An Eye Removal Machine

Mirabelle felt her head expand with air, as the laughter, the hysterics, made way to deep embarrassment that was not without a spiteful undertone. She hadn’t been guilty of stealing Miriam’s precious necklace, no, Mamie had lost the heavy silver and green thing all by herself in a drunken stupor on the night of her big opening. But the waiter had given it to Miri, saying he seemed to remember the beautiful woman in their group wearing it when they were last there, as if Mirabelle did not fit into that category and wasn’t beautiful at all, and that comment, somehow, paired with Mamie’s rude commentary on the blue collar workers and never ever wanting to sink so low as to have a job as a waitress, in total disregard of Miri belonging to that exact class and in fact doing exactly that for a living, despite her writing habit, oh, Mamie made her feel like a rank dilettante, a half-assed amateur, an embarrassing country sibling not to be taken seriously at all, and all that eye-rolling to her ordering another glass of wine and the “You are really going at it, aren’t you?” as if she wasn’t, and yes, she had deposited the heavy necklace in her pocket, telling the waiter sure, she would make sure the owner got it back, then returned home, the dangling jewelry weighing heavily in her pocket and around her tar black soul, made even blacker as she opened her own jewelry box and carefully placed Mamie’s necklace on top of her own things. She waited for the big-sisterly sense of responsibility, guilt, and duty to kick in, but they didn’t. That was strange, and strangely exhilarating. Mallory was supposed to be the crazy one.

She was sliding through the snow-ridden streets, the ones without street lights, the ones halving the giant patches of fields, country roads she knew weren’t paved, but were genuine dirt roads through and through, slid easily, smoothly, with surprising speed, her feet held laboriously a few inches from the ground, but she didn’t feel tired or about to fall, only the high of some good exercise and a spectacular view, the late afternoon wind icy and wonderful in her face, holding on to her little pink hot air balloon, and while the neighborhood swished by her in a slide show, and all those places so dear to her were fast approaching, the yard, the willow tree, the rowan by the gate, all her secret hiding places, under the blackcurrant bush near the far corner, where the paint had cracked and the birds hid in the hedges because her overalls were bright red, the song that accompanied her inside her head wasn’t Death Cab for Cutie’s Meet Me on the Equinox with the line Oh, darling understand that everything, everything ends, or Anna Calvi’s Hunter with its bittersweet chorus Nothing lasts, though to be honest both of those options would have seemed a tad obvious, wouldn’t they, or was it even the more complex and therefore appropriate Landslide by Fleetwood Mac, a song that sometimes did linger in her head when she rode through these parts on her bike when she was awake.

It wasn’t Oasis’ Slide Away, although she still considered it their masterpiece because it was the only Oasis song that reduced her to tears, inexplicably, every time she heard it. It wasn’t the heart-breaking Winter by Tori Amos, one of her all-time favorites and one of the artists she had most listened to when she lived there. Hell, it wasn’t even Changes by Bowie.

The song that kept playing inside her head was none other than Joni Mitchell’s The Last Time I Saw Richard. Out of all the songs on Blue, everybody’s favorite Joni album, hers included, it would have been the last song to pop in her head, had she been asked which song was the most likely to spring on her, unsuspected, while she was whirring through the landscapes of her childhood like an aviator, on some makeshift, imaginary flying machine. She would have said River, or run interference and changed the singer altogether back to her favorite as a young woman and answered Flying Dutchman, a particular song for such an occasion if there ever was one, or Pretty Good Year, since there was that aching they say you were something in those formative years, and well, what could have been more on the nose?

She glided, suspended by a single pink balloon, not worried about anything, but wondering where the song had come from. She hadn’t listened to Blue in ages.

Mal was having trouble. It was nothing new for her; she had been troublesome, a headcase, an insomniac ever since she could remember, taking after Mother and hating it, and was quite familiar with the vampires and demons lurking right outside the cozy flare of the porch light of their house, and had been known to do some teeny snatching, from time to time, of the benzodiazepine pills from Mother’s nightstand drawer since she was old enough to dare. But this morning it was different. It wasn’t a dare. It wasn’t her basic toss-and-turn in the middle of the wolf’s hour, drained and angry, crying over some lost love, or that special set of gloves she used to have as a little girl that were now lost, or how it was all her Mother’s fault, or fighting with Amy, or her sisters, or Gran.

The confused sleeplessness and anxiety were caused by the bare man’s back, lying right next to her in the snug beg.

“You smell like Satan, Mal!”

“Is that your subtle way of asking me if I’m the Anti-Christ?”

“No, well, that, too, but I meant the weird Sulphur smell.”

“Oh, that, I just lit a bunch of candles in the living room, and if you’ll just follow me there and quit acting like a monkey, you’ll see that I am trying to create a romantic ambiance here! See, I made dinner and everything! All we need now is a well-timed farting session to really kick this evening right out of orbit!”

“And which orbit would that be, exactly?”

“I don’t know!”

She still found it difficult not to giggle to this exchange. She was happy. Guilty and happy. The venetian blinds drew thin red lines on the man’s back. She should call her sisters. Then Amy. No, she should call Amy first. Get it out of the way.

Or, she could just tell no one.

The tin roof clanked. The animal was on the roof again. Mal wasn’t afraid anymore, though she had never actually seen what it was that made such heavy thumping noises. It always came during the hours before noon, never in the night, when sounds like that would have been frightening instead of expected and comforting. It was midmorning now, the sun was pouring in through the birch branches, and whatever it was, it never gave off an aura of malevolence.

She thought about Grandmother, and how the soft hairs on her jaw felt like silk to her touch, and the way she used to fold the kitchen towels after carefully running them through the mangle, and how delicate and clean her hands always were, even right after she had just been making meatballs or some cinnamon rolls or her famous blood pancakes, something Mal had always detested as a child, and now spent hours, days, sometimes, feeling bad about and hoping she could take even one of those moments back where she yelled in her Grandmother’s face that she didn’t want any because they were gross. Gran had loved the standards, and would hum softly, almost inaudibly, to the radio she had perched on one of the impossibly narrow shelves above the counter. She would be slicing the plums by the window for her strange plum concoctions made to relieve her constant problems with her stomach, Miriam had inherited her problematic tummy she used to say, and Mamie would be driven to fury, she would have none of it, the layman’s talk of the bodily functions, and storm out of the room. Gran would laugh a little, continue with the heap of fragrant, delicious, purple fruit, but always apologize later, even when she was absolutely right, and Mamie would now give her right arm to have Gran around to ask her about the ulcers and the aches and the laxatives.

They were such children. Of course, they were children. Mal had just had no idea how fast it would all go.

The man moved a little. Mal sniffed his skin, intoxicated. He smelled a bit like Grandmother, not in an old lady -kind of way, but the faint aroma of spices, cinnamon, black pepper, brown sugar, even saffron, were there, and had probably been there always. Sensory memory, Mal thought, remembering some ancient university lesson.

Gran, with her spiced coffee and her Frank Sinatra albums and Webster’s sax and her giant glasses with champagne-colored, transparent plastic frames. The old hag with the horrible peach goggles, one of the boys at their school had once said during intermission. Mirabelle had kicked the shit out of him that day, and that was the only time she ever got detention in elementary school, not at all like Mallory, or even Miriam, for that matter. Gran was devastated with worry. They swore never to tell her why Miri was punished, they took an oath right there, behind old man Barkley’s ground cellar, beneath the twin oaks, the three of them. Miri and Mal and Mamie. Never, under any circumstance. Mirabelle had even made them spit into their palms, the way she had seen some of the older boys do, and even Mamie, the hygiene freak, had done it, no questions asked.

And tell they never did.

The egret was standing on the window sill again. She had no memory of leaving the window open, or ever having opened it wide enough to fit an enormous bird inside, but there it stood, on one foot, as if showing off a little, goading her to comment. Its silence today was mysterious, benign, expectant. She had on her headphones, because she was making another mixtape for someone precious, and the eerie piano seemed to echo around the large, ill-furnished room even though she knew it was Ms. Obel’s gorgeous keyboards for her ears only. Except with the large bird, one never really knew. It had known things before.

The sky outside the curtainless window was grey going on black. In the far distance, she saw thunder rumble, and the egret was drawn in dazzling hues of silver and gold in the framework of the wide canvas of the skies every time the lighting struck. She tried to act like there was absolutely nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary going on, and concentrated on carefully wiping the record clean from specs of dust, imaginary or otherwise, since she ran a tight ship with her collection and was known for not lending out her albums, even for her precious one, the woman whose name was right now gone from her mind, but she wasn’t too worried, these things happened when the egret came, and it had only began to come after she had met her and her – cousins? Sisters? Her close people. Intertwined, obligated, but never part of the family, the egret had once said, years ago.

Lovely music, he said now. Yes, lovely, she whispered, lifting the needle from the groove and gently replacing it on its support.

You always listen to Agnes in the fall, he said.

Yes. I am drawn to these records when the leaves fall and the rains come, and I know you like her, too.

Yes, the bird said.

You are alone, the bird said.

She isn’t here, the bird said.

No, she had to work yesterday, she said. She lifted the record from the wheel, taking care not to touch it anywhere except the very edges, one of the few things she remembered her precious one’s mother teaching them all many years ago, a lifetime ago. Before she disappeared, leaving behind her stacks of vinyl and a shredded juniper bush in the yard and three small daughters and a husband who died of grief and not knowing.

She is not alone, the egret said.

Nonsense, they are not in town, she replied in a small voice, still not looking directly at him.

The big bird ruffled his feathers in disagreement.

Don’t be so naïve, girl. She is with George. I saw them.

George is their friend, she said.

You look out for me, she said.

Yes, he said.

Amy snapped out of her reverie as the needle started scratching the end of the side. She took off her headphones and glanced at the window. It looked like rain, and soon. The dark clouds glided through the large eye as if someone was working a powerful wind machine and some handheld cardboard storm clouds, like the ones they had made for their theater productions in high school. The raging weather made Amy think of Mal. Mal and her malicious snaps, her manipulative interjections over anything, even the smallest things, during the years they went to school, her superiority, her audacity, and the horrible way Amy herself still kowtowed to her demands and difficult moods, and all of it made her face flush in a violent, shamed red.

She would never ever admit to even a smidgen of truth in anything the bird said when she was awake.

Mamie took a pensive step away from the easel, frowning as she took a sip of coffee plus a little something extra from the already lukewarm and getting on the cold side mug. The spiced coffee was Gran’s recipe for rainy days and melancholy moods. Joni Mitchell’s Blue was blasting loud in her sound system. She still couldn’t believe Mal had rough-housed the album so that there was an irrevocable dent right in the middle of A Case of You, A Case of You for Christ’s sake, not that a dent anywhere else would have been preferable, but still, she felt that Mal had had something wicked on her mind, ruining that very song, famously Mother’s favorite, their parents’ song, like that, Mal was such an unbelievable bitch, and she would never lend anything to her again, and every time the needle hit the scratch Mamie had to wake up from her work flow and go and rescue the rest of the song from the horrid, stuttering limbo of a repetition. She swore – she would key Mal’s car the next time she saw her. Now she got completely why Mirabelle had hauled Mother’s record collection out of the house along with the books and most of Mother’s and Gran’s jewelry, not leaving any of it with Mal when she moved. Mallory was not to be trusted with precious things. Mallory wrecked stuff.

The jewelry, though. Mamie felt a cold blade of envy sit on her lap like a dozen black doves. What the hell did Miri need all those vintage necklaces for, anyway? She worked as a waitress for Christ’s sake. She said looking at them made her feel happy and like she belonged somewhere and some other similar crap, and that Gran had wanted her to have them. But not the snake cuff bracelet. Mamie had made sure the snake cuff was out of the jewelry box when Miri moved out. It didn’t matter that she was never able to show herself wearing it in front of her sisters, or anywhere, because it was large and obvious, and Mother had liked her things unique, one of a kind, so she couldn’t very well tell them she had found another one. She only wore it when she was alone, when she painted. She had it on right now, high on her right arm. Touching it made her feel special and pretty and not at all homesick, or like the youngest, incompetent sister. Its green rhinestone eyes sparkled approvingly. (This is why Mother never loved us, a mean voice said. We were three of a kind, not unique at all.) Bleh! Mamie brushed it away.

Sometimes Mamie did wonder why Miri had never made a show of the snake cuff being missing from the box. Was it possible she didn’t remember it ever being there? Or, horror of horrors, could she have known? But if anyone could be blamed for taking the bracelet, it would be Mal. Just look at what she had done to Blue! Look at how she treated that girlfriend of hers! All Mal was capable of was scratching and denting. Well, who cared anyway. Miri wasting her life doing menial jobs, growing old and sour in that armpit of a town was her business, and Mal’s mess of a life, pairing with that mousy kid from the corner house at the end of the drive, living in that decaying old house as if out of revenge, well, that was just fine. Mamie felt blessed and giddy every time she thought of how she had escaped The Hallow. She didn’t miss Mother, she had no memory of Father, she hardly ever thought of Gran, or the house. She was fine, she was going places.

Alexandra returned to Hallows Cape an old woman. It was the same, and yet so different. She biked all the way to the small grove behind the abandoned set of yellow buildings that one time had used to serve as the old folks’ home, and as the infamous B-Side, where she herself had spent a little while after her third nervous breakdown, or episode, as they were being called now. The bench beside the crooked rowan that had never quite achieved adulthood but rather spread her thin arms around it like a fragile lover, was still the same, only now it was rough to the touch, flaky, grey, and lopsided. Alexandra had to hold on to the back so as not to fall down on the ground when she tried to sit on it.

After a few failed attempts she succeeded in balancing herself so that the ancient mossy bench was able to hold her weight. A couple of late summer dragonflies were playing near her bike. It was the last moment of warmth this year, and Alexandra was lucky to have chosen this day for her lengthy bike ride. She would sit for a little while, and then head back, perhaps grab a cup of coffee at the kiosk before riding back to the city. This was as far as she dared to go. The frail rowan was, despite her petite size, heavily pregnant with berries. Alexandra cupped her hand and gently touched a cluster hanging from one of the protruding branches, as if to pick up the whole bunch. But she did not pick it up, she just held her veiny, but still delicate and pretty hand cupped underneath the mass of red and orange orbs, waxy and hard to the touch. She knew now she was the spider, the demon, the force of darkness. She had taken the curse with her when she left, and under no circumstance would she unleash it upon – them.

They had told her one of her daughters was still living in the old house. It felt remarkable, the idea that she had given birth even. She remembered the house, her house. She remembered her parents, and the mountain lion on the roof. She remembered Mark, down to every golden-brown lash and freckle. The idea of Mark still brought tears in her eyes.

But the children. It was as if the record had been swiped clean on both sides. Only sometimes she was able to bring to mind faces, such darling, beautiful faces, little chubby hands and arms, perhaps an aroma of something hidden and precious and acutely horrifying behind all those institution noises, Graham constantly trying to throw himself down the stairs with his wheelchair, Amanda picking on the head nurse, she herself always so tired from the drugs, and her mother’s tears, the most unbearable it all, the knowledge that she was a disgrace, unfit, mad; total panic clothed in camouflage war gear, pink bunny ears, and some glitter on the cheeks. A feeling not unlike remembering all of a sudden she had left the stove on. They had said that it had all been very startling and unanticipated, and because she had been so ill, giving birth to three children prematurely after a month of bedrest, on top of her own downward-spiraling head troubles, it was understandable that her memories were a bit of a blur. But sometimes she knew they were horrified by her lack of those memories.

She did not listen to music anymore. Having no memories, Alexandra felt, was perhaps preferable to remembering something terrible. Like leaving behind her small daughters, Mark’s children, in the dead of night, while she ran amok with a hatchet, in her nightie outside in her yard and in her neighbors’ yards, chasing demons that they told her were all in her head.

The song lyrics came easily. Alexandra had always marveled at the mind’s capability to store useless magic for years and years, and now, singing softly, almost inaudibly, to herself in a place that held such significance for her, she felt a connection form, from her breath, from her fingers and toes, from her lashes: a web of complex strands, rooting her to her place in the world. She sang The Last Time I Saw Richard from beginning to end, sitting on the rickety bench, without any difficulty.

The pungent, though not unpleasant, smell, and very real weight of the small berries brushing against her aging hand made Alexandra’s eyes swell with sudden emotion, and she had to try hard not to blink, to hold in her tears and not spill them all over this dear, precious land. She felt a surge, one of the inexplicable surges she sometimes experienced, and instinctively made a gesture with her free hand, as if to gather small girls in her lap.

There was no way she could approach them. The crooked bench was her commodity, this one, behind the institution now defunct and empty, and the trees, the dirt roads. The geese would come in a month’s time. She would come back to see the hundreds and hundreds of birds on the bare fields. She had always loved to see the geese come.

This is for the music lovers.