Two dark marbles in the shrunken face rolled his way. “Sit by me,” the face said.
He dragged a straight-backed chair through a scattering of exhausted tissues on the floor and up to the edge of the bed. He sat and leaned over. “Chloe, you need to go to the doctor.” His fear made him a bit more forceful than usual. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
A small hand appeared, pushing a faded green notebook out of the covers toward him. “I’ve seen a great many doctors, these past few months.”
“How—”
“I took the time off work. They had no choice, really—I’m told I kept fainting. They’re lawyers—they don’t take chances.”
“And you didn’t tell me?” He asked this, even though he wasn’t surprised.
“What would be the point? How would it—” She started coughing then, the entire bed heaving convulsively. “I’ve written it all down: what they said, Henry’s schedule, reminders, everything I could think of. Jamie, you need to study this, or you won’t know what to do.”
“This is crazy. Shouldn’t I take you to the hospital?”
“Jamie, I need you to focus. You’re so…fuzzy sometimes. But you have to take care of Henry. Don’t be an idiot. Please.”
He grew dizzy, clutched the edge of the bed. She couldn’t have been ill without his knowing it—he didn’t care how oblivious he might be. She was simply being cruel. But he couldn’t be trusted to do things correctly on instinct. She understood him perfectly.
Two days later, she went into the hospital. And a week after that she was dead.
Chloe’s notes had outlined Henry’s needs precisely. It was embarrassing how little Jamie knew about his own child.
“That’s not the way you make toast, Dad.” Henry threw away the burnt pieces, tried again with fresh pieces, which he buttered after they came out a golden brown. He could probably see the frustration in Jamie’s face because then he said, “You’ll get it. It took a while for Mom to teach me.”
Jamie gradually learned how to handle the household routine. He also learned that he and Henry liked the same kinds of movies, shared a few favourite foods, and had books they enjoyed reading out loud.
And these few things got them through five or six years together, until Henry was in his teens, and all the things he had seemed to forgive his father for became cold resentments, and disrespect, and the occasional rage Jamie thought tinctured with an unreasoning hatred he could never quite adjust to.
Their first trip to England was supposed to mend some of that growing rift between them. But instead Jamie had had to return home without his son.
Twenty years after forbidding Henry from going to his favourite playground anymore, and almost ten years after his disappearance, Jamie visited that nearby park for the first time. He didn’t completely understand the need. Once he’d become alone in the house without the informing influence of family, he could not be sure of any of his motivations.
The drab park was much smaller than he had always imagined it. A cracked, dark sidewalk wound through a scattering of weathered benches, circling an ill-kept playground with a solitary swing, rust-coloured slide, old-fashioned see-saw, and rickety roundabout. Numerous old bushes and shaggy trees, poorly kept. A rough hedge blocked a clear view of the street on one side. The other three sides were bound by rough stone walls with deteriorated edges framing the gates east and west. The gates themselves had been swung back and bolted to the walls for permanent passage. They bore elongated seahorses, which might have once kissed when the gates were closed, and on the other side narrow stalks of iron seaweed attached to broken hinges, the centre sections decorated with starfish and segmented limbs attached to a corroded mess which might have been the creature’s body. The motif was more fitting for a public aquarium than a family park. He couldn’t imagine what about it had interested his son, other than its proximity.
Each visit, Jamie sat quietly on a particular bench for several hours. Perhaps because it was slightly wider and deeper than the others, or because it was slightly less weathered, or received a bit more sun. What was clear was that it was the one bench where you weren’t forced to look at either of those ugly gates, or those less-than-attractive walls. Instead there were bushes and shrub to gaze at, and glimpses of street traffic beyond.
Sometimes he came to the park and someone else was already sitting there. On those days, Jamie would walk around awhile, feigning interest in the vegetation or some section of the stone enclosure, or sit on another bench biding his time. If the interloper seemed prepared for a lengthy stay, Jamie would eventually leave.
During one of these enforced periods of wall-gazing, he became aware of the interesting details on many of the stones. Although these walls appeared soiled and dingy from a distance, closer examination revealed large areas of scarring. He supposed this might have been caused by the process of cutting the individual pieces from their source, but that would have suggested consideration and method, whereas these marks were more consistent with frenzy and the unfocussed strokes of desperation. And very few of them were sharp-edged—it appeared that for the most part something duller and softer had been applied, as if the stone had been punished over a long period by countless fleshy yet determined fingers. Then at some point the bruised source rock had been cut up into individual blocks for construction. Now and then a series of more deliberate marks appeared in their midst, regularly spaced and more uniform, like language.
On Jamie’s final visit to the park, he was sitting on his favoured bench, watching as a few young children cautiously tried out the playground equipment. Two small boys climbed aboard the see-saw, travelling on it once up and down before scrambling off again. It had made a sound—high and screechy, as if it were pulling apart. A little girl touched the seat of the swing, then wiped her finger on her pants and wandered away. Two others—sexless in their bundles of clothing—stared at the rusty slide, one of them furiously shaking his/her head.
A white-haired gentleman, possibly early seventies, slid onto the bench beside Jamie. Jamie felt himself stiffen, wanted to get up immediately, but didn’t want to be so obvious about it. “It’s a shame they won’t use the playground,” the man said. “I don’t know a kid who will.”
Jamie thought to mention how much Henry had loved this park, but did not. “Why don’t they…Well, can’t the city replace it?”
“I think nobody wants to mess with it. The park is one of those ideas which seemed good at the time, a make-lemonade-out-of-lemons type situation. But it’s just a tad too morbid, don’t you think?”
“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”
The old man glanced at him with the beginnings of a smile, but cheeks reddening with embarrassment. “Sorry—I thought everybody around here knew the story. You must be from outside the neighbourhood.”
Jamie blinked at that, said, “Yes. Yes I am.”
“Well,” the gentleman leaned back, looking pleased to be able to tell the tale. “If you look at these walls, see how thick they are, and old? They weren’t built to enclose the park; they were here long before. We’re sitting in the middle of what used to be the McNally Mansion—once upon a time, the biggest private residence, I’m guessing, in this whole half of the state. Those walls used to be part of the foundation. The park here was the basement, after they filled it in some. Those gates were part of the iron fence that fronted the street. Prime real estate here. I know there was a fellow wanted to put in a big hotel. But nobody was having it, not after what happened.”
The man clearly wanted Jamie to ask what happened, but he just couldn’t see himself doing that. He replied, simply, “I see.”
The man blinked. “Thirteen children killed. At least. I’m thinking more. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some day they dig up a lot more bodies. One of those wacko religious groups. They claimed there was a race of creatures living in the countryside here long before human beings came to be. Their idea was to use the children to lure these creatures
back into the world, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Most of the bodies had little holes drilled into the backs of their little skulls, poor kids.”
Jamie shifted uncomfortably on the bench. “What happened to the people in that group?”
“A few were executed, some got life sentences. A bunch went crazy, I hear—or crazier, killed themselves or got locked up in one of the asylums—there are a right many asylums around here, just in case you ever need one.” He laughed, a little too hard and a little too long. “A few got away, maybe. A lot of debate about that, as I’m sure you’d imagine. In any case, people around here at the time just couldn’t abide the idea of another house going up on this lot—or worse, some kind of business. The idea of a study centre was discussed, a kind of museum dedicated to human cruelty. But that would have cost too many tax dollars. Besides, who’d want to go to a museum like that? They eventually demanded a park, and I guess the city council thought it prudent to agree. There used to be a plaque on one of these old foundation walls, but it’s long gone. I don’t know why they never replaced it.”
“It’s not maintained very well,” Jamie said.
“Hard to, I hear. I think they just gave up on it. The equipment kept breaking, supposedly. And I guess there was a serious graffiti problem. Nonsense words that they were always painting out, plastering over, but then the words would come back again.”
That evening, Jamie was unable to sleep. It seemed he was clear on very little, understood very little. Perhaps all he was convinced of was how easily a culture might become infected, how anything, given the right fortunate or unfortunate circumstances, might become a virus and spread through architecture or religion, design or politics; how little the dreams we created each night were in fact our own.
Over the next few years he kept close to home, stayed inside for the most part. It was a brave new world—almost anything could be purchased on computer for delivery.
He read even more vociferously than before, spending a good portion of his retirement income on rare and esoteric volumes. But the book which finally determined the overall direction of his readings was a collection by M.R. James, Ghost Stories of an Antiquary. He was taken by both the author and the approach of the stories—quiet tales about studious and lonely men, characters very much like himself. They came to sorry ends for the most part, which seemed perfectly realistic as far as he was concerned, but he kept reading in part to study the manner in which they dealt with their tormentors and the varied ways in which they met those terrible ends.
He read all the M.R. James he could get his hands on, then the works by the writers James had influenced, gradually moving on generally to tales of the weird or outré. In his youth he’d found such stories a bit silly, or uncomfortably self-involved, in any case incompatible with the mindset he believed he needed to have in order to become a successful person. But that ship had sailed, had it not? Being a successful person, in any sense of that term, no longer seemed a possibility.
Now he regretted his time away from these stories, savouring their descriptions of mysterious hidden realities, grotesque denouements, and both gruesome and transcendent fates. He almost never ventured outside, so he ceased to worry about his appearance. If there was a body attached to his thoughts, he wasn’t always aware of it.
Eventually he became particularly intrigued by H.P. Lovecraft, whose 1939 Arkham House edition of The Outsider and Others was one of the most valuable books in his collection. The montage-cover by Virgil Finlay thrilled him with its monstrous faces, naked woman, and descending stars, suggestive of matters both celestial and hideous.
Despite the valuable and delicate nature of this volume, Jamie determined that this was one he must read and reread in its original state, even though printings of the individual stories were readily available in various cheap paperbacks. He was perfectly aware that every time he picked up this collectible book and began to read, he was decreasing its value, but he had decided not to care. This was the way he wanted to experience these stories, and he revisited such tales as ‘Dagon’, ‘The Strange High House in the Mist’, ‘The Statement of Randolph Carter’, ‘The Lurking Fear’, and ‘The Shadow Out of Time’ many, many times. Some profound emotional and psychic weight behind the author’s expressions inevitably strained and warped the language, which thrilled Jamie.
Uncharacteristically he initiated correspondences, initially with dealers specialising in the genre and later with fellow fans, scholars, other enthusiasts. A little over a year later his letter-writing activity consumed most of his time, other than those sacrosanct periods set aside for rereading these canonical texts. He would wake up every morning realising he had just a little more to say about a particular obscure aspect of a favourite text, and this usually involved sending a dozen or so letters and e-mails to a varied network of recipients. The afternoon was often spent replying to letters and e-mails received that morning. The majority of his evenings were devoted to reading, often under the dimmest light possible. When he went to bed, whatever was left in his brain fuelled a tangle of complicated and feverish dreams.
All of it, of course, was an avoidance. Not that he had no genuine interest in these materials—their themes struck strong emotional and spiritual chords. But they kept him from thinking about Henry, missing all these years, now dead or a young man.
And then Clarence came along five years ago and quickly became a favourite correspondent, and the letters and messages between them soon filled random boxes. Eventually an invitation was offered. Clarence insisted that Jamie come to England. Clarence claimed there were a great many things related to their shared interests that he wanted to show him there. Finally, after years, Jamie agreed.
Once in England again, would he renew his search for his son? It seemed futile, but how could he not? And yet he didn’t believe he could revisit that wound again. The details and meaning of Henry’s disappearance kept him sleepless once again.
Jamie had not travelled in years, and had little idea how to begin or plan or carry out his preparations. He did realise he needed a new passport, and did nothing else until it arrived, struggling and failing to control his conviction that his government would find him undesirable for some reason and determine he should be kept in country, where they might maintain surveillance.
Finally the passport did arrive and Jamie purchased a number of books on the subject of vacationing in the British Isles: things to see, things to watch out for, basic preparations to make. Often these guides contradicted one another so badly he suspected their real purpose was to increase the anxiety of people travelling abroad as a method of behavioural control.
The several weeks leading up to Jamie’s trip were infected with a kind of dissolution, the minute details of preparations, errands, finances, architecture, streets, security, gradually separating, ungelling, so that finally he felt on the verge of cancelling and retreating into his house again. At least inside his house he had been surrounded by the familiar, however strange that familiarity made him feel.
But didn’t he owe it to Henry to go, even if he didn’t continue to search for him there? He would go, but not as Jamie. Suddenly the name grated—a child’s name, the name of someone trapped inside his own house. Once he boarded that plane he would think of himself as James.
II. Flying to England
James sailed above the world in a kind of twilight. The clouds lacked the complex variegation of real clouds. These were the clouds of two-dimensional animation, overlapping icons of cloud multiplied into a beautiful complexity, each filled with a different shade of grey.
And below these the ocean, vast and immeasurable as it obliterated the horizon, depthless and arrogant in its denial of time.
On that ill-fated trip of ten years ago, before he even knew Clarence, he hadn’t been so calm. His nervousness then had largely involved the length of the trip and the fact that for most of its distance it was over water. Henry had never flown before, and had insisted on looking down from their window, tryi
ng to find the ocean, thrilled when he did. But James had either locked his eyes forward or closed them, trying to pretend he was on a large bus. The plane rode more smoothly than a bus, certainly, but with most of the window shades closed, he could not tell much of a difference.
But he’d wanted to be brave for Henry, and not spoil the experience for him, considering how poorly they’d gotten along during the previous year. Henry had grown into an edgy teenager, and had dyed a section of his hair in front a bright crimson colour, so that it looked like he had a serious, bleeding head wound. It made him look almost…demonic. Hardly human at all. James had guessed it was supposed to signify rebellion, something you did to let people know you weren’t the same as everyone else. Henry was every bit as odd, as eccentric as he. Why did you need to rebel when you were already some kind of outcast?
On this solo trip he need not worry if Henry was happy or not, if he was having a good time, if he had what he needed. This trip he didn’t need to know if Henry was prepared, or if he was still angry with him. There was some relief in that, but it brought James only anguish.
Sometimes on this trip when he peered down it was as if a peephole has been cut into his bubble of protective reality. Below, he could see the shadow of the airplane cast against those cartoon clouds, a great fish that had grown wings on its way to heaven. Nervous spectres of the temporary fluttered by, giving chase to that huge flying fish before falling away, the shadows suddenly robbed of reference.
Inside the plane’s cabin, life was a live-action movie, the colours the brilliant and dirty hues of enhanced photography, the passengers with their ruddy and asymmetrical faces obsessed with their narrowly confined comforts with pillows and blankets and small packets of food.
Almost as long as James could remember, he had had these flights of surrealistic fantasy, if fantasy they were. He’d come to the arbitrary point of view that they were fantasy only if he shared them with other people, which he never had. But if not fantasy, what were they? Was it possible they were like special instruments for looking at the world? To view an object in infra-red was not to view it realistically, at least in the normal sense of that term using the everyday human sensory apparatus, but it was hardly a fantasy, either.
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