Nightingale Songs (17 page)

My room is dark when I return to it, the overcast day filling the emptiness with the kind of shadows that do not dissipate when I turn on the lamps. I take my shoes and socks off to dry them, then sit on the edge of the bed. I scratch at the underside of my beard, less from discomfort and more for something to do with my hands, and look out the window at the solid wall of mist that hovers there. Part of me wants to draw the drapes, but I can't. The swirling reminds me of a flood that will wash over everything and make it new. I just wish I knew what color the water would be.

Suzanne and I made love that first night at the Inn, when the summer was warm and the scent of the beach was in the air. I remember it clearly, remember how soft and slow it was, remember us pausing to share a cigarette afterward, the smoke curling around the curve of her small breasts. And then I again see her grimacing face before me, only now she's joined me on the edge of the bed, and with a sense of ten-year-old
déjà vu
I ask what's wrong. She hangs her head so I can't see her face behind her hair, and covers her eyes. "A ghost must have just walked past me." She laughs and I laugh with her though I'm not sure why. The vision begins to recede again until all that is left is the memory of a sky turned dark orange, and Suzanne's hand fidgeting awkwardly as it lights on her abdomen. But there is something else, a flicker on the edge of my vision. I turn to the source and see in the darkness that the crack in the wall is longer, and the stain spreading from it is creeping across the carpet towards me. There's something intriguing about it, but before I can determine just what that is I realize the stain is in fact something more.

# # #

In my head, words still echo like ripples in time spreading out from the past. I try to push them aside, try to drown them with alcohol or noise, but I can still hear them as they leave an indelible mark on my soul.

"What are we going to do?" I remember Suzanne asking me, her eyes wide while I only wanted to close my own to dull the throbbing.

"What
can
we do?"

There were no answers. What had seemed so clear only a few hours before we spoke had become suddenly so muddy, as though the oil that had flooded McCarthy Sound had contaminated my mind. I rubbed my temples as she spoke, and the fear she filled me with was thick and suffocating. She cried and hugged herself because I could do neither for her. I was afraid. I was young and afraid and selfish, and I could not understand why such a thing was happening.

"Why is this happening?" she echoed.

My apartment seemed filled by her presence, and as she sat at my kitchen table quietly sobbing I tried to think. Behind me, the television news was stuck in a loop, repeating the story of the tanker Madison and the wave of inevitable death that advanced upon the idyllic town of Port McCarthy. The words repeated in my mind until it seemed as though the voices were talking about me -- talking
to
me. The accident was dire; everything had to be cleaned -- I heard the words over and over until it seemed the only logical course, and yet Suzanne did not agree, not at first. I managed to convince her, though. I wore her down until she believed it was for the best. That ghost, too, continues to haunt me. It yelps at me, demanding my attention, and as I'm drawn from my reverie I realize it's the sound of a dog in the next room. At least, I believe it's a dog. I can't be sure. It is unlike any sound I've ever heard, and it cuts into my nerves.

Yet I can't help but feel dissociated from that part of myself, far away from the place I truly am, for when I see the shape of the shadow standing before me, I barely register its impossibility. The illusion is darker than anything I've ever seen, and beneath its form is a stain that has crept across the carpet towards me, a stain of what was spilled here so long ago. And yet, that darkness looks familiar to me, as though I should recognize its shape but cannot. It's a puzzle that my brain doesn't comprehend. Not until the shadow moves. It's then that the image shifts into focus, and I realize to my horror what I am witnessing.

I don't know where he comes from or what he's made of, but before the wall stands a child formed from the black oil that is spread like a thin blanket over every surface of Port McCarthy. The boy-shaped shadow ripples, standing with his back to me as he shields his eyes from the deep fissure he was born from. He hides his face as though playing a game, a game meant to tell me something, but I'm not sure what that might be. Whatever knowledge he is trying to impart has been washed away by the flood of regret that pours from my heart like oil from a ruptured ship. I stand, intent on going nearer to him, wanting to inspect the vision to be sure my eyes are not deceiving me, but I travel no more than a step before I find myself hesitating, unsure I truly want to know the truth. In my terror I am unable to confront him and the wave of my regret threatens to overwhelm me. The only way I might breathe again is to turn my back, to hide from the childlike shadow as it hides from me, and wait until the world seems familiar again. But instead all I can see is the dresser mirror, and the reflection of a shivering child smeared and fractured within it.

The accident's effects were not clear to me at first. I thought naïvely that the world would revert to what it once had been. Suzanne returned to work, I to my writing, and though we still bore the knowledge of what had happened I thought for a while that it meant nothing, that ultimately our love -- that love shared between us in the sun of Port McCarthy, that had taken seed and grown further there -- would be enough to heal us. I could not allow myself to believe that the accident would rob us of that idyllic life and erase everything that had preceded it. Yet, over time, my confidence faltered. The first sign things had altered irrevocably I did not immediately notice. Each return of Suzanne home from work was progressively later, until eventually I realized it had been months since I'd seen her in daylight. The darkness, it wore on her. Deep circles appeared beneath her swollen eyes, her blonde hair dried and lost its luster. She no longer smiled, and try as I might to retain what we once had I could feel it slipping through my fingers like the fine grains of sand along the Port McCarthy beach. The life Suzanne and I once shared had withered after the accident, and though a portion of me understood that I still refused to believe the part I had played. Port McCarthy, where all our happiness once lay, had become ruined by the black oil that lapped its shores. It had become a barren place to which neither of us could return; we no longer belonged there. The accident had banished us forever. I know this because ten years later I
have
returned, and as I stand in nearly the same spot, in the same room, as I did then when I told Suzanne I loved her, I cannot face what we made reflected in the mirror before me. Instead, I weep over all that has been taken from me and all that has been lost, never to return.

The knock at the door startles me. The world that had been so quiet before returns and I find myself caught in a limbo state between what is real and what cannot be. As though I am awakening from a dream, the sensation is enough to disorient me, and looking around everything appears to be wrong. Understanding of what has happened is frustratingly out of reach. The knock returns, a voice calling to me from the door, and shaking off my delirium I stumble toward it, keenly aware of the presence that stands behind me, not looking my way. I don't dare turn to see if it has vanished.

"Are you okay in there?" the young woman from the desk asks through the door. Her concerned words belie her distaste for me. I hear her fumbling with the lock, trying to open it. I place my foot surreptitiously against the base of the door.

"I’m fine. Fine."

"Can you open the door?" she asks. I jiggle the handle ineffectually from my side, feigning effort.

"It seems to be stuck."

"That's okay. I've just come to tell you--" she lowers her voice and I'm not sure at first I've heard her properly. "There've been some complaints. The walls here are a bit thin; things pass through them."

"Things? What things?" I say, growing cold. Is it possible I feel the fissure behind me growing wider? Feel it like a crack in my own being?

"Like I don't know what. Like whatever you're doing in here. Can you keep it down?"

I am not sure what she means but I agree. What else can I do? I'm afraid she's going to push into the room and see the wall and what has emerged from it. Or, perhaps, I'm more afraid she won't. I close my eyelids and listen to her walk away then hear nothing more -- nothing but the slow leaking tap, or perhaps it's the rain outside. Or is it a small figure made of oil, its back turned to me as mine is to it, no longer able to keep its shape and exist in this world, that drips darkness onto the carpet? I open my eyelids finally and turn around to see which it is.

The town of Port McCarthy died slowly, choked by the darkness that rolled towards it without warning on waves as black as night. While the rest of the world saw this from a distance, Suzanne and I suffered the full brunt of the accident there, we suffered the crashing waves of darkness that would not stop, would not end, until it spread through our lives as surely as it had through Port McCarthy. Even now I feel it, and even now I wish I had known some way to halt its progress before it was too late. But that's the way with accidents; they come when we are not prepared, and in their wake they leave devastation and death. As soon as that black oil was spilled in Port McCarthy, there was no hope for me, for Suzanne, for us. It doesn't surprise me in hindsight that there is no sun in Port McCarthy, instead only dark clouds. The sun forsook us then. While we laughed and smiled and embraced in ignorance the seeds of our destruction had already been planted.

It doesn't take me long to pack my bag, my distaste for the town all but palpable. The dog in the next room has not made a noise in some time, and I pray it doesn't start because I worry what I will do if it does. Not once do I look at the crack in the wall, at the stain that has spread from it across the carpet. I want to, but if I succumb I fear I will be drawn too far into the darkness to ever extricate myself.

I rush down the stairs, nearly slipping on something that coats them. The tattooed girl at the front desk clicks her studded tongue against her teeth as I sign out and hand her the key.

"You aren't staying?"

"There's nothing here to see anymore," I mutter, my head down, and scurry from the Windhaven Inn while trying to dispel the image of that dark child from my memory. If the girl says anything more to me, it does not register.

I stop on the porch of the Windhaven Inn, my hastily packed bag in my hand, and look up at the dark clouds that are like an indelible stain upon the sky. And I wonder, for a moment, if it's not my soul that has been so marked.

Then, at the foot of the steps, I see the large six-toed cat once again. It still stares blankly ahead as though it is waiting for something but has forgotten what. It sits, blocking my passage, but I don't dare touch it -- I cannot bring myself to relive the experience of feeling its matted fur slide across its body. As I watch I see that what it chews is not grass, not any longer. I put my bag down and take a hesitant step towards the creature, not heeding the low growl it gives as warning. Instead, I crane my head further until what I see between its teeth is the head of a flower from which a long stem trails back to the ground; a flower that has impossibly sprouted through a dark oily film and beneath an even darker sky.

A flower. A life for a life. A promise of re-growth.

I reach toward the old cat but it only growls and bites.

The back seat windows didn’t work. She noticed this as soon as she entered the cab and was confronted by the overpowering smell of stale sweat. She asked the driver, politely as she could, if he would roll open his window so she might get some fresh air. He stared at her for almost a full minute, his hands guiding the wheel, before he turned away and jerked the handle down.

Natalie fidgeted in the emptiness of the large vinyl seat. By now the wedding was over; there was no point in denying it. She was not proud of herself for missing the ceremony, despite the distance that had grown between her and Ellen since their days at school, but she knew the flowers and lace could not help but remind her of Roger and all that she had lost. The prospect of those memories filled her with a cold unyielding dread. It crept down her legs, the muscles seizing one by one, until she found herself sitting on her bed unable to move after the scheduled time for the vows had passed -- invitation for two locked in her soft hands.

The cab wound its way through a series of side streets until it arrived at the reception hall forty-five minutes later -- in time to find dusk washing details from the building’s facade. She had not imagined the hall so big or so old; it towered at the end of the crooked path that led to its door. Pressed against its few lit windows like specters were the shadows of rosebushes, anxious to witness the events within.

The driver said nothing as he tapped his fingers incessantly upon the wheel, watching Natalie fish through her small purse for his fare. She handed the folded bills to him, but they were barely in his hand before all that was left of his cab was a set of taillights burning down the darkening road.

She brushed a loose hair from her round face and stood before the wooden doors. They were heavy and old, and inside would be nothing she wanted to face, despite the promise she’d made. She tried to collect herself by taking a deep breath before pulling on the wrought-iron handle, but without warning the door swung open and her breath left her as she stumbled backwards, almost falling over her heels.

“Sorry! Are you hurt?”

“It’s fine,” Natalie said to the man silhouetted by the doorway. She pulled her sleeves into place. “No harm done.”

“I should have known better. The latch seemed stuck. I thought I gave it only a
little
push.”

Already, Natalie felt awkward. “May I come in?”

“Sorry!” he said again, and swept his thick hand as he took a step back to make way for her. The interior light caught his thinning hair and the long sharp nose that was set above his tiny lips. “I’m just on my way out to my car for a moment. I hope I can make it up to you when I get back.” Natalie tried to smile as she stepped past him.

The opulence inside was staggering. A rich, dark hardwood floor filled with white-clothed tables stretched from under her feet into the shadows of the back wall. Across it a thin path, no more than four foot wide, led straight to a long rectangular table set a foot or so higher than the rest. Behind that, framed by roses, presided a large photograph of Ellen and Graham.

The receiving line wrapped itself around a series of pillars that ran the length of the hall, each carved with an intricate pattern of roses and thorny vines that crawled upward to the high ceiling. The strains tangled illogically, and they instilled in Natalie a strange sense of vertigo. Eyeing the door, she wondered how hard it would be to back out of attending, and wished she hadn’t dismissed the cab.

She stood in the receiving line with only her memories as company, but it did not take long before the empty space beside her was swallowed. Guests moved closer, laughing and nudging each other, pushing against her blindly. She struggled against them, trying to avoid being pushed back, while all around her words were being spoken with an intimate familiarity she no longer understood. Across the room she saw a set of glass doors, beyond which a topiary mocked her with freedom from her struggles. The thick of guests continued to bear down, crushing her, and inside her lungs the scratches of a scream started to form. She closed her eyes tight and pushed it down. Just as she began to sink beneath the flood of people, a hand thrust through like a life-preserver and she grabbed for it.

“Hello. Thanks for coming.”

The bridesmaid who rescued her was unfamiliar, as were all of them. Each wore an identical red velvet gown and far too much makeup, and they stood in a row like department store mannequins. They were exactly as Ellen had described them at school years before, except Natalie was no longer one of the group. She returned the wooden smile, but the bridesmaid’s glazed eyes had already sought out the next guest and Natalie was instead conveyed mechanically down the line of shaking hands that grew hotter and drier. Ellen’s slender touch at the end was perhaps the worst.

“Graham! Look who it is!” Ellen said, and Graham’s warm eyes smiled without recognition. “I’m so glad you decided to come. I don’t see you nearly enough anymore.” She pulled Natalie close for a hug, and her ring dug conspicuously into the flesh of Natalie’s heavy back.

“I wouldn’t have missed it. It was a beautiful ceremony,” Natalie said. Ellen stiffened ever so slightly.

“Thank you. Where were you sitting?”

Natalie sputtered, but before she could answer, Graham interrupted. “We should keep this line moving, dear. The sooner we’re done the sooner we can sit.”

“We’ll talk later,” Ellen said and released Natalie. “I’ll come find you.”

There was trouble immediately upon reaching the seating table. Though most of the name-cards had already been taken, those that weren’t were left in no discernible order. When her folded white card finally revealed itself, Natalie discovered she was unable to pick it up.

“Need a little help?” She turned to face a long sharp nose. “What’s your name?”

“Pardon?”

“For the card,” he twinkled. “I can’t help find where you’re sitting without knowing your name.”

“Oh,” she hesitated; “It’s Natalie. Natalie Weaver.”

“Let’s see,” he said and scanned the table. When the look of shock, followed by disappointment, crossed his face, Natalie knew that he had found it. “‘N. Weaver and Guest.’ Here you go.” He handed the card to her coldly and did not comment on her reluctance to take it. “You’d better get back to your
guest
,” he said, with emphasis on the final word. Natalie smiled weakly.

She had been seated across the width of the room, opposite the head table. Behind her was a small raised platform wreathed in roses, and upon it stood a concert grand piano whose nine feet of pale gloss threatened to escape the shadows that confined it. On each side of the instrument, a small staircase climbed its way upward to form the ends of the narrow wooden balcony that encircled the room. The same unsettling pattern of vines and thorns that had been carved into the hall’s pillars continued upon the balcony’s rails and newels.

Around the table at which Natalie was seated were six more unfamiliar guests, their bodies twisted to exclude her from their conversation. She sat facing the head table, careful to avert her eyes from the emptiness of the remaining chair beside her.

Dinner came shortly afterwards. The staff, all dressed in polyester formal wear, delivered and removed the plates so efficiently that they seemed not to be there at all. Natalie’s meal, she could have sworn, simply materialized in front of her; she had no recollection of its delivery.

The rest of her table quieted only long enough to stuff food into their mouths. At one point the youngest of the couples caught her eye, but before she could manage a word they pointed over her shoulder and murmured something between them, then laughed at their own private joke.

It all began to weigh upon her. Back at the apartment there were recently empty shelves waiting to be filled again, yet she couldn’t bear to replace anything, not so soon after Roger’s departure. It was strange how he had managed to sneak his possessions into her home one at a time without her noticing, yet when they were again removed there seemed to be a giant hole left in the room. Even her hand wasn’t spared; she couldn’t stop playing with the phantom engagement ring that still clung to her finger.

Natalie looked over at Ellen who was making her way through the crowd, taking time to speak to each table in turn. Around her left arm her train was wrapped like a bandage to keep her from tripping, and her hair was pulled up into a perfect golden bun. Yet Natalie could see the flush in Ellen’s normally pale thin face. Graham followed close behind her, laughing and shaking hands with as many guests as he could. Natalie sipped from her cup of bitter coffee as she watched them approach the table.

“Hello,” Ellen said. “Thank you all for coming.” The entire table around Natalie beamed, and she was struck by how different Ellen looked now.

“
He’s
late,” Graham said quietly.

“Who?” Ellen asked.

He indicated with a surreptitious glance. Natalie turned to see the large piano behind her was no longer unoccupied. At the keys a man no bigger than a child sat upright on the bench, a large toothy smile carved into his face. He remained still, mesmerized by the crowd before him. His tiny black tuxedo seemed to disappear into the shadows.

“I wonder why we can’t give him more light.”

“It was his ridiculous idea. He says it might ruin the piano.”

Ellen placed a warm palm on Natalie’s shoulder. “How are you holding up?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” Natalie’s eyes darted around the table but the others remained oblivious to her.

“I bet he’s drunk.”

“Graham, keep your voice down.”

“Look at him. I ought --”

“Are you sure you’re okay, Nat? This can’t be easy for you, considering how close you and Roger were to --”

“It’s all right, really,”

“I think he’s just going to
sit
there. He hasn’t even touched the keys!”

“Graham!”

“I’m going to have a talk with him.”

Ellen sighed. “Nat, do you mind?”

“Go ahead. Really, I’m fine.”

Ellen patted her shoulder sympathetically and followed Graham.

They descended upon the small musician, their backs blocking Natalie’s view of the piano, and she strained to hear what was said. She missed it over the noise of the room, but whatever it was must have been effective because at once the newlyweds calmed, their bodies relaxing, and both began to nod. Natalie had never known Ellen to back down so quickly, but even more surprising was that when the couple walked away and back to their seats the music still had not started to play.

Natalie checked her watch. Three hours had passed since she took her seat and her legs were beginning to stiffen. Every moment that passed threatened to return her thoughts to Roger, so she stood and started for the bar, longing for its solace, but then stopped when she saw the man from the door already there, doing his best to entertain one of the interchangeable young bridesmaids. To Natalie’s astonishment, he was succeeding. He spoke quite animatedly, motioning several times to his jacket, and the bridesmaid lifted her hand to her mouth before using it to playfully swat him. He staggered back with an exaggerated gesture, his arms a windmill, and she laughed all the more. Natalie sat down and prayed for an end to the evening.

At the head table, the best man had stepped up to the microphone. He was not quite as tall as Graham, or as blonde, but there was something familial between them.

“I want to thank everyone for being here today,” he said. “We’ve all been waiting for this day to arrive, but none more than Linda and me. It took so many years for Graham to find someone, that the two of us were worried we’d have to take care of him forever. We were forced to step in for the good of us all.” Laughter rippled through the audience. Ellen placed a hand on Graham’s shoulder and whispered into his ear, and he turned towards Natalie. “I spent a long time trying to think of what advice to give the two of you on this day, and all I came up with is this: you have
no
idea what you’re in for!” The peals of laughter were louder now; they surrounded Natalie, burying her. “So please everyone raise your glasses high and join me in toasting the new couple and their first dance together as husband and wife.”

Natalie jumped as the entire room stood. While they clapped and held their wine glasses aloft, she weaved her way between the tables toward the sliding glass doors to the topiary. Her vision blurred at the sight of Graham and Ellen walking hand in hand to the center of the dance floor and she didn’t know how much more of it all she could withstand. She stepped through to the topiary as the sounds of the piano finally being played followed after her.