Bluebeard's Egg

  They walk out into the March air, warmer than usual this year, a fact on which they both comment. Yvonne avoids shaking hands with him. It occurs to her that he is the last man she will ever have the energy to love. It's so much work. He waves good-bye to her and gets onto a streetcar and is borne away, towards a set of distant stoplights, along tracks that converge as they recede.

  Near the streetcar stop there's a small flower shop where you can buy one flower at a time, if one flower is all you want. It's all Yvonne ever wants. Today they have tulips, for the first time this year, and Yvonne chooses a red one, the inside of the cup an acrylic orange. She will take this tulip back to her room and set it in a white bud vase in the sunlight and drink its blood until it dies.

  Yvonne carries the tulip in one hand, wrapped in its cone of paper, held stiffly out in front of her as if it's dripping. Walking along past the store windows, into which she peers with her usual eagerness, her usual sense that maybe, today, she will discover behind them something that will truly be worth seeing, she feels as if her feet are not on cement at all but on ice. The blade of the skate floats, she knows, on a thin film of water, which it melts by pressure and which freezes behind it. This is the freedom of the present tense, this sliding edge.

  Yvonne is drawing another man. As a rule, she draws only men who fall well within the norm: they dress more or less conventionally, they turn out, when asked, to have jobs recognized and respected by society, they're within ten years of her own age, shooting either way. This one is different.

  She began to follow him about three blocks past the flower shop, trotting along behind him - he has long legs - with her tulip held up in front of her like a child's flag. He's young, maybe twenty-three, and on the street he was carrying a black leather portfolio, which is now leaning against the wall by her door. His pants were black leather too, and his jacket, under which he was wearing a hot-pink shirt. His head is shaved up the back and sides, leaving a plume on top, dyed fake-fur orang-outang orange, and he has two gold earrings in his left ear. The leather portfolio means that he's an artist or a designer of some sort; she suspects he's a spray-painter, the kind that goes around at night and writes things on brick walls, things like crunchy granola sucks and Save Soviet Jews! Win Big Prizes! If he ever draws at all, it's with pink and green fluorescent felt pens. She'd bet ten dollars he can't draw fingers. Yvonne's own renderings of fingers are very good.

  In the past she's avoided anything that looked like another artist, but there's something about him, the sullenness, the stylistic belligerence, the aggressive pastiness and deliberate potato-sprouting-in-the-cellar lack of health. When she caught sight of him, Yvonne felt a shock of recognition, as if this was what she'd been looking for, though she doesn't yet know why. She ran him to earth outside a submarine shop and said her piece. She expected a rejection, rude at that, but here he is, in her studio, wearing nothing at the moment but his pink shirt, one bloodless leg thrown over the arm of the wine velvet chair. In his hand is the tulip, which clashes violently with the shirt and the chair and his hair, which all clash with each other. He's like a welding-shop accident, a motorcycle driven full tilt into a cement wall. The look he's focussing on her is pure defiance, but defiance of what? She doesn't know why he agreed to come with her. All he said was, "Sure, why not?" with a look she read as meaning that she totally failed to impress him.

  Yvonne draws, her pencil moving lightly over his body. She knows she has to go quickly or he will get restless, he will escape her. She can put the tulip in later, when she paints him. Already she's decided to paint him; he will be her first real painting for years. The tulip will become a poppy; it's almost the right colour anyway.

  She's only down to the collar-bone, half visible under the open shirt, when he says, "That's enough," and pulls himself out of the chair and comes over and stands behind her. He puts his hands on her waist and presses himself against her: no preliminaries here, which would suit Yvonne fine - she likes these things to be fast - except that she's uneasy about him. None of her usual mollifications, coffee, music, gratefulness, have worked on him: he's maintained a consistent level of surliness. He's beyond her. She thinks of Al and Judy's cat, the black one, and the time it got its foot caught in the cord of her Venetian blind. It was so enraged she had to throw a towel over it to get it untangled.

  "That's art," he says, looking over her shoulder.

  Yvonne mistakes this for a compliment, until he says, "Art sucks." There's a hiss in the last word.

  Yvonne gasps: there is such hatred in his voice. Maybe if she just stands there nothing will happen. He turns away from her and goes to the corner near the door: he wants to show her what he's got in his portfolio. What he does are collages. The settings are all outdoors: woods, meadows, rocks, seashores. Onto them he has pasted women, meticulously cut from magazines, splayed open-legged torsoes with the hands and feet removed, sometimes the heads, over-painted with nail polish in various shades of purple and red, shiny and wet-looking against the paper.

  Yet as a lover he is slow and meditative, abstracted, somnambulant almost, as if the motions he's going through are only a kind of afterthought, like a dog groaning in a dream. The violence is all on the cardboard; it's only art, after all. Maybe everything is only art, Yvonne thinks, picking her sky-blue shirt up off the floor, buttoning it. She wonders how many times in the future she will find herself doing up these particular buttons.

  When he's gone out, she locks the door behind him and sits in the red velvet chair. It's herself she's in danger from. She decides to go away for a week. When she comes back she will buy a canvas the size of a doorway and begin again. Though if art sucks and everything is only art, what has she done with her life?

  In her medicine cabinet Yvonne keeps several bottles of pills, which she has collected from doctors on one pretext or another over the years. There was no need to do this, to go through the rigmarole of prescriptions, since anything you want is available on the street and Yvonne knows who from; yet the prescriptions gave her a kind of sanction. Even the actual pieces of paper, with their illegible Arabic-textured scrawls, reassured her, much as a charm would if she believed in them.

  At one time she knew exactly how many pills to take, of which kinds, at which precisely timed intervals, to keep from either throwing up or passing out before the right dose had been reached. She knew what she would say ahead of time to fend off those who might otherwise come looking for her, where she would go, which doors she would lock, where and in what position she would lie down; even, and not least importantly, what she would wear. She wanted her body to look well and not be too troublesome to those who would eventually have to deal with it. Clothed corpses are so much less disturbing than naked ones.

  But lately she's been forgetting much of this arcane knowledge. She should throw the pills out: they've become obsolete. She's replaced them with something much simpler, more direct, faster, more failure-proof, and, she's been told, less painful. A bathtub full of warm water, her own bathtub in the bathroom she uses every day, and an ordinary razor blade, for which no prescriptions are necessary. The recommendation is that the lights be turned out, to avoid panic: if you can't see the spreading red, you hardly know it's there. A stinging at the wrists, like a minor insect. She pictures herself wearing a flannel nightgown, printed with small pink flowers, that buttons up to the neck. She has not yet bought this.

  She keeps a razor blade in her paintbox; it could be for slicing paper. In fact she does slice paper with it, and when it gets dull she replaces it. One side of the blade is taped, since she has no desire to cut her fingers by accident.

  Yvonne hardly ever thinks about this razor blade and what it's really doing in her paintbox. She is not obsessed with death, her own or anybody else's. She doesn't approve of suicide; she finds it morally distasteful. She takes care crossing the street, watches what she puts into her mouth, saves her money.

  But the razor blade is there all the time, underneath everything. Yvonne nee
ds it there. What it means is that she can control her death; and if she can't do that, what control can she ever possibly achieve over her life?

  Perhaps the razor blade is only a kind of memento mori, after all. Perhaps it's only a pictorial flirtation. Perhaps it's only a dutiful symbol, like the carnation on the desk of Holbein's young man. He isn't looking at the carnation anyway, he's looking out of the picture, so earnestly, so intently, so sweetly. He's looking at Yvonne, and he can see in the dark.

  The days are getting longer, and Yvonne's alarm clock goes off earlier and earlier. In the summers she takes to having afternoon naps, to make up for the sleep she loses to these dawn rituals. She hasn't missed the sunrise for years; she depends on it. It's almost as if she believes that if she isn't there to see it there will be no sunrise at all.

  And yet she knows that her dependence is not on something that can be grasped, held in the hand, kept, but only on an accident of the language, because sunrise should not be a noun. The sunrise is not a thing, but only an effect of the light caused by the positions of two astronomical bodies in relation to each other. The sun does not really rise at all, it's the earth that turns. The sunrise is a fraud.

  Today there's no overcast. Yvonne, standing out on her deck in her too-thin Japanese robe, holds onto the wooden railing to keep from lifting her arms as the sun floats up above the horizon, like a shimmering white blimp, an enormous kite whose string she almost holds in her hand. Light, chilly and thin but light, reaches her from it. She breathes it in.

  Unearthing Suite

  My parents have something to tell me: something apart from the ordinary course of conversation. I can guess this from the way they sit down first, both on the same chair, my mother on the arm, and turn their heads a little to one side, regarding me with their ultra-blue eyes.

  As they have grown older their eyes have become lighter and lighter and more and more bright, as if time is leeching them of darkness, experience clarifying them until they have reached the transparency of stream water. Possibly this is an illusion caused by the whitening of their hair. In any case their eyes are now round and shiny, like the glass-bead eyes of stuffed animals. Not for the first time it occurs to me that I could not have been born, like other people, but must have been hatched out of an egg. My parents' occasional dismay over me was not like the dismay of other parents. It was less dismay than perplexity, the bewilderment of two birds who have found a human child in their nest and have no idea what to do with it.

  My father takes a black leather folder from the desk. They both have an air of suppressed excitement, like children waiting for a grown-up friend to open a present they have wrapped; which will contain a joke.

  "We went down and bought our urns today," my father says.

  "You what?" I say, shocked. There is nothing wrong with my parents. They are in perfect health. I on the other hand have a cold.

  "It's best to be prepared," my mother says. "We looked at plots but they're so expensive."

  "They take up too much space," says my father, who has always been conscious of the uses to which the earth is wrongly in his opinion put. Conversation around the dinner table when I was growing up concerned itself more than once with how many weeks it would take a pair of fruit flies breeding unchecked to cover the earth to a depth of thirty-two feet. Not many, as I recall. He feels much the same about corpses.

  "They give you a little niche too," says my mother.

  "It's in here," says my father, indicating the folder as if I am supposed to remember about all this and deal with it at the right time. I am appalled: surely they aren't leaving something, finally, up to me?

  "We wanted to be sprinkled," says my mother. "But they told us it's now illegal."

  "That's ridiculous," I say. "Why can't you be sprinkled if you want to?"

  "The funeral-parlour lobby," says my father, who has been known to be cynical about government decisions. My mother concedes that things might get a bit dusty if everyone were to be sprinkled.

  "I'll sprinkle you," I say bravely. "Don't worry about a thing."

  This is a rash decision and I've made it on the spur of the moment, as I make all my rash decisions. But I fully intend to carry it out; even though it will mean action, a thing I avoid when possible. Under pretense of a pious visit I will steal my parents from their niche, substituting sand if necessary, and smuggle them away. The ashes part doesn't bother me; in fact I approve of it. Much better than waiting, like the Christians, for God to grow them once more instantaneously from the bone outward, sealed meanwhile rouged and waxed and wired, veins filled with formaldehyde, in cement and bronze vaults, a prey to mould and anaerobic bacteria. If God wants to make my parents again the molecules will do just as well to start with, same as before. It is not a question of matter, which turns over completely every seven years anyway, but of form.

  We sit for a minute, considering implications. We are way beyond funerals and mourning, or possibly we have by-passed them. I am thinking about the chase, and being arrested, and how I will foil the authorities: already I am concocting fictions. My father is thinking about fertilizer, in the same tone in which other people think about union with the Infinite. My mother is thinking about the wind.

  Photographs have never done justice to my mother. This is because they stop time; to really reflect her they would have to show her as a blur. When I think of her she is often on skis. Her only discoverable ambition as a child was to be able to fly, and much of her subsequent life has been spent in various attempts to take off. Stories of her youth involve scenes in trees and on barn roofs, breakneck dashes on frothy-mouthed runaway horses, speed-skating races, and, when she was older, climbs out of windows onto forbidden fire escapes, done more for the height and adventure than for the end result, an after-hours college date with some young man or other who had been knocked over by her, perhaps literally. For my mother, despite her daunting athleticism and lack of interest in frilly skirts, was much sought after. Possibly men saw her as a challenge: it would be an accomplishment to get her to pause long enough to pay even a fleeting amount of attention to them.

  My father first saw her sliding down a banister - I imagine, in the 1920s, that she would have done this sidesaddle - and resolved then and there to marry her; though it took him a while to track her down, stalking her from tree to tree, crouching behind bushes, butterfly net at the ready. This is a metaphor but not unjustified.

  One of their neighbours recently took me to task about her.

  "Your poor mother," she said. "Married to your father."

  "What?" I said.

  "I see her dragging her groceries back from the supermarket," she said. (True enough, my mother does this. She has a little cart with which she whizzes along the sidewalk, hair wisping out from her head, scarf streaming, exhausting anyone foolhardy enough to make the trip with her; by that I mean myself.) "Your father won't even drive her."

  When I told her this story, my mother laughed.

  My father said the unfortunate woman obviously didn't know that there was more to him than met the eye.

  In recent years my mother has taken up a new winter exercise. Twice a week she goes dancing on figure skates: waltzes, tangos, foxtrots. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings she can be observed whirring around the local arena to the tune of "A Bicycle Built For Two" played over the scratchy sound system, speed undiminished, in mittens which do not match her skirt, keeping perfect time.

  My father did what he did because it allows him to do what he does. There he goes now, in among the trees, battered grey felt hat - with or without a couple of trout flies stuck in the band, depending on what year we're talking about - on his head to keep things from falling into his hair, things that are invisible to others but which he knows all too well are lurking up there among the innocent-looking leaves, one or two or a clutch of children of any age tagging along after him, his own or his grandchildren or children attracted at random, as a parade attracts followers, as the sun attracts meteors, their e
yes getting larger and larger as wonder after wonder is revealed to them: a sacred white larva that will pupate and fly only after seven years, a miraculous beetle that eats wood, a two-sexed worm, a fungus that crawls. No freak show can hold a candle to my father expounding Nature.

  He leaves no stone unturned; but having turned it, to see what may be underneath - and at this point no squeals or expressions of disgust are permitted, on pain of his disfavour - he puts everything carefully back: the grub into its hollow, the woodborer beneath its rotting bark, the worm into its burrow, unless needed of course for fishing. He is not a sentimentalist.

  Now he spreads a tarpaulin beneath a likely-looking tree, striped maple let us say, and taps the tree trunk with the pole of his axe. Heaven rewards him with a shower of green caterpillars, which he gathers tenderly in, to carry home with him and feed on leafy branches of the appropriate kind stuck into quart jars of water. These he will forget to replace, and soon the caterpillars will go crawling over our walls and ceiling in search of fodder, to drop as if on cue into the soup. My mother is used to this by now and thinks nothing of it.

  Meanwhile the children follow him to the next tree: he is better than magicians, since he explains everything. This is indeed one of his purposes: to explain everything, when possible. He wants to see, he wants to know, only to see and know. I'm aware that it is this mentality, this curiosity, which is responsible for the hydrogen bomb and the imminent demise of civilization and that we would all be better off if we were still at the stone-worshipping stage. Though surely it is not this affable inquisitiveness that should be blamed.

  Look, my father has unearthed a marvel: a slug perhaps, a snake, a spider complete with her sack of eggs? Something educational at any rate. You can't see it from here: only the backs of the children's heads as they peer down into his cupped hands.