Molly Falls to Earth

by Maria Mutch

  Praise for

  When We Were Birds

  “A wholly original debut collection. … [A] fierce and often brutal examination of personal transformation, rendered visceral and gorgeous by Mutch’s exceeding talent. … Mutch channels the dark arts of Angela Carter, combining elements of gruesome fairy tale, an emphasis on the corporeal and a critical feminist lens on the world. … These are stories that thrum with weird, otherworldly power.”

  —Toronto Star

  “The presiding spirit of [this] collection is Ovid singing of souls transformed to bodies new and strange … read[s] like fragments of Angela Carter fairy tales.”

  —Literary Review of Canada

  “A collection of fairy tales for grown-ups. Maria Mutch’s short stories contain a touch of whimsical—but undeniably dark—magic. Think more Grimm folklore than Disney Technicolor. … [T]he perfect precursor to drifting into dreamworld.”

  —Canadian Living

  “Highly imaginative. … [Q]uizzical and melancholy. … [E]erily au courant.”

  —Quill & Quire

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  to Frozen Sparrow

  a.k.a. Hope

  Lila

  (Sanskrit: “play,” “sport,” “spontaneity,” or “drama”)

  a term that has several different meanings,

  most focusing in one way or another

  on the effortless or playful relation

  between the Absolute and the contingent world.

  —Encyclopædia Britannica

  1

  AURA

  Nine Beginnings

  I

  Begin with the found.

  You have been lost, haven’t you? Searching for someone, or they were searching for you. One thing is certain: people expect you to know.

  Whatever happens, you have to remember the way things move, even the way skyscrapers sway in the wind.

  * * *

  “Hey!”

  * * *

  The place is run on the movement of money and cockroaches. The people bundled in their coats, hustling on the avenues. The puddle that shimmers in the breeze.

  * * *

  “Hey!”

  * * *

  Gestures, litter, snowflakes that are forming and falling but aren’t here yet. Pipes and cables and roots. Everything is on a search for something, going somewhere. The dogs, pigeons, rats, and squirrels.

  And now the people running.

  * * *

  “Did you see that—”

  “Holy shit—”

  “What just—”

  * * *

  A charged current runs the grid of streets and living things, straight into the neural network of people’s brains. Even the most disenfranchised have their plots, a territory staked out, what they consider to be their business. At least a few of them would say they belong to this place, and some would say, without irony, that they own it. Others guard the sanctity of their path with an armour of black clothing and set expressions.

  * * *

  “She’s down—”

  “I don’t get—”

  “What the fuck just happened?”

  * * *

  And whoever is missing, too. Don’t forget the absences. A space is a thing that moves.

  * * *

  “Crazy, man.”

  “I didn’t see whatever—”

  “Hey!”

  * * *

  The thoughts you think and the ones you haven’t gotten to yet.

  Stop, start, dart, jump, and fall.

  * * *

  Hey. But the park right now is more still than usual. The year is new, though it’s late in January. No one remembers.

  The chess players are gone, the Scrabble players, too. No guitars or opera or tai chi. No open cases or backpacks to collect the coins and bills. No one sits on the benches or on the grass, which are snow-covered. Another storm is coming.

  The marble arch stands ornately, hardened in the cold and bright as a tooth. At the beginning of Fifth Avenue, it holds the shape of a magnet. The parks’ trees—sycamores, ginkgos, redwoods, cornelian cherry, a famous English elm—reach to the sky with leafless branches and can’t hold it back. The cloud cover is the kind that makes people squint.

  The park pulls the humans and animals and plants toward the watering eye of its centre. (But the fountain is dry, with a layer of snow over top, filled with foot and pawprints.)

  At the edge of the park, however, people and dogs resist the pull, drawn instead by the idea of where they have to be.

  * * *

  “God—”

  “Phone’s dead! Yours?”

  “Where’s a cop when you need one?”

  “Mother of—”

  II

  In the apartment in the West Village, the choreographer Molly Volkova stands beside an armchair. She is tall and angular and holds a glass that contains only ice because she has been dipping her fingers in it and playing with the cubes. She makes mental notes about the winter light coming in through the living room windows, about viscosity, and how her fingertips blaze. She plans to put the ideas of light and ice to use later when she returns to the studio to work on a commission that will open in two short months. Her husband, the artist Rafael Massimo, lies on the sofa, fast asleep on his side with the cat, fat as a bun, perched on his shoulder. In his grey curls there is a stroke of gesso, and another on his cheek, because he had been sneaking a cigar. He is drooling on the silk pillow, which will bear the mark from this point onward, tucked under his head. He has been painting since 8:30 a.m. and it is now 1:00 p.m.

  Their children, Stella and Augustin, born on the same day nine years and two months ago, lie on their stomachs on the floor with markers and pens, working on a get-well poster for their fourth-grade teacher. The teacher, Ms. Gomez, was hit by a car while carrying a bouquet of flowers across the street, the flowers having been intended for her friend who was in the hospital after a tumble down a flight of stairs. Ms. Gomez and her friend ended up on the same floor. Stella and Augustin don’t know why their teacher carried a bouquet so large that it obstructed her view. The flowers had been bundled with both elastics and twine, and topped with a taped-up paper cone, well enough for carrying but not, apparently, for absorbing the impact of a car that had been racing the light. Roses, Peruvian lilies, and asters sprayed impressively into the air on impact, creating an array of colourful arrows around the horizontal body of Ms. Gomez and the stopped cars and some onlookers. The design of the accident was seen from the third-floor apartment window of a woman in her nineties. The old woman declared to God, in whom she did not exactly believe, that she would give her own life if the woman on the pavement lived. Ms. Gomez was taken away in an ambulance with only a broken ankle and a few tweaked ribs, and the old woman in the third-floor apartment died in her sleep that very night.

  Stella and Augustin don’t know about any of this, but they do know about the appearance of synchronicity and randomness because they experience both, but especially the first, on a regular basis. They were simultaneous water creatures, after all, and were born only one squelchy moment apart. They don’t merely finish each other’s sentences, they finish each other’s thoughts, even though they are not supposed to be any more alike than other siblings. They love to hone this ability—which began as a kind of toddler lark but turned uncanny through sheer practice—mostly because
its effect on adults is fascinating. They have noted in their journals marvelous gaping and spooked expressions and actual incidents where an adult has backed up, or even left the room. They haven’t noticed this same response in other children, who usually just carry on as before. It is the adults alone who seem unequipped to grasp certain alignments and come apart such that they have to go hide themselves. The twins discuss in their heads what to make of this, and try to come up with the possible scenarios that might occur between their now and the adults’ then. The cataclysms, shifts in consciousness, the black holes.

  They lift their heads at the same moment to look at their mother, because she seems to be in thought or entirely absent, which happens sometimes. They are especially attuned to her movements. Though they are the children of two people who make things out of their thoughts, they are the most interested in Molly, because she makes people do the impossible. Her work also tends to involve more people than their father’s, requiring dancers, often stage set and lighting designers, usually musicians, and at least one person with a clipboard, who seems tense and will possibly shout or hiss, to manage it all. Sometimes her work has meant journalists in this very living room and bouquets of flowers much bigger than their teacher could carry. And because she can be controversial, it has even, on rare occasions, meant death threats. This last thing they know about because they have the stealth of snakes and cats, and because they have listened with a glass pressed to the wall, siphoning words. Their mother is a person of secrets, it seems to them, and strange gestures, like right now. She will stop in midsentence on occasion and seem to go away, even if her body is right there in front of them. She makes no mention of this, however, and so it is another aspect of the adult world that is a puzzle.

  The twins know something, too, about this day, that their mother is changing before their eyes, and that therefore they are changing, too. Rafael will likewise be different, but they will always have their mother’s voice in their heads, telling them not to be seduced by the surface of things. Whatever energy had occupied her brain a few moments ago has moved along, and she has come to stand beside them where they are working. The day is January 23, but she is wearing open, flat sandals with cork soles and gold straps wrapping up her ankles like an Athenian, like a goddess. They can see the state of her toes, which are clusters of bunions and malformations, with bright peach polish on the remaining toe nails. She is a column of muscles and jutting bones, and she has wrinkles around her eyes when she grins. Stella loves the wrinkles so much that years from now she will remember them and the look on the face that smiled down at her and Augustin. She doesn’t understand the words, however, that her mother is saying to them, because they sound like My name is Lila. Which isn’t right at all; though the face looking down on her, the place where the words originate, is not the least disturbed and, in fact, seems to be enjoying a riddle.

  Their father has opened his eyes and glanced over as if he, too, finds it quizzical and wonders if perhaps everything he is watching is part of the dream he was having. Life with Molly is often like this, involving a conflation of other realities and the elision of this one. He watches her as she stands, smiling, declaring who she is, a name he doesn’t know, this Lila. But it makes no difference in the end because she is always a shifting, mercurial being, and so he simply makes a note to remember this vision and continues on with his nap.

  * * *

  Seven minutes, that’s all that this seizure will take. All we have. In seven minutes you can boil an egg, read a poem, produce an orgasm, or listen to Glenn Gould playing Bach’s Fantasia and Fugue in C Minor. We’re always counting, but clocks don’t allow for the incongruities. The warp. You can hold decades in your body, if you wish, or only the present moment. Set your watch, let it count down. Prove to me that your seven minutes are different from mine.

  * * *

  It is only a shift in person, or tense, or maybe both. Don’t be rattled.

  It is only play. None of this is as serious as we think.

  III

  No. Begin with Stella yelling, “Mama, wear your hat!”

  I wore a scarf and jacket because she complained yesterday that I don’t dress warmly enough. I couldn’t be bothered to change the sandals for boots. I was hurrying. No hat and my body, then, through the apartment and out the door. The elevator with its tenuous grip, its nervous cables. You can find death in any moment, or a piece of it: something breaks or bursts or flattens. Natural locomotion meets disaster. But then disaster doesn’t happen, and we forget.

  Through the lobby and down stone steps to the street where the day was more than half over, and the air cold and salt-flecked. Dieseled and full of honking. I held ideas and messages in my head. Too many, apparently. I’ve wondered how the idea of a storm begins, what mind contains it. No doctor has ever agreed with my theory, however, that the beginnings of my seizures move along in winds and currents, the thought process of a wave. The idea takes time to reach me, but then it does. It finds me.

  Sometimes the possession is more subtle, a prolonged déjà vu, more real than reality, or sometimes it leaks out as a smacking of lips or a checking of pockets, as if I’m only going through the motions and I’m not really there. And then there is this: the sidewalk. I can say that I’m more fully here, more real than ever, but how would you know? I give you my heart, which races. I’ll sweat. I’ll urinate, or my bowels will let go, the things people fear most. Sometimes the world that opens up is an ecstatic one, another thing to fear.

  IV

  Begin with a boy who can’t see his mother. He has lost her, but ahead of him a group of people seem to be looking at something on the sidewalk.

  He lives several blocks from here. His shoes have pressed along this particular path almost every day of his life when his mother has walked with him, or trailed along behind him, first to his preschool, then to his elementary. There is a spot where a piece of concrete isn’t flush with the one beside it—he has learned to bring his foot up and over it—and the bricks around the base of a nearby tree lift at various angles where the roots have pushed up from below. To him, that is the evidence of an underworld swelling in places, one separate from and more mysterious than the subway system, and at odds with the grid of streets laid over top. He stops to look at this slow-motion battle of the tree and the bricks and wait for his mother to catch up, but then he is captivated by the people who stand, bend, or kneel. Their heads appear to stick out abnormally from their mufflered necks and thick hoods, their bodies a collection of blacks and greys, with a single neon pink toque. They pose like the soldiers in bronze statues or the people in Renaissance paintings that his aunt has taken him to see.

  Something will happen, he thinks, and whether it’s good or bad, he can’t tell. But as he approaches he can see that someone is right there on the sidewalk, partly obscured by the people. The bits that he can see, part of a torso and legs, jolt and stop repeatedly. He’s reminded of the pigeon he once watched in the park, one with a broken wing that tried to take off but remained stuck there against the ground. The idea of flying wasn’t enough to leave the ground. He worried about the fate of the bird, as he worries now for the person on the ground, and wonders what the crowd is doing. A helpless tension binds the group, and their postures say they are transfixed by something terrible. He wonders if also beautiful.

  * * *

  Eight, now nine, people stand around me, or kneel.

  Three men in sweats. University students. The Musketeers.

  Two old women who were, only moments before, sipping green tea down the block. I will call them the Crones, which I mean respectfully. They have noble, wrinkled expressions.

  A teenage girl with a blue-tinged face and a heart condition who is unsure of whether to go or stay. She feels a turmoil that constricts her breathing even more than the cold air. Maybe the storm suffocates her, too, even though it has been and gone. She takes in a breath, roots herself to the sidewalk, with her hands jammed into her pockets. A spectacle is a
spectacle no matter who you are. Better you than me, Blue Girl thinks, putting her hand to her mouth.

  A dancer approaches who thinks she recognizes me. Who auditioned years before for the company I led at the time, and who wasn’t accepted on account of the wrong lines, the wrong presence. I wanted to see someone animal, full of blood and secrets and shadows. Someone with teeth. “What would you sacrifice?” I’d said. But she didn’t know, and now her sneakered feet are a mere eighteen inches away from my hip bone. Her name will be Revenge.

  To the left is a middle-aged man, the Lover, on his way to the affair he’s having, which shows the power of what I’ve done, shaking and lying on the concrete, that he would stop to gape. Revulsion swims off him in slick waves. He wears a navy suit with a grey topcoat, and I feel some satisfaction that his white shirt is marred by a tiny brown splash of sauce. Even better: in a mere two years an inch of steak will clog his throat like a marvelous shit in a toilet pipe.

  Their words and thoughts jostle with their movements as they trade positions, bend or stand, approach to see me better, turn away in panic, return. The edges of their jackets and coats get caught in the wind when it surges, a man on the periphery clutches his hat.

  * * *

  “My god.”