Iain Reid - I'm Thinking of Ending Things

I’m about to head back up when, at the far end of the room, just beyond the water tank, I notice what is making the sound. A small white oscillating fan sitting on a shelf. It’s so dark I can barely see it. I should really get back upstairs, back to the table.

I don’t think Jake wants me to see this. The thought only makes me want to stay here longer, though. I won’t take long. I carefully step off the slab and toward the fan. It turns back and forth. Why is there a fan running in winter? It’s cold enough as it is.

Near the furnace is a painting on an easel. Is that why the fan is on? To dry the paint? I can’t imagine being down here for long stretches, painting. I don’t see any paint or brushes. No other art supplies. No chair. Does the painter stand? I’m assuming it’s Jake’s mom. But she’s taller than I am, and I almost have to bend over so as not to hit my head on the ceiling beams. And why paint all the way down here?

I get closer to the painting. The piece is full of wild, heavy brushstrokes and some very specific detail. It’s a portrait of a space, a room. It might be this room, this basement. It is. It’s dark, the painting, but I can see the stairs, the concrete slab, the shelves. The only thing that’s missing is the furnace. In its place is a woman. Or maybe a man. It’s an entity, an individual with long hair. Standing, slightly bent over, with long arms. Long fingernails, really long, almost like claws. They aren’t growing longer, sharper. But they look like they are. At the bottom corner of the painting, there’s a second person, much smaller; a child?

Staring at this picture, I’m reminded of something Jake mentioned on the drive tonight. I’d been only half listening when he said it, so I’m surprised by how clearly I’m recalling his words now. He talked about why examples are used in philosophy, how most understanding and truth combines certainty and rational deduction, but also abstraction. “It’s the integration of both,” he said, “that matters.” I was looking out my window at the passing fields, watching the bare trees fly by.

“This integration reflects the way our minds work, the way we function and interact; our split between logic, reason, and something else,” he said, “something closer to feeling, or spirit. There’s a word that will probably make you bristle. But we can’t, even the most practical-minded of us, understand the world through rationality, not entirely. We depend on symbols for meaning.”

I glanced at him without saying anything.

“And I’m not just talking about the Greeks. This is a pretty common thread, West and East. It’s universal.”

“When you say symbols, you mean…?”

“Allegory,” he said, “elaborate metaphor. We don’t just understand or recognize significance and validity through experience. We accept, reject, and discern through symbols. These are as important to our understanding of life, our understanding of existence and what has value, what’s worthwhile, as math and science. And I’m saying this as a scientist. It’s all part of how we work through things, how we make decisions. See, as I’m saying it I hear how it sounds, which is very obvious and trite, but it’s interesting.”

I look at the painting again. The plain face of the person. Nondescript. The long nails pointing down, wet, almost dripping. The fan creaks back and forth.

There is a small, dirty bookcase beside the painting. It’s full of old papers. Pages and pages. Drawings. I pick one up. The paper is thick. And another. They’re all of this room. They’re all of the basement. And in each drawing there’s a different person in place of the furnace. Some with short hair, some with long. One has horns. Some have breasts, some penises, some both. All have the long nails and a similar knowing, paralyzed expression.

In each picture there’s the child, too. Usually in the corner. Sometimes in other places — on the ground, looking up at the larger figure. In one, the child is in the stomach of the woman. In another, the woman has two heads, and one of the heads is the child’s.

I hear footsteps upstairs. Delicate, soft. Jake’s mother? Why did I assume she does the painting and drawing down here? I hear more footsteps upstairs, heavier.

I can hear someone. Talking. Two people. I can. From where? It’s Jake’s mom and dad, upstairs. They’re arguing again.

Arguing might be too strong, but the conversation is not cordial. It’s heated. Something’s wrong. They’re upset. I need to get closer to the vent. There’s a rusty paint can by the far wall. I move it directly under the vent. I stand on it, balancing myself against the wall. They are talking in the kitchen.

“He can’t keep doing this.”

“It’s not sustainable.”

“He spent all that time to get there, just to quit? He threw it away. Of course I worry.”

“He needs predictability, something steady. He’s alone too much.”

Are they talking about Jake? I put my hand higher on the wall and rise up on my tiptoes.

“You kept telling him he could do whatever he wanted.”

“What was I supposed to say? You can’t get by day after day being like that, shy, introverted… so…”

What’s she saying? I can’t make it out.

“Needs to get out of his own head, move on.”

“He left the lab. That was his decision. He never should have started down that path in the first place. The thing is…”

Something here I can’t make out.

“Yes, yes. I know he’s smart. I know. But it doesn’t mean he had to go that route.”

“… A job he can keep. Hold down.”

Left the lab? So they are talking about Jake? What do they mean? Jake’s still working there. It’s getting harder to decipher the words. If I can just get a bit higher, closer.

The paint can tips and I crash against the wall. The voices stop. I freeze.

For a second, I think I hear someone move behind me. I shouldn’t be down here. I shouldn’t be listening. I turn to look back toward the stairs, but there’s no one there. Just the shelves full of boxes, the dim light coming from upstairs. I don’t hear the voices anymore, not at all. It’s quiet. I’m alone.

An awful feeling of claustrophobia settles over me. What if someone were to close the trapdoor covering the stairs? I would be stuck down here. It would be dark. I’m not sure what I would do. I stand up, not wanting to think about it further, rubbing the knee I banged into the wall.

On my way back up the stairs I notice a lock and latch on the trapdoor, the one that hides the stairs when it’s closed. The latch is screwed into the wall beside the stairs, but the lock’s on the bottom of the trapdoor. You’d think it would be on the top side, so they could lock it from the top. The trapdoor can be closed and opened from either side, either pushed up if you’re in the basement, or pulled up if you’re on the landing. But it can be locked only from below.

— Do we know the official cause of death?

— Bled out, from the puncture wounds.

— Awful.

— Bled for hours, we think. Quite a bit of blood.

— It must have been terrible to stumble across.

— Yes, I imagine it was. Horrible. Something you’d never forget.

The dining room is empty when I return from the basement. The table has been cleared except for my dessert plate.

I poke my head into the kitchen. The dirty plates are stacked and rinsed, but not washed. The sink is filled with grayish water. The faucet drips. Drips.

“Jake?” I call. Where is he? Where is everyone? Maybe Jake is taking out the table scraps to the compost in the shed.