Corridor Nine

by Sophie Stocking

  “We should take this old furniture home, the Victorian settee, and the hall chair with the coat hooks,” Peter says from the living room.

  “I can’t. They remind me of him, but my great-grandmother brought them with her when she came west from Ontario. I don’t know what to do.”

  “We could save the furniture for the kids then. They don’t know. Rent a storage locker. Actually there’s room in the garage.”

  “That would work, I guess. Come on, let’s get this done.”

  Peter pulls two camping headlamps out of his coat pocket before they descend the stairs.

  “I doubt he installed lights in the sarcophagus.”

  “We look like spelunkers.”

  With a dull thwack the hammer hits the drywall and punches a neat hole through the word ‘Framing’. Peter hits the wall a few more times and then kicks out a larger opening with his foot, tears off pieces still attached by the paper, and sticks his head in.

  “Weird.”

  “Let me see.”

  “It’s all white.”

  “Go in so I can see.” Bernie pushes him forward. She steps through and their beams of light skitter across a new wall two metres in front of them. At first Bernie thinks this one is built of long bricks painted white, and then she realizes they are books. Each book identical, the size of the yellow pages directory, stacked on their sides, from the concrete slab to the stained floor joists above them. The untitled spines all face out.

  Peter reaches up and pulls one off the top of the stack and hands it to Bernie, heavy in her hands. Framing Whitey in big block letters, and a little smaller, “by Fabian Macomber.” She flips through the first pages and can’t find a publisher or copyright date. Bernie reaches up and pulls down another, Framing Whitey and another and another.

  “If you were looking for his writing, I guess we’ve found it! I wonder how far back this goes. Did he fill the whole basement? Your dad never believed in moderation.”

  “He must have self-published and had them printed. What am I going to do with a basement full, totally full of what? His manifesto? Maybe he thought I would distribute them?” Bernie laughs.

  “What?”

  “Oh this just reminds me. When I was a kid and my dad used to fart, instead of ‘excuse me’, he would say, ‘This is my letter to the world that never wrote to me . . . ’ It’s a quote. From Emily Dickenson.” The weight of the book hums in her hands and she lays it on the concrete. “I don’t want to read this today. Let’s go home.”

  “The pyramids were built like this you know, a massive pile of stone blocks. The actual passage and chambers only make up ten percent of the total volume. Well it seems benign enough, as long as he didn’t hide Anthrax between the pages. As long as there’s no ‘inner sanctum’.” He picks the book off the floor, Bernie ducks through the hole in the drywall and they head up the stairs.

  “I wonder if A.D.D. would clear out several tons of books, even if there are no bodily fluids involved.”

  “They were dodgy, I’ll ask around at work and see if anyone knows a better company.”

  “No don’t. I liked them actually. They were fine. They just looked a bit rough.” Upstairs Bernie shuts the windows. The sun radiates the heat of August but even in the afternoon the chill of night hangs in the air. These last days of Indian summer are the quietest of the year.

  Driving east on the highway back to Calgary, they crest the Cochrane hill and pass the sign for the St. Francis Retreat.

  “Do you feel like you’re done now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well you said you needed ‘proof of his insanity’ so you could stop feeling guilty. I think the manifesto-filled basement qualifies, don’t you?”

  “I suppose so. Now I just have to make myself read it.”

  “Hey, you know what we didn’t find?”

  “What?”

  “His guns. I wonder where he put all his guns?”

  “This exercise involves Seeing the Other. Once you have accomplished that we can move on to lesson three.”

  “What was lesson one?”

  “Well you didn’t master it completely and we will have to review some more, but you realized that your life was out of control . . . You admitted you needed help.”

  “I still don’t understand. You’re telling me that the lessons I learn here I can carry with me into my next life, my next assignment. What if I just forget them, like I apparently did all those other times?”

  “You were noncompliant on previous occasions. Never have I met a soul so pigheaded. But yes, the lessons you learn here should stay with you. They will feel like muscle memory, if you understand me.”

  Fabian and Bune stand with the packages lying a metre in front of them. Behind the eggs the Membrane does another riff on ‘autumnal afternoon’, golden cheer and cerulean sky, but he thinks only of the bull’s eye map and the elusive sparkle that marks the exit. The eggs flex inside their iridescent rubbery skins.

  Fabian gives Bune a squeamish look.

  “What do I have to do with them?”

  “First we unwrap them.”

  “I hate babies. What then, change their diapers? Breast feed?”

  “No, just see them.” Bune bends over and examines the more masculine egg. “There should be a rip strip here somewhere, ah yes.” He pulls delicately on a bit of filament at the end of the egg and the whole contraption comes apart like a cardboard tube of Pillsbury Crescent Rolls, baby flesh spilling out.

  “Yuck . . . ”

  “Just wait, direct contact is not called for.” The wrapper rises up as if pulled by an invisible hand, some gentle tugs from Bune to dislodge from the soft weight of the entity. The baby momentarily divulges limbs as the wrapper pulls free, before contracting to its habitual tuck. The covering stretches, expanding in two-dimensional space. It forms a taut rectangular screen, blocking their view down to the turf. “The barrier simulates conditions on Earth, metaphorically at least. Now your job is to look through the screen and just accurately see the person behind.”

  “What person?”

  “Do not dismiss the germ of existence. Every life form sprouts from there but also carries that kernel within. Look through the screen and describe what you see.”

  Fabian squints at the opalescent surface and makes out his own reflection.

  “How can I look through a mirror?”

  “We’re back! Hello, turn off all media devices.” No response. “Hello? Where are my children?” Bernie finds the twins in the nook and pushes the power button on the back of the computer before they realize what she has done. Eben sits up from the couch.

  “Hi Ebe. Were the kids good? Any plans today?”

  “Fine nothing mrf . . . .”

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “My room . . . homework.”

  “Where’s my Lola? Lola!” The girl comes into the kitchen, the hedgehog encircled by her hands. Angus dances about sniffing and Cynthia twitches and clicks, her spines rising. Peter peels a banana at the counter and watches the dog rotate around his daughter and the prickly mammal. He picks up his foot and boots Angus in the bum.

  “Get! Get out of here.” Angus looks offended, tucks his tail, and leaves the kitchen.

  “Don’t kick him Daddy!”

  “Angus will hunt any little animal Lola. He won’t understand if I just explain nicely, it’s the law of the pack.”

  Bernie opens the fridge and pokes around.

  “We’re out of everything again. How did that happen?” She straightens up and looks out the windows at the limpid sky. “Lola, Mo, Lou, why don’t you get your shoes on and a hoody. Who wants to take Angus to the river? I’ll buy subs on the way from Lillie’s and then just a quick trip to Co-op for groceries.” She waits for the anti-grocery shopping argument, but they pause, turn, and go find their shoes.

  “When did they get so good? Have they always been like this?”

  Peter looks at her over the top of his banana b
ut keeps chewing. On her way out of the kitchen Lola glances at the fat, white book on the counter.

  “Who’s Fabian Macomber? Wasn’t that your dad’s name? I didn’t know he wrote a book.” Bernie slides it off the counter.

  “You wouldn’t like it, too grown up.” Lola pricks up. “I mean, too boring.” Bernie walks to her bedroom and looks for a hiding place. Standing on tiptoe she makes room on her top shelf of the closet. The book falls open in her left hand and she almost drops the floppy weight. Glancing down she reads:

  REVERSE PATRIARCHAL CHAOS The established and dominating power of government, entertainment, advertising, secularized religion, institutional life in general is now completely matriarchal. It mechanically and obsessively reverses the patriarchal Nazi ideal of the militaristic father figure in command. Instead of ‘Big Brother is watching you,’ it’s now ‘Big Mother’ in the ‘back seat’ driving. Not only is ‘Big Mother’ watching you, she’s breathing down your neck, micromanaging your everyday life, guilt mongering, ‘dick slapping’, ‘castrating’, and force-feeding media and merchandise. The reverse-patriarchal ‘monster’ is hard at work feminizing male offspring with smothering, over-protective, hyper-attention. Her guilt-mongering methods and anti-male-attitudes . . .

  Bernie throws the book across the room. It hits the wall and slides down, pages splayed. She stands vibrating. In a minute she walks over, picks it up again, and sits on the foot of the bed. She flips through, reading the headings:

  Phoney and Dangerous Ethical Posturing

  Macha Anti-intellectualism

  The New Gatekeepers

  How Hyper-feminism Institutionalizes Ingratitude

  “Home Sweet Home”

  Using Mass Immigration “Of Colour” Against the

  “Evil Aryan”

  Bernie digs the base of her palms into her eye sockets.

  “Jesus Christ, what a . . . ”

  The bedroom door swings open and she looks up at Lou. He whirls a rubber-band ball the size of a walnut on its stretchy leash. Two more dangle from his pants pocket.

  “We’re ready Mom, I’m hungry, let’s go get the subs. Can we eat them at the river?” Bernie’s hand feels cold against her forehead and her temples throb.

  “In a minute Lou, I’ll come in a minute. Go out. Close the door.”

  Half an hour later Peter elbows his way through the back door. He holds his hands in front of him covered in chain lubricant. The three kids sit in front of the computer again, watching Air Benders.

  “I thought you guys were going to the river. Where’s your mom?”

  Lola looks over her shoulder at him from her perch on the stool.

  “She’s in her room and she keeps saying she’ll be out in a minute, but she seems kind of upset.” In the bathroom Peter pumps soap into his hand and scrubs the grease from between his fingers. Down the hall he hears indistinct swearing, then a loud thwack as something dense hits the bedroom door. Peter flinches, rinses his hands and wipes them dry on his sweat pants. He opens the door.

  “Bernie?” She paces around the room and looks up at him, her face wet and red. A little while later he walks back into the living room.

  “Okay guys, I’m taking you to the river. Where’s Angus?” The kids glance at him. “Come on, let’s go. Who wants a milkshake?”

  When they return, the driveway sits empty in the late afternoon sun. Peter plays a game of Monopoly with the little kids and gets Eben out of his room to rake the front lawn. There aren’t that many leaves really, but any excuse to get the supine one upright. Later, before Peter goes to take a nap, he changes the password on the Apple to “mortise”. Under “password hint” he writes “joint”. Eben looks over his father’s shoulder on his way to the kitchen.

  “That’s easy, I bet the password’s ‘doobie’.”

  “Ebe could you stay downstairs and keep an eye out for the kids, your mom’s not back yet and I’m going to take a nap.” Peter dials Bernie’s cell number but hears her ringtone from the shelf in the front hall. In the basement he lies down on the couch in the family room.

  In the early dusk Eben is detectable only by the white radiance of his cell phone screen, as he sits in the living room surfing YouTube videos. He contemplates texting Madison Harding about what she told him on the bus, but he doesn’t know what to say.

  Down the hall in Lola’s bedroom Lou hunkers in the farthest corner on the floor. Opposite him a bull’s eye drawn on the back of a shoebox balances on a pile of books. He pulls back on the rubber-band ball until it reaches his cheek and sights along his thumb, the tether strains. Release. Whack. The shoebox topples backwards, and he chuckles before going to the kitchen and digging around in the recycling bin. He comes back with three empty tin cans and some Yop bottles.

  “Get out of my room, Lou! Why do you have to do that in here?”

  “What?” says Lou. He arranges a new array of missile targets on top of the shoebox. If he hits even one of the Yop bottles, the strike will create a great domino effect.

  Lola stands, bent over plastic vials illuminated in the circle of light from her desk lamp; the only other light in the room the low red glow of Cynthia’s heat lamp. The hedgehog roots quietly in her wood-chip bedding. Lola drips lavender oil from a dropper into her mixture. Stirring, she consults the Girl’s Own Guide to Lovely Lotions. Moira squirms on the tall stool, her shoulders wrapped in a towel, and a headband holding the curls off her face.

  “Can’t I go now? This ‘nourishing’ cream itches.”

  “First I have to try the detangler.” Lola pours the mixture into a small squirt bottle and shakes. “Stay still now, close your eyes. Oh, here comes Mom, I wonder where she went. Close your eyes I said, I’m going to spritz.” Outside the window the van sits idling. Their mother leans her forehead against her hands on the top of the steering wheel. Lou comes to look. “I wonder why she’s just sitting there. Lou, go see why she’s not coming in.”

  “Well if she’s crying again, I don’t want to . . . ”

  “Just sneak around to the side of the van, maybe she’s listening to the radio.” Lou decides he will go out the back door and scale the chain-link swing gate, just because it seems the stealthier thing to do. Dropping to the ground he bellies from bush to bush until he’s huddled by the rear wheel of the minivan. After awhile he retreats the way he came.

  “She’s listening to Chris Smither, but that depressing song she usually skips, and she keeps hitting repeat.” Lou sets up an array of Yop bottles on top of the book pile, sights again, and let’s fly. The bungee-tailed missile goes wide and ricochets off the corner of the bookcase. The ball smacks into the aluminum shade of Cynthia’s heat lamp. The red glow snuffs out and Lola whirls.

  “You broke her heat lamp! I told you not to do that in here. Where’s dad? Dad!” she yells. Storming down the hall in the gloom she bumps into Eben.

  “Dad’s taking a nap. What are you yelling about? Is Mom back yet?”

  “She’s sitting in her car in the driveway. I think she’s still crying. Lou bashed Cynthia’s heat lamp. He broke the bulb!”

  “There’s some more in the broom closet. I’ll go get one.” In a minute he returns and unscrews Cynthia’s bulb and inserts the new one. The cage glows amber. He looks out the window at his mother’s van.

  “Why is the light so yellow?”

  “I don’t know. Mom must have bought a different brand.” They hear the front door open and watch Bernie walk past on her way to the bathroom. The faucet runs and the toilet flushes. She comes back and sticks her puffy face into the room.

  “You guys all right? Where’s Daddy? I’m sorry about the river and the afternoon. It’s just, I’m trying . . . It’s just some upsetting information about my father. I’m sorry. Did you eat?” They shake their heads. Bernie flips the wall switch. “I’ll go cook something. Why doesn’t anyone turn on lights?”

  Opening the fridge, she realizes anew that she needed to buy groceries. In the pantry she finds four partial bag
s of pasta. A third of a block of aged but mouldy cheddar lies in the cheese drawer. She gets out some margarine and milk, flour from the cupboard, Dijon mustard. Putting a pan of water on to boil she forgets to add the salt. The bags of pasta each have a different cooking time, ten minutes for the farfalle, eight for the penne, rotini thirteen, macaroni ten. While she makes the roux for the cheese sauce she calculates when each bag of pasta should be added to the water. She sets the timer for three minutes and puts in the rotini, when that goes off, she sets it for two . . .

  “It’s time to ‘lock and load’ with heavy duty intellectual ammunition.”

  Bernie throws in the penne. Stirs maniacally.

  “His erotic addiction to the Hyper-Liberal ‘white’ woman may be ‘Whitey’s fatal Achilles heel.” She chucks in the macaroni and the farfalle and sets the timer for eight.

  “When we step back and think about it, the remarkably valuable Asian woman might be the best option for heterosexual Whitey.” . . . The timer rings, she throws the whole mess into the colander in the sink. Bernie pares the mould off the cheese and then grates it into the pan of cream sauce. She tastes some from a spoon, pretty bland, not enough cheese so she adds a tablespoon of Dijon, what the hell, another one for Whitey.

  Newspapers and felt pens, banana peels, a half-finished game of Monopoly cover the dining table, but she pushes the mess to the far end and lays out the bowls of mac and cheese and glasses of milk. She should go to the garden and see if any lettuce survived the frost, but darkness shrouds the yard.

  “Come eat guys! Where’s your dad?”

  “Taking a nap Mommy,” says Moira.

  Sitting at the table, the children look down at their bowls then sideways at each other. Lola takes a tentative bite of both mushy and too-chewy pasta and manages to swallow despite the odd stinging quality. Just then Peter comes up the stairs. He rubs his fists into his eye sockets.