Communion

by Graeme Gibson

  So what can he do?

  He can’t hide it in the cemetery, the fat man would know immediately, and even if he didn’t want to, even if his sympathies were with the two of them, the young man and his dog, and that’s improbable, he’d still have to report the presence of a white husky among the graves. And that would be the end of it; people don’t like that sort of thing.

  Felix hears a kind of cry, the animal shudders but it doesn’t waken: one of its paws trembles and then is still. The belly rises and falls agitatedly as the cry, a thin vulnerable sound, continues . . .

  What does it dream?

  He’d like to take it back to the woods. That appears to be the natural course of action: it would be the best thing. Driving north as far as the roads go, if he had a car, past towns and villages, back into winter until somewhere, in a clearing perhaps, by the edge of the bush he releases it. That’s the best thing, the natural thing: it pleases him, seeing it slip from the car, pausing to smell the air curiously, defensively, then breaking into the tireless searching run of wild dogs, the wolf . . .

  That’s all very well, but whatever he’s going to do he has to hurry. Walters has surely phoned, he probably phoned as soon as the woman left. If he did, and if the dog’s going to be saved, then it has to be done right now.

  Through some opening, a stream perhaps, where does it lead? running shadowy among evergreens, beneath the sky: running some hidden path, instinctive . . .

  It’s winter. The stream bed is frozen, the sky is empty: Felix stands by the road, his body’s breath billowing into the air. The dog is gone. He watched it trot easily to the forest’s edge, he saw it pause at the entrance, it turned to stare briefly back to where he watched from beside the car, and then it was gone.

  Shadowy running among evergreens heaped with snow, instinctive running with Felix trembling on the road. It’s cold but he doesn’t feel it, he isn’t aware of the wind: he hears only the brittle earth resisting spring.

  Without noise, meanwhile, unravelling above them is the vapour trail of a jet, Felix doesn’t see it for a long time. He’s staring at the darkening forest as if expecting the dog again: it doesn’t come and it won’t, he knows that. But still he stares, he hears the uncertain silence of dying winter, the hollow pressure of the land and is suddenly cold. Returning quickly to the car he sees, pink on the evening sky, the tattered remnants of an aircraft’s flight.

  Driving south, his headlights dashing from heavy trees on either side, perhaps the radio’s playing, he concludes it was American. They’re everywhere. Loaded with hydrogen bombs they fly hour by hour, year after year; they don’t go anywhere, they don’t do anything.

  Peter Walters smiling, leaning in the doorway. “You can’t deny it’s the first time you’ve taken a short lunch hour.” His smile as he rubs his right palm on the outside of his thigh. “If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s the first time you haven’t taken a long lunch hour. Ha!” Felix aware, there’s nothing novel about this: he’s surprised however that Walters closes his eyes, what’s the matter with him? he’s never done that before. He sees the plump hand up and down the pant leg, up and down intently: the eyes remain closed.

  “It’s the dog” he tries. “I wanted . . . ”

  “I know!” Walters alert suddenly, watching. “You don’t have to tell me anything Oswald. I know your concern for that dog. I think you’re crazy, but there you are.” Coming into the room. “That’s not what we’re talking about though. We’re talking about you rushing out of here every noon hour. Right on the button. That’s what we’re talking about.” Walking towards Felix, arm outstretched, pointing. What does he want? one foot and then the other, his body swaying heavily as he comes. “Rushing off to wherever it is you go. Ha! don’t think I haven’t noticed, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.” Intimate, his white teeth, what does he want from Felix, why is he reaching? “Anybody with any sense can see it Oswald.” Taking the left bicep of Felix Oswald in his right hand, squeezing significantly, leaning to say: “And I think it’s great!” breathing his sweet breath and squeezing. “A man needs his nookey.” Guiding Felix into the office, turning, presenting this grin. “Isn’t that right Oswald? every man needs a bit of nookey now and then.” Felix standing in the office, his employer pinching the inside of his arm, what’s going on? he has to know about the dog, and besides this hand on his arm, the voice. He hasn’t any choice. “It’s only natural.”

  “Oh yes” what? “I think so.”

  “Tell me about her.” Going behind his desk.

  “What?”

  “Is she good?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “GODDAMMIT OSWALD!” his arm crashing on the desk. Terrible sound. It frightens Felix because it, crashing sound like that, it’s unexpected. “Tell me the truth.” He stares at his employer. Something struggles in his cheek, he can feel it bumping on the edge of his cheekbone. He wonders if Walters can see it. “I can read you like a book, you know that Oswald, you don’t fool me one little bit, so don’t think you do.” His sleeve is dangerously close to the little glass. Felix sees the sleeve moving near the glass and considers, briefly, should he tell the prick he might spill the drink, he’s going to spill the drink, the way he’s moving his arm, the way the arm is moving, it’s quite possible it will hit the glass, it will probably knock it over, it’s surprising he hasn’t knocked it over already. Liquid in the glass vibrates. The desk top is white. Felix sees an amber shadow with its core of light on the white surface. The muscle continues to jump in his face. Walters continues to talk, his voice concluding things, there’s nothing new in all of this, he’s not asking questions or anything, Felix can tell that, there’s no need to answer, he’s not soliciting advice, he’s not revealing anything either. All Felix has to do is acquiesce.

  Sleeping breath against her shoulder, the perfume of her body: silent first light, perhaps curtains swaying, he slides from her bed, he stands naked in the morning air; seeing familiar objects about the house in the gathering light, he smokes a cigarette. Houses in silhouette, the trees; fences, squat bushes at the edge of the ravine, and air from the window drifting against his belly, encircling his thighs. He licks the palm of his hand, absently he smoothes at his belly, he rubs wetly among the gathering hair, his body’s still, he licks again, tasting the earth smell of sex, he smoothes his thighs, the air is cool where his hands have traced, the morning at his body, he smokes in silence. Only the rustle of fingers on his own flesh, the sound of her body as she moves: he throws his cigarette out the window and at that moment sees two men dismantling a car, he hears the dull clang of metal on concrete. They work methodically, but very quickly, they’re obviously experts, perhaps they’re pit mechanics from Mosport. Not long ago he would have been appalled, frightened too, he would have shouted, phoned somebody, maybe even scrambled into his trousers and run barefoot into the lane to confront them; but this morning it doesn’t matter.

  He turns to her. She’s pulled the covers over her head. Suddenly the distance between them, his body and hers, the space is intolerable: he knows he must leave before the child wakes, but he gets back into bed and holds her, half-waking she receives him, he says her name, her breath is in his mouth, their bodies wrestle in slow motion, they slide through the air like fish.

  A band of sunshine bright on the window sill. Felix realizes there are people in cars who pass each other in the street and he remembers the afternoon last summer when he watched the groundhog. It hadn’t done very much. On the contrary it seemed merely to be looking for something, its blunt body crossing and re-crossing the area around its home; it had stopped now and then to rise on its hind quarters and watch him nervously. He hadn’t moved. Eventually it scuttled into its hole, without finding whatever it had been looking for, or at least not obviously, then it must have turned around for the head re-emerged, just the head, it was almost indistinguishable from the earth, and it lay like th
at for a long time blinking against the sun. After a while Felix continued his walk. He sees the sky, a washed-out blue, the sky still looks cold although the sun is shining. He had been close enough to see the colour of its eyes. It amused him to think of it burrowing among the graves.

  “Felix” he says hollowly. Waiting.

  “Yes?” politely.

  “Her old man’s away during the day, is that it?”

  “No, no it’s not that.”

  “And you sneak around there for a bit of nookey, eh? every day you . . . ”

  “No, it’s, no . . . I”

  “C’mon Oswald.” His face demanding. “Don’t lie to me Felix.”

  “She’s pretty good.”

  “Aah!” sighs Peter Walters. “That’s better.” Smiling he leans with his elbows on the desk again. Felix finds it something of a relief. The sleeve moving near the glass, the amber shadow with its core of light, the white surface. “And I’m right aren’t I? she’s married.” Felix nods. Walters shifts his chair closer to the desk, he pours two more drinks, he wiggles his buttocks, settling into the chair, he smiles. “Good for you Oswald.” Sipping his drink this time, he says “Good for you.” He raises his face, he’s ready for the next admission.

  Now, and this is more difficult, going to her again, knowing the hair shrouding her face, knowing she waits for him: almost unrecognizable towards the afternoon sun, his feet ring on the frozen road, trees are scattered up both sides of the ravine, their long shadows blue on the snow; this morning he saw a hawk, he’s almost certain it was a hawk, it floated from sight behind him as he left her.

  It’s so easy.

  Her long body in his arms, strands of her hair in his mouth as he climbs on to the breast of the hill. Paved roads. Children playing in the alley. The house and she’s waiting for him, reading the paper at her kitchen table, she’ll turn as he comes in the door, light from the window in her hair, on her cheek . . .

  Behind him, under the railway bridge, the lean woman with two greyhounds: pausing at the edge to catch his breath, looking down through tangled branches he sees the searching dogs, he stares into her face, she’s stopped walking, she seems to return his look, he raises his arm as a sign but she doesn’t respond.

  “C’mon Oswald, please! c’mon . . . ” nodding pointedly towards the other room, but Felix doesn’t understand, what’s he doing that for? Then he remembers the dog. “Just between men eh? just between ourselves.” That’s what it’s all about. “C’mon, don’t be bashful, Christ I can tell you things! like that broad who was here this morning, you saw her. Have you ever seen tits like that before? Fantastic! Right? Well I’m . . . ” Inadvertently they stare at each other. “You know . . . ” Studiously examining the plump hand in sunlight, Felix nods, suggesting that he does. “I’ll bet she screws like a mink.” Felix nods again. Cars fill the street, he can hear them. The sun is brilliant on the desk. “Well? For chrissakes Oswald, go on!”

  It was unwilling to leave. They stood facing the forest’s edge, Felix and the husky: trees black between snow and the sky, their breath like smoke as he crouches, he leans his face against its skull, he talks. Contracting with the cold, the car cracks mechanically but he doesn’t hear, he hears his voice, he feels the road beneath his knees, a muscular throat and shoulders under coarse hair, he hears the animal’s heart, the thawing earth.

  Felix stands by the road as it trots uncertainly to the entrance, seeing it pause, it stares over its shoulder but he can’t see the eyes. Then it’s gone, a white body against the trees before it vanishes. The snow’s surface is broken in an arc between him and the trees, it fills with shadow as he watches: the night is immense, he’s cold as he returns to the car. Running among evergreens a dog, a wolf at the other end of that track, the searching run of wild dogs . . .

  He’s opening the car door when she speaks: a woman at the edge of a field near the shell of a building, an abandoned school house that he hadn’t noticed, perhaps it’s a deconsecrated church. The wall behind her has crumbled away, the roof has gone, the windows are empty and snow drifts high on the inner walls. Where has she come from? Her silhouette is completely without detail, although it appears she’s wearing a parka with the hood up. She speaks again. She turns and starts back along the side road, she doesn’t acknowledge his voice but he follows her anyway. The wind is gusting stronger, the footing treacherous. He can barely see the tip of the ruin now, to his left, above a snow bank, he leans into the wind, trying to catch up he begins to run, almost in slow motion, it’s difficult, there are ruts, tracks of cars beneath drifted snow, he slides grotesquely, she turns and smiles, he’s close enough to see her smile, to hear her laugh, she veers from the road, scrambles over the fence, he follows her into the field, the moon is bright, they struggle thigh deep and fall, and rise, they’re laughing like children as he grabs her, she reaches, pulls him down, her mouth is cool, there’s snow melting on her cheek.

  The sound of their boots on the road: his arm over her shoulders, her body walks at his side. Wild clouds blow around the moon. They walk into the shadow of the building and a distant farm dog begins to bark; they can’t help hearing its thin, insistent voice as they descend to the car, they pause to listen on the road, holding each other they stand in the towering night.

  “You’re some kind of fucking pervert, that’s what you are.” Methodically emptying his glass with Felix staring at him. “I know where you go, I’ve followed you . . . ” This can’t be happening, it mustn’t happen. Walters pouring whiskey into the shot glasses. Felix feels the muscle jumping in his face; amber shadows on the desk, cars pass each other in the street. All he can do is wait. “There isn’t any woman is there!”

  “She’s pretty good . . . ”

  “C’mon Oswald, don’t give me any more of that bull. I’ve followed you, I know where you go.” Felix continues to stare at Peter Walters who is shaking his head now, puffing his cheeks and forcing air from his mouth. “I mean Jesus! trying to stick it in a statue’s ear, I never came across that before . . . you’re one of your actual Kraft-Ebbing maniacs . . .

  “I said she’s pretty good!” Both of them startled. They stare at each other across the white desk. Eventually Walters, is it insensitivity or bravado? tries to ignore what has happened. He clears his throat, but it’s too late.

  “I’ve followed you,” his voice lacks conviction. “I know where you go, you go to the graveyard.”

  “Listen you sonofabitch! you believe me, alright?” Felix standing. Walters collapsing. It’s superb. The mouth open, the eyes have lost their focus as he struggles to reassert himself:

  “Trying to stick it in a statue’s ear, I never came across that before. Sucking on a stone boob for chrissakes, Oswald you’re a . . . ”

  “Woofwoof.”

  “Oh.” An expiration scarcely heard, a mouthful of air from his lungs as his body opens, that’s all: sweat bursting from his forehead as he turns away.

  “Woofwoof WOOF!”

  “C’mon Oswald, please! c’mon . . . ” It delights Felix to see the fat hands trembling. “Christ I can tell you things! There’s no need to bring that up, no need . . . ” He tries to straighten himself in his chair. “Like that broad who was here this morning, you saw her. Have you ever seen tits like that before? Fantastic! Right? Well I’m . . . ‘’ Felix pours himself another shot: fat hands opaque in sunlight, the voice appealing now, almost begging, it was so easy! why couldn’t he have done it earlier? “You know,” hopefully. Felix nods, suggesting that he does. “I’ll bet she screws like a mink . . . ” Sipping his whiskey, grinning uncontrollably, Felix nods again. Woofwoof. He puts his glass on the desk and lurches to the window to contain his elation: he can do what he wants, it’s incredible! he knows what he can do . . .

  “I’m seeing her tonight Peter and I wondered.” Staring at himself reflected in a window across the alley. “I’d like to borro
w your car.”

  Because there’s so little time to think he walks up to the cage, explains briefly to the dog what he’s going to do, why he’s going to do it, and then opens the door: it surprises him that the animal doesn’t move, it hardly acknowledges him or the open door, it lies with only a sliver of light in its eyes.

  He speaks to it but it doesn’t respond. He coaxes, even pleads: finally he commands, he shouts harshly and rattles the door; that doesn’t work either. He’s bewildered. Leaving the cage door ajar Felix goes into the office, sits down in the chair and pours himself a small glass of whiskey. What must he do now? Stupid fucking dog. He tries to compose himself, to relinquish everything not related directly to the problem, to open himself in such a way that the solution, there must be a solution, the solution will become obvious. Certainly he mustn’t allow himself to think. His heart beats painfully with unfamiliar excitement because it appears something is going to happen, he can’t recall anything to match the possibility of his triumph. Walters’ hands rubbing aimlessly between plump thighs.

  He drinks from the little glass and notes that the whiskey has lost its bite: he goes to the window, opens it from the top, and methodically breathes cold air in through his nose. He must become blank, an empty organism, but it saw him, he’s sure of that, it knows the door is open so why doesn’t it respond? It’s probably afraid. Staring at empty yards, at fences, dirty windows, feeling the cold air in his nose and throat, he discovers that it’s afraid. He isn’t surprised. His hands have no strength. As he lights a cigarette he sees that his fingers are trembling. Felix Oswald smoking by a particular open window: he senses vague pains, he reaches under his sweater, inside his shirt so his fingers are in the armpit, his palm across the nipple, and he presses roughly . . .