wandered the floors in fear of scalpels hidden under surfaces, of straight lines turning into blades. The emptiness of rooms glimpsed through doorways terrified me; I was afraid to walk under the lintels for fear of what I might bring in with me.
Yet I did not blunder from room to room, clumsy with distress. Despite what I felt, despite what I had done, I moved smoothly and did not disturb the quiet. It seemed I was still to appear, at least, to be part of the unchanged surface of the world. But I could never resume my old harmless life, not if I were also to be part of the new day upon whose ration of catastrophe the sun had already risen, just as it had yesterday. Because of me, a woman was dead. Somewhere, a family was in ruins. I was the one who deserved to be dead, they would think, and I didn’t know why I wasn’t; it seemed implausible, incredible even, that I should be able to go on breathing while disgust and hatred, justifiably without limit, mounted against me. They would want me caught and punished, of course; they would want me to suffer. The search would be already under way. Should I not simply give myself up? But whatever happened then, I wouldn’t pay enough for the woman’s life. I could never suffer as they did. Something was inadequate about the notion that any consequence less than my own death could counterweigh for hers. Something was askew, simply, in my remaining alive. It was a mistake, an oversight that should be corrected.
Anything could happen. I went back to bed and stayed there, frightened of the purposeless way angles fill houses, frightened of all the minutes and hours of light that fill a single day, flaunting themselves, so brightly coloured and jagged with risk, so available for the infliction of damage. I closed my eyes until it was dark.
When night came I got up. The moon reached in through the windows and painted luminous squares across the floors, lit the landing and stairs, laid a white path along the kitchen tiles to the back door. I went outside and kneeled on the ground. I was thinking of nothing, except to wonder if such emptiness of mind is felt by those about to be executed. Damp needles of cold pricked my legs and I pressed my palms down and stretched forward and rested my forehead on the grass, pushing it into the earth till my head was numb. May I not please also be dead? The mushroomy sop of the ground, an ancient, resurrected smell from deep below, seeped into me. I pressed my skull harder and harder into the gritty slide of soil and moss and worm cast, I tore up lumps of turf and rubbed them into my head, as if I could grate myself clean. I had to resist a desire to stuff my mouth with handfuls of mulch. I wanted the earth to soak in through my hair and skin and replace me, cell by cell, and if I couldn’t be replaced I wanted to disintegrate.
Of course, none of these things happened. The garden all around me trembled in the wind. If it had been daylight I might have panicked and run away, but the moon shone and so I stayed, and soon, from the shadows, differing shades of dark emerged and receded, revealing themselves as wavering shapes: soft pillowy mounds and clusters of improbable, irregular domes. After a while my eyes were able to judge more than the simple presence of the trees and shrubs. Under the moon they had become vessels for hoarded light. Around their floating penumbrae I perceived something of their daytime solidity and distance, yet they imposed themselves so gently on my sight, wearing their white haloes like ghosts hinting palely at previous selves. They were so benevolent and colourless. I couldn’t close my eyes against their beautiful absence of colour.
The dark and the moonlight shimmered together; leaves hung as chill as the scent of the grass. I released my breath slowly. Again and again I ran my hands through the earth. Whatever might once have been buried here, and however long ago, and whether one night to be exhumed or not, to be seen again or never again uncovered, it all came to the same. All the uncountable particles once so fantastically joined up as to be living people were drawn to this end, reduced to one sodden compound with its familiar, equalizing, watery smell. Every glance and touch and hope, every driving beat that stabbed the heart when love failed, was atomized, finally. I thought of the woman’s body softening and darkening, all its fleshly dreams and shocks melting into some patch of cool degenerative earth solemnly breached and laid open to take her.
I covered my face with my hands and remained there, kneeling on the grass. Time tucked its head under its white wings; all the time in the world lay floating on the lake of the night. I could stay here undisturbed until daylight came bobbing at the edges, bright with malice.
27 Cardigan Avenue
Dear Ruth
Carole’s been again.
I let her in just for the sake of peace. Was going to show her the latest on letter writing front but realized in nick of time I couldn’t let her read the last one. I’m not especially enamoured of the woman but there’s no need to hurt her feelings.
She seemed interested in my big cleanup of attic, drawers, cupboards etc. She did have to wade through a bit of stuff to get to a chair but even so I don’t think it’s quite her business to start picking papers up off the floor. MY papers off MY floor. Papers mainly yours in fact, a load of bumf looking like bits of poems, but you know what I mean. It’s the principle of it. Snatched them away from her before she could get a look-see.
She means well but how can anyone else have a clue what all this is like?
However, getting off the point. Which is-as I’m not up to a regular laundry day, finding myself short on socks and whatnot, I raided spare room and put on some of the new stuff. Can’t say it appeals, but it’s a criminal waste all that new cruise wear hanging about in there getting trodden and crumpled. You’ll remember I was forced to undo all your packing looking for pressure cooker. Of which still no sign, by the way.
Spare room still a mess but my new look is up and running!
I had on a green shirt and that light blue sweater with the anchor when Carole came. She seemed a bit shaken by the change of style.
I tried to make a joke about it. I was telling her about the cruise and then I remembered she’s from CRUSE! You know, those coping with loss people, they had a fund-raiser not that long ago. Carole takes it all very seriously anyway. Delivered a stern lecture on the word “cruse”-did I know it’s an Old Testament word for a widow’s jar of oil that never ran dry, blah blah, the point being that support was there as long as it was needed? That’s just the kind of thing Ruth would know, I told her. Then she wanted to know if I cry much. Nosey parker!
Still, changing subject again, can report headway of sorts. Often as not I see Mrs. Marsden from across the road coming out to catch Carole just as Carole’s going, holding her up chatting, not very considerate of her.
Anyway, the Mary or Rosemary dilemma solved! Not that she minded me not calling her anything, or not talking at all, but it preyed on my mind. So, brainwave!-now I call her Mrs. M, in a light-hearted manner of course.
She noticed the new look too! She agreed apricot was unusual on a man except for golf but she said these slacks were really a kind of burnt apricot. She said you had a good eye for a bit of style, in a quiet sort of way. Then her eyes filled with tears.
Mrs. M’s bossy. Says she keeps her front room gas fire on low till May so I should do the same. Oh, and getting huffy with it-she found something or other of hers in our fridge when she was throwing out the milk (gone smelly, she found it at the back) and got all offended. Didn’t I care for either her leek and potato soup or her sausage casserole? I said, Not really and you can get rid of them along with the milk while you’re at it, thank you very much. Then she peered at me and asked did I have an allergy, my forehead seemed to be breaking out. Psoriasis? Or maybe eczema? I pointed out it wasn’t yet against the law for a man to scratch if he had an itch and if my appearance offended that was her problem, not mine. If looks could kill.
Bye for now
Arthur
Ps Suppose I can’t let Carole see this letter either. So it’s just you and me then. Nicer, I suppose.
PPS Am not letting her see any of that story you wrote, either, don’t worry. Private, between you and me.
