Confessions of the Fox

by Jordy Rosenberg

  I looked down. She knew I hadn’t.

  There had been quite a lot of time lost to fucking and eating. I was very far gone in love with her. I knew this because I couldn’t write or read or do anything but puppy-dog around after her and then hate myself for it. And it was obvious my ex was falling in love with me too, although god knows why. I knew this because she was slowly unraveling—and because her nightmares had started. Things had gotten shaken up in her psyche, the way they do. I didn’t know how to soothe the destruction that our falling in love inevitably produced. There had to be a way forward.

  I would have killed anything for her, but that wasn’t helpful. She didn’t need anything killed. She needed things brought to life, protected, preserved from death. I would press myself against her at night. I am here. This did not soothe her. But you’re kind of a killer, she said. That’s what you are.

  It was true that I was a killer, but I didn’t know the difference, then, between being a killer and being a lover. I thought they were the same thing. I will kill off everything bad that ever happened to you, I said, heroically thrusting my hand inside her. She looked at me with sadness. I sang Ozzy Osbourne’s “No More Tears,” stupidly. I thought it was over. Both of our misery. Forever.

  So we had fucked and fucked. And then her nightmares came, and my panic returned, and—what had we done with our time? We had what a friend jokingly called a whirlwind domesticity, referring to our trajectory of desire-fuckfest-explosion of neurosis and nightmares.

  Well anyway, that pretty much brought us up to that moment.

  My ex handed me the letter with an eyebrow arched.

  Voth, I request an impromptu meeting to receive news of progress on your research, as your annual report, due to the Personnel Committee, is now late by an appalling matter of months.

  —Dean of Surveillance Andrews

  “Shit,” I said, agreeing with my ex’s arched eyebrow.

  “Look,” she said. “Your job is crap. Why don’t you let me help?”

  She meant get us both new jobs. She meant take me with her somewhere.

  “I don’t know if I’m ready.” These were words I had to literally force out of my mouth. What I really wanted most in that moment was just to go with her. I would have gone, in fact, anywhere with her. In my mind I would have. But the prospect of putting my life in the hands of someone I wanted so badly was…well, it was a contradiction. And I was working on contradictions. Too slowly.

  “You know you can’t use your misery as a talisman against worse misery, right?”—she was standing in the doorway with her feet planted in that way she did—“Nothing works like that.”

  “I know,” I moaned. “I do.”

  “See, this is what I’m talking about”—she leaned her head back against the threshold, kind of melted against it, more tired than inviting—“What is this Sprush-kish actually accomplishing.”

  “Shprukh-Psikhish,” I corrected.

  She regarded me silently as I rocked and counted.

  “It’s”—my jaw hurt in that way it did when words were supposed to come out of it—“it’s…instead of talking. About your feelings. Just…enacting them.”

  My ex shrugged hugely at me—and there was something about that shrug. It was a shrug you could have seen from the cheap seats. A dramaturge’s shrug.

  “It’s not rocket science,” she said, dramaturgically shrugging again. She was realizing something about me. Something that massively disappointed her. “Most people,” she said, “are capable of doing both.”

  She had a look that I had never seen before in her eyes. Resignation. It was horrifying. I watched as she shruggingly crystallized to herself the limit—my limit—against which she had just come up. And she couldn’t kaleidoscope it or car-crash it with anything else to make a beautiful butterfly-flock of light.

  That look—that resignation, on the face of a woman who had never abided resignation for a split second in her life—that moment, honestly, was the end.

  And thus was I was left alone with my shitty job, Dean of Surveillance Andrews and the condemned building.

  4.*1

  In the dark pre-dawn, Bess and Jenny were dressing for the day of searching. Bess fuss’d over Jenny’s hair and skirts. Jenny re-fix’d her hair the way she liked it.

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You’ve got to look flawless.”

  Jenny cocked her head. “I do look flawless.”

  Bess suppos’d this was true.

  “Try to introduce a question about the plague ships. Inquire when you’re meant to search one.”

  “Head Constable isn’t a chatty sort.”

  “You need to flatter him. Feel out what he needs to hear, say it, and then make him think he wants to give you the information you sought anyway.”

  “You imagine I need advice on coves?”

  “Sometimes with the tough ones you need to go around”—Bess thought of the voles and the fir piles—“sideways of ’em.”

  “I go Frontways. You know that. If you didn’t want that, you wouldn’t’ve ask’d me.”

  * * *

  —

  The Lord Mayor’s Head Constable was tall and oak-thick with a dried-rum stench and an oddly rubbery face. Elastic skin doubl’d upon itself about the cheeks and mouth, tripl’d at his heavy forehead, and threaten’d to slop over into his eyes.

  “And how are you this fine morning?” Jenny forced a smile up at his melty Visage as they headed down Fair Street in Cheapside.

  Jenny—an indiscriminate flirt—did not distinguish between Proper and Improper moments. She wielded her considerable sexual appeal like a child heaving about a bulky axe far too heavy for its thin limbs.

  The Head Constable’s face rearrang’d itself into a new, equally labile Pattern of ruts and furrows. “Pleasantries are thoroughly forbidden at the workplace.” He coughed and glanced away.

  * * *

  —

  They arriv’d at a sinking Heap of a house—perhaps once a handsome abode. Now, numerous sparrows’ nests dotted the front face, stuffed between crumbling brick.

  The Head Constable knocked savagely at the door, which soften’d inwards like a rotted plum.

  A commotion inside, scuffling—

  “Mum, a man’s knockin’ down the door!”

  “Tell ’em to come back tomorrow.”

  A tiptoe approaching—a small head swivel’d ’round—

  —and the Constable thrust through.

  The door fell off one hinge and swung open at a precarious angle. A youth of eleven or so retreated as the Head Constable paraded in, his red face reshuffling like a bubbling stew. A wiry-armed woman emerged from a back room holding a ladle for protection.

  “What’s this?” She lofted the ladle above her head.

  The Head Constable pulled his musket out, pointing it at the ladle. “A ladle ain’t no match for a musket.”

  “Since when do constables carry muskets?” she queried, unmoving.

  The Head Constable pulled down the catch on his musket. “Since the Plague.”

  “Mum!” The youth scrabbl’d to her side.

  “He isn’t going to shoot me. He ain’t done talkin’ yet. These types love to go on.”

  The Head Constable’s face flapp’d in a series of angry quivers. “Any dead inside?”

  “What for, dead?”

  “Of Plague.”

  “Mum?” The son’s eyes train’d on Jenny, then the Constable, then his mother—flicking back and forth with astonished Ferment.

  “Plague hasn’t been here,” the mother explain’d, as if the constable was a toddler, “since the last go-’round—1666, the fire of London and all that. Not a single neighbor here’s got the Plague.”

  “I ask’d you a question.”


  “And I told you that we haven’t got Plague in the city of London. I would know. My husband’s a butcher. He says the Plague strikes cows first. That you’d see it in the carcasses—flea-bitten and lesioned. He says the butchers’ stalls are the first Watch for the Plague. No matter that they appoint a hundred centinels, they won’t know the Plague’s coming until the butchers say so, and all this jabber in the papers won’t amount to nothing ’til we see it in the cows. So go search the butchers’ stalls and get out of my house.”

  Jenny stepped forward. “I have orders from the Lord Mayor to permit this woman to search the house.”

  The woman shook her head in disbelief.

  “Ma’am, it’s for the Publick Health.”

  The woman put down her ladle and glared.

  The Head Constable nodded. “Go on then”—and backed towards the door—

  —For the Head Constable was “due” at the pub for his regular afternoon pint.

  “Will return shortly,” he said to Jenny. “After you’ve gone through everything.”

  * * *

  —

  Some period of time later, Jenny heard the door open and the Head Constable march into the front room.

  “There’s no one dead in this room, or any other,” she called out.

  A tornado of boots, and the Head Constable loom’d in the doorway.

  “Did ye look through everything?”

  “How many places is there to hide the dead?” Jenny rested against the wall.

  “Through everything.” The Head Constable began stamping around the close quarters, ale and furor rising off him like steam.

  He flipp’d the bed, clouding the room in dust. Jenny waved her hands before her eyes. The Head Constable ran his hand over the night table and chairs, exploring beneath them.

  “I love being a functionary of the constabulary,” Jenny began as the Head Constable knock’d over several wooden boxes. “And I’m wondering: When do I get to really search? I mean search a Plague ship?”

  This—posing as grateful underling—Attract’d his attention.

  The Head Constable glanced up from sorting through piles on the floor—trinkets, sewing implements, scraps of lace.

  “Won’t be long now.”

  “How not long?”

  The Head Constable grabbed up the lace and the implements, and with an “Out, bat, I’m not a walking calendar” storm’d back into the front room.

  He shoved the fistful of lace and needles at the woman, who was tending a boiling vat of what smell’d to be beans at the hearthfire.

  “What was it you said ye did for labor?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “Well, what is it, then,” the Head Constable spat through clenched teeth.

  “Some sewin’ and knittin’.” The flames rose towards the pot, and she sprinkl’d water at the edges of the burning kindle to calm it.

  “Where d’ye do that?”

  “Knightsbridge’s Wool and Hat Shop.”

  “Right then.” The Head Constable gripped the woman’s arm, pulling her towards the door.

  “Mum!” screech’d the youth, grabbing the ladle out of the bean-pot and swinging an arc of mucky broth at the Constable.

  “For what are ye takin’ me in?”

  “Violation of the Cabbage Act*2.” He presented some lace from his pocket, and dragg’d her out the door.

  *1 SULLIVAN: HI! ME AGAIN!

  JUST WANTED TO PEEK IN TO LET YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I’VE BEEN ENJOYING YOUR “CONFESSIONS”! CONFESSIONS ON TOP OF CONFESSIONS! GREAT TWIST!

  ME: How in the—

  SULLIVAN: OF COURSE YOU KNOW THAT P-QUAD’S SISTER COMPANY, MILITIA.EDU, HAS A PRIVATE CONTRACT WITH YOUR UNIVERSITY’S SERVER, AND THUS OF COURSE YOUR CLOUD STORAGE IS THE PROPERTY OF—

  ME: You’ve read everything? And didn’t say anything? Not even to object to the lengthy disquisition on Deleuze and Guattari?

  SULLIVAN: DON’T GET YOUR PANTIES IN A TWIST. P-QUAD LOVES DELEUZE AND GUATTARI!

  ME: Right.

  SULLIVAN: HEY, AS FAILED PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE JOHN KERRY ONCE SAID, “WHO AMONG US DOES NOT LOVE DELEUZE AND GUATTARI?” EVERYBODY LOVED IT WHEN HE SAID THAT!

  ME: It was NASCAR, and nobody loved it when he said that. That was actually the most elitist, damning moment of the entire campaign. Anyway, does this mean I’ll receive back pay?

  SULLIVAN: ACTUALLY, ON THIS TOPIC YOU MIGHT WANT TO CHECK THE LANGUAGE OF YOUR CONTRACT. WE’VE OF COURSE BEEN REVIEWING IT WITH OUR LAWYERS, AND THOUGHT WE’D EXCERPT THE RELEVANT INFORMATION AS FOLLOWS:

  Insofar as copyright is unattributable to found manuscript, titled Confessions of the Fox.

  And insofar as editor R. Voth—acting as a delegate of P-QUAD, Inc.—agrees to perform creative labor on the manuscript, thereby “innovating” on the original in the form of annotations—

  And insofar as innovation upon an item is the grounds for ownership,

  And insofar as R. Voth is not acting singly, but as a representative of the Company,

  P-QUAD, Inc. is the duly appointed owner of Confessions of the Fox, and the holder of all copyright to it.

  Thus any alteration of the manuscript—by any person, including R. Voth—outside of the strictures of the contract, and without P-Quad’s explicit permission could be—and will be—construed as wanton vandalism and property damage and subject the doer of said alterations to appropriate fines, penalties and charges in a court of law.

  SO IN FACT NOT ONLY WILL YOU NOT BE RECEIVING BACK PAY, BUT YOUR ACTIONS WHILE ON STRIKE COULD EASILY BE CONSTRUED AS A VIOLATION OF THE TERMS OF THE CONTRACT AND THUS SUBJECT TO—

  ME: Uh-huh.

  SULLIVAN: LUCKILY WE CAN USE ALL THESE CONFESSIONS OF YOURS—THEY’RE TERRIFIC. IF YOU CONSENT TO RETURN TO WORK. ALTHOUGH—CONSENT SHMONSENT—NOT TO PUT TOO FINE A POINT ON IT, BUT WE HAVE THEM ANYWAY.

  *2 The Cabbage Act privatized the waste products of production, deeming them either property of the business owner or of the municipality in the form of waste. Examples of cabbage were: linen scraps, excess lime and tanning oils, wood chips and metal shavings. “It is against the common good for persons to lay claim to the waste products of their own labor,” says the Cabbage Act, “specifically scrap textiles.”

  ME: Sigh. Speaking of which, it seems my own footnotes might be considered “cabbage,” mightn’t they. As such, I have had an inevitable change of heart as a result of our last communication. Due to the inescapability of P-Quad—and the threat of retroactive legal action—I consent to return to work as per my contract.

  SULLIVAN: MARVELOUS. WELCOME BACK!

  ME: And my salary?

  SULLIVAN: WELL, FIRST THERE IS THE MATTER OF STRIKE FEES AND PENALTIES, OF COURSE. WE’LL SEND YOU A BILL.

  AS FOR YOUR SALARY, AS WE DISCUSSED, THIS WILL ARRIVE WHEN YOU PRODUCE THE REDACTED PAGE ON ORIGINAL ARCHIVAL PAPER.

  ME: As regards the missing page, I assure you there is no such thing.

  SULLIVAN: WERE YOU OR WERE YOU NOT WRITING TO DISCUSS MOVING FORWARD AS A TEAM?

  ME: I was.

  SULLIVAN:

  ME: You know, you’re right. I did misplace a page. A page of very explicit description of genitalia that must have fallen under my desk. My office is quite a mess—my apologies for the histrionics. If you give me your phone number I’ll text you a photo of it.

  Did you get it?

  SULLIVAN: TREMENDOUS! GLAD IT ALL WORKED OUT.

  5.

  As Jack stood with Aurie in the crowd at Execution Wharf—they had stopp’d off at the Mason’s Arms to toast to the condemned, as was the custom—his drink burn’d his stomach slightly, but the rest of him fizzed with Warmth and the grog-induced pulse of Excarnation—drink-pleasure.

  The dead tr
ain having not arriv’d at the platform yet, the Mob was full o’ planning.

  “Who is it?” someone shouted.

  “Barnes, I think! The highwayman!”

  “We’ll rush the stage!” shouted a small boy perched atop a rogue’s shoulders.

  The rogue nodded up at the kid. “We will. Or”—he clear’d his throat—“we’ll try.”

  “We’ll cry out our love.” A doxy was agitating her mates. “Just as they drag out the cart from underneath ’im!”

  Someone call’d out, “England is a prison!”

  And then, from further back, “Pa ni mèt ankô*1!”

  And the crowd responded, “London, London look to thy Freedom!”

  Jack shout’d “London, London, look to thy freedom!” along with the rest of them. His voice was deeper in his chest than he remember’d it being— He liked the Sound—’specially vibrating with the Mob. Aurie had a coat of spittle in his beard. “London, London, look to thy Freedom!”—he bellow’d. Jack and he were jumping up and down in Unison. Everyone was.

  “Pa ni mèt ankô!” Again, from the back of the crowd.

  “Who’s saying that?” Jack twisted his head ’round.

  “Who’s saying what?”

  “Something I heard once—friends of Bess’s.” He turned towards the voice, tugging Aurie alongside.

  As they proceeded towards the back, Jack caught the strains of bloodthirsty conversations from the gentry.

  “How long they been holding him? Why’nt they just execute him right away?”—“Torturing him I s’pose”—“Ah”—chuckling.

  Jack cut a forthright path for the chuckler. Aurie wove to the right, coughing to cause a stir—perfectly syncopated with Jack in the arts of clouting*2 and knuckling*3—and jostled the chuckler, who fell into Jack, with his hand at the ready to shoot down the chuckler’s pocket. He snatched out a wad of coins and a signet ring, then ducked back into the crowd.

  “Pa ni mèt ankô!”

  Jack emerg’d from the throng of bodies, losing Aurie in pursuit of the sound—until he came upon a figure he recogniz’d. Laurent. His hair was matt’d across his forehead with perspiration and the heat of yelling. His smish was unbutton’d partway. Jack thought he caught a glimpse of—were those heavers?—and a tattoo below Laurent’s collarbone. Skull and crossbones. The pirate flag.