Anne-Marie Kinney - Radio Iris

“Impressions.”

“Listen, don’t worry too much about it, but he said you made him feel uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable. Huh.”

“He said he couldn’t put his finger on it— just something about your demeanor, your ‘intensity,’ he called it. Again, this is just something to keep in mind.”

“So, you’re asking me to just keep in mind the fact that I somehow, in some ineffable way, made someone uncomfortable.”

“Hey, hey, it’s no big deal— no need to get up in arms about— ”

“Up in arms? Who’s getting…? I’m fine. That’s fine. Is that it?”

Mason doesn’t say anything.

Neil steps into the bathroom, where he looks into the mirror, watching himself on the phone. He blinks fast, then slowly, listening to Mason’s long silence.

“I’m just asking you to keep it in mind,” he says, finally. “Maybe you just need to relax, do some deep breathing exercises, take up yoga or something.”

“Or something.” Neil squeezes the phone. “Well thanks, Mason. Thanks for telling me. Duly noted.”

“Hey, I’m just here to help you succeed, right? You okay?”

“I’m great.”

“Good, good. I’ll check in with you later in the week, all right?”

“Talk to you soon.”

Neil hangs up the phone and tosses it into his briefcase. He stands there for a moment, staring at the suitcase beside it. He gets dressed and grabs some more clothes out of the closet, and a few pairs of shoes he wraps up in dry cleaner bags. He zips open the extender so he can fit in a few more things, some books, magazines, his still-wet toothbrush and paste, deodorant, band-aids, more socks because you can never have too many, more underwear too, why not bring all of it, a few different pairs of sunglasses, and then in his briefcase, his laptop, notes, planner, his checkbook, a couple rolls of cash, a folder containing his Social Security card and passport, a few of the blindfold prototypes, a blank pad of hotel paper that’s sitting on the bedside table, and then rattling around loose he tosses in eye drops, breath mints, gum, a watch he never wears, a few pens he finds around the apartment, some loose change, a button.

He stops packing for a second and realizes that he’s sweating. He looks in his hand, a bunched up yellow tablecloth he was about to stuff into the outside pocket of his suitcase. He’d pulled it off the table, letting a stack of mail scatter onto the floor. He drops the tablecloth on the bedroom floor and gets down on his knees, rubbing his eyes. He wipes the sweat from the back of his neck with an angry swipe.

Where am I going, where am I going, where am I going… he thinks, rubbing his scalp, because in order to pack he needs to know where in the fuck it is that he’s going. He lost track somewhere along the way. He closes his eyes and sees himself driving, driving cross-country, passing by so many towns that used to be, towns with train tracks that stop abruptly at the outskirts, the steel ends gnarled up like bony fingers, towns that have been vacated because the jobs dried up, filled with abandoned houses with doors warped shut and closed-up drug stores with merchandise useless on dusty shelves, and little graveyards, with no one left to tend them, the sludge of dead flowers in piles.

He stands up again, and begins removing items from his luggage. The extra suits, the magazines, pens and paper, coasters off the coffee table, he shovels things out onto the floor with a cupped hand.

My demeanor. My intensity. That’s it. He’s just too intense, whatever that means. Was it that intensity that made it so easy for people to believe he’d done something unspeakable all those years ago, something worlds more sinister than noticing too late that the branch was straining, that the fall would send the boy catapulting into the sharp maze of branches below, that his neck would snap with a sound like metal against metal, a ringing smack that would carry through the whole yard and beyond? And was it intensity that led him, instantly, unconsciously, to scrape his own hand hard against the tree, drawing blood, his idea of evidence that he’d tried to do something, and failed?

He’s emptied the suitcase, its contents flung about the room like the aftermath of a break-in. What does it matter where he goes? He grabs only the cash, passport, checkbook, and Social Security card, and stuffs them in his pockets. He checks that the fridge is empty, that the burners are off. He shuts all the windows and locks them, turns all the lights on and off and on and off again.

He dials the airline and waits, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder, and locks the door behind him, imagining the apartment deteriorating over time, the windows turning brown, the floorboards warping, the air inside turning poison from stagnation. That’s what standing still does. The only way to escape your own poison is to outrun it. He tugs on the doorknob one last time.

As she is pulling into the apartment complex, her phone rings, but it stops abruptly as she continues down into the underground garage and parks in her spot. As she is climbing the stairs, the phone beeps and she checks the message. She stops in the stairwell.

“Hi, hello,” her boss says. “Listen, the office will be open again tomorrow, okay? I just have some things to take care of out of town, and then I’ll come back. And you’ll come back. I’ll explain everything then, okay? Goodbye. Call me if you need anything. But, uh, I don’t really know what you would need. All right then. Um…” he trails off, and the message ends with a beep.

Iris clicks the phone shut and continues up the stairs. She lets herself in, lets her things drop to the floor, and stands for a moment, staring at her apartment. She has never decorated per se, though she’s lived here over two years. The walls look blank as the day she moved in. She feels now more than ever that she’s simply been lodged here, another ice cube in a tray. She looks down at the dingy cream-colored carpet, and to the kitchen, the sink full of dirty dishes from single-girl dinners of ramen and crackers, the crumbs and sticky spots, and the hairs clinging to the furniture, the soap scum on the shower wall, all seem to encase her in an immobilizing dust. This is the mark she leaves. She thinks again of the ceiling fan at the bank, weighed down by grime, and swallows, the taste of her mouth stale, putrid. She then unbuttons her blouse, unzips her skirt, and lays these on the table.

She turns on the radio, and one of the Shangri-Las cries, “Look out look out look out look out!” followed by the sound of screeching tires and crunching metal. She twists her hair up in a knot and goes searching under the sink for bleach.

* * *

That night, sleep comes to her more easily than ever. She dreams that she is standing in front of the house, the family station wagon parked in the driveway. Her mother is filling the trunk with boxes. The roof is already strapped down with more belongings, camping gear, an old bicycle.

“Where are we going?” Iris asks.

Her mother’s shoulders jump and she turns back to her, startled. “How long have you been standing there?”

Iris thinks, but can’t remember not standing where she’s standing. “I don’t know. I think maybe a long time.”

“Honey you have to pack your things, we’re leaving tonight.”

“But where are we going?”

“We’re going. That’s all you need to know right now.”

“But why?”

Her mother doesn’t answer as she pushes things around in the trunk, trying to make one last box fit.

Iris turns around to look at the houses across the street. The night is dark, and the windows are all lit, dotted with shadowy faces; the neighbors are watching.