By the ceiling a window, a small window with iron bars on the outside. The television is in the corner of the room. Blue light on his hands. No sound. Light on his trouser legs. He has eaten because it is evening, because it is almost night. Soon he’ll leave the room, he’ll walk to the stairs, he’ll mount them to the landing at the side door, and with only the slightest hesitation, he’ll slip out into the alley.
Very soon now. He drinks from a bottle, he smokes: blue light on his hands. What will they be doing tonight? What will he see them doing?
He moves with unfamiliar grace, his feet make no sound. Vaguely swaying lights above as he descends to the floor of the ravine. He avoids the white road, he slides through underbrush, a path along the edge, he walks beside the road because sometimes there are others, there are cars without lights, there are figures, shadows in the corner of his eye.
And tonight there is a car, he knows where to look, he sees it, heart’s rhythm and muscles tightening, mouth parting, he pauses: leaves shiver about him, a light evening breeze on his face. He stares at the motionless hulk of the car. He can almost smell it.
From halfway up the side of the ravine, above it, he begins by throwing pebbles, a handful of them, and then another, they rattle through leaves and branches on their way. He hears them hit the car, clattering as they rebound into the dark. He can’t see, but he can imagine their shock; that pleases him. Will loverboy play the hero? will hotpants jump out on the attack? He hopes so. Grinning excitedly, holding the brick in his left hand he hopes so, he can hardly contain himself, he stoops for another handful of pebbles and at that moment the engine starts. The car backs onto the white road, he transfers the brick to his right hand, he lobs it like a grenade . . .
Very close now, creeping closer, he pauses: leaves shiver about him, a light evening breeze on his face. He stares at the motionless hulk of the car. He can almost smell it.
The brush of bodies. They groan perhaps, breathing and sighing, the noise of their bodies: even closer to the glinting metal, if he reached out now, they don’t know he’s here, so close to them, teeth bared, eyes white, he could reach right in the window, he could put his hands on them gently like this . . . He straightens, he rises from the brush, he sees them, he reaches, fingers extended, staring he reaches in, he sees her long white legs convulse like spastic arms.
His mind is full of images, rationalizations, half-formed words, with escape routes closing before he knows, all the familiar structures of guilt: instinctively he stops before the dog, the husky, and drops to his knees in front of its cage. Withdrawn as usual against the inner wall, unmoving, it watches him with cloudy eyes as he bends closer.
The sun shines or it doesn’t, it’s winter sometimes and sometimes it isn’t: the body struggles from sleep, dresses itself according to the season, eats and comes unwilling into the world’s routine. But then, unexpectedly, there’s a moment when he senses he could fall right out of it all, out of the whole thing, and his bony face contracts, it falls in upon itself like blood.
Riding sometimes in trains, in cars; resting against the glass, falling each mile further into himself: dry roads empty, occasional barns with homes in shadow and always the coloured fields, the geometric fences on the land. Mile after mile. He can’t remember the first time it happened and can’t be sure it ever did. It might have been an early morning on the way to summer camp. It might have been. A field rising to bush, trees crowding from the sky’s edge and there, into the trees, an entrance leading away and he sees himself climbing the field in silence, sees a boyish figure alone, pausing, then striding as best he can from sight.
Gaunt white body unmoving, but it’s still alive, and that’s something: dull eyes, they watch him rising, watch him straightening to stand and there’s tension somewhere, an accusing stink and shallow breath. And then he hears the others: snuffling and groaning, breathing and sighing, all this and more; the brush of bodies, and madness of the talking birds, the chains and the scampering claws in metal wheels as he starts his methodical search. Down the first aisle and up the second, peering into cages, poking a ruler at empty bodies and it’s easy to tell the dead ones for limbs have stiffened, their eyes are unresponsive. He hits them as hard as he likes and they don’t move. Sometimes he’s mistaken of course, sometimes they’re sleeping or sick, they lurch from the ruler and then he leans to soothe and reassure, he apologizes and when the animal is calm again he goes to the next cage. It’s not a hard job. Whenever he’s sure, he leaves the cage door open as a sign and by the time he’s finished this morning there are five of them, five bodies to collect, wrap and stuff into green garbage bags. Fortunately none of them are very big. Big animals are difficult to handle, a leg or two is always in the way, the bag isn’t big enough, and they certainly don’t fit into the garbage cans. But that’s not a problem today. A couple of lap dogs, a cat and two mongrel puppies; they hardly take any time at all.
Bell ringing in the shop. He’s here: jaunty steps and whistling, things clatter as Peter Walters appears in the door. “Oswald. This place stinks.” Into the room, glancing here and peering there. “The cages aren’t cleaned, look!’ Grimacing “Ugh. No wonder.” Bright blue eyes. “What have you been doing? Good grief man, it’s . . . It’s almost ten o’clock. Why you should . . . how do you expect . . . oh no . . . Oswald, you know better than that! Come here.” Over to the cupboard, opening the door and pointing. “Come here and look. Those cages should be clean by now.” Pink nail healthy, white where it grows beyond the quick. “Nine forty-five, you see . . . that’s quarter to ten. These animals should be coming in from the yard, the cages should be sparkling and you’ve hardly started.” Staring from Felix to his lousy schedule, then closing the door again. “That’s the trouble with you Oswald, that’s the trouble alright . . . And I say this in all seriousness, in kindness, I hope you know that because, well, because I like you. Yes. I do, I like you Oswald. Don’t ask me why. But I do.” Cigarette into the mouth. Flick goes the lighter. He stands in clean shoes, smoking. He actually admits to liking Felix Oswald.
Sometimes a stream then, a creek that leads from sight among the trees, and other times it’s just a suggestion, an opening image as he’s carried by. His body’s empty with the journey and he cannot speak.
Cool on his forehead and dirty, the window between him and that figure in the field. It happens often. In trains sometimes and cars, resting passive against the glass, falling with each mile further into himself.
“I hope you know that because, well because I like you. Yes. I do, I like you Oswald. Don’t ask me why. But I do.” Cigarette into the mouth. Flick goes the lighter. “And I think I can help you get more out of life.” He stands in clean shoes, smoking. And what’s all this pigshit about liking anyway? Likelike means nothing from him! what’s he willing to do, will he . . . “Let’s sit down Felix.” Will he produce the bottle and this time a second glass? Pouring, and Felix reaching, lifting it to his mouth. “You’re doing a fine job here.” The world going by in the street. His smile’s not so bad now, not so exclusive. And maybe he really does like him, for at some point he leans, he appears to be human, he leans and asks: “What do you really want Felix?”
“I’d like to die.”
“These are sick animals, Felix, sick and it shows in the quality of the stool. Have you ever thought of that? Diseased shit Oswald, the cages are, the cages . . . ” With tears in his voice he looks at his watch. “At almost ten in the morning my cages are full of diseased shit! That’s the problem alright and there’s no excuse. No. Absolutely none.” He pauses and Felix perceives the trouble with that face. He might have been bothered by it before but he doesn’t remember. Now the problem is obvious: it looks like the topographical map of uninteresting land. Everything is too small for the size of his head, too crowded there in the middle of his face. “I don’t know what you do with your time, daydreaming, moping about.”
Even if he did say, who ar
e you Felix? what do you really want? it would be a lie, an intimate lie so that Felix might not notice at first.
“That dog for example, the husky. You spend far too much time with that animal, you really do.” He fills a certain space here in the room, he talks. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing because it won’t get better you know, there’s nothing we can do.” Felix shifts uneasily; he isn’t needed for this talk, he doesn’t want to hear it again. “Not a dietary problem, not nitrogen trichloride, that’s fairly clear.” Scratching at his ear, finger poking in to wriggle thoughtfully. “There’s been a dramatic, as you may or may not know, a dramatic decline in the incidence of hysteria due to dietary factors.” Pausing. “And it’s certainly not parasites, no, not parasites. Not in this case.” The smile has permanently returned and his voice is precise. “So it must be genetic, eh? An hereditary taint, derived from one or other parent.” Felix doesn’t believe this, not for a moment. “Yes. And that means . . . ” In fact he starts, eyes rolling as if to speak, to contradict, his chest heaves painfully, his hands convulse against his thighs. “That means there’s nothing medical science can do.” And still the words don’t come. “Particularly when the patient experiences epileptiform fits like this one does.” It’s always the same.
That blue light on his hands, on his legs. The stairs, that door, the alley. Why does he do it? He moves with empty grace, his feet make no sound, he slides through underbrush, a path along the edge, he walks beside the road because sometimes there are others . . .
He stops under the railway bridge. He’s almost there, he’ll smoke a cigarette. Then he’ll cross the stream and climb to the pavement, the lights, their house. What will they be doing? what will he see them doing tonight? He hears water rushing against the concrete support, it stinks of the cemetery half-a-mile ahead: seeping among the graves it gathers in pools, he remembers the pools, it overflows and fed by the city becomes a stream that smells of bodies.
By the garage, excited because nobody knows he’s here, pressing himself into its shadow with leaves resting on his shoulders. There are lights in the apartment but nobody appears in the windows. Music from a radio, perhaps a record player, is playing somewhere. He doesn’t recognize the song. Noise from the traffic on Yonge Street, soothing, like the sea, although he has never heard the sea, or wind rushing across the land, some land, somewhere . . . Resting his face against the brick, he’s breathing easily because he’s in no hurry. In a minute he’ll climb onto the garage roof, using the fence and one limb of the tree, he’ll wriggle forward and lie unseen to watch them . . .
Walters, hands in his pockets poking at his balls, feeling himself stiffen delightfully as another woman turns from his smile, is confident that Felix is really trying to re-establish himself in his employer’s esteem. And that’s a nice thought. But perhaps. Sudden excitedly, he cannot breathe, for in a purple sweater, coming across the street are the biggest boobs, oh Christ he’s ever seen! His hands are fiendish in his crotch, his smile is a hardware store. He retreats behind the counter as she pauses, will she come in? He can’t believe, he won’t . . . The sun shines only on this woman’s hair, her enormous breasts. Will she come in? He can barely look at her. Will she? He leans to offer his most urbane smile. She’s irresolute. Desperately he smiles, he grins. But even that doesn’t do it. True she does acknowledge him, and that’s hopeful. A nod, a gentle inclination of her head, yes, an imperceptible widening of the eye, he’s sure of that. He saw it. But still he won’t allow himself to believe she’ll actually turn the necessary forty-five degrees to her right, step on her plump legs to his door, open it and, and bring them in . . . it’s all too much to hope, too much. He catches his breath as she shifts, she seems about to . . . Which way? Small teeth gnaw on his lower lip. Come in, come in, he commands in silence. Come in! She’s making a decision. She glances on up the street, her breast swells. His morning begins to fail. And then at her watch. Hot kisses on her wrist and up her arm, his hands on her shoulders, hers in his pockets, she’s turning, she’s yes! To her right on her plump legs, thighs in his doorway. Opening. What does she want? Her breasts envelop, his stomach’s sinking as he smiles and smiles. The door closes behind her . . . she prepares to speak, to open her mouth. He can’t stand it any longer. She’s going to speak! He presses himself against the counter, he closes his eyes, he opens his eyes. Her reaching mouth is just for him, her huge and naked breasts for Peter Walters . . . what does she want?
“I want a dog.”
Oh Christ I’m yours!
Felix crouching before the dog. Surely it’s getting better. Now, because all the cages are clean and Walters is out there talking to someone, he has time to smoke a cigarette. Surely it’s getting better. Hunkering down, his feet flat on the floor, his thighs tight against his calves, his long arms hugging his legs, he stares and smokes.
Felix smoking and wondering if he should open the cage, reach in and scratch his fingers between the yellow eyes, grab the hair at its powerful neck in such a way that the animal would know it had a friend. Maybe it’s too soon for that.
Teetering forward, watching the eyes, appraising: important to see if it’s safe. It could take his arm off; he knows that. Still, it is getting better. Every day it’s more alive, almost responsive. At first there was nothing in those eyes, not a thing: no shadows, no light, just yellow diminishing without depth. Then one morning, several days ago, Felix saw something shiver inside the pupil, it was like something opening, something flashing deep beneath the surface. It happened very quickly. Most people would have missed it completely. Indeed it might not have happened for anyone else; it may well have happened because of him. Felix hardly dares to think about it, hardly dares to hope.
Perhaps this is the right moment. Perhaps some gesture, reaching in and scratching with his fingers between the yellow eyes, or grabbing the coarse hair at its neck, perhaps some trust, some intimacy of this kind is called for now, at this very moment. It’s hard to tell.
Certainly the voice alone isn’t enough, it never is: Felix can coo incessantly, nurse with words, he can lean lower and lower until his face is on the floor, even with the dog’s, his body sprawling in the aisle; but all the loving sounds that Felix has uttered in the past thirty minutes have not, and can never unlock the mesh door, have not and never can give the animal what it needs.
And so he reaches up to unlock the door. Does it tighten as he reaches, touches the bolt? What will it do, it seems calm. It stares at his hand. The metal is cool on his fingers. He pauses a moment. His long body in the aisle, his head resting on the linoleum, he does not move: his arm is raised as in a salute. His fingers are cool on the metal. What will it do, is it smiling at him? It appears that the dog is smiling at him. He slides the upper bolt and the mouth opens imperceptibly, the lips are drawing back in a smile. Still its head rests on the floor of the cage, his head in the aisle. It watches his falling hand to the lower bolt and the eyes seem blank again, from far inside a sound begins, a cry. Perhaps it doesn’t understand. It occurs to Felix that he should have raised himself from the floor before opening the bolts, before the dog, realizing something new, something unexpected was happening, began this terrible noise . . .
What to do? The stiffening body, that cry, the bristles jagged on its spine, he doesn’t know what to do! He lies with his hand on the second bolt and imagines rising to his feet, crouching to slide it open, opening the door. And the dog explodes, hurling its eighty pounds against him, bursting from the cage with snarling froth and pain, the noise! the terrible noise and pain . . . That’s a real possibility. And yet. He’s loth to stop now when he’d been so sure: it had seemed exactly the right time, the dog expectant, responsive, waiting his hand, the perfect moment, the gesture, the friendship . . . It seems too bad. Really too bad. It stares intently at his hand which rests uncertain still on the bolt. The sound in its chest is like an electric motor. Felix doesn’t know what to think, he doesn’t know
what to do and since there’s no easy way out, he stops thinking. It nearly always works. His mind is empty, his eyes are closed. Time passes. It becomes clear that he isn’t going to undo the second bolt. It always happens. He opens his eyes. The room is the same as he rises to his feet. His voice has begun to soothe, placate again as he reaches for the upper bolt; he’s hardly aware of the dog. His mind is empty. There’s a vague regret, of course, a sadness, but he’s used to that.
He stands with his fingers on the lock and if he thinks at all, he finds it difficult to believe he ever really intended to stick his arm in there. The morning has made him sleepy. Bright sun on the windows and the room is uncomfortably warm. He wonders, for a moment, what he’s doing here. Irresolute in the distinct and separate noises all around him, he wonders what he’s doing in this airless room with cages in tiers, with shuffling animal bodies and the heat . . .
“Why yes, of course I can help you.” She knows alright, that’s clear enough: she sees, she must, his eagerness and imperceptibly she’s smiling. “I’d be delighted hah, no trouble at all.”
“After work.” She stands on both feet, her legs slightly apart, balancing evenly on both feet, she leans toward him. Are you sure it’s . . . ”
Jesus “Yes, I’d be . . . ”
“About what time?”
“Five.”
“Five-thirty?”
“Certainly.” It’s already after work, they’re returning from the kennels.
“It’s very kind of you doctor.” She’s called him doctor! “It’s hard, you know. When you don’t know the city.” She doesn’t know the city, doctor I don’t know the city! He stares intently at her face. Steady. Steady. Returning from the kennels, or even better, they decide to have a drink and then another. Is she married? There isn’t a ring, but she looks married. Her face watching him, she’s new in the city: her eyes knowing him, he hopes she’s married. A drink in some nice bar then, her breasts heavy on the table as she leans for a light and before long it’s too late, the kennels are closed. She wants it as much as he does, that’s pretty obvious, he can tell: her breathing’s shallow and more rapid . . .
Communion Page 2
