Greetings from the Vodka Sea (10 page)

Now, his father, Peter Murphy, would be ascending the stairs. Towels and clean shirts were removed carefully, properly folded and hung. Next he'd come to the bedroom. Rudolph Murphy had deliberately left the door open. It was a sign of welcome, a sign of submission, not the dispirited surrender of the broken, but the humble submission of the strong. An exercise in Duty. Rudolph's bed was neatly made, his father would see that now, and the sea of dirty clothes was packed away in the proper receptacle. Books and CDs neatly stacked, arranged alphabetically by genre; carpet, precisely vacuumed. One could eat off that floor. He wondered if his father would understand. All this time, Rudolph had tried to approach things from the outside. A dispassionate observer, shielding his weakness through the pretence of art. But now he understood.

It had come to him as he laboured over the ending. He wanted to understand Kahless the Unforgettable, he wanted to uncover the wisdom where others found only folly. And that's when it struck like a blow from Gowran's 'etlh: Duty and Honour were not exclusive. Kahless had chosen to merge the two, had chosen to accept the uncertainty of the void over the certainty, and servitude, of Essential Truth. At that point, Rudolph Murphy understood: he must jump too. He must pitch himself into the darkness, openly, happily, joyously. That was the essence of Klingon — quv'ka, united as one.

Quv lIj vav — honour thy father, that was it. Honour and Duty, perfectly expressed.

By now his father would have moved through his own bedroom and found it respectfully cleaned, bed made, shoes lined up neatly, clothes hung neatly, respectfully. The floor vacuumed spotless. It was funny; Rudolph Murphy had discovered an unexpected joy in carrying out these menial duties, slipping seamlessly from life as object (someone who is done for) to life as subject (someone who does) — quv'ka instantly internalized. He felt strong.

And now his father would be moving into the den, plants watered, magazines unscattered and alphabetically arranged, videos likewise, tile floor carefully swept and scrubbed (his father, Peter Murphy, seemed to be growing more careless these days). It was spotless now, one could eat off that floor.

Rudolph Murphy wasn't sure what he'd expected, but Peter Murphy's reaction was a complete and unanticipated delight. It started low, so low that Rudolph Murphy wasn't sure it was a sound at all. It could have been the earth shifting or the sound of the sun as it inched across the sky. But then it grew louder, a bass, constricted howl that rose now like a powerful wind. It was his father calling to him in the language of a warrior, an unspoken and unspeakable recognition. The sound wrapped around Rudolph Murphy, it lifted him up and held him, comforting him. The sound was so beautiful it was almost harrowing. Rudolph Murphy could imagine the tears of joy raining down his father's, Peter Murphy's, face, standing in his room, cleansed, as it were, the floor, swept clean, even the walls scrubbed. Rudolph Murphy thought of the tears, the powerful tears, and imagined that if those tears could speak they'd say: Today my son is a man. No, better than a man. Today, my son is Klingon.

Secret Friends

T
alk to him, the doctor had said. Act like nothing is wrong. She kissed her son on the forehead. Dougie did not stir. She thought of his green, green eyes, the most beautiful shade of green, almost emerald, like no other child, no other person.

“Tomorrow I'll take you shopping, grocery shopping, we need some things, and how about some shoes? I think it's high time you got a new pair, your old ones look like they're ready to walk away on their own.”

Diane could fit both of Dougie's hands in her fist, but she was positive that the night before, when she had put her son to bed, his hands were as big as or bigger than hers. Diane decided to keep a journal, to record the length of particular limbs, his height and body weight.

Diane tugged on Little Doug's shoulder. “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, Dougie. Wake up, please.” Her voice stern. “Dougie, wake up now, it's time to wake up.” What were the magic words? When they first brought Dougie into the hospital six months ago, the doctor believed the boy suffered a delayed concussion or perhaps a stroke. The EEG revealed nothing. His brain patterns were as regular and erratic as those of any twelve-year-old. Dr. Sidhu handed Diane a scroll of computer paper marked with rows of jagged lines, like nervous hand-writing. “These are alpha lines.” Dr. Sidhu pointed with his pencil. Diane noticed that the doctor always held a pencil in his hand. He left a small grey shadow on everything he touched. “When the lines are very concentrated in this way, they show your boy is in a profound sleep. He sleeps deeply, in what we call the REM sleep.” The doctor stroked his thin moustache with the pencil. “Have faith, we'll get to the bottom of this, although it is a very unusual thing to see a boy sleeping so.”

The yellow house where Diane and her husband lived was an hour's drive from St. Joseph's hospital, along roads which grew progressively rougher: the highway to the lake turnoff, the twisting country road through the Indian reserve, the dirt logging trail that circled the lip of the reservoir, then finally down the steep gravel driveway to the yellow house.

Her days were the same: off to the hospital in the morning, then four hours at Barkley's Pharma-Centre, and back to the hospital until visiting hours ended at nine o'clock. Usually the nurses let her stay with Dougie an extra half hour or so. Then the long drive home. She couldn't wait for her moment of peace at the end of the day. She'd put on her flowered housecoat, careful not to wake her husband — it was easier if she let him be — then stand at the kitchen sink rinsing her face with cold water. Diane sipped a cup of tea as she stared out the kitchen window to the saltwater inlet below. Seagulls circled outside her window, always lots of seagulls, bumping into one another as they flew, Diane could almost see the surprise on their faces. They scuttled across her balcony, fat, armless businessmen hurrying to catch a bus. Most evenings she could not sleep. She never liked the TV. She would sit at the kitchen window and watch the world of seagulls and silence.

Thursday night, Diane's mother-in-law called just as the kettle boiled. Mrs. Flannigan had to tell Diane her dream.

“Jesus appeared before me in a yellow robe, his arms out-stretched, light radiating from his eyes and from all about his body. He spoke not, but smiled, and I remember in my dream feeling calmed and at peace. When I awoke I turned immediately to the scriptures, reading verses at random. The Holy Spirit directed me to Psalm 121, A Song of Degrees. ‘Behold,' the scripture says, ‘He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.' Jesus Christ is speaking to me, Diane, he is speaking to me now. He is offering his hand. Won't you pray with me? Let's pray together now.”

Diane placed the phone on the kitchen table, lit a cigarette. She pushed the receiver against her fat leg until she heard her mother-in-law's voice vibrate clear through to her stomach. When the vibrations stopped, Diane thanked her mother-in-law, and hung up the phone. She was always polite to Mrs. Flannigan, although she would have loved to tell her to knock off the holy roller stuff, to maybe just shut up for a while. People were better off if they just shut up once in a while and took a look at what was happening in their own lives instead of feeding off the misfortune of others. Mrs. Flannigan was like that. A big-headed, empty-eyed owl, alert only in the darkness of others.

The next morning, Diane had an appointment with the hospital social worker. Mrs. White — she insisted that Diane call her Helen — was a pretty, middle-aged woman with the crisp voice of a radio announcer. She was preparing Diane for what everyone believed to be the inevitable: they were working on the funeral plans.

“You can't just passively sit there and wait for something to happen.” Helen blinked frequently as she spoke; her eyes closed and opened lazily. A lizard daydreaming in the hot sun. “You've got to take your own mental health into consideration. Sitting in that little hospital room all day won't do you any good. Trust me, you've got to keep yourself active.”

Today Helen took Diane to the cemetery where Dougie's ashes would be buried. Diane wanted to have him cremated. She felt that cremation would somehow put an end to things: no more sleep, just ash dissolving in the rain. She felt disappointed when she visited the site, under a willow on the crest of a hill, as the undertaker had described it, but the grass was parched, the willow small and tense. The view from the hill was of other small hills, other prickled, newly-planted willows, more acres of parched grass. A sign on the garbage can read, “No artificial flowers.” A red lawn tractor circled the field. There were no headstones, at least not in this section. Only flat markers with names and dates and small hollows where visitors left flowers. Diane saw the mower clip the flowers as it rolled over the markers.

“Isn't it a beautiful spot? It's so . . . peaceful.”

Diane nodded. I'll keep his ashes at home, she decided. I'll keep an urn in the kitchen on the ledge. Maybe I'll scatter his ashes in the bushes at the end of the yard.

That evening as Dougie slept, he moved and spoke. He rocked his head from side to side, then arched his back, drawing his arm slowly from his chest to above his head. Once, as he lay on his stomach, he straightened both arms, lifting his head and torso like a baby about to crawl. He turned his head to Diane, then yawned and smacked his lips. But his eyes remained shut. Like a new-born cat, Dougie strained to open his eyes, but they remained shut. Diane believed Dougie was trying. She sat rigid, afraid any movement would break the spell, would somehow make him aware of where he was and give up trying. His head was on the pillow for ten minutes before Diane moved again. He mumbled something, the words impossible to distinguish but the tone matter-of-fact, sincere. An apology, Diane imagined.

“This sleep is very much as if your boy is awake, yet he very deeply sleeps. We call this paradoxical sleep because the body both sleeps and wakes. Do you see what I mean?” Dr. Sidhu doodled a crocodile on the back of the lab report. “We characterize this sleep with the rapid movements of the eye — the rapid eye movements — because the eyes move so.” Dr. Sidhu rolled his eyes under closed lids. “The movements correspond to activities in the dream. As the sleeping dog fits and jumps, so do the boy's eyes as he sleeps. There is much other physiological activity in the body at this time: gross muscle movement, increased cardiovascular activity, vocalization, erection of the penis . . .” The doctor drew a firm line through his doodle. “I'm sorry to say, your boy still sleeps”

Saturday Diane almost passed out at the cash register. A customer came up with a few items — some plastic garbage bags, a generic shampoo the store had on sale — and asked for a carton of Vantage Lights. As Diane reached for the cigarettes she felt hot and weak, all the blood seemed to rush out of her head. She put her hand on her forehead, then bent over her register. The customer grabbed her arm. “Miss, are you all right?” He asked the question several times before calling out for help. Mr. Davis, the manager, sent Diane home.

“Don't worry about the time off. I'll take care of it.” He offered to pay for a taxi.

“I'm all right now.” She ran a kerchief across her forehead and noticed the sweat had made her mascara streak. “I'll be fine. I'll drive myself, I just need some rest”.

The ride home took forever. Her head throbbed, the pain built up behind her eyes and echoed throughout her head. Traffic along the highway was slow: an ambulance and several police cars had stopped just before the lake turnoff, where a tractor trailer lay on its side. Diane saw the ambulance attendants carry a man on a stretcher. One of the attendants, an oriental man who looked no more than twenty, had a large bloodstain on the sleeve of his jacket. He nodded towards Diane as if he recognized her. Diane strained to get a better view of the stretcher. A man holding a fox terrier was talking with two boys on BMX bikes. They blocked her view. A policeman with an orange flashlight waved her on.

The lights of the yellow house were out as Diane drove down the driveway. She could see the cold flicker of the television. Big Doug was watching a movie and didn't hear Diane come in. He was sitting on the living room couch. His pants were undone, and his right hand rocked slowly, like a mechanical gear, under his shorts. “You're home!” Doug slapped the VCR on pause, freezing a woman's face, a woman with auburn hair and blue grey eyes, like Diane only much younger. The frozen woman was naked. A man reached from behind her, and she sucked his index finger as he squeezed her breast with his other hand. The box for the video lay on the coffee table:
Secret Friends. No one suspected the secret's they shared
.

“You surprised me.” Doug picked up his t-shirt from the floor. “Is everything all right?” He turned the TV off. “You startled me. Is everything okay?”

That night they made love for the first time in two months. They lay in silence on the bed, then suddenly converged. Big Doug shifted and grunted for a few minutes, his black eyes tightly closed, then rolled off his wife. “I love you,” he whispered. A moment later, he was asleep. Talk to him, act like nothing is wrong. Diane got up to fix herself some tea.

The phone rang. It was Mrs. Flannigan. “I knew you'd be up,” she said in her rough hoot-voice. “I want you to turn on channel six. I've called the Huntley Street Prayer Line. They're going to pray for Dougie at twelve-thirty. I can't believe I got through! The holy spirit must be watching the phone lines tonight.”

Diane promised to watch, but once she hung up the phone, she took her place at the kitchen window. Two gulls circled in the cold glow of the moon.

. . .

The social worker wore her hair in tight, permed curls. Barely red, almost light brown, her hair had been chemically treated and curling-ironed until it became unnatural. A handsome woman, Diane thought, with a slut's hair. And now Helen wanted her to join a group. She cornered Diane in the hospital cafeteria.

“I want you to meet some people, some friends of mine.” She fidgeted with her hair as she spoke. “They're part of a support group I lead on Wednesday nights. We work on life skills and assertion . . .” Diane felt herself recoil as it dawned on her; Helen thought she was incompetent. The social worker put her hard fingers on Diane's shoulder. “Look, Diane, I don't think you realize how lonely you are, how sad and alone you seem to people. You're going through a lot. You need support.”

Diane shook her head. No. I don't need your help, thank you, Diane wanted to say. No. Instead, she shook her head. She shook her head and smiled that stupid, empty, silent smile.

That evening, before visiting hours ended, Dr. Sidhu slipped a small plastic bottle into Diane's hand. Flurazepam. “I don't know if I can find how to wake your child,” he almost whispered. “I hope these can help you find yourself some rest.”

Monday Diane dropped Big Doug at the airport on her way to work. He was off till the end of the week, a purchasing seminar in Edmonton. He promised to take his wife to Hawaii “after all this blows over.” Last time they went to Hawaii Big Doug drank seventeen maitais on the plane. He had to be escorted from the airport in a wheelchair.

At work Mr. Davis made a big fuss. He told Diane to take it easy. “We don't want our star cashier running herself into the ground,” he said, loud enough so the other girls could hear. Later, while Diane was alone in the coffee room, Mr. Davis came in and put his hand on her arm. “I mean it.” His voice was quiet now. “If there's anything I can do for you, Diane, please just ask. I . . . all of us realize what a very difficult time this must be for you.” Mr. Davis sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his white lab coat. “This must be awful. None of it makes sense.”