Last Chants

by Lia Matera

  “Pain. Arthritis in my neck. I shouldn’t fall asleep in a chair; it’s painful when I rise.”

  “Where is this chair? Are you at your home?”

  “No,” Arthur replied. “I might have had a home with Nina, but the regret has settled into my bones as arthritis. That was a long time ago.”

  Fred looked startled. I wondered if he was used to more direct answers from the subconscious mind. “Where is your home now, Arthur?”

  “Ah, I wish I knew.”

  Fred showed a spark of ingenuity: “Where are your books and papers?”

  “In storage. New Haven, Connecticut.”

  “And things you’ve acquired since leaving Yale?”

  “Vancouver Island.”

  Fred kept the frustration on his face out of his voice. “And your daily necessities? Change of clothes, toiletries?”

  “My hotel.”

  “What hotel is that?”

  “In San Francisco. On Stockton Street.”

  Edward had gotten the address his first night with us. He’d made sure the hotel wasn’t adding daily charges to Arthur’s credit card. No one looking for Arthur would be led there based on this week’s credit transactions.

  “Did you awaken in your hotel room Monday morning?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “On a wing chair.”

  “Tell us what you did then.”

  “I bathed. I ordered eggs and toast. The coffee was very weak. I dressed.”

  “Where were you going Monday morning?”

  It was difficult not to sit forward. Arthur had always been vague about this, saying only that he’d had no particular business, that he’d been strolling.

  “To the place the dove specified.”

  Fred glanced at us, brows raised. His cheeks were sun- or wind-burned, with goggle-shaped whiteness around the eyes. “And who is the dove?”

  “My power animal.”

  “Can you explain?”

  I looked at Edward. He had agreed to keep the hypnotist out of Arthur’s shaman stuff. But Edward just sat there, chewing the inside of one cheek.

  “I was advised while journeying. I was told I would meet someone on the street.”

  “When did this journey take place, Arthur?”

  “Billy and I were in the rock.”

  “What day was this?”

  “It was Saturday.”

  “Saturday, two days before that Monday morning?”

  “Yes.” Arthur’s face remained slack, his speech relatively uninflected. It was almost as if a ventriloquist spoke for him.

  “What time of day on Saturday were you inside the rock with Billy?”

  I wondered how well Edward had prepped Fred. Obviously well enough for him to follow up on this.

  “Sunrise.”

  “Why were you there together, Arthur?”

  “We sensed a transition. A loss and a gain. Powerful forces at play. We had questions.”

  “Can you tell us more about this?”

  I nudged Edward. We’d promised not to let Fred intrude. But Edward cast me a cranky glance, shaking his head.

  “We had learned to journey together. We’d guessed the significance of the rock.”

  “And what is that, Arthur?”

  “It’s a boat.”

  “Can you explain what you mean by that?”

  “The Makah and the Salish and the Kwakiutl, the Haida, the Nootka, the Tsimshian, all of them hollowed logs to make vast canoes fit for rough seas. This was a stone canoe, used not by the local Costanoans, but by shamans who predated them: This was our feeling. It was a vessel for a particular spiritual quest. It’s at the edge of a clearing shaped like an inlet, the best place from which to launch. But a dugout canoe can’t be managed by oneself, not through rough water. So we tried together at sunrise.”

  “This was last Saturday at dawn.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Monday—”

  Edward waved to catch Fred’s attention. Fred glanced over, scowling. He saw Edward shaking his head, and mouthing the word “Saturday.”

  Fred seemed irritated.

  Nevertheless, he said, “Arthur, tell us what happened on Saturday.”

  “Our journey couldn’t be completed.” Desolation changed his voice. “The water was rough. It boiled with an emotion, a spell cast upon us, a terrible jealousy.”

  “Were you jealous of Billy, Arthur?”

  “No.”

  “He of you?”

  “No.”

  “Whose jealousy, then?”

  “It was Hera.”

  “And who is Hera?”

  I was afraid I knew the answer.

  Sure enough, Arthur told him, “The wife of Zeus.”

  Fred cast Edward a glance that said, Satisfied?

  “How long were you together in the rock, Arthur?”

  “We got as far as we could. But we capsized. The dove and the raven came for us. The dove said someone waited for me in San Francisco. So I left Billy.” His brow crimped. His eyes, open only slightly, glinted with tears. “How strange of the raven to say nothing, to offer no warning. Why?” Arthur moaned. “Where’s Billy now? Why can’t I find him?”

  Fred’s glance at Edward was furious.

  “Let’s go back to Monday, Arthur, this last Monday morning. You’ve eaten breakfast in your hotel room. Now what do you do?” He waited a moment for Arthur’s response. Then he repeated, “It’s last Monday, after breakfast.”

  “I check my clock, and I see it’s time. So I leave my hotel.”

  “What is your destination, Arthur?”

  “Montgomery Street. I’ve been told to follow the morning river to the Banker’s Heart.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “The dove.”

  “And what did you take it to mean, Arthur?”

  “Montgomery Street.”

  I noticed Edward’s smile. The Banker’s Heart was a huge hunk of black marble set by some ironic sculptor in the Bank of America Plaza. On Montgomery Street.

  “I had gone there Sunday morning,” Arthur said softly. “And I’d found it deserted. The pedestrian river flows only on weekdays.”

  “So you went there again on Monday?”

  “Yes,” Arthur agreed. “To meet the person.”

  “Can you recall the moment that you reached Montgomery Street?”

  “Yes.” Arthur sounded surprised. “A blue car honked at me when I crossed in front of it. A woman looked at me as if she knew my face. And there was a young man eating a brownie.”

  “That’s excellent, Arthur. Can you describe what you see as you continue walking?”

  Arthur’s narrative rambled: an attractive woman, a man with an interesting umbrella, eyeglasses similar to ones he’d owned years ago, an unusual flower in a planter box. He listed things as if choosing them at random from a movie of his walk.

  “That’s fine, Arthur. That’s excellent. Can you go now to the moments just before someone handed you a gun?”

  Edward shook his head slightly. Did he consider this a leading question? Did he doubt Arthur’s story?

  “I had been walking quite a while, up and back. Not doubting—but I was slowing down. I was looking more particularly. People passed by me. A woman in a green raincoat, a man in pinstripes, they flowed past. Behind me, someone muttering; that’s when . . . ”

  “Go on, Arthur.”

  “He handed me the gun.”

  “Why don’t we slow down just a bit. Let’s go back a few minutes before you feel the gun in your hand, Arthur. Can you go back to that approximate moment?”

  Arthur didn’t say anything. He frowned, a tic developing in the corner of his eye.

  “Are you back in that moment, Arthur?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you freeze it in your mind as if you were pausing a film?”

  A few seconds later, he said, “Yes.”

  “Then let’s talk about what you see. What do you see closest to you?”

  “A
woman in a beige trenchcoat, a man raising his jacket collar, a young fellow with a hat over a shaved head, a canvas safari hat. There’s an eagle feather in the hatband.”

  Edward nudged me.

  “A girl trying to put up an umbrella,” Arthur continued. “Such a lot of umbrellas up, and yet it isn’t very wet. They look like corks bobbing in a river.”

  “Let’s keep looking close by you for another moment,” Fred suggested. “Who else is standing near?”

  “A couple passing on my right, chatting. He says, ‘We’ll cream them in court,’ and she says, ‘That’s naive.’ A conversation behind me, too. I don’t pay attention.”

  “Can you pay attention now, Arthur?”

  “But it’s not . . . it’s only one person—” His voice picked up a whisper of bewilderment. “Talking to himself. Something about the police.”

  “Arthur, what can you tell me about his voice?” Fred looked much more excited than he sounded. I wondered if therapists took workshops from FM deejays.

  “It’s not an old enough voice.”

  “Old enough for what, Arthur?”

  “For the man who made the fuss. It’s a younger voice.”

  “Then what happens?” Fred was looking flushed in his unbuttoned shirt and earth-tone blazer.

  “I feel something in my hand. I don’t want it, I’m going to let it drop. But the voice is whispering, ‘Take it take it take it.’ Something hard with a sleek surface. I don’t know why I let my fingers close around it. I suppose I don’t want it to drop. Someone behind me values it, and so I don’t want it to break. I try to see who’s doing this, but we’re too crowded, it’s difficult. My neck won’t turn easily this morning.”

  “What do you feel in your hand, Arthur?”

  “The scarf. I raise my hand to look at it. It’s a silk scarf.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “It’s yellowish. It has a pattern of tiny brown dots.”

  “What style is the scarf?”

  “I don’t know. Masculine, perhaps an ascot. I can tell now that there’s a gun in it. When I open my hand to look at the gun, the scarf slides away.” He paused a moment. “Odd—it falls quickly, as if there’s a weight attached. It slides away, and I hardly notice it.” His frown looked painful. “I’m so surprised—I open my hand to look, and I almost drop it. I’m fumbling, perhaps that’s why the scarf falls.”

  For a moment he said nothing. But his frown deepened. His eyes moved from side to side as if he were dreaming.

  “What’s happening around you now, Arthur? Can you freeze the movie at the next frame?”

  “Two men pass me on my left. They rush past. One’s bulky. He wears a fedora and a trenchcoat. One is smaller. He wears an anorak and jeans. He’s hatless. He turns and glances at me. I’ve stopped walking, you see. He turns as if he’s irritated. I’m a logjam in the river.”

  “Do you recognize him or his companion, Arthur?”

  “No,” he said. “A man in front of me raises his hands and begins shouting for help.”

  “Is this someone you’ve noticed on the street before?”

  “No.”

  “Can you see where he came from?”

  “No.”

  “Did he come from behind you, Arthur?”

  “I was looking at the gun. Not at the street.”

  “But you noticed two men when they passed you.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed.

  “But you didn’t notice this man approaching you?”

  “No. I only stopped staring at the gun because I heard him shouting for help. I found him looking at me. It startled me.”

  “What did you do then, Arthur?”

  “I tightened my grip on the gun. I was afraid it might discharge if I dropped it. And I looked around to see why the man was shouting.”

  “What did you see when you looked around?”

  It took him a minute to respond. Edward was sitting forward, elbows on his knees. I held my breath, waiting for Arthur to say more.

  “The young man with the eagle feather in his hat. He was behind me. I caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder, the back of his head. He was walking away from me.”

  “You’d seen him earlier.”

  “Yes. He’d walked past me some moments before. He was walking away from me again.”

  Fred looked at Edward, nodding. His voice remained phlegmatic. “What else did you notice, Arthur?”

  “The man who was shouting. Before he put his hands up, he reached into his pocket. He fiddled with something there.”

  “Can you describe the motion, Arthur?”

  “No. Just that he reached in and did something. Or checked something.”

  “Then what did he do?”

  “He raised his arms and called for help.”

  “Can you see the people around him, Arthur?”

  “Yes.”

  “How are they responding to his calls?”

  “A woman is panicking. She backs into another woman. A man and a woman pass by quickly, hardly glancing at him. Another man looks irritated by the noise he’s making. A woman on his left seems angry until she sees me, then she looks scared.”

  “And what is the man doing now?”

  “He’s telling me I can have his wallet.”

  “What happens then, Arthur?”

  “Other people move over as they walk. A woman crouches. A man blocks foot traffic by throwing out his arms. He speaks over his shoulder to people coming up behind him. One of them doubles back, breaking into a run. A voice behind me says, ‘Stay back, stay back, he’s got a gun.’ The man tells me not to shoot and that he’ll reach into his pocket and give me his wallet.” Arthur stopped. His breathing had quickened. “‘No, don’t do that,’ I tell him. And I see a policeman. I feel such relief. I can straighten it out now, you see. I say, ‘Officer.’ But I can’t say more right now. Willa has suddenly put herself in front of me. I’m looking down at the top of Willa’s head. She can’t seem to part her hair properly; I’ve always meant to tell her.”

  My hand strayed to my part. It would have been straighter if I hadn’t just run my hand through my hair.

  “She says, ‘If you back up, he won’t hurt me.’ And so I try to back up, but there’s someone behind me. I say, ‘But Willa,’ and she says, ‘Will you what? Will you kill me?’ I don’t understand; I simply don’t understand her. I look at the man in front of her and at the officer, and they seem very surprised. They’re goggling as if Willa meant me, so I explain that I’d never hurt her. Then Willa says, ‘Maybe if you let him go, he’ll let me go.’ I still don’t comprehend who she means. The policeman is paying a great deal of attention to her, but I simply can’t determine the context. There are so many people about. Some are backing away, and some are running. Everyone is staring at Willa. The policeman is very young and has a crewcut and has nicked himself shaving. There’s minor pandemonium, and I’m hoping Willa will turn to me and tell me what she fears so that I can help her.”

  Edward looked at me, shaking his head.

  “Go on, Arthur.” Fred’s tone was gentle. “What happens then?”

  I listened to Arthur tell the rest of the story from his point of view. Having been there, I knew the facts. But he described a completely different reality from the one I’d experienced.

  From Arthur’s perspective, I had exploded onto the scene and demanded he come with me. I had pulled him into my gravitational field like a rogue comet, and he had followed and obeyed because my determination left him no alternative.

  I slumped on the couch, arms wrapped around myself. Maybe if I hadn’t intervened, Arthur could have explained about the gun, pointed out the scarf. Maybe the cop would have believed him. Maybe the whole thing would have been cleared up with only minor inconvenience.

  I’d be at work right now, and Arthur would be dealing openly with the police about Billy Seawuit’s murder.

  I felt like I was staring at the corpse of my future happiness. I looked around Fred�
�s office, hoping to distract myself before I cried. I glanced at the clock: We’d been here forty-seven minutes.

  Fred was again guiding Arthur through the moment when I’d reached behind me, grabbing his arm and forcing him to follow me down an escalator.

  Even in his trance state, Arthur looked bewildered.

  I felt my hand wander toward the Kleenex. Any more of this and I was a goner.

  Fred was prompting, “You followed Willa down the escalator, Arthur?”

  “Yes, I followed her. Because I realized at that moment what it was really about. At that very moment, you see. I needn’t have gone along with her. I knew Willa was running from the police and that running would not serve my interests. But I saw what it was truly about.”

  We waited. There wasn’t a sound in the room except Arthur’s breathing.

  Finally, Fred said, “What did you realize, Arthur? What was it all about?”

  “It was about Willa,” he said firmly. “She was obviously the one I was supposed to meet. The dove had sent me there that morning to meet Willa.” His face smoothed into relaxation. “And so I followed her and did as she wished. She was an emissary of a greater will, you see. Though I might not understand it in this context, she was clearly the vessel of grace.”

  Edward rolled his eyes.

  I could only shrug modestly. It’s not easy being a vessel of grace.

  Moments later, Fred roused Arthur. He jumped, as if wakened from a dream.

  “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to go under,” he said apologetically.

  “No, no,” Fred assured him. “You were very clear in your remembrances. I’m sure it was very helpful.”

  Arthur’s jaw dropped. “You mean we’ve been—?” He glanced at the clock. “Oh, my. We have been.” He looked at me and Edward. “Was it useful?”

  “Yes.” Edward’s tone was decisive. “Definitely. In fact, I think we can tell you who put the gun in your hand.”

  “Really?” Arthur sounded impressed.

  “His name is either Joel Baker or Martin something, goes by Martin Late Rain, wears a safari hat. You spotted him—the hat, anyway—twice in the crowd on Monday. Me and Willa saw him up in the woods Wednesday; took his picture. Galen Nelson swears he’s an industrial spy.” Edward looked at me. “I shouldn’t have let that photo out of my sight.” Then, to Arthur: “Nelson talked me into letting the police have it. I haven’t picked up the duplicate, and it’s probably not the greatest idea for me to go into town today. Damn. Damn, I’d like to show it to you and get an ID.”