Five Legs Read online

  First her hand and assured between my legs; blown rain at the windows, glistening film on the street below to Holland Park with her hand to my heavy cock, her mouth in silence at my ear. Growing from passive, I’m going to shout, YEEOW! Hot in my, awkward hand inside her clothes, hot blood behind my eyes, although. We couldn’t, could only. There’s nowhere else, God help us all, there’s nowhere else to go! Oh boy, I should have stayed in London that’s the. Thing, I should have . . .

  Back instead for the goddamn degree, back and now correctly, oh! The jeezly M.A., oh, Jesus, I . . . Anglo-Saxon almost gone and Crackell, bugger’s failed me. Shit! Extension yes, he gave me, grudging an extension on the frigging thing and then. Without warning. Hello respectfully, hello, cautious­ly. Hugo? And turning from the rows of soup, his face from a shopping list.

  Hi there Oswald. Staring for a moment from battered eyes. What’s this about your moderns course?

  What do you mean?

  Well Crackell, Doctor Crackell’s failed you on your essay. Gentle scrutiny and then, his sadness. Didn’t, oh. Didn’t you know, he hadn’t told you? And I stood, boy I must have stood with my face hanging out . . . “. . . Jesus Christ his only Son our Lord, Who was conceived by the Holy . . .” Know, used to anyway, most of the words but I don’t, with them shuffling dumbly around, I can’t say it anymore. I won’t. “Was crucified, dead, and buried: He descended . . .” Ascended into heaven settled on the right hand of god the father almighty from whence he shall judge, I do, you know, I still know. His following voice and why, so young and how can they choose that kind of life? Skinny, beneath his skirts like scissors, pellucid shanks and limply hands at rest: thin-lipped devotion to another world, don’t. Move your lips, don’t even pretend! To reconcile, how could he, Val and Susan? Catholick, I remember. The spelling, how curious, CK . . . Monday’s desperation, every time he’d. Belly, oh God Felix her belly, her breasts like. Rising, his voice and leaves unfolding at the sill; each week consumed with memories, how many nights of love before the, guilt, his journey back each time to Susan, ancient mourning world. Kneeling at his nod, the prick, again the bodies down and bending as I sit, just. Drop my head a bit, respectfully. The words. Boom-tiddy-boomboom: and pause. Boom. Boom.

  FELIX 2

  TURNING THEIR FACES as we lurch back down the aisle and pass, feet shifting among the pews behind: shave neck leads us balancing, swaying above the floor among blooms, pellucid faces in rows. Empty voices as we pass and bodies leaning for their coats and still he sways and leads, he draws us to the doors through uncles, Frieda leave him Frieda be and smile, but look! Away. From her ropelike hair, don’t look. Past blindly despite, to the vestibule and pausing as he leans to see the shine, his bending knees. My beard, did he actually say? Forward crouching now he breathes a film and elbows work. Hovering there attentively, work on a beard like mine? Breathing again and rubbing where the shiny grain’s like a mass of worms, then gathering back with folded arms to smile and sadly smile and smile. Please do not throw confetti. Plump hand pushing to hold the door as, into the swirling cold, the air we lurch to the steps and inch and stagger, slipping ahead as . . .

  Tripping and lost him! We’ve dropped him again for chrissakes, shit in this swarm of. Dumped him again but it’s not my fault, this time it’s not. And rolling him bastards, clumsy out to sprawl downstairs and lie grotesque, quick with their single groan, quickly . . . Bending and stuff, quick as they pressure in horror, around, these limbs and the terrible gaping mouth . . .

  Funny how cold my feet get, damp. Dragging, clenching my toes to activate the blood; exhaling, with voices in the enclosed air. Grey hanging smoke and voices, pressure of driving snow about the car. With pennants shaking, one behind the other, cars and ahead the hearse: winding, a mechanical line beneath these staring houses winding and the trees, past figures in the snow.

  Standing useless while they rolled him in, clamped the door; standing chilled, then turning and there. Crackell. Looking at me and his. What’s he doing, winking and. Why does he signal, he’s grinning and nod, he’s winking, at me? Peering about, he must mean. Staring back at his eyes, he must mean me! There’s nobody else. Nodding again, slow teetering head as he turns and threads to, emerging Susan to her side.

  “It is, I’m sure it is.”

  “Well, you never know, do you?”

  “As soon as I saw him I . . .”

  “Some people!”

  “Said to myself, that’s him alright.”

  “You’d think he’d be embarrassed.”

  “After all these years.”

  “Some people . . .”

  “Coming back here as if he owned . . .”

  “Just the kind of thing he’d do.”

  “What?”

  “Hasn’t changed, you can tell just by looking . . .”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Hasn’t changed a bit.”

  “What . . .”

  “Give people like that an education . . .”

  “That’s what I . . .”

  “And they vomit all over the floor.”

  “No!”

  “So I asked that nice Reverend Stackhouse.”

  “Yes?”

  “And he said, that’s him alright, that’s him.”

  “Well. Vomiting! Ugh.”

  “Of course I knew it was. You don’t forget a thing like that.”

  “I should say not.”

  Smooth grey and the other one brown, two mean voices from behind. Lean to the window, drifting back cold from the glass, and stare: winter mirrored lawns, the voices brown and grey while hissing, this heavy car, we pause. Matted coat with crouched above that steaming pile, its ugly body, stupid searching head; it turns, sniffs. Shit on the sidewalk behind. Forehead briefly, sharp on the glass and focussing cold while. He is so, pompous son of a bitch! Only this morning, it. Funny. It seems likes weeks ago, that car and the wheel. Why the hell didn’t he stop?

  “They say he even used to . . .” Heard so much about. You’ll like. Crackell, my God yes he’s marvellous, you know? He’d ah, have his graduate seminars. In the tavern for chrissakes, yeah! Before he went away. They sit around and. Wow, he’s terrific, really a. Really a civilized guy, I. Must. Bored hired face as he drives and beyond, deserted swings in the park and the mist: abstracted, chewing mouth and eyes, beneath the plastic visor, straight ahead. I must, settle down, I’ve got. To work and. Three hours minimum a night, from five to eight or. Maybe even four to eight every day except Saturday. That’s the thing. Maybe he’ll let me write a test, exam to make up, maybe another chance he’ll . . . Red and yellow frames beyond his face; gusting mist around slides and the climbing bars, funny. Thing, really. Parents. Absurdly crowding to the elevated ring, that pack of scrambling boys for faces, parents laughing below: hands adrift in the heavy gloves, thin-armed like monkeys and my smile uncertain for her, there she is. Her tilted face and talking for a minute, falling the slope away behind her to the lake, to white waves brushed with air. Here, gruff voice and Oswald, here; big hands, the cloth on my face, can you see? Oswald, stand still! Can you see?

  I see nothing. And nothing inside, withdrawn inside these gloves.

  Can you see?

  No sir.

  Well here, stand over here. My shoulders in his hands, directed. Thumbs in my shoulderblades. Now parents, all you mothers and fathers: this as you know is the camp’s annual Blind Boxing Frolic haw. When I blow this whistle the kiddies will start swinging haw. Heavy belly nudging me, his big voice ragged in the clearing. Keep your eyes haw peeled for any young brown bombers haw! Now. Adult laughter in the leaves. Are you ready boys? Bumping words against me with his stomach, can any of you see? No. Are you sure? Lifting his hands. We wouldn’t want to spoil it, would we. Drifting, as he talks. Well then. Ready. Steady. Whistle and the sudden whack on my head, another and wildly trying, stiff arm swinging out to t
hump and elbows, blindly skinny skinny arms tangled. I with chest in heaving bodies, thump and . . . That’s the haawh-haaawh way, hit out hit out, smash oh! Heugh, choking laughter heugh-heugh! Dumbly, blows in sobs and heaving, desperate breath, the laughter, laughter and more contact as I rush through arms and sobbing, push to . . . Oswald what, what are you doing? His hand across his runny mouth as stooping, he’s into the ring. Put that on again, you can’t! Around me sightless figures paused and I stood in those faces, crying I. Crying I don’t want. To play.

  Why did he signal to me? He did, extravagantly nod, winking some secret between us; there was nobody else I’m sure and yet. Vague distance, always his reserve for me especially and his critical eyes, we don’t get along, why did he signal? My temple cool on the glass. He went and took her arm, he stood beside. And I didn’t look back. Funny. Maybe if I. Settle down and work, must. Finish what you start Felix, first things first and when you’ve got a. Tightening smile and calculating eyes. Look son you must accept responsibility, you can’t. You never finish anything, you just drift along. And frankly that’s what worries us, your mother and me; we. You can’t go on and on in life just quitting what you’re tired of.

  But I’m looking, I . . .

  Looking! My God Felix, you’re.

  There’s nothing, what’s.

  Do you realize, my God you’re almost a man!

  I don’t like it, that’s all, oh. You don’t understand.

  I understand that you’ve already failed a year. I understand that. And I know you’re not going to. You make me so bloody angry!

  Well I’m. Sorry, but that’s. The way it is.

  Don’t you, don’t take that tone with me young man.

  What am I supposed to do?

  It’s those friends of yours.

  Look father I don’t want . . .

  No good for you, no good at all.

  They’re my friends.

  Bums, that’s what they are bums . . .

  They’re my friends and just because they’re different.

  Different, different! Oh. Hah! Voices harshly and into the kitchen, she’ll be leaning there and is that the thanks I get? Spend every afternoon cooking a lovely dinner and what thanks do I get? Bickering; every night, every single dinner spoiled by your. Oh Felix it makes me so sad.

  Martin Baillie’s dead and gone. Boom-tiddy. And outside, mist along the earth. Straightening abruptly, takes control of searching this, crawly things inside my chest, if only. Hot in pressure, hand to my forehead rubbing, pressing against the bone and I straighten, easily cross my legs. There’s only a couple of months, if I could only work! Boom-boom, the engine’s strength and my random thoughts. Boom. Boom for chrissakes settle down the voices, boom, and watching eyes and . . . “Surely the point.”

  Boom.

  What?

  Did you say something?

  Young man did you?

  Did you say doom?

  Boom-boom.

  Oh. I see. Boom.

  Boom, they wait condemning. Boom. I told you so, another. Boom. Irresponsibility, up there at Western what, God knows, goes on? Free love, I guess, just. Oh I’ve read the books and heard. A thing or two. Revolting!

  “Small wonder Martin came down every weekend.”

  “So eager, he was so.”

  “If they’re all like that.”

  “He was a good boy, Martin . . .” Boom-boom.

  “God rest his . . .”

  “Always so respectful.”

  “A prize in Susan too.”

  “That girl is . . .”

  “A princess.”

  Princess shit, a bloodsucker that’s what. Coaxing him with guilt (and Crackell, why, her arm). There! That looks . . . We must be almost. Quick, don’t lose them! Quick. Behind that wall? Amazing thing, that’s the. Because he decided. Going down to marry Susan.

  You’re kidding!

  No. I’ve decided.

  But Jesus Martin, what about Val, I thought . . .

  It’s all decided. Refrigerator door as he comes back to sit. There’s no future in it.

  But what about. Europe and. Boy, I was sure, I was positive you’d . . .

  Felix! Staring. What would I do over there?

  Write, well weren’t you . . . Write or something, don’t you want to . . .

  God Felix I’ve never done anything, not a fucking thing! Harsh hands press his scalp and rub, then smack the table’s top and bottles rattling as I rise, retreat for another beer. It’s all crap! Crap! Slumping body down. And you know he’s right!

  Who? Avoiding his gaze as I pour. Who’s right?

  The Whip. Pausing. My father. He says if I’m going to write, he says I can do it here. Harsh rubbing hands again. And Felix, I know I can teach, I do know that! That’s something I’m sure of.

  But Martin, for chrissakes, that isn’t . . .

  She’s a nice girl Susan, really a nice girl. You don’t know her like I do, she’s. Look I’ve known her, she was really good to me when I had that . . . Turning away, increasing the sound. I had a skin thing, a. She really was! Drinking purposefully. She is, she’s a fine girl yes, the Whip likes her. Hah! Slipping, whoops, skidding sideways down as we turn, between grey stone, cemetery gates in muffled snow; turning down into mist and trees, their icy prongs. Vague in hollows as we glide, evergreens sagging white and black above the tombstone mounds. He left, just half an hour later he was gone on the evening bus and boom-boom here. I am . . .

  Where?

  Hung up. Between.

  Closing one by one, the line to a halt; carefully out, watch the jeezly! Snow in my shoes, Christ. Along the fender here, picking my way and just enough, there’s room between this chrome as slipping through and stamping feet. Lousy winter, lousy fucking soaker for chrissakes! Stamping and jumping. Shit. Don’t want to but, I must. Already gathered there by oh, more steps, the double opening doors so forward, don’t want to yes, but forward. Has to be, can’t. Quick, turn and dashing, watch these new cars at the gate, staggering briefly, then off like a rabbit and breaking new ground. Off their road and away through the snow, not a track ahead and up this hill, the voices down below. Hah! A moose, thigh-deep and lurching, proud, that’s it a moose! Piss on soakers, their cries behind. Hey (what’s his name?), hey you! Grunting up to these trees at the top, up up and away! I’m almost there. Hey Oswald. Come back back, hey! We can’t carry him all by ourselves, come back! Nimbly now on the crest and among the pines, turning strong my proud figure, above; and bunching down there by the road, the grasping hands, I pause. For breath, deep breath and shaking my head, turn away. Now trotting easily upon the frozen crust, between the stones I skim and hear their trailing voices out behind and to hell. With them, I’ll show. Through branches pursued by branches, released from heavy snow, sighing they rise behind me as I run, falter, tire. Do I tire? And where’s a path for, is there, must be one for the goddamn snow impedes me now and I’ve done it yes, can’t stop running for . . . Gasping for air just ahead of their dog-like cries with snow about my legs like lead, my chest for breath and cries, they’ve got me, staring back to see dark shapes that reach oh Christ they’ve . . .

  Show ’em, I could.

  So? Wide-eyed and staring echoes; so? Anything’s better than. His coffin. Bracing, shifting to sway with its weight, their steps more confident and surely to the steps. Anything’s better than this, he might have. Maybe he’d . . .

  Shit as they nip at the heels, just as their laughter reaches to haul me down, just then the surface, it holds! I’m on top of I dart on ahead, my stride and lean this disappearing figure in the white. Waist-deep behind in snow, first time, the voice turns back upon itself confused.

  Concentrate that’s, careful to the door. What’s this, another chapel, what? Sadly smiling man, he’s brushing, at my feet for Christ sake! Do we have to do it again
? A broom, bristles about the ankles, “That’s it. Don’t want to be traipsing in there with mucky feet, do we?” Please don’t throw. Undertaker’s understrapper while flapping black, another leans intently, polished in streaks, the drops; a third, its cold with briskly hands is staring at my beard. His opening mouth is pink. Why can’t we just bury him?

  “Okay fellahs, just put her down over there.” One hand gestures to the corner, darts back to the other twitching on his vest. “On the machine.” Rubrub the dry skin rustling as we lurch again in their voices. “Care-ful!” Quickly all around. “Careful fellahs.”

  “Oh.”

  “Careful.”

  Bells and flowrets against the purple cloth; lilies and things, all white and pink and tight along the wall, their cloying stench about us (straps and chrome below me) and someone’s grunting, we bend and release, what’s that? Out from the others, a fucking great leafy wreath. HE WAS A GOOD BOY. Good Jesus, No! And bent-winged and beady-eyed, a bird, it’s stuffed, a great stuffed goddamn bird stuck on there grimly Jesus, winking right at me, he’s. Frieda, it must. A GOOD BOY, why. At me, I’m sure his crazy wink and he’s nodding, he did . . . Is this day ever going to stop? Back with the others into the crowd that’s spreading, feet scrap-ing, coughing, I’d better. Desperate on the green, the jagged artificial leaves, you bird, your glinting eye at me: much better than joining the fucking hunt, you’re right! It is much better to be hunted than to join in the chase. Amen, it is much. But I’d better. Sidle in here from public view, no use. Undue to myself (what’s his name?) and still they’re cramming themselves, more and more as the dirty slush to pools on the floor. Bunching forward, teetering from foot to foot and there, threading in a tear stained line among hands that reach to pat, to touch with dumb gloves as they go. “Poor Susan, poor thing.”