Fra Keeler

by Azareen Van der Vliet Oloomi

  I reached up one hand to lean against the doorway; I was sweating just thinking of her sowing her thoughts into plans and orchestrating them from her dark abode. The love drained from my heart.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “you could be more specific as to where you’ve seen me,” and she slackened her arms and stood straight as a pole in the doorway. I looked behind her. The cat was sleeping. Nice cat, I wanted to say, and noticed that a strange gray light filled her home, a plump, sad light had taken over her things—the couch, the chairs, the round of the cat’s back. I didn’t say anything, only stared at her. “In the garden,” she continued in the softest of voices, “or perhaps checking the mail, because I do that often.”

  I felt as though she could see through me, as though she was softening her voice to wrap around my sadness, because suddenly I had the distinct feeling of being transparent. Sweet old lady, I thought, I could love her, but something turned ever so slightly at the base of my chest—the love reeled itself back in—because it occurred to me that it was a strange suggestion, a distinct suggestion, not at all innocent—that I may have seen her checking her mail—because certainly, I thought, she has used the mail to interfere in my affairs. I grew nervous with anticipation. I swallowed a few times, shifted my position. I am done for, I thought. I felt his name rise up, and I wanted to push it down, but it rose again, shivering in my throat like a tiny bird. A tiny bird, I thought, tiny lump of bird, and I felt the tears well up in my eyes again. “Fra,” I said, because I couldn’t push it down; his name came out like a nervous shudder. I stopped myself.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said, and looked behind her. “Your cat,” I said, “it isn’t there. It was on the couch just a second ago, and now it isn’t there.”

  “Oh,” she said, turning around to look for the cat. “There she is,” she said, because she spotted the cat on the stool, in a new position, licking itself. “But just now,” she said, “you said something else.”

  “No, I didn’t. I was just—”

  “Certainly you did,” she interrupted, “I heard you,” and she paused thoughtfully for a moment. “Fra,” she said, “just now, I heard you say it.”

  “Not exactly,” I said, “that isn’t”—but I couldn’t finish because she interrupted me again, what a habit, I thought, she has of speaking over everyone else.

  “It’s an old song,” she said, and suddenly she was very invigorated, because a second later she was singing it, “Fra la la la, Fra la la, Fra Fra,” she sang, “but I can’t seem to remember the rest of it.”

  Certainly, I thought, she has come undone in her head. And she must have noticed the expression on my face, because she stuttered. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I used to be an opera singer, it seems I can’t help myself,” and I thought certainly, most definitely duplicitous, she is, and turned my face into a screw to examine her.

  We stood there for a moment staring at each other. “Would that be all?” she asked. Then she said, “It is getting late.” She closed the door, but just before she shut the door I caught a glimpse of her twisted face: certainly, I thought, it is she who is behind it all.

  5. I was standing there all alone. I thought, this is not the end of it: her singing a song, making a mockery of it all. I paced back and forth on her doorstep. I looked down at my hands, then quickly at the doorknob. My hands were cold. The skin around my knuckles was burning. I thought, I have to get in; I have to go through her door. And if not through her door then a window. I snapped my fingers at the thought. An image came to me of the lamp I had spotted at the end of the hallway. I imagined her cat curving around the lamp, her tail illuminated under the bulb. Warmth, I thought, and light. But I couldn’t remember if the lamp was on when I had seen it, or if I had just imagined it to be—a soft, yellow light calling me through her door.

  The wind picked up. It was slightly colder than it had been all along. I rubbed my hands together. I stuck my hands into my pockets. I withdrew my hands. I touched one finger to my temple, then another. I looked up at the stars. They were flickering. There was a yellowish hue around the moon. A bird darted across the sky: slick and black and singular. The sky, I thought: infinitely deep, infinitely dark. I wanted to cup my hands around the stars, pluck them out of the sky once and for all.

  Suddenly, I remembered the dull, black surface of my dream. Everything burns to ashes. Lives out by whatever machinery, whatever injustice, then burns down to the very surface that held it up. The hand—I thought—the face in my dream! She was getting in the way of everything, her trembling form redoubling itself in my sleep. Wretched old lady, I thought, I will show her. Because in addition to putting up with her in life, I thought, I should not have to put up with her in my dreams.

  Better to take a walk around her house, I thought, to take a good look before going in. Certainly her house could be just as deceptive, just as duplicitous as she herself: one countenance on the outside, another altogether on the inside, with no connection between. I leaned over to scratch my ankles. There were mosquitoes everywhere, flying frantically in the wind. Just as I leaned over to persuade them away from my ankles, the blood drained from my brain. But it wasn’t dizziness I experienced. Rather a feeling of disorientation, because just then an image of the club I had dropped in the yard behind my house appeared in front of my feet. How, I wondered, has it made an appearance so suddenly, and directly in front of my feet? But slowly, as I stood up, it all made sense: yes, I thought, the club—it is exactly what I need. I dashed over to my yard and grabbed the club. By now the wind had died down, the night was quiet and still. I thought, nothing could be more perfect than silence on a night like this; the stillness of dying, the silence of death, and a rush of excitement filled my veins.

  I returned to her doorstep. I practiced swinging the club. I swung with one arm, then the other. Definitely, I thought, my right arm is the stronger of the two. I was feeling more lighthearted than ever. This is joy, I thought, this is happiness, all my investigations taking form. With a decisive air I jumped off her front steps and turned the corner. I entered her backyard. There I saw a goose waddling away. A goose in her backyard, I thought: under the light of the moon, a goose waddling away! My blood froze. All I could think was: a goose in her backyard, stark in the middle of her yard, a goose. For a moment, I raised the club over my head. Perhaps the goose is an omen, I thought, and my blood started to move again. The bird waddled into the trees, which were slim and silver under the light of the moon. The goose released a loud honk. The sound returned my attention to the world. I found myself standing directly above the goose behind a row of trees. I placed the club down and leaned my weight into it as though it were a cane. I could ring its neck, I thought, looking at the goose. Then it occurred to me: I could spy into her house through the skylight on her roof. Now, in my distraction, the goose waddled away. That is what I’ll do, I said to myself, maintaining a line of thought: I will climb directly onto her roof. And a moment later I was standing there, club in hand, staring down at her skylight as I stood on her roof.

  Was it real? I thought, and looked down at my hands.

  The cat walked cautiously by the wall.

  She arched her back, pointed her tail up to the sky. Her eyes narrowed into slits. She began to lick her right paw. The pale pink of her tongue makes a pleasant picture, I thought, against the soft pad of her paw. But the next moment she leaned away from the wall. She wound between my legs, rubbed her body against the club. One moment the cat is cool and distant, I thought, the next all warmth.

  I walked over to the kitchen counter. I had dropped the club. The cat followed me. I took a seat on one of the stools. The cat jumped onto the counter. From a distance she inspected my face. I looked out the window. A few leaves ruffled slightly in the wind, gave a small shudder. A bird gave out a low whistle, then took off into the night. Everything went still. Everything went silent. I looked around. The house was quiet, motionless except for the cat. I reached out to t
ouch her and felt her breath against the palm of my hand. Could it be, I thought, and by whose hands? I looked at the club. I had left it leaning against the couch. I couldn’t differentiate the club from my hands. Ten fingers, I thought, two hands. I inspected the furniture. Deep reds and browns, floral patterns. Ten fingers, I thought, as I looked at my hands. They could be performing any gesture: playing the keys of a piano, digging soil, folding a napkin.

  No, I thought. It couldn’t have been. Because certain things are of a category that one remembers. Not a lot of time, I thought, has gone by. Minutes, organized into units. How many minutes had gone by?

  I wondered.

  An image of the shards came back to me. I watched the skylight shatter as I relived the memory. I looked up to where the skylight had been, then traced the rectangular chunk of sky down through the opening to the floor, where the shards were glistening with late-night rain. I shrugged my shoulders, puckered my lips. No matter, I thought. Because everything has already been done. Everything, I thought, in this room, and beyond this room, everything has already happened and been done with, dealt with. There is no doing, I thought, no matter, nothing left to do in this world. I felt my heart die down. Now the cat was walking among the shards. I thought, she must be taking pleasure, avoiding the sharp triangles, the pointed edges. Because she was extending her paws, licking them intermittently as she tiptoed around the shards. I looked back up at the skylight. One moment, I thought—and then my mind was a flood of memories, because I saw an image of myself standing over the skylight, staring at my reflection, which is to say: I saw myself twice. It was a slight pause in time, an interruption. Everything shattered: tiny bullets of glass flew through the night like shooting stars. Now I could see the shards, a few feet from where I was seated, scattered across her living room floor, and, seated on her stool, a version of myself reflected in the shards, just as I had seen myself, only whole, in the skylight as I stood on her roof.

  I walked out of the kitchen, down the hallway. In her bedroom everything looked wounded. There was a purplish hue on the walls, over her bed, on her furniture. I looked down at my hands. I felt my arms detach from my shoulders. I watched them float away. Could it have been? I thought, and imagined her gaping mouth form an answer. I saw a reflection of myself in the bedroom window. Couldn’t I get away? I was standing in her doorway. Was it real? I wondered, and backed away. A moment later I was in the bathroom, kneeling on the tile floor.

  I turned the tap, stuck my head under the spigot, scrubbed my neck. Couldn’t I have imagined it? The water ran over my head. Her two eyes: icy, blue lakes drifting farther and farther apart from each other as though her face were a humid land being stretched to its limits. I walked back into her bedroom. I left the water running in the bathroom. I turned her body over. A sudden urge. A mass of mangled branches. First to one side—I inspected her back—then the other. There was a streak of blood running from her mouth to her neck. I pulled up her hair. The blood, I thought—looking down at my hands—her wet flesh. I heard the water spill over the tub and spread across the bathroom floor. Lovely, I thought, in this moment, the sound of water pouring over a tub. I pulled the covers over her frame. I walked back to the couch. I left the water running. I thought, let the earth sink.

  A sedentary feeling grew at the base of my chest. The cat curled onto my lap. Everything faded. Was it me, I thought, wasn’t it me? I heard the water trickle out of the bathroom. I imagined the water being absorbed by the bedroom carpet. Then, as though in the distance, I heard a door slam, I heard voices. I heard a man draw out a roll of tape. I stroked the cat. Everything, I thought again, has already happened, even the end. I heard a loud noise. I felt my body stiffen. The room turned. It spun around. Everything spun with it: Fra Keeler, I thought, the papers, her trembling hand. It was a mere instance. Because one moment—then I felt someone turn me over, clasp a cold thing around my hands—one moment, I thought, and then the next.

  The car drove quickly. I saw three park benches, a sparrow on a branch. The lights turned from green to red. Each time the car stopped, I counted the seconds. Up to forty, then back down again, until I was pushed down onto a metal chair. A heavy-set man stood in front of me. A few other men stood behind him. I heard: “Yes, Sir.” I heard: “No, Sir.” Then there was a clicking. The door slid open. The men left. Everyone except for the one heavy-set man, who by now had moved closer to me. How much time has gone by, I thought, since I have been here? Minutes, I counted, years. Anything in between. I looked down at my hands. I hardly recognized them.

  “Are you going to talk this time?” the man asked.

  Talk? I thought. Now versus when? I looked around the room. There was nothing familiar. A room, I thought, like any other. A plain room with a buzzing noise circling inside of it.

  He took a step closer. I felt something tighten at the back of my neck. Death, I thought, wars, it is all the same thing. Because wars—and I felt a blow hard against my face—wars—and just as I picked the word up, it trickled down my lip.

  The heavy-set man stepped back. He lit a cigarette, took a big puff, then let the cigarette hang between his lips. As I looked at him, I recalled the smell of burning flesh. I remembered the mosquitoes buzzing everywhere, settling on the corpses. His lips, they were sealed. He was silent. He turned around, but only halfway, then looked at me again.

  “Nothing?” he asked, hanging his head from his neck.

  “Nothing,” I responded.

  He took a long, sweeping look at me, the same way he would have looked, I thought, at a good mass of garbage.

  “Now, how,” he began to speak, but stopped himself. His voice, nothing but peeling bark, I assured myself. I watched him remove the cigarette from his lips. He lit another, and made a gesture as if to say this one is for you.

  “I don’t smoke,” I said.

  “A lot of refusal you got going,” he responded.

  Son of a bitch, I said to him in my head. And I must have looked at him hatefully because the next moment he said:

  “If you’re going to curse, you should really commit to cursing. Out loud,” he said. The yurt flashed before my eyes.

  “You’re putting up a good fight,” he said.

  “No fight,” I said.

  “That’s not what I would call it,” he sighed. “You’re monosyllabic, you’re silent; it’s a fight. Like it or not that is what it is.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Sir,” he responded, “there are ways of talking, and this isn’t one of them.” And I thought, really, he is quick to jump to conclusions. Perhaps I will receive another beating. I rolled my eyes into two tiny bullets. He took a step toward me. There was still a bit of blood trickling down my lip. I shifted. I looked away.

  “You’re afraid,” he said. “What are you afraid of?” he asked, having taken all the mockery in the world and stuffed it down his larynx.

  “Nothing,” I said, and he took a step back and lit another cigarette.

  “Nothing?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I responded.

  “Not even your own death?” he asked and slid a stack of papers across the desk.

  “Take a look at these,” he said, “and tell me what you think.” He tapped his index finger against the papers, as if to say look here, and I spied near his finger something very familiar across the page. The death-related papers, I thought, forgery, murder, and the lights went out in my head.

  “No,” I said, shrugging the feeling off, “not even my own death.” I couldn’t stand the way he was drumming his fingers against the papers.

  “Now we’re talking,” he said, drawing his hand to his hip.

  “No,” I said.

  “No,” he responded. And then he said: “Do you think this is some sort of a game?”

  “No,” I said, “no game.” And I felt the blood drain out of my legs.

  “How long have you been living there, in that house?” he asked.

  “An indeterminate period,” I said.<
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  “Don’t be a smart ass,” he responded, and then he picked up the stack of papers and he left.

  A sudden departure. Truly, I thought, life is one fickle moment. I slid my hand across my lip. Blood, I thought, murder, the unfriendly events. Because, I thought, wasn’t I already dead? I looked around the room. Hardly anything was making sense. I had the distinct feeling of having cut off various parts of myself. I am empty, I thought, my core is dead. For a moment the buzzing sound in the room died down, then resurfaced again. The door slid open. The detective walked in. Three other men walked in behind him. I remembered parts of a body scattered across an arid piece of land as though its trunk and limbs had always been separate elements. My eyes refocused. One of the three men stood behind the detective and fingered his belt. He had a gun tucked into his trousers, another hoisted on his belt. The detective walked over to the table. He put down a tape recorder, and a glass of water next to it.

  “Drink up,” he said. And I lifted the glass of water and drank it.

  “Now,” he said, and I saw the man behind him drag his finger across the gun he had hoisted on his belt. Death, I thought, another set of unfriendly events. I felt a blow across my head. The buzzing in the room subsided. My neck tensed. My head snapped back; everything faded. I felt some blood trickle down the side of my face. The blood crystallized, it made a distinct sound near my ear. This, I thought, must be the sound of death.

  The yurt reeled in front of my face, like a wild horse caught mid air.

  I walked in, one foot in front of the other.

  I stumbled across something: a body, I thought, and then I realized, no, it couldn’t have been, because I suddenly remembered the canoe inside the yurt. Outside, the rain began falling, at first softly, then a bit more harshly. I lay down, I reached for the oar, I grabbed hold of it. The rain fell through the trees. The ground soaked up the water. I felt the canoe rise. A great body of water, I thought, above the earth. I watched the water gather. One moment, I thought, and then the next—and I couldn’t tell if it was blood or water—I let everything drift away.