Killing Adonis

by J M Donellan

  Letters started to arrive, and the sound of the postman’s bike outside was one of the few things that could raise Mother from the couch. The envelopes contained postcards flashing pictures of sun and palm trees and a few hastily scrawled lines, bundled with wildly varying quantities of cash. Mother would rip open the envelope and snarl at the postcard before tossing it to the floor, then shove the cash into her pockets and return to the couch.

  She started spending most of the money on cigarettes and ‘Mummy’s special water,’ which she kept high up on top of the fridge. It wasn’t until one morning when she was in the shower that I managed to climb onto the kitchen bench, reach above the fridge and sip at the plastic sports bottle that I realised she had been living on a steady diet of pure vodka.

  I began to race out to the letterbox at the first hint of the postman’s bike spluttering in the distance. Initially I just slipped away enough notes to pay for a few essential groceries, but when it became clear that Mother didn’t care about anything except having enough money to buy booze and cigarettes, I took control of our irregular income.

  After a few years I got pretty good at it. I budgeted for groceries and bills and the occasional pair of shoes, and of course, cleaning products. These soon became especially important, valued almost as much as my beloved dolls. I would spend hours cleaning, polishing, dusting, scrubbing. Sometimes I wondered if making the oven door shiny enough would make my father come home again. How proud he’d be, seeing his little girl keeping everything shipshape! Mother would stop smoking and drinking and everything would be like it was before.

  Once every few weeks, when my head stung from bleach fumes and my hands ached from scrubbing, I’d buy myself a new Rosaline doll. I would brush its hair, tell it stories, make it tea and biscuits and, for just a while, I’d feel like a normal little girl. But no matter how many new dolls I bought, my favourite would always be Magic Wedding Dress Rosaline. It looked exactly like Mother did in those photos she stared at day after day.

  Then one morning I came downstairs to find Mother in her wedding dress. Smoking and staring. From then on it was all she wore. Sitting on the couch, smoking on the porch, walking to the shops for cigarettes. I soon became grateful that she left the house so rarely, because where once admiring eyes had followed her, now there were only cruel names and rumours. They called her ‘the Mad Bride,’ which of course meant that I was ‘the Daughter of the Mad Bride.’ Perhaps some of the whisperers thought that little girl wouldn’t hear the things they said beneath their breath in the grocery store aisles, but I heard every word.

  Soon the dress changed from perfect white to nicotine yellow, and then became a putrid grey. I tried to convince her to wear something else, or at the very least clean the dress so it didn’t stink, but she refused. She sat in the dress, smoked her cigarettes, and stared at her wedding photos.

  And finally, on a windy autumn afternoon, I came home from the supermarket, struggling with the grocery bags, and opened the door to find her suspended from the kitchen ceiling. The light behind her head shone like a halo through her golden hair. She was wearing that dress, of course. And as she swung gently back and forth, with the light radiating out behind her, she looked like a dirty, sleeping angel.”

  20

  Delusions of Candour

  ***

  The virulent yellow and steel blades of the pineapple cutter glare at Freya from the cutlery drawer. How strange that it is the same souvenir from the impossibly tacky attraction, the Big Pineapple, which her family had bought over a decade ago. Nothing like the more modern versions, sleek stainless steel, designed for safety and comfort. This is sharp, violently yellow and aggressively angular. Just seeing it makes her wrist begin to burn and itch. She selects a knife and slams the drawer closed.

  Footsteps. She looks up to see Jack shuffling through the dining room. When he enters the kitchen, he picks up the salt shaker, examines it as though it’s some antediluvian artefact, and then places it back on the counter.

  “Something I can help you with, Mr Vincetti?”

  He opens his mouth and then closes it, contorting it into a curiously shaped canyon on the landscape of his face, then finally blurts out, “About this morning, on the roof…”

  “Jack. It’s fine. You didn’t have to run off like Cinderella five minutes before midnight. You’re a nice guy, give yourself a little credit.”

  He smiles sheepishly. “Well. That’s good. You’re, you know, nice as well. Really. So…you making enough for two by any chance?”

  “Possibly. What’s in it for me?” she says with a smirk.

  “You mean aside from karma points and good conversation?”

  “Yes.”

  “My eternal gratitude?”

  “And?”

  “A promise I’ll return the favour?”

  “Deal. You like felafel?”

  “I do now.”

  “Good answer. Make yourself useful, you can chop the tomatoes.” She hands him the knife and he does as requested. “You spend a lot of time hiding in that room of yours. You got any other secrets you’re holding out on me?”

  “Plenty. What about you?”

  “Of course.”

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?” Jack says.

  Freya can’t tell if he’s flirting with her. She tries to read his body language, but his long isolation has turned his physical communication into the corporeal equivalent of static.

  “Sure. What the hell? You first.”

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  “I found something in the Danger Room last night.”

  Freya slams her hand on the bench and points at him with her knife. “I knew it! So, what the hell is it?”

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet. Not ’til I’m sure. And can you please not point that in my face?”

  She puts the knife down and jabs at him with her finger instead. “You can’t tell me half a secret!”

  “It’s not half. It’s a whole secret. I found something there.”

  “That’s not the same thing. It’s like saying, ‘I love you, usually.’ Alright, you want to play it that way? When I was sponge-bathing your brother this morning…” Was that a flinch? She logs Jack’s movement and files it for later analysis. “… I found something strange.”

  “What?”

  The blood flecked across Elijah’s legs flashes back into her brain, but she keeps her lips shut.

  “What was it?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Are you seriously not going to tell me?”

  Freya looks at him wryly.

  “Right,” he says. “Eye for an eye.” A smile sprouts slowly on his face, but then slips away. For a moment he looks terrified. “It wasn’t a lump or something, was it?”

  “Oh, God, no! Jack!” She grabs his hand and squeezes it.

  “I just…I guess I get paranoid, with him in that coma for so long. Never moving, never changing. Like a porcelain doll.”

  “It’s not quite like that. He still has brain function, automated muscle response. There’s a chance he may wake up from it. Maybe even tomorrow. Comas are hugely unpredictable.”

  Jack says nothing. She picks up the knife again and starts to chop the onions. Her eyes begin to water. “Fucking onions. I’ve always thought it was complete bullshit that a member of the plant kingdom could make me cry more than Charlotte’s Web.”

  Jack tears off a piece of paper towel and dabs at her eyes. “There, there,” he says facetiously.

  “Very funny, you big jerk.”

  “So, today you got to solve the mystery of the penguin jumpers. There’s at least one family secret you’re now privy to.”

  “I suppose so. Got to admit, I didn’t see that one coming.�
��

  “Yes, all part of Halcyon’s proud record of appearing at the scene of disasters with supernaturally rapid response and handing out supplies plastered with their logo in front of the TV cameras. You know what’s cuter than a penguin in a jumper? Nothing, that’s what. It’s guaranteed airtime. Halcyon gets to look like some sort of corporate guardian angel, swooping in to save the day, and in exchange they get their logo all over primetime for free. They did the same thing a few years ago after a forest fire in Indonesia, handing out shirts to adorable wide-eyed orphans so they could wrap themselves in the warm embrace of corporate-logoed clothing.”

  “They’ve done this kind of thing before? Disaster marketing stunts?”

  “A few times. They’re able to arrive even before Red Cross or other rapid response groups, and they have vast stocks of exactly the right supplies, no matter how unusual they may be. Penguin jumpers aren’t exactly sold in twelve packs at the local grocery store.”

  “So how come no one’s fingered them for it?”

  “People have tried, but Halcyon and its various affiliates are notoriously skilled at covering their tracks. Plus they own or have influence with most of the major news outlets in the country. You see the occasional article in left-wing indie media or on some conspiracy theory website, but not often. Halcyon’s not short on hush money.”

  “Is that why it’s so hard to find any information about Elijah’s accident?“

  He tenses, the knife hanging frozen in hand as though he were a wax statue. Then he relaxes, puts the knife down, and regards her with weary, blue-tinted eyes. “I told you, you shouldn’t ask about that.” His voice is quiet, defeated. Freya takes all of this in, and elects to return to the matter at hand.

  “So, why do you just sit back and let them get away with it?”

  “They’re still my blood. Bringing harm to your family violates one of the universal laws of fate and family. The ancient Greeks believed that spilling family blood would lead the Fates to strike you down with a mortal curse. And it’s not exactly like telling your teacher that little Timmy was the one who stole the cookie. They trade through an intentionally complex web of subcontractors so nothing can ever be directly traced back to them.”

  “So, what? You’re going to do nothing while they burn and pillage?”

  “Of course I’m going to do something. I’ve been documenting, recording, compiling evidence. You want to get angry, that’s fine. I’d rather take action that gets results. Look at what happened to Simply Sasha. Two days ago it was one of the hottest companies around, now the stock is worth about as much as belly button lint.”

  “I heard about the thing with the monkeys. Whoever did that is seriously messed up.”

  “More messed up than the woman perpetrating animal rights abuse for the sake of profit…who encourages prepubescent girls to puke the contents of their Dora the Explorer lunch boxes into the toilet? She got what she deserved. I only wish it’d happened sooner.” Jack’s face flares with anger and disdain.

  This is a side of him she has not seen before. She does not like it. “So, you’re perfectly comfortable with her getting her face torn off?”

  “That’s nothing compared to the damage she’s done to an entire generation of impressionable young women. I’m just saying that you have to look at the bigger picture.”

  Freya snarls in frustration. “Look, I don’t want to talk about this anymore, can we just eat?”

  Jack delivers a curt nod, obviously smart enough to pick his battles. “I tend to go off on rants like this. Like I said, I’m not used to having rational humans as company. I’m a little rusty.”

  “We don’t have to agree on everything. That’s not how this works.”

  “This what?”

  “This…whatever this is.”

  As Freya carries their plates to the table, the domesticity of her act surprises her. Setting the table seems entirely out of place, given her discovery mere hours earlier. The sounds of china and glass making contact with the antique wood are comforting, but the image of those implausible patches of blood on Elijah’s skin linger obstinately at the front of her mind.

  Jack pulls a bottle of wine and a pair of crystal glasses out of the pantry, filling them both generously.

  “What is this, a date?” Freya says drolly.

  Jack tenses. “Ah, it’s just…I thought that, you know, you made dinner, so we might as well…”

  “Relax, Vincetti aka Velles. I’m messing with you. Eat up.” Freya shoves the first forkful of salad into her mouth. If she hates the word “unladylike,” this is due at least in part to it having been used to describe her on far too many occasions.

  He gulps down a mouthful of wine and begins to eat.

  “How’s the new book coming along? Decided on a title yet?” she asks.

  Jack shakes his head. “It’s like searching for a white whale. The Many Trespasses of Adonis…Adonis’s Errors…Delusions of Candour…Last Dance in the Chamber of Innocence. Nothing sticks. Nothing works.”

  “What about the book itself?”

  “It’s coming out a lot darker than I anticipated. I wanted to write a book about how we perceive ourselves versus how others want us to be, and the conflicts that creates: a societal analysis of the concept that we’re all capable of becoming either Buddha or Hitler depending on our circumstances and the perceptions of those around us. The idea was a story about a young man who becomes the living, breathing embodiment of the desires of those closest to him and how he loses his own identity in the process. I like the concept, but it keeps coming out so dark and twisted, like I’m writing a guide to becoming a monster.”

  “Well, your first book wasn’t exactly cupcakes and unicorns either, but it was brilliant. Why is this one emerging so differently from your original idea? It’s your book, doesn’t it just do what you tell it to?”

  “Not exactly, no. Writing a book is like raising a child, I guess. No matter how hard you aim for a Rhodes scholar there’s always a chance they’ll become a crack addict. You remember that bit in Chaos in the Kingdom where I had Cynthia saying, ‘If I ever manage to become ordinary, it will be the most extraordinary of achievements’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that’s how I feel about this book. I want it to be beautiful and inspiring but also simple, capturing the poetry of everyday existence. But it won’t come out that way. Everything I put down comes out twisted, contaminated. Like I’m speaking with someone else’s voice.”

  Freya waits expectantly, sucks the tahini sauce from her finger. Jack sips at his wine, places the glass back on the table. A drop splashes onto his forearm. He doesn’t seem to notice. Freya watches the tiny splash of red travel slowly down his skin.

  “Do you know the poet William Butler Yeats?” Jack asks. Freya’s eyes remain fixated on the red wine dripping down his arm onto the table.

  “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold. Yeah, I know Yeats.”

  “Well, he was heavily into the occult, possibly the only Nobel Laureate semi-legitimately accused of being a Satanist. He even used his wife, Georgie, as a psychic medium.”

  “Better than having her act as his maid, I guess.”

  “I suppose so. She would go into a trance state, acting as a mouthpiece for the spirit world and then he’d ask her questions. Some of Yeats’ best ideas came from Georgie.”

  “Behind every great man is a great woman in a trance.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. They called these spirits ‘instructors.’ Yeats would ask them for news of the spirit world, the answers inspiring some of his greatest poetry. The strange thing was…”

  Freya raises an eyebrow and speaks with a mouth filled with food, “Stranger than getting your wife to go all trancey to dig for ideas for you?”

  “Yes, stranger. Yeats was convinced evil spirits were impersonating the instru
ctors, trying to lead him astray and use his voice as a poet to influence the world towards evil.”

  “So, in other words, his wife was getting pissed off at having to go spacey just to get him to pay attention to her so she started writing, ‘Do the goddamn dishes or great evil will befall you’?”

  “Make fun if you want. All I’m saying is that sometimes I feel that what I’m writing doesn’t come from me at all. Some days, when I manage to write something I think is beautiful, I don’t mind so much. But the last few months…I feed the paper into the typewriter, stare at the blank page, and then these words flood out of my fingertips. They just come. I can’t stop them. Then I read them back and it’s the most horrible…I can’t explain. Maybe it’s the same thing. Maybe I’m picking up a signal from the wrong instructors. Maybe I’m listening to the wrong voice.”

  Freya lets the words hang in the air for a few seconds before asking, “Where do you think the voice is coming from?”

  He moves food around with his fork and hides his eyes from hers. “I don’t mean to be so insufferably maudlin. What did you say about arty boys crying into their red wine?”

  “Yes, well.” Freya laughs. “If we’re being completely honest? That has worked on me once or twice before.” She fixes him with a covetous gaze.

  He coughs and splutters a spray of red across the table. “Shit! Maria is going to kill me.” He dabs frantically at the tablecloth with his shirt. “Fuck it.” He settles back and drains his glass.

  “Jack, if this was a date…? This would, hypothetically speaking, be where you invite me back to your room.”

  ***

  Afterwards he falls quickly asleep, leaving her to the chaos of his bedroom with only the gentle rhythm of his breathing to break the silence. Outside the window, the moon is bright and full. It casts gentle white light over the debris populating his room.

  Her eyes scan this new territory with deliberate calm before she turns her attention to him. In this half-light, he looks a great deal like his brother. Not quite as handsome, but the basic blueprint is there, as though the two are different executions of the same design, one by a master sculptor and the other by his less accomplished apprentice. As both brothers sleep, Freya wonders if they share the same dreams, then dismisses this as a ridiculous notion.