Elvissey

by Jack Womack

"A dammed river has to flow somewhere," he said. "Then people drown. It's nature's way."

  "It's not mine," I said. "It's unlivable, John, I can't-"

  "Understood," he said. "It's mooted now. The business line allows, the private sector doesn't. I'll not be aprowl hereout-"

  "It's unmattering now, John," I said. "We're done."

  "Agreed," he said, flipping open his razor, leaving it out to reflect light. "Endtime, Iz. As it must to all."

  His fingers closed round my arm; looking into his eyes I saw that they'd cleared, and his blues leveled me as if to fascinate. "No," I said.

  "You know you want it, Iz," he said, drawing closer, seeming ready to spring. "You want it too. Neither world we've tried suits us. There's a third remaining. One size, fits all."

  "You want, not me," I said; but how often had our darker thoughts singletracked? How many times had I assured myself so well as him to go wherever he wanted? My husband smiled; his eyes sparkled so bright as his razor. "My baby's alive. I'll keep it so."

  "Alive now, mayhap," he said, lifting his blade. "How much longer?"

  "Until it's birthed," I said, flattening my back against the wall. "We have to go on, John. If not together, then apart, but we have to-"

  "We will," he said. "We'll go on together. Always have, and always will. There's no asundering us. Come along, Iz. Come along."

  "I'll not," I said. "Hear me, please-"

  "Talk's time is done," he said. "When time comes, act. I love you, Iz."

  "That's the problem-" I said; he'd deafened to me, and made no reply. Releasing his grip, encircling my waist with his arm, he pressed himself against me, pushing his lips onto mine. While he kissed me time slipped its netting, lengthening as if we were caught in mid-transfer, there in that old hotel where so many, undoubted, had kissed, embraced, and died. Momentslong I felt my walls tumble; found myself adrift in his hold, allowing my mind to blank, convincing myself that I would be betrayed again, in time, that I should as well accompany and be done with it. Had he acted, then, we would have tandemed.

  "Time, Iz," he said.

  "Time," I repeated, nodding my head, staring into the sarcophagal tub. I heard the remaining dragonfly buzzing in the room beyond as it sought any exit. "What's to be done, then?"

  "One mouth's not enough to our kisses," he said, cradling his razor in his hand as if it were a rose. Without yet touching its edge to his skin he drew it crossthroat, passing beneath his jawline from ear to ear. "Like so. Ignore shortterm pain and picture eternity. It'll be different on the other side, Iz. It will." He offered me the razor, inferring that I should make the first move; I pulled away my hand before I could take hold of it. At first he seemed puzzled; then he grinned. "I'll first, then. I'm an older hand at this."

  "Yes-"

  "I love you, Iz."

  "Mutual," I said. He guided the razor beneath his chin, placing the blade immediately below his ear; then he motioned an inutterably smooth, unfailingly perfect slash. For an instant his throat looked as it had before. Then a red waterfall gauzed his skin, cascading its flow from the thin line he'd etched; two crimson strands issued from his carotids, geysering fine threads with a rhythmic pulse. As I al lowed him to douse me, I watched his face pale, whitewax- ing; with a surgeon's still hands he pressed the razor into mine, and I took it from him. He opened his eyes as he began lowering himself toward the floor, careful not to so disalign his knee as to unbalance himself; our gaze met while he sprayed my legs. My husband tried to speak; his lips mouthed my name, and he supported himself onehanded against the side of the tub.

  "Goodbye, John," I told him, standing as I had before. "Forgive."

  I thought it too dishonorable not to look at him; he stared up at me as if surprised, but then nodded, and smiled. The look of happiness he countenanced was one I'd never seen him have before; mayhap, finding his peace at last, it proved to be even more blessed than he'd ever imagined. Eyeshut- ting, he let his hand slip away from the tub, and placed it at his neck; with gentle motions he widened his wounds, and then lay down on the floor's thick red rug.

  Once he lay calmed I slumped, sitting against the wall, holding the razor with which he'd gifted me, allowing him to drip from my robe. Positioning him full-length upon the rug, I denuded, and covered him with my wrap. Stepping into the tub, I lowered myself into the cool water, unplugging the drain, turning on the tap to refill it while I washed myself of my husband's outward traces. Shutting off my sense of all that lay beyond the tub's porcelain rim, I reclosed the drain, and allowed warmer water to rise round me. Lying back, staring at my length as if I saw it through a distorting glass, I fancied that my toes appeared meters distant; I pressed them against the far white wall as if to break it down. My swollen belly rose above the water, its truehued curves glistening; would my baby bear my husband's look, then? Or my own?

  Then I thought of my lost men, and unexpectedly found myself unconscionably guilted; should either E or my husband have gone their preferred ways unaccompanied? Un willing to travel with them, could I still claim not to have enabled their passage? My ears attuned to their voices as they sirened me, willing me to join them; wishing to be rid of both worlds, at once realizing again the uncertainty I had concerning Malloy, I eyed the razor I still held. Lifting it before my eyes I saw my face mirrored; for minutes I let my look linger on my face, staring to see who might blink first, hearing most loudly my husband's voice:

  As his distanced words guided me, so I raised it, grazing the razor against my wrist, relishing its butterfly feel, shivering at its well-rinsed warmth. If husbands and wives become as one blood over time, had not too much of mine already spilled? What was remaining, after all? In the midst of my debate I glanced through the wide window, and I glimpsed a spark above the trees: distinguished a flare, a flicker, an earthbound plummet, the skyward sign. Turning the razor so that the blade's dull edge pressed against my palm, I slid it back into its holster, and dropped it floorways, alongside John.

  I reclined, so that warm water would engulf me; felt its wetness rinse my scalp, the drift of my weightless arms: fancied myself Ophelia, loosed from Hamlet, my mind repossessed, unwilling to linger overlong in the stream. There could be but one messiah, and that was the one whose two expressions I housed; no others need apply. Alone, that was how to slide into winter; alone and free, if not forever rid of the stranger in my head, free at least to show my child to all who chose to see.

  So regooded, I renewed, and rose like Venus from the waves.