Five Legs

by Graeme Gibson

  “Oh.”

  “Yes.” Staring. Good bloody grief but she’s. Staring through the windshield at the road in desperation. What in hell is she talking about? Peering with his hands loose on the wheel. Probably isn’t a kid, just another goddamn false alarm. Same as before. That vulnerable delicacy, that goddamn ­plaintive voice. “They were really very good friends of mine, you know. Martin and I lived right next door to each other, well nearly next door; just around the corner actually, and we grew up together and everything. We all went to the same schools.” The wind that blows in this country, circling his shape in the melting snow. Martin! Her soft voice calling her man, her boy, her. What ho. She came from her bath with tangled hair; her face was flushed with heat and her eyes held mine: I almost put my arms around her, I almost drew her body against mine there in our hall, I could almost feel the breasts that swelled in her terry cloth robe and I did smell the dampness in her hair. But she looked away. She smiled her smile, and with eyes to the floor she tightened her robe across her breast and went on down the hall. Excitement in his throat as he watched her go, and it still warms me to think of it. There was a boy, a very strange enchanted . . .

  “I’ve never known anyone who had so many friends. Everybody in Stratford’s so upset.”

  “Oh I know Ann. I know. I can hardly believe he’s really gone.” Oh God there are tears on the edge of her voice, and there’s nowhere to go. “Poor, poor Susan. I can remember so many evenings, so many . . . you know she really loved him?” Her voice is maundering clumsily in the scale, selfishly it reaches out and it pleads on my arm. Somewhere silently you possess a part of him, don’t you? And with his death, your share of him grows. Or is that fair? “And he changed because of her, do you know that? He really changed. He used to be so silly. So silly, when he was young.”

  Struggling under a lowering sky, see me there, a heavy figure on uncertain ground: beneath my disgrace I bend and walk in the wind. But no more. Just a chance, dear God, just a chance and I’ll prove what the well-considered move can do!

  Silly. She’s right, of course, it’s sad. His wasted youth. An assault of disapproving images, and Lucan shakes his head. For there he is, parading his silly wasted youth, and they say the only first he ever got was in public speaking! It had to make you. If he hadn’t been so . . . for hours in the cafeteria, sprawled. Wrapped in that ridiculous cloak, cigar in his teeth and laughing too loud. Listening to his laugh. Polite enough, it wasn’t that, he was polite enough on the surface. Wasn’t that. Just. Underneath or something. He didn’t care. You could tell from his eyes that he didn’t care. Doctor Crackell, there’s been something I wanted to ask you.

  What? On the divan, in darkness with the girl.

  Do you know what to do with an egg-bound hen?

  Pardon, Baillie?

  An egg-bound hen. You know, a chicken that can’t lay. No. Ha-ha. I don’t. Staring with horrid fascination. Why, do you have one? Ha. The girl’s face and I shouldn’t have said that, no I shouldn’t. If you’ll excuse me Baillie. And turning back to the undergraduates on the floor.

  You make it do exercise, lots of exercise! In his shouting voice. And if that doesn’t work you pour warm oil up its vent. Jesus ignore him for chrissakes, ignore him, and their embarrassed smiles. Oh boy! After his singing in the kitchen, after the drinks, dear heaven how many, the beer and wine in the students’ house and his tilted throat? On the wooden table, perched, he sang to the bottles and the plaster hung in shreds.

  But now my memory it gives me pain

  For my long-lost Franklin I’d cross the main

  Ten thousand pounds I would freely give

  To say on earth, that my Franklin do live.

  Very drunk now, on the divan, the girl across him talking about God. Motionless upon her back, his hands. And his eyes are closed, Above an astigmatic’s liberated views, Lucan leans to hear her voice. As Baudelaire said, she woos. Surely, as Baudelaire said, even if God didn’t exist, it would be necessary to believe in him? His hands respond with twitching motions down the spine, she shifts her weight. Isn’t that true Martin? Hopefully her finger traces out his brows and ashen lips and Lucan stifles sympathetic shivers in his throat. If He didn’t exist, we’d have to invent Him, wouldn’t we? Through velvet curtains hanging on the door a jutting bull’s head stares; turning jerkily it surveys the room, nods politely to Lucan, and then with warning finger and sepulchral voice: BAILLIE! He turns with staring eyes. BEWARE! BEWARE THE ARISTOTELIAN SCREW! And the bull is gone, but echoing loudly down the hall. ITS VICARIOUS, VICARIOUS, VICAR . . . And suddenly. Excuse me please, get out of my way! And tumbled, she’s squawking on the floor. An instant of thighs, and Baillie’s green face retching from the room, he knocked over my drink!

  Got a thirst for water. To alleviate this head, to settle maybe, the uncertainty down below. Shifting from one buttock and easing his tender seat, Lucan blinks and lights another cigarette for clarity. Woefully talking of death in the fullness of life, sporadically sighing their unbelief and ugly Nancy simply can’t have known him there! Oh no, you can’t my girl, or you wouldn’t be talking of change. The cigarette parches his tongue and assaults him from this bloody awful day. You cannot, huddled next to me, have seen the self indulgence at school, the angular obscenity that. Silly goddamn arrogance! He wore. Egg-bound, for chrissakes! And there were no, and this is the crux. By God! Clenching the wheel again, Lucan possessed by growing anger. The crux alright, for there were no signs, not a sign of change! He basically refused to care, that’s it, whereas I . . . I. Driven as I was, driven down the lonely road of my disappearing youth, driven. By a terrible blow, my loss. By the unknown terror of my vagrant world; forced to follow, to walk in the burning snow. Lucan’s growing panic and his body’s protestations, and chunk the wipers’ steady strain. For I always wanted, desperately needed even then, particularly then, with all my acid heart. To care.

  Fumbling cold and the windows’ eyes. The basement, the hall, the light, the lockers, the benches. Their menacing feet. Sweep it up, this rising stench, mop it all up, but there is no time, dear God, they’re. Quickly, quickly for the sake of. Oh God! No use. No use hiding in there Mister Crackell. Have you no . . .

  Hugh you’re wrong, goddamnit, I know. Gulping another hefty gulp and I do drink well that’s for sure. How many? Bottles singing as the refrigerator door is slammed and their voices dramatic in the other room. The unthinking life must end, you know it must. Milton anguished, not for the boy. He hardly knew him for chrissakes. Hugh’s dark face, moustaches wet, is swaying before my eyes. Must concentrate, clenching his fists till the nails bite in, or I’m lost. Mourning because Lycidas had to die, the casual youth in all of us must die.

  Don’t see it, Lucan, don’t see it at all. Lucan’s cold glass in his hand; and clumsily kissing his mouth, the ice. Doesn’t want to see, that’s his trouble. Hanging around, invited to their parties. Too old, as the lines about his eyes attest, too old for the unconsidered life and Lucan impassively watching the yellowed teeth that chew his pipe. Not just talking about innocence, are you? Puffing and sucking as I shake my head. Thought not, thought not. And then through a cloud of smoke. But why then? Why does it have to die?

  It’s not appropriate. Carefully forming the words. Ap-pro-pri-ate. You know what I mean? Brushing with heavy hand the smoke between my eyes and his mouth. Teeth stained and soggy moustached. Shrill cries, laughter from the other room. Insulted them, I guess. Or something. The pompous bastard! And came with her accusing eyes in silence. Impulsively, desperately emptying my glass and with sudden insight. No. God no! Not innocence. Selfishness! Selfishness, that’s it. Don’t you see? Triumphant now and drinking deeply from the empty glass, rising to the bottle. Shakespeare’s Venus! Selfish as hell, fearful from her lechery. Lurching, whoops, as he turns for a splash of water from the tap and this is important. Can’t compromise or even share the poor young bastard’s life because. Against t
he counter, a quick mouthful from the new glass, the, forgot the ice, it doesn’t matter. And sitting down again. Because she’s got no control over her desire. Totally selfish. See? No control. Searching through empty packages, have to light this butt. Longish, but crushed. And dragging in the smoke. Other forces Hugh, the world is full of other forces. The boar, yes, try the boar. Expect to impose your selfishness and. Boom! along comes some frigging great boar from the real world. Boom! Cracking with energy, the fist on my other palm. And he hasn’t got an answer to that.

  But hell, Lucan . . .

  Wait a minute, let me finish. That’s where they’re wrong, you see? Desperately ordering, seizing into the buzzing silence. Revolving mind. Diagnosed it all. Wrong. Sip and swallow for some time to think. Star-crossed lovers, all that crap! Bigger than bothofus. Slurring my. Whereas, whereas the Capulets and Montagues are the real world Hugh, the real world. The one that counts. My voice uncertain for she would have laughed, you laughed didn’t you? Biting. Laughter and the sun. Hot on the shabby trunks. Made Adonis almost a fairy, Hugh! Cause he wouldn’t stay. But he knew, Adonis knew. Okay? Poor bugger. That she’d destroy him with her carelessness. Arrogance. Pushing my glass away, I’ve drunk too much, have to. Can hear her lonely laughter even now. Think this out more clearly.

  Christ Lucan, I think that’s crap.

  Waitaminutewaitaminutewait! Let me. Ah! Ferociously rubbing his skull but the trouble is far inside. Shit, what was I. Sweet Cytherea don’t, don’t for God’s sake haunt me so. Too much insight! Rubbing, rubbing his head to exorcise, to efface, anything to escape that sound. Frantically rubbing.

  Luke, hey Luke! What’s the matter?

  Nothing. Nothing except. Fuck off, please fuck off. Vera and leave me alone! You chose it. Your decision alone. And this in my reassuring-and-most-natural voice, except something happened to my eyes. Ha. Son-of-a-bitch, eh? But I’m okay now.

  You sure? Jesus you look terrible.

  Sure, sure I’m sure. Happens sometimes when I drink, you know. Ha. Pleasepleasepleaseveraplease . . .

  Shifting tentatively for comfort and I should have. Would have too, slipped into the toilet before leaving, done something to ease. If it hadn’t been. Her goddamn selfishness and that scene. A newspaper! Carefully, for under this slush it’s ice, sheer ice so handle with care. Hands light on the wheel, it’s the wind. The memories pain but it’s foolish to give in, God knows. It’s probably. To exorcise my youth, this time of testing, and in days to come I’ll recollect. A boy, a foolish boy has died, that’s all. Happened to be a student in my care and I’ll recollect from strength. A sun-lit office, my books, my stereo, and I might take up the pipe again. Yes. And smile at all this . . .

  “Shouldn’t you have turned? Doesn’t Felix live up there, Doctor Crackell?” Felix? Oh God yes, Oswald, yes. The.

  “Yes. Yes, I forgot.” Turning slow motion, bumping diagonally on ridges of snow, sliding into this gas station. “Silly, eh? I forgot where he. Lived.” It’s too much, it’s too much. Arrogant frigging kid. A symbol, a breathing symbol of the useless life! Jesus, we’re always in the indifferent bloody hands of strangers! They search me out, with menacing cries they search me out; in glee they hunt me down. Rubbing the old head with chaos rising in the throat on this wretched day that leads him driving to the past. Crackell! Crackell! You’re moving your ears. Stand still or we’ll beat you. Have you ever been beaten, Crackell? Rigid, with watery eyes and perspiration bursting from his thighs, Lucan Crackell in a row of winter-bundled, awe-bedraggled boys. Does your daddy beat you? Plump-thighed and sweater-coated seniors smoking pipes and good at games. Their laughter with élan. At my ears, my poor large ears. And someone’s skinny body in its heavy coat. Crackell. Does your daddy beat you, Crackell?

  He used to Mister Brigham.

  Hah! He used to beat you did he, your father used to beat you did he Crackell?

  Yes Mister Brigham.

  Did you hear that new-boys? Crackell’s father used to beat him. Expectant now, his voice. Rising. Where did he beat you Crackell? Tell us where your daddy used to beat you. In winter clothes beneath the steam pipe’s heat: bumbling voices under it all and from somewhere outside a young voice calls. Crackell! Crackell! Tell us, I said, where your daddy. A blurring column that narrows to a dark stain on the wall. Staring.

  On the, the bottom Mister . . .

  Speak up Crackell! Your voice, what’s the matter with your voice?

  On the bottom Mister Brigham.

  Ha-ha! Ho-ho! So Crackell’s father used to beat him on the bottom! Is that right Crackell?

  Yes.

  Yes! Yes what?

  Yesmisterbrigham.

  That’s better Crackell, that’s better. Been very interesting. Very interesting. Hasn’t it boys. Hasn’t it boys? And their voices in a hopeful chorus.

  Yes-Mister-yes-Brigham-yes-Mister-Brigham-Brigham. Languid applause and his voice is pleased. Now Crackell I want some tuck. Anyone else for tuck? Savouring melted chocolate, he crooned rich words. Buns and crispies, coke and. Sweets they. Soft cream buns with chocolate thighs. Plump vanilla bellies for their adolescent nastiness. And Crackell.

  Yes Mister Brigham?

  On the way, stop into Mister Graham’s room and tell him he’s a tit.

  Yes Mister Brigham.

  Got that? A tit.

  Yes Mister Brigham.

  Right then, away you go. And make it snappy. We’re hungry. Bastards rich, their arrogance. Flushing. Always hungry. Here somewhere, here below the dark hill’s crest. And Lucan vainly searching where the wind is free, above the shadow of the hill. Me they have on days like this. Irretrievable parts torn off. Indignities. A certain sequence of indignities to which. Shrugging resignation of his shoulders. I’ve adapted. Had to, had to for chrissakes! And perpetrate upon myself? Now where in hell is this, why can’t they? “Either of you know his house?”

  “Yes, it’s just . . . just. There! That’s it. The wooden one.” Knows it well, but she’s one of them with that echoing voice, the badge-like attitude they wear. Wonder if they’ve? Not innocence, certainly. As part of the general laxity, the essential absence of belief, there must be a certain amount. Of sleeping around. Hand on the horn as we wait. Huddled row on row, brick boxes, red: stuffed chairs in cluttered rooms and the kitchen smells. Plastic table cloths and the phony walnut mantel clock. Jeez! Part of the gang around him as he sat. Baillie and frigging Oswald. The horn again as he reaches for a cigarette. Smoke spiralling blue from the tip. And grey from the lungs. Taking his, for chrissakes, and we’re short of time. Going on for eleven and he knows. This lousy day. From front lawns, swirling, the snow through scrawny branches lifts and blows. It tumbles in the wind. Wandering in late to class if he came at all. Hard blast. A long one and they stare from the passing car. “C’mon Oswald. C’mon, we’re late.” Behind him Ann moves suddenly.

  “I’ll get him, Doctor Crackell.”

  “Yes. Yes please.” Turning as she struggles out. “And tell him we’ve got a long way to go.” Obediently and. Nice legs, small ankles in black stockings. Close the door, quick, quick it’s cold out there! Inside my shirt, the chill. Lucan pokes at his white silk scarf, arranges it between his overcoat’s lapels. Rubs his hands. Blows. Leaning to look, her skinny face looking too, and their legs are good in winter. Vulnerable. Shapely, out of her swaying skirt, against the snow. Hah! I’ll bet she does.

  Laughter and her arms in that tree-top flat. Sloping walls, the red piano’s music and her voice. Shouldn’t, shouldn’t, her image hesitantly comes it’s dangerous. Careful! But. Rubbing again, my hands, for warmth and Vera. Your crooning hands, the patient sensuality. I came and come: I, fastened and hopeful, ignorant at last of the real world’s fear . . . Embarrassment as always, paternal amusement at my young and learning time. Drinking eagerly draught beer in the King Cole Room. As clearly I recall. To fill the silence. Heavy swallow
ing, and your inviting eyes. An innocent, oh boy! And it was embarrassing. Small laughter at his youth’s uncertainty. Shadowed leaves on the Museum windows as we turned alone, north up Avenue Road. Strong hand in mine and your husband, you said: I hardly ever see him now I have my own apartment. Big cars with red upholstery. Convertibles shouting by us as we walk, their music in the night. Turning where branches meet above the street, turning from cars we go, and up the hill. About the street lights, bright green leaves against the shadows and do I go in? With this Vera Demmett and her easy talk? Or am I? Kiss her married mouth. Oh God! Go in? But she gave no chance or opportunity, she led me by the hand through a darkened hall and up two flights of stairs. To turn on lights, bending. The incredible roundness of her breast and her blonde hair falling down.

  Gently, with light from the other room, gently lying. From the window, shadows and. Her hair on the edge of my mouth. An awkward figure and how many times? How many beneath the sloping eaves, until I? Without offence, her mocking laugh: don’t be silly Lucan. Don’t be silly. This flesh and why can’t I? What’s the matter with me? For I like her very.

  You think too much, that’s all.

  Excessive cerebration.

  Whatever you want, my love.

  But I’ve never been satisfied. Then more uncertainly. In fact, I’ve not been aroused. To any great degree. Lightly her hand and eyes.

  Be patient. Patient. At least once, you’ve satisfied me. Physically. And it had been so long. So long. Rolling against him, her body lies across his chest. Hair in my eyes and her smiling face. Softly her brushing breasts and the weight of her thighs. And emotionally, every time I’m with you. Kissing gently my face and eyes. My ears her tongue explores.

  Ha! It’s ironic.

  Mmmmm. Mmmmm. What is, love?

  That right now, when I’m discovering this, I mean there is no longer any doubt that I’m. Insistent caresses and Lucan twists. To a degree, anyway. Impotent. And that at precisely the same time I should be reading Baudelaire. Because he might have been, too. Partially impo- . . .