Graeme Gibson - Communion

So what can he do?

He can’t hide it in the cemetery, the fat man would know immediately, and even if he didn’t want to, even if his sympathies were with the two of them, the young man and his dog, and that’s improbable, he’d still have to report the presence of a white husky among the graves. And that would be the end of it; people don’t like that sort of thing.

Felix hears a kind of cry, the animal shudders but it doesn’t waken: one of its paws trembles and then is still. The belly rises and falls agitatedly as the cry, a thin vulnerable sound, continues . . .

What does it dream?

He’d like to take it back to the woods. That appears to be the natural course of action: it would be the best thing. Driving north as far as the roads go, if he had a car, past towns and villages, back into winter until somewhere, in a clearing perhaps, by the edge of the bush he releases it. That’s the best thing, the natural thing: it pleases him, seeing it slip from the car, pausing to smell the air curiously, defensively, then breaking into the tireless searching run of wild dogs, the wolf . . .

That’s all very well, but whatever he’s going to do he has to hurry. Walters has surely phoned, he probably phoned as soon as the woman left. If he did, and if the dog’s going to be saved, then it has to be done right now.

Through some opening, a stream perhaps, where does it lead? running shadowy among evergreens, beneath the sky: running some hidden path, instinctive . . .

It’s winter. The stream bed is frozen, the sky is empty: Felix stands by the road, his body’s breath billowing into the air. The dog is gone. He watched it trot easily to the forest’s edge, he saw it pause at the entrance, it turned to stare briefly back to where he watched from beside the car, and then it was gone.

Shadowy running among evergreens heaped with snow, instinctive running with Felix trembling on the road. It’s cold but he doesn’t feel it, he isn’t aware of the wind: he hears only the brittle earth resisting spring.

Without noise, meanwhile, unravelling above them is the vapour trail of a jet, Felix doesn’t see it for a long time. He’s staring at the darkening forest as if expecting the dog again: it doesn’t come and it won’t, he knows that. But still he stares, he hears the uncertain silence of dying winter, the hollow pressure of the land and is suddenly cold. Returning quickly to the car he sees, pink on the evening sky, the tattered remnants of an aircraft’s flight.

Driving south, his headlights dashing from heavy trees on either side, perhaps the radio’s playing, he concludes it was American. They’re everywhere. Loaded with hydrogen bombs they fly hour by hour, year after year; they don’t go anywhere, they don’t do anything.

Peter Walters smiling, leaning in the doorway. “You can’t deny it’s the first time you’ve taken a short lunch hour.” His smile as he rubs his right palm on the outside of his thigh. “If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s the first time you haven’t taken a long lunch hour. Ha!” Felix aware, there’s nothing novel about this: he’s surprised however that Walters closes his eyes, what’s the matter with him? he’s never done that before. He sees the plump hand up and down the pant leg, up and down intently: the eyes remain closed.

“It’s the dog” he tries. “I wanted . . . ”

“I know!” Walters alert suddenly, watching. “You don’t have to tell me anything Oswald. I know your concern for that dog. I think you’re crazy, but there you are.” Coming into the room. “That’s not what we’re talking about though. We’re talking about you rushing out of here every noon hour. Right on the button. That’s what we’re talking about.” Walking towards Felix, arm outstretched, pointing. What does he want? one foot and then the other, his body swaying heavily as he comes. “Rushing off to wherever it is you go. Ha! don’t think I haven’t noticed, it’s as plain as the nose on your face.” Intimate, his white teeth, what does he want from Felix, why is he reaching? “Anybody with any sense can see it Oswald.” Taking the left bicep of Felix Oswald in his right hand, squeezing significantly, leaning to say: “And I think it’s great!” breathing his sweet breath and squeezing. “A man needs his nookey.” Guiding Felix into the office, turning, presenting this grin. “Isn’t that right Oswald? every man needs a bit of nookey now and then.” Felix standing in the office, his employer pinching the inside of his arm, what’s going on? he has to know about the dog, and besides this hand on his arm, the voice. He hasn’t any choice. “It’s only natural.”

“Oh yes” what? “I think so.”

“Tell me about her.” Going behind his desk.

“What?”

“Is she good?”

“What do you mean?”

“GODDAMMIT OSWALD!” his arm crashing on the desk. Terrible sound. It frightens Felix because it, crashing sound like that, it’s unexpected. “Tell me the truth.” He stares at his employer. Something struggles in his cheek, he can feel it bumping on the edge of his cheekbone. He wonders if Walters can see it. “I can read you like a book, you know that Oswald, you don’t fool me one little bit, so don’t think you do.” His sleeve is dangerously close to the little glass. Felix sees the sleeve moving near the glass and considers, briefly, should he tell the prick he might spill the drink, he’s going to spill the drink, the way he’s moving his arm, the way the arm is moving, it’s quite possible it will hit the glass, it will probably knock it over, it’s surprising he hasn’t knocked it over already. Liquid in the glass vibrates. The desk top is white. Felix sees an amber shadow with its core of light on the white surface. The muscle continues to jump in his face. Walters continues to talk, his voice concluding things, there’s nothing new in all of this, he’s not asking questions or anything, Felix can tell that, there’s no need to answer, he’s not soliciting advice, he’s not revealing anything either. All Felix has to do is acquiesce.

Sleeping breath against her shoulder, the perfume of her body: silent first light, perhaps curtains swaying, he slides from her bed, he stands naked in the morning air; seeing familiar objects about the house in the gathering light, he smokes a cigarette. Houses in silhouette, the trees; fences, squat bushes at the edge of the ravine, and air from the window drifting against his belly, encircling his thighs. He licks the palm of his hand, absently he smoothes at his belly, he rubs wetly among the gathering hair, his body’s still, he licks again, tasting the earth smell of sex, he smoothes his thighs, the air is cool where his hands have traced, the morning at his body, he smokes in silence. Only the rustle of fingers on his own flesh, the sound of her body as she moves: he throws his cigarette out the window and at that moment sees two men dismantling a car, he hears the dull clang of metal on concrete. They work methodically, but very quickly, they’re obviously experts, perhaps they’re pit mechanics from Mosport. Not long ago he would have been appalled, frightened too, he would have shouted, phoned somebody, maybe even scrambled into his trousers and run barefoot into the lane to confront them; but this morning it doesn’t matter.

He turns to her. She’s pulled the covers over her head. Suddenly the distance between them, his body and hers, the space is intolerable: he knows he must leave before the child wakes, but he gets back into bed and holds her, half-waking she receives him, he says her name, her breath is in his mouth, their bodies wrestle in slow motion, they slide through the air like fish.