Graeme Gibson - Communion

“I’d like to die.”

“These are sick animals, Felix, sick and it shows in the quality of the stool. Have you ever thought of that? Diseased shit Oswald, the cages are, the cages . . . ” With tears in his voice he looks at his watch. “At almost ten in the morning my cages are full of diseased shit! That’s the problem alright and there’s no excuse. No. Absolutely none.” He pauses and Felix perceives the trouble with that face. He might have been bothered by it before but he doesn’t remember. Now the problem is obvious: it looks like the topographical map of uninteresting land. Everything is too small for the size of his head, too crowded there in the middle of his face. “I don’t know what you do with your time, daydreaming, moping about.”

Even if he did say, who are you Felix? what do you really want? it would be a lie, an intimate lie so that Felix might not notice at first.

“That dog for example, the husky. You spend far too much time with that animal, you really do.” He fills a certain space here in the room, he talks. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing because it won’t get better you know, there’s nothing we can do.” Felix shifts uneasily; he isn’t needed for this talk, he doesn’t want to hear it again. “Not a dietary problem, not nitrogen trichloride, that’s fairly clear.” Scratching at his ear, finger poking in to wriggle thoughtfully. “There’s been a dramatic, as you may or may not know, a dramatic decline in the incidence of hysteria due to dietary factors.” Pausing. “And it’s certainly not parasites, no, not parasites. Not in this case.” The smile has permanently returned and his voice is precise. “So it must be genetic, eh? An hereditary taint, derived from one or other parent.” Felix doesn’t believe this, not for a moment. “Yes. And that means . . . ” In fact he starts, eyes rolling as if to speak, to contradict, his chest heaves painfully, his hands convulse against his thighs. “That means there’s nothing medical science can do.” And still the words don’t come. “Particularly when the patient experiences epileptiform fits like this one does.” It’s always the same.

That blue light on his hands, on his legs. The stairs, that door, the alley. Why does he do it? He moves with empty grace, his feet make no sound, he slides through underbrush, a path along the edge, he walks beside the road because sometimes there are others . . .

He stops under the railway bridge. He’s almost there, he’ll smoke a cigarette. Then he’ll cross the stream and climb to the pavement, the lights, their house. What will they be doing? what will he see them doing tonight? He hears water rushing against the concrete support, it stinks of the cemetery half-a-mile ahead: seeping among the graves it gathers in pools, he remembers the pools, it overflows and fed by the city becomes a stream that smells of bodies.

By the garage, excited because nobody knows he’s here, pressing himself into its shadow with leaves resting on his shoulders. There are lights in the apartment but nobody appears in the windows. Music from a radio, perhaps a record player, is playing somewhere. He doesn’t recognize the song. Noise from the traffic on Yonge Street, soothing, like the sea, although he has never heard the sea, or wind rushing across the land, some land, somewhere . . . Resting his face against the brick, he’s breathing easily because he’s in no hurry. In a minute he’ll climb onto the garage roof, using the fence and one limb of the tree, he’ll wriggle forward and lie unseen to watch them . . .

Walters, hands in his pockets poking at his balls, feeling himself stiffen delightfully as another woman turns from his smile, is confident that Felix is really trying to re-establish himself in his employer’s esteem. And that’s a nice thought. But perhaps. Sudden excitedly, he cannot breathe, for in a purple sweater, coming across the street are the biggest boobs, oh Christ he’s ever seen! His hands are fiendish in his crotch, his smile is a hardware store. He retreats behind the counter as she pauses, will she come in? He can’t believe, he won’t . . . The sun shines only on this woman’s hair, her enormous breasts. Will she come in? He can barely look at her. Will she? He leans to offer his most urbane smile. She’s irresolute. Desperately he smiles, he grins. But even that doesn’t do it. True she does acknowledge him, and that’s hopeful. A nod, a gentle inclination of her head, yes, an imperceptible widening of the eye, he’s sure of that. He saw it. But still he won’t allow himself to believe she’ll actually turn the necessary forty-five degrees to her right, step on her plump legs to his door, open it and, and bring them in . . . it’s all too much to hope, too much. He catches his breath as she shifts, she seems about to . . . Which way? Small teeth gnaw on his lower lip. Come in, come in, he commands in silence. Come in! She’s making a decision. She glances on up the street, her breast swells. His morning begins to fail. And then at her watch. Hot kisses on her wrist and up her arm, his hands on her shoulders, hers in his pockets, she’s turning, she’s yes! To her right on her plump legs, thighs in his doorway. Opening. What does she want? Her breasts envelop, his stomach’s sinking as he smiles and smiles. The door closes behind her . . . she prepares to speak, to open her mouth. He can’t stand it any longer. She’s going to speak! He presses himself against the counter, he closes his eyes, he opens his eyes. Her reaching mouth is just for him, her huge and naked breasts for Peter Walters . . . what does she want?

“I want a dog.”

Oh Christ I’m yours!

Felix crouching before the dog. Surely it’s getting better. Now, because all the cages are clean and Walters is out there talking to someone, he has time to smoke a cigarette. Surely it’s getting better. Hunkering down, his feet flat on the floor, his thighs tight against his calves, his long arms hugging his legs, he stares and smokes.

Felix smoking and wondering if he should open the cage, reach in and scratch his fingers between the yellow eyes, grab the hair at its powerful neck in such a way that the animal would know it had a friend. Maybe it’s too soon for that.

Teetering forward, watching the eyes, appraising: important to see if it’s safe. It could take his arm off; he knows that. Still, it is getting better. Every day it’s more alive, almost responsive. At first there was nothing in those eyes, not a thing: no shadows, no light, just yellow diminishing without depth. Then one morning, several days ago, Felix saw something shiver inside the pupil, it was like something opening, something flashing deep beneath the surface. It happened very quickly. Most people would have missed it completely. Indeed it might not have happened for anyone else; it may well have happened because of him. Felix hardly dares to think about it, hardly dares to hope.

Perhaps this is the right moment. Perhaps some gesture, reaching in and scratching with his fingers between the yellow eyes, or grabbing the coarse hair at its neck, perhaps some trust, some intimacy of this kind is called for now, at this very moment. It’s hard to tell.

Certainly the voice alone isn’t enough, it never is: Felix can coo incessantly, nurse with words, he can lean lower and lower until his face is on the floor, even with the dog’s, his body sprawling in the aisle; but all the loving sounds that Felix has uttered in the past thirty minutes have not, and can never unlock the mesh door, have not and never can give the animal what it needs.