Five Legs

by Graeme Gibson

  Oh Lucan! Raising her head, and laughter. Lucan, you . . .

  It’s true you know. Martin Turnell says there are indications. In his work, that he suffered from excessive cerebration. Don’t laugh Vera, it’s true.

  Lucan you’re such an idiot! How your mind goes on. Spilling and gurgling laughter. Baudelaire, for chrissakes! Have another drink Lucan, drink up for heaven’s sake! Bounding soft and bobbing from the bed while Lucan rubs at his damp ears. But, it’s true, she might not see but it’s true. And shouting to her in the other room.

  It’s not uncommon among intellectuals! And it’s not necessarily a sign of impotence either! Naked and hanging, glass in either hand she pads and offers. Produces, sometimes it produces a temporary sexual incapacity . . . Tapwater bubbles rising to the surface, she never uses ice; and drinking whiskey, rye in his throat what did Stendhal say? Drinking she’s warm into the bed and Vera! Cut it out, hey! You’ll make me spill my . . .

  How many times her mouth, her hands? And then darkness. Back then I danced, danced with the best of them. Look at them. Oh yes. Exploding my discovered life, inevitably. Yes. Took his lousy time, alright! Skinny, holding her arm clumsily, and Lucan impatiently watching their legs on the slippery walk. But not again. No. Because I know that languorous world, I know it too well.

  Cold air in at the door (hurry up for the sake of my): scrape of clothes, and her body beneath, singasongofnylons, she shifts and lunges to make room for him on my plastic-covered seat. And he has to slam the door. Watch yourself, you young punk! Have no respect, the young. It’s true. Lucan has the car in gear and bumping sideways to the curb, we slide precariously. Spinning the wheels. No traction. Oh God, don’t tell me! Serve him right, the bastard. If he has to push. But then the jolting, the grabbing wheels and Lucan’s away. Be good for him. There. We go, down the middle of this lousy road: no use trying to steer, other tracks, earlier cars. Command and lead. Teach him that you have to pay your way in this world, you can’t always ride for free. Sense of responsibility. That’s the thing. Wipers clear away the crud and I can see more clearly, although. Elegantly rubbing, they’re expensive gloves. This condensation is no help. And Ann, brushing snow, brushing at her clothes. “Nancy you don’t know Felix, do you? Felix Oswald.”

  “No. I don’t. Hi there.”

  “And Felix, this is Nancy Haden.” Bet it was him. Refusing to acknowledge this girl, he doesn’t even speak and Haden, that’s her name. No manners, none at all. I’ll bet he was involved! . . . He’s just the kind alright. Can’t or won’t probably, find, or even see, outside himself, a single object worth his precious respect. Arrogant. Hah! Just like. Whoooeee! A hell of a row and they never discovered. Questioned him too but there was no proof. A terrible, and obscene and sacrilegious thing to do! I’ll bet it was him. Lucan’s sickness at the grotesque image and why did I have to be the one to find it? The only frigging day in the year I went early. Even if you didn’t believe, even if you don’t believe. A shocking, stupid thing to do. Into the science building. Somehow. Just to get the damned thing. Shaking his head as in tracks leading back to Stratford, the car is held. So premeditated! That’s the real thing, so carefully thought out. Some papers, that was all; went up at five to finish the set. For a class that morning. Unreal lights. Really bashing them off, because that’s the only way. Don’t look up, don’t above all things. You bet. The pile diminishing. Just six left, pausing in the desk lamp’s light. Stretching sigh. Rising and stretching. Another cigarette as I stroll to the window in the gathering light, springtime, a job well done . . . what in hell’s that? Lucan with horror to the panes. Peering. There on the muddy hillside hanging. A cross! Glistening white. Against the reviving earth. Running at first, but then, there may be. Somebody watching. He walks in the chilly air, for I left my coat. It is, dear Jesus Christ it is! A skeleton. Clutching to his feet like grotesque rubbers, the mud, wet seeping in his woollen socks. Cautiously he nears in silence, approaches and stands. The wind that cries through those bones. Above me suspended, I’ll never forget, and hanging by its frigging feet those empty bones, and I had to reach up in wind and flatten the paper:

  THERE IS NO EASTER

  Behind me he sits and what am I doing with these strangers in my car? Felix. Fee-lix. Funny name, a word. Feel-ix. Don’t know them and what’s more, don’t. Want to. Them or him. Snow’s cold on either side, untouched in the gardens as the town recedes: there the bus-worn road, the golf course sacrosanct and the dirty river’s bed, in frozen. Western’s penitentiary gothic, nestled. The naked trees. While I, Lucan Crackell, thrown so terribly into this frigging terrible mess of a situation. Jeez! And Lucan, in the mirror, sees a younger head that stares impassive at the passing road. Interference that we least suspect and from indifferent hands, for chrissakes! Lucan, it’s starting, don’t, why in hell are you here among these clutching, bony hands! Reaching to prod the cloth of my suit, my Savile Row; to flick dismissal at my lousy shirt!

  “It’s sure a terrible day, isn’t it.” Argh! Good God, how can she say, assault us so? Appalled. Because that’s what I mean, just exactly what I mean. The man whom sorrow named his friend, my forehead, I’m justified, you see? They do not care, not one of the whole shitty lot can even care! Deep in thought, for heaven’s sake deep in thought as she stares at your face! The road or something. Insensitive Nancy, ugly Nancy Haden, stop poking at my mind. From her words expanding silence, spreading, oozing from the car: she tries again. “Much worse than yesterday. I mean the driving’s worse and everything.” Lucan’s nod oh Jesus, Ann murmurs:

  “Uh-huh.” Whoops, in the mirror, his eyes are watching. Me. Back! Back quickly. Look! the road.

  “Did any of you drive down to the funeral home? To pay your respects, I mean?” Lucan melting, pouring about inside, for she really expects an answer, she. Does. “How about you Ann? Did you . . .”

  “No. No. I couldn’t. I had a test in Phil. Wasn’t prepared or anything, so I really couldn’t, I had to work. Like crazy just to pass the damned thing.” Not a chance boyoboy not a chance, you wouldn’t catch me, of my own free choice! Not a chance. Back on a viewing trip, searching out youth’s remains. My own. Horrified juggling. Surging and I’ll regret it. I’ll be sorry I didn’t, for the sake of my bowels, this nasty pressure. Take the time. And how will I? What a horrible thought! Special room for the dead, for viewing: special chairs to sit on and stare. Eyes peacefully closed with abrasive cups (the old shell game), they hold the lids down; and a tube, under the arm there’s supposed to be a tube. Hah! Every night a little man sneaks in, silently. Reaching under the dead arm, he pulls out the little cork and into a paper cup. Drains fluid. Dripdripdrip. Drip. Drip. White handkerchief delicate in his hands, he clears his throat. Straightens the lapels maybe, brushes the dust off the face “I don’t think I could have gone away. It’s such a gruesome thing.”

  “His poor mother and father sat there for two days, two days almost all the time. Mind you.” Turning to me, looking at me, why? Why? “Susan was a big help, poor girl; she stayed, she insisted on staying so they could go out for a while. Go home and rest. Have a coffee or something.” Susan watches and waits in the earth’s slow stain: your garden’s sparse and sere, the winter’s. “And the flowers, you’ve never seen so many flowers.”

  “Particularly for this time of year.” After silence, his startling voice.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said particularly for this time of year. You know. The winter and everything.” Listless, already bored. Mocking her, I think he’s. The bastard. Mocking. Glancing up, Lucan sees him turn again to the window’s empty fields.

  “Oh. Yes. There were gladiolas and lilies and everything.”

  “A veritable bank of flowers.” Lower, more private.

  “Aah yes,” she sighs, “so beautiful, the flowers. Felix. You don’t mind if I call you Felix?” Drifting open country in the wind and wooden fences snaking out of sight: dark e
vergreens march up the hill against the sky. And Oswald, muttering, shifts behind. “You went down then, did you?”

  “No. No.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’ve read about it.” And Lucan wants to roar! Selfish. Arrogant bastard! He can’t control, for he doesn’t have the slightest. My stomach, oh! This day’s combined assault, my stomach’s weakness and my head! Sense of decency or manners.

  “Where? I didn’t know there were any.” Confusion as she sees, and then quickly, stumbling in her fading voice. “Oh yes. You mean, in books and things.” Silence drops again. Outside and above the party’s noise, the laughter and embarrassed talk, his shouting voice. I WILL NOT ENTER A HOUSE WHERE THEY APPEASE THE PROLES! Drunkenly down our apartment’s common hall, and Christ! If I’d known I’d never have. Spontaneity! It didn’t please my wife, God knows, but how did I know they’d come too? Recalling tearful Rose, the uncertain glances of the guests, APPEASE THE! Tried to quiet him, say that for Baillie. He tried to shut him up but the voice went on and bloody on. My stomach tied in knots because I couldn’t venture out and the police, dear God! Bluestanding creaking at my door and the neighbour’s ruptured sleep. Oh boy! Aggressive selfishness, that’s the thing. And apart from everything, everything else, it assaults the hard-earned calm in other people’s lives. Now. Behind me. And he is baiting this silly girl, he. Oh boy! So goddamn arrogant, he’s so! Shaking my head, and my hands again if only they’d. Stop.

  Gargoyles capped with snow. Staring mournfully down the dull white land, they search for home. Shuffling Lucan in his winter boots, Trinity’s panes like eyes in shadow; ivy thick as varicose veins. A careful knock. Shouts from the playing field, cold air lonely and down the hall a mouth organ be­gins. And again begins. Listening to his heart with his ear on the door. Yes, there it is, a clear invitation. Come in. Crackell sidling round the door, respectfully. Blinking in yellow light. Well. Crackell. What can I do for you? It bursts on the window sill, it chases the shadows from the room.

  Mister Graham. You’re a. You’re a tit.

  What? Oh. Who sent you Crackell?

  Mister Brigham, Mister Graham.

  Yeah? Well, you trot right back and tell him he’s wasting your time.

  I have to go to tuck first, they want me to go to tuck. Extending his opening hands with list and warm wet money. But I’ll tell him after. Is that alright, Mister Graham?

  Sure. Sure. And thanks Crackell.

  Thank you Mister Graham. Almost regretfully turning, turning his back with the shining doorknob in his hand.

  Crackell. Uncertainly Lucan returns to face the voice. Crackell, tell me. Pausing in mid-sentence and his question floats about the room, revolves indistinctly and then it blooms in the sun-drenched air. Are you happy here? Brown eyes before he looks away, and tightly curling hair. To papers disarrayed on his desk; senior math with compass and ruler. Trigonometry or something. Happy? The paper crackles from his hands. Far out his window, beneath a white-blue sky, lake ice is shifting, bruising with pressure, and dark birds drift and sway; briefly they hang in the window . . . Forget it Crackell. Forget that I asked, eh? Birds in a pale sky above the breaking ice. And Lucan nods. Because I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?

  No. No Mister Graham. Lucan startled into movement; out into the hall he breaks as if pursued: under the gargoyle’s longing eyes, a small dark figure on the snow, running clumsily, and they can not see from their eaves on Trinity House his tears. And they certainly wouldn’t have cared, even if they’d turned down their faces and found my whimpering figure they wouldn’t have cared. Those many days, dear God, day after day. “Anyone know where the church is?” His ragged voice.

  “No.” It doesn’t matter.

  “It doesn’t matter because we’re meeting Miss Morton at Wang Lung’s on King Street.”

  “Don’t you know where it is Nancy?” Doesn’t even! Lucan’s rising inner voice for you’d think! It almost seems a slight, a conscious rudeness! Hasn’t even the courtesy, to acknowledge me. Tightened hands that clench, and he was docile descending; with one on either side and the neighbours’ closing doors. Forcefully, one final time from the floor below, aggressive surly creep!

  “Church of the Redeemer, I guess.” WHEN IN DOUBT PUNT! Echoing with official laughter, c’mon now fella, c’mon now, in the stairwell smothered as arm in arm he went with them. “It’s just behind Eaton’s, you know. It’ll probably be there.” Ordinary voice and doesn’t she. Mind? “That’s where they were going to be married.” If he was mine, by God. Grimly. I’d show him. Manners. I’d teach him. Married?

  “Well why don’t we go right to the Church, then.”

  “Because.” Good Lord, but why? Why do I get involved? “Because she’s arranged for everyone to meet at the restaurant first. That’s why.” My scathing voice, but reasonable for we don’t want a scene, don’t want to set him off. Or anything. “Have a coffee, so we can have a coffee. She’s coming there.” Listening silence: the plan, that’s all. Not my fault, the thing. Arranged that way.

  “Under her sorrowful eyes, the gathering mourners eh? Hah!” Open disgust, good grief, and he laughed out loud! “Get us all together, she’d like that. Lead us in properly wrung out by grief.” By George he’s, that’s it. Emotionally unstable.

  “You shouldn’t say that,” and Nancy’s ugly shrill, “you shouldn’t say that at all!” Or else why would he? That explains it all; his drinking too, the way he is, that’s it. And soothing Ann, she knows, she’s used to him! Good Lord!

  “C’mon Felix, don’t be unreasonable.” There is chaos and premonitions of chaos. I wonder if he’s. Good Lord, I wonder if he’s dangerous? Driving carefully with images of this boy amok. Blind doctor that I read about and a hysterical, oh boy! Hysterical patient scratching out your eyes. Wheewh! Pretend. That’s it! Hah. Pretend to have a flat tire. Lucan chuckling now, for he deserves it. Even if he’s not, he deserves it. Have to get up early, very early in the morning, for it’s the thought-out move, the well-considered man that. Ask him to get out and see, would you take a look Oswald, and then. Zoom! Off we go. Slush in his face! His tiny figure vanishing behind. Hah! Waving and running darkly in the snow. Furtively in the old rearview mirror, expecting, expecting . . . beady red-rimmed eyes, or? Looks alright, the bastard. Looks alright, tired perhaps but. Still he’d deserve it.

  “I just don’t see why we can’t go right to the church, that’s all.” Cruddy fake! I’m the one, don’t you see? I’m the one who shouldn’t want to go! Standing, Lucan Crackell muddy footed on the springing hill. “I don’t want to sit around a frigging restaurant, listening.” To the past, goddamnit, listening to my crippled youth and she didn’t see. A newspaper! That’s the infuriating thing, they prattle on with their I don’t wants and their stinking reviews; they’re so bloody concerned! But I know Wang Lung’s, I know every step in disgrace. “What will we talk about, that’s what I want to know. What in hell can we talk about?” Scornful voice; insubordination. “A terrible thing, eh? Being killed by a hit-and-run driver.” Fifteen and then. “People. Should be more careful, don’t you think?” Smartass! That’s what he. Insensitive, she’s unaware of real agony; smartass doesn’t know about death, and I’m tired, I am frankly tired of his nihilistic foolishness. I’ll . . .

  “Look Oswald.” Be reasonable, remember your position. “The arrangements were made and they’ll be expecting us, okay?” Officially my presence indicating. Concern on the part of Western for a student’s death. Of course. But also, dear heaven I hope. Fruition! For I erased the past, rebuilt an image on the rubble of that loss. “Now if you want, if you’d prefer to go on to the church alone. Well. By all means go ahead. It’s up to you once we reach the restaurant. You’re a free agent Oswald, and it’s your own business.” Keep it reasonable, the teacher’s voice. Act like a child and the world responds. Petty complaints, they make me sick, and his lack of manners! “But the rest of us will
meet them all as planned.” Show him he can’t. “If it’s alright with you.” That’s fixed him! Lucan with cautious expansion stretches, he yawns a little yawn and brushes ash from his lapels. Onto my gathering waist. Firmness, have to be firm. Assuredly speak from one’s considered and.

  “Oh keep the dog far hence that’s friend to man, or with his nails he’ll dig it up again.” Who’s that?

  “What’s that Oswald?” He’s, the bloody nerve of this. Eliot.

  “Keep the dog, you know. The dog. Woof-woof. Or he’ll dig it up.” Jesus fucking Christ! Cynical creep, we’ll have a talk! Yes. After all this is over, for you can’t have. Even a graduate student treating the staff like this. No sir! If you can’t adjust, your sights Oswald. Shape up or ship out! God! It’s all so. Flipflop Lucan’s stomach, for there’s no control. Despite me he’s here; unwilling, already, as I was. For pity’s sake! To drive this road. Why the hell did I have to bring him, why didn’t I? Take who? Hugh don’t be absurd. Ha-ha. Felix, the creepy and unstable Oswaldpunk? Ha-ha Hugh you’re kidding! And hang up quickly before he can reply! But I never think or act with efficiency and consequently here I am. Depressed and vaguely menaced by this day’s array. And as the miles go by the structured past comes on, and it bubbles and boils as the pressure of distance is removed. Jesus! Why did I have to come back, what will I do? For I’ve got no control, I’m a broken moth that feebly, flutters. Day after day, they jigsaw into one: a Sunday night, meticulously clear in detail, but confused. Here he dances with a short fat boy, the perspiration glistens on his upper lip, and I can see the texture of rough winter cloth. In the lavatory, his figure with a cigarette; see how he leans toward the early morning window, his young cheeks blowing out the secret smoke. And with a gang of yelling boys he kills a skunk, or here, in the thawed stream, poised with a ski-pole, he waits for carp. More scenes. Lying in bed he hears the prefect’s punishing stick; and later, chastised steps that pause on the stairs returning. Through it all, the narrowing lines that force the eye to young Lucan’s hand, pale in the Sunday evening’s darkened hall, ready to knock on the prefect’s common room door. And I could not go in. Fading away to the bathroom, a futile attempt to void the snake of fear in my gut; then Lucan arrives at the door. Stylized figures, expressionless masks and indifferent eyes. They beckon. Frightened, and eager to please, I stand in this smoky room but why am I here? What have I done that these ceremonial figures stare, and what do they want? Well Crackell, you know why you’re here? O God. For under their eyes he suddenly knows. It’s not the. Shouting from the dark. And they think I did it. Lucan trembling as the head prefect rises and straightens his robe. You probably know; the Head has requested us to find the toughs who insulted his daughter Wednesday night. Some rowdy boys Crackell, some nasty rowdy boys running loose in the school. And we won’t have it. A fine thing if a nice girl can’t walk home in the dark, without having dirty things shouted from the shadows. It’s a fine thing! He turns and the skirts of his robe are whipping about his calves. Isn’t Montreal you know, Crackell. And it wasn’t any of the toughs from town, for she saw their clothes. And we’re going to find them! Because. Threatening, his voice rising as his anger grows. Because you know who they are! Lucan vibrates like a tuning fork.