A Matter of Life and Death or Something

by Ben Stephenson

  I walked through the white door on the front of our house and took my boots off. I balanced against the wall with my right hand, wobbling but carefully taking my boots off one at a time, like a boot surgeon. Old crusty mud broke off of them even though I was being so careful, and it dissolved on the floor. I quickly swept the sand into the corner with my bare foot, plopped my empty thermos on the kitchen counter, and hopped into the living room.

  I was about to attempt a cartwheel when I noticed Simon on the couch. He was sitting there like a statue, and he was camouflaged into the room. Simon never sits in the living room. He looked up from what he was reading, which was a black and white speckly covered notebook.

  My cartwheel arms dropped and my heart felt like it was underneath hot water. But I tried to keep calm.

  “Where’d that come from?” I asked, being sneaky.

  “Why don’t you tell me where it came from?” Simon said, being nosy and difficult.

  “Well the big bang, technically,” I said.

  Simon said nothing.

  “I mean, if you go way back in time, of course.”

  Simon still said nothing. What the heck was he doing reading Phil!?

  “And before that who knows, but I guess it just—”

  “Arthur. Where did this come from?” It wasn’t that he didn’t understand the quantumed physics of the big bang, it was that he was being really serious and worried. He wasn’t smiling. Where had I left the book so that he found it? I usually kept it under my pillow. What a stupid place to keep something like that. Did he just go around looking underneath everybody’s pillows for important things and then taking them away?

  “Did you at least give Uncle Max the package like I told you?” I said, trying to change the subject and act like things weren’t a big deal, so that maybe I could just get the book back and that would be it.

  “Yes, he picked it up. They left something for you, too.”

  Then Simon sighed and got up from the couch and walked around the living room looking at stuff. He wasn’t saying anything. I just stood there being nervous, and I didn’t know what to do so I just started to explain.

  “I found him in the woods. I mean, the book. I found it in the woods.”

  I waited a long time for Simon to say something.

  “Did you read all of it?” he finally asked.

  “Yeah. It’s the first book I’ve ever finished,” I said. That was actually a lie, but it sounded really good at the time. I don’t know why I said it.

  “I read it all, too,” Simon said. “I came across it just after they left, and then I’ve spent all afternoon just sitting here, reading it.”

  “It’s really good,” I said. I was just about to remind Simon what the New York Times had said about it, but he turned around and looked at me, and he still wasn’t smiling. I think he was smiling even less now, if possible.

  I avoided his eyes by looking over to where Phil lay open on the coffee table. I recognized Page 43. The neat and tidy handwriting at the top, with the shaky writing at the bottom. The way everything was crossed out. The way it filled the whole page to overflowing. The butterflies in my stomach were crawling out of their cocoons and having a discussion. They were really worried and flapping around and not knowing what to do. They had smaller butterflies in their own stomachs. I pictured Phil sitting somewhere on the beach writing that page. I pictured what his insides felt like while he was writing it and my insides felt worse and worse. They were getting shook up like I was seasick. I pictured how bad my insides would have to feel for me to write something like that but I couldn’t. I couldn’t picture how inside someone’s heart could feel that bad. I thought really hard about not throwing up.

  I scrunched my damp toes under my bare feet and scratched my head. Simon walked over to me. He scooped me up and tossed me on top of his shoulder. The sharp corner of him stabbed at my stomach. I didn’t throw up.

  He tapped me twice on the back and said, “I hate to be the villain here chief, but I’m going to keep the book.”

  My entire body stiffened up and I almost got launched off his shoulder. I screamed into his back.

  “What!?”

  “I’m sorry, chief. You know I try to be fair, but—”

  “Put me down!”

  “I just can’t see it being of any positive—”

  “PUT ME DOWN!”

  I kicked and flailed and roared until Simon had no choice but to drop me to my feet. I almost fell over.

  “I can’t believe you!”

  “Arthur, don’t take that tone, I know you must—”

  “I only had one house left!”

  Simon shoved his eyebrows downward.

  “I only had one house left to check!”

  “You’ve been trying to find this guy?”

  “Well, yeah! I’ve been trying to find out where it came from.”

  “Ohh, Arthur,” Simon said quietly. “That’s going to have to stop, too. I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not going to! It’s not going to stop!”

  Simon rubbed his eyes underneath his glasses.

  “How dare you!?” I yelled, “You’re not even my—”

  Simon looked at me.

  “ARRR!” I roared and ran to my room.

  I slammed my door and looked at my bed. My pillowcase and sheets had been changed without my permission, and now they had stupid superheroes all over them instead of outer space. Because I didn’t change my own sheets even though I left Phil under my pillow, because I was such a gigantic moron and now everything was doomed.

  I slumped into my desk chair and punched the switch on my lamp. I put my head down on my arms on top of my desk. I scrunched my forehead and my eyes against my arm and the skin on my arm got wet. I was shaking, and I stayed shaking for a long time.

  CLUES:

  –How it makes funny jokes not funny anymore.

  After about a month of shaking, I noticed there was a light blue envelope beside me on my desk. It was all bulgy. I picked it up. Usually Maxine sent me really normal flat letters with nothing in them, but this one was heavy at one side, and the paper was tight and covering something square. The flaps on the back barely closed, and it had clear tape on the seams to keep them from bursting.

  I wasn’t exactly in the mood for Maxine trying to help snap me out of my problems, but I was in the mood for just about anything to distract me from Simon. So I tore open the envelope. And I made sure to rip it open viciously like a rabiesing animal.

  Onto my desk thumped a cassette tape in a clear plastic case. That looked pretty curious, but there was a letter inside too, so I pulled it out and unfolded it, because that’s what you’re supposed to do when you get a present with a card, or a cassette tape with a letter: you do the reading part first.

  April 16th

  Dearest Arthur,

  Dismal weather lately, but the snow’s almost completely melted! I can feel summer coming on. You must be excited: school wind-ing down, trees about to bloom, everything just waiting to get bright.

  I hear you were a bit shook up about Maureen. I just wanted to say that I have some idea of how you must feel. It’s mostly the lack of choice, right? Not having a choice can be tough. I don’t want to go into it too far, I don’t mean to upset you. Arthur. You have every right to all of your feelings. But I do know what some of them are, and I’ve had some of them myself. You know, I didn’t get to choose your (step) grandfather. I was a bit older than your age then, but I can still remember the patterns of my thoughts. It was the silliest things, the smallest things. Like why couldn’t he have had lighter-coloured hair? I couldn’t stand to see my mom with a guy with such dark hair. And the way he walked, like he was a bouncing ball. And his dopey green car. Why couldn’t he have had a blue car, a nice deep, royal blue? My friend
Annie’s father drove this dark blue Cadillac, and he looked great.

  Arthur, I’m rambling as I always seem to do, but even worse this time, I’m afraid. The point is, Arthur, it took me a while, but I did get over these things. I didn’t get to choose him, but I got a different choice, one that was hidden at first. It was a bit ridiculous. I mean, there was really nothing wrong with Frank. He really was a loving man. Si figured it out before I did, I think. I’m stubborn. But you know, we both did get a choice. We had to make a choice: we had to choose our attitude. If Mom wanted a green car, and black hair, and a quiet, thoughtful guy who bounced up and down when he walked, then she deserved that. And I could choose to see that or not.

  And then one morning Frank was going out the door and I heard him say to her, “Wow. Nice shoes.” (Mom always wore the prettiest, most unique shoes. She seemed to wear shoes at all times, even if she was just inside at home. Even if it was the winter, she would wear her nice shoes inside. She had this one pair of shiny red heels, I believe she was wearing those.) And I just remember thinking, you know what Frank, she does wear nice shoes, doesn’t she? I almost cried, I swear. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But he noticed.

  People are like puzzles, Arthur. In a couple of ways. Firstly, it takes a long time to figure them out and piece them together, and lots of times you never do. But those ones are the best people! I think that the pain of feeling like you’ve figured somebody out is actually much greater than the pain of never quite getting them. Wait, that’s not what I was trying to say. Gosh!

  Secondly, people have shapes. All we do and say and think and believe cuts outlines around us like a jigsaw. And sometimes, you run into a person who seems to fit right beside you in the picture. Someone who sticks out where you dent in and zigs where you zag. And there’s a strange feeling when that happens, Arthur, and you feel like there isn’t much you can do. And you feel so happy and you feel so awake. I’m just talking about friendship, Arthur. I’m just talking about fitting.

  I’m sorry. I’m getting out of hand. All I’m trying to say is that Maureen seemed to like Simon quite a bit, but it’s perfectly natural for you to feel confused about that. You can—it should go without saying—talk to me about it anytime. Write me!

  (But she also said that she thought you were the cutest, and anyone who can see that can’t be that bad, can they? Well actually, I guess any old fool would know that. But still.)

  Blah blah blah. Here’s your word. “Circumnavigate.” Like many of our recent words, it’s got two main definitions: 1. to travel around; make a circuit of, by navigation (to circumnavigate the Earth), or 2. to avoid, by manoeuvring around (to circumnavigate heavy traffic).

  Enjoy the word! And the warm-ish weather!

  Love as always,

  Aunt Maxine

  P.S.—Max says you’re on some sort of secret investigation. Good luck with that!

  I didn’t really read the whole letter right then, because it was so long and looked boring, and I was so angry and how could she expect me to read all that? Also I saw the name “Maureen” somewhere in it and didn’t really feel like reading anymore. I just skimmed through the rest, reading a couple of words here and there. OK sure, whatever you say Maxine, Maureen’s great. She’s practically Miss Universe. I wasn’t convinced, but you can’t have an argument with a letter very well because it’s just paper, so I kept skipping ahead until I got to the vocabulary word. How’d she get a letter about Maureen to me so quick? News travelled way too fast in our weird little family.

  P.S.—What on Earth did Max think he was doing telling Maxine about the investigation!? That was top secret. How much did he tell her? Why was everyone trying to sabotage me all over the place, and what the heck was on that cassette tape?

  I opened the clear plastic case and slid the tape out into my hand. It was a ninety minute one (that’s half an hour longer than the ones I used), and it was all multicoloured. It had blue and yellow labels on black plastic, and on one side Uncle Max had written with a black marker: FOR ARTHUR’S EARS (AND DANCING FEET AND ARMS) ONLY!!!

  What the heck? I went and got my tape recorder. I popped Max’s tape inside on Side A and hit PLAY. The speaker crackled and buzzed for about ten seconds and then it clicked and there was a steady, gusty noise. Then Uncle Max’s silly, wobbly voice.

  “Good day, Agent Arthur. I have reviewed the tapes which were forwarded to me from H.Q. Excellent work on all fronts. You have proven to be a proficient interrogator and are moving up in the ranks. The information you extracted was of limitless value. Arthur, this line is tapped so I don’t have much time. What follows is... a celebratory address. Get ready. This tape may self-destruct if the listener fails to dance. Or the listener may self-destruct. The eagle is on the descent. Over and out...”

  Four seconds of silence, and then some drumbeat started banging so loud that I had to turn the volume down to keep Simon from hearing all the way out in the living room.

  boom, chatt,

  boom boom, chatt chatt!

  It was so loud. Then this screechy womping sound: Max’s electric organ. The beat kept going and going and the organ kept buzzing and womping.

  womp womp—womp!

  womp womp—womp!

  And then this voice. I couldn’t recognize it at first, it was all sped up and chipmunked.

  “Phil-Phil-Philadelphia!

  Phi-Phi-Phi-Phi-Philadelphia!”

  womp womp—womp!

  womp womp—womp!

  And then slowed down deep voices, too, like:

  “Brrraaasss taaacksss,

  Brrraaasss taaacksss.”

  wom-womp—weeem!

  wom-womp—weeeooo!

  “You’ll, you’ll never guess!

  You’ll............. never guess!”

  weee-ooo, chatt chatt!

  weee-ooo, chatt chatt!

  wom, w-w-womwom, weee

  wom, w-w-womwom, weee

  Because Max took my Brenda Beckham interview and turned it into the most moronic thing my ears will ever hear.

  “Spring feeeeeeverrr,

  Spring—”

  I smashed the STOP button. Who did Max think he was, sending me some kind of stupid dance mix tape like that? Did he have any idea how important everything was? I bet he played the tape for Maxine. I bet he made copies and gave them to all his friends with their tape-playing cars so they could all zoom around town and blast that idiotic remix of Phil’s death and dance behind the steering wheel and almost get in accidents and make other people die. I bet he even told Simon about it, and that’s why he went snooping for the book. Did Max even have a clue about what TOP SECRET means?

  I rewound his tape all the way to the beginning to tape over it. I pressed RECORD.

  “Dear Agent Uncle Max what the hell do you think you’re doing making fun of everything like that, did you really think I was going to dance? And I bet you set Simon up with his date, too! You’re about the most clueless, idiotic, scaredy-cat...”

  ... I said as many bad things as I possibly could and by the end I was probably yelling. Then I hit STOP. I took the tape out and put it in an envelope and I was about to write Max’s stupid name on it, but then I didn’t. I stared at the blank envelope for a couple of eternities. I knew I couldn’t send it.

  WE BOW

  LOOK HOW the storm leaves us: our leafless branches sheathed in transparent clothing. We are pillars and ropes of glass. The ice slips into every crevice and our evergreens’ tiny needles seal together, they are matted locks hanging heavy, glazed and sparkling. Many of our tallest and most slender actually bend to touch the ground. We are a gallery of crystal archways, a fractal pattern of white tunnels for squirrels and foxes to navigate. Draped and still in the windless morning, we grow silent.

  The two walk near us. She in her goldenrod-yellow and he in
black. He kisses her neck. They turn their heads toward an approaching rumbling in the distance that scrapes through the heavy air. A snow plow is making its way up the road. The man takes a disposable camera from the pocket of his parka while the two step up onto the snowbank that frames the street, their short boots pushing down through it in places, the snow frosting their woollen ankles. The man winds the film forward on his camera and waits for the plow. When it’s about to pass, he raises the camera to his eye, waits, and triggers the shutter, the plastic flashbulb ignites for an instant and the plow is recorded onto the film. The man has been making bleak photographs of the solid white day with lone colourful things as their subject. The plow is dazzling in its orange paint, the way its cubic forms dominate a blank crystalline landscape.

  The two stumble through a buried ditch, the snow catching them waist-deep for a few steps, and they climb out and walk beneath us.

  We are a world of prisms. See our bodies, sublimely coated, refracting and stretching the daylight to project full spectra; the world consists entirely of fractured rainbows, twirling and blinking on every surface. It is the most spectacular feast.

  They walk together, making their way beneath our heavy branches, treading gently on the crust of ice above snow. He stops every few minutes and aims his camera off into the stringy glass world. They continue to wander. See the camera’s tiny bulb sparking and its white light splintering into a thousand dashing fragments, layering atop those we already see, flaring through us, warping into vibrant colours. The brightest yellows waltz with brilliant oranges and pure blues against a boundless white backdrop. See the red, the violet. We are a collaged universe of mirrors caught in the midst of a silent fireworks display.

  We love this, this assault of light. These silent visions are enough to keep us through the cold. And as the man showers us with his little light he takes our portrait, and we his.