by Maria Mutch
Molly
Carl Jung wrote about a woman who ordered a blue frock and received a black one by mistake on the day a relative died. The function of the synchronous is inside the colour black at that moment and means something to the receiver of it.
* * *
The twins themselves are a living sample of the synchronous, even if their gender, habits, appearance are in opposition. In many ways they could not be more different, but their fetal movement was a joint one. Congruous, fluid, and set to heartbeats, sloshings, the visceral music, each in their own balloon. They felt each other’s presence, and their separation was only a vague idea, belonging mostly to the future.
The day I found out I was pregnant with them, a lunar eclipse happened. I hadn’t been expecting to see it, and then when it appeared, it was sinister, a terrible hinge in the sky. The water creatures inside me were sanguine, however, or that’s how they seemed to me. They breathed fluid, they floated and spun, pressing at the edges with their feet and elbows. They had no use yet for the exterior world.
Sabine
Sabine stood looking into her brother’s closet, and though she didn’t trust her sense of smell, she thought she detected the warm scent of him, and also something acrid—perhaps the signature of whatever had swept through and claimed him; an impulse, a weariness, or worse: something malevolent. As she held the cuff of one of his bartending shirts, feeling the threads and the small plastic buttons, she listened to the sounds from an apartment above. They were comforting, because they said she wasn’t really alone, and they said other people had problems, or drunken brawls. Or maybe the sound was something jovial like a party.
She couldn’t configure this last one, as happiness and laughing were well out of reach. They had been removed from her when her brother disappeared, and she wanted them back. In their stead was the insatiable entity that wanted to know, to understand what had happened. Where the fuck are you? she whispered as if she might be overheard. Which indicated other people, watchers and listeners. Or a single watcher and listener. His clothes were right there in the closet before her. His hairs were in the corners of the bathroom, skin cells in the tub, fingerprints on the cabinet knobs. A T-shirt lay underneath the bed and it still had the energy that was his when she had picked it up. Now, too, she carried with her a fragment of Molly, whose startled, pained expression she couldn’t get out of her head.
* * *
She shut the closet door, walked to the little kitchen and rummaged, feeling suddenly hungry. On her last visit, she had thrown out all the rotting food from the refrigerator and had even wiped down, haphazardly, the interior. When Ellena had called she told her to open a box of baking soda and put it inside the fridge, which she had dutifully done, and which caused her to think of states of decay and the decomposition not only of bodies but of all things. The little plant by the window would eventually, though she had given it some water, bend and dry and crumble. The oranges she bought from the market at the corner would develop white and greenish-blue mould. Her own hands seemed more wrinkled here, in the yellowy light of his kitchen, as if she, too, were shrinking and disappearing.
“It pisses me off,” she said. She opened and slammed the fridge door, and opened it again, took out the six-pack of eggs, some butter, and the ketchup bottle. She removed a skillet from the cupboard by the sink, whose stacked-up, crusting dishes she had been ignoring, and put it on the stove to heat up. “Because either you’re out there, which is a GD problem, or you’re dead, which is also one. I would like to know which it is, because I can’t go on like this.” She attempted to knock a cockroach from the edge of a plate in the sink but it vanished before she even got close. “And you made me see the one person I didn’t want to see. Or who I did want to see, which is my own GD business, frankly—” She covered her face with her hands. “Want to cry.”
She uncovered her face and yelled “I would fucking love it!” so loudly that she then stood frozen with her arms out like she was holding an enormous ball. The silence was palpable, startling. She slowly brought her arms to her sides. Then clapped her palms together. “Well, that was fun. Let’s make some incredibly fucking excellent eggs, shall we, with a side of cigarette ash. And don’t tell me not to smoke in your apartment.” She stabbed the air with her finger.
Once the eggs were made, and eaten standing up and straight from the pan, she poured a bit of bourbon into a plastic measuring cup and drank it, then poured more, sat down at the small table and lit a cigarette. She imagined Seth sitting across from her.
“What do you really know about another person? When it comes down to it. Maybe I should read some of your self-help books. Maybe they would help me get a grip. Maybe there’s one in there about disappearing … How to vacate the premises so nobody, not the cops, your friends, your enemies, or even your sister have one freaking, solid inkling of what happened to you. That’s some pretty good shit, I have to tell you. I need to read that.”
She heard a quiet knock at the door and stared in that direction for a few moments, not quite believing it, but then it happened again. “Like I’ve never heard a knock before.” She dumped her cigarette in a glass of water and went to the door. She stared at it without looking through the spyhole. What did it matter who was on the other side, and then it occurred to her that maybe it was Seth, and he had decided to knock, which made her laugh. “I’m such a dumb fuck.” She opened the door to see one of his neighbours, Ira.
“You’re too hard on yourself,” he said.
“I’m really not,” she said. “Nice to see you. He still ain’t here. Well, not in the actual, corporeal sense. If you want to hang out with his belongings, you’re welcome to come in.”
“I think I will, if you don’t mind. Thought I’d get an update.”
“Entrez. I’ll pour you some bourbon.”
Ira was already holding a coffee mug. “I’ll save you a glass. Just dump it in here.”
“Good choice. Hey, you want something to eat? Eggs? I make decent eggs. Not much else. I have some bread, though, too, and some cheese—”
“Naw. I’m good.” He looked around as Sabine watched him, noting that the hand that held the coffee had yellowing rippled fingernails. He wore a blue cardigan with a subtle sheen to it, and something stuffed into the pockets. She thought that he seemed smaller than the last time she saw him, but he didn’t have the cane. When he turned to her again, his eyes glittered. “He’s a good guy, you know, your brother. I miss him. I do. Sometimes, neighbours … not so much exchange, if you know what I mean. Sometimes too much, on the other hand, but usually the thinness of the walls and floor makes for enough communion. People don’t say much, or they grunt.” He smiled.
“These are thin walls.”
Ira sipped at his drink. “Now that’s an improvement. Well, this place was built in the thirties, you have to remember, sparse materials. Lean times.”
“Oh, is that why—”
“No, I’m kidding you. I have no idea why they made this place as thin as an old man’s—never mind.” He waved his hand. “Tell me something. No, thanks, I don’t need to sit—it’s the up and down that can be convoluted. Tell me something—did he mention the window?”
Sabine frowned. “No, but the landlord did.” With Ira following her, she walked through the living room to the windows, which faced north, and examined them, leaning in. “They did a good job. You can hardly tell.” She straightened and turned to Ira. “Do you know what happened?”
Ira shrugged. “I heard a commotion, maybe a day or two before he went missing. Can’t tell you much else about it, though. It sounded like a man yelling, but you know, I’ve never heard your brother yell before, so … Like I told you, he looked a little, how would you say, disheveled last time I saw him. I don’t know what it means, if anything, and I figured, well, I figured he’d be back by now.”
“Huh.” Sabine looked back at the window and then at Ira again. Her face softened. “I don’t know what it means, either.” She put her
hands in her pockets. “He was a drunk, you know.”
“I know.”
“Is a drunk.”
He turned briefly and she thought he might be leaving, but then he stopped and said, “Ever thought about going to a psychic?”
She burst out laughing. “Why the fuck would I do that?”
He smiled. “Just an idea.”
“It just popped into your head?”
“That being the nature of ideas.”
“I would feel exploited, I guess. Right? I don’t believe in that kind of thing.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t believe in it, either.”
“Then why’d you suggest it?” She lightly punched his arm.
Ira shrugged. “Because your brother is missing, and that seems like special circumstances.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment. “I do have someone in mind, should you change yours.” He dug into his cardigan pocket, removed a business card and handed it to her. “I met her at a card game. Tried to get a date, but she said she wasn’t my type.”
“She would know, I guess.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like old men. Real nice, though. Pretty lady. Just a couple blocks from here. Name is Miriam.”
“You want me to see her.”
“Up to you.”
“Did she read your palm or something?”
“She does cards. And nope. Said I didn’t want to know. She said it was just as well.” He laughed and sipped his coffee, looking at Sabine merrily over the edge of the cup. “Sometimes you have to think outside the box, so they tell me. You and me both. Thanks for the touch up. That was better than the swill your brother drinks. I’ll leave you to it. You need me, you know where to find me.”
After he left, she put the card on the refrigerator door with the one magnet, a small black dot, that had been floating there and looked at it. Then she pulled the card off and ripped it into small pieces, and then smaller ones, and put them in the garbage.
Molly
The floorboards of the house—somewhere on the edge of a forest—are oak, not just worn, but scarred, and possibly he is not who he says he is, but an animal instead, with claws that drag and cut. All possibilities are alive in the house. A curtain flutters in the kitchen window in the way of all kitchen curtains—nothing that says he is the breeze moving it, and nothing that vibrates with the past touch of his hands as he reached to close the window against a sudden downpour. He came here in winter, likely stomped his feet across the threshold, banging off snow and ice. But the thing of his disappearance is how precisely gone he really is. I can hardly feel him here inside this house, and the only evidence I have of him are the claw marks on the floor. So deep they form channels, like a subway grate or the ridges of sand on a hard beach, and I feel them with my feet, which are bare. I look down at my toes, how strange they feel, and I see a set of claws, and then I know it’s true, that I have been here before.
Pleased to Meet You
I had met Sabine only an hour before.
“That’s who?” I said. “Your brother?” I was shouting a little, to be heard over the noise.
Sabine smiled at me and said something. The windows of the loft were open, letting in at the edges of the party a steady influx of wind and water, but the room was filled with people who didn’t notice. Whoever was standing near the windows was drunk and wet and oblivious. The inner circles churned slowly and clung to their drinks and tried to be heard over the music. The head of the man I had come with bobbed on the far side of the room like a ball on a sea.
A bar stood to one side where Seth was directing someone who had brought in cases of beer and wine. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was the good friend of the couple hosting, who later on would be investors in the bar he wanted to open. For the time being, he was helping them out at the party.
“Yeah. Brother. Don’t we look alike?” She laughed, almost uncontrollably and wine sloshed from her glass. “Shit.” Then she laughed again. She got behind me and pushed me in his direction, her hand on the small of my back. I allowed her to nudge me to the bar. When I turned to look at her I saw how blurred her expression was, how she wobbled. She gestured and the movement was uncontrolled. “That’s him. That’s my brother! You two need to know each other.”
I smiled. “Is that so? Now why would that be?”
Her hair was an enormous, unwieldy creature that she scooped up in her hands as if she were going to pull it up, but then she let it fall back down and into her face. She grinned, bending forward a little. No makeup except for a dark stain on her lips that was a bit crooked. She was beautiful and unkempt and interesting. “A surrogate meeting. A surrogate. Sublimation.”
“What?” I said. “What are you saying? I don’t think I’m hearing you right.”
She shut her eyes and swayed, thinking. “Surrogate. Good word. Fucking right.”
“I don’t—”
“He can get to know you like I’d like to know you.” She opened her eyes and looked at me, and then seemed surprised. “Oh, I said that out loud. I’m sorry. I’m fucked up.” She looked serious, but then burst out laughing. “Never you mind, Miss Molly.”
Before I could say anything, she grabbed my arm, and I liked this, I liked the force behind it, and turned me toward Seth, who was walking over. “That’s him. The big brother. Seth, Miss Molly Volkova. And vice versa.” And then she was gone.
* * *
Forgive me. I have to tell you about a bear. I know you won’t like the sentimentality of this, or perhaps it’s me that is the curmudgeon.
When I was young, when my life was still my life as someone with parents, and the packed house still existed, and the city in another country was far beyond me, well ahead, I sat on a hill of grasses in the rain. I didn’t have to be home yet, and during the day I roamed where I wanted to. It was late summer and getting cooler, but I didn’t mind and I didn’t mind the rain coming down, in part because I was watching a black bear. He sat on another hill, close to the trees’ edge, and I had been surprised to see him, both because a sighting didn’t happen often and also because I had never seen a bear in the rain before. But he didn’t seem to mind it and sat heavily, with his arms slumped by his rounded belly, seeming like he had been there for a long time. He was distant enough that I felt safe to watch him, and found myself unable to stop, wondering if he was wounded or ill, or simply enjoying the view. Even with the space between us, he resonated across the grasses and slopes of the two hills and reached me, so that I felt his size was far bigger than his physical parameters. I could be enveloped in his bearness so that he was no longer something other but the same as me, just a much more curious and powerful object, and the possibility was there that he could turn to see me. Time erased time by breathing itself out, like the huffing of a bear. I felt the air in my chest escape and then fill me again, a bearness, a beingness that I wouldn’t have the words to describe to anyone and so would keep to myself. I carried it off the hill with me when it was time to go home.
At the party, all of this, which I hadn’t thought of for so long, came back to me in a rush as Seth walked toward me, hand extended. A ferocious sound filled my ears, the noise of the party turning in on itself and becoming a whoosh as my temporal lobe processed the scene and clearly went mad. He shook my hand, but too firmly and the large ring I wore was squeezed against my fingers so hard that I winced. All sound stopped, except for him saying hello and then apologizing profusely when he realized he had gripped my hand too tightly. His expression became so tender, his dark eyes full suddenly of recognition and love, that I felt that the bear had turned to look at me. And he was indeed wounded, but completely present. We were both exactly thirty years old, the age of my parents when they died. And I was overtaken with a history, forward and backward, of what we had been and would be in the future. We were feral and misplaced, and I could see how our lives would play out, the back and forth and start and stop. I was overwhelmed with a love whose internal organs were shot through
with what seemed to be an everlasting hate, but was really only the flawed structure of this place, these bodies. And the fact that I kept people from the furnace of my heart—the place where they could so easily burn.
All of that—ridiculous, I know—in a single handshake.
“Hello,” he said. “Molly.” He held my hand with both of his, gently, to ease the pain.
I left the party immediately after that, saying goodbye to no one, not even the man I’d come with. I landed in puddles that were forming around the curbs as I went along Houston, then turned up Eighth, and continued going in the opposite direction of my own apartment, which at the time was in Park Slope. An impossible cab appeared, in spite of the rain, the party hour, the night, and I took it to the Upper West Side where Daniel was still alive and well and twelve years away from dying. By the time I got there, it was after midnight. But they were night owls, and Emmitt buzzed me in because I didn’t have my key. I ran up to the apartment, the door to which was already open. I stopped on the rug in the foyer, and dripped there while he and Daniel came to stand a few feet away with curious expressions. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath, and I thought how juvenile I was, how puerile, how fucking idiotic. They were both holding books in their hands and had glasses perched up on their heads as they looked at me. All of a sudden I started laughing and couldn’t stop.
“Do you think we should get her a towel?” Emmitt said, turning to Daniel.
Daniel gestured toward the door. “She’s gone mad, you know. Maybe we should put her back out on the street. She’s making a mess.” Then he gave me a funny expression that turned him into something like an old bird, and the two of them hugged me gingerly, trying not to get wet.
Sabine
She looked out the living room window, saw that it had begun to snow outside, and made the decision to delay packing her bag. She ran her fingertip along the frame where the glass had been replaced, then turned to look at the apartment from that vantage, as if it might tell her something, but it revealed little except that she had left clothes on the sofa and mugs on the coffee table.
