Fatal Light Awareness

by John O'Neill

  The music roared and dancing resumed. The crowd by the railing thinned. The three empty chairs at Leonard’s table were suddenly occupied by a Pippi Longstocking, a Bart Simpson and a generic sea captain, pipe in his mouth, toy parrot on his shoulder. The Pippi began yelling in the ear of the Bart, and Leonard noticed that the sea captain looked genuinely seasick, green, sweaty, tilting to one side.

  The crush had vanished from around the projectors, so Leonard got up and moved to the railing. Two chairs there held a Victorian policewoman (not Alison) and a woman dressed as a cell phone (not Alison, Leonard could tell by the legs – too short, shapeless). Behind the policewoman stood a beatnik in black turtleneck, beret and goatee. On a chain around his neck was a copy of Howl. The man’s skin was olive, and Leonard suspected it was Stiv-or-Steve. Next to him and confirming his identity, was the Queen of Hearts from Alice In Wonderland, a perfect rendition, wide gown with gold sashes and crown pushed back on the head, with long teardrop earrings and little curls of hair above the ears, with star-shaped sleeves and clutching a big cardboard heart, all just as in the Tenniel drawing. Leonard recognized Beverly’s wide-set eyes and large forehead. He was annoyed that her costume was so detailed, accurate, and that she’d chosen a character from a book so close to his heart. But he calmed himself with the notion that he had the upper hand now; that she was unaware of being observed. And Beverly and Stiv-or-Steve’s presence confirmed that Alison must be around. If he trailed them long enough, he would find her.

  Leonard examined the surrounding space. There were black pedestals against the walls, each holding an elaborately carved pumpkin. While none depicted faces, there were extraordinarily detailed scenes: one a haunted house complete with scary tree, its branches stretching and clawing around the top; another a stream-lined witch, the straw from her broom flaring into a series of five-pointed stars and curved-back cats. Leonard turned toward the table where he’d been sitting. The sea captain (Pippi and Bart had vanished) lurched to his feet and staggered toward him. He stopped, doubled over and threw up. A circle formed around him. He staggered toward the balcony exit. Leonard hesitated, then followed. In passing, he saw the toy parrot on the floor, and the captain’s pipe riding the vomit like a little boat.

  At the exit, Leonard couldn’t see the man below, so went down. As he reached the landing, he saw that the Edwardian couple from earlier were helping the man descend, one of them on either side. He thought this exceedingly kind as they risked getting puke on their expensive rentals. He started back up again, noticed that, on the landing where the vampires had been, in front of the tombstone, was a woman in a cat costume. She had a guy in a toga and little gold-leaf crown backed up against the wall. She had one fishnet leg lifted, his hand on her thigh. One of her hands was working beneath his outfit. His hairy bare legs in sandals were extended and her long black tail was jerking. It looked peculiar, spider-like, his legs, her tail. A mutual devouring.

  As Leonard placed a foot on the first stair above the landing, he caught a glimpse of the woman’s bare back. Black dots, moles, forming a tilted W.

  He stepped down, leaned against the wall across from the couple and bent to pretend he was brushing something from his shoe. The woman’s short clipped hair confirmed she was Alison, though he couldn’t see her face, engaged as it was. Leonard stumbled when he moved to get a better look. Alison pulled her head back from the man’s mouth, playfully licked her lips and plunged her tongue in again, committing her head fully, tilting it for maximum depth. A flapping continued in the man’s toga, the muscle in Alison’s upper arm flexing. Their two bodies lurched to the side and the guy’s hand caught the tombstone to steady them. Alison laughed, said famous, broke away and sprinted up the stairs. He followed, also laughing. Neither noticed Leonard. Then he remembered he needn’t conceal himself. He wore the double masks.

  He was burning hot. Sweat streamed into his eyes. He grasped the railing, followed the stairs down and out the front doors. Sat down hard on the steps, yanked his mask off, stared at the forest of legs in front of him. He gritted his teeth, let a vision come into his head: the church exploding, planks of wood and bricks flying, billowing flames, airborne costumed bodies, and in silhouette, himself strolling away, a series of explosions continuing behind him. It was a standard movie image of carnage. His nausea didn’t allow him to conjure a more interesting fantasy.

  He forced himself to stand and attempted to walk away, to return to his car, to approximate the leisurely gait of the action hero who has exacted revenge and doesn’t need to glance backward at the beautiful catastrophe. But a different catastrophe had been visited upon him – he had an erection. Leonard stopped, contemplated. Counted to nine. Decided to leave. Concluded that the night wasn’t over, that he hadn’t suffered enough.

  He put his front face mask back on, discarded the other one. Went back to the church, for the first time felt disdain for the smokers on the steps, waved their smoke away, drawing unhappy glances. Upstairs, found Alison standing next to the projectors, one of her feet propped up on a chair where Beverly, the Queen of Hearts sat, both of them facing the far wall where, now, black-and-white images flickered. The eyes of Bela Lugosi, the lips of Dwight Frye. He pushed his way between two women, one a blood-spattered bride, axe protruding from her chest, the other a female Quasimodo.

  He moved in beside Alison, leaned close to her ear, said: “Alison, it’s me, Leonard. Can we talk, please?”

  Alison recoiled a bit, stared at his neutral mask, said: “What? Who?”

  Leonard repeated the sentence.

  “Why?” she answered, this time with recognition. The whiskers she’d painted on her cheeks drooped. She said, rolling her eyes: “Yeah, okay, but.” She didn’t move.

  Leonard nodded his head toward the stairs, began to walk.

  When they reached the landing, Leonard pulled off his mask. Alison walked by him, took a position against the wall near the tombstone, where just a few minutes before she’d been entwined with the toga boy. She crossed her arms – she wore silky black, elbow length gloves – and turned away, one shoulder raised, the other slouched. Leonard shifted his weight, trying for casualness. His mouth was dry, his voice tight.

  “Alison, what’s going on? I phoned and phoned. Why won’t you talk to me?”

  “I can’t be with anyone right now. I thought you’d understand.”

  Blood pounded in his head.

  “You can’t be with anyone? That’s bullshit, I know you’re with someone. Alison, you don’t know what it’s like.”

  Then he said what he told himself he wouldn’t, muttering two useless phrases: “Alison, I love you. My mother’s dead.”

  Alison cringed, shivered, curled into herself. Shook her head, turned away, said: “Well, Christ, that’s too bad, I’m sorry, but this is too weird. What are you doing here, if your mother …? Leonard, I’m sorry, I really am. But I’m at work, I have to go.”

  He said, shouting now: “Sorry your father’s a fuckin’ loser, but. Not my fault.”

  Alison stopped, stared at him, walked off.

  He dropped his mask, lunged and caught her by the arm. “Hold up,” he said, squeezing tightly below her elbow.

  She tried to pull away, said loudly: “Shit Leonard, that hurts.”

  Her movement toward the stairs turned Leonard around. Just above them, a small crowd had gathered: an old-fashioned bellhop, a pair of scissors, a robed figure with an enormous skull – a skull is more interesting than a naked woman. Among them, front and centre, stood the Queen of Hearts. Leonard had a momentary impression that this wasn’t Beverly, as her eyes were too close together, focused utterly on him, and without any of the blurriness he associated with her.

  “Asshole, let go of her,” the Queen said.

  Positioned a step above him, and bolstered by the clutch of people behind her, she yanked her long skirt up a black stockinged leg and shining red shoe. Kicked Leonard very hard in the groin. He collapsed, hands between his thighs. Tried to squ
irm into a sitting position. Looked up to see if Alison or Beverly had lingered, saw a giant figure looming over him, with sunken cheeks, high forehead, flattop head and heavy-lidded eyes: Frankenstein’s monster.

  “Party’s over, man,” the monster said. Then: “We belong dead.”

  The monster pulled him to his feet, escorted him roughly down the stairs and out the front door, deposited him on the sidewalk.

  “You might wanna vanish,” the monster said.

  Leonard huddled on the bottom step, arms around his knees. He laughed at himself through grinding teeth, grateful for the pain. A man with a smashed dick can’t be in love, he thought.

  Wiping his eyes, he looked up to see a bell-bottomed, side-burned hippie with John Lennon granny glasses examining him.

  “Bummer,” the man said.

  Leonard managed to stand and walk toward his car. He adjusted his stride, his legs close together, and the pain eased. When he turned the corner, he stopped, leaned against a lamppost, decided on a new course of action.

  “That,” he grunted out loud, “was just a preliminary humiliation.”

  He imagined Alison taking solace in the arms of the toga boy, climbing all over him, simultaneously kissing his mouth and giving him head. The pain roared up, subsided. Leonard continued to his car. Just as he reached it, fishing his car key out of his pocket then placing it into the lock, he heard an odd squeaking noise.

  22

  FLAPPER

  He watched a bicycle approach on his side of the road, flashing in and out of the streetlights’ glare. It was a woman done up in what appeared to be a flapper outfit: short sequined dress, black stockings, red feather boa trailing behind. Apparently, she was on her way to the dance. As she steered the rickety bicycle on a wide path around him, her black pumps pushing down hard, Leonard strode through the space she’d given him and straight-armed her. He wanted to steal the bike.

  The bicycle clattered to the ground. Leonard grabbed the frame, also the fallen woman’s dress at the back. He dragged her and her bicycle between his car and another. Her fingernails gouging his arm gave him no pain and he was undisturbed by her throaty scream. He didn’t look at her face. He managed, before she grabbed the car bumper and pulled herself free, to reach for the bicycle again, finding his hand under her skirt and between her legs. Felt the ridge of bone there; was reminded of the hardness of a bicycle seat. He removed his hand, resting it on her thigh as he looked, for the first time, into her eyes. Her expression was of such utter revulsion that Leonard was shocked, unsure why she was looking at him this way. He resisted his impulse to gently kiss her but her expression wasn’t what made him pause. It was the hissing sound she made, a kind of liquid moan. Leonard had the sense she had retreated into a practiced response, as if his attack was something she’d experienced before. Revulsion came over him. He wondered what he might have to do to escape the feeling.

  The woman stumbled toward Queen Street. She had her arms wrapped around herself, holding up the top half of her torn dress. Things trailed from her. The feather boa was still around her neck. Leonard turned, twisted the key in the lock and opened his car door, began to get in. He heard the sound of clicking, footsteps approaching. He stood up again and turned around, as if some sense of etiquette required it.

  The flapper woman was striding toward him. The top of her dress had fallen away, hung like an animal skin from her waist. Her black bra was visible. A smear of dirt on her belly, a dark crescent. As she got closer, her face sparkled, little stars plastered on her cheeks and forehead. Leonard stood his ground, and had the sensation, a happy twinge, that the woman wanted to hug him. He wondered, then, about her age, whether she might make him a suitable partner. He felt calm, and entirely welcoming.

  “What’s your name?” the woman demanded.

  “Pardon?”

  “Your name,” she said.

  Leonard decided he wouldn’t tell her, but not because he was afraid. Rather, at this moment, his name seemed an irrelevance, as something more profound, transcendent, was passing between them.

  “I’m really sorry,” Leonard said.

  He was imitating a man he’d seen once on Dr. Phil, a wiry but dough-faced ex-Marine who said those words as if offering a beautiful proposal, invitation to love and permanence, though it was in response to a video montage of various verbal abuses he’d heaped upon his small Hispanic wife and Dr. Phil’s repeated admonition: “Well, what do you say when you see that?”

  “I’m sorry, I really am,” Leonard said again, this time louder and, he believed, with more sincerity.

  She stepped closer to him and in what appeared to be a conciliatory gesture, extended her hand. Leonard lifted his arm, for the first time noticing that it was torn, a patch of rawness just below his elbow. The woman ignored his hand, dug her nails into his wound. Her gnashing, grinding teeth imitated the movement of her fingers, how she was trying to peel flesh from bone. Leonard yelled, fell back into his car. The woman staggered off. Leonard managed to close the door, get his key in the ignition. He pulled out, drove away.

  Before he reached the end of the street he had to brake for a cat bolting from darkness. Leonard watched it disappear, glanced into the rear-view, saw a figure approaching. It was, again, the woman who’d assaulted him. She was sitting perfectly upright on her bicycle, attempting to overtake him. As she drew closer, materializing in a pool of lamplight, fading, materializing, Leonard could see that, despite her upright stance, her bicycle wobbled. This created the impression of a double intention, combination of uncertainty and resolve. Leonard had the sense, again, that the woman wanted to touch him in some accommodating way. He pulled to the side, double-parked beside an old van, and, with careful measure, as if following instructions in a manual, switched off the engine, pulled the parking brake, and climbed out.

  The flapper woman had dropped her bicycle on the curb, was walking toward him. Leonard dreamed of reconciliation, a fleeting dream that saw him and the flapper woman sharing tea, sitting in a tea-coloured alcove in a restaurant, her lifting a foot from her black shoe and brushing it against his ankle. He was telling her about his sadness. She stopped in front of him.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  “Pardon?” Leonard asked.

  He wondered if he should ask for her number. He wondered if she would give him the bicycle.

  “Your name,” she said. “Your name.”

  “I thought, hmmm, I thought we’d got beyond that.”

  The woman stepped closer to him and, in what appeared to be a conciliatory gesture, extended her hand. Leonard thought he should offer her his arm, so she could put her fingers into his wound. But he didn’t move, kept his arms at his sides. She put her hand on his injured arm, paused. Leonard waited. He noticed a tattoo on her neck, a tiny cartoon Roadrunner. Looked into her eyes. They stared back, but as if she didn’t see him, was looking, indifferently, at something beyond. She pinched his arm, hard, but this time, above his injury. Leonard broke her hold and stepped back. The woman stepped forward. Leonard turned around, made it to his car, got in, turned the key in the ignition. Looked around to see the woman climbing back on her bicycle. He hit the gas, sped round the corner and outdistanced her. He felt regret at the lost possibilities.

  23

  THE DROP

  Three blocks on, he waited at a stoplight. As the light changed, he heard a voice, glanced to his right. Between him and another car that was racing past, the woman. She’d pulled up beside him, had her hand on the passenger door, was trying to open it. But you can’t get in if you don’t give up your bike, Leonard thought. He decided he should tell her this. She pounded on the window so violently Leonard was afraid it might shatter.

  He pressed the accelerator. The woman held fast onto the door handle, peddling next to him. Another car passed, someone in a Batman mask leaned from the window, yelled something, laughed, disappeared. Leonard slowed, unsure what to do, saw the woman’s arm straining and the fear on her face.
>
  This isn’t going to work out, he thought.

  They came to a park. He slowed down and eased over when he saw the curb was free of cars. Finally she let go, tried to brake, struck the curb and disappeared. Leonard parked, left the car running, jogged back to make sure she was all right.

  The woman was on her side on the grass, the bicycle between her legs on the curb. Her feet were still on the pedals, her hands fastened to the handlebars. Her head was erect on her shoulders, as if she was refusing to acknowledge that her wheels had stopped. Her eyes were open. Leonard stepped closer and crouched, tried to slide the bicycle free. The woman tensed her face with determination, wouldn’t let go. He left.

  Ten minutes later, Leonard was parking the car in front of Alison’s place. He let his seat recline, closed his eyes. Would try to relax, collect himself, to decide what, now, he’d say to her. He’d be reasonable, tell her he was perfectly fine, he’d already forgiven her, had forgiven Beverly for hurting him. But his injury wouldn’t let him relax. He sat up, turned on the overhead light, saw that thin lines of blood were wrapping around his arm. He found a rolled-up pair of white ankle socks in the glove compartment, Cynthia’s socks, unrolled them and pressed one on his wound.

  I’m moving through slippery darkness – it’s warm, musky. On all sides, flesh is pressing me, squeezing. I shut my eyes, can feel liquid on my face, at the corners of my eyes and mouth. I try not to breathe. It’s like, it’s like, I remember once waking in a sleeping bag in summer, the material soaked through with sweat. It’s like that. Except this confinement is rougher, more violent: hard ridges rub against me, the corners of things, and I guess this is another animal dream I’m inside. I try to free my hands to cover my face, the smell is strong, unpleasant, but my arms are pinned. I’m a worm turning through the living earth, but it decides where I’ll go. I hear sound, like a sink backing up, or someone yanking a foot from mud. When I open my eyes they burn and I see only blur, and worry my eyes may be absorbed by the general wetness, that they may start from my head and disappear, drops of water in a swamp. Released, I feel cool air, then solid ground. I’m on my back. I stretch out my arms, uncoil. See above me, imposing as a mountain, the body of a woman. Her breasts hang down, her belly smooth and light as a summer sky, and directly overhead, the dark place between her legs. Folds of flesh, purplish, black in places, with a kind of tuning fork of hair. Suddenly, the woman, I can’t see her face, speaks, her voice loud as a thunder crack, a single word that sends a vibration through me – SHIT. An enormous arm swings down and her hand clutching a cloth wipes between her legs. I close my eyes again, perturbed by the movement of her hand, its abruptness, efficiency, hey, that’s part of me you’re wiping away. I’m afraid to examine myself more closely, afraid to discover the truth about how I arrived: from birth canal or intestine, from vagina or anus, am I little miracle or waste product, newborn babe or excrement? Oh Labia Minora, Oh Anus Moribundus! And Momma, Oh Momma, where have you gone?