they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs

by KUBOA

  I checked the time, heard the stairwell door open all the way at the bottom, two people jabbering with each other, their feet flopping up and up. I got to my feet, but even as I did I heard the door two flights down open, their voices recede, the door shut, the ghost of its click loitering around until I decided it wasn’t worth listening to.

  I started considering that I could run, I could try to get away. Inside of a day, I could even get to another country. It started to sound exotic—vanish, no one would ever hear from me again, I’d just wander around, see what I could get going, the perpetual foreigner.

  I checked the time, again, decided to wait until the top of the hour, no need to go anywhere.

  Overseas, even. I could take whatever money I had, whatever money I could scrape up—a cheap flight to someplace. Even when the bodies were found, it would take forever for suspicion to fall on me.

  -How long? I asked, offhand, just throwing the question out to the fire extinguisher, pretending it answered—though I didn’t supply a specific number to the pretend—just nodding to myself, mumbling Yeah yeah, I could puff into smoke by then, no one would ever find me, even if they really started to look.

  I started to imagine returning home after five years—a boat across the ocean—showing up in town, knocking on Bertram’s door. Where have you been? he’d say, open an embrace. I’d tell him lie after lie to make him plump and burst dead with jealousy—I’d see in his face how much he’d forgotten all about Lecia, how little he’d ever cared.

  ***

  Behind Bertram opening the door, I heard the shower running, saw behind his saying Hey, I got your text, what’s up? that the girl’s coat was over the arm of the couch—didn’t see her other clothes, she’d probably taken them into the bathroom with her.

  I told him I was in some shit and just sort of needed to relax at his place. A look of soft concern coming over him, he tapped his nose toward the kitchen, asked if I wanted a drink. I shrugged, said I didn’t know that Lecia was over, had just been in the city from last night, didn’t feel like going all the way back to my place.

  He nodded, saying that he understood and that I could stay over. Then he leaned in and, with a hushing gesture, asked me not to mention Lecia, said it wasn’t Lecia in the shower, looked a little bit ashamed, a little bit waiting for me to scold him. I just made a little pistol gesture at him, nodded with a mobster face, called him a dog, to which he—as though melted into his actual behavior—saying that he did what he did, that Lecia was sort of cold on him, lately.

  -I’m sorry, man I said, starting to say something else, but then, as though actually regretting it, he said No, actually Lecia’s fine. Lecia’s fine. I don’t mean to paint her that way. It’s just something, you know?

  I nodded and let him change the subject, let him return to a tone of was there anything he could do for me. I asked if I could maybe use a little bit of money, this widening his eyes. He held up a finger, mouthed Just one second, then slipped over to the bathroom, opened the door. I heard him say to the girl My brother’s here, she say What? like she just hadn’t heard, had maybe had the spray of water in her face, him repeat My brother’s here and then stammer something to the effect of she should be sure to cover up, they weren’t alone, she giggling—his voice trailing in such a way I knew she was taking some provocative pose, reaching her wet arm toward his pants, making him lean in for a kiss.

  The door closed. Bertram came back into the room, shrugged that she was a little bit feisty, he didn’t want her to dash out in all her glory, give everyone a show.

  I chuckled, looked at her coat, felt him look at me, and he made a face I didn’t understand, said that he was sorry.

  -About what?

  But he’d snapped out of it—back to smiles, back to asking what I could need money for and how much. I didn’t feel like making something up, just then, so let out a ten second sigh, leaning my head back, roughing my hair, and just said Oh, Christ man, I don’t even know where to start, maybe nothing, I should just get some sleep, you know?

  He sighed, too, almost as long as mine, said he’d probably do the same. But I should feel free to use the couch—even use the bed if I felt like it—as he’d likely be out for a few hours, was sorry he’d have to run.

  ***

  I turned my head down on purpose—using the excuse of pouring myself a drink—when the girl came around into the kitchen. She had on one of Bertram’s shirts—not one I recognized, but clearly his—an athletic male cut to it, drowning her twig form, the sink of her abdomen apparent in the way the fabric breathed, her nipples pert and obvious.

  Apologetically, Bertram introduced her as Margaret—moved his hand between she and I, explained I was his brother Aldous—while I downed my shot and she said I could call her Mag, if I wanted. I called her Mag, shaking her hand, Bertram, standing behind her, sort of holding his breath—or it seemed to me that he was—waiting for something to come up he’d have to step in to control.

  Was I supposed to know something about her? Had she been given some story about me?

  I tried to give a face to Bertram at once reassuring and dubious, but he just moved to her, leaning down to kiss at her shoulder.

  She couldn’t have been twenty—the smooth to her eyes, the particular way she made eye contact but held it to no purpose, no effect. When she twisted, leaning down a bit to scratch at her leg, the protrusions of her spine pushed up against the shirt fabric draping over her.

  It got on my nerves that Bertram hadn’t yet said anything, was whispering pointless talk into her ears, his hands on her shoulders, obviously wanting to slip off with her, just leaving me to be the awkward fixture. I was about to say something when Bertram explained to her that I was having some trouble with the law and so needed to hide out for the day, this bringing her eyes to me, my head cocking, telling her it was nothing to worry about, I’d be gone by tonight.

  -If you’re not, it’s fine. I’ve wanted to meet you, she said, said Bertram had been hiding everybody, then bumped him with her shoulder—he talking overtop that he wasn’t hiding anything from her, he was hiding her from everything, tapped his forehead to the back of her head while she batted at him, her fingers absently wriggling against his chin.

  -We’re going to a movie, later, if you want to come, Mag said, sort of using one raised shoulder to rub her ear against, so I nodded and said I should be able to do that, that they could just kick me if I was asleep, it wouldn’t do me good to stay cooped up.

  She didn’t give the name of the movie, so I figured it was one of those things—Bertram had said they were going to go to a movie, never said what, left the plan tentative, it’d never happen.

  I poured another bit of bourbon, Mag excusing herself to finish with her make-up, explaining she’d wanted to make sure I wasn’t able to slip out without her meeting me, again. I gave her sort of a wink and a fingerpoint, Bertram batting the air next to him, not coming in contact with her at all as she went.

  He sat himself up on the counter at an angle from me and as soon as the bathroom door clicked shut he said So, now you’ve met Mag.

  I chuckled, said she seemed alright, had my fingers over the rim of the bourbon glass, index tip, middle tip dabbling into what I’d just poured.

  ***

  Her coat added a lot to Mag, I could understand why she wore it—she still seemed a girl, but it gave her some presence, some sense to her posture, somehow elevated the tilt to her head and caught her neck at such a line as to make her eyes seem more absolute, like they were looking at something.

  I’d stayed in the kitchen while she and Bertram finished getting dressed, was just waiting, felt helpless, already so far away, already so forgotten, like my existence was somehow a complete oversight, was there but not so much.

  Bertram exited his bedroom complaining of a stomach ache, apologized to Mag, said he’d be just a minute—told her to ask me about it—tapped around on the kitchen cou
nter for something, settled on some brochure for specialty gifts, Mag asking if he wanted her to get him a book or something, he sort of grunting, chuckling, said that he just needed something, tapped the curled up catalogue to his forehead, said it would do. He closed the door, the overhead fan kicking on.

  Mag tilted her head in the general direction of the bathroom, said He gets stomach aches, as though this was news to me, as though she had some insight into my brother, some intimacy that had escaped my observation.

  She lit a cigarette, asked me if I wanted one. I shook my head and she moved off into the bedroom. I could hear her digging around for something while I took one of the shorter cooking knives from the block next to some stacked boxes of spaghetti and the remains of several loaves of bread—no more than four slices left to each bag—and I walked after her.

  She was holding what seemed to be some fabric, sort of sadly regarding it, looked up at me, responded to my smile and chuckle by explaining that Bertram got a little carried away sometimes, had torn it during the festivities.

  -He’s like that, I said, focused on her cigarette, leaned in like I noticed something and the instant her eyes flitted to the smoldering end of the thing I reached one hand forward, cupping the back of her head, bringing her forward into the blade of the knife as I dug it across her throat. The blood that gulped out on my hand seared, felt thick like vomit. She took a fumble step, then all at once had pitched forward, chin propped up on the front of my shoe, body in a pile, the hand that had held the cigarette lodged under the weight of her collapsed knees.

  I pulled at her body, getting it so that she was laying on her back, reached around for something to cover her with, not understanding the rag I pulled up, then realized it was the torn shirt she’d just explained. I propped her head up with one hand and wrapped the thing around her face, the torn shirt long enough to go full around four times. I took up her cigarette when I noticed it was nearly extinguished, gave it very quiet sips until it was going properly, again, rested it into the crease of the side of my mouth, leaned over her wrapped head until enough saliva collected that it globbered out without my having to force it.

  ***

  I felt ugly and weightless, kind of droned my way over to the bathroom door, head a sponge scrubbed worthless with mud, like I’d been used to unearth a potted plant. I could hear the little throat clearings and shifts of Bertram’s weight, the blanks in the pattern of his breathing when he tensed to void himself, knew he was stopped up.

  The overhead fan chugged, overrode any thought in my head—my own breath rattled in mimic of it, was it, I wasn’t any different than it, waited lifeless for my brother to shit.

  Eventually, toilet paper was undone from the roll—Bertram always stood when he did this, wiped himself that way, checking the colour of each wiped piece to be certain he wasn’t still dirty, this something he’d told me years ago, I’d no idea why. The faucet ran, I heard him mess with his hair, knew he was still uncomfortable but didn’t want to be awkward, this all something he was sensitive about.

  He opened the door, turning back quickly to shut off the light and I drove the knife into his chest, jiggled it, wrenched it out, drove it back in, also thrusting my weight forward, sending him off balance. Stammering mottled glegs of air, he reached for the towel bar to get his balance, but I could tell his eyes had lost focus, he’d no idea what was happening or how he was situated and I lashed out blindly a last time, struck against his head quite hard, his body, for whatever reason, toppling over in the direction my strike had come from, as opposed to being batted along with it.

  I tottered backward, stood in the squat hallway area, shrugged off my coat, clumsily kicked at it until it was out of the way, got my shoes off, using only my feet to do so, removed my belt, dropped my pants, stepped out of them, steadied myself against the wall and, bringing my knees high, got out of Lecia’s panties.

  I crouched down, tilting up Bertram’s head—found I’d gashed the side of his cheek, through his eye, up into his hair line wide open, the knife blade, which had come away from the handle, lodged, pierced through his scalp. Prying his mouth open wide, I stuffed in the panties, started to close the mouth, but them shoved the panties further back, probed my fingers down him until the fabric could not be seen, scragged my fingers down him as far as I could, until I couldn’t even retrieve the panties when I made an attempt. I left his mouth gaping.

  -You’re nothing but a carcass now, Bertram, I said, gnashed the sentence, hardly recognized the words myself.

  And then I stood up, glared at him, made a hissing sound, scratching my sides through my shirt—doing this until the crawling sensation all over me was so distracting, so claustrophobic I pulled the thing off over my head, lurched my arm back to throw it but the hand impacting the wall sent a numb shock through me, broke my anger, brought me low to my knees, laid me to my side, burying my face in the raised up bend of my elbow.

  ***

  I knew that I wasn’t asleep, was hardly blinking my eyes, fixated on some odd tangle of thread on the carpet—not carpet thread, thread from something else, a shirt, a towel, something. I made some sounds, pretend snoring, felt the rise and fall of my chest, the rattle of phlegm in my throat. I’d no energy to move myself—thought about my legs, said My legs my legs my legs, thought about them but couldn’t summon the proper sensation to make them move.

  I started to cry, tears uncomfortably large, heavy, slithering over the ridge of my nose, somehow winding up inside of my nostrils, twining with the mucus that was clotting up against my cheek, spreading under the weight of the side of my face, pooling, bubbling around the crevices of my ear.

  It was dreadful to think of laying there in that apartment for who knows how long—however long it would take someone to show up, however long it would take the hotel to find Lecia and Kevin, the detectives to connect enough dots to look for Bertram, to get authorization to kick down the door. A day at least—but Christ, I thought, it could well be two, could be three.

  -Could be could be could be could be could be I sissed through my teeth.

  But I was able to prop myself up onto an elbow after awhile—it hadn’t seemed so long—and from this position I was able to worm my way along to the sofa, from there got to my knees, to the kitchen counter, to a cigarette in my mouth. But I couldn’t find a lighter.

  I got the refrigerator door opened, downed a three quarter full bottle of apple juice, immediately started to urinate, watched the arc of it collapse into the tile, the mist wet the base of the cabinet next to the dishwasher, watched it foam and listened until the foam had gone quiet, until everything settled.

  There was absolutely nothing left, now, but I was still moving along. I was like a stick, getting myself back to my feet, running the faucet, gulping slobbers of water in, running every other palmful over my face, through my hair, washing at my chest with it, smoothing it along the tops of my shoulders.

  When I had enough composure to walk around, I noticed that the fingers of both of my hands would not stop wriggling, coiling, flicking out, clenching involuntarily into fists, scratching at the handbacks of each other. I took peculiar steps, watching this alien life of my hands, soon enough getting it all under control—soon enough finding a lighter, on the ledge of the bookshelf, getting a cigarette going.

  I retrieved my clothing from the hall, dressing slowly, had difficulty getting my shirt to tuck in the way I liked, flailed around in frustration, struck myself along the head until I felt dizzy. Calmed down. I left the shirt untucked, got my coat buttoned and pawed my way along the wall until I managed to dump myself against the front door, nuzzled my cheek against it, whispered Oh Christ, Bertram.

  ***

  Steady enough on my feet to get to the kitchen, to down a half glass of bourbon—choking on my attempt at a second mouthful—I returned to the bathroom, knelt, turned Bertram to look at me. His eyes were mostly closed, so I left them alone, didn’t really feel like to
uching them, like touching him at all. I took the damp towel that was sloppily folded and set on the toilet tank, offhandedly let it fall, covering Bertram’s head and most of his torso, then lugged his feet up, bucking my body, not able to budge him an inch. I was already perspiring from the effort and a spasm started up along my ribs. But I rebraced myself, gave a haul and the body began to move, made a slow progress along the carpet, and I gave up, leaving it half way in the bedroom, reaching to pick up the towel that had come away, dropped it back over top of the thing’s face.

  There was a mess of blood in the bathroom, but mostly in the area around the sink—I was able to cover enough of it with towels and Bertram’s dirty laundry that I didn’t feel showering would be a waste of time, felt I really could give myself a thorough wash, take my time of it, let the hot water reinvigorate me enough to go on.

  I didn’t feel like being found in Bertram’s apartment, it felt some cavity, some crook an insect had bore. I’d turn myself in, but needed to get clear thinking, first—needed to understand the approach I’d make, to feel some inch of control in the matter.

  The water was painful, no matter how I adjusted the temperature it hurt to let it touch my skin. I whimpered, shuddering, mewling like a sick child trying to contort itself to sleep. But I soaped myself completely four times, used shampoo and waited for conditioner to set, used an exfoliating scrub on my face, worked my fingers into my nose, clearing it of scabs of hardened mucus.

  I steeped out onto the mat in front of the toilet, just enough to reach Bertram’s toothbrush, the shriveled tube of paste. Back under the flowing water, I cleaned my teeth furiously, spitting out mint froth made filthy with blood, scoured my gums. I stepped out and reached across for mouthwash, shushed mouthful after mouthful—didn’t spit, just opened my mouth and let it limp down over my chest, let water pellet me until I felt the residue of it was gone—then stood shivering in the dribbling echo of the stall.