Monstrous Affections (22 page)

Michael made a wide left, and tapped the gas pedal, to push the
car up the slight rise over the highway.

“It’s good you left Suzanne,” said Grandmother as they accelerated
along the dark stretch of road.

“What?” Michael felt the blood drain from his face. “What did
you say, Grandmother?” he managed.

Grandmother stared out the front windshield, smoke falling
from her lips like water from a cataract. “Watch the road, Michael.”

Michael turned back to the road. As they drove, the darkness
had completed itself — even the lights from the town to the north
seemed impeded here, although Michael didn’t see the trees that
might have blocked it at the edge of the roadway.

“What did you say?” he repeated. “About Suzanne?”

“Only that it is good,” she said, “that you left. I often wish your
Grandfather had taken that route himself.”

Michael was about to argue — Grandfather
had
taken that route,
hadn’t he? He’d left Grandmother, presumably to take to the skies
and never look back. He opened his mouth to say so. But he couldn’t
force the air out; the jealous Earth pulled it to the base of his lungs.

“Why are you slowing down?” Grandmother asked. “We aren’t
there yet.”

“S-sorry,” he whispered. He glanced at the speedometer — they
were down to 30 kilometres an hour. The road was posted at 80.

The car’s engine strained as he stomped the gas pedal, and he
held the steering wheel as though clinging to a ledge. Grandmother
laughed.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said. “It’s just that I never thought I’d be
urging my grandson to
speed up
. But never mind — go as slow as you
like. We’re coming to the turn-off soon.”

They turned onto a narrow road of cracked pavement and stone and
deep wheel-ruts. The sky was dark, but there was nowhere really dark
on this land; there were no shadows, no trees to cast them. Nothing
grew higher than a few inches here — so the town light reflecting
from the clouds painted the landscape a dim, silvery green.

Michael was breathing better now, and he could speak easily
again. But he still felt the Earth pulling at his arms, his feet. A
filling in his molar ached mightily, and the pain of it leaked across
the inside of his skull like a bloodstain.

At length, he broached the subject of Suzanne again with
Grandmother. Had Suzanne called before he’d arrived? Or had
she spoken with someone else in the family, who’d reported the
separation to Grandmother? How had Grandmother learned of the
situation with Suzanne? Michael was certain he hadn’t told anyone . . .

“I’ll tell you a story,” said Grandmother instead of answering
the questions directly. “I met your Grandfather when he was in
university. It was the Depression — 1933, and no one had any money,
certainly not my parents. But his family was one of means, even in
those times. So Grandfather was able to go to school. He was lifted
by the toil of his father. Do you understand, Michael?”

“Grandmother.” Michael spoke in a low voice that sounded too
much like a threat. He tried again, this time achieving at least a
plaintive tone. “Grandmother, I understand. But — Suzanne?”

Grandmother motioned ahead. “Eye on the road, Michael. It’s
difficult along here.”

Michael massaged the steering wheel, and looked ahead. The glow
of his headlights illuminated cones of a complicated and undeniably
damaged landscape. Keep his eye on the road? It was hard to tell
where the road was in this jumbled plain of rock and asphalt. He let
the car slow again while he peered into the dark, trying to make out
a roadway.

“I met your Grandfather along the boardwalk by the lake, near
the Sunnyside Amusement Park,” she said. “There was a dancehall
there — it was called the Palais Royale, and the price of entry was too
dear for any of us, my friends and I. Even should we have scraped
together the fifty cents they demanded, none of us owned a dress
fine enough for the gentlemen who would frequent such a place.
None of us owned a gentleman who would make a suitable escort . . .
But we coveted it, all the same — we stood upon the boardwalk, the
lake at our backs, listening to the fine songs and the gay laughter.
Wanting the thing we could never have.”

“Imagine that.” Michael muttered it, barely a whisper, but
Grandmother heard anyway. She raised her eyebrows and the car
ground to a halt. Michael felt his fingers slip from around the
steering wheel. His hands pounded down onto his thighs, and he
winced in pain. He bit his lip against the urge to cry out, though.
The quicker Grandmother finished her story, the quicker they’d
find Grandfather — and God, he needed to find Grandfather.

“Please — ” he shut his eyes and pulled his hands from his thighs
“ — go on.”

“Your Grandfather also stood outside the dancehall sometimes,”
she said. “Only nearer the lake; we would sometimes see him, a
strange and mysterious man, staring out at the waters. On the night
we met, in the midst of June, I remember my friends were late. It
was still dusk when I arrived, and the music had not yet started —
although the motorcars were already pulling up to the front door, the
beautiful ladies already stepping from the cabs with their dashing
escorts. And there he was, your Grandfather, standing in his place
by the beach. Seeing me alone, he called to me. ‘Please, madam, I
seem to require some assistance,’ he said. ‘Why, me?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’
he said, ‘please come down now.’

“Were I with my friends, I should never have done so — imagine,
an unescorted young lady, going to the side of a perfect stranger! —
but I was alone for the moment, and curious; there was something
odd about him.

“As I drew nearer, I saw he was near the waterline, his trousers
rolled up and his feet buried up to his ankles in the sand. He wore a
white dinner jacket, I remember, and held his shoes and socks in one
hand.” Grandmother put her hand on Michael’s arm. “‘Thank you,’
he said. ‘I’m afraid I’ve gotten stuck.’”

“Help me,” said Michael, who was feeling increasingly stuck
himself.

“Yes,” she said distractedly.

Grandmother’s fingers squeezed on Michael’s arm again, and
as they did, he felt a great rush of fresh, cool air swimming into
his lungs. Grandmother’s eyes locked with Michael’s. “I felt myself
sinking a little in the soft sand,” she said. “As though I’d just been
loaded down with a parcel. My back bent, and my belly sagged. Then,
easy as that, your Grandfather stepped out of the mud.”

Michael lifted his hand, flexed the fingers and drew a deep
breath. He looked at Grandmother wonderingly.

“I must finish the story,” she said. “Grandfather stepped out of
the mud, and onto the water.”

“You mean — ”
into
, Michael was going to say, but stopped himself.
He could tell by her eyes that Grandmother had meant what she said:
Grandfather stepped
onto
the water. Grandmother nodded.

“He walked out a dozen yards, and danced a little jig. I remember
how his toes splashed the water so delicately. ‘Just like Jesus!’ he
shouted, grinning like a fool. ‘And I couldn’t do it without you!’

“Of course, I was enthralled. As was he — for that evening was
when he learned to fly,” she said. “Suzanne, bless her, has been
spared the suffering — for you haven’t yet thought it through, and
you’ve left her. Intact.”

“What are you talking about?” Michael’s voice conveyed threat
again, but this time he didn’t bother to correct it. “Grandmother, this
is a dreadful game you’re playing. Now answer my question, please —
how did you find out about my, ah, situation with Suzanne?”

Grandmother’s smile was thin and cool.

“Why, Michael,” she said, “we have known about your situation
since you were a small boy.”

“You can’t have known — Suzanne and I only just separated a
month ago. Why didn’t you let on earlier? In your house?”

“Don’t take that tone with me.” Grandmother glared at him
through wide lenses. Now something in her tone had become as
threatening as Michael’s had earlier. “Suzanne is incidental. Your
true situation is that you were a selfish, stupid boy then, and now
you have grown into a selfish and stupid man. We decided you bore
watching since the day we made this place.”

“You — made this place?”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you don’t recognize it,” she
said. “It has changed since that afternoon.”

“This is enough,” he snarled, and opened the car door. Whatever
spell had ensnared him a moment ago was gone now — he could
walk as well as anyone, air came and went in his chest with ease,
and his arms were strong and mobile again. He slammed his door,
and strode around the front of the car, to the passenger side. Anger
grew tumourously in his belly. Hadn’t he waited long enough?
Grandmother had been playing games with him all evening —
just
one condition
, she said;
bring me with you
;
I’ll tell you a
Goddamned
story
. And . . .

And now, she insulted him. Called him selfish, stupid. Then and
now.

“Get out!” he shouted, pulling the door open and grabbing
Grandmother by the arm, squeezing deliberately too hard. “You said
you’d take me to see Grandfather, and now by hell you will do so! Is
he even here?”

She came out of the car easily — almost too easily, for a woman of
her size. Lifting Grandmother was like lifting a heavy coat, nothing
more, and Michael stumbled back with wasted momentum when
her feet landed on the ground. He regained his balance, and made a
fist at her.

“I have to see Grandfather!” he shouted. “You’d better take me
to him!”

She coughed again. Her eyes seemed enormous in the flat cloud-light. Infuriatingly, they didn’t seem particularly frightened. She
regarded him levelly as she reached into her coat pocket and pulled
out a package of cigarettes.

Michael managed to hold his rage in his fist while she dug out
her lighter, lit the cigarette, while she puffed the cigarette to life, up
until the point where the smoke came cascading from her lips — and
then it was no good. The anger leaked away, and left only a crumbling
kind of shame behind. Michael grimaced at it. He’d threatened his
Grandmother — manhandled her! What could be worse, more base,
than that? His hand dropped, open and empty, at his side. When he
finally spoke, he did so quietly.

“Please, Grandmother,” he said, “I need to fly.”

At that, Grandmother let loose another coughing laugh. “Evan
told me this would be difficult,” she said. “Come on,” she said. “I’ll
take you to your Grandfather. He’s in the garden.”

“The garden?”

“You remember, dear — from the movie.”

At once, it came together for Michael. He looked around the
landscape — now nothing but a flattened plain, mottled with stone
and debris, but fundamentally equalized by the force of the Earth.
In his memory, he drew up the past — the house, with its wide glass
doors, and the trees and the garden, the chaos of greenery there.
The memory of it floated over the ruined ground like ghost towers.

Grandmother walked through them easily — she wasn’t even using
a cane — and Michael followed. After a time, the ground beneath his
feet altered, and Michael realized he was no longer walking on gravel.
The ground was brick now, smashed brick and masonry, mixed with
the occasional splintered piece of wood.

“This place,” said Grandmother, “was an unfortunate side effect. But
it was early, and we didn’t quite understand the forces involved. And we
did have to act quickly — so I suppose we really can’t blame ourselves.”

“Why did you have to act quickly?” Michael thought he might
know the answer already — as he looked around, as far as he could see
there was nothing standing above ankle height. There was nowhere
for Grandfather to hide. Not above ground.

Grandmother stopped then, and turned around — turning, Michael
saw, as though she were standing on a Lazy Susan. Or floating above
the ground, just an inch. She fished into her purse, and pulled out a
coil of what looked like rope. She tossed it in the air, and it unravelled
slowly, drifting to him as though floating in water. Michael reached
out and caught it easily. As he held it, he saw it wasn’t rope at all — it
was a length of plastic hose, ribbed with wire.

“If we hadn’t done something soon,” said Grandmother, “then
your Grandfather would have driven us all into the Earth, with his
foolish indulgence.”

“Where is Grandfather?” said Michael. “I have to talk to him.”

Grandmother smiled in a way that was not very Grandmotherly
at all.

“Look down,” said Grandmother.

Michael looked down — and immediately realized his mistake.
Gravity seized him with two strong hands around his skull, and he
fell hard to his knees. He dropped the hose and put his hands out to
break his fall —

And they sank into the ground.

Michael yanked back with his shoulders, but his hands wouldn’t
come out. It was as though they were set in cement. He tried to lift
his knees, but they were embedded in the ground as well.

“Help me.” The words came out as a whisper, but Grandmother
heard them.

“Of course, dear,” she said, and then he saw her feet beside him.
She bent down and lifted an end of the tube she’d tossed him. “I’m
sorry — I should have explained. It goes in your mouth — that’s
very important.” Michael felt a hand on the back of his head, and
Grandmother’s other hand set the tube firmly between his teeth.
“Clamp down,” she instructed.

Michael sank further — his groin was pressed against the
ground, and as far as he could tell his thighs were almost completely
submerged. In the distance, he heard the sound of a car engine.

Grandmother let go of the hose and his head, and moved further
back. Her cold, strong hands pushed down on his behind. There was
a crunching sound, as his pelvis slid through stone and wood and
dirt. “You’ll thank me for this later,” she said. “It’s better to go down
feet first.”