by Dale Bailey
“Nothing.”
“No, I think I’m glad we’ve been childless. We are sufficient unto ourselves. We always have been.”
Ben heaved himself to his feet, went to the bar, and made them fresh drinks.
He stood at the rail and lit a cigarette. He recalled MacKenzie running naked into the moon-washed water and felt once again a surge of desire. The flesh forever betrayed you. He felt headachy and regretful and even now he could recall the shape of her body in almost pornographic detail. Yes, and Lois, too, slipping into the empty bedroom with the tattooed frontman of the slam band—Roadkill, that had been its name, and it too was ruined. And her hand upon his neck.
“Last night—”
“I’m sorry, Ben.”
“No. I wanted you to know that I’m not jealous. I want to be. I should be. But the rules seem to have changed somehow.”
He drew on the cigarette, sipped his drink.
“Yes, the rules have changed,” she said. “There’s a kind of terrible freedom to it, isn’t there?”
“Your hand upon my neck. It felt so cool.” He turned to look at her. “How did I make it home?”
“Stan and I practically carried you.”
“And the stairs?”
“The stairs, my love, were an absolute bitch.”
He laughed humorlessly.
“I remember opening a bathroom door to see MacKenzie—”
“You needn’t bother. Last night became something of an orgy, I’m afraid.”
“New rules,” he said.
“Or perhaps no rules at all.”
No rules at all. And what did that mean but ruin?
He thought of Rosenthal, writing every day, imposing a discipline of his own upon the world until even that collapsed into despair. Was not his own resistance of MacKenzie—or of Veronica Glass—a kind of discipline, a kind of personal rule, newly instituted. Maybe that was all you had in the end: the autonomy of the individual will.
“No,” he said, “I have my rules still. Maybe for the first time I have them.”
He ground out his cigarette in MacKenzie’s ashtray.
“Is that why you wouldn’t trade spouses with Stan the other night?”
“I don’t know, I haven’t thought it through. It just seemed wrong, that’s all.”
“Surely you want MacKenzie. I saw you kissing her.”
He laughed. “I’ve wanted MacKenzie since the day I met her.”
“Then why not take the opportunity? I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Maybe that’s it. You wouldn’t have minded. There was a time you would have.”
She stood and came to him and cupped his face in both hands. She gazed into his eyes, and for the first time in years, he noticed how deeply green hers were, and kind.
“What a sweet man you’ve become, Ben Devine.”
“I only love you,” he said.
“And I you,” she said. She said, “I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t know.”
“Didn’t know what?” Stan said, pushing his way out onto the verandah. MacKenzie followed.
“What a capacity for drink you had, you old fool,” Lois said with a sparkling laugh.
Stan dropped into a chair with a thud. He groaned and pressed a beer to his forehead. “Bullshit,” he said. “You’ve known that as long as you’ve known me.” He shot them a glance and shook his head. “Lovebirds, you.”
“Lovebirds are entirely monogamous,” MacKenzie said from the bar.
“Then you are no lovebird.”
“Nor you, my dear.”
“Nor any of us,” said Lois, “except for Ben, monogamous in ruin.”
“What’s wrong with you, Ben?” Stan said.
Ben said, “I’ve always been monogamous in my heart.”
“Your heart’s not where it matters,” Stan said.
“It’s the only place that matters,” Lois said. They were silent after that. Wind came in off the water. The last gulls screamed, and the red sun dropped behind the roofline of the great house. “Come play with me, Mommy,” Cecy called from the grass. MacKenzie went down. They played a complex game involving the shrunken soccer ball. Ben could never decipher the rules, if there were any, but their laughter lifted into the air like birdsong, and that was enough. Waves washed the rocky shore; the sound of them was music. Stan broke out a joint and the three of them shared it as the summer day drew toward dusk. The air tasted sweeter then, and the beauty of all things grew sharper and more clear in its transience.
“So what shall we do tonight?” MacKenzie said when she joined them.
“Tonight Veronica Glass is our hostess,” Stan said.
Carpe diem, thought Ben. He wondered what beautiful and grotesque death Veronica Glass had concocted for herself, and he took Lois’s hand and held it tight. There was so little time left to seize.
As they climbed to Veronica Glass’s cliff-side home that evening, they could hear the steady thump of music. The great windows pulsed with light and shadow. Wheeling scalpels of purple and red carved the dark. Reluctantly, Ben followed the others inside. He blundered through the crowd in revulsion, trying not to see the white pedestals with their grisly human freight. But he could not avoid them: colored lasers slashed the dance floor, and each bloodless piece had been illuminated by a blaze of clear light that exposed every detail in stunning clarity—every white knob of bone and gristle, every tendon, every severed artery, root-like and blue. The supplicating hand might have been begging him for mercy, the amputated head might have been his own.
Yet Ben felt something else as well, an almost sexual arousal that he could neither deny nor sate. He stumbled into the kitchen with Stan, where they snorted lines of coke and heroin that had been laid out on the counter-top. He poured himself a slug of eighteen-year-old Macallan and drank it off like water; he smoked a flash-laced joint with a short, heavyset woman he had not seen before, a memory sculptor whose work had gone for millions before ruin took it all. Back in the enormous glassed-in atrium, he looked for Lois—for Stan or MacKenzie or even Cecy—but they’d all disappeared into the mob. He opened a door in search of the toilet, to find himself in a dim bedroom. Two couples—no three—writhed inside, on the bed, on the floor, against the wall. Someone—was it Stan?—held out an inviting hand. Ben reeled away instead, stumbled blindly through the orgiastic throng, and slammed outside.
He staggered down to the yard and stood cliff side, looking at the ocean.
Veronica Glass said, “It’s quite the party, isn’t it?”
“It’s that all right. What madness have you prepared for tonight?”
“You started this, Ben,” she said. “We chanced to meet on Vinnizi’s lawn, nothing more. You’re the one that wanted to talk about my work. You’re the one that showed up uninvited at my door.”
The wheeling lasers painted her face in shifting arcs of green and red. They illuminated the sheer material of her dress, exposing the shadows of her hips and breasts. Against his will, he found himself aroused all over again, by her or by her work, he could not say for sure. Probably both, and as if to deny this truth about himself—and what else was art to do if it didn’t strip away our masks and expose us raw and naked to the world?—as if to deny this truth, he took a step toward her.
“It’s anatomy, nothing more,” he said. “It’s cruelty.”
“The world is a cruel place,” she said. “Perhaps you’ve noticed.”
An image of the sectioned arm possessed him, its imploring hand lifted like Vinizzi’s hand. An image of the flayed leg, the head on its pedestal, its mouth sewn shut against a scream. An image, most of all, of the ruined and dying world.
His hand lashed out against his will. The blow rocked her. She wiped blood from her lip and held it up for him to see. “You prove my thesis,” she said. And turning, “You could have had me, Ben. You saw the truth and you could have possessed it. It was within your grasp. Beauty is truth, truth beauty. Isn’t that what you believe? Let me show you the be
auty that lies at the heart of ugliness. Let me show you the heart of ruin. Let me show you truth.”
She didn’t wait to see if he would follow. But he did, helpless not to. Up the stairs. Across the verandah. Into the great glassed-in room. She touched a switch. The music died. The lasers ceased to sculpt the dark. The lights came up.
“It’s time,” she announced to the silent crowd.
She led them murmuring through a cleverly disguised door, and down a broad stairway. A cold amphitheater lay at the bottom. Enormous flatpanel screens had been mounted overhead, at an angle facing the audience. On the floor below them, gently sloping toward a central drain, Veronica had readied the tools of her trade: an x-shaped surgical table, upholstered in black; bone saws and scalpels and anatomical needles for pinning back flesh; rolls of clear silicon.
Even as Veronica began to speak, Ben knew with a sick certainty what she planned to do. “The body is my canvas,” she said, “the scalpel my brush.” Her audience mesmerized looked on. “I sculpt the living human flesh in ways that unveil to the unseeing eye both our fragility and our strength, our capacity for love and our capacity for cruelty. As ruin closes in upon us, let my art unfold on the canvas of your flesh: the glorious art of death—prolonged, painful, beautiful to behold.”
She paused.
“I have a friend”—and here she fixed Ben, in the third row from the bottom, with her gaze—“I have a friend who equates beauty with truth, who believes that art serves something other than its own ends. I did not always countenance this, but my friend convinced me otherwise. For there is beauty in pain and in our capacity, our courage, to bear it. There is beauty in death, and in that beauty lies a truth, as well—the truth of the ruin that every day engulfs us, that has awaited us from the moment we came screaming from the womb, when we were hurled into a world indifferent to our suffering. In these, the last days of Cerulean Cliffs, we have seen our little assays in the art of death. I propose that you transcend these small attempts. We are all artists here. I challenge you to pass from this world as you have lived in it, to make your death itself your final masterpiece.”
She paused.
Silence fell over the amphitheater, an undersea silence fathoms deep, the silence of breath suspended, of heartbeats held in abeyance. Ben scanned the crowd, searching for Lois—for Stan and MacKenzie, for Cecy—Cecy who had been born into a world of ruin and death. There. There. There and there. He feared for them every one, but he feared for Cecy most of all.
Someone stirred and coughed. A chorus of murmurs echoed in the chamber. A man shifted, braced his hands upon his armrests, and subsided into his seat. Veronica Glass stood silent and unmoved. Another moment passed, and then, because Cerulean Cliffs had long since plunged into desperation and despair, and most of all perhaps because ruination and devastation would soon overwhelm them every one, a woman—lean and hungry and mad—stood abruptly and said, “I will stand your challenge.”
She walked down to the arena floor. Her heels rang hollow in the silence. When she reached Veronica Glass, they exchanged words too quiet to make out, like the wings of moths whispering in the corners of the room. The woman disrobed, letting her clothes fall untended around her feet. Her flesh was blue and pale in the chill air, her breasts flat, her shanks thin and flaccid. Silent tears coursed down her narrow face as she turned to face them. Veronica strapped her to the table, winching the bands cruelly tight: at wrist and elbow, ankle and knee; across her shoulders and the mound of her sex. Her head she harnessed in a mask of leather straps, fastened snugly under the headrest.
“What you do here, you do of your own will,” Veronica said.
“Yes.”
“And once begun, you resolve not to turn back.”
“Yes,” the woman said. “I want to die.”
The screens lit up with an image of the woman strapped to the table. Veronica turned to face the audience. She donned gloves and goggles, a white leather apron—and began. Using a scalpel, she drew a thin bead of blood between the woman’s breasts, from sternum to pubis, and then, with a delicate intersecting X, she pulled back each quarter of flesh—there was an agonizing tearing sound—to unveil the pink musculature beneath. The woman arched her back, moaning, and Cecy—Cecy who had known nothing but ruin in her short life—Cecy screamed.
Ben, startled from a kind of entranced horror, held Veronica Glass’s gaze for a moment. What he saw there was madness and in the madness something worse: a kind of truth. And then he tore himself away. Lurching to his feet, he shoved his way through the seated masses to scoop Cecy up. He clutched her against his breast, soothing her into a snarl of hiccupping sobs. Together, his arms aching, they stumbled to the aisle.
“You have to walk now,” he said, setting her on her feet. “You have to walk.” Cecy took his hand and together they began to climb the steps of the arena.
There was a rustle of movement in the stands. Ben looked around.
MacKenzie, weeping, had begun to make her way to join them, Lois too, and Stan.
They were almost to the cliff side when the screaming began.
|
So ended the last suicide party at Cerulean Cliffs—or at least the last such party attended by Ben and his companions. Over the next few days they gradually shifted back to a diurnal schedule. Stan dug up an old bicycle pump to inflate Cecy’s soccer ball, and they spent most afternoons on the lawn, playing her incomprehensible games. There was no more talk of trading partners. Their drinking and drug use dwindled: a beer or two after dinner, the occasional joint as twilight lengthened its blue shadows over the grass.
Late one morning, Ben and Stan made another pilgrimage inland. They traded off carrying a small cooler and when they reached the edge of the devastation—they didn’t have far to go—they stretched out against the trunk of a fallen tree and drank beer. Ruin had made deep inroads into the driveway by then. The weeds on the shoulders of the rutted lane had crumbled, and the gravel had melted into slag. Scorched-looking trees had turned into charred spikes, shedding their denuded branches in slow streamers of dust. Ben finished his beer and pitched his bottle out onto the baked and fractured earth. Ruin took it. It blackened and cracked as if he’d hurled it into a fire and began to dissolve into ash.
“It won’t be long now,” Stan said.
“It will be long enough,” Ben said, twisting open a fresh beer.
They toasted one another in silence, and walked home along the winding sun-dappled road under trees that would not see another autumn. Ben and Lois made slow, languorous love when he got back, and as he drowsed afterward, Ben found himself thinking of Veronica Glass and whether she had fallen to ruin at last. And he found himself thinking too of the poet, Rosenthal, who’d chosen ruin over discipline in the end, who’d surrendered up his art to death. I write the truth as I see it, he’d said, or something like that, and if there was no ultimate truth here in the twilight of all things—or if there never had been—there were at least small truths: small moments worthy of preservation in rhyme, even if it too would fall to ruin, and soon: Cecy’s cries of joy and the sound of breakers on a dying beach and the gentle touch of another human’s skin. Art for art’s sake, after all.
“Maybe I’ve been wasting my time,” he told Lois.
“Of course, you have,” she said, and that afternoon he sat at a sunlit table in the kitchen, licked the tip of his pencil, and began.
Afterword
No story is ever written in isolation, but I was especially fortunate in those who helped me find the straight path this time around. Nathan Ballingrud read and commented on drafts of almost every piece you'll find here. His judgment and advice through more than two decades of steady friendship have rarely been off the mark. Durant Haire and Jack Slay, Jr. also read and offered valuable feedback on most of the pieces here.
Robert Canipe and Christopher Rowe helped me track down a couple of endings that had gone astray, and my colleague Julie Voss blazed the trail out of a particularly thorny patch of p
lot that I'd wandered into. I am also indebted to the rotating cast of the annual Sycamore Hill Writing Workshop, which reviewed three of these pieces, and especially to its director, Richard Butner, who let me come out and play with the big kids. A special thanks goes to Neil Clarke, Ellen Datlow, Gordon Van Gelder, and Sheila Williams for keen editorial insights, and to Mark Teppo, who gave this book a home.
Most of these stories were written in the last three years at what constitutes blazing speed, for me. They came after a long spell in the dark--half a decade and more--when there were no stories to be had. Many, many people, friends, family, and strangers alike, helped me find the words again. I could not name them all if I tried, and there is anyway not enough space, so I will not try. If you are among them and you hold this book in your hands, you know.
It would be remiss of me, however, not to single out the three people without whom this book would never have been written at all. Jay Synn showed me the way back to the light. My wife and daughter were waiting on the other side. Laughter and love. Patience and resolve. This book is for Jean and Carson. Together, we keep the faith.
About the Author
Dale Bailey lives in North Carolina with his family, and has published three novels, The Fallen, House of Bones, and Sleeping Policemen (with Jack Slay, Jr.). His short fiction, previously collected in The Resurrection Man's Legacy & Other Stories, has been a three-time finalist for the International Horror Guild Award, a two-time finalist for the Nebula Award, and a finalist for the Shirley Jackson Award and the Bram Stoker Award. His International Horror Guild Award-winning novelette “Death and Suffrage” was adapted by director Joe Dante as part of Showtime Television’s anthology series, Masters of Horror.
Also by Dale Bailey
The Subterranean Season
House of Bones
The Fallen
Sleeping Policemen (with Jack Slay, Jr.)
The Resurrection Man’s Legacy and Other Stories
