Knife Fight and Other Struggles

by Knife Fight

  “You met Lucille,” he said.

  “How did you know?” I asked, but I didn’t need to; as I spoke, I saw Kimi over the breakfast bar in the kitchen, putting glasses into the dishwasher. She’d told him about our conversation in the washroom. He’d put it together.

  “Yeah,” said Len, “you were on the beach. Two of you. Had yourself a time, didn’t you, Tom?”

  “We had ourselves a time.”

  Len put a bony hand on my thigh, gave it a squeeze of surprising strength, and nodded.

  “Now you’re drunk in my living room, when everybody else has had the sense to get out. Too drunk to drive yourself, am I right?”

  That was true.

  “And you don’t have cab fare, do you?”

  I didn’t have cab fare.

  “You’re a fucking leech, Tom. You smell like a fucking leech.”

  “It’s the ocean,” I said.

  Kimi turned her back to us, lowered her head and raised her shoulder blades, like wings, as she ran water in the kitchen sink.

  “Yeah, we know that’s not so,” said Len. “You smell of Lucy.” He licked his lips, and not looking up, Kimi called out, “That’s not nice, Len,” and Len chuckled and jacked a thumb in her direction and shrugged.

  “Did she leave?” I asked. “Lucy, I mean.”

  “Miss her too now?” Did I miss her like you, he meant, obviously.

  “I just didn’t see her leave.”

  “What’d I just say? Everybody else had the sense to get out.”

  A plate clattered loudly in the sink. Len shouted at Kimi to be fuckin’ careful with that. Then he coughed and turned an eye to me. His expression changed.

  “You saw,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you?”

  “I saw.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more. But he stopped himself, the way he does: tucking his chin down, pursing his lips . . . like he’s doing some math, which is maybe close to the mark of what he is doing until he finally speaks.

  “Did she tell you how we met?”

  “Friend of a friend,” I said, then remembered: “Not just a friend; one of your partners. And then you just kept inviting her out.”

  “Always that simple, isn’t it?”

  “It’s never that simple,” I said, “you’re going to tell me.”

  “It is that simple,” he said. “Lucille Carroll is a high school friend of Linda James. Linda isn’t a partner now and I won’t likely live to see the day that she is. But she did work for me. With me. And she used to come out sometimes. And she brought Lucille one day. And not long after, Linda stopped coming around. Lucille still shows up.” He sighed. “Simple.”

  Kimi flipped a switch under the counter and the dishwasher hummed to life. “I’m turning in,” she announced, and when Len didn’t say anything, she climbed the stairs.

  “It’s not that simple,” I said when Kimi was gone. Now, I thought, was the time when Len would spell it out for me: tell me what had happened, really.

  “And she doesn’t like to talk about it,” was what he said instead. “It’s private, Tom.”

  What came next? Well, I might have handled it better. But you know how I hate it when my friends hide things from me. We both remember the weekend at the lake, with your sister and her boys. Did I ever properly apologize for that? It’s difficult to, when all I’ve spoken is God’s truth.

  But I could have handled it better.

  “It’s not private,” I said, “it’s the opposite. She’s the least private person I’ve met. The eyes. . . .”

  “Her skin condition, you mean.”

  “You do know about them.” I may have jabbed him in the chest. That may have been unwise. “Maybe you like them? Watching everything you do? Maybe they flatter your vanity. . . .”

  Len shook his head. He stopped me.

  “You know what, Tom? I’m sick of you. I’ve been sick of you for a long time. But I’m also sick, and I’ll tell you—that clarifies things for a man. So here’s what I see:

  “You come here to my house—you moon around like some fucking puppy dog—you drink my wine . . . the friends of mine you don’t fuck, you bother with your repetitive, self-involved shit. Jesus, Tom. You’re a leech.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, because really—what else do you say to something like that? To someone like Len, for Christ’s sake?

  “Yeah,” he said. “Heard that one before. Lucy’s a special girl, Tom. She’s helping me in ways you couldn’t imagine. And it has nothing to do with my fucking vanity. Not a fucking thing. Lucy’s my . . . assurance. And she’s always welcome here.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I got that. Now are you okay to drive yet, Tom?”

  I wasn’t. But I said sure.

  “Then you get out of my house. Get back to your place. Stay there. I don’t think you should come back here again.”

  Yes. That’s why you hadn’t seen me at Len’s after that. He cast me out—into the wilderness—left me to my own devices.

  I wasn’t avoiding you.

  Far from it.

  Lucy wasn’t that hard to find.

  She had a Facebook page, and I had enough information to narrow her down from the list of those other Lucy Carrolls who said they were from here. So I sent her a note apologizing for being such an asshole, and she sent me a friend request and I agreed—and she asked me to pick a place, and that’s where we met. The Tokyo Grill in the Pier District. I don’t think we ever went there, you and I. But at 12:15 on a Tuesday in June, it’s very bright.

  Lucy wore a rose print dress, not quite as pale as her skin. She had freckles and her hair was more reddish than brunette. Perhaps it was the effect of wearing a dress and not a pair of jeans, but she seemed more svelte on the patio than she did that night on the beach. Her eyes were hazel.

  Do you remember how I courted you? Did you ever doubt that I was anything but spontaneous? That when I laughed so hard at that joke of yours, it was because I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard?

  You didn’t? You should have. I’m not good at everything in life, oh that I’ll admit. But I am good at this part. I am smooth.

  And that’s how I was at the Tokyo Grill that Tuesday.

  Lucy wasn’t sure about me and she made that explicit pretty early. I’d seemed nice at first, but running off like that . . . well, it had been hurtful. It made her feel as though there was something wrong with her, and as she made explicit somewhat later on, there wasn’t anything wrong with her.

  “It’s not you—it’s the rest of the world,” I said, and when she took offense, I explained I wasn’t making fun.

  “The world’s an evil place. Lots wrong with it. Look at . . . think about Len, as an example.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well. How he treats people. How he uses them. Like Kimi.”

  “He’s an important man,” she said quickly. “I imagine it takes a toll. All those clients he’s got to look after.” She sighed. “Clients can be very demanding.”

  “Clients.” I made a little smile. “That’s a good word. Len has clients like other people have friends.”

  Yes, I suppose I was being dramatic. But Lucy didn’t think so; she laughed, very hard, and agreed.

  “So what about you?” she asked. “Are you client or friend?”

  “Something else.”

  I explained how Lucy wasn’t the only one I’d offended with my bad behaviour that night—and again, I layered contrition on top of itself, and doing so took another step to winning her over.

  Working through it, I could almost forget that Lucy was a woman containing a multitude—that as she sat here opposite me in the Pier District, the lids up and down her body squinted shut like tiny incision scars against the bright daylight.

  Like clients.

  I had to forget. Because I couldn’t mentio
n them; Len was right—she didn’t want to talk about it. She may not have even been capable.

  And keeping silent on the subject, and knowing of that alien scrutiny, resting behind translucent lids. . . .

  I couldn’t have done what I had to do.

  Lucy’s next shift at the bookstore was Wednesday afternoon, so she had the rest of the day to herself, and as we finished our sashimi, she made a point of saying the afternoon shift meant she could stay out as late as she liked.

  So we took a walk. We found my car. We drove back to my apartment. And behind drawn blinds, we stripped off our clothes and lay down together on fresh white sheets.

  Oh dear. I can tell you’re upset—not by anything I’ve done, but what you think I’m about to do: relay some detailed account of how it was for Lucy and I, rutting on the very same sheets where you and I lolled, those long Sunday mornings, when . . . well, before you came to your senses is how you might put it. . . .

  I’ll try and be circumspect.

  Lucy talked through it all, same as she had on the beach: those half-formed statements: “He’s the same,” and “The third floor,” and “I do not agree.” Of course, she was talking to them—fielding questions: Is he the handsome fellow from the beach? On what floor is this fellow’s apartment? Don’t you think he’s a bit much—being too . . .

  too . . .

  To which she answered: I do not agree.

  I’d drawn the curtains in my rooms, to make it dim enough for the curious eyes to open without being blinded—and sure enough, that is what they did. As I ran my tongue along her shoulder blade, I found myself looking into a tiny blue orb, no bigger than a rat’s. It blinked curiously at me as I moved past, to the nape of her neck, and there, in the wispy curls at the base of her skull, I uncovered two yellow eyes, set close together, in the forest of her hair. Were they disapproving? I imagine they must have been, affixed on Lucy’s skull, less than an inch from her brain. I winked and moved on.

  “Tell them,” I whispered into her ear, looking into a squinting, infinitely old eye fixed in her temple, “that I understand.”

  “He understands,” she murmured.

  “Tell them I’m not afraid.”

  “He’s not afraid.”

  “Tell them,” I said, before I moved from her ear to her mouth, and rolled her onto her back, and slid atop her, “that I’m ready.”

  And the rest of it?

  Well, I did tell you I’d be circumspect. Suffice it to say . . . just as poor old Len would, not long after. . . .

  I entered her.

  You looked good at my funeral. You and Jonathan both. The dress you wore—was it new? Did you buy it especially for the occasion? It would be nice to think that you had.

  In any event, I must say that Jonathan was very supportive of you. He held your hand so very tightly through the eulogies. Had you needed it, I’m sure he would have provided a handkerchief; if it had rained at the graveside, he’d have held the umbrella. He seems that sort of upright fellow. A real keeper.

  You look great now too. You have a lovely smile, you always have, and the shorter haircut—it suits you. It really frames your face. I can’t hear what you’re saying, here in Emile’s house in town, over the dregs of what I recall as being an acceptable cab franc from Chile.

  Still, you’re laughing, and that’s good. You’ve left Kimi and poor dying Len behind. You’re cementing new friendships . . . with Prabh and Emile and, perhaps, Lucy?

  Perhaps.

  It’s impossible to say of course—I haven’t been at this long enough to learn how to read lips, particularly with that damned brooch in the way. I never could guess your mind on this sort of thing. But you seem . . . open to it, to this new friend who works the cash in your favourite bookstore. You are. Aren’t you?

  Ah well. I must learn patience here in my new place. After all, Lucy will tell me everything—in due time, in a quiet moment, when the lights are low:

  She says she misses you. She says she can’t believe she let you go. Now that you’re gone.

  She says that she and I will be great friends.

  And then, if all goes well . . . if you and Lucy really do hit it off. . . .

  I can’t promise, other than to say I’ll do my best. I’ll try not to let my gaze linger.

  THE EXORCIST: A LOVE STORY

  McGill smoked in the yard. They wouldn’t let him smoke inside. There was a baby there after all. McGill said he understood, but he seemed pissed off about it. He stood by the barbecue, squinting at the tree line, calculating the hour, tapping ashes through the grill top. They were pissed off about that. The next round of burgers would have a subtle flavour of McGill and probably the round after those too.

  But they would put up with it. Oh yes.

  They would bloody well put up with it.

  One of them had gone to high school with McGill. But she didn’t know him then. He had a bit of acne trouble, did McGill—quite a bit. A Biblical plague of pimples, one might say. Horrific, seeping boils from his forehead down to his neck. One over his lip, round and gleaming and red, like a billiard ball.

  An outgoing personality, some athletic talent, a fancy car—any one of these might have saved him. But McGill had none of that. So there he was.

  She had no idea that McGill went to the same school. She got his name through another chain of acquaintances. When she contacted him, he did not offer up any hint of their own acquaintance with one another. He did not let the recognition creep into his voice.

  It would be generous to say that McGill handled the interview professionally. Because McGill has never been much of a professional.

  I wish I could have heard his side of it. But I could guess—McGill and I go way back.

  “We’re not Catholic,” she’d said, and paused, and laughed nervously. “You’re not either.” Pause. “Yes, Mr. McGill, I guess that is something we have in common.” Another pause. “He’s six months old. Born February 12.” Pause. “Yes. Aquarius.” What’s your sign, baby? Really? “So explain to me how this non-demon—erm, non-denominational business works.” And a long silence, as McGill went through the litany:

  First, he must come by and meet the child. What if it’s not a child? It’s always a child, dear. Of course, if it happens to be Gran or Uncle Terry who’s afflicted . . . well, McGill would try and adapt. But one way or another, in the course of a conversation, he would try and draw it out. McGill explains this part of his process as very simple—non-invasive—but he’s not being completely honest.

  He spends a lot of time staring, so intensely that sometimes he brings about tears. He mumbles nonsense words in a made-up language. He takes a photograph using a specially treated lens. And finally, under the parents’ supervision, he lays a hand on the child’s skull—leaving the impression with their parents that he is reading the aura. He is not. He is looking for a soft spot, a tiny hole in the skull—often no bigger than a baby’s thumb. That is really the only thing that he’s looking for in that first visit. Because if it’s there . . . well, that’s how we get in, isn’t it?

  And that is also how he can tell. If he jams his finger into it—with just the right force—well, even if we’re reticent to start it up again with old McGill, we have no choice. It starts the real conversation.

  And once that gets going, things become, shall we say, fluid.

  McGill really needed three cigarettes, given everything—but well-brought-up lad that he is, he cut himself off at just one.

  “You finally ready?” Her man was a testy one. He had never met McGill, had attended a different high school, had no earthly reason to suspect. And yet.

  “Sure,” said McGill. He started to meet his eyes, but didn’t get far. McGill looking her man in the eye would have been a challenge. And McGill hadn’t the balls for that.

  She smiled uneasily, and shared a glance with her man. Don’t fuck this up, darling, that glance sai
d. He was not easy about bringing McGill, or anyone outside the family physician’s circle, in on what he called “the postpartum thing.” He didn’t entirely buy in to what was going on. And in one sense, he couldn’t be blamed. When the door in the basement slammed again and again, seemingly of its own accord, he was already on his way to an early meeting. He had been asleep the whole night, when the business with the hall mirror had transpired. He was at work the day the seven crows got into the nursery, and pecked one another to death as baby laughed.

  He was always away, out of earshot, when baby spoke.

  “My wife tells me that you’re going to go have a conversation now,” he said. McGill nodded.

  “That’s the first part.”

  He huffed. “Well good luck. Little Simon’s not too verbal. Except around Shelly here. That right, babe?”

  “I understand,” said McGill. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

  “Right. Do they all talk to you?”

  “Often they do, that’s right.” McGill stepped toward the nursery. Her man stepped into his way, but didn’t stop him either.

  “You’re for real,” he said.

  “He’s for real,” she said. “Please, Dave, just let him do his work.”

  McGill wanted to say something reassuring—he knew that he should. Couldn’t quite muster it, though; he just hunched his shoulders in half a shrug, smiled in what amounted to an ambiguous shrug, and made another try for the nursery. The man put his hand on McGill’s shoulder.

  “Hang on there, buddy. This is my boy in there. You won’t touch him, will you?”

  “I’ll put my hand on his head,” said McGill. “No more than that.”

  (McGill stammered when he said that. But it’s mean to mimic a stammer.)

  “No more than that.” The man put his hand on McGill’s arm—around McGill’s arm, really. “You’re gonna wash that hand, then, brother.”