Onion Songs (19 page)

A true unicorn
, he thinks, not knowing why, but knowing it is so.
That’s what they really look like
. And now he knows Mary must certainly be dead. A vagrant wanders past the unicorn, neither apparently noticing the other. Mary is dead and he is at last forgotten, for now he knows his parents are dead, too. Because he is seeing unicorns the way they really are, raw and unglamorized. At last unknown, he has descended into the worlds of myth, of things unnamed and misnamed, of things unseen and things misunderstood. The grand consolation prize, he thinks, for anonymity.

*

When the unknown man goes out that evening it is only after reconsidering the events of the day until a certain sanity has been achieved. The delusion he had experienced was the direct result of the shock of Mary’s accident, or presumed accident. Presumed death. He could make some calls and find out for sure, but he knows he will not.

An author whose fantasy novels he has been reading for years is giving a signing at a bookstore nearby.
The author is there in support of his recent autobiography, which the nameless man has read. He has his copy with him, tucked under his arm. He has a number of questions about the book, most having to do with its authenticity. He isn’t sure if he will risk asking them.

A drunk wanders out of a bar onto the sidewalk in front of him.
The scruffy fat man turns, his sneer all the more disturbing because it is on a bull’s head sitting lop-sided on his shoulders.

Minotaur
, the unknown man thinks, throwing up his arms in alarm. The book skids across the sidewalk and rests against the minotaur’s left foot.

The minotaur stares at the book dumbly, as if it is a category of object he has never seen before.
He bends awkwardly, the weight of the great head threatening to pull him over. He clutches the book between his two palms, fingers too short to be of much use—and pulls it up to eye level, where he sniffs it, then licks it. Finally he shoves it into his mouth, apparently tasting it as his eyes roll around and copious amounts of saliva drip onto the sidewalk.

The minotaur stares at the nameless man again, slack lips drooping into an avalanching frown.
With an explosion of wind and saliva the minotaur spits the book back at him. It slams into the nameless man’s chest, and he hugs himself so it won’t get away from him again. He examines his catch: the pages and cover are damp, but readable. When he raises his head the minotaur is gone.

As the nameless man continues to the bookstore he wipes the cover and pages against his shirt until satisfied he can do no more. The book appears to have swollen to twice its original thickness.

A few doors down from the bookstore he pauses in front of a shop specializing in exotic fish and supplies, where a giant aquarium fills the front window.
Disobeying the posted sign he taps the glass in an attempt to attract some fish. Almost instantly a cluster of fetus-like creatures swarms out from behind flowering vegetation, propelled by large, powerful tails. They gather in front of him, staring with partially formed eyes. Their chest cavities are filled by some sort of complex, inefficient breathing organ. Their mouths open and close in painful-looking spasms as they struggle for air.
Mermaids
, he thinks,
poor
,
pitiful mermaids
. Unable to witness this for long, the unknown man turns away from the colony and heads into the bookstore.

The nameless man is surprised to see that no long lines wait for the fantasy writer
’s signature. In fact, other than a large man who might be the writer’s bodyguard (or younger lover?), and a few bookstore-clerk-looking types, the nameless man is the only person in the store. Suddenly anxious to finish his business, he walks up to the small table and plants the bundle of rustling pages in front of the startled writer.

The writer opens the book gingerly and examines a few pages.
“You know, I used to
love
reading in the bath,” he says, as if that explains everything. He looks up and displays a vaguely bored smile. “Do you just want a signature, or would you like it personalized?”

“
How personal could it be? I just met you. You don’t even know my name.”

The large man steps forward, but an impatient gesture from the writer stops him.
He takes a step or two back, but the nameless man can tell he is ready for trouble.

The fantasy writer laughs out loud.
“Good point.” Then he stops, looking slightly awkward, as if he’s left his script in his other jacket. “Do you even want a signature?”

“
Actually, I don’t care for signatures very much. I do have a question or two, if you don’t mind.”

“
I’ll answer what I can.”

“
This book...” The nameless man touches the sloppy bundle on the table. It makes a soft rattle. “It purports to be your autobiography. Yet it reads just like one of your novels. It has suspense, rising and falling action, complications appearing just at the right points in the narrative. Real life isn’t all that neat.”

“
I suppose you would have preferred that I fill it with descriptions of television shows watched, fast foods eaten, frequent trips to the bathroom, and long naps after too much drink?”

“
Not really. I just don’t understand how I’m supposed to believe that any of this is true.”

The fantasy writer looks at him, considering.
Finally he sighs and says, “I suppose we each have to answer that for ourselves. Writers are there to give experience shape, and that includes their autobiographies. The moment you write something down, you’re changing it.”

“
The moment you name it,” the nameless man says.

“
Pardon me?”

“
The moment you name something you change what it was, what it was becoming. It was a living, evolving thing, and then you killed it by naming it.”

The fantasy writer laughs, then looks at his bodyguard.
“Listen to this guy!” Then, turning around he says, “So maybe I shouldn’t have put my name on this book. If I hadn’t put my name on it, people might find it more believable?”

“
Maybe. Maybe not. But at least they’d be reading it without preconceptions. It might have more of a chance to be... magical.”

“
So, do you write?”

The unknown man feels unaccountably anxious, reluctant to reply.
Then he says, “A little. A diary, of sorts.”

The fantasy writer turns the warped book around and offers the unknown man a pen.
“Then you sign it. Personalized, please.” He laughs. “Say, ‘To my good friend.’ It’s a lie, but perfect strangers ask me to put that down all the time.”

Without hesitation the nameless man takes the pen, writes
‘To my
only
friend,’ and signs the complete name he was given at birth.

The fantasy writer turns the book around and puzzles over the scribbled handwriting.
“Hey, I can’t even read this!” he says, but the unknown man is already going through the door.

Outside it has grown dark, and all over this part of town lights are going on, individually and in groups, with a peculiar kind of rhythm that fascinates the unknown man, who actually begins to smile until his own light explodes inside him, and he feels himself pitching forward, a skyscraper containing thousands of souls in the last throes of demolition.

When he wakes up there are people leaning over him: a woman, the bodyguard, a man in uniform (postman? policeman?), and the fantasy writer, who is scribbling madly in a small bright red notebook. The unknown man wonders if he is about to become a fictional character.

And floating above the heads of these people are the angels: tiny rat-like creatures with oily, burnt leather wings, long square teeth and loopy grins.
Several are blind—all have something wrong with their eyes. Now and then they bump into each other, and then punish themselves with their long fingernails, which they scrape against their cheeks over and over making frayed patches of blood.

“
Your name,” the officer says. “What’s your name, sir?”

The nameless man speaks, saying his name over and over again.
But he can tell by their faces they do not understand.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Now, this place has no mirrors. They were all removed before I came. Rowley, who seems perfectly normal except for his worship of the letter
“T,” says it’s because of the glass—potential sharp edges and all of that—which makes perfect sense, of course. The fact that I didn’t think of that right away, that the danger wasn’t immediately apparent, could be symptomatic to a professional’s eyes I suppose.

In any case, I suspect that it
’s more than an issue of shards of glass and the damage they might do to hands or a face. Sometimes I imagine what it must have been like for these people, the only friends I have left in the world, when they had mirrors to contend with. To be on your way to a dinner party at the Queen of the May’s tree house, anxious to discuss the rise of unsweetened misery with her grand counselor the unzippered fly, and then to have to confront this image of an old man in a hospital gown, his butt hanging out, hair much whiter than he remembers, and the expression on his face so frail and weepy—well, it would be quite a come down in the world I think, quite a trip down to the abandoned shore.

So why encourage the upset? Banish the mirrors. Rowley tells me that the first step, however, was to remove the smaller mirrors but to cover the larger ones with thick layers of cardboard and tape. What a scene that must have been! To see these great panels with their reflections draped
—and to wonder—and you just know they
all
did—what secrets were being hidden from them.

The one in charge (Is it another doctor? I have no idea.) would have done well to have asked Rowley, or the General, Stuttering Will, any of them. Ask a madman. The faces of the past are everywhere, rising out of the shadows, shining in the windows, curled into the folds of stained pajamas. Ready to cling and travel with you like airborne seeds or balls of cat
’s fur.

And still there are worse things than memory. There is regret, and failed anticipations. There are those faces as well, the lives you have turned your back on.

The General marshals his troops. The chairs with their sturdy legs perform admirably—no resistance there. But the lamp and the seat cushion refuse to cooperate at every opportunity, not even waiting for the General to turn his back. He reaches out a hand to steady them into place, but the hand is shaky. It’s the new medication but I’m not sure if the General realizes this. He thinks he’s getting too old for this, but he’s really only thirty-six.

I have heard that at one time the General had quite a
responsible job. Vice president of paper clips and coat hangers or some such. Then at some point he could not do it anymore. He missed his place, lost his bookmark. Forgot his lines. It’s almost surprising, the number of men in here simply because they forgot their lines and couldn’t do their jobs anymore. I think that is part of what happened to me, but maybe not all of it.

The ballerina crashes into the TV
whilst performing her pirouette. The others complain, but I help her up. “I left my slippers on my other feet,” she tells me, and dances off toward the sunroom.

On television a man in a nervous black suit delivers a lecture on job interview techniques. In their battered chairs my fellow audience members hang on his every word, but do not take notes. Some combinations of medicines play havoc with a person
’s handwriting. They may make it more difficult to read. It has been three months since I last opened a newspaper, and my fourteen letters home remain unwritten.

“
Who better to sing the song of the tragic tractor?” John whispers into the ear I reserve for secrets.

Ants perform an intricate maneuver across the wallpaper by my left shoulder. One line of their travels duplicates the slogan of a popular cold medication.

Sitting in the darkest corner of a too-bright room, Bob says goodbye all day long.

And by the door to the lunchroom/visiting room, one of the male nurses attempts to wave me over. A young actress from an old television series peers like a scared bird from be
neath his left arm. From the way the male nurse stands, I do believe he wants to have sex with her.

Upon further examination I realize this is my daughter come to visit, and I understand I must separate her from the nurse
’s bad intentions as quickly as possible.

I hurry over, ignoring the protests of separated Siamese twins—one black and one white—who sit on the floor each day, commenting on the invisible skin that connects them, that is forever being trampled upon by oblivious passers
-by. When I reach the young woman, my daughter, she walks me into the lunchroom for our visit. I hug her awkwardly, and what I get back from her is more than mere awkwardness. I sense her fear that if I hug her too completely she will be compelled to remain here forever.

“
Dad, you don’t belong here. I want you to come home.”

I look around knowing what she means, but not quite able to parse that meaning. This
is
my home—this is where I live. And the idea that fragile human beings, so ill at ease in their own bodies, could actually “belong” anywhere is quite beyond me.

“
This is home,” I say simply, careful not to reveal any of the many complications. Normal people never want to hear about the many complications. It scares them, or worse, makes them angry.

She bites back a tear, re
-enacting a scene I have witnessed in many movies and television shows. I wonder which one she has copied this particular instance from.

“
There’s nothing wrong with you, Dad.” She’s come to me without patience, which I must admit makes me a bit apprehensive.

“
I think my doctors would disagree.”

“
You’re here voluntarily, Dad. Your doctor told me. He says you can leave anytime you want. So why don’t you leave?”

This is unexpected, and I feel the smile I
’ve maintained since first seeing her falling away. For just a moment I get a glimpse of how I must seem to her, this aging man, her father, who has given up and chosen the institution to hide out the rest of his days.

The windows begin to cry, and the floors sigh with the weight of the invisible.
“Don’t take my bag of sleep,” I say to her, thinking there may be nothing I can do to convince her of my aberration. I turn to watch the windows weep.

“
Do you know what the weather is like outside, Dad?”

“
It’s raining, my love. I’m not crazy.”

“
Then come home, or whatever you want to call the place. Come with me.”

The roof is on fire above me. I can smell the children
’s burning flesh. Soon there will be no more roof, and I will stare straight up to Neptune.

I look at her. She is crying. I can remember the little girl she had been and I feel terrible.
“I can’t decide who to be,” I say, beginning to cry myself.

“
Just be yourself, Dad.” Her anger is obviously genuine—it’s worn into her face. I am grateful to recognize that.

Somewhere, in another hall, Shirley is waiting for the In
sect King. She is dressed in white, with three folds of newspaper over her head. I know this because this is what she does every day. She has married and divorced the Insect King many times. Theirs is a troubled relationship.

“
Dad, why aren’t there more visitors?”

I don
’t know how to explain this to her. “We get visitors,” I tell her. “Every Saturday afternoon...” But I can’t go on. Bob and Shirley, the General, the Ballerina, they’ve all wandered into the lunchroom. They sit down, they get up, they wander around the room. Cold like a hand rubs at my arm.

“
She wouldn’t want you to be like this...” my daughter is saying, has been saying. I wasn’t listening.

“
What did you say, honey?”

She looks at me oddly.
“Mom. I was saying that Mom wouldn’t have wanted you to act like this after she died. She would have wanted you to keep it together.”

The cold in my arm settles deeper, and despite myself I look up, toward the window.

And there I am, pacing back and forth, gesturing angrily. I move my head in front of my daughter’s face, afraid that she might see. But she can’t see, of course.

And as I turn my head I see myself again, a gentler, more contented me, standing behind my daughter and getting ready to caress her with his hands. And somehow this one is even worse than the other one.

“Get away from her!” I scream, and before I know it the male nurse is behind me, dragging me away. My friends protest the aggressiveness of this solution, even the Siamese twins. My daughter cries like a little girl, inconsolable, and that is the worst of this.

In my room, the light bulb speaks disparagingly of the night. Dust beneath my bed dances to the sad songs the walls would sing if only they had mouths.

I gaze out of my one face and a hundred faces of me stare back, all angry for my failure of ambition and terrible lack of care. If I am not careful I know they will be the death of me.

“
I don’t know what to do anymore,” I whisper quietly. “I don’t know how to be.”

And the faces come, and come again, to make
one vast and unforgiving stare.