“Oh Frieda, no! You’ve not been, surely you haven’t.” Wildly at them staring, could I? Maybe I could, just; excuse me, excuse, you see, I’m overwhelmed yes, under this, inexcusable this tension and my life . . . He’s on my side, is so unhappy and people, you see, they always: my uncertainty, sucking it into their hearts for fun, the bastards every . . .
“He is, he really is! You are, you’re beginning to remember, aren’t you?” Tugging from her hand to shrug, but glittering, God how cold those eyes and. How manymany Jesus times, the faces coaxing and this fluttering, my heart? Elongated bones with toes dragging in the dust and peanut shells.
“Yes I. Actually.” Shit; she’s seen, like all the others, yes she has and I “Do believe Miss Smith is. Right, I’ve . . .” Brusquely as I try, he takes her arm; his glance for me, disdainful as they turn away.
“Come along, come, Frieda. We’ll lose our seats.” Her face calm as they, she open smiling at him from my rising voice.
“I have, she’s right you see! Uhhm. My . . . I generally, generally I’m. Preoccupied, when I walk. I don’t usually, notice.” Lofty, they move away with knowing eyes again, the secret smiles, again, a . . . “The people around me, that’s why. But I do, I recall this time I’m sure, quite sure that once and maybe. Twice, I’ve seen, I recog . . . Jesus Christ the pushing strangers and these fucking tears as I pull out, lower my hand beseeching, God how does she know? What is it in my face, what invitation is there in my eyes?
And his eyes, you’re kind young sir, kind as we picked our way, him unsteady on my arm: deeper green and spreading bruise in the shadow of his enviable, I’d really like a hat like that, to wear at university. A kindness that is all too lacking in the youth of today, a real concern like soldiers have when the chips are down. Whoops! Slipping badly, clutching once as the wind, the snow, but holding him, muttering careful whoa! Hold on there Elmer, that’s the way as we pause in the marquee’s lights, we’re almost there. Weakly flashing, shadowless bulbs and all around us freezing rain. His eyes. Used to be and this’ll surprise you, I was a major in the war. Self-conscious steadying, firmly planting his feet in greybrown slush as figures bundle by. You wouldn’t know, looking at me now you’d hardly think. Sniffing in moisture, tearfully at veined nostrils and tentatively, thick fingers play, apologize. That I hold the Queen’s commission, that I . . . Shaping fingers clumsy on, jeez that’s a nasty bruise! Wait, don’t . . . waitaminute please! I want to, tell you. Listen! The dampness in my shoes. A young officer sailing from Montreal. Can you imagine? Full of courage and a sense, we really had a sense in those days. Queen and Country, I was. Handsome, a fine young . . . Snow blows about his shoulders, water from his broadbrimmed hat. Purposeful for this instant, the flesh of his jowls seems strong, but now before, I’ve never seen before my very eyes, his crumbling face, a thing like this; he turns with tears, uncertain columns down his nose and look at that, his fucking cheek! As if some spastic thing was trapped beneath the skin: it stares through his eyes. Face declined I take his arm: I can not meet, look anywhere except, to this hand unwilling at his elbow guiding, for we must. I can not stand too much of this!
C’mon, c’mon Elmer. Let’s go. Major Workman, but he resists as his voice cascades, shattering out . . . But but these people scornful figures come.
I was. I was a good soldier you believe, you believe me don’t you? A good man, I didn’t used to always. Headshaking dumbly, searching my face, I didn’t used to always be like this you should have seen, oh young man I was young!
Yesyes with familiar panic, trying to, how can I get him moving for . . . Please we must, I believe you, really I do. I can see but they’re waiting in the restaurant and I must, I have to. Yes that’s. Good. Thank God he’s, beginning to shuffle, here we go out from under the marquee, yes that’s. How keep on. One of his laces has come undone, poor bastard. Drunk driving at least. Poor bastard . . .
That’s right, every summer and some winters too. Not to one of your cottages no, no sir I’d take, I had a canoe then, really a. Beautifully balanced and painted, red and green: I’d carry it, so easily then, from the baggage car to some . . . We went together, at first we went a couple of times. My wife. But that was. Turning suddenly with frantic hands again, it didn’t. You heard what she’s like, it didn’t work out! Terrible springing chaos what, does he mean what shall I do? Oppressive cold about us; falling before me, all his face drops away. It was, harsh awkward voice the war, it was the war you know, that’s what did it . . .
Look why don’t you just, that’s the. Eagerly pressing his hand, why don’t you get on a bus or something, I won’t. You could be gone and nobody. Nobody was hurt, after all there was no one hurt you only rolled it over and I wouldn’t tell, I. Can’t, dragging him there, hating myself: the cells and a tattoo showing beneath that uniform’s sleeve; perhaps it’s. Do you need? I have some, struggling at my coat, some money, I could give you . . .
But I’ll always remember, do you know that? I’ll remember what I was and that’s a comfort. Don’t you think? That’s a real comfort in times like these. Puzzled at me for a moment, then turning, stepping out to lead me, struggling to keep up with his drifting voice. Maybe things will be good again. Some day.
Maybe, maybe! Submissive bastard, didn’t have to: I wouldn’t have, said I’d let him go and yet, his dreadful bruise again, he. Stared accusingly, yes for me as they prodded, eased him to the cells. Drunk driving. In stillness the bastard, the dirty bastard! Inflating panic, for I’m just. Like him no, yes! There’s no avoiding, there’s no. Him dreaming of the past, his memory’s comfort as they. Bullshit! It is, I’m . . . Stop chewing your thumb, bouncing here and chewing like . . . His crutch, and on he drifts. I’ve got to settle down, settle or get out, I must assert become for I can’t be simply, I can’t go failing on like this he flunked me and the Anglo-Saxon jeez it’s almost lost completely lost I’ve . . .
Stragglers quickly through, relieved to be on time and look away, these nodding strangers. Driving with curtains drawn and the coffin, Christ I hope they don’t. Open it when they get here, I hope they. See them shifting, impatient turning and from here, even from here their whisperings, sibilants rise.
How can Jesus, I act or. Be when ineffectual, I’m so soft; too often now this, drifting away until my body’s left alone. Glaring so they’ll notice, glancing only see, surely. The passionate staring mask! I try so hard, this phony, to find a way: a predictable self, any, a person for my. Always this same, the hopelessness!
Crumbling footprints: they fall with spreading brown, the dirty slush to water from the door: blunt nosed and seeping flood towards, I’ll have to, my feet. Blurring susurration from the waiting room and as I, sudden! Man’s hand along the pew: with spiderflexing fingers, seizing at her shoulder. Who are they there in the door, no sound? That hand caressing flesh beneath her coat . . . Perhaps, the puddle at my feet, perhaps it’ll pass right by, searching down the easiest way; perhaps I’m safe for the moment if I don’t move.
To marry her, for chrissakes leave a woman like Val, such a woman. Sensuous, I just don’t. Fatherly figure (a pall-bearer too?) surreptitiously, stealthy hand behind his back and down, digging at his ass? The cuff lifts above his shoe. Digging at his, ahah, I caught you! His whole leg trembles, scratch-scratch as gazed eyes flit, his vacant stare. Look away.
Makes me goddamn annoyed, that talk, what’s the matter with your generation? Knife and fork clattering to his plate, resting on the table’s edge for a moment, his hands are clenched. The trouble, young man, with you is. Do you know what your trouble is? Pointing finger at my chest. You and your generation? Expanding tension as she bends her head, the thick black hair drawn tightly at her neck and rising our voices, accusing. You don’t believe in anything, you hide behind our skirts because. You blame us for everything and won’t accept any. That’s your trouble and well. Well I’m sick of it . . .
Through shrouded streets among the tr
ees, naked, dirty with this day the hearse is bringing: from every room the lives come breathing out, those faces at the glass and pigeons in the eaves.
Mechanical voices and the carousel, drifting in the summer and fading from the wind against my face until running, I remember the ferris wheel: against the sky it turned spasmodically and the cars swayed. Running closer to the town and closer, my past excitement awkward in the chest and vibrating then, alone in the cacophonous air, beneath the jerking wheel and conscious of harshregular, that rasping that I know from dreams. And then silver trailer and, oh God, oh Christ, it’s . . .
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Patiently jostling figures, in the loudspeaker’s terrible breath of the girl inside, lining to the door. She lives, but she cannot BREATHE, come-along-come-along, A MIRACLE OF MODERN SCIENCE STEPUP, STEPUP! She SMILES, see her smile and she WAVES AT YOU! You sir and how about you come-along, we have to do everything AND I mean EV–ER–EEE THING for her! Come-along-step-up, come-along. Staring fastened (everything, he has to . . .) fearful at their eager pushing, turning laughter; savage jaws, they’re eating, wetly drinking and as pressing, more with clutching money crowd about I . . . All this for half-a-dollar, lookit that, four bits to help the little lady, come-along, and move right in. SHE WILL NEVER GET OUT! They’re here, through the town, the urgent word and movement, “The hearse is here, they’re here!!”
“Here it is, are you ready, is everyone . . .” Had to do everything, was it real? Carefully, and what am I, pallbearers supposed to do carefully, through slush and water spreading behind me now. Or did she, did they let her out, stretching and bitter, how old? Politely nodding, each other usher to the door. Into cold that’s searching to the skin, behind plump legs and delicate shoes: efficient double doors are opened, snow already glistens on the gathered curtains.
He would have wanted. Shit! That cheapness; would have wanted you to, would have wanted you there beside him Felix! Stupid goddamn blackmail on her terms, a mother’s. I’m his mother Felix so I know he would: you’ll come won’t you, you’ll help us? Curious faces in a passing car; with ski-rack another, loaded like those rocket launchers, shushing cars wetly as we wait and watch. Gleaming metal rollers and while he’s gliding it out, he beckons solemnly, encouragingly he nods. “Alright fellahs. He’s waiting for you.” Savagely, struck emotionally dumb he’s. What, in this day did I? Incredibly polished, what kind of wood (bottom’s cheaper, pine or something for the profit) expensive looking wood and hardware, waiting for chrissakes, waiting? Obedient crowding ahead, their hands on the bars to pull, pulling and I must get in there at the other end, it slides and now, the weight, you brace against the door but. Nothing, they must have, it’s light. All the weight. Unrhythmic joggle, awkward shuffling to the steps and if I crouch a bit, just bend my legs, I’ll miss the weight. Up they go! Arrgh, it’s not so easy going up and it wouldn’t, you’d hate. To drop him or, shit! And what would it do to this organizing prick at our heels? Be almost worth it . . . Slowly don’t jar him, easy, whisperwhisper that’s the way, now straight ahead, that’s it. Mind the door, don’t . . . Step by step, the coffin swaying in the afternoon. Careful, as staggering slightly, hah! Feel our sudden concentration to correct, control the faltering, that’s the. People do some times, they’ve been known to . . .
EEEK we’re falling, have done it, look out for your? Quick so it won’t break my goddamn legs or anything, dashing out from beneath with a crash at my heels, it. Look it. Jesus Christ it’s burst open! Tumbling down the stairs like a Laurel and Hardy piano; these passing cars in the street, they’re full of open mouths, over; I’m overwhelmed, they explode in hysterical silence, they brake while. Sliding awkwardly, running. I’m away, that’s the best thing, keep on going, yes sir! Wildly down the sidewalk with my stride and round the corner like a shot, gathering speed on this uncertain ground with the wind in my hair, for he tumbled most horribly out: he was lying beneath that fucking thing. He was. And he had no pants on!
Hissing. “Just a moment,” and his handful of Kleenex, rubbing at the glistening droplets, polishing. Renewing the shine. “There, that’s better, not.” Smiling from the back of their heads to me. “Not that the finish stains easily you understand, it’s ah, a first-rate box.” Intimately, one to another and over his shoulder, red-lettered on the wall. Please do not throw confetti in the vestibule of the church. Thank you. “It’s for the. You’re not family are you? No, no I thought not. You’ve got to do things right for the immediate family.” Leaning to tap my arm, shaking his head. “We don’t want to carry him up that aisle among his friends, all these good people, with any imperfections, that wouldn’t be very friendly would it?” Then rustling black and white the preacher past my arm; starched and he shaves the back of his neck, he pauses: surveying them waiting there and turning, his face is young, so young. “By the, I admire your beard, I really do. I hope you don’t mind me saying, I’d really like to work on a beard like that.” Jeez does he, really did he mean? Now clear as a bell, rising from him as we move.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord.” Scrabbling, rising unevenly ahead on either side and turning faces pale and small beneath the ceiling’s height. “He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and.” Changing to catch step, to stop our clumsy swaying gait. Left. And. Right. Lengthening this sad slow march of mine, left. With him inside and dead. Right. He’s really inside, it’s hard to believe, he’s. “Shall never die.” Grotesquely past watching faces, furtive eyes because I’ve got his feet, they must be here beside my hand. Left, that’s it; better, much better and right, we’ve got the cadence, got this rhythmic crawl, and we’re only. Careful now, don’t lose it, that’s the way, lehp! Rye-yeh, lehp and sweating on the parade square’s sun, they’d foam at this, oh brother. What’s that? “Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s.” Somewhere ahead, her cry: echoing hoarsely with young, his voice so, mingling in the air above our heads. Some faces dumb while others shift to see as, her voice rising, his words . . . “I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” Uncertain flight, the curious wheeling of his words among her cries, she dominates; this sobbing, Jesus! I wish she’d, why I wish she’d, why does she indulge? Gripping, manfully, forcing shut my ears because the tears, once more this goddamn swelling, weakness, behind the eyes my god-damn . . .
Darling I’m so happy that you. On the window sill, her rings above the sink as she pauses with soap on her hands. You don’t know how much it hurts me to see how far you’ve been from God. I pray, every night of my life I pray to Him, hoping He will guide you. Jewelled frames her glasses and the eyes, blue eyes magnified and watching as I. Quickly, finish this fucking plate and behind the cupboard’s open door to put it in the rack. She can’t see me here. And every day I ask Him to help you, you know that. You know I do?
Yes mother, I. That isn’t, shit that isn’t. The point, she doesn’t, they never understand, so why do I bring it up? What makes me confess like this argue and? They’re all, they’re good Catholics and intelligent, they’re concerned Mom. They, well they don’t just accept . . .
Five Legs Page 17