Caligatha

by Matt Spire

  Outside, the sky is turning orange. They must've been here for hours already.

  He flips ahead several pages.

  It was just before Methuselah's first birthday.

  I was reporting on the newest strain of superbotulism when Jericho told me to follow him outside. We took one of the unnamed mice, cage and all, and drove the rusted old Chevy to my apartment. Neither of us had set foot inside for over a year.

  Jericho set the cage down in the doorway and opened the cage’s latch.

  “Okay,” he said, “What's a real shitty book?”

  I thought he was talking to me, but he started following the mouse. Into the foyer, down the hallway past the kitchen and bathroom. Onto the living room. There, the mouse sat up, whiskers twisting back and forth. Confused.

  It stumbled up the nearest chair, then struggled to jump onto the coffee table. Jericho's pile of books was still sitting there.

  Whiskers still running back and forth in the air, the mouse stopped at a book, stared at it, pawed it, and circled around.

  Jericho picked up the mouse with one hand and fed it a raisin from the other.

  “Everyone's got an opinion,” Jericho said.

  The book was John Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men.

  “I don't understand,” I told him.

  “A mouse dies in it. Number 15 is a mouse.”

  “I understand the joke.”

  “Oh,” Jericho said, setting the mouse back down on the carpet. It ran obediently back to its cage. “It's used to the raisin being on top of the book.”

  ***

  Crane works with incredible economy, ripping open flatscreens and metal boxes, removing hard drives and placing them in his bag.

  Mae continues further down the tunnel, expecting an order from Crane, but he's singularly absorbed by the massive wall of computers.

  She shines her light back at him one last time. In this tight corridor, it refracts brilliantly off every surface. There must be about twenty flatscreens. Maybe thirty computer boxes. Behind him, already gorged of their organs, are giant computers larger than vertical filing cabinets, taller even than Crane.

  The room is pristine, its symmetry and repeated geometry almost holy, their intrusion sacrilege.

  Further down the hall, there's a simple metal desk with a glass top. No drawers, no clutter. Only an empty bottle of scotch and a few bottles of prescription drugs. She reads the labels: haloperidol, methylphenidate, diazepam, and the only empty bottle is oxycodone.

  Beside the desk are two flat shipping containers.

  She kneels, expecting them to be locked but they aren't even latched.

  The lid groans open on the first container and she stifles a scream.

  Eyes glimmer back from half a dozen decapitated, skinless heads.

  She grips her rifle hard, pointing it straight into the container with wobbly arms.

  There's something strange about them. They're not merely skulls, but there's no visible muscle. They're bone-white, but not brittle or delicate. They're smooth, as though a veneer of skin could drape across them to complete a natural face.

  She expects them to blink in her rifle's light, but the eyes rest still like painted pearls.

  With reluctance she reaches her gloved hand to the nearest cheek, tilting it gingerly. Underneath is the base of a spine, also indelicate and smooth, more like a tentacle.

  “Don't touch that,” Crane says. He'd crept up behind her, his bag full, finger on the radio in his ear. “This is the holy grail.”

  13

  1 Week

  The days pass as slow as months, and Jericho's shrinking fragments of morphine are now depleted.

  He tells Molly they shouldn't have an unprofessional relationship, locking himself in his office and feeling like a child.

  That same night, he lies in bed with Lydia, listening to her describe her father's declining health. How she's certain it will be soon, how he doesn't eat anymore, how he's taking so many pills to dull the pain; until Jericho can't take it and kisses her to stop the words and the guilt. Moving over her, Alana's drawing stares at him.

  He wonders if he and Lydia are the only two in the world making love in a pit of sorrow.

  Could he even call it that? He wanted to embrace whatever new feelings were there, feelings he knew he had. But she simply reminded him of what he didn't deserve. There were so many silences, unspoken thoughts. Their time became an effort to develop fire from friction alone, a primitive magic act producing only a warm smoke when they finished.

  And she never spent the night, always left just in case something happened, leaving him to dwell on how he'd doomed himself to loneliness from the very start.

  But most of all–the lingering guilt. It was a death sentence. He'd held onto the envelope addressed to Fern, uncertain. Nothing can undo the travesty of the stolen morphine. The more he lays with Lydia, her breathing growing shallow as she talks about her father, the more he hates himself. And the more he hates Reuben for all of it.

  Finally, he stares at the envelope for a long time and places it in the mail.

  That night, he tells himself his conscience is cleared, insists on taking Lydia to Milano's.

  “Want to do reconnaissance?” he asks, nudging her the wine list.

  She stares into space at the leather book, says, “We sell to them.” A moment later she smiles. “Thanks.”

  Her wit lags behind, and she spends more time moving her food than eating it.

  Once they're outside and away from any crowds, he stops her.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  So hollow.

  She shakes her head no, looks around and sits on the curb.

  “I'm going crazy,” she says. “I'm not strong enough.”

  “Yes, you are,” he insists. “You're stronger than I am, what you're–”

  “You don't understand.” She buries her face in her hands. “I'm really breaking down.” She watches him, hesitating.

  Nothing.

  “You can rely on me,” he says. But what does he mean by that? He's already let her down.

  “What?” She gives him a mixed look of confusion, desperation, even insult. “You don't know what I'm talking about.”

  His skin starts to itch and burn.

  “You're pushing yourself too hard,” he tells her.

  “No, I'm not. No, no–and these...” She stops, stares at the curb. “These nightmares.”

  He can’t thank of anything to say, puts his arm around her. Her eyes turning red, she sniffs. “I'm fine. Let's go.”

  “What nightmares?” he insists, holding onto her as she tries to stand.

  Dissolving dolls.

  “Nothing, Jericho. It's stupid. Everyone has nightmares.”

  “What?” he demands, almost expecting her to have the same nightmares he does, even though it’s irrational. “What are they?”

  “Just...empty space. That's what's so scary. I try to think of people I know, but there's nothing there. It's like I don't exist.”

  “Oh.” It makes sense, in its sad way. Caring for her father is the anchor of her existence, and his passing consigns her to oblivion.

  “I told you it was stupid. Let's go.”

  “No, it's not. I have nightmares a lot too.” He wants to tell her about the ghosts, about his strange episodes, uncontrollable visions, the horrifying experience at Paseka's–but that wouldn't be any good. They're not the same thing. She needs to sleep more, she's judging herself too much. No, it's nothing like the dark edges of his asphyxiation-damaged brain pulling at the strings of his guilt. Her nightmares arise from fear of inadequacy, of aloneness; his from disgrace, from penitence.

  Necessary fear.

  Self-flagellation.

  He realizes he's sweating, longing desperately for another tiny fragment of morphine, not listening while she talks.

  She asks to walk along the beach, and they do. It's far from crowded, but with arms across her chest Lydia still looks around, afraid of appea
ring vulnerable to the invisible hordes.

  “He's getting confused,” she says.

  They walk many steps, the sun melting in lavender water beside them before he speaks.

  “There's nothing more you can do.”

  She nods and whispers, “I'm going to be alone.”

  The vision of his past love laying feverish assaults him. The emptiness of his apartment.

  He stops, and she continues walking a few steps, freezes but doesn't turn.

  “Lydia.”

  She looks on at the sand, and he gently turns her around. Every muscle around her eyes and throat are straining to hold back tears. At the sight of her pained face, he realizes how deeply he cares for her, more than he's cared for anyone in years, and it rouses pangs of bitter nostalgia.

  “Lydia.”

  She grits her teeth, bites her lip. “What?”

  “You've never lived for yourself, and it takes a strong person to do that.”

  She shakes her head and looks away. “No, no.”

  “Listen to me,” he says, shaking her gently, not thinking before speaking. “You are. That strength will get your through. And that whole world you've denied yourself, it's all out there, and you'll thrive in it.”

  He lets her go, mulling over his words. He meant it all, but it sounded so useless.

  Tips for Successful Living from a Damaged Dopehead.

  She's quiet for a moment, watching the water creep nearer to her feet.

  His entire body begins to ache, each fiber reawakening from its morphine-laced slumber.

  “I need to go home,” she says under her breath, and seizing on his silence, “I have television to catch up on,” smiles.

  “You can be vulnerable,” he tells her, hoping she doesn't notice his trembling muscles.

  After a pause, she whispers something to herself that looks like “I will be.”

  “I know you don't want to hear me say it, but I'll be there.”

  She kisses his cheek with the faint scent of invisible tears.

  “Good,” she says, clutching his shoulder. “Don't go. Don't go.”

  Then she's gone.

  ***

  In the morning, after a sleepless night, Jericho apologizes to Maggie when he arrives, but she cuts him off, echoing his sloppy words.

  “We have a professional relationship, Jericho.”

  He'd hoped to make her feel better, but forgets about it as he walks to his office, disoriented, sweat beading on his forehead, shirt matted to his chest. Panicked, he reaches his hand into the empty space in his drawer where the envelope to Fern had sat.

  After his night with Lydia, he's no longer certain about his decision, or much of anything. Why can he be so contemplative–scrutinize everything–but disregard the consequences of his actions? If Reuben leaves his family, are Stacey and Alana better off? What solace does truth bring?

  If Lydia knew everything about him, she would be repulsed.

  If Lydia's father passed unexpectedly rather than spending an eternity sick, years of acidic tears wouldn't be curdling in her heart.

  Truth is the root of all suffering.

  He can't think of anything to do, wandering Tombolo's. The chairs rest on the tables, and no smells drift from the kitchen. Within weeks, there will be no bartender until evenings.

  He gasps for air.

  Lydia fears being alone, but Jericho truly has nothing. What can he really offer her?

  Mayor of a fucking ghost town.

  But what should he do? He doesn't care about Blue Coral. Lydia tries so hard and cares so much about Eden's Vineyard. Even if it is out of necessity, her stability, her industriousness, comes so easily to her.

  Engineering. No, he can't. Even when trying to imagine his past, before Caligatha, some invisible guardian stands before his memories and fills him with dread.

  Morphine.

  He continues pacing, his fists growing numb, clutching them ever harder as his body cries out for the drug.

  Lydia calls. Her voice hasn't changed since he last saw her.

  She only says his name, and he knows why she's called.

  “Where are you?”

  “The hospital,” she says, followed by only her breath rising and falling heavier than her words.

  “I'll be right there.” He repeats himself several times and hangs up before she can tell him not to come.

  And in twenty minutes' time he's at the front desk, surprised he remembers her last name. Sortanova. One of those details that used to slip by so easily.

  Fidgeting with his pass, he wanders the halls of Intensive Care. Everywhere, frozen tension, heavy silence and sighing machinery, like car crashes stuck in time at the symphonic moment of impact.

  He's compelled to seek her out, embrace her, and stifle the misery waiting to explode in her heart. But also to run back to the elevator, away from the fake limestone exterior of the hospital, the sterile overexposure inside.

  This is a place where everything is laid bare.

  When he finds the room, Lydia is sitting in a chair by the bed being spoken to in a hushed voice by a doctor. She's staring into space, expressionless, her ankle shaking mechanically.

  He stands by the door, waiting, straightening and curling his fingers across sweaty palms over and over until the doctor leaves. Jericho inches into the doorway.

  Her father lays unmoving, lost in a monolithic clump of bedding and tubes, metal and bags and lights and screens. In the middle of it all, a prematurely aged face, thin and unwrinkled.

  Jericho never thought about it until now, but despite the ravages of sickness, he's clearly still so young–probably only in his forties.

  Lydia's head is between her legs, hair a mess, last night's clothes wrinkled around her fidgeting limbs.

  She looks up, expressionless, drifts out of the chair and to the doorway like an apparition of herself. He reaches to hold her but she pulls a pair of sunglasses off her collar.

  “Stop,” he says, and her body shakes.

  “Pneumonia,” she says, almost one syllable.

  He takes the sunglasses.

  “I'm sorry,” she tells him. “I shouldn't have called you.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “They're doing a blood test to be sure.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I'm sorry,” she repeats. “This is something I need to do on my own.”

  “I love you,” he says, but she pushes him away.

  Stupid.

  Her body jerks again, releasing a gasp of incredulity. “I don't know.” She steps back, sticks her fingers in her hair, looks around the hallway. “I don't know, I don't know.”

  They stand in silence. The unbearable fever within him breaks into a terrible cold so strong he clutches at the doorframe.

  “I can only handle so much right now,” she says. “I need to do this on my own.”

  The idea of breaking into the hospital's medicine facility flashes through his mind. He studies her face, wondering if she sees how wretched he’s become.

  “Please keep in touch,” he tells her, and she lets him kiss her forehead, her tormented eyes unclosed, both pushing him away and pleading him not to leave.

  She swallows, nods.

  “Jericho,” she says, taking her sunglasses back. “You never did anything wrong.”

  He walks down the antiseptic linoleum.

  At first, he thinks her parting words were about the drugs, but then he realizes that even now, left with her desolate whirlpool of thoughts, she broods over his past miseries, his undisclosed shame. Telling him things she should be telling herself.

  What will she do with all that emptiness? Is she to become the caretaker of his tomb too?

  His phone rings. It's Fern.

  ***

  Jericho takes Stacey and Alana into Tombolo's and asks the cook to make them something to be sent to Fern’s room–the girls settle without enthusiasm on grilled cheese–then brings them back to their mother. Maggie gives him
a ferocious squint as they pass but says nothing.

  He's made sure to give Fern the largest room, and when he returns she's sifting through her suitcase, lost in thought. She's wearing big, dark sunglasses, just like Lydia's.

  Jericho turns on the television, finds a channel with cartoons and tells the girls to sit, handing them the remote. Fern closes the suitcase, wipes her eyes from under the sunglasses and looks at Stacey and Alana. They stare back, confused, quiet.

  “You can stay here as long as you need,” he tells her.

  She slams the suitcase, clenches her fists. “Can I talk to you outside?” she says quietly.

  His stomach turns, but Jericho nods, and they step into the hall.

  He shuts the door and she smacks him hard on the side of the face.

  He's stunned by the force, the rage behind it. He doesn't know how he stays upright.

  “You bastard!” she nearly screams, then collapses into his chest, pushing him against the wall. “Why?”

  “I'm sorry,” is all he can manage, arms limp at his side, not knowing whether to comfort her.

  “I tried so hard! So many years–so many years. Do you know what I've done?”

  “I'm sorry,” he repeats. Maggie's face appears around the corner then disappears.

  “No!” She grabs at him, pushes away. “Do you think I didn't know? Do you think I'm a fucking idiot, Jericho? Do you–do you–they are all I care about. Do you think I have options? How long do I need? How long?”

  “You can stay–”

  “No, you stupid fuck, Jericho fucking Amara–living in your piece of shit desolate hole in the wall!” Grabbing and spitting each word. “With all that money leftover! Working at a place like this just for the fuck of it! You don't understand! You don't have consequences! Where am I supposed to go?”

  He isn't sure. He struggles to remember if her parents are living, but he feels required to say something.

  “What about your family?”

  She smacks him again. They must be dead.

  “I'm sorry.” She falls back against the door, head hanging, takes off her sunglasses and puts her hands over her face. “I'm sorry.”