The Stager: A Novel (29 page)

“I appreciate that—thanks for caring. I think, actually, that fighting infection is part of the point of a spleen, and since I no longer have a spleen, or at least it’s not where it belongs, I guess I have a choice of bleeding to death or getting an infection. Do you think you could call a doctor? Or at least get me out of this place, wherever we are? I don’t really want to die alone in a field. I think this scene may actually be a little dialogue-heavy.”

“Not really. You began with some boring descriptive digression about fireflies that did little to advance the plot, and I’m the one trying to move the action along, but if you like, we can slow this all waaaaay down and go back to the fireflies and such. We can contemplate the years of small, perfect moments that add up to—to what, Lars? To some comforting memories of glow-in-the-dark bugs that will convince you your entire marriage was not a lie?”

“That’s a little harsh. Not all of it was a lie. She was faithful to me in the margins. I’d say for about fifteen percent of our marriage she was fully there, which is more than many people get in their lives. There were a lot of good things along the way. There were fireflies.”

“Yes. Fireflies. That’s been established. I get it. I have my own firefly moments, too.”

“Any happy memories that involve time spent with our family?”

“Let me think about that for a minute. No.”

“Not even with Elsa?”

“Still thinking. Okay, done: No. Zero. None. Zilch. Sorry. Look, the sun is coming up, and there’s a certain poetic lightness on the horizon: I see yellows and blues and a whole palette of pastels. I smell wheat and hay and the earthy scent of farm animals, and also of marijuana and baked goods…”

“Do you see any fireflies?”

“Well, no, but it’s almost morning, so it’s the wrong time of day.”

“Anyway, yeah, I see your point. The descriptive shit can bog down. Let’s get on with the action. Speaking of which, did you hear me suggest you should call a doctor?”

“There’s a good thought, but I don’t have my phone. It was getting too expensive, and I’m in the process of switching to Sprint. I want to get an unlimited data plan. I just haven’t had a freaking free minute to go in and deal with all of this. Let me use yours.”

“I don’t think I have mine, either. But I wish you’d said something. Had I realized you were struggling, we probably could have added you to our family plan.”

“That would have been nice, Lars. I really would have appreciated that. It’s a little late now, obviously. Maybe if you’d treated me with love and kindness, with the sort of affection and respect you might have shown a dog, even if there was inevitably going to be some mild condescension involved, things would be different now. For us all.”

“What, you honestly think the problem is that I didn’t love you enough? For God’s sake, you bit me so badly once, I needed stitches. You caused massive property damage to my house!”

“Oh, come on, man. There are two sides to every story. You stuck me in a cage and stole my dignity.”

“You want to talk about stolen dignity?”

“Okay, look, I don’t want to fight with you, and it’s not like we’re making much progress anyway. We sound like an old married couple, arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash. I think you should sit up, Lars. Really, have a proper sip or two of tea; you need fluids. I’ll hold on to the spleen for you.”

“I don’t know, I feel I should hang on to it. It’s kind of … personal.”

“I know, but I’m family. Look, I’ll tuck it right under my hide. I’m going to keep it warm, the way the penguins do with their eggs. I’ll give it back to you after you’ve told me your story.”

“What story?”

“Precisely.”

“What are you, the Wizard of Oz?”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Interesting, but, no, I’m just your pet, and I’m trying to help you out of this bad loop. Remember that one of the side effects of all of your
x
’s and
z
’s and the general mess of your life is that you are stuck inside a story and you can’t get out?”

“Yes, but I don’t understand what story that is.”

“It’s Bella’s story. That’s the problem! You’re living life on her terms. You do everything she says. And you even believe her version of events. Like, she’s probably even put some sort of happy spin on the current situation. You get all of ten percent fidelity out of her, yet all she has to do is put out a press release with her own version of the story and then she controls the narrative.”

“I think we said it was fifteen percent, didn’t we? Maybe she controls the narrative, but we don’t even have her voice.”

“What would be gained by having her voice? What is it that you need to know about her? She’s complicated, I’m sure. Everyone is complicated, right? All you humans and your problems. You’re all very special and important, and you each have a story. I get it. But we can also just assume she’s a modern superwoman, one of those
Lean In
, you-
can
-have-it-all, you-
can’t-
have-it-all, Wonder Women types who juggle too many things. Her telling detail is that she’s a sucker for Raymond Branch. And she’s thrown you under the bus for him. God knows why. Talk about bad choices.”

“Talk about controlling the narrative: that’s what
you’re
doing right now, and you have all of your facts wrong. You don’t know the first thing about Bella.”

“Okay, this is good, in its own sad way. And now it’s time to reclaim your narrative. It’s the only way out.”

“My God, that sounds so profound, even if I don’t really know what you’re talking about. I’m not one for therapy or yoga or any of that touchy-feely stuff.”

“Did you ever notice that your voice is not very clearly defined? Sometimes when you talk you sound like Elsa. All those ‘My God!’s—like a little girl! And sometimes you sound like Bella.”

“Isn’t that what family is about? You take on each other’s mannerisms. You merge. Besides, you tend to forget that I am from Sweden, so I absorbed most of my English from my family.”

“Phew. That makes sense. I was starting to worry that you simply had no definition. That I had utterly failed in getting your voice down—maybe I hadn’t thought about you enough before my attempt. But the truth is, you are no one right now, and you haven’t been anyone since the day you met Bella.”

“Ouch. Are
you
writing this story?”

“It’s complicated, Lars. But let’s just say, at this point,
you
are writing this story. From henceforth.”

“That’s a heavy burden. I’m not sure I’m up to this.”

“No, Lars, believe me. This is the only road to recovery. It’s practically a scientific, or at least an empirical thing. You need to remember who you are, and where you began, before you lost yourself.”

“I really can’t remember. It involved tennis, that’s all I know. But the more urgent question is: What if this is the end of my story? What if I’m genuinely bleeding out?”

“It’s true that this could be the climax, but let’s not allow it to be. Let’s make this the turning point.”

“So what do I do?”

“In order to push past this, to a better place, you need to excavate something positive to bring forward. Otherwise, it’s too easy to look back and see nothing but darkness.”

“I’ve excavated the fireflies. That’s a good start, isn’t it? Maybe I chose fireflies because I abhor the darkness? I need a lot of light.”

“Yes, Lars, we are all painfully aware of this. It’s
your
telling detail. And fireflies are a nice start. But let’s do a little more work. Here’s what we’re going to do. You are going to tell me your story, and somewhere along the way we’ll pick up some things real and true that will be our clues to figuring out who Lars is—or at least who he was. It’s like a video game where you have to get from point A to point B but along the way you need to pick up powers.”

“Oh, like Sonic the Hedgehog? I used to love that game!”

“It was a clever game, but a little exploitative and degrading to hedgehogs—a few of my stepbrothers are hedgehogs, but don’t get me started. Let’s just agree…”

“You have hedgehogs in your family? Jeez, I’m not sure I want to think about that one.”

“Yeah, it’s a piece of my family history I’m not so proud of. Let’s not get derailed here, let’s just begin.”

“Beginnings are hard. Do you go back to the very beginning? Like: I was born on a frigid night in a small clinic outside Stockholm?”

“Probably not. I mean, that’s true enough, and that
is
your story, but you really want to begin somewhere more dramatic, and I’d recommend mid-scene, possibly even in the present tense, which is quite fashionable these days. You don’t really want to spend pages and pages getting from your miraculous conception to here.”

“Where is here, anyway? And what’s that lovely smell? Like burnt sugar. Or like cake.”

“Those are fairy cakes. From the grow house.”

“The grow house? There’s a grow house out here? A grow house like in that TV show
Weeds
?”

“What planet are you on, Lars? What do you think is going on out here in these houses? This development debacle that is called Unfurlings. The place is in foreclosure. People lost their deposits. We’ve got to make the best of things, we’ve got to at least use the land the best we can, man. It’s an almost biblical thing; it’s our mandate on this earth.”

“That house right there? Is that the grow house?”

“No, that’s the finance office. It’s all locked up pretty tight. No way in, not even for a rabbit who can tunnel. It’s all concrete foundation, and then, inside, a maze of hallways, locks on every door. It’s alarmed up the wazoo.”

“That one there?”

“Maybe. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. But over to the right, that’s the model home for this place. Or it was, before it went into foreclosure. Now it’s where Marta lives with her kids. It’s tough. You think you’ve got it bad, man—although I guess it’s true, you do have it pretty bad. But she’s a single mom who had to take the kids and disappear. She bakes all day. Sells her stuff to one of those fancy bakeries where the people stand in line for an hour just to buy a stupid cupcake. Fairy cakes, she calls them. It’s the next old new thing.”

“So that’s the grow house she’s living in?”

“It is, they’re just letting her work there. She’s a good front, you know. She’s squatting illegally, but whose gonna care about a pretty lady and her kids? Especially when her old man has been beating her up? Anyway, there’s precedent. I think there’s even some movement about this, people squatting in houses and saying it’s a religious thing. I think they’re Moorish Nationals or something.”

“There’s a movement for everything now, isn’t there?”

“Seems to be.”

“That’s horrible, that any man would put a hand to a woman … Man, that smells so good! I’m trying to imagine what fairy cakes are. I’d really like one.”

“Yeah, sure. We can hook you up with one. But you do realize you ought to go on a diet at some point. And start exercising again.”

“My knee…”

“I think I’ve heard that riding a bicycle might be good for the knee.”

“Am I really getting health advice from a rabbit? I feel almost like I’m in a fairy tale. Or maybe a nightmare. Or a slasher film. Isn’t there a talking rabbit in that movie
Donnie Darko
? Isn’t he a serial killer or something?”

“Frank. Yeah, I met him once. He’s a friend of a friend. He’s got some issues, but let’s not get off-track here. The point is that you are trapped inside a story. But it’s become the wrong story, and in order to find your way out, you need to recover your own story. I keep telling you the same thing over and over and over, but you seem very resistant to this idea.”

“Not really, it’s just that I have no story. Or, if I did, I’ve lost it.”

“It might not be that hard to recover your story. Just find a place to begin.”

“‘When I was a kid, my brother and I used to…’”

“Once again, no.”

“Sorry, I guess I don’t understand this at all. I’m a tennis player, not a writer.”

“Remember what I said about ten seconds ago? You want to begin in the center. Mid-scene. Action. Suspense. You want them turning the pages. You want to begin in the Four Questions spot.”

“Still
no comprendo.
”

“You know, remember the Passover seder conversation? The ‘Why is this night different from all other nights?’”

“You’re Jewish?”

“Good God, Lars, you really are stuck. We’ve already had this conversation. What I’m trying to suggest is that you begin in a meaningful spot. Why now? Why is this the moment you need to reclaim your life?”

“Because I’ve hit the wall?”

“Good job. And this is signified how?”

“By the fact that you’re sitting on my spleen?”

“Well, that’s clearly of significance, but not what I’m really going for. Try it in the third person, to get a little distance.”

“‘Bella stood in front of Raymond’s house, staring at…’”

“Man oh man, are you going to be a lot of work. Enough with Bella’s story already. Tell me about Lars. Look, just start tonight. That will totally qualify as mid-scene.”

“‘When Lars emerges from the taxi in front of what he thinks is his own front door…’ Is that the sort of thing you have in mind?”

“Excellent. Go on.”

“‘… he finds himself confused. The number on the house is the same, as is the somewhat emasculated shrubbery, but something’s wrong. At first, he thinks that the door is simply the wrong color, but since it’s late at night, and the light on the porch is dim, he can’t tell for sure…’”

“Bravo! Continue.”

“‘But then, when he opens the door and stands in the foyer, he can see that something even stranger is going on. Nothing is as it should be. It’s as if the house has become possessed. Because Lars Jorgenson is disoriented generally (although he’s not sure if the problem is being magnified by too many bottles of mediocre airplane gin or the fact that he’s lost his glasses somewhere along the way), he freaks out when he opens the door and observes that things are different.’”

“Like what? Give us detail.”