Lance Olsen - Calendar of Regrets

A lurch, and

A lurch, and Iphigenia steps onto the rocky shore from her father Agamemnon's ship. She immediately feels she has done this before. Gnarled graygreen cypress trees spattered here and there. The sky a violent blue. How the flock of white birds gyre above her like a flock of silent white hands.

So this is where I shall be wed, she thinks. So this is what it feels like.

The blade piercing her breast in an azure thunderclap.

Achilles thrashes on top of her like a hooked salamander, pressing the air out of her lungs, spraying sweat across her clamped eyes, mumbling into her neck a series of mysterious syllables, Pa-tro-clus, Pa-tro-clus, Pa-tro-clus.

Suddenly Iphigenia remembers where she has heard that name before.

The blade piercing her neck in a blast of shrill whiteness, then a shriek. Hers. And, somewhere down by her feet, Iphigenia hears her baby's first scandalized screams at the state of the world. She feels the soggy metallic seep leaking from between her thighs, soaking the sheets.

A son , Anthea's voice says. Praise be to the gods.

Tomorrow morning Iphigenia's attendant will hang the bloody flag outside the girl's window as a trophy for all to witness. For now, exhausted by the painful newness of things, Iphigenia, sprawling in the dark hotness, slides down into a weightless sleep in which she does not believe she is sleeping, wondering vaguely what her husband is doing at this very second, and where.

Agamemnon feeling his penis stir at the sound of Clytemnestra's shoes clicking across the tiles toward him. His member prickles, begins to swell. He opens his eyes, commences a lazy rotation in his warm pine-scented bath, the thought gathering within him: Tonight I am a lucky man. Tonight I am

The arrow stabs into shocked Achilles' heel.

He pitches forward onto the dust without another idea having time to enter his mind.

The giant serpent's head darts above the terrified girl: stub-nosed, blank-eyed, drooling fangs long as a man's leg.

At the palace, Clytemnestra catches sight of the glint in her son Orestes' enormous right fist and, hand to mouth, staggers back in horror.

No, she says. Please. You don't understa

The multitude of ships plying their way across the bay toward the open sea, a multitude of whitecaps beneath the ideal sky.

Electra cackling at her mother's screams tumbling in from the next room.

Somewhere in heaven, Artemis jerking awake from uneasy dreams.

The giant serpent strikes.

It strikes again.

And in that stunning moment, Iphigenia comes to recognize death by its uncontaminated silence.

At the top of the next hill, Nayomi's story falling behind you, you don't find an extension of the country road you've been following. You find yourself veering unexpectedly back onto the Autostrada, traffic interlacing frantically around you. You crest 130 kilometers, 132, your mind hazy with speed. Above, the sky has begun paling into a shimmering wheat, the afternoon taking its first steps toward sunset. The landscape is the same landscape you've been driving through since late this morning. Nayomi must have been leading you in an enormous meandering circle, spilling you out almost at the same point you started. Your husband's body is no longer rigid. Robert is slumping in his seat, as if he has somehow gotten used to this new situation. He is still alert, but there is something almost relaxed in his pose. This is where we are , it tells you. This is what is happening. Because he can't do it, his body is adapting for him. You tune in to what Nayomi is saying just in time to hear her announce you are nearing a medieval village called Viterbo. This is where, she explains, she spent two nights last autumn in a hostel with her friends. The village sits atop a hill just as villages do in early Italian Renaissance paintings. In the middle rises a castle. Every June, Nayomi says, Viterbo hosts a beautiful cherry festival. She wishes she could attend someday. She wishes she could do many things someday that it now appears she won't be able to do. Isn't it amazing, she asks, how life becomes a series not so much of choices as negations of choices? To want this, you have to give up that. Every day a few more options fleck away. In the end, you're left with only one. While in Viterbo, she ate nothing but the village's famous cherry tarts. For breakfast, lunch, dinner. They were the most delicious pastries she had ever tasted, rich and buttery and full of tang. Her friends and she picnicked on benches at the base of the castle, talking about what they would do after the holidays and how. Back then their plan seemed like a dark electric fairytale. Now she is living it. You are reasonably sure you remember seeing a red star labeled Viterbo on the map this morning at the car rental office in Rome. If you're right, if that's where you are, then you are no longer traveling north. You are traveling south. Nayomi is aiming you back toward the capital. Maybe that's why traffic has started condensing around you, why you have to swerve in and out among more and more cars and trucks and busses and motorcycles to maintain your speed. You are sensing the first pulses of rush hour. Faster , Nayomi says. You can go faster. You crest 135. You crest 140. You hear the engine straining beneath you. It takes all your resolve to maintain control of the car. You've been hoping Nayomi's ramble will help your children remain under. They're exhausted from the string of early-morning wakeups to catch this plane or that train, this ferry or that bus, exhausted from the sense of perpetual motion that vacations like this engender. You've been worrying that their immune systems are wearing down, that they're due for colds, which means you and Robert are due for colds, too. It seems right that all they've done is come awake long enough to rearrange themselves more comfortably in the backseat, Nayomi their beanbag pillow. But even as this idea orbits inside your head, Celan says: I have to go pee-pee. Your breath catches. Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. This time he doesn't sound groggy at all. This time he sounds wide awake, full of honesty and need. My tummy's sloshing , he says. Nadi joins in: Me too. I have to go, too . Nayomi says: It won't be long now, munchkins. We're almost there. Das macht nichts. Celan says: I can't hold it. Nayomi asks Nadi: How about my princess? Can she hold it a klitzeklein bit more? An itsy-bitsy bit? Nadi takes the question very seriously, nods her head yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, she thinks she can. She isn't sure, but she thinks so. Nayomi gives her a cuddly hug and tells her how terrific she is. But Celan has passed the point of no return: his face, you can see in the rearview mirror, has started staining red with discomfort and embarrassment. I have to GO , he says. Nayomi reaches down and picks up her empty water bottle from the floor. She hands it to him and, smiling her adorable model's smile, says: Here you go, sweet-pea. Use this. No one will look. Hand auf Herz. Cross my heart. You say over your shoulder: We won't, honey. Really. Celan looks to his father for confirmation. Robert says: Go for it, Cel. Seriously. We promise. It's cool. It's totally cool. Celan says: Why can't we go at the next rest stop? For some reason his question prompts you to check the gas gauge. You haven't thought about it since this began. Next you are taking in the fact that you have less than an eighth of a tank left. Listen , Robert says to Celan sternly. His tone changes, melts into an approximation of patience and understanding. Because we just can't, hon , he says. I'm sorry. But it's okay. When I was your age? Gran and Gramps? They HATED to stop. I don't know why. Every time, just before we pulled out of their driveway on a trip in their Cadillac whale, Gramps used to say in his big deep voice over his shoulder: SPEAK NOW OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PISS. Celan and Nadi laugh. Robert continues: I can still hear him. I never had to go then. Why would I? But I knew, no matter how much I emptied, that I'd have to go again in a couple of hours. It was terrible. So you know what I did? I ended up peeing in Coke bottles. That's what vacations with Gran and Gramps meant for me. And I'm here to tell you: there's nothing to it, sport. A total cinch. Celan eyes his father's profile, gauging. Robert adds, half-turning in his seat, slipping in a quick wink: It's even kind of fun. Like making your own 7-Up. Nadi says: Gross! Robert laughs. With great caution, clutching the water bottle, Celan begins maneuvering over the backseat into the tight cargo space with the treasure-trove suitcase for a little privacy. You make a move to pass a slower car ahead of you and the change in momentum takes Celan's legs out from under him. Ack! he grunts, going down. Sorry! you call. You okay, sweetie? Robert says: Not to worry, sport! It's just like playing a game. You're the Green Berets behind enemy lines. You're on a top-secret mission. Unsettled, Celan slowly regains his equilibrium, carefully wedges himself into a corner for support, squats daintily. In the middle of this process, he catches your eye in the rearview mirror. Mah-ahmmm! You say: Sorry, pumpkin! You're doing super! You think about how bad he will be at some things in life. Robert says: Take your time, buddy. Take all the time you need. Nadi says: How come I can't pee-pee in a bottle? You say: We're almost out of gas. We're going to have to stop soon. Nayomi says: We'll be fine. Robert says: How, exactly, will we be fine? I'm just wondering. How, exactly, will we be fine? Nadi says: I have to go . Nayomi says: I thought my princess didn't have to. Nadi says: I didn't, but now I do. Nayomi says: Just think of something else, munchkin. Celan says: What are you guys talking about? You shout back: Nothing, sweetie! You just do what you've got to do. Nadi says: I have to go . Nayomi says: My little princess can wait a little longer, can't she? Robert says: My daughter has to pee, for godsakes. Give us a break. Nadi says: How come Cel gets to go and I don't? Nayomi repeats, almost under her breath: They don't have to know about any of this. Less softly, Robert says: Fuck you. Nadi cries out gleefully: Daddy used the F-word! You say: Daddy ALWAYS uses the F-word — even though he knows Mommy doesn't like it. Celan calls out from the cargo space: I spilled a little. I didn't mean to. You say: That's fine, honey. We'll clean it up later. Celan says: It's on the rug. Robert says: That's what rental cars are for. Spill some more. Go ahead. Laughing, Nayomi says: Now you're getting it. And to Nadi: When I was a little girl? Know what I used to do? Celan says: But it's on the rug. You say: Just do the best you can. Nayomi says: I used to see how many cars I could count while holding my breath. Let's do that. Shall we? Nadi shakes her head yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. She sucks in a lungful of air, commences. You see Nayomi pop something into her mouth. This time a whole handful of pills, like a handful of M&Ms, some the color of water in Californian swimming pools, some the color of cotton candy. Celan calls out: I'm done! Robert says: Thatta boy! Now screw the top back on and just leave it there. We'll get it later. Celan says: Just leave it? You say: Just leave it, Cel. Celan says: But it'll roll around. To Nayomi, you say: Please. You don't think about saying it beforehand. You simply find yourself in the middle of saying it. Robert looks over at you. You stare straight ahead and say: I don't know how to say this except to say this. But please. Think about what you're doing. You know what you have to say will have zero effect. You always wondered why people even bothered with such gestures in the movies. Now you know. Nayomi says: It wasn't Munich, exactly. Robert says: What? Nayomi says: Where I grew up. It wasn't Munich. I lied. It was Köln. Cologne. I don't know why I said Munich. Maybe I just like big cities. You say: It doesn't matter. Just… Nayomi says: My parents are VERY upper middleclass, you know? They have everything a pair of overachieving reactionaries could want. Nice flat in the city. Summer house in Provence. BMW. Stupid little schnauzer that farts too much because they feed it fancy salami. But they wouldn't even help me pay for university. They wouldn't even do that much for their daughter. You say: Let's pull over. Just long enough to let the kids out. That's all I'm asking. Nayomi says: Daddy's an investment banker. A good Catholic investment banker. You know, the kind that collaborated with the Nazis. You say: What do you have to gain? Nayomi says: He told me I needed to learn to appreciate the value of money. So I ended up working in this used bookstore in Düsseldorf. He could have paid. It would have been loose change for him. But he refused. You say: Please. Nayomi. Nayomi says: It was a groovy place. Don't get me wrong. Wall-to-wall books, this amazing smell of knowledge, lots of people who cared about ideas rather than things. But the hours were killing me. That's when I met Renato That guy who just walked in one day? He really did just walk in and everything, only not into a café, not in Munich, and he wasn't wearing a suit. You say: Nayomi … Nayomi says: I dropped out and moved down here to be with him. He has this fantastic apartment in Travestere. Very quaint. Very Italian. It instantly felt like where I should be. You say: Nayomi, please. Just listen. Nayomi says: He was the guy pumping gas on the other side of the island from where you were pumping gas. The light green Fiat? Remember? Robert glances at you. You glance at Robert. You feel beaten. Nayomi goes on: You see how handsome he was? He's almost thirty. Mega geil. And he cares about the future. Most people don't, but Renato does. Your eyes begin filling with tears. Nayomi says: Maybe you can see him behind us. He's somewhere back there, following to make sure things go off okay. I love him so much. He made me think about things the university was scared to make me think about. He showed me how almost everybody is content to go around complaining about how things never change, but they never lift a finger to fix them. Complaining is always easier than doing. But you know something? Just a few people with conviction can make a difference. They can. Really. You probably don't believe me. You think I'm naïve. You think I'm an idealist. But think of Lenin. Trotsky. You feel the first tear slip down your cheek, catch on the corner of your mouth. Your nose begins running. The highway begins liquefying. You try to stop, but you can't. Down deep , Nayomi says, everyone wants to be free, nicht wahr? Everyone wants to determine their own destiny. Only most people don't even know it. Or maybe they just don't want to bother. They want others to tell them what to do so they can spend their lives kvetching about it and buying all that Scheiße they see on TV. It's going to take time. Time and action. But at some point you've got to stop kvetching. You've got to start just doing. I know you think I sound like everyone under thirty sounds. Hippie romantics, nicht? But you're wrong, like they were about Lenin. It's going to be different. Like Renato says… Hey, up there! Up there! You see it? You say: See what? Nadi says: This many! She holds up all ten fingers. Nayomi says: Wow! That's a LOT! You think you can count even more if we try again? Nadi's face turns grave. She focuses, nods, collects air. She dives into another round. To you, Nayomi says: That bus. Robert, ducking down for a better view, says: What bus? Pointing, Nayomi says: That one . You say: What about it? Nayomi says: Go faster. You say: I can't. I swear. I'll lose control. Nayomi says: Try harder . Robert says: Do what the fuck she wants. Jesus. Crying, you realize Celan is still in the cargo space. You look up in the rearview mirror to check on him. He's nowhere in sight. Cel? you call out, trying to keep the tears out of your voice. Cel? Come on up. Nayomi says: You want to go faster. You want to pull up alongside. You grip the wheel so hard your knuckles ache like arthritis. You ease down on the pedal. You crest 145 kilometers. 150. The engine starts whirring oddly. Then you have to throw up. Nayomi says: When I was thirteen, twelve or thirteen, I thought I'd live forever and ever. I thought I'd be the exception that proves the rule. Everyone does, right? It's a cliché. But Renato? He helped me understand. How the end of the plot is always the same. No matter what you do, it's always the same. The only difference is when and how you reach it. Some people get to know in advance. Some don't. Some are brave and take charge. Others are cowards and do nothing. But think of it. All that effort trying to believe in those children's stories. The Son. The Holy Ghost. All that money churches spend to get you to stop being scared. They're the most successful corporations in history. Pay, pray, obey. That's what Renato says. Pay, pray, obey. Renato says religion is just this huge spectacle designed to con good people into doing bad things. The Crusades. The Inquisition. Only in the end it doesn't mean a thing because whatever you do the story turns out the same. You're here and then you're not. No burning lakes. You finish being you, but when it happens you're not even around to experience the transition. You know what Nietzsche said about the afterlife? He said in heaven all the interesting people are missing… Oh, wow. Renato was right. This shit really does make you feel like a cartoon. Hey, look! Look at all the people! You can make out the words in big red letters on the bus's white flank: Turistico Romeo. You say: You didn't plan all this. You didn't know we'd be right here right now. Nayomi says: You plan some things. You let other things just take place. It's like believing in God, only not. Can you imagine we're actually doing this? Seeing the moment begin to coalesce around her, Nayomi becomes increasingly excited, giddy. She peers out the windshield between Robert and you, cranes her neck to take in everything. It's like… it's like we're flying without planes , she says. It's like remembering forward. Look. You can see their faces! Wave at the passengers, Nadi! Cheeks fake-distended with air, Nadi leans over and waves as you inch up level with the back two or three rows. This many! she shouts, holding up all ten fingers twice. Ausgezeichnet! shouts Nayomi. The first tourist, an old man with a drastically furrowed face, catches sight of your daughter. He has been resting his cheek on his fist, staring dully out the large side window. The instant Nadi enters his field of vision, his features melt into brightness. He waves back, first using only his fingers, coyly, then soon employing his whole hand, his whole arm, clownlike. He sees me! Nadi shouts, waving harder. He sees me! Nayomi says: He does! The man leans forward and taps the shoulder of the old woman sitting in the seat in front of him. She's been talking to someone beside her, someone you can't see. She turns to look at what has snagged the old man's attention and you see she's wearing so much makeup she looks like a gypsy fortuneteller in a Coney Island booth. One of her front teeth is missing. She gives Nadi a wide smile. Seconds, and five or six tourists are pressed to the glass, waving, making faces. Nadi is delighted. She waves back. She makes faces in response to the faces they're making. Robert proclaims to Nayomi, apropos of nothing: River Edge isn't even in New Jersey. It's in Delaware. And there are no parks. It's just all these shopping malls and expensive cars. So fuck you twice. Celan, suddenly aware of the festivities, shouts from the cargo space: I'm coming up! I'm coming up! You call over your shoulder, trying to disguise the tears in your voice, your stuffed runny nose: Watch your step, hon! Nadi says: Look at them! Look! Nayomi says: They must be thinking what a beautiful little girl you are! Vigilant, wobbly, Celan eases himself up into a hunker, steadies himself against the ceiling padding, slides one leg over the seatback. It is when he is balancing there like a miniature cowboy in a miniature saddle that it happens. The silver sports car suspended at the corner of your vision veers in front of you. You hit the brakes. Celan flies into Nayomi's back. Nayomi jerks forward. Nadi screams and you hear her body thunk against the back of your seat. Your impression is that Robert moves before thinking about moving, sees his opportunity, tries to lunge for Nayomi, for that backpack between her legs, but he's forgotten he's wearing his seatbelt. He fetches up sharply like a dog that's forgotten it's chained. Your car rocks side-to-side, steering wheel a violent living thing trying to wrench free of your grip, and then your Saab commences a leisurely careening across traffic. Horns startle awake. Brakes screech. Another car brushes Robert's door and there is a metallic jolt completely out of proportion to the movement. You raise your arms to protect your face, and your world arrives in a series of jump cuts. A guardrail. Another bone-grinding crash. The windshield dissolving into an ice storm around you. An instant of concentrated silence. Then a wallop from an unexpected angle, from above you, the roof crunching down, the beige grass, the wheat sky, the beige grass, the noise of sizzling bacon, your Saab plummeting through undergrowth. You leave yourself. You watch as a variety of you strolls into the local bagel shop on Kinderkamack Avenue back home on a summer Sunday morning, cool luminosity giving way to a rush of bready sweetness, parting your lips to ask for onion with cream cheese, and then you are canted on your side, still strapped in, fumbling for the buckle that will release you, your mouth full of blood. You swallow. More blood oozes in. Someone has stacked cinderblocks on your chest. Above you Robert dangles down sideways, groaning, dazed, his face and hair gooey redblack. You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, feed all your effort into your hands. Your left one isn't working. That's the problem. That's why you can't get your seatbelt undone. You're fumbling, only your left arm is hanging down at a preposterous angle. You think maybe the sound you hear is simply barking, hounds in the distance, then they refine into human shouts. They're moving down the embankment toward you. A moist wheezing rises from deep within your chest. You begin to appreciate where you are, how you have been delivered here, and, even as this instant overflows you, you attempt rotating your head just far enough to catch a glimpse of your kids. This is what the universe becomes for you. You try to speak to them. You try to tell them everything is okay. Your words emerge as a long sibilance. You stop. You don't want to frighten them. You don't want to make things worse than they are. You listen to your ragged breath. You are speaking, even though your mouth isn't moving. It's all right, sweet ones , you are saying. It's all right. You hear them? A few seconds. A few seconds, and they'll start making everything better. They'll reach inside. They'll wrap their arms around you. They'll lift you out. The violent blueness of the flames washing across the hood.