Greetings from the Vodka Sea Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  . . .

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

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

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

  That evening, before visiting hours ended, Dr. Sidhu slipped a small plastic bottle into Diane’s hand. Flurazepam. “I don’t know if I can find how to wake your child,” he almost whispered. “I hope these can help you find yourself some rest.”
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  Monday Diane dropped Big Doug at the airport on her way to work. He was off till the end of the week, a purchasing seminar in Edmonton. He promised to take his wife to Hawaii “after all this blows over.” Last time they went to Hawaii Big Doug drank seventeen maitais on the plane. He had to be escorted from the airport in a wheelchair.

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

  Near closing time a Chinese boy came into the store. He went straight to the magazine rack across from the sales desk. He seemed familiar; he did not notice Diane stare as he leafed through the hockey and bodybuilding magazines. Diane recalled the skinny, boyish face of the ambulance attendant; it was him, she was sure of it. After a moment, the boy reached for one of the adult magazines. They always did this, linger a while in the sports section before pawing the adult magazines. After looking at four or five, the boy selected one and moved towards the counter, trying to hide his erection with the magazine. He stopped on the way to select a bottle of cheap shampoo. They always did this. The boys never bought just a magazine. They always bought something else as a cover, an excuse.

  When the boy reached the counter, Diane said “Hello,” asked, “How are you?” The boy grunted. “Fine.” He looked away. Diane could see that his hands trembled. She grabbed the magazine and turned it to read the price, her fingers scarcely an inch from the strip of bare skin between the waistband of the boy’s track pants and the bottom of his t-shirt. On the cover was a picture of a young woman with auburn hair, just like Diane’s. Her mouth was open a tiny bit, and she held her breasts with both hands as if she suddenly had to stop them from spilling out onto the floor.

  “Goodbye,” Diane said, as the boy turned to leave. He stopped at the door.

  “Goodnight.” His voice was calm. He did not turn around.

  Diane thought about the Chinese boy on her way to the hospital. She imagined that his name was Ricky. He was twenty-four years old, although he looked much younger. Ricky sat beside her in the car, and she ran her free hand along the inch of bare skin just above the waistline of his track pants, then she undid the string that held the track pants up and slipped her hand inside. His penis was slender but very hard. She imagined that she took him to the empty yellow house and that he kissed her by the big window in the kitchen, and that he held her wrists in his strong, small hands when they made love, he held her wrists away from her body so firmly that she felt she could not move. She was under his control. And as they made love Ricky growled obscenities at her: “This sleep,” his voice was hesitant,“is a paradox. We sleep and wake. The eyes are shut, but there is much physiological activity: gross muscle movement, vocalization, erection of the penis . . .”

  They lay side by side a long time in utter quiet. Diane believed that only in such silence could they communicate.

  There was no doubt about it. Dougie’s wrist was narrower, a good centimetre smaller all round. His index finger measured 0.5 cm shorter than on Thursday. Dr. Sidhu said it was to be expected, the boy’s body atrophied. “The muscles and tendons, they get no work, see? They contract, they withdraw to give the appearance that the boy shrinks. He probably is in fact shorter than when he came to us.”

  Diane imagined her son growing smaller and smaller, his skin drying and cracking, mud in the sun, until he was a fragile insect tiny enough to fit in her apron pocket. She saw herself hop around the kitchen, tea in paw, a kangaroo mother and her larva.

  “I’m sure it’s for the best,” Mrs. Flannigan said. “It’s almost like a miracle, if you think about it. It’s almost like a miracle in reverse.”

  Diane felt sick. Why do I even let her come with me? She excused herself and left the doctor and her mother-in-law standing in the waiting room. She ran to her son’s room and dropped on the end of the bed. Diane was crying now, the tears just came. She shook her son by the shoulders, first gently, then with increased force until his head swung with such violence Diane feared she might snap his neck. “Wake up! Wake up, god damn it!” She let his head drop to the pillow. She put her hands to her throat and cried. Not loud, just the short, irregular breaths of a woman gasping for air.

  Little Doug was looking at her, she felt it. If she lifted her head, his eyes would be open, silent emerald eyes, just as she remembered them. He did not speak, just looked at her, his eyebrows furled in a puzzled expression. Diane felt for his hand. “Hello?” she said. He seemed alert and calm, there was no mistaking that he was awake. Diane heard his head turn on the dry linen. He was looking out the window. Then his breath stopped, his eyes closed and his breath stopped. The mother opened her eyes.

  Little Doug was awake. Little Doug was dead. Those were the simple solutions. Big Doug was fat and insensitive. Diane was adrift in her loneliness. Little Doug was awake or dead or something at least that was not lost somewhere in between, something that was not this shrinking energy, diminishing at every moment until it became invisible existence. Little Doug was awake or dead, those were the correct solutions, the perfect, disappointing conclusions; but still he went on sleeping.

  Diane lifted her legs onto the bed, she lay on the bed, wrapped her arms around her son. She closed her eyes. Let me sleep, dear God, let me sleep. She reached in her pocket for the small bottle of pills Dr. Sidhu had left her. A moment later she felt herself drift away, she felt her skin retract as the slow air-conditioned wind blew across it. She imagined herself falling asleep, shrinking in half-lives until she was visible only to the eye of a seagull, an atom-woman entwined in the arms of her sub-molecular son, the invisible particle lost in the space of a secret lover’s fist.

  The Raindrops, Not Unlike Her Tears

  When I last saw Marlene alive she said that everyone has a claim to fame, even if it’s something trifling — she used words like that, “trifling” — it’s righteous (righteous!) in the eyes of Our Lord. Perhaps that’s why they rubbed her out. She thought too much.

  Me, I hardly think at all, and if I do think, it’s just about nothing. I’ll try and guess the weight of someone walking by, a stranger. I’ll remember the lyrics of a song popular forty or fifty years ago, when I was young and the world was my oyster. I’ll speculate on the number of shovelfuls of dirt in a certain kind of pit or hole, say, a shallow grave.

  I enjoy manual labour.

  Me and Marlene were something, though, in those days, by which I mean in the days when she was still alive. We were two of a kind. Two peas in a pod, so to speak. Between us, we must have weighed . . . oh, twenty-three stone, which is I don’t know how many kilograms. We met at public swimming. She sat down beside me in the whirlpool bath and just spoke up, saying that hot water was “a tonic for the soul” and that it “girded the loins.” I do not hazard a guess at what she meant by that, “girded the loins.” I replied only that I found the water very hot that day, very hot indeed. One hundred and three or four degrees. “Enough,” I said, hoping to sound like a man who did not think too much, yet was of some intellect, “enough to perhaps, ah, boil an egg.”

  Marlene nodded and, under the cloud of bubble, slipped her hand into my shorts. She said nothing until a few moments later, when my stuff rose and swirled at whirlpool’s centre.

  “I believe that a man’s substance is in that wad. A man’s essence. With every squirt and shot a man’s essence is depleted. Only so much at a time, but eventually . . .”

  She meant to say, “it adds up,” but didn’t need to finish. I understood.

  What a man does is important, it’s a part of who he is: the outco
me of your income is to become a someone, I always say. Myself, I am a service worker. I provide a public service, which is not to say I don’t get paid — I get paid very well, thank you, for the service I provide. I’m only saying that my work is of benefit to others. I, in a word, bury things. Animals. Small things, mostly. Any thing. I should say I am retired, I’m a retiree, but in fact I am kept quite busy almost without end burying things. I have a truck, such as it is, which is one of the qualities Marlene liked most about me. “Gordon H. Fawcette, Inhumation Engineer,” I think of writing on the door of my truck, although it reads in fact “Gordon H. Fawcette, Yard Maintenance.” That is enough. I am known. I have a reputation.

  Marlene shook her red hair and sort of sputtered like a sputtering thing when I told her what I did for a living. “What kind of a work is that for a gentleman . . .”

  She was forever not finishing sentences.

  “It’s so . . .” she said.

  “It’s what I do,” I answered. I said that one day, if she liked, I would bury her. “You have such delicate bone structure, such a lovely hunched posture, such beautiful, white, almost-translucent skin, slippery skin, I bet, in the right sort of, ah, climate. You’ll bury well someday.” I was only flirting, of course. But I meant it. I truly believed that she would bury well one day. Little did I know how wrong I was. She would not bury well. Not well at all.

  Because I am known, because I have a reputation, people are forever calling me up. The evening Marlene died I was up at an acreage in the hills providing an estimate on the interment of a yellow greyhound. The owner had left the dog parked in the hot sun. “You can’t think of everything,” I said, by way of a comforting word, implying that man could not know in advance that dog would die if left in a car parked in the hot sun. “You can’t think of everything.” The fellow said, “Sure,” and indicated that he wanted the job done quickly as possible.