well…no, not all. But what a person says and what a person feels isn’t necessarily going to be the same thing. Sometimes people simply say things to make someone else feel better. It doesn’t make it true, it just makes it appropriate. Really, Valentine, you must try not to be quite so literal minded about it all. It’ll only end in tears.”
Strangely enough, just at that moment those were the very things I could feel welling up in my eyes. “So you…you don’t really…love me?”
“Oh, my darling, of course I love you – of course I do. Come here…come and let me give you an affectionate hug.”
Before I’d had a chance to move, my mother was already sailing towards me, her arms outstretched, and moving in a sort of slow motion, as if re-enacting a scene from a romantic film she’d once seen. She wrapped her arms around me and applied just enough pressure to suggest affection.
“There, you see – pure love.”
I felt consoled but not entirely convinced. And rightfully so, as her mood suddenly switched again as soon as she’d released me from her embrace.
“But I’m afraid the time has come for you to stop thinking of me as your mother,” she declared. “I’m so much more than that. I have a life beyond you – beyond all of this. I have dreams and aspirations of my own. Dreams you stole from me. I cannot remain tethered to you like some tired old workhorse. I need to run free, to gallop through fresh pastures, to feel the wind in my mane and the grass beneath my hooves.”
My mother’s equestrian petitions did little to assuage my feelings of abandonment.
“But you won’t be running free,” I argued. “You’ll be giving birth again. Anyway, why can’t I stay here with the baby? I’ll be no trouble – less trouble than the baby, I shouldn’t wonder.”
She swished away again, this time with attitude. “You’re all grown up – it’s time you moved on. You can’t keep moping about here all day. You need a job. You need a life.”
“Anyway, there’s no room for you,” my father added.
“But it’s a baby – how much room does it need?”
My father became adamant again. “It needs your bedroom. This isn’t a big house, Valentine, but it is all I can afford. Had I been more successful in life, financially speaking, then yes, we could’ve all been one big happy family. But I wasn’t, so feel free to point the finger of blame squarely at me when discussing your unhappy youth in later life. Either way, economic necessity requires you to leave us and make your own way in this world. I wish it were otherwise, but there you are.”
My mother then said something that threw me completely off my guard – as she was wont to do, of course.
“Your father’s right, darling,” she cooed, in an odd, girlish tone.
Had I just heard right? ‘Your father’s right, darling’? I’d never heard her utter such a thing in all my life. Where had it come from? It sounded like a meek response from an obedient housewife; like something she’d picked up from an old June Allyson film. The effects of pregnancy were clearly kicking in.
“What is he right about? Right about what?”
“Everything. All of it. It all makes sense…in the big picture.”
Oddly enough, just at that moment I actually was beginning to see the big picture. I realised that whatever I felt or said meant absolutely nothing. This was all a set-up concocted between the two of them, and no matter what, they wanted me out. Was my mother even pregnant? I decided, in desperation, to call a bluff that I already suspected would be futile and doomed to failure.
“All right…all right, if that is your wish, I will leave this place. But mark my words, no matter what you say, no matter how much you plead with me at the actual, painful, cord-cutting moment of departure, I shall remain steadfast and resolute. There will be no turning back. I will be leaving for good. You may never, ever see me again. Ever.”
I walked towards the living room door with as much gravitas as I could muster.
“Farewell…birth parents.”
“Bye, darling!” responded my mother, brightly.
“Goodbye, my boy,” my father added. “And don’t you worry – you’ll do just fine out there. We’ve schooled you well, taught you honesty and truth, and shielded you from life’s iniquities. A hale and hearty lad like you simply cannot fail.”
I stood in the doorway, sensing failure but clinging to hope.
“I mean it – I really mean it. This is it. Really it.”
“We know,” they replied in unison.
I stopped and stared at them for a moment. Could these really be the same two people who had always been so zealous in their private parenting? Could all those years of shielding, nurturing, protection and home schooling be tossed aside so readily, so casually? And all because of the intrusion of a little foetus that, medically speaking, had little chance of survival, and even then was certain to be plagued with horrendous birth defects. I felt like an endangered specie, injured and taken in by some well-meaning refuge, bottle-fed and brought back to health, only to be shoved back in the wild, domesticated and declawed.
Were my parents cuckoo? Or, more frighteningly, were they actually cuckoos? Whatever the case the game was up and I was being booted out. My bluff calling having failed, I made one last dramatic gesture in an attempt to get through to them. I remained eerily silent and slowly and quietly closed the door behind me, imagining the stricken cries of separation anxiety that would ensue as I did so. None came, so I leaned in closer, my ear next to the keyhole, and heard the voice of my father first.
“That was easy.”
“I can hardly believe it,” my mother responded.
“I’d imagined tears and scenes and all kinds of nonsense.”
“I did, too. I suppose we are doing the right thing, aren’t we?”
“Who’s to say, but it had to happen. It’s out of our hands now – we’ve done all humanly possible.”
“I do hope so. I’m just not sure that being raised by humans is quite enough these days.”
“Only time will tell,” my father affirmed.
“Yes. And he did seem to take it all in stride. Perhaps he really has grown up.”
“Well, if he hasn’t he’s about to – and bloody fast!”
“Yes, poor thing. He won’t know what’s hit him.”
“I’ll tell you what’ll hit him – Hurricane Life, that’s what. High winds and flood watches. He’d better batten down his hatches,” my father chuckled.
“And hold his nose!”
“And send up a few flares!”
“Or pray to God!” my mother added, with a shriek of laughter.
“Pray to God! Hah! Oh, very good, darling. You are wicked. Wickedly cruel. But then that’s why I love you.”
“And that’s why I put up with you.”
“Out of cruelty?”
“Probably. And because you still tell me you love me.”
Suddenly the room went silent. After a few moments, I slowly and ever so gently pushed the door ajar, sensing that perhaps the reality of what had just happened was finally sinking in and they’d been stunned into horrified silence. I suddenly became buoyed by the thought of the happiness and relief on their faces when they saw that I hadn’t in fact left yet. When the door was pushed open just enough for me to peek in, my heart sank. No relief. No happiness. At least, not in regard to me. My father was sitting on the sofa with his head laid back, his eyes closed, and a big smile of contentment spread across his face. My mother’s face was buried in his lap, her carefully coiffed hair bobbing up and down in rhythm. It was a strange sight and one that made me feel slightly uncomfortable, so I quietly closed the door behind me again.
I had no idea what it was they were doing in there, but if it was grieving it seemed to me a very odd way of expressing it.
CHAPTER TWO
The Man in Black
Cast out by my parents, the only people I’d ever truly known – the only love I’d ever experienced �
�� I ventured forth into the vast world beyond. For miles I walked and wandered; mile upon mile upon mile of dank, drab, rainy streets, all of it with a heavy heart and an indescribable sense of trepidation. It seemed never ending – a soul-destroying maze of concrete and asphalt. In truth, I believe it may only have been a matter of 900 yards or so…but I was tired and disoriented and it was getting dark. Everything seemed larger than life…exaggerated. Even the word exaggerated seemed like an exaggeration somehow.
My parents had sent me on my way with a small stipend and an enormous amount of love and goodwill. It didn’t take me long to realise, however, that this was the reverse of what I actually needed. Their good intentions notwithstanding, a certain degree of resentment had begun to set in. Had I been fully prepared for this? For instance: Common sense – a subject my father had given me countless lessons on, but the essence of which I was still at a loss to fully comprehend, since most of what he’d imparted related directly to his own particular life experience rather than some universal truth – did I have it? Could one even learn it? For the first time in my life I began to wonder if my parents were not, as I had always imagined them, the ultimate purveyors of the human experience. The very thought shook me to the core.
My father had left me with the words, “My lad, the world is now your oyster.” And indeed it was: grey, rather slimy, and a sense of something fishy going on in the background that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. My initial impressions were a far cry from the glamorous fantasy I’d been entertaining all these years. It certainly wasn’t anything like it was portrayed to be in all of the films I’d obsessively watch at any given opportunity. There the world was much brighter, far more vibrant, and certainly a lot more colourful. This all seemed rather washed out and monochromatic. And people, too. In films they always seemed to be acknowledging each other, waving or smiling and exchanging pleasantries, or at the very least intermingling. Here no one seemed to be aware of anyone but themselves. There had to be more to it than this pale imitation I saw before me. Clearly I needed to leave this place – to reach out to the far-flung corners of the earth where life still held some visceral sense of meaning, where the strange and unusual beckoned, where the exotic was waiting to be beheld, and where people weren’t afraid to look me in the eye…because, thus far on my travels, no one yet had.
That was until…
“Your money or your life!”
Suddenly and out of nowhere a strange figure jumped out at me from the darkness, dressed all in black and wearing a ski mask that covered all but two cold, angry-looking eyes. In his hand was a gun that was pointed directly at me. Stunned and disoriented, I struggled for words.
“I…I beg your pardon?” I muttered.
The stranger’s voice became louder and fiercer as he thrust the gun closer towards me.
“Your money or your life!” he barked.
“Is…is this a joke?”
He pointed the gun straight at my forehead. “What do you think?”
In my confusion and fear, I began babbling nervously.
“But…but who says that? I mean, this is a joke, right? I mean…I mean, who says that? Dick Turpin or…or Adam Ant, maybe? What’s that song? This is a joke, right? Who are you? What’s…what is this?”
His voice became low and menacing.
“Your wallet – now.”
My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach faster than a lead balloon. This was no joke, my life was on the line, and I’d been rendered utterly powerless. Despite a million thoughts racing through my mind I couldn’t do or say anything – I simply froze.
Just as I heard the hard, metallic click of the gun being cocked, one of those racing thoughts finally did stop and planted itself firmly in the forefront of my mind – run!
I ran – ran as fast as I could through the darkness – hoping, running, frantic – keep running! Keep running! – If I could just move quick enough – get far enough away – run! – run! – keep going! – keep going! – into the darkness! Into the dark! Faster! Hurry! Hurry! Quick!
A shot rang out.
The ear-piercing sound echoed all around, bouncing from street to street in a show of power. Then there was silence. An artificial silence, as if the entire world around me was petrified of making a sound. After some time I became aware of the frantic sound of panting breath. Was he still out there in the darkness, out of breath yet determined to hunt me down? I crouched on the ground, huddled into a ball, and waited.
Then I realised that the sound of panting breath was coming from me. My mind was spinning. I couldn’t think. Everything had gone haywire. All of a sudden the world stopped making sense. Everything was black…cold.
Was this it? Was this life on the outside – danger behind every corner – something ready to jump out at you when you least expected it and throw your world into chaos? If it was, I’d been woefully ill-equipped for it. The nightly news and my mother’s eleventh-hour warnings aside, my expectations of life on planet earth had clearly and egregiously been sensationalised out of all recognition. I resolved, then and there, to bring my parents to account for this misleading impression and to hold their feet to the fire in determining just why I’d been force-fed a diet of misinformation for so long.
That would have to wait until tomorrow, however. In the present moment I was lost, frightened, far from home and in need of shelter. I settled upon a dubious-looking bed and breakfast establishment named, rather unnervingly, ‘The End of the World.’
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Anna
It seemed to be exactly the kind of place I’d been looking for – cheap. I rang the doorbell and waited patiently for someone to answer. However, presumably as a result of the stress and shock from my run-in with the gunman, I must have blacked out temporarily, because the next thing I knew I was already inside. In the kitchen, to be precise.
It was drab but reasonably clean and orderly-looking, with a large table and chairs occupying the middle of the room. The place had clearly seen better days. I noticed paint peeling off some of the walls, signs of water damage on the ceiling, and I could hear the sound of a tap dripping somewhere, though at oddly irregular intervals. The premises were owned and operated by a robust and rather gloomy-looking woman named Mrs. Anna, who also appeared to have seen better days. She was leaning against the doorway, arms folded and with a dour expression on her face, informing me of the house rules. She spoke in an accent that was curiously indefinable but at times suggestive of being Scandinavian in origin. Her haunted expression notwithstanding, I found her to be quite fair and agreeable.
“Rent’s due every Friday by 7:00pm at the latest, no excuses. If you have excuses, you can relay them to me as you’re walking out the door with your bags. A traditional English breakfast is served every morning, Monday through Friday, at 7:30am sharp. It will consist of – though by no means restricted to, and subject to change: bacon, scrambled eggs, fried tomatoes, sausages – when in season–”
“In season?” I queried, to no effect.
“Toast, marmalade, a variety of jams – country of origin not specified due to international sanctions – tea, freshly squeezed orange juice or artificial substitute – which in some cases may induce headaches, nausea, stomach cramps, or intestinal bleeding, and should be followed up by a consultation with your primary caregiver – and, last but not least, a bottomless coffee pot.”
“Bottomless?”
“Yes. It’s our hook. It’s what sets us apart,” she said, with just a hint of pride.
“But surely that defies the laws of physics?”
“Not if you pay your rent on time.”
“Yes,” I replied, duly cautioned.
“I don’t care what you do behind the closed doors of your room because it’s none of my business. Practice whatever religion makes you feel more complete and comfortable in your skin, and have sexual relations with whomever or whatever satiates your desires. I do, however, draw the line at white supremacy rituals, cults that i
nvolve human or animal sacrifice, kiddie porn, the importing of sex slaves from Eastern Europe and the Philippines, and unhygienic personal habits that could endanger the health and well-being of your fellow residents.”
“Yes, that, um…that seems quite fair and agreeable.”
Just then the sound of someone emitting a large sigh of satisfaction echoed loudly around the house. Somewhat startled, I looked to Mrs. Anna for an explanation, but none was forthcoming.
“I’ve had allsorts here over the years – every type, shape, colour you could possibly imagine – and they’ve all been welcome. But I won’t stand for any nonsense. This is The End of the World. If this isn’t good enough then you shouldn’t be here.”
“No, I…I think this is very suited to my needs at this particular juncture in my life. Thank you very much, Mrs. Anna.”
“Very good, then,” she said, before holding her outstretched palm in my direction. “Two weeks rent in advance.”
“Two weeks! But that’s…that’s almost all I–”
“That’s the rules. House rules. If you don’t want to play by them you can go it alone.”
I reached into my pocket for my wallet, hoping it was still there after my bungled mugging. It was. I was relieved but also acutely aware that my finances were already meager, and that having to pay for two weeks rent in advance would almost wipe me out.
“No, no, I just…it just that that’s…that’s almost all I have,” I wheedled.
“That’s life,” she snapped back.
“Yes…yes, of course, here’s my…” I pulled out almost everything I had and offered it to her. “Here, take it.”
Mrs. Anna snatched the money from my hand and began counting it. “Very well, then,” she said. “You’re in room 12c, up the stairs on the right. But you can take that short-changed expression off your face. This place is cheap – that’s why you’re here. If you expected something for nothing you were mistaken. Everything has a price.”