“I’ll be at the library,” he said.
He couldn’t help hanging his head as he plucked his car keys off the table and headed for the door.
When he left, he drove the vehicle that didn’t have Parker’s car seat. Eileen would need it.
✽ ✽ ✽
He went to the library’s magazine room, figuring it would be a good way to pass the time until Eileen finished whatever she needed to.
Maybe she really was just taking the morning off, sitting with Parker as he watched Sesame Street. She was breathing deeply, like he was now, and planning how they would save their marriage.
And maybe pigs played chess.
It was almost nine o’clock. Mother Goose Story Time would start soon. He’d spent so many mornings singing “Twinkle, Twinkle” and “Little Red Wagon” that it felt strange not to be down there with Parker now.
He hesitated, stood up, and headed for the elevators. As he rode down to the children’s area, he told himself he wasn’t secretly hoping the shapely mother would be there.
Stop lying to yourself.
Okay, it wasn’t a secret hope at all. If Eileen was leaving the house and taking Parker with her, then why shouldn’t he flirt? Why shouldn’t he do something crazy?
The play area was full today. Toddlers swarmed between the Lego table and bins full of blocks. Laptop Man sat in his rocker, occupying space and scowling at his computer. Little Tracy unconsciously touched Gerald’s leg as she passed on the way to her mother.
Gerald made eye contact with the woman. He smiled and stepped toward her before he knew what he was doing.
Then his vision snagged on the mural.
The thunderbird had approached as closely as it could without emerging from the picture like in the dream. It was huge, the size of a full-grown man. He saw now its wings weren’t feathered at all but were membranes of skin, like a bat’s. They covered half the wall, obscuring the cartoon cow and fence. Gerald watched the children, but no one seemed to notice the figure.
Laptop Man slammed his fingers on the keyboard. “Messages. I don’t want them! Can’t they understand that?”
The sharpness of his voice dampened the children’s chatter. Alarmed, little Tracy turned in her mother’s embrace.
Gerald started forward again, but this time not to talk to the shapely mother. Maybe he could help the man and stop him from scaring the kids. After all, as Eileen pointed out, he certainly knew his way around computers. He looked over the man’s shoulder to see the monitor.
It was blank.
Laptop Man kept typing anyway. “No, no, no. Not that one, either. No!”
He slammed the lid closed.
Gerald looked up at the mural again. A bad omen. It had been getting closer all week. He’d assumed, deep down, that the thunderbird was here to warn about his impending divorce.
Still mumbling, Laptop Man began to rummage through his carry bag.
Could the thunderbird be here for a different reason?
More people were arriving for the morning program. Gerald glanced at a mother and toddler walking toward him.
It was Eileen and Parker.
Eileen’s face was red and puffy from crying, but she was smiling. “Gerald,” she said, hardly able to talk. “I love—”
Parker broke away from her. “Daddy!”
Laptop Man found what he was looking for and pulled it out. It was a gun. Not just any gun, but one of those one-handed machine gun things from a bad Sylvester Stallone movie.
He aimed it at Parker.
The shapely mother screamed.
No.
Gerald leapt for the gunman as he fired, spoiling his aim. The air exploded with gunshots. They were deafening in the tiny play room. A line of holes appeared in the mural. They strafed straight at the thunderbird, stopped at the edge of it, and reappeared on the other side.
Gerald was faintly aware of screams and commotion as he fought for the gun. Laptop Man drove the muzzle into Gerald’s stomach and fired again.
Crashing pain. Couldn’t breathe.
The gunman pushed him away. Gerald rolled onto his back.
“I told you!” the man screamed. “No more!”
He disappeared with his gun into the library aisles. Parents shielded their children as he passed. A second later, there was another burst of gunfire.
“Oh my god,” someone said. “He killed himself.”
Eileen appeared in Gerald’s field of vision, kneeling over him. She said something, but he couldn’t make it out. She seemed too far away. She held Parker under one arm like a sack of potatoes. The boy was shrieking but in one piece.
“I’m so sorry,” Gerald said, but he couldn’t hear himself.
The mural was visible over his wife’s shoulder. The thunderbird had disappeared.
Then Gerald was gone, too.
At Death We’ll Not Part
The nude woman lay perfectly still on the table, and he couldn’t help but wonder how her body would move if he gave into his impulse to tear off his own clothes and mount her right there. She appeared remarkably young-looking for someone he guessed at about fifty-five, and the way her hair curled and flowed—so much like Alicia had looked before the accident. And like Alicia, he could tell she never had to make herself up like a whore to look good.
Alicia…
The word bounced through his head until it went to the overflowing file cabinet marked “GUILT” and rifled relentlessly until it found the folder labeled with his wife’s name.
You’re worthless, the first page read, and do you know why? Here’s why:
And then the words shaped themselves into pictures, the first one of Alicia’s red hair flapping in the wind. Boy, look at that sky, the face under the hair said. You watch, this road’ll be an ocean in a few minutes.
A ripping peal of thunder followed immediately on the tail of his nod of response as if the gesture had conjured it, and in seconds, the road turned into an undulating sea serpent and their small Volkswagen into a fragile, mortal thing with no hope of riding it. He turned the windshield wipers on low speed, and the old, ineffective arms chanted loudly: SLAM… SLAM… SLAM…
Hey, this is getting bad, she said. We should pull over on the shoulder until it lets up.
No, I can handle it, he said. The engine wound up.
In a moment, ugly scars of gullies replaced the shoulders and took away the chance to pull over, and the cloud burst redoubled its efforts, making the road nearly invisible.
SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM SLAM
She beat her palm on her door. Dammit, Brandon, why didn’t you pull over?
He tightened his fingers on the wheel.
SLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAMSLAM
The road ascended for about a half-minute and then dropped off abruptly to curve sharply to the left. They were going too fast.
Brandon!
He closed his eyes and winced, opened them to find himself back in the prep room, tensing his left hand around the cosmetic kit. One more picture of Alicia’s hair formed in his mind, but this time it lay still and wet on pavement, blood washing away.
He looked down to the woman and blinked away tears. “You’re about finished up,” he said to her. “You look great.”
The door opened behind him, and he turned around to see Nate poke his head in, a look of concern on his face. “Who’re you talking to?”
“No one.”
Nate rolled his eyes. “Well, give the stiff a break and come with me. The new intern’s here.”
He gave her another glance and wished for a moment that she could wink at him, and then he followed Nate out into the hallway.
“You know, I just remembered something,” Nate said. “When I was an intern, I used to puke whenever I smelled formaldehyde.” He laughed. “I think we’ll have her embalm the next one.” He laughed again.
Brandon didn’t say anything, nor did he really have to; Nate only used him as a sounding post, never really expected him to respond.
The young wo
man waiting in the foyer stood in front of the large bookcase in the corner, surveying the collection of Dickens’s Complete Works—not really something the families actually read when visiting to discuss funeral arrangements with a director (usually Nate), but the books were part of the stately, wood-floored, chandelier-decorated atmosphere clients had come to expect from the Kilsgard & Ruben Funeral Home & Crematory franchise over the years, right down to the Kleenex box placed tastefully on the center lamp table.
She turned to greet them when they entered, and Brandon stopped and stared opened-mouthed.
It was her.
But no, it wasn’t. She didn’t even have red hair or stand about the same height, not even a little familiarity in the features. She wasn’t Alicia. The woman, a tall brunette, returned his startled look, and Nate, seeing this, stopped and looked at him to see what was going on.
“Excuse me,” Brandon said and walked back the way he came.
“Wha—what’s the matter with him?” he heard her ask.
Nate sighed and answered, “He’s always like that. You’ll just have to get used to it, I guess.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Brandon sat at his desk, absentmindedly flipping through the latest Cremationist. An ad for their model of cremator peered back at him, proclaiming this Miraculous Human Cremation System’s ability to offer the Quickest Cremation Time for Its Size: Two Hours or Less including half-hour Preheat, an Operational Temperature of 2,000 degrees Exceeding All Environmental Requirements, 50 feet of state-of-the-art ductwork to ensure that Only the Heat Escapes From Your Chimney, Twin Screws on the Kiln Door to make the cremator as Air-Tight and Sound-Proof as Possible.
Through the open office door, he heard Nate and the new intern—well, he thought, not really “new” anymore since she’d been there for a month—laughing over some joke.
(And get this, his mind would giggle to him in the middle of the night, just as he drifted off to sleep, her name is Alicia; and get this, her name is Alicia; and get this…)
He tapped his fingers on the desk, listening to the giggles.
“All right, this one is kind of nasty—well, I don’t know if I should tell it,” her voice echoed from the xerox room.
“Aw, come on, Alicia,” Nate insisted.
Brandon shut them out, called upon his memory for something to cheer him up, but her voice’s timbre changed, deepening to that familiar, sensual sound and then dredging his mind’s bottom, pulling up the papers he’d carefully thrown into his subconscious waters. The papers surfaced in the shape of a picture, forming an image:
A closed door in a featureless room, save for a thinly woven wire mesh covering a single window that looked out upon an open field. In the middle of the hard floor, a sweat-stained mattress lay stripped of its sheets, which had been thrown in the corner. And he screamed. Trapped.
He shook his head again, found himself back in the office, the magazine now open to another ad. His eyes darted over it, looking for escape. (“WE PUT MORE INTO IT, SO YOU CAN GET LESS OUT OF IT.… The ECP-200 Electric Cremains Processor Is Engineered to Reduce Volume To Less Than 200 Cubic Inches… We Guarantee It!”) Again, the laughter from the xerox room. He pressed his palms to his eyes, his mouth a grimace of effort, trying to resist the images…
The door, the room again, the mattress. Let me out! Please, why doesn’t somebody answer? Please! Beating on the door. Finally, an overweight woman briefly looked through the small window before unlocking the door and entering. Look, you’re going to have to calm down. We’re not going to let you out until you calm down.
Another woman, dressed in white, appeared behind the first. She stood a full head shorter than the fat nurse, looked to be in her early twenties. Brandon, are you hearing any voices? she asked.
No, dammit.
She produced two pills and a minuscule paper cup and handed them to the nurse. Could you do us a favor and take these?
The fat one handed the pills and cup to him, face expressionless. He found himself staring at the cluster of hair growing out of her cheek.
I came here, told you it was my fault she died, and you do this to me.
Alicia’s laughter, entwined with Nate’s, floated in from the xerox room, and Brandon got up. He closed the door on the sounds and turned around, rested his back against it. Another sound of laughter intruded, muffled but still there, and he looked at the office, decided it looked spartan. Just a single desk sat near the back of the room between two old bookshelves bought for twenty bucks at a garage sale, and they weren’t even loaded up with books, just file folders and records germane to the business: requisition orders, VFDA and OSHA records and forms forms forms.… Not even a picture of Alicia, although he’d thought of putting one on his desk many times.
He left the office and went to the kitchen to get a cup of coffee. “Hey Brandon, you know any good jokes?” Alicia asked as he walked by. She leaned back, relaxing against the xerox machine, knees poking slightly below her skirt line. He looked at the knees and then at Nate, whose face glowed. Nate stood too close to her; Brandon briefly entertained the thought of grabbing him by the back of the neck and pushing his face into the machine, hitting “copy” and asking him if he saw his life flashing before his eyes, and if not, would the pictures show him how stupid he was acting?
He blinked, shook his head and said he didn’t know any jokes and then walked back to the office, forgetting about the coffee. Nate might have shrugged in the corner of his vision.
He cracked the office door and stood by it, listening. No more jokes. “You know, Nate, I didn’t think this job would be as much fun as I’ve been having,” she said. “The first month of a job can be pretty tough sometimes, but you’ve—you’ve been okay.”
You know, Brandon, I’ve had a lot more fun on this trip than I expected to.
A short period of silence, in which he imagined Nate smiling. “Well… maybe I’ve had something to do with that?”
I, uh, guess I have, too.
What I was going to say is that you’re what’s made the trip fun.
“Maybe a little!” Another pause. Alicia was probably smiling back, reaching forward to take Nate’s hand in hers and rub her thumb across the back of it. “You’ve never asked me out. How come?”
I… I guess I don’t know what to say. But, do—do you…
Come on, it’s all right.
What I was going to say is, do you want to g-go out with me some time?
“I don’t know. Are you saying that y—” Nate’s last word sounded cut off.
Go out with you?
Yeah, you know, to dinner or somet—
Brandon closed the door, closed his eyes and tried to close out the memory of her lips and her hair. He took a step forward and sank to his knees, put his head on the paperwork, and in a moment, the ink began to run.
✽ ✽ ✽
Brandon moved the high-backed leather chair slightly left and right, producing a tiny squeak, looked at the leaf ornament on the end table, and found he couldn’t remember what he’d been asked. He shrugged.
“Well, it isn’t something you need to worry about, anyway. Hey, how long have you been working at Kilsgard & Ruben? What, a year now, isn’t it?”
Brandon looked down at his lap and nodded. “Yeah, about a year. I-I-I was just starting up there when she died.”
“Have you ever felt uncomfortable working there? I mean, seeing as how you’ve worked there ever since she died, like you said.”
Brandon rubbed his upper lip. He’d shaved the beard the day after the accident. “Um.” Funny how he never noticed it was missing until he came here. “You’re going to bring up this thing with the intern, aren’t you?”
“Well, yes, actually. You’ve been talking about her now for the last month. I think that you’re pretty distracted.”
Brandon moved his fingers slowly across the front of the chair’s arms, felt the little brass studs laid in the edges. “I guess I don’t feel good enough to be around her.”
>
“Uh huh.”
“Y-you know, like if I saw Alicia tomorrow—you know, my wife—I’d feel a little, uh…”
“Uh huh, go on.”
Brandon looked up, anger flashing at having to continue along this line of conversation. “I don’t know.”
“Uh huh.”
He set his face, let the silence drag on.
“Do you feel, that uh, Nate is good enough to be around her, and not you?”
Brandon shrugged. “I don’t know.… He seems to like her, and, and she seems to like him.” He thought about mentioning that Nate wasn’t treating her right, that he wasn’t being careful
(you’re not a careful driver)
about what he was saying or doing around her, that Nate had been inconsiderate on many occasions. But the thoughts passed too quickly, and he let them pass.
“Uh huh.” Another pause, waiting for a response, and then a frustrated sigh. “Hmm. Well, I don’t know what to say, Brandon, except that you don’t seem to be willing to talk today as much as you usually do.” Another pause. “I think it’s because you’re letting this thing with the intern get to you, and I really don’t think you should. You’re a reasonably attractive man, and you’re smart and thoughtful, and frankly, I think it’s about time you started to move beyond this depression you’re in. And what I was going to suggest was that maybe this job is holding you back.… What do you think about that?”
He raked his bottom lip with his teeth. “I don’t know.”
“Well, maybe this is something you should think about this week. And next week, we’ll talk about it again. Are you still taking those Navane pills I prescribed for you?”
He nodded, looked towards the door.
A pause, and then: “Okay, well let’s hit on this some more next time, and I really think you ought to do some thinking about that job you’re in. This is gonna sound a little harsh, but I don’t feel you’re coming to terms with the fact your wife isn’t coming back.”
Silence.
Brandon exhaled slowly, felt his eyes well up. “I just feel so empty.”
Another pause. “I guarantee it’ll get better for you if you let it. You’re just in a funk this week, a little worse than you usually are. But just in case this thing might turn out to be something serious, why don’t you go out to the receptionist and schedule yourself for an extra appointment this week, just so we can touch base and make sure everything’s all right? And in the mean time, just go home—take a couple days off, even—and try to put some of this nastier shit out of your mind. You don’t need it.”
Dominoes in Time Page 4
