by Joseph Fink
Craig
2020
Your father was a real shit, Craig. He was a good father, and he loved you, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t awful in other ways. He didn’t take care of himself, which was selfish. You know how I feel about that. If you don’t take care of yourself . . . you know the rest. You noticed, I’m sure, that he left you and your mother no money. He drank a lot. Not stumbling through the daytime drunk. He always waited until evening to have a scotch or a beer, but until his cancer diagnoses, I don’t think he had a single day in twenty years where he didn’t have two drinks.
Plus, Donald had an affair. It was after you were born, thank goodness for you, but such a tragedy for your mother, Marina. She found out because of the rain.
Marina’s sister, your aunt Eugenia, lived in Red Mesa, about a forty-five-minute drive down Route 800. When Eugenia broke her jaw playing chess (she took a brutal hit from someone easily two weight classes higher than she), Marina went to spend the week with her. Decent sisterly things: liquefying foods, cleaning up, taking care of bills, being good company, and so on.
The afternoon your mother left for her sister’s, a storm rolled in. A rare storm for the desert, and the streets flooded. Marina knew it was coming so she left early, but after stopping at the Ralph’s to pick up produce, she missed her window, and the rain was already coming down. Night Vale is not built to handle much rain, and the streets began to flood. The Highway Department blocked access to Route 800, and Marina gave up and drove home. There was a blue Lincoln in the driveway. When she came inside, she saw Donald standing in the doorway to the bathroom. A towel around his waist, his thick peppered hair matted to the side of his flushed face.
“You’re back,” Donald croaked. “Why are you back?”
“Donald, you’re dripping all over the carpet. Whose car is that?”
“Probably a neighbor’s?”
Marina headed to the bedroom with her suitcase.
“No. Hon. Wait.” He blocked her path, and she saw the window was wide open.
“Donald! You left the window open during a storm.”
“You’re right. You’re right,” he said, relaxing. Outside, a blue Lincoln burped itself awake and drove off.
As Marina set down her suitcase, she saw a single earring, a dime-sized opal, lined in gold. It looked like a delicately painted fingernail. Marina did not linger long on the earring. She knew immediately the story of the shower, the window, the Lincoln, the opal, but she did not confront Donald about it. Instead she told her husband about the highway closing, and how she called her sister’s neighbor to have them go check in on Eugenia today. That night, when Marina went to bed, she saw the earring was gone. She never mentioned any of this to your father or anyone else, save for an obtuse comment when you were eighteen years old and shopping for your first car. You liked the Nissan Versa, in cobalt.
“I’m not buying you a blue car. Pick something else,” she said, and you were angry, and you still resent her (a little bit) for it.
When Doctor Hernandez told Marina that Donald’s cancer was not only in his lungs, but also his bile duct, his colon, and his liver, she did not cry. She made him food, held him when he was sick from chemo, kissed his hair, read books to him, and bought him new music to listen to. The doctor’s prediction of twelve to eighteen months stretched to four years. And when he died, she cried, not because her husband was gone, but because you were crying. You loved your father. And you wailed, and it hurt to see her child so inconsolable.
Marina said, “He’ll always be a part of you, Craig. Dead dads are magic in that way.”
You were only seven, and this comforted you. Dead dad is magic. That phrase stuck in your mouth like braces all through your teenage years. You still think about it to this day. Dead dad is magic. “He’s living through me,” you think. “With me. I can still hear his words.”
Your mother never meant that dead dads have magical powers to remain with their sons. She meant living sons have magic and they waste it keeping dead fathers around. She wasn’t trying to cheer you up after the funeral, she just accidentally formed a pithy, memorable phrase out of her bitterness.
The words you hear in your sleep, in your lost thoughts, in dark echoey corners of your home are not your father’s. They are mine. You have long known I’m here, and that I’m taking care of you. That I want you to be healthy. To be financially secure. To be a good husband. To be good at your job. To raise a child. A boy, who looks just like you. And you are all of those things. You’ve inadvertently bested Donald as a man.
You put away money for your family. You’ve honored your marriage vows. You treat Amaranta as an equal. You finally even left your job with the car dealership and became an English teacher at Night Vale High School. It doesn’t pay as well, to be sure, but the union-negotiated health plan is stellar. Plus, you found your true calling, inspiring imaginativeness in kids.
I heard Janice Palmer tell her boyfriend that you’re her favorite teacher. She’s begun writing short stories about an investigative radio journalist and his charming science-loving sidekick. You inspired Viqaas Bishara to write quaterns about space travel. And your greatest student of all, your daughter Camila, is already at age three beginning to read picture books. She knew how to read them but hid it from you, because she was afraid that if you knew you would no longer read to her. You assured her that you would always read to her, if she wanted. From then on, she’s been comfortable reading the books to you, with your gentle help.
And while he’s only nine months old, your baby boy Darius looks as bright and beautiful as you once did.
You’re nearing forty, and you’ve accomplished so much, Craig. For yourself. For your wife. For your two children. I’d like to think I’ve helped, but I also tried with your own father, and his father, and his father. I try to help lots of people, but not everyone listens. It is the choices you make that get you where you are. And you have made excellent choices as a father and as a man. I’m proud of you.
But you’re letting your paranoia get the better of you. I know you know I’m here. You listen to me. When you were a boy, and Davy Williams knocked you off your bike, right in front of your own home, you were scared. You crawled backward, belly exposed to that bully, as he advanced on you calling you “dickwad” and “fuckface” and other words only his most hateful of fathers could impress onto an already disturbed child.
But you heard something that day. Didn’t you? You heard a whisper, “Kick his knee,” and you did. You wouldn’t harm anyone, but you did. You heard a sharp crack, and felt his leg bend in a seemingly impossible direction, and Davy shrieked and fell to the ground clutching his dislocated patella, and you don’t know how you rose so quickly but you thought you felt a cold, shriveled hand yank your shirt collar upward. You raced inside, and when Davy’s mother arrived, he was still shouting epithets at you.
You knew it was me that day. And years later you knew it was me who was texting awful things at women I didn’t like so that they wouldn’t date you anymore. I suspect you knew I even arranged that fateful meeting between you and Amaranta. Deep down you know I have been guiding you toward happiness and fulfillment, that by resisting me, you risk missing a positive choice in your life.
I watch you look for me when Amaranta isn’t around, opening closet doors and taking a flashlight into the attic. You scan mirrors nervously.
But you have a curious one around now. Camila watches you too. She’s caught you several times. “Who are you looking for, Daddy?” she asked when you were poking your head into the kitchen cabinets. What a disturbing question that must have been for you. “WHO are you looking for?”
Why would a child ask “Who” when you’re looking inside cabinets? Wouldn’t a normal child ask “What?” And you knew. She’s seen me too.
Of course she has. Children are often the only people I can talk to. Adults are difficult, so judgmental about running into an old woman without a face who secretly lives in their home. Kids? I c
an talk all day to Camila. I once talked to you too, when you were Darius’s age. You were delighted by me. And you began to talk back, not with words, but with demonstrative waves of your billowy fingers, and an articulated patter that suggested the shape of speech rather than narrative specifics.
Recently you’ve begun talking to me again. It’s not delighted. Nor is it demonstrative. But at least it isn’t yelling. Many evenings, you sit alone in the parlor and quietly, but forcefully, deliver a similar version of the same talk:
“I don’t know who or what you are. But please leave our home. I think you have helped me in many ways, and for that I thank you. Thank you immensely for everything you have done, whatever that may be. But I’m losing my mind here. I can’t tell if my daughter is talking to herself or to you. I can’t tell if I’m talking to myself or to you. And I don’t want this. I want to raise my children in peace. I’ve not always been the most responsible person, but I’ve changed. Am changing. And I can do this. I promise you I can do this. We can do this. Without you. Please leave.”
And my feelings aren’t hurt at all, Craig. You’d be surprised how often I’ve heard something to this effect.
Some people whose homes I live in, I just read their books and put the occasional dragonfly larvae in their coffee maker. Some people whose homes I live in, I have full-on conversations with. They love and accept me as part of their families. Some people whose homes I live in, I punish. Some I help. Most I ignore all together.
But I can’t ignore you, Craig. You’re special. I would never leave you. I will be with you for the rest of your life. Don’t worry. That won’t be much longer now.
I’m saying all of this but you can’t hear me. You’re too busy driving. I’m sitting right next to you in your passenger seat, and you don’t even see me. I think you think you’re alone. Oh, Craig, you’re never alone.
I get it now. Your long drives out to the canyon or to the edge of town or down Route 800 till it loops back into Night Vale are an attempt at escape. This is your private time away from your haunted house. Away from the ghoul. The ghost. The poltergeist. Is that how you see me, Craig? As a poltergeist? A long dead soul determined to pester and annoy the living? I would not be insulted if you did. I suppose my behavior comes across that way.
This past Monday, you found a lucky rabbit’s foot in your sports jacket. You didn’t notice it until a student asked what that stain was on your coat. It was freshly removed from the rabbit. Then on Tuesday evening you went to go get pliers out of your tool chest to fix a loose bookshelf bolt, but you couldn’t find them. You did find the rest of that rabbit though. On Wednesday you woke up with your tongue feeling around the empty space where one of your molars had been, just the night before. Losing a tooth is scary, right? In dream analysis, it’s symbolic of feeling a loss of power. In the waking world, it’s a literal loss of power. On Thursday night you found your pliers, and in their serrated steel grip was the tooth you had lost. I had the whole thing encased in acrylic and set onto an onyx plinth. (Most people don’t realize just how long a human tooth actually is. They only see where the tooth stops at the gums, but that’s not even half of it. Noting the look on your face, I don’t think you knew this fact, either.)
You threw that sculpture away. You’ve never appreciated my artistic talents.
So yes, if you think I’m a poltergeist, then I would not be offended. It’s not correct, but I see how you might arrive at that conclusion with your limited information.
When you drive you feel at peace, relaxed. Alone and safe. I’m glad you have a haven. I’m glad about a lot of things. Of any man in your family, at least for the past couple hundred years, you have done the most for yourself and others. I’ve told you all about your ancestors, but you don’t remember, because I told you before you were even one. You just giggled and laughed all the way through it. It was cute. It was the last time you ever saw me. Truly saw me. You were delighted by me.
If you saw me now—right now—I don’t think you would feel the same. But let’s give it a go.
Hello, Craig.
No. No. Craig. Don’t scream.
Yes, you are seeing me now. Stop screaming.
Silence!
Good. Now listen to me. I need you to know I’m here. I always have been here, with you. And I needed to say out loud that I’m proud of you. You have lived such a good life, Craig. You found Amaranta, so smart and magnetic. You created Camila, who’s as full of wonder as a wizard’s hat. And little Darius, as healthy and strong as a baby boy could ever be.
Craig. Are you listening to me?
You’re too busy searching for my eyes, my mouth, my nose, any semblance of a face, to hear me, aren’t you? I don’t have a face, but you know me. You remember me from your crib. You remember what I told you that day. Oh, the breaking horror of familiarity is in your bulging eyes, on your quivering lips, Craig. I’m so happy about this. I’m so glad you remember our talks.
Your breaths are shortening, Craig. That won’t be good for your mindset. Concentrate on your breathing. In. Out. Good. Good.
I’m going to touch you, so you know I am real. Do you feel my hand around your wrist? Okay, keep breathing. Keep relaxing, Craig.
Anything you’d like to say to me?
You just want to go home?
You and I both know that’s not going to happen, Craig.
No, I’m not going to let go of your wrist.
That canyon ledge is so close. I’m not going to take my foot off the gas pedal either. Keep breathing. It will help keep you calm as a faceless old woman folds her bony limbs around you. It’s almost done now. We’re almost there.
Craig.
Craig?
Craig!
Can you hear me? I’m amazed you’re still breathing. What incredible determination you have. You’re like Snowden here, Craig: You’re cold and I can see your intestines. Did you read Catch-22? Did I already ask you that? A 120-foot drop into the ravine, Craig, and you’re still breathing. Is that a choice you’re making on your own, or the only thing your body knows to do?
Man, after all, is matter. Cells programmed to do what they have always done.
I’m glad you’re not dead, Craig. I can see your windpipe is fully crushed, but you’re a long way from anyone who could hear or see you anyway. Airbags and seatbelts save a lot of lives, but in this case, I think they’ve only prolonged your pain.
This is going to be a rough few minutes. Or hours.
Maybe days.
It gets cold in the desert at night, doesn’t it? Are you cold? I bet you are, your insides uncoiling without skin to tuck them into the warmth of blood and body.
Eight hours, and not a single car has gone by. There might, if I’m honest, be a detour sign recently placed a mile back on the road, keeping any helpful traffic off it.
I saw your hand moving, so I think you’re conscious. You were probably trying to find your cell phone. I put it in your glove box, so you wouldn’t lose it out here in the desert. Your glove box is about fifteen feet over by those two boulders where you initially made impact.
Relax. You’re getting upset. You’re spasming, Craig. I think your body is trying to vomit, but it can’t find your abdominal muscles, or an esophageal track. It’s been a hard, hard day, hasn’t it? But the good news is that day is almost over, and there will be no more days after it.
So let me say this: I’ve known you for almost four decades, and watching you right now has been a real highlight for me. I’m sure it’s not been great for you, but we all have to pay for our secrets, Craig. And I told you when you were a baby. I warned you. You would one day pay for yours.
Good-bye, Craig.
You’re gone now. I’m not sure if you heard all that, but I hope that you did.
I’d love to let your corpse rot indefinitely, but I’d hate to do that to Amaranta. Off to find the Sheriff then.
Away from the Sea
1863–2020
1
This is what d
rowning feels like.
It hurts quite a bit. For quite a bit. Like a knife. Not a knife slashed swiftly, but a heavy knife lain point-down upon your chest, its gravity slowly piercing your lungs. Sharp but not brief.
For a minute or more without air, you think of the word unbearable, but you are only thinking of it figuratively. Your chest aches and you cannot inhale. There is no relief from the heavy blade of suffocation.
Eventually the weight of the knife against your breast is joined by heat, a white-hot steel searing black your heart, your guts, your very core. And then you think of the word unbearable again, and you still cannot mean it literally, because you have no choice but to bear the stifling agony of longing for a gasping gulp of an ocean breeze.
But you remember bearing pain is a choice—never a fair one, but a choice.
You smell salt.
You hear your heart churning like a locomotive up a hill.
You taste bile.
You see the flickering orb of the moon, a wavering, fading white glow above you in the dense midnight sea.
You feel water breaching your nostrils and your throat. The horde battering down your front gate to overrun the castle.
And you make a choice to no longer bear the pain. To no longer bear this pain. The pain of asphyxiation. You make a choice to bear a different pain.
