Short Stories - Issue 2
The Farmer's Sunshine
Past a bustling town, an old man lived on a small farm. He spoke to
clouds and crow flocks but stood hushed when townsfolk passed by. Every
morning, he gathered grains from his green fields. He polished each grain with
a magpie feather, wrapped them in his handkerchief and trudged to market.
One day, the farmer heard a bugle bellowing. He looked up as fast
horses thundered red carriages towards his land. The carriages halted. Soldiers
swept into the fields. A tall man unravelled a scroll and barked: All sunshine was
possession of the crown, he said. The prince and princess had spied peasant
children with golden sun-streaked hair. They had pestered the king until he said
all the sunshine in the realm would be theirs. The farmer watched as the king’s
men knelt and rolled up the sunshine. They shook the oak tree until all the
sunshine slipped from its leaves. They stormed the farmhouse, scraping sunshine
from the dog’s paws and the cobwebs. Then they hung nets across the sky to
capture sunbeams. They crammed the sunshine into the carriages and sped
away. The farmer stared at the dim scene until moonlight caught in the nets.
Then he stumbled to bed.
The next morning, the farmer was woken by a thump on the door. He
tramped downstairs, gripped the door handle and looked out as a red carriage
raced into the distance. A broad barrel sat on the path. He unfolded a letter:
Generous rations from the king, it read. The king's leftover sunshine was to be
divided between his loyal subjects. The farmer nudged the barrel and listened
to the sunshine slopping about inside. He looked at his land. Drab skies hushed
the birdsong. The silent fields swayed with grey winds. He opened the barrel,
scooped out a handful of sunshine, carried it to a field corner and carefully
spread it on the seeds.
Each day, he scooped another handful of sunshine from the barrel and
spread it on the field corner. He measured the seedlings with markings on a
crow feather. Then he lit a match and slowly paced his dim land. He watched
the fields wither and the flowers fade to scraps. He sat the match embers in
acorn cups along the hedgerows to light bird paths. He gathered fallen leaves
and tied them with twine to the ragged branches to keep the trees whole. The
dog curled by the barrel and leaned against the warm wood. Every day, the
red carriages came to collect sunshine. When soldiers lowered the nets,
sparrows swooped and snatched beakfuls of sunshine. The grey trees glittered
with nests crammed with stolen glints.
Weeks passed. The farmer scooped the last handful of sunshine from the
barrel and sprinkled it on the patch of wheat. He measured the stems with his
crow feather. Then he plucked the few grains, ground them with a pebble, and
baked a single loaf of bread. He cut the loaf into crusts and crumbs, and
shared it with the dog and the sparrows. There were no grains left. He sighed
and sank to sleep. In the morning, he lingered on the path, watching for
carriages carrying rations. All day, he waited, and all day the dog howled at
the empty barrel. Then he trudged to bed.
Drab days drifted by. The farmer watched tree hollows widen. He listened
to hedgehog footsteps on the shrivelled earth. He freed thin wind gusts trapped
in cobwebs. He measured the dust puddles. He gathered broken flowers and
settled them in the farmhouse. He shook his head as he looked over his ragged
land. Then he wrapped the last crust of bread in a handkerchief, and put the
brightest match ember in a jam jar, holding it high to light his way. With the dog
at his side, he walked from his land.
So the farmer and his dog trekked towards the palace. They saw red
carriages racing over grey hills and bridges, gathering sunshine. They stopped
at an alehouse and ate crust chunks while townsfolk grumbled about the
nobles wading ceiling-deep in sunshine and building walls to the sky around
their golden gardens. All night the farmer and his dog listened to tales and
mumbles: knights studied sunshine at the castle and the finest glints were
combed into the prince and princess’s dull hair. Village folk and peasants
squinted at their rations measured in thimblefuls and eggcups.
At dawn, the farmer and the dog trudged from the alehouse. Across the
dull land, they saw folk paling under the dim air. Townspeople sat candles on
rooftops. Old folk carried lamps and shuffled slowly round sundials guessing at
the hours. Shepherds grated their sunshine rations into fading meadows.
Damsels dropped their sunshine rations into cool wells and wished for bright skies.
Choirboys pressed their sunshine onto church windows and sang under
the stained-glass gleam. The farmer and the dog sat on wide logs and nibbled
the crust. They watched rebels leaping for the sun nets from the tower tops but
landing on dark mud. They heard rumours that in the palace, the royals slipped
and skidded upon the squeezed sunshine and the king floated from his throne
on a tide of thick golden light.
The farmer and the dog plodded in ember light through dark valleys and
black woods. They shared their last crumbs as they walked below wilted
rainstorms. At night, they reached the palace. Sunshine leaked from golden
windows and tangled with bats’ wings. The farmer thumped on the vast door.
The dog barked as the door heaved open. The farmer squinted as golden light
billowed and flopped over the dark stone. Servants grabbed at the sunshine
and pulled handfuls back inside the palace. The doorman nodded for the
farmer to enter. The dog howled as the door heaved shut behind the farmer.
The doorman and the farmer waded through golden corridors and halls.
The farmer stared at stalactites of sunshine hanging from high ceilings. He saw
old dukes trapped in floating patches of gold. He saw duchesses nibbling
sunshine whisked and baked by the palace chefs. The farmer stepped through
an archway and rubbed sunshine from his eyes. Across the hall, servants
clutched the king’s robes as he drifted from his throne. ‘Who goes there?’ the
king’s voice wobbled through the sunshine. The farmer told the king about his
fading farm. He pulled a dust puddle from his pocket and showed it to the king.
Then he asked for more sunshine rations. The king peered at the dust puddle.
‘No’ he sniffed. Doormen gripped the farmer’s arms and hurried him from the
palace. As they heaved the door open, the dog leapt up and bit a chunk of
sunshine from the palace air.
The farmer and the dog looked at the shut door. Sunshine clung to the
farmer’s clothes. They turned and walked back through the grey woods. The
dog gripped the chunk of palace light between his jaws. As they trudged, the
sunshine began to peel and drip. Mice scurried away golden flakes left in the
farmer’s footprints. Moths gathered round drops of golden glow stuck in the
dark air. As they walked across grim plains, a low wind brushed past the farmer
and swept sunshine into the night sky. The sunshine seeped and dwindled until
only the dog’s chunk was left. When they reached the ragged farm, the farmer
put the chunk in a jam jar and sat it in the middle of the fields. He walked the
edges and corners of his land, measuring the dust puddles and counting the
fallen leaves. He listened to the hushed air and remembered bright birdsong.
Then he went to bed.
In the morning, he was woken by shouts and cheers. He pressed his ear to
the wall and listened. Crowds sang and laughed: the palace had been
ransacked, the sun-collectors tied up in a truss, the king bundled in a sky net,
and the sunshine was free at last. He rushed downstairs and opened the door.
Twenty sacks of sunshine sat on the path.
clouds and crow flocks but stood hushed when townsfolk passed by. Every
morning, he gathered grains from his green fields. He polished each grain with
a magpie feather, wrapped them in his handkerchief and trudged to market.
One day, the farmer heard a bugle bellowing. He looked up as fast
horses thundered red carriages towards his land. The carriages halted. Soldiers
swept into the fields. A tall man unravelled a scroll and barked: All sunshine was
possession of the crown, he said. The prince and princess had spied peasant
children with golden sun-streaked hair. They had pestered the king until he said
all the sunshine in the realm would be theirs. The farmer watched as the king’s
men knelt and rolled up the sunshine. They shook the oak tree until all the
sunshine slipped from its leaves. They stormed the farmhouse, scraping sunshine
from the dog’s paws and the cobwebs. Then they hung nets across the sky to
capture sunbeams. They crammed the sunshine into the carriages and sped
away. The farmer stared at the dim scene until moonlight caught in the nets.
Then he stumbled to bed.
The next morning, the farmer was woken by a thump on the door. He
tramped downstairs, gripped the door handle and looked out as a red carriage
raced into the distance. A broad barrel sat on the path. He unfolded a letter:
Generous rations from the king, it read. The king's leftover sunshine was to be
divided between his loyal subjects. The farmer nudged the barrel and listened
to the sunshine slopping about inside. He looked at his land. Drab skies hushed
the birdsong. The silent fields swayed with grey winds. He opened the barrel,
scooped out a handful of sunshine, carried it to a field corner and carefully
spread it on the seeds.
Each day, he scooped another handful of sunshine from the barrel and
spread it on the field corner. He measured the seedlings with markings on a
crow feather. Then he lit a match and slowly paced his dim land. He watched
the fields wither and the flowers fade to scraps. He sat the match embers in
acorn cups along the hedgerows to light bird paths. He gathered fallen leaves
and tied them with twine to the ragged branches to keep the trees whole. The
dog curled by the barrel and leaned against the warm wood. Every day, the
red carriages came to collect sunshine. When soldiers lowered the nets,
sparrows swooped and snatched beakfuls of sunshine. The grey trees glittered
with nests crammed with stolen glints.
Weeks passed. The farmer scooped the last handful of sunshine from the
barrel and sprinkled it on the patch of wheat. He measured the stems with his
crow feather. Then he plucked the few grains, ground them with a pebble, and
baked a single loaf of bread. He cut the loaf into crusts and crumbs, and
shared it with the dog and the sparrows. There were no grains left. He sighed
and sank to sleep. In the morning, he lingered on the path, watching for
carriages carrying rations. All day, he waited, and all day the dog howled at
the empty barrel. Then he trudged to bed.
Drab days drifted by. The farmer watched tree hollows widen. He listened
to hedgehog footsteps on the shrivelled earth. He freed thin wind gusts trapped
in cobwebs. He measured the dust puddles. He gathered broken flowers and
settled them in the farmhouse. He shook his head as he looked over his ragged
land. Then he wrapped the last crust of bread in a handkerchief, and put the
brightest match ember in a jam jar, holding it high to light his way. With the dog
at his side, he walked from his land.
So the farmer and his dog trekked towards the palace. They saw red
carriages racing over grey hills and bridges, gathering sunshine. They stopped
at an alehouse and ate crust chunks while townsfolk grumbled about the
nobles wading ceiling-deep in sunshine and building walls to the sky around
their golden gardens. All night the farmer and his dog listened to tales and
mumbles: knights studied sunshine at the castle and the finest glints were
combed into the prince and princess’s dull hair. Village folk and peasants
squinted at their rations measured in thimblefuls and eggcups.
At dawn, the farmer and the dog trudged from the alehouse. Across the
dull land, they saw folk paling under the dim air. Townspeople sat candles on
rooftops. Old folk carried lamps and shuffled slowly round sundials guessing at
the hours. Shepherds grated their sunshine rations into fading meadows.
Damsels dropped their sunshine rations into cool wells and wished for bright skies.
Choirboys pressed their sunshine onto church windows and sang under
the stained-glass gleam. The farmer and the dog sat on wide logs and nibbled
the crust. They watched rebels leaping for the sun nets from the tower tops but
landing on dark mud. They heard rumours that in the palace, the royals slipped
and skidded upon the squeezed sunshine and the king floated from his throne
on a tide of thick golden light.
The farmer and the dog plodded in ember light through dark valleys and
black woods. They shared their last crumbs as they walked below wilted
rainstorms. At night, they reached the palace. Sunshine leaked from golden
windows and tangled with bats’ wings. The farmer thumped on the vast door.
The dog barked as the door heaved open. The farmer squinted as golden light
billowed and flopped over the dark stone. Servants grabbed at the sunshine
and pulled handfuls back inside the palace. The doorman nodded for the
farmer to enter. The dog howled as the door heaved shut behind the farmer.
The doorman and the farmer waded through golden corridors and halls.
The farmer stared at stalactites of sunshine hanging from high ceilings. He saw
old dukes trapped in floating patches of gold. He saw duchesses nibbling
sunshine whisked and baked by the palace chefs. The farmer stepped through
an archway and rubbed sunshine from his eyes. Across the hall, servants
clutched the king’s robes as he drifted from his throne. ‘Who goes there?’ the
king’s voice wobbled through the sunshine. The farmer told the king about his
fading farm. He pulled a dust puddle from his pocket and showed it to the king.
Then he asked for more sunshine rations. The king peered at the dust puddle.
‘No’ he sniffed. Doormen gripped the farmer’s arms and hurried him from the
palace. As they heaved the door open, the dog leapt up and bit a chunk of
sunshine from the palace air.
The farmer and the dog looked at the shut door. Sunshine clung to the
farmer’s clothes. They turned and walked back through the grey woods. The
dog gripped the chunk of palace light between his jaws. As they trudged, the
sunshine began to peel and drip. Mice scurried away golden flakes left in the
farmer’s footprints. Moths gathered round drops of golden glow stuck in the
dark air. As they walked across grim plains, a low wind brushed past the farmer
and swept sunshine into the night sky. The sunshine seeped and dwindled until
only the dog’s chunk was left. When they reached the ragged farm, the farmer
put the chunk in a jam jar and sat it in the middle of the fields. He walked the
edges and corners of his land, measuring the dust puddles and counting the
fallen leaves. He listened to the hushed air and remembered bright birdsong.
Then he went to bed.
In the morning, he was woken by shouts and cheers. He pressed his ear to
the wall and listened. Crowds sang and laughed: the palace had been
ransacked, the sun-collectors tied up in a truss, the king bundled in a sky net,
and the sunshine was free at last. He rushed downstairs and opened the door.
Twenty sacks of sunshine sat on the path.
Rebecca Harrison’s best friend is a dog who can count. She's been nominated for Best of the Net. Her stories can be read at Maudlin House, Axolotl Magazine, and elsewhere.
The Carpet
It was the devil that made me do it.
Chris's folks, Faith and Vince, call every year. I make out I'm as broken as
they are about their daughter's disappearance. She's been gone nineteen
years, but Faith says it feels like yesterday to her. Eleanor hovers nearby, but I
turn away so she can't hear my empty platitudes. I don't want my wife to think
I'm still sweet on my old girlfriend.
Faith's voice chokes up.
"Do you think we'll ever find her, Mannie?" She sounds like her daughter.
Whining. Simpering. "Vince and I are going to Morocco again in March."
And that devil makes me say, "you've got to try, Faith. You've got to try."
*
I don't think about Chris often. It's when I see that damn Moroccan carpet
though I remember what I did. I should get rid of the fucking thing, but I can't.
Not when I think what it's worth.
You can't throw out something that cost someone their life.
Chris and I started dating when we were sixteen. By the summer I turned
eighteen I was ready for adventure. I needed to escape from the small town
mentality that was eating me up, and threatening to spit me out onto the
conveyer belt that led to meat and two veg, wife-and-a-mortgage. Babies. It's
what she wanted, a ring on her finger, and a semi on the street where Faith
and Vince lived.
It scared the crap out of me.
I wanted to travel. I wanted to explore realities that were different from my
own. I wanted to feel the danger an excitement of alternative life-styles.
Then everything changed, Chris's parents gave her a ton of money for her
birthday. They wanted her to 'broaden her horizons' before she married and
had kids.
"Go see the world," Vince said. They paid for me to travel with her, so she'd
be safer. That kind of shames me now.
So instead of hitching round France on my own, I found myself with an
inter-rail ticket and a timid girlfriend tagging along. The trains across Europe
made Chris travelsick. The rickety boat from Algeciras to Tangier was even
worse, vomit swilling about on bathroom floors. Our adventure pretty much
ended when we came ashore in the turgid Moroccan heat. She started
throwing up within minutes of entering our hotel room.
Chris lay on the hotel bed like a mannequin. She stared at the beige paint
peeling off the ceiling. Her hair splayed out on the pillow like wind-blown
wheat. Her paper-white skin made her look like a corpse. I did what I felt I
ought, a fly caught in a web, itching to break the strands of her sticky embrace.
I went to the market, bought fruit that Chris sunk in sterilising fluid and ate in
little chunks. She ran to the toilet every hour.
"I'm sorry Mannie," she said.
"What for?" I asked, choking back the resentment. "You can't help being
sick." I bubbled with anger and tried not to think about what I'd be doing if I
weren’t playing nursemaid.
By rights, I shouldn't have been with Chris anymore. But if I hadn't stuck it
out, I wouldn't be in Morocco. Go figure.
On the third day, Chris told me she was feeling better. Her skin had
stopped burning. She even managed a meal of flat bread and kefta. I
suggested we go out. We pulled djellabas from the market over our heads to
blend in, so the hawkers wouldn't hassle us. It didn't help. I felt the hot breath of
traders on my neck, offering gold, slippers, porcelain. Anything. Chris leaned on
me and took little steps, like a spider heavy with eggs.
We turned left then right, right then left, ended up getting lost. Boys with
menacing grins dashed about looking important. Hooded figures hunched over
hookahs. Women with secret smiles, heads wrapped in coloured cloth.
We stopped at a bar and ordered beer for me, mint tea for her. Chris
disappeared to the bathroom. I got chatting to a guy called Mustapha, my
French broken and basic. Chris came back, smiled and nodded. Her French
was worse than mine.
Mustapha offered to take us to places the average tourist didn't know
about. Said he could show us the real Morocco. He spoke really fast, over the
twang of tuneless instruments. He talked about cheap carpets and jewelry in his
uncle's shop. My French wasn't brilliant, but I thought he said something about
getting some shit hot hash too. The stuff I'd picked up at the souk was all right,
but I wanted some black.
Mustapha whistled and a boy trotted over. He was about eight, wore a
pair of holed shorts and a 'Manchester United' T-shirt. They spoke in Arabic. The
kid ran off.
By the time the boy returned, it was dark outside. Mustapha led us to a
battered turquoise taxi. We wound through narrow streets, all the time feeling
like we were being sucked into the guts of a giant creature.
We stepped out of the car to face a tall narrow building. The hot air
wrapped itself around me like a blanket. Chris walked slowly, like everything
was a huge effort. We followed Mustapha into a building that had no shop
frontage, no signs, no indication that we were entering anything but an
ordinary apartment block. Chris looked back at me once, questioning, silent, as
if checking how precarious our situation was, appealing for reassurance. I
forced a smile.
The uncle's carpet shop appeared to have opened just for us. A toothless
man greeted us.
"Most welcoming. You for shopping come," he said, obsequious and foul.
"Many, many goods we had. Come, come." He led us up narrow wooden
steps, through a door with a faded sign on it. 'Tiger Carpets', with a cartoon
animal, paint chipped, Arabic beneath the English letters.
One of the men urged Chris and I to sit on two low wooden stools. Two
skinny guys brought out stacks of carpets. One of the guys was a midget.
Mustapha stood in the corner looking as if he'd been given a reward, his teeth
shining eggshell white in the light of a flickering bare light bulb.
"Many month to make," the toothless uncle lisped. He threw rugs about like
he was dealing cards. "Childlen from stleet work loom. We feed. Like own son
and daughter." A woman scuttled in with a tray holding a long spouted pot
and pastel coloured glass cups. She broke pieces of loafsugar into the cups,
bowed and padded out again. One of Mustapha's uncles served steaming
tea. Mustapha passed me a pipe, and I took a toke without question. Chris
nodded it away, so I passed the metal pipe to the old feller. My head spun with
a thousand coloured cobwebs.
Then the carpet appeared. I'd never seen anything like it. The size of a
bath mat, but beautiful. Like the pattern on a dragonfly's wing, laced with
peacock iridescence. I ran my finger through its deep pile, imagining a child
working for months to make the intricate pattern. Blues and golds. Chris's eyes lit
up. Her face glistened in the odd light.
Toothless asked how much money we had. Chris gave me a warning look,
and I put my hand on her shoulder. She was hot again. I offered forty Dirhams.
He dismissed my offer like I'd slapped his face.
A hookah appeared. More tea. Photographs of grandchildren. The room
was spinning by the time I parted with 370 Dirhams. It was half our budget for
the week.
Toothless bundled our carpet in a brown bag along with a 'Tiger Carpets'
card. The same goofy cartoon tiger we'd seen on the sign outside the door.
I slid the pack into my shoulder bag, and listened to the thumping of my
heart within my chest. There was the promise of something exciting in the air.
We'd blown a huge amount of cash, but I didn't care. We were on the
gateway to something incredible, the real Morocco. Chris was shaking.
Mustapha offered to show us gold jewelry. I told him I didn't want that. I
wanted to see the real Morocco. I wanted to get hold of whatever had been in
that pipe. That was what I'd come for. That was how my horizons were going to
be broadened. That was my gold. The men mumbled to each other, and
indicated we should follow the short guy.
The midget spoke little French or English, but he said enough through
gesticulation for us to know he would take us where we wanted to be. His
drooping eyelids gave him a sleepy appearance. Chris and I followed the man
out to an alley. Mustapha didn't come. We entered another tall narrow
building. I followed two steps behind the midget as he climbed a poorly lit
staircase. I could hear Chris's heavy breath rasping behind me.
Three men sat on mats around a low table in a dimly lit room. They looked
haggard. Chris lay down on a mat in the corner. She was shivering. Reddish
lamplight cast shadows on sandy walls. I shared another pipe with the men and
stared at the ground between my feet. An industrious ant marched in a circle
on the floor. I felt isolated. The ant went round. No one said a word. The ant
went round again, in ever decreasing circles. Chris looked like she was dead
and I didn't fucking care. I was buzzing. The ant went round again and again
and again.
That ant was my last memory. The last memory until a one-eyed man woke
me. He pushed his foot against my head. Chris was moaning. A coal-dark man
had a bunch of her hair in his hand. There was a knife against her throat.
I leapt up, but One-eye kicked me and I crashed onto the floor, smashing
my jaw. Someone growled in Arabic. Coal-man pulled Chris's money belt from
beneath her waistband and cut through it with his knife. There wasn't much in it.
I had all the traveller's cheques. The man spat on the floor in disgust. I stared up
at One-eye's empty socket.
"Open," he said, kicking at my money belt.
One-eye counted the cheques, held them up to the light.
"Go. Fetch Dirham," he said. "Ten thousand. Back before night. No Police."
As the one-eyed guy spoke, Coal-man drew his blade, ever so slowly, across
Chris's neck. A crimson bead trickled towards her T-shirt.
"Don't leave me, Mannie," she screamed.
*
I was cold and disorientated. My jaw ached. I followed my instincts and
walked in a zigzag. I found the souk. From there, it was a short walk to the bank.
I shuffled from one foot to the other, waiting for it to open. I cashed every single
cheque. Then I rolled a joint and sucked hard on it, like I'd suffocate if I
stopped.
I headed towards the narrow building, but when I reached the souk, I
realised I had absolutely no idea where it was. The card. I needed the card. The
'Tiger Carpets' card had the address on it. I'd beat the shit out of that bastard
Mustapha, if he didn't take me straight to his short-arsed friend. I opened the
brown bag. The carpet twinkled like a soft jewel. Nothing. I spread the carpet
out on the ground and tipped my bag out onto it. I checked my money belt,
pockets, everything. No card. No address.
I rolled another joint. That's when I found the remains of the card in my
hash tin. I'd used it for the roach. The address was gone.
And that's when the devil tapped me on the shoulder.
*
I came back home months later, hollow-eyed and underweight. I had
the stupid carpet, but very little else. The story I told the police in Tangier was
partly true. We had been held captive and robbed. But I never said how I left
Chris to go find the real Morocco on my own.
*
A few months ago, Eleanor and I were in a thrifty store in Kingston, looking
for clothes pegs or some shit.
"Look," she said. "Those carpets. They're the same as the tatty one we've
got in the lounge."
My heart did a crazy dance inside me.
It was the size of a bath mat, but beautiful. Like the pattern on a
dragonfly's wing, laced with peacock iridescence. I ran my finger through its
deep pile. Blues and golds. Turquoise and velvet.
I fingered the label, 'made in Taiwan'.
I found the price tag. How much did it cost? How much was a life worth?
Five pounds. Just five sodding pounds, reduced from eight.
Chris's folks, Faith and Vince, call every year. I make out I'm as broken as
they are about their daughter's disappearance. She's been gone nineteen
years, but Faith says it feels like yesterday to her. Eleanor hovers nearby, but I
turn away so she can't hear my empty platitudes. I don't want my wife to think
I'm still sweet on my old girlfriend.
Faith's voice chokes up.
"Do you think we'll ever find her, Mannie?" She sounds like her daughter.
Whining. Simpering. "Vince and I are going to Morocco again in March."
And that devil makes me say, "you've got to try, Faith. You've got to try."
*
I don't think about Chris often. It's when I see that damn Moroccan carpet
though I remember what I did. I should get rid of the fucking thing, but I can't.
Not when I think what it's worth.
You can't throw out something that cost someone their life.
Chris and I started dating when we were sixteen. By the summer I turned
eighteen I was ready for adventure. I needed to escape from the small town
mentality that was eating me up, and threatening to spit me out onto the
conveyer belt that led to meat and two veg, wife-and-a-mortgage. Babies. It's
what she wanted, a ring on her finger, and a semi on the street where Faith
and Vince lived.
It scared the crap out of me.
I wanted to travel. I wanted to explore realities that were different from my
own. I wanted to feel the danger an excitement of alternative life-styles.
Then everything changed, Chris's parents gave her a ton of money for her
birthday. They wanted her to 'broaden her horizons' before she married and
had kids.
"Go see the world," Vince said. They paid for me to travel with her, so she'd
be safer. That kind of shames me now.
So instead of hitching round France on my own, I found myself with an
inter-rail ticket and a timid girlfriend tagging along. The trains across Europe
made Chris travelsick. The rickety boat from Algeciras to Tangier was even
worse, vomit swilling about on bathroom floors. Our adventure pretty much
ended when we came ashore in the turgid Moroccan heat. She started
throwing up within minutes of entering our hotel room.
Chris lay on the hotel bed like a mannequin. She stared at the beige paint
peeling off the ceiling. Her hair splayed out on the pillow like wind-blown
wheat. Her paper-white skin made her look like a corpse. I did what I felt I
ought, a fly caught in a web, itching to break the strands of her sticky embrace.
I went to the market, bought fruit that Chris sunk in sterilising fluid and ate in
little chunks. She ran to the toilet every hour.
"I'm sorry Mannie," she said.
"What for?" I asked, choking back the resentment. "You can't help being
sick." I bubbled with anger and tried not to think about what I'd be doing if I
weren’t playing nursemaid.
By rights, I shouldn't have been with Chris anymore. But if I hadn't stuck it
out, I wouldn't be in Morocco. Go figure.
On the third day, Chris told me she was feeling better. Her skin had
stopped burning. She even managed a meal of flat bread and kefta. I
suggested we go out. We pulled djellabas from the market over our heads to
blend in, so the hawkers wouldn't hassle us. It didn't help. I felt the hot breath of
traders on my neck, offering gold, slippers, porcelain. Anything. Chris leaned on
me and took little steps, like a spider heavy with eggs.
We turned left then right, right then left, ended up getting lost. Boys with
menacing grins dashed about looking important. Hooded figures hunched over
hookahs. Women with secret smiles, heads wrapped in coloured cloth.
We stopped at a bar and ordered beer for me, mint tea for her. Chris
disappeared to the bathroom. I got chatting to a guy called Mustapha, my
French broken and basic. Chris came back, smiled and nodded. Her French
was worse than mine.
Mustapha offered to take us to places the average tourist didn't know
about. Said he could show us the real Morocco. He spoke really fast, over the
twang of tuneless instruments. He talked about cheap carpets and jewelry in his
uncle's shop. My French wasn't brilliant, but I thought he said something about
getting some shit hot hash too. The stuff I'd picked up at the souk was all right,
but I wanted some black.
Mustapha whistled and a boy trotted over. He was about eight, wore a
pair of holed shorts and a 'Manchester United' T-shirt. They spoke in Arabic. The
kid ran off.
By the time the boy returned, it was dark outside. Mustapha led us to a
battered turquoise taxi. We wound through narrow streets, all the time feeling
like we were being sucked into the guts of a giant creature.
We stepped out of the car to face a tall narrow building. The hot air
wrapped itself around me like a blanket. Chris walked slowly, like everything
was a huge effort. We followed Mustapha into a building that had no shop
frontage, no signs, no indication that we were entering anything but an
ordinary apartment block. Chris looked back at me once, questioning, silent, as
if checking how precarious our situation was, appealing for reassurance. I
forced a smile.
The uncle's carpet shop appeared to have opened just for us. A toothless
man greeted us.
"Most welcoming. You for shopping come," he said, obsequious and foul.
"Many, many goods we had. Come, come." He led us up narrow wooden
steps, through a door with a faded sign on it. 'Tiger Carpets', with a cartoon
animal, paint chipped, Arabic beneath the English letters.
One of the men urged Chris and I to sit on two low wooden stools. Two
skinny guys brought out stacks of carpets. One of the guys was a midget.
Mustapha stood in the corner looking as if he'd been given a reward, his teeth
shining eggshell white in the light of a flickering bare light bulb.
"Many month to make," the toothless uncle lisped. He threw rugs about like
he was dealing cards. "Childlen from stleet work loom. We feed. Like own son
and daughter." A woman scuttled in with a tray holding a long spouted pot
and pastel coloured glass cups. She broke pieces of loafsugar into the cups,
bowed and padded out again. One of Mustapha's uncles served steaming
tea. Mustapha passed me a pipe, and I took a toke without question. Chris
nodded it away, so I passed the metal pipe to the old feller. My head spun with
a thousand coloured cobwebs.
Then the carpet appeared. I'd never seen anything like it. The size of a
bath mat, but beautiful. Like the pattern on a dragonfly's wing, laced with
peacock iridescence. I ran my finger through its deep pile, imagining a child
working for months to make the intricate pattern. Blues and golds. Chris's eyes lit
up. Her face glistened in the odd light.
Toothless asked how much money we had. Chris gave me a warning look,
and I put my hand on her shoulder. She was hot again. I offered forty Dirhams.
He dismissed my offer like I'd slapped his face.
A hookah appeared. More tea. Photographs of grandchildren. The room
was spinning by the time I parted with 370 Dirhams. It was half our budget for
the week.
Toothless bundled our carpet in a brown bag along with a 'Tiger Carpets'
card. The same goofy cartoon tiger we'd seen on the sign outside the door.
I slid the pack into my shoulder bag, and listened to the thumping of my
heart within my chest. There was the promise of something exciting in the air.
We'd blown a huge amount of cash, but I didn't care. We were on the
gateway to something incredible, the real Morocco. Chris was shaking.
Mustapha offered to show us gold jewelry. I told him I didn't want that. I
wanted to see the real Morocco. I wanted to get hold of whatever had been in
that pipe. That was what I'd come for. That was how my horizons were going to
be broadened. That was my gold. The men mumbled to each other, and
indicated we should follow the short guy.
The midget spoke little French or English, but he said enough through
gesticulation for us to know he would take us where we wanted to be. His
drooping eyelids gave him a sleepy appearance. Chris and I followed the man
out to an alley. Mustapha didn't come. We entered another tall narrow
building. I followed two steps behind the midget as he climbed a poorly lit
staircase. I could hear Chris's heavy breath rasping behind me.
Three men sat on mats around a low table in a dimly lit room. They looked
haggard. Chris lay down on a mat in the corner. She was shivering. Reddish
lamplight cast shadows on sandy walls. I shared another pipe with the men and
stared at the ground between my feet. An industrious ant marched in a circle
on the floor. I felt isolated. The ant went round. No one said a word. The ant
went round again, in ever decreasing circles. Chris looked like she was dead
and I didn't fucking care. I was buzzing. The ant went round again and again
and again.
That ant was my last memory. The last memory until a one-eyed man woke
me. He pushed his foot against my head. Chris was moaning. A coal-dark man
had a bunch of her hair in his hand. There was a knife against her throat.
I leapt up, but One-eye kicked me and I crashed onto the floor, smashing
my jaw. Someone growled in Arabic. Coal-man pulled Chris's money belt from
beneath her waistband and cut through it with his knife. There wasn't much in it.
I had all the traveller's cheques. The man spat on the floor in disgust. I stared up
at One-eye's empty socket.
"Open," he said, kicking at my money belt.
One-eye counted the cheques, held them up to the light.
"Go. Fetch Dirham," he said. "Ten thousand. Back before night. No Police."
As the one-eyed guy spoke, Coal-man drew his blade, ever so slowly, across
Chris's neck. A crimson bead trickled towards her T-shirt.
"Don't leave me, Mannie," she screamed.
*
I was cold and disorientated. My jaw ached. I followed my instincts and
walked in a zigzag. I found the souk. From there, it was a short walk to the bank.
I shuffled from one foot to the other, waiting for it to open. I cashed every single
cheque. Then I rolled a joint and sucked hard on it, like I'd suffocate if I
stopped.
I headed towards the narrow building, but when I reached the souk, I
realised I had absolutely no idea where it was. The card. I needed the card. The
'Tiger Carpets' card had the address on it. I'd beat the shit out of that bastard
Mustapha, if he didn't take me straight to his short-arsed friend. I opened the
brown bag. The carpet twinkled like a soft jewel. Nothing. I spread the carpet
out on the ground and tipped my bag out onto it. I checked my money belt,
pockets, everything. No card. No address.
I rolled another joint. That's when I found the remains of the card in my
hash tin. I'd used it for the roach. The address was gone.
And that's when the devil tapped me on the shoulder.
*
I came back home months later, hollow-eyed and underweight. I had
the stupid carpet, but very little else. The story I told the police in Tangier was
partly true. We had been held captive and robbed. But I never said how I left
Chris to go find the real Morocco on my own.
*
A few months ago, Eleanor and I were in a thrifty store in Kingston, looking
for clothes pegs or some shit.
"Look," she said. "Those carpets. They're the same as the tatty one we've
got in the lounge."
My heart did a crazy dance inside me.
It was the size of a bath mat, but beautiful. Like the pattern on a
dragonfly's wing, laced with peacock iridescence. I ran my finger through its
deep pile. Blues and golds. Turquoise and velvet.
I fingered the label, 'made in Taiwan'.
I found the price tag. How much did it cost? How much was a life worth?
Five pounds. Just five sodding pounds, reduced from eight.
Nod Ghosh lives in Christchurch, New Zealand. Penduline Press, TheGayUK, The Citron Review, JAAM and Landfall have accepted Nod's work. Writers are like humans, but they watch less television. http://www.nodghosh.com/
Rosewater and Resolve
Louis looked at his handy work: a row of grand rose bushes lay in a heap
atop a tarp on the garden path. Wiping his brow, he stood and slapped his
hands against his acid wash jeans. The planter was now vacant. The roses sat in
the low evening sun dolefully, their petals already withering in the late summer
heat.
“Doing some gardening?”
Louis turned to see his neighbor, Mrs. Fields, leaning against the
weathered picket fence. She was gripping the hand of her young grandson,
who was smelling the flowers growing through the slats of wood. Louis smiled
mechanically. “Dad wants me to clear out the planter,” he answered as he
stripped off his gloves.
“Have the flowers died?” she asked, eyeing the pile of wilting roses.
“Just needed a change in the landscape, I guess.” He still smiled, but he
stood stiff-backed, facing her with his fist clenched in his pocket. Walk away, he
thought, but she didn’t move.
“Louis—,” she said.
Louis clenched his jaw, bracing himself. “Louis, your mother wouldn’t
have wanted you to pull up her roses. We could get more...replant them...she
loved those flowers, you know.”
“No,” Louis said in a falsely cheerful voice. “I don’t think she loved
anything, really.” His cheeks were beginning to ache from holding his smile in
place. Mrs. Fields opened her mouth and then closed it. He saw her chest fall as
she exhaled. She bade him good day and walked off with her young grandson
in tow. Turning his back on her, Louis wrapped the roses in their tarp and, with
some effort, lifted them into the trashcan at the top of the driveway.
*
It was dark and dank inside the house, like a small cave. Louis walked
blindly forward as his eyes adjusted to the low light and he was soon able to
see his father wrapped in a thin blanket, huddled on the couch where he had
been the night before. The television was flickering, but Louis knew his father
wasn’t paying it any attention. He stared ahead of him, his eyes unfocused and
bloodshot. At his feet were an array of brown bottles and metallic cans.
“I’m finished,” Louis called to him as he walked past on the way to his
room.
The house was messier than it had ever been. As Louis made his way
through the kitchen and down the hall, he stepped over pungent piles of
garbage and dirty clothes. The odor was especially powerful in his father’s
room. Louis felt a small twinge of annoyance and something else as he moved
down the hall, picking his way through the filth that had been steadily piling up.
He entered his bedroom, which was slightly cleaner, and looked around.
Suddenly a crashing sound came from the front of the house and Louis knew
that his father had dropped another bottle onto the floor at his feet. The sound
seemed amplified in Louis’ head. He slammed his bedroom door to drown it out
and threw himself onto his bed.
He lay there, the smell of dirt and his own sweat filling his nostrils. He had
been watering the rose bushes up until the week before when his father, in a
sudden furious outburst that had come at the end of weeks of unresponsive
lethargy, had screamed at him.
“Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, Lou?” his father had yelled,
clutching a slender brown bottle in his fist. “You think you water them damn
flowers and it’ll make a difference?”
Louis had said nothing, but stood there as his father raged, listening to
what he knew was nothing more than five months’ worth of diatribe not meant
for him. When his father had yelled himself hoarse and thrown himself back
onto the couch, Louis had run to his room and sat in the dark crying. It had
happened without warning as he sat there replaying his father’s voice in his
head, the same way it had been happening ever since he’d started watering
the roses. The first one had happened at school, the next came in the middle of
the night as he slept and dreamed of his parents yelling. He thought, by now,
he’d be able to tell when they were coming, but before he knew it he was
soon screaming and yelling for help. His father had come in to find him huddled
on the floor, sweaty and shivering.
“You crying, Lou? You crying like her—?”
Louis sat up, suddenly panting. His face felt warm, clammy. He placed a
hand to his chest and could feel his heart hammering beneath his damp t-shirt.
Taking deep, calming breaths, Louis closed his eyes and repeated in his head
I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay. He laid back down, repeating his mantra and
breathing slowly. His body felt tight and a raging need, a betraying desire to
see his mother gripped him. Her image billowed before his closed eyes like a
plume of smoke; he could see her, her lips twisted into a smile that did not meet
her eyes, the only smile he could ever remember seeing on her face. She had
worn that expression so often the last few years; he could see her sitting at the
dinner table, on the couch, in the car—a thin ghost wavering on the fringes of
their lives. It had always been so quiet, but when the silence got loud things
began to change. She left for work early, came home late, and the days when
she was home, she was always in the garden—knee deep in dark soil, bent
over her roses, her fingers covered in red pin pricks from their many thorns. The
sun would set and he could still hear her just outside his window, talking to them
as if they could hear her, as if they could understand. And once, when he had
watched her, once when she did not know he could see, she had smiled a
smile that reached her empty eyes, a smile that filled them with a light she
never had when looking at her family...
His chest ached at the thought of her and he sat up again, gasping and
sucking at the stale bedroom air. Louis clawed at his chest, his heart suddenly
stampeding—wave after wave of burning chills running down his skin. He
clenched his jaw and cried out, “Dad!”
He doubled over, unable to breathe properly. He could still see his
mother’s face flickering in his mind.
“Dad!” Louis cried again, wheezing and sputtering. He scrambled
towards his bedside table until he got his hands on a half empty water bottle.
He gulped the water down, spilling some on his neck and chest, all the while
feeling his heart slow, his body cool. He pulled the bottle from his lips and sat
shivering on his bed.
“What’re you yelling about?”
Louis jumped slightly at the sound of his father’s voice. He looked around
to see him leaning against the doorframe still wrapped in his blanket, one hand
gripping the wall. His eyes were still unfocused and he was looking at Louis as if
he’d never seen him properly before. “What’s going on in here?”
Louis frowned at his father, still shaking, and turned his back on him. “I--
nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Then what the hell were you yelling for?”
“I— it just happened again, that’s all. I’m okay now.” His throat felt tight
and his eyes were burning. Deep inside, like a distant drum, he could feel his
heart still thumping hard.
“What? You went choking again?” Louis didn’t answer but the drum was
getting louder; what had been little taps were turning to heavy knocks against
his ribs.
“Lou,” his father said, and Louis heard him stumble into the room. His
body tensed as he felt his father come closer. “Lou, turn ‘round and look at
me.”
A moment or two passed and then, without warning, Louis felt his father
grip his shoulder and turn him around. He tried to shut his eyes so his father
wouldn’t see, but it was too late--
“You crying, Lou?”
Louis kept his eyes down. His chest rose and fell and he bit the inside of his
cheeks. “Crying,” his father said. “Just like her. You just like her.”
Louis looked up at his father, barely daring to breathe.
“Crying in bed...at the table, in her damned garden...all over the
place...” Louis’ father squinted at him again, and then raised his eyes to the
window that overlooked the front yard. “You got rid of the roses?” He asked
brusquely, turning to Louis.
“I just did—you told me to—,”
“Good,” his father said. “That’s the only thing she’d come back for. Not
you...not..., nothing but those damned roses.” He watched the window, as if
seeing them, the grand rose bushes, still on the empty landscape. To his
surprise, Louis saw that his father’s eyes had become suddenly bright.
“Dad—?”
His father made no sign that he had heard Louis at all. Breathing hard,
Louis reached again for his water bottle, brought it to his lips and drank a series
of quick gulps. His chest hurt, but he could feel his heart slowing its pace; he
exhaled. His small movements seemed to bring his father out of his reverie—He
grunted and ran his hand over his face like a bothered animal.
“What were you yelling for?” he said again, frowning at Louis. He looked
numb from drink and delirious with thought. Louis shook his head.
“Nothing...it was nothing, Dad. I’m okay.”
His father watched him, frowning and swaying on the spot.
“You...you go to bed, son,” he said, and then stumbled from the room..
He closed the door with a snap and Louis sat, watching the space his father
had just vacated--
I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay...
*
The room had grown dark and cold as the sun set and the moon took its
place. Louis still lay fully dressed in his bed, now fast asleep. Down the hall his
father was dozing in his chair, once again stationed in front of the flickering
television. The house was quiet and still, save for the sound of slow breathing.
Louis slept poorly. In his dreams he heard strange, distant voices
accompanied by dull scraping sounds like an animal pawing at the windows.
He twisted and turned, saw his mother’s retreating back disappearing through
dark doorways and heard his own voice, crying like a child, for her to come
back. Early in the morning he woke with a start, jolted to bleary reality by the
sound of his father shuffling down the hall to his room. Louis heard the door
creak and listened to his father moving around his bedroom for a while before
falling silent. Louis checked his phone for the time and saw that it was nearly
five am. Ignoring his pangs of hunger, Louis rolled over and sank back into fitful
sleep.
*
When Louis awoke his room was cool and bright. The sun was shining
through the slats of his blinds and the house was still quiet. He sat up, checked
his phone, and saw a series of messages from friends inviting him to hang out.
Louis stared around his room, thinking fast. It would be good to get out of the
house, and if he was back in enough time, his father might not even know he
had gone. He checked his phone again; it was already ten, leaving only a
couple hours to get ready and meet everyone in town. Making up his mind,
Louis sent a few texts back and got up. Quickly, he threw together some
clothes, made his bed, and headed for the bathroom. As he passed his father’s
room, he saw that the door stood ajar. He paused, hovering outside, and could
just make out a tangle of blankets under which his father’s bulky figure rose and
fell slowly. Two bottles stood on his bedside table. One was empty and the
other half full. Feeling reassured that his father wouldn’t be up for hours, Louis
continued on his way to the bathroom.
After grabbing a shower and some breakfast, Louis left a note for his
father on the kitchen counter, placed his wallet and keys in his pocket, and
headed out the front door. It was nearly noon now. The day was warm and
bright; Louis could hear the neighbor children splashing around in their pool
and a strong smell of barbecue was wafting down the street. He pulled out his
phone to send a text to his friends, letting them know he was on the way when
a voice startled him:
“Good afternoon!”
Louis looked around and saw Mrs. Fields sitting on a lawn chair in her front
yard. A tiny inflatable pool was set up where her grandson was splashing
around with a water toy while her husband watched. Louis hitched his
mechanical smile onto his face again and waved to her. His heart sinking
horribly, he saw her lift herself from the chair and make her way across the
street.
“I’m so glad to see what you’ve done, Louis,” she said as she reached
the fence. She gave him a kind smile and her eyes looked misty. He furrowed
his brow, taken aback.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Fields said, shaking her head. “It brought tears to my eyes
when I came out this morning and saw them. I’m so glad, Louis. I really am.”
Louis’ smile faltered and then fell completely. He frowned at Mrs. Fields,
looked around, and then stopped as his eyes fell onto the planter. The soil
looked dark and loose, as if someone had freshly tilled and watered it. In two
straight rows that ran the length of the planter were what looked like spindly
stumps, but what Louis knew to be the beginnings of rose bushes. He stared,
momentarily forgetting that Mrs. Fields was with him.
“I think she’d be glad to know you kept a small part of her, even in spite
of...of things,” she said from a far way off. “You’re a good boy, Louis.”
Louis turned back around and saw that her eyes were as bright and
glassy as his father’s had been the evening before. He opened his mouth and
closed it, and opened it again.
“You didn’t...?” he began, but his voice trailed off. He shook his head.
“Mrs. Fields, the roses—,”
“They’ll take some time to come in like they were before, but you’ll care
for them.” She touched his arm gently. “And I can help you, you know.” She
squeezed his hand and, after a moment, turned to go; Louis saw her husband
watching them with a sad smile on his lips.
“Mrs. Fields?” Louis called before she crossed the street. She turned. He
did not know what to say to her. His mind was racing and he could feel his
heart thundering, but this time it was born from a nervous curiosity he had not
felt in a long time.
“I—,” he said. “You...” He shook his head. “Thank you.”
Looking slightly bemused and tearful, she nodded at him. Then, waving,
she made her way back across the street. Louis watched her for a moment and
glanced back at the roses. His eyes burned at the sight of the bare sticks that
would soon grow into lush greens and flowers, and his throat felt tight. He
turned to head on his way down the street towards the bus stop at the street
corner, then stopped as a glint of something shiny caught his eye. Squinting,
Louis made his way back up the drive towards the planter. As he came closer
he could feel his heart hammering again. His eyes widened as dawning
comprehension gripped him: there, lying partially hidden in the dirt, was a
slender brown bottle. Louis stared. He looked back at Mrs. Fields, but she and
her family were no longer paying him any attention.
Carefully, Louis crept into the planter and allowed the contents of the
bottle to drip into his outstretched hands. He lifted them, shaking slightly, to his
nose and inhaled, but could smell no trace of alcohol. Frowning, Louis watched
the clear liquid slowly seeping through the cracks in his fingers and brought it,
instead, to his lips. He touched his tongue to it and, closing his eyes, smiled as
the taste of cool water rippled through his mouth.
atop a tarp on the garden path. Wiping his brow, he stood and slapped his
hands against his acid wash jeans. The planter was now vacant. The roses sat in
the low evening sun dolefully, their petals already withering in the late summer
heat.
“Doing some gardening?”
Louis turned to see his neighbor, Mrs. Fields, leaning against the
weathered picket fence. She was gripping the hand of her young grandson,
who was smelling the flowers growing through the slats of wood. Louis smiled
mechanically. “Dad wants me to clear out the planter,” he answered as he
stripped off his gloves.
“Have the flowers died?” she asked, eyeing the pile of wilting roses.
“Just needed a change in the landscape, I guess.” He still smiled, but he
stood stiff-backed, facing her with his fist clenched in his pocket. Walk away, he
thought, but she didn’t move.
“Louis—,” she said.
Louis clenched his jaw, bracing himself. “Louis, your mother wouldn’t
have wanted you to pull up her roses. We could get more...replant them...she
loved those flowers, you know.”
“No,” Louis said in a falsely cheerful voice. “I don’t think she loved
anything, really.” His cheeks were beginning to ache from holding his smile in
place. Mrs. Fields opened her mouth and then closed it. He saw her chest fall as
she exhaled. She bade him good day and walked off with her young grandson
in tow. Turning his back on her, Louis wrapped the roses in their tarp and, with
some effort, lifted them into the trashcan at the top of the driveway.
*
It was dark and dank inside the house, like a small cave. Louis walked
blindly forward as his eyes adjusted to the low light and he was soon able to
see his father wrapped in a thin blanket, huddled on the couch where he had
been the night before. The television was flickering, but Louis knew his father
wasn’t paying it any attention. He stared ahead of him, his eyes unfocused and
bloodshot. At his feet were an array of brown bottles and metallic cans.
“I’m finished,” Louis called to him as he walked past on the way to his
room.
The house was messier than it had ever been. As Louis made his way
through the kitchen and down the hall, he stepped over pungent piles of
garbage and dirty clothes. The odor was especially powerful in his father’s
room. Louis felt a small twinge of annoyance and something else as he moved
down the hall, picking his way through the filth that had been steadily piling up.
He entered his bedroom, which was slightly cleaner, and looked around.
Suddenly a crashing sound came from the front of the house and Louis knew
that his father had dropped another bottle onto the floor at his feet. The sound
seemed amplified in Louis’ head. He slammed his bedroom door to drown it out
and threw himself onto his bed.
He lay there, the smell of dirt and his own sweat filling his nostrils. He had
been watering the rose bushes up until the week before when his father, in a
sudden furious outburst that had come at the end of weeks of unresponsive
lethargy, had screamed at him.
“Who the hell do you think you’re kidding, Lou?” his father had yelled,
clutching a slender brown bottle in his fist. “You think you water them damn
flowers and it’ll make a difference?”
Louis had said nothing, but stood there as his father raged, listening to
what he knew was nothing more than five months’ worth of diatribe not meant
for him. When his father had yelled himself hoarse and thrown himself back
onto the couch, Louis had run to his room and sat in the dark crying. It had
happened without warning as he sat there replaying his father’s voice in his
head, the same way it had been happening ever since he’d started watering
the roses. The first one had happened at school, the next came in the middle of
the night as he slept and dreamed of his parents yelling. He thought, by now,
he’d be able to tell when they were coming, but before he knew it he was
soon screaming and yelling for help. His father had come in to find him huddled
on the floor, sweaty and shivering.
“You crying, Lou? You crying like her—?”
Louis sat up, suddenly panting. His face felt warm, clammy. He placed a
hand to his chest and could feel his heart hammering beneath his damp t-shirt.
Taking deep, calming breaths, Louis closed his eyes and repeated in his head
I’m okay I’m okay I’m okay. He laid back down, repeating his mantra and
breathing slowly. His body felt tight and a raging need, a betraying desire to
see his mother gripped him. Her image billowed before his closed eyes like a
plume of smoke; he could see her, her lips twisted into a smile that did not meet
her eyes, the only smile he could ever remember seeing on her face. She had
worn that expression so often the last few years; he could see her sitting at the
dinner table, on the couch, in the car—a thin ghost wavering on the fringes of
their lives. It had always been so quiet, but when the silence got loud things
began to change. She left for work early, came home late, and the days when
she was home, she was always in the garden—knee deep in dark soil, bent
over her roses, her fingers covered in red pin pricks from their many thorns. The
sun would set and he could still hear her just outside his window, talking to them
as if they could hear her, as if they could understand. And once, when he had
watched her, once when she did not know he could see, she had smiled a
smile that reached her empty eyes, a smile that filled them with a light she
never had when looking at her family...
His chest ached at the thought of her and he sat up again, gasping and
sucking at the stale bedroom air. Louis clawed at his chest, his heart suddenly
stampeding—wave after wave of burning chills running down his skin. He
clenched his jaw and cried out, “Dad!”
He doubled over, unable to breathe properly. He could still see his
mother’s face flickering in his mind.
“Dad!” Louis cried again, wheezing and sputtering. He scrambled
towards his bedside table until he got his hands on a half empty water bottle.
He gulped the water down, spilling some on his neck and chest, all the while
feeling his heart slow, his body cool. He pulled the bottle from his lips and sat
shivering on his bed.
“What’re you yelling about?”
Louis jumped slightly at the sound of his father’s voice. He looked around
to see him leaning against the doorframe still wrapped in his blanket, one hand
gripping the wall. His eyes were still unfocused and he was looking at Louis as if
he’d never seen him properly before. “What’s going on in here?”
Louis frowned at his father, still shaking, and turned his back on him. “I--
nothing. It’s nothing.”
“Then what the hell were you yelling for?”
“I— it just happened again, that’s all. I’m okay now.” His throat felt tight
and his eyes were burning. Deep inside, like a distant drum, he could feel his
heart still thumping hard.
“What? You went choking again?” Louis didn’t answer but the drum was
getting louder; what had been little taps were turning to heavy knocks against
his ribs.
“Lou,” his father said, and Louis heard him stumble into the room. His
body tensed as he felt his father come closer. “Lou, turn ‘round and look at
me.”
A moment or two passed and then, without warning, Louis felt his father
grip his shoulder and turn him around. He tried to shut his eyes so his father
wouldn’t see, but it was too late--
“You crying, Lou?”
Louis kept his eyes down. His chest rose and fell and he bit the inside of his
cheeks. “Crying,” his father said. “Just like her. You just like her.”
Louis looked up at his father, barely daring to breathe.
“Crying in bed...at the table, in her damned garden...all over the
place...” Louis’ father squinted at him again, and then raised his eyes to the
window that overlooked the front yard. “You got rid of the roses?” He asked
brusquely, turning to Louis.
“I just did—you told me to—,”
“Good,” his father said. “That’s the only thing she’d come back for. Not
you...not..., nothing but those damned roses.” He watched the window, as if
seeing them, the grand rose bushes, still on the empty landscape. To his
surprise, Louis saw that his father’s eyes had become suddenly bright.
“Dad—?”
His father made no sign that he had heard Louis at all. Breathing hard,
Louis reached again for his water bottle, brought it to his lips and drank a series
of quick gulps. His chest hurt, but he could feel his heart slowing its pace; he
exhaled. His small movements seemed to bring his father out of his reverie—He
grunted and ran his hand over his face like a bothered animal.
“What were you yelling for?” he said again, frowning at Louis. He looked
numb from drink and delirious with thought. Louis shook his head.
“Nothing...it was nothing, Dad. I’m okay.”
His father watched him, frowning and swaying on the spot.
“You...you go to bed, son,” he said, and then stumbled from the room..
He closed the door with a snap and Louis sat, watching the space his father
had just vacated--
I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay...
*
The room had grown dark and cold as the sun set and the moon took its
place. Louis still lay fully dressed in his bed, now fast asleep. Down the hall his
father was dozing in his chair, once again stationed in front of the flickering
television. The house was quiet and still, save for the sound of slow breathing.
Louis slept poorly. In his dreams he heard strange, distant voices
accompanied by dull scraping sounds like an animal pawing at the windows.
He twisted and turned, saw his mother’s retreating back disappearing through
dark doorways and heard his own voice, crying like a child, for her to come
back. Early in the morning he woke with a start, jolted to bleary reality by the
sound of his father shuffling down the hall to his room. Louis heard the door
creak and listened to his father moving around his bedroom for a while before
falling silent. Louis checked his phone for the time and saw that it was nearly
five am. Ignoring his pangs of hunger, Louis rolled over and sank back into fitful
sleep.
*
When Louis awoke his room was cool and bright. The sun was shining
through the slats of his blinds and the house was still quiet. He sat up, checked
his phone, and saw a series of messages from friends inviting him to hang out.
Louis stared around his room, thinking fast. It would be good to get out of the
house, and if he was back in enough time, his father might not even know he
had gone. He checked his phone again; it was already ten, leaving only a
couple hours to get ready and meet everyone in town. Making up his mind,
Louis sent a few texts back and got up. Quickly, he threw together some
clothes, made his bed, and headed for the bathroom. As he passed his father’s
room, he saw that the door stood ajar. He paused, hovering outside, and could
just make out a tangle of blankets under which his father’s bulky figure rose and
fell slowly. Two bottles stood on his bedside table. One was empty and the
other half full. Feeling reassured that his father wouldn’t be up for hours, Louis
continued on his way to the bathroom.
After grabbing a shower and some breakfast, Louis left a note for his
father on the kitchen counter, placed his wallet and keys in his pocket, and
headed out the front door. It was nearly noon now. The day was warm and
bright; Louis could hear the neighbor children splashing around in their pool
and a strong smell of barbecue was wafting down the street. He pulled out his
phone to send a text to his friends, letting them know he was on the way when
a voice startled him:
“Good afternoon!”
Louis looked around and saw Mrs. Fields sitting on a lawn chair in her front
yard. A tiny inflatable pool was set up where her grandson was splashing
around with a water toy while her husband watched. Louis hitched his
mechanical smile onto his face again and waved to her. His heart sinking
horribly, he saw her lift herself from the chair and make her way across the
street.
“I’m so glad to see what you’ve done, Louis,” she said as she reached
the fence. She gave him a kind smile and her eyes looked misty. He furrowed
his brow, taken aback.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh,” Mrs. Fields said, shaking her head. “It brought tears to my eyes
when I came out this morning and saw them. I’m so glad, Louis. I really am.”
Louis’ smile faltered and then fell completely. He frowned at Mrs. Fields,
looked around, and then stopped as his eyes fell onto the planter. The soil
looked dark and loose, as if someone had freshly tilled and watered it. In two
straight rows that ran the length of the planter were what looked like spindly
stumps, but what Louis knew to be the beginnings of rose bushes. He stared,
momentarily forgetting that Mrs. Fields was with him.
“I think she’d be glad to know you kept a small part of her, even in spite
of...of things,” she said from a far way off. “You’re a good boy, Louis.”
Louis turned back around and saw that her eyes were as bright and
glassy as his father’s had been the evening before. He opened his mouth and
closed it, and opened it again.
“You didn’t...?” he began, but his voice trailed off. He shook his head.
“Mrs. Fields, the roses—,”
“They’ll take some time to come in like they were before, but you’ll care
for them.” She touched his arm gently. “And I can help you, you know.” She
squeezed his hand and, after a moment, turned to go; Louis saw her husband
watching them with a sad smile on his lips.
“Mrs. Fields?” Louis called before she crossed the street. She turned. He
did not know what to say to her. His mind was racing and he could feel his
heart thundering, but this time it was born from a nervous curiosity he had not
felt in a long time.
“I—,” he said. “You...” He shook his head. “Thank you.”
Looking slightly bemused and tearful, she nodded at him. Then, waving,
she made her way back across the street. Louis watched her for a moment and
glanced back at the roses. His eyes burned at the sight of the bare sticks that
would soon grow into lush greens and flowers, and his throat felt tight. He
turned to head on his way down the street towards the bus stop at the street
corner, then stopped as a glint of something shiny caught his eye. Squinting,
Louis made his way back up the drive towards the planter. As he came closer
he could feel his heart hammering again. His eyes widened as dawning
comprehension gripped him: there, lying partially hidden in the dirt, was a
slender brown bottle. Louis stared. He looked back at Mrs. Fields, but she and
her family were no longer paying him any attention.
Carefully, Louis crept into the planter and allowed the contents of the
bottle to drip into his outstretched hands. He lifted them, shaking slightly, to his
nose and inhaled, but could smell no trace of alcohol. Frowning, Louis watched
the clear liquid slowly seeping through the cracks in his fingers and brought it,
instead, to his lips. He touched his tongue to it and, closing his eyes, smiled as
the taste of cool water rippled through his mouth.
