As the Current Pulls the Fallen Under

by Daryl Sneath

  The sex was finished. We were in transition.

  I had jeans on but no shirt. I stretched my arms out to the side, reaching with both hands as far away from my body as possible, making a cross of myself.

  Valerie was on the couch, feet tucked under, my burnt orange ‘Kick or Be Kicked’ shirt on and nothing else.

  ‘Is it never not not rainless in this place?’

  ‘Triple negative. Clever.’

  ‘Quadruple actually. A never, two nots, and a less.’

  ‘I don’t think lessing something counts.’

  ‘Guiltless. Fearless. Hopeless. Because-he-wants-something-in-return-less.’

  ‘Opposites. Not negatives.’

  ‘Hopeless. No hope. I’d say they’re the same thing.’

  ‘What you hear first matters. Hope or no.’

  I turned to her and pocketed my hands. ‘The sun is giving in.’

  My intention that day as I drove up to her building had been to tell her about Max and then leave. But I didn’t. I stayed. As usual. I really have no idea why I chose that moment to tell her that I knew about Wolf. So much for intentions.

  She moved her feet from under her and made a spot for me between her knees. She put her hands out: a silent invitation. I sat and we both spoke looking out the window.

  ‘Are you?’ she said.

  ‘Am I what?’

  ‘Giving in.’

  I held her knees, her thighs like armrests. ‘I don’t know what I’m doing.’

  She set her face against mine. ‘Most would disagree.’

  I took one of her hands and kissed the palm.

  She said, ‘It’s over, you know.’

  My stomach dropped and my heart went.

  ‘He howled his last howl a month ago.’

  I nodded, relieved. ‘Too soon for jokes I think.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’

  She crossed her ankles and cinched me in.

  I said, ‘There’s something else you should know about me.’

  Grinning, she whispered in my ear. ‘I thought I knew everything there was to know, Victor.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think you know this.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Okay . . . I’m a member.’

  I felt her pull away.

  ‘I’ve been one since Hayward Field.’

  She sat up a little.

  ‘I’ve seen every episode—his and mine—since October.’

  She pushed me away. Holding me at arms’ length she climbed out from behind me, stood, walked toward the kitchen, and turned, arms folded.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She shook her head. ‘There’s no way.’

  I shrugged.

  ‘Even if you found someone to nudge you, your submission would have been rejected outright.’2

  ‘I submitted as Rayn.’

  ‘Impossible. There’s a built-in check for that sort of thing. The IP address you send your submission from has to match the information in the submission itself.’

  ‘It did. All my money comes from Rayn’s accounts. The laptop I use is hers.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I can show you.’

  ‘I mean I don’t believe you’re a member.’

  ‘I can tell you the names of the last eight episodes. How else could I do that?’

  ‘Your little fans in Eugene keep you updated, no doubt. You may have even gone down there once or twice for a reunion and a private screening while I was in Montreal with Wolf. There’s no stopping non-members from watching a broadcast on a member’s screen. It’s the one thing we can’t control.’

  ‘You got me. In fact, we rented out the local library and projected episodes on the big screen. Tickets went for twenty bucks a pop. I signed autographs after the show. Thick black Sharpied Victors across heaving cleavage. One night I had three marriage proposals and six offers of lifelong, no-strings-attached sex. All in all a smashing success.’

  ‘You’re joking, but you should know, in case you’ve given yourself any ideas, as soon as a member tries to project an episode beyond her own screen, she’s booted out for good and the episode shuts down.’

  She reached into the belly of the kitchen island and pulled out a bottle of red.

  I stood from the couch and pocketed my hands. ‘It didn’t mean anything you know. I haven’t been down there since.’

  ‘Everything means something, Victor. There’s no avoiding it.’

  ‘I was using them.’

  ‘That’s not very Victor like.’

  ‘They knew going in. Consensual—not to mention ­mutual—exploitation.’

  She smiled. ‘My, my. The monster I’ve created.’

  ‘Wasn’t Victor the creator?’

  ‘Sure, but really, who’s the mad scientist here?’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘And the monster learned about himself from those who watched him.’

  She twisted the screw down in, set the groove on the lip, levered the handle, and popped the cork.

  ‘Someone once told me you knew everything. Hyperbole, I figured, to make a point. But I’m beginning to think he was being literal.’

  ‘You’re curious how I came to know about Jersey and Montana.’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘They blogged about meeting Victor.’

  She put her finger-quotations around the word “meeting”.

  ‘The public online activity of every member is sent through a filter. As soon as any content relates to SL I’m notified.’

  ‘Do members know that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Isn’t that a breach of privacy? It’s a breach of something.’

  ‘In addition to being a computer genius, the ghost behind Ghost has a law degree. He knows exactly what he is legally allowed and not allowed to do.’

  ‘He.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So there is an Oz.’

  ‘You know there is, Victor. Don’t pretend.’

  ‘And you get away with Big Sistering your members because of the little box they check that acts as a surrogate signature of agreement attached to a document no one ever reads.’

  ‘Exactly. Everyone checks the little box.’

  The wine glugged as she poured. Finished, she stepped out from behind the island and leaned against it, my burnt-orange shirt like a minidress on her perfect body. ‘Kick or be kicked,’ I read again and watched her extend a hand like a Siren, cradling the belly of the glass for me to take.

  ‘I have a theory about who your ghost is.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’

  ‘More than a theory actually.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. You’ve managed much more than I thought possible already.’

  We clinked glasses and drank.

  ‘You’re not angry then.’

  ‘About what, your little fans? How could I be? We’re not exactly in a traditional relationship here.’

  ‘I meant about me being a member.’

  She shook her head. ‘That wasn’t anger. It was shock. For a moment you had the upper hand.’

  ‘For a moment.’

  ‘Yes. Now that I know the cards you were holding, the advantage returns to me. Knowing is everything.’

  ‘I agree and so there’s something I want to know—what it is you stand to lose?’

  The way her eyes and her mouth went, she looked, for the moment, unarmed. It was the first time I sensed from her something close to a desire to unburden her heart.

  ‘Control.’

  She pointed the silver remote at the ceiling and made the sound of the gun. The Decemberists came in singing ‘Weighty Ghost’.

 
; I poured more wine and drank. ‘It’s killing me. I’ve got to know. Why Wolf?’

  ‘He had an inability—more like an unwillingness—to savour anything. And it’s not often you meet a virgin with grey hair.’

  ‘I don’t get what you saw in him.’

  She shrugged. ‘I thought he was interesting. As a character.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yes. Interesting.’

  ‘And you thought it would be, what—interesting?—to pit us against each other. In some sort of sex-off. Let’s see who makes Miss Argent come harder, bonus points to the one who recounts the better post-coital tale of woe.’

  ‘You should know—it wasn’t even close.’

  ‘What about Danny Mann?’

  ‘He was physically perfect and intellectually bereft. I thought I could help him. I was wrong. But again, the dichotomy of extremes was interesting. Who knew he’d fall so hard.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘I don’t think you’ve fallen. Not really. And I don’t think you will. You’re too smart.’

  ‘No, I meant why did you pick me? What made me ­interesting?’

  She took a mouthful and held it before swallowing, tilted her head and looked at me with narrowed eyes. ‘The element of surprise. You continue to surprise me. There’s no way Wolf or Danny could have watched me with anyone else. There’s no way any man could. Or woman, for that matter. I mean, really. I don’t even think I could watch your little rendezvous with Betty and Veronica.’

  ‘I have a copy if you want.’

  ‘See, that’s part of it, too. A coolness you’re not fully aware of.’

  I shrugged.

  She poured herself another glass. ‘How did you stand it?’

  ‘How did I stand what?’

  ‘Watching me with him.’

  ‘I don’t know. I couldn’t not.’

  ‘That’s it, too. The way you fixate. It’s like a mania.’

  ‘So I’m a maniac.’

  ‘Take it as a compliment. From one to another.’

  I checked my watch. ‘Listen. I don’t think I can do storytime today. I’ve got to run.’

  ‘You’re one of the few who can say that and actually mean it.’

  I nodded. ‘I have to head home for a few days.’

  She drank. ‘Yes. I heard. I’m sorry.’

  Of course she’d heard. If she knew about what happened in Eugene, she’d certainly know about Max.

  ‘Don’t be. He was gone long ago. Dying was a detail.’

  ‘Still.’

  ‘Still what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  I checked my watch again.

  ‘You’ve got to go.’

  ‘I do.’

  The way I said it sounded far too much like a vow.

  She slipped my shirt over her head and held it out for me to take. ‘Love me and leave me. I see how it is.’

  I wanted to tell her that I did love her, actually, despite myself, and that I’d never leave her if she’d let me not, and that’s exactly how it was, if she wanted to know the truth. But I knew if I said anything like that she’d stand there—her perfection the only evidence any theist would need to convert the unbelieving—smile, and say something like, ‘Oh, Victor, don’t reduce what we have here to love.’ Which would kill me.

  So I said this: ‘I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  Everything was always that simple for her.

  Here was another chance for me to take control. Throw her up against the wall, pin her there, one hand like a cuff on both wrists.

  Instead I took the shirt she held out, pulled it over my head, and said I had to go.

  ‘Obligation,’ she said. ‘There’s the real monster.’

  My mind went back to Fate and Virtue class.

  ‘Kant calls it Will and Duty.’

  ‘Sounds like a bad sitcom.’

  She stood there, grinning, invulnerably naked and perfect. Sure of everything. A human embodiment of the Keatsian beauty and truth. A poet herself, and if I didn’t believe in luck or some version of God, I should have. There was no other way to explain her.

  I left without touching her: my attempt at a different kind of control.

  When I got to the door she said my real name and I turned.

  ‘You owe me a story, Vector Sorn.’ Setting her back to me she twisted her hair into a ponytail and lifted it. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

  2 Let me explain. A submission is an application to become a ‘member’ of Silver Light and the only way to acquire the opportunity to make a submission is to get nudged. Each member can nudge only three times which puts a strict control on the number of submissions. VA is all about control, which is obvious by now, I’m sure. Although it would have meant more money, she didn’t want the thing going viral. It wasn’t strictly about the money. As for my submission, it didn’t take much to convince Montana and Jersey to nudge me. I got them both to do it, in case I didn’t get in with the first. The submission itself is comprised of six simple questions given one question at a time. Once you hit enter on an answer you can’t go back. If at any time you provide false or incorrect information your submission is rejected. You’re warned of this from the outset. The truth of every answer is checked somehow against governmental databases and the like. The inventor of Ghost (the software platform), it goes without saying, is good. There are two ways to be rejected even if all the information you provide is correct: a) if you are under 18 at the time of the submission, and b) if you are a man. My submission, as VA pointed out, should have been rejected outright.

  STEPHEN & SERRA’S: HERON RIVER, ON

  I flew home, caught a train north from Toronto, took a transfer on a bus which let me off in town, and walked the five minutes home. I didn’t knock and Serra didn’t come running when the back door creaked open and snapped shut behind me. I heard the radio in the kitchen. The Sunday Edition. I smelled baking bread. Through the archway into the living room I knew I would find her in the armchair by the woodstove, needles ­clacking away in her hands, automatic in their movements and rhythmical. Ceaseless. Like a clock. The winter weekend ritual for as long as I could remember.

  I hadn’t called much since leaving, something I realized in the moment. She deserved no hurt and if I was in any way the cause of such a thing I deserved the guilt I felt. Though I would never know because she would never say and none of her actions would ever allude to any feelings but love and quiet relief upon seeing me.

  When I stepped sockfooted into the living room the rocking stopped and the needles went quiet. Unhurried, she set the needles and the sleeveless sweater on the pile of wool beside her, stood, and stepped towards me, hands out to receive me, head tilted, blue-grey eyes full of age and light and forgiveness, mouth drawn tight in a semi-grin as if guarding against a deep and hidden sadness. She hugged me and I hugged her back.

  She pulled away and patted my stomach.

  ‘You’re too thin.’

  I smiled. ‘It’s the running.’

  She walked to the kitchen, pulling her grey hair up, fixing it with an elastic. ‘I’m sure it’s not the running.’

  She put the kettle on the stove and opened the oven to check the bread, took a plate of meat and a block of cheese from the fridge and set them on the table.

  I leaned against the archway, arms folded, and watched her. ‘I’m the same as I was.’

  The cutlery drawer clanged shut and as she set the knife and fork beside the plate in the place at the table I’d always sat I thought how strange it was that the sight and sound of things so ordinary as a knife and a fork could carry with them such strong feelings of being home.

  She pulled her oven mitts on, slid the bread, golden and fully risen, from the oven, and set the pan on a cutting board for the loaf to cool. She sta
cked the oven mitts on the counter and looked at me. ‘How could you ever be the same? How could anyone?’

  She sat with me while I ate and we drank a pot of tea, talking about books and music the way we’d always done. She didn’t tell me she was sorry about Max—she didn’t have to—and we never once mentioned Rayn though she was present in nearly everything we said. An hour went by like a minute and when she saw me check my watch she told me he’d be out there for a good while more if I wanted to go see him. One of her rural generation’s phrases about time (no need to be too specific): a good while more, not too long, as the sun comes up, when the moon is full, in the spring when the ice melts, come winter and the loss of light.

  ‘I think I will.’

  ‘He’ll be glad to see you.’

  I shoved the chair back and stood. She sipped her tea and smiled.

  ‘Same spot?’

  ‘Never changes.’

  ‘Key?’

  ‘Should be in it.’

  I nodded and without meaning to I looked at the cupboard above the fridge where he’d always kept a bottle. I looked at my feet and checked my watch again. ‘It’s some cold. I’m not used to it anymore. A few months away and I’m soft already.’

  She grinned. ‘He takes the heater with him.’

  An unspoken understanding not to get too ‘warm’ passed between us.

  ‘Back for supper then.’

  She nodded.

  When I got half way to the drive-shed I turned and saw her in the doorway. She put a hand in the air, turned her head, and fell back into the house. A gesture which had always meant, I’ll be right here and I’ll remain right here for as long as I’m needed, for as long as I have a say in the matter. There was little else that made me feel so untroubled and safe, so quietly without worry and discontent.

  The key was where she said it was and the snowmobile started on the first pull. The helmet I took from the shelf smelled of him and again I felt like I was home. I took the path through the cedars to the river and anticipated every rise and fall in the ground beneath the snow. Out to the river’s mouth where the water ran into the lake and west a single mile.