Graeme Gibson - Communion

A band of sunshine bright on the window sill. Felix realizes there are people in cars who pass each other in the street and he remembers the afternoon last summer when he watched the groundhog. It hadn’t done very much. On the contrary it seemed merely to be looking for something, its blunt body crossing and re-crossing the area around its home; it had stopped now and then to rise on its hind quarters and watch him nervously. He hadn’t moved. Eventually it scuttled into its hole, without finding whatever it had been looking for, or at least not obviously, then it must have turned around for the head re-emerged, just the head, it was almost indistinguishable from the earth, and it lay like that for a long time blinking against the sun. After a while Felix continued his walk. He sees the sky, a washed-out blue, the sky still looks cold although the sun is shining. He had been close enough to see the colour of its eyes. It amused him to think of it burrowing among the graves.

“Felix” he says hollowly. Waiting.

“Yes?” politely.

“Her old man’s away during the day, is that it?”

“No, no it’s not that.”

“And you sneak around there for a bit of nookey, eh? every day you . . . ”

“No, it’s, no . . . I”

“C’mon Oswald.” His face demanding. “Don’t lie to me Felix.”

“She’s pretty good.”

“Aah!” sighs Peter Walters. “That’s better.” Smiling he leans with his elbows on the desk again. Felix finds it something of a relief. The sleeve moving near the glass, the amber shadow with its core of light, the white surface. “And I’m right aren’t I? she’s married.” Felix nods. Walters shifts his chair closer to the desk, he pours two more drinks, he wiggles his buttocks, settling into the chair, he smiles. “Good for you Oswald.” Sipping his drink this time, he says “Good for you.” He raises his face, he’s ready for the next admission.

Now, and this is more difficult, going to her again, knowing the hair shrouding her face, knowing she waits for him: almost unrecognizable towards the afternoon sun, his feet ring on the frozen road, trees are scattered up both sides of the ravine, their long shadows blue on the snow; this morning he saw a hawk, he’s almost certain it was a hawk, it floated from sight behind him as he left her.

It’s so easy.

Her long body in his arms, strands of her hair in his mouth as he climbs on to the breast of the hill. Paved roads. Children playing in the alley. The house and she’s waiting for him, reading the paper at her kitchen table, she’ll turn as he comes in the door, light from the window in her hair, on her cheek . . .

Behind him, under the railway bridge, the lean woman with two greyhounds: pausing at the edge to catch his breath, looking down through tangled branches he sees the searching dogs, he stares into her face, she’s stopped walking, she seems to return his look, he raises his arm as a sign but she doesn’t respond.

“C’mon Oswald, please! c’mon . . . ” nodding pointedly towards the other room, but Felix doesn’t understand, what’s he doing that for? Then he remembers the dog. “Just between men eh? just between ourselves.” That’s what it’s all about. “C’mon, don’t be bashful, Christ I can tell you things! like that broad who was here this morning, you saw her. Have you ever seen tits like that before? Fantastic! Right? Well I’m . . . ” Inadvertently they stare at each other. “You know . . . ” Studiously examining the plump hand in sunlight, Felix nods, suggesting that he does. “I’ll bet she screws like a mink.” Felix nods again. Cars fill the street, he can hear them. The sun is brilliant on the desk. “Well? For chrissakes Oswald, go on!”

It was unwilling to leave. They stood facing the forest’s edge, Felix and the husky: trees black between snow and the sky, their breath like smoke as he crouches, he leans his face against its skull, he talks. Contracting with the cold, the car cracks mechanically but he doesn’t hear, he hears his voice, he feels the road beneath his knees, a muscular throat and shoulders under coarse hair, he hears the animal’s heart, the thawing earth.

Felix stands by the road as it trots uncertainly to the entrance, seeing it pause, it stares over its shoulder but he can’t see the eyes. Then it’s gone, a white body against the trees before it vanishes. The snow’s surface is broken in an arc between him and the trees, it fills with shadow as he watches: the night is immense, he’s cold as he returns to the car. Running among evergreens a dog, a wolf at the other end of that track, the searching run of wild dogs . . .

He’s opening the car door when she speaks: a woman at the edge of a field near the shell of a building, an abandoned school house that he hadn’t noticed, perhaps it’s a deconsecrated church. The wall behind her has crumbled away, the roof has gone, the windows are empty and snow drifts high on the inner walls. Where has she come from? Her silhouette is completely without detail, although it appears she’s wearing a parka with the hood up. She speaks again. She turns and starts back along the side road, she doesn’t acknowledge his voice but he follows her anyway. The wind is gusting stronger, the footing treacherous. He can barely see the tip of the ruin now, to his left, above a snow bank, he leans into the wind, trying to catch up he begins to run, almost in slow motion, it’s difficult, there are ruts, tracks of cars beneath drifted snow, he slides grotesquely, she turns and smiles, he’s close enough to see her smile, to hear her laugh, she veers from the road, scrambles over the fence, he follows her into the field, the moon is bright, they struggle thigh deep and fall, and rise, they’re laughing like children as he grabs her, she reaches, pulls him down, her mouth is cool, there’s snow melting on her cheek.

The sound of their boots on the road: his arm over her shoulders, her body walks at his side. Wild clouds blow around the moon. They walk into the shadow of the building and a distant farm dog begins to bark; they can’t help hearing its thin, insistent voice as they descend to the car, they pause to listen on the road, holding each other they stand in the towering night.

“You’re some kind of fucking pervert, that’s what you are.” Methodically emptying his glass with Felix staring at him. “I know where you go, I’ve followed you . . . ” This can’t be happening, it mustn’t happen. Walters pouring whiskey into the shot glasses. Felix feels the muscle jumping in his face; amber shadows on the desk, cars pass each other in the street. All he can do is wait. “There isn’t any woman is there!”

“She’s pretty good . . . ”

“C’mon Oswald, don’t give me any more of that bull. I’ve followed you, I know where you go.” Felix continues to stare at Peter Walters who is shaking his head now, puffing his cheeks and forcing air from his mouth. “I mean Jesus! trying to stick it in a statue’s ear, I never came across that before . . . you’re one of your actual Kraft-Ebbing maniacs . . .

“I said she’s pretty good!” Both of them startled. They stare at each other across the white desk. Eventually Walters, is it insensitivity or bravado? tries to ignore what has happened. He clears his throat, but it’s too late.