And then, your wife noted how thin Bender was getting. He stopped coming upstairs at night. He stopped eating all his food. You took him to the vet, but he was healthy—no infection, no illness, not even crystals in his urinary tract. He . . . just stopped doing these things.
The last two nights (though you didn’t know they were the last two nights at the time), you slept on the couch, and he slept on your chest, going to sleep with that same expression: So, this is it, then?
When you left for work, you would kiss his head and lie to him: It’s okay if you go, old man. It’s okay.
On the third morning, your wife texted you: Can you come home? and you called. She said, trying not to cry because your daughter was nearby, Bender passed, hon. And then, lower, The asshole crawled into my lap and licked my hand and died. That’s just like him, too. She laughed, but her voice sounded wetter than ever.
Well, that’s poetic, isn’t it? you said. You were the first person to hold him. And you went back to work. You thought you were okay. You knew this was coming.
You went home, and your wife said he was upstairs, and you went up, legs suddenly heavy. You opened the bedroom door and there he was, laying on a towel in a box, and you sat down and picked him up, but he was stiff already. You held him and his expression was no longer So, this is it, then?
You started crying because that was that. You were not okay.
Friendships don’t happen deliberately, but they need deliberate actions to grow. Two creatures won’t become friends because of proximity. They become friends through reaching out any way they know how. With a can of tuna, or the giving of a loosened tooth.
And when one of them goes, you think you’re okay because the loneliness is immediate but very small, so small you may not notice, but it grows, it consumes, until it’s so large and so overwhelming that it’s like nothing you could’ve anticipated.
And you realize you are not okay.
***
You stagger. Loneliness crawls up from your gut, collapsing around your heart, reaching into your head, until your entire upper body feels hundreds of pounds heavier.
You plant your feet and blink. When you can look up, it’s at the two cylinders in front of you.
One cracked, one empty and open.
And you think you understand.
The darkness shifts again. You look and see the end of the aisle—the blue lights trace their way to a rectangular shape that can only be a doorway.
*****
The World
The human pulled the triangular tooth from his pocket and studied it.
The creature snuffed the air with its snout-cilia.
(the center/me)
—?>
The human stood. “I had to see what I created,” he said.
(creatures/prey)
—are ugly and hateful.>
“Not entirely,” he said. “There is beauty in the world, if you know how to see it. There is wonder, if you know how to look for it. It explodes my senses. It is wonderful.” The human studied the creature. “Have you never wondered what the world you created is like?”
The human’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand.”
The creature looked at their surroundings.
it said,
“Well, that is the point, then. To see if there was something more here than that.” He inclined his head. “Come along.”
the creature said as they walked down the hill.
They reached the bottom and the human said, “Because existence is wonderful, but it’s lessened when it cannot be shared, and I could not share this with you.” He held the tooth between them, then pocketed it. “You should visit your plane. You need to see if there is something more than simply existence.”
“Of course.”
“I had not, either, and I am sorry.” He glanced around one last time. “Are you ready to return?”
The human reached out and opened a Sideways Door, revealing a rectangle of inky-black.
*****
The Center
The door, outlined in the same blue as the aisle lights, bears a legend in shimmering capital sapphire letters:
LIFE
You look back. You still do not know how you came here, but you have, and, as you leave now, you think you’ve changed, though you’re not sure exactly how. This room offers no answers, only possibilities. It is a carnival after the lights have darkened. It is a museum displaying exhibits to empty air.
The door opens on its own, revealing a green meadow in the late afternoon. The breeze sweeps in, carrying the scent of loam and leaves.
Behind you, you hear a glass-like thunk, and then a strange crackling sound, like the sound of ice forming.
(or a crack disappearing)
You note that the weight of loneliness is gone. You smile to yourself.
Just before you step through the open doorway, you realize your heart is beating again, that you’re breathing.
And then you’re through, and the door closes behind you.
—For Harlan Ellison.
And Bender.
THE FLUTTER OF SILENT WINGS
GENE O’NEILL
No live organism can continue for long to exist
sane under conditions of absolute reality.
—Shirley Jackson
Early Sunday morning I wake suddenly to find a stranger sharing my bed.
I try to scream, but an invisible hand has my throat in a vise-like grasp. Frozen in place, I’m too terrified to even take another breath, fearing I’ll awaken him. My heart pounds in my chest, my pulse races out of control. But after a minute of lying stiffer than a corpse, I’m forced to inhale . . . And then, ever so slowly, I breathe in and out for a minute, eventually gaining a slight measure of self-control. Enough so that I am able to examine the stranger’s features. He isn’t fierce looking at all, doesn’t look like a crazed rapist. He’s chubby in build, his beard gray-stubbled, hair balding on top with what remains over his ears a solid gray. His eyebrows are bushy, dark but silver-flecked. He’s not really what one pictures as an anonymous, scary intruder, just a nondescript older man, maybe in his late fifties, probably early sixties. I think I read someplace that rapists are usually much younger men, often angry with a fierce presence about them, a chip on their shoulder. He’s snoring gently now, his expression benign . . . the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips. This stranger in my bed just doesn’t appear dangerous at all; in fact, he looks almost kindly, like what one might imagine as someone’s grandfather. Nevertheless, he is an intruder, and my fear lingers, my throat tight, my mouth bone dry, and my heart and pulse rates remaining elevated. I try to take in more regular deeper breaths, slowly releasing them; and as they trickle back across my dry lips, I do gain even better control of myself. But I continue to watch him carefully for the slightest aggressive move on his part . . .
After a minute or so, a snore seems to catch in his throat, and he makes an abrupt, loud, and almost humorous cartoon-like snort, which disturbs his sleep. He opens his eyes sleepily, then blinks; his wide, beautiful smile of recognition is disarming. He says in a pleasant baritone voice: “Good morning, Babe. Make you some tea and cinnamon swirl French toast for breakfast?”
How does he know my favorite weekend breakfast?
I don’t have time to address the question prop
erly, because I’m totally confused by his familiarity. But his elderly features, warm smile, and kindly, gentle manner continue to defuse my unease after being shocked out of my senses by finding this complete stranger in my bed. And his offer to make me my special weekend breakfast helps to further dampen most of my remaining fear. So, after a moment more on full alert, I have to admit to myself that his presence is actually thoroughly non-threatening. And I relax, allowing him to engulf me in his personal warmth.
Nevertheless, I remain wary.
My pulse eventually slows to almost normal, as I nod an answer to his question, but with probably a dumbfounded look on my face.
He ignores my expression and energetically jumps up out of bed, completely nude, hairy, and with a large beer belly. He explains: “I need to shower first, though.” And then he makes his way directly around the corner into the bathroom nook, as if completely familiar with the apartment’s layout; and surprisingly Merricat, who sleeps on the foot of my bed, doesn’t even rouse herself—she usually gets agitated whenever a stranger is in the apartment.
Despite being much calmer now, I remain in a state of almost total bewilderment.
Who is this man who seems to know me and my home, so well?
How did he get in to my bed?
Perhaps the most important question: What happens now?
Calm enough to be able to finally concentrate, I begin to assess this unique and potentially dangerous, situation.
I’m not in the habit of bringing men home; and if I were, they wouldn’t be older, chubby, balding, unattractive ones like this guy for sure—
I gasp, wondering if anything intimate occurred between us last night. Was that possible? He did get up totally naked, and glanced at me in a kind of possessive way.
Could I have had sex with this complete stranger? After a moment’s reflection, I tell myself: That would be extremely unlikely—I hope.
But what did happen last night? And earlier in the evening?
I close my eyes and try to remember . . .
I recall nothing. Last night is a total blank.
Maybe I went out someplace, perhaps with Eleanor, my best friend? I may have, but my recall remains foggy. If I did go out, Teddie, my across-the-hall neighbor, would be taking care of Luke in her apartment. My eight-year-old son is obviously still too young to be left alone here in my apartment if I had decided to go out last night. And I do remember that I go out so infrequently at night that Teddie is my only current baby sitter. Did I indeed go somewhere, where I met this stranger? And if so, could I have brought him home with me?
I’m more confused now than ever, as I listen to this older man humming away contentedly in the shower.
Should I chance getting out of bed, perhaps risk a quick step or two across the hallway to my neighbor Teddie’s apartment door? Check in with her? Find out what she knows? See how Luke is doing? She will certainly be able to shine some light on last night’s mystery. That would seem to be a prudent thing to do.
“Yes,” I finally whisper aloud with an increasing degree of confidence. But do be quiet and careful, I remind myself.
After easing up first into a sitting position, I steal out of bed without disturbing Merricat, grab my black and white kimono off the corner of the bedpost, slip it on, and then tiptoe around the corner. I pause for a few seconds, listening to the intruder still humming and apparently thoroughly enjoying himself in the shower. For a brief moment, I experience a swell of resentment at his brazen behavior. How dare this total stranger make himself so comfortable here in my home.
But, I suck in a deep breath and force myself to continue to the front door, open it quietly, and step out into the hall—
And come to a sudden halt, after glancing first right and then left. The hallway is darker than usual, apparently several light bulbs burnt out; but it also looks more than just a bit dreary . . . After a moment’s examination, I realize part of the answer is the faded wallpaper. The building super had the sky-blue pattern installed only several months ago. Now, it looks old and faded to almost a washed-out gray, the color of a stormy sky. And the dark blue carpet looks worn, faded, and frayed. The impact of all this gives the darkened hallway the appearance of being old, shabby, and used up. Strange, because our super has always kept everything in top-notch shape—burnt-out light bulbs replaced immediately, frequent touch-up painting whenever necessary, carpets cleaned regularly—never allowing this kind of dilapidated appearance.
But I don’t have time to worry about this unexpected drab and depressing effect on my sensibility right now, I need to check up on Luke.
I cross the hall and knock on Teddie’s door.
No answer.
I knock again, louder . . . and the sound seems to echo emptily in her apartment. Teddie apparently isn’t home. Odd, because she’s always home babysitting or not; she works in there at a drafting table doing her freelance graphic designs.
The answer to the mysterious absence suddenly occurs to me. She has probably taken Luke out for an early Sunday morning breakfast. He’s told me he’s been bugging her to take him down the street to The Broken Yolk for chocolate pancakes and hot chocolate, because they are his favorites whenever I occasionally take him out for breakfast.
The positive thought relieves most of my concern, as I hurry back into my apartment. The stranger is still in the shower, undoubtedly using up all the hot water. After returning to my bedroom, I dress quickly. Then, I go back down the hall to Luke’s bedroom, which I should have done in the first place instead of going over to my neighbor’s. I find his door locked.
Now, that is indeed strange. It immediately raises a red flag, blood pressure, and paranoid anxiety. I never lock his bedroom door. My son often has nightmares and scoots down to my room and bed for comforting. I try the knob again without any success. Then, I close my eyes, and recall one of his really unusual nightmares—he must’ve been about five or maybe six years old:
He thought he was in the little park near our apartment building. A huge, beautiful monarch landed on his shoulder, sitting in place and flapping its wings. Luke said he heard it silently summoning its friends. And the air was soon filled with a rainbow of fluttering color—all kinds of different types of giant butterflies. Luke was hemmed in, unable to breathe, and as the mass of huge creatures pressed in around his head, he bolted and ran. They followed like a living cloud of color, and he felt the flutter of silent wings. Eventually, he came to the park pond and jumped in hoping to escape. But the giant butterflies descended like a fallen cloud, landing on his head, and forcing him under the water. He was drowning . . . but suddenly awakened, gasping for air. At that point he dashed to my room, crying hysterically, but finally able to gasp out the weird details of the unusual nightmare.
I blink, staring down at the locked doorknob still in my hand.
I hear the elderly stranger bustling about now in the kitchen.
Easing down the hall and into the kitchen doorway, I find him wrapped in a ridiculous looking faded bathrobe—decorated with Peanuts cartoon characters—making himself completely at home in my kitchen. He doesn’t even glance back at me, only says: “Hey, Babe, I decided a slice of ham would go well with the cinnamon swirl French toast. Got the coffee on, be ready for a mug for you in just a few minutes—”
Hoarsely, I blurt out rapid-fire three questions: “Who are you? Why is my boy’s room locked? What have you done with him?”
The man’s shoulders sag as if suddenly bearing an invisible heavy weight. After a long moment, he sucks in a breath, turns, and shakes his head. “Oh, no, Babe, not again,” he whispers, glancing back at me, his expression sad and disappointed.
“What do you mean?”
“You know Luke is gone.”
“Luke’s gone?” I whisper, my chest tightening. “Where and when did he leave? Why?”
He sighs deeply, sucks in another deep breath, and then like a teacher explaining something to a slow student, he says: “I’m your husband, Stanley. We h
ave been married over thirty years now. Twenty-six years ago you went into labor with our first child. You had a rough time. After twenty-eight hours of exhausting labor, the doctors decided to take the baby by Cesarean . . . ” He pauses and blinks, then adds in a slightly more impatient voice, “Luke never survived, you see, he was stillborn. The doctors told us we wouldn’t be able to have any more children. Of course we were devastated. Later, you came home after your first visit with Dr. Montague, still having a hard time accepting the fact that Luke was indeed gone. You’d kept his nursery room ready and open, anticipating a miraculous return. But after a number of therapy sessions with the doctor, you finally came home one day and locked up Luke’s unused room. It’s never been unlocked all these years.” He stopped and stared at me, an exhausted expression on his old face.
Stunned by the bizarre explanation, I manage to shake my head firmly in disbelief . . .
After a minute or so, he continues, not trying to hide the annoyance in his voice: “You need to get over this craziness, for good now, Babe. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow morning for you to visit again with Dr. Montague—he’s retired, but still sees a few old clients. I hope it’s just a minor setback, maybe your recent bout with the flu knocked you off your normal stride. With his help, I’m sure you’ll be back on your feet soon enough.” He nods, forces a smile, and returns to his breakfast preparations.
I stare at his back, remaining quiet, trying to parse the meaning of his words, which make absolutely no sense to me. I know Luke lives right here in this apartment; he is eight years old, going into the third grade. I have so many memories of experiencing joy with him: His first words, his first steps, when he went off to kindergarten, bringing home report cards to me, his gorgeous artwork, his well-written stories and poems, his soccer games, and his dark but imaginative dreams . . .
The memories fade, slowly washed away by a growing feeling of anger. I’ve never heard of a Dr. Montague. Why is this complete stranger making this complicated story up?
Tales from The Lake 5 Page 8
