by Dan Proops
‘It’s a lovely thing. Thank you.’
‘Just wanted to cheer you up.’
‘Put it in the wardrobe.’
Adam opened his father’s wardrobe, a wooden antique, and placed the garden inside. He went to rest in his room, pleased Darius had liked the present. But the letter was troubling him, and his inability to help was frustrating. He could do nothing but write back. He couldn’t hold her, or console her, or support her in the way he so desperately wanted to. Everyone was in trouble: Cassandra was still in hospital, his father was unwell, and there was Sarah and the terrible things she was facing. But rising above it all, like a bright star, was Eva, her beauty and lovemaking. And it was then, as he rested on the bed, he realised love had found him: love for a girl with a flute, a warm heart and a keen intelligence.
The next morning, Adam decided to visit an old friend, Edmund. He hadn’t spoken to him in a while, but felt he needed to see him. After a whisky, and making sure he had cigarettes in his pocket, he entered the hallowed space. A young couple were praying in a pew near the front of the church. After a while they stood, and as they were leaving Adam saw they’d both been crying; their faces were wet with tears. He instinctively lowered his head as they passed, glanced over to the gilded Christ, then looked away. Next to the Son of God was a stone carving, a relief hewn into the old stone. It was a serpent, coiled, with wild eyes, and beneath it a sword, flames rising from it, and an inscription:
And out of the ground made the Lord God to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight, and good for food; the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil.
Edmund appeared and he hurried toward Adam, almost knocking over a candle in the process.
‘Well, if it isn’t my smoking partner. How are you doing, Adam?’
‘Some good, some bad.’
‘Wanna go for a smoke? I’m desperate.’
‘Let’s do that.’
They stood outside the church. It was a dreary, sullen day, with a canopy of inky cloud, a misty drizzle and a high wind. They huddled under a shop awning.
‘Want one of mine?’ asked Edmund as he fought with rolling papers and tobacco.
‘Got my own, thanks.’
Edmund lit his cigarette, then inhaled deeply and a blanket of smoke hung in the air, then was lost to the rain and the cold. Adam blew an impressive smoke ring and Edmund said he was envious as he couldn’t produce the things for the life of him. Adam saw the irritation on his friend’s face and was amused at his frustration with his inability to produce a good smoke ring. Edmund leant over to him and lowered his voice.
‘Okay, fuck that. I’ll never be able to do it. What’s been happening?’
‘I’m in love and in hate.’
‘Start with the hate.’
‘God and me: we’re not on good terms. I made a sculpture of the Devil, knelt in front of it and prayed. I made it after seeing my ex-girlfriend in hospital. She’s got cancer—she’s going to die.’
‘How did you feel when you prayed to the Devil?’
‘Bad. I destroyed it. I’m not very good with loss and I’m not dealing with my friend’s illness very well.’
‘That would be hard for anyone to deal with. Tell me about the love bit.’
Edmund stamped out his cigarette, retrieved the stub and lit another. He looked concerned as he exhaled. Adam told him some more about Eva and the happiness he’d found in meeting her. And he told Edmund of her talent with the flute, their lovemaking in the hotel room and the joy he felt when he was with her. Then he spoke about the fear of losing her, and how love was hard to deal with, as the threat of its disappearance was relentless. He couldn’t handle loss at the moment, and his love for Eva produced anxiety allied with adoration. Edmund said he had something to say about that, but complained of the cold and asked Adam if he felt like some tea. They finished their cigarettes and went to Edmund’s private room, and his guest sat patiently as tea was made and served.
‘You’ve suffered terrible losses in your life, Adam. So you’re primed for it.’
‘You’re right. But what do I do about it? I want to enjoy the love I have for her without the fear of losing it. She may go back to America. Or she may stay here if she does well with her flute.’
‘Who dares wins. Everything in life involves risk. Every time we cross the road we endanger ourselves. What do you think would help you to enjoy this new-found love without it being tainted with fear?’
‘No idea. Have you lost anything and been unable to handle it?’
Edmund sat back in his chair, folding his cassock over his knees, then adjusted his white collar. There was a ruminative look in his eyes as he recalled past memories.
‘When I was, I don’t know, eleven or twelve, I was a little terror. I had this friend Andrew; we did everything together. Anyway, one day he moved to Canada and I never saw him again. It might not sound much. But I had a great time with him, and when he left, I’d think of the fun times we had together.’
‘How did you deal with it, when he left?’
‘I had God, then and always. So I’ve got someone to turn too; I’ll never lose Him.
‘Well, I don’t. I’ve tried Edmund, really I have, but I can’t do it. I’ll never have what you have.’
‘Maybe one day you will.’
‘No, Edmund, I don’t think so. The best thing about God is that without Him I wouldn’t have met you, and that would have been a pity.’
‘Yes it would. Just try and believe in the fact that belief might find you one day. Try that.’
They had more tea and Adam, as ever, enjoyed Edmund’s company. He told him of Sarah, her troubles, and his inability to console her. But he said he’d sent her many letters; and Edmund said that was probably enough for her. Adam finished his tea, and Edmund said he was there for him whenever he needed to talk.
Over the next few weeks, Darius recovered and started taking his walks again. Cassandra was out of hospital, and Adam saw her for lunch a handful of times. And the situation with Oliver and Sarah improved. The boy he’d attacked made a full recovery. Adam opened Sarah’s recent letter and was relieved she sounded happier.
... so things are looking up. And Oliver is doing well, but the main thing is the boy who was hurt has made a full recovery. And I’m feeling happy about everything. The summer’s so beautiful here. It’s so good to be well and not troubled by anything; I’m really enjoying life for the first time. We’ll meet soon, when I’m ready. The future is golden for both of us. And I think Oliver will improve over time. Yesterday, I went to the park and sunbathed, and it was so relaxing, with a blue sky overhead. Sometimes life’s wonderful, isn’t it? Good things are going to happen to us my darling brother. I feel it. I love you Adam, and always will.
Sarah
Adam put the letter away, thrilled her life had improved; he was especially pleased about Oliver and the boy. He lit a cigarette. The smoke plumed and curled, and he flicked ash into a saucer next to the bed. Things were looking up for him and he was freed from the turmoil that only a few weeks ago had engulfed his life. He pulled on a jumper and wondered if Nigel felt like a sparring session, so he put the chessboard under his arm.
As he passed his father’s room he saw the ceramic garden he’d given him leaning at a precarious angle, so he went to the wardrobe and pushed it to the back beside some old shirts.
He saw a panel come loose at the back of the wardrobe, and removed a piece of flat square wood. There was a recess, an old cupboard, set deep in the wall, and inside it were sheaves of paper and box files. The papers were tied together with blue ribbons. Adam reached inside. He held the cream-coloured piece of paper in his hands.
Dear Adam,
I hope you’re well, I think things are looking up for me. Oliver has been doing well and has been kind to Maddie. She’s doing well too and …
The letter fell though his fingers, and he rifled through other papers, ripping at the blue ribbo
ns, and saw more copies of Sarah’s letters. He opened a box file, green in colour, and separate from the other boxes and papers. Inside were scrawled notes, almost illegible:
Initial notes:
Let’s have Sarah live in Canada, no not Canada—New York. Harold lives there. She used to like New York.
She can have two daughters; no, a son and a daughter would be better. Could call the son Albert—no that’s old fashioned: Oliver would be more convincing.
Let’s give him some problem or other, anxiety—something to make him more realistic.
First ideas regarding Sarah
Lives: Brooklyn.
Job: Teacher.
Offspring: Two children.
Husband: Alec—(make him difficult.)
Hobbies: reads and goes for walks in Prospect Park.
Friends: Harold. Others. Create a guy she meets in the park. I’ll call him Travis.
Dictate the letters once a week to Harold who’ll send them from an anonymous address in Brooklyn. (His attempts at Sarah’s signature have improved, finally!)
Final notes: Say things in the letters about her childhood—events that no one else would know about: reason, so Adam doesn’t think they’re hoaxes. Call Harold tomorrow at 3AM to discuss the first letter.
My greatest work of fiction is about to begin! And all for a good cause, to make my son happy.
The words were written in black ink on cream paper, barely legible. Adam looked into the recess, and saw more boxes and papers wrapped in ribbons. He felt his knees weaken, and all was black as he collapsed.
Forty - Two
The ceiling fell in and out of focus, and at first he thought he’d dreamt it, but still in his hands was the paper with the ‘initial ideas’.
Adam managed to stand, but was unsteady on his feet, with nausea in his stomach. He was forced to sit on Darius’s bed. He noticed a set of gold envelopes side by side next to the letters; he took out a letter to Harold.
Dear Harold,
In a few weeks Adam is coming to Brooklyn. I made a mistake in my last letter regarding an incident when Adam fell into the river. So make up for it. I hope you’ve remembered everything we discussed regarding Sarah. When you see him, it’s very important that you tell him you’ve seen her: don’t forget that. Say you’ve seen her in the park or at some bar—doesn’t matter as long as you’re casual about it. Don’t make a song and dance of it.
Things are going as planned Harold. Things are going well. She’s alive for him, and that’s all that matters—he has a sister again! I’ve written so you have my notes to refer to if needed. Adam really believes Sarah’s alive. I knew it would happen. I’ve brought his sister back to life, and I’m getting better at writing the letters.
I think Sarah’s character is very convincing. I’ll dictate the new one to you in a few days, and I’ll call at the normal time. etc. etc.
Darius.
The letter fell from Adam’s hands. He left his father’s room and dragged himself to his own, clutching some of Sarah’s letters. He fell to his bed and the loose paper lay scattered on his chest as he looked at the ceiling, just above the window. His hands lay loose over the papers and ribbons. He lay for a long time, examining the details of the cornicing, fascinated by the leaves and fruit, heavily painted and grey from dirt. His eyes traced the pattern of leaves intertwined with a relief of apples. Adam felt the weave of the paper under his hands, and the soft material of the blue ribbons. He twirled a ribbon between his fingers and felt the soft material. He pushed the letters off his chest and they cascaded to the floor.
Adam curled into a foetal position, his knees pulled up so high they almost touched his chest. He faced the wall of his bedroom and examined the patterns of cracks and shallow recesses on the uneven wall. He ran a finger over one of the cracks, as it widened and became deeper. He pulled some bedding up to his neck.
They would come soon; they’d come and he had to get out. Without shoes, and wearing an old shirt scuffed at the sleeves, he left the house, leaving the front door ajar. The sun was bright and high in an open sky and the shop fronts of Earl’s Court reflected the sunlight like a thousand mirrors. He made his way through the crowds in the direction of High Street Kensington. The Earl’s Court Road was crammed with traffic, engines rumbling. He came to a junction at the Cromwell Road, loud and wide with rushing cars, but he didn’t wait, he just crossed in front of the speeding cars and lorries. There were jeers, shouts and anger from the drivers narrowly missing him. He didn’t know why they were angry. He took a narrow road that led up to a busy chaotic High Street Kensington; and he saw the name of the street in raised black lettering on a white plate set high on a wall of London stock bricks.
They all seemed to be looking at his feet, the others, and he couldn’t understand why, but it didn’t bother him. The pavement was warm under his feet, which were now black with dirt. He felt the rasp of the paving stones underfoot and the sun was bright in his eyes. He was nearing Kensington Gardens, at an entrance through some painted railings.
He made his way over a gravel path that led up a slight incline to the palace, and he approached the high gates and ran his hand over the gilt leaves and cherubs; they were warm to the touch.
He saw the magnificent house rise up before him, and being there brought on the echo of a memory. He stood for a while holding the gates, then turned and walked up to a wide strip of tarmac where old men were walking and small children were running wild, laughing and crying out; and he liked the sound of their laughter. He saw two girls in white dresses throwing a ball to each other; the ball ran down the grassy slope and the girls chased it, laughing and shouting. A fountain was nearby and one of the girls had retrieved the ball and was drinking from it; he thought she was very pretty.
Then he saw a man who looked like Travis.
He was shorter than he remembered. But his coat was black and he had large hands. He was reading a book under a wooden structure like one of the pagodas in Prospect Park. Adam stood near him, a stone under his bare foot; he kicked the stone away, stubbing his toe on the rough ground, and there was a sharp pain that quickly faded. He went to the man and stood in front him.
‘Where’s Sarah?’
‘Don’t know a Sarah. You okay? You look unwell.’
Adam’s shirt and hair were caught in a light breeze and he felt the warm air around his arms, hanging loose at his sides. He looked at the man inquisitively, as if he’d discover something about him by scrutinising him, and then he leant down near to his face, and smelt alcohol on his breath.
‘I just want to know where she is, my Sarah.’
The man closed his book and said he knew nothing of Sarah and had never known anyone by that name. Adam leered, a sneering grimace, the whites of his eyes flashing in the sunlight; and then he said:
‘You fucking tell me where she is.’
He saw a man approach from the bench opposite; he was a big man with muscular arms, and he asked the man in the black coat if he was all right, and if he was being bothered. The man with the strong arms pushed Adam’s shoulder with a forefinger and he almost fell backwards as the push was very strong.
‘Leave this guy alone. You need help.’
The man with the strong arms asked if they should call someone. Adam thought they might want to call Sarah, so he stood and waited. The man in the black coat stood up and said he had things to do. And the man with the muscular arms raised his hand. Adam saw the lines of his palm and the sunshine through his open fingers. He lowered his hand, walked away and Adam wondered who he was. He’d been kind to the man in black.
The sun was lowering in the sky and the blue receded to orange, with golden clouds streaming from it, fading into the blue. Summer leaves flashed green and gold in some oak trees that lined the wide strip of tarmac. Adam clutched at a wooden pillar and a sliver of wood cut into the centre his hand; and this made him think of something, something important. He wrenched the splinter from his hand, and then placed it in a pocket
of his jeans.
Forty - Three
He walked up a hill that led to a busy road, sat at the roots of some trees and watched the people walking past, some arm-in-arm, some mothers pushing babies, some of the babies crying. And the shadows from the trees opposite became longer and were a greyish blue. Adam heard the wind in the trees as they became black silhouettes, with shafts of late sunshine glancing though the rippling canopies. He was fascinated with the light in the leaves and the way they changed from shining gems to somnolent shadows. He felt the bark of the tree push into his back and had to shift his weight. He took a handful of earth and it smelt fresh, then he tasted some, but it was bitter so he spat it out onto the grass, which was crumpled and pale from the hot summer.
He didn’t want to leave as he felt relaxed, and as night crept into the park, he wanted to find somewhere safer, somewhere he wouldn’t be seen, so he walked across some narrow paths where the undergrowth was thicker and the trees were closer together. He pulled his arms around him. He wouldn’t be caught here, safe in the hollow of soft leaves and crumpled bushes. They’d never find him here: he’d outwit them. He was cleverer than them all, smarter; his mind was quicksilver.
It seemed to take a long time until night closed in; and he wasn’t cold now, not at all, quite warm. And he thought the shadows were his friends, and would look after him, but they weren’t smiling; they seemed to be angry at something, and they were glaring and grinning. To avoid the shadow-faces, he closed his eyes, then opened them abruptly. The moon was high and full: a white disc hovering under hazy cloud. The matrix of white-blue light was all about him, across the banks of grass, and the twisting trunks of oaks and plane trees. His hands and arms felt the cold now, and the forest was no longer his friend; he thought it would have been kind to him, but the swirling recesses were menacing. He wasn’t welcome anymore. His fast walk turned to a run as he tore through the trees, the bark tearing at his arms as his shoulders brushed against them, then he was in the open near the wide strip of tarmac.