Knife Fight and Other Struggles

by Knife Fight

  (from Neal’s R. Smith’s “Tome of Power,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  Dearest Grandson,

  Thank you for the kind thoughts—but I would much prefer to read another chapter of the adventure of Eric the Italian swordsman, or perhaps a poem (it need not rhyme) as I recuperate in this dreary hospital room. Please write another of those. And please, whilst I am away, stay out of the attic, and my library there. That is for older boys and girls. And some of the books—such as the one which I intuit inspired this recipe—they are unwholesome. I should never have kept them. Especially not that one.

  Please, Neal, do not inscribe anything else from that book. That, as I know your mother would say, is an order.

  I think a poem is the thing now. Don’t you?

  Love,

  Grandmother

  (from the Introduction to Neal R. Smith’s “Garden of Stupid Verse,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  There once was an old lady from Fen-a-lan

  Who thought she knew stuff about channelin

  But what she was hearing

  Was not so endearing

  It was just the Pied Piper of Hamelin

  (from Neal R. Smith’s “Garden of Stupid Verse,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  Dearest Grandson,

  What a strange verse.

  You’re right, though; that’s all it was.

  Love,

  Gran

  (from the end of The Nothing Book, Part I, Ibid)

  Dear Grandmother

  I love you and miss you and I am sorry I did not come to the hospital in time. Mom was away from the house when the hospital called and it was three hours before she came back and I could tell her what they said. I waited for Mom instead of coming right over on the bus. Mom said it was okay but I know you would have wanted to see me before you died. We were too late by the time Mom came home and I could tell her. I am really sorry. So I am going to put this book in the coffin like they used to do with the mummies in Egypt so you will have something to read wherever you are.

  Hopefully nobody sees me do it because I don’t want to get in more trouble.

  Love

  Your stupid grandson

  Neal

  (from the introduction to The Nothing Book, Part II, Ibid)

  I SAW

  (marginalia from the Introduction to The Nothing Book, Part II, Ibid)

  December 15, 1979

  This is the first entry in Neal Smith’s journal. I am Neal Smith, obviously. I’m a Grade Ten student at Fenlan District Secondary School, and I don’t know what I’m going to be writing in here. I thought this book was gone forever. But when I found it in the attic of the old house, while I was getting the Christmas lights, I thought I should start something in it.

  My grandmother gave it to me when I was a kid. And I wrote some things in it, which you, who are reading this now, can look back and see. I am not doing that now myself because what I wrote was pretty lame.NO

  I said I am in Grade 10. I am in the Advanced stream, which means I can go to Grade 13 and university if I keep my grades up. So far so good. My average in Grade Nine was 83%. If I can keep it above 80 by Grade 12, I’ll win an Ontario Scholar award. That would be cool.

  I don’t have a girlfriend right now but I think Cathy Gervais likes me. She has a locker two over from mine and says hi every morning. She’s really pretty and really nice. The only trouble is she is going around with Mike Palmer, who is in Grade 11 and has a moustache. Maybe she is tired of him. In the cafeteria last week, I heard her make a joke that Mike was getting love handles from all the beer he drank on the weekend.

  Maybe she will break up with him over Christmas.

  (from “The Journal of Neal R. Smith,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  XOX

  (marginalia from “The Journal of Neal R. Smith,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  December 18, 1979

  We went to Toronto today to do Christmas shopping. Well to be honest Mom went Christmas shopping. She drove in with me and Kevin, and we all split up at the Eaton Centre for a few hours. Kevin and me I went up Yonge Street to look at Mr. Gameways Ark. It was cool; Kevin is a big-time wargamer and has been trying to get me to play Squad Leader with him. I wasn’t going to at first but after spending some time at Gameways Ark I might just.

  It is in a big old bank building, and on the top floor there is a club for gaming where mostly they play Advanced Dungeons and Dragons. That is not the cool thing about it (although I bought a set of dice and a lead necromancer miniature from Ral Partha, and checked out the Dungeon Master’s Guide, which I will probably buy on Boxing Day with Christmas money). Someone had gone and built a full-sized mock-up of the bridge of the U.S.S. Enterprise right in the middle of the club. We took a picture, which when it is developed I’ll stick in here, of me in the Captain’s Chair. I wish there was one of these closer to Fenlan. Maybe not this one though; Kevin told me that they run a witch’s coven here at night. I believe him.

  But that wasn’t the biggest news of the trip. On the way back we went into Sam the Record Man on Yonge Street. They should call it The World’s Biggest Record Store, but maybe The World’s Biggest Bookstore across the street has the trademark for that. Who do you think we saw there? Cathy Gervais!

  She was with her cousin Pat, who is not as pretty and lives in Willowdale, which is just up the subway. Cathy said she was in town visiting for a week before Christmas. Kevin said we should hang around and we did for an hour. But Pat didn’t like Kevin that much (I think) and whispered something to Cathy and Cathy said they had to go. But before they left she said, just to me, “I’m really sorry Neal. Maybe we can hang out more when I get back to Fenlan.”

  It was a good day in Toronto. Maybe I will have a girlfriend by 1980.

  December 22, 1979

  I should be careful what I wish for. This afternoon at the mall Mike Palmer said he would beat me up. He told me to stay away from his girl. I told him nothing was going on but maybe something is going on because he called me a lying piece of shit and got ready to hit me. He only stopped because he saw a security guard coming. But he said he would get me later.

  Maybe I should stay away from Cathy.

  (from “The Journal of Neal R. Smith,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  December 24, 1979

  Dear Grandson,

  I have taken (Illegible). He will not (illegible) again.

  Merry Christmas.

  Love Forever,

  (Illegible)

  December 25, 1979

  Who are you who is reading my journal?

  (from the final entry of “The Journal of Neal R. Smith,” The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  Dear Grandmother,

  It is New Year’s Eve now. Mom is going out with a new friend so it is just me here. just Kevin and I. I just read through the whole book again. I was scared to, but I did. I remember now—I put the book in your coffin at the funeral home. No one saw me. Unless Mom snuck up and took it out when I wasn’t looking, there is no way it could have gotten to the attic.

  I saw that it is all marked up—some of it from when I was a kid and would show it to you. But some too after you died. The handwriting is the same as before. I think you are trying to talk to me from wherever you are. Maybe you are stuck in between this world and the next one.

  Maybe you should go to the light?

  Love

  Neal

  Dear Grandmother,

  You crossed out my last sentence. Is it because there is no light where you are?

  Love Neal

  Send Kevin away. Write me a poem.

  Did you hurt Mike Palmer? He is in the hospital you know.

  A poem.

  (from an untitled section dated December 31, 1979, The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  O spirit of the Underworld, who walked in the form of Beatrice Paulson when upon the earth, make
thy presence known. I, Norman Fuller, High Priest of the Gameways Order of Light, do call upon thee with the strength of this circle to make thyself manifest here in the sacred aerie of the Ark.

  (handwritten note accompanying a pentagram illustration, rendered using red ballpoint pen and a math-set compass, The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  Dear Grandmother

  These people want to help you. They know what they are doing. Please do as they ask.

  Love,

  Neal

  There once was an old lady from Fen-a-lon.

  Who thought she knew stuff about channelin.

  Stop, Mister Norman Fuller. You cannot trick me. I know it is you telling Neal what to write in that book.

  I’m sorry, Grandmother. It’s me now. Mr. Fuller wanted to speak with you. I made him give me the book back. Please stop hurting him.

  Send him away.

  He’s gone.

  How did you get there?

  Kevin drove.

  Is he old enough to drive?

  Yes.

  Liar.

  (text accompanying an illustration in the style of Jackson Pollock in deep red ink, applied so intensively that the paper has torn in several places, The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  January 13, 1980

  The trip to Mr. Gameways Ark went fine. Kevin drove there and back in his dad’s Nova. We listened to the Sex Pistols and Bauhaus on the tape deck. Kevin was an excellent driver.

  I bought the Dungeon Masters Guide with the Christmas money. And I took the Nothing Book upstairs. We all know what happened after that. The guys up there were cool. They aren’t going to make me pay for the Captain’s chair and Norm got cleaned up in the washroom fine after his nosebleed so we didn’t have to call an ambulance. We just got out of there.

  Up until last night, I hadn’t told Mom about any of this. But when we got back, I made up my mind to tell her. It was easy to do. She was already worried because we were gone so long. So when she asked if it really took ten hours to buy a Dungeon Masters Guide, I took the Nothing Book out of the bag and sat her down at the kitchen table.

  I was afraid she just wouldn’t believe me. But she just read through it and cried and gave me a hug. She said that she’d had no idea that I’d put the book in the coffin. She didn’t know how it got into the attic. She recognized the handwriting though. She believed me all right. She said it was just like something her mother would do.

  Then she told me that she almost forgot: Cathy Gervais had been calling all day. Under the circumstances, she asked, did I really want to call her back, because she had sounded upset.

  I called her but I am not going to get into what we talked about because it’s private. And this book isn’t private, right Grandmother?

  We all agreed on one thing though. We aren’t going to be scared.

  (from “The Journal of Neal R. Smith,” continued, The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  April 5, 1983

  Hello Mother,

  If you’re there, still, I hope that you’re doing well in whatever place it is you’re dwelling.

  It’s your daughter here—Andrea—Mrs. Smith—the mother of Neal. Your beloved grandson. Do you still recall names, I wonder, after so long in Limbo?

  If you’re reading the date inscription above, you will realize that it’s been some time since anyone opened your Nothing Book—or rather, Neal’s. After the last entry, we had a very long talk about what to do. I’ll be honest, Mother, we considered destroying it: tossing it onto a fire, or dousing it in a tub of acid. Neal wouldn’t have it, though. He had given some thought to the metaphysics of the book, and come to believe it was at the very least a portal to the afterlife, but possibly more disturbing, that the book was the afterlife itself: a tiny universe that existed within the pages of the book, where upon your death you came to inhabit. Books can be powerful things, in the hands of the right reader, can’t they? The authors of those old books that Neal showed me in the trunk in the attic certainly make that claim.

  We didn’t destroy the book (obviously). Instead, I slipped it into a large freezer bag, removed all the air from it, and froze it in a bucket of water. That’s right; for the past three years it has been sitting at the bottom of the freezer, underneath what’s left of the wedding cake.

  What’s left of my wedding cake. I’ve been thinking about my wedding, and the few years after it that I was able to spend with Neal’s father. The two of you never got on, did you? Remember when we told you that we were going to be married? What was it you said? “Good. The koi pond needs cleaning. He looks like he has a reasonably strong back.” That may have been about the kindest thing you ever said to him. The happiest I’d ever seen you around him was when he got sick. In retrospect, I’m amazed that you managed to keep a straight face at the viewing.

  I wonder if he’s with you there. I can’t imagine he is.

  Neal’s not with you. He’s gone away from here, for now. He’s in school—I’ll give you that much. He’s a smart young man, and he kept his grades up and scholarships are helping out. He’s studying journalism—in spite of, rather than because of, the typically heartless notes you gave him when he was a little boy. And that girl he fancied—Cathy? They did wind up “going around” in high school. Again, no thanks to you. She stood by that boy you hurt (I’m assuming it was you) while he recuperated, and it was a year before she noticed Neal again and he was heartbroken the whole time. When they got together they lasted about two weeks. And then it was heartbreak all over again.

  What a wonderful gift you gave your beloved grandson.

  I’m having a glass of wine right now. It’s Merlot, from California. I remember how you used to like your Merlot. Well you can’t have any now.

  I see you’re not marking up my letter. I wonder, will you do it later tonight? When I’ve closed the covers and you can tear my words apart at your leisure? Or do you only do that for Neal?

  Or are you truly dead now?

  Let’s say you’re not. Let’s say that when Neal wrote that funny little incantation in the book—the one you crossed out—next to that recipe that he took mostly from Page CVII of that other “nothing” book—the untitled one with the crumbly pages and all the criss-crossing stitch-work on the leather cover—the unwholesome one—let’s say that incantation made a place for you, wherever it is you are.

  Well, how about, while you’re busy marking up that last run-on sentence, we take a look-see through that book, and see what else we can find?

  How about this one?

  (from the Epilogue, accompanying a large red stain, partially occluding a matrix of hieroglyphs alongside a marginal note of limited legibility, The Nothing Book, Ibid)

  DRAKEELA MUST DIE

  The drakeela hid in the cloakroom during recess. It didn’t like fresh air, and of course the sun was poison to its kind: they all knew that, even Lucy who wasn’t allowed to watch the Sunday Monster Movie and had to be told what a drakeela was. At 10:30 a.m. the bell rang, and Mrs. Shelby said line up everyone. Mrs. Shelby looked up and down the line and wiggled her fingers as though she were counting. But she never counted the drakeela as it crab-crawled between the fluorescents over the art tables and twanged its thick dark fingernails on the sheet-metal ductwork that hung over the make-believe kitchen.

  Leonard, their official leader, charted its progress along the ceiling and down the corridor to the far end of the cloakroom. There it hunched, resentful and out of breath, as the rest of them pulled on their galoshes and did up their snowsuits and tried not to look up.

  They met behind the garbage dumpster near the gym every recess, and Leonard would make every one of them report, like secret agents.

  It was Susie’s job to watch the drakeela when it arrived, because she was the only one of them who lived across the street and could be at school before sunrise. The drakeela came with its father, who drove a big white sports car with tinted windows and always h
id its face under a heavy coat and wide-brimmed hat. No one could tell who came to take the drakeela home—even Susie wasn’t allowed to stay up that late.

  Jason’s job was to follow the drakeela whenever it put up its hand and asked to go make a pee-pee. If there was someone else in the washroom, Jason peered through the grill at the bottom of the door and watched as the drakeela pounced. It pushed its victim against the urinals or the sinks or the side of a toilet stall, gripped the face with its long-fingered hands and slipped its hollowed-out baby fangs high up the victim’s nostrils. There would be a struggle, then the victim would relax as the blood and nose-spit began to flow. Later, Mrs. Shelby would get out a fresh Kleenex, wipe up the blood and scold the drakeela’s victim for picking his nose so much. Jason had watched the drakeela do this five times, and hadn’t been caught once.

  Lucy watched the drakeela when it was in the classroom. Mrs. Shelby always gave the drakeela extra attention, and whenever anyone was mean to it she would get angry.

  “Timmy Slitzken is a special child,” she would shout, waving her finger. “Don’t you go bothering Timmy.” When Mrs. Shelby was away from it, Lucy reported, the drakeela spent a lot of time folded up in the long wooden toy cupboard that was under the blackboard. Sometimes it would lurk around the pretend-kitchen, making noises while the girls tried to play.

  Reading and printing was a year away for all of them, so Leonard had to keep the reports in his head. It was a good thing, they all agreed, that Leonard was the smartest boy in the morning kindergarten and remembering wasn’t hard for him.

  On the first Tuesday in February, Leonard thought he had compiled enough reports to make a plan.

  The sky was slate grey and it had snowed for two days straight, and on Tuesday most of the children in morning kindergarten brought their crazy carpets. Jason wanted to join the rest of them on the steep hill at the back of the yard, but Leonard overruled him. The plan was ready and they all had to be there for it and that was final.