I remember a red pencil. HB. Stem hexagonal rather than circular. With a point of graphite at one end and an eraser at the other. I journey along the pencil. From the graphite making marks on paper at one end of the journey to the eraser removing them at the other.
What was it Stan Laurel said? You can take a horse to water but a pencil must be led. It always made me smile. He always made me smile. Despite, no because of, the inaccuracies.
What is memory after all but a collection of misremembered inconsistencies?
Sometimes when I throw the ball I catch it. And sometimes when the ball is thrown to me I catch it too.
I make another circuit of the room. The space where I had squatted before is clean and smells of something sharp. Like lemons. When was the last time I had something to eat? Why are there no windows in this room? When was the last time I had something to drink? In which location can be found the fountain of youth.
Sometimes it’s in a puddle, under a motorway bridge. Sometimes in the saliva of a cat. Sometimes bubbled as dew in a field of freshly cut grass. Then again it’s the hot tap rather than the cold. Then again at the bottom of the wishing well, carrying a coppery taste from all the coins. Sometimes it’s in your own urine. Sometimes someone else’s. What does it mean to be young anyway? When the memories are yet to be uncovered rather than remembered. Where do you draw the line? When do you erase it?
I know they come for me when I’m asleep. I wake in fresh clothes, my belly doesn’t feel empty, my lips aren’t parched. But I miss the words, the conversation. She’s a daft old bugger. Even that can be enough. It all depends on the intonation. On how things are said.
Mustn’t grumble. This is my mother now. Mustn’t grumble.
I morph into her. Wake up and find that I’ve become her. With add-ons and other technological advances. With other memories. But following a line that runs all the way from the past to way into the future.
Did I have a child?
Yes, because I once misread her flick book as fuck book.
I get off the bed and kick the metal bowl into touch but this time it’s empty.
Where did that handsome man go whose shoulder I kissed as I got out of bed?
Where did the girl go who got out of bed?
Where did the girl go whose brother nipped her as she lay sleeping?
Where did the girl go who heard her father whisper I love you as the blankets were tightened around her small frame.
Where did the girl go who pushed her way out through her mother’s bloody thighs?
Where did the girl go who formed out of sperm and egg?
Where was the girl before any of this happened?
As I say, where did the girl go?
The mole rats were resistant to cancer.
#
My knickers are wet. I’ve soiled myself. I wander round and around the room, looking for a way out. I’ve become lost in my own room.
There’s some kind of fabric obscuring the wall. When I pull against it light glares as though someone is shining a torch in my eyes. As though I have my face pressed up close against the sun. I tug on the fabric again. Shut out that light. Why aren’t there any windows in this room?
Later in the day I see Gregory sitting on a chair but when I talk to him he doesn’t answer and later I realise that the chair can’t even be in this room.
Well, that must be something else then.
There was once more than this. Memory flickers but true and false. Do those words really mean anything? As a scientist, how much did I discover or how much did I just uncover? There seem to be more questions now than ever before. Someone must have brought in a cup of tea but it’s too cold, too milky and much too sweet to contain the fountain of youth. Even so, when I drink it there’s a reaction inside me and my face contorts and I realise that I’m smiling.
Something’s just beyond my grasp.
Something big is just waiting to be discovered.
#
When I wake and realise that I used to be someone the shape of the bedclothes frame a porthole. I look through it and see Earth receding, like a kicked football heading over a neighbour’s fence.
Well, the cat’s among the pigeons now. What are they going to do with me?
Is it possible, as an astronaut, to feel both agoraphobic and claustrophobic simultaneously?
I reach out for the glass of water beside the bed.
Here we go. Again.
Andrew Hook's publications in 2015/16 should include the neo-noir crime novel, "Church of Wire" (Telos), a short story collection, "Human Maps" (Eibonvale Press), the anthology "punkPunk!" (DogHorn Publishing), "Slow Motion Wars" (co-written with Allen Ashley, Screaming Dreams), and "The Greens", a novella from Spectral Press. With his partner he has recently established Salò Press, whose first publication, the surrealist anthology "A Galaxy of Starfish", is currently open for submissions.
The Sea In Darkness Calls
David Surface
Jack first noticed the green window when he was praying. He was not a particularly religious person, but had been driven to his knees by a series of actions and consequences over which he was realizing he had little or no control.
He was on his knees in the spare room of his brother’s house where he’d come to “get himself together” in the aftermath of a long and painful divorce. It was the latest in a series of such visits, the first when he and his wife had separated, the second when he was trying to stop drinking, and the third when his ex-wife Kathy had left the state without warning, taking their two children with her.
“I don’t see what the big deal is,” Kathy had said when he’d finally reached her on the phone. “Billy’s going to college next year and Kaitlin’s going right after him.” Behind her words, the hateful unspoken message. Your time with them is up. And you missed it.
At first he’d thought of jumping onto a bus for the four-hour drive to Allentown where Kathy had taken the kids to her sister’s house. He pictured the scene in his mind, him standing alone on front porch in the rain, pounding on the door, Kathy, Billy, and Kaitlin huddling in the kitchen or the hall closet, Kathy scowling a warning and raising one finger to her lips. Shhhh. Be quiet. He’ll go away.
After he’d calmed down a little, he told himself that things were not as bad as he imagined. Kathy was not a kidnapper. She probably just needed some time to think, sometime away. There was no need for him to go running after her like some kind of desperate character in a bad movie.
So he’d come to his brother’s house by the sea to clear his head and plan his next steps, but after almost three weeks he still had no idea what they might be. He’d already spent what little money he had on the divorce and had nothing left for a lawyer, if it was going to come to that. He hoped it wouldn’t.
This morning he’d woken up in the spare room of Danny’s house where he’d slept so many times before. The same chocolate-brown futon that smelled of mildew, the same ash-grey cinderblock walls. It was where he and Kathy had stayed with the kids when they’d come for weekends at the beach during happier days. A poster from a circus Danny had treated them to when the kids were younger was still on the wall, its corners curling and mildewed from the damp sea air.
It was the poster that had driven him to his knees this morning. An old-fashioned print of a pretty girl riding atop an elephant being led by a clown, once all bright reds and yellows, washed-out now by years of harsh sunlight. The girl was smiling, even the elephant looked as though it was smiling. He thought about how someone had made this image and put it out into the world for a reason; it was an advertisement for happiness.
That’s all I wanted, he said to himself, I just wanted everyone to be happy. A surge of grief washed through his chest and suddenly he was sobbing. “I just wanted everyone to be happy.” He said it out loud, and the words brought on a second wave of wrenching grief that felt like it would tear him apart.
He found himself on his knees, both hands covering his wet face. “Please...” H
is voice sounded loud and strange inside his hands. He said it twice more before it occurred to him that he was praying.
He took his hands away from his face and looked out the window at the row of clapboard beach houses that hid the ocean from view. A flash of bright green drew his attention. It was coming from inside the house directly across from Danny’s. At first he
thought it was a TV screen. Then he realized it was another window and that he was seeing straight through the house to the ocean on the other side.
The small, square patch of green looked bright and warm. As he looked at it, he felt some of the heaviness start to lift from his chest. After a few minutes he almost felt peaceful. He stayed there on his knees, staring at the green window inside the house across the road until the smell of coffee brought him to his feet and into the kitchen.
Danny was standing at the counter, sawing away at a bagel with a long bread knife. He turned and flashed that same big, optimistic grin he’d greeted Jack with every morning. “Hey, bro. Coffee’s ready.”
Jack followed Danny out onto the small deck where they sat as they had every morning, sipping their coffee and watching the gulls wheel over the rooftops of the houses across the road. My beach view, Danny liked to call it.
The first time Jack had come here with the kids ten years ago, Kaitlin had been excited but Billy was just old enough to show a little disillusionment. “Where’s the beach?” he’d said, staring out from Danny’s deck with a glum expression.
Unfazed, Danny had leaned down to Billy and said, “Listen. Hear that?” Jack had listened too. The sound of the waves was audible like the sound of blood in your own body if you stay quiet long enough. “If you close your eyes,” Danny said, “You can pretend you’re right on the beach.”
That’s right, Jack thought, If you close your eyes, you can pretend anything.
Kaitlin had wrinkled her nose and asked, “What’s that smell?”
“That’s the ocean, honey,” Jack told her, taking a deep breath. “Isn’t it great?”
“I think it stinks,” Kaitlin said. “It smells like dead stuff.”
“That’s right, sweetheart,” Danny said, swooping in with a first round of beers for the grown-ups. “It is dead stuff. Lots and lots of dead stuff. Seaweed, plankton, fish...”
“Sharks?” Kaitlin said, her eyes getting wider, “Dead sharks too?”
“Sure. Dead sharks too.”
“What about whales?”
“Absolutely. Dead whales. Lots and lots of dead whales.”
“What about people?” Billy spoke up.
“Billy!” Kathy hushed him. Danny looked at Billy for a moment, a serious expression on his face, then spoke in his best pirate voice.
“Sure. Dead people too. All the sailors who ever drowned. All the little children who ever got dragged out to sea by big, hungry waves.”
The kids had stared at him. Kathy did too, her look of disbelief changing to anger.
Danny drank down the last of his beer, threw his arms wide and shouted, “Okay! Who wants to go swimming?”
Later that night, Jack had begged Kathy to keep her voice down. I don’t care if he’s your brother. What kind of asshole says that to a little kid? He’d defended Danny, of course, which had only made her angrier and louder.
Jack could smell the thick ocean breeze now, sitting on the tiny deck with Danny. It was the same deck where they’d all had bagel breakfasts and crab-claw dinners together in summers past. It looked so small now, barely big enough for Danny and himself. It was hard to remember how they’d all once been able to fit on it.
“Remember that time you told the kids about all the dead things in the ocean?” Jack said. “Man, I thought Kathy was gonna kill you.”
“Yeah...she killed you instead.”
Jack felt the blood rush to his face. Danny had heard. Of course he had. The house was small and the walls were thin. Which made Jack wonder––had Danny heard him crying this morning?
“So,” Danny said, “You thought about your next move yet?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking about joining the foreign legion, but I think they closed down.”
“Very funny.” Danny took a long sip of coffee and squinted at the gulls diving overhead. “I mean, have you thought about what you’re gonna do if Kathy doesn’t...you know...”
“No. What?”
“Hell, Jack, I mean...how long has she been gone now? A month?”
“No. Not a month. Twenty two days. She just needs some time. You know how she gets.”
“Yeah, “ Danny sighed. “I know. It’s just...”
“What?” Jack felt anger start to rise, slow and steady.
“It’s just...you’re my brother. I don’t want to see you get hurt, that’s all.”
“I know,” Jack sighed, “I’m just doing the best I can.” This was something he’d said a lot to Kathy. I’m doing the best I can. Kathy didn’t believe it anymore. He hoped Danny still did.
“Well,” Danny said, glancing down into his coffee mug, “You know you’ve got a place here. As long as you need it.”
“I know,” Jack said; then, doing his very best Bogie voice, “Danny boy, you’re a schweetheart.”
“No. You’re a schweetheart.” They’d been doing this since college-days, trading Bogie voices back and forth until one of them laughed. This time Jack laughed first.
When Danny left for work, Jack went for his morning walk on the beach like he’d been doing every day. As he passed the row of houses, he glanced at the one right across the road and remembered the green window. He thought about getting closer and trying to look inside, but didn’t want to frighten anyone, so he kept moving.
He passed through the short alley between houses, climbed the sandy hill, and the ocean opened up in front of him. That moment was always a little startling, even frightening, like the first time his father had shown it to him when he was a child. An echo of that first feeling still remained and came to him now, unbidden.
The boardwalk was crowded, even at this early hour. Ancient-looking men and women wrapped in heavy clothes moved slowly on canes or walkers, their bored-looking care-workers trailing along beside or behind them. Other men and women, younger but well on their way to old age, jogged fiercely into the wind, their faces lifted defiantly to the sun that had baked their skin an alarming shade of mahogany brown.
When the boardwalk got too crowded, Jack stepped down onto the beach and headed toward the water where the sand was firmer underfoot and easier to walk on. He turned left and started walking with the ocean at his right side, the sand stretching out in front of him as far as he could see.
As he walked along the edge of the sea, Jack heard a voice. It was an echo of his own voice from a few days ago, strained and agitated.
Let me talk to the kids.
“They’re asleep,” Kathy had said after a long pause. It was the pause that told him she was lying.
“It’s eight o’clock,” he’d said, speaking slowly to keep his voice under control. “Put them on the phone.”
Another pause. “They’re tired, Jack. They’ve had a hard day. They don’t need to be upset.”
“Upset?” he heard his voice rising on the surge of rage in his throat. “What do you mean upset? Put them on the god damn phone!”
“That’s what I mean,” she’d said. “Call me when you’re feeling better, okay?” Then she hung up.
Don’t fucking hang up on me! Don’t you ever fucking hang up on me like that!
He could feel the words burning in his throat, pushing for a chance to get out. He let them out now under his breath, relishing the feeling. Then he looked up and saw a young couple walking toward him, looks of suspicion and alarm on their faces. The man took the woman’s arm and led her away from the water, cutting a wide berth around him.
His face burning, he turned his gaze away and saw something on the horizon. An oil tanker, long as a football field but miles away, it looked as small as a child’s toy o
n the vast grey mirror of the ocean. The light was playing tricks with his eyes so the miniature ship looked grainy and ghostly, almost like he could see through it.
He saw another ship in his memory, smaller and closer. It had been there one morning years ago when he’d brought Kaitlin and Billy down to the beach. A small blue and white boat running parallel to the shore just beyond the breakers. He could feel Kaitlin’s small hand in his.
What’s that boat doing there, Daddy?
He could see men moving around on deck, others standing at the rail staring down into the water. At first he’d thought it was a fishing boat. Then he saw the orange vests and the white letters NYPD painted on the side and remembered what he’d seen the night before.
Kathy and the kids had gone to bed, worn out after the long drive. He’d been sitting up late by himself, drinking and trying to unwind when the news came on. He’d watched through a haze as the images rolled by on the screen: the same blue and white boat running parallel to the shore, yellow police tape fluttering in the wind, the sunburned police chief squinting into the sun and saying words like rip tide.
Two children had drowned, an eleven year-old girl and her friend. He was glad that Kathy had gone to bed and hadn’t seen the news. The police had closed the beach the day before but had decided to open it the next day. The sunburned police chief encouraged parents and their children to exercise caution. That would not be good enough for Kathy. She would insist on keeping the kids out of the water, maybe for the whole trip. His anger rose at the thought of it. Leave it to her to ruin everyone’s good time.
So the next morning he got up early, woke the kids and got them into their swimsuits and out the door before Kathy could wake up and stop them. He pictured her face, the angry things she’d say. He could always plead ignorance. At least they’d get in one good swim.
Darkest Minds Page 11
