Down the Road to Eternity

by M. A. C. Farrant

  BREAKDOWN OF THE MONTH CALENDAR

  January. Outside, the everlasting wheezes and falters. The dog poses on the community picnic table then vanishes. The town is flabby and grey. At home there is a tight limit on table language.

  February. Mother’s mind goes missing on a drive for soft ice-cream. A return to the picnic table turns up a bird’s skull. Grandma wears work boots and lime-green stretch pants to Grandpa’s funeral. The language on the fridge magnet says You Are Loved.

  March. At home Mother’s mind is found buried beneath the laundry. Sister writes a poem in praise of emotion. A new dog is bought and named Odysseus. Outside, the everlasting is crackling and green.

  April. It rains on the town for thirty straight days. For thirty days Brother watches TV. Father unplugs the sink, the toilet and the storm drains. Mother’s mind scurries off in a torrent of ditch water.

  May. Brother gets a prize for taking a bath. Grandma wears a black sarong and bare feet to Old Age Bingo. Sister writes a hymn about dread. The planet tilts nearer the sun.

  June. Outside, the everlasting bubbles and bursts. Mother’s mind returns inside a yellow helium balloon. The balloon settles in a backyard tree and glows at night like a lamp. Father lies on the living room rug laughing hysterically.

  July. Odysseus begins his wanderings through the blue and silver town. The balloon bursts when a robin lands on its surface. Grandma breaks her arm climbing the tree to gather pieces of Mother’s mind. The robin is taken to the vet.

  August. The car breaks down on a trip for Krazy Glue. For two weeks, the glue keeps Mother’s mind attached to her brain. One evening the everlasting, the town and Mother’s mind are cast in a lovely bronze light. The car breaks down on a trip for pizza.

  September. Brother wins a prize for taking out the garbage. Mother gets a new broom to commemorate renewed effort. Grandma gets a new pot to bang on because she’s not dead yet. Brother wins new love—the vet’s comely assistant.

  October. Mother’s mind hitches a ride on her broom and soars towards the moon. Father says the trick in life is to keep your eyes averted. Grandma says the treat is hardly worth the effort. Grandma runs off with the bingo caller.

  November. Outside, the everlasting is ragged and brown. Odysseus returns with Mother’s mind on a leash. Father lies on the kitchen floor laughing and laughing. The planet tilts away from the sun.

  December. Sister writes a poem about renewal. Brother wins a prize for leaving home. Mother’s mind is housed with the budgie. The car breaks down on a trip for birdseed.

  BAD BOY

  My husband hides lethal chemicals the way some men hide pornography, guns or a bad drinking problem. When I discovered a sealed box of Diazinon lodged inside the toilet tank, I became suspicious and asked him about it. “Guilty,” he said, and went on to tell me about his club, which is called Chemical Men. He said he hoped I’d understand.

  He’s belonged to the club for eleven years. It’s a secret club, which is always the best kind, my husband says, a club dedicated to the preservation of antique chemicals. Members collect DDT, napalm and unopened cans of Raid from the middle part of the last century, and then they trade these items, or sell them. They have a monthly Internet newsletter and, each autumn, an underground festival which is virtual but well attended. According to my husband, members of the club are especially interested in the uses of industrial chemicals for the home garden.

  This past week my husband says he’d been involved in an Internet bidding war over a vial of Agent Orange. It’s been exciting for him, he says, and is relieved, now, to be able to share this excitement with me. So far he hasn’t had a definite buy, but he’s hopeful. Apparently, collecting lethal chemicals has become a hobby for him; much like the hobby his father had which was collecting silver foil from cigarette packages. His father, who’d spent his working life as a travelling salesman for Bic pens, rolled the foil into balls the size of basketballs. No one is sure why he did this, other than for the calm it gave him. When he died, five silver balls were bequeathed to my husband, representing an adult life of smoking, collecting foil and single-minded rolling. Curiously my father-in-law did not die of lung cancer, but of old age.

  My husband is quick to point out that besides the benefits of engaging in a hobby—old age not withstanding—collecting lethal chemicals is important archival work. Like his father, he looks upon his collection as something to leave the kids. “In fifty years time, do you know what these babies will be worth?” he asks, referring to his stockpile, now covering a quarter of the garage floor after retrieval from the several hiding places around the house and yard—inside the old croquet bag; above the ceiling tiles in our son’s former bedroom; behind the hot water tank in the laundry room; within a specially designed space in the wood pile.

  My husband is gleeful telling me this, but I suspect that his glee has more to do with hoodwinking me for eleven years than in leaving a legacy for the kids. Eleven years ago I declared our property a chemical-free zone. All herbicides and pesticides were banned. “Here is a corner of the world that will remain free of contamination,” I said. I was proud of my stand and told our neighbors, the retired psychiatrist and his wife. Now I’m remembering how they were taken aback with the news but quickly recovered to register blank agreement. I’m also remembering how over the years I’ve seen them—usually at dusk—creeping between their rows of tomato plants wearing face masks and carrying buckets and spray nozzles. For some reason I didn’t associate this behavior with the use of lethal chemicals; I’d assumed they were using something safe, like soap suds. It’s obvious now what they were doing, heedless of soil contamination in their quest for massive tomatoes. My husband has now confirmed that they are also members of Chemical Men.

  I am convinced that my husband has been dipping into his collection. The slugs in the garden did not pack up and move of their own volition. I realize this now. Before then our yard was a maze of weeds, grasses, wild flowers and rangy, creeping roses instead of the monster-size flowers we have now. By all accounts, they should be bug-eaten and straggly. I thought these vibrant over-bloomers grew without much effort other than admiring them and pulling the odd weed. I thought they had achieved balance with the natural world and that they were, in fact, thriving in a happy, chemical-free way. Obviously, I was wrong.

  Still, I have to acknowledge my husband’s ability to carry off his eleven-year practical joke. The thrill he had while hoodwinking me must have been enormous, not to mention the secret fun he’s had when I gushed over the wisteria blooms, or the creeping veronica, or the profusion of tulips, and so forth. No doubt the psychiatrist and his wife were in on the joke.

  Registering my dismay, my husband claims that he used the chemicals because of me; that it was an act of love because I enjoy continual bloom in a plant and am saddest in winter when there is only holly and snowberry to look at. But there is nothing sadder than a man armed with a canister of herbicide and a battery-powered light strapped to his head while sneaking about the yard at midnight, and I am not even slightly convinced. My husband is not a violent man but I think the thrill he gets from handling the destruction that resides in lethal chemicals must be overwhelming. This thrill, coupled with the thrill of hoodwinking me, further produces in him a feeling of euphoria; he’s being a bad boy when he does this. I think at heart that this is what my husband is—a bad boy who has got away with things.

  Fortunately, I am a good girl. And I am reasonable. I have given him twenty-four hours to begin the detoxification process that will return our yard to its essential condition of weeds and dead things. I am not saying, or else. I am not saying I will pack my bags and become my own hobby tomato. I am saying, “Just because some of us can read and write and do a little math, that doesn’t mean we deserve to conquer the Universe.”

  THE NORTH POLE

  2009

  THE NORTH POLE

  We’re keeping Daddy company. He’s been under the quilt for two hundred and thirty-seven days.


  On the living room couch. It’s some kind of record.

  No, he’s not sick. Not in the usual way.

  The remote’s in his right hand. You can’t see it. It’s under the quilt. His hand gets cold.

  Quit it, Dustin. No one wants to see the remote.

  That’s nearly eight months of non-stop TV.

  Quit it, I said. Find something to do.

  Seven. The kid’s seven. We had him late.

  He’s on the couch all the time. Except to use the bathroom. Eats and sleeps on the couch. The TV going night and day.

  I watch from the recliner. Stig’s on the hard-backed chair. Stig’s our boarder. We watch it with him.

  Pretty much all the time.

  A trio travels to Transylvania to destroy a werewolf queen.

  One of the late-night movies we’ve seen. Stig keeps track.

  ETS. Daddy’s got ETS.

  End Time Syndrome.

  He turned forty-four last July.

  Well, it starts out gradual. Sneaks up on you.

  All the bad news. You get shell-shocked. Lose meaning. Feel helpless. There are so many things.

  Whew.

  Dying trees. Everyone getting cancer, especially little kids.

  No, not you, Dustin.

  Hurricanes. The planet heating up. Pandemics. A new one every year. Poisoned chocolates from China. Animals dying off. You name it.

  People shut down. Become a former.

  What they were before they got ETS.

  Daddy? A baggage handler at the airport.

  Hairy creatures from earth’s core latch onto human necks.

  At least he’s not totally gone. Like some. At least he’s got his cause.

  Saving the North Pole.

  Leave Daddy’s quilt alone.

  Kid never sits still. The meds don’t help.

  That’s what I said. The North Pole. Melting ice.

  Sorry, ice melt. Glacier melt.

  He gets mad if I say it wrong.

  Gets squirmy.

  He’s staying on the couch until the ice stops melting.

  That’s what he said eight months ago. Before he stopped talking.

  He’s serious. Won’t have ice cubes in his pop. Nothing from the freezer. Nothing that melts.

  Well, what can you do?

  Just keep him comfortable, that’s all. And he’s got his sign. He likes his sign. It’s over there by the couch.

  Hold up your sign. Hold up your sign.

  Sometimes he’ll hold up his sign. His protest sign: Save The North Pole. Sometimes he’ll wave his sign at the TV.

  Your guess is as good as mine. But we respect his reasons. Whenever he feels like waving it, I guess.

  That’s right, Dustin, Santa Claus lives at the North Pole. And polar bears. And fluffy arctic cotton grass.

  We’re home-schooling him.

  If all the ice melts we’ll drown. That’s a fact.

  All of us, Dustin.

  A while back I contacted the Guinness Book of Records.

  They weren’t interested. They said lots of people watch TV forever. But how many do it for a cause?

  Astrology influences the prowess of a third-rate boxer.

  That was a good one.

  A ravenous snake terrorizes hapless Koreans.

  Also good.

  A hologram sings for a struggling band.

  Thank you, Stig.

  Stig’s Mom’s got it. She’s in the psych ward. A former real estate agent. National sales leader for 2006.

  Three spirits try to restore a woman’s faith in true love.

  Stig again.

  He was in my group. My ETS support group. Needed a place to live.

  We get disability. Plus money for Stig. Foster care money.

  I’ve stopped going.

  To my group. What’s the use?

  Stig? Seventeen. The black cape is recent. So is the white paint on his face and hands.

  Rural Vermonters try to bury a corpse, more than once.

  I hope Stig’s not getting it.

  Pretty soon there’ll be more of them than us. Ha, ha. Who’s the zombie?

  I know. It’s not funny. That’s another ETS symptom. Nothing’s funny.

  News. Sitcoms. Cartoons. Talk shows. It’s all the same to Daddy. He doesn’t care what he watches.

  Neither do I for that matter.

  Stig likes the late-night movies. That’s all he’ll talk about. Dustin, well—Dustin.

  That’s what the social worker said. It’s all the candy he eats. Too much sugar.

  What’s it to you?

  We all eat candy.

  A carpenter takes control of a Jewish woman’s button store.

  An art thief steals an insurance investigator’s heart.

  Napoleon Bonaparte concocts a plan to reclaim his throne.

  Don’t get Stig going. That’s how it starts. One-track obsessions.

  Mine’s pretending I’m on TV being interviewed about ice. Melting ice.

  Sorry. Ice melt.

  What?

  A former exotic dancer.

  I wasn’t so heavy then.

  ADVICE OLD AND NEW

  To ensure that a change in life or in love will be a good one the old advice is to throw hot stones against the door of where you are living. Besides providing you with temporary good luck, this action will cause all liquids in the vicinity to flow more freely. For example, an increase in the milk production of neighbouring cows will occur; rivers will become fast flowing; heavy rain will be unleashed from suddenly ashen skies; your blood will quicken its course through your body causing your face to flush, your muscles to strengthen, and your energy level to soar.

  You will need this energy. Because along with good luck comes bad luck, often in the form of malevolent spirits who will tamper with your liquid moments causing your thoughts to become like rooms filled with landmines, causing gleefulness to vanish, dread to be restored.

  The new advice says you must do several strenuous things to ensure that bad luck doesn’t gain the upper hand, but so far we don’t know what these strenuous things might be.

  Perhaps there’s a list somewhere.

  Maybe you can find it.

  Or figure one out.

  The best I know is to wear yellow and hold your breath.

  ARDENT SPIRIT

  We created a drink and called it Ardent Spirit. It was made of Pepto-Bismol and Aquavit, two parts to one, the water of life tempered with a calming agent for the peptic glands. The drink became popular with old men and women who complained they could no longer forget. For some reason the hoped-for return to childhood had been denied them. Not being able to forget meant dwelling in a bald, unwanted understanding. Ardent Spirit combined mercy with repose to counteract this understanding. It did this by hiding the secret caverns in the old people’s minds, the places where they slaughtered their dreams. After one glass nothing was remembered of them at all.

  It is said that we keep the worst for last. It is also said that in order to endure our predicament we’ve got to love the truth. But that’s like loving your executioner.

  THE GNATS THAT BLUR OUR VISION

  We turned off the lights to see through screens into other worlds. To absolutely lose ourselves in madness, passion, abandon, sublimity. To fully fucking wreak shit with our puny conscious minds. Because each of these new worlds has its own physics, its own creator. Because after everything the screens were so lovely, glowing, casting a deeper spell, allowing multiple universes, allowing ecstasy. “Because after something comes nothing. No enemy armada. No music. No score.” Just us and our control of the unseen. Plus the satisfying wasteland at the end of rapture. Our only requirement is to have a kick drum knocking at all times, occasionally wind chimes.

  Still, the old deities hover nearby like a cloud of gnats. Some burrow beneath our eyelids and blur our vision. This has happened more often than we liked. One such gnat was especially persistent. This was the blind seer Jorge Lui
s Borges. Suddenly our eyes would feel scratchy, as if a handful of dust had been thrown at them, and then, when we’d try to rub them clean, there he’d be trailing his entourage of former selves, multiples of Borges.

  “Every man runs the risk of being the first immortal,” he and his younger selves would intone, their hawk-like profiles flickering across our screens.

  “Every man runs the risk of disconnecting his subconscious.”

  We’d fiddle with the controls.

  “Every puny ecstasy rushes toward its own demise. Not even a bird’s trill can save you.”

  We’d shrug him off, having no time for the prophesy of dead seers. Having time only to execute our parts as the kings and queens of the graceful glide. For the engine running mankind’s ambitious extinction.

  Our eyes glow like abalone swans in a pool of glare.

  THE ACT IN ETERNITY

  There are billions in the cast. We each have a part and our parts keep changing. There is no rehearsal. You get to say your lines only once. Your act moves along quickly, though much of the time you are asleep. Much of the time you are speechless. There is no alternative; you have to join the cast. Most of us are bit players. There is no one director; you direct each other as best you can. Sometimes the lighting is extraordinary: aurora storms, lunar halos, northern lights; sometimes it is precious: the sun on a violet. The intensity varies. Often there is only blackness. Time is an invisible curtain that rises and falls on a whim. The audience is each other. We clap when happy, boo when mad, howl when afraid. There is much apprehension; we are never sure how to act, never understand the motivation for our parts. No one can tell us why. We create prizes to keep up morale, create reason, hope. Poets in their gardens praise beauty; their poems are like Morse Code tapping S.O.S. through the ages. Billions hear this tapping on the way to their graves. At the same time billions more of us are created. Yet the story is always the same. This is something we don’t like. We keep on acting as if our lives depend upon it.