The Lava in My Bones (37 page)

Suddenly in my mind's eye came a horrible vision: two ruler-hard penises crashing together like swords. They smashed against each other, one slanting upwards and the other down, or the tips struck—bam!—directly against each other. Then they clumsily whacked at the other's sides, poked a swinging ball, or rebounded from flabby stomach skin, shuddering but not vanquished. On and on they continued thrusting, thrashing, clobbering, jabbing.
It was a nightmare vision! Each penis desired that the other submit, but the skin surfaces were too solid, unyielding, and self-enclosed, so the dicks lunged, pummelled, and pounded at each other relentlessly. The sight was dizzying, repulsive, gut-wrenching, and exhausting.

I skimmed the other sheets, and they all told the same story. Then I thought: Lo, I shall defy ye, beast from Zurich. Lord protect us from Satan whose Hell-heated head is so hot, it melts any toupée you place on it!

I knew my actions had only pushed away those I love, but the Monster was too strong. I crammed every last page down the front of my pants, fled my room, and dashed up the metal stairs. In a daze I wandered the main deck. Where should I cast Franz's words? A woman with a beehive hairdo eyed the bulge in my pants and licked her lips. I couldn't cross my legs, for Franz's sentences were too long.

The ringing of the lunch bell was like a slap awakening me. The deck cleared. I limped toward the stern and stood alone at the back of the ship. I observed the strip of bubbling foam the vessel left in its wake. It swung back and forth like a tail. I undid my pants, and a gust lifted Franz's words from my drawers. The pages flew up and over the water. They hovered for a moment in mid-air, then fluttered down to be absorbed by the rolling waves. I zipped up my pants and sighed profoundly.

I kept the first sheet of the letter as criminal evidence of Sam's deeds, quickly folded and stuffed it into my jacket.

When I returned to our corridor, Sam was running in circles, squealing and rocking his head from side to side. Sue chased
him, yelling, “I didn't take your papers. How could I have? I was with you! Could you at least tell me what was written on them?”

“What on Earth has happened?” I exclaimed.

Sue told me the story. Sam twisted his hands and moaned. I glanced at my groin freshly emptied of Franz's words. She implored, “Did you see anyone down here, sir?”

I shook my head. “How terrible indeed. To lose letters that mean so much. Absolutely dreadful.”

Sue asked me where they stowed the garbage.

“On the third level at the bow.”

“We can get them before they're dumped overboard.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” I called after them. When I re-entered my room, I laughed so loud, the people in the dining room above probably heard me. I stuffed the remaining page of Franz's letter into a hole in my mattress.

At dinner my children joined me at our table in the corner. Sam kept muttering and Sue tried to console him. “I'm glad you finally told me about Franz, Sam. And I'm really happy that you'll see him again. You shouldn't be afraid to tell me other stuff about you either.” Sam gnawed on his dessert spoon. “Don't be so upset. Losing the letters is nothing. You still got that rock you can give him instead.”

Sam put the spoon on the table. “Maybe you're right. Letters are less important than he is.” He spoke more clearly now. Perhaps he was learning to control his bizarre vocal cords. “I will not get trapped in illusions. I must remember a diamond is being formed.”

“That book you told me about is so neat, Sam. Mr. Potato
Head people who can remove and share each other's body parts! Just thinking of that gives me a weird happy feeling, and I don't even know why.”

Soon Sue's arms were grazed clean of stingers. She bent her foot and picked at her dotted shins. Her tongue flicked lizard-like; her fingers leapt and darted so quickly, they appeared to be fluttering. By the time I finished my fruit cup, she'd cleared her whole kneecap.

“Ah,” I said cheerfully. “I see that your skin is nearly free of its … ailment.” I spoke lightly. “What is that all about anyway?”

“A little mistake I made.” She stabbed a pineapple chunk with a toothpick. “At least
you've
noticed. Sam doesn't notice me anymore. I don't think he ever did. He's useless to me, really.”

She's starting to understand the truth. She's alone in the world. My son is intelligent, but he isn't her saviour. “If you're feeling upset, come to my room this evening for a cognac.”

Then I heard my husband's name. “Ted Masonty.” A businessman sitting behind us said: “A fisherman from Cartwright. He was found floating dead in the wake of our ship. The town wants to blame us, but the captain swears he saw him jump into the water deliberately. They say it was suicide, but the corpse had a grin on its face that the undertaker couldn't remove.”

“He must have purchased one of our products.”

Sue asked, “Excuse me, did you say Ted Masonty?”

The man nodded; she turned abruptly and, trembling, clutched Sam's arm. My hand flew to my face. Then I saw a man running toward me. He was wearing a white T-shirt, track pants, and had a military haircut. “Gimme my clothes!”

I leapt from the chair and raced to the exit. I charged down to the lower level, dashed into the boiler room, climbed the ship's inner skeleton, shot out on the deck, and was again at the V-shaped stern of the ship. I stripped to my underwear and threw the jacket, shirt, tie, pants, and boots overboard, then hid behind a rowboat.

A minute later the man ran on to the deck. When he saw his hat floating on the water, he cried, “Jesus Christ!” He didn't go back inside but stared at the water for over an hour. He left, and other people arrived, drinking from shot glasses.

Huddled in a ball, I shivered in the shadows. I watched the moon rise and cast a strip of light on the sea. The line's edges wavered and were crossed by abrupt slashes of darkness. At last alone and unobserved, I wept for my husband and me. His death was the end of a long process, and I felt half-responsible for the failure of our marriage. Yesterday I had at last left him alone in an empty house, but did that free him? He threw himself into the ocean to be with his ridiculous mermaid. That desire was always in him. I asked God to be gentle and forgive his faults, which were many. As were mine.

“We could bottle this seawater,” a man said, “and sell it in the Sahara. The people there wouldn't know the difference.”

A breeze fingered the hair on my forehead. Now was the proposed hour of my children's baptism, but I was trapped here. Tomorrow I'd have to strike up an acquaintance with them as a whole new person. It was all so exasperating! When Satan is clipping his toenails, may he get confused and chop off his whole foot!

Finally the deck cleared. The midnight gong sounded, and I scurried naked to the galley door, made my way to the lower deck, hurried to the dry cleaners, and stole some new clothes.

My children were still awake. Sue stopped sobbing and said, “If I'd known I'd never see him again, I would've said goodbye. I'm trying not to blame myself because I always do that.”

“I could've stopped him,” blubbered Sam, “or talked sense into him.”

“I'm worried about Mom. How'll she feel now?” I silently thanked my dear daughter for saying that I mattered.

My children wept together. I hoped my husband's death would kill their new spirit of adventurousness. Dread had always sharply defined my own character, and I'd hoped to pass on that fear in my breast milk.

Sue said, “Let's do the flowers.”

An hour later I watched from a shadowy cubbyhole on deck as my children tossed plastic roses pilfered from the dining room into the wake of the ship. They quietly sang, “The Nipper in the Cod and the Codder in the Pail.” I hummed along. My husband was gone: it was now more imperative that my offspring not abandon me. Still, staring at my children holding hands, I felt sad for them, targeted as they were by the ferocious need within me.

That night in my haze of grief, I still had the sense to know I could douse them while they slept. I carefully carried Mary's magic bottle into the hall. Sam was snoring but Sue was awake, sighing and weeping. The situation was infuriating!

The next morning I dressed as a gypsy-girl in clog-soled sandals that slid on the floor when I walked. My torso and hips
were concealed beneath a silk dress printed with garish parrots, macaws, and cockatoos in bright grasses. When I moved my hips, the fabric flashed like myriad winking eyes. To conceal my hair I knotted a topaz-streaked kerchief around my head. I attached a longer plastic nose to my face and added more putty. Perhaps it'd be easier to become acquainted with my daughter as a female. Still, I worried this disguise would be less convincing than the first. God, are all the disguises you offer magical?

I picked up Mary's bottle, left my room, and approached the closed curtain. All was silent. Now was the time. I unsealed the bottle, crouched, and thrust myself through the curtain to see—coiled rope, pails, and Sam's rock in the corner. Where had they gone? Today was the day for the miracle. I could wait no longer. If necessary I'd splash my children in public. I worried that Sue would recognize the container and flee before I could baptize her. I'd displayed the bottle on our mantel in Cartwright in a moment of foolish pride.

Back in my room I tried hiding the container in my underpants, but it was too big, seemed wrong anatomically, and could easily slip through my panty elastic and shatter on the floor. I headed into the storage room. At the back stood shelves lined with broomstick ends, soap cakes, and coils of wire. I opened a wooden box and found Geronimo dolls, a Snakes and Ladders set, and several dice. At the bottom, I saw a plastic water pistol. God be praised! I returned to my room, filled the gun with some of Mary's urine, and stuffed it into my bra. I pointed it upwards so no liquid dribbled out.

I waited all morning at our table in the dining room, but my
children didn't arrive. I ate a croissant and glanced forlornly at the crumbs lying on the tablecloth like tiny eyeless heads. All day I searched for them; I climbed about the ship's inner skeleton, wandered through rooms where people played billiards or watched videos. I discovered a small chapel that, not surprisingly, was empty. My children were hiding and mourning.

The ship's main deck was thronged with bodies stretched out on identical plastic lawn-chairs. In a world of so many people, why did I feel I had so little in my life? The air was scented with coconut; transistor radios buzzed like boxes of bees. Frying hamburgers sizzled; a man shouted, “Get your red-hots. Get 'em while you're red and hot.” The sea of exposed flesh broiled and sautéed, becoming as dry and desiccated as horse leather. Plaid bikinis-cups rose like prim little hills. Wrinkled boxer shorts ruffled in the breeze and nylon Speedos gleamed as smooth as jade or bulged with concealed anteater snouts. Coloured sun creams shone in diagonal lines on cheeks. Over eyes lay plastic glasses like overturned spoons joined at the tips. Hills on eyes matched hills on breasts, and for a second everyone seemed to have breasts for eyes. I glanced at my own bosoms, glad they were down on my chest and not on my face.

Men muttered “We must increase the flow of goods” and “Governments must be weakened.” They talked about eradicating borders again. I walked past teenagers playing volleyball, a clown juggling sticks, an ice cream vendor pushing a coffin-like box on wheels. He slid open the lid and, amidst clouds of steam, pulled out cones the colour of bone. People stripped off the tin foil and licked.

“Mmmm,” they said.

All we are doing is eating death.

Leaning on the railing, I yawned ferociously. I'd been up all night obsessing over the gaps in my marriage. I returned to my room, removed the plastic pistol, and lay on the cot. I fell into a deep sleep and again had nightmares: Two penises clashed in a lance battle that never ended.

I woke in darkness, my hands clutching the bedspread. In the porthole, moonlight bled onto the waves. Footsteps outside my door. I turned the doorknob, stuck out my head. Sue's back was receding down the hall. I was about to cry out her name but realized I wasn't supposed to know her. In a high-pitched soprano, I yelled, “Hey, you there, girl!” Sue spun round. “How you do,” I said. “I guess I your neighbour. We didn't meet before. I Cheryl.”

Sue observed me. Would she accept this woman pasted over the soldier pasted over her mother?

“What you doing down here?”

“I'm looking for someone,” she said, “who's always running away.” Again she believed my costume was me! How wondrous! Thank you, God!

As she headed down the hall, I called out, “Maybe I can help.” I shoved the pistol into my bra and followed. Lord, she moved fast! I headed up the metal-clanging steps and was panting when I reached the top. Out onto the wet, slippery deck a storm raged and water splashed across the rows of lawn chairs. I clutched my kerchief with both hands, fearing the wind would rip it from my head.

Sue disappeared through another doorway. I heard a distant
thumping, as regular as a heartbeat. I scurried down a steep staircase and entered a low-ceilinged room full of crowds, smoke, tables with waxed tops, flashing lights, and blaring loudspeakers: