The Xactilias Project

by RJ Lawrence

  At night, they drank together, the two embracing over old notes, photographs and stories, their thoughts cast back to sepia times, two minds remembering for three.

  The summer brought fresh worry and a whole new kind of ache as they became strangers to the man they loved. Now, he cowered at the sight of their faces, balling up in corners and sobbing like a shattered child at the unsettling approach of foreign smiles.

  After a while, his mind became less a child's and more a void, dull and vacuous and uncomprehending. Most of the time, he stayed in his room, his eyes tracing minuscule fragments of dust that danced on beams of window light. All day he'd watch them move about, like wisps of evanescent magic left by fairy wings, free and aloft and always refracting, until they passed through the sunlight entirely and vanished into the realm of imperception, invisible and unconsidered, but there just the same.

  One day, she handed her father a cup of juice and he immediately turned it over onto the carpet. While he sat on the bed watching, she scrubbed the floor, the heels of her hands grinding against the carpet, soap suds foaming atop the sucking fibers. After a while she stopped and looked up at him, his face vacant, drool gathering at the bottom of his lower lip. She got to her feet and approached him, took his whiskered chin in her hand and lifted his head.

  "Remember me," she told his face, her fingers firming around his jaw. "Remember me, Goddammit."

  But he only stared through her, the drool pulling downward in a wobbly string and then falling free. She fell to her knees, dropped her head into his lap and wept, but he only stared vacantly at the space she no longer occupied, his eyes neither focused nor unfocused, mind uninhabited.

  They subsisted by sparse consumption, eating when and what they could. Claire unable to tap her bank account, they devoured her mother's monthly pittance with painful care, like the last morsels of a cruel harvest picked clean by bright-eyed, hollow-looking things with dark sunken sockets and manifest ribs.

  Claire's problems remained her own, and rightly so, her mother too tired and too lost to consider anything else for even a single moment. Over the months, Claire had met with lawyer after lawyer with no real success. The script the same in every instance: they'd listen, fingers tapping chins, stroking beards, foreheads firmed by thoughtful thinking. With confident steady voices, they'd make big promises, each outlining his or her approach in clear, definitive language that would have been easy for anyone to understand.

  Undeterred by her warnings, they'd pursue the case, some with very real success, at least for a while. But then things would change. One after another, they'd end the relationship abruptly and without any explanation, their eyes suddenly worried and shot red by the sight of her, their voices made trembling, asking her to please go away, doors shut in her face and locked shortly after, phones unanswered, calls unreturned.

  By this point, Claire had applied to many jobs that were beneath her, the interviewers confused by her interest, skeptical of her intent. Ultimately, most passed for fear that she'd turn over the position too quickly in favor of opportunities that were inevitable for someone like her, but others jumped at the chance to have her, those offers rescinded days later for reasons that had become obvious to her, though mysterious and intangible, they remained.

  One day in August, she made the last bowl of oats in a secondhand microwave she'd bought at a discount store. Her mother wouldn't touch the thing, older people having no use for those advances which serve to make their skills obsolete.

  "It makes life easier," Claire had said to a sour face and shaking head. But this argument had died out among the sadness and fatigue, and now the thing sat upon the green kitchen countertop as if it had been there all along.

  When the timer rang, she removed the bowl, added a spoon and toted the thing toward her father’s room. Her mother met her in the hallway and snatched the bowl from her hands.

  "Go out," she said.

  "No. It's fine."

  "No," her mother said. "Go out for a while."

  She nodded and collected her purse, while the old woman carried the little bowl away.

  Outside, it smelled of parched earth and dying grass, the sun's giving warmth now a nuisance to be wished away. She walked the neighborhood to the bus stop where all walks congregated for public transportation. After a while, the thing came, snorting and screeching, polluting the air with a foul, petroleum stench.

  She ascended the steps and took one of the few empty seats. As the bus rumbled forward, her unblinking eyes pointed straight ahead, while the lewd gazes of strange-eyed, unwashed men itched against her skin.

  After several blocks, the bus began emptying itself of all the wrong passengers, and soon she was left to ride with a pair of unwashed drifters who breathed through wet, open mouths. They watched her with covetous male eyes, their hands clasping the bus rails, gripping and relaxing, muculent prints of sweat left against the metallic chrome.

  She noticed her stop approaching through the window and reached for the chord, only to take pause when she saw no other people outside. She glanced over her shoulder and reassessed the two men, her head conjuring images of torn clothing, screams and laughter, wide, gritting smiles. Without much thought, she released the chord and pushed back in her seat. Miles later, the bus entered a more cheerful area, and she finally tugged the chord and fled the vehicle to join a crowd of ordinary people dressed in sensible, coordinated attire.

  She backtracked the way to her original stop, the sun intolerable, her blouse sticking against her sweating shoulders and back. After several miles, she crossed the street and entered a small café near a little grocery shop.

  Inside, she found an immaterial line of customers that thinned quickly, and before she knew it, she held an iced coffee in one hand and a muffin in the other. Weak with hunger, she bit into the bread before the cashier could deliver the change. Errant crumbs fell against the coins in his outstretched hand, and she studied them with horror. The young man had a soft, handsome smile and he gave it freely, as she apologized through bulging cheeks.

  "No worries," he said, as he poured the coins and crumbs into her hand.

  She made a movement toward his plastic tip jar, but when his attention moved to another customer, she quickly placed the change inside her purse and turned to go.

  Immediately, she saw Mr. Harris sitting in a far corner, his hat set upon the table, balding head tanned and glinting under the weak overhead light. He watched her like an impartial witness, his square face neither smiling nor frowning.

  Without measure or hesitation, she crossed the room and bathed him in iced coffee, the foam settling on his face, the rest soaking the right portion of his sport coat.

  Harris jumped to his feet, his stunned face studying the sleeve of his jacket as if a limb has been torn from underneath. An old woman gasped, a young couple gawked. The manager came out and asked her to leave.

  "That's quite alright," Mr. Harris told him. "I had it coming."

  The old black manager looked at one and then the other, his fists balled,

  "Then I'm going to have to ask you both to leave, and immediately," he said, his jaw bones at work beneath a layer of thin, coarse skin.

  The two went outside, and Claire immediately turned and walked away down the sidewalk.

  "Claire," Mr. Harris said. "Please don't go. I'm here to help you."

  She kept walking.

  "Claire," he said forcefully, his words cutting through the wind in a way that seemed beyond his capabilities.

  She stopped and turned, eyes alive with fire, hate. She made the way back with fewer steps than before, and struck him in the face. He staggered back and groaned, his palm against a swelling cheek.

  "Who the hell are you? Once and for all, goddamit! Once and for all, who the hell are you?"

  Mr. Harris steadied himself and removed his hand to reveal a gathering welt.

  "I understand your frustration, but you have to believe that I didn't have a thing to do with that envelope." He spat
blood. "I promise you, I did not know it was empty."

  She moved toward him, and he flitted back like a much younger man.

  "What the hell is going on?" She asked. "What do you have against me? Why the fuck are you destroying my life?"

  He put his hands up.

  "Not me," he said. "It's not me."

  She balled her fists and screeched, passers flinching, birds fleeing trees.

  "No more of that bullshit. I want to know what's going on."

  He rubbed his face.

  "I wouldn't even no how to lie," he said. "I promise you; I don't have the slightest clue."

  She put both hands on top of her head, like a mother confounded by the ways of an errant child. Then she dropped them, staggered toward the exterior of the cafe and leaned against the brick.

  "Why are you here?" She began to cry. "What now, for God's sake?"

  He rubbed his face and spat again, his saliva looking pink against the pale sidewalk.

  "I'm here to do what I've been told to do."

  She shook her head.

  "And what's that?"

  He removed another tiny envelope from his pocket, and she moved toward him.

  "Wait, wait, wait," he said, as he moved backward. "I checked this one."

  She approached and snapped it up, tearing it open and lifting a white card from within. Her eyes burned forward as if to set it aflame.

  "What is this?" She asked. "What is it?"

  He put his hands inside his pockets.

  "An address."

  She looked at him.

  "To what?"

  He shrugged.

  "I don't know."

  She turned and tapped the card against the red brick.

  "I'm sorry I struck you," she said. "That's not like me at all."

  He took out his hands and dusted his shirt.

  "I've been hit by people less angry than you."

  She turned to face him and he flinched a little.

  "Does the same hold true as before, Mr. Harris?"

  He looked at her.

  "I'm not sure what you mean."

  "Before, you said I should come alone without telling anyone. Is the same true here?"

  He nodded.

  "Absolutely. Every bit of what you said is true and right."

  She opened her purse and tucked the card inside.

  "Then that's the end of this relationship. I don't want to see you anymore. Is that clear?"

  He nodded.

  "Perfectly, yes."

  She turned and walked away without looking back. But once she achieved the edge of the building, she fled the walking path and retreated into a stairwell, where she wept for all that matters and all that doesn't, for her mother, for her father, but most of all, for herself.

  How did you get so far in this life without any visible scars?

  She pushed her back against a brick wall and sunk to the ground, crossed her legs and opened her purse. She removed the card and looked it over: it said 17 Copper Street and 2 A.M., and she took out a pair of old receipts and a pen and duplicated the address twice, placing one receipt in a pocket and one inside her shoe. Then she implanted the card back inside her purse, rose to her feet and shot back out into sun-drenched sidewalk that led the way home.

  Chapter 6

  17 Copper Street was on the east side of town, and she would have to leave early to make the deadline. Invested wholly in the overpowering history of her daughter's seamless reasoning, her mother threw up few complaints. Instead, she said goodbye in the way that mothers say goodbye to daughters when their children are all they have left in this world. And they cried like children, each and the same, the right words spoken in case of an untimely or failed return.

  Her mother remained awake as long as she could before drifting away on the sofa, television infomercials calling softly in the dim pale light, a blanket placed over her, a soft kiss on her wrinkled cheek, the door shutting noiselessly, leaving her alone and dreaming against unimaginable burdens and sorrow.

  The taxi had come late, and Claire let the driver have it for much longer than he deserved. Soon they were both apologizing to each other, and then it was quiet except for the engine and the intermittent crackling from the CB radio.

  At her request, the driver stopped a few blocks from her destination, and she entered the wind and night, where the street lights splashed weak hints of amber against the dark pavement. In that wind and night, indistinct shadows stretching outward, like ghoulish, spindly fingers across a vast and solitary urban terrain. But within that terrain, life in fact moved all around her, and she knew it by the sound of clanking bottles and shuffling feet, the downtrodden stirring in the shadows, pale faced and curiously watching such a clean and foolish woman jog across their streets.

  By the time she reached Copper Street, the fear and anxiety had taken its toll. She stopped and bent forward, her hands on her knees, lungs sucking hungrily the air. She wanted to go home, but it was too late. She stood up and rubbed the small of her back, her eyes darting about the shadows in search of dangerous men.

  Then she saw them all scuffling about under a big pool of white light. She stumbled forward, her head turned slightly, the scene before her peculiar by context and setting:

  At least a dozen men and women stood atop a dimly-lit basketball court that sat like a paved courtyard between three red brick apartment buildings. Dressed professionally, they looked at their surroundings and one another through bewildered eyes, as if they'd suddenly appeared at this dusty, urban destination from thin air or perhaps even another time. Claire crossed the street to join them, her heeled shoes applauding the pavement with thwacking noises audible to all. A good portion of the group unsettled, flooding toward her suddenly, like a shifting mass of migrating birds veering from the coordinated flock.

  Claire stopped short of the curb, her feet tied to the dark, empty street.

  "Are you one of us or one of them?" An approaching woman asked, her rotund figure laboring even at such an easy pace.

  The small crowd filled in around the woman's shoulders, their faces eagerly awaiting a response.

  "I'm definitely not one of them," Claire said, the words leaking through her knotted throat. "Whoever they are."

  The backside of the crowd grumbled and turned away, leaving the woman alone to greet the newcomer.

  "Oh," she said. "Well, come on then. We're all waiting over here."

  Claire stayed fixed to the asphalt, a pair of small, brightening headlights bearing down on her position. The woman furrowed her brows.

  "Are you coming, dear?" She asked. "You'd better get out of the street either way."

  Claire turned toward the lights and jumped out of the road.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just a bit flustered."

  The woman gave her a tap on the back.

  "Join the crowd," she said. "Figuratively and quite literally."

  Claire followed the woman to the pack, many engaged in conversation and oblivious to her arrival, most of the men all together, one taking thoughtful drags from a polished wooden pipe. The fat woman joined two older, scholarly-looking women, and Claire trailed her and pushed into their group.

  "What's your name, dear," the fat woman asked.

  "Claire."

  "And who are you with?" Another woman asked, her jawline suggesting Scandinavian decent.

  Claire's eyes washed over the group for a moment, their easy expressions offering no signs of fear or coercion.

  "I worked under Paul Devaney at Clairmont University."

  The asker's mouth firmed and her head nodded in approval.

  "I'm Delores," said the fat woman, who then gave the other ladies' names and resumes in turn.

  "Nice to meet you all," Claire said. "Do any of you know anything about this organization?"

  The women traded looks.

  "Not really," Delores said. "But we’re all eager to learn more, everyone trading stories and such."

  She raised an index finge
r and pushed her glasses back toward the bridge of her nose.

  "Do you know what they're saying?" Claire asked.

  The other women looked at Delores, as if they themselves had asked the question.

  "Oh, just a smattering," she said. "It's clear that no one knows anything substantial, but some have different attitudes than others. Some seem much more excited than others, than me."

  Claire nodded.

  "How did you come to be here?" She asked them all, but only Delores answered.

  "They accepted an initial invitation. I resisted."

  "So did I," said Claire.

  Delores nodded and touched her elbow.

  "I'm not sure everyone here understands them like we do," she said.

  She opened her mouth to say more, but before she could, the faint sound of engines entered the quiet surround. At once, all the little social circles broke apart and each person lined up along the curb, some leaning forward and pinching their eyes to see deeper into the black yonder. The machine hum gathered in the distance until headlights finally broke over the horizon atop the paved hill. Through the bleary starbursts of shattered light emerged a train of five white airport shuttle vans, each spaced so evenly, they seemed tethered by samely-cut strands of invisible metallic chord.

  As they approached, the vehicles slowed and turned their wheels, each pushing over the curb and onto the basketball court, shocks squealing, the drivers working carefully behind dark tinted glass that gave back the burnished street light, along with the faces of those who would attempt to look inside.

  The watchers stepped back as the chain of vehicles looped around and steadied in an orderly line. Each man and woman stood waiting, their hair blowing in the wind, the engines idling softly, no signs of invitation or definitive reasons to run.

  Finally, the door of the first shuttle opened, and a young well-dressed woman stepped out. She wore a broad, plastic smile across her beautiful, flawless face and she looked everyone over with high-voltage eyes.

  "Hello!" She said, as she stepped out to join them. "I'm so happy to see this great turnout."