Ritson’s convinced, not without reason, that he’s appreciably weaker, his body less effective: when he attempts to stand he can see that the process of disintegration has continued while he slept, there’s even reason to believe that it has accelerated. His spine doesn’t bend easily and even with help from his arms, the muscles in his belly are incapable of pulling him into a sitting position. He rolls onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest, levering with his arms, he flops onto his belly, he struggles to raise his trunk from the mattress, the problem is to get to his hands and knees, it’s here that he’s most likely to fail: it hasn’t always been like this, he persists, he refuses to falter, there was an instant when he doubted himself, at the start, it appeared certain he’d collapse but he held on, he braced himself and won. The rest is comparatively easy. He’ll crawl to the chair and pull himself erect.
It’s a tiny room, a windowless cubicle, not a cell, in the deepest corner of his basement, he acknowledges there is light in the city, waning afternoon light, but it never penetrates this far beneath the street: the basement, honeycombed with cells and passages, has been in darkness as long as he can remember. As confident as a blind man, he crawls to the wooden chair by the door, he puts both hands on the seat and climbs to his feet. After asserting his balance he leans against the wall for support, he reaches with his arms, he stretches his body towards the ceiling with muscles and sinews protesting, he gulps air vigorously into his lungs, he holds it as long as he can and then exhales. He repeats the process until he’s trembling and dizzy. When his head clears he sits on the chair, he slips his feet into his boots, laces them to the top and ties them with a double bow.
It’s always the same, the need to urinate wakes him: he’s lying on his back in the dark, it’s like sleep but his eyes are open, the empty house above him: inescapably the prospect of rolling onto his belly, of forcing his body to its feet, fills him with uncertainty and dread. He has tried to understand. Perhaps he’s afraid of failure. There was a time, Ritson believes there was a time when this explanation convinced him, it’s all-encompassing, that’s attractive, and even more important, it’s simple: unfortunately he’s concluded that if he was afraid of failure, then he wouldn’t involve himself, he wouldn’t even try, there must be another explanation. It has occurred to him he’s afraid of what he’ll find outside the house. Without any doubt, he’s convinced there’s sound reasoning here: the shattered windows, bodies in the street he’s seen it all, men prowling like animals; he remembers, surely he wasn’t dreaming? he remembers tanks, whole blocks united in flame, the sky insanely red and soldiers with guns and clubs. But what has it got to do with Ritson? if the cause for dread lies outside, then it’s unlikely he’d go out as eagerly as he does. There’s very little need, his requirements are modest and virtually everything necessary for life has been stored here in the basement; despite this, as soon as it’s dark he slips out of the house without fear, at least without specific fears, he’s expectant certainly, even defensive, but that’s endemic. Life demands caution. Clearly then, or at least it seems so to him, there’s no obvious cause for his uncertainty and dread. And that raises the possibility he’s been approaching the problem from the wrong angle; perhaps he doesn’t understand the nature of his experience here in the dark each afternoon, on his mattress, struggling from sleep, the empty house above him. Perhaps he’s mistaken, and it isn’t uncertainty or dread that he feels, perhaps it’s frustration in response to inertia. It’s possible. If that’s the case, however, what is it that drives him to overcome the inertia? there has to be something.
If he allows himself he’ll pursue this sort of speculation forever, he’ll exhaust every combination of possibilities, and even though it’s challenging for the mind, even though it could prove to be more or less diverting, it has nothing to do with lying here, on his back, his body undeniably weaker than he has ever known it to be. A cellar is not an ideal place to die. He rolls onto his side, drawing his knees up to his chest, levering with his arms, he flops onto his belly, he struggles to raise his trunk from the mattress, to rise onto all fours, his arms are too weak, he collapses, his face bangs rudely against the cellar floor. It’s probably like this every day, soon the strength will return, he lies motionless with arm beneath him, his face is pressed against the cement.
Why does she come each morning like this? A ritual perhaps, but not for him: Christ knows he doesn’t need it! with knees pulled up under his chin for protection, the body curled around its own belly, it’s obvious he doesn’t need it. Yet here she comes with cigarettes, matches and the white plastic holder . . .
Deliberately from the door to the chair beside his face and sitting, staring impassive as he sleeps. She hears her morning at the open window. She hears birds in the eaves and she hears the trees.
She rises, she puts the cigarettes, the matches and the holder beside the pillow and, bracing her feet on the floor, her knees against the bed, she takes a deep breath and tries to wrestle him onto his back. He resists. She tries harder. He curls in upon himself like an armadillo, but grunting and clutching, sweating now and heaving, she begins to gain the advantage: he’s weakening, one of his arms comes loose! vainly he struggles to re-enclose himself but the circle’s broken . . . it’s just a matter of time. She hears a whimpering in his throat and pauses. Clever. With left hand on his right wrist, elbow against his belly and into his hip, and her right arm under his shoulders, she seems to give in to him. Very clever. His body, surprised at this unexpected freedom, relaxes, the whimpering dies . . . and at this instant, so beautifully timed, she surges to her feet and flips him onto his back.
Things proceed as usual.
Felix open on his back, he breathes the end of sleep.
Cigarette in her mouth, she rests. It’s getting harder all the time. Once it was strength alone that did it, she walked in at seven and simply rolled him over. But those days are gone now: more and more she has to rely on the advantage that comes with experience.
She lights a cigarette and slips it into the holder. There are birds outside and trees that press about the house: the sun is shining, rather pale at this hour, but shining nevertheless as she leans forward to brush her finger lightly at the corner of his mouth. He shivers, he searches blindly with a sucking noise, his face is pained, is drawn in lines as his mouth searches suck suck. Such an anxious face!
By resting her elbow at his side she keeps the holder steady; her arm along his chest, she bends and reaches, pinching the nostrils to stop him breathing through his nose. The effect is immediate, obvious. The cigarette glows more brightly, it fades to greyness, then it glows again, it fairly crackles! Miniature forms collapse upon themselves as he exhales. She leans her weight, pressing and counting, “a thousand and one” with smoke issuing from his mouth . . . briefly she holds . . . then “a thousand and two”, withdrawing she sees the fire as his lungs are filled. And so it goes. She fights him resolutely, pressing again (“a thousand and one”), she feels the slobber from his mouth, she pauses . . . and withdraws.
The next cigarette is ready in her mouth as, poised, she forces his lungs empty, and then with amazing speed her left hand grabs the holder and brings the glowing butt to light the new one; at the same time, her thumb and index finger have pinched his mouth shut so he can’t breathe and break the cycle. Ashes fly as she ejects the butt into the ashtray, exchanges the empty holder for the cigarette in her mouth, firmly inserts the latter into the former and, letting go of his lips, jams the holder back into his mouth. He gasps, she lurches to maintain the interrupted tempo, “a thousand and one” and they’ve hardly missed a stroke . . .
It’s going very smoothly this morning.
Soon she stops the regulating pressure, stops the counting and relaxes somewhat back on the chair: she smiles, an imperceptible smile on her large face and hears again the birds, a car in the street, the day outside and sees the lines about his eyes, his mouth in rhythm now and know
s the worst is over, that soon he’ll be awake.
When he reaches the floor of the ravine he turns right and climbs the small hill to the road, he crosses and descends to the railway tracks: Felix on the tracks in the Don Valley. A hundred yards from him, across a field, the river meanders beneath trees with rough bark, he knows somehow they’re trees from dream: he crouches smoking, vacantly he stares across the river to the parkway choked with cars, to the apartments above them bleak against the sky. Raucous birds wheel about his head. He can hear their wings. Although it’s early, the sun is hot: cars labour to work on raised arterial roads and high in the guts of the bridge a subway rattles to Bloor Street. He waits to see if he’ll cross the field to the river, or turn to his left along the tracks. The birds swoop angrily closer. He inhales, feeling the smoke sharp in his chest; without noise, unravelling above him is the vapour trail of a jet.
It’s not that he misses the job, he’s sure of that, time passes painlessly enough without it: for days now, it must be, perhaps weeks, he’s emerged from the house at his usual time, but instead of walking to the subway he’s come into the park, down into the ravine, he’s turned right, climbed the small hill to the road and descended into the Don Valley. What is it? Wandering in spring’s incredible violence, fearful with birds tumbling wildly to the ground, the headlong pursuit of squirrels among branches and out of sight, Felix, he doesn’t recall when he first became aware of it, how it was brought to his attention, perhaps it’s only just now become clear to him, Felix is impotent with dread.
Felix smoking a cigarette, leaning against a concrete pillar, staring out into torrential rain, it’s almost vertical now, it covers the highway with miniature explosions as cars with pale headlights crawl past him, drivers hunched and intense, they don’t appear to see him or his sign saying CALIFORNIA, and if some do, they don’t acknowledge him. The thunder has drifted overhead in its journey from the west. Lightning flashes sporadically, and the air is full of water. He’s beginning to feel uncertain. He crouches to rest his legs, bracing his back against the pillar he listens to the wheels of a transport braking on the overpass above him. He watches it descending into view, he gets automatically to his feet, he holds up his sign, he smiles hopefully, he sticks out his thumb, perhaps if the driver sees him smiling, perhaps he’ll stop, he sees the shuddering, hears air brakes as it drifts by him, huge wheels protesting as the driver steers onto the shoulder of the highway. Felix running with his knapsack in the pouring rain, into the exhaust, beside the gleaming trailer to its cab, the door is opening for him, he hoists himself up the step and scrambles, dragging his bag with him, he slams the door. The truck does not move. Brushing wet hair from his eyes, clearing rain from his face so he can see, Felix is startled by the voice: “That’s a bitch of a day baby.” An echoing bass voice, it fills the cab.
“Yeah, I’m . . . thanks . . . ” Brown eyes appraise him from a ferret face, what’s he waiting for? the mouth opens in a thin smile, Felix is disconcerted, he averts his gaze: the man’s white eyes staring at him, his face resting on the steering wheel. Rain hammers on the cab, the wipers thump back and forth. “I’m going all the way to California.” He wonders why the man doesn’t drive on, but he doesn’t, he just sits there with his delicate hands like paws on the wheel, he’s gazing at Felix, it’s as if he’s expecting something, Felix doesn’t know what to do. “I know a girl there, she lives in San Mateo county.” Cars and trucks pass them in the rain. The floor is littered with sandwich crusts and paper. “Her name is Morag.” There’s a movement to his left, he looks, the driver is nodding his head. “I met her one summer and then she went away.”
“I could tell right away you weren’t a chick, you know that baby?” Felix hears the voice, a resonant, engulfing voice. “Chicks wouldn’t be out here alone.” He leans finally to stare back along the 401 in his mirror, he shifts into low and begins to accelerate. “Once I picked up a coupla, hippie chicks, you know. Most times there’re guys with them but not those two. Shit.” Wipers thump as the engine strains to gain momentum. “Real jailbait, the two of them, little tits and long hair . . . but nothen, fuck-all happened.” Reaching down beside the seat, his hand re-appears: “I even showed them this BANGBANG! I said.” He presses a pistol against Felix’s cheek, he’s chuckling, the metal’s cold, he holds the accelerator to the floor with rain beating on the windows, the floor is littered with sandwich crusts and papers. “I told em about all the guys I killed, I thought maybe it’d make em hot, you know what I mean?” Felix nods, the muzzle bumps against his cheekbone. “All I did was scare the shit out of em.” He laughs and Felix tries to smile, he wonders if he can grab the gun in time.
“Is that . . . ” Blurred by rain on the windshield, headlights from oncoming cars; he tries to speak.
“You mean is it loaded?” Felix nods. “Fucken right baby.” Laughing explosively, the muzzle bumps against his cheekbone; blurred by rain on the windshield, headlights from oncoming cars hurtle out of sight. The pistol is removed. Felix looks, he doesn’t want to accept the proffered gun, he doesn’t know how to refuse its compact weight, he discovers his hands are sweating. “Women are funny chicks.” He’s driving with both hands on the wheel again, he turns to Felix, his voice like stereo, he grins: “Were you scared sweetheart?” Felix doesn’t respond, he doesn’t know what to say, the stench in the cab is beginning to nauseate him. He opens the window. The rain abates, they’re driving fast in light traffic, they’re approaching the airport road, Indian Line north to highway 50, for an instant he believes they’re going to turn, he struggles to protest, he opens his mouth but the words won’t come, his body’s drenched with sweat, they do not turn, they continue accelerating westwards. “My name’s Fripp.” Felix can’t reconcile the strength of the voice with this wiry man, the laughter. “What’s yours?” He can’t be sure, but he believes there are insects crawling up his legs, he swats at his calf. The floor is littered with garbage.
“Felix Oswald.” He sits with the automatic pistol, it’s got a wooden handle: he raises his arm, extends it from the shoulder, he’s aiming at a car in front of them, his index finger along the trigger guard.
“A buddy of mine beat me to one outside Kingston. Shit.” It seems so small, a toy car scooting along the highway, he finds it hard to keep his arm still in the swaying truck, he curls his finger around the trigger. “Shit. I saw her as I was coming into the restaurant there, a big blond cunt with her thumb stuck out, just like that! before I had a chance this buddy of mine stopped for her, he was just pulling out, the lucky bastard.” Felix, his arm extended from the shoulder, he braces himself, squinting he aims at the toy car with his finger on the trigger. “I saw him later, I said ah, how far’d that blond cunt go? all the way, he said, all the fucken way.” He’s driving with both hands on the wheel, he turns to Felix, his voice is like stereo. “Maybe she wouldn’t of done it for me. Some women are funny that way, you know what I mean? they’ll do it for some guys but not for others . . . ”
Felix sits with the automatic pistol, it’s got a wooden handle: he raises his arm, extends it from the shoulder, he’s aiming at a car in front of them, his index finger along the trigger guard, it seems so small, a toy scooting along the highway, he finds it hard to keep his arm still in the swaying truck, he curls his finger around the trigger, this is the way it’s done, you squeeze the whole hand like this, very gently . . . Fripp is watching him, Felix returns his gaze and smiles, he lowers his arm until the gun is resting on his thigh and the man begins to laugh. His hands are delicate on the steering wheel, he’s watching Felix with sharp white eyes and laughing richly. “Baby you should of seen your face.” He reaches to take the gun, his hand is cool, Felix sees it on his own. “You should try it some time, you know what I mean?” They’re driving fast in light traffic; the fields on either side are flat and green. He’s sure there are insects, bugs, he feels them scuttling inside his clothes. “You should try it.”
“No, I
. . . couldn’t.”
“Baby you should of seen your face.”
As confident as a blind man, he crawls to the wooden chair by the door, he puts both hands on the seat and climbs to his feet. After asserting his balance he leans against the wall for support, he reaches with his arms, he stretches his body towards the ceiling with muscles and sinews protesting, he gulps air vigorously into his lungs, he holds it as long as he can and then exhales; he repeats the process until he’s trembling and dizzy. When his head clears he sits on the chair, he slips his feet into his boots, laces them to the top and ties them with a double bow.
As confident as a blind man, Ritson steps into the narrow hall, it’s only a passageway, his shoulders brush each side as he shuffles past the stairs, he turns right and then left, into the toilet. He’s surrounded by rooms, cubicles in the dark. Standing in the noise of his piss, feeling it flow through the flesh in his hand, he responds predictably and for the first time today, he accepts that it has begun again: he’ll climb from his basement to the ground floor, he’ll eat a certain amount of food and when it’s undeniably night, he’ll go out into the streets. He’ll keep to the alleys and sidestreets, he prefers back alleys, laneways tortuous among foundation walls of factories, warehouses, he walks slowly and with difficulty and despite the pain, he’s learned to make no noise, he misses nothing even though his face, whenever possible, is turned inward to the wall, his fingers trail reassuringly along their uneven surfaces, he listens defensively, he hears others, the feral strangers, he crouches motionless in the dark, it’s as if he’s invisible, he can see the struggling shapes, he hears the scuffling feet, the brutal gasping breath, the sudden blows and kicks, then moans in the dark and sometimes cries: Ritson crouching with the gun in one hand, the other lightly on the wall behind him, he waits until it’s over, until they’ve risen from the body and, brushing at their clothes, return into the shadows.
Communion Page 10
