Shya Scanlon - The Guild of Saint Cooper

The only reason I had to lie to Nancy was the simple fact that I didn’t quite understand the real reason I was keeping the news from everyone. It was certainly not something an agent would understand.

“Do what you need to do, Blake. Hey, I’m glad you called because—”

“Wait, I’m not done. The reason I tell you this is because I want my family to be left alone. I don’t want you sending people to my house. I’ll do interviews, okay? But I want advance notice, and they’ll be conducted elsewhere.”

“Blake, Blake, first of all, fuck you. I’m over here making things happen for you, and you’re what, complaining about your privacy? Please. Second of all, what on earth are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about a reporter coming here, to my mother’s house , and asking her about me.”

“Well, I don’t know anything about that.”

“Have you been talking to anyone?”

“Yes, in fact I—”

“See, well, when you do, be sure to tell them not to—”

“Blake, when did this happen?”

“The reporter?”

“Yes, when.”

“Today, maybe an hour or two ago.”

“Well, then it couldn’t have been me.”

“But you said—”

“Remember when I said I was on the phone when you called?”

“…”

“That was King 5 news, an NBC affiliate. And yes, we were talking about you, and yes, they want to do an interview, but I hadn’t spoken to them until just then, and they’re the first people I’ve spoken with…and you’re welcome.”

I could hear street sounds in the background, and imagined her walking down 27th near her office. I knew that street well. I pictured the well-mannered, boutique lunch spot called Service she’d taken me to a few times. Service . I pictured the stupid club across the street that, though closed by day, was the site of a stereotypical assortment of comings and goings that Nancy loved to describe: women in tortured furs stepping out of Hummer limos and shielding their eyes from the sun as they were chaperoned through the heavy, iron doors.

“How’s the club?” I asked.

“Cut the shit, Blake. What’s going on with you?”

“I’m sorry. My brother is leaving. Kent and his family are going to leave us — they’re going to leave my dying, cancerous fucking mother.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. That sucks.”

This was not Nancy’s department. She waited patiently for me to change the subject.

“Well, what’s the deal with NBC?” I asked.

“It’s for Monday.”

“What’s today?”

“Wednesday.”

“I can do it.”

“It’s at the studio. No one will be stalking your family.”

“I’d like to make some feeble joke here to let you know I’m trying not to take myself too seriously, but I can’t think of anything because I’m taking myself too seriously.”

“Don’t sweat it, kid. I’ll take a rain check.”

I began walking back home, and from the corner I could see Happy and Josie talking to my mother. They saw me, waved, and headed up the street. When I reached the house my mother was holding a flier. It was a picture of Alice, a phone number, and the words: Please Call Us. We Love You . My mother seemed shaken.

I took the page from her hands and gently wrapped my arms around her. I could feel the unevenness of her chest against my body, her breathing and her warmth. I tried to hold her tightly but without squeezing. Her soft, silver hair smelled like the earth she’d been working with, and I inhaled deeply, held it in, held my breath.

AFTER READING OVER THE book I’d begun before everything fell to shit, I felt like abandoning the project. The fantastical plot and airy themes that before felt somehow noble in their abstraction now felt merely escapist. I was worried that the only literature it made sense to pursue was that of witness, and I knew exactly nothing about witness literature. I could think of a couple books. Night , of course, by Wiesel. But I hadn’t read that since high school. And The Gulag Archipelago , by whoever, which I simply hadn’t read.

“Mom,” I called. “Mom?”

“I’m on the back porch.”

I went to find her standing arms akimbo, looking out over the yard. It would plainly be an even bigger challenge than the front, with its baroque tangle of weeds and overgrown implants. I could tell she was intimidated.

“Would Uncle Tom’s Cabin be considered witness literature?”

My mother turned to me and frowned.

“Please don’t stop talking to me,” I said.

“I seem to remember putting you through school.”

“I think I’m going to write something different. Journalism maybe, but also autobiographical. Just personal observations and reflections, you know? Something that’s true for a change.”

I looked over her shoulder at the swirling mass of green beneath us. I knew a complex set of natural laws governed the behavior of all these plants, an organizing principle, but it was lost on me.

“I think I might want to be more involved ,” I said, “or something.”

“You can do anything you set your mind to.”

“Seriously, Mom? Bromides? I’m opening up here. Got anything more concrete?”

“Blake, I’m sorry. I’m just focused on this yard right now. I’m trying to visualize success.”

“What does success look like?”

“Less.”

A big orange cat leapt onto the back fence and surveyed the yard with us. I’d seen this cat around for the last week or so — clearly it had been left behind. Its tail flicked around for balance.

“Blake?”

“Mother.”

“What’s One Eyed Jacks?”

“Are. What are. There are two of them in the deck. I think hearts and spades.”

“That’s the other thing that man wanted to know. He asked if you ever went to One Eyed Jacks.”

“One Eyed Jacks,” I said. “That’s from Twin Peaks .”

“The television show?”

“Someone is fucking with me.”

The cat had disappeared from its perch. I found it creeping through the yard, half hidden by the overgrown fauna. I pointed, and together we watched as it slithered along. I’d read somewhere that the most dangerous predators on the planet in terms of their success rate were common house cats. This one, however, was less fortunate; moments later a squirrel ran up a dogwood in Brock’s yard. The cat followed as far as the tree, but then abandoned the project and began licking the base of its tail.

Kent passed the pasta. We still hadn’t spoken much, but I’d passed beyond most of my anger and had begun to think about what this would mean for Blake and me. She was talking about her time scuba diving at the Great Barrier Reef — a subject that, despite the tacit theme of environmental degradation, always put her in a better mood. One could not, apparently, be down there surrounded by such a gorgeous, self-sustaining ecosystem and not maintain some hope about the fate of life on Earth.

“I’d be satisfied,” said my mother, “with sustaining life in Seattle for a little while.”

Blake shrugged. “We could learn something from coral, is all I’m saying.”

“Doesn’t coral reproduce asexually?” Kent asked. “Because that would be a deal-breaker for me.”

“They can reproduce both sexually and asexually,” Blake said.

“Oh, okay, then. I’m in.”

I leaned back in my chair and smiled broadly. I would miss my brother terribly, I realized. I also realized I was staying. And I wasn’t just staying for a while. I wasn’t just staying longer. I was going to stay until the end. I felt a sob rise in my chest and had to close my eyes to keep from crying. Strangely, the feeling was not just sadness at the prospect of seeing my brother leave or of watching my mother die. It was not just fear at facing the likelihood of a tsunami. It was also relief.