Knife Fight and Other Struggles (4 page)

Len shook his head. He stopped me.

“You know what, Tom? I’m sick of you. I’ve been sick of you for a long time. But I’m also sick, and I’ll tell you—that clarifies things for a man. So here’s what I see:

“You come here to my house—you moon around like some fucking puppy dog—you drink my wine . . . the friends of mine you don’t fuck, you bother with your repetitive, self-involved shit. Jesus, Tom. You’re a leech.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, because really—what else do you say to something like that? To someone like Len, for Christ’s sake?

“Yeah,” he said. “Heard that one before. Lucy’s a special girl, Tom. She’s helping me in ways you couldn’t imagine. And it has nothing to do with my fucking vanity. Not a fucking thing. Lucy’s my . . . assurance. And she’s always welcome here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I got that. Now are you okay to drive yet, Tom?”

I wasn’t. But I said sure.

“Then you get out of my house. Get back to your place. Stay there. I don’t think you should come back here again.”

Yes. That’s why you hadn’t seen me at Len’s after that. He cast me out—into the wilderness—left me to my own devices.

I wasn’t avoiding you.

Far from it.

Lucy wasn’t that hard to find.

She had a Facebook page, and I had enough information to narrow her down from the list of those other Lucy Carrolls who said they were from here. So I sent her a note apologizing for being such an asshole, and she sent me a friend request and I agreed—and she asked me to pick a place, and that’s where we met. The Tokyo Grill in the Pier District. I don’t think we ever went there, you and I. But at 12:15 on a Tuesday in June, it’s very bright.

Lucy wore a rose print dress, not quite as pale as her skin. She had freckles and her hair was more reddish than brunette. Perhaps it was the effect of wearing a dress and not a pair of jeans, but she seemed more svelte on the patio than she did that night on the beach.
Her
eyes were hazel.

Do you remember how I courted you? Did you ever doubt that I was anything but spontaneous? That when I laughed so hard at that joke of yours, it was because I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard?

You didn’t? You should have. I’m not good at everything in life, oh that I’ll admit. But I am good at this part. I am smooth.

And that’s how I was at the Tokyo Grill that Tuesday.

Lucy wasn’t sure about me and she made that explicit pretty early. I’d seemed nice at first, but running off like that . . . well, it had been hurtful. It made her feel as though there was something wrong with her, and as she made explicit somewhat later on, there wasn’t anything wrong with her.

“It’s not you—it’s the rest of the world,” I said, and when she took offense, I explained I wasn’t making fun.

“The world’s an evil place. Lots wrong with it. Look at . . . think about Len, as an example.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well. How he treats people. How he uses them. Like Kimi.”

“He’s an important man,” she said quickly. “I imagine it takes a toll. All those clients he’s got to look after.” She sighed. “Clients can be very demanding.”

“Clients.” I made a little smile. “That’s a good word. Len has clients like other people have friends.”

Yes, I suppose I was being dramatic. But Lucy didn’t think so; she laughed, very hard, and agreed.

“So what about you?” she asked. “Are you client or friend?”

“Something else.”

I explained how Lucy wasn’t the only one I’d offended with my bad behaviour that night—and again, I layered contrition on top of itself, and doing so took another step to winning her over.

Working through it, I could almost forget that Lucy was a woman containing a multitude—that as she sat here opposite me in the Pier District, the lids up and down her body squinted shut like tiny incision scars against the bright daylight.

Like clients.

I had to forget. Because I couldn’t mention them; Len was right—she didn’t want to talk about it. She may not have even been capable.

And keeping silent on the subject, and knowing of that alien scrutiny, resting behind translucent lids. . . .

I couldn’t have done what I had to do.

Lucy’s next shift at the bookstore was Wednesday afternoon, so she had the rest of the day to herself, and as we finished our sashimi, she made a point of saying the afternoon shift meant she could stay out as late as she liked.

So we took a walk. We found my car. We drove back to my apartment. And behind drawn blinds, we stripped off our clothes and lay down together on fresh white sheets.

Oh dear. I can tell you’re upset—not by anything I’ve done, but what you think I’m about to do: relay some detailed account of how it was for Lucy and I, rutting on the very same sheets where you and I lolled, those long Sunday mornings, when . . . well, before you came to your senses is how you might put it. . . .

I’ll try and be circumspect.

Lucy talked through it all, same as she had on the beach: those half-formed statements: “He’s the same,” and “The third floor,” and “I do not agree.” Of course, she was talking to them—fielding questions:
Is he the handsome fellow from the beach? On what floor is this fellow’s apartment? Don’t you think he’s a bit much—being too . . . 

too . . . 

To which she answered:
I do not agree
.

I’d drawn the curtains in my rooms, to make it dim enough for the curious eyes to open without being blinded—and sure enough, that is what they did. As I ran my tongue along her shoulder blade, I found myself looking into a tiny blue orb, no bigger than a rat’s. It blinked curiously at me as I moved past, to the nape of her neck, and there, in the wispy curls at the base of her skull, I uncovered two yellow eyes, set close together, in the forest of her hair. Were they disapproving? I imagine they must have been, affixed on Lucy’s skull, less than an inch from her brain. I winked and moved on.

“Tell them,” I whispered into her ear, looking into a squinting, infinitely old eye fixed in her temple, “that I understand.”

“He understands,” she murmured.

“Tell them I’m not afraid.”

“He’s not afraid.”

“Tell them,” I said, before I moved from her ear to her mouth, and rolled her onto her back, and slid atop her, “that I’m ready.”

And the rest of it?

Well, I did tell you I’d be circumspect. Suffice it to say . . . just as poor old Len would, not long after. . . .

I
entered
her.

You looked good at my funeral. You and Jonathan both. The dress you wore—was it new? Did you buy it especially for the occasion? It would be nice to think that you had.

In any event, I must say that Jonathan was very supportive of you. He held your hand so very tightly through the eulogies. Had you needed it, I’m sure he would have provided a handkerchief; if it had rained at the graveside, he’d have held the umbrella. He seems that sort of upright fellow. A real keeper.

You look great now too. You have a lovely smile, you always have, and the shorter haircut—it suits you. It really frames your face. I can’t hear what you’re saying, here in Emile’s house in town, over the dregs of what I recall as being an acceptable cab franc from Chile.

Still, you’re laughing, and that’s good. You’ve left Kimi and poor dying Len behind. You’re cementing new friendships . . . with Prabh and Emile and, perhaps, Lucy?

Perhaps.

It’s impossible to say of course—I haven’t been at this long enough to learn how to read lips, particularly with that damned brooch in the way. I never could guess your mind on this sort of thing. But you seem . . . open to it, to this new friend who works the cash in your favourite bookstore. You are. Aren’t you?

Ah well. I must learn patience here in my new place. After all, Lucy will tell me everything—in due time, in a quiet moment, when the lights are low:

She says she misses you. She says she can’t believe she let you go. Now that you’re gone.

She says that she and I will be great friends
.

And then, if all goes well . . . if you and Lucy really do hit it off. . . .

I can’t promise, other than to say I’ll do my best. I’ll try not to let my gaze linger.

McGill smoked in the yard. They wouldn’t let him smoke inside. There was a baby there after all. McGill said he understood, but he seemed pissed off about it. He stood by the barbecue, squinting at the tree line, calculating the hour, tapping ashes through the grill top. They were pissed off about
that
. The next round of burgers would have a subtle flavour of McGill and probably the round after those too.

But they would put up with it. Oh yes.

They would bloody well put up with it.

One of them had gone to high school with McGill. But she didn’t know him then. He had a bit of acne trouble, did McGill—quite a bit. A Biblical plague of pimples, one might say. Horrific, seeping boils from his forehead down to his neck. One over his lip, round and gleaming and red, like a billiard ball.

An outgoing personality, some athletic talent, a fancy car—any one of these might have saved him. But McGill had none of that. So there he was.

She had no idea that McGill went to the same school. She got his name through another chain of acquaintances. When she contacted him, he did not offer up any hint of their own acquaintance with one another. He did not let the recognition creep into his voice.

It would be generous to say that McGill handled the interview professionally. Because McGill has never been much of a professional.

I wish I could have heard his side of it. But I could guess—McGill and I go way back.

“We’re not Catholic,” she’d said, and paused, and laughed nervously. “You’re not either.” Pause. “Yes, Mr. McGill, I guess that is something we have in common.” Another pause. “He’s six months old. Born February 12.” Pause. “Yes. Aquarius.”
What’s your sign, baby
? Really? “So explain to me how this non-demon—erm, non-denominational business works.” And a long silence, as McGill went through the litany:

First, he must come by and meet the child. What if it’s not a child?
It’s always a child, dear.
Of course,
if it happens to be Gran or Uncle Terry who’s afflicted . . . well, McGill would try and adapt. But one way or another, in the course of a conversation, he would try and draw it out. McGill explains this part of his process as very simple—non-invasive—but he’s not being completely honest.

He spends a lot of time staring, so intensely that sometimes he brings about tears. He mumbles nonsense words in a made-up language. He takes a photograph using a specially treated lens. And finally, under the parents’ supervision, he lays a hand on the child’s skull—leaving the impression with their parents that he is reading the aura. He is not. He is looking for a soft spot, a tiny hole in the skull—often no bigger than a baby’s thumb. That is really the only thing that he’s looking for in that first visit. Because if it’s there . . . well, that’s how we get in, isn’t it?

And that is also how he can tell. If he jams his finger into it—with just the right force—well, even if we’re reticent to start it up again with old McGill, we have no choice. It starts the real conversation.

And once that gets going, things become, shall we say, fluid.

McGill really needed three cigarettes, given everything—but well-brought-up lad that he is, he cut himself off at just one.

“You finally ready?” Her man was a testy one. He had never met McGill, had attended a different high school, had no earthly reason to suspect. And yet.

“Sure,” said McGill. He started to meet his eyes, but didn’t get far. McGill looking her man in the eye would have been a challenge. And McGill hadn’t the balls for that.

She smiled uneasily, and shared a glance with her man.
Don’t fuck this up, darling
, that glance said. He was not easy about bringing McGill, or anyone outside the family physician’s circle, in on what he called “the postpartum thing.” He didn’t entirely buy in to what was going on. And in one sense, he couldn’t be blamed. When the door in the basement slammed again and again, seemingly of its own accord, he was already on his way to an early meeting. He had been asleep the whole night, when the business with the hall mirror had transpired. He was at work the day the seven crows got into the nursery, and pecked one another to death as baby laughed.

He was always away, out of earshot, when baby spoke.

“My wife tells me that you’re going to go have a conversation now,” he said. McGill nodded.

“That’s the first part.”

He huffed. “Well good luck. Little Simon’s not too verbal. Except around Shelly here. That right, babe?”

“I understand,” said McGill. “Maybe I’ll have better luck.”

“Right. Do they all talk to you?”

“Often they do, that’s right.” McGill stepped toward the nursery. Her man stepped into his way, but didn’t stop him either.

“You’re for real,” he said.

“He’s for real,” she said. “Please, Dave, just let him do his work.”

McGill wanted to say something reassuring—he knew that he should. Couldn’t quite muster it, though; he just hunched his shoulders in half a shrug, smiled in what amounted to an ambiguous shrug, and made another try for the nursery. The man put his hand on McGill’s shoulder.

“Hang on there, buddy. This is my boy in there. You won’t touch him, will you?”

“I’ll put my hand on his head,” said McGill. “No more than that.”

(McGill stammered when he said that. But it’s mean to mimic a stammer.)

“No more than that.” The man put his hand on McGill’s arm—around McGill’s arm, really. “You’re gonna wash that hand, then, brother.”

“Dave!”

“Shelly.” He kept hold of McGill. His tone was one that he thought was reasonable, but that she had told him more than once was a tone that was “goddamn scary.” Which was all right, she said; it made her feel safe, she said. Protected.

His grip tightened on McGill’s arm. “This is bullshit.”

McGill drew in a breath. His arm was hurting, and he was doing his best not to show it. But he wasn’t doing it very well, because she pointed out that he was hurting McGill and shamed him into letting go.

“It’s all right,” McGill lied. “Your husband—Dave’s right. That is his boy in there, and it’s your boy too. If parents are okay with it, it’s better if it’s just me and the baby. But we can do this with one or both of you in there too. Or I could come back—”

“No!” she said, too loudly, and then, too softly: “Don’t go, Mr. McGill.”

Did McGill’s heart melt then? Did more than a decade of hope, of prayer, of dirty, dirty moments alone in his bed at the break of dawn . . . did all that draw together now, at the broken, pleading tone of her voice? Oh, how could it not? Was this not his dream, here before him, made flesh?

If it didn’t melt—might it not soon shatter?

“I’ll go in with you,” she said. “Dave will wait here in the kitchen. Right, Dave?”

“I don’t—”

“Dave. You promised.”

And he had, and he knew it, and so that was that.

When I arrived, the nursery was a cheery space. She had painted the walls little-boy blue, and dangled a mobile of friendly looking farm animals. The changing table was an antique in a tawdry way; it had been a little sheet-metal desk, just the size for a typewriter, an “In” box and a sheaf of paper. This she had painted a bright yellow, covered in terrycloth and stacked diapers and baby powder and a box of wipes. There was a toy box, filled with bric-a-brac from the baby shower, and a chest of drawers, stuffed with more shower swag: jumpers and bonnets and a little denim jacket for baby to wear, eventually. Adorable.

McGill saw none of that.

They had stripped the place bare, but for the bassinet. Nothing sharp, nothing heavy. Nothing that could suffocate, and nothing flammable.

“That’s him,” he said, peering in.

“That’s my baby.” She said it jauntily enough but she finished on the edge of bitter laughter.

All business for the moment, McGill took no notice of it.

He reached into his coat, and pulled out his Pentax, with its smeary lens and etched-in F-stops. He snapped two pictures through that vile instrument, and set it down on the floor. “Don’t touch it,” he said as she leaned to get it. “Please.”

“All right,” she said.

He leaned farther over the edge and stared at me. I didn’t look away. He shifted down to his knees and calmed his breathing. He blinked when I blinked. He breathed when I breathed. This went on for a while. How long? I can’t honestly say; this part of things, it’s easy to lose track of time, looking into the pale infinity of McGill’s baby-blues. . . .

A girl could lose herself in there, don’t you think?

“Aka Manah,” he said finally.

“What?” She had been hovering by the door, and now she came closer. He just shook his head and continued—“Vassago . . . Furtur  . . . Focalor.”—shaking his head again after each name.

“Simon,” she said.

“I know,” said McGill. “That’s the boy’s name. Looking for the . . . other one’s name.”

“Do you just guess?”

“Something like that,” said McGill. “Vepar. Mammon . . . Räum?”

“Okay.”

“Not that,” said McGill, “not him. Are you?”

No, McGill, I’m not Räum.

“Ah,” he said, and leaned away from the bassinet. He rubbed his hands together, and blew air out through his cheeks. Just what he was afraid of.

“Gremory.”

Aha!

“He snapped his fingers!”

“Did he?” said McGill. He was looking away.

“He did,” she said. “Like a little Dean Martin.” She thought about that for a second. “Is it Gremory? Is that the right name?”

“Think so.”

A long breath. “How’d you guess it so fast?”

“Lucky.” McGill came back and looked at me. His lips were drawn thin. His eyelids were too. He reached out with his right hand, fingers spread. They trembled as they rested on the baby’s skull.

“What’re you going to do?” she asked, and he brought his left forefinger to his lips. “Okay, I’ll hush,” she said, and his right hand tightened, at the little finger and thumb, like forceps behind the ears. His middle finger danced over the back of the skull, until it stopped, and dithered. It didn’t last long, though; like a wedding ring spinning round a sink drain, it soon disappeared inside.

I had him to the second knuckle.

What does McGill see? What I wouldn’t give to know. I know what I see; his eyelids, flickering like a hummingbird’s wings, his mouth hanging open as he mumbles commands, sweat running down the side of his nose, staining his collar. But him? When he looks on me, does he see an obsidian woman, naked and shining, breasts suckling six crows, wormy cunny dripping amarone-scented menses into the deathly loam of Golgotha? Does he cower at my magnificent obscenity?