Graeme Gibson - Communion

“I’ve followed you,” his voice lacks conviction. “I know where you go, you go to the graveyard.”

“Listen you sonofabitch! you believe me, alright?” Felix standing. Walters collapsing. It’s superb. The mouth open, the eyes have lost their focus as he struggles to reassert himself:

“Trying to stick it in a statue’s ear, I never came across that before. Sucking on a stone boob for chrissakes, Oswald you’re a . . . ”

“Woofwoof.”

“Oh.” An expiration scarcely heard, a mouthful of air from his lungs as his body opens, that’s all: sweat bursting from his forehead as he turns away.

“Woofwoof WOOF!”

“C’mon Oswald, please! c’mon . . . ” It delights Felix to see the fat hands trembling. “Christ I can tell you things! There’s no need to bring that up, no need . . . ” He tries to straighten himself in his chair. “Like that broad who was here this morning, you saw her. Have you ever seen tits like that before? Fantastic! Right? Well I’m . . . ‘’ Felix pours himself another shot: fat hands opaque in sunlight, the voice appealing now, almost begging, it was so easy! why couldn’t he have done it earlier? “You know,” hopefully. Felix nods, suggesting that he does. “I’ll bet she screws like a mink . . . ” Sipping his whiskey, grinning uncontrollably, Felix nods again. Woofwoof. He puts his glass on the desk and lurches to the window to contain his elation: he can do what he wants, it’s incredible! he knows what he can do . . .

“I’m seeing her tonight Peter and I wondered.” Staring at himself reflected in a window across the alley. “I’d like to borrow your car.”

Because there’s so little time to think he walks up to the cage, explains briefly to the dog what he’s going to do, why he’s going to do it, and then opens the door: it surprises him that the animal doesn’t move, it hardly acknowledges him or the open door, it lies with only a sliver of light in its eyes.

He speaks to it but it doesn’t respond. He coaxes, even pleads: finally he commands, he shouts harshly and rattles the door; that doesn’t work either. He’s bewildered. Leaving the cage door ajar Felix goes into the office, sits down in the chair and pours himself a small glass of whiskey. What must he do now? Stupid fucking dog. He tries to compose himself, to relinquish everything not related directly to the problem, to open himself in such a way that the solution, there must be a solution, the solution will become obvious. Certainly he mustn’t allow himself to think. His heart beats painfully with unfamiliar excitement because it appears something is going to happen, he can’t recall anything to match the possibility of his triumph. Walters’ hands rubbing aimlessly between plump thighs.

He drinks from the little glass and notes that the whiskey has lost its bite: he goes to the window, opens it from the top, and methodically breathes cold air in through his nose. He must become blank, an empty organism, but it saw him, he’s sure of that, it knows the door is open so why doesn’t it respond? It’s probably afraid. Staring at empty yards, at fences, dirty windows, feeling the cold air in his nose and throat, he discovers that it’s afraid. He isn’t surprised. His hands have no strength. As he lights a cigarette he sees that his fingers are trembling. Felix Oswald smoking by a particular open window: he senses vague pains, he reaches under his sweater, inside his shirt so his fingers are in the armpit, his palm across the nipple, and he presses roughly . . .

Clearly he must acknowledge the animal’s fear, he must reassure it with everything at his disposal: he must talk gently, explain that they’re going to drive north to a field by an empty road, an opening in the bush, a frozen stream perhaps; he must reach in, scratch with his fingers between the yellow eyes, grab the coarse hair at its neck. Outside in the yard a black and white tomcat stares into a small tree full of sparrows. Felix hears their idiot voices: he remembers, there are wicker travelling cages in the front of the shop and probably a blanket in the cupboard . . .

He doesn’t stop under the bridge or even pause at the top of the hill, he hardly notices the foul stream, he walks on the sidewalk to her door and because the light is on, he rings her bell. He’s never done it before.

He hardly knows her, this is the first time he’s been in her apartment, he’s drinking her scotch, smoking her cigarettes: sitting across from her, pale eyes, she doesn’t move, he believes she stops him when he tries to leave, listening to her records and telling her incredible things about himself, telling her: “Once upon a time when I was much younger, it was in Ottawa I think, it must have been in Ottawa and everything was so much simpler, I had a parrot, a green and yellow parrot with scarlet on its shoulders. His name was Harold. He could bark like two dogs at the same time but he refused to talk, he screamed and whistled and barked incessantly, they go crazy you know; he was a gross and vicious bird: everything he ate turned to shit immediately so I gave him to the zoo . . . ” Does he tell her of the pain he senses in the raw meat and membranes of his chest? Why is he telling her this, has he actually said it? “I’ve never encountered a situation in my own life where I could have behaved differently, everything that has happened, or not happened to me, because of me, all of it has been inescapable.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I believe it.”

“That isn’t good enough.” They listen to the music. “I believe all kinds of things but I don’t let them make any difference . . . Why do you make everything so difficult for yourself?”

Getting up from the chair, asking her: “May I touch you? I have to touch you,” kneeling in front of her, taking her face in his hands, she watches him: the muscles along her jaw are tense, her light eyes do not give him anything. He kisses her forehead. Her hands, resting along her thighs, do not move. Returning to the chair, that’s all he wanted, that’s all he wants . . .

No it isn’t.

She says “I was at a party Saturday night, maybe fifteen . . . all old friends except for a few of us, we were strangers, almost strangers. It’s weird. I was really horny, I’d have gone with anybody, I mean it, man or woman, it couldn’t have mattered less . . . Still she doesn’t move. There’s a scratch on the record: they hear its predictable tick, and then . . . tick . . . and then . . . The muscles in her body tense under his hands. He wonders if maybe he does make things difficult for himself, he’d like to believe that; it would suggest there was another way . . . She says: “I was at a party Saturday night, maybe fifteen . . . all old friends except for a few of us, we were strangers, almost strangers. It’s weird.” There are fresh cut flowers by the piano. Everything is clean, the room is clean, it smells of wax. “All of us together in this guy’s house and the basic emotion was hatred, all of us felt it one way or another. There wasn’t any reason, it just happened. Like, it could have been, you know, friendship . . . nostalgia, but it was hatred.” They look at each other and he is uncomfortable.

“But why not? It’s just as human.” Her hand moves to push back strands of her hair: the white face is strangely delicate. What is it that he wants from her? “Everybody tried to be nice because they knew, we explained and apologized, backed away from scenes . . . ”

“I need to lie down with you,” to hold somebody.