Down here, where I’d scored more goals in one day than Pele in a season, I allowed myself to weep, for the people I was leaving behind, the uncertainty of my future and for me. After a while, I grew angry at self-indulgence and stalked back, eager to get the last of my stuff out. A housewarming for my friends had been arranged that evening; I’d not let it be spoilt.
I kissed everyone good-bye. Gram held me close for a beat or two longer than I felt comfortable with before whispering a few words that I couldn’t quite recognize. Rather than ask her to repeat them I left, as calmly as possible, the smile on my face as I drove away threatening to crease into something awful and dead.
That first night after the wine and music I lay awake for hours listening to the alien murmur of the house and the trees beyond its window. My mind’s eye framed the four of them in my rear view mirror, waving by the gate; pink stick figures punctured by black slashes and dots where their features gaped at me. Either my memory wouldn’t allow me a clear view of Gran or she was shaded by the reach of our cherry tree. There’d be a glitter there somewhere, in the blackness of her eyes. Her words to me, what had they been? I visualized the shaping of her lips as she mouthed them; thin flat lines blooming to a great wet thickness, pursed as though readying to kiss me.
I cleared up the mess and opened all the windows, hoping vainly to rid the house of its smoky, beery reek. I took in the strange new view outside, this fresh configuration of roofs, roads and tree tops. I wondered if I would pine for the simple picture I’d grown up with at home; how little that had changed as I altered a lot. I used to think the glass was part of a time tank in which I was doomed to wither and die while everything outside remained young and beautiful.
I looked down at my shadow, the vague M shape it made in the block of light on my garden. Perhaps I should have been worried when I realized something other than that was moving in the overgrown grass but I was still drifting with my thoughts. It would take me a long time to straighten things down there. I wondered if I should just clear the lawn of litter and then leave it; let it sprawl. The garden at home was too clinical and angular—I needed some chaos in my life.
Something black and sinuous worked itself through a bramble patch like a thin flow of oil.
The light was too great. I would have to kill it to gain a better view. When I came back to the window, I was thinking of snakes and foxes. There was nothing now, of course, save for the grass breathing and a sudden, far away clamor of sirens. Once I’d grown accustomed to the sounds of my new home I slept, knowing that before long I wouldn’t be able to relax without them.
At dawn I took coffee into the garden, mildly surprised to find this was my first visit. It was disorienting, seeing everything from this new angle when previously, all had been observed from the window up there. The grass was much longer than I’d believed; it stung my hands as I tried to wade through it. I wondered what I might unearth should I change my mind and choose to raze the lot but I didn’t much care for the chatter of my imagination as it tried to offer me answers. I drank my coffee and went up to take a bath. Once I’d brought the water to a heat I could just about bear, I submerged myself completely, surfacing only to drape a sodden, steaming flannel over my face. I sucked some of its scalding air into my lungs and thought of Gran again. Recent memories were of her smothering me in a way that everyone but me perceived as generosity and helpless love. She’d lost her husband twice; once to a coma after a bus mashed him against a wall and again when death finally caught up after ten years of unsleep. She must have thought it natural for her to transfer her attention to me, born in the year of his demise, as if she were hoping to grasp some aspect of his character in the development of mine. Recent nights I’d bore a hole into the ceiling with my eyes as her slippered feet scraped in circles. A little after midnight (or sometimes as the first bird greeted the dawn) I’d hear the creak of bedsprings as she finally settled down, but that sorrowful shuffling remained, a spiral of ghosts in my mind. I never went up to her room to see what she was doing on those long nights though I had plenty of ideas, many of them morbid. I envisioned her dancing a toe to toe smooch with one of her husband’s old jackets or performing a meditative pattern of footsteps designed to suck him back from the grave. Maybe it was as innocent as cramp or insomnia. And though they were the more rational, I found myself believing otherwise.
For some reason I couldn’t fathom, possibly connected to the way all women seem to possess a sensitivity for such moods, Mum asked me why I shunned Gran so. It wasn’t something I did effusively; wary as I was of her I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. That Mum had noticed my rejection of her, however subtle, and mentioned it specifically, I found myself discussing it where otherwise I might have shrugged off the allegations as ludicrous.
“She worships you, Daniel,” she said, once we’d established that my coolness towards her was in no way malicious.
“Why?” I didn’t wait for an answer. “I don’t like her. She makes me feel, I don’t know… invaded.” That was true enough; even in my dreams I’d sometimes see her bending over me, her face dipping in and out of shadow, till she was able to thieve the breath from my lip and the color from my skin. Close enough to peel me open and tuck herself safely inside.
“Humor her. You’d like to see her go to the grave miserable?”
“No. Of course not.” I suppose in that moment, my need to leave home grew to the point where I could no longer let it simmer as just another fancy of mine.
The water was getting cold.
I spent the day sorting out boxes in the kind of resigned melancholy that only people who’ve experienced a large scale move can understand. I was sure these boxes and the crap they contained had multiplied overnight. Once I’d established a pile in each room I set about cleaning windows. Silly, really, when so much hoovering and dusting needed to be done; when I got round to it all the stirred up muck would settle on the windows again, but I didn’t mind, it’s a part of housework I find almost soporific. Maybe it’s the rhythm of the task or the squeegee’s magic which, since childhood, I’ve regarded with a kind of awe. It took on a deeper significance now, though, as I went from room to room because I saw the garden differently each time. It wasn’t so much a fresh angle that intrigued me but the misting I caused on the glass with my cloth and polish through which the body of grass and brambles took on a novel complexion. Was it my imagination that suggested, beyond the pink scars of Windolene, a twisted frame of bone or was it simply shadows and greenery, coercing the thought? I’m famed for seeing shapes in clouds nobody else can discern; I oughtn’t become frantic about a suggestion of rippled gray that looks like a grid of ribs or a softly shaded globe punched with moments of black where eyes might once have been cradled.
My squeegee cut through the haze and made everything clear, including my foolishness. The grass was flattened in one area, the well it created pooling with shadows that were so bland and unambiguous I found myself straining to pinpoint the foundations of my unease in their shapes.
Harriet arrived shortly after a meager dinner of beans, crackers, and half a tube of Smarties. She helped me stack my paperbacks on shelves and suggested some colors for the bathroom; she’d be able to get the gear cheap as her father worked in one of the vast home improvement stores that were slowly surrounding the town. I kissed her, not expecting, or particularly wanting it to lead to anything—I was tired—but it did, and she led me out through the back door into the rasping garden.