Hieroglyphs_of_Blood_and_Bone

by Michael Griffin

  "Almost there," Karl shouts.

  Soon I've got him near the bank, exhausted in the shallows, spinning feebly. His back is green-brown with black spots. He swoons over on his side, revealing a brilliant silver flank and white underbelly.

  "You want to take this one." Karl rushes a few steps up the bank behind me, then hurries back to my side. "Here." He scoops the net under the fish, then offers me a little hardwood bat with lead weights in the end.

  I shake my head. "I want to feel the fish." I kneel in the shallows. "I mean I want to hold onto it with my hands."

  "You sure?"

  I ignore the bat and lean into the water, grasp the fish near the tail and behind the head. It's heavy, cold. I'm not sure what I want, how to decide. Without letting go, I manage to slip the hook from the steelhead's mouth. Then I let it drop, and it jerks sideways, out of my grasp, and flops into the water. My fish swims away, into the center of the vacant pool.

  "What..." Karl sputters. "That's what you meant to do?"

  I straighten, back and shoulders aching, wondering what happened. The fish was caught, and now it's gone. Did I decide to let it go, when I could have easily taken it? When I saw it up close in Karl's net, when I thought about swinging the bat, killing the fish seemed like something I didn't want to do. The shift wasn't a conscious one. I came here today believing I wanted to take a fish, if I caught one. But when I had the chance, I hesitated. It got away.

  "Well, anyway," Karl says. "I've got to get home early before Sadie comes back. Let's pack it in."

  We reel in, separate and stow everything, climb up and out. On our way through Cayson's property, heading back toward the car, I feel serene, disconnected from my life. Any disappointment at losing the fish seems beside the point. Concerns about work, or Michelle. All worries are distant.

  To my right, in the center of an open field of grass surrounded by receding evergreens, stands a little house or cabin. It's a broad A-frame, wider than its height. The place seems familiar, like something recognized from a photograph seen long ago. I wonder if it's still called an A-frame, when it's so wide like that. I turn to ask Karl, but he's gotten way ahead, still walking fast while I've slowed. He doesn't seem to notice what I've seen.

  I hurry to catch up, and just as I'm about to pass out of the open field and reenter the forest, I glance back. The house is just a peaked box, a simple shape without windows or doors, no driveway or path connecting it to the world outside. It's completely isolated here, nestled between forest and river.

  Then I'm startled to realize there's a woman outside, attaching something to the front of the house. I can't see her clearly, get no sense of her face. Dark hair, and she's barefoot, wearing some simple, colorless garment that blends into the wood. I wonder, was she there the whole time we walked by? Did she watch us pass, and say nothing? It's strange that I didn't see her until we were almost gone.

  I run into the trees, trying to keep up. Karl seems in a hurry.

  "Did you see that?" I ask Karl. "The little A-frame?"

  Karl says nothing, just keeps walking.

  I consider omitting mention of the woman, but I tell him what I saw. As I'm telling it, I realize I'm adding a detail or two I'm not completely certain I actually saw with my eyes.

  "There wasn't any little house," Karl says, as if I'm being ridiculous. "And I sure as shit would've noticed some babe standing barefoot in the middle of a field there."

  I don't argue. I know what I saw, and in fact become more certain the more I think of it. In the back of my mind, I know I'll revisit the memory later, try to see it more clearly, and make sense of it. It occurs to me, this is what I do, what I've always done. I walk away from experiences and encounters, leave them behind, figuring I'll make sense of them later, from a distance. As if imagination or memory is better than the real thing.

  Chapter 5

  What Michelle says and what she wants

  My cell phone rings. Nobody ever calls except Karl or work or Michelle. It's late, so work's closed. Karl is crashed in his room, tired after fishing, apparently not going to meet his girl after all. I'm exhausted too, but can't sleep. I can't help it. I find myself hoping it's Michelle calling. She always calls after midnight.

  I snatch up the phone. On the display, Michelle's name and number beneath her picture. I'm surprised at the irritation this photo inspires. Every anniversary, she insisted on paying for studio photos, both of us individually and as a couple. This was her last portrait before we split. Not a smile, but an emotionless show of too-white teeth.

  My thumb hesitates only an instant over the green button. "Hello."

  "It's me," Michelle says. "I hope you're not asleep?"

  "No." What comes to mind is a series of possible responses, questions I might ask, lines of inquiry all quickly rejected. I can't guess which approach might work. Michelle is always a moving target.

  Without further preamble, she launches into discussing aspects of her job, new coworkers, her boss. Then the house and something one neighbor said about another neighbor and the brick place down on the corner just sold. Other things, something about books. I find myself counting books on my shelf. Why? I've been anxious for Michelle to call, and now I can't be bothered to listen?

  "Seventeen," I say to myself.

  She keeps going, another sentence or two about whatever it was, then backtracks. "Seventeen what?"

  "Books. That's my whole book collection. Seventeen books."

  "No, Guy. You've got thousands of books."

  "Not any more. You kept most of them."

  "No. Well, any books I kept, it's because I liked them so much, I probably thought they were my own. You should consider it flattering to your taste if I respected one of your books so much. Actually it seems like the highest praise I can give."

  I refuse to let myself consider whether or not I should be flattered. Still there's some tiny aspect in the back of my mind that feels pleased at her telling me she approves of something, anything about me. Wondering what that signifies. "So, you, Michelle. How are you?"

  She sighs. "I wish we could see each other, Guy. Really, just talk. I miss that, talking. I do."

  I have no responses for the moment. This is the worst, when she suggests the possibility of seeing each other, only to snatch it away if I seem interested. But I can't help wondering, what if this is the time? "If you really want to, we can. Have a drink. Something."

  Her voice deepens, sounds throaty. "I'm not suggesting some liaison, Guy. I merely said I miss certain things. I'm being honest, like I hope you're honest with me. I miss certain things."

  "I don't mean trying to restart our relationship. Sometimes people just meet and talk. You're the one who said it. I'm not trying to... Never mind. You brought it up."

  "What, you never think about me anymore? You never miss conversations, after all we shared?"

  "Of course. But if I call you up and say, let's have lunch, let's chat, you say, now Guy, don't get the wrong idea." This makes me hate myself, saying these things. I should hang up. I should never have answered. My hands are trembling.

  "You sound angry," she says. "I'm just checking in. Saying hi."

  "I'm not angry."

  "I know you very well. I do know you very well, still." Her voice, a strained whisper. "And that's how you sound. Angry."

  "I guess the thing I get frustrated about, Michelle, is you seem to enjoy toying with me."

  "When you insert my name into the middle of a sentence it always means—"

  "You insist that I should never call you, but when you call me, you expect me to be receptive."

  "I don't expect anything."

  "You do. You expect me to be glad to talk to you, not merely willing to talk, but actually happy to hear from you. Conversely, you expect me to never ask anything of you. You say you're sad we can't sit around and talk about, what was it, the stories of Raymond Carver, and was Tess Gallagher his equal as a poet. If I suggest we actually could talk about that, you say I'm tr
ying to corner you, or rekindle—"

  "That's not—"

  "What am I supposed to say? If I miss that too, if I say I wish we could talk about things like that, you say, I'm not trying to get us back together, Guy. What if I say, who fucking cares what you miss? We're divorced, and it was your idea, and you're living in our house while I live in this shitty houseboat." I immediately regret this criticism of Karl's place, but don't want to halt my momentum. "I'm so sorry you miss our conversations, but you told me to leave. I have conversations with my roommate now, about things like fishing, and drinking, and scoring pussy. I have conversations at work about the owner’s muscle cars, about Ducks football, and about the lottery tickets everybody buys. None of the conversations are about Raymond Carver or Tess Gallagher. There's nobody in my life who wants to discuss John Coltrane or Astrud Gilberto or David Lynch or Jackson Pollock. Those loftier avenues of discussion are simply not available to me, anywhere, ever."

  "You need to get some friends, Guy. Maybe you need to date."

  "Sure I do."

  "I'm serious. I'm not calling you trying to rekindle—"

  "I know. Not trying to rekindle. You keep saying."

  "God, why are you making me out to be this insane bitch? I just called, mentioned something used to be nice. Something pleasant we shared. And you're angry."

  "Yeah. I guess I am."

  "Why are you angry? Ask yourself that. Can you not accept that we're no longer a couple, Guy? Our marriage is over. Still, we might talk. And if things went a certain way, who knows?"

  I consider asking what that means, if things went a certain way. I can already hear the answer, so I ignore that impulse. "I'm not angry our marriage is over. Or if I am, I don't blame you for that."

  "Then what?"

  "I'm angry because you either want to be with me, or not. If not, why do you so often call and hint that you might? How am I supposed to—"

  "I don't."

  "You call, always after midnight, after a bottle of Pinot. Sometimes by the end, you're crying. Usually you are. You act like we're prevented from being together by outside forces. A tragic romance, doomed by circumstance. But nobody's keeping us apart. You didn't want me in the house, so I left. You wanted our marriage over, so we divorced. But calling up, pretending you wish you could be with me, if only, that’s just an act of…"

  "What?" Her voice rises an octave into shrillness.

  "It's a fucking tease, Michelle. Game playing. Manipulation."

  "Wow, damn. It sure does sound like you hate me, Guy. Do you actually hate me? I'm so sorry I called for a chat with my ex-husband, someone I loved and shared life with for a quarter century. More than half our lives. I'm sorry I mentioned a pleasant recollection."

  "If you don't want this, fine. Just stop pretending, like we'd both rush back together if we could, but can't, like the plot of some romantic movie. You say I need to move on, but you're the one. We're divorced. You threw me out. I've got my room in the houseboat, I've got Karl, I've got my job. This seedling of hope is all I've got, this life I'm trying to rebuild out of not very much. Other than that, I've got nothing."

  "Poor Guy. His fucking bitch ex-wife ruined his life. Isn't she horrible?"

  "Michelle, please. Stop trying to keep your bridge to me open. You burned it. I finally see what you're doing."

  "You're really so angry. You're furious. You keep saying you're not, and I could sense it. But just, wow."

  "Fine. You've played this game over and over. Otherwise, why call me after midnight, and whisper in a soft, sweet voice about our beautiful, pleasant memories? Why say, oh, wouldn't it be lovely if we could get together and chat like before? I mean, if you wanted to, we could. We could have a normal talk. Not this. We could say, set aside worrying about the past, just eat a meal and drink a cocktail and talk about movies and books like we used to do. Two people sharing ideas. That's what I miss."

  "See, we're on the same page, Guy." Her voice is soft again. "That's what I miss. It doesn't have to be some harsh conflict. You don't have to be angry."

  She's gone full circle, as if she hasn't heard any of the things I've said. I'm frustrated, angry she won't listen, and worse, angry at myself for indulging this head game. I always know this is going to happen, and every time I try to speak up for myself, she manages to—

  Then Michelle says the words. "You should know I'm getting married."

  "Married?" My head thuds, a pulse heavy in my ears. "I didn't even know you started dating anybody."

  Briefly I think, she's going to marry the guy who tried to rape her Freshman year, just before we started dating. She'll go back in time and somehow find him, do the most fucked-up thing she could imagine, because she's trying to drive me insane.

  No, that's wrong. Stop.

  "I told you about him," she says.

  "You said you went on a date with that coworker who turned out to have a cocaine problem. But you didn't—"

  "That's him. The drug thing, that was a misunderstanding. Probably I overstated it."

  This time, maybe for the first time, I'm the one who hangs up.

  Chapter 6

  The sickness of living the wrong man's life

  The more I grasp at sleep, the more remote it seems. I lie staring up into the dark, mentally listing all the things I want to change. I should approach life more like Karl. Everything's easy for him. Clearly my own approach isn't working.

  After Michelle's call, I've been trying to concentrate on feeling proud of myself for standing up to her. Regret aches in my chest, connected to all the things it's too late to change. Not just Michelle remarrying so soon. I can't change myself in the ways I want. In fact I perceive myself changing in unwanted, physical ways. Since I've been living with Karl, I'm sweating more, my skin seems more oily. By the end of the day I smell myself, rank in a musky, typically masculine way, no matter what deodorant or cologne I wear. Hair grows from my nostrils and ears, places I don't remember seeing hair before. It's as if Karl's excess testosterone is overflowing into me. Or maybe that side of myself is only now waking up, since I'm free of Michelle. We met so young, and though I've always considered Michelle a civilizing influence, the truth is she probably shifted me toward being more feminine in my outlook. I don't think that works for me any longer.

  So I'm trying on Karl's suggestions, seeing if I can be more casual, even though it's the opposite of my nature.

  I realize there's a stage I need to reach — letting go of Michelle — and remaining angry at her is holding me back from getting there. This means I'm stuck, at least for now. I'm working on it.

  I believe people seek an antidote, a sort of counterbalance to whatever's been causing them pain or unhappiness. If someone's had to endure a high maintenance partner, someone stuck on expensive brands and status symbols, I'd expect them to gravitate next toward some casual, laid-back person. From one extreme to the other.

  As for pathologically uptight and rigidly controlling Michelle, what would be her opposite? Someone wild, a free spirit, tending toward earthy, natural and intuitive. That's how I see it.

  What about Karl? Even though he's not rebounding from an actual person but from unrestrained bachelorhood, the woman he ends up with will probably be more buttoned-down, organized and conventional in her approach to life. My imagination produces a picture of what Sadie might be like. Maybe a librarian, a schoolteacher or accountant. Someone mature and restrained will be good for Karl.

  Yet I can't reconcile this image with the screaming I heard the other night. This disconnect frustrates me.

  Every night lately, Karl's gone. It's sad and pathetic, thinking this has anything to do with me. It's Sadie. Of course she's his focus. If I had a woman like her, like I imagine her to be, I'd be doing the same.

  This is how my mind goes. Without sleep, thoughts become untethered. Perspective fractures.

  I keep trying on Karl's suggestions, but none seem to fit. Maybe I'm resisting. On some level we're opposites, not just differen
t from one another, but incompatible in temperament. I'm trying to shift my priorities and assumptions to conform to those of another man. I'm not sure it's going to work. Maybe instead of being more Karl, I should be more myself. Think of all the ways I've changed since college, since Michelle. Go back to focusing on my own comfort and pleasure, strengthen my own nature rather than weaken it.

  It's not some wild party girl I need. That's fine for Karl. Not someone like me.

  What kind of woman would I choose, if I could imagine one best suited to me? Someone without my frailty. Strong and defiant, not compromised. A woman who would never waste days in an office surrounded by people who don't respect her. Someone who follows her own desires, rather than lying around worrying, am I appreciated, or will I ever be understood?

  I waste too much fucking time worrying about the approval of thoughtless people.

  Daylight is coming. Still no sleep. Not even rest.

  I want to live on an “idea” level, not a physical level. Art, poetry, philosophy. I used to think Michelle was that way. She possesses a mind, but no heart. She makes calculations about music and poetry, without feeling. I have to create my own design for the life I want to build. Dream whatever I want to be.

  But how am I supposed to dream if I can't sleep?

  Every part of me is failing. I'm constantly distracted, obsessed with abstractly sexual thoughts. What was I just thinking about testosterone? Michelle stunted me for sure. Twenty-one years married, and I'm almost half a century old, yet I remain a boy. Constantly fearful, half-sexed, semi-masculine. I'm sick of being Michelle's idea of a man. No more.

  The sun's coming up. I could call in sick. What did Constant say, back in April? No more sick days. But I don't think he meant not ever again. Wasn't it for ninety days? Better not risk it. Even if Constant needs me, he doesn't realize it, has zero idea what it is I do. Probably thinks anybody out in the yard could do the CAD work and 3D modeling.