There passes several moments when no one speaks, which I can only describe as uncomfortable. The Spandex guy suddenly remembers the friends he left at the other end of the bar, and returns to them in a single bound or so. Aimee, I notice, has scratched out “NEVER” on her tag and written in “BOREDOM.” I am glad to have a drink because it gives me something to do with my hands.
Later, I am taking a deep breath, preparing to say something, anything, when the band starts up again—incredibly loud. Which is how I know Jill’s phone was probably on vibrate. She leans forward on the barstool, holding the phone to one ear and plugging the other with a finger. A deep crease begins to form between her eyebrows. Suddenly, still bent forward in that same position, she bolts. “Don’t—!” I hear her yelling into the phone as she darts headlong through the crowd.
I look to the other girls. “What an asshole,” Liza says, turning to Aimee. “Brian’s tag should read, ‘Crushed Under Own Ego.’”
“‘Being a Total Dickweed,’” Aimee replies.
Karen exhales a cloud of grey smoke. “‘Cock Suckery.’”
I have been trying to follow this exchange arcing back and forth over my head like a lethal volleyball. “Really?” I say at last, with a look of what I can only imagine is total astonishment on my face. “Why is she going to marry him, then?”
All three turn to me, silent.
“Hey, Dies-In-Sleep,” Liza finally says, after what feels like a long time, “you’ve got a good life ahead of you, why don’t you go buy us a round?”
I am hustling back from the bar, a glass in each hand and one balanced between them on the tips of my outstretched fingers, forming a kind of drink triangle—Liza’s non-sequitur having seemed somehow perfectly reasonable coming from her—when an entirely different thought finally occurs to me: The finger that Jill gave me earlier was the ring finger. Without the ring.
I find her by the bathrooms, wiping her eyes with toilet paper. “He wasn’t always like this,” she says without preamble, sniffing. “He got one of those fucked up predictions. You know? Like Liza?” She wipes the corner of her eye. “‘Attacked.’ I mean, how fucked up is that? But instead of just dealing, it made him all paranoid and mean. And he never wanted to go out, and when we did stay in he was always—” She stops and blows her nose. Laughs. “Fuck it,” she says, her wet eyes shining. “He probably was always like that, and is just using it as an excuse for being a shitty person.” She sniffs again and tosses the wadded tissue into her purse. “That’s what I’ve been telling Aimee, anyway.”
From the stage, the bass player begins an elaborate, extended solo.
“Um, listen,” I say, lamely. “Aimee and everyone, they want to leave. Go to this party they heard about.” I attempt a wry smile: “Karen says this place is dead.”
Jill looks at me seriously, and doesn’t break eye contact. “I’m really tired,” she says at last. “Can I just stay at your place?”
I am standing outside in the warm Arizona night air, waiting for a cab. I am a little drunk maybe, and trying to make things fit together in my mind. Me. Jill. Jill and me. When the cab pulls up, we get in, sliding to the center on the hard vinyl seat. The door handle on my side is made almost entirely of duct tape. Jill smells like flowers and other people’s cigarettes. Her presence fills the cab. Jill. I give the driver the address to my apartment and I’m trying to remember, is there still a dirty cereal bowl on my living room table? Clothing balled on the floor? Underwear? The driver’s accent has a recognizable musicality which I think places him from India. The air conditioner in the cab is not strong, but Jill and I stay huddled together in the back. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to put my arm around her. My arm lies stiffly across the back of the seat. “I don’t understand those dating services,” she says to me. “All those ‘Heart Attacks’ and ‘Tumors’ getting together. It all seems so grim.”
I nod but it’s dark in the back of the cab.
“I like yours, though,” she says. “It’s sweet.”
“Sweet like, ‘That-baby-is-so-sweet?” I say, smiling nervously. “Or sweet like, ‘Dude. Sweeet.’”
She doesn’t answer but moves her body right underneath my arm, and then it is, it’s the most natural thing in the world to let my arm fall across her shoulders. We cross seven intersections under green lights and all I can feel or hear is my own heartbeat. I want to blurt out something to the driver, to ask him if it’s true that in India everyone who goes to the machine gets card after card after card, thereby proving reincarnation, but I know that some cultures are much more private and reverent about these things. They don’t wear tags.
There is a new weight to Jill’s body now, and her breathing has become heavier, more even—she is asleep. I look down at the hair on the top of her head, braided and clipped with tiny butterflies. Someday a blood vessel will rupture inside her brain and end it. Someday. But who knows, maybe “AFTER MANY YEARS.” Maybe “WITH SMILE ON FACE.” It happens.
We pass an apartment complex, not mine but like it, Saguaro cacti planted out front and spot-lit, their limbs held stiffly at attention, like sentinels on guard, row upon row.
I tell people I don’t, but the truth is, I do think about it sometimes. My death. And yes, it does bring me comfort—but not as much as you’d think. Like just knowing a story has a happy ending alone doesn’t make it a good story. All you have is the effect without the cause. The “then” without the “if.” And life, I think, doesn’t work like that. You can’t just plot it out on a line graph, point to point, straight through to the end. It operates in many dimensions—each action, each decision, branching out in complex, often unexpected, directions.
We pass the turn that would take us to my street; the cab driver taking the long way around, the meter running, my arm around Jill, tingling slightly, and I don’t say anything yet because I know where we’re headed, and when we get there and step out of the cab and into my apartment and her eyes are open and anything is possible, do I make the right decision then, do things begin, or do they end, do we, for example, kiss?
Story by William Grallo
Illustration by Scott C.
KILLED BY DANIEL
HE GOT THE RESULTS IN APRIL, AND HIS FIRST THOUGHT WAS THAT HE HAD NO IDEA WHAT TO DO WITH THEM. For a while, he kept the little slip of paper hidden at the back of a desk drawer at work, still inside its official envelope. He didn’t want it in the house—Phil was bound to ferret it out. Phil wouldn’t even have to try, bless him; he was just one of those people who found things.
He’d thrown away all the other stuff that had been in there, all the leaflets about counselling and help-lines and support groups and whatnot. Everything seemed to be full of leaflets these days. It was like the Sunday papers: you always had to give them a proper shaking over the coffee table before you read them, otherwise hundreds of shiny advertisements would be likely to slither out and attack you.
After three weeks, Robin took the slip of paper out of his desk drawer and burnt it in the wastepaper bin.
“Morning, sunshine.”
Robin groaned, reluctantly dragging himself out of sleep as the familiar scent dug its little caffeine hooks into him. He hauled himself ungracefully into a sitting position and took the mug from Phil.
“I hate you,” he said, blinking resentfully at the bright spring morning filtering through the curtains.
“Oh, cheers, sweetie!”
“Why do you always have to look so shiny at this time of day? You’re like a scout leader or something.”
“Well, that’s what I am. Sort of.”
Phil ran team-building holidays and survival courses for groups of business people, teenagers, anyone really; people looking to find themselves or each other. He and Robin had actually met on one of these excursions, five years ago come July. Badgered into it by his then-boss, Robin had hated every second but slogged through it valiantly, getting stuck in bogs and out of breath on mountains. One damp morning, after Robin h
ad spent a nightmarish hour trying to light a campfire with two sticks, Phil had quietly slipped him a cigarette lighter and winked. “It wasn’t favouritism,” he said later. “It was a reward. I admired your persevering spirit.”
He was doing well these days, Phil. The survival business had never been so popular.
“Here you go. Read this and stop whinging.” Phil thrust a copy of the Guardian in front of Robin and continued to bustle around the bedroom, tidying things that, as far as Robin was concerned, didn’t really need tidying. It was an annoying, yet comforting habit. Phil sometimes reminded Robin of Mrs. Tiggywinkle, the hedgehog from the Beatrix Potter books. There was something small and neat and prickly about him. He’d told Phil that once, and wasn’t allowed to bring it up ever again, on pain of death.
“I think you’re very cruel, waking me up,” he called over the sound of Phil rummaging through the cupboard on the landing. “It’s the weekend.”
Phil’s head poked round the bedroom door. “It is also Child Day.” The head grinned at him and disappeared again.
“Oh, yeah.”
Robin put his coffee down on the bedside cabinet. It didn’t seem to be agreeing with him this morning. He carefully folded the newspaper and put it to one side. That little printed slip, long gone to ashes, floated unbidden into his mind. It might not mean that, he thought. It probably means something quite…
“Can you stop by Sainsbury’s on the way back?” Phil called from downstairs. “Fresh basil is needed, I fear.”
Robin realised he’d been holding his breath. He let it go in a sigh, and got out of bed.
Driving to Angela’s felt strange today, as though he’d never done it before. He ended up missing a turn and found himself on the wrong street, where fat, tracksuit-clad women glared at him from their front gardens as he passed. Outside a chip shop, a group of hooded youths stood around smoking, their shoulders hunched. One of them caught his eye and made as if to run in front of the car, jumping back at the last minute. The other kids grinned, spilling out into the road as the car went past, reclaiming their territory. Robin saw the boy’s face for a second in the rear-view mirror. The hood had fallen back onto his shoulders and he was laughing, running a hand through his hair, the sun in his eyes. Only a kid.
When he finally reached Angela’s house, he found himself unwilling to walk up the path and ring the bell. He sat there in his seat with his heart thudding wildly, feeling as though he couldn’t quite catch his breath.
“I don’t know whether you want tea,” said Angela distractedly. “I don’t think there is any, anyway.”
She went to the foot of the stairs and called up, “Love, did you get teabags?” Her cigarette was dangling heavy-ashed over the carpet. Robin winced and forced himself to look away.
The answer floated faintly down from an upstairs room. “It wasn’t on the list.”
“Sorry,” she said to Robin, and shrugged. “What can you do?”
“Doesn’t matter, honestly.” Robin smiled. “I’ll pick some up for you if you like, I’ve got to stop at Sainsbury’s anyway. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, you know…” She stood awkwardly next to the sofa, thin arms folded across her chest, cigarette still dangling.
Robin knew. Even in the long-ago days of their marriage, Angela had had a strange, aimless quality to her, as though she needed something heavy to anchor her down. When she was happy it could be a lovely thing. They’d drifted together, the two of them. Drifting along the seafront on windy days, into the country for makeshift picnics where neither of them remembered to bring any food. She’d had such a nice laugh, like music, he’d thought fancifully. Neither of them had known where they were going, really. Not then. And Angela never had found out. Sometimes, even in those days, her aimlessness had made him want to kick her or shake her. Anything to get a reaction.
Now she drifted from room to room inside her little house, leaving traces of cigarette-ash on all the surfaces, living in a dressing gown. She hadn’t stepped out of that house for two years, give or take. She had a counsellor she thought the world of, and a certificate from the doctor saying she was unable to work. And her son. Their son. Not much else.
A tree, the test had told her. A tree would kill her.
It was best not to risk it, she always said, peering out mistily from behind the net curtains. Not today, anyway.
There were footsteps on the stairs. Robin hesitated for a second before he turned around. Be normal, he thought. Be the same.
“We ready to go, then?” said Daniel.
Daniel. His hair flopping in his eyes, like it always did. Those ridiculous jeans and the battered army bag with all the badges on it. Just Daniel. Robin smiled. He couldn’t help it. Daniel made him smile.
“Hiya, mate. You all right?”
“Yep. See you, Mum.” Daniel was halfway out the door already, Angela plucking nervously at his sleeve, cautioning both of them against this, that, and the other. Robin reassured her, escaped, and followed his son out to the car, the way he did every Saturday. It was easy, he found, to pretend that things were normal. Daniel made everything easy.
As he walked down the path, Robin smiled up at the blue sky. The spring sunshine was warm on his face, and it felt like an unexpected gift.
“So…” he said, sneaking a sideways look at Daniel as they waited at the lights. Needs a haircut, he thought automatically. He wondered whether that was just something that came with parenthood, the desire for everyone to have a decent haircut. He couldn’t remember ever looking at someone before Daniel was born and thinking ‘needs a haircut.’ Now he found himself doing it all the time. That girl at the newsagents, for instance. He always wondered how she could see to count the change through that ridiculous fringe. He shook his head.
“Lunch!” he declared. “Then…I don’t know, we could wander down to the seafront. Anything you fancy doing, Danny-boy?”
Daniel rolled his eyes at the nickname and shrugged. “Dunno really.”
“You staying over?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Got Club tonight. Is Phil cooking?”
“Obviously. Unless you’ve got a real yen for beans on toast, that is.”
Daniel laughed. Absurdly, Robin thought ‘Score!’ Then, remembering, a sickness rose up into his throat.
The lights changed. He swallowed and concentrated on the traffic.
“How’s your mum doing?” he asked, using the deliberately light tone that always went with that question. He felt rather than saw Daniel’s shrug.
“Same.”
“Right.”
“She got Katherine out in the middle of the night, Wednesday. The nightmares again—thought she was having a heart attack.”
Robin frowned. Poor Angela. She could stay indoors as long as she liked, hiding from real trees—it couldn’t stop imaginary ones from getting into her head. Poor Angela…
But he’d joined that club now, hadn’t he? Perhaps he should be feeling sorry for himself. Poor Robin.
“You know what we said still stands, don’t you? You can always—”
“Dad…”
“There’ll always be a room for you at ours. Whenever you want. No problem.”
“Yeah? And what about Mum? She’s a problem, isn’t she?”
Robin sighed. They went through this every week. “We can get care for her…we can help more. You’d still see her, as much as you wanted. Everything doesn’t have to be down to you, you know.”
“It’s fine! I can handle it, okay? I like things the way they are.”
“But—”
“Dad!”
“Yes, yes, all right.” He sighed. “Just so long as you know, that’s all. We’re only at the end of the phone. Anyway... How’s school?”
“All right.”
It was just an ordinary drive. An ordinary sunny Saturday. How strange, thought Robin, that it should be so.
When they got back, the kitchen smelled appealingly of Phil’s lasagne.
�
��I knew you’d forget the basil,” he said. “So I made do. On your own head be it.” He pointed a wooden spoon accusingly at Robin.
“Shit,” said Robin. “Sorry, sorry…”
“Luckily for you, my darling,” said Phil, kissing his cheek, “I am a culinary genius. Hi, Daniel.”
“All right?” said Daniel by way of a greeting, and threw his bag down on a chair. “That smells brilliant, I’m starving.”
“Gratified to hear it.” Phil blinked at them both, then turned back to the stove. He was funny in the kitchen, Robin thought— almost shy, as though he’d been caught doing something embarrassing. It was stupidly endearing. Daniel sat down at the table and started flicking through the Guardian, discarding the various sections, looking for the music reviews. “Jesus,” he said. “Why do they have to put so much crap in this thing?”
Watching them, Robin suddenly felt terribly separate, as though he were observing through a pane of glass, or a screen. He wondered for a second whether he should leave. Just sneak out the back door, quietly; he knew how to work the latch so that it wouldn’t squeak. Probably, neither of them would notice. In a minute or two, one or the other of them would look up, and…he wouldn’t be there.
Stupid thing to think. Running away never solved anything. And where would he go? To his parents? Hardly. He’d have to go far enough away… He’d have to leave everyone and everything. Except that nowhere he went would ever be far enough, would it? You couldn’t run away from death, even if you could from life. He felt his eyes begin to prickle, and covered his mouth with his hand.
Machine of Death Page 23
