A Kind of Compass

by McKeon, Belinda; Rahill, Elske;

  ‘I want a turkey-pastrami sandwich with capers and spicy pickles and sharp English mustard on a fresh-baked croissant.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Stell, just let me look in the fridge. I have a right. I was looking in that fridge when you were just an old hippie in Jersey City.’

  Stell stared at the carpet. She looked widowed already. Caperton agreed to let her make him a turkey on wheat, which she would store until he was ready.

  ‘I just hope there’s room in the fridge,’ Stell said.

  ‘Hope is what we have,’ Caperton said, because he was a crumbum.

  Caperton stood in his old bedroom, now Stell’s study. Photographs of her family – nieces, cousins, a stern, tanned uncle – covered the bookshelves. Her people were much comelier than the dough-nosed Capertons. He recognised a few of his old textbooks behind the photographs, but most of the library was Stell’s, an odd mix of self-help and hard science. He pulled out one on the human genome and flipped through it, pulled out another called ‘Narrative Medicine: How Stories Save Lives.’ Stell had a master’s in this discipline. She counselled doctors not to be arrogant jerks, to listen to their patients, or clients, or consumers, or whatever doctors called the people they often helped and occasionally killed. She taught patients how to craft their personal tales. It seemed both noble and, perhaps, a lot of bullshit on one card.

  Now a pain sliced along his upper torso. He’d felt it before, like being cinched in a hot metal belt. Sometimes the pangs brought him to his knees, left him breathless, but they always faded. Caperton wheezed and clung to a bookshelf for a moment. He was stressed, the doctor had said, because he was anxious. Or maybe the other way around.

  A lakefront, he wished he’d said at the meeting, was a place where you could stroll and enjoy the sunshine and the lake. Wasn’t that enough? Why bring history into it? History was slaughter and slaves. Stories were devices for deluding ourselves and others, like Larry’s pillow mints.

  Was this pretentious? Caperton had worried about being pretentious since college, when somebody told him he was pretentious. He knew he was just naïve. Why did he continue to struggle for perspective when others had moved on? A secret dunce gene? A genome? Maybe the scary belt that squeezed him was a warning: stop thinking your shallow thoughts.

  Stay in the story, moron.

  He pulled a faded red sneaker box from under the bed. Here resided all the junk, the objets d’crap of his years in this room: buttons, paper clips, lozenge tins, cassette tapes, rolling papers, a tiny airport brandy bottle, the watchband from his uncle’s Seiko, guitar picks and toothpicks and a photograph of his mother leaning on the birch tree in the yard. Probably a box in Daphne’s parents’ house brimmed with similar detritus. A rabbit’s-foot key chain, the fur dyed electric blue. A comic-book version of The Waves. Desiccated lip balm and a plastic ruby ring.

  They’d met at an office party not that many years before, traded a few catchphrases from the sitcoms of their youth. That and the sex seemed enough. But then came the dumb baby question. People thought they could work on you. Wear you down. They assumed you didn’t really mean what you said.

  Caperton found a condom in the shoebox, the wrapper worn and crinkled, the expiration date three or four Presidents ago, a Herbert Walker rubber, a forgotten land mine that required defusing before some innocents got maimed, or had a baby too early, led stunted lives with little chance for either of them or their issue to someday stand in a room and listen to an elected official say ‘koisk.’

  Caperton unbent a paper clip and pricked at the wrapper. He noticed something gunked on the tip of the paper clip, like tar or bong resin. How could that shit stay gooey for so long? The universe was an unanswered question. Had Caperton read that? Heard it on public radio? He couldn’t track what spoke through him anymore. He moaned and held the condom up to the window. Daylight poured through the constellation of holes.

  Stell stuck her head in.

  ‘He’s up,’ she said.

  Larry sat in bed with a tablet in his lap. Caperton noticed the device first, then his father’s freckled stick arms and ashy cheeks.

  ‘I’m ordering tons of garbage. Stuff for the house. Gadgets. Why not? I should get some congressional shopping medal.’

  ‘I’ll make it my life’s work that you get one,’ Caperton said.

  ‘What is your life’s work, anyway?’

  ‘Stell says it’s serious this time.’

  Larry looked down at the tablet, swiped the screen with a long, chapped finger.

  ‘It’s always been serious,’ he said. ‘Since you get born it’s serious. I mean, I have a greater understanding now. Dying is natural. We’re built to do it. We discuss this in my six-months-and-under group.’

  ‘Your what?’

  ‘It’s online. No pity parties. Death is just a part of the story.’

  ‘I thought it was the end of the story.’

  ‘Mr Doom-and-Gloom.’

  ‘Jesus, Dad, you’re the one in bed. What do the doctors say?’

  ‘Have you met my doctors? They have pimples. Peach fuzz. They’re all virgins.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘My tumours know.’

  ‘OK,’ Caperton said.

  ‘The way you kids say OK,’ Larry said. ‘Sounds like it’s not OK.’

  ‘It’s nice to be called a kid.’

  ‘I’m indulging you,’ Larry said. ‘Sit down.’

  Caperton took the rocker near the window.

  ‘How long can you be here?’ Larry said.

  ‘I’ll be back and forth. I’ll be here.’

  ‘I realise I was the boy who cried death. I’m sorry to put you out. But I think I need you. Or Stell will need you.’

  ‘I’ll be around,’ Caperton said. ‘I’ll be there and back again.’

  ‘Guess you’ve seen all of this before.’

  ‘In this very room,’ Caperton said.

  ‘I know,’ Larry said. ‘In this very bed.’

  The painting above the headboard was new, and Caperton couldn’t quite tell what it depicted, with its fat swirls of white and grey. It was some kind of ship, or the spume of a whale, or a spiral-whipped wave in a storm.

  Maybe it had been on the wall for a long time, but certainly not when his mother died. Or had it? He’d once been proud of the precision with which he recalled his mother’s final weeks: the order of familial arrivals, their withered utterances, the last four things his mother ate (mashed potatoes, applesauce, cinnamon oatmeal, cherry ice cream, in that order), the exact position of the water pitcher on the walnut table. But now he couldn’t remember if that painting had been there.

  ‘You know,’ Larry said, ‘I had this English professor who used to talk about the death of the individual. “The death of the individual,” he’d say. I had no idea if he was for it or against it. But at least now I know what he was talking about.’

  ‘I don’t think he was talking about this.’

  ‘The hell you say,’ Larry said.

  Back in his room, Caperton checked up on the lakefront. There were no new developments, just as after all these meetings there would be no new development. It was all a joke. Most of his working hours he spent tracking down his pay cheques.

  He composed a text to Daphne, which he still did sometimes, though she never responded, even when he lied and said that Gates Mandela McAdoo was a wonderful name for her child. Now he wrote, ‘Here with Larry and Stell. Not good.’ He erased ‘Not good’ and replaced it with ‘More soon.’ The moment he sent it an email zipped in from the airline, a survey about his flight. He was about to answer the questions when he remembered the purpose of his trip. Still, he’d rather not be rude. ‘Flight was great,’ he replied, ‘but I’m dealing with some difficult personal matters.’ Probably only robots would read the message, but sometimes it was crucial to clear the emotional desk.

  He lay down on his old bed, a narrow, thin-mattressed cheapo he’d once cherished as a snuggle palace. He cl
osed his eyes and had one of those mini-dreams he sometimes had before falling asleep. His teasers. This one featured the Rough Beast. They trudged through the rubble of a ruined city. Before them rose a bangled tower, a high, corroded structure made of pig iron, tiles, beach glass, and bottle caps. The Rough Beast paused after each step.

  ‘Public or private?’ he whispered. ‘Public or private?’

  Caperton flew at the Beast, bashed him to the ground.

  ‘That’s it, baby!’ the Beast cried. ‘Hurt my shit!’

  Now there were different voices, and Caperton woke. A man who looked familiar but unplaceable stood just outside the open door.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘This must seem strange. But don’t be alarmed. Stell told me to rouse you.’

  Stell brought out tea and joined the man on the sofa in the living room. Caperton sat down on an ottoman. The man had stiff white hair, a velvet black unibrow. He jiggled Stell’s hand in his lap.

  ‘It’s such a joy for me to see you again. I wish it were under better circumstances. Do you remember me?’

  ‘You’re Burt,’ Caperton said. ‘You used to come over with the other guys.’

  ‘That’s right. Last time I saw you, you were yay high.’ Burt lifted his boot off the carpet.

  ‘Really? That’s very tiny. I must have been a barely viable foetus then.’

  Burt chuckled, nudged Stell.

  ‘Larry said he was a tough cookie. Your father loves you, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you?’ Burt said.

  ‘Maybe you know better.’

  ‘Your father’s from a different generation, that’s all. We weren’t allowed to show our emotions.’

  ‘I’ve met men your age who overcame that.’

  ‘Outliers,’ Burt said. ‘Or possibly fags. I always liked you, you know. Even when you were a little kid and I could tell you were judging us.’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘The gang.’

  Burt pulled Stell’s knuckles to his lips.

  ‘Hey, pal, my father’s not dead yet.’

  ‘Cool it, Omelette,’ Burt said. ‘Stell and I go back. I introduced your father to her. We’re like family. Anyway, I hear you’re a consultant.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a very worthy path. I retired from the sales department about ten years after your father. Since then, I’ve taken up a new calling.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Burt’s a storyteller,’ Stell said.

  ‘No shit.’

  ‘I must admit it’s true,’ Burt said. ‘Every Saturday I go down to the library and tell stories to the children. I’m sure I bore the pants off them, but I get a thrill.’

  ‘Tell me a story.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if this is really a good time for –’

  ‘Just tell me a story.’

  Burt told Caperton a story. It had a boy in it, an eagle feather, a shiny blue turtle. There was an ogre in a cave. Rivers were crossed on flimsy ropes, wise witches sought for counsel, bandits hunted and rehabilitated. The blue turtle led the boy to a princess. The princess fought the ogre and saved the boy. Caperton soaked up every word and couldn’t take his eyes off Burt’s brow, which lifted at the close of the tale.

  ‘Bravo,’ Stell said.

  ‘Pulled that one out of my butt,’ Burt said.

  ‘That’s why you’re a genius,’ Stell said. ‘Am I right?’

  Caperton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Seemed a little cheesy to me.’

  ‘Helps if you’re five,’ Burt said. ‘Not some snide turd turning forty.’

  Caperton stood.

  ‘You’re right, Burt. What can I say? I’m feeling peckish.’

  Stell shrieked. ‘Please, don’t go in there! What do you want? I’ll get your sandwich! Or do you want something else? Just tell me what you want! Let me make it for you!’

  Caperton opened the fridge and in the darkness saw what he wanted. What he could make. He scooped up a bag of bread, a tomato, a hard-boiled egg. Stell charged him, crumpled against his hip, wrapped up his knees. The egg flew away. Caperton slit the bread bag open with his thumbnail, balled up a soft slice of seven-grain and shoved it in his mouth. He bit into the tomato and seeds ran down his wrists, pulp splotched the wall.

  ‘Stop!’ Stell said. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m having an after-school snack,’ Caperton snarled, and fisted up another bread ball, licked the tomato’s bright wound.

  ‘You’re sick!’ Stell said, and from her knees tried to shove him clear of the kitchen.

  Caperton bent over her, whispered, ‘Thanks for the medical narrative.’

  He ripped open his shirt and crushed the mutilated tomato against his chest. Juice glistened in dark burls of hair. He thought that maybe he was about to make a serious declaration, or even try to laugh the whole thing off, when he felt a twinge, a test cinch for another spell of nervous woe. The Belt of Intermittent Sorrow, which he somehow now named the moment it went tight, squeezed him to the kitchen floor.

  That night he texted Daphne: ‘Can’t sleep in this bed. It’s crazy here. Creepy. Like a bad play. Or a bad production of a good play. How is little Gates? I’m sure you’re a wonderful mother. Maybe if mine hadn’t died I would have felt differently. Who knows? You know I’ll always love you. More later. Talk soon.’

  Minutes later Caperton heard his text tone: shod hooves on cobblestones.

  ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Miles and I’m the nanny. I was a Division II nose tackle not very long ago. If you keep texting Daphne I’ll come to your house and feed you your phone. Daphne does not wish to receive messages from you, now or in the future. Good day.’

  Good day?

  Caperton shivered in his shoddy childhood cot. ‘Let the sobbing begin’, he texted to himself, and sank into hard slumber beneath his dank duvet.

  The next morning Caperton stood beside a taxi in the driveway. Stell gathered him in for a hug.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Caperton said, fingering the pierced condom in his pocket.

  ‘Stop saying that. Just go see a doctor. And a therapist.’

  ‘I will. I’ll be back for the weekend. I’ll be back and forth.’

  ‘I know,’ Stell said.

  Burt stood on the lawn in cop shades.

  Was he protecting Stell from her hair-trigger stepson? Standing vigil for his dying amigo?

  Just before coming outside, Caperton had checked on his father. Larry had maybe taken a little bit of a bad turn. He looked pretty damn sick.

  ‘Work beckons, huh?’ Larry nodded at Caperton’s coat.

  ‘Afraid so. Be here Saturday.’

  Caperton took his father’s hand.

  ‘Listen,’ Caperton said. ‘I realise I’ve been an idiot, Dad. All my pointless rage. I’ve wasted so much time trying to get a certain feeling back. But it’s a child’s feeling, and I can’t have it anymore. But I love you. I really do. Know that. And let’s not hold back. With the time we have, let’s say everything to each other. That’s all I want.’

  Something like a ship’s light, far away, began to glow, stately and forlorn, in Larry’s eyes. He gripped his son’s hand harder.

  ‘I know you’re strapped for time,’ Larry said, his voice raspier in just the past day. ‘But there’s this new show on cable, you really should watch it. It’s amazing.’

  ‘A show?’

  ‘No, really,’ Larry said, strained upward, and coughed in Caperton’s ear the name of the showrunner, and how this fellow had also created another hit series.

  ‘The character arcs are ground-breaking,’ Larry said. ‘It’s a golden age of cable television.’

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘I’d wait to watch it with you,’ Larry said. ‘But, well, you know …’

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Caperton said.

  ‘And forth.’ Larry said. ‘I’m glad. I need you, son.’

  Caperton was not surprised to see the Rough Beast in the ter
minal. The Internet wrestler sipped from a demitasse at a granite countertop near the gate. Caperton thought to approach him, but the quest for symmetry seemed a mistake. Besides, the Beast wouldn’t remember a snide turd like him.

  Caperton had two seats to himself on the plane. He wished he could relish the boon, but it made him anxious. A free seat meant that anybody could take it at any time, lumber up from the back rows looking for relief – a fatty, a talker, the ghost of his mother, Death itself, Burt.

  Caperton took the aisle seat, the better to defend the window and, about twenty minutes into the flight, heard a loud grunt, felt a hard pinch on his earlobe.

  ‘How are you, man?’ the Beast said. ‘What’s the story?’

  A pill from Stell had introduced Caperton to a new flippancy.

  ‘The story, Mr Beast? It’s ongoing. Arcing hard. It’s an arcing savage, an astonishment machine.’

  ‘Booyah! And how’s your personal matter?’

  ‘Everything’s going to be OK, my man, within the context of nothing ever being OK.’

  ‘Brother has been on a philosophical fact-finding mission, come back with the news.’ The Beast proffered five, belly-high.

  ‘Please,’ a flight attendant said, approaching from business. ‘No congregating.’

  ‘Nobody’s congregating,’ the Beast said.

  ‘We can’t allow congregating for security reasons.’

  ‘Just shooting the breeze here, sweetness. No box cutters.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Maybe you’re too young for that reference.’

  ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘OK, fine,’ the Beast said, and walked back to his row.

  When the plane landed, Caperton lifted his half-unzipped bag from under the seat and noticed a sandwich tucked under some socks. Pastrami and capers. On a croissant. Caperton chewed and waited for the plane to reach the gate. It would be an odd time now. Larry, the Fates willing, might hold on for a while. They would have a chance to grow close again. Caperton knew he would not run from this. Even if his father doubted him, he knew he would be there when it counted.