The Lunatic Messiah

  Joe arrived home at the usual time, despite having taken the rest of the day off at Harry's insistence. Joe in turn insisted that dinner was not cancelled, as Mary had been up quite early preparing a roast and she would be absolutely infuriated if he cancelled dinner over something as minor as a violent seizure. He had only one further lecture that day in any case, and although there were fifty seven people supposed to show up for it, rarely more than twenty actually made it, so Joe hardly felt that its cancellation would send shockwaves through the student body. He had driven his very sensible Volvo at a not very sensible speed, but to his absolute dismay he had not been stopped by the police. This, despite the fact that he spent at least twenty minutes weaving quite erratically at high speeds along major arterial roads. It was an anticlimax not to find himself pulled over, because at least then he would have been forced to try and explain his actions. As it was, he couldn't. He had simply felt the sudden and uncontrollable impulse to do something incredibly dangerous and his middle-aged mind could come up with nothing more serious than violating the speed limit. It was something. It meant he was alive if it meant he could have died. It was better than whatever had happened to him during the tutorial which was too much of an unknown to be life affirming. It was a random neurological spasm, nothing like the simple laws of physics that would kill him when an irresistible Volvo met an immovable object. Mary and Joe's house was a modest two bedroom affair in a suburb of Sydney that had yet to become inundated with cafes, but it was only a matter of time. The front door opened almost immediately onto the kitchen and a staircase led upstairs to the bedroom and the study, although it had been a long time since it was used as a study. Mary looked up, when he entered, from where she was chopping up a pumpkin on the kitchen bench.

  'Hi, Joe, how was work?'

  Joe considered the question. Work had been a revelation of his own mortality. Work had been a reminder that there are things that the human brain cannot hope to understand. He had discovered that one of his students was a facade of divine light concealing the blackness of his own psyche; a bleak mirror of the void that consumed him from within.

  'Fine,' he replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek and placing his briefcase on the kitchen table.

  'The beef only has another hour or so, so I'm starting to prepare the vegetables now,' Mary said, explaining what he could clearly see her doing.

  It was as if she was hosting a cooking show.

  'Uh huh.'

  She handed him a jar of mustard, which he took without question.

  'Can you open that? I ran it under the tap but it won't budge.'

  Joe turned the lid of the mustard and it popped almost instantly. He handed it back to her without even looking at her exaggerated expression of annoyance. The cliché of a man opening a jar was simply too banal for him to devote any thought to. His life was a series of cliché's of course. Everybody's was, which was why they became clichés in the first place, but that didn't make them any easier to live through. He left the room without saying a word and Mary looked at him oddly, but quickly went back to chopping the pumpkin as he ascended the stairs.

  'You'd better get ready. Have a shower and, for God's sake, shave. You skipped it this morning again, didn't you? You look a mess.'

  'Uh huh,' Joe replied.

  The water pattered against his forehead like fragments of truth trying to burrow into his brain. He stood facing the wall, letting it rain down on him for many minutes, so that the entire bathroom was soon filled with a veil of steam. It felt good to be so disconnected, even if just for a moment. Completely naked and entirely unselfconscious. Eventually, and reluctantly, he switched off the tap and stepped out of the shower. The mirror, which was heated so as to prevent misting, confronted him as he emerged. All of a sudden, the unselfconscious nudity disappeared. His body looked saggy, pale and bloated. He looked like a corpse that had been dragged out of a river. His eyes were sunken and purple bags had formed underneath them. Had they always been there, he wondered? Were they always so pronounced, or had some blood vessel popped in his head during the seizure? Mary was right, he needed to shave so he carefully applied shaving cream to his face and picked up the razor. He always used disposable razors, and rarely changed the blade. There was something cathartic about having to hack away forcefully at his own face to remove the stubble. The advertising promoting the smoothest shave ever had little effect on him. Some parts of life were meant to be rough. As he shaved he considered his options. Harry was coming for dinner and would almost certainly ask him how he was feeling, which would lead Mary to ask why Harry was asking how he was feeling, which in turn would make him feel bad for not telling her what had happened. He contemplated pre-empting it, but Mary was so prone to dramatics in private that he decided against it. Perhaps with Harry present as some kind of buffer, her natural sense of 'not wanting to creating a scene' would soften her reaction. He finished shaving and combed his hair, which was thinning and greying at about the same rate. Once his hair had turned completely white, there would be none of it left. He kept it cut quite short, refusing to cling to hope by attempting to comb it over. It must have seemed natural to those men who did it at first, and the change was probably so gradual that they never knew when to admit defeat but Joe liked to think that he was not so vain. He dressed in a suit and tie, which felt somewhat ridiculous considering it was only Harry coming over, and the suit and tie he changed into were only marginally different from the suit and tie he had been wearing at work that day anyway. Harry was not even bringing a date, unless he met one at the bottle shop whilst selecting a bottle of wine, something that had in fact happened before. He tucked in his shirt and gave himself the once over in the mirror before descending the stairs.

  'What took you so long? He'll be here any minute. He's not bringing anybody, you said? Are you sure? I've made enough anyway. You can always take it...'

  Mary trailed off as Joe entered the kitchen, her eyes wide with astonishment. Her look that quickly gave way to annoyance.

  'Very funny, Joe. Get upstairs and fix it right now. It's almost seven thirty.'

  Joe looked down at his suit and shrugged, running the tie through his fingers.

  'What? Is the tie too loud?'

  None of Joe's ties could be described as loud. They were largely unpatterned and he chose them to match the colour of his shirt. Joe's ties whispered, if anything. Mary fussed over to him and rubbed her hand across the left side of his face, an action that produced a gentle rasping sound.

  'What is this? And this?' she said, flicking the left side of his shirt, which was not tucked into his trousers.

  She looked down and shook her head when she saw that his left shoe and sock were missing as well.

  'It's not funny, Joe. We have company coming in less than ten minutes, I've been preparing this meal all day and all you can do is play your stupid little games.’

  Joe was perplexed, and he went over to the mirror in the hallway to examine his reflection again.

  'What? What's the problem? It's just Harry. I'm not going to wear a tuxedo.'

  Mary appeared in the reflection behind him and pointed at the design flaws in his appearance.

  'You've only shaved the right side of your face. You're missing a shoe, you've tucked in only one side of your shirt. What's wrong with you?'

  Joe was suddenly struck by his appearance. It all came into focus so quickly that he almost took a step backwards. Mary was right. He had neglected the entire left side of his body in getting ready. He hadn't even noticed.

  'I don't know... I must have forgotten.'

  'Forgotten? You forgot to shave half of your face? Really, Joe, I'm not in the mood. Would you please just go upstairs and fix it.'

  Joe's vision drifted to the reflection of the kitchen in the hall mirror. On the table was a wicker basket, filled with dried pinecones. It had always been there as far as Joe could remember, but for the life of him he couldn't remember why. The curtains were a red and white checked pattern, yet
another cliché to add to his home life, and on the wall was a framed watercolour of a duck in a raincoat walking down an English country lane carrying some bags of shopping.

  'What is that?'

  'What's what?' Mary said, trying to follow his gaze.

  'It makes no sense. It's an aquatic bird. It spends most of its time in the water...'

  Mary let out a little screech of frustration and threw up her arms before going back to check on the meat in the oven. Joe couldn't tear himself away from the duck, with its odd smile and its little yellow hat. It was even wearing tiny orange gumboots, but it was the eyes that held his focus. It was the eyes that held the mystery and it was the eyes that told him nothing.

  'Why would a duck wear a raincoat?' whispered Joe to himself, in a voice riddled with profound confusion.

  Harry arrived at precisely seven thirty, which was no surprise. Joe had once found him standing just outside the front gate looking at his watch, five minutes before he was due to arrive. It had amused and irritated him in equal measure. Harry kissed Mary on the cheek and handed her a bottle of wine, a fairly good mid-priced chardonnay. It was at precisely that moment that Joe was struck by the very sure and certain knowledge that Harry was having an affair with his wife. He had never noticed it before, but there was something about the casual manner of the kiss that told him instantly that there was something going on. He decided to keep it to himself for the time being, but he had never been so certain of anything in his entire life.

  'Harry, it's good to see you,' Mary said.

  'You too, Mary. Say, something smells good.'

  Mary blushed, and Joe felt his hands clench into tight little fists. Harry offered Joe his hand, but he shook it without enthusiasm.

  'Shall we go through?' Mary suggested, taking the bottle of wine into the kitchen and fumbling around in the drawer for a bottle opener.

  Harry leant in conspiratorially towards Joe and took his forearm.

  'Are you feeling better?'

  'I'm feeling fantastic. Never been better.'

  Harry seemed convinced, or at least decided not to push any further and, smiling, he followed Mary into the kitchen. She handed him a glass of wine and took one herself.

  'A toast,' she said, 'to old friends.'

  Joe picked up the glass Mary had poured and clinked the glasses of his wife and her lover, before downing the whole glass in one go. Both of them stared at him as he refilled his glass from the bottle and went through into the living room.

  'Dinner's nearly ready. We eat in ten minutes,' Mary said, as she sat down on the lounge, glancing sideways at Joe as she did so.

  Harry nodded agreeably.

  'So Joe, do you think you'll be coming in to work tomorrow?'

  'Why wouldn't he?' Mary said.

  'Oh, Joe didn't tell you?'

  Joe raised his glass to Harry and smiled.

  'I was saving the honour for you.'

  'Tell me what? What's going on?'

  'It's just that there was an incident at work today. Nothing serious, I'm sure, but I just thought that Joe might take a few days off.'

  'An incident?'

  Harry was floundering, and he looked at Joe to give him some kind of reassurance, but there was none to be had. Harry turned back to Mary and shrugged.

  'Joe fainted during a tutorial today.'

  'Fainted?' echoed Mary.

  'Well let's not beat around the bush. I had a seizure. Some kind of neurological episode.'

  'I can't believe you didn't tell your wife about this, Joe.'

  'It didn't seem important.'

  'Not important? How can you say that...' Mary trailed off for a second. 'Is that why you only shaved half of your face? Oh my God, Joe, what if it was a stroke or something?'

  Joe had already finished his second glass of wine and was standing up to go and get another, but Mary took the glass forcefully out of his hand and placed it on the table.

  'You're not a young man any more. You can't just ignore things like this and hope for the best.'

  'I'm only fifty two, Mary.'

  'You still have to think about your health. First thing tomorrow I'm taking you to the hospital for a check-up. This could be something serious. And no more wine for you tonight.'

  Joe shrugged and left his glass where she had put it. He went back to the kitchen and could hear Harry apologising in hushed tones to his wife in the other room, but he tried not to pay an attention to it. The duck stared at him from the wall opposite accusingly. Joe stared straight back at it, just daring it to speak. After losing the staring contest something on the kitchen table caught his eye. It was a little folded piece of white paper, peeking out from underneath the basket of pinecones. He stepped across and pulled it loose, turning it over in his hands, almost afraid to open it. When he finally got the courage to do so, there was a short note, written in the same handwriting as all the others, in thick black marker. It was not a cryptic message, as the others had all been. This one was far more direct.

  TRY AND REMEMBER YOUR CHILDHOOD

  Joe flipped the note over to see if there was anything written on the other side, but of course there was not. He found that, despite himself, he did as the note asked. He tried to remember his childhood. His parents and his upbringing, the first house he had lived in, the first pet he had owned, who his friends were at school. He could remember it all, but it didn't feel particularly real to him. It felt like he was simply regurgitating a list of facts and figures that he had memorised. He couldn't actually remember the places and events, although he could recount them to himself in great detail. Somehow though, he felt completely disconnected from all of them.

  'Mary, what is this?' he demanded suddenly, and he heard the whispering from the next room stop abruptly.

  'What?'

  'Wait a second. I need to check something.'

  Joe slid the note into his pocket and took the pad of paper from next to the telephone. It was ostensibly to write messages from callers, but it rarely got used for that as Mary frequently took the pen to write her shopping list and didn’t return it. Today, by some stroke of luck it was there. A thick black pen, much as the new note and all the previous ones had been written in.

  'What are you doing, Joe?' Mary asked, entering the room looking flushed.

  He handed her the pad and the pen.

  'I need you to write something for me.'

  'What do you want me to write?'

  'Write the words, try and remember your childhood.'

  'Why would I write that?'

  'Just write the words!'

  Harry came into the room cautiously.

  'Hey, calm down, Joe. There's no reason to get upset.'

  'You're wrong. There are thousands of reasons to get upset. Every single day there are thousands of things that happen that people should get upset about and every single day people passively sit back and say to themselves that there's no reason to get upset. There's no reason not to. Please. Just write the words, Mary.'

  She reluctantly began to write the words and then handed him the pad. He took it, and checked it against the note in his pocket. The writing was not the same. It was not even close. Mary had girlish writing, all loops and curls, nothing like the authoritative handwriting of the note. Joe, satisfied that she was not the author, smiled broadly and put the pad and the note back in his pocket.

  'Thank you. Well is anyone else hungry? Let's eat!'

  Dinner began as a sombre affair but after Joe had apologised for his odd behaviour, using the usual excuses about it having been a long day and being tired, things picked up. He even agreed to go with Mary to the hospital in the morning, which seemed to calm her down. Within twenty minutes or so the incident was, if not forgotten, then repressed enough that normal banality could be resumed.

  'Anyone for dessert?' Mary said, proudly carrying in a homemade cheesecake on a glass platter.

  'It looks wonderful,' Harry said, and offered up his plate as she cut a slice.

  Sh
e cut Joe a slice without even waiting for his approval, and he didn't object. It was fine to fume over Mary and Harry's infidelity, but that was no reason to deny himself homemade cheesecake. It was something that only ever materialised when they had company and Mary sat back in her chair contentedly. Feeding people was a sort of opiate for her.

  'Are you not having any?' Harry asked.

  'Oh I'm trying to watch my weight. I've put on a bit recently.'

  'Oh nonsense! You look fantastic and you can't slave all day and make something this spectacular and not even try any.'

  Mary, happy that her fishing for compliments had landed such a whopper, picked up the knife and cut a thin slice.

  'Oh, I suppose just a little bit. After all, it's not going to kill me, is it?'

  Joe snorted at the comment.

  'No it's not going to kill you, Mary. It's a cake. You're thinking of hired assassins.'

  Mary scowled, but Harry was unable to suppress a smile. Joe smiled back, but then he remembered that Harry was sleeping with his wife and it was gone again. After an awkward pause, which didn't make Joe feel awkward in the slightest, Mary felt the urge to keep the conversation going, at whatever cost. The best she could come up with was,

  'I like your suit, Harry.'

  'Thank you. I decided to treat myself. It cost me a pretty penny I can tell you, but I think it was worth it. You know what they say, clothes maketh the man.'

  'Common misapprehension, Harry. It is in fact men who maketh the clothes or, in the case of certain designer labels, children in third world countries,' Joe argued.

  'Droll. Very droll. This suit was actually made by an elderly Italian man, so I wear it with a clear conscience.'

  Joe, who had been refused a further glass of wine, took a sip on his lemon and soda. It was certainly a nice suit, and he knew exactly why Harry had bought it. In the type of establishment that Harry frequented, namely cover-charge meat-market nightclubs, everything was about perception. Although Harry was several years younger than Joe, he was still past his prime as far as the singles scene went. It was therefore important to make the vacuous young women believe that he was interesting and sophisticated, and not an ageing literature professor who preyed on young women with a Daddy complex. The suit did that far better than any amount of normal human interaction ever could. Joe was just about to say as much but Mary spoke first.

  'Well I'm just saying that you look very nice. So you should. The Board of Education made you the Faculty Head, after all.'

  Joe was always amazed at the way Mary managed to compliment one person whilst demeaning another. It was a very difficult skill for most people, but she did it with a practised ease. Harry looked uncomfortable.

  'That's not strictly...'

  'Do you know how we selected who would be the Faculty Head, Mary? It wasn't a board decision. It was a homonym. It was a bored decision. They told us to choose which of us they should write down on the forms for the Board of Education and we flipped a coin. A coin! It's a position in name only, with no pay benefits and slightly more administrative headaches. I was glad I chose tails.'

  'No one's saying otherwise, Joe.'

  'She is! She's saying that I'm an impotent hate-filled failure!'

  For the briefest of moments it wasn't Mary sitting opposite him, it was a glowing Gabriel Armaita, her hair radiating from her head like serpents, but the illusion disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.

  'I'm not suggesting anything of the sort,' protested Mary. 'And if you think otherwise then it's in your head.'

  Joe nodded.

  'It is in my head. There's something in my head. We all know it. We're all sitting here talking about cheesecake and suits and all the while there's something in my head. With any luck it will kill me and you two won't have to sneak around any more.'

  Mary and Harry both looked at each other with a mixture of horror and disbelief. His-belief.

  'Joe, I'm going to go home now. I knew I shouldn't have come. You're not well, and I know you're scared, but just wait and see what the test results show. It may be nothing. Maybe a dietary problem or something. Perhaps you've been working too hard.'

  'We both know that there's no chance of that at Finchwood,'

  Harry grinned.

  'Right!'

  He was only humouring the crazy man who'd just made a joke. His eyes told the real story. Don't make any sudden movements and never, EVER, get out of your vehicle. Harry's vehicle of choice was an over-confident misogynist in a tailor-made suit and he wasn't budging. He'd locked the doors. Harry had stood up now, and he went to kiss Mary again but, seeing Joe's expression, he thought better of it.

  'Well, goodnight, Mary. Thank you for a lovely meal.'

  'Thanks, Harry.'

  'And don't worry, Joe can take as much time as he needs. I'm sure it'll be fine.'

  Harry patted Joe on the shoulder as he left the room, in that rough heterosexual way. Joe nodded a polite farewell, but he didn't get up, so it was up to Mary to see him out. As soon as the door was closed behind him, Mary stormed back into the room.

  'How dare you!' she snapped.

  Joe looked at her passively.

  'How dare you!' she repeated.

  'I'm going to bed.'

  'Not in our bed you're not. Not after what you insinuated. I've never been so embarrassed in my entire life!'

  'You wet yourself on stage in front of the whole school when you were twelve years old...'

  Mary looked about to speak but then bit her tongue.

  'We're going to the hospital in the morning, but tonight, you're sleeping in the spare room.'

  She left the room with sound and fury signifying nothing, and Joe lay down heavily on the lounge, not even bothering to take off his coat.

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