“We’ll get you there soon,” he says, the engine roaring to life beneath his heavy foot. “Just in time to catch that first wave.”
The gods are smiling on Haros: the beach is empty, tinged with a wash of mauve and red light. He drives over the curb; across grassy knolls that will be covered with families of sun worshippers in a few short hours; and onto a thin strip of white sand newly exposed by the retreating tide. The delivery truck’s tires sink into the soft surface and kick up showers of grit as the heavy vehicle inches its way to the waterline. Tongues of foam lap at nine of the eighteen wheels when Haros kills the engine. Half in the ocean, half on land. He takes off his boots, plants them high up on the shore with their toes pointed to the parking lot. The sight of them, safe from the sea’s greedy reach, calms him. Reassures him he’ll make his way back once he’s sent his passengers on their way.
Opening the trailer’s hatch, he takes the pail stored inside and fills it with seawater. He tosses a whole bucketful into the back so the corpses, already partially frozen and coated with frost, will come away from the floor without sticking. Again he dips the bucket, douses the bodies. And again, until their contorted limbs begin to move, to float on the rivulet of red now dripping out the door.
An orange slice of sun, as tremulous as his passengers’ ghosts, emerges from the navy horizon. Haros tightens his lifting belt, prepares to put it to work.
“Come on,” he says, hoisting little Harry’s stiff grey form from the back of the truck. The boy’s spirit lingers, clutching his mother’s hand. Haros plunges into the water, gasps as it numbs his ankles and thighs, shrinks his balls. Rum and cola fumes heat his throat as he exhales, but does nothing for the rest of him. “Come on,” he repeats, dropping the small body like a plank into the swell. Sissy leads her son over, helps him straddle his half-submerged torso like a surfboard. The boy squirms beneath the weight of Haros’ hand.
“Don’t let him get off,” Haros says, going to retrieve Penny, then Sissy, then Daena. He’s drenched by the time the spirits are settled, legs wrapped around their conduits, faces pointed to the east, features radiant under the sun’s yellow touch. From the corner of his eye, he can see Granny as she was a lifetime ago: rounded and smooth, hair thickly chocolate, a shimmer of joy on her cheeks.
“Yes,” Daena says under her breath. “This is it.” Of their own volition, her feet start kicking, propelling her away from the shoreline. The children, afraid of being left behind or keen to show off, lean forward to follow. Uncoordinated, they nearly slip from their bodies.
“Use your arms, not your legs.” Haros demonstrates, up to his knees in the surf, his hands flat and outstretched, churning the air. They laugh at his efforts. Even to him, the motion looks awkward, unnatural. He wishes he had a paddle to lend.
“We got nothing to give,” Sissy says, watching her family’s progress. “No way to pay you for this.”
Haros shrugs. Reaching down, he fumbles with frozen fingers at the woman’s lifeless neck. With a short grunt, he tugs until the chain draped around it snaps. Straightening up, he holds the necklace aloft letting the small golden medallion slide off into his palm. He raises the pendant to his vest, sizes it up next to the others he’s got pinned there.
“This’ll do,” he says. Dawn’s rays refract off his new bauble, the glare blinding.
He doesn’t remember their passing—knowing where they’ve gone is never part of the deal. But as he trudges over to the truck, he takes a last looks for signs their fragile flesh-boats have gone off course. Finds none.
The tension in his back lifts with the morning.
He listens while cleaning all traces of their blood from his trailer. Soon enough, the splash of their saltwater voices merges with the rush of waves. One delivery down, he thinks. Seabirds wheel overhead, eyeing his remaining cargo. He concentrates on scrubbing quickly, so the beef won’t spoil more than it already has. One stop to go. He prays the roads stay clear until he gets there.
Just once, he’d like to reach that depot on time.
Commonplace Sacrifices
In the end, it was a fingernail that saved you. Now let’s be clear: I’m not talking about some tricky-tricky metaphor, some la-di-dah imagery here. Last time I checked, none of your teeth had skins that could catch you. Time wouldn’t get nicked on your behalf. And while the seat of your pants mighta conspired to get you into this mess, years back in the happy-happy before days, it sure as hell didn’t help scoot you through the exit now. Nope, no fancy words would help you escape. But a grimy fingernail, rip-torn from the tip of my naked Peter Pointer—well, that would open doors.
This final offering was real, kiddo, and it was a masterstroke. I know you won’t mind me saying so.
Not now, anyway.
It had taken a while for the hocus and the pocus to align, for the big hand and the little hand to shake in agreement, for the elements to alchemize just so. Years of practice have taught us—haven’t they just?—that timing can save you a bruising when you’re dealing with the likes of him.
I knew I had to get it right. You were sagging like an empty bag of flour, and I was running out of parts. I mean, it’d been a busy year for the two of us. My stocks had run too low. Only a couple of stumps were left to hold me up; a pair of wingless stalks sprouted uselessly from my back; my hands no longer boasted a full complement of digits. There were no more lids, no more lips, no more lashes. Just a nail, and a sparkling opportunity.
My eyes tick-tocked between the sparkle and my finger while I worried. About you; about what I had seen yesterday; about the rough edge of my nail and how I could use it to let you see now what I had seen then. And how all of it combined could help you—help us—get out of here for good.
Removing the Pointer’s half-moon was a tidy feat of engineering, what with a bottom incisor and a canine my only tools for the procedure. I gnawed, gouged into the cuticle, worked my jaw until the nail flapped like a pet-door from the end of my finger. He watched TV beside me, oblivious; you were doing laundry in the basement.
There wasn’t much blood when it finally came loose. At least, not enough to do anything really useful. Just enough to let a few drops drip onto his dewy Gouda cheek; enough to trickle down the deep crease blurring the boundary between his mouth and jowl. I sucked on the shard, rolled it on my tongue, and nearly laughed it out my nose when I saw pustules take root, then bloom on his cheek, where my bloody splashes had kissed him.
Good ones, I thought with a grin. Deep, blind, under-the-neath pimples. Guaranteed to start throbbing the moment they’re touched. I leaned over his dishwater face to prod them a bit—just a little poke to get the agony started. . . .
But then you walked into the living room, carrying two week’s worth of laundry, still wearing your Buy ‘N’ Save uniform. Flyaway hair had sneaked its way out of the tight braid you’d tied at 5:30 this morning, and your hands were cracked from handling thousands of other people’s dollars at the cash register all day. Static charges followed in your wake as you dragged your feet across the carpet, energy lost through your soles.
I waited until you drew closer to his op-shop recliner before I took aim. I chewed with anticipation: what a surprise I had in store for you!
This is it, kid, I thought. Just keep on walking. Keep on going . . . Keep on, keep on, keep on—don’t hesitate—that’s it—now’s the chance! I haven’t stuck by you for thirty-two years only to—
Wait. Settle down.
Your cough caught my attention. Your husband didn’t so much as blink at the sound, didn’t even acknowledge your presence; but the sound shook me back into the moment, forced me to calm myself.
Focus, I thought. This is it.
He was bound to be angry when the laundry basket tumbled from your outstretched arms—why didn’t you come in when the clothes were filthy? Man oh man, that would’ve been so much more fun! But never mind. Clean or dirty, I had t
o take this opportunity. I mean, he was in here all the time but you, understandably, weren’t. So it had to be today; it had to be now.
All you have to do is take a few more steps, just past James’s toys over there, and over to the sofa-bed. . . .
I worried at the nail in my mouth, scuffed up its enamel, burred it ’til it was Velcro-prickly. When you reached my intended mark, I spat it on the carpet in front of you.
Even though I’d been holding my position for a few minutes, my aim was impeccable. Not to brag or anything, but it was a magic shot. The nail bounced once, twice, on the dusty carpet then stood up like the unearthed rib of some prehistoric beast. You trod square on the miniature spike, and I held my breath until it was firmly embedded in the soft arch of your striped sock. When you took your next step—sorry, kid, that laundry’s never going to make it to the table—I could see that it had been absorbed into your foot. I gave it a second, then two . . .
“Jesus!” Clothes popped from the basket, cotton and wool confetti prematurely celebrating your release, while you hopped over to the tartan sofa-bed, clutching your foot.
Stage one: accomplished, I thought. Clapping wildly, I splattered a few extra drip-drops of blood onto his face for good measure. Meanwhile, you flopped onto the sofa, frantically massaging your foot, quietly seething ow ow ow ow ow through clenched teeth.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked, not really caring for a response.
You grunted, “Charlie horse,” without looking up.
He gave you a scowl then sneered at the boxers that had landed on his forearm. He clunked his canned bourbon onto the coffee table, flicked the shorts away as though the contact had somehow soiled his plaster cast.
You want soil? I thought. I’ll give you soil. Climbing up onto his drink was challenging without my leathery wings. Don’t worry; you needed them last week more than I did. It’s fine, honest. They’ll grow back. Besides, with a bit of wobbling I managed to squat above the can’s gaping mouth. I flexed my pelvic muscles and pushed—and if I’d held anything back, I would have pissed myself laughing, hearing him cuss his face red while booze frothed onto his grease-stained track pants.
Paying his rant no mind, you kneaded the sole of your foot, rubbing in the remnants of my gift to you. Your face was focused, darkly intent. For a moment I feared the nail had been too powerful. That it would absorb all of your attention, and then you’d miss it.
Please, kid, I thought. Don’t miss it. Look down now. Come on come on come on—look down now. . . .
There! Your eyes drifted to the stubby wooden leg of the sofa-bed. Yes, that’s it!
No! No no no—don’t look up at him—look down! Look look look; that’s right, keep your eyes down until you see it.
Did you see it?
There—yes, there. Right there—Yes! That’s it!
A small frown. You slid off of the couch and crouched next to its leg, your aching foot forgotten.
Reach out, kid—it’s in your grasp!
Your eyes plucked its tiny brilliance from the carpet before your fingers, or your mind, could grasp what it represented.
I slid off the coffee table and danced a jig my ancestors taught me back in the old country. What a celebration we’ll have now, kid. Hold on tight!
That little glimmer is your get-out-of-jail-free card.
“It’s not that.” He reached for his sweaty beer and took a deep draught. His Adam’s apple, barely visible through the stubble creeping down the stump of his neck, bobbed with each gulp he took.
Pennies! I thought as I looked at the tabletop in front of you. Hundreds of lucky pennies were flattened and pressed into the antique wood, their charms entombed beneath two inches of discoloured resin. What sort of a sick bastard would do this? Who would smother luck under layers of tree-tears? Who would repress something so marvellous, show it off like a prize, but keep it forever out of reach? Disgusted, I flopped into the parmesan dish in the centre of the table, self-medicated in a bath of crumbly cheese.
“Nice table, huh?” he asked, then took another swig of beer.
You swirled your pasta onto a fork that clashed with the rest of the cutlery, and kept quiet.
“It’s just that . . .” He paused, deciding how to continue the conversation he’d initiated. “It’s just that you look fine from here—” he lowered his hands to the level of his gut “—to here—” and lifted them to cup his concave chest. “But from here down,” he pushed your heart into your throat as his hands gestured toward his lower body. “Your thighs? Well . . . They’re just not attractive anymore.”
The pasta in your mouth turned to paste and your jaw clamped down, hard, in mid-chew. You tried to squeeze the pulpy mouthful down your spasming throat, tried to force it past the lump expanding there, tried to swallow so that you could breathe. You looked hot. Beads of sweat twinkled like a crown at your hairline, and a warm trickle of snot winked as it slid from your left nostril. Kalamata olives wavered on the plate in front of you, swimming in cream sauce and tears.
You reached for the cloth napkin on your lap and raised it up to your dripping nose. Stiffly, stiffly. Everything still, apart from the liquids human bodies excrete when distressed.
“How’s everything going over here?” the waiter asked, his stained apron camouflaging the faux in his enthusiasm. You kept your face averted and hoped mascara wasn’t running down your cheeks while the men chatted, laughed.
I sprang out of the parmesan dish, bounded across the table, skidded to a halt in front of your meal. Finally, I’d realized what I could give you for your birthday! I had been thinking and thinking, scratching and wondering about it all day—and I’d only just managed to come up with the right present for you, with a few hours to spare before the day was no longer yours to celebrate.
Using my fingers to dig into the soft skin at my temple, I coaxed my left ear away from the side of my head. Peeling it banana-like, I clutched the flip-floppy flesh in my hand, pulled and tugged it free from its riggings while the rightie wriggled, waited for its turn to be plucked. Once both ears sat bloody in the palms of my hands, I threw one and then the other into your glass of Riesling—what precision! They didn’t even make a splish-splash—then watched as they swelled like greedy sponges in the pale yellow liquid. Giggled as they grew large enough to intercept his words.
Tears plinked onto pressed pennies. You tilted your head back and forced down the offensive mouthful of fettuccini. The fork wavered in your hand, reminding you that it was ready for action. You stared at it and tried to regain your composure. With a deep sniff, you reached out and neatly placed it on the placemat to the right of your pasta dish. Oil seeped into the faded linen, surrounding the discarded utensil with a deep maroon halo.
You clasped your hands on your lap, changed your mind; reached for your wine instead. I gave the stem a gentle nudge as you lifted the glass to your lips, and waved goodbye to my ears as they slid into your mouth. Drink deep, kid. Deep but steady, now. Steady.
Fine webs began to weave themselves across your tender ears seconds after you’d swallowed. Strand after strand of pearlescent strength looped around lobes and over helixes; clear fibres spun along antihelixes, into ear canals and back out again. The sturdy filaments of your birthday present wandered through delicate golden hoops dangling from your ears, blending invisibly with their saltwater pearls. Up and down, in and out, around and back again; the web was impenetrable within minutes. As the last thread fell into place, end fused with origin, shining and sturdy as infinity’s figure of eight. Your face relaxed as the webs leached into your tender skin. Taking up your fork once more, you looked up at him.
Steady, I thought. There, there.
James sat on the carpet, creating plastic worlds beneath the dining table. His six-year-old legs, extended in a V-shape and clad in pilled flannel, were formidable barriers around a hoard of dismantled Lego. I sat
astride one of his exposed shins and tried to pilfer a square—an alien head would be better—to add to my own growing collection. Ah, but he’s a savvy one, your James is: the instant I reached out and hooked a piece with my toes, he raised his leggy boom gates and threw me to the floor, crying “Oh, there it is!” I flipped over just in time to witness the coveted piece being snapped onto a higgledy-piggledy contraption.
Clever, clever, I thought. Breakfast dishes clinked overhead as you cleared the table. Spoons and bowls and coffee cups joined in discordant symphony to accompany my foiled heist.
Spoils to the victor, I thought, swinging myself up onto the chair you had recently vacated. Laurels should always be awarded to valiant conquerors. So I slid across the varnished pine seat, plucked my last eyelash, and balanced it on the crest of James’s primrose cheek. It was only fair. He’d earned it with his sneaky-cheeky cleverness.
“Look what I made, Mamma,” James said. He brandished his construction like a trophy over his head. Craning his neck as he reached up, he pushed the Lego vehicle up onto the table and shoved it well away from the edge. One by one, he clamped his hands parenthetically around his toy, then hoisted his slight figure up. His dark hair, so much like his father’s had been, back when the two of you were in lah-lah-love, poked up over the table’s horizon first. It caught the morning light spilling in from the living room window, glinted like velvet. Seeing your son’s pride, you paused, and put the stack of dishes back onto the table. For once you didn’t mind that the living and dining areas were compressed into one uncomfortable room.
“C’mere, sweetness,” you said. A deep brown eye, heavily-lashed, peeked up at you and crinkled with an unseen smile. I scuttled off your seat as you reassumed it, then shimmied my way up the table leg while the rest of your child’s dimpled face sprouted next to the dishes. Moving clockwise around the table, always keeping one hand on his creation, James tip-toddled toward you. A curl of scrambled yellow in a pool of condensation caught my hungry eye as he clambered up on to your lap, so I snacked on its goodness while James exhibited his fragile handiwork.
Bluegrass Symphony Page 20
