Fatal Light Awareness

by John O'Neill

  Awakened by the phone, a pain shot through his neck as he reached for the receiver. It was his sister Ruth. She told him that their father had had an accident in the car. Something he ate. She’d taken him, any port in a storm, to her son Ellis’ house in Scarborough and Dad had spent the last hour and a half, off and on, riding the toilet. Now, he was weak, dehydrated. How would Leonard feel about spending the night with Mom? She’d bring Dad home first thing in the morning. His sister didn’t sound happy. Leonard stretched his neck, tried to ease the cramp.

  He phoned Alison. Left yet another message, tried to disguise his frustration with her absence by pretending he was letting her down.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m so sorry I couldn’t see you tonight. My mom needs me.”

  He held the phone with his fingertips, as if it were infected, coated by virus.

  15

  BURNT TOAST

  Bright light filled the apartment. The clock radio said 9 a.m. Leonard lay with his head pushed up against the couch armrest; his feet stuck out at the other end. He got up, glanced unhappily at the phone and went to check on his mother.

  She was asleep, folded in on herself, her back to the door. A sheet was twisted around her legs, then fanned out in a series of ripples resembling a mermaid’s tail. Perhaps her spitting up was his mother’s way of returning to some primordial reality, of manufacturing a new womb for herself, of reproducing the amniotic sac. A feature of her returning, as the elderly often do, to a childlike state.

  He watched to be sure she was breathing and thought about rousing her but knew that she’d resume her spitting. Was sure the music strategy from the night before would fail. What would they talk about? He didn’t have the strength to chase her sentence fragments around, to try and build a new context for each of her observations. He realized he hadn’t considered telling her about his estrangement from Cynthia. His mother had forever moved outside the possibility of such a confidence; her condition absolved her from further grief of any kind. But was this right? He felt as if he was pushing her toward oblivion. But neither had he told his father nor Ruth about his situation. He wanted things to settle. What those things were and what settled meant he didn’t know. He saw that, in a sense, he’d entered his mother’s strange, fractured world.

  He thought, too, of how easy it would be to place a pillow over his mother’s face, to suffocate her. He quickly raised a hand, pulled it from his forehead to his chin, wiping the idea away, as if it was something on the outside of his skull.

  He was bored, anxious. A beautiful morning but the sunlight was convalescent. He found himself staring, for an inordinately long time, at the painted forest scene hanging in the dining room, a little log cabin before snow-capped mountains and a glimmering river. He wished he could enter that cliché, enter that cabin and spend at least part of eternity listening to nothing more than gurgling water. Or, that he could have borrowed its stasis, could have frozen his own reality when he was still content to sleep beside his wife, before circumstances conspired against them. Against him.

  He decided to wake his mother. The decrepitude of the apartment would find a focus in her, but might be redeemed through her unexpected smile, or some gesture that would remind Leonard of better days. “Mom, it’s ten o’clock. Would you like some tea?”

  She rolled over, her face creased.

  “Yes, Leonard. I’d love some. What time is it? It’s so bright.”

  She knew him. Her smile was unreserved. She reached out and her grip on his arm was firm. Perhaps some door had opened. Perhaps Old Blue Eyes had freed something inside her that only required a good night’s sleep to fortify. He wanted to tell her how bad everything was, to roll it all into one charged confession: Cynthia’s pain, his father’s sadness and anger, his own dumb lust. It was as if, for a moment, Leonard’s mother had recognized something, had dropped the veils of her dementia. Perhaps, like a dark miracle, it had only existed to throw other things into relief. His mother’s glow, now, her lucid eyes, obliged Leonard to go back to his wife. He would go back to Cynthia.

  He cleared some of the tissues away, knelt down by the side of the bed, ready to begin the transaction, to have his mother absolve him. Then she said: “I think I’ve been bitten by the dog. Tell daddy I have to go to the ladies’ room.”

  Leonard helped her up and led her to the bathroom, asked her if she could manage. Closed the door after her. He pictured his father having the accident in his sister’s car and wondered what kind of mess his mother could make. His stomach churned at the possibility that he might have to clean her up. But he knew even those afflicted with dementia can manage to perform some tasks alone; he hoped fervently this was one of them. No one had mentioned anything about Mom needing such help.

  He went into the kitchen, filled the kettle. Looked at his own thin forearms, thought about the messages he’d left for Alison. Began to contemplate the kind of help he was seeking and what kind of emotional cleansing might be required at the end of it all. Walking back to the bathroom he saw his mother emerge. She looked composed, her nightgown hanging evenly. She’d even brushed her hair. Leonard took her hand.

  He caught a scent, a strong foul smell that did not disappear when they entered the living room. Went back to the bathroom, saw that she’d flushed the toilet but had left smears on the seat. He wiped them off, kept his face in the air, then scrubbed his hands. He knew he needed to lead his mother back, sit her on the tub’s edge, lift her nightgown, hold a cloth under warm water and clean her up. Instead, he put Sinatra on the boom box, and began cruelly to mouth some of the lyrics, as if his jaw had come unhinged. He held the singer responsible for raising both their hopes. He opened all the windows, retrieved a blanket from the hall closet and placed it over his mother’s knees. Dropped two pieces of bread into the toaster; let them burn. Sniffed the air to see if he could still detect any foulness. Went and found a little stick of perfume on the bedroom dresser; sprayed it around the couch, around his mother, who smiled.

  As Leonard poured hot water into the teapot, Ruth and his father came in. He apologized for the burnt-toast smell, and told them there was fresh tea, that mother had been no trouble. But that he was in a hurry to leave, had planned to meet a friend later that morning. For all his sister and father knew, mother had soiled herself while sitting on the couch, in the moments just after her son had left.

  Ruth caught Leonard in the hall before the elevator arrived.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you and Cynthia were in trouble? Ellis told me you’re moving in with him. Are you all right?”

  “I didn’t want to worry you, what with Mom and everything. I’m okay. It’s just temporary. You know how it is. Don’t worry about it, really.”

  “I didn’t say anything in front of Dad.”

  “Did Ellis ...”

  “No, he didn’t either. Believe me, Dad was preoccupied. Christ, what a night. He was like a baby, shit everywhere. I screamed at him. I felt so bad. He started to cry. I had to hose down the passenger seat. Thanks for watching Mom. How was her spitting? Sure you’re okay?”

  “No, fine, I’m just, I have to go, we’ll talk later. Her spitting was the same. We’ll have to figure out some other solution. We’ll talk later. Thanks, Ruth. Don’t worry.”

  Leonard kissed his sister on the brow and then entered the elevator, holding his breath till he broke through the building’s lobby into sunlight.

  16

  DIGGING IN THE DIRT

  Leonard had hoped for an unassuming entrance. But when he opened the front door some gardening tools that had been leaning on the inside frame, price tags still attached, clattered to the floor. He gathered them up, cradled their jagged shapes, one like a heart, one like a claw, one like a ragged sleeve, and decided he’d ask Cynthia where she wanted them.

  She appeared in the foyer in a green vest with many pockets and zippers. She had the phone receiver in one hand, pruning shears in the other. She didn’t answer him; went back into the kitchen, and
put down the shears. He followed, watching as she punched some numbers into the phone. She replaced the receiver and walked past him toward the bedroom.

  She neared the door and turned, to say quietly: “There’s a message for you. Jesus Christ, Leonard. What the fuck. I hope you’re moving out today.”

  Once she’d gone in and closed the door, Leonard went to put the garden tools on the dining room table. As he passed the doorway, the rubber end of one of the tools caught it, and the sharp end stabbed his upper arm. He cursed and put the tools down to examine himself. The skin was unbroken but there was a little pattern of points there, like animal teeth marks. He returned to the kitchen, picked up the phone and punched in the code for the message. He was worried it was Ellis, telling him that he’d decided his moving in was a bad idea. It was a male voice, but not one that Leonard recognized:

  Hello. This is a message for Mr. Leonard Edison. I don’t know if you remember me. Frank Corvu. Alison Corvu’s father. We met a few years ago, when Alison was a student of yours. Anyway, I was concerned about your meeting with her. I just wondered if it was some professional matter? Maybe I could help. Please call me at 416-531-2223.

  Leonard stood for a moment, phone on his ear. Frank Corvu, Alison’s father. Meeting? The man had emphasized the word. What had Alison told him? Why would she have told him? How would he have gotten his number, if not from her? Did he know Leonard was married? What would he have said to Cynthia, if she had answered? Alison’s father?

  It occurred to Leonard that the man would be his age, perhaps a little older. Maybe Alison hadn’t said anything but he’d seen them together. But where, how? Perhaps Alison had mentioned she’d seen her former teacher recently, made some innocent reference, and her father had jumped to conclusions, had phoned Leonard’s school. Perhaps he knew everything, had even complained to Leonard’s vice-principal, or the principal herself.

  Leonard erased the message. Had no intention of returning the call until he’d talked to Alison. And what, now, did Cynthia think? She certainly would have put two and two together and would have given Alison the role of home-wrecker. Leonard saw himself stalking Alison’s father, plunging a garden tool into the man’s chest, turning it till his heart popped out, dangling arteries like a potato.

  After he’d made a calming cup of Earl Grey, eaten some chocolate chip cookies Cynthia had left on the kitchen table, Leonard decided he had little to be concerned about. After all, Alison was an adult, had graduated high school almost five years before, was completing a post-secondary degree. Yes, Leonard was considerably older but, well, fuck off, Frank. None of your business. The choice was Alison’s to make. And if Alison had said something to her father about their relationship, this was a good sign as it suggested she took it, and Leonard, seriously. Also, the message had referred to a meeting with Alison, a singular occurrence. In any case, he should not, Leonard told himself, worry until he’d spoken to Alison. And there very well might be an innocuous story behind Frank Corvu’s phone call.

  Leonard fell asleep on the basement couch. The strain of being with his mother had exhausted him. When he woke, late afternoon, his wife was moving around upstairs. He could hear her opening and closing the side door. Leonard got up and watched his wife from a basement window. She knelt in the garden, her back to him, her arms and shoulders working. She appeared to be digging, which was confirmed when she stood, took a large shovel and rode it, jumping the blade into the ground. She would be all right. She had her mother and her brother to support her. She was strong.

  He took the opportunity to leave. Outside the front door, he saw that dark clouds obscured the sun: a pre-storm lull. The streetlights flickered, confused. The street was deserted. Every house resembled a pillbox or military stronghold. Humans had to move about swiftly, or not at all. He imagined that an invading army was about to emerge from behind hedges – it was dangerous, too much space between things, too much open ground between screen doors and sidewalks. The neighbourhood was a sprawling battleground. Yet, when one looked closely, it was filled with obstacles: picket fences, camouflaged fountains, looming trellises, garden-lights with trip-wires, hidden sprinkler sets, insidious motion-detectors. Leonard felt he should make quick work of the walk to the car, that a sniper might take him out. He was exposed. The electricity in the air reinforced this vulnerability. The scarcity of trees made him a lightning rod. He almost went back to tell Cynthia she should go inside.

  Before he climbed into the car, a fat crow squawked and lifted off from the eavestrough of their house. He wondered if it was the same crow from a few days before, their rooftop part of its territory. Again, it flew to his left and was swallowed by the dark, lending its slick black feathers to the gathering storm.

  17

  DOING THE BOVINE

  By the time Leonard reached Lakeshore Boulevard, the sun was slicing the clouds into strips. The impression of being under siege fell away. Blueness and the malevolent hiss of summer lawns were replaced by a new image and new sound. On College Street, the traffic was an affable crawl. Sidewalks were crowded, as if people had just burst from dark interiors. The streets were glistening. Coolness, not heat, wavered up from the pavements. Cafes and restaurants expanded, their patios, tables and umbrellas pushing to the curbs. All the activity, the excited expressions and gesticulations suggested new beginnings, that some huge benevolent machinery had been set in motion; that a conciliatory breeze was discovering even the recesses of the streets, and entering into people’s affairs. Leonard was at home here. He had thought earlier, while driving down Kingston Road, that he should phone Alison and warn her. Now, the idea of appearing at her house seemed part of the general and pervasive sense of providence in the air.

  He turned onto Alison’s street. The thin houses, and even the spaces between them, stretched skyward. Their windows were long, shuttered, chaste, their front yards narrow. The way they marched together side by side seemed designed to encourage movement, transition. In this part of the city, both people and houses were in motion.

  At Alison’s door her black, wide-tired bicycle was chained to the railing. He rested one hand on the triangular seat as he rang the doorbell. He prayed Alison would answer, not her roommate. Then, a moment of panic – what if Alison’s father was here? Leonard turned away, raising his shoulder in a quick defensive move.

  Beverly answered. Alison had told Leonard a bit about her, how she was, like Alison, a recent graduate from the film program and that she had a forthright, occasionally abrasive manner but was a tenacious, faithful friend. But she’d said nothing about her appearance and Leonard had formed a different picture than the young woman who stood before him.

  Beverly was larger than Alison, with a wide face. Her green/grey eyes were slightly too far apart. Leonard had the odd feeling that two people were looking at him. Her hair was dyed platinum. She was pale, too, and wore pale lipstick, and when she talked, her lips kept sticking together. The total effect of all the paleness with her portly frame, especially because she wore white Capri pants and a white shirt, was of a snowwoman whose creator had placed her features somewhat randomly.

  In contrast, Leonard found, as Alison had described, that her personality was abrupt, thin. He was reminded of something jagged and efficient, like a buzz saw, or wolverine. She moved purposefully, as if to compensate for the general blurriness of her appearance. In fact, he later suspected that she wore clothing that emphasized her girth, as a kind of defence.

  After he’d introduced himself, during which Beverly’s eyes wandered around the doorframe, along the floor of the porch, down the steps, across the street, at the sky, she said: “Alison’s in the shower. I don’t think she’s expecting you.”

  Beverly made no move to invite him in, just stood and stared past his shoulder. Then she turned and flew up the steps, as if she’d left something on the stove. But she paused at the top and called down to him: “Wait in the kitchen. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  Leonard saw her open the bathro
om door, allowing a curtain of steam to escape. She went in, closing the door behind her. Leonard sat in the kitchen, growing nostalgic when he felt the same crunchiness underfoot and saw the same exploded box of granola on the counter. Before he could fully peruse the space, a thin young man appeared, yanked open the fridge, and said: “Hey man, you must be Len. I’m Stiv.”

  Leonard was annoyed. No one called him “Len.” He disliked the brevity, felt it was insubstantial. Leonard Cohen would never allow it. But “Stiv”?

  “Sorry?” Leonard asked, wanting to get the name right.

  “Stiv,” the young man repeated. “Rhymes with give. Or live. I’m a friend of Al and Bev.”