Joanna Ruocco: Dan

“Yes?” said Melba. “But what about Randal Hans?”

“Randal Hans,” Don Pond thought for moment. “The notary public? Chin dimple, left shoulder higher than the right? The one running for mayor? Randal Hans! His platform is based on selling Dan for fill, which isn’t anything on which to base a platform!”

“I don’t understand,” blinked Melba.

“Backhoes, Melba. Dumptrucks. Dig into Dan as far we can go and ship out the soil. People pay top dollar for dirt.”

“What people?” asked Melba.

“Coastal people,” said Don Pond. “People afraid of the surging seas. Valley people. People tired of the imperious gazes of hilltop neighbors. Desert people. People who want to plant hyacinths. People! I don’t know which people in particular. A good number of sextons, I imagine. Their bread-and-butter depends on burial plots keeping pace with the booming population. But no one will vote for Randal Hans if he’s propounding such an idea! Not because there isn’t a demand for dirt. There is! Because what is Dan without the dirt it is built on?”

“A void, I suppose?” said Melba. Don Pond was leaning closer, his face approaching Melba’s. His moist eyes gleamed from deep within thick folds, black eyebrows suspended over them.

“The abyss,” he said hoarsely. “Everything we do, frantic activities, assignations of meaning to random gestures and grunts, succorings of our organisms and the organisms of those to whom we’ve developed attachments — it’s all designed to distract us from the very abyss in which we formed, the formlessness that fills us. Melba, the infinite emptying of everything … this is the only process! It doesn’t matter if it’s reversed. It is changeless! Do you see why Randal Hans can’t win? He comes too close to the horror. He scrapes against it with his plan, scooping Dan away by the shovelful. He’s a figure of horror as well, the jutting chin, nearly cloven, the twisted shoulders, the shrunken legs. He only comes up to my waist. His legs are so weak they often collapse, folding beneath him at grotesque angles, and he pulls himself through Dan with his arms, creeping through the gutters, singing a little song, a haunting little song. You’ve heard it. It comes from those gutters and from beneath the bed. It comes from within the twisted channels of our ears. It’s so soft. It’s so high and thin. It never stops. I hear it even now …” Don Pond drew a breath as though preparing to sing, or scream.

“Stop!” cried Melba. “Stop, stop! I don’t think we’re talking about the same Randal Hans at all.”

Don Pond’s smile returned. “Of course we are. It’s all the same Randal Hans. Let me show you something.” He reached out to grasp her hand. Melba rapidly clasped her hands behind her back.

“This is the classical way to walk,” she said. “The Attic manner. We’re in an attic, aren’t we?” She tittered nervously. “I do believe in the civic benefits of a classical education, I’m not abashed to admit it anymore. Don’t you? Principal Benjamin used to have us all recite the Hippocratic Oath at morning assembly.”

“He did, did he? Principal Benjamin?” Don Pond’s inscrutability impressed her. It was perfect. Perfect inscrutability. Melba remembered that some things are always useless to scrutinize, maybe most things, maybe everything. Behind her back she wrung her clasped hands.

“Follow me,” said Don Pond. He walked past Melba toward the corner of the room, the bottom right corner in Melba’s square of the room. Melba turned. Don Pond was waiting for her in front of a door. The door had a dark stain and a small brass plate with faint engraving.

“Hurry,” he said. “Don’t let the men see.” He turned the knob and the door swung inward. Don Pond swung away from the door, toward Melba who stood poised on her toes, undecided and perturbed. She didn’t want to follow Don Pond, but she didn’t want him to disappear through a door, either, leaving her with the men.

“Go on,” he urged, and Melba walked up to him, almost shuffling, dragging her feet. Her stout, supportive shoes seemed heavier than usual. She opened her mouth.

“Go on!” Don Pond pivoted and suddenly he was behind her, herding her forward. Melba drew in her breath. She lurched across the threshold. The door clicked as Don Pond pulled it shut. Don Pond and Melba Zuzzo stood side by side on fresh green linoleum.

“I thought for sure there’d be someone in here!” said Melba, relieved.

“You’re relieved,” observed Don Pond.

“I’ve been in offices before,” said Melba, stung by the note of reproach. “More offices than you might think. I wouldn’t mind encountering a person in his office. I know the protocols!” She glanced at Don Pond who was watching her closely. She looked away.

“It’s just that, usually, when I went to an office, I had an appointment,” she explained, “or if not an appointment, a purpose in visiting, a question to ask or a disciplinary measure to fulfill. That makes it easier, in the beginning of the visit at least, when you’re warming up. You don’t have to work as hard to explain yourself.” She risked another glance at Don Pond. He stood so close beside her that the smallest rotation of her head brought their faces into shocking proximity. His eyes still shone, gaze fixed upon her. She inched her body to the left, rotating her head carefully back to center.

“The rules might have changed,” she admitted, inching yet farther. “I haven’t been to an office since I was a girl. This looks like a doctor’s office, but if it were a doctor’s office wouldn’t I have had to sign something? A consent form? Or is it different now? Maybe if you consented once, no matter how long ago, that’s enough.” She caught sight of the framed picture on the wall and started.

“I drew that!” she said.

“Why, so you did,” said Don Pond. Forgetting herself, Melba rushed to the wall. The wall was smooth, windowless, painted green, a far paler shade than the linoleum, with an eggshell finish. The drawing was the only decoration. Melba touched her forefinger to the thin gold frame. She stared at the drawing behind the layer of glass.

“But it isn’t any good,” laughed Melba. “It was the worst picture in the whole class! Mrs. Page didn’t put in the display case with the others.”

“Maybe that’s because someone else took an interest in it and put it somewhere else,” suggested Don Pond. Melba squinted at the picture and tried to imagine someone taking an interest in it. She couldn’t. It was too difficult to imagine. She shook her head.

“I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be,” said Melba. “The assignment was to draw a picture of your family, but that’s not my family. It’s only one figure, but with too many limbs, or maybe it’s a figure holding an animal? Joe Moore sat next to me in drawing class and he ate the colored crayons, that’s why it’s all black and white and gray. This doesn’t belong on an office wall! Even an office with no secretary outside and nobody in it.”

“We’re in the office, aren’t we, Melba?” asked Don Pond. He dropped into a rolling chair and pulled the chair forward with his legs until he was just in front of the drawing, gazing up at it. Melba had to step aside to make room for him. She moved over into the corner and her elbow touched something cold, the metal basin of a sink.

“It’s my favorite drawing,” said Don Pond. “Do you want to wash your elbow?”

“Oh no, thank you,” said Melba hurriedly, folding up her arms and touching both elbows together in front of her, hands clasped. It wasn’t the most comfortable attitude she had ever assumed. Don Pond’s keen gaze missed nothing.

“You’re not comfortable,” he said. “It’s important to make yourself comfortable. Lie down,” said Don Pond.