Cursed

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  #17

  This isn’t the first time I’ve found Gordon crying and sniffling on the couch, petting Meta with both hands. And I’m sure it’s not the last.

  “Nick?” he says. “Can we talk?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Gordon doesn’t wipe the tears off his face. “Things have gotten awkward between us since I punched you.”

  He didn’t punch me, but I don’t correct him this time.

  “Yeah,” I say, whisper. “I’m sorry.”

  He laughs out his nose, which causes some snot to spurt out. This he does wipe away. “I’m sorry for laughing. You just sounded so doom and gloomy. I should’ve told you I was listening to Six Feet Under a minute ago. Hence the tears.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to bring the awkwardness out in the open, because I find talking about it makes the awkwardness less awkward. Does that make sense?”

  “I think so.”

  We sit in silence for a while.

  “Great plan,” I say.

  He laughs, and the silence that follows is more comfortable.

  “Remember when we used to talk philosophy?” Gordon says.

  “Yeah,” I say. When he first moved in, that’s about all we did.

  “Jesus fuck, that was fun. Why did we stop?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we figured everything out.”

  He laughs again. “I guess so.”

  And in a way, that’s true. Six months ago we agreed on the meaning of life. We agreed that the meaning of life is to get so wrapped up in living that you don’t care about the meaning anymore.

  I stare at the half-finished Elvis on the floor.

  He’s:

  1. Naked.

  2. Empty.

  3. Alone.

  “What do you know about missing people?” I say.

  “Is this a philosophical question?” Gordon says.

  “No, I mean, statistics.”

  “It depends on what country you’re talking about. Is there a genocide going on?”

  “In the US.”

  “Ah,” he says, in a gentle way, like he realizes I’m talking about my mom. Maybe he does. “About 10% of missing people never go home again, but that doesn’t mean they’re dead. Sometimes they start over somewhere else.”

  I think about my mom kissing another husband and telling another son that she loves him more than the world itself. I’d hate her for this, obviously. But this is a much better nightmare than the ones where she’s decomposing in the ground or chained up in a basement with rats that chew her in her sleep.

  “You know what really pisses me off?” Gordon says. “Missing kids.”

  “Yeah, they’re real bastards.”

  “Shut up, Nick. It’s not the kids. It’s the whole down-with-strangers campaign. As if they’re the problem. But you know what, Nick? It’s not strangers who kidnap kids. It’s not strangers who fuck them up. It hardly ever happens that way.”

  “I get what you’re saying,” I say. “But why does that piss you off?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe the world would be a better place if people focused more on real problems instead of so many imaginary ones.”

  But maybe it’s not always so easy to tell the difference. I don’t tell Gordon that.

  Instead, I say, “Yeah.”

  Cicely invites me over again. I know:

  1. Going to Cicely’s house could make her #17.

  2. My presence attracts acts of aggression, so I’d be putting Cicely in danger.

  3. I’d be putting the whole world in danger.

  I go to Cicely’s house.

  “Did it work?” she says.

  At first I don’t know what she’s talking about. Then I remember, and shake my head. “Thanks for trying though.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s alright. It’s really not so bad.”

  She takes my hand. “Bad or not so bad, you don’t deserve this.”

  “Yes I do,” I almost say. Instead, I look down at my hand in Cicely’s hand, and she’s covering up all the scars on my knuckles.

  She looks me in the eyes, and says, “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah,” I say. I almost believe her.

  She only releases my hand when the phone rings.

  “Hello,” she says into the plastic banana phone. And she’s silent for a while. “If you’re going to make a prank call, at least come up with something original, you…booger fork.” She hangs up.

  “What was that about?” I say.

  “I’ll show you.” She walks into her bedroom, and I think she wants me to follow her, so I get up from the couch.

  But she comes back with a piece of paper. She gives it to me.

  On the paper, it says “CURSED?” in bold letters, with Cicely’s phone number underneath.

  “I’ve been posting them around town,” she says. “In case we’re not the only ones.”

  “Oh,” I say, and I want us to be the only ones. I want to rip up the paper like a child.

  I feel stupid.

  “So far I’ve only received prank calls,” she says. “Including the young gentleman who was just explaining what a terrible curse it is to have such an enormous, um, membrum virile.”

  “I see.”

  “But maybe there’s someone out there with a real problem, like singing eyelashes or evil hemorrhoids.”

  “Aren’t all hemorrhoids evil?”

  “Yes, but these are really evil. They steal candy from babies, then make the babies watch them eat it.”

  I don’t have to ask Cicely why she’s searching for other people like us.

  Another person:

  1. Might mean more clues.

  But even more important than that:

  2. Might need someone to talk to.

  Cicely and me, we don’t solve The Mystery of the Curses. Instead we:

  1. Discuss the film, Brazil. “I don’t care what anyone says,” Cicely says. “The real heroes are the ducts.”

  2. Watch the film, Attack of the Giant Leeches. “Real giant leeches don’t kill like that,” Cicely says.

  3. Eat soup. “I’ll bring the food tomorrow,” I say, afterward.

  But Cicely didn’t suggest a meeting tomorrow. And I stare into my empty bowl.

  “Sounds good,” Cicely says.

  “What should I bring?” I say.

  “Anything but leech. After the movie, I don’t think I have the stomach for them anymore.”

  I check my watch.

  The time’s 10:44.

  “I’d better go,” I say. “If I don’t, John might show up again.”

  I don’t say, “Or you might slap me.”

  I don’t say, “I’m afraid.”

  In fact, there’s a lot I don’t say.

  What I manage is, “Thanks for the soup.”

  I’m waiting outside the apartment with Elvis. My plan was to work on him to keep my mind off the inevitable. But he’s still:

  1. Naked.

  2. Empty.

  3. Alone.

  Even in my company, he looks alone.

  The time’s 11:27.

  And I’m outside because Gordon’s inside. I locked myself out. I hope that’s enough.

  #17, or who I assume is #17, turns out to be Karl.

  He tells me the same old story.

  The story that my ex-girlfriend told me 11 days ago, before she slapped me.

  The story that my ex-teacher told me 15 days ago, before he slapped me.

  The story about how he dropped his phone book, and it landed open on the floor, and he spotted my name, as if the words were hovering on the page. Or about how he happened to overhear a co-worker talking about me and the stuffed toaster I crafted for her.

  “Seriously,” Karl says. “I’m not shitting you.”

  And I act surprised.

  “It’s funny us both ending up here after all these years,” he says.

  “Funny,” I say.

  “Is i
t just me, or didn’t you swear you’d never set foot in this muck bucket again?”

  “Muck bucket?”

  “I mean the town, man. You always called it that.”

  “That doesn’t sound like me. I’d call it a shithole, sure. Craptown, maybe. Never muck bucket.”

  “You’re still an asshole, I see.”

  “Nah, I’m recovering. That was a momentary relapse.”

  “So why’d you move back?”

  “It just felt like the right thing to do.”

  “Same here. What’s that on your leg?”

  “A doll.”

  “What’re you doing with a doll on your leg?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So. You wanna celebrate our little reunion with a couple drinks? Tomorrow night?”

  “I thought….” And I decide not to finish my sentence.

  “Yeah, I was dry for a while. Didn’t take. Me and Heather separated, and I moved back here. And I’ve got to do something with my free time, right? But I’ve cut way back, man. Things are a lot better now.” And he goes on to explain why he doesn’t need any help, and why he’s different from every other alcoholic who’s ever lived. In other words, he’s talking to me the way I used to talk to myself.

  “Uh huh,” I say.

  And maybe Karl started drinking again because he couldn’t cope with Heather learning about his infidelity and leaving him, and I know how easy it is to relapse. I know the statistics, because Gordon’s told me.

  But maybe Karl started drinking again so that he could be here tonight, sitting with me on my doorstep, and maybe it’s all my fault.

  “So what do you say?” Karl says.

  “I can’t,” I say.

  “Fuck, man. Don’t tell me you’ve dried up.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, good for you, man. You were out of control. But this sucks.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Shit. We could celebrate without the drinks. Fuck the drinks.”

  “I’m actually…really busy.” The truth is, I’m afraid to be around him. “I’m sorry.”

  “Fuck you, Nick.”

  And this is the same old story about a person’s past, and how there’s nowhere left to hide.

  I squeeze Elvis tight.

  #18

  Cicely informs me that she’s busy taming a wild Chupacabra and asks if I’ll please leave a message after the beep.

  Then I say, “Hi Cicely. This is Nicholas, AKA the idiot who said he’d make you dinner, completely forgetting that today’s his step-dad’s birthday party. I can probably come over by 8, if that’s alright with you. I…hope it is. I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”

  I call back and say, “I’m really losing it, Cicely. I forgot to apologize. I’m sorry. That sorry was for forgetting to apologize, and this one’s for the dinner fiasco: I’m sorry. I…um…bye.”

  And I want to destroy my messages with the power of my mind.

  I also want to call her again and invite her to the party, because I don’t want to face my sister or Sol’s new girlfriend alone. And with Cicely in the room or the grocery store or wherever we are, I don’t feel alone.

  But I don’t call her again.

  She has enough problems to deal with. Plus the dinner starts in 15 minutes.

  10 minutes later, I’m hugging Sol, a little tighter than usual.

  He says, “My son. My son.” This is what he always says when he hugs me, and it always makes me feel a little sad. I don’t know why.

  It doesn’t matter.

  “Happy birthday, Dad,” I say.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” he says. “Brienda made us quite a feast.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Let’s join the table before they start without us, hm?”

  “Yeah.”

  I don’t want to, really. I want to stay here, hugging Sol, feeling loved and a little sad, until everyone else goes away.

  But I can’t.

  Sol and me, we join the others.

  I give out hugs around the table.

  1. “I’m so glad to see you,” Nadia says, and when Nadia says, “so,” what she means is, “not.”

  2. Svetlana shows me the doll that I made for her 1st birthday. It’s her favorite, and I don’t think her parents are very happy about that.

  3. Greg doesn’t say anything.

  4. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Brienda says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I told Brienda that you’re a vagan,” Sol says.

  Nadia corrects him.

  “Vegan,” he says. “So she made us a lot of vegan dishes.”

  “That’s great,” I say. I didn’t mean to sound so quiet. So unimpressed.

  “Have you talked to your doctor about your diet?” Nadia says. “I’ve read a lot of horror stories about what veganism can do to your body.”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  She places her hand on mine. “I just don’t want you to get sick.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s eat,” Sol says.

  We eat.

  After the cake, Sol opens his presents at the table.

  “How cute!” Brienda says.

  “Just what I wanted,” Sol says, and pats the penguin’s head. “Thank you, Nicholas.”

  “I want to hold it,” Svetlana says.

  “What do we say, Svetlana?” Nadia says.

  “Please, Grandpa?”

  “Be careful with it,” Sol says, handing it to her. “It’s very precious.”

  Svetlana carries it around the room on top of her open palms, as if it is very precious.

  “Why does it have an extra pair of wings?” Greg says.

  “I collect flying animals,” Sol says.

  “But penguins can already fly.”

  “I don’t think they can,” I say.

  “I’m sure I’ve seen them flying on documentaries we’ve watched,” Greg says. “I can clearly picture it in my mind.”

  “I think he’s right,” Nadia says. And of course she’s referring to Greg.

  “Well, they’re magical wings then,” I say. “They let him travel to other dimensions.”

  Greg smiles and leans back in his chair with his arms crossed.

  “Grandpa!” Svetlana says, and runs to his side. “I dropped it!”

  “It’s OK,” Sol says. “You can pick it up again. It’s OK.”

  “OK.” She runs off again.

  “Walk,” Nadia and Greg say together.

  “I think it’s a wonderful gift, Nicholas,” Brienda says. “You’re a very skilled young man.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  She smiles.

  I try.

  “You’re a good cook,” I say.

  “Thank you!” she says. “I’ll cook for you whenever you like. Just say the word.”

  And Brienda, she’s:

  1. Too short.

  2. Too heavy.

  3. Too loud.

  4. Too friendly.

  5. Too happy.

  In other words, she’s not my mother.

  And I hate her for that.

  I hate her so much in this moment that maybe it shows all over my face.

  Sol slaps me hard. But it’s not really me he’s attacking. He’s fighting his own guilt and grief, and that’s what I tell myself as I hold back my tears with the power of my mind.

  “Oh,” Sol says. He looks at me with those I-don’t-know-what-got-into-me eyes. And I want to tell him exactly what it is.

  But he wouldn’t believe me.

  No one here would believe me, except Svetlana.

  “Sol,” Brienda says, hard, and maybe she’ll never forgive him.

  “I’m sorry,” Sol says, soft, and maybe he’ll never forgive himself.

  And I don’t put a hand on Sol’s shoulder.

  Instead, I say, “You told me you’d wait for Mom. You promised me. But here you are, messing around with another woman, and you expect me to be
OK with it?” The words come out fast and easy. “Fuck you, Sol.”

  “Nicholas,” Sol says.

  “I think you’d better leave,” Nadia says.

  “Fuck you too,” I say.

  I leave the house, alone, and now they’ll be able to forgive themselves, and each other.

  And I know:

  1. I dropped something very precious inside me.

  2. It feels broken.

  On my answering machine, Cicely tells me not to worry about the dinner. She also asks me to bring over some tiny stakes, if I have any, as her house is infested by a pack of vampiric cockroaches.

  When I approach her front door, I notice that her welcome mat no longer says “WELCOME” in bold letters, with a few flowers underneath. Now it looks like a pirate flag and it says “AHOY!” And there’s a wind chime above me, made out of hanging sporks.

  Cicely lets me inside with a smile.

  “Here,” I say, and hand her the box of toothpicks that I bought on the way here.

  She stares at the box, as if trying to decipher the meaning, and then she does. She laughs. “Those roaches may have won the battle, but now I’ll win the war.”

  I can’t help glancing at the tennis ball, because it’s duct taped to the back of her hand.

  “I tape it when I’m painting,” she says.

  “Ah,” I say, and I study the mural on the wall. I see a dragon in a top hat, tap dancing on the stomach of a sleeping Matador. And I see an alien vomiting out his UFO with the upchuck heading towards a sweaty angel on a unicycle.

  Then I sit beside Cicely, and watch her unravel the duct tape. Afterward, she rolls the ball from the back of her hand to her palm, careful and slow. She holds on tight.

  I can breathe again.

  “Why don’t you tape it all the time?” I say. I could probably figure this out myself if I thought about it hard enough, but I don’t want to.

  “Well,” she says. “I’m afraid if I kept it taped for too long, I’d forget that it’s there, and I’d make some stupid mistake. And then, poof.”

  “Is that what the end of the world sounds like?”

  “Either that or kablam.”

  “I always thought it was kablammo.”

  “No, that’s the sound of a spleen spontaneously combusting.”

  “What about kazooey?”

  “Hm. That’s the sound of a robot’s mechanical heart when it falls in love.”

  “You’re very knowledgeable.”