No Fury Like That

by Lisa de Nikolits

  “Not since we had such fun last time,” Agnes points out.

  “All I’m saying is that we have to go and see Beatrice or we’ll piss her off and we don’t want that,” Tracey says.

  “True,” I agree fervently. “I asked her for a favour, and if I don’t turn up today, I’m toast and it’s not like there’s anywhere to hide in this godforsaken town.”

  “Come on, Grace,” Tracey says. “Julia did this for you. The least you can do is come with us and tell Beatrice yourself that you’re not ready and we can see about transferring it.”

  “You think you can trick me,” Grace says and her chin quivers, as much as the surgical implants will allow. “You think I am stupid. Fine, let’s go. I will do my stupid Viewing. How much worse can my life get? And maybe Beatrice will say I’m not ready, which I’m not.”

  She gets up and grabs her purse. “Let’s go and get this over with.”

  “Try not to worry,” Samia tells her, “we are right here with you.”

  But Grace does not look particularly comforted by this comment.

  24. GRACE’S VIEWING

  BEATRICE HAS HER FEET UP on the desk and she stares at us. “Plead your case,” she says to Grace. Poor Grace’s botoxed, plastic face is expressionless but her eyes are filled with pain. “Screw you, Beatrice,” she says crudely for her. “You know why this is important to me. But I won’t beg. I don’t even know if I really want to do this. In fact, I know I don’t, but I feel as if I must.”

  “Fair enough,” Beatrice replies and she takes her feet off the table, puts on a pair of reading glasses, and peers at her computer screen. She scowls, punches in a few numbers, backspaces a few times, and pounds a couple more keys. Then she stares at the screen and waits. “Processing,” she says. The printer squawks to life and spits out a page which Beatrice hands to Grace who takes it wordlessly.

  “Thank you,” I say and we leave and make our way to the Viewing Room. We are anxious, not sure what we are going to get.

  We sit down in the same booth as the previous time, and Grace takes the centre seat on the curved red bench. I punch the numbers in for her and the screen flashes black and then the writing appears: WELCOME GRACE! WE HOPE YOU WILL ENJOY YOUR VIEWING TODAY!

  “We bloody hope so too,” Tracey mutters and we all nod.

  The camera zooms closer to Earth and soon we are in a garden in front of a large house, standing on real grass only we can’t feel it. Three kids are playing with a hose, spraying each other in the heat of the summer’s evening and Grace tries to rush over to them, but she cannot move.

  The garden is immaculate, with neatly pruned rose bushes and brightly coloured flower beds surrounded by manicured green lawns.

  “At least he kept my garden maintained,” Grace whispers. “Oh, look at Harry,” she says and her eyes fill with tears and she brushes them away, not wanting to miss anything. “He’s gotten so big. Oh my god, how long have I been gone?” She blows her nose on a Kleenex that Tracey shoves into her hand.

  “And there’s William, he looks so healthy. And my baby girl, my princess, Beatrice! Oh, they look so good! Everything’s fine. And there’s their nanny, the same one. Richard managed to keep her. That’s good too. And look, there’s my sister. Doesn’t she look lovely? I wonder if Richard has offered to ‘fix’ her. I bet she would have told him where to get off. I wonder where Richard is?”

  As if in answer to her question, the View propels us up the garden path and inside the front door. We move down the hallway, past the living room on the left that looks as if it has never been visited by a single soul. We pass the TV room on the right, with a far more lived-in look. We pass a study filled with leather furniture, bookcases, and brass library lamps.

  “You didn’t hold back on spending,” Tracey comments. “It’s like being inside a Restoration Hardware catalogue.”

  I nudge her sharply.

  “What? I’m just saying. It’s very nice.”

  The View stops.

  “We’re outside the downstairs washroom,” Grace tells us. “If Richard’s having a bowel movement, we don’t need to see that.”

  “Maybe the View’s stuck,” Tracey says as we remain outside the door.

  “I don’t think it can get stuck,” Agnes replies. “I think it’s wondering if it should show you something.”

  “Show me already,” Grace instructs the View and we move through the door and into the washroom on the other side.

  “Oh my god!” Isabelle, Grace, Samia and I chorus at the same time while Agnes and Tracey don’t say a thing.

  We are all crowded into the small washroom with Richard who has a hypodermic needle in his arm and a belt tied tightly around his bicep. His eyes roll back in head and his mouth is open with pleasure.

  “What the fuck?” Grace says and I have never heard her swear.

  “I know him,” I say weakly.

  “Me too,” Isabelle says.

  “What? How?” Grace’s eyes can’t leave the screen but the man does not move.

  “He gave me your nose,” I admit. “The Candice Bergen special. I thought it was odd, that we have exactly the same nose.”

  We turn and look at one another.

  “Holy moly,” Isabelle says staring at us. “It’s true!”

  “Fuck a duck,” Tracey said. “Your noses are identical. I never noticed it till now. Isabelle, how do you know him?”

  “I saw him kill a man.”

  “Impossible,” Grace says. “As evil as he is, I know him. He’s not capable of murder.”

  “I saw him,” Isabelle insists. “He killed a drug dealer named Foxtrot Four. I was in a motel with this guy and we came out and that guy, your husband, was beating up Foxtrot Four. I knew Foxtrot because he was always very charming to me and I used that motel a lot and he always said he was looking out for me. And your husband was smashing his head in with a rock. I yelled at him and he looked straight at me and then he ran away, and the guy he was with ran away too. I called 911 and the cops came, and the ambulance came, but Foxtrot Four was dead. The cops said it was most likely a guy looking to score, who got angry because there was nothing to be had. The streets were apparently dry. You know,” she says accusingly to Grace, “if your husband hadn’t killed Foxtrot, I’d probably still be alive today. Foxtrot would have come and untied me. Like I said, he always looked out for me.”

  “I can’t believe it was Richard,” Grace says her eyes still glued to the unmoving Richard. She reaches out and tries to prod him but just like when she tried to touch the roses outside Auntie Miriam’s old-age home, her fingers encounter nothing but air.

  “Is he dead?” I ask.

  “Just high,” Tracey replies. “Enjoying himself. But he nearly went too far, leaving the needle in like that, and the belt so tight.”

  “The cops wanted me to sit with a sketch artist, and I did, but they never found the guy,” Isabelle says.

  Richard finally stirs and we all press back in fright. The View is so convincing, it’s as if we are truly in the room with him. He’s a handsome man with an aquiline nose, blond hair, and big blue eyes. He is losing his hair but his high cheekbones and sensual lips dominate his features. He looks directly at us and we recoil and grab each other.

  “For the love of god,” Tracey says, “This View is fucking nerve-racking. I nearly peed in my pants there.”

  “It’s too intense,” Isabelle agrees. “Why can’t it be like a normal TV screen? Why do we have to be right in it?”

  Richard looks down and flicks the needle out of his arm, and he snaps the belt open. He shakes his head, as if agreeing with Tracey that he’d nearly gone too far. He puts his syringe and needle back into a cookie tin, along with a spoon, cotton ball, and a lighter. He snaps the tin shut and kneels down, hiding the box under a bunch of toilet rolls in the closet underneath the basin. “The kids could fin
d it there,” Grace says hardly able to breathe.

  Richard rolls down his sleeve and buttons the cuff. He stands up and looks at himself in the mirror and smooths his hair. He takes a big breath and opens the door.

  He saunters down the hallway, with us right behind him. He stops to straighten a picture and he steps out into the sunshine where the kids have stopped horsing around with the hose and are chasing each other.

  “Baseball in the backyard,” he yells. “Who wants to play?”

  “Me, me, me!” they reply and gallop through the house.

  “Thanks Michelle,” Richard speaks to the nanny. “See you tomorrow, have a great night.”

  “I’ll get my purse from the kitchen,” Michelle says and we follow the three adults into the house. “I made a salmon casserole with red beans. Good night, Hope. See you tomorrow.”

  “Grace and Hope?” Tracey asks.

  “My mother was Catholic,” Grace says squinting. “Hope has certainly made herself at home. I wonder how long I’ve been gone?”

  As if answering her question, Richard moves over to Hope and he puts his arms around her, holds her tight, and kisses the top of her head.

  “Have I told you what a wonderful woman you are and how much you mean to me?” he asks.

  “Where have I heard that before?” Grace mutters.

  “Thank you again for taking care of us,” Richard says standing back and brushing Hope’s hair from her face. “Grace left a big hole and you’ve filled it and I thank you.”

  “I think you mean you’ve filled Hope’s hole,” Grace comments.

  “Hard to believe it’s been a year, isn’t it?” Hope says hooking her arms around Richard’s neck and hugging him close. “I really miss her.”

  “Yeah, it looks like it,” Grace says.

  “Dad! We’re waiting.”

  “Come on, honey,” Richard says. “Let’s go and play some ball.” He grins.

  “Honey? I never got honey.” Grace is seething.

  We follow them out to the back yard and watch the baseball game get started, with Hope cheering from the sidelines and the kids running and jumping.

  “Psycho junkie,” Grace says quietly. “My poor, poor babies.”

  The View starts to pull out, and the garden shrinks, and we are treated an aerial view of the million-dollar homes with their perfect lawns and their flowerbeds and their big SUVs in the driveways. The paved roads are intersected with small emerald parks, and we see the lakeshore and the city in the distance. We pull back even further and look at a blue-green Earth covered by gauzy swirling clouds and then, back still further, until there is nothing but blackness and the message: GOODBYE GRACE! WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED YOUR VIEWING TODAY!

  We stare at the screen, none of us able to move.

  “I could really use a drink,” Grace finally says and we get up.

  “They lay this shit on you but they don’t exactly help you process it,” Tracey comments. “It’s like look, this is what is happening, and oh, there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  We walk out of the Viewing room and head for the cafeteria.

  “A heroin addict,” Grace says still in disbelief. “I guess it explains a lot. I wonder how far back it goes. Because we don’t know how long Isabelle has been here or when Foxtrot Four was killed. You’re sure he died?” she asks Isabelle who nods.

  “Definitely, very dead.”

  “I think it’s just dead,” Agnes says.

  “I mean I’m very sure.”

  “The kids look happy and well,” Tracey says. “And I know you’re not too happy about your sister stepping into your panties while they were still warm, but at least the kids have got a mom and they’ve got the same nanny and they live in a great house and play ball with their dad. He might be an addict and a scumbag, but you must feel better, knowing the kids are okay?”

  Grace nods. “It doesn’t help my pain though. The hurt I suffered at his hands. It doesn’t help how he ruined my life and took everything away from me and turned me into a freak. It doesn’t help that I lost the kids I love. It helps and it doesn’t.”

  We get to the caf. Isabelle spots Eno and Jaimie at the far end and abandons us. “That one’s her boy,” I point out Eno although by the time I do, Isabelle has reached them and it is clear to all of us who is who.

  “Cute,” Tracey says. “For a tweeker.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” Samia sighs.

  “Shh, they’re coming over,” Agnes says.

  “I want you to meet Eno,” Isabelle introduces him, smiling broadly.

  “Yo, ladies, how they’re hanging?” Eno says and he gives us each an elaborate handshake. “Hey Julia, styling as always. I hear you ladies been to a Viewing. Always good for a party, that shit. You all okay?”

  He, Isabelle, and Jaimie pull up chairs and I see Tracey stiffen when Jaimie sits down.

  “You were a narcotics cop?” Grace asks Eno and he nods.

  “Yeah, that was my gig. I was pretty good too, till I got hooked on the shit. I wanted to be in homicide but I screwed that up and here I am. But hey, I got to meet the gorgeous Isabelle, so life ain’t so bad!”

  I notice that he has lessened his strange and strong inflections, but he still speaks with a rapper-style sing-song.

  “We just learned my husband is a heroin addict,” Grace says and Eno shakes his head.

  “That’s heavy shit, man. I’m sorry.”

  “But how can he be an addict and still function?”

  “Two ways. First off, you got your functioning addict—he takes as much as he needs to keep himself even. Or there’s scenario numero duo, which is that he’s only just started partying with heroin, in which case, he’s on a downhill road, it just hasn’t hit him bad yet. What does he do for his day job?”

  “He’s a plastic surgeon.”

  “Whoa, man, I wouldn’t like to be under his knife, man. What if he gets the itch and loses it that tiny bit?”

  Grace sighs and gets up. “I need to be alone for a while. I’ll see everyone tomorrow.” We watch her walk out the cafeteria.

  “I need to meet Cedar,” I say, and I also get up and push my chair away.

  “Come by later for cookies,” Tracey calls out to me.

  “If I can find the room,” I tell her. “I still can’t do it like you.”

  “I’ll find you,” she says.

  “Yo, Namaste,” Eno calls out after me, “I’ve still got a bowling privilege for later if you’re interested.”

  “Why don’t you take Tracey, Agnes, and Samia with you?” I reply. “They deserve to have some fun.” The girls clearly love my idea and Eno nods.

  “Sure, why not. Big old party, mamas!”

  When I leave, they are chattering like sparrows on a picket fence, as if it’s a normal, happy day on Earth.

  25. GOODBYE DUCHESS

  GOD EXPECTS SPIRITUAL FRUIT, not religious nuts. Good for God, I tell the sign.

  “Julia! How are you?” Gone is the stern man from the previous day, telling me that it was Grace’s day, and that I needed to toughen up and stop being such a selfish bitch. In a manner of speaking.

  “I’m okay,” I say and I lie down on the sofa. “Actually, I am tired, Cedar. This place is rough. You never get to rest properly and it’s like cannonballs of reality keep blasting you.”

  “It’s not Heaven, this is true,” Cedar agrees. “How did Grace’s Viewing go?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you know,” I reply. “There’s nothing you guys don’t know.”

  “True,” Cedar acknowledges. “I guess what I mean to say was this, how do you feel about what happened at Grace’s Viewing?”

  “I don’t feel anything except tired,” I tell him, and it is true. “I wish we had music here. Or TV, or the internet. I get bored. There’s nothing to do here.”


  “That’s not true,” Cedar says. “But the point is, we aren’t here to entertain you. Have you given more thought to your niece?”

  “What’s there to think about? I was a bitch. I am a bitch. There’s nothing I can do to change what I did. Like you keep pointing out, I’m here, and Earth is just a part of my previous, long-distance life.”

  “Just out of curiosity, if you went back, would you look her up?”

  “In a heartbeat. I’d make it up to her, for sure, in every way I could. But what happened to me? How come I’m here? I still don’t get that part.”

  “Would you like to know? You weren’t ready before, you didn’t want to go there.”

  I sigh. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” I tell him. “So there I was, hiding behind a marble pillar, watching Junior and the others laughing, and I was on my way home. Then I can’t see anything.”

  “I can help you,” Cedar says. “This process isn’t a Viewing as such, it’s what we call a Rewind. Close your eyes and try to relax. ”

  I do as he says and I see myself behind the pillar. I see my own stunned, shocked incredulity as I watch Junior’s bubbly joy walk away. I watch myself walk home, let myself into my apartment, and sink down onto the sofa. Cedar’s right. This isn’t like the in-your-face, 3D experience of a Viewing, it’s like watching a movie on a high-def TV. And there, on that screen is award-winning, powerful me, fuck buddy to the CEO, unstoppable, incredible me, home alone, with no one in the world to call. Better get used to it, a little voice whispers.

  I look around my apartment as if seeing it for the first time. It’s like something out of Hoarders, only everything is Chanel or Dior or Yves Saint Laurent. The place stinks of cat pee and there is cat throw-up everywhere. It is unnervingly quiet. I call Duchess but he doesn’t appear, which is unusual, and I go to find him. My poor boy is lying under the bed and I have to pull the bed away from the wall to get to him. He is lying on his side and his little tongue is hanging out and I pick him up, grab my purse, and run downstairs.