“You’re kinda cute yourself for an older guy.” She gets closer; he backs up a step. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Remember, I’m taken.” She gets closer to his face, his lips. “Anything?” she asks.
“No!” he replies with some offense.
She lets him off, laughing. “I was just testing you, relax.”
“You’re a hamster on a wheel, there. Why—”
“Because the yenta told me how miserable you can be. I wanted to get you out of your head for a minute.”
“It worked.”
“Good.” She nods, playing on his uncertainty. “In other news, I’m not kicking you out, but you should leave in a minute if you want to avoid at least some of the New Year’s Eve craziness . . . 2014 already, can you believe it?”
He turns, acting casual. “I’m no artist, you know. I don’t have a clue what I can add to your little community here, although I have to admit of late I’ve had this inclination to paint.”
“It’s already cleared. The yenta’s only condition is you pay six months upfront.”
“She told me. Why do you call her that?”
“Yenta? Because all of a sudden she can’t stop talking to me. Like she’s trying to make up for lost time or something . . .” Her voice trails upon noticing Matthius pinch the bridge of his nose, clearly aggravated. “What’s wrong?”
He sighs. “I just realized . . .”
“Realized what?”
“I have no friends to speak of, but I never told her about my cat—”
“She’s okay with cats.”
“She is?”
“She tolerates pets. She’s wonderful with artists and especially great with freaks. You’ll have no problem.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me. After denying my existence forever, my mother’s been trying to reconcile with me for months. If she doesn’t have to look for a new tenant, she’ll be fine. You’ll be fine, and me? I’ll come out smelling like a rose.”
“Wait . . . your mother? Denise is—”
“Adopted. Bully me, huh?”
Hence punctuating for Matthius his unspoken suspicion that she needs him as much inasmuch as he does her.
HOUSE OF USHER, BROOKLYN HEIGHTS, NEW YORK
Later in the evening, Sidra notices Denise’s blinking cell phone on a countertop during a rare dinner visit to the publisher’s home in Brooklyn Heights. The House of Usher, as her adoptive mother and eternal Poe fan calls the location to no embarrassment whatsoever, was built in the 1800s and remains a pristine piece of downtown Brooklyn real estate. Denise has been a neatnik for as long as Sidra could recall; on this night, in tribute to the visiting prodigal daughter, everything is overly clean and impossibly shiny.
“Since Esme, I’ve been doing it all myself,” says Denise. “Dusted, polished—”
“Don’t you ever relax?” Sidra asks. “How’s your blood pressure?”
“I figured you would approve.”
The intent behind scheduling the dinner was sincere, an effort by Denise to thaw relations once and for all (and) to truly try the concept of family on for size. And what better time than the beginning of the new year, she considered, to build a new foundation?
Sidra sees the caller’s name on the display. The message was left by Matthius. Denise had excused herself; Sidra lowers the volume on the voicemail, presses play, and leans her ear against the device:
“Denise, Matthius . . . Matthius Alexi.” Sidra listens intently as Matthius’ voice cracks. “I’m . . . I’m sorry. I . . . I can’t thank you enough, and I apologize again for not getting back to you earlier but I’m (cough) in the midst of a pretty major . . . I’m dealing with a personal issue, and I won’t be able to take the apartment at this time . . . I . . .”
A buzz takes over from there.
Matthius hung up, not finishing his sentence and not mentioning Sidra. Not even once. Denise, meantime, stands in the adjoining doorway, arms crossed, watching her daughter carefully.
Nothing is said on the matter when Denise formally returns, and the ensuing dinner is a cold, tepid affair. Sidra plays dumb for the duration. They skip dessert.
At her own request, Denise agrees to indefinitely refrain from renting the spare room if she does not hear back from Matthius by the end of the night. In that event, Sidra can continue to use the space for storage at no cost. Denise tells her this will be a proactive effort on her part to make things better between them.
“That’s a favor, huh?” Sidra asks. “The way you say it sounds more like an announcement for extra credit. Helping your daughter out at no cost?”
“Maybe I’m changing,” Denise says, dismissive of the sarcasm. “Maybe I’ve been scared of that part of me that needs to be a mom, and I’ve been running. Maybe it’s time for me to grow up?”
Sidra shrugs. She is done. So done. Minutes later, she thanks Denise and leaves as quickly as she can.
SOHO ARTS DISTRICT, NEW YORK CITY
Sidra sprints the walkway of the Brooklyn Bridge to get home, desiring to be alone with her thoughts, and more than once during the ten-minute crossing considers a dive into the black nighttime waters.
“The void,” as she calls it.
Much too much for one damn night, she thinks. Much too much . . .
She eases her pace when she makes it to the other side of the bridge. She arrives home, downs a beer in two minutes, and falls asleep on the couch.
When she awakens, she knows everything has changed.
The alcohol has nothing to do with it, she figures.
~~~
She is aware that in the brief time they spent together, Matthius has made an impact. It’s not a crush, not exactly. Sidra respects his sexuality. But she was able to talk to him. She was able to speak with him, unlike her boyfriend, who is paranoid more often than not.
More importantly, he respects her art. He recognizes and respects the edge of her work—he calls her photos “dangerous,” which she adores—and, as such, she takes his words as Matthius accepting her soul.
She instinctively knows Matthius is dangerous too; despite his denial, Sidra suspects this man is every bit the artist as she. Sidra has no idea of his medium, but there is something else there, something informed by his presence, that has been nagging at her since their meeting.
Her boyfriend, who neither understands her artistic inclinations nor appreciates her photos, is dismissive of Sidra’s art. More than once the word convenience has entered Sidra’s head, and more than once she has dismissed the thought as being unlike him. She so wants to trust him and has been so unsuccessful to now.
What she does not see with her boyfriend is a future. What she will give to swap the usual sense of chaos for a sense of stability. Matthius may not be the most stable guy either, and he certainly isn’t straight boyfriend material, but he made more of an impact in an hour than the guy she’s fucking has made in the two years they’ve been together.
She was right . . . Denise was right. Everything happens in time. Now is not the time.
She calls her advisor, Professor Searle, and leaves him a voicemail, thankful that he doesn’t pick up. She praises him profusely for everything he has done to help her attain her scholarship, and then tells him she cannot go to Egypt. “I’d be leaving in the middle of a personal issue, and it’s just not the right time, I’m so sorry . . .”
And that is that. Sidra believes that she has met a man who will become her friend, a true friend that she has so sorely needed for so long. Acceptance, which she has almost given up on, has always been far more important to her than any sense of escape.
She heads to the couch.
I only escape with the bottle because no one bothers to understand . . .
“My demon killer, meet my demon killer,” she says. “Sorry, ladies and gentlemen, all bets are now off.”
PELHAM CO-OPS, BRONX, NEW YORK CITY
Matthius’ first instinct was to rush Persia to the nearest emergency room. When he saw her tear
s, he changed his mind.
She’s in too much pain.
In his grief, Matthius managed to find a temporary peace of mind and contact the Bayside, Queens, shelter from where he adopted his companion; they promised to schedule a “humane euthanasia” for the following day, in the event she had not passed by then, but he would need to drop her off within the hour as they were closing two hours early.
If chased, he would deal with the authorities later. As he sped to his destination he could only contemplate that his best friend was more disfigured now—under his watch—than she was when he found her.
She was still breathing, barely, when they arrived. He signed the proper paper, kissed her gently on the top of her head then, overcome, rushed back to his vehicle and headed to Bell Boulevard.
He didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t tell her he loved her.
Tonight he would drink the pain away.
~~~
As Matthius stumbled out of his final bar three hours later in the midst of drunken revelers, walking across the street looking for his misplaced car keys, he was hit from behind and his legs run over by a driver who gave no indication whatsoever that she saw him.
He saw her, though, in the split second before the dark.
His back was broken in three places; his spine severed. His skull was crushed.
He died before Persia did. Or so he thought.
The light. I’ll go there and maybe they’ll salvage the refuse.
6:31 am
Matthius Alexi’s body was delivered to the morgue at 6:31 am, nearly five hours following his accident.
By midafternoon, Matthius Alexi was in the hospital, breathing on his own but not yet conscious. He was brought in on a gurney at 6:31 am; the paramedic in charge reporting “a faint pulse” upon his arrival.
When he finally awakened in the hospital, before again falling asleep moments later, he looked at the room’s wall clock through squinty, exhausted eyes. The time was 6:31 am.
Upon awakening the following day, fully alert but having retained only a vague memory of the day before, he observed his surroundings. He was back in the Bronx, in his bed, his apartment in disarray.
Matthius checks the time.
6:31 am.
~~~
He sits up, peeks around for Persia . . . then realizes she is gone. This much he remembers.
Persia . . .
Matthius touches his legs, which are covered by a blanket. He manages, with substantial effort, to wriggle his toes. He cannot otherwise move his legs.
He stretches his arm to the floor for a fresh spiral-bound notebook. His routine, since he was a child, reaching over while in bed and recording his thoughts from the night before. Thoughts, poems, stories . . . the record of his soul.
The only difference today is reaching is necessary as walking is out of the question.
Matthius laments as he clicks his pen.
I should have been with her.
He sets to write. He cannot. His last memories were leaving his best friend at the shelter, heading to the bars . . . and he doesn’t remember a thing since.
Matthius tosses his pen, and the notebook.
He lies back down and closes his eyes.
My baby girl . . .
In seconds his subconscious meanderings flash to an incoming SUV, to a mysterious woman behind the wheel . . . and then the quickest glimpse of Persia, alive and purring, snuggled under the right arm of an imposing male bystander. Tall and appearing to be heavily muscled, the bystander, wearing a black leather trench and shoulder length hair, turns with the cat upon being noticed and silently walks into the path of the vehicle.
The driver does not stop, nor does she try to as Matthius jumps in its way to save his only friend.
His best friend.
And the new nightmare begins.
DISAMBIGUATION
ADIRONDACK PARK, UPSTATE NEW YORK
This time, X cracks open the dictionary before he begins.
They’re still not listening to me, he thinks. Either they don’t care, or they are in denial. What the hell will it take?
He finds the word he’s looking for, successfully compartmentalizes his anxieties, and takes off from here:
An Open Letter to the Media
1/1/15
DISAMBIGUATION
Sometimes I date the letters, sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I title them, send them . . . sometimes I don’t. Keeps you on your toes, all this, but they (“you”) will not misunderstand me, as this time I will not leave any room for doubt.
Assuming you see this one, that is. Haven’t decided yet.
Oh, and Happy New Year. But don’t get too used to it.
From Merriam-Webster. Our word of the day is:
Disambiguation.
“To establish a single semantic or grammatical interpret-tation for — dis·am·big·u·a·tion - noun”
Now that we’re on point, I was thinking of subtitling this entry (we’ll keep the above as our main title) so let me try this on for size: Gaps. You like it? Does it work for you?
I don’t care.
I’m only asking because I awoke this morning with a real willingness—a zest!—to cultivate a more interactive rapport with each and every one of you, which, alas, lasted less than two minutes, but I remain bugged that this letter is in dire need of a subtitle. No? Maybe?
Writer’s choice, doesn’t matter. Gaps it is, referring to missing pieces, questions left unanswered and the like. Like the questionable letter from Denise to yours truly and other hanging chads from Volume One? Like, say, Project Ara? Who really is composing or has composed the enigmatic Project Ara? How and why are my words thusly incorporated? What exactly is my association with one Samantha McFee?
Questions, questions. Some previously indicated, addressed again to force you to leave you behind. TO THINK OUT OF THE BOX, for the more cliché appreciative among us, because if you are reading this you should already know the answers to all of the above.
Should. Doesn’t mean you do, though I’d bet by now—if I was old enough to bet(though really, not that I give a shit there either)—to a growing percentage of you I’m oh-so-slowly becoming less a nag and maybe even a curiosity, because my words are beginning to make at least some sense.
I’m still working on it.
Like a classy woman, I’m going to leave some things to the imagination until their proper time. Like a classy whore, my entire life has become tantric, holding off on the climax until ready player one.
That would be me. We’ll wait until later. Not much later, as we don’t have that luxury, but not now. Reasons . . . you know the rest.
To the present point, the reality is, Thomas McFee wanted nothing more to do with me, nor his publisher, nor his daughter, nor the human race in general, and so when he stealthily went about his personal and professional business for two years he did more than just disappear. Because he discovered more than he ever wanted or even needed to during his trip, and the closeness of some of the other players involved caused him more than his fair share of Sturm und Drang.
Literally.
See what I did there?
He knew his own work, his meaningful work, needed to begin.
So Mssr. McFee tempered his profile while others con-tended with the strange red clouds, the first signal visible to all of our impending demise. Lives intersected in strange and unexpected ways, as you will see moving forward.
Why?
Think, people! A universe in tumult, brought to us by one miserable muse with an agenda, is capable of anything she damn well pleases.
Phrased deliberately. Something new to ponder . . .
Dot dot dot.
P.S. Nah, you almost got me. Not this time. I want you to hear me, but I’m done selling out and, for the time being, adding postscripts to my already lengthy letters. The rest is up to you. I said my piece today.
Of course, I can be fickle, so I reserve the right to change my mind.
SOHO ARTS DISTRICT,
NEW YORK CITY
Matthius, exhibiting no sign whatsoever of infirmity, uproots to Sidra’s spare storage unit in Soho thirteen months following his initial visit.
He does hold a vague, nagging awareness of some things being not quite right, but he nonetheless makes a conscious effort to treat today as it is: his much-anticipated new start. Things that don’t connect, he thinks, I’ll just deal with those headaches later.
Denise was not happy about the yearlong delay, and was further put off when he admitted he was turned down by his credit union, but when he offered up eight months of advance rent and let her know, when asked, that he broke his IRA, all was forgiven.
He had escaped from the Bronx, a month ago, to home sit a room in a two-story rent-controlled Soho apartment; a coworker allowed him the run of the place whenever she left town, and that this he decided to try to stay in the neighborhood upon her return. He did not know why and didn’t care to analyze it, but Soho was a natural fit for him.
Matthius called Denise and told her he was looking for something more “permanent.” He asked about the odds of the room still being available “after all this time.”
Once she had been paid, Denise admitted to Sidra that she didn’t give a damn about the delay. Or Matthius himself. Or his cat. He informed Denise of the incident; she offered her condolences and then said she read it in the papers, and life goes on for the living.
“Everything happens in its time,” she said to Sidra to dubious effect, not believing it either. To Denise, Matthius was that guy at the Algonquin who set her up nicely when it came to out-of-office business meetings, parties, and such. She tossed him a bone when she casually mentioned to him that they may be able to “work something out” without making any promises. She wanted to hear what he had to offer first.
The second room has remained unoccupied, and Sidra has continued to use it for storage as Denise had promised. Denise, meantime, turned to work as usual and became too busy to worry about anything—other than Tom’s whereabouts; she would take the time of his absence and do what she needed to improve business.
Chronicles of Ara: Perdition Page 6
