It isn’t long before more partygoers come in from the backyard to investigate the ruckus, and she’s swept along with them toward the second floor, trying to imagine what has happened. Maybe Lydia’s making a scene with Rhea. Or maybe Brid is watching the film and has viewed the dead bird in Pauline’s hand. Maggie’s legs grow heavy, but there are more bodies in motion behind her and she’s compelled upward.
Everyone is ascending the stairs except a lone pair making their way down. It’s Frank Dodd dragging Lydia by the hand. His bald head is beet red, his eyes angry slits, while Lydia’s skin is bloodless. Frank sees Maggie ahead of him and looks as if he might strike her.
“You people,” he seethes. “You people are sick.”
A second later they have passed by her and Lydia turns to flash her a helpless, desperate look.
Whatever has happened, it isn’t over, because upstairs the hallway is packed tightly with people pressing toward the playroom door, straining to look in. Maggie has to push past them to get inside. When she finally enters the room, everyone is staring at the wall and what’s projected there, and with horror she realizes why.
Beyond the backs of heads and wisps of smoke is a shot of her and Fletcher’s bedroom. The camera’s steady, as if mounted on its tripod. Sunlight pools on the floor, revealing a castaway pair of men’s underwear and a single brown sock. The comforter on the bed has been pulled down. Fletcher lies there on his back, not quite centred, his body sprawled across the sheets, naked, the light falling across him such that his ribs are individuated, countable. His legs are straight out, one foot hidden beneath a corner of the comforter, the other cut off by the frame. He faces the camera with a contented demeanour, head propped on a pillow, one arm flopped across the bed as though forgotten. With the other hand, he strokes his penis.
Fingertips run down the shaft, then squeeze and push up over the foreskin. Testicles hang one a little lower than the other, each disturbed by the hand’s motion, the skin that encloses them bright pink in contrast with the baked brown of the torso and the bleached thighs, the genitals so brightly coloured they’re almost not part of the body but an alien thing tugged at in a lazy effort to remove it. The fist works its way up and down. His hips lift from the bed to reveal the cleft of buttocks and a momentary wedge of darkness beneath them that collapses and vanishes as they compress upon the sheets.
The camera’s focus is there at the root of him. His face is slightly blurred, subtleties of expression lost to the low resolution of the film stock, which registers only a kind of growing studiousness and flickers of pleasure that come and go with the flash of teeth. Maggie waits for a cutaway shot, a pan, a dissolve. Briefly a bird’s shadow flits through the square of light on the floor. The camera doesn’t flinch.
The soundtrack is whispers and guffaws. She dares not look around. Why does no one act? It’s as if they’re waiting for something. The comments grow louder, the laughter more raucous. Are Rhea and the boys still here? The priest’s sister? Someone says it’s disgusting and they should shut it off already, but Maggie seems to have lost a connection to her limbs. The image of Fletcher on the wall wavers. Squiggles of light dance in front of her. He tugs with more energy now, over and over, as though the film’s being rewound and replayed. She can’t get herself to move.
“Lucky Maggie!” says someone in the crowd. “He’s hung like a horse.”
Somebody else says, “If he doesn’t come soon, I’m going to.”
On the wall, he’s smiling and talking to the camera. What could he be saying? She fears that soon she’s going to see herself step into the frame, her pasty backside moving to straddle him, but they never did such things with the camera there. His expression is awful, so blithe and unaware of his audience. She looks around the room in a panic, wondering where he could be.
“Oh, Maggie, hi,” someone says, noticing her for the first time. Others turn toward her.
“The director!” someone else calls out. “Nice flick.”
Stumbling into the person beside her, she realizes it’s Dimitri. The scene on the wall has been happening forever. Pushing off him, she lurches toward the projector. Before she gets there, though, all sound drops away. It’s no longer her they’re watching. She knows what has happened, and she wants to call out for him to leave. A moment later someone greets him with a friendly, mocking cheer.
He hasn’t even realized what it is. In the doorway, he grins like it’s a surprise party. He’s about to make some remark when he notices what’s on the wall. Maggie watches as his face dies.
He takes a step back as if pushed in the chest. A few people snicker. When Maggie recovers herself enough to start for the projector again, the image on the wall has changed: a group is playing baseball in the backyard. Clouds graze blue sky, and the long grass bristles in the wind.
“When does the next show start?” says Dimitri.
Fletcher seems not to recognize him. “Get out,” he says. No one moves.
“Hey, relax—” Dimitri begins.
“Get out!” Fletcher cries. With arms extended, he rushes at the other man, grabs him by the shirt, and tries to drag him toward the door. Dimitri’s beer bottle flies from his hands, spraying its contents across the carpet. People on all sides step back as the two men clutch each other, the tendons in Fletcher’s neck taut, his jaw clenched in effort. Dimitri is heavier and more powerful; it isn’t
long before he has Fletcher pinned to the floor. “Get out!” Fletcher screams. When he finally stops struggling, Dimitri releases his grip, stands, and adjusts his wrenched shirt, while Fletcher remains on the floor, panting and shouting for them all to go.
After Dimitri leaves, others follow, a few nodding at Maggie with the sympathy of downcast eyes.
“I don’t see what the problem is,” she hears one of them whisper to another. “Everybody jerks off.”
Once Fletcher and Maggie are the only people left in the room, he’s the one who speaks.
“I want them gone,” he declares, then shoots her a savage look, as if it’s she who has betrayed him. A moment later he’s in the hall shouting at people, ordering them off the property. Gradually his voice diminishes; she hears automobile engines starting up. From below there’s the sound of something heavy hitting the floor, glass breaking, and more shouted threats. On the projection wall the baseball game comes to an end, and the film of Pauline and the birds begins to play.
Maggie watches until the screen is white. Afterward, she goes about putting away reels in their canisters, moving the projector to the corner, and folding up chairs. The air stinks of smoke, though the window is open as far as it will go. The carpet is wet with beer and wine. She heads to the bathroom for paper towels and finds the door open but the room occupied.
It’s the priest and his sister. He sits on the radiator by the toilet in a turtleneck and corduroys, looking not much older than Maggie. Next to him, Lenka kneels over the
toilet. Her mascara has run down her cheeks. He’s holding her hair gently in one hand, while with the other he rubs the small of her back.
“Sorry,” he says to Maggie when he notices her. “Something she ate, maybe.” The words are spoken without conviction or any need to be believed. Maggie nods and closes the door to grant them some privacy.
The porch and front lawn are deserted. Most of the cars are gone, including the camper van. Where could he have driven? Bottles, potato chips, and paper cups lie scattered across the hallway floor. In the living room, candles and incense still burn, while the coffee table has been tipped on end, its glass top smashed. Carefully, she begins to gather the shards. It feels urgent to clean everything up without delay. Then, as she snuffs candles, a long, anguished cry from the kitchen prickles her neck. She moves toward it without wanting to know its source.
At the table, Brid is slumped holding Pauline, who clings to her mother’s neck and stares into the distance. Neither of them acknowledges Maggie when she sits beside them.
“He’s gone,” Brid mumbles. “He’s gone again.” A short handwritten note lies before her on the table.
Maggie remembers the rucksack and doesn’t know what to say. She wants to offer comfort but can’t quite do it. Something is telling her that if she speaks, Brid will blame her for Wale’s leaving.
“Did he say where he’s headed?” Maggie finally asks. A horrible thought has occurred to her, one that somehow she’s sure is the truth. Wale has gone to Laos, and it’s because her father truly is in trouble. “Did he give any hint?”
Brid shakes her head and holds Pauline more tightly. “Your father is a bastard,” she whispers to the girl. “He’s such a big, big bastard.”
As Maggie sits there, another idea comes out of nowhere. No, it’s been brewing in her awhile. She hasn’t wanted to think about it, but there’s a lingering question about the shot of Fletcher on the bed. A technical question, simple and disastrous. All of a sudden, knowing the answer to it seems like the most pressing thing there is.
“Brid,” she says, “were you upstairs?” Brid shakes her head. “But you heard what happened? Brid, I don’t know how to say it—”
“Spit it out,” Brid growls, and somehow this animosity allows Maggie to speak what’s on her mind.
“Someone had to be running the camera.”
Brid looks at her with bemusement. “What—you think it was me filming him? Is that what you think?” She laughs in a way that sounds like a cough and holds Pauline even more tightly. “Go find your boyfriend and ask him.”
For hours, Maggie cleans and tidies, the lights burning in every room. Occasionally a person crosses her path, hurrying on at the sight of her or hesitating so that she has to ward off conversation. Through the kitchen window she sees human shapes passed out on lawn chairs. At some point the Centaurs trundle in from the barracks, each with a sleeping boy over a shoulder, and make their way upstairs. When she checks a few minutes later, their door is closed and the light off.
At two o’clock, sitting at the kitchen table with an empty mug, she hears a vehicle pull into the drive, then the front door opening and closing. Eventually there’s a clang above her. It happens again as she climbs the stairs. When she reaches the top, Dimitri emerges from his bedroom in pyjamas, bleary-eyed and dishevelled.
“Go back to bed,” she tells him. “I’ll take care of it.” The playroom terrifies her now, but there’s a muttering from within that she recognizes as Fletcher’s voice.
He sits in the middle of the carpet with a film strip lying all around him. It’s off its reel, hundreds of feet long, twisted, knotted, and tangled about chair legs. The white projection wall is gouged where he has flung the reel against it. He isn’t wearing his glasses. What happened to them? He shouldn’t have been driving without his glasses.
“Where is everyone?” he says.
“Gone,” she answers, “or hiding in the barracks.”
Without a moment’s pause, he says to her, “You humiliated me.”
Her sympathy drops away. He can’t accuse her of such a thing. Has he been thinking it all this time? “I didn’t see it till the rest of them did,” she says. “How was I to know what was on the reel?”
He looks unbelieving. “But you always watch them first. Always.”
“I was busy, there wasn’t time. I just stuck it on.” She’s talking fast, searching for lines of defence, and recalls the start of the evening. “You! You were hurrying me along, remember? So I could help Rhea.” She waits for him to relent, then lapses into even darker thoughts. “You must
think I’m an idiot,” she says, not hiding her bitterness. He seems surprised by this statement, but not as surprised as she would like.
“What are you talking about?”
“On the film, you were speaking to someone. Who was running the camera?”
He remains quiet. She thinks she can hear movement in the hall. Anybody could be listening. Well, let them.
“It was only me,” he replies. “I was talking to you.” He shakes his head. “You thought I was with somebody else? Jesus.” The little smile he gives her makes him seem even more distant. “I meant it as a surprise for you, when you were putting together the reel.” The smile gives way to a look of despair.
“But then—” She doesn’t know how to finish. What kind of a surprise could he have intended? “Was it supposed to be a joke?”
“I—I thought it would turn you on.”
“You thought it would …”
The time in bed with the camera returns. Doesn’t he remember it? Wasn’t he there?
“Anyhow, it was your idea,” he continues. “You’re the one who said it should just be me.”
“My God,” she breathes. He’s never seemed so far away. Even his attention has drifted to another place. When it returns, his eyes are hardened with some frightening certitude.
“I can’t stay here anymore,” he says.
Can’t stay. It’s a marvel how the words stab her.
“Don’t say that,” she tells him. “Because of the film? Fletcher, what happened is awful, but you can’t—”
“I need to go away,” he insists, then sits there in some unfathomable contemplation.
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“I see.” There’s a long silence. “And what about me?”
He blinks a few times, as if until now he hasn’t considered this detail. “You can come too.” He says it with no enthusiasm, only tosses it out like a coin.
“That’s very kind.”
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Where will you go?” It’s not her voice that asks the question; it’s some other person’s.
“I don’t know. Back to Boston, I guess.” He doesn’t protest that she has referred only to him, not both of them.
“After all the work we’ve done? There are so many people here now.”
“Bunch of jerks,” he mumbles. “Most are leaving anyhow.”
She can’t believe what he’s saying. “But I don’t want to go. I want to stay here—with you.”
This thought seems to overwhelm him. “Didn’t you see this?” he shouts, grabbing loops of film and thrusting them toward her. “Of course you did. Everyone saw it!”
It’s too much. Backing away, she escapes to the living room, hoping he’ll follow. On the couch, she weeps and wills unconsciousness. It’s cold, she should get a blanket from the closet, but she has no energy to move. Her thoughts buck against her exhaustion until at some point she starts awake and realizes he’s standing over her. Through the window is the blue bruise of the pre-dawn.