Bathing the Lion

by Jonathan Carroll

“William Edmonds. Find him and talk to him. He’ll help you. He sent me to get you.” She lifted her arm and looked at her yellow wristwatch. “You don’t have any time to waste. Everything happens today. Find him.”

  * * *

  Edmonds knew she would be there when he turned around but felt in no hurry to see her. Eating from a plastic cup filled with bland butterscotch pudding, he stared out the small window at his snow-covered backyard. He was hoping to see some birds but today there were none.

  “Did you tell him?” he asked, with his back still turned to the girl.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He was confused.”

  Edmonds sniffed the pudding. “I’ll bet.”

  Josephine pulled her hair. “I did what you told me to do with his phone—I set it on fire.”

  “Good—it always gets people’s attention.”

  “But why make me do it? Why couldn’t I just tell him to come and talk to you?”

  The gray-haired man put down the pudding. “People are like pigs lying in mud—nothing gets them to move except food or danger. I heard Kaspar Benn is a lazy guy. He needs encouragement.”

  “But you could have just asked him to come.” Her voice was defiant, offended.

  “True.” Edmonds turned now and looked at the girl. Her face was solemn and set—she was prepared to argue with him about this. “Thanks for your opinion. Now go away.”

  She vanished.

  * * *

  Edmonds could not stop blaming himself for the death of his wife, although she’d died of liver cancer and there was nothing he could do about it but hold her hand while she wasted away. Eventually, when his remorse got so bad, he underwent analysis. His doctor said guilt was like a traffic light: A pedestrian comes to a red light. After looking both ways and seeing the coast is clear, he decides to ignore the warning and cross the street anyway.

  Guilt is that traffic light. Stop—don’t do this because it’s dangerous/bad/selfish … Don’t smoke a cigarette. Don’t have an affair. You think you’re to blame for your wife’s death. Seeing the red light, you recognize its warning. Then you must decide whether you want to go anyway. If you cross the street and ignore the warning, you don’t think, oh no, what am I doing? Did I make the wrong decision by crossing? Should I go back and wait? Of course not—you move to the other side and keep walking. The analyst told Edmonds holding on to guilt is like carrying the red traffic light around with you, which is ridiculous.

  So William Edmonds gradually learned to listen to his inner voices, consider what they said, and then make his decision. Now once he made up his mind on something he rarely looked back.

  Today he’d needed the girl to convince Kaspar Benn to contact him. Mission accomplished. The fact the child didn’t approve of his method was unimportant.

  * * *

  “He’s no filet mignon; he’s not even steak. He’s chuck roast, maybe. London broil at best.”

  This is how it began for Edmonds. It was the first thing he’d heard that morning after he sat down in the blue chair and looking out the window, asked himself, what the hell am I doing here? But he knew it was either get on the bus, or go home and kill himself. The choice was that stark and simple.

  The big black and white bus sat parked at the curb with its motor running and gray exhaust fumes puffing out its pipes. The driver leaned against the side of the bus by the open door, smoking a cigarette and incuriously watching the crowd. A large group of old people stood on the sidewalk nearby, clearly waiting to board.

  Earlier while walking down the street toward them, Edmonds smiled for the first time that morning when he noticed how dressed up all those oldies were. The women had high frozen hairdos that clearly indicated they’d just been to the hairdresser. Most of the men wore brand-new shoes with no creases or scuffs on them, and dark suits or perfectly pressed jackets. All of them appeared to be wearing neckties, despite the fact it was only six o’clock in the morning and their days of going to an office were long past.

  Someone from the neighborhood had told Edmonds that once a month a bus parked at this spot, loaded up, and then rumbled off for a day’s outing arranged by the town or a local senior citizens’ club. It took pensioners to neighboring towns with museums or historical sites worth visiting. Sometimes they motored into the nearby national park, had a hike around, lunch, and then returned to this drop-off spot with some sun on their cheeks, tired legs, and the good feeling of knowing their cameras were full of new pictures and the day had meant something.

  Approaching this crowd now, Edmonds was hit by thick waves of warring perfumes. He could imagine every single woman there spritzing on her favorite fragrance as she prepared to leave her house earlier this morning. Did the single women put on more perfume, hoping to catch the attention of the available bachelors who would be on the bus? Or was it the married gals who drenched themselves with scents so strong they almost physically stopped Edmonds when he was ten feet away? Were there many single people in this group? If so, were there more men or women? When you are sixty-five, seventy, seventy-five … are you still looking for a life partner or only a nice companion for the day?

  The sight of all those dapper old people eager to be off on their day’s jaunt wearing their wide neckties and thick-as-lead perfumes, together with the thought of actually having a partner on a trip when you were seventy-five years old, almost cut Edmonds in half with grief and longing for his lost beloved wife. The impulse to go home and finish it, end his life, was very powerful. End this unrelenting suffering and just go to sleep forever.

  He had a friend who was a cop. This guy said if done correctly, hanging yourself was the best and most painless way to die. After many beers, he even demonstrated how to do it, not noticing his pal Bill was paying very close attention.

  Edmonds would be alone when he was seventy-five, he was certain of it; if he even lived that long. There was always the good chance he’d contract some monstrous disease like his poor wife had, which would brutally devour his insides before killing him.

  Passing the door of the bus, he spontaneously veered hard left and climbed on. The driver saw this but said nothing. Why did Edmonds do it? Who knows? Self-preservation, or just why the hell not? Maybe even a blissful, utterly unexpected moment of sheer lunacy?

  He was the first passenger to enter the vehicle. Walking down the narrow aisle he chose an empty seat in the middle of the bus, plopped down into it, and turned to look out the window. The cold stale air in there smelled of cigarette smoke and some kind of chemical industrial something—cleaner or the synthetic cloth on the seats?

  People began appearing at the front of the aisle. Some of them glanced at him as they passed; others eased themselves slowly and carefully into seats. Many grunted and puffed while doing it, their hands and arms shaking as they performed the twists and turns their stiff old bodies needed to make so they could land in the proper place. Edmonds too had reached an age where he found it harder getting into and out of chairs, cars, bathtubs, and other places where his body had to bend at unfamiliar angles in order to fit. He often groaned unconsciously now when sitting down—either from gratitude or weariness. Yet one more real sign he was aging and the wear and tear of time was beginning to gnaw in earnest on his body.

  “He’s no filet mignon; he’s not even steak. He’s chuck roast, maybe. London broil at best.”

  A very thin woman in a pink dress was walking down the aisle, her man right behind, talking loudly to her back. When she reached the two empty seats directly in front of Edmonds she glanced at him, moved sideways into the row, and sat down by the window. Her husband followed and took the aisle seat. You could tell by the fluid way both of them moved that they were very used to this seating arrangement.

  “I don’t know why you think so highly of him.”

  “Ssh, not so loud; the whole bus can hear you.”

  Her husband half-turned, glared at Edmonds as if he were to blame for something, and then turned b
ack. “Okay, all right,” he lowered his voice a tad. “But really, tell me what it is about him you like so much?”

  The woman took her time answering. “I like how dignified he is. I admire the way he hides his pain. It’s very … noble. Many people who lose their partners want you to know how hard it is for them being alone and what they’re going through every day. They want your pity. But not him.… You know how bad he’s hurting and what a loss it was for him. You can’t be so close to someone all those years and not suffer when they die. But he never shows it, never burdens you with his pain.”

  Edmonds frowned. Who were they talking about? It all sounded pretty damned familiar.

  The husband started to mumble something but she cut it off with a rushed “Ssh—he’s coming. He just got on.”

  Edmonds looked up and saw an ordinary old man moving slowly toward them. On reaching the couple, he stopped and smiled. “Good morning, you two; ready for a little walking?”

  “Good morning, Ken. Yeah, we’re ready to go.”

  Ken smiled and moved on.

  A few minutes later Edmonds turned and looked for the old man. He was sitting alone reading a newspaper on the long bench seat at the very back of the bus. Edmonds stood up, walked to the end of the aisle, and sat down next to him.

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all; it’ll be nice having some company on this ride. I’m Ken Alford.” He put out his right hand.

  “William Edmonds.”

  Both men gave good strong shakes.

  “Is it Bill or William?”

  “Either—it doesn’t matter.”

  “Okay, Bill. Would you like to share some breakfast?” Out of his coat pockets Ken pulled a cheese Danish wrapped in glistening plastic and a small red and white carton of chocolate milk. Edmonds gestured thanks but no thanks. Alford nodded, opened the milk, and took a swig. Carefully capping it again, he put it down on the seat between his legs. With his teeth he tore open the plastic around the pastry and took a big bite. It was clear he really liked what he was eating because he kept closing his eyes and making mmh-mmh! sounds deep in his throat.

  Edmonds smiled. Ken looked and sounded like one of those actors on a television commercial loving some new breakfast food or chocolate bar that was being promoted.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen you on here, Bill.”

  “Yes, it’s my first trip.”

  “Well, some of them are good and some are boring, but there’s always one or two worthwhile things to see.”

  A few moments later the front door hissed shut and the bus pulled slowly away from the curb. A few people here and there clapped.

  “I lost my wife last year and that’s when I started going on them. She didn’t like to travel much, not even day trips, so we stayed pretty close to home. Then when she got sick…” Ken’s voice remained steady and unemotional.

  In contrast, Edmonds couldn’t talk about his dead wife without tearing up or his voice catching in his throat every single time.

  “Are you married, Bill?”

  Edmonds looked at his hands. “My wife died too. Recently.”

  “Ahh, it’s tough. I’m sorry for you.” But Ken didn’t sound sorry at all—if anything he sounded sort of … buoyant. “Hold on—I want to show you something.” Stuffing the rest of the pastry into his mouth, he brushed the crumbs off his hands and reached into another pocket. This time he brought out a very sleek, quite beautiful folding knife. “Look at this—it’s my Vedran Ćorluka.” He held the knife out for Edmonds to take, but the other man only stared at him.

  “Why do you call it that? Vedran Ćorluka is a professional soccer player.”

  Ken grinned and snapped his fingers. “Right! You’re a soccer fan too. Excellent. Yes, Ćorluka plays for the Croatian national team. But I call it that for a specific reason. This was the last Christmas present my wife gave me. I like pocketknives; I have a collection. But this one—well, you can see how especially nice it is. Nancy had it custom-made by a master craftsman in Montana. I liked it a lot when she gave it to me, but only after she died did I really start paying attention to it.”

  “Paying attention? What do you mean?”

  “I went a little crazy after my wife died, Bill. We were married thirty-seven years and most of them were damned good. Did you have a good marriage?”

  Edmonds nodded.

  “Then you know what I’m talking about. Vedran Ćorluka was Nancy’s favorite player. She didn’t know beans about soccer, but just liked his name; she liked to say it. Whenever I was watching a game on TV, she always came in at some point and asked if Vedran Ćorluka was playing today.

  “So that’s why I named my knife after him. It was her last present and he was her favorite player: a perfect match. I always carry it now, no matter where I’m going or what I’m doing. When I get really depressed I just grip it tight in my pocket. It usually makes me feel a little better. It’s my ground stone and makes some of the sadness go away.”

  “A really nice story, Ken. Can I see it again?” Edmonds took the knife and examined it closely. It was a fine-looking object. But he was distracted by what Alford was saying now.

  “We don’t pay enough attention to things in our lives, Bill. We know that, but we still don’t do it. Only after something’s over, or someone’s dead, or we’ve lost them, or it’s just too damned late do we realize we’ve been speed-reading life or people and missing all the great details.

  “After my Nancy died, I decided to go back over everything we shared—the things we owned, the memories I had of her, the memories other people had of her.… But this time I gave it every bit of my attention. You know, I re-viewed it a hundred percent, like never before. It made such a difference, Bill!

  “I can’t be with my wife any longer because she’s gone. But I can know her better than ever before—better than when she was alive. Whenever I pay really close attention to the details, I learn more about her all the time. I discover things I never knew or even thought about. It puts Nancy in a whole new light—like somehow I’m just meeting her for the first time.

  “Sure it’s a substitute for the real thing, but it’s all I’ve got left of her. It’s the best I can do.” Ken took Vedran out of Edmonds’s hands and said, “A couple of months ago I wrote the knife maker and asked if he had kept Nancy’s letter ordering this. He returned it to me and I have it framed above my desk at home.

  “See how beautifully the blade is carved? It’s got perfect balance too. This kind of precision work has to be done by hand. All the best things in life are handmade, Bill: knife blades, bread, clocks, loving someone…”

  * * *

  When Edmonds got home later he sat down on the couch in the living room while still in his coat and looked around at the place for a long time. Where was his Vedran? What could he carry in his pocket that would always make him feel his wife’s presence?

  What was the last present she had given him before she died? And what was the last one he had given her? Ashamed, he could not remember either gift. But was it really important? If you live together with someone for six thousand days, so much is shared. Does it matter if you can’t remember every little thing?

  With this in mind, Edmonds walked around their house. When he saw something unfamiliar—a book or a porcelain figure, a knickknack—he picked it up and tried not to put it down again until he could recall where the object came from, who had bought or given it, the circumstances, and how it came to become part of their lives.

  There were many things—the blue and white porcelain music box from Amsterdam, the ball made of hematite her sister had given them, and the elephant carved out of amber he’d brought his wife from Poland. Had she liked it? Frustrated, he couldn’t remember. It was kind of a kitschy object, but nice in its way. He stared at the small tawny animal while trying to remember the details, any details about the day he’d given it to her or what she’d said about it. But he could not remember even one thing.

  There were s
o many blanks; his memory of their life was full of black holes. He reviled himself for having forgotten so much about his wife and their years together. How could it be? How could he have been so careless? How could he have let so many precious particulars slip through the cracks? Memories of a genuinely happy life shared were the only real treasure Time permitted you to keep.

  And what a deep personal insult to her memory to have forgotten so much! He lived in a house furnished with belongings that had decorated and enhanced their life. But now he could not remember where too many of them came from or why they were even there.

  Humbled and dismayed, over the next days William Edmonds moved around his house like a tourist visiting a famous museum for the first time, only his guidebook was his flawed memories. Whenever he drew a blank looking at something, he studied the various objects until either their significance emerged or he realized his recollection of them was gone forever. He put all of those “dead” items in one corner of the living room and tried to avoid looking at them because every time he did, he despaired. He planned to move them all into a closet and not think about them until he had sorted through what he did know.

  When a week had passed, a whole week, he called Ken Alford and asked one question. The two men had had a fine day on the bus hanging around together and talking about their lives. At the end of it they’d exchanged telephone numbers. Now after Alford answered the phone, Edmonds identified himself and got right to the point. “Ken, what if I can’t find my Vedran? What if there’s not a single thing I can hold on to and feel better because I know she’s still in it, like your knife?”

  “Oh, it’s there, Bill; somewhere in your house, your life, or your memory, the Vedran is there. You just haven’t found it yet. Sometimes it takes a while.” The old man’s voice sounded confident.

  Edmonds lowered his head to his chest and pressed the receiver tightly to his ear. “But just the opposite’s been happening, Ken: the more I look for it, the more I discover I don’t remember. I don’t remember so much … it’s terrible. It feels like whole chunks of my brain have been cut out. In my own home I’m surrounded by things I neither recognize nor remember! But all of them were obviously part of our life together.” Edmonds heard his voice at the end of the sentence and it sounded scared. He was scared.