Dagger Key and Other Stories

You stand there, racked first by the beginnings of anguish, then by guilt (she told you not to interfere), then by disbelief. The tea, the drug she gave you…maybe this has all been a production of the drug. But the hole in the wall presents incontrovertible evidence against disbelief, stable and solid, its edges displaying strata of plaster and insulation undeniable in their authenticity; though the dark flux beyond it lacks a certain reality and may be, like the tree of green time, a metaphorical construction, the simplified rendering your mind has contrived to represent an unfathomable phenomenon.

Something is gathering in its depths, accumulating form from the void. A face, you think. It acquires detail, growing larger, swelling from the darkness, and, yes, it’s definitely a face. Abi’s face, pale and painted with vines. Improbable though it seems, she must have found a way to fight against the flow, she’s forging upstream, coming back to the world. But the larger her face grows, the less you believe it. It’s rippling, wavering, like the painting of a face borne upward on dark water, threatening to dissolve at any moment…and it’s enormous. Close to the hole, all that’s visible is its lower half, chin and lips, a bit of jawline, the point of her nose, and, drawing closer yet, it’s reduced to a huge photo-real scarlet mouth that’s pressed up against the hole.

The lips purse convulsively, making a squelching noise that puts you in mind of someone worrying at a sliver of meat stuck between their teeth. The mouth opens and an immense human tongue lolls forth, expelling the mass of bloody tissue, bone, and hair that rested upon its tip. This lands with a soggy thump and is, most assuredly, no metaphor. The pulped organs and macerated bone shards, they’re Abi’s remains. You recognize them by the orange streaks in her matted hair. Something breaks in you, and you run through the kitchen, out the back door, expecting God to swallow you and spit up your bones…but you don’t care. If extinction’s what it takes to wipe that image from your brain, let it come.

The cloudy sky is ancient water-damaged wallboard, the motionless firs are stage props, the dim rush of the freeway is a sound effect. It closely resembles the world you once knew, but now you’ve seen what lies behind it, you know it was never what it seemed. The black chow mix in the yard next door is going insane, barking and hurling itself to the end of its chain. You move to the opposite side of the house and sit, resting your head on your knees. Grief sets in. Or maybe grief comes later, and this is merely shock. You welcome it, whatever its name. You seek refuge in tears, in the hot weight lodged in your chest, the absence in your skull. You still can’t believe what’s happened and these physical proofs of loss are all you have to rely on. Abi warned you not to interfere and you fucked up, you blundered, you bungled her to death. Grief and guilt mixed together are too much to bear. Shivering from the cold, you get to your feet and walk stiffly to the kitchen door. You can’t bring yourself to go inside and that’s when the problem of what to do next surfaces from the moil of your thoughts. Call the police. Run away. Join a monastic order and devote yourself to good works. Off yourself. That’s tempting, but you’re not that kind of coward. Not yet. The chow takes up barking again, like barking is its fucking religion, and that drives you back inside.

The phone’s ringing.

Could be it’s your mom forgetting again what time it is in Seattle, or your neighbor calling to complain about how you upset his dog, or a friend who knows you wake up early. Whichever, it offers you temporary relief from being alone. You pick up the kitchen extension and say hello.

“Is Abi there?” The inimitable voice of Mauve, the pixie from Oberlin.

“No.”

There follows a silence that she apparently doesn’t intend to fill.

“Abi’s…” you begin, but can’t finish.

“Yes? Is she all right?”

Your voice catches. “Not really.”

“What happened?”

Picking up the phone, you think, wasn’t such a great idea. “I don’t know you.”

“Goddamn it! Tell me what happened!”

Hearing her curse is like hearing Tweety Bird getting salty with Sylvester—it’s almost funny.

“Who are you?” you ask.

“Is Abi dead?”

It’s a question you can’t resist. “Yes.”

A pause, and then: “Tell me what happened.”

You glance up to the ceiling and, as if that flat white surface were a poignant reminder of Abi, or just by lifting your head you disturbed a frail emotional balance, you burst into tears.

“Do you know how many people died tonight?” Mauve asks. “Nobody gives a fuck how bad you feel. If you cared about her, tell me what happened. It’s the only thing you can do for her now.”

Haltingly, you tell her, you hold nothing back, and when you’re done, in her teensy voice, like a diminutive hanging judge, she says, “She should have paralyzed you.”

“I wish she had.” Then, thinking about what Mauve said, you ask, “Why didn’t she?”