In the stillness of our bed, he no longer touches me.
Kate’s decided to continue with the pregnancy. She’s forty-four, but she says that’s nothing these days. She’s traded the cocktail hour for yoga after work with a backpacker just back from Bali. She persuades me to go shopping online with her for maternity wear. She tells me she wants to flaunt rather than flatter; that she plans to look like an ancient fertility figure in Lycra and office neutrals. Walter appears pleased – their last chance, he jokes, to make it in the suburban family jungle.
Kate doesn’t know that I know; even David doesn’t know that Walter was sterilized three years ago. I say nothing to Walter – I pretend I never knew – and I know he is grateful.
I do not even ask myself who the father is.
Last week, David and I were eating dinner – a beef stew I’d had in the freezer for months. The evening news was still on in the other room. Neither of us got up to turn it off. Inertia settled between us like fog. Perry kept vigil under the table at our feet, begging as always for scraps. David said not to, but as I chewed, I bent down to slip him a chunk of meat and, as I did so, I started to choke. David passed me my glass of water but I waved it away. I couldn’t drink for coughing. So he threw down his napkin, pushed back his chair, and started clapping me on the back. My eyes were watering. Perry gazed up at me. I wanted to say, stop, stop, afraid David would lodge it deeper within me, afraid he’d kill me for my own good, but I couldn’t breathe to speak. He pounded my back harder. The broad beat of his hand sounded in my lungs. I thought I felt something crack, a rib, an airway, I couldn’t tell. David was pulling up my blouse, unfastening the clip of my bra. I felt his arms encircle me, rigid and primed for action. My eyes strained in their sockets. Perry wagged his tail. And suddenly, before the deadlock of David’s arms tensed around me, something rose in my throat and filled my mouth.
Perry started to bark and thump his tail noisily, as if I were beckoning him in some game, and, I thought, it can’t be. How can it be? How can Perry’s rubber ball be in my mouth? My jaws were locking around it. My lungs still burned. David was about to call 911 when I finally managed to spit it into my hands.
It wasn’t Perry’s ball. It was no ragged chunk of meat. It was a red plasmic orb that hovered, delicate and trembling, over the cup of my palms. My eyes streamed as I beheld it: a small blood-orange of a sun, bright and angry as a newborn’s head.
Each day it grows.
Coupling
In the dark of the tent, against the blare of the footlights, I couldn’t see who had done it. I couldn’t see anyone at all, except Won, our Taiwanese dwarf, selling fortune cookies to someone in the front row. A smashed candy-apple Jay at my feet. The gob of spit was running down my cheek into my beard. I couldn’t move. My cue came again. Someone coughed. The canvas of the tent snapped with a vengeance in the wind. Then, blackout.
I felt an arm on my shoulders, fingers tracing small circles on my back, on my neck. We walked into the wings.
Lucie lifted a hand and wiped my face and beard with a crumpled tissue. I knew the slim fingers, their tips nicotine-yellow. I knew the twisting serpent ring and its gold-plate flash. I started to breathe easier. A tech-man was beside us, behind us, shifting props in a sweat. The stage manager was shouting down his earpiece. He tripped over a fibreglass ring of Saturn and swore; noticed me and swore again.
‘Come on,’ Lucie said.
The afternoon light was strange, mercurial, after the brittle darkness of showtime. Clusters of people idled outside. Children peeked under billowing tent flaps. Ticket stubs, stray balloon-dogs and greasy burger wrappers blew on a wind already littered with the lost chances of Won’s paper fortunes. Lucie staggered after one thin strip, trapped it clumsily underfoot, then unfolded it, triumphant, ‘YOU WILL TAKE A VIRILE LOVER. Well.’
I said nothing.
We stumbled over guy-ropes and prostrate children. Behind us, the show tent grew smaller and smaller, and the pink stream of discarded cotton candy ran dry. Ahead, the main road stretched into town. Suddenly I wanted to go back. I said, ‘Your feet. It’s too far. It’s at least three miles.’
Lucie looked at me. ‘Did I or did I not run away and join the circus?’
‘My bet is you didn’t actually run.’
‘You’re right. I sauntered. I have always managed a certain style, and a place called Hunckton is not about to change that. Are you coming or aren’t you?’
The day was damp, unpromising. The town was small. Too small. I felt like Houdini, clambering for the airlock inside the canister of milk, WELCOME TO HUNCKTON, the sign read, HOMETOWN OF MISS AMERICA 1967. I could see it all: the Main Street homecoming parade, the gleaming convertible Chevrolet, the white-gloved wave, her poised perch atop the back seat, the shining poof of her chestnut hair, the bannered breast, the maiden cheek.
The green light at the crosswalk was blinking WALK – WALK–WALK. Lucie lurched on to the crosswalk. I stared at the black blocks that passed for shoes on those sad club feet.
I had grown up in a town like this back in New Brunswick, a place none of my fellow carnies had ever heard of. A Canadian province, I’d say. North of Maine, I’d explain, and they’d laugh and say how could there be anything north of Maine? Where was I really from?
I’d escaped ten years ago, the year before I finished high school, but a decade on the look of Hunckton’s Main Street was still all too familiar. It was a street with ageing mannequins in yesteryear fashion in every shopfront; a street where frustrated adolescents took turns humping the one pinball machine in town. It was a place where the Christmas lights never came down; where year in, year out, you lived under the unlit absurdity of a Santa’s sleigh or a burned-out Star of Bethlehem; where, come good weather, fly-swatters helped pass the time.
I kept my head down.
So I’m not sure how long it was before I’d noticed Lucie was gone. Vanished.
I moved down the street, past a liquor store and the Good News Bible Bookstore; past the funeral home that boasted a ‘caring lady undertaker’; past the dark tobacco shop, empty but for the sound of a ghostly TV ballgame, and the pet shop with a listless snake in its window front.
A bell rang as I entered In-Step Shoes, begrudgingly. ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing in here of all places?’
‘Browsing.’
‘For what?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘You’re buying shoes?’
‘Who knows? It’s like I said. I’m browsing.’
‘For Hushpuppies, fake-leather golf shoes or the saddle shoes they didn’t manage to sell in 1958?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
‘Come on. Before someone mistakes you for normal.’
But Lucie was seated now, legs stubbornly crossed and one foot swinging like a crazy pendulum between us. A thin young woman in a beige ‘A-line skirt approached. ‘Can I help you?’ she said to Lucie.
‘I certainly hope so. I’m looking for something cooler for summer. Maybe a sandal. Ideally something that doesn’t involve a lace-up sock.’
She looked at Lucie’s custom-made blocks and gulped. ‘Do you happen to know, um, what size you take?’
‘Now that’s a good question. Should I call my orthopaedist?’
‘No.’ She twisted the end of her long, wispy pony tail. ‘I mean, that’s okay. I’ll get the measuring plate.’
When she reappeared, Lucie’s feet were bare. ‘Don’t worry about this lump of skin here. Just think of it as my heel.’
The three of us stared at the misshapen stumps. ‘Um, I’m new here.’ She looked at me, then looked away. ‘If you don’t mind waiting, I’ll just go find the manager.’
I grabbed the blocks that called themselves shoes, shoved Lucie’s feet in, laced up the socks, hooked the braces, and got us out of the shop. I could feel the hot beat of my blood in my neck.
‘That,’ said Lucie, ‘was rude.’
I winced. It was rude. I didn’t kn
ow what to say.
‘The poor girl will be wondering where we got to.’
I grinned, relieved. ‘She’ll get over it.’ Next door, outside the drugstore, two teenagers emerged from a photo booth and dawdled by the slot, waiting for their celluloid testament to young love.
‘Us next,’ Lucie announced as the machine rattled and whirred.
The girl checked her cellphone for messages. The boy buried his face in her neck, sucking away on her candy-heart necklace. At last, the photos dropped.
‘I thought they’d never leave,’ said Lucie. ‘What colour background do you want?’
‘Tell me why we’re doing this,’ but I allowed myself to be pushed on to the stool.
‘Something to remember the day by.’
I raised my jacket collar. ‘As if I’m about to forget.’
When the first flash exploded in our faces, Lucie laughed, and I turned to stone.
‘Do you think we could get my feet in the next shot? Give me a hand, quick.’
I stared at the stickers plastered to the walls. The Samaritans. A lost pet rabbit. Pole-Cats, a twenty-four-hour pole-dancing club. Under my elbow, I could just make out the card of a pre-op transsexual ‘looking for redneck love’. Then the red eye turned green, and the second shot flashed like the ire of God.
‘This is no good. We need drama. Kiss me.’ And Lucie was on me with a mouth like a trick plunger.
As the third flash exploded, I flung back the curtain and started walking.
‘Wait up! I just wanted –’
‘Go to hell!’ I shouted.
‘I do. Six nights a week and Wednesday matinées!’
I walked as fast as I could – and straight into a fat kid coming out of the public library. His pencil case fell to the ground. A Magic Marker rolled towards me. We both reached for it, suddenly eye to eye. But before I could pass it to him, he was walking away at speed, head down.
At the outskirts of town, I could hear again the screams from the fair, a strange frequency on the breeze. I ducked into a bus shelter to hide. From nobody. Across the street, a couple of teenagers were mowing the lawns in the municipal cemetery. In another town, they would have been bronzed summer lifeguards or smiling fast-food employees on some Miracle Mile. But here, they were struggling with the right angles of the dead.
A bus pulled up, the Number 9, and Lucie got off. ‘So what’s the itinerary?’
I looked away.
‘If I’d stayed on, apparently I could have seen the home of Miss America 1967.’
‘You’re a saddo,’ I said but I made room on the shining metallic bench.
‘Human anomaly, please. You have language. Use it.’
A picture of a bright-eyed stewardess smiled benevolently down from an airline ad. ‘The day trip is over.’
‘Over? We’re just getting started.’
I got to my feet. ‘I’ll see you round.’
‘Chicken shit.’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Chicken-shit scared. As in: you are. And there’s me thinking I had the vernacular right.’
I stuffed my hands into my pockets and started to walk. Then I felt the fat kid’s marker loose among my change and turned.
Lucie was just about to light up. I approached the smiling stewardess. I removed the cap from the marker. The smell of its thick tip was delicious as I put the black nib to her glowing cheek.
That evening, the air was balmy. The wind had gone quiet, like a dog down and whimpering on a lean belly. The song of the outflow pipe into the river calmed me. I sat in my trailer, flipping through the previous week’s TV guide. The techies were shouting to each other as the rides were dismantled. The tents collapsed with a whoosh. Martha, our octogenarian with three breasts who had been in the business since the days of the Dime Museums, waved as she passed my screen door with a cup of tea. I waved back but looked away again.
From somewhere, I could hear the digital notes of a snake-charmer’s flute trembling on the air. Then came the sound of Lucie stumbling up my steps.
I concentrated on the TV blurbs. ‘Made it back then.’
‘Of course I made it back.’
I nodded but didn’t look up.
‘I liked the artwork.’
‘Oh.’ I turned a page. ‘That.’
‘How did you get up on the billboard?’
I shrugged.
‘I thought Sarah Jessica Parker looked better, strangely. The beard suited her, even if she is otherwise blonde these days.’
‘Thanks for coming by.’
A strip of pictures landed across my TV guide. One shot of the two of us. One mostly of me as Lucie dived footwards. The third of Lucie in profile, surprised, plus the blur of my shoulder and right arm. The fourth frame was blank.
I couldn’t look at myself. But I couldn’t not look at Lucie. Beautiful. Lucent. Bright-eyed. Skin made for the flashbulb. A face that seemed to draw everything that was light into it.
I smiled, still not looking up. ‘You could be a pretty young thing with that peachy face of yours.’
‘Better the devil you know.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘Well you, you could be an old man with those droopy tits of yours. What have I told you? Sit up straight. Don’t slouch. Take care of yourself, will you.’
I looked up, hurt, exposed. But Lucie was smiling, and I’d never before felt such warmth. ‘You sound like Martha. She’s always telling me.’
‘And wouldn’t she know? Three breasts. I ask you, wouldn’t she know?’
I suppressed a smile.
‘Now walk to the river with me.’
Won’s green-and-orange Chinese lanterns floated over the bank. Fireflies glowed electric in the twilight. We were at the river’s edge, leaning over the shallows, just catching our reflections in the darkening water. There was the yellow glimmer of Lucie’s head, the white splash of my brow. But I was almost lost in that glassy darkness, my face obscured by the dark of my beard.
We took off our shoes and dangled our feet over the bank, kicking at the water, wanting to break up the quiet that had crept up on us out of nowhere. I was glad of the dark. It covered my face where that spit had been. It let Lucie’s small twisted feet splash in the water. With those god-given hooves and a ten-volt tail, ‘Lucifer: the Pretender’ was cheap lightning on stage. My act, on the other hand, depended on little more than me, ridiculous in flounces and a sash.
‘They’ll shut us down soon, you know,’ I said. ‘Could be any day.’
‘Yes. Any day.’
‘So why do you stick with this?’
‘Because I never could get to fifth position in ballet class.’
‘I’m serious,’ I said.
‘So am I. Have you ever been to private school?’
On the ground beside me, a firefly crept towards the bank. I tried to lure it into my palm, its tail flickering.
Lucie watched. ‘You haven’t said why you’re here.’
‘You tell me,’ I said, still concentrating. ‘Because there’s no business like show business? Because Springer hasn’t phoned yet? Because, deep down, I’m afraid I have a weak chin?’
‘You don’t trust me.’
‘Not much,’ I said.
‘I’d worry of course if you did.’
‘I know that.’
We smiled. In the half-light of the lanterns, I was fixed by those eyes, wide as the river, wide as the night. My hand moved to Lucie’s thigh. Lean, muscular. Something passed, a current, between us. For the first time, in that moment, I felt mutable.
Then his cheek brushed mine, and he was over me, running his fingers over my breasts, across my face.
Notes for a Chaotic Century
The thing is this. In a non-linear or chaotic system, feedback can exceed input. Which means you might well get more than you bargained for. And then a lot more again.
Branch manager John Monaghan can only repeat what has already been said: ‘We are very, very sorry. We’re
overwhelmed by what’s happened.’ He blinks several times in the light of the new day. He confirms that the branch will not recommence trading until five that afternoon. He adds that, given the events of last night, all opening offers have been withdrawn. Irrationally, he wishes he hadn’t left Daisy, his youngest daughter, at her nursery – he suddenly feels the need for her small, plump hand in his. The reporters are out, even at this early hour, and his Adam’s apple is bobbing like an Ikea ball in the ball pit of his throat.
The company blames an unforeseen volume of customers. An anticipated one thousand shoppers swelled to six thousand by midnight, even before the doors for the new flagship store were opened. In the chaos that ensued, twenty-two people were treated for heat exhaustion and crush injuries. A man was stabbed in Ikea’s car park – in an alleged fight over a parking space. Ambulances were delayed by unprecedented congestion on the A406 as people abandoned their cars and made their way to the store on foot in a new, twenty-first-century pilgrimage. ‘We could not have predicted the numbers,’ John Monaghan repeats under a volley of questions.
And it’s true. As any chaotician will tell you, in the state of chaos, only change is predictable.
Not that chaos is random. On the contrary, it follows rules so delicate they often escape human measure. It gives way to patterns so intricate, they quickly exceed our grasp – as in the growth of a snowflake, or a forest, or a forest fire, or a stock market, or a cancer in the body. As in the action of a whirlpool at a kitchen drain, or an eddy in a river, or road traffic on the M25, or the rapid-fire of thought in the brain.
That said, you could certainly be forgiven for mistaking the ‘chaotic’ for mayhem. You could be forgiven along with John Monaghan, who is at a loss to provide the reporters with answers; along with security guard Gerard Vincent, whose jaw was dislocated when he was punched by an irate shopper in soft furnishings; along with fifty-year-old Anna Lanchester, who was wrestled to the checkout floor by three younger women before they seized her flatbed trolley and purchased her cut-price, leather three-seater sofa.
Fifteen Modern Tales of Attraction Page 11