Skin Cage

by Nico Laeser

  The bus pulls into the depot, and everyone shuffles toward the doors and out, dispersing into the crowd of people waiting to get on. I turn back and look up at the sign that reads Terminal before it switches to 12th Street. As I read the word, indicative of both my location and condition, my bad heart sinks.

  People stand, waiting in lines, holding bags brandishing various store names. As I study the expressionless faces of the entranced commuters, I am reminded of the blank, empty eyes of Danny, sitting helpless in his chair as I removed his ventilator. I wonder if all of us take our own lives for granted, always wanting for something better and never content with what we have, unable to appreciate what we have never had to fight for, or strive for, and only feeling cheated or deprived of things unattainable.

  I see the sign hanging that says 23 Park Drive and head toward it. I buy a newspaper to break a ten for bus fare at a hole-in-the-wall newsagent, then take a seat on the bench below the sign. I flick through to the section about Marcus, which was the reason that I chose that particular newspaper. There is no information about Marcus that hasn’t already been covered in various articles before, but there is a photo of Cassie and Anna. I stare at the photo, at her.

  There is a small lineup of people waiting to get on the bus when I lower the paper; I don’t know how long I have been waiting. I fold up my paper and join the lineup.

  I get off the bus on Main Street and follow the directions, scrawled on a scrap of paper, that eventually lead me to the community center. Coffee, juice, and muffins have been laid out on a table at the back of a large room, and there is a man setting out chairs in a circle, probably Gareth Peters.

  “Help yourself to coffee or juice,” he says without looking up.

  “Thanks,” I reply and pour myself a glass of orange juice. I pull out my phone and pretend to answer a call as an excuse to leave the room and avoid any strained, awkward conversation. I’m hoping that I will remember the regulars as they come in; being early may have been a mistake.

  I keep the phone pressed against the side of my head and return the odd smile of feigned recognition as people walk through the hallway and into the main room. I recognize a greying, heavyset man from several photographs on my laptop and return the phone to my pocket.

  “Harry?”

  He nods and smiles. “Hello, David.”

  I breathe a sigh and smile. “How does this work? Are they going to ask me to talk about myself?”

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Harry says.

  “I’m still not really myself.” I cringe inside as I listen to the words come out.

  “You’ll be fine,” Harry says and gestures toward the room.

  I sit patiently, with an irrepressible and morbid curiosity, sizing up the latecomers and wondering what mortal affliction is killing each of them as they enter and join the circle. Of the group, some appear at least superficially healthy, as compared with their diametric opposites, those resembling the decaying remnants of past, or passed, members.

  “For anyone who is here for the first time, my name is Gareth Peters, and I am a grief counselor. Some of you are dealing personally with terminal illness, and perhaps, some of you are here because you have a loved one that is dealing with terminal illness.” He speaks in the manner of someone teaching a child the alphabet, and I am beginning to wonder if it is a common trait among counselors.

  As I look over at Harry, secondhand emotions lubricate the flow of memory. The man sitting next to me was more than just a friend to David. He was the long forgotten hero in a child’s science fiction stories, a surrogate father figure in the absence of his own.

  “Are you alright, David?” Harry asks in a crackled whisper.

  The last time that we sat together, I was afraid. Sitting in a room filled with dying people but afraid of dying alone, afraid of telling Harry about my plan to put an end to the waiting.

  The night that I swallowed the sleeping pills, it was the thought of leaving Harry behind to mourn my death that drove me to stagger back into town. I didn’t want to die without saying goodbye, without saying sorry, but it was too late. It was too late for David. I stole his life, depriving him of his chance at redemption. My gut churns, and I feel like I’m going to be sick.

  “Excuse me,” I manage, as I run out of the room and to the bathroom across the hallway.

  I cough and spit bile into the sink, my body trying to purge itself of remorse. David’s reddened face stares back at me, and I cannot fight back the guilt or tears. “I’m sorry, David.”

  CHAPTER 41

  I am patiently waiting for virtue

  I have sat in my apartment for days, thinking, waiting, and praying for answers. I have been wallowing in self-deprecation and guilt for all of what I consider to be my sins. The fate of Marcus Salt and the theft of David’s life haunt every other thought, and I can hardly bare it.

  The tapeworm was not the only parasite to feed off Danny. Marcus was a coldhearted, self-centered reptile, who gained from my family, but gave almost nothing in return. He was ready to let me spend the rest of my life locked in a cage, and maybe he deserves the same, but that does not change the way I feel about what I have done.

  As for David, I am in part, the sum of his memories, and as such, I am privileged to every recalled emotional response prior to the non-permissive resurrection of his body, but even with such vast reference, I am uncertain of how he would feel about me continuing the life that at one point he had decided to abandon. I regret answering the phone call from Harry that has since led to the inheritance of David’s obligation toward him.

  I am waiting for intervention, for a sign, a warning, to be struck down by God, or for David to reclaim his life, but I know that I am waiting for something that will never come. I realize that we have both spent our whole lives waiting. Waiting for the return of an estranged father, waiting to be old enough to hear the story of aunt Anna, waiting for someone to save me from my chair, waiting for someone to tell me who I am, waiting to die, waiting for someone to tell me that what I am doing is wrong. So much time wasted, waiting for something.

  I am able to move and communicate, and yet, I sit still and alone. For whatever reason, I have been given another chance and don’t wish to wait any longer. I would have given almost everything for this opportunity, everything except my memory of her.

  ***

  I pick up my phone and scroll through the contacts. I hit call and it rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Harry, are you doing anything right now?”

  “Nothing in particular; is everything alright, David?”

  “Everything is fine; I’ve just had enough of sitting in my apartment.”

  “What do you have in mind?” he asks.

  CHAPTER 42

  I am his epitaph

  “Are you supposed to be drinking?” Barb says as she places our drinks down.

  “I don’t think one drink is going to kill us,” I say with a smirk.

  “It might,” Harry says through a breathy laugh that compels me to join in.

  “What time are you closing up, Barb?” I ask.

  “Why, what are you thinking?” she asks with a smirk.

  “There’s no one here; why don’t you join us?” I say and raise an eyebrow.

  She stands there for a second. “Alright, give me a few minutes.”

  “I was worried that something had happened when you called,” Harry says.

  “I know, and that’s kind of the reason I called. Why should we only get together when there’s something wrong, or when things get worse? We’re dying, we’re not dead,” I say.

  Harry smiles. “You have a point, David.”

  Barb slides the bolt on the doors, returns to the bar, and pours herself a drink, before coming back to join us.

  “Alright, so what are we talking about?” she says and takes a seat.

  “Barb, this is Harry. Harry, Barb,” I say.

  “Hi, Harry,” she says.

  “Hello,
Barb,” Harry says.

  “And for those of you coming to this support meeting for the first time, my name is David Wolfe, and I am not a grief counselor,” I say.

  “So now that you’ve remembered you have more friends, does that mean I have to share the bank robbery money?” Barb asks.

  Harry frowns and I explain the joke.

  “What do you want to do before you die, Harry?” I ask.

  “It’s a little embarrassing, but I haven’t really thought about it. I’ve been so busy with treatment and making arrangements for when I die to even think about it,” he says.

  “Well, I have spent the last two days thinking about it, and the first thing that I wanted to do was see you two,” I say.

  “I want to go to Paris,” Barb says.

  “What’s stopping you?” Harry asks.

  “Well, money for one, and there’s the bar,” she says and takes a drink.

  “I just don’t want to have any regrets or loose ends when I die,” Harry says.

  I think about David, staggering back into town with the world spinning and turning before his eyes, as the sleeping pills took hold.

  “I thought about what you said to me on the phone Harry,” I say.

  “What was that?” he asks.

  “That you didn’t want me to leave without saying goodbye.”

  Harry looks down at his drink, and Barb looks from me to Harry and back.

  “If this was the last night that we were to spend together, what would you want to say?” I ask.

  There is silence for a minute before Barb says, “Hold that thought while I go get us more drinks.” She leaves the table.

  “Since I’ve been out of the coma, I’ve done nothing but feel sorry for myself; I don’t want to spend the last few years of my life just waiting to die,” I say.

  Harry nods slowly and with an unreadable expression.

  Barb returns with more drinks.

  “A toast,” Harry says picking up his glass.

  “To what?” Barb asks.

  “A toast to the fact that we’re not dead yet,” he says.

  Barb smiles, “How about to friends?”

  “To friends,” we say in unison and clink our glasses together.

  “Okay, how about this? If you could give your own eulogy, what would you say?” I ask.

  “Harry Maddox has left the building,” he says and laughs.

  “Short and sweet,” Barb says and accompanies Harry’s breathy laugh with a higher pitched harmony.

  “What about you, David?” Barb asks.

  “I only really got to know David Wolfe after he came out of his coma, but what I have learned about him over the past while is that he didn’t want to leave anyone behind to mourn him. David was a good-hearted man, with a childish optimism that was almost lost and consumed by regret and self-pity. I know that the few friends that knew him best, Barb and Harry, will miss him. Barb was the kind soul that took him in as a stray dog off the street and showed him the way home, and was the one that planted the idea for him to rob the bank that got him shot down by the police in a blaze of glory,” I say.

  Barb chuckles and Harry smiles at me.

  “And Harry Maddox was nothing short of a father figure to David in the absence of his own. He looked up to and admired Harry the way any young boy idolizes his father as he looks up at him shaving in the mirror, wanting to be just like him, and to make him proud,” I say.

  “I am very proud of you, David,” Harry says.

  “To David,” Barb says and holds out her glass.

  “To David,” we all say again as our glasses meet.

  “Alright. Barbara Saunders was a beautiful, kind woman that everybody loved and admired for her service to the community. She will be missed greatly by her movie star husband, Brad, and three beautiful children, Paris, Moonbeam, and Brad junior,” she says.

  “Paris and Moonbeam?” Harry asks.

  “I figure that I will probably be going through a new age phase after eloping with Brad in Paris,” she says as we all laugh.

  “Who are you going to leave your movie-star-wife billions to?” I ask.

  “Well, Brad is obviously going to get most of it, and then the rest of it will go to Paris and Moonbeam,” she says, while feigning good posture.

  “What about Brad junior?” Harry asks with a smirk.

  “Oh yeah, I forgot about Brad junior. He can have the French villa and the Porsche,” she says giggling.

  “To Barb,” I say and our glasses meet again as we all repeat.

  “I feel like I sold myself short on my eulogy now,” Harry says.

  “Do you want to add to, ‘Harry has left the building?’” Barb asks.

  “Harry has left the building, and now that he is dead, his next door neighbor, Thomas, can take his mower back, as Harry will no longer be needing it,” Harry says.

  “To Harry,” we say in unison, clink our glasses, and take another drink.

  We continue to drink, talk, and laugh into the early morning, and I hope that the memory of this night is what will survive us when we are gone.

  CHAPTER 43

  I am the aggregate

  I woke up with the worst hangover, a byproduct of my need for absolution. As I recall fragments of last night, I laugh out loud and wince, admonished by a throbbing headache and chastised by my aching body, for having drank so much.

  I take a couple Aspirin with a glass of water as I listen back through my phone messages to find his number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, I’m looking for Christopher Dennis.” My voice is coarse and I have to clear my throat.

  “That’s me, who’s this?”

  “It’s David Wolfe; you called and left a message looking for Andre’s phone number.” I make my way back to my desk and lean on my hand.

  “David, yeah thanks, but that’s an old message. I managed to get his number elsewhere. I appreciate you calling back though.”

  “I didn’t realize it was an old message; I’ve been out of town for a while,” I say, “Hey, I read an article you wrote for the Daily on Daniel Stockholm, great piece.”

  “Oh thanks. I’m doing a follow up to that piece right now,” he says.

  “That whole thing is still going on?”

  “Yeah, it’s a messy situation; it’ll be dragged through the courts for months,” he says.

  “I went to school with one of the people in that story,” I lie, “Cassandra Mathews?”

  “Oh, really? Small world,” he says.

  “What happened to her after the Stockholm place? Did she go back home?” I say in the most casual tone I can manage.

  “She’s working at the care home on Carol Street,” he says, “you fishing for leads?”

  I feign a laugh. “No, I’m retired from journalism. I’ve been out of the game for three years.”

  “You working on a novel or something?” he asks.

  “No, just trying to live out the rest of my days stress free,” I say and begin searching the Internet for the care home on Carol Street.

  “Each to their own; early retirement would drive me crazy, or the wife would,” he says, “Oh, hey, I’ve got to run, I have a call on the other line, but it was good speaking to you, David.”

  “You too, Chris, take care,” I say, but I think he may have hung up halfway through.

  The website says that it is a palliative care facility. I have never been there, but I recognize the name. I look through my wallet, pull out Doctor Hossieni’s card, and punch in the number on my phone.

  “Hello, Doctor Hossieni’s office, Joy speaking, how can I help you?”

  “Hi, this is David Wolfe; can I speak with Doctor Hossieni, please?” I find myself pacing and over by the books, all stacked up against the back wall. I am picturing Cassie’s wide-eyed expression at the sight of David’s collection of classic fiction and science fiction.

  “I’m sorry, David, Doctor Hossieni is with a patient right now; is there anything I can help you w
ith?” Joy says.

  “I don’t think so; can you ask him to call me back when he’s available, please?” I say.

  “Okay, what is it in regard to?” she asks.

  “I want to know if I’m eligible for palliative care?” I browse through the various titles from Wells, Heinlein, Vonnegut, Brin ... when I get to Orwell, I remember what the pin code is for my bankcard, and I laugh out loud, 1984.

  “David?”

  “Sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you,” I say and put a hand to my throbbing temple.

  “Can he reach you on this number?”

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “Alright, I will pass this on to him as soon as he’s finished with his patient, David. Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s it, thank you,” I say.

  “Okay, David, have a nice day.”

  I see The Chrysalids and it brings a smile to my face. I put my phone back into my pocket and pull at the book, careful not to collapse the haphazard stack of paperbacks above it. I begin to flick through the pages, trying to find the last page that Aunt Anna had read to me, but David has already read this book, and the two cloudy memories are fused together. I’m hoping that David has forgotten how it ends, and I slip Doctor Hossieni’s card between the pages at the start of chapter one.

  ***

  I am hoping that the Aspirin will kick in at some point and allow me to accomplish everything that I have set out to do today. Certain details of David’s life are still unclear. It may be, that what I am searching for is not there to be remembered, but I don’t want to base my actions on assumption and risk further karmic retaliation.