“Wild?” she said.
“Black.”
“Dark,” she said, because he isn’t black. Once, she asked him why he had never killed anybody, and he said, “Shackled by compassion.”
Why she asked was that he makes a lot of money writing pulp fiction about ex-marines and decent police officers getting even with crack-dealing paedophiles and mutilators. In every one of the twenty-three books he’s published, there are at least ten grisly murders, over two hundred and thirty in total, and he claims that no two murders are the same and that every one is described in authentic, meticulous detail. If some guy’s brains are all over the sidewalk, he says, and it’s winter in New York, those brains better be steaming.
It occurs to Emma that Karl and Marion might be made for each other, so when Marion and Craig break up just around the time that sex with Karl starts to get predictable, she tries to arrange a blind date. Karl is game, but Marion takes offence at being told she has something in common with a man who invents stories about humans slaughtering each other. She doesn’t invent her pet-death stories, she says, and it’s not as if she goes out of her way to collect them either. It’s that being in the pet-store business and also the sister of a veterinarian she hears things other people wouldn’t.
“I don’t find them entertaining,” she says.
“Well, no,” Emma agrees.
Marion picks dog fur off her sweater, one of five pet-motif sweaters she knit to wear in the store. Emma regrets that Karl will probably never see Marion in this sweater with its psychotic-looking parrots all over it.
“I guess I’m just one of those people who are haunted by the gory details,” Marion says.
“Yes, I know,” Emma says soothingly. “I am, too.” And she sees that there really is this difference between Karl and Marion, and between Karl and herself. Karl can laugh at what haunts him. She and Marion don’t laugh.
There is something Emma can’t stop thinking about.
Nicky was eleven months old. She was about to poke her finger in the new kitten’s eye when Emma grabbed her hand and slapped it, something she’d never done before, and Nicky, after looking at Emma with more astonishment than Emma would have thought a baby was capable of summoning, slapped her own hand. Afterwards, almost every time she crawled near one of the cats, she would bring her finger close to its face, then pull her hand away and slap herself.
Sometimes this memory strikes Emma as a message from Nicky, Nicky telling her that the way to cope with the biggest shock of your life is to replay it until it becomes commonplace. Which is what Emma supposes she is doing, indirectly, whenever she reads supermarket tabloids or pumps Karl and Marion for the worst possible story, for the story that will reduce her own story to the status of contender.
3
She was still mourning Paul Butt, still sobbing in the washroom at the investment house where she worked as a typist, still toying with the idea of going to another clinic for more electrolysis, when Gerry came over to her desk wearing red track shorts and a shirt and tie, his suit pants draped over his arm.
“Emma,” he said, reading the name plate on her desk. He’d only been at the firm a week, and this was the first time he’d spoken to her.
“Gerry,” she said.
“Listen,” he said, “I was wondering if you had a needle and thread. I’ve split a seam.”
“Sure,” she said sarcastically, opening her desk drawer, “I’ve got an ironing board, pots and pans, diapers …”
He looked as if she’d slapped him. “I’m only asking because I saw you mending something a few days ago,” he said. “Your skirt—”
His eyes, she saw for the first time, were different colours—the left one blue, the right one gold. They were as round as coins and red-rimmed, almost as if he had on red eyeliner.
“Okay,” she said. “Sorry.” She caught him doing a fast skim of her body, and it came to her, like an illicit jackpot, that it wouldn’t take much to win his life-long adoration. She found her matchbook needle-and-thread kit and held out her hand for the pants. “I’ll do it,” she said.
“No, that’s okay,” he said, shaking the hair out of his eyes. His hair was white-blond and very fine. Whenever he was on the phone he ran his fingers through it. Emma had watched him doing this. Her desk was to the left and slightly behind his, in the big room where all the brokers and typists sat, and she had watched him, not as prospective boyfriend material (she thought she was too heartbroken for that) but because he moved so enthusiastically, banging out phone numbers, racing his buys and sells to the order desk, and because he combed his fingers through his hair as though there was nothing like the feel of it.
“I’ll probably do a better job than you,” she said, coming to her feet. Then, before he could say anything else, she pulled the pants off his arm and headed for one of the empty boardrooms. “Won’t take a minute,” she called over her shoulder.
In the boardroom she lay the pants on the table. They were navy with red pinstripes. She was impressed by the creases in the legs. You could cut a tomato with that, she thought, running a finger along one of them. Her finger was not steady. What was the matter with her? she wondered. Why had she brought the pants in here? She could have sewn them at her desk. She held up her hand and tried to see if she could keep it from trembling. She couldn’t. She investigated her forearm, the bald patch from the electrolysis treatment. Was that stubble? “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, and she was afraid she was going to start crying about Paul Butt, but she didn’t.
She picked the pants up. There was the hole, a big one, alongside and under the zipper. She stuck her hand through. She brought the pants to her nose and sniffed the crotch. Urine, very faint. Urine and the smell of steamed wool. With her eyes closed she took a deep, resuscitative breath.
When she opened her eyes, Gerry was standing in the doorway.
“Oh, God,” she said.
“I wanted to ask—” He stopped and shook his head and smiled at the floor.
She dropped the pants on the table. She gave a little laugh. In the other room brokers were picking up their phones on the first ring. She imagined sniffing the pants again and saying, “I smell trouble.” She imagined sticking her entire arm through the hole and saying, “Wow!” She imagined throwing a chair out the window and it landing on a bus in which Paul Butt and the electrolysis technician were riding.
“I wanted—” Gerry began again.
“To ask me out,” she said. She had nothing to lose.
After Paul Butt, who had figured that two fingers shoved up her vagina ought to do it and who said that only closet dykes wanted to be on top, sex with Gerry was instantly addictive. During the first six months they made love at least once a night, and then they moved in together and got married and made love most mornings, too. Then things dwindled off a bit when he started leaving the apartment earlier and returning later because of the bull market. It became a joke between them that he was the one who complained about having a headache or being too tired.
She was now working at home, grooming cats out of their second bedroom. She’d quit her job at the brokerage firm because management frowned on married couples in the same department. Her mother had wanted her to go back to university, but her father had said she should take up something serene and uncompetitive.
“Such as hawking life insurance?” her mother had asked in her customary dead-pan.
“Such as brushing her hair!” her father had declared, and eventually that led to the idea of grooming cats, starting with his.
Cat groomer. Emma liked the novel ring of it. She bought a how-to book, a white coat and some combs and brushes and scissors. She stapled advertisements to telephone poles and in laundromats, vets’ offices and pet stores. Her first client, after her father, was an incredibly tall black man with a three-year-old daughter and an old Persian named White Thing, and at first Emma thought this was some kind of joke because the mats all over White Thing’s fur looked exactly like the swarm of li
ttle pigtails all over the daughter’s head.
A year later the black man and the cat returned. By then White Thing was matted again, and the daughter was living in New Jersey with her mother. By then Emma had had a positive pregnancy test, and Gerry had said that it made him feel weird during sex, as if they were going at it in front of their own child.
While she cut out the mats, the man, whose name was Ed, lounged on her couch, telling her how he hated his job as a policeman and was thinking of doing something to get himself suspended with pay. “Folding myself into the car is the worst part,” he said. “Those seats don’t go back far enough.”
“So how tall are you?” she asked.
“Six eight.”
She glanced at him. His limbs overhung the couch in graceful array. His eyes were bloodshot and characterful. They made her nervous and yet at the same time she felt distant from him, she didn’t feel a thing. It reminded her of being X-rayed, not in the sense of him seeing through her but in the sense that a powerful and potentially dangerous procedure was being conducted on her body, and she didn’t feel a thing.
When she was about halfway through he came over to watch her work. He smelled like an extinguished fire. The top buttons of his shirt were undone. “You’re just fine, baby,” he said in a soft, low voice that rumbled through Emma like drums, and he might have been talking to White Thing, and he might have been talking to her. Either way, it would have taken a strait-jacket for her not to put down her scissors and slide her hand into his shirt.
He gave her a big smile.
She undid the rest of his buttons, moved her hand down to his stomach, over his buckle and against his crotch. He covered her hand with his and pressed and let go again, as if to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.
She unzipped his fly.
“Feast your eyes”—he didn’t come out and say it, but when his penis slapped into her hand like a relay-race baton, he was thinking it so loud she heard.
He visited her two or three times a week, but after a month, whenever they had intercourse, she imagined that his penis was thudding against her womb and denting her baby’s skull, and she decided to call it quits.
By then she was way past guilt. Love had so little to do with what went on between her and Ed that it was hard for her to think in terms of betrayal. Her regret was that she couldn’t amaze Gerry with the fact that Ed’s penis changed colour, from mahogany when he was flaccid to dark purple when he was hard. She couldn’t tell Gerry that whereas his testicles were smooth, Ed’s had the texture of brain coral.
She wondered what her father would have compared Ed to—a crane fly, a racer snake. Gerry, her father said, was a glaucous gull because of his white-blond hair and the red rings around his eyes. Her father was crazy about Gerry’s different-coloured eyes. Emma was crazy about his flawless, white skin. In the mornings sometimes, when he was half asleep, she ran her hand over his body and rubbed herself against his leg until she came. She did this with Ed, too, except that Ed was black and moving.
After she and Ed had parted company she figured that that was it for other men, at least until the baby was a few years old, but in her fourth month, two more prospects turned up. The first was the previous tenant of their apartment, whose junk mail, featuring free brochures for Craftmatic beds, had been cramming their mailbox and who knocked on their door one day asking if they had found five one-hundred-dollar bills in the medicine cabinet. They hadn’t but she said they had and had given them to the Salvation Army.
“Fair enough,” he said, moving her to tell him the truth and to invite him in for coffee.
He was a motor-home salesman, just transferred back to town. About thirty years old, jock’s body, receding hairline, small blue eyes glued to her legs, small hands, which she was too inexperienced to know didn’t necessarily indicate a small penis, the only kind she was prepared, at this point in her pregnancy, to risk. As she was expecting a client in half an hour, nothing happened, but before he left he managed to throw in that pregnant women were a turn-on, and he gave her his card in case she wanted to have a drink sometime.
Two days later, after four nights in a row of Gerry working late and then coming home and falling asleep in front of the tv, she was on the verge of phoning him when a red-haired guy arrived at her door carrying a cat he’d run over in the apartmentbuilding parking lot. Somebody had told him she was a vet.
“It’s dead,” she pointed out. Its mouth was clogged with blood, and its eyes were open and blank.
The guy, who appeared to be in his late teens—black leather pants, leather jacket, motorcycle helmet dangling from his arm—held the cat up and said, “Oh. Right. Fuck.”
“Come on in,” she said. He looked like he was going to be sick. She took the cat and put it in a plastic Shoppers Drug Mart bag, and he sat on the living-room couch with his head in his hands, saying he knew the cat, its name was Fred, it belonged to that cross-eyed teacher in 104.
“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” Emma said, but she figured it probably was, and she was suddenly so enraged that she had to leave the room. She washed her hands in the kitchen sink, then put the bag beside the front door.
“It was alive when I picked it up,” he said. “It was alive, you know? It was alive right up until it died.”
She sat in the chair facing him. His hands were small enough. On his fingers were silver rings and blood. His red curly hair was combed back and wet. He must have just had a shower. He was lean, the black leather slicked the long muscles of his thighs. “I’ll tell her if you want,” she offered.
He looked up, surprised. She expected him to say, “No, that’s okay,” but he said, “Would you? Hey, that’d be great. Thanks a lot.”
So she went down to apartment 104, just in case the woman was home early from school. The bag weighed down, extraordinarily heavy. If the woman cried, she knew that she would, too, but nobody answered the door. When she came back into the apartment, the guy was checking out his reflection in the tv screen. She left the cat in the hallway and sat down across from him again.
“You’re married,” he said. “Right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, I won’t come on to you,” he said seriously.
“Don’t let that stop you,” she said.
He lived two floors below her, on unemployment insurance. He came up whenever she phoned. They’d been sleeping together about a month when he said he loved her.
“You love yourself,” she said.
He didn’t argue with that. “I mean I really love you,” he said.
“What you love is me making love to you,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “That’s right,” he said, as if he could rest his case.
“I’ve been thinking of stopping this anyway,” she said. “I’m too pregnant. I can’t bend over to pick up all the little red hairs you shed.”
4
Nicky is fifteen months old. Ed, the black giant, shows up one day without White Thing. He’s in uniform. When Emma pushes his hand off her ass, he laughs and says, “I guess you’ve got a baby crawling all over you, you don’t need a man.”
“As I remember, it was me crawling all over you,” Emma says.
He offers to take her and Nicky out for lunch, a restaurant that features a roving clown blowing bubbles and dispensing prizes for clean plates. Emma has no clients until four, so she says sure, why not? “Aren’t you on duty?” she asks.
“My partner’s tied up and I’ve got some time to kill,” he says, and she suspects that what he came here to do, his partner is doing somewhere nearby. Maybe not, though. Maybe his partner is conducting a drug bust or something. Or maybe this is just Ed trying to get himself suspended with pay. She doesn’t ask. Since Nicky came along, anything dicey or unsavoury she’d rather not hear about. She is glad that she will be able to tell Gerry the whole truth—a former client dropped by and invited her and Nicky out for a bite to eat.
“We’re going in a police car,” sh
e tells Nicky.
“Please car,” Nicky says demurely.
Emma changes into a clean white blouse and a long white peasant skirt. She and Nicky sit in the back because Nicky’s car seat is in Gerry’s car. Nicky stands on Emma’s lap and slaps the window. She is wearing a white crocheted sun bonnet, and at stoplights people notice her and look worried. “Funny if Daddy saw us,” Emma says.
Ed is talking to his police radio, but he laughs and says over his shoulder, “It would teach him not to jump to conclusions.”
At the restaurant the people ahead of them make way for Ed to pass through. “Hey,” he says, staying at the back of the line. “I don’t take bribes.” There are bubbles rising from behind a high rattan screen, and Ed lifts Nicky onto his shoulders so that she can see the clown on the other side. When it’s their turn to be shown to their seats, Nicky doesn’t want to get down. “It’s okay,” Ed says. He follows the hostess. He is so tall that Emma can’t reach Nicky’s bonnet, which is slowly slipping off her head.
“What?” Ed says, half turning at the feel of Emma’s hand on his shoulder.
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma says.
Ed suddenly yells something and stumbles.
Nicky flies from his shoulders.
Emma is splashed in the face. Half-blinded she turns. Nicky is on the floor, next to the wall.
“Get away!” she screams, punching at Ed. He falls on his knees and lifts Nicky’s head, which is drooped too far sideways. His black hands lift Nicky’s head. Now Emma sees the gash at the side of Nicky’s neck. Blood pours out. Bright red baby blood. Emma presses her hand over the gash, the blood streams through her fingers. “Stop this!” she screams. Nicky’s eyes flutter.
“We have to stanch it,” Ed says. His voice is low and sensible. Emma tears at her own skirt. Her baby’s head is falling off, but it’s a matter of stanching the blood. She gives Ed her skirt and he quickly rips it and binds Nicky’s neck. Nicky’s legs jerk. Ed says it was the ceiling fan. Emma glances up—a silver blade, still spinning.
Lizards: Short Story Page 2
