Things Go Flying

by Shari Lapena

  Next he stood in front of the mirror and tried to replicate his dad in that interesting moment just before he went down at the funeral. Dylan adjusted his posture, lowered his gaze to about where the head of the corpse would be in the coffin, and then tried to arrange his face to mimic his dad’s just before he fainted. This was more difficult and took more concentration; he kept checking himself in the mirror. Once he got the face right, he started to croak and added the jerky body movements. He practised this, trying to get the sound and volume just right.

  His mom came rushing up the stairs and stopped abruptly at his open bedroom door.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, alarmed.

  Dylan turned around to look at her. “Nothing,” he said innocently.

  • • •

  THESE DAYS, JOHN was feeling like a million bucks. He didn’t understand how it had happened but everything had changed, and he wasn’t going to look too deeply at why. All his life things had happened to him that he hadn’t fully understood—he was used to it.

  All he knew was that his dad had let him drive the car home from Future Shop and had told him he might as well not be grounded anymore. John still wasn’t clear on whether he was allowed to drive the car again in general, or whether that was a one-time thing.

  He cut classes and met Nicole. He was so happy and excited to see her, he almost blurted out that he wasn’t grounded anymore, but stopped himself just in time. Their reunion was hot and sweet—a rush of deep, wet kisses, peeling clothes, skin smells, feverish caresses— and a minimum of conversation. For John, it was bliss.

  Afterward, he stared at her darkly, possessively. Answered her laconically in single words, sometimes indulging her with a phrase, or even an entire sentence.

  He couldn’t believe how much she seemed to like him.

  CHAPTER TEN

  There was concern about Harold at the office. Stan, his supervisor, was concerned enough that he had been conducting an informal, secret poll of the rest of the staff, one by one: Have you noticed anything strange about Harold lately?

  Stan was not actuated by anything bad; in fact, he liked Harold and was only trying to help. He was fully cognizant of the excellent disability leave benefits available—which Harold had paid into for close to twenty years—and only wanted to get Harold, a generally good employee, his due.

  However, Stan did have an unemployed brother-in-law, recently laid off from another department, who could do Harold’s job with his eyes shut, until something more permanent for him opened up. Stan also had a wife who thought he ought to be able to pull jobs out of a hat. All of which made him more inclined to believe that Harold was not quite right in the head and could benefit from an extended leave.

  It was a win-win situation.

  Besides, the evidence was there—he himself had caught Harold having conversations with thin air. He’d noticed Harold’s slipping work habits, his forgetting about meetings, and his odd obsession with that spider.

  The results of the secret poll, from Stan’s point of view, could have been more satisfactory. There was an even split. Half the staff had noticed nothing about Harold at all and the other half had seen a change. Most of these had either heard Harold talking about his spider or had required some help, in the form of leading questions, to come to the realization that they had seen a change, but since this was for the good of all—including the department—there was no harm in that. Naturally, Stan had been careful to ensure that no employee knew that any other employee had been asked the same question—and each had been counselled to say nothing about it. Stan had kept the running totals in his head.

  Of course, as supervisor, Stan had been carefully documenting, in writing, all instances of Harold’s odd behaviour, as any competent manager was required to do.

  He went to Harold with what he felt was a gift—a carefully worded, in fact, almost disguised invitation to apply for disability leave, with full pay, with a hint that such an application would be looked upon favourably. There was a delicacy to such things; one had to be so careful.

  It was the end of the day. Stan entered Harold’s office as Harold was packing up to leave, and closed the door behind him. “Harold, if I might have a word?”

  Harold sat back down abruptly in his chair.

  “I’ve been a little concerned about you lately, Harold,” Stan said, and waited for Harold to say something. It would be so much better if everything spilled automatically from him: a confession about depression for example, a revelation about serious problems at home, a problem with alcohol perhaps (not uncommon)—followed by an admission (possibly tearful) of the need for some time off. It would be better if Stan wasn’t the one to suggest it. So he waited.

  “I’m fine,” Harold said, beginning to perspire visibly.

  “I’m not so sure, Harold.”

  Harold started to fidget with the pen on his desk, tapping it rapidly against the blotter. He’d heard about Stan’s brother-in-law in the other department.

  “Everything all right at home?”

  For a moment, Harold wished he had the guts to tell Stan the truth. He felt—intensely—how unfair it was that he was being plagued by the dead because of his mother, and that he couldn’t even tell anyone without bringing his sanity into question. It occurred to Harold with sudden, absolute certainty that of course he was being documented. There were great disability leave benefits at the government, but Harold didn’t want to spend months at home with Audrey, even on full pay.

  “Everything’s fine,” Harold insisted, feeling the dampness in his armpits, in the back of his shirt.

  How wonderful it would be, he thought, if one of the dead would help him out now. How wonderful if the empty coffee cup sitting on his desk pitched itself across the room! Followed by, say, the computer monitor. Harold put the pen down and sat back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest.

  Stan saw Harold fold his arms across his chest—a classic defensive posture—and recognized that he had a problem.

  For a moment neither of them said anything. Harold was waiting— in vain, it turned out—for help from beyond the grave. When it didn’t come, he got a little desperate, not to mention a little angry. He was so tired of being let down!

  “There’s nothing wrong with my work, is there?” he said, almost aggressively.

  “To tell you the truth, Harold, it hasn’t been up to your usual excellent standard.”

  Harold recognized that while this was true, he also knew that his work had been at least acceptable. Suddenly inspired, and hoping to cut his supervisor off at the knees, he said, “It’s just that my best friend died recently—rather suddenly. Maybe I haven’t been concentrating as well as usual.”

  “Oh,” Stan said, sounding as if he was hoping there was more wrong with Harold than that. Then he added, somewhat slyly, “Perhaps that’s who you’ve been talking to, in your office, when nobody’s there?”

  Shit. Harold hadn’t known he’d been observed. He didn’t know what to say.

  “Maybe you could use some time off,” Stan suggested at last, tired of beating around the bush, wanting to get home.

  “No!” Harold almost shouted. “No,” he repeated, more quietly. He forced himself to be calm. “I don’t need time off. Really, I’m fine.”

  Now Stan was frustrated. Harold wasn’t going to go quietly, obviously. But Stan had to lay the groundwork for future attempts. This wasn’t over.

  “What we need perhaps, Harold,” he suggested, “is an action plan.”

  “An action plan,” Harold repeated.

  In the department, they were great fans of the action plan. Harold had never had one applied to himself before though. It was ominous; it implied that he must take action or face consequences. He must measure up—get better!—or his superiors would decide what to do with him. Harold was pretty good with action plans, as far as departmental business went, but he did not like to take action, as applied to himself. He certainly didn’t like the sound of a Harold Walker A
ction Plan.

  Turning the screws, Stan grabbed a piece of paper and the pen off Harold’s blotter and started to write a heading across the top of the page.

  Harold read it upside down—Action Plan: Harold Walker. He felt himself blanch.

  Stan wrote 1. in the margin and looked up at Harold. Harold was dumb.

  Eventually his supervisor sighed, glanced at his watch, and said, “Why don’t you give this some thought, Harold, and then we’ll draft something together.”

  “Like what?” Harold asked nervously. He had no idea what was expected of him.

  “Try to come up with some ideas—some steps you might take— to recover your equilibrium,” Stan said, pleased with his wording. “Perhaps you could see a grief counselor, for instance, if you think that would help.”

  What the hell, Harold wondered, was a grief counsellor? Was there such a thing?

  “Perhaps some time off.” Stan dangled that out there again, for good measure. He pushed the paper back on the desk toward Harold, handing the problem over to him. “Give it some thought, and we’ll talk about it. Come up with a timeline.” He got up to leave. “Good night Harold. Let’s meet on this again in a few days. See you tomorrow.”

  Stan left but Harold didn’t move. A timeline. How much time would he be given, to solve all his problems?

  How the hell would a deadline possibly help here?

  • • •

  THAT NIGHT, HAROLD was sitting in bed with a book on his lap—a blank piece of paper on top of the book—and chewing anxiously on a pencil. He was thinking about the Harold Walker Action Plan, but so far, he wasn’t coming up with much.

  He had to prepare something convincing, something unassailable, or else he’d be out on his ear for who knew how long. Some people were on stress leave for months! Harold knew that if he was forced into inactivity for that long, he really would go crazy. Just spending that much time with Audrey was enough to send him up the wall. So Harold chewed his pencil and tried to manufacture something to satisfy his supervisor, something that wouldn’t look too bad in his permanent file—where it would most definitely be placed—and drew a blank.

  To get himself going, he wrote Harold Walker: Action Plan across the top of the page. He was pondering this intensely when Audrey suddenly loomed over his shoulder.

  “What’s that?” she said, making him jump.

  “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he said testily.

  “Sorry,” Audrey said.

  Harold had hoped to work on this undetected before Audrey came upstairs, but now that he’d been caught, he thought maybe she could help. He had to admit she was a good ideas person. And although he was naturally reluctant to hand over the reins of the Harold Walker Action Plan to Audrey, he told himself that he wouldn’t have to actually follow through on this stuff. As long as he showed improvement at work—no more forgetting about meetings, no more talking to the dead, increasing his work output—Stan wouldn’t actually be able to do anything to him.

  So he told her about his talk with Stan, and the Harold Walker Action Plan. The sudden over-concern on her face annoyed him. “Don’t worry—he can’t fire me. My job is perfectly safe. He’s given me a few days to come up with something.”

  Somewhat reassured, Audrey wrinkled her brow. She’d never heard of anything like this before. But she could certainly recognize an opportunity when it presented itself. She could take a ball and run with it.

  “Let’s see,” she said, grabbing the book, the paper, and the pencil from him and sitting down on the bed. She didn’t want Harold to be forced to take time off either; there had to be a better way.

  Assuring Harold that this was just a rough draft—rough notes really—she wrote:

  1. Anti-depressants. (When will these kick in?)

  2. Exercise. (Regular exercise will improve mood, alleviate depression and improve sleep.)

  3. Counselling. (Psychiatrist or psychologist?)

  4. Short vacation?

  Audrey stopped, unable to come up with anything more. Really, if the anti-depressants started to work, he began a regular exercise program, and she could get him into counselling, that would be pretty much her whole wish list as far as Harold went. The short vacation was just down there for form’s sake.

  She handed the list to Harold, who read it silently. She could tell when he got to number three.

  “What do you think?” she prompted, when he didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t know,” Harold said. But that wasn’t honest—he knew exactly what he thought of it. He was already taking the antidepressants, he supposed he could start a moderate exercise program, if absolutely pushed—even take a short vacation—but he was damn sure he wasn’t going to any psychiatrist or psychologist.

  “Well, you must have some feelings about it,” Audrey prodded.

  “I’m not going to a psychiatrist,” Harold said stubbornly.

  “How about a psychologist then?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Audrey said, exasperated.

  Harold didn’t answer her. He didn’t want to see a psychiatrist or a psychologist because he was afraid they would find out about the dead people somehow—what if they hypnotized him?—and that they’d have him certified. Harold was very worried about this—they had an Employee Assistance Program at work with an entire flock of psychiatrists and psychologists on call, just waiting for someone like him. He was terrified that he’d be forced to go. Of course they wouldn’t understand about the dead people—they would think he was nuts.

  Audrey sighed heavily. “Do you think your boss will go for just the anti-depressants and exercise?” Audrey asked.

  “I don’t know,” Harold said. “Maybe.” Then he had a flash of inspiration. “Change Counselling to Reading Self-Help Literature.”

  “That’s not bad,” Audrey agreed, writing it down.

  • • •

  HAROLD WAS EATING his sandwich in the lunchroom the next day when something pierced through his glumness and caught his eye. It was a small ad in a university newspaper which read: Depressed? Looking for answers? Maybe philosophy has the answers you seek. Flexible appointments. Reasonable rates.

  He read it again. He was depressed. He was looking for answers, sort of. Maybe this was the alternative to psychiatry he’d been looking for. Maybe he could add this to the Harold Walker Action Plan! He surreptitiously ripped the little square from the bottom of the newspaper—feeling subversive, but justified in the circumstances— and put it in his pants pocket. He thought about it off and on, throughout the day.

  That night after work, Harold got off the subway one stop early, at Broadview instead of Chester. It wasn’t a planned thing, more of a whim. It was a chilly evening, and he walked steadily south on Broadview, past the jumble of storefronts—pizza, antiques, chiropractic—past Loblaws, and along the ridge of the park with its swooping hill leading down to the running track. When he got to the statue of Dr. Sun Yat-sen, he cut across the grass and headed down the curved, paved lane that led to the pedestrian bridge. The maple leaves littering the ground were blemished with dark circular splotches, like coins—some kind of blight. He passed under the Discovery Walk plaque and walked up onto the bridge that spanned the Don Valley Parkway. For a minute he paused and looked north at the Bloor Street Viaduct, with its graceful black arches and its fretwork of steel cables, almost invisible from here, meant to keep the suicides from jumping. But they’d just moved north, to the Leaside Bridge. Harold thought about them, the jumpers—all those souls taking flight.

  He turned away and headed down the descending curve of the bridge, pushed open the chain-link gate at the bottom, and began his ascent up through Riverdale Farm. The leaves rustled crisply underfoot. There was almost no one around. It would be dark soon. Audrey would wonder where he was.

  He passed a pond on his left, scummy and still; a cedar rail fence bordered the path all the way up through the trees. By the time he reached the top of the steep path he was winded
, and he slowed. Where he came out there was a paddock with two draft horses standing head to rump by the fence in the failing light. He could smell their sharp equine smell, and hay, and apples. He went past the horses, past the barn where they milked the cows, and out into the park.

  It wasn’t so different.

  He used to fly balsawood airplanes here, the cheap ones with the red plastic propellers and the elastics you wound up with your index finger. He hadn’t thought about those planes in almost forty years. His kids had never played with anything like that. They’d never had anything that simple.

  He didn’t know why he was here; something made him cut through the park and walk up Winchester Street—glancing warily over his shoulder at the cemetery to his right—then turn off Winchester onto his old street. Now he was going slowly, looking carefully at the houses, a tired, respectable man in a suit and a dark coat. The houses had changed more than the park. Some of them he wouldn’t have recognized.

  At last he stopped across from the one he was looking for. He was on the opposite side of the street, to be able to see it better, or maybe it was to keep his distance. He stood there on the sidewalk, looking at it. He was sure it was the same house but it looked smaller. Different. He remembered peeling, scabby grey paint over red brick, drab woodwork and original glass, a small, patchy lawn behind the wrought iron fence. But the brick had been sandblasted clean, the windows had all been replaced, and there was fresh white trim and a tiny landscaped front garden. A baby carriage on the flagstones below the front steps was ruining his concentration.