Five Legs Page 23

  Shshshsh, with finger warning to his lips and eyes to the door.

  What?

  They’ll hear you, shshsh. Straightening his collar, throat red from my fingers as he smiles conspiratorially. I’m interested to hear you say that. Dumbfounded, I’m . . . For I’ve always thought, well, You seem the type that will live in the bush and in years to come you’ll. Burst down on the city, all ragged and torn and get plastered, really drunk for weeks and then you’ll vanish again. Smiling primly finger tips to the pulse of life where his collar’s white. Don’t you think? Felix descending in curious faces, knowing groups that lean together, darting eyes to him and his scrunching feet on the drive: settling snow, past Crackell’s nodding to the side, a door, they’ve brought it, him. They watch, then flicking cigarettes among the flakes and hitching, bodies’ preparation once again, the. Welcoming touch, snow’s touch above the collar; shirt-sleeves cold inside his coat as he moves aloof. Finger flexing. Lean and aloof so, piss on them all! Clenching fist, sure, bracing feet I’d. Take him alone, pulling, it slides and coasting on that other end instead of, staggering. Awkward beast. And stretching, lifting arm to the rolling wheels and the weight has gone. “There we are.”

  “Lift her. Up!”

  “That’s . . .”

  “Herrg, ha! Shit . . .”

  “A bit more.”

  “He’s a heavy one . . .”

  “Push, that’s . . .”

  “There.” They’re gasping back, stamping feet, puffing for now he’s almost one of them. The closing; polished fingernails on the closing door. “The same cars, eh men?” Muttering assent, they turn from the door’s expensive sound. The sky in delicate pieces, broken and falling, the fallen sky exhausted among them: ragged shapes groping across the treacherous ground. The sky in his face and melting like blood in his hair. Sure-footed Felix, lithe (what an interesting fellow, so lithe!) and easy anonymous strength. Felix Oswald, and he can’t go back. Not after, tightening smile. Attacking Professor Lucan, oh boy Crackell M.A. Ph.D., no sir! Body drained and dry beside the door, unmoving; what do they do with the liver? Into the car with his body ahead: maroon curtains (not after that savage assault), polished wood for a shell. This whole day. That’s a troublesome, though; it’s a pretty big organ, they say or over. Three pounds of brain for chrissakes, dead inside the skull! Tentative legs in the car. Those chickens, Jesus. Carefully wrapped and returned to Dominion. Cough. Cough. Here! Angry and sure . . .

  Yes sir. Efficient pause. Can I help you? Then spotting the bag, bending to peer inside its mouth. Chickens?

  Rotten chickens.

  Oh sir!

  I mean really rotten.

  Did you, flickering. Did you, swallowing, buy them here?

  Um . . . DO YOU THINK I’D HAVE BROUGHT THEM BACK IF I DIDN’T? that’s what. YOU PRICK I should have said but uh, yes. Um . . . at least I didn’t, at least I’m not smiling . . .

  I said. Staring suspiciously at my beard: I said, did you purchase them here.

  Yes . . . I did.

  Well . . . Taking a breath for another plunge, whipping open the bag and vanishing, his face his whole face OH NO inside! Felix appalled Oswald away with rising gorge, cringing from stronger, the muffled voice. Well . . . Wellwell, rustle-rustle and poking around, but he did he ruined! Our dinner, Jesus, what’s he doing, eating IS HE EATING THEM? Churning stomach, these stabbing as he reappears and Felix looks for grease on his chin. Well . . .

  Yes?

  No wonder.

  What?

  You left them in their wrappings.

  Professorial assurance, his condescending look as shrinking, Felix is sure I’m sure that’s. Shiny smear at the edge of his mouth, it’s grease . . . Counter chickens. Hands on his chest and rocking with stains on his belly and groin. Counter chickens must always be taken out of their wrappings. Blunt finger into his ear and digging. Innards, scooped from the body cavity and put in a separate container. Otherwise. Smiling to the gathering crowd, projecting his voice for those at the rear: some people try to do it with a wooden spoon, a spatula ha, but. Light reflecting from his chin. That’s not a very good idea, no sir. Encouraging now, he looks from face to face. Anyone know why, can anybody suggest why it’s not a good idea to force out the innards of a counter chicken with a spatula? Customers shifting. Puzzled faces, eager to please; they scratch at their heads and shift from foot to foot. Well. Well then I’ll tell you. Because, leaning to hear, expectant. They wriggle to see and hear, because you’ll damage, the sharp edge of a kitchen utensil will bruise. Or even pierce the succulent liver, the heart . . . Deathly hush at his words and wisely nodding head: he begins, I ask you! Short steps pacing from the steaks. What would happen if I, slapping his chest, me, your friendly neighbourhood butcher. Smiling acknowledgement for snorts and titters from the crowd, he passes veal and pork. What if I dug around inside these poor animals with a spoon or a, a . . . breaking fatfaced, a shovel? Eh? Pausing, mock horror back past hamburger, he turns at the spare-ribs and returns to interested mutters.

  Good point.

  Sure is . . .

  You wouldn’t catch me . . .

  I’d never thought.

  Eating any of that stuff anyway.

  It’s funny what you pick up.

  Oh!

  Tastes of urine, it does! I can always taste it.

  Staring triumphant into mine with hands still at his chest, he whirls: you’ve got to be considerate, it’s not just MEAT you know, not simply CHUNKS OF MEAT! You’ve got to have respect, you can’t just . . .

  That’s why I never eat lamb.

  Why?

  You can taste the wool.

  Even in stew?

  RESPECT! Because it’s FLESH, it’s FOOD. His body’s earnest sweat as grabbing, he raises the bag and waves it. You take these birds, these poor birds: THEY’VE ROTTED FROM THE INSIDE OUT!

  But they, feeble my voice oh jeez, from the inside out! I try. Whole chickens, they. Weren’t . . .

  I beg your pardon. Young man? Scruffy young man?

  I said . . .

  They were fresh Saturday morning. ALL our chickens are fresh.

  They were cut in halves. For the barbecue . . .

  YOU BEARDED PRICK

  I had them specially . . .

  YOU WANT TO LOOK IN THIS BAG?

  Good lord no! Heaving at the thought, I . . . Glaring he grabs a butcher knife and taunting:

  Go on now, LOOK IN THE BAG!

  NO!

  Shame on him.

  Some people.

  Probably didn’t even . . .

  Beatniks.

  Don’t let him . . .

  Give ’em an inch . . .

  Some people, and they’ll take.

  Such a prick.

  Don’t let him get out!

  Backing away, but still he comes on with his piggy eyes and the swinging bag as I turn, remorseless still through their midst after me. Stay dignified oh! Jumping oh, as he lunges, careening through their voices, scattering faces to the door. YOU EVER COME BACK HERE AND I’LL GIVE YOU A PIECE OF MEAT YOU’LL NEVER FORGET!

  Shaken, boy even at the thought I’m. Stomach and nerves, and nausea. Cool, glass to my forehead; dancing snow and the crawling road to his empty grave, it’s all. So close and mist-enclosed like water, underwater’s drifting claws. The silent seas, head bouncing gently on the glass, with indistinct elusive shadows crouching all around and. An appropriate, poor Martin day he’s gone, that’s all. Here for a while and then he’s not. And I guess that’s the only change. “Certainly changed.” At any rate, there’s.

  “Oh I should say,” there’s nothing else to know.

  “A different man.” Confusing words, their smoke exhaled through the car.

  “As you say, he’s.”

  “Yes.”

  �
��And everything’s moving.”

  “Lickety-split.” Crackell they’re . . .

  “Along.” Talking about. Crackell, that’s it! Startling recognition, we’ve. He said, we have decided; the sly old bugger, they’re. Right! Felix shaking, ha-hee-hee, begrudging admiration as he shakes his head. Right in there, he’s. Part of the fucking family, that’s it he. Boyoboy like a dirty shirt, I wonder what he’s up to?

  “Must have been very close.”

  “Um.”

  “For him to be.”

  “So concerned.”

  “Solicitous.”

  “Yes.” Groaning Felix Oswald to himself, oh. Signalled, why did he signal? Nod? Whatever it is I’m here to tell you, don’t. Not a word, oh please . . . That it’s not for him, not Martin’s sake, Christ! No. Siree, impulsive. I’ll explain, how wrong oh. Don’t . . . “They say he was his supervisor.”

  “His what?”

  “Or something.”

  “Yes.”

  “His ah . . .”

  “Supervisor.” Fuck it . . .

  “Yes. How can I . . . He ah. Supervised Martin’s ah. Well. Whatever he was doing.” Bite your tongue not a word . . .

  “His M.A.”

  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “Well no wonder.” Calm about my lips, laughter breaking in my chest; to the tombstones, glaring concentration as we lurch. For heaven’s sake to control my glee. That was it! All the time that was! Patting her hand and ponderous, leaning for chrissakes. He’s on the make! Ha. So many times! In from that sweltering summer, the sun to the cool and there they’d be. And I kept wondering. Two of them yes, his wife and Susan, she’s kind of angular God knows but jeez, she’s. At least she’s better than. Dry, so always humourless; royal blue suits or something tailored, always thin, that predatory mouth. Slowly descending curve among the dead with shattered trees by the day and silent-leaning, those shapes beyond my eyes. People find each other and I really did, the time they spent. Even in the cafeteria, talking every morning after class but what can you say? Martin, is there anything, I mean you know, going on between. Your girl (your girl?) and your thesis supervisor, there they go again! Rhapsodies, look at their opening, their mouths, too serious. Too serious and that’s lechery, not much control there, look. Breathing in and out, talking all over each other; twisting bodies in their chairs and talking, arranging their limbs and that’s a pretty sexy performance if you ask me, they behave like that in public, what do they do oh Christ! What an absurd. Crackell? Pompous bugger’d die and Martin. Kills me after a weekend with her and I think maybe, maybe this time so I rub her breasts like crazy, they’re nice, they really are so I kiss ’em and nibble and suck and rub like they were magic lamps. Glaring at his hands. But nothing ever happens, never. She dies on me every time. Watching, uncertain glances as he drinks, then. Curiously tentative voice. Sometimes she lets me, you know. Go even further, sometimes. Abruptly to the window, pausing with branches scratching at the pane; returning embarrassed he drinks, slumps back in the chair. She lets me, you know. Put my HAND UP INSIDE HER SKIRT! Groaning; I wait, he sways with all the pain I know and hoarsely says: and you know? With awe. It’s like a prune, like a withered up old prune.

  Jesus!

  What are you gonna do, what’s a guy gonna do?

  You’re kidding!

  Just like a big old prune, no life at all. Aghast, I’m. What can I, what on earth do I say?

  I. Jesus Martin, that’s. Watching, recessed eyes above his glass. I know, exactly what you mean I. Escaping to the fridge for another beer and my mind’s bending.

  I don’t think it even has a hole in it.

  That’s terrible. Bottle cold in my hand as I turn for the opener. Terrible. I can see now . . .

  Yes! Yes that’s why. Val’s alive, she’s. God Felix she’s wonderful! She’s got a cunt like a horse collar. Jarred, I. Intent on the opener, I don’t think. That’s nice I.

  That’s interesting. But he doesn’t see me shrink, and that’s. Not very nice about a girl you like, Val’s a fine girl and. Jesus, a horse collar! Heavier, snow unmoving now, we’ve stopped; their bodies to opening doors. He’s left me alone, copped out and Val, any Val’s worth more than that, he certainly. Snow in my socks, who cares I’ll, screw the path and Christ! Up to my knees! Screw it, get to the hearse, with dainty picking feet above me on the road. Serves him, it serves him right in a way. Left Edinburgh Felix I must, the Whip. Calls me home and you know the Whip, guardian of my inheritance, I must go back . . .

  Walking.

  Streets, gaslight, shadows, silver rain: circling anonymous, slowly with music in the air and walking, oh. I see. Hope and silence bursting inside. And outside, I see I see . . .

  Hands on bodies tense in doorways: ravenous moths with caught breath as I pass to crouching there. Calling her down and insatiable, mouth and stunted body to her throat she opens, even for him, she . . .

  Time’s attenuation, sounds from the isolated world: in rain and rising chill that old man’s begging-song from the street below; NO LADIES ALLOWED oh Nan! I cried, back down the hill oh Nan! Will I see you at all?

  Running.

  Footsteps in the empty street: running I loved you Nan. Alone in the lights that barrel down the road alone, in the cold the damp. Cardigan steaming to my ears, you’re not. Qualified. Come along what can you do?

  “Come along there,” harshly whispered. “Grab your end,” who’s that. Officious o-kay bastard hold your. Glaring at him, startled I’ll. Eyes diverted, they’re all. O-kay o-kay, I’m. Staggering, we’re . . .

  “Hold it!”

  “Pull him out.”

  “Careful . . .” Steadying, the best I can on the path; bracing against the hearse with melting snow on my back the bastards. Here he comes, sliding. Floundering around, they’re. Knee-deep for heaven’s . . . Felix Oswald’s crooked grin down the shimmering coffin to, disconcerted. Strangers stuck and muttering in the snow why don’t they. Watch where they’re going, backing off the path and right into what can you expect? Ha. Pulling, I’ll heave and pull them free ha. Errgh!

  “That’s . . .” Snow in circles as I. Heave and save the day. Beneath him they pant and, he hauls them ahead! Or could have. Absurd skit, struggling without movement, kneeling precarious on the snow and trying to stand; gingerly, one foot testing yes, and now. The other, that’s. Briefly the surface holds for one as another goes down. “That’s the way!”

  “Get . . .”

  “Oh!”

  Erggh

  “I . . .”

  “God.”

  “The way.”

  “I can’t get.”

  “Up, that’s . . .” Pitching through crust and grunting: Felix above, silently sinking. Chaotic in our wake, the spoor of a dying animal, some wounded and wolf-harried moose. Eyes rolling, desperate heaving lungs among the tombstones, crouching evergreens under their snow; I don’t want to play this, thin legs through the crust, it stumbles and ice shards pierce to the succulent bone and my body’s awash! Down, in this tremendous silence. Nobody moves in the rattling wind. Pause, with bolder shadows closer; darting just outside the vision, loping in the closing day, faster. Faster they’re closing in, throw out a serf to slow the bastards, scavengers on my tail as, scattering bodies from the sleigh, frantic we surge against the drift. More, oh more who’s next I’m forcing, the coffin bruising, teeth at his, body out to the teeth and following eyes it goes, I’ll travel lighter; now light and away from the last, the failing cries behind but the bastards, they barely pause and they’re back and what. WHAT’S THIS? Among the closer forms who’s that, it’s. Leading the pack empty-eyed, it’s Martin there, the faces! Nan I know them, closing on me, I know them all you smile so, reaching out.

  Just gasping breath, that’s all; awkward the coffin, resting on chunks of broken sky. Again then, struggling: desperate for purchase,
trying to rise and knowing now he’s alone. Slow-motion bodies, they wait. Embarrassed. Aware of each finger, nails to the palm with muscles up my arm and the weight’s there too, in my shoulder, down my back to the side and pulling hard. So slow. The din of my legs, and loud, the snow I crush, each breath that I breathe. On and the same clumsy on, as heavier flakes we slow. And slower to them clustered but it’s trampled down, it’s easier here by the. Grave. New grave while turning, we shift and guiding it, careful, on either side and “No!” Frozen by the voice. Horrified with frantic, it comes again. “Feet first! Feet first!” and staring faces. “Not that way, the other.” Windshifting, we dumbly stir; the family there and Crackell. “He’s got to go . . .” Martin, what are we . . . ? “Turn around!”

  “The other way.” Huddled group by that stone, a rising group are they gnomes?

  “Come along there Oswald!” And Crackell’s reaching voice from the other side. “Turn it around,” I’m . . . Surrounded, jeez and I’m laughing, I’m Jesus gasp, this shuddering gut oh. God I mustn’t. Pushing they’re dutiful, back against my clumsy hee, my legs and ho! Straight-faced manoeuvring, shit I mustn’t, not with Martin here but ­Martin stranglehee, feet-first-feet-gnomes for . . . Careful! Foot by foot to the. God to the edge and there’s. Water, the fucking thing’s full of water, that’s a. Chuck him down in there, sobering thought. Plop. Carefully plop, along the edge, dislodging frozen chunks that plop, hollow and falling, splash. Another fuckingawful, skinned with snow another machine with sodden straps and bending, relief as we release, retreat from the edge in a bunch and Felix withdraws. Not with them, I won’t. Sidle away ten feet. To the gnomes, they really are. Graveyard trolls behind that sweating stone and peering out again to, good Lord, to shout! “Not yet.” Waving, what’s he . . . ? “They gotta saya prayer first!” A flurry away from the grave and everyone’s staring through me subsiding, my gnome disappears in the earth. Disturbing alright, and what . . . Striving his voice for order, muffled words as unobtrusively, picking my way. Grotesquely torn, our path back there and my feet are soaking; in my pockets, hands against my thighs and raw from falling plop. Numb feet carefully for chrissakes, what are they doing down there? Intrigued, yes anxious. But I can’t go any farther, no. I can’t. For people. Turning dutiful, Felix me. Receding shapes with easy the snow like piss on it! And that’s final. Blindness to the eyes, I’ll. Cautiously at first, very cautious sneaking away because. He’s dead and what do I owe? I’m not moving. Them after all, I’ve. Carried him shit! Goddamn expensive coffin and he wouldn’t, no couldn’t have expected more. Tiptoeing anyway. He would have loved this day. Seen the gnomes and I guess that’s something. Briefly turning, there’s the family, that’s. Curious, his arm and hers entwined. What’s going on? The voice is gone; settling slowly into the snow, they’re sinking, churning now but soundlessly up to their throats. Solemn descent, with faces terribly calm; Felix has won. Not moving. Slowly their farewell hands, but he does not see. How curious. Liberated steps. Crouched and smoking, three dark men emerge from the ground with arms and hands protruding here and there: six eyes watch me come. “You’ll want a smoke after that.” Nodding. Relief as I crouch to the flame, deeply inhaling and breathing: