People mixed and mingled, laughter erupted here and there over the locust-drone of conversation, liquor and food were abundant, and the music was too loud.
All and all, it was a great party.
Outside, on the edge of the motion, Melinda stood alone, nursing the same margarita she’d held onto all night. A black dress, slim and made up of more cutaways than silk, shimmered in the reflected light of the torches.
Her eyes moved slowly around the expansive backyard, following a single figure as he made his way through the throng, talking, drinking, laughing.
Josh.
She smiled when she caught his eye.
I love you, he mouthed.
“I love you, too,” she said aloud, though he was too far away to hear.
He disappeared into the crowd, and she stared at the spot where he had stood.
Five years, she thought. Has it really been that long already?
The promotions, the cars, the new house…
“Great party!” said a voice, whispering directly into her ear.
Melinda jumped a bit, sloshing margarita away from her onto the tile.
“Sorry,” laughed Jeannie, grabbing her arm to steady her. “Didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“No,” Melinda answered quickly. “Just snuck up on me, that’s all. Having fun?”
Jeannie paused in mid slurp, gestured with her glass back to the house. “Rich is inside keeping a group of people either totally enthralled or mindlessly bored with his views on health care litigation—it’s hard to say. You tell me.”
“Well, I think it’s going well,” Melinda answered.
“Was he surprised? I know I’d be, if Rich did anything half as romantic for our fifth anniversary.”
“Oh, he knew about it. I scheduled it way in advance. Even wrote it down in his date book just to make sure he wouldn’t forget,” Melinda said, draining the lukewarm, salty remains of her drink and setting the empty glass onto a nearby table.
Screams and laughter erupted from a knot of people gathered around the pool.
“Ahh, yes. The date book,” intoned Jeannie. “I’ve always wanted to know how you got that away from him.”
Melinda smiled at the question, at the memory.
“It wasn’t easy. I take care of all of his appointments, his meetings, everything. He’s got me, so he doesn’t need to worry.”
From the slightly overlarge, sequined evening bag she held like a football in the crook of her arm, she produced a date book that looked like every date book Josh had carried with him.
“He might not carry it with him anymore, but you certainly never seem to be parted from it,” Jeannie laughed, swiping a flute of champagne from a tray that bobbed past them. “Well, he’s a changed man, that’s for sure. Ever since you got that thing away from him, he’s been so… fun.”
“Yes,” said Melinda, her eyes finding Josh again in the crowd. Hands were grabbing him, lifting him. He was laughing hysterically, trying to escape.
“But I’m worried about you, though,” Jeannie said softly.
“Hey, don’t worry about me. I’ve got it all planned, remember?”
In the distance, Josh arced above the light of the tiki torches scattered around the patio, fell into the pool tuxedo and all with a tremendous splash, more screams, and a round of applause.
Melinda smiled again—too broad, too much teeth—lightly punched Jeannie’s arm, moved away to get another drink.
Jeannie was quick to notice that Melinda had unconsciously gathered the date book to her as she left, enfolded it in her arms where it melted dark and seamless into the black of her dress.
* * *
Later, much later, that night, Melinda sat before a mirror at her vanity table, gathered her hair in a bun, rubbed her makeup off.
Josh came out of the bathroom, snuck up behind her, shook his wet head like a dog’s.
“Hey!” she cried, jumping as droplets of cold water fell onto her.
“Surprise!” he yelled, kissing the top of her head. “Happy anniversary, and thanks for the party.”
“Thanks, yourself,” she huffed in mild annoyance. “Now, go and dry yourself off.”
Josh moved back into the bathroom, came back out with a limp and sodden clump of clothing.
“I don’t know if we’ll be able to salvage this,” he said, smiling at her in a naive, boyish way that melted her heart, as it always did.
It was good, she had decided long ago, to see him this way.
He’d always been so serious, too serious, she thought.
It had taken a great deal of time, patience, and pencil erasers to go through all of those old date books. But she had decided back then that her marriage, as new as it was, was definitely worth fighting for.
And changing those passages may have saved my life.
Admiring him as he stood naked in their bedroom, his hair slicked back, holding the sopping remains of his tuxedo, she knew she had done the right thing.
“You’re dripping. Just hang it in the shower, and I’ll take it by the dry cleaners tomorrow and see what they say,” she said, rising and shooing him away. “And hurry up. It’s getting late.”
“I’ll just be a minute. I want to dry my hair first.”
Melinda removed her robe and climbed into bed.
It was a large bed, the kind she had always wanted. Their apartment had been too small for such a bed, but not so this house. She had seen to that.
The covers billowed around her as she made herself comfortable, the whine of the hair dryer coming from the bathroom.
She stretched, rolled over, frowned.
There was a lump in the bed, an ever so slight upraising of the mattress, more on Josh’s side than hers.
She rolled back and forth over it, hoping to flatten it out.
It did not flatten.
For a moment, she thought it was the remote, a pair of socks, a misplaced book…
Melinda’s heart stopped as she threw the covers off, bounded to the floor on Josh’s side.
There, between the mattress and the box spring.
There, cool and textured to the touch.
There, the tiny, straining clasp.
There, when she drew it into the golden light of Josh’s reading lamp, the date.
This year.
Her hands shaking, she unsnapped the clasp, fumbled through the pages.
There, the familiar, blocky handwriting.
March 5
2 a.m.
Melinda peeks again. Now, she knows.
I’ve got it all planned.
And the plans haven’t changed…
Behind her, the sound of the hair dryer had stopped.
The bathroom door opened, and a shadow fell over her.
BUT FOR A MOMENT… MOTIONLESS
December 31st, and I remember walking… walking the sidewalks of the great city, a great city, any great city.
It is dark, cold, but the lights of the city are remarkable, as colorful as a carnival. People are everywhere, crowding the sidewalks, jostling, moving—always moving.
I have been here before. It seems familiar, even as its unfamiliarity wraps itself around me. I wander as if lost, yet something guides my feet.
The wind is cold, a blunt, frigid wall that pushes me; fingers that tug at my long, dark overcoat, numb my cheeks, my hands. I see other rosy-faced people pass me under the lights, clinging to each other, clutching bags, gifts, bottles. They hold hands, smile as they pass.
I don’t truly know where I am, what I’m doing…
… who I am.
So, I walk the streets, walk the streets and hope that something will jog my memory, tell me where to go, what to do.
In my mind I see the sky… endless seas of blue, clouds, storms…
I see fire…
I see water…
* * *
January 2nd, and there are no smiling faces to greet me now.
A light snow falls, adheres to the sidewalks, the s
treets, the dead bodies lying where they fell, sprawled across each other, limbs twisted. It’s been two days, and they still aren’t rotting… is that right? I mean, does that sound… natural?
They’re… they seem to be… drying… desiccating. Their skin is taut, stretched over bones as the flesh inside dehydrates. They’re taking on the look of yellow parchment in old books: stiff like starched shirts. Dried like toads in the sun.
And everywhere, everywhere there is a spicy smell, almost aromatic… of chili peppers and cinnamon.
* * *
Magazines and newspapers flutter in the deserted newsstands, faces on their covers stare back at me with empty, accusatory eyes. I give them no heed. Theirs was a dying medium before any of this happened.
Some places still have power, still have water. I have no idea how long that will last. But while it does, I find myself a nice penthouse apartment on the top of the highest building I can find. From there, I can look over the entire city, stretched below me like a flat, lifeless painting.
It is tastefully, minimally decorated; it was probably the home of a joyless, sexless, childless older couple who had money but little else. Still, the bed is comfortable, the sheets are clean, and the refrigerator is fully stocked, as is the wine cooler.
And there are no dead bodies to dispose of.
When I sleep, I have two dreams.
I am water, and I cover everything.
I am fire, falling from the sky, incinerating all before me.
I just don’t know what I am now.
* * *
For everything that occurs in our world, large or small, good or bad, there are only two positions available.
You either make it happen or you let it happen.
Sounds harsh, but there it is. If something is important to you, you make it happen.
Everything else, then, you let happen… by inaction, lack of knowledge, lack of importance.
That, then, is what haunts me…
Did I make this happen?
Or did I let this happen?
Either way, I bear the full brunt of its responsibility, the entire burden of its guilt.
For I am the only one left.
* * *
Walking the city that night, December 31st, I remember going to a bar. I met a few people there, young, smiling. We struck up a conversation, and they invited me to a party they were headed to.
New Year’s Eve… I told them it sounded fun, and I followed them into the night.
We walked for a long time, down city streets cold and dark and faceless, until we came to a brownstone. People spilled from its doorway onto the steps, onto the street. They were drinking, talking, smoking.
Elbowing our way through the crowd, we entered the house. I was introduced, accepted without question. Drinks were pushed into my hand. The music was loud, unfamiliar, thumping through the air, the floor, up my legs and into my body.
Midnight…
On TV a glowing ball made of lights dropped and people cheered. I kissed a few women, their lips soft and sticky, their breath sweet, patinated with alcohol.
I went home with one of the women I had met in the bar. I held her up part of the way, and she gave me slurred, indistinct directions. I helped her inside, and she pulled me in after her, kissed me, led me to her bedroom.
I kissed her back, and we fumbled with our clothing. The catches and zippers and buttons of what I wore seemed unfamiliar to me.
But I let it happen, let her coax me to her bed, to her…
This I knew… this I remembered…
Later, she slept and I could not.
I heard the furnace rushing warm air into the room. I could smell her on the heated air, on my skin, my fingers, my lips.
When I finally did sleep, curled next to her, I dreamt of water: rushing, covering water.
I knew that I was the water.
And I had made it happen before…
* * *
She was dead when I awoke, dead and already smelling of cinnamon.
I tried to rouse her, but she would not awaken.
I used her shower to wash myself, my hair. I brushed my teeth at her sink, with her toothbrush.
In her mirror, I did not recognize my own face, my own body.
I went into her small kitchen, checked the fridge. A few eggs, a quart of milk, some butter, and a lot of little tubs of yogurt. I hardboiled a few eggs in a small pan I found, drank the milk from the container, ate two cups of yogurt.
I cleaned my mess in her kitchen, washed the few dishes I’d used, put them in the rack near the sink. Before I left, I went back into the bedroom, kissed her cheek lightly, told her I was sorry, so sorry…
Outside, January 1st, the morning was cold and grey.
On the streets again, I saw that everyone was dead…
… everyone.
* * *
January 18th, and I still have not seen one living person.
I’ve walked all over the city, from Bedford-Stuy to Manhattan, from the Upper East Side to the Lower West. Nothing. No one.
Almost three weeks in, and most of them are mummified. The dead sprawl on park benches, sit in cars in traffic that will never clear. They clog the restaurants, the bus stops, the subway stations. They block the streets, the sidewalks. They litter the rooftops, the museums, the stores.
The smell, the spicy-sweet smell is everywhere.
But there is no one alive… no one, except me.
Only me.
I realize that what I miss the most, what haunts me the most, is the lack of sound.
There are none of the sounds of the city, the honking cars, the sirens, the feet, the voices, the shouting, the music.
It is silent, deadly, empty silent. Not even the birds chirp.
I long to hear a sound not made by me. The sound of a single voice, the squeal of tires, a few notes of music, even the patter of rain on the sidewalk.
But there is nothing…
* * *
January 30th, and, as always, I am absorbed with a delicate thought.
It is how poetry has indefinite sensations to which end, music is an essential. Since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception.
Music, when combined with a pleasurable idea, is poetry.
Music without the idea is simply music.
Without music or an intriguing idea, color becomes pallor.
Man becomes carcass.
Home becomes catacomb.
And the dead are, but for a moment, motionless…
… motionless.
These are not my words, I know… I don’t know whose they are; that is lost in the recesses like so many other things, so many other pieces. But they have risen in me, risen in my memory…
They seem to fit; they seem to tell me something.
* * *
February 10th, and it has now been 40 days and 40 nights since it happened.
I leave the penthouse, bundled against the cold, for the café.
Inside, I get a start.
There is someone inside… alive.
I smell coffee, rich and black… toast… bacon…
He sits at my table, two plates before him.
Turning slowly, he smiles, and my heart warms instantly, as if plunged into hot water. My bones thaw, my cheeks flush with blood. I close my eyes and wait for the sound of his voice.
“Good morning,” he says, and his voice is low, rumbled, deep. He gestures to the seat opposite his, and I remove my coat, let it drop absently to the floor, sit.
On the plate are two fried eggs, several strips of perfectly done bacon, two pieces of toast, cut diagonally. He’d even arranged a sprig of parsley and a slice of orange on the plate. A mug of deep, black coffee sits nearby, steaming.
“I like to try my hand at things every once in a while,” he says, lifting a slice of bacon from his own plate and eating it. “Who knew bacon was so tricky? I must have burned an entire pound before you got here.”
Saying
nothing, content to hear him speak, I begin to eat. He watches me intently, the smile never fading.
“It’s hardest on you, I know. I apologize. I know I don’t have to, but I do anyway.”
He looks at me, and his eyes are gray and moist.
“There are some who bear much of the burden of my work on themselves,” he said. “And for that I am sorry… but there is no other way. No other way that I can conceive.”
There was something about his voice, something other than the thrill it gave me to hear another’s voice after nearly two months.
Then I realize what it is…
I’ve heard it before.
“Do I know you?” I ask, putting my coffee cup onto the table.
He smiles. “As well as any. I know you, though… better than anyone. I made you.”
At that, he lifts his own cup, drinks a swallow, looks from me to the cup as his eyebrow twitches in wonder.
“Father?”
Almost sadly, he nods.
“Yes.”
Suddenly the food is tasteless, unwanted.
“Why am I here? Where is everyone? What happened?”
Then, after a pause: “What is the secret I carry?”
“Ahh, dear, you carry too much, too much for one soul to bear. So I cloud it from you so that it doesn’t destroy you,” he replies, his sad eyes never leaving me.
“You are the water that washes the world, the fire that burns it clean,” he sighs. “You are the cover I pull over my work when I cannot look at it any longer. You are my… eraser… my reset button. My knife in the dark.”
I shake my head, have no idea what he is saying.
… a horribly clear idea of what he is saying.
“I require a Word to make and another to unmake. You are that final Word, the Omega. The Word of the End.”
Little Deaths Page 4
