Burridge Unbound (9 page)

I can’t look for long, can’t help noticing that after viewing them for a time most of us turn away and chat, avert our eyes as much as possible.

Mom collects Dad and takes her leave. I tell her I’ll visit them but don’t say when. When I’m better. It’s understood. I’m still getting better.

I need to leave too but can’t think of what to say to Maryse. The age-old problem. If I just go she’ll be hurt. If I open my mouth the same old crap will pour out.

She has been swarmed by friends and supporters all evening, is now standing with the owner of the gallery and with a woman she knows from the
Citizen
. “It isn’t for profit,” the gallery owner keeps saying. “This is for art.”

Finally I get Maryse aside. She has been enlarged by all this, could squash me like Patrick’s spider. “They’re fascinating, but very sad,” I say.

“I didn’t really expect you’d come,” she says.

“But you sent me an invitation.”

“Well. You are family.”

Family. Blood. Mine has seeped into hers and our misery is posted on these walls.

“Thank you for Patrick’s goggles,” I say. “I think they’re an excellent idea. I’m just hoping against hope that he can stay as innocent as he is for as long as possible.”

“He’s seen the very worst,” Maryse says.

“Yes.” What more does he need to see? He saw me in the Kartouf video with my bones poking at my skin like tent poles and my eyes blinking, blinking against the light.

“I’m sorry about the hospital,” I say.

“Forget about the hospital.”

“I’m sorry about all of it.”

“I know.”

It’s time to go. People are drifting away and need to say goodbye to Maryse and I have nothing more to add. Except one stupid, pathetic remark. “I’m getting better,” I say, sounding like Patrick spouting off about his goggles. Hope against hope.

She turns to someone else. I know she doesn’t want to hear it. I know it’s the last thing in the world I should say.

Suddenly I need to go. I turn and push my way out the door, start looking for Joanne. For a moment I’m upset that she isn’t here with a taxi exactly when I need her. Then I manage to
relax a fraction, realize I’ve said nothing to her. So I turn. In a moment she’ll recognize that I’m not there any more, will come out to find me.

But she doesn’t. Where is she? She’s got to realize that when I need to go I can’t be standing around like this. It’s like waiting for a twister to hit when you know it’s coming. Those images, so innocent from a distance. They’re not for me. I’ve seen all my eyes need to see for this lifetime. I don’t need to give my brain any excuse to drag me through the shit all over again.
Where is she?

Pacing, pacing. These goddamn parties. Why do people need them? You chat without saying anything and stand around and nibble and drink and the words fill the room until there’s so much pressure but you can’t leave, you stay there pretending nothing is wrong, it’s all perfectly fine …

Damn! She’s not noticing. I have to go back in. I barge back through the door. It’s time to leave, for Christ’s sake! Where is she? Towering over everyone in those ridiculous shoes. She should be easy to spot. But no. She’s disappeared. Just gone. Jesus! How am I supposed to get home? She carries all the money. She gets the taxis. She’s the one who talks to the fucking driver. What am I supposed to do if she’s not around?
Where’s she gone?

Finally I see Joanne. Walking up to me as if everything’s fine.

“Where the hell have you been?”
I demand. Everyone’s conversation stops at once. Too much force. “It’s time to go,” I say, trying for a more normal tone but achieving a stage whisper that echoes to the rafters.

“Fine,”
she says, turns and leaves. Bodies part for us, eyes peer through the window as we stand on the sidewalk. She hesitates, looks up and down the street, then thrusts fifteen dollars at me.

“This should see you home. I think I’ll walk,” she says. I start after her but even though she’s a bit wobbly on her platform shoes she easily outdistances me in a few minutes. I don’t call after her. If she’s going to be this irresponsible.

No taxi comes. I won’t wait. I can just walk. I know where I live. If I just take it slowly. I don’t need any of them. Bloody leeches. Suck your strength. I don’t need them.

It’s dark and starts to rain and my hip becomes painful and these damn shoes, they don’t fit my feet very well. It doesn’t matter. I’m not an invalid. Some homeless man asks me for a quarter and I swear if he’d stuck his hand out I would’ve chopped it off. Don’t mess with me. Don’t mess.

When I get home I don’t have a key to my own apartment, so I sit and shiver at the door, but no one sees me. I wait and wait. Finally something seeps through my brain and I take the elevator back down and call security. No problem. Something comes up, I solve it. I don’t need anybody. I’m Bill Burridge. The world is my oyster.

The security guy is going to be here in fifteen minutes. When I get back to the apartment, I promise myself, I’ll switch on
Abbott and Costello Go to Mars
, the one in which they actually go to Venus and are swarmed by beautiful, lonely women in gossamer gowns. I imagine watching it through foggy orange goggles with Patrick beside me slurping his drink, guffawing at every mishap, squirming at the mushy bits. Asking every minute, Is this true? Could this happen? Is there really a queen of Venus with a positronic brain?

Breathe and breathe and breathe until I get there.

I
peer inside the room but my feet won’t move. They didn’t say it was going to be like this. It’s too dark. I thought it was supposed to be a studio.

“Just in here,” the technical guy says. He’s maybe twenty-one, six-foot-five or taller, in long sloppy clothes with his hat on backwards.

“I can’t go in there,” I say. “I’m sorry. I thought we were going in the studio.”

“This is the remote studio,” he says. “It’s okay. It gets light once you’re inside.”

“But I can’t go in,” I say, backing away. “This isn’t what I thought.”

He whacks his clipboard against his thigh a couple of times, looks at me like I have a mental disease. “Let me get Cheryl,” he says. “You can just have a seat outside here.”

I sit in the hall, a naughty boy waiting for the principal. The door to the room remains open – the blackness looms like the inside of a hood. A blackness I know too well. It’s not what they said. I can’t go in there. It’s just asking for trouble.

Joanne should be here, or Derrick. I should’ve insisted. They could explain this. I can’t be expected to sit alone in a black room. I’ve used up all black-room time for the rest of my life.

Cheryl comes back with the technical guy. She’s maybe twenty-five, is wearing jeans, a blue shirt, sandals, and a headset. She also looks over six feet tall. I wonder, briefly, what’s happening with the children these days. Too many steroids in the milk?

“Is there a problem, Mr. Burridge?” she asks. The technical guy’s clipboard goes
whack whack whack
.

“I thought I was going to be in a studio, not a black closet,” I say.

“It doesn’t stay black,” she says. “Actually it gets quite bright during the telecast.”

“I can’t do bright, either,” I say. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t explained to me.”

Whack whack whack
. Cheryl knocks her pencil against her thumbnail in time,
click click click
. “David, we have a problem,” she says, but looking straight at me. It takes a moment for me to realize she’s talking into the headset.

She moves off to explain the problem. The technical guy looks in the little closet as if noticing for the first time that it’s totally fucking black. How’s anybody supposed to go in there? It’s 6:07. They’re on air already and I’m supposed to be featured live at 6:11.

“Bill, how about if we keep the door open?” Cheryl asks calmly. She’s been through this eight hundred times. Probably every single expert guest balks at going into that broom closet.

“Won’t that ruin your picture?”

“It’s fine. We can get around it. Why don’t you just try the seat and see how it goes with the door open?” She turns her
head slightly and says in a small, calm voice,
“We can’t get Foster. There’s absolutely no time.”

If Joanne or Derrick were here, I could say no. Derrick would sit in for me. Joanne would explain. There are some things you just can’t ask. It’s like getting someone to hold up a long metal pole in a flat field in the middle of a lightning storm. No fucking way. If Joanne were here I’d be able to say it.
No. Fucking. Way
.

But my feet move towards the little room. 6:09. The imperative of the newscast. How long can the interview last? Four or five minutes. They’ll keep the door open at least. Breathe. Breathe. Elbows out, chin in. Breathe. I’m going to do it. I’m now going to grasp the long metal rod and hold it high in the air while walking barefoot through this flat field by the light of this thunderstorm.

“It’s all right,” Cheryl says, guiding me in the dark into the enveloping chair. In front of me is nothing – the abyss. I can hardly stand it. I breathe and breathe but half expect to smell the oiliness of the hood. Oh God. If her hand weren’t on my shoulder, I’d have bolted.

“How’re you doing, Bill? Would you like some water? It’ll just be another few moments.”

I shift in the chair, grip the rests, breathe and breathe.

“If you could just say a few things, Bill, we can get a sound level on you. What did you have for breakfast this morning?”

No words come out. I’m having trouble getting enough air. The problem is there’s just the one hole barely big enough, every breath is an effort.

“Relax, sit back,” she says. “Here’s some water.” I hear her through fog. My hand goes up, grasps the glass of water. I’m not going to be able to drink it. She knows that. Jesus. I really have to get out of here.

“Just another few moments, Bill,” she says. Her hands press down on my shoulders now, keep me in the chair. A sudden pain flares through my chest and I think, this is it, what a stupid time to go. Everything pressing down on me now. Everything.

Then nothing. No pressure on my shoulders. I’m free to go. I start to rise and a light suddenly blinds me,
wham!
I turn left, right, but there’s no escape. Behind me blackness and no Cheryl. She lied to me, of course. The door is shut up tight.

Then a voice comes down like the voice of God – a female God at that, from somewhere behind the light. The pain, the light, the voice … this is it, I think. It all makes sense now. It all …

“Joining me now is Bill Burridge from Ottawa,” the voice says. “Mr. Burridge heads Freedom International, and also survived nine months of captivity in Santa Irene at the hands of the terrorist group Kartouf. Mr. Burridge, are you surprised at the events of the last few days? Did you think that Suli Nylioko would be able to pull this off?”

I stare transfixed at the light. Not death after all. Not yet.

A voice says, “Like everyone, I wasn’t sure how this would play out. My fingers were crossed, of course, but one nervous soldier among thousands could’ve spelled disaster.” Not a smooth voice, not polished, but quaking a bit. My voice. Coming from somewhere I don’t understand.

“We have seen scenes of amazing jubilation today,” the announcer says. “There was dancing in the streets as soldiers from both sides melted into the crowds, slipped off their uniforms, and joined Suli’s prayers for peace. How did you feel watching those scenes?”

My voice again, saying reasonable things, heartfelt things, in interlocking thoughts, nice little sound bites. All while I’m
trying to breathe, hang on. My heart going
boom! boom! boom!
My eyes must be bugging out of my head. But the words file along, little soldiers nicely lined up, uniformed and polished, marching
clip clip
. I can hardly feel my mouth move.
Sense of awe. Transfixed. Witnessing a miracle. Tremendous relief. They avoided a slaughter. Island passions. Time for healing. Tremendous challenges. Sense of history
. Those U.N. words coming from me, the same kind as the Danish delegate mouthed. Predigested, plastic-moulded, sterilized, child-safe.

“The country now has triple-digit inflation, and considerable infrastructure damage from the chaos following the assassination of President Minitzh,” I hear the announcer say. “What sorts of challenges are awaiting Suli Nylioko, and does she have the experience to deal with them?”

I wait and, sure enough, my voice continues to come through. “I have to remind you,” it says, “that Suli Nylioko, though immensely popular, is not an elected leader at this point and has no official mandate to rule. What she has done is defuse a potential catastrophe. She’s now going to have to set up a commission to oversee free and fair elections. She’s going to have to reassure International Monetary Fund officials that Santa Irene can reform its government spending and crack down on corruption, which is considerable. And she’s going to have to keep these two factions of the military from overthrowing her and going for one another’s throats.” My voice authoritative, as if it knows anything about this at all.

As if I’m not shackled here, a prisoner, the Kartouf virus running round my brain.

“… potential for disruption?” the announcer finishes, and I haven’t been paying attention. I’ve been staring zombie-like into the light.

“As far as I know we’ve heard nothing from the Kartouf in all these days of turmoil and uncertainty,” my voice says. Soberly. Legally correct but incomplete. There’s something else that I’m not at liberty to divulge. That the Kartouf are still keeping me hostage. That they can blow me apart at any instant live on national television. An historic act. Burridge finally eliminated. No one knew. The virus was inside him all the time.

“But that could be another of Suli’s challenges,” my voice says, “dealing with a rebel group that fought for so many years against Minitzh and that probably feels it is owed a share of power.” Secretly staring into the light of death. The man with the goggle-eyed stare. Probably they’ve backlit some comfortable scene. A book-lined office. The human-rights defender. Still held hostage. Now there’s a headline.