Five Legs

by Graeme Gibson

  “Who’s that with her?”

  “I don’t know, poor soul.”

  “He’s not from . . .”

  “Oh that!”

  “Yes . . .”

  “He’s from the university. Or something.”

  Right in there alright, he’s certainly moved right in there as they shuffle; families, Susan and Crackell, what the hell’s he up to? Straightening his tie as he rocks and vaguely stares at the flowers along the wall. “It’s silly to say this I know, but. He looks, Martin would have looked like that, don’t you think? If he . . .”

  “God rest him.”

  Turning, the smiling bastard to her face; responding flicker, she leans as more come between. I can’t see them any longer, so many now along the other walls and, bulging. Wet clothes, damp smell and heavy of the cloth. With dying flowers in the air. Shifting, “excuse me,” now some whining kid, pushing “excuse me” to see him there and shit! That tongue, her. Eyes and darting tongue.

  “Hullo again.” And leering eyes, what hiding me? In the kitchen, yes oh. God her pushy hands, mouth all wet and opening, fingers on my arm; I must excuse me, get but her hand restrains. “Aren’t you tired from carrying that heavy thing?” Eyes and mouth enfolding, breath and eyes, my arm. “We girls don’t know so tell me. Tell me, what’s it like?”

  “Oh. Oh. Not so bad you know, not bad there were lots of us see and . . .” Faces all around, my idiot words and sailing, Jesus preacher to the coffin’s side I’m saved. “Excuse me,” finger to my lips I nod ahead and quickly disengage. “We’ll have to . . .” Again, the breaking wail of that bastardly child, will someone. Take the thing outside! Will someone. Why? Poor kid, now darting face ahead to see, the preacher, what. So calm will he, can he do? Swivelling desperation and my flopping stomach, flipflop it’s her eyes, her crippled animals for chrissakes I am not! I simply turn away; calmly survey the shoulders, heads in front, I can hardly see flipflop, her shape beside me, leaning? To that lifted face, focus on his nose with open nostrils, placid jowls and. Doesn’t he shave? She leans and shifts, I move. Shuffling behind us; stragglers from the door and. What am I going to do with this leaning, she’s almost rubbing woman! Get out I, awkward, excuse and pushing desperate from her, what, oh dear to the front and running . . .

  Movement so I stop, we stare. I’d sure like to work on a beard like that. Plump face with narrowing eyes, I surely would. Sudden odour, sickly of the flowers at his feet. And I look away! This weakness, this. Preacher again, his eyes, those fragile hands with fingers shining on the page, then carefully. Back to the undertaker, he bends, white-cuffed he’s bending, fat hands tug at the nylon grass; hissing, it slides and bunching to the chrome, it . . . “Man that is born of woman.” Rising embarrassed with his voice, backing to the wall and nodding, agreement yes and. Here we go again. “Is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never . . .” Composed and solemn, this bored, my beard for chrissakes! In the midst of life. “We are in death: of whom may we seek for succour . . .” In the midst of life we are in death how true, oh right in the middle, now for instance. Voice pleading O Lord O: rising chilled air from, our boots and bodies twisting in their clothes. In the midst. Thrill of familiar words, the clichés’ strength. For the. Value of ritual’s in the order, yes. Remember that, the value of the ritual is in the order it brings. Another epigram, hah. God is order, and our fear personified. “O Lord God most holy, O Lord most mighty, O holy and most merciful Saviour, deliver us not into the bitter pains of eternal death.”

  “Thou knowest, Lord, the secrets of our hearts; shut not thy merciful ears . . .” Propitiation’s whine. Not me, no sir, I . . . Don’t need, no! These pleadings, need his petty life! Or words. “. . . spare us, Lord most holy, O” Jesus moaning, a terrible! His mother’s face collapsing and crumpled to her knees again, she. “God most mighty, O holy and merciful . . .” Shudders, horrible shudders and her animal tears. “. . . Saviour, thou most worthy Judge eternal . . .” studied voice word by word as the father, son of a bitch, poor. “. . . suffer . . . us . . . not, at our last . . .” Leaning sideways to her, white-knuckled on her shoulder; staring slack-mouthed, turning and shaking his head as his face peels away in layers . . .

  Eyes protective, thank you back to the mourners, crowded; unwilling audience at her, they stir embarrassed while my ears, despite me, goddamn ears have isolated, stop! They register every fucking note will she stop and Max. His profile, hurt by her grief he whispers to her and instinctive reaches. Gentle Max. I’m growing from you, I . . . Pat! Beside him, right hand absent through her hair, my flushing sudden. Large pale hand, the sickness symbol, some kind of . . . Painful back to her voice on the floor, then Max again, I’m.

  “Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take . . .” Hulking forward with upside-down a begging bowl his undertaker’s hat at his back. “. . . the soul to our dear brother here departed: we therefore commit . . .” His body of the boomalay deep, what? Angle of the hat, it’s changing, his hand edging out. “. . . earth to earth, ashes to ashes . . .” Earth, falling in lumps with sweat, Jesus! you can’t bury a man indoors, from a living hand it slides and pointed there, his shoe at the switch. Poking impatient, poking and then with a jerk and a gentle hum. “. . . dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection . . .” Huummmmm, the coffin descending into that hole in the floor, creaking with straps and groaning noise. His mother’s voice and the patent leather’s spidery cracks, tiny in his shoes on that stupid goddamn grass, Christ. If an ant stumbled out of there, lost he’d squash it flat, he really would. Get out of my grass. Squish! Rubbing fingers his hand retreats, clutching to the hat; smoothly he presses again at the switch, but. Huummm. Machine oblivious; he steps again and gently pushes harder, more weight on the lever as the racket gets louder; he kicks with dignity his polished toe and faster kicks, he kicks and kicks, now teetering on his other leg and waving, furiously smashes and jumps, the sweat is bursting from his dome! Huuummm, insistent hum while straps alive! What’s going on down there? Bending self-conscious, belly unwilling as flustered he yanks the lever, pushes. And it stops. Hooray! Sickly smiling, vaguely panting to himself and grunting, he straightens and backs to the wall, mopping his forehead as he goes: pugnacious eyes search the floor for ants as he subsides, I’d sure like to work . . . “Lord have mercy upon us.”

  “Christ, have.” Unwilling voices, have mercy, “Mercy upon us. Mercy,” mumbling all around.

  “Lord, have mercy upon us.” Clearly spoken, then ­enquiring, pause for us. “Our Father.” Who art in. Growing stronger, background to his, this whispering about my ears. Thy Kingdom but I will not say, I. Stifled sound, because I don’t. Anymore, this use of our fear. Felix Oswald, head bent, awkward in this crowd, a hypocrite among, lifting his head clear-eyed above them to. Crackell’s eyes, oh hold it! I glare, he twists away, instinctively lowering his head. A-ha, ho-ho! I’ve won! Alright, who else now, try to stare me, looking around who else? These bodies in prayer around me: bowed, yes properly with lips beneath their faces, stirring lips and mumbled. Strange, such foreign lives, their tacit. Breathing together, words and sighs about me here and I don’t. Belong, but he turned away, he really . . . Upwards, above this awful mumble, many times and in how many. Does it always come to . . . How are you fixed for blades? Hands that spreading, drunken laughter in the corners; nasal and how are you fixed they taunting pressed around me for a. Fight. Again rising, again uncertain, how many times? Even in the sound of his reading, anger and trembling even now, among these lousy people.

  Selfish extravaganza, that’s all, my mattress for chrissakes! Dragging it, laughing for everyone to see, and me? Just prey, could of been anyone, a convenient object. Rituals of fear. Black hair, blue with moisture there at ease on her shoulders and confident scorn. Max, she. Dominates, I mean a symbol now, for me, and even Martin’s gone. From his passion Felix oh,
her body is my, Felix! Back convulsive on his bed with glee, my own life too then. On and on, the words go on and on.

  But Jesus how, Christ Martin, look can you go back to . . . ? Puckered flesh, dry skin in wrinkles: rasping goddamn shapes that bunch and automatic, whisper prayers.

  What are you talking about?

  How could he? Dull and listless, habit goes on but I couldn’t go back no sir, I can’t . . .

  I don’t understand you Felix.

  Hung up, that’s what I am, between the two; but I’m different yes.

  I’ve never heard such nonsense! Trouble with your, you won’t accept responsibility.

  Words. “. . . with whom the souls of the faithful, after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh, are in joy and felicity: we praise and magnify . . .” Public mouths, bartering, praise and majesty; want me to live like you, I . . .

  No I don’t! Pride in the night, that’s not. Don’t hit the curb! His clenching voice, her breathing’s shallow in the seat behind; my instinctive, still this urge, goddamn, I . . .

  Why are you always so critical of me?

  I’m not, I . . . Appeasing, his tone with hands relaxing on the wheel. Look, son, I’m only saying . . .

  You are you know, you insult my friends.

  Oh, now! Exasperated sighing and well now. If you’re going to talk like. Hah, his voice uncertain because he cannot answer. Bash on, pursue it and knowing, why do I?

  They’re my friends. And you’re critical of everything I do.

  Darling that’s not true, we’re very proud of you, but . . .

  You give me, young man, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t be?

  You seem so. So aimless darling.

  Mother, I’m just not interested . . .

  I’m sick of your selfishness, just a. Minute you hear! Your father, I’m. Flashing cars as he jerks the wheel, with glaring lights, his face. You and your generation . . .

  My generation, why can’t you talk about me?

  Because you’re all alike, that’s why!

  We’re I am. Not, I’m . . . oh God he doesn’t, I . . .

  Some childish fad and right away, you all jump on the bandwagon.

  I don’t want what they want!

  Always critical, sure sure, it’s easy to be critical . . .

  That’s not fair.

  You give me, you hear? Some real suggestions how to improve this world!

  O Jesus, gasping oh!

  Darling don’t, you mustn’t use the Lord’s name in vain.

  Well, well! What do you say?

  It makes me so sad to hear you . . .

  What am I supposed to . . .

  Oh yes, it’s fashionable to be disrespectful, but what do you do? Nothing, not a God damned thing! Silence awkward in this moment and we’re hardly moving, coasting by the curb. Ungrateful, the whole . . .

  Ungrateful? What do you . . .

  Ungrateful, that’s right. The whole lot of you.

  What do you expect?

  What, what do you mean by that?

  Well. Careful, oh God here it. Goes. What have you given us?

  Given! Shuddering car to a stop, what do you mean by that?

  What kind of a life. Or world, that’s what I.

  Aawh! Turning his face with. The bomb again is it, the end of the world? Hah! Arrogant hands from the wheel. My boy. He doesn’t. Bastard, he doesn’t understand, I’ve known. So long, it’s futile, he doesn’t. You think you’re different, well let me tell you something. My generation had prophets of doom too.

  But now it’s different, don’t you . . .

  It’s always been the same. When they brought in the airplane, everyone said. And I remember. Everybody said it’s the end of the world, they. The war to end all . . . Even the, even the tank. Think of that now! The tank!

  It’s not the, that’s the point. My shrill voice rising. They’re not the same!

  And gunpowder: the end of the world. Hands secure on the wheel again as we move, he is so sure! And I’ve lost. Control because the worming tears because.

  That isn’t what I meant anyway.

  You don’t know what you mean.

  You’re pretty sure of that, aren’t you?

  Don’t talk to me like that.

  Well it’s true. More softly, but I won’t give in. I won’t.

  What do you mean then, tell me that? Face waiting; white road slowly, he waits for my voice.

  You wouldn’t understand.

  I understand you’re mucking up your life, I understand that! You’ve never finished anything, never been able to say; well! There’s a job well done.

  I don’t want to talk. Fading, so louder and. Don’t want to talk about it anymore.

  You don’t want? Felix, I don’t like to say this, but we’ve got to straighten you out . . .

  I’m not a child.

  Your mother and I are concerned.

  But I’m not a child anymore!

  Look young man, so long as you live in our house. Something snapping, breaking away as he speaks. We’re paying for you still, you remember that, we’re . . . It’s starting again, they’re blurring, I . . .

  Don’t want to, don’t say anymore!

  Listen to me, young . . .

  I’m not going to, I won’t!

  Felix! Felix! Startled and me bursting out the door, his sudden, braking to the curb as I stumble, Christ my knee, then up and racing with lights wild lights and Felix! fading, Felix! “. . . come, ye blessed children of my Father, receive the kingdom prepared for you from the beginning of the world . . .”

  Self-conscious striding from them, purposeful now on the balls of my feet and relax, that’s the, thud thud thud, but pat is better, lightly pat, patpat on easy feet with arms relaxed, that’s it; my hands carried high among cheers and breathing’s the thing, your breathing like swimmers’, yes, controlled and even, blowing out, patpatpat and. In, patpatpat and. Out, you graceful and patpat-thud you mustn’t. Never look back, someone may be gaining on you, gasping now and there! Cut across this lawn, the house and windows gawking at the lean and freely running figure of the night; perhaps some silent aghast, a watcher in nightclothes will reach for my tears, perhaps. I think, what’s this? Christ a hedge, a darkly squatting but no sweat, I. Lithely striding Longboat, poise and settling in for the hurdle, reaching legs and straining ease as up we . . . Shit! I’ve caught my. Terrible awkward, I think I’m headlong sprawling crash but rolling quickly, back to your feet in the watcher’s scornful eyes! A clever acrobatic stunt but no, some drunk he’ll say, turning indifferent to his woman, some university student by the look of him. Do I pay taxes for that? But was he really crying, she’ll ask; how funny, what’s he doing now? I’m bravely, God my shoulder! Bravely loping with blood, I’m sure it’s, streaming down my shin as lamely I lope in other eyes and shadows to the park. Jarred something loose I’ll bet and then they’ll. Me in the morning under a bush and he’s bled to death from his shin! Oh shocking! Why was he alone, where were his family, friends at a time like? Oh shame! Jerking to a walk. He was all alone.

  Sloping ahead to the railway tracks, what am I? Against the wind, black trees on the sky and if I don’t turn my head, don’t look, there aren’t any houses, no lights. I’m alone with the stubbled grass, this ancient stillness, northern land.

  Leave the tears on my cheeks, in case somebody: I saw the most interesting fellow, tragic, alone in the park last night, a human individual and oh so sad, he was sad, alone there beneath the cold and screaming stars (bleeding he, yes a nasty wound), he wandered aimless past the swings, down to the poplars by the tracks with blood (I’m sure of that) in the prints from his feet as he went and I saw where the tears had dried on his cheek. Trees shiver with the leaf-loud wind as I walk and hear far-off engines: faint anonymous feet to the tree where
I once saw, sudden raccoon away, I almost stepped on it, then heard the claws escape among those branches from me down below. But he’s not here now. Squatting against the bole, ready for anything. A man of sorrow, yes, with all my faculties intact and vanishing, post to post, the fence in shadows from my. Bit of strain on the legs out here by myself at this time of the goddamn night, I must’ve been walking for hours can’t they, why can’t they see I’m, goddamn it old enough! Electric cricket and still no light: boxcars hunched like animals beyond the fence, I’m not a child. Boy, if they only knew! My cricket, with leaves between me and the sky; I’ll bet they’re worried, but. Piss on them, shuddering, sigh as I rise. Piss on them that’s what I say. Ssh, like a commando, quietly through this hole in the fence with humming wire to darkness as I push, stumbling to the tracks and houses, piled shapes there against the sky; alert and balanced now, Felix Oswald on patrol. Sharp ears for shadows, softly he glides on the balls of my feet and they’d be sorry, they’d boy, if POW! Rifle’s explosion (my shin!) as he hurls himself down and rolls in the vicious RATTA–TA–TATTA of automatic weapons. POW! pow RATTA-ta right on my goddamn shin, I’ve. Vigorously rubbing, oh! Descending silence jeez, I hope nobody. Pretty grotesque, I’ll just lie here and that really hurt. Quietly rubbing. The night between me and the town. Better, that feels. Better and I wonder where my raccoon went? My good suit off the tracks and great, into the ditch for a. Great! Peering up over the edge; unlikely at this time of night, I’d be surprised, I. Still. Wriggling up to see and if it weren’t for the shivering trees between us, crickets there on the fading town of noise, I’d probably cry again. Or something. Jesus! What a yes, a fraud you are, belting off like a fucking movie and he’ll use it against me, for sure, some time he’ll scoff and Felix. You’ll certainly have to demonstrate a little more responsibility before I’ll, Jesus whatever it is, whatever I’ll want or need! You can’t expect and it’s for your own good that I. Jesus Christ what’s that? Horror to the earth and straining to hear: a breathing sighing breath in the darkness there it is again! A cough, oh Jesus straining fingers what? Heaving a sudden animal, breaking cough from there in a shadow I can hear it in clustering sighs with bodies shifting in cattle-cars shadowed oh . . . Closer, what a terrible, inching cautious towards and dragging God, this wounded leg so bravely with box-cars and listening. Alone. Blood swelling I rise, pulling myself on this iron rung and silently forward; hard-eyed and glinting to where they groan and helpless wait for me. Sharp cough but now I know; here I come!