What Makes Moira Tick
Pelvis, lower extremities: absent. Reproductive organs: absent. (Pair of cyst-like growths at the junction of patients represents solidified ovarian tissue?) Spine: present (with severe “corkscrew” abnormalities), but only first 10 anterior vertebrae, all fused to the parietal plate of patient L’s skull. Series of nodes along sphenoid plate of patient L’s skull indicate vestigial lumbar backbone and sacrum. Left arm: present, though greatly undersized and movement limited. Muscle development and strength: well advanced. Right arm: entirely absent. Extreme microcephala. Head mobility: limited.
Personalities remain distinct. Brainwave activity appears to be at par in both brains (if not somewhat more advanced in patient M!).
Digestive system: incomplete. Sustenance derived from patient L. Circulatory system: limited. Independent heart supplies blood to head but ‘body’ proper gets oxygen from patient L. Small lungs: present, but do not supply air to this secondary system. They are, for all intents, redundant—
Love: Day One, Abruptly Concluded
Before Moira had completed her descriptions — in terms she thought Sam would appreciate, what with his choice of a medical career path — he appeared to swoon. Then he said he had to leave, though Moira begged him to stay.
“I have to get outta here,” he repeated, rather curtly.
“Have I upset you?” Moira was frantic.
“No. Of course not.”
“Was I too graphic? I just thought, well…”
“I have an accounting final tomorrow,” Sam stammered, and with that he left.
Stunned in the silent room, Moira understood that something had gone awry. Clearly, there were misunderstandings, communication troubles, bridges between their hearts that seemed insufficient to bear the weight of their love. Accounting? Why had Lucinda lied to her about Sam’s chosen profession? Or had Sam lied? Was Sam Fine to be a practitioner of Medical science or a bean counter? Moira did not mind which, both being honest professions, but why had she been told falsehoods? And by whom?
Love: Day Two
Lucinda woke, still at the table, in a terrible state. The first thing she did was move a hand up gingerly to touch Moira, whereupon, contacting her sister’s body, she began to quietly sob. Then she went and lay on their bed and cried some more while Moira fondled her glass dog figurine and pondered her love, which was wounded already, feeling new pains that were not quite pains cracking around her tender heart.
After a few cans of pop and a pack of Winstons, in a foul mood, Lucinda pulled on the Cat in the Hat hat and went outside for a slow perambulation. Moira could smell the heat of the day and her sister’s rising boozy stench. She could see flickers of sunlight but little else. Lucinda walked and walked.
At one point, Moira was sure she heard Lucinda arguing. There was a muffled male voice and she heard her sister shout what sounded like, “No more stalling!”
But when the sisters got home later and the hat finally came off, Moira asked Lucinda about the encounter and Lucinda denied it had happened, saying only that she had gone for a walk down by river because she had wanted to be alone. Moira entertained the suspicion that it might have been Sam Fine, and that Lucinda and he had been discussing problems in their own failed relationship, problems that she, Moira, had caused. Maybe Sam had been stalling in asking Lucinda to go steady?
For once, in this complicated production, with their heartaches, and shared paramour, the sisters had something in common.
A Mysterious Scene (Preceded by an Interlude On the Nature of Love)
Suffering a mayfly’s existence, delicate gossamer (though we pretend these comparisons are not true), love cannot stay fierce and burning. No attempts to fan the embers can keep them blazing. Indeed, they flicker out in an instant. Initiated, wearied, Moira understood this all too well now. Opera had forewarned her: Mascagni’s Isabeau, anything Greek. Romeo and Juliet, of course. Now she felt it first hand. Was Sam ever going to return? He had not said. Uncertainty was agony. There was no way to bond two people together in this life. (A bond of flesh, like the bond between her and her sister, was a sham, a cruel joke.)
Recalling the last conversation she’d had with Sam, Moira could not stop a terrible thought from entering her mind: What if he was already torn from her life? What if their love was over, before it had really begun?
However, in the early evening of that wretched second day, there came a knock at the door; Moira wanted to cry out from where she lay fretting at the rear of her sister’s head.
Lucinda picked up the big fedora and tugged it on. The big fedora! Of all nights! Sight and smell gone! Hearing gone! The bitch!
Moira waited in the darkness, heart pounding. How would Lucinda be taken out of the picture this evening? Was her sister dim enough to fall for the same trick two nights in a row? Was Sam even prepared to attempt it?
After opening the door, Lucinda moved about the apartment restlessly, pent-up, pacing. Now Moira had doubts that it had been Sam Fine at the door. She could not be sure of anything. Was that a faint male voice? It seemed insistent at times. Did her sister yell the word “coward”?
Once again, she felt Lucinda drinking heavily, head tilted back. Guzzling straight from the bottle this time.
Abruptly, Lucinda slammed the bottle down and dropped to her knees. Moira thought that maybe she had fallen, or that she was going to vomit, but then after a moment her sister’s head began to move backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, as if she were nodding in time to a tune Moira couldn’t hear. During these motions, a hand (Sam’s? was that Sam’s firm hand?) twice grasped Moira’s body briefly yet roughly, fingers caught in Lucinda’s hair before releasing her.
When Lucinda stopped the odd motions, she coughed for a while, spat (on the floor!?), and went to lie on their bed. Under the hat Moira was frantic. What was going on? Whoever it was in the room with them came and sat on the mattress. Then they, too, reposed.
For a long period, only the rising and falling of Lucinda’s breathing. Moira waited but the fedora was never lifted off. Very carefully, Moira worked the hat off herself. The fedora was tight, removing it was difficult, but she had accomplished this feat several times in the past, when Lucinda had fallen asleep without getting undressed.
No attempt was made to stop Moira.
The hat rolled off the bed onto the floor.
On her back, snoring, clothes in disarray, Lucinda lay. She stank of booze.
Next to her, Sam sprawled in a similar disheveled and drunken state.
The Understanding
Getting past the initial confusion, Moira deliberated, frantically putting the pieces together of a working theory:
Sam had arrived, after much soul-searching, with intentions to tell Lucinda of the love he felt for Moira. The previous night he had realized it, following his talk with Moira, and had abruptly left when he found himself unable to deal with the intensity of his emotions.
Upon arrival, he had promptly confessed; Lucinda, listening, paced.
Tormented, they both consumed an abundance of alcoholic beverages.
When Lucinda had heard enough and was being torn asunder, she had dropped to her knees, shaking her head to negate the confession. During this pathetic display — in an attempt to comfort her, or maybe even to keep her at bay? —Sam had felt the need to physically hold Lucinda’s head. Since he was so distraught himself, and somewhat tipsy, Sam had momentarily forgotten Moira’s unfortunate place of residence and had gripped her slight body, releasing it only when he realized that it was his love he held.
Lucinda had thrown herself onto the bed.
Following, Sam Fine tried to comfort her.
Their clothes became disarrayed during this debacle.
Exhausted by emotions and whiskey, they had both fallen asleep.
Now, Lu
cinda drooled and Sam (dreaming of Moira?) smiled in repose. How hard it must have been for him to confront Lucinda and tell her the truth. To confess his love, his new, delicate love.
“My sweetness, my sweetness,” Moira breathed, feeling much better. “We will be united soon.” And with a tear in her eye, she drove her shard of mirror deep into her lover’s jugular vein, pulling it laterally with all the might of her one tiny arm, trying vainly to turn her face away from the erupting geyser of Fine Sam Fine’s hot and pumping blood as it sprayed high up into the room.
Curtain
The idea, in keeping with the greatest operatic stories of all, was to expire together, on that mattress, life-forces mingling, souls forever as one; Lucinda messed that up by rolling over (one arm outflung to slap against Sam’s still chest), twisting Moira quickly in such a way that Moira dropped the shard of mirror. She tried to reach for it but Lucinda sat up suddenly, gagging as if there were something caught in her throat. Desperate, Moira swiped up her knitting needles from their recess in the headboard. She had to die embracing Sam! That was the only way to seal romance forever, to keep it fierce and burning.
But Lucinda was heading toward the bathroom, stumbling across the carpet, leaving Moira to watch Sam’s cooling, blood-soaked body recede—
In one hand he grasped a knife!
Had his plan been the same, to seal their love with eternity’s kiss? Moira’s heart struggled to soar!
And on the bedside table were open medical journals, vials, and a … a garbage bag?
Lucinda washed her face, gargled, spat into the sink. She did not even notice the gore on her clothes and skin. Moira frantically told herself that when her sister went back into the main room she would see Sam’s body and surely run to his side. Then, as Lucinda bent over him, Moira could grab the mirror shard and finally kill herself. All would be as it should be, as it is at the end of the greatest love stories.
Heading back to the bed, Lucinda rubbed her eyes and started mumbling, “What are you waiting for, you loser. You don’t have the guts to do this? You gonna stall another night? Don’t expect another blow—”
And stopped. Halfway across the room she stood there. “Oh my God,” she screamed. “Not tonight! Not tonight! You were going to, you were going to… Little freak!” Her tone rose to a relentless shriek.
Distraught beyond all reason herself — Moira was only trying to stop the vibrations from shattering her body and frail sanity — she had to think, to regroup her plan: the knitting needles plunged easily into her sister’s soft temple. Lucinda stopped screaming but didn’t topple onto the bed, like Moira had hoped. Her sister stood very still. Then she said, “Chocolate. Mommy? Want to see my triangle? The sun is hot. Four plus four plus four plus four is shitshitshit,” and turned, without another word, to flee the apartment.
Moira caught one last glimpse of Fine Sam Fine’s body before Lucinda pounded mindlessly down the stairs and galloped outside, past the lilac tree, past the dead-end, hair streaming out, plunging with Moira, who was weeping now, atop her head, beyond the last developments of town and into the dark night.
Harvest Moon
M. L. D. Curelas
Judging by the amount of cider drunk and fresh apple pie eaten, the Johannsens’ annual Harvest Festival had been a success. Although the barn had been spiffed up and decorated to handle the party — Harvest Festival was never cancelled — the predicted rain hadn’t fallen, gifting the weary farming community with mostly clear skies and an unusually warm night.
People trickled off the Johannsen property in groups, loading their children into vehicles sitting on the patchy brown and green lawn. Ginnie’s family was one of the last to leave; her dad liked to give his farm hands as much time as possible to enjoy the festivities.
Ginnie grumbled as she clambered into the battered blue pickup truck. Her family lived so close to the Johannsen farm that Ginnie could see the porch lights of her house from here. It was a distant twinkle to be sure, but the flatness of the land aided visibility.
“I don’t see why I can’t walk home. I could do it,” Ginnie said, scooting over to the middle seat of the truck. General rule of thumb in her family: shortest legs sat in the middle. “I’m not a baby, I’m eight.”
“Nobody walks on Festival night, Ginnie, you know that, no matter what their age.” Her mother leaned into the cab and set her purse and casserole dish on the floor way underneath the glove compartment, then disappeared to go fetch another armful of belongings.
Ginnie snorted. She didn’t get some of the traditions her family and neighbors followed. Making corn dollies was another odd one. Her mother had once likened the dolly to a rabbit’s foot; Ginnie could almost understand that comparison. She’d made hers tonight along with the other girls; the dolly, wrapped in a swatch of cotton, sat nestled in her mother’s voluminous purse.
She glanced out the open door. She was the first one to the truck. One of the farm hands was dancing a tottering jig on the road, but he wasn’t looking her way. Ginnie bent over and pulled out the little dolly. She wasn’t supposed to play with it; the dolly wasn’t a toy.
A corn husk comprised the body. A few leaves were twisted into vestiges of arms and legs, with a string tying off a lump at the top to make a head. Her dolly wore a scrap of blue gingham, kinda like Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz, and a few strings of brown yarn were glued to the head. Ginnie tucked the dolly into her pocket and patted it, enjoying its comforting weight.
She swiveled around on her knees to peek out the rear window of the cab. The farm hands climbed into the back of the truck with the slow and fumbling movements of people who’d been imbibing. The dancing farm hand had to be pushed onto the tailgate.
Cider wasn’t the only beverage served at the Harvest Festival. Many of the farm wives liked to show off their homemade wines and ales, and their neighbors savored the opportunity to sample the exhibits. Ginnie chanted the names of the men as they crawled across the truck bed, hesitating when Joseph got in.
He was older than most of the farm hands, with thick streaks of gray in his long, flat black braids, and very tall. Ginnie was a little frightened of him, even though he’d never been anything but nice to her. He noticed her watching, and inclined his head in greeting, a smile crinkling his copper face. Joseph did not fumble as he found a place to sit.
Michael hopped into the truck bed with ease, scrambling to the rear corner where he would be sheltered from the wind. Seeing Ginnie, he grinned and waved. Ginnie stuck out her tongue at her older brother, then collapsed back into her seat, turning away before he saw the scowl that creased her face.
When Ginnie’s mother reappeared with Baby John cradled in one arm and a small jug of cider in the other, Ginnie said, “Why does Michael get to sit in the back?”
Her mother sighed. “There isn’t room for four people in the front, Ginnie.” She tucked the jug into the corner on the floor, arranging the purse and casserole dish around it to keep the jug from falling over and spilling its contents.
“Baby John makes four people!”
Mother gave Ginnie a look. Ginnie pressed back into the worn vinyl of her seat, feeling pinned by the sudden steel in Mother’s eyes. “Baby John rides in my lap, young lady, which you well know.” She held up a hand, and Ginnie closed her mouth with a reluctant snap. “And before you ask, no, you may not switch places with Michael.”
It was a familiar refrain, and Ginnie didn’t bother protesting further. The next exchange would follow along the lines of how Ginnie was a girl and the men in the back of the truck were, well, men, and, therefore, unsuitable company for a little girl, especially if they had been drinking Mrs. MacKenzie’s plum wine. Last year Ginnie had mouthed along with her mother’s explanation and had received a smart swat on the rump and a week without TV for her sass.
“Better get buckled in, your dad’s coming.”
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p; Ginnie grabbed the ends of her seat belt and clicked them into place. The buckle sagged around her middle, giving her ample room to turn around and spy on the men (her brother) in the back.
“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Ginnie.” Her mother grabbed the tail of the belt and yanked, pulling the strap snug against Ginnie’s stomach.
“It hurts! It’s too tight!”
Mother stepped up into the truck, using her free hand for balance, and settled into the passenger seat. She pulled her own shoulder and lap belts across her body and snapped them into place, Baby John snuggled in the crook of her arm. Only then did she turn to her daughter. “Nonsense.”
“What’s nonsense?” Ginnie’s dad opened his door, slid into the cab, and shut the door in a smooth motion that bespoke years of repetition.
“Nothin’!” Ginnie fiddled with the long tail of excess seat belt and strove for an innocent look.
Dad raised one eyebrow, like that alien on the TV show that Michael liked so much. “Uh-huh.” He glanced from daughter to wife, and, pleased with what he saw, inserted the keys into the ignition and started the truck.
Unable to lean forward far enough to see around her parents through the side windows, Ginnie contented herself with the view provided by the windshield. In a few seconds she identified her porch lights again, counted them, and then looked up to find the Big Dipper.
The moon overwhelmed everything in the night sky. Orange — not yellow or ghostly white — but muddy orange, a perfect round blob of dried blood, the moon cast its cold light down over the land, illuminating the harvested fields. Ginnie had never seen such a moon before. She gaped at it, all thoughts of picking out star constellations driven from her mind.
Discordant, slurred singing jarred her out of her reverie. The men weren’t the world’s best vocalists, even when they were sober, but the bouncy rhythm, so different from the plaintive songs that her mother liked, fascinated Ginnie. Michael’s high tenor warbled above the other voices, giving the song a sweet tone.
Tesseracts Fourteen: Strange Canadian Stories Page 8
