Fungus of the Heart (16 page)

Gives a big thumbs up.

Applause, applause, applause.

*

I thought I knowed every nook and cranny in these fuckin’ mines, but this here room is new. And I thought Angelica was dead, but there’s her rabbit tattoo on the squashed body in front of me. I reckon there’s at least a hundred men and women boxed up in here, stacked on a giant circle of black stone.

And I know Rose wants to keep us here for the rest of our lives.

Because we’re troublemakers, the whole lot of us.

Unfortunate souls deemed beyond help, beyond hope.

I added my name to Rose’s shit list the day I escaped the mines. I knowed I wouldn’t get far, of course, but I wanted a victory. Even a small one.

And after I broke out, I had just enough time to write on that log.

THE MONSTER IS INSIDE.

I reckon Rose thinks I’m referrin’ to him in that message, callin’ him a monster for all the fucked up stuff he’s done.

But that ain’t it.

The monster’s inside me. Inside all us captives.

Rose and his men don’t know that, of course. They don’t know nothing about the monster and the so-called anomalies.

They don’t know the anguish we feel with this energy gushin’ inside.

They don’t know how eventually, if we remain in this state long enough, we transcend the pain.

And when that happens, a monster transcends the earth.

And fills us.

Sure, the beast don’t have black matted fur and metallic fangs.

But she’s dangerous.

And as her electric fingers caress the curves of my tormented body, trying to work her way inside me, I think about my childhood hell. With walls and guns and sentinels. Even then, I knowed hell was a prison built to keep certain folks out of heaven.

I was a smart kid.

And in my hopeful mind, I imagined myself breakin’ my mama out of hell, and takin’ her to a cabin in the woods, where we could live in peace.

Back then, my mama was the world to me. Even after she died.

Sure, I knowed she was a traitor. I knowed she defied the will of the government. And I knowed she was the worst kind of woman, because that’s what my foster parents told me. But that only made me love her more.

I loved her, and when I growed older, I did everything I could to honor her memory.

So when my government demanded that I fight in their war, I refused.

They throwed me in prison, and I’m sure they reckon I’m a coward. But what they don’t understand is that I’m a warrior at heart.

And one day, the Monster, she’ll grow strong enough to free us from these cages.

And then the War will finally begin.

How to Make a Clown

The blurry clown in my attic looks a little like my father, and maybe that’s why I hear him out. Maybe that’s why I don’t smash the walnut wall mirror where he resides. Or maybe I’m just lonely.

“Where’d you get that scar?” I say, pointing to the puff of pink under his left eye.

And the clown says, “I crashed my moped into a forklift.”

“Just like my dad.”

The clown chortles. “What a coincidence.”

“Tell me again why you’re here?”

And he does.

And for the next hour, day, week, month, the clown tries to convince me to cross the threshold into the mirror.

He tells me he needs me. His world needs me.

Ordinarily, I shy away from sober conversations like this. I don’t even talk politics with my co-workers. But the guy in the mirror is a clown, and I can’t for the life of me take him too seriously. In fact, most of the time, I’m laughing on the inside.

For the sake of my sanity, I pretend that I’m completely and utterly shocked by this whole situation. Sometimes, when I’m alone on the toilet or the loveseat, I look at the ceiling and I whisper, “What the hell is going on up there?”

But, to be honest, my life has never made more sense to me.

Ever since I locked eyes on the mirror at that old fighter pilot’s yard sale, I knew where my life was headed, the way someone takes one look at a stranger and thinks, “This is the love of my life.” Or the way a child realizes, for the first time, “I’m going to die someday.”

So every morning, I climb the stairs into the attic. And every morning, the clown lies to me.

“You’re the chosen one,” he says.

“You have a destiny,” he says.

He says, “Without you, my world will be torn in two.”

And while I know I’m nothing special, I do enjoy the fantasy. So I spend my days feeding my aching body with DiGiorno pizza, feeding my aching heart with cheesy romance novels, and feeding my aching ego with the mirror.

On my birthday, the clown blesses me with a particularly beautiful lie.

He says, “You’re stronger than you think you are, Fergus. Stronger than your father.”

“What do you know about my father?” I say.

“Not much. But I know he was a coward.”

“Well. If you can call a war hero a coward.”

“I can.”

And so, it’s out of gratitude that I say, “I’ll do it. I’ll save your world.”

The clown wipes his sweaty forehead with a violet handkerchief. He laughs. He smiles his second smile. He says, “My hero.”

And before I can change my mind, I press my trembling hands against the mirror and I tumble into the world beyond.

*

My wonderland reminds me of my mother’s favorite painting. I don’t see any weeping willows or weeping schoolgirls here, but I feel lost and happy and alone, the way I imagine my mother felt when she stared, smiling at the work of art in the hallway.

As a child, I always wanted to ask my mother what she saw beyond the paint. But of course I never did.

I didn’t want to taint her happiness with my involvement. My existence.

About two weeks before my mother passed away, I almost asked her for the painting. But instead, I held her hand and said, “I’ll never forget you.”

And she said, “I’m sorry.”

Now, I pretend that my mother can hear me, and maybe she can. I say, “At least you never beat me.”

Hours later, I’m wandering the onyx ruins, searching for water, when a giant scarab charges me.

So I do my best impression of my father, and kick the beetle in the face.

The scarab twitches. Then stops twitching.

And a tiny man in a violet tunic charges me with a knife.

The spirit of my father leaves my body, and I collapse, trembling, myself again. I say, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“Why did you kill her?” the man says, his blade pointed at my stomach.

“I didn’t want to die.”

The man drops the knife. He cries. He says, “She was harmless.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Mary was my friend.”

“I’m so sorry.” I look the stranger in the eye for the first time and I think, “This is the love of my life.” I think, “I’m going to die someday.”

So I’d better start living.

Part of me doesn’t want to taint this man’s sorrow with my involvement, but I hug him anyway. I say, “I’m sorry.” Again and again.

Finally, he says, “It was an accident,” and he wipes his face with a violet handkerchief.

“Do you know any clowns?” I say.

“What? Why?”

“Never mind.”

*

Two weeks after we meet, Moore forgives me for killing Mary by leaving a blood rose under my pillow. The first thing I do is smell the rose and forgive my mother. Then, I walk the five miles to my soul tree, and I dig a hole with my hands, and I bury the rose.

Months later, I’m in our honeymoon tent, crying.

“What’s wrong?” Moore says, and kisses away my tears.

“Your family doesn’t like me,” I say.

“My sweet giant. You need to stop mistaking love for loathing.”


“They do loathe me.”

Moore rubs my back. “They don’t.”

Minutes later, Moore’s father, Aiden, enters the tent carrying a gift wrapped in mauve bear fur. I know it’s a gift because of the water rose on top.

Aiden kisses me between the eyes. He takes my hands. He says, “You’re a good man, Fergus. Good for my son, and good for the tribe. I would love for you to stay with us until time’s end.”

“I’d love to,” I say.

The old man grins, unwraps the gift, and hands me a semi-antique hand-carved walnut wall mirror.

After the honeymoon, I spend an entire morning sitting under my soul tree with a sun rose in my hands, gathering my courage.

Finally, I ask Moore for his knife.

“Are you sure about this?” Moore says.

I want to say, “I don’t mind making a fool of myself for love,” but Moore doesn’t really get my humor yet. So I keep the bad joke to myself.

“I’m sure,” I say.

And right as the blade touches my face, my soulmate says, “The image in a mirror is reverse.”

“Right.”

So I cut myself under my right eye instead.

After the blood dries, Moore paints my wound with yellow clay.

“Why don’t you just tell him the truth?” Moore says. “Tell him his true love is waiting for him on the other side.”

I shake my head. “If I said that, he’d break the mirror.”

“Why?”

“He’d want to punish me for my cruelty. Love is the one thing he wants most in the world, and love is the one thing he knows he’ll never have.”

“But that’s not true.”

“It doesn’t matter. He’d never believe the truth, so I’ll have to tempt him with lies.”

“I don’t understand him, Fergus.”

“Me neither.”

*

I wake up with a grin, because today’s the day. The day the other Fergus will cross the threshold.

At least that’s what I’m thinking until Moore hands me a wind rose. A rose of parting.

“In case we never see each other again,” he says.

“What do you mean?” I say. “We know he’ll come here, because I came here. Right?”

“He might come here. Or he might destroy the mirror and kill the man you’ve become. Today he’ll make the choice, and I’m afraid the choice is his alone.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to die. I don’t want to lose you.”

He kisses my tears. “My sweet giant.”

“I can’t do this. Will you talk to him for me?”

“I would if I could, but in the reflection of the mirror, I can only see the man I used to be.”

“What happens if I lose you?”

“Then you’ll grow old and you’ll find me in the next life.”

“I can’t live without you.”

“You can. You’re stronger than you think you are, Fergus. Stronger than your father.”

And maybe he’s right.

So I face the mirror one last time, and hope for a hero.