Aberrations of Reality

by Aaron J. French

  “Nah. He’s probably comfortable at his age. No sense upsetting him.”

  “So you’ll take him?”

  “Wait a minute, I didn’t say that. His living with me might come as a greater shock than moving to San Francisco.”

  She laughed. “Oh please, don’t flatter yourself. You’re no party animal. You work on the computer all day. You must be lonely.”

  “I got Suxie.”

  “I mean when Sue’s not there. Think about it: a nice furry fellow brushing up against you, meowing excitedly when you get home, curling up with you in bed—”

  “—and stinking up the apartment with kitty litter, demanding food, water, and covering the furniture with cat hair—”

  “Please?”

  Of course I said yes.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Suxie and I watched her soap operas in my living room. She claimed to love soaps, that the heightened melodrama really turned her on—or something like that. I permitted this vain indulgence under one condition: that if she wanted to sit around watching bad acting and wanted me to watch with her, then she had to take her top off. That way we both were happy.

  While we watched, somebody knocked at the door. It was the super. I forced him out into the hall, shutting the door behind me. I didn’t want him catching a glimpse of Suxie, making her uncomfortable.

  He started talking about Rebecca’s death. Told me about her body, the brass pentagrams. With a cringe, I glanced at her apartment. Cops were gone. Spider web of yellow tape sealed the door.

  “This is bad,” he said.

  I had the sudden urge to snoop around inside her apartment. It came right out of left field.

  “Fuckin’ bad,” he said again. My super masqueraded as one of the Sopranos but really he was harmless.

  “You don’t know nothin’?”

  “Not a thing,” I said. “Shame, though.”

  “Yeah, a real tragedy. Here’s what I don’t get. You wanna hang yourself, you tie a rope around your neck, not around your feet. What the hell is that?”

  “Dunno. Maybe somebody else killed her.”

  “Bullshit. She did it herself, cops even said.”

  “What about the bite marks?”

  He gave me his De Niro face. “Don’t you start that. There were no bite marks, don’t you start that fuckin’ rumor. I ain’t payin’ no exterminator.” He wheeled, his coat fanning out like a tutu, muttering to himself in Italian as he passed Rebecca’s door. He descended the stairway and was gone.

  I gazed toward Rebecca’s apartment, knowing I would sneak in. I went back in and Suxie was on the couch, head propped up with her palm, stroking Anubis and watching soaps. Sunlight from the window threw shadows across her shoulders and breasts.

  “Gotta talk to the super in the lobby,” I said.

  She looked up. Anubis did too. “What, why?”

  I shrugged. “Said he needs to speak with me about Rebecca.”

  “You tell that Goodfellas clone to piss off.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that.”

  “Please do.”

  “Be right back.”

  “Hurry up. You’re missing the best part.”

  I crept down the hall, which smelled faintly of urine but also of cigarettes from the police. I stared at the matrix of yellow tape, ran my fingers along the smooth surface, tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  Making sure no one was watching, I pulled out my lockpicking tools attached to my keys. That was my one claim to criminal fame: being a fairly accomplished lock pick. Mostly a hobby; had been since high school. I’d gotten fairly good at it.

  I maneuvered until the tumblers and teeth lined up and the lock popped. I ducked beneath the tape, leaving the door slightly open behind me.

  I’d never been inside Rebecca’s apartment. I hardly knew the girl, except as a neighbor. We’d chatted intermittently, borrowed sugar, gotten each other’s mail by accident, exchanged pleasantries, etc.

  Now she was dead.

  I felt like an intruder, and a certain juvenile rush came along with that. She’d apparently loved ducks. Ducks all over the place: framed on walls, on curtains, stuck to the fridge; sewn on pillows, blankets, rugs; Donald Duck mugs, dinnerware, pots; a set of Ugly Duckling children’s books. She had much nicer stuff than I did. As I admired her plasma screen television, I thought to myself, who’d really miss it, right?

  I crept toward the bedroom. So far nothing out of ordinary. Just a middle-aged woman’s apartment. First weird thing was the central air vent. It was big, about two feet above my head in the hall, and it wasn’t working for some reason. Apartment was hot. As I passed underneath it, I swore I heard whispers coming from the duct. Neighbors? I strained my ears to listen, but heard nothing.

  Second weird thing was her bedroom. As I entered, a gust of cold wind swept me over. A strange smell, fecal.

  Cops had half the items in the room circled, bagged, marked off, and labeled. The bed sheet was still lassoed around the rafter (this was the top floor so the ceilings had rafter beams). Creepy, dangling there, coiled partly on the floor like a snake. I couldn’t tell if those red spots were blood, or part of the pattern.

  More ducks. Stuffed ones. A whole gang of them on a beanbag chair. A huge one turned away into the corner. Bright yellow, a massive bill. The kind of thing you win for your girlfriend at Coney Island.

  I didn’t like the big one. Something odd about it, how it faced the corner—as if it’d seen something unspeakable and was now afraid to reenter the world.

  A glimmer of light from the floor caught my attention. I stooped, ran fingers through the carpet. Hair: fine, thin, black.

  Rat hair? I didn’t think so. I was pretty sure rat hair was either white or brown. It couldn’t be Rebecca’s hair: she was blonde. To be honest, it looked like—and I didn’t know what to make of this—cat hair.

  Anubis’s hair.

  An icy chill passed over me. I stood and brushed my hands on my jeans. I was about to turn and leave when I noticed the duck staring at me. The big duck, who, moments earlier, had faced the corner. I was positive it had faced the corner. It had these huge black eyes, ink-black, void, dead. Its bill was folded into a smile, though it looked more like a savage grin. Grotesque object, sitting there, gawking at me, with murder in its eyes.

  I fled in a hurry.

  As I crossed the living room, a small black shape darted under the sofa. It startled me, and I nearly shrieked. Suddenly Suxie came sauntering out of the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing here?” she said.

  I was a terrible liar and hated lying to people I cared about. All I managed was, “What are you doing here?”

  “Getting your damn cat.” She bent and scooped up Anubis. “I was tired of waiting for you. I was coming to find you but when I stepped into the hall the cat ran out through my feet and slipped in here.”

  “Come on,” I said, remembering the duck. “Let’s go.”

  “Wait, tell me what you’re doing here? You’ve been gone for an hour.”

  This shocked me. “No way. It’s been ten minutes.” I checked my wristwatch and saw an hour had passed. Weird, I thought. What the hell have I been doing?

  She shot me a furious glance. “The super called and asked for you, Frank. I told him you should be down there, and he had no idea what I was talking about.”

  I hung my head. I was caught.

  “Did you lie to me?”

  “Not a lie—a fib, really. I wanted to sneak in here and take a peek, but I didn’t want you to worry. Look, I’m sorry, can you forgive me?”

  She thrust the cat into my arms. I knew right then she was going to make a big deal out of it, even though it wasn’t a big deal.

  “You know how I feel about deception,” she said. “My dad lied to me about God. He said I’d go to Hell if I hung around my uncles. My uncles lied to me about their mafia ties, and when my brothers got involved, they also lied about it. Daddy then lied to the neighbors, to his church, about
how our family had nothing to do with the mafia. My whole family is a cluster-fuck of lies and hypocrisy. I don’t need you pulling the same shit, Frank.”

  She spun, opened the door, and ducked beneath the yellow tape.

  “Hey, wait. I said I’m sorry. Where you going?”

  I already knew her answer.

  “Home,” she yelled; then, footsteps down the stairs.

  I sighed. Anubis meowed, rubbing the back of his head against my chest.

  “I know,” I told him. “I deserve it.”

  Blowing a sigh, I returned to my apartment.

  * * *

  Adeena had been right: I did like having the cat around. I wasn’t as lonely. Anubis hung out in my office while I worked, sat next to me on the sofa, slept beside me in bed. It was like living with another person, one that didn’t complain or ask for things.

  Suxie wouldn’t return my calls. Each time I tried her it went straight to voicemail. I knew how stubborn she could be. I also knew she’d give in eventually. But after a week I got annoyed. It was one little fib. She had no right to make me feel this guilty. I stopped calling and resolved to let her contact me whenever she felt like it.

  As depression set it, I grew more and more appreciative of Anubis. I was drinking a lot. After spending a day on the computer, I’d sit before the tube with a bottle of wine, sound muted, just sitting, drinking, and thinking.

  I thought about Rebecca, about what had happened, about the damn duck. More cops had come and gone. By now they pretty much left the place alone, although the yellow tape stayed on the door.

  Crystal and Adeena called to tell me they had arrived in San Francisco. I was glad to hear from them. Spent an hour talking on the phone. They asked about Anubis, and I said he was fine. The cat’s ears pricked up when I mentioned him. It was a nice conversation, but when I hung up I felt even lonelier. I realized I missed my friends.

  —Now

  … I don’t remember which night it was… one of those nights. Things were getting pretty bleak there. Too much drinking… visions of the duck swimming around in my head… recurring nightmares. Suxie had called while I was passed out, and she left the strangest message on my voicemail… something about being a strega—an Italian witch—claiming she had been the one to kill Rebecca… that the whole thing was part of some elaborate ritual, which had been the reason she had come into my life in the first place… then when I tried to call her back… the number was suddenly out of service—

  —But one of those nights, the cat started talking to me.

  I had no trouble accepting this. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world. I had already come to think of Anubis as another person and so the fact that he suddenly started talking made perfect sense. Maybe because my head was so far gone by then. Maybe because I’d sunken into depression.

  Whatever the reason, when the cat started talking, I listened and started to talk back. We became roommates, pals. I had a new best friend. My depression gradually eased up.

  Then one day as we sat watching a Yankees game, Anubis turned to me and said, “How come you never asked me about the woman next door?”

  “What woman?” I asked. I was half drunk on Pinot and it was barely noon.

  Anubis, bathing himself, through long tonging strokes, said, “The one who died.”

  I looked at him. He was changing. I’d noticed it over the last couple days. Getting larger. Hair getting shorter. His face had lengthened, and he had a prominent chin. Eyes were bright blue and eerily human.

  I’d also noticed a change in myself, but I was refusing to accept it. If I ignored it, it would go away. Denial, denial, denial. And more booze.

  “Why ask about her?” I said, reaching up to scratch a fur patch on the back of my neck.

  He shrugged. “Thought you might like to know what happened.”

  I cut myself. Wincing, I looked at my fingers, saw blood. No matter how often I trimmed my nails, they kept growing back longer. I didn’t understand, but I had to remember to be careful.

  I went back to scratching. “They itch,” I said.

  Anubis chuckled. “Claw at the sofa, that’s what I do.”

  I took his advice, got on the floor, started scratching. Strings of fabric tore away. He was right, it did ease the burn. “I knew you had something to do with that,” I said. “Tell me, what did you do?”

  “It’s not what I did,” he said. “It’s what we did—me and my master, the strega. She has been preparing this since previous incarnations. All behind the scenes, of course. None of you’d ever know about it. This is what takes place in the background of the world—the spirits and their alien agendas.”

  Then I fell asleep and it was suddenly the next day. Sunlight streamed into the window. I was still beside the sofa. Had pissed myself. Smelled awful. I took my clothes off and piled them over the wet spot on the floor. I went into the bedroom to get dressed but realized I didn’t need to; a fine layer of black hair covered my body.

  I smelled bad and wanted to shower, but the idea of water repulsed me. I itched, my ears itched, and for thirty minutes I lost track of time scratching. I took a fresh bottle of wine from the cupboard, opened it, eschewing the glass, and went back to the living room. Walking upright was becoming a pain. I dropped to my hands and knees.

  Anubis paced before the television up on his hind legs. Nearly all his black hair was gone. He was three times his normal size, much taller than I was. His chin and facial features were distinctly human. He was still growing, right before my eyes, sprouting inch by inch. And he looked vaguely familiar.

  Noticing me, he turned and said, “Ah, there you are. Up from your nap, I see. How are you feeling?”

  “Not so bad. A little stiff. Itchy. Hungry. How come you look so weird?”

  He smiled, “You’re finally paying attention,” and holding his arms out, began spinning in a circle. “See anything you like?”

  “What’s happening to you?”

  He stopped. “To us, Frank, to us. Open your eyes, isn’t it obvious? I’m becoming you, and you’re becoming me. The strega has performed her ancient rite.”

  I dropped the wine bottle, which clattered to the floor. I tried to pick it up, but found that I couldn’t. I didn’t have hands; I had paws. Little ones with sharp claws, covered in fine black hair.

  I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

  He walked over and was so tall, towering overhead. He was becoming me. That’s why he looked familiar. Strange to see myself from the outside. My whole life, I had only seen images of myself in reflections, never the real thing. I thought I’d be thinner.

  “Are you ready to listen?” he said.

  I nodded, following him to the sofa. I hissed, my tail fluffed up, and my hair stood on end. The duck from Rebecca’s apartment was sitting there. The big creepy one. It, too, had changed. Was taller, thinner, and had long brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Breasts and hips and a coke-bottle waist. It looked like Rebecca.

  It started talking, moving.

  I retreated. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “It’ll be better if I show you.”

  Anubis—well me, actually—sat beside the Rebecca-duck on the sofa. Time seemed to pass outside the window like streaming colored ribbons. Lights, suns, moons, planets, and stars wheeled in the sky. Were we floating? I couldn’t tell. I was too damn short to see.

  Shadows swooped across the ceiling. The TV flickered uncontrollably, then fizzled out. I felt extremely light, like my brain was shrinking, and I felt my memories fading away, but when I tried to speak all that came out was meow.

  When I looked again, Anubis and the duck were killing each other. That’s what I thought, but then I realized they were making love—lost in the cushions, straining, pumping, moaning.

  This went on for some time. Hours. Shadows and light glided past the window.

  When they finished, they had completely changed. Anubis and the duck were gone. Rebecca and Frank sat in their places.<
br />
  Frank uncoiled from her arms and sat up. “There are other places than here,” he said.

  I tried to respond, but couldn’t. Just more meowing.

  Rebecca slid behind Frank wrapping her legs around him and buried her face in his back. They looked so strange. I didn’t understand what they were doing. They appeared to be a single being, arms and legs and strands of hair lifting up, coiling outward.

  “Other places,” he went on, “other times. As mankind carves out its existence here on this material plane, we—my brethren and I—carve out ours on another. We live in the cracks of your world, the spaces in-between. We are in the animals, the plants, the minerals. You know nothing of us. That’s the way it’s always been.

  “There are even those who dwell in the cracks and spaces of our world, and in the cracks and spaces of their world, and so on, and so on. Sometimes there’s a breech in the membrane and spiritual substance flows through. This is the function of ritual.”

  I wanted desperately to speak, but all words evaded me, and despite what was happening, I could think of nothing but food and naps and exploration.

  Frank sensed my frustration and, with a chuckle, said, “Just think what you want to say. I will hear it.”

  I concentrated on my thoughts. What’s going on here? What really happened next door?

  “Functioning as agents in this world, the strega and I prepared a breech, in order to bring the other one through.” He glanced askance at Rebecca. “Together we performed the ritual that allowed the three of us to enter.”

  Not Suxie. I don’t believe it. Why would she do this to me?

  “Your involvement is arbitrary. We could have set it up anywhere, at any time. The place is not important. You are not important.”

  Suddenly they disjoined, their flesh pulling out of each other, and they stood, stood naked like Adam and Eve. Leaving me on the floor, confused and frightened and alone, they went into my bedroom and dressed in my clothes. When they came back out, they looked almost normal.