Black Chalk

Oh, what’s that, Jolyon? he says. Did you mishear me or did I say we? Yes, we, Jolyon! Me and Dee, both of us together. So you can’t do this to me, you haven’t won, because everything I’ve done, everything I’ve . . . Chad runs out of words as he fights to take in enough air.

I try to hide my feelings. Dee as well? I want to leap up and attack him, I want to punch and kick and choke him. But I know this isn’t the way to defeat Chad. Instead, I lift a knee to my chest and rub the sole of my foot in circles as if fighting off an impending cramp. I applaud you, Chad, I say, feigning a distracted air. I’m truly impressed. If anyone were keeping score, how much do you think they’d say you were winning by? A thousand points? A million? But, to use an old sporting cliché, it ain’t over till it’s over, right? I suppose I’m like a boxer in one of those movies. Bloody and reeling, only one punch left in me. I throw it. And out of the blue, smack. You fall. The count begins, one two three . . . Will you make it up? Seven eight nine . . .

Please, Chad says, spare me your metaphor. I’ve read it a thousand times. The boxer, the fighter. He rolls his eyes.

Wow, I say, smiling appreciatively. You know, using Dee as well. That’s really very clever. I had no idea.

Of course Dee was part of it, Chad says, outraged. And do you have any idea as to why she did it, Jolyon, any guesses? Chad taps at his head with his forefinger. Because she’s married to me, he says. Because she’s my wife, Jolyon. I’m her saviour, not you.

I can’t stand to look at him any more. I turn away. Married? Chad married to Dee. Jack married to Emilia. And where am I? They loved me first. I can almost smell Chad’s pleasure at having wounded me and quickly I turn back to face him. Then I suppose my invite got lost in the post, I say.

Chad snorts.

Seven eight nine . . .

And now I think it is time to end this. So when we head upstate, I say, obviously Dee should come with us, right, Chad? A family outing. I suppose now it’s clear that the whole suicide poem thing was just another part of the act. A truly audacious move, I really am impressed. But yes, definitely bring Dee along. Because don’t you think your wife should meet her in-laws? Your mother would find her charming. Your father also, I bet he’d just love her. What do you think about your father?

Chad’s head drops and he puts his hands to his eyes. Soon he is rubbing his face as if trying to work soap into a lather.

Seven eight nine . . .

Chad? I say, as if perhaps he didn’t hear me. Chad, I said, what do you think about your father?

He sits up stiffly and blinks several times. It takes him a minute to gather himself. A minute during which I try to piece together Chad’s revelations of the last five weeks.

My shoes and WALK NOON. Dee’s framework and my strict adherence to a fixed schedule. Mnemonics and routine. Pills and whisky.

I cannot say with utter certainty that all of the words in this story have been written by me. It seems that some of them may not have been my own.

Perhaps I am not the washout who stumbled pathetically through his life every day of his comeback. Maybe I am stronger than I thought.

Chad takes a sharp breath and I look up at him. And then, in a voice no louder than a whisper, Chad says to me, OK then, Jolyon. You win. God knows how, I truly have no idea. But you win.

I feel a weight departing my body, the everyday strain of it, fourteen years of dark accumulation. And now the slate on the wall is scratched one last time, the tally complete, its final black line.

Chad tries to look brave. Well, I guess that’s it then, he says. Except for one thing, Jolyon. Please, will you grant me one favour? Hear me out, let me explain it all to you properly, the whole thing. Chad’s shoulders slump a little, and then he says, It was beautiful, it really was something to behold. And you know, I think that of all people, you will actually appreciate it more than anyone else. Honestly, Jolyon, I do.

I nod at Chad. I feel life in my veins, a lightness returning. And I settle back comfortably to listen to his tale.

LXXV(iii) One of the letters told me where to find you. There it was on an index card, your address written out neatly in green pen and clipped to a few of your pieces for the newspaper with some helpful annotations. Six months ago.