Hieroglyphs_of_Blood_and_Bone

by Michael Griffin

  HIEROGLYPHS

  OF

  BLOOD AND BONE

  By

  Michael Griffin

  Trepidatio Publishing

  Copyright © 2017 Michael Griffin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Trepidatio books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

  Trepidatio Publishing an imprint of JournalStone

  www.trepidatio.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-52-7 (sc)

  ISBN: 978-1-945373-53-4 (ebook)

  JournalStone rev. date: February 24, 2017

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017930774

  Printed in the United States of America

  2nd Edition

  Cover Art & Design: 99designs - Biserka

  Images: bigstockphoto - image-118413428

  Edited by: Aaron J. French

  For Lena, for keeps

  Je me crois en enfer, donc j'y suis.

  (I believe I am in Hell, and so I am there.)

  -Arthur Rimbaud,

  Une Saison en Enfer (A Season in Hell)

  HIEROGLYPHS

  OF

  BLOOD AND BONE

  Part 1

  TH PSYCHOSIS

  OF

  HEARTBREAK

  Chapter 1

  Wild cries from another room

  Since my divorce, I've been staying with Karl. He's constantly saying my real problem is that I’m too passive around women, and that's probably why Michelle ended things. Because this is Karl's place, I have to listen to him, at least pretend to appreciate the advice. But the two of us are so different, he's incapable of understanding me. Different backgrounds. Opposite temperaments.

  I met Michelle in college, and after graduation she married me. That lasted twenty-one years. She's a beautiful woman, possessed of well-developed preferences and strong personal aesthetics. Off the top of her head, Michelle can list all the greatest poets, modern or classical, and the most notable films of Tarkovsky or Kubrick. She'll offer not only a ranked list, but fully reasoned explanations, an encyclopedia of references and connections, merits and demerits. If you want to know which Philip Glass or Steve Reich recordings to own, which to avoid, she'll tell you. Her expertise encompasses all art and culture, especially serious music and literature, but her deepest love is poetry.

  Karl is dismissive when I tell him things like this. "So much bullshit," he says.

  Karl never finished college, but because he's earning seventy thousand a year and he’s only twenty-nine, he feels assured in his contempt for "all that snob shit." That's how Karl talks. Everything's simple.

  "If this woman's so perfect for you, Tiger, how shitty was your game, to fuck that up?" he asks. "Shouldn't you be sharing her bed still, instead of mooching off this guy?"

  How can I answer that?

  I pay Karl five hundred a month for the second bedroom in his houseboat on the Oregon side of the Columbia River. My window looks across the river at Washington. His place is small, but it's convenient. Karl and I work at Constant Marine, a boat yard three miles down Marine Drive. That's a five-minute commute, compared to forty-five minutes from my house. I mean Michelle's house. She's the one who lives there now. I still think of it as mine, because I'm still paying the mortgage. That wasn't stipulated in the divorce settlement, but Michelle wants to wait for property values to rebound enough so she can sell the place. Then she'll pay me back.

  Most evenings after work, Karl expects me to go out with him. He always chooses a spot, the kinds of places he insists single guys should want to go. "A fella's got to aim the right direction, if he's gonna get any," he says. What he means is encounters with women. I keep trying to explain my problem with this. A crowded bar is the kind of setting where I have no justification to approach someone. How exactly is meeting women this way supposed to work?

  "Just get their digits." Karl shrugs. "Hit 'em up later. If you're too bawk-bawk-chickenshit to call and talk, that's what texting's for."

  Then what? Karl's answers are never much help.

  "Come the fuck on, Tiger." Lately Karl calls me Tiger. He thinks it's hilarious, this sporty young fella nickname, applied to someone like me. Karl says I've got a stick up my ass. I'm old. Too uptight.

  He says, "Must keep a stiff upper lip, righty-o, old Tiger?"

  He calls me "Lovey" in an accent like Thurston Howell III from Gilligan's Island. Karl's a TV Land addict whose knowledge of the shows I grew up with is better than my own.

  He says, "It's not like you never hooked up before. Twenty years married, you must've hit that a time or two."

  I don't have any response.

  Karl shrugs. Always shrugging. "Important thing is, they want to hook up, you want to hook up. Why the shit not?"

  He's better than me at arguing, even pointless, invented disagreements. Karl has endless energy for debate. If I do manage to score a point, he dismisses it with a funny-face shrug, or makes farting noises with his mouth. The thing is, I know he's really trying to help me. So I follow Karl to various places I don't exactly enjoy. Sports bars, chain restaurants, brewpubs. Mostly I feel like I've been dropped off in the wrong country, or the wrong decade. Maybe both. Not just disinterested for my own part, but certain of the scalding lack of interest younger women feel toward men like me, when they can have more confident guys like Karl. Not that he's as handsome as I am, or dresses as well, but Karl is two decades younger. More important than youth, he possesses that blithe self-confidence, an absolute smirking lack of give-a-shit women find appealing. At least, women we find in places like Jammer's.

  Karl gets disgusted with me sitting back, sipping and watching. "Don't be such a fucking pussy, Felix Unger. That's what you are. Wait. Who's the one in The Odd Couple, the uptight sissy-bitch one?"

  This time, I'm the one who shrugs.

  "Why be such a chickenshit?" Karl fumes. "You got nothing to lose. I think your ex still got you pussy-bound."

  That's another of Karl's frequently voiced theories, the only explanation he can possibly imagine as to why a hetero male, not yet completely over the hill, wouldn't aggressively pursue his next taste of the female unknown.

  I'm not hung up on Michelle as a perfect ideal. I realize she has shortcomings, or at least aspects of temperament so contrary to my own as to render improbable our reconciliation. I'm aware of that reality. Bitterly aware.

  Going to these places, Karl and I drive separate cars, in case he needs to leave without me. He never knows when he'll strike a gusher, to employ his preferred phrase. I sometimes mimic, joking with him. I play the Tiger. It feels awkward, even pretending.

  When Karl does strike a gusher, he smirks on his way out the door, one hand raised like a sportsman in celebration. Rounding the bases or something. Maybe he thinks rubbing my nose in his success will inspire me. Really it's a relief. I'm not trying to play his game. This routine wears on me, these dismal settings, sitting on fake leather seats, being served beer and fried food on fake wood tables. Karl's teasing encouragement, his misguided efforts to coach me onward, not toward th
e next relationship, but something he considers more important. Rebound sex.

  Sometimes I daydream about stopping, just refusing to play along. Remain Karl's roommate and coworker, but discontinue these boys' nights.

  It never comes to that. Though Karl has always seemed to prefer a sequence of brief connections to an actual relationship, the unexpected occurs. Karl finds himself a girlfriend. She's someone unknown to me, apparently some contact dating back to before I moved in. I press for details, expecting him to offer some nugget of smirking misogyny like, Remember the big-titty blond from Pinochle Bar?

  In fact, he merely shrugs, mutters something indistinct. "Pretty sure you don't know her."

  Karl no longer wants to go trolling after work. I should be relieved. Have I mentioned he calls it trolling?

  Evenings change so abruptly that I find myself fondly missing our sports bar evenings. I spend nights alone, looking around the little houseboat, listening to the river move, waiting for something. Karl occasionally brings the girlfriend around, but not so I can meet her. He only ever returns home after I've turned in.

  Then finally one night, she's there. I know because I hear.

  There's no avoiding the sound through the walls. A woman’s repeated cries, shrill breaths and whines of animal pleasure. I feel envy, frustration. These noises aren't for me.

  Some guys, alone after their divorce, might say they're happy for a roommate who brought a woman home. Those guys would be lying.

  I know there's something wrong with me now, some change since things ended with Michelle. It might not be visible in my face. I feel a desperate, starving need, one I'm aware of constantly. This hunger emanates from me, a shrill, pathetic sound. Even when I sleep it won't relent. I have dreams of concentrated desire and need, as if feminine spirits, or at least Michelle's narrowed eyes, watch over me, mocking. This sense amplifies my loneliness and craving, my sense of being judged. Something eternally feminine, disembodied though it may be, hovers outside my window, attuned to pitiful vibrations issuing from my bruised and maddened brain. If I'm able to look quickly enough at the right angle, at the correct juncture between waking and sleep, I might glimpse one of these wavering spirits in the air.

  I've passed beyond the limits of human want and craving. This aching oversensitivity attunes me to perception on unknown wavelengths. I overflow with lust, my imagination an over-amplified circuit, sizzling with possibility. Eventually this electricity has to either destroy me or attract what I require.

  That sound beyond my door, I'm not trying to hear. Is there a difference between not trying to listen, and trying not to? I cover my head with a pillow, but that doesn't quiet my thoughts. My bedroom so dark, nothing visible. I'm alone. Where else can my attention go?

  Hard, deep breaths, rising to extended cries.

  What am I supposed to do with this primal, clenching response in my gut? Trembling alertness, and anxious physical arousal. I believe her cries convey a sense of who she must be, though in truth I know nothing. Remember what it was like being with Michelle? She was never so unrestrained. The sounds carry echoes of past life into this present moment. I'm alone, experiencing nothing physical at all. Just listening. Not that I'm putting myself in Karl's place. I'm not.

  Full-throated yelling. A culmination.

  How do I know this is real? This isn't the kind of fantasy I'd create. She sounds like she's in pain. Her guard is down, passion rendering her unreservedly wild.

  This woman I've never met. Not that I want her for myself, this specific person. I know nothing about her, can't even visualize. I close my eyes, try to see Michelle's face, imagine these cries emitting from her. My imagination shifts, the face changes. It's no longer Michelle. By slow degrees, she transforms in every aspect. Completely new. More accepting, not judgmental. No questions. Nothing at all like Michelle, more her opposite. That's who I see.

  Maybe I sleep. Sounds carry between rooms, merge into imagination or dreams. I feel a sense of having briefly possessed a woman of my own. Some strange, ideal person never met, body and face unseen. A stranger's indefinite shape. A voice defined by gasps and moans. Dreams don't require a name.

  I jump alert, fully awake. Sudden sharp awareness of midnight solitude. I feel foolish, permitting myself to indulge such thoughts, but I'm alone here. Nobody else knows. It's just sad, imagining myself with my roommate's girl. Is that what I've been doing? Karl's the one with someone in his bed. Not me. It's humiliating, lying here frustrated, sweating through my sheets.

  Just stop.

  I must've dreamed some of it. Some of the sounds I remember are inhuman, wild animal wailing. A mournful, anguished cry of a lonely soul in the wilderness, awaiting solitary death. That's what my mind conjures. All this from the sound of some strange woman fucking my roommate.

  In darkness, she's not the only one lacking identity. I'm the same. My thoughts carry no name, display no face, bear upon them no imprint of myself. Whose room is this? Not mine. The man I've been for twenty-five years is absent now. I'm some other person, in a room I don't own. Just a visitor borrowing a partial life.

  Chapter 2

  In the dark a faceless woman

  In a bed, in a room. Where am I? The sheets are drenched, tangled around me, my sweat. Everything dark, no moon beyond the window. Water sounds. I'm not home, but where? My mind rushes in animal fear. Unreal memories. A woman shrieking, gasping for breath, almost howling as if tortured. Like someone trying to make as much noise as possible.

  The murmur of the Columbia River flowing. Remember. I'm renting a room from Karl. The alarm clock's glow remains hidden until I move the pillow.

  3:33.

  Now it's quiet. Maybe I'll drift off. I need some sleep. Always so tired lately, fatigue a constant ache.

  In the trees, all dark, no moonlight. Underfoot, a cushion of dry pine needles. Sightless eyes, no help at all. Long howls, voice intermingling with wind blowing through woods. I step forward, hesitant, hands groping before me. Fingertips scrape something rough. A tree trunk. Warm air shifts, reverses. No more wind. Everything stops.

  This room. I'm in bed. No trees. Still that sound.

  I get up, open my door, peer into the hall. Not sure what I'm looking for. Curiosity drives me, or frustration.

  A short hall connects our rooms, Karl's nearest the dockside front of the houseboat, mine toward the back. In the hall between us, a shared bathroom. I open my door without turning on the light, in case Karl's bedroom door is open. She was so loud, I wonder if they left their door open on purpose, maybe Karl's idea of a joke.

  Make sure old Tiger hears you.

  The black hallway, so still. My own breathing, and the floor creaks. I can hear, or least feel, the river swirling not far beneath my feet.

  How long ago did she stop? Maybe just now. Maybe she heard my door open.

  I'm not trying to see, don't want to impose myself. So what am I after? I crack open the bathroom door, flick on the switch. Indirect light reaches the hall.

  Karl's door is open, the bedroom dark beyond the verge.

  I'm listening, motionless. Can I hear breathing, other than my own? I step nearer Karl's open door.

  Not my room, not my place. "Karl?" I whisper.

  No answer. My eyes adjust, dilated pupils straining to make out shapes.

  "Sorry," I say. "Thought I heard something."

  The minimal spray of light ends just inside the doorway. The room is a black void. My eyes extend, try to reach, find something more.

  There's someone seated on the edge of the bed. Bare legs smooth, hairless. Feet on the ground, toenails painted. A woman. Impossible to discern more.

  Her voice out of the dark. "I'm the only one here now."

  I freeze, feeling caught. Straining to see. No color, no features. Just an outline, a blurred photograph of a female nude. Feet together. Ankles, calves, knees, thighs. Can I make out a torso? Breasts, very white. Not sure how much I see, how much is imagination. A mystery.

  "Wh
ere's Karl?" I ask.

  "He'll be back," she whispers.

  This seems like no answer, but I'm at least half asleep, too disoriented to manage any reply. My heart strains in my chest. I feel too self-conscious standing here, swaying back and forth on the verge of the doorway to my absent roommate's room, talking to some naked stranger. Need for sleep overtakes me, a sudden urgency. Fatigue refuses to be ignored. I can think of no more words, no reason to be here. I want to apologize, but instead back up, snap off the bathroom light.

  The hallway goes dark, and there's nothing at all beyond that open door. Then I'm in bed, blinking against the thick, oppressive night, wondering whether I ever really got out of bed at all. Maybe I've been here the whole time, imagining.

  I feel certain I've intruded. She has more right to be here in Karl's place than I do. She's in Karl's bed. I still want to know where he's gone, but can't ask again. I don't know what I was looking for. Anyway, it's so dark, she probably has no idea what I could see. Maybe she thinks she's invisible. Maybe she is. Sometimes eyes offer what we expect to see, especially after too much imagining.

  Maybe I'll be able to sleep now, finally sleep. Mind relieved in blankness. Fatigue and arousal, competing sicknesses in my gut. But so often I've gone to bed, convinced I'm tired enough, then ended up stuck, mind racing, wondering where I went wrong.

  For six months after I left Michelle, I never considered the next woman, where I might meet her, whether she'd be a drunken hookup facilitated by Karl, a rebound girlfriend, a prostitute, a second wife. Living in Karl's place, always swaying on the water of the Columbia, such an uncertain and foundationless approach to my future seemed plausible. Not starting over new, but waiting for my old life to recommence. How does a man, satisfied with stable work and contented marriage, transform so quickly into a traumatized victim of divorce? I watch too much standup comedy on cable, drink too much cheap whisky, and sleep nowhere near enough. When I was married, I took care of myself. Not anymore.