The Egg-Shaped Room

by F. Simon Grant

Part VI: The Parlour

  So finally they made it to the factory district two blocks past the Roanoke Goateater Bottler. Eudaemonia and Oa got out of the car without saying goodbye. They never said goodbye to anybody. It was pointless. The other two gave the funeral party all the lies of see-you-laters and smiled fakely. Doctor Tobey Stevenson then took the Tone siblings to a large cubical white building, and another cubical white building inside of it, and took them to interchambers and interchambers and interchambers until they reached the final room. He called it the, “Procedure Room.” The brother, sister, and sister walked in and looked around the room, a large room, about three stories tall. And of course it was in the shape of an egg -- like being inside a three story egg standing upright -- and in the center of the room were three chairs: the chairs were also white and egg-shaped, like you’d find in a garage sale of nineteen seventies furniture. That’s all there was to the room, really. The door they entered, a door on the opposite side, a six foot observation window midway up the egg. Nothing else. Eudaemonia said, “How does this thing work anyway? Radiation? Chemicals? Machinery? What is it?”

  “You know anything about Schrodinger or Heisenberg?”

  “No.”

  “That makes explanation a little more difficult. It doesn’t matter. Just wait, you’ll see. I can’t satisfactorily explain how the process works. It’s best to experience it empirically to fully understand.”

  “I’m just a little iffy about radiation.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not dangerous at all. It’s the complete opposite of dangerous. Wait right here. It’ll take a few minutes to, you know, set up, warm up, prepare and all that. You’ll be able to see me the whole time, right up there.” He pointed to the observation window.

  He went out the door and the three of them sat there in silence. There were so many moments that led to this. And then Doctor Stevenson appeared at the observation window and waved excitedly like a child with a magic toy -- innocent and unvillainous. The Tone siblings in their uncomfortable chairs waited without anything to say. Oa couldn’t sit in the egg chair with the rifle on his back, so he took it off and held it in his hand like a king scepter. Nobody stopped him from bringing it into the building. They saw him only in generalized terms, one-of-those-people-with-Doctor-Stevenson, never registering him as out of the ordinary. He sat in the middle seat. Missy sat on the right, Eudaemonia on the left.

  The room was silent, no sound of machinery. Perhaps the white egg walls were sound proof. Eudaemonia saw this kind of silence a hundred times: the separated relatives who meet and feel obligated to say something, not wanting to say anything unpleasant about overwhelmingly present subjects like death or impermanence, instead babbling on and on about sports and weather and other nonsense. Eudaemonia hated those conversations, especially when she wasn’t on the job. She refused to say anything unless it was important.

  Oa hated all forms of talking.

  Missy kept interjecting a bumbling, “So” or “Well” and tried to start a stream of conversation about how nice the weather was, “Just a light mist ... light mist ... light mist,” but neither of her siblings would pick it up. Oa was concentrating otherwise. He was on his job after all. The shape of the room was making it very difficult for him to concentrate; he couldn’t focus on anything. Everything was white and meaningless, and the shape of the room wouldn’t allow the eye to rest. His leg bounced in nervous energy, and he kept rubbing his eyes with his left hand and shaking his head. He’d readjust in his chair and try to figure out the impossible room. He was the first one to successfully start a conversation: he said to his sister on the left, “So, did you figure out if he’s evil or not?”

  “No.”

  Missy said, “Who’s evil? What are you talking about?”

  Eudaemonia said, “I can’t really read somebody as being evil. I mean everybody thinks they’re doing the right thing, whatever their definition of right.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Missy said. “Who are you reading?”

  “Your fiancé,” Oa said.

  Eudaemonia said, “All I read is excitement, like a kid or something. There doesn't seem to be any selfish intent. If he’s doing something evil, I doubt he’s doing it on purpose.”

  “Damn. I wanted him to be evil.”

  Missy said, “Why would you want him to be evil?”

  Oa said, very simply, “Because I’m going to kill him.”

  Missy said, less angry than she might’ve been, “You’re going to kill him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re going to ‘kill’ him like all those other people you’ve ‘killed’?” She used air quotes whenever she said “kill.”

  Oa said, “Yes. I’m going to kill him.”

  Missy said, “I see, ‘kill’ him, with your real gun and your real bullets?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please, No-face, you take the play acting too far sometimes. You know it’s very rude when you meet somebody to pretend like you’re going to kill them.”

  Oa said, “Oh don’t act like you’re innocent in all of this. I know you’re the one who hired me.”

  “Hired you? Why would I hire my own brother? Didn’t you pay attention to the detective shows before you decided to live in one? They would link you back to me. I would hire somebody with no connection to me. You’re wrong by your own little mystery rules.”

  “It’s a twist, Misery. You went through Buck. You didn’t even know you were hiring me.”

  “Buck?” Missy said and scrunched her face.

  “Yeah, my friend Buck. He’s the one who gets me jobs. But he messed up this time. My policy is to only kill immoral people. Your fiancé doesn’t seem immoral, which makes me think you lied to Buck. That makes more sense because you lie about everything. It wasn’t Buck’s fault.”

  Missy said, “Buck? Are you serious, No-face? There is no such thing as Buck. There never has been.”

  “Stop it, Misery. You always do this to me, make fun of my job, call me No-face, tell me everything I believe in is imaginary. When will you stop criticizing me and accept the things in my life? Buck is a very important business partner.”

  “He’s your imaginary friend,” she said in that broad older-sister voice she felt obliged to use. “You had him since you were eight years old.”

  Oa, with the expression of an attacking injured animal, said, “How can you say that? You’ve met him.”

  “I only pretended to meet him. I humored you. I thought it was weird, a fifteen year old with an imaginary friend, but I played along. You know why? Because I’m your sister. But sometimes it gets annoying. You need to grow up. Step out of the television.”

  “But he’s not imaginary. He’s not.” His voice took on a slight high-pitch agitation, a nervous, adolescent, rattling mouse-box. They were brother and sister again. “I have his number programmed into my cell phone.” He pulled out his cell phone, pulled up the number and handed it to Missy.

  She said, “This is a 555 number. They only have those in movies.”

  Then Oa reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet, “But I have a picture of us together. Camping. Out in the woods, camping.” He handed her the picture.

  Missy looked at it and said, “You’re alone in this picture.”

  Oa stammered. “Eudaemonia, she’ll tell you.” He turned to the sister on his left and said, “You’ve met him. Tell her Buck is real, Buck is my friend from school.”

  Eudaemonia slouched a little and said, reluctantly, “Actually ... there is no Buck. She’s right. I was playing along when you introduced him. I only pretended to talk to him. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. I always thought, you know, somewhere you knew it was all pretend.”

  “But ... But ... Those people I killed ...There was no reason? I’m just a killer?”

  “Yes, yes,” Misery said, “All those ‘people’ you ‘killed.’ It
was all meaningless. Because you never killed anybody, No-face. That’s the same toy gun you had since you were a kid. Quit being a baby. Quit making me look bad. Quit making it look like I come from a family of retards. All of it’s in your head. All of it. And your head has been replaced by television.”

  “But I... I remember it ... so vividly ... I ...” And he kept muttering. “So ... Well ... I... What does ... Why?” And he sat back in his seat.

  Doctor Stevenson came up to the observation window and gave an enthusiastic thumbs up, and Missy said, “Okay, he’s ready. Here we go. This is exciting.”

  Eudaemonia said, “Have you ever done this before?”

  “No. But he’s told me a little about it. I think we’re the first ones. We’re the guinea pigs.” She laughed. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this sort of technology, and you can tell from the elaborateness of this building that Tobey has spent a lot of physical, financial, and mental energy assembling it. The science of it is very complex, believe me. I’ll never understand it.”

  Eudaemonia didn’t laugh. She said, “What exactly is it supposed to do?”

  Missy said, “You’ll see. You’ll see.”

  Doctor Stevenson gave a second, even more enthusiastic thumbs up, as if the first thumbs up wasn’t enough to signal the beginning of the process. They waited a few more silent minutes until they heard the door behind them slide open. They couldn’t really turn around and look -- the chairs prevented that -- but they heard what sounded like bare feet on tile, about a dozen bare feet. The complete lack of other noise in the room made such a light sound easy to hear. The bare feet pattered out of the back door toward the chairs and started to circle to the right, counter clockwise.

  Eudaemonia, with great confusion, looked at what was making the sound. There were six men covered in tight fitting latex, bright orange, all over their bodies, like skin, over their heads, covering every feature, no eye holes, no breathing holes, one seamless orange plastic suit. The suit reminded Eudaemonia of grade school, putting glue on her hand and letting it dry and peeling it off; like a snake skin, like fairy tale shapeshifter doubleskins. They circled around and around the chairs: they strutted, that’s the word for it, strutted in weird animal movements, like a bear, like a snake, like a crab, like a ram, like a rabbit, like a wolf. For a brief minute one of them started walking like a chicken which would’ve given it all an easier interpretation. But that was such a small part of it.

  Then it seemed to Eudaemonia like a dance, like a Victorian parading dance at times, and then a dance like a dance from a German Expressionist movie, and maybe a remedial ballet move or two and then at random they would go into basic prom dances: the robot, the running man, the serpentine, the lawnmower, pieces of the electric slide and even the moonwalk. And then they would break at random into genuinely eerie lurking walks like they were nightmare monsters, but that would metamorph quickly into a cartoon Frankenstein walk. From one kind of movement to another at random, their movements never in sync. All very disconcerting, all very confusing. Missy didn’t look confused, but Eudaemonia could tell that she was. She sat, calm, hands on lap, little smile of wifely delight, and in the back of her eyes complete bafflement. She watched them circle, and they kept circling and circling and circling and circling.

  This is how No-face Oa Tone reacted: He picked up his rifle; he wrapped the strap around his right arm a few times, put the butt of the gun against his shoulder, took aim, and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening bang that sent Missy’s heart into rapid beating; it was a million times louder than a pop-gun kiddie pellet shooting toy rifle. She didn’t expect any sound at all. Eudaemonia looked at the orange man Oa was aiming at and red liquid was flowing out of the chest, making a stark but organic contrast against the orange. It was an autumn image. He probably had green eyes. He collapsed on the floor. So the whole room was silent except for Missy whimpering, everyone stunned, confused, like a shooter came out of nowhere. The other orange men looked at Oa, frozen like prey attempting camouflage. Oa took the opportunity. He cocked the gun; an empty shell flew past Missy’s face; he took aim and shot another one. They started running for the door, scrambling to open it. Oa shot one in the back as he was running away. The door was locked. They dug at the plastic door like gerbils.

  Then Doctor Stevenson came up to the observation window, banging and waving frantically, his forehead scrunched very tightly, his mouth open, obviously screaming though no sound could be heard on the other side. Doctor Stevenson hadn’t heard the gun shots. It was all a confusing thing to watch from his elevated perspective. Oa cocked his gun, aimed it at Doctor Stevenson and fired. It was the best aim he ever had in his life. The bullet went through the thick glass and into the doctor’s heart. He fell against the unbreakable glass and slid down onto the floor of the observation room. Missy screamed, “Tobey!” and ran to the door and scrambled to open it too. Oa said calmly, “Get out of the way, Sis.”

  “No! You shot Tobey! Why!”

  “Do you want to see how imaginary my bullets are?”

  A lot of feelings passed through Missy Tone that second: fear, anger, urgency, embarrassment at being wrong, that weird simultaneous love and hatred typical of an older sister and a younger brother. All of them made her step to the side and stand there quietly. Oa shot another one of the orange men. The two remaining orange men heard a door sliding open on the opposite side of the room. They ran for it, one clockwise to the right of Oa, one counterclockwise to the left of Oa. He targeted the one on the right, followed him with his sites, like hunting buffalo, and fired. The man stumbled and fell in a pile of legs and arms, in a pool of red. Oa walked around the egg chairs and saw the last orange man running with embarrassing clumsiness out of the door. Oa shot his leg and the man fell. He walked over to the crawling man and put him down like a horse trainer to a broken-leg foal, splattering red all over the nice clean white tile.

  He walked back into the egg-shaped room, not smiling but his body posture displaying joy in a completed job. He walked unintentionally toward Missy. She yelped and cowered by the locked door. Oa saw her and said, “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to shoot you. Go.” And he nodded his head to the open door. She didn’t know what to say. She stuttered, her tongue and feet and hands, but when concern took over, she ran out the door.

  Then he found Eudaemonia. She stood in the middle of the orange men who were still bleeding, six red spots on the white floor. She had blood on her mouth and blood all over her mourning dress. They looked each other in the eyes.

  Eudaemonia hadn’t been sitting passively by while her brother killed seven men. This is what she was doing: a second after the first one fell, she ran over to him, muttering a pathetic, “No, no, no.” She leaned down to him, ripped open the area of latex covering the face, and there he was, a young man, very handsome, green eyes, blonde hair like a surfer. He was whimpering. He was trying to talk. It was difficult for him. He convulsed. Blood came out of his mouth.

  He said, “Why? What’s happening? I mean, all of it? I don’t understand.”

  Eudaemonia put her hand behind his head and said, “Shhh.”

  “I’m just an actor. I didn’t ... didn’t think I could get shot doing this. I was only spose to...”

  “Shhh. What’s your name?” She was crying, the tears falling all over the blonde boy like God creating rain, the tears mixing in with the blood.

  “Cain Chalmers. That’s not my real name. That’s my stage name. I’m an actor.”

  “I know. I know. What’s your real name?”

  “I ... are ... uh ...” and he gave out a breathy S like the hissing of a snake and a low gurgling G. It seemed like a puzzle code, but Eudaemonia knew it was all nonsense. Finally, Cain Chalmers formed a sentence: “Are you an angel?”

  “No, no, not at all. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re so beautiful. That’s my favorite
thing in the world.” And he laughed and blood came out of his mouth. “We’re going to the beach after work. We’re going to meet some beautiful ... Would ... would you like to come along?”

  “Yes, yes, I would love to.” His eyelids went down to the middle of his eyes and she kissed him with passion. She didn’t know why. She never did anything like that before. She tasted the blood and the tears and his lips. He convulsed a little and she held him tight in her arms to keep him from shaking, lips together. She couldn’t open her eyes for all the tears. He went limp. She set him down on the floor gently.

  She went to each of them. Some of them were dead when she got to them. Some of them couldn’t talk. Those who could talk said, “Are you an angel?” and she was crying too much to respond.

  Up stairs in the observation room, for once in her life Missy was doing the same thing, but with only one man. Eudaemonia stood up from the last dead one and saw framed in the window: Missy weeping over Tobey, blood on his white coat, and Missy’s eyes bloodshot and genuine wet, Missy caressing and rocking her dead future husband, Missy kissing the frumpy, bloody mess. Eudaemonia felt the warm rush of jealousy, but it quickly faded when she thought of her own kiss.

  So when Eudaemonia and Oa were finished with their separate jobs, they stood there looking at one another. Though the deaths of the men ripped her insides more than any other funeral before, she wasn’t mad at Oa. She remembered seeing people in funerals who said things like, “We’ll get the bastard who did this. He’s gonna fry.” She hated those people. She never wanted to be one of those people. Oa being a real killer was no surprise to her, unlike Missy. She went to several funerals of Oa’s victims. But people didn’t use the term “contract killer.” They used the term “serial killer.” Whenever they said things like, “It’s weird that nobody can remember what he looks like; it’s like Uncle Such-and-such was killed by a ghost,” she knew it was her brother. She knew he thought he was doing good. If she knew what Doctor Tobey Stevenson was trying to do, she would’ve considered it immoral but well intentioned, like Oa. Everyone dies. In her opinion, neither man could claim moral superiority. But Oa was her brother.

  So Oa said, “It’s good to see you, Sis.”

  “It’s good to see you too.”

  “We should get together more often. I hate that it takes something like this for us to see each other.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway ... I’ll see you later.” He stepped over bodies and hugged her and walked unopposed out of the building. Eudaemonia stood there still. She felt the scene fading, red to white, blood smell dissipating, and she walked away slowly, absorbing every last bit of sensation. And remembered because that's what she did.

  Part VII: The Eulogy

  Months went by, and Eudaemonia went to the funeral of her favorite piano teacher. She went to the funeral of the godmother who taught her how to dance. She went to the funeral of that funny man at church who always made her laugh when she was a kid. Eudaemonia went to one big fancy funeral, funeral of a famous person maybe, and heard people saying things like, “It’s a shame such a beautiful girl should kill herself. And so rich too. If there’s no hope for her...” and, “I hear she came from a real screwed-up family; maybe suicide is genetic,” and men in expensive suits: “I could never stop thinking about her. I mean, I made myself because of my wife but...” Eudaemonia walked up to the casket and saw Missy, dead, laying there, eyes closed, looking like the clichéd sleeping. Her face looked odd, like it had melted and they put it back together again. Bad make-up, Eudaemonia guessed; Missy would’ve hated it. People kept saying things like, “Nobody ever truly dies. We keep them alive in our thoughts. We’ll always remember Missy, so she’ll always be alive for us.” Eudaemonia didn’t cry.

  A few months later she was at another funeral. She heard more murmuring of suicide, “Suicide must be genetic,” things like that which sounded inappropriately clever. There were a lot of people at this funeral. She went up to the casket and saw Oa, dead, laying there, eyes closed, looking like the clichéd sleeping. He had a certain overly rememberable plasticity that gave her an eerie feeling, warm and black. Missy’s face normally looked lab constructed, but Oa’s face was now too definite, far too specific. It was like the mannequin copy of the idea of Oa. So she reached a hand in the casket with her usual unfrightened brashness and rubbed a hand across his cold cheek -- she would’ve never done that to his live body -- and felt the fakeness of the skin, the woodenness of the bone structure, even the glassness of the eyeball. She even tried unsuccessfully to crush the face of the facsimile back to dust. Nobody noticed her straining.

  She couldn’t figure out if she was imagining this body as a casket mannequin, wishing it, in deep denial of Oa’s mortality. But she knew in one sense Oa couldn’t die. He was out there roaming alive on concrete with a rifle on his back, his face in shadow and that sad look in his eye. Oa would exist forever in legend, a lack-of-memory legend, an impossibility. An untold story. And untold stories exist, believe me.

  Then a thought suddenly occurred to Eudaemonia. She turned around in some sort of panic and said to the funeral party, “Who are you people?” Nobody answered. She felt like she was surrounded by ghosts bled through from the white tunnels. “This is my brother. He didn’t have any friends. He didn’t know anybody. Who the hell are you?” They didn’t answer. “Did somebody hire you?” No answer. “Who hired you?” No answer. “Who hired you!” No answer.

  Eudaemonia Tone left her brother’s funeral in silence. She saw no white tunnels.

  She went home.

  She kept living and living and living and living and living.